Little Travels #3

I still owed Nathan the money for my ticket to Milan and the transfer wasn’t going through online (one of the less-romanticized realities of living abroad). So I decided to take the train down to El Jadida for a day trip, to pay him back and to get a little perspective.

Due to university conditions, teaching was getting increasingly stressful and I was exhausted. Exhausted and homesick and blue. Riding the four hour train to El Jadida, I tried to think of nothing.

El Jadida is a very beautiful, sleepy beach town. Two other Fulbrighters were visiting from Agadir, so we did all the tourist attractions and then had a non-traditional Thanksgiving at the McDonalds overlooking the ocean.

We visited the Portuguese Cistern in the medina and drank avocado juice. Everything was cold and bright. 

It wasn't the best day ever, but it was the best day I'd had in a while, and it turned out to be exactly what I needed. Nothing more, nothing less. I rode the train back that night and slept in my own bed and woke up and made myself a pot of coffee and was able to see - and appreciate - that it was a new day. 

--------

I used to think – a little snobbishly, a little naively – that one couldn't get an “authentic cultural experience” without spending a considerable amount of time in a place. That may in some ways be true, but I’ve had a change of heart on the topic. 

Recently I’ve been thinking over what it means to spend just a few days in a place, to have a singular experience there. To be able to look back later in life and think, “Oh, I love Essouira or Milan or middle-of-nowhere-fill-in-the-blank. I love everything about it.” Never mind that you only experienced two days’ worth. You’re not there long enough to be bothered or shocked or annoyed or bored. You get to see only what is truly great about it. And that, I’ve found recently, is a gift. Because we tie whatever is going on in our personal lives' to our outside surroundings, and when we talk about places we’re actually talking about who we were in those places, where we were in our inner lives. 

“We’ll always have Paris,” says Humphrey Bogart in a fedora in the rain. And me in my fleece pajamas in my lonely, little studio, knows what he means. 

Little Travels #2

A friend of a friend contacted me out of the blue saying she’d be on vacation in Rabat for the week. I had been longing to get out a bit so, when we met up and she mentioned leaving for the weekend, I jumped on the opportunity.

Mariah had spent the weekend before at a surf hostel in a town outside Kenitra called Mehdia and had such a good time that she took me back. It was the first time I was traveling without anyone connected to the Fulbright Program and it was liberating to just be a "traveler." I didn't have to answer an amalgamate of questions about my schooling and background and area of study; I didn't have to talk of pHd plans or justify my lack thereof. Moreover, my friend knew nothing of Morocco or any of the languages spoken here so my minimal Darija and horrible French made me come across as an old pro. (To be stressed: come across).

At first it was obvious that the other hostel goers had come there to be alone: Philippe from New Zealand, Sonia from Spain, not to mention me. But Adil, the kook of a guy who was running the hostel, would have none of it and, before we knew it, we were functioning as a unit.

After he took us to his favorite spot on the beach and we were all sufficiently frozen, he took us to a little restaurant on the streets of Kenitra. It was frigid. We sat at a table on the street and dipped hearty chunks of bread into harera, a tomato-based soup with garbanzo beans. It was so cold on the street and I was so hungry that I don't know if I've ever tasted anything so good. None of us talked much as we put away the soup; we were clearly sharing the same sentiments. Afterwards we peeled oranges and drank tea. The whole meal came to 8DH, the equivalent of 80 cents.

After buying loofahs in the medina, we went to the hammam - a public bathhouse - where we parted ways with the boys. It wasn't until we were stripped and basking in the heat that we got to know more about Sonia. At the moment she was a yoga instructor on her way down to Agadir for the winter. She had set up her van as a little bedroom that she could sleep and cook in. She told us how she realized over the years that she can't travel more than six months at a time. After six months, she said, she starts missing her family and home; she misses speaking her own language. It was so nice to be around an older woman for a change, whom I felt was speaking my language.

There was a tangible sisterhood in the hammum: old women and pre-adolescents and very very young boys getting clean and enjoying some conversation while doing it. When Mariah and I got up to leave, two large women came out after us, disturbed that we hadn't washed our hair. They motioned to their own shampoo; they were so concerned. Did we have what we needed?

Back at the hostel that night, Sonia said that she had been planning on driving down the coast the next day but she didn't want to spend her birthday on the road at which point everyone - fifteen or twenty guests now - sang Happy Birthday to Sonia and hugged her like they'd known her for hundreds of years.

We shared some smuggled beer and the stories continued. Phillippe told us how he found himself married and living in Texas at the age of eighteen. (Spoiler: it didn't last long). Sonia talked about her long-term relationship with a man from Israel. They had met in Germany on vacation. He moved to Spain for her, but he didn't speak Spanish and was unhappy. They moved to British Columbia but she missed her family too much and moved back. Finally, after a bout of long distance, they called it quits. Oh, places and all the problems they present! Philippe and Sonia, who had been arguing earlier in the weekend over Catalan independence, realized in conversation that they had been backpacking through Nepal at the same time in the early nineties.

The next day the owner and managers of the hostel decided that in, true hostel generosity, Mariah and I shouldn't pay to take the train back the next day when they could drive us for free. While we said our goodbyes, Sonia realized that in true hostel fashion, she had gotten her days mixed up. Her birthday wasn't until tomorrow.

   

Little Travels #1

Hate to say it, I'm a homebody. Wherever I go, I'll find a way to nest. You could drop me in the middle of the forest and I'd arrange the pine needles just so, then refuse to move. (Actually that sounds pretty cozy.) I like the idea of home, knowing that it's there, having a place to call my own.

I guess I'm just a huge fan of the mundane: morning coffee, evening walks, grocery shopping, sleeping in my own bed. I don't need much to make me extraordinarily happy.

But the mundane can get tiresome too, especially when simple tasks take so much effort due to language and cultural barriers. It's important to take a break every now and then. These are some little trips I've taken. I learned something each time I left and was always happy to come back to my precious, pretty mundane joys.

Essouira

   

At the end of September, three other Fulbrighters and went to Essouira for the weekend. We got there at night and it took us a while of wandering around in the medina to find the hostel where we’d be staying. We finally found what we thought was the place, knocked on the door and asked the guy who answered if it was the “Surf and Lounge Hostel.” He shook his head. We apologized and turned to go when he said, “Are you guys kidding?” He pointed at the sign. “It literally says Surf and Lounge Hostel on the door. Come in.” We walked in where an assortment of travelers were eating Sushi Tajine and Spanish Frittata. It was warm, there was wine, people were talkative, trees grew in the middle of the sitting area. It cost $5 a night. The whole weekend was similarly dreamy.

Milan

In order to maintain my tourist visa, I have to leave the country every ninety days. While we were in Essouira, Nathan and Acacia saw flights online to Milan for fifty euros and they snatched them. But by the time we were set to leave for Milan, I was having financial trouble – my money from my American account wasn’t transferring to my Moroccan account and I had very little actual money to my name. None of us knew any Italian. None of us had any working knowledge of Italian culture. In Morocco people assume I’m French or American, when I’d prefer to practice Darija. In Milan, people assuming I was from there, approached me in Italian. It was odd, having spent so much time studying Morocco's languages, to be dropped in a place where it could get you nowhere. It made the work feel irrelevant, like having the wrong currency in my wallet. 

But it was so wonderful to just walk around. I loved looking at what people were wearing. I gawked at couples kissing in public. It was grey and rainy and I was broke and ignorant but somehow it was absolutely wonderful.

On Saturday we gave in and went to a nice restaurant with heated outdoor seating. Our server happened to be Moroccan. He asked where I live in Morocco. I said, Rabat. He asked where in Rabat. I said, Hassan. He said, where in Hassan. I said, by Place Pietri. And where else would his parents live except in Morocco, in Rabat, in Hassan by Place Pietri? I spoke my minimal Darija to him and later a platter of pizza, bread, prosciutto and olives appeared before us. We looked across the restaurant and he put his hand on his heart, the sign in Moroccan culture for sincerity.

Morocco follows us around and looks after us like a guardian angel. Maybe there's no such thing as having the wrong currency after all. Maybe nothing is irrelevant.