From July 2008
I just spent 10 days away from France (I know, I’ve hardly written about France and then I was off to another continent). But my friend Jessica was in the hemisphere and after she bumped around Europe, we made plans to meet in Spain and head down to Morocco. We spent a dizzy-minute in Valencia, Spain where we stayed in the greatest hostel ever – Red Nest, where they offered pretty much everything except air conditioning.
Alas, air conditioning is pretty uncommon on this side of the planetand I’ve never missed my little old-school air conditioner Susanna G. gave me more. Little did we know, we’d be encountering 120 degree weather in Morocco!
Anyway, it took only 2 days to convince me that if you are ever looking for a sweet european vacation with a warm-water beach, ample nightlife, culture, good food, and good boy-scenery, you’ve got to head to Spain. I plan on following that advice soon 🙂
From Valencia, we took an overnight bus to the southern part of Spain, where we caught a ferry to Tangiers, Morocco. We then took a long train ride through the country to Fes. Most of the country-side is dessert, beautiful and sparse, and full of all kinds of growing things. I got the courage from somewhere to start a conversation with our seat mates about
half way through the trip. Jessica tried learning arabic from the french/arabic teacher sitting on my right and I pretended I wasn’t melting into my seat thanks to the (you guessed it) non-air-conditioned car!
We mostly gabbed with a young woman sitting with us. (and IN FRENCH! mais oui-Moroccans speak French as a second language to arabic, so I got to practice). She was having her first baby and said she’d just gotten married the year before – rather late in life for Moroccans- she admitted (heh- i think we’re the same age). We talked about Morocco a little bit, but we mostly gabbed about men. Apparently, it’s the same story all over the world:)
We spent about 3 days in Fes – which is a city towards the eastern part of Morocco – with a large population and some great culture, they call themselves the “cultural capital” of Morocco. 
We met some great people at our youth hostel (who locked us in at 10:30p, but it forced us to get to know our hostel mates, who came from all over. One, from Georgia, was here taking professional photos, there was couple from the UK, and there were 2 sisters from Minneapolis on a month-long vacation.
The next day we went with the girls to the “medina” in the center of town – medina’s are the oldest parts of town and are in all arab countries. They are winding mazes of streets and shops and buildings. And it’s easy to be overwhelmed by the swirls of produce, meat, clothes, jewelry and trinkets for sale. We were advised to get a guide from the tourist office, which we did, but the guide took us mostly to bag and carpet shops in hopes of getting us to buy things. Apparantly, they get a nice little cut from our purchases at the end of the day
Our guide was pretty full of history, though. And he spoke perfect English having lived in California and having fallen in love with an older woman from Maryland (it’s a long story). He had many life lessons to impart, 
and he always told them right when we’d happen to stop in a patch of blazing hot sunshine. I ended up buying a few things but if you ever go to Morocco, I advise you to not stop in carpet shops unless you want a carpet. I ended up arguing with a carpet seller because he told us we were stupid to think of our “rent” when we were on vacation. Thanks bud! I can’t help it. I’m a New Yorker?! I always think about rent. It was a musical for chrissakes!
The next day we went to the Jewish Cemetery in the morning – a hillside blanketed by white-stone tomb-like” graves. Apparantly there were many Jewish people in Morocco at one point, and they held favor with the king because of their many talents, 
but now there are only about 150 Orthodox families left. I’m not sure we’d see this in other Arab countries, but we soon found out that, although Morocco is firstly Arabic and Muslim, it’s impossible to categorize. Some people are still conservative – covering up and praying at the mosques throughout the day – others wear what they want and are religious more for themselves. All Moroccons, like Arabs in general, are incredibly generous, and open-hearted. One of the strongest rules in Muslim culture is compassion and benevolence, which was plain to see every day.
Our last hours in Fes we spent at a hotel pool (we were dying of heat). The pool was filled with middle-class Moroccons on vacation and we met some sweet guys we took us out for ice cream! One, who could have been in Armani ads, invited us to stay at his house and meet his grandmother. We made a lot of friends in Morocco, and there everyone is open and welcoming (without agenda, really). Alas, we couldn’t spend more time with them because we were destined for an overnight, bumpy ride to Essaouira…
Essaouira is on the Atlantic Coast of Morocco. If you ever decide to come to Morocco in summer months, you’d best stay on the coast – the breeze is cool, the water is icy cold, and you can get fresh fish at any time of the day.
We stayed there only for half a day, and ended up heading to Marrakesh at 10pm (AKA- don’t ever do this!). We had very little idea of how to get to our hotel, and our cab driver had an even littler idea. He ended up dropping us off in the pitch-black middle of Marrakesh’s non-street-signed medina. We were suckered into being led to our hostel by a young man with a big-smile on his face who demanded 100 durham (about $12) for his gracious little service. Nothing is free in Morocco.
Luckily we stayed in the best bed and breakfast I’ve ever met in my life. Thierry and Thierry 
(two lovely french-men) run Riad Ghallia, a little hotel you can book through www.hostelworld.com, with a fountain and garden in the center of the building, and a rooftop garden where we were served an included breakfast of fresh oj, homemade pastries with jam and honey (and bees), cafe or tea with hot milk, croissants and fresh bread. This place was like a dream! And it was quite a little recluse from the heat – which climbed up to about 120 degrees. Thick stone walls and cream-colored paint keep the insides of these old houses very cool.
In Marrakesh, we did a little sight-seeing, ate lots of food, got some serious stomach cramps from brushing our teeth with tap water, and we even went to a discotheque about the size of the taj-mahal on the outskirts of town. Normally we only see photos of Morocco that depict the dessert, but seriously – Marrakesh reminded me of L.A. Lots of ads everywhere, more hotels than you could ever think necessary, rich people, poor people, restaurants on every corner (a Zara’s, a McDonald’s, a Pizza Hut) a golf resort, and a population which all could have made it big on America’s Next Top Model (Moroccons are very beautiful).
And, I have to say, this was one of the first times in my life when I was surrounded by mostly just brown people. It was a very strange feeling;). Many asked if I was Moroccon, and for a second I felt right at home, but then I remembered I could never get used to this heat. (the trick is to move very very very slowly, and drink many many cold sodas).
Our best experience there was in a spa on our last day – Thierry recommended a tradtional “hamman” – a bathing place where people go a few times a week for ritual cleansing. For about $60, we were steamed, cleaned, and scrubbed down in a little stone room with the help of 2 young women. Our skin was so soft from the black soap and steam, that they were able to scrub off layers of skin! (you could actually see it). After they cooled us of with sheets of cold water, we ate fresh fruit and dried in white, terry-cloth robes before getting an hour massage and a pedicure.
I have to say, the Hamman almost cleaned away all the memories of the heat exhaustion and the cheating cab drivers. But after that miraculous vacation in Morocco (definitely all-too-quick) I came back to France with all these memories in my head of being cheated in little ways – there were at least 2 cab drivers who refused to use their meters and demanded a price we knew to be at least 3 times as high as the real cost. There were the shopkeepers who set prices according to your accent. There were the men in the street always shouting out the wrong way to get somewhere in hopes that we would return lost and need their pricey-help in getting back. Even little kids beg for durhams for “stylos” (pens), not because they actually need things, but because they’ve learned it from everyone else.
When I travel in countries less-well-off than mine, this is what I know to be true –
I generally have more disposable income and more choices than those living there. Protestations of “we’re just students” matter very little and when a country has to survive on selling trinkets to foreigners, everything has a price tag. I will always be a tourist.
Does that justify being cheated?
As a tourist, I’d like to come back from vacation and show only the good photos and tell only the good tales, but would that be unfair? To you or to the country?
I don’t know…. But I’ll definitely go back to Morocco, if nothing more than to see our new friends again. Oh
la, la…
Great blog for Morocco (okay it’s in french, but there’s always the photos!) Vivre Au Maroq
From Right Here - Back in New York City 
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