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Home Sweet Anywhere

Page 24

by Lynne Martin


  To this day, we still wonder how the dynamics of that little riad group worked. Did Jack-who-knows-everything surrender control to the owner? Did the owner surrender to his wife? We’ll never know.

  I asked Jack-who-knows-everything if we might try the hammam dish that evening. He asked if we wanted beef. Yes. I asked him how it was prepared. “It’s an ancient dish here in Morocco. We put the beef in a pottery urn with lots and lots of lemon slices, then cover the urn with many layers of foil. Then Marika takes it to the hammam, the public bathhouse down the street, where it is placed over the steam the bathhouse generates. It stays there all day, and we pick it up in the evening. I know you will like it.” It sounded like a grand idea to me, but of course I’m one of those nut-job foodies who tried haggis in Scotland, so very little puts me off.

  Let me tell you—that bathhouse beef is spectacular. The owner of the riad joined us that night on the upper terrace, and enjoyed it more than anyone. It’s a dish I can never try to replicate, because I don’t think putting it over a hot tub would quite do the trick…

  The next day, as Tim and I sauntered along one of Marrakech’s many wide, serene parks past a stand of majestic palm trees, he asked, “Did you know that over on the North Atlantic coast of Morocco, there are goats that climb trees to get the fruit?”

  “How in the world do you know so much about Morocco?” I realized immediately that I’d been set up.

  “I saw Lawrence of Arabia,” he leered, enjoying my entrapment in his lame joke. “So naturally I know everything about the desert.” He’d been dying to use that line.

  “Okay, that’s just about enough. Time to get out of here. The desert has gotten to your head, if you have to reach that far to be amusing.”

  Indeed, the desert was getting to us. We operated in such a state of sensory overload from Marrakech’s turbulent atmosphere that after a few days, we craved an evening behind our shutters with food that tasted like home. We asked Jack-who-knows-everything if he could possibly manage to find a pizza place (of all things!) and order one for us. It was the first pizza take-out in the history of the hotel, and it was terrible, but we were so happy to spend an evening of downtime that we didn’t care! We ate our pizza and watched a movie with our computer and earphones. Just another example of how and why it’s sometimes harder to be a tourist than a homefree traveler.

  ***

  The night before we left Marrakech, we accepted the girls’ invitation to join them for dinner at a restaurant they had discovered. Annette, a great planner as well as a great negotiator, asked Jack-who-knows-everything to make a reservation. Then she figured out how to get there. She took the lead, with our big protector bringing up the rear of our quartet. Annette expertly cut through the tiny streets, their shops still open, the dazzling array of goods looking even more tantalizing beneath and among flickering lights.

  It was worth the long walk. The restaurant looked like a Moorish castle, lit with lanterns and guarded with bearded men wearing white linen and somber, serious expressions. We proceeded up a winding staircase to a pasha’s paradise. Candles and torches blazed over an enormous roof deck swathed in colorful drapery and flowering vines, with tables set invitingly. An enormous orange desert moon was rising, adding the final touch of romance. We savored the national favorites: lamb tagine with tender vegetables and exotic spices, couscous, eggplant, cucumber salad, and fabulous phyllo pastries for dessert. We toasted one another with lovely French wine.

  After the call to prayer rang through the city, we opted for a taxi to take us home. As we approached the line, the negotiator stepped up to talk to the first driver. They agreed on twenty dirhams, about five dollars. Tim rode shotgun, and the two girls and I jammed uncomfortably into the backseat.

  Before he started the car, the driver announced he would double the fare to forty dirhams because it was illegal for him to take more than two people.

  “No,” Annette said.

  He insisted. She said, firmly, “That’s it. Get out of this car, all of you.”

  We protested. She commanded. We obeyed.

  As we struggled out of the little Nissan (none of us were lithe, tiny, or young), the driver leaned out the window. “Okay, madam, twenty.”

  We repeated our circus act and managed to squeeze in again. Without the wine, we probably couldn’t have done it at all. By the time we reached our alley, we were all great friends with the driver—and Annette gave him an extra four dirhams (about 50¢) anyway. Negotiating is part of life in Morocco.

  The next morning, Abraham loaded our gear near the front door. Flanking him were Marika and Patricia, followed by Renauld and Jack-who-knows-everything. They stood in a line in front of the pool, shaking hands with us as we thanked them for their hospitality. We all enjoyed our colorful week together.

  The taxi bumped through the crowded cobblestone streets, the driver swerving to avoid bicycles, carts, motorcycles, and unwary tourists. “Well, I’m glad we came,” Tim said. “It’s definitely a place that we needed to see, but I think a week was just enough time for us. I’m exhausted and looking forward to a hotel room with a door that really closes, where I don’t have to listen to Marika and Abraham telling jokes while they wash the dishes until midnight.”

  “I’m tired, too, and really looking forward to getting on the ship after Barcelona,” I said. “It’s time to go home and burn our clothes. That blue skirt and black top have got to go, and if I see you in that faded lilac shirt in California, we’re through!”

  The large, modern hotel at our next stop, Barcelona, didn’t disappoint. Its big, heavy door shut firmly and didn’t invite eavesdropping. When you’re home free, little things sometimes take on a larger meaning! The bed felt great, too, offering a level of comfort we sorely missed in our beautiful but simple riad.

  As he turned out the lights, Tim said, “You know, I’m ready for some downtime. I’ll be happy to let someone else make the decisions for twelve days, and I’ll really be happy to see the kids. I know they’ve all changed in seven months. Do you think we’ve changed?”

  “I don’t really know,” I mumbled. “I’m too tired to think about it right now.”

  “I guess we’ll find out when we get there.” He drifted off.

  Chapter 12

  Return to California

  “What happened to all of those interesting people who sailed with us in May? Looks like we’re in for a long, dull twelve days,” I said as we took our initial tour around the Grandeur of the Seas. It would set sail from Barcelona to Miami in a few hours.

  “Maybe the fun people went home already or they decided to stay in Europe through the Christmas holidays,” Tim replied. We ducked out of the chilly November wind. “I’m beginning to wonder if this is the much-touted Royal Caribbean Assisted Living Cruise.”

  Pleased with his quip, he held the door for me to enter the ship’s main lounge. I rolled my eyes in response.

  The reason for our griping? Canes, walkers, and wheelchairs everywhere. Now, we are not spring chickens ourselves, but let’s just say that these guys made us look young. The passengers this time looked older and less dynamic than the lively cast on our last transatlantic cruise to Europe. Fewer were animated. We settled in one of the bars to watch people coming aboard. “It reminds me of that Norman Rockwell painting, the one where the family’s going to the beach. They’re happy and laughing: kids and grandpa, mom and pop piled in the car. Even the dog’s smiling, his head hanging out the window, ears flying. You remember that one? I think the pooch was a cocker spaniel.”

  Tim laughed. “And in the bottom panel they’re coming home from the beach, sunburned, exhausted. Everyone asleep except the poor dad, who’s driving.”

  “Well, think about it. When we left Florida in May, people were boarding a transatlantic cruise, the thrill of a lifetime, with adventure ahead of them in Europe. Now it’s November. This crowd has been there and done that—on a tour or a cruise, whatever. They’re tired, they need haircuts, they’re sick of the
ir clothes, and they’re going home, where bills and kids and business as usual is waiting! No wonder they don’t look too happy.”

  “Well, I can sure use a haircut, and I know you’ll be happy to get a little color job before we get to Florida.” Tim ran his fingers through his curly mop.

  After seven months of homefree living in Europe, we were ready for a United States “fix” and we were really excited to see our children and grandchildren. A fast-food delicacy for those who live in California and other western states, an In-N-Out burger sounded like culinary bliss. We were looking forward to American TV, garbage disposals, grocery stores, familiar faces and accents, big cars, wide roads, and parking lots with big spaces. In our slightly world-weary state, that all sounded like heaven.

  I kept having flashes—whether flashbacks or vision-flashes into the future, I’m not sure—in which we’d be going HOME to our old house. Then I would shake my head and remember that HOME consisted of a rented apartment near our daughters Robin and Alexandra. When I mentioned my momentary lapses, Tim said he’d experienced the same ones. Moving around as much as we do, it’s easy to forget at any given moment where you are and where you’re headed, let alone the day of the week or the street you’re living on. It was confusing. We had been on the road so long that we weren’t sure if the United States would feel like another foreign country! It worried me sometimes to feel so disoriented.

  We gave up people watching and returned to our cabin to find places to stash our gear. The stateroom was mid-ship on deck two, a place Tim had chosen in anticipation of the heavy mid-autumn seas that roil in the North Atlantic. A few days later, when waves crashed over our porthole and even some of the crew looked a little wan, we were happy to rest in that stable spot. Tim’s more than just a pretty face.

  As we unpacked, I noticed the phone light blinking. It was a message confirming our dinner date with a couple from Atlanta. After the Wall Street Journal article appeared, a woman emailed us, saying she and her husband would be aboard this very ship, sailing from Barcelona. They wanted to meet us, so we arranged an evening in the ship’s specialty Italian restaurant. We were excited to meet people who had read about our travels, and looked forward to hearing about their experiences, too. This author thing was turning out to be fun!

  Cruise ships usually provide several theme restaurants, which give passengers opportunities to change their pace from the large dining rooms where dinner is served every evening. There is a nominal extra charge, but well spent for the personal restaurant service and more intimate setting. Our ship housed Italian, steak, and Asian restaurants.

  We met at the restaurant. Ginger and her husband, Tom, were on their way home after a ten-day Mediterranean cruise. We enjoyed an excellent Italian meal with this animated, attractive couple while swapping family information and travel tales. We found each other’s company delightful, and Tim and I were always happy to make new friends.

  After the main course, as we tasted our decadent dessert, Ginger said, “I have a thousand questions for you! I’m dying to know how your homefree life is all working out.”

  “Fire away, we don’t mind at all,” I replied.

  “Well, I don’t mean to pry, but I just wonder how you cope being together all the time? I mean, you don’t have outside activities to distract you, because you’re not anywhere long enough to be involved in the community. You must spend almost all your time together. Don’t you get on each other’s nerves? Tom and I would drive each other nuts!”

  Good point. Tim and I looked at each other. “Sometimes we do,” I said, “but Tim is such a gentleman that he pretends that I’m interesting all the time. I, on the other hand, am probably very trying to be with every day.” I smiled sweetly at Tim. “Seriously, Tim, don’t you think that being out there without anyone else to rely on has made us closer?”

  “We have our moments, my dear,” Tim laughed. “Remember driving in Italy?”

  I laughed in agreement and with that, Tim was off to the races—figuratively speaking. This time, he regaled Ginger and Tom with stories about Victoria, the astonishing hairpin turns in Florence, and our wild moments in Cornwall. We certainly shouted enough in some of those cliff-hanging moments! As the laughter died down, he added, “Really, though, we are lucky to be so compatible, and I’m sure that being out there without a net could be a challenge to a lot of couples.”

  “I love your stories, but I can’t imagine how you do this,” Tom said with a shrug. “Aren’t you worried and a little scared about what will happen next? I mean, what if an apartment is awful or the car rental doesn’t work out, or one of you gets sick? All kinds of stuff occurs to me—civil unrest, that volcanic ash thing a couple of years ago, tsunamis, bird flu. Doesn’t that stuff drive you crazy?”

  Tim broke into a knowing smile and glanced at me. He paused, looking for the exact phrases he wanted to use, his brown eyes focusing and refocusing as he plumbed his big brain for answers. “You know, just last night we were talking about that very thing, how we’re less worried and more relaxed than we were when we started out. Maybe it’s because we’re more experienced now. Situations have arisen, but we’ve managed them well. Of course we’re scared sometimes. We worry about accidents, whether we’re too old to be doing this, all sorts of things. But lousy stuff happens everywhere. Lord knows, we come from the land of earthquakes. Life’s full of risk, no matter where you are.”

  I took advantage of his pausing for breath and jumped in. “We really do laugh off most of the little trying parts, and if things get really bad, we’ve either fixed it or moved on,” I said. “Of course, we’re very lucky that we’ve been well and haven’t hurt ourselves along the way. So far, we’ve avoided natural disasters, unless you count heat waves and cold snaps. But really, we’re not in any more danger than we are at home, when you think about it.”

  “I guess you’re right,” Tom said. “Driving in Atlanta is probably just as daunting and dangerous as driving in Cornwall, but at least it’s on the right side of the road.” I laughed as a vision of our first day in England, when we stopped the car on that muddy road to nowhere, flashed through my mind.

  We got together several other times during the trip, but our social activities were limited by my increasingly busy writing schedule. I was under orders from Dana, my spanking new agent, to start writing that book immediately. By then she was talking to several publishers, and one had suggested that they might require a March deadline for the manuscript. I’d also taken on that essay for Mark Chimsky for his book, and International Living had asked me to write an article for them. It also, finally, occurred to us that, unlike the vacationers who viewed the cruise as a floating resort, part of their holiday, this was our floating home that happened to be taking us to our destination.

  One day, as I was typing away at my computer, Tim returned to the cabin from a walk around the deck. I jumped up. “I’m beginning to know the meaning of cabin fever! I’ve gotta get out of this room, but there’s nowhere else to work because this tub doesn’t have a library!”

  “At your service, madam,” he said with a grin. “Come with me, and bring that machine with you.”

  Leave it to Tim to discover a large restaurant/bar high on the stern of the ship. It was empty and quiet in the afternoons, so I camped there every day, pecking away, looking up from my work to see the ocean, our churning green wake disappearing into the horizon. Actually, it wasn’t a bad office—it had some view. On stormy days, the white caps and fantastic cloud formations added more drama. I’d remain in my private library until cocktail time, when Tim dragged me out to have some fun. It was quite an effort to stay focused. The pattern of his great care and kindness to me as I explored his realm of creative writing was just beginning. His ability to graciously shoulder the job of being the muse while I spent most of the next year deeply mired in the process of writing this book would give me even more reason to love and respect this marvelous man.

  Finally, the ship docked in Miami. Imagine our thrill
at seeing Tim’s daughter, Amandah, and our precious grandson, Sean, waiting for us! I felt as if we’d stepped out of a train, not sailed thousands of miles on a ship. Isn’t it strange how human beings grow accustomed to familiar faces and places so quickly?

  Amandah and her husband, Jason, made us feel instantly re-rooted in our American life. We started by celebrating in grand style in their newly decorated home. Theirs is the ultimate Florida life: a screened-in lanai and pool with a lake at the bottom of their garden (I didn’t see any alligators crawling around, but there are alligators in those backyard lakes), with cool white tile floors and high ceilings that work well in the sticky, humid Florida weather. Our ensuing Thanksgiving feast measured up to expectations, a relaxed family affair: great food, football on TV, and cuddles with Sean, the beautiful youngest child of our family.

  ***

  After a few days with Amandah, Jason, and Sean, we flew to see our Texas tribe: Tim’s daughter Alwyn, her husband Jeff, and her two amazing children. Jackson was a sprouting young teenager, while little sister Faith was her usual multitalented, always entertaining creative self.

  We were surprised by the sheer size of everything—big cars, houses, comfortable spaces between them. The lack of scooters was interesting and the noise level was appalling to us for a few days because we had been in countries where things were quieter for a long time. The constant loud music everywhere in public places was an irritant, but hearing American English swirling around us was a treat. We could eavesdrop without effort!

  In their Texas-size home in Austin, we were treated to our own private suite with a view of the rolling Texas hills. A highlight was a good ole’ “Amurrican” feast of ribs and sausage, steak and chicken with all the trimmings at The Salt Lick, an enormous, wildly popular barbecue palace featuring live country music and cauldrons of food served up family style. The evening and atmosphere provided a perfect segue for our next stop in Central California, where cowboys and wine rule.

 

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