“I have a surprise,” Michael announced. “Guess where we’re going for our anniversary?”
I tried not to worry. Michael was exceptionally creative in planning our vacations. Over the past few years, we had hiked in Turkey through the flames of Mount Chimaera, an unexpected challenge for a middle-aged woman wearing open sandals. This followed a stay in a remote helicopter lodge in the Canadian Rockies, where I split my pants sliding down an icy trail. On our last holiday, we camped in an African game reserve where we cut cocktail hour short to escape from a herd of hungry hippos. This was the same resort where a greedy troop of baboons broke into our tent and stole my hand cream. On their next visit, they made a hasty retreat from the friendly neighbourhood lion who routinely camped out outside our lodge. After that, we had a two-man armed escort to walk to the dining room.
This year, for an anniversary trip following a bitterly cold New York winter, I longed to recline on a tranquil beach surrounded by palm trees. Somewhere in the Caribbean would do. Hawaii. Mexico. Even in Columbia, where I would risk a run-in with the drug lords for a single warm day. I needed sunshine and mojitos. Dips in heated pools to soothe my tired northeast soul.
No such luck.
“We’re booked for a week in Morocco!” Michael said, pulling a file out of his briefcase. Inside, two airline tickets, a neatly typed schedule of flights and sights and a thick travel guide. “Eight days,” he smiled. “We’re staying in a riad. That’s a small hotel in the centre of the medina. That’s the marketplace. They have snake charmers. It’s very exotic. You’ll love it.” Michael was now an expert in all things Moroccan.
I suppressed my anxiety through two delayed flights, four transfers and a rocky wagon ride in a donkey cart. By the time we arrived at the riad, I was sorry the driver hadn’t strapped me down along with the luggage. But once we arrived, things progressed nicely. The managers, welcoming and anxious to please, had sprinkled rose petals over our bedspread to celebrate our anniversary. On the night table, a bottle of champagne and certificates for complimentary Hammams, the Turkish cleansing and massage ritual that, if you lived through it, scrubbed away your troubles along with the outer layer of your skin. Our room had a cosy nook with a fireplace and two softly cushioned armchairs to enjoy breakfast rolls and strong coffee. The bathroom had a heart-shaped tub big enough for a family of six. It wasn’t Hawaii, but it was a promising start.
After we settled in, the concierge invited us on a tour of the riad, formerly an elegant private home. A London banker had purchased the property, retaining the layout, the decorations and the architectural features, including the tiled pool in the centre courtyard. After two days of airline travel, my first thought was to hop in.
“Of course, the pool is for decoration,” the concierge said, reading my mind. “However, there are small pools available for soaking on the roof terrace. Perhaps tomorrow.” He looked down at his watch. ” Tonight, I suggest dinner by the pool. And you’ll want an early start, so we’ll leave your breakfast tray in front of your door at seven.
This inspired immediate and polite negotiation. “Thank you so much,” I smiled. “Breakfast on a tray. Sounds lovely. The thing is, we’re on vacation, so we get up late.”
“Of course,” he smiled. “How late, Madam?”
“That’s the thing,” I said. “You never know. We don’t plan ahead when we’re on holiday.”
“We shall make every effort to accommodate your needs,” he said, making a note on the small pad that he carried with him.
The following morning, I woke up at nine and found Michael showered, dressed, and organising our agenda. He waited until I was sufficiently caffeinated, and then we set out, following his planned route into the heart of the medina. First, the snake charmers, then a visit to the spice market and a bit of shopping to pick up a few gifts for family and friends. After that, back to the riad for lunch and, hopefully, naps.
I shouldn’t have been surprised that the snake charmer was charming, a marked contrast to his pet cobra, an identical twin to one from my childhood nightmares. I overcame my phobia long enough to take a photo and then, grateful to be leaving with body parts intact, I followed Michael to the spice market where we met Idir, who charmed us with his small kiosk filled with exotic herbs and spices. Halfway through sniffing his inventory, I used my budget on a dozen sweet-smelling spices housed in tiny canvas bags and tied with blue satin ribbon.
“Do you think we can take those back on the plane?” Michael frowned.
“If not, I’ll sniff them in the room,” I said. “At home, I’ll order the same spices. Remember, odour stimulates memory.”
“Okay.” Michael smiled as we walked back to the riad for lunch. “This afternoon, we’ll go to the tannery.”
“The tannery?” The concierge asked. “It’s a long walk with a lot of twists and turns. Let me mark the route on your map.”
This courtesy turned out to be unnecessary. The tannery route was permeated with an odour of death so powerful that, even with the hijab I bought to cover my face, we turned back halfway and headed instead to the relatively cheerful Jewish cemetery where we were admitted by a stern Muslim guard who handed Michael a yarmulka. Over the next few days, we visited lush gardens installed by the French designer Yves Saint Laurent and a small Berber Museum. We walked in circles around mosques, which prohibited non-believers from entering. Each day was marked by five calls to prayer, the promise of hammams and naps and dinners served by the pool.
The night before our final day, the concierge suggested a drive into the countryside and introduced us to Ahmed, a local driver who spoke perfect English with just the slightest French accent.
“I think a drive through the mountains,” he said, pointing to the route on a small map. “We stop at an outdoor market and end with a visit to my family’s village. There, my cousin, Fatima, will serve a traditional meal. You will be well fed,” he reassured us. “Fatima is known throughout the village for her cooking.”
The following day, we left the city on a cold and windy morning, driving up a steep, winding mountain road. At every turn, we saw small villages scattered in the foothills, each with a mosque at its highest point. Ahmed slowed the van as we passed two women walking on the side of the road, both wearing brightly colored, traditional dress and leading donkeys laden with straw baskets. At the market, we headed for a tent the size of three football fields and were quickly absorbed by an energetic crowd. In contrast to the tranquillity of the drive, the market was frenetic, hundreds of vendors and buyers negotiating everything from brooms to donkeys.
“This market meets only once each week,” Ahmed said, apologising for the crowds and the noise. “So, everyone must sell as much as possible today.”
We squeezed ourselves through narrow aisles between the kiosks where butchers were working side by side with barbers. The spices that had been so pristine in Idir’s canvas bags were piled into vast, open barrels managed by an ageing woman scooping out orders. The sweet scents of spices were offset by the ripe odours of whole animals, skinned and hanging from immense iron hooks. I turned away from beard trimmings flying over a barber’s chair and saw bright purple eggplants and technicolour peppers stacked upright, defying gravity. When I stopped to take pictures of the vegetables, a group of local men pointed at me and laughed. One of the men pulled Ahmed aside and whispered something in his ear. Ahmed blushed and refused to translate.
When it began to rain lightly, we cut our market visit short and drove to our final destination, a tall and narrow house pitched steeply against the hillside in a small village. Ahmed’s cousins greeted us in unexpectedly good English and led us to an open terrace where a round table set was for two. For the next couple of hours, we stuffed ourselves with lamb tajine, a fragrant and filling Moroccan stew named for the traditional clay pot in which it’s cooked, sweet almond cake and warm spicy tea. After lunch, Ahmed wisely suggested a digestive stroll through the village while he caught up with his cousins.
“Walk to the end,” he said, pointing us down the road to the village centre. “I’ll pick you up in an hour.”
We set out, pulling scarves around our necks to stay warm. At just past three o’clock, it was supernaturally quiet and calm, so we were startled by a sudden stampede behind us. A merry band of children, girls and boys. The girls were walking politely arm-in-arm. The boys running in front of us, shouting and waving their arms. One of the younger girls approached me and smiled. She was missing a front tooth.
The village centre was marked by a small mosque next to a large empty yard where two black dogs were racing in circles. Across the street, a market window was overflowing with crates of lemons and oranges and supersized boxes of Tide. A few doors down, a tall, thin, bearded man was arranging goods on a kiosk counter. Hanging above him, I saw a black and white, regulation size soccer ball swaying in the wind. I had an idea.
“Combien?” I asked, exhausting my entire French vocabulary. “How much?” The man pointed to a sign in local currency. Five days in Morocco, and I still had no idea how to calculate the amount. I offered a ten-dollar bill.
He nodded, took the bill and cut the cord. The ball dropped into my hands.
“Shokran.” Thank you was one local phrase I always mastered.
The children watched the exchange and gathered around me. I turned and threw the ball into the hands of the tallest boy. He ran out of the crowd, put the ball down and kicked it to Michael. Michael’s return went to one of the smaller boys. As they ran down the road, I took out my camera to capture the scene and was caught between laughter and tears. The scene was proof that the old adage was true: give a kid a ball, and it doesn’t matter where he’s from.
When the men of the village came out to coach the smaller boys from the sidelines, I turned off the camera, and Michael took a break from his workout. The kiosk owner brought bottles of water, refused payment and shook Michael’s hand. “Shokran,” he smiled, just as the smallest boy passed the ball with unexpected skill, and the men cheered.
It was just then that the village women came out from the stores and homes lining the street and joined a growing crowd of girls gathered around me. I turned back toward the kiosk. Maybe I could find something for them. But it was too late. Ahmed was waiting at the end of the road. We waved goodbye to the children and walked to the van. Ahmed opened the door.
“Thank you,” I said. “The walk was a wonderful idea.”
“Yes,” he said. “You can’t see everything from the car.”
The flight home was long, with the usual frustrations and interruptions, but I had wisely packed Idir’s small bag of dried lavender to sniff on the journey. And later, back in New York, when snow and ice continued through the season and the days were long and dark, I brought it out and instantly, magically, the riad, the rose petals, the spice market, the small village and the soccer ball came back to life.
