What's Over Here

There’s a game we like to play with Cecily called “Let’s Go See What’s Over Here.” The game is in song, because Cecily is a baby, and that’s what she’s into. It entails walking around and looking at things while singing, as Elliot recently pointed out, to the tune of Destiny’s Child’s 90’s hit “Bootylicious,” which is apparently deeply ingrained in my psyche. Our apartment in Tangier has made this game more interesting for all parties. Today, we’d like to invite you to join us…as we uncover the many wonders of our home and neighborhood.

The Morrocan homes we have visited seem to be built around entertainment and gatherings, and our place is no exception. On Friday everybody leaves work and school in the afternoon to attend mosque and eat couscous lunch. Judging from the number of holidays here, and from the sound of our upstairs neighbors, people seem to gather together whenever they have the chance. When we celebrated Mawlid with Khalid’s family we were lucky to see a Moroccan parlor used to its full effect.

The appropriate use of a Moroccan Parlor

But we've found other uses as well...

Like nudist colony

Or a Renaissance Art Gallery 

We live on the ninth floor, and like everyone else we hang our laundry outside of our kitchen window. It’s exciting. At first I got nauseous every time I hung up a t-shirt. Now that I’m fairly assured I won’t spontaneously fall to my death, it’s just business as usual.

Where laundry goes to die (notice the ill-fated black sweater below) 

Cecily in her room, where she squirrels away all of her gifts.

Some of Cecily’s possessions: a turtleneck from a man on a bus, a basket from a man in the market, the banana, forever captive.

She gets other things, too, which she is not allowed to keep in her room. Last night the waiter brought her a flan, which we pretended to feed her and then ate ourselves.

Our apartment is owned by Khalid’s sister Najat and she has been a wonderful part of our experience here. From coming to the rescue at 9:00 PM when I blew a fuse (with my breast pump, unfortunately) to dealing with our questions in broken Spanish/French/Darija  she has been really wonderful. A major bonus: On Fridays Najat often surprises us with the traditional couscous lunch. It feeds us for days.

We’ve both grown pretty attached to our neighborhood. It’s lively at all hours, and full of interesting cafes and shops. We have a bakery, complete with an intimidating and serious baker who makes ten cent baguettes with a wood fired oven.

When we moved in to the neighborhood I think they had to double the wood load

“You’ll find everything you need right here in this neighborhood,” Khalid promised when showing us around. Which, it turns out, was sort of an understatement.

Good fruit

There are some things we don't really need...

Like these things...1 KG for $1.40.  

And some things we do...

I need these smoothies, which taste best when served by a disembodied hand. 

Separate days for men and women. Elliot’s working on Musculation, I’m focusing on Gymnastique and (not to brag) Cecily is looking forward to attaining her Black Belt by the time we leave.

Elliot’s new barber is putting his former barber (me) to shame.

 After, with the artiste. 

Before (Elliot's the one in the green) 

We are homesick for our animals and our fireplace and our backyard (even if it is covered in four feet of snow). We miss water pressure and indoor heat and not having to walk down eight flights of stairs and worry about getting hit by a motorcycle or car when we leave the house.  Being foreign is, predictably, exhausting at times. Misunderstandings abound. It’s hard to know what language to use when, and even harder to use that language in a way that is even semi-effective. And truth be told, we don’t really know how to utilize a Moroccan parlor in all its elaborate grandeur.

Some of us are more comfortable with the decor than others...After a long day of being carried around Cecily gleefully relaxes in her throne.

So it’s been nice to have an apartment and neighborhood that feel like home. Our apartment here is basically the opposite of our house in Idaho, which is cozy, low-ceilinged, couchless and simple. And while the gilded...everything…might cause a bit of sensory overload, we’ve grown fond of the big rooms, and the long couches and the way our kitchen windows look over the city. Living in such a bustling neighborhood is a nice change of pace. At this time of year in Hailey it’s possible to go days without seeing our neighbors.    Here, everyone knows each other. Many people have lived in this neighborhood for their whole lives. The produce guys know what you want before you even ask and they pinch Cecily’s cheeks while I clumsily count out change and there’s a café where the people know (our daughter’s) name and pass her around while we drink our coffee. I love waking up with Cecily before it’s light out and looking out at the flocking seagulls and momentarily quiet streets. And the sounds of the call to prayer that we can hear coming from multiple directions has made Cecily’s bedtime routine much more dramatic.

Elliot's mustache takes an important phone call.   

Out on the street there’s a lot of embracing. A  lot of kissing of cheeks. “Saalam-Alaikum,” people say in passing. “Peace be upon you. How is your mother how is your father how is your health how is your daughter? Thank God, Thank God, Thank God.” It’s possible this is what I will miss most of all. Well, that and the baguettes.