Over the Atlantic Ocean

Saturday, April 5th

"Do you have a friend in Morocco?"
-- Common Vendor Question

"We do now. Everyone says they are our friend."
-- Our Sarcastic Answer

OUR FINAL EVENING

Last night, while we hardly left the room, was actually one of my favorite this week (no, not what you may be thinking). Noemi's sickness made lying in the bed her preferred position, close to the bathroom. In spite of her condition and our confinement (or perhaps as a result of it) we were silly giddy goof-balls all night, laughing and poking one another, making faces and cuddling under covers as we read or watched television. It was really what the core of a vacation is all about: time to be together.

We did actually leave the hotel, twice in fact, on short excursions, once by choice and once by design. In Noemi's state, earlier plans to dance into the wee hours at an ocean side disco were scrapped, but the idea of passively sitting at an outdoors cafe- the true national pastime of Morocco - was something we'd been dying to do all week and Noemi felt up to giving it a shot.

We slowly walked to what turned out to be an ice-cream store that I had noticed when we had arrived at the Holiday Inn. Noemi suggested we turn back half way, but then decided to push on. We braved the unmarked street crossings, found a comfortable table for two overlooking the busy corner, and ordered "mint tea," holding up two fingers. Noemi's head was floaty, but we were relaxed and enjoyed just sitting and watching Casablanca pass by (although most were elsewhere, apparently due to Friday being the Muslim holy day) until our waiter returned.

Instead of two tiny glasses and a decorated tea pot, his tray supported two tall glasses, containing what appeared to be white milkshakes. Were they mint milkshakes? We never found out. With embarrassment, we explained, this time in French, that we wanted mint tea, to which he shook his head. Apparently, they did not serve any. So, having imagined we had successfully penetrated Morocco's veneer and learned to settle into a cafe like the average Moroccan, we shed our delusion, shooed him away, and shyly scuttled back to the hotel without paying, hoping none would notice.

When we arrived back at the room, Noemi realized we were out of Smekta (which she had taken to referring to as smegma), and this certainly would not do. I was shocked that the front desk could not provide us any. Instead, the gentleman assured us that it would be easy to purchase at an all-night pharmacy only a short taxi-ride away. After all behind the front desk had their fill of patting their tummies while chanting Smekta with a smile, a taxi was hailed for us. The driver was told, in Arabic, to take us to the pharmacy and bring us back. Smekta was repeated quite a few times. Apparently, it was important that the entire country know.

The driver took us to the side of a deserted government-type building, behind a dry public fountain. He pulled into a dark, secluded area, parked, and stepped out of the taxi. Clearly, we were suppose to follow, but to where? He opened our doors. Surely, he wouldn't rob us, as the hotel people could identify him. Couldn't they?

He locked the doors once we stepped out and then ran ahead, with us trailing cautiously behind. A door appeared behind a pillar and, indeed, there was an all-night pharmacy tucked away, with two windows like bank tellers, one for men and one for women. Our driver spoke for us and paid for the box of 30 Smekta when it appeared underneath the window.

We couldn't have been more delighted. We returned to the hotel, paid for the ride, medicine & service, and spent the remainder of the night in the hotel, Smekta by our side.

TO THE AIRPORT

This morning we packed up and headed in a mini-van to the airport. Other travelers, who have matched our itinerary hotel by hotel, left afterwards in their own bus. 20 minutes from our final destination, the driver pulled us to the side of the road. Apparently, Morocco was not yet ready to see us leave. At least, not so easily. We had a flat.

One of our tour-mates remarked, upon seeing it, "Only the bottom is flat. The top is round." (Yes, we actually survived a week with people who thought like this.)

Luckily, we were able to flag down the larger bus of fellow tourists and get to the airport on time.

While we waited to have our passports checked, one of our favorite couples told us, quite sweetly, after we complained a bit about how rudely Idriss had treated us like children, that, "If we were your age, we would have wanted to experience it all on our own as well, regardless of what we saw or missed. It was right for you two. When we ran into you in the square in Marrakech, your faces were alight."

Then, leaning close, in a whisper, she added, "Meanwhile, I'm suffering from hearing loss," and she motioned to the same couples we had had the most problems with. "Hearing the same stories 7 times... some voices can sound like nails on a chalkboard, and so loud. Makes me want to hit them!" At least we weren't alone. But where had they been when we needed them the most?

ON THE AIRPLANE

Boy, this airplane food is quite a mess. Not that they served it this way. It just tastes terrible. And, as usual, some miscommunication prevented a veggie meal from being provided to Noemi. In an effort, I believe, to exert some control over her food, Noemi has combined the contents of both of our trays into a handful (not that you would want to actually hold it) of mixtures and concoctions: caramel cake, shrimp and corn, congealed with coffee; water lettuce, olives, tomatoes, and orange; one is such brown mush by now I can't even identify the original ingredients. "Oh," she moans in disappointment, "you used your butter..." accompanied by the Song of the Mixing of the Food. Thank god they're coming to clear it.

We've lucked out in our seat arrangements once again. Traveling to Morocco, we had three seats to ourselves by the window. This flight we're back by the window, but a seat is missing to fit the emergency exit, which is fantastic since we need the space for our delicate purchases - a large bowl, 2 fezzes, 2 silly masks, and the 4 Zellige tiles. Phew!

Noemi and I will need a little more time after the trip to be able to reflect on all that occurred, but we can definitely tell - tour group, food and Smekta aside - we had a wonderful time together, growing closer as we discovered the beauties and excitement of Morocco. Someday we will return, perhaps to tour the beach cities of the south and the Sahara Desert, or spend a week in Fez learning to navigate the medina on our own and buying furniture for our home, or perhaps we will never return, choosing instead to explore other lands.

What ever may come, our memories of the past week will stay stored in our hearts and minds until recalled by a sound or a smell and then carefully taken down like a book of photos to be lovingly handled and explored just one more time.