Wandering

We’d made a pact to make a list of our expectations and preconceptions before touching down in Morocco. Alas, the seats on Virgin proved too comfortable and we’ve now had our first glimpse of the Medina, so preconceptions have been replaced by true conceptions. After a steamy walk from our hotel in Guilez (rhymes with “please”) along the broad Haussmann-esque boulevard Mohammad V, we arrive at the gates of the walled city. As if on cue, we are approached by a fellow named Ali, who nicely points us in the direction of the Djemaa El Fna (or, “the place”), where the city’s main mosque sits. Of course, that was only the beginning, Ali being a “guide,” and soon followed questions about where we are from, where we are staying, what we’d like to buy . . . Once the situation dawned on us, Samuel swiftly dismissed Ali with a rather absurd “We don’t need a guide,” which worked, despite our obvious oblivion about where we were or where we wished to go.

And then we wandered., and wandered, and wandered, for three sweltering hours of utter sensory overload. The streets uneven and narrow, force us to divide attention between the food and wares on display in the stalls and the exhaust-spewing motorbikes, donkeys and throngs that crowd and careen. There are many tourists in the main souks, though most are speaking French with a bit of German thrown in. The streets are also packed with Moroccan women and men in both Western attire and full djellabas, veils, skullcaps and long beards. A few of the souk’s sellers try to cajole us into coming into their stalls, but somehow most interpret the resolve of our purposeful walk as a cue that we’ll not be the day’s easiest sales. Samuel’s insistence that we not pause at street corners or stalls, waiting instead to find a bench or garden, does give the impression that we are familiar with our route. Oh, what theater. Also, we’d resolved not to buy anything for at least the first few days of our time here; this may sound a silly pledge, but faced with the souk’s wonders, it’s proving quite a challenge. I’m trying to make a mental list of places to re-visit once the buying ban is lifted, but surely won’t recall a one.

I’m not sure if it was our random route, or the souk’s eclectic design, but stalls present a plethora of goods impossible to intuit. We round one corner and are confronted with fresh carcasses – beef, lamb, rabbit, chicken and various innards - suspended upside-down and bleeding from hooks. Next are lovely leather handbags and soft suitcases, very much the appointments of a British dandy from the 20s. And the cost, for a supple overnight bag, 600 dh (around $65) before the requisite haggling. Definitely on the “must buy” list. The leather sandals are exquisite and stacked in large woven baskets in an array of colors and designs that will make any self-respecting shoe fetishist swoon. The colorful sandal palette is applied to the pottery, too, especially the ubiquitous tagine pots. Our favorites are the monochromic pieces, rather than the geometric pattern-embellished ones. And the spices, piled into perfect inverted conical piles - paprika, cumin, ginger and many that we couldn’t identify – perfume the streets, their sweet, warm scent mingling with fresh mint, which overflows buckets at nearly every corner.

When we wander into the eastern end of the medina, near the mellah, or Jewish quarter, we are accosted by a few fellows who try to steer us into a mosque. It’s a big unnerving when they get heated at our refusal. I want to retreat to the more populated souk, but we press on through streets narrower than any alley, barely two arms’ length wide, where we are followed, teased and taunted for money by little urchins, darling, but also a bit threatening, like sweet-looking dogs that might bite if you get too close. It may just be the day, but the beggars, faux guides and children accost Samuel more than me, a bit of cultural stereotyping that I’m not sorry to encounter.

Headed back to Gueliz for a late lunch, we pass by the Mamounia, the famous grande dame hotel of Marrakech, which is being redone by Jacques Garcia. It’s enormous and enclosed by a wall, so its gardens and luxurious buildings we’ll return to another day.

For lunch, we consume copious amounts of water and lackluster sandwiches; while the baguettes are divine, the jambon and fromage filling them is second-rate. And, in an effort to stave off the inevitable digestive problems caused by unwashed fruit and vegetables, we pick out the fresh lettuce, tomato and pickles.

A nap in our cool room – divine. Next we visit the local market recommended by Mitch Owens, Acima, which proves delightful. Once we have a home, we’ll have access to all we need to concoct menus of almost any origin. Imagine, too, a small wheel of ripe, French Camembert for just $2!

Sam’s found BBC news on the TV and snores softly beside me. After the day’s excursions, it’s certainly understandable, but we’d like to try Maria Ounzal’s Café du Livre for dinner. She was Mitch’s chef and owns a very popular tapas spot in the medina. It would be nice to introduce ourselves. He’s promised she’s not only a talented chef, but a gem at finding help, from house cleaning to cooking, mostly staff drawn from her large family.

Note: We did make it to Café du Livre, only to discover that Maria is no longer there; she left three months ago to prepare to start her own small tapas place. The restaurant is quite lovely with cream colored walls and banquettes and chairs upholstered in chocolate-colored velvet. Our waitress speaks English very well and is sweet and funny; she even teases Samuel about ordering chocolate cake for dessert.