The Other Side of the Atlantic

It's been awhile. So, we're going to ease back into this blog thing, starting with some pictures from our recent trip to the East Coast to see friends and family (and to set about launching popham design, www.pophamdesign.com). Ah, you see, there's a reason for our absence from the blog-o-sphere and it comes down to cement. Cement tiles, that is. With popham design, we're applying our own modern designs to traditional handmade Moroccan cement tiles. The tiles are made right here in Marrakech by a crew of skilled artisans. We'll be launching shortly, so more news about pd soon.

In the meantime, we had to keep pinching ourselves to remind that New England in June is a far cry from New England in January, checking the temptation to up and return to the lush landscape of home. From the pink dust of Marrakech to vast expanses of green lawn and pasture, dense groves of leafy deciduous trees, and water everywhere. My, it was a treat. Not to mention getting a much, much, much-needed dose of what we most miss: family and friends. Cheers to all and thanks for an amazing taste of home.

We started off our trip in the Hamptons, celebrating the wedding of Samantha Schweitzer, Sam's friend of 21 years, and relaxing with Mike and Robert and Gabby and John at Beech House.

First Glimpse of Anger

The mustache was thick and black and shiny. I was so taken by the handsomest mustache I’d even seen on a woman that I didn’t register the words coming out beneath it. We passed the soapy air coming out the door of the hamam on our way to the taxi stand and this woman fell in beside us speaking in French as broken as my own. She was animated, and she was angry and she was shooting questions at me rapid fire. Where are you from, Europe? What’s wrong with your country that you had to come here? Why don’t you go back to your country and leave Morocco for all the good Muslims? We walked on like this for nearly a minute, she yelling, and me listening and not replying, trying to avoid the racing motor scooters that were oblivious to our little drama. As the neighborhood shopkeepers saw what was going on they hastened to stop her, and all circled their fingers beside their temples in the international sign for crazy.

In a year, this is the first outwardly hostile person we’ve encountered. As we hurry to the taxi stand I glance over my shoulder. It seems like the woman is accosting another foreigner. While the support from the neighborhood shopkeepers was nice, this mustachioed woman has gotten me thinking about our place in Morocco. We certainly have no intention of becoming Muslim in a country where 97% of people are. And what really is it that made us move here? Do other locals feel as she did, but keep quiet out of fear of the tourist police or of losing a regular customer? Perhaps we're naive in thinking her a loony anomaly, but as someone still obsessing about this woman’s mustache, how much serious reflection am I really capable of?