On the Street in Tangier

Before we came to Tangier I spent a lot of time and mental energy trying to decide what kind of clothes to pack. For one thing it was impossible to tell what the weather would be like. All the Moroccans that we were in touch with warned us of Tangier’s climate which they described as one might describe Norway in January: “Very cold. Freezing really.” But when we checked the long term forecast the weather always looked balmy—consistently in the mid sixties. Meanwhile, in Idaho snow had already started to fall and we were scraping ice off of our windshields.

There was also the question of cultural appropriateness. What would I wear, people asked. Would I have to cover my hair? My ankles? I started to get a little paranoid. I didn’t entertain any hope of blending in, exactly, but I didn’t want to be too obvious either. And so I turned to the internet where surprise, surprise, I was met with a ton of vague and conflicting information mostly in the form of Trip Advisor posts and travel blog entries by non-Moroccans. "Wear long, loose skirts, and shirts," the posts advised. "Cover your ankles, your wrists your neck. And never wear your hair down. It will seem immodest. " I began to panic. Was I supposed to wear enormous turtlenecks? And I look terrible in long skirts.

And then, against my better judgment, I read the comments section of one of the aforementioned articles. Usually the worst idea ever, in this case reading the comments section proved somewhat useful. For one thing they consisted of some of the only Moroccan voices I found. And they weren’t particularly happy voices. “Stop trying to (expletive) make us sound radicalized,” wrote someone. “Wear whatever the (expletive) you want.” “Have you ever even been here?” asked a third. “Typical Western paranoia.”

And so, because I was thoroughly confused and beginning to lose interest, I decided to pack what I normally wear. And I’m happy to report that I feel as comfortable wearing whatever I want as I would in the US--With one exception. The Tangawi women look much, much cooler than I do. 

Why didn't any of that useless internet information mention how fashionable the women here are?

For one thing, there’s the hijab. And while I am far too naïve to understand the ins and outs of hijab wearing I will say this: Moroccan women know how to wear a headscarf.

Take that, Bill Cunningham.

Some women wear burqas, most don’t. And not all women choose to cover their hair. I hope to better understand the tradition, etiquette and rules of hijab wearing but this seems one area where it would be particularly ill-advised to ask the internet; I’d rather hear it from the women themselves. I imagine the answers will be as varied as the clothing.

This woman didn't read the Trip Advisor post about never wearing your hair down.

As for the Mystery of the Tangier Temperature, it’s pretty perfect. And still, the Moroccans insist on the chilly climate. People wear down jackets, puffy boots, scarves and winter hats. The woman we shared a taxi with recently fussed over Cecily’s exposed neck, covering it in a little blanket and clucking her tongue at me a little disapprovingly. This surprised me for two reasons: 1) Cecily and I were so warm we were sweating all over each other and 2) I wasn’t’ aware that Cecily actually had a neck to keep warm.  

Someone get this baby a scarf.

So, in the end,  and for the first time in the history of the world the comments section turned out to be quite useful: if you’re coming to Tangier, wear whatever the (expletive) you want. And what did all that Googling really bring to light? My own uneducated assumptions about how a woman should dress in a Muslim country. 

Exhibit A: Expat Fashion. A story for another day.

Merry Mawlid!

It’s been quite a run of holidays here in Morocco, and consequently too long since we updated our blog. Certainly, being far from family can be lonely, and that’s especially true during the holidays. Even folks who aren’t necessarily very Christmas-ey (and this probably describes us, who decided that instead of Santa, we’d tell Cecily that our cat Monster brings her presents every December 25th), it’s ingrained, somehow, to spend the shortest days of the year surrounded by loved ones, fighting over board games.

So it was with a little bit of anxiety that we rolled into the Christmas week here, knowing that it would be just another day in Morocco. Another cultural expectation was upended, however, because we failed to have a look at the Hijri, or islamic calendar, which is a lunar calendar, and consequently different from the Gregorian Calendar. For the first time in decades, this year Christmas falls on the same day as Mawlid, which is the celebration of the birth of the Prophet Mohammed, Peace Be Upon Him. So, we ended up celebrating the birth of a major world religious leader after all—phew!

The two-day celebration began on the 24th, carried through Christmas, and is trickling out today on the 26th, with most businesses reopening and the streets filling up again. To mark the occasion, Khalid’s family invited us for a celebration on the night of the 24th to mark the first day of Mawlid.

Being a host in Morocco is a big deal, and dinner is where you can really see this. The dinner (“feast” sounds too expansive and formal, but that’s really more like what it is) was hosted by Khalid’s mother, at her apartment nearby. Khalid and his wife Nadia, his sister Najat and niece Dorayd, and their kids were all in attendance, along with assorted other family members. After being invited in, Cecily was immediately spirited away by Yasmine, Khalid’s precocious and wonderful daughter, to spend the rest of the evening being entertained, cooed at, played with, and sung too. Cecily has some serious admiration for Yasmine!

Cecily wants to be just like Yamine when she grows up.

Seated comfortably in the Moroccan parlor, we practiced complimenting foods and saying, “We are full.” in a variety of languages as the courses kept coming. The meal started with a Moroccan salad, which is a misnomer since it’s mostly fresh seafood. Then, pastella, a Moroccan/Spanish fusion of seafood in a sweet pastry. After the pastella, a meat dish, this time a slow-cooked beef dish with dates, almonds and apricots. Whoa! With two courses of desert to round it out, and, of course, mint tea, the meal was a delight for every sense. 

The pastella has landed. This was not the main course.

Mostly, though, it was nice to be surrounded by a family—fighting, laughing, inside jokes and all. Much of this we couldn’t understand because it was in darija, but it’s surprising how much of family life is universal—the relationships, the ease and caring and familial roles are all instantly recognizable, even if the language is completely foreign. To quote my favorite Christmas movie, Groundhog Day:

 When Chekhov saw the long winter, he saw a winter bleak and dark and bereft of hope. Yet we know that winter is just another step in the cycle of life. But standing here among the people of Punxsutawney and basking in the warmth of their hearths and hearts, I couldn't imagine a better fate than a long and lustrous winter.

Strong work, dessert #1.

We came home from the celebration with full bellies and hearts, and went to sleep that night wondering if Monster would come in the night to bring presents for Cecily. Turns out that Cecily was good this year, because she got her first Christmas present from the mercurial, judgmental Christmas Cat.

Monster came! And all this time I thought that guy hated us.

And so it came to pass, on Christmas Day, the second day of Mawlid, we were able to take full advantage of a completely empty schedule. We all slept in, walked around in the medina to get supplies for a burnt-butter pasta, and watched movies on TV. In the style of a Christmas Miracle, it turns out that the second television in our house (yes, we have two!), has some stations that the first doesn’t, and that one of these stations was showing Home Alone in English. Perfect! We were able to call home and talk to our families, too, which was terrific. Finally, we went to the El Minzah hotel for a Christmas drink (all grocery stores and most bars don’t sell alcohol during the holiday) and, of course, a shot of Cecily looking crazy in front of a Christmas Tree.

"Merry Christmas to all, and to all...actually, I think I'm gonna stay up."

And now, we’re on the tail end—one more holiday to celebrate: Boxing Day. We’ve been invited to a Boxing Day party, which will be mostly expatriates. We are excited to meet some more folks living here, and to round out our week of holidays, surely one for the record books. So, to all our family, loved ones, friends here and at home: Happy Mawlid, Christmas, and Boxing Day! With what prayers we have to offer this season, we pray for peace.

Au Début

After Kate and I somewhat-miraculously arrived at the same time and place on the surface of the earth without the help of mobile phones, instant messaging, and Google Maps, we began by starting to put our house in order. Really, there wasn't much to do, because Khalid (one of the professors with whom I'm working SLASH nicest man in the country) had already helped us find an apartment, a spacious eighth-floor apartment in a happening part of town, owned by his sister Najat. Khalid brought us to the apartment immediately, and it's fair to say that the pictures don't really do it justice. First of all, it's huge (like, beach volleyball huge). Secondly, everywhere is the dull glimmer of gold. We're worried that Cecily will grow up to be like Smaug from "The Hobbit," surrounded by all of her gold (there are preliminary signs of Smaug-like behavior, but more on that later). 

"Someday, Cecily, this will all be yours."

Basically, the apartment already had everything that we needed, plus lots we didn't. The few things that it lacked, however, quickly revealed our cultural ineptness. Here is a list of the things that the apartment needed and the time that it took to acquire them, along with any relevant notes.

1. Trash Can: 48 hours, Completed, Similar in cost to trash can from Hammacher Schlemmer catalog on airplane.
2. Towels: 4 Days, Not Completed. At one point, we actually asked if people use towels here. They do.
3. Wireless Internet: 8 Days, Not Completed. Questioning utility of blog.

The disturbingly long delays in completing tasks here have little do with the country (the markets and medinas teem with every possible item that one might want to purchase), and way more to do with our own juggling act of new languages, an infant, and a new city. With that said, we've been having a ton of fun exploring the city, meeting people, participating in mishaps. 

It's also worth noting that almost all of our exchanges with Moroccans, which might be frustrating for them, are smoothed over by our cultural ambassador, Cecily.

Cecily, for the win.

Our research about Morocco suggested that Moroccans are very family oriented, and like babies. This is some kind of drastic understatement about Morocco (like saying, "Yes, they've got a reasonably good handle on how to make flatbread here"). Moroccans LOVE Cecily. They pick her up, coo at her, forgive her parents for communicating poorly in both French AND Spanish (sometimes simultaneously), and generally make our lives joyful and fun as we learn the contours of a new city and culture. 

I would tell you that Cecily likes how colorful it is, but it appears that what she really likes about Morocco is the VAST quantity of attention that she receives from everyone she meets.

Another fun challenge for us has been one given to me by my students, who sent me away from school with a package of letters saying "OPEN UPON ARRIVAL." First of all, I want to point out that not opening these packages shows a certain degree of trust in my students (after all, a well-placed suspicious substance and scary letter could guarantee that I wouldn't be back to administer the spring final). However, rather than an elaborate and diabolical plot to have their teacher rot in an international prison, instead they sent me a list of challenges, one for each week that we'll be in Morocco.

Ominous, no?

These challenges will surely keep me busy as we start to get a better handle on the city itself, some towels, and a trash can. 

Finally, thanks to Craig and Suzanne, we've also been out exploring a bit nearby. Last week before they left, we headed to Asilah, a small seaside village on the Atlantic. Asilah, with it's ancient white walls, reminded me of Mykonos, Greece. Favored by Spaniards, Asilah has a commanding view of the Atlantic, and is just 30 minutes from Tangier. 

Looking out from the Cave of Hercules in Cap Spartel.

Narrow streets and cool murals in Asilah

We are really looking forward to exploring the area around Tangier, but, for now, are also really happy to have successfully cooked a few meals at home, figured out where to buy coffee and how to use the elevator in our apartment. Success!

Getting Here

I have been dreading flying to Morocco with an infant for approximately one year. Which means that I have been dreading flying to Morocco with an infant since before Elliot was technically awarded the Fulbright. And before we actually had an infant. I’m not proud of this, but it’s true. I’m from a family of flight attendants but I don’t particularly like flying and I assumed that any child of mine would feel the same. The scenarios that I envisioned looked something like this:

Scenario One: The baby would cry for nine hours straight while I walked the aisles surrounded by a sea of glaring faces. I would do my best to apologize in a variety of languages but eventually would have to buy everyone a strong drink, which would drain my bank account and do nothing to solve the problem since those bottles are so small.

Scenario Two: Same as Scenario One, except for with so much turbulence that we can’t even get out of our seats so we sit in between two pissed off Europeans as Cecily screams.

I won’t even go into the plane crash scenarios.

My anxiety was eased somewhat when my cousins, flight attendants, world travelers and all around awesome people offered not only to give Cecily and me standby passes but to accompany us all the way to Morocco. Elliot had to get to Rabat early to meet with his advisers so I stayed back in Seattle for a couple of days. Once we got a little misunderstanding cleared up at the ticket counter (the agents were a little bit confused about why I was flying one way to Morocco, alone, standby and with an infant) and met my fabulous cousin Sara and her friend Chona I started to feel more optimistic. But then, in a last minute change of plans, the Seattle--Atlanta flight filled up and Cecily and I were the only ones to make it.  I left Sara and Chona at the gate hoping they’d make the next flight.

 I was the last one on the plane, and as I walked down the aisle, heads turned in dismay. As I neared my seat I watched my seatmates open their eyes and glare menacingly in our direction. They’d thought they had an extra seat. Instead, they were getting us.

Then the woman spoke: “I’m a Grandma and LOVE BABIES!” she said, reaching out to take Cecily.  Not only did she hold her for part of the trip she also provided Kleenex, table space, moral support, ear phones, and Werther’s Orignals (natch.) She ordered all of my drinks, got me extra pretzels and talked about how smart/beautiful/talented/advanced Cecily was for the duration of the flight. She’d started her day on a plane flying out of the Alaska Bush and was probably exhausted. But instead of sleeping, she helped us.  In fact, she even carried my bags off the plane until we met the other half of our entourage, Suzanne and Craig, who were waiting at the gate.

Cecily with her amazing travel team before boarding the plane to Madrid

I figured that since the first flight was so smooth the next one would be disastrous.  And I was okay with that. But then Suzanne and Craig spoke some kind of airline professional secret code and got me and Cecily the bulkhead row all to ourselves. And the bulkhead rumors turned out to be true—there really ARE these special clip on bassinets that you can actually put a baby in so she can be showered with gifts from her travel companions while you drink a beer and watch a movie.

International Travel Can Be Fun

Cecily was a champ. She slept, hung out on a lot of floors, and made googly eyes at an enormous bearded Spaniard who ended up tickling her toes all the way from Madrid to Tangier. Flying into Tangier was amazing. It’s surprisingly mind-blowing to see what a thin stretch of ocean separates Africa from Europe.
Cecily slept through the landing in our new city, waking up on the tarmac to a gust of famous Tangier wind.

We Will Miss You Suzanne, Craig, Sara and Chona!

Moral of the story: Babies bring out the best in people. And maybe I shouldn’t be such a pessimist.

Rabat Rouser

I arrived in Morocco with a lump in my throat, after leaving Kate and Cecily behind for a few days. It didn't help that when I got to the gate, the agent informed me that I probably wouldn't be let in to the country, because my departure and return tickets were too far apart to travel without a visa (we planned to leave the country in the middle somewhere). Daunted, I decided that I should just focus on getting some sleep on my 9 hour flight to Paris. 5 movies later, I hadn't slept at all, and soon I was boarding the flight from Paris to Rabat.

Landing in Rabat, I was struck by the green airfield, complete with the moss-covered planes parked in corners that clearly hadn't flown in decades. After our trips to Ghana and Uganda, these derelict planes seem to be a regular feature of African airports. Reaching customs, everything went better than I could have hoped. They let me in the country, Said was there to pick me up as promised, and soon I was at the Hotel Mercure in the Diplomatic District of Rabat.

Rather than going to sleep at 12:30 in the afternoon, I started walking.

Horses! Palace! Hats! Holy Shit!

Just a block from my hotel (and feeling pretty tired and low at this point), I heard the call to prayer and walked right past the Mausoleum of Mohammed V, the first ruler of an independent Morocco after colonization. Seeing this amazing cultural site, just a few blocks from the hotel, raised my spirits and gave me something really cool to check out while I counted down until I could reasonably go to sleep.

Inside the Mausoleum

I managed to make it until 6:30 PM, at which point I went downstairs to grab a quick bite of dinner and get some sleep. However, Moroccans eat so late that the restaurant wasn't even OPEN yet. I ate some granola and went to bed.

The next days were filled with explorations of the lovely, white, walled city of Rabat and meetings with the other Fulbright English Teaching Assistants, who were in Rabat in preparation for a trip to Jordan. I found time to explore some really neat spots in Rabat.

Rabat and Sale are separated by the Oued Bou Regreg River (or possibly the word "Regreg" means river). So that might have been like "ATM Machine." Unclear.

Oh yeah, no big deal. International Man of Mystery (who goes to bed at 7 PM and is mad because no one wants to eat dinner that early).

Finally, after one last meeting with my advisor, I spent the afternoon on Friday exploring The Chellah, which is a wonderful, thousands-year old structure. An Ancient Phoenician City, later a pre-Christ Mosque, The Chellah really put the timeline of human habitation in this area into perspective.

Looking towards the exterior walls.

Friday is a day of prayer, so students get out of school early. Today, though, this group was on a field trip. 

Old meets new.

The architecture has both Roman and Muslim influences.

Rabat has been wonderful, and there is much more to say about the friendly folks that I met, my experiences with language, and a weird bird that attacked me while I was walking. However, I'm already looking ahead to tomorrow, when I jump on the train bound for Tangier to see my wife and baby! Kate, Cecily and family arrived in Morocco this afternoon, and will surely have something to report from 24 hours of travel with a six-month old.

For now, it's nearly 8 PM, and I'm going to see if it would be too terribly embarrassing to order dinner.

Off We Go!

I was up at 4 AM this morning, in an effort to jump-start the time change. Our bags are packed, with a few loose articles strewn around the basement. Cecily has decided that sleeping isn't as fun as hanging out with her parents at night, and so things have been pretty exhausting for the last couple days. Already, we're thinking about the things that we take for granted here--like getting a cab or using our cell phones--and how we'll accomplish them in a tri-lingual city far from home.

Cecily is in charge of Spanish, Kate's got Dirija, and I'm going to handle French.

The last week has been a whirlwind of eating, goodbyes, eating, good friends, running, and lots of eating. On Sunday, Maddie and David and I ran the Seattle marathon, which was exhausting and fun.

David Taylor, me and Maddie, getting ready to cruise around Seattle by foot for the next four hours.

After all the turkey's been eaten, the miles have been run, and our goodbyes have been said, we are out the door for Morocco this morning. We invite you to follow our adventures. We can't promise that we'll be faithful bloggers, but we will share some stories of teaching and learning, as I serve a Fulbright Distinguished Award in Teaching in Tangier, Morocco. It's going to be an awesome ride!

Best wishes from Kate and I. If you have questions about our travels, please send us an email or comment on our blog!