Fez, 2:22 am

Monday, March 31st

"You can't believe History. History isn't a science."
-- Idriss, our tour guide

FROM RABAT TO MEKNES

Monday morning, still in the thrall of jet lag and our marathon weekend, we loaded onto the bus for the day long drive to Fez. The drive need not take the whole day, but numerous sites lay en route.

We had given ourselves an hour and a half to eat breakfast, pack our bags, and get on the bus. It felt wonderful lying on the bed for a few minutes as Noemi showered and I listened to the birds sing in the courtyard. For some reason I haven't yet learned, it appears that Moroccans don't build balconies outside but instead build everything towards a central garden or courtyard. As such, our second story room overlooked a beautiful open-air garden, filled with beautiful red roses which scented the air and the sound of birds in song.

It was delightful watching the lush farm countryside through the spacious tour-bus windows after spending the previous day in two cold, concrete cities. As the ocean-side plains turned into rolling hills awash with poppies, I couldn't turn my eyes from the world passing by (when I wasn't sleeping, of course). Even with Idriss narrating nothing over the bus microphone, wishing he would speak about the world around us, I finally had the chance to reflect on my experiences.

In our Rabat hotel, the waitresses wore short black skirts, and I was surprised at my disgust. To explain my response, I first must describe Moroccan dress. Young women and girls wear Western clothes, but of the more modest variety, their arms and legs covered and nothing form-fitting. These younger women are invariably accompanied by an older woman, a mom or grandma, who wears more traditional garb. Some simply wear a robe and a head wrap while others, more religious, wrap all of their bodies, revealing only their feet, hands, and eyes.

In America I may not have noticed the skirts (other than to admire them at least). After 24 hours in Morocco, however, my eyes had already been attuned to the extreme modesty prescribed by Muslim law. This is not to say I had adapted their strict moral codes. But, these short skirts, seen nowhere outside this hotel catering to Westerners, struck me as pornographic and exploitative.

In the streets, men wear either Western dress, a traditional loose fitting robe (djellabahs) with yellow pointy shoes (babouches), or a combination of the two. The babouches, we are told, are loose fitting as well so the men can take them off in the mosque when they pray towards Mecca 5 times a day. Yesterday I heard the call the prayer three times, perhaps four. The muezzin stands atop the local mosque's minaret and cries it out, often through an amplifier. But after awhile I treated them as the locals appear to, as some sort of spiritual Big Ben, marking time. To my surprise I have yet to see anyone respond to the call by actually breaking their rhythm and stopping to pray.

Along the road we pass mile after mile of cedar trees. As things seem to work here in this "democratic socialist constitutional monarchy," (as Idriss informed us) King Hassan II mentioned in a speech that he wanted to increase cedar export and, thus, to see more trees. And so it was done. Therefore, the bottom white half of every tree has been stripped to allow the more valuable second brown level to grow in over its seven year time span. A scattering of two-toned trees is one thing, but thousands of acres are a surreal sight.

I have been enjoying with dark humor, in both of my guide books, the stories explaining why the Jewish ghettos were called "mellahs". Supposedly "mella" means salt, and it was the job of the Jews to clean and salt the heads of decapitated rebels and post their heads on pikes. Idriss, however, told the group that the name came from the Jewish control of the salt trade.

In Rabat, we visited a Sephardic temple and spoke with the rabbi. The small congregation was composed of the handful of families left after most Jews departed in 1968 after the Arab-Israel war. At the time there were roughly 500,000 Jews in the country. Now, the rabbi said, there were only 6,000. However, to get anyone to admit that they left due to the war would take an hour of argument. Why did they leave? I would ask. To go elsewhere, they'd say. But why they all left at the same time would never be addressed.

After the temple visit I told Idriss what I had read regarding the Mellah in my guide books. I was shocked at his response. "No, no," he insisted. "You cannot believe history. History is not a science." How convenient, especially when the subject of this history has left the country. And this from a tour guide. This denial of anything short of amicable relationships between Morocco and its Jews was constant throughout the trip. We heard time and again, "Morocco is very good to Jews and Christians. Islam is very tolerant." This line only varied once, when a Moroccan unaware of my religion complained about America's "inaction to help the Palestinians." When he later learned we were Jewish, he acted at first with disbelief, then never mentioned the topic, or anything related, again.

Our first stop on our way to Fez was the imperial city of Meknes, surrounded by miles of walls. The head of the French protectorate from the first half of the century had deemed mosques forbidden to non-Muslims. However, the status of a certain Mosque in Meknes was under question and it was deemed acceptable to allow non-Muslims entry. The design and architecture was magnificent, and it was excellent to learn how the interiors to which we had been denied entries so many times actually looked.

Speaking of the French protectorate, I was surprised at the mixed Moroccan attitude towards it. Idriss expressed this when at one point he explained that they call it the "protectorate" but not a "colony" since

Miscellaneous Photos: Man and girl Barry in palace Barry jumping in palace

the Moroccan King at the time invited the French to come in and help him unite the country. Meanwhile, Idriss would also refer to Moroccan Independence and their "liberation" from France. When we met a Moroccan with whom we grew intimate enough to ask such questions, he explained to us that while the country was occupied by the French for years, it prepared Morocco to enter the international arena, and thus the protectorate is seen in some ways as a mixed blessing.

When we stopped the bus at the edge of Meknes, outside the main gate, we were swamped with children asking for a sweet "bon-bon" or offering to model for a photograph if we'd give them "one dirham" or roughly $.11. I broke away from the group snapping shots of the gate and moved where I could take candid photographs of Moroccans in a park. A cute girl came up to me, pointed at my camera, and said "No dirham."

"You want me to take your picture?"

"No dirham."

"For no dirham?"

She nodded. Perhaps she fancied the idea of a tourist taking her photo, I imagined. I took the photo and her finger shot up and she pleaded in her trained, adorable voice, "One dirham."

Ah, so that was her plan. I smiled, shook my head, and naively argued, pretending she could understand, "But you said no dirham."

"One dirham," she repeated, insistent.

"Nope," I said, starting to leave good naturedly. Four other children ran over, pointed to my camera and the girl, and added to the chorus, "One dirham." A few were older and I explained again, sure of myself, "She said no dirham."

The girl made fists of her hands and put them to her eyes, accompanied by a mock crying whine. An actress she wasn't. I looked at her with a face that said, "Who do you think you're fooling?" She did it again and I said a final good-bye. I wasn't about to be made the fool, falling for the oldest trick in the book.

I crossed the street and turned back before getting on the bus. She stood alone watching me, as her companions had left. A frown was pasted on her face, as real as the crocodile tears before them, and she held out her empty hands. I repeated the motion and frowned back.

Then I smiled, showing that while she did not trap me in her game, I did enjoy playing. She smiled back, waved, and ran off to play with her companions, I guess, or find a more willing tourist.

What a shmuck I was, I now think as I write this. I should have given her the dirham. It was only $.11.

FROM MEKNES TO VOLUBULIS TO FEZ

After Meknes we ate lunch and toured Volubulis, the ruins of an ancient Roman town, the most southern of their empire. It was intriguing, set at the top of a hill and rising over the surrounding countryside. However, at the time, I was dressed in shorts expecting sun and it was cold and raining. And I had no umbrella.

Before boarding the bus, our tour-mates shopped in the tiny store and used the bathroom before starting on our final leg to Fez. Noemi and I began to see just how bizarre our situation with Idriss truly was. He

Miscellaneous Photos: Noemi sees a poppy Noemi picks the poppy Noemi and the poppy

began crying out to us and clapping his hands. Those in the store grew anxious and hurried out to the bus. I was astonished and dismayed at watching middle-aged Americans scurry about like guilty grade-school students afraid of being sent to detention. Those who tarried were berated like selfish children, and who wanted the treatment given Noemi and I the day before? And what was worse, some were waiting to go to the bathroom; instead of standing up to our guide, they all decided to "hold it in" and ran to get on the bus.

I was happy to continue our ride to Fez. It would be our first two-night city stay, which meant that once we arrived we could separate from the tour and be on our own until we had to leave the city again, using the hotel at last, and not the bus, as our base of operations.

And after few hours' nap, when we arrived in Fez, we set about to do just that.

The hotel were we had been booked in was packed, so we got bumped up into a five star hotel, the Palais Jamais, right inside the medina, atop a hill. The name itself impressed many a Moroccan when they heard that was where we were staying, and it was no surprise. The hotel was built in the late 19th century and it appears its designs could compete with that of any mosque or royal building. Nothing lacked for ornate designs- from the metal doorknobs and the round mirror, to the wood cabinets and carved tables. Our balcony overlooked first the swimming pool, then the medina itself, and the sky beyond.

As usual, dinner with the group had been planned, with a performance of a traditional Moroccan marriage arranged. Noemi and I felt conflicted. The inevitable comfort and safety of our tour was as seductive as it was meant to be, but we fought, and fought hard, until we had freed ourselves and made an evening's pact with the unknown. Rabat was the only city where we had recommendations. From now on, we were on our own.

FEZ AT NIGHT

People. We wanted to meet people, watch people, hear people. Perhaps sit in a cafe or go to a disco. The concierge recommended a restaurant in the new section of town, built by the French. Most of the cities are designed this way, with the traditional Moroccan medina's in one area and a separate, more modern area build by the previous French administrators next to it. The moment our taxi arrived I felt competent once again. I had grown numb to the sense of dependence inculcated by our tour guide. "Morocco is safe," the message in my mind ran, "but without me to protect you, well... let's not speak of it any longer."

The short, cheap ($3) ride to the restaurant was pleasant and we spent a few minutes visiting a handful of open grocery stores just to get a feel of the area and our ability to move wherever and whenever we liked. We only saw men and no women out and about and one friendly but drunk man aggressively insisted we let him take us home for tea. That felt like a good time to get into the restaurant.

The food was traditional Moroccan, the same dishes as the night before, but unmemorable. What was striking, however, was the maitre d', Mustapha, a friendly man with an odd twist to his personality. For example, he insisted we not order the more expensive meal on the menu. "It's too much to eat." His demeanor was so odd, Noemi understood what I meant when I explained it felt like he could walk right up to us and say, in a serious tone, "You know, this isn't actually a restaurant," and mean it.

Instead, he recommended a disco in the area. "Perhaps I will see you there afterwards," he said. He never did show up, but after we paid the bill he showed us out the door and stopped a man he knew... or at least appeared to know. Mustapha returned to the restaurant and the gentleman changed his course to walk us to the disco.

He was a local student and the only language we shared was Spanish, and not much at that. He insisted we join him for dinner the next night and, arriving at the door to the disco, we reluctantly agreed.

We paid 120 dirham ($14) to enter the club at the base of a hotel and walked in. While we were looking for some excitement and contact with the "local people," we were quite unprepared for what was to come.

It was a small sized club, with a round dance floor in the middle, a cone shaped disco ball above it, and a dozen comfy lounge areas surrounding it. In Morocco, comfy cushiony seats abound. The music was cheesy American slow tunes and the place was near empty. We took a seat and tried to discern what the six people who were there were doing. Each in their own section, save for 2 men together and 2 women together, slumped in their seat, looking bored as could be. We decided we couldn't leave; we had to watch and figure out what was going on.

No one talked to each other. No one danced. Everyone had a drink. Was this how Moroccans socialized? Then three drunk older men came in and they accosted the two woman, saddling up next to them, asking for kisses and getting them. Prostitutes, we figured. Two men came in, the tall one so handsome Noemi mentioned she had a few male friends she'd die to set him up with. He spoke with a waiter and then, after a few minutes, the music changed drastically. Finally, some real dance music! Late 80s American rap and popular reggae. Not my favorite, but at least it looked like there might be some dancing tonight. The man who requested the change danced up a storm with moves I was sure he had developed on his own.

Then it happened. Four Moroccan men, around our age, burst into the club and onto our couches. They found out we were American and for the rest of the night they cried, "Welcome to Morocco. A thousand welcomes!" They were all quite drunk. Dris, the best English speaker, and very sharply dressed, introduced us to the others. They were mostly military students, beginning their one week vacation of bacchanalian debauchery. We danced, talked, drank and traded jokes for the next two hours. They danced and acted bold and outrageous, including us in all their shenanigans.

First they dragged us onto the floor to dance to the American music and the reggae. We shared playful moves, holding hands and dancing around in a circle --I was tempted to teach them the Hora! Then, to my surprise and delight, the music became popular Moroccan dance music, and they made sure we learned all the steps. We made V-shapes with our feet and stepped softly to one side, our hands raised in a welcoming manner at the sides of our waist, or we'd drop to our knees in mock prayer (were they making this up as they went along?) and then back up, our hands to our side, the other wriggling in front of our face as if a rude gesture as we spun around.

By now, the club was packed and I felt like we were rocking it. Everyone wanted to dance with us, and those who didn't weren't given much of a choice as the most drunk one tried to pull almost every women to the floor at least once. The never-ending cries of "Welcome to Morocco!" were screamed into our ears over the music. I'd never felt so welcomed so quickly in my life. They told me, as many have throughout the trip, how beautiful Noemi was and how lucky I was to be with her (in fact, at one point, the man who had gotten us the taxi earlier in the evening had told me, "She is very beautiful. You are very lucky. Sleep well and have a good night.").

After a long time of such nutty behavior, we had to leave, even though we were in the swing of things and I hated to leave what felt like our new best friends (and unlike other numerous interactions vis-à-vis the tour bus, the intentions of Dris and his friends appeared sincere and lacking any ulterior motives). Dris insisted we join him the next night at his home for a dinner by his mother. He insisted over and over until we agreed. They bought us more beer, for the second time, but by then we had learned to be forceful, insisting we had to leave and asked him to help us with the taxi. Suddenly, the dance floor cleared and a belly-dancer appeared. Women approached and put money in her straps. The most drunk of our group was nearly thrown out of the club for trying to dance with her. Finally, we had to leave and broke away.

Dris not only found us a cab, but helped ensure our safety. The tone of his French suggested that he told the driver that he was in the military and that we better be treated right. Before Dris departed he explained that the fee was 30 dirham ($3.30) and no more. We bade him good night and told him he'd see us the next evening.

I collapsed in the taxi in amazement. What good fortune we'd had and, besides that, what a good time. I couldn't remember when last I had gotten so silly for so long with a group of people, let alone strangers in a strange place. And what a wonderful antidote to the stiffness of our tour mates. We had left the hotel with the desire to watch and connect with people, real Moroccans, and by giving ourselves to the Arab hand of fate we had managed to do just that.

The taxi arrived at our hotel and I gave him 30, as Dris had told me. "40," the driver said. "No," I said firmly, "30." He shrugged and let it go. I felt good that I had finally begun to learn the sport Idriss had called the national sport of Morocco: haggling.

Tomorrow we will spend the day blessedly alone, free free free from our tour group, and tour the old town medina and its shopping souks. And if things go as planned, tomorrow night we will eat with Dris and his family before another crazy evening. Who knows? In any case, tonight was a fantastic evening. I was bowled over by their hospitality and I feel for the first time that I've finally connected with some real Moroccans with no agenda other than to have fun and make connections. And while it's only our second evening in Morocco, so much has happened that I'd swear it's already no less than our fifth.

I am beginning to understand why some foreigners can come to this beautiful, sensual land and never leave.