by Jenny Mollen
Dan seemed like the kind of guy who regularly used every feature on his Swiss Army knife. He probably knew how to tie at least three hundred different kinds of knots. He could kill a Moroccan street lion with his bare hands. He was proficient and competent in all the areas I wasn’t. I pictured him extracting his daily water from a cactus, sleeping in a Bedouin hut, and telling me he wished I wasn’t married.
It was a Wednesday morning when I finally got around to calling Dan. I was stuck in West Hollywood rush-hour traffic and nobody on my “I’m bored and sitting in the car” phone sheet was available to talk, so I decided to try Dan. I didn’t have any real questions. I guess I wanted to make sure that he wasn’t scamming me, but more than that I just figured he must be really eager to get to know me.
After just two rings, a young voice with a distinctly Californian accent answered.
“This is Dan.”
“Hey, Dan! It’s Jenny!” I was so excited for him. He finally had me on the phone.
“Hi,” he said, unmoved. “How can I help you?” It must have been hard for Dan to hold back his enthusiasm. How often was it that he got to talk to buyers directly? Especially ones that had googleable sex scenes on the Internet? It was kind of sweet that he was trying.
“I just wanted to talk through this whole thing with you before placing my order. The last guy I tried to do business with claimed I’d be eaten by lions if I didn’t buy from him, so I’m just a little wary.”
“Lions? Wow. Well, there are no lions here.” Hmm. I was giving Dan room to banter with me and he was totally missing his cues. Dan wasn’t as funny as I wanted him to be.
“Daaaaaaan. I’m from L.A. I just want my house to look like Irene Neuwirth’s. Is this whole thing legit? Do you promise you aren’t just trying to steal from me? The ladies on your site aren’t just hanging out on a Universal Studios back lot, are they?”
“Ha.” I smiled, pleased to finally get a rise out of him. “No, I assure you we are a real operation and we guarantee that the rug will arrive in one piece on your doorstep or your money back.”
Then, a flash of inspiration. “You know, I’d love to come there someday and see this operation. Is that possible?” I was only half-serious, half making sure he wasn’t on a Universal Studios back lot.
He sounded skeptical. “You do realize the Berber people don’t speak English.”
“Do they speak French or German?”
“No.”
“How about Spanish? I don’t speak it, but I do know all the words to Madonna’s ‘La Isla Bonita.’ Okay, don’t tell anyone, but I also know one Pitbull song.”
“They speak their own indigenous language. I’m sure you haven’t heard it.”
“That’s cool. It might even be a plus. People usually love me when they can’t understand a word I’m saying.”
Dan paused, with what felt like disbelief.
“Yeah, I don’t think you would enjoy yourself. Have you ever been camping?”
“No.”
“Hiked a mountain?”
“Magic Mountain.”
“Slept on the floor?”
“I was a theater major.”
Dan chuckled, but it was obvious he’d never learned how to trust by closing his eyes and allowing his body to be lifted into the air by a group of fellow thespians. It was also obvious that he didn’t want me to visit. Without coming straight out and saying it, Dan was implying that I couldn’t hack it in the Atlas. He might have also been implying that I couldn’t hack it as a theater major, but that could have just been my own projection.
Later that night, I bought the rug. Before bed, I lamented to Jason that the socially inept stranger I met online wasn’t completely in love with me, and I told him how he laughed at the idea of me coming to the Atlas Mountains to see the weavers. I was looking for support, but Jason just rolled his eyes and sidled into bed beside me.
“Oh, I’m sure you could hack it, Anderson Cooper. Sounds like just the kind of trip I could see you taking.”
The sarcasm stung, but I refrained from engaging.
The next morning, I did some research. Here’s what I learned. The co-op was five hours outside Marrakech, deep in the Atlas Mountains. If I were to go, I’d have to fly to Africa, make my way through Casablanca, get on a smaller plane to Marrakech, hire a driver to take me five hours into the mountains, and hike three miles before even seeing a weaver. I’d never taken that kind of trip before. Usually my vacations consisted of sitting on a beach drinking overpriced iced tea and contemplating how I looked in a bikini. This would be a far more badass endeavor. The kind of story I could brag about one day to my son. Something I’d probably have to invest in waterproof boots for.
It was a few months later, in March, and we were staying in New York City. Jason was in previews for a Broadway show, and since I refused to sleep in the L.A. house alone, I was stuck on the East Coast with him. When I learned that my rug had at last been delivered back in L.A., I texted Lita to open up the colossal package in Sid’s room in front of a smoke detector she hadn’t realized was a nanny cam. Lita was a little alarmed to hear my voice come out of the detector, but she complied when I told her to move the rug a little to the left. From what I could see on the grainy screen, it was perfect.
“Fuck you, ABC Home!” I announced victoriously.
A few days later, I got a surprise message from Dan. He hadn’t forgotten that I was interested in meeting his weavers—probably because I’d been texting him about it every two weeks. I’d been following their slowly burgeoning Instagram account, thinking about how many more likes they’d get if they understood lighting and the importance of high-angle shots with cute handbags. But more than daydreaming about how I could help these women, I selfishly thought about what they might offer me. The women in the photos seemed wise beyond their years, and not just because they didn’t use sunscreen. Because they’d suffered hardships beyond anything my theater-school mind could even begin to improvise. They had nothing and yet everything. Their priorities were simple, uncluttered by the narcissism that creeps in once you own a magnifying mirror and an app that can erase wrinkles. They were profoundly pure and I yearned for their approval.
Dan had a proposition for me. If I was willing to post something on my social media accounts about The Anou and drum up some votes for a grant competition they were in, he would escort me to the co-op himself.
Delighted that Dan had finally googled me and deemed me an asset to the cause, I agreed. I posted a message on Twitter, my cyber friends stepped up to the challenge, and we promptly crashed the voting site. Unfortunately, because the majority of The Anou’s votes came from outside Morocco, they were disqualified from the competition. But Dan assured me that a deal was a deal. If I was ready to visit, he’d be there to lead the way.
This was the opportunity I’d been waiting for, the chance to show Sid (and Jason, and Dan, and Mustapha) what I was capable of.
I knew right off the bat that I couldn’t take Jason with me. He was working until August, and if I wanted to catch Dan, I had to be there by the end of April. And besides, I needed to do this without him. Jason had always booked my travel for me, even when we were dating. That was just the role in the relationship that he’d assumed. He was the planner and I was the doer. He was the hunter and I was the hunter’s loud friend who gets drunk and accidentally shoots the hunter in the face with a crossbow. My biggest fear was that one day he’d die and I’d never know how to retrieve my American Airlines flight miles. Allowing Jason to help me with this trip would feel like cheating. And though I love cheating, I wanted this to be hard. I had something to prove, and I wasn’t going to let Jason prove it for me.
I racked my brain trying to come up with a travel buddy who would offer no sense of security, and settled on my mom. The Moc was perfect for the trip. She loved new experiences, didn’t mind getting dirty, and she’d emotionally abandoned me years ago.
“I’m sorry, Choppy, but I am way too blond and waaay too
cute to go to Morocco.” Her phone crackled as she spoke like I’d caught her mid-blowout.
“You’re also sixty years old, Mom. Nobody wants you anymore,” I said, listening to a round brush rip its way through her thin blond hair.
“Yes, they do. You should see the looks I get at the dog park.” I loved it when she bragged to me about things that happened at the dog park, like it was an exclusive club I should be dying to get into.
“You have to come, because Jason won’t let me go alone.”
“I can’t. They hate women and they hate our president.”
My mom was oblivious when it came to global politics, but that never stopped her from having strong opinions. After ten years of marriage to John, a staunch Republican from the Midwest, she now sends texts saying things like, “When Bruce Jenner cuts off his balls, he should give them to Obama.”
I told her I’d give her a few days to think about my offer and that we’d talk later in the week. Two hours later, she forwarded me a Fox News article about how ISIS was planning to launch an attack on the tourist economy in Tunisia.
“Sorry, Choppy, but I talked to John and we think it’s too dangerous. I just attract way too much attention.”
I considered calling her and explaining that Morocco and Tunisia were, in fact, separate countries that didn’t even border each other, but I could already imagine the back-and-forth and it sounded worse than getting blown apart in Tunisia.
Then, a thought: Randolph and Brandon. They weren’t friends I’d initially considered; we weren’t extraordinarily close, and up until recently, we lived on opposite coasts. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized all my other options would be people I’d have to pay for.
Randolph was twenty-six years old and half-Filipino, with porcelain skin and hips I’m still waiting to get from Pilates. He was independently wealthy, and the only job he’d ever held was COO of his mother’s walk-in closet. He grew up an only child in South Beach, Miami, and had been openly gay since high school. He’d moved to New York when he was eighteen in the hope of meeting the man of his dreams and possibly becoming the villain on a reality show.
I’d met Randolph five years earlier while on vacation on the Amalfi coast. Jason had just spent three months working on a movie and I’d just spent three days working on a tweet. We were both exhausted. I was lying by the pool, trying to compose the best picture of my feet on vacation, when out of nowhere, an evenly bronzed Asian boy in giant Yves Saint Laurent sunglasses and a Versace Speedo approached us.
“Hi, I know you’re on vacation and I don’t want to bother you, but I just wanted to say that I’m a huge fan.”
“That’s so cool. Thank you,” Jason said, turning on the charm.
The fashionista paused. “Oh, not you. Your wife. Jenny? From Twitter?”
Jason’s face dropped as I sprang out of my chair like I’d been crowned Miss America. This was the first time in my life I’d been recognized by a stranger (aside from the time I worked with Skeet Ulrich on Law & Order: LA and he recognized me as “that girl who brings her dog with her to the gym”).
“What’s your name?” I shrieked, trying to hold back tears of excitement.
“I’m Randolph, and that’s my boyfriend, Brandon.”
He pointed to a six-foot-two Jewish Clark Kent with a towel around his neck. There was something about Brandon that I could tell immediately disarmed Jason. If Randolph was the creepy guy sitting alone near the playground, Brandon was the wife and kids that just arrived, instantly transforming him into somebody you’d leave alone with your stroller. Maybe it was the fact that he was from the same county in New Jersey or that he didn’t know what a “@jennyandteets” was. Either way, Jason was assuaged. The four of us had dinner that night and we’d stayed in touch ever since.
When I mentioned inviting Randolph and Brandon to join me in Morocco Jason was relieved. Like Jason, Brandon was a planner, and if things got out of hand, he knew how to call an American Express travel concierge for help.
Brandon and Randolph called me on speakerphone to hash out the logistics. They first asked about where we were staying. I couldn’t offer many details because I didn’t know the co-op’s exact location. I didn’t know the name of any neighboring towns, nor did I have coordinates on a map. According to Dan, I told Brandon, the weavers’ location was deliberately concealed to protect them from opportunists looking to scam them out of their profits.
“Wait, who’s Dan?” Brandon said, trying to process.
“He’s a guy she met online. It’s fine,” Randolph huffed, impatient. “We are in. What should I wear?”
“Well, it could be horribly cold or brutally hot, so I’m bringing a sweater, some jean shorts, Jason’s ex’s caftan, and a pair of gladiator sandals.”
“Don’t say the Isabel Marant ones with the rhinestones, because I’m dying for those! I gotta go shopping.” Randolph started to pant, aroused.
Everything was falling into place. There was just one small roadblock standing in my way. I forgot that I’d invited my good friend/ex-boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend Kate to come see Hedwig and the Angry Inch on Broadway with me in a week. It was her favorite musical and I knew a guy who could get us backstage. I didn’t want to disappoint Kate. We’d had the same penis inside us and it was disappointing enough. Kate had been such an incredible friend to me over the years. We were practically sisters. Penis sisters. I wasn’t going to let her down.
In order to accommodate Kate and still make my trip, I needed to be back in New York by April 11. Brandon and Randolph were going to be in London on business until the seventh, but were willing to meet me in Marrakech on the eighth. I couldn’t find a flight that would get me in on the eighth, and I had too much pride to ask Jason for help (especially after asking him to get me backstage at Hedwig), so I booked myself on a flight for the sixth. That would mean one night alone in Marrakech. The idea was just unsettling enough to get me excited.
“You see,” I later explained to Jason, “in order to understand the mountains, I first have to understand the city.”
“Whatever you say, Anderson. You know the front lines better than anyone.”
As time drew closer, I started to get nervous about my itinerary. Dan intermittently responded to my e-mails, but he was always vague. Maybe my mom was right. Maybe Morocco was dangerous. Maybe it was teeming with terrorists. I pictured myself with a pillowcase over my head in an abandoned bomb shelter, pleading with my would-be attackers.
“Hey, so I know you guys are extremists or whatever, but have you seen Hedwig and the Angry Inch? Because I have tickets for this Saturday, and if I’m not there my penis sister is gonna be furious. What? Oh, you know, a penis sister. Yeah, it’s like when you are bonded for life because you’ve both had the same penis inside you. Not at the same time. Allahu akbar, calm down.”
When the day finally came, I was no more prepared than I’d been two weeks prior. Sid was on the floor, screaming hysterically because his nanny, Naomi, wouldn’t let him chase Teets around the apartment with a spork. I swept him into my arms and tried not to cry as I kissed him goodbye, promising I’d be back soon. Naomi assured me that he would be fine with her and Daddy. I knew she was right, but that didn’t stop my body from wanting to shit and throw up at the exact same time.
By the time I’d reached the airport, my anxiety about Morocco had lessened to a mild apprehension that was easily ameliorated with a glass of champagne and an Ambien. I boarded the plane, settled into my seat, and drifted into a pleasant sleep.
When we landed in Marrakech, I vanished into the circuitous sea of immigration desks. Once my passport was stamped, I got in a car and headed to my hotel. Outside, beat-up cars zipped through the terra-cotta-colored streets. Groups of men sat on sprawling blankets selling souvenirs and peanuts. It felt sort of like Mexico but without the Chiclets. If you’ve been to Mexico, then you’ve basically been to Romania, Morocco, Turkey, Greece. Through the eyes of an American they sort of blend together. W
orn-down buildings, outdated ad campaigns starring Monica Bellucci, everyone drinking Coca-Cola Lite. I appreciated its authenticity, but I couldn’t help feeling superior.
Check-in was easy—so easy that I started to get cocky. Skipping down the long mahogany hall to my room, I praised myself for making the decision to come to Morocco. I missed Sid, but in that moment I missed my old life more. I was the old Jenny again—the young Jenny, the fun Jenny, the impulsive Jenny who did completely impractical, thoroughly ill-advised things because they’d make a good story. It felt right, like slipping into a pair of jeans you haven’t been able to button since college.
I walked through an intimidating archway into a modestly sized suite steeped in rich reds and dark greens. An arabesque lattice screen divided the open tiled shower from an intricately carved bed. At the foot sat a silver tray holding a plate of fresh dates and a glass of lavender-scented almond milk. I was in heaven. Muslim heaven—the kind they promise suicide bombers. From my window I could see the top of the iconic Koutoubia Mosque jutting out from Medina Square.
I opened my roller bag and changed clothes for a victory lap around town. Tragically, I hadn’t thought a lot about what I’d wear when I packed. I just sort of piled a bunch of colorful scarves and peasant tops in a bag and figured I’d piece together a look once I arrived. But no matter how I mixed and matched, I still wound up looking like a Wise Man from a Nativity scene. I settled on a long skirt, a tank top, and two equally offensive scarves.
Too self-conscious to stop at the front desk and ask for directions, I covered my face with one of the scarves, turning it into a makeshift hijab, and sheepishly walked out the front door.
I waited fifteen minutes for a break in traffic, then crossed the street to the Koutoubia Gardens. I hadn’t been walking more than a few seconds when a man with dark eyes and a goatee noticed me. He looked like a mixture of my last Uber driver and a bad guy from the movie Taken.