Home Sweet Anywhere

by Lynne Martin

  You get the idea.

  We walked along a narrow street that would barely accommodate one car, but skillful drivers, all masterful at the one-lane tango, rarely touched each other as they edged along. We turned, went down several tile steps into an alleyway less than ten feet wide, and came to our formidable studded iron gate, which was twelve feet high. After a moment, a small door within the gate opened. We ducked to enter, while Marika, the pretty cook for the house, stepped aside. The aroma of spices and roasting meat followed her from the kitchen. I would have gleefully eaten dinner right that minute! My mouth was watering. The low-ceilinged entry hall heightened the surprise I felt every time we rounded the corner into the courtyard.

  Our riad sat within a four-story square in which ten rooms and suites surrounded the central courtyard. Our roof was open to the sky, but its system of canopies closed in the rain. Colorful tile decorated the walls, and intricate white trim and shutters accented the round Moorish arches above the doors and banisters. Lacy olive trees and large potted plants added softness and texture, while lively tapestries decorated the walls. Ancient tiles protected each level of the hallways overlooking the patio, their colors enriched with time and exposure. Hand-woven cushions were piled atop built-in concrete seating, and patterned carpets softened our steps.

  Patricia, the housemaid, silently lit candles on tables and in gorgeously filigreed iron and tin sconces hanging from the ceilings and mounted to the walls. Huge candles sat in the alcoves and along the pool. The riad glowed with flickering light, reflected in the glittering dark blue water. Elaborate tin lampshades and chandeliers glittered in the early evening.

  Abraham, a very tall and handsome houseboy, greeted us in his white linen Muslim garb with a little bow. Speaking French, he asked if we would like tea, then gestured questioningly toward the rooftop balcony. I mumbled something in my terrible French and indicated that we’d be there shortly. He went to the kitchen, directly across the patio, and we opened our room.

  Two German women had checked in to their room next to us, and it was impossible not to hear them chatting away. Voices came from rooms on the second floor, too. Tim shut the wooden doors to our room, and I closed the frail shutters over the windows, all of which opened onto the courtyard. He whispered, “It’s picturesque as hell, but I feel like I’m living in a dorm! I can hear everything in the building.”

  “Me too: Abraham is filling the pot for tea, the French people are on the phone, and the new people are making plans,” I said. “Uh oh, the owner’s back and he’s about to plant himself in that alcove outside our door, smoke his cigarettes, and call his wife in the Congo. Wonder if they’re still fighting about the furniture for their apartment? But Tim, our room is big enough and comfortable, and it’s only for a few nights, so we’d better just relax and enjoy it.”

  At this outburst, Tim laughed and said, “I think you’d better have a little Scotch with that tea. It’s cocktail time!”

  We ascended the stairs, its risers decorated with tiles and gleaming white filigreed railings. “Hey, have you noticed how much at home we feel here?” I asked. “Look at these punched tin lampshades, the tiles, arches, concrete furniture, patterned cushions, big glazed planters, tile floors…we could be in San Miguel!”

  “Of course,” he huffed as we reached the top floor. “Think about it—the Moors occupied Spain, then the Spaniards went to Mexico and took their culture with them.” Now, I know that somewhere in the back of my mind I knew those facts about human migrations, but the beauty of travel is that now I knew those facts in a way that only being on the ground and experiencing them offers a person.

  He collapsed on a rattan chair and we surveyed the rooftop space. “Oh, Tim, look at the city! And the moon is rising right over there! This is divine,” I gushed.

  The balcony was a Moroccan dream: comfortable sofas and lounge chairs were within easy reach of brass tables. Candles flickered everywhere. Fragrant flowering plants draped the stucco walls, and small trees offered a feeling of privacy. An awning along one side of the garden sheltered tables laid with crisp linens, polished cutlery, and china for dinner. The low city spread out before us, pink terra-cotta buildings with rooftop balconies like ours, mosque spires punctuating the skyline, and puffs of smoke rising from fires and grills, the sumptuous scents of meats spreading all over the city.

  Abraham brought the tea and glittering glasses, along with several plates of olives, cheese, and tiny sandwiches. I thanked him in my lousy French and he smiled. As Tim poured my cocktail, Annette and Gabrielle, our neighbors on the first floor, whom we had met as they were checking in earlier that day, arrived on the roof. Annette accepted my offer to share my Scotch. Gabrielle brought wine with her, so our cocktail hour was off to a lively start. They were longtime friends whose lives led them to opposite sides of Germany, so they traveled once a year together to catch up and enjoy a respite from their children and jobs.

  Annette, who was a head nurse from Hamburg, spoke almost perfect English. She was one of those people very comfortable in their own skins, sporting a ready smile beneath her short black hair and bright blue eyes. I never saw her having anything other than a great time. Meanwhile, her friend Gabrielle, who lived in Bavaria, had English as sparse as our German, so we didn’t get to know her very well. She was blond, wore wonderful jewelry and scarves, and laughed a lot…always an attraction for us. She was also game for anything the rest of us dreamed up, another trait we’re fond of. She was the fourth person we had met from Munich during our travels. They all loved to have a good time!

  “We had a wonderful time today,” Annette exclaimed. “We shopped all over the souks and had an amazing lunch in a beautiful French restaurant we found near the square! We’re trying another place tonight that a friend told us about.”

  As we chatted, we speculated about the new owner, Renauld, who said he was Swiss but didn’t speak German at all. Annette and Gabrielle found that suspicious. He spent hours at the table outside our room staring at his computer, fiddling with numbers. We were never quite sure exactly who and what he was, why he bought the hotel, and what the story was with his Congolese wife. But from all of these random tidbits, we developed delicious gossip, fueled by the atmosphere of Marrakech itself. Its mysterious, slightly dangerous atmosphere gives rise to all kinds of romantic notions. Notorious spies and nefarious activities occur to visitors in this extravagantly dark and dangerous-looking part of the world.

  The other player in our little hotel cast was Jack, a good-looking forty-something man who seemed to speak every language. The hotel manager for years, he was very sophisticated, even though he always wore jeans and a T-shirt. The new owner was in awe of Jack because he ran the hotel perfectly and the staff did his bidding without hesitation. He rattled away in German with Annette and Gabrielle, spoke rapid, exquisite French with the handsome couple upstairs, gave instructions to the staff in Arabic and French as needed, and talked to us in perfect English. Privately, we called him Jack-who-knows-everything. Because he did. No matter the question, whether about Marrakech, Paris, or the stock market, he had an answer. He had lived in Marrakech for ten years, and he was discreet about his living arrangements. His partner was an architect; I envisioned a very sophisticated older man who owned a lavish villa. I decided that Jack kept his day job to stay busy. It was as if we were living in Armistead Maupin’s apartment building in Tales of the City!

  That evening, Tim and I enjoyed a romantic dinner under a large moon on the terrace, a perfectly prepared lamb tagine. It was served impeccably by Abraham, who didn’t seem to mind trotting up and down four flights of stairs. Our meal was so delicious that I asked for the recipe, which Jack-who-knows-everything supplied the next day.

  Nearly all of my mornings were occupied writing new parts for the book proposal and completing the articles I committed to write, but in the afternoons, we explored the wonders of Marrakech. A highlight was Yves Saint Laurent’s blue Majorelle Garden, designed in the 1920s by Jacques Majorel
le, a French expatriate painter. Saint Laurent and his partner, Pierre Bergé, restored the gardens after they had been left in ruins for many years. This haven sits in the midst of Marrakech’s madness. Majorelle’s electric cobalt blue, which YSL used on buildings, walls, fountains, and bridges, creates a stunning backdrop for the silver-green of hundreds of plant species. Within a walled garden on the grounds, we enjoyed an excellent lunch and were fascinated with the small museum’s collection of Moroccan art.

  We then ventured over to Marrakech’s modern section, Guéliz. Had we chosen to rent an apartment for a month, we would probably have chosen that neighborhood. While we found Guéliz interesting and things there were much less frantic than where we were staying, it was far less enticing or exotic. It contained the same stores we found in almost all other European cities, and little else. The wide streets were lined with much more European-looking buildings, and the ample sidewalks allowed us to meander along without having to worry about being knocked down by a fast-moving vehicle. We found a little Parisian bistro with outdoor tables and we might as well have been lounging about on the Ile de France! Although it was easier to negotiate and not nearly as challenging, we were more than ready to return to our more exotic neighborhood. After all, adventure was our goal in coming to Africa in the first place.

  ***

  That evening, on the roof, we had cocktails with “the girls,” as we called our German friends in our private conversations. As we chatted, Annette looked over at Gabrielle and back at Tim, and said hesitantly, “We have a big favor to ask.”

  “Certainly,” Tim replied.

  “We would really like to go to Jemaa el-Fnaa for dinner. The square is supposed to be fantastic at night—a whole different world. The daytime performers are replaced by huge tents with hundreds of small restaurants. We want to go, but to tell you the truth, as two women alone at night in a Muslim country, we feel uncomfortable. Even during the day, we sense disapproval, and wading into that scene without a man makes us nervous. We wonder if you’d mind coming along with us?”

  Many times, Tim and I had discussed the plight of women in some Muslim countries, where they can’t move about freely, drive, or have much of a say about what happens to them, let alone meaningful careers outside the home. We rarely saw women enjoying themselves in sidewalk cafés, which were filled with men. We agreed that we felt the presence of fundamentalist repression much more strongly in Morocco than in Turkey.

  “I’d be delighted to be your escort,” Tim said. “We had planned to go there anyway. How about tonight?”

  When we entered the square, all four of us gaped in wonder. Smoke from a hundred charcoal fires drifted upward into the night sky, and candles blazed everywhere. The aromas of fish, meat, and spices tantalized us. Drums, flutes, and human voices blended into a crazy melodic tide that rose and fell almost as if there were a conductor. Storytellers, snake charmers, monkey handlers, and fortune-tellers, along with spice and vegetable vendors, set up shop around the perimeters of this huge tent city that covered hundreds of long tables full of people. Families, romantic couples, ancient tribesmen, and tourists of every nationality enjoyed what looked like a gigantic church picnic together. I was floored with the spectacle, completely caught up in being a part of such a sea of human activity. It was one of the most amazing travel moments of my life.

  As we walked down the aisle, hawkers from each of the “restaurants” assailed us good-naturedly, waving their paper menus and shouting the virtues of their particular offerings. We joked with them as we watched diners at the long paper-covered tables consuming fried fish, chicken, beef, lamb, potatoes, eggplant, salads, and oceans of tea, colas, and water. Of significant note was the absence of alcohol, which is not served in Morocco’s public places, although it is available in hotels and upscale restaurants.

  Tim and his harem of three chose a table. Immediately, the waiter brought little plates of olives and bread and menus. We feasted on crunchy fried fish, skewers of chicken, lamb, and vegetables cooked over charcoal, eggplant and tomatoes drizzled with olive oil, and pita. We also tried sauces none of us recognized nor could identify the flavors. We ate everything with abandon.

  A few feet away from me, a woman dressed in traditional garb gave orders to the boys who ran the food from fires to customers. All collected money was brought to her, and she doled out the change to the running boys, who returned it to the customers. As she sat, her eyes moved everywhere. A gruff woman, she shouted disapproval or encouragement to each employee, not sparing the cooks or anyone else from her eagle-eyed domination. From afar, she seemed to be an employee’s nightmare, a monster overseer, but as I watched her, I saw the sparkle in her eyes and realized she was enjoying herself enormously! Her affection for the young people working there was evident, and she clearly viewed them like her own children. She and I smiled at each other, and I nodded in that silent understanding mothers share.

  As we rose, I asked if I could take a picture of her. She assented, I snapped, and she motioned that she wanted to see it. The photo pleased her. I walked behind our little group feeling as if I’d made a friend.

  We wandered through the square and stopped at a stall, its three ten-foot walls packed with hundreds of backless, pointy-toed, tooled leather shoes cunningly arranged, toes up, on racks. They looked like the world’s largest, most colorful box of crayons. Gabrielle wanted to buy some. The hunt was on! After fondling many shoes, she selected two pairs and prepared to pay the vendor, who had been encouraging all of us to buy. Annette, the enforcer, stepped into the conversation, told Gabrielle to hold on to her money, and began the haggling dialogue that Moroccan sellers and buyers expect in just about every transaction from cab rides to fine jewelry purchases. Every tourist guide exhorts visitors to negotiate prices in Morocco, but I doubt if many were as adept as Annette. She countered with a ridiculously low price. He scoffed and knocked 5 percent off the posted amount. She persisted, bringing her own figure up 20 percent. He laughed and came down 15 percent. This went on and on, over a $20 pair of shoes. She later confessed that she had been observing the locals that day and had caught on to how they operated! It was quite a performance.

  Eventually, I grew bored (you can bet there were no 11½ AAA shoes in that store!) and wandered away to inspect the shimmering stained-glass lanterns next door. When the other three joined me, Annette had prevailed. Gabrielle acquired two pairs for $20, instead of $20 each, one in a fetching animal print, the other in screaming pink/orange. Not a bad savings for ten minutes of lighthearted conversation!

  From that moment, Annette became our official negotiator. When anyone in our group wanted to make a purchase, we’d hand the item and money over to her, and she’d march up to the shopkeeper to make the deal. We loved watching her work!

  One afternoon, Annette and Gabrielle came into the house and sat down at the table where I was working. I stopped for a chat. Abraham delivered tea on a beautiful tray. “We’ve been looking into henna tattoos,” Annette said, popping a flaky little pastry into her mouth. “Jack told us that the people who do them in the square sometimes use inferior paint that can irritate the skin, so he suggested a place that’s over a tea room not too far from here. Would you like to go with us? We have an appointment this afternoon.”

  I had watched the local women paint intricate designs on people’s arms and hands but never had enough time to watch the entire process. “Yes, I’d like that very much,” I said. I deserved a break from writing. I had been fascinated with the tattoos and thought it would be great fun to have one, especially since I’m much too chicken to have a real one!

  We set off through the ever-wild streets, and I was happy they had blazed the trail earlier, when they went there to make the appointment. I would never have found the place. It sat on a tiny street crowded with shops and swarming with foot traffic. A young man admitted us and showed us up a dark hallway to a rooftop balcony, shaded with colorful textiles and cooled with potted ferns. He produced tea and several books o
f henna tattoo designs. We were sipping and admiring the pictures when a woman, her head covered in a leopard skin silk scarf, appeared with a wooden tool kit. She smiled and pulled up a small stool. Using sign language, we decided that our leader, Annette, would be first.

  The woman glanced at the pattern Annette had chosen. She placed Annette’s hand on her own lap and pulled a hypodermic needle out of her box with her permanently ink-stained hands. I was alarmed for a moment, until I realized that she had cut off the business end of the needle and was using it as a painting tool. With thick dark brown ink, she copied the filigree pattern onto Annette’s wrist and the back of her hand. The woman’s practiced freehand strokes replicated the design perfectly. She moved to the other hand. Within fifteen minutes, Annette admired her matching hands. That would give her patients a start when she returned to work the next week!

  I chose to get a design on one ankle. That was a good call on my part, since when henna begins to fade after several days, it resembled a skin disease. I wouldn’t have wanted to frighten my table companions on the cruise ship home the following week.

  When we’d arrived at the riad, Jack-who-knows-everything had said that if we wished to dine at the hotel, to make our wishes known before noon because the staff would need to procure the ingredients. One morning, we mentioned to the owner we’d like to have another delicious meal that night. “Will you please order the hammam dish?” Renauld, the owner, whispered. “It’s so much trouble that I don’t like to order it for myself, but if you do, they won’t mind.”