Italy & Morocco Entry #4: I look local, I eat local, I go back to where I feel local

The ferry from Tangier to Algeciras was running on a Moroccan schedule and according to Moroccan advertising principles. The “1 hour” 5:00 ferry departed at 5:40 and arrived in Spain 2.5 hours later (having crossed a time zone, the clock showed the trip to have been just 1.5). Once across the border, however, everything was fully Spanish. I could finally (kind of) blend in! I could communicate with words! I also happened to have the nicest hostel room I’d ever stayed in—a private single with bathroom, though I’d only paid for a dorm. The next day I took a bus to Portugal and saw some great Spanish scenery—lots of green and lots of sun. And when I left my coat on one bus after transferring to a new one, I was able to convince the driver (though already running late) to let me run back and get it. In Spain, things were going well.

Luck in Portugal was mixed. CouchSurf host in Faro failed to contact me: bad. Ran into random friendly-seeming guy who showed me to the tourism office, recommended a nice but cheap place to stay, and toured me around town: generally good. Generally. In addition to the city’s sights, Carlos decided I needed to experience the local food, alcohol, and music. Generally I’m fine with that, but with a middle-aged playboy, it was pretty strange. I never felt unsafe, so I stayed out with him, had some surprisingly good wine, great food (some fish & egg dish, olives, shrimp, goat cheese...), and listened to a local band. I got back to the hostel around 4:00 in the morning and decided that, while everything turned out fine, that’s probably not something I should do again anytime soon. Just got too awkward. In any case, it was definitely a relief to land in Germany where you can be alone without getting accosted, where people are reserved and not only won’t follow you around, but probably won’t even strike up a conversation…especially not with a direct inquiry about your marital status. Much of the time, I have no problem with puritanical.

Italy & Morocco Entry #3: I go for the Moroccan experience

Morocco was a culture shock. I was white. I was alone. I was a woman. I didn’t speak Arabic, or French, and I didn’t come with my own rolls of toilet paper. It was a little overwhelming that first day in Meknes, as I realized what all of this meant. After dropping off my stuff at the hostel, I went out to explore the city. Soon, I had a male contemporary at my side, refusing to take hints like, “I’d like to walk around alone,” and thinking that “I’m going to go back to my hostel” was an invitation for him to spend the night. After walking around together for awhile, I invented a boyfriend and successfully started back toward the hostel alone, only to find myself suddenly blocked by a large man speaking Arabic at me. I tried to tell him in French that I only spoke English (the truth for all practical purposes), but that only got me two men speaking at me, neither one of which I could understand. I have no idea what the deal was. I just wanted to cross the street. Finally they gave up and let me pass. I bought some bread and fruit on the way back to the hostel, ate it, and went to bed. It was 7 p.m., but I’d had enough.

When I was in Meknes, as in San Marino, I felt a little like I was the only tourist. I was surprised and pleased when two French women came to breakfast the next morning, relieving me from being the only western woman among a whole soccer-team of boys who were scarfing down bread, juice, and tea, and casting occasional glances my way. Talk about feeling conspicuous. Marrakech was better, namely because there were more tourists. This meant that taxi costs were severely inflated and that there was a little more beckoning from vendors to come look at their stuff, but it was not nearly as bad as I had expected. No one went beyond a greeting or invitation to see what they had (except at dinner time in the market square, when the waiters would actually follow you around for awhile). And frequently, the vendors didn’t say anything at all. Far less pressure than the tourism-tip websites led me to expect.

Walking through the souqs (markets) here was amazing. The streets were maze-like, and you could walk for hours, getting lost and finding your way again, seeing a lot without actually stopping long to look. Since the city was touristy, I expected most people with something to sell to speak at least a little English. This wasn’t always the case. I ordered lunch by pointing and got the prices for groceries with held-up fingers. Speaking of food: it was amazingly cheap. My pointing-lunch consisted of a large sandwich, fries, and drink for the grand total of 13 dirhams, or about 1.30 euros. Just the half-liter bottle of soda would have cost more than that in Europe.

If you don’t mind long bus rides, it’s something to do on your honeymoon: ride on a camel, water the sand with your urine. Stand underneath a black dome of sky on a plane that probably extends forever; stare at the white spots twinkling through. Unless you’re an astronomer, the Sahara’s got more stars than you knew existed—more than you’ve ever seen—more than anyone could count. It’s got wind, too. Stand and feel it swirl past you, feel it brush the sand against your legs, feel the chill. Forget about restrooms and any sort of modern conveniences. Poop in the desert behind a dune. Wrap yourself in a blanket and stand by the campfire. Clap to the music. Walk away from it all and make yourself feel small, and then big—elated, and then peaceful. Feel your heart beat. Feel free.

Any long road trip requires music, and the trip from centrally located Marrakech to the edge of the Sahara was, by any modern standards, long.* We started the day with radio broadcasts in French—news, as you could tell from the intonation of the speaker’s voice. By mid-morning, we’d transitioned to local music. I wish I knew just what we were listening to, for one so I could do some research on it, for two so I could listen more myself, and lastly because I’m not going to be able to adequately describe it here. I’m pretty sure the music was “modern;” at least, it contained some “modern” elements. It often sounded like the voice was electronically distorted, for example, though it was a little hard to tell. Maybe they just have an unusual way of singing. Anyway, the modern music was also fairly traditional in terms of instrumentation and singing style. Vocal lines were full of trills and Arab-influenced intervals and harmonies. Texts were in Arabic—or maybe a Berber language. (Actually, they could have been anything North African or Middle Eastern, for all I knew.) The songs were generally quick, but long and repetitive. Somehow, they perfectly fit the scenery, fit the uphill and downhill and around-mountain winding we were doing, and helped the 10 hours to flow by pretty well. Occasionally, after we made our last rest stop and got closer and closer to the desert, our van driver (short and stocky, sweatered and stocking-capped) started singing along. Not in tune, exactly, but Moroccan music doesn’t seem to be about being in tune—at least not like “traditional” western music generally is. Nothing about the run-down villages we were driving by was perfect; nothing about the poor-looking kids and bored-looking men would have fit a soprano aria. This called for some wailing, called for some sliding on the pitch. This was real, and I was glad the music was, too.

*Of course, no comparison to the “52 days to Timbuktu” that some sign in some Moroccan town famously proclaims.

Some music examples that come pretty close to the style were were listening to:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AG8NxCf5NeM (The female singer between 0:20 and 1:30)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3neKACV6-6w&feature=related (This video is weird. But the music is a pretty good example.)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b8Ffq-FOFqM&feature=related

Italy & Morocco Entry #2: I see some cool Italian things

The whole time I was in San Marino, I felt like I was just about the only person in the country. The 61 sq. km-sized nation is located in eastern Italy and is not reachable by train. Relying on bus schedules scanned and posted on the internet, I missed the last connection there on the night I needed to go, so I ended up having to take a taxi across the border and into my town. I stayed at the hostel there for two nights—the only person in an 8-bed room—and had as the only sign of another human being the occasional occupation of the bathroom I shared with my next-door neighbor. San Marino's capital (San Marino) seemed equally deserted. Other than one group of Japanese tourists, some construction workers, and a few couples strolling between the three towers and along the city wall, there was hardly anyone around. And though I had imagined sunny and welcoming rather than dreary and moderately deserted, it worked. The oldest republic in the world, set up on a hill, guarded by stone walls and towers. Fog just fits.

I got to Riomaggiore in mid-afternoon and found an envelope hanging outside the hostel office with my name on it. Inside was a key and detailed directions to the building I’d be staying in. It turned out to be an 8-person, 1-kitchen, 2-bathroom apartment behind a sliding green door at a out-of-the-way intersection nearly too tight to maneuver my backpack through. It was fantastic. After dropping off my stuff and having the owner enthusiastically tell me about the room’s new paint job and repeatedly ask for my stamp of approval, I went out to explore the city and witness one of the most amazing sunsets I’ve ever seen. When I got back to the room, I discovered two friendly Canadians and a New Zealander. We talked, the Kiwi gave me a run-down on the walking paths (what trails were closed, and how she walked them anyway without any trouble), and I was just happy—still mildly intoxicated from the sunset, already excited about walking the next day. The girl from N.Z. was in the same mood. “It’s just a good day,” she said at one point, and, though I’d spent most of it on busses, in stations, and on trains, I couldn’t have agreed more.

Coming into Vernazza from the Cinque Terre city of Corneglia is positively gorgeous—houses crammed together and painted in bold pastels, bordered by grape-covered hills on one side and teal-y blue sea on the other, white waves spraying up over the dark black rocks at the base of the cliffs. I wasn’t supposed to make that walk, but was so glad I did. For the next section, though, I decided not to break the rules again. I could just hike into the mountains instead of taking the closed coastal path. Ultimately—because I eventually found my way and did not slip or get hurt or die—it was a great alternative and awesome experience. While it was happening, I wasn’t always so pleased. It started raining and then snowing as I followed a trail that didn’t seem to match my map and climbed higher and higher into the mountains. I got soaked. I was worried it’d get dark. The trails were slippery and steep and hardly existent. When I stopped thinking about these things and realized that I was the only thing high up on a brush-covered mountain (no more trees by this point) overlooking the sea, it felt amazing. Then I’d start to feel my cold socks instead and would move on again, walking even faster.

Sometimes things don’t really go your way. Getting drenched the day before two nights of night trains is an example. Or so it might have been, had it not been for the awesome inn-keeper and some friendly Frenchmen (and women) staying in my hostel. In addition to the Canadians and New Zealander, all of whom were moving out that day, there were three travelers from France, who had agreed the night before to let me keep my stuff in the room until I caught my night train. This was great, but I didn’t figure I’d actually get to “use” the room on the second day I wasn’t paying for. On the contrary, they welcomed me back and let me hang out there for several hours. My wet shoes, socks, and pants were able to dry. I avoided sitting at the station for hours in the howling wind. I got to take a shower. It was fantastic.

Every time I told someone in Germany about going to Italy, they made it seem like the trip was an escape to a tropical paradise. I guess I kind of started to believe them, so I was disappointed when I experienced snow once again in Rome. My shoes and one pair of pants were saturated within an hour of setting out to explore the city, and I went back to the train station to get a map and change clothes before going out again. The next pair of pants was soon wet to the knees and I shivered my way through some of the main sights of Rome: Trevi Fountain, the Pantheon, St. Peter’s Basilica. By the time I started walking back from the Vatican, my teeth were chattering uncontrollably and I was pretty much ready to find a plane heading home. Thankfully, the snow stopped for good around this point, and I got to see the Roman Forum and Colosseum lit by afternoon sun. That night, I slept in an actual night train bunk, and though it was really just a piece of minimally-padded, upholstered metal, it felt as if I were in the bed of a caesar.

Italy & Morocco Entry #1: I meet some people

My first Moroccan male experience actually took place in Italy. It was my first full day there, and I was ready to head out sight-seeing. I’d said goodbye to my Czech hostel roommate and her Portuguese boyfriend and was at the bus stop, examining the schedule. Enter Hassan. He passed me walking downstage right, turned around, hesitated, walked back. Line: “Waiting for a bus?” According to him, this bus stop was no good, but he knew a better one. When he realized I wasn't following him to his stop, he decided to wait with me at mine, declaring (after I’d disclosed my destination) that he was going the same place! (Uh huh…right.) I tried to think of ways to get rid of him (I’m not too tolerant when it comes to random burr-like boys who seem to have some kind of agenda), but didn’t manage it. Instead, I tried to make the best of it and turn the experience into an educational cultural one. I talked to him about Morocco and Muslimity, and (when I was able to ignore the comments on my ostensible beauty and how happy our meeting had made him) had a fairly good few hours walking around Bergamo.

I was not unhappy, however, when it came time to part at the train station and travel on alone. Or so I had hoped. A chance encounter with another young Moroccan while waiting on the platform landed me a (non-German-or-English-speaking) traveling partner for the ride to Venice. Practically, it was pretty useful (he helped me figure out what was up with our non-moving train), and also, it was kinda fun. Trying to carry on a conversation—though rather difficult, sometimes awkward, and somewhat stressful—was a unique experience. We spoke using gestures, my (extremely limited) Spanish alongside his Italian, and his cell phone, on which we could type numbers. Amazingly, we were thus able to converse about everything from my marital status (came up early, of course), to my work, his sister’s dress shop, our parents’ ages, and our respective cell phone plans. Only near the end of the trip did it get weird, as he gave me his phone number and slipped his picture to me under the table. Aw man. And you were doing so well, too.

Despite the fact that I didn’t end up doing any couchsurfing, I met a lot of people on this trip. Admittedly, most were not locals, but they generally still helped make things more fun. I spent an evening wandering around Venice with two girls from Hong Kong, looking at Carnival masks and drinking superb hot chocolate. In the Rome train station I met Adrian from Romania, who ended up being about the least-creepy male of the trip and declared his intention to name his future hypothetical daughter "Justine." In Marrakech, I met Susie from London, who had been all over the world (at least the Australia-Indonesia-Asia-Middle East part of it) and who made me realize just how little age differences are starting to make (she was 42; never would’ve guessed it). I had good luck again on the way to Tangier, where some flooded railroad tracks and an already-full bus led to me meeting Julie and Nicole, North Americans working as English TAs in France. Together, we played Crazy Eights at 3:00 am in a mostly-deserted train station (even taught the bored-looking station workers how to play, too!), drank mint tea, ate delicious Moroccan food, traipsed tiredly through Tangier, took taxis, and fought off unofficial “guides” who were as bad at getting the “go away” message as the suitors. Best of all, we went together to a hamam (communal bathhouse) for a relaxing, exfoliating, water-wasting, self-consciousness-lowering, slightly language-barriered adventure. It was great—definitely a highlight of the trip and something I would not have had the courage to do alone. Thanks Julie and Nicole! Thanks fate!