Food
Day 1: I
lock Apartment 9 in Building C40 at Residence Najd. I walk down the four flights, two flats on
each floor, and out the front entrance.
I remember to turn right and walk out to the street, greeting the
complex guard with, “Marhaban.” In the street, I’m unsure whether to cross or
turn and the guard – a middle-aged man with a bit of a belly stretching his
short-sleeved, white, button-down shirt – rises from his seat under a shady
tree and approaches me with a quizzical expression. I say, “Makula?”
and he motions his hand to his mouth, thinking I am looking for a
restaurant. I say, “La (no) …um …farmacie?”
thinking that I don’t know the word for grocery but if I add the French for
pharmacy, he will send me where I remember I need to get to. He points to the blue gate across the street
and I say, “Shukran.” Happily, I walk in that direction and along a
walkway, past some motorbikes, and out onto the main street.
To
my right is the produce and butcher shop.
I choose an avocado, a tomato, a zucchini, a peach, a bunch of grapes, a
red pepper, a fig, and two oranges. The
fellow gives me a bag for my items and I give him a dirham note and wait for my
change. I go next door to the other
grocery and begin to find the other items on my list. I find coffee, honey, pasta, dish soap,
water, olive oil, yogurt, bread, milk, and orange juice. I cannot find cubed sugar or bar soap. So, I ask the clerk for sabun (soap), and he offers me Dove or something Moroccan, so I
pick the one that’s familiar. I ask for sucar (sugar) and he shows me a bag of
it. I say saghir and he somehow knows from “small” that I mean sugar cubes
and locates a box for me. Last are eggs,
but they are sold loose. The boy helper
begins to place some in a bag for me when I motion to them, and I tell him I
want five – khamsa - because I honestly cannot remember the words for any of the other numbers. The clerk tallies my items and writes the
total on a paper that he shows me. I
give him another dirham note and gather my change. “Shukran,”
I say.
Returning
along the same route, I notice a man praying on some pieces of cardboard
between the motorbikes, and I remember hearing the muezzin calling everyone to prayer just as I was leaving my apartment. As I pass the guard with my three bags, he
nods and smiles, and I smile back. He
motions for me to go to the left and I thank him – shukran – and walk the rest of the way to C40 with a little lift to
my step. Up the five flights, I set down
my bags outside the door, enter with them, and close the door behind me. I have made my first successful shopping trip
with my limited Arabic, and I feel like it’s one of the greatest achievements.
I
wash and put away my fruit. I boil some
water for coffee, and enjoy it with my one, succulent fig. I’ve not been this proud of myself in a long
time. For dinner, I cut up my avocado
and halve the red pepper, place them on a plate with some salt and olive oil
and half the bread. The avocado is not
quite ripe, but I don’t even care.
Day 5:
There is a McDonald’s at the intersection of N7 and N9 in Marrakech. It’s unlike any I’ve ever seen in the
U.S. It’s two stories, sleek and modern
in design, with steel and wood and tinted windows. It looks out of place here. Alien.
I think I am like that McDonald’s, though certainly not as new and
sleek. But out of place. Alien.
No matter how many years I were to live here or how well I were to learn
the language, I would never completely fit in.
I am tempted to eat at McDonald’s even though it’s terrible food because
at least I know what I’ll get there.
It’s easy. But I’m not here to do
things the easy way. And even if I don’t
fit in, I won’t be defeated.
Day 6: I
have discovered the bus.
Hallelujah! Returning after
lessons, though, I took the wrong one.
No matter. I ended up in Gueliz
having a lovely lunch of couscous in
a cool room with white tablecloths at my leisure. What I had planned to eat for lunch at home
I’ll have for dinner. I can catch the
bus back the other way if I pay better attention. Sometimes, when life takes you in an
unplanned direction, just go with it.
Day 16: I
sit at a table for two, alone, outdoors at Les 2 Freres. There is a carafe of water and a small
glass. There is a cruet of olive
oil. American and Moroccan dance music
plays and the cars and motorbikes scoot by.
Flies are everywhere no matter how much I swat them away. They land on the brown table and the small
glass, the plate of spaghetti, the napkin, and my shoulder. A woman in floral head scarf and peach caftan
eats French fries at the next table with her curly-headed little boy in shorts,
a tee, and sandals as he plays with his Spiderman action figure and toy police
car. He doesn’t like when I look at him
and pulls a frown. An elderly man in
white, pinstriped shirt and grey trousers waits patiently in a chair for his
takeout order. Delivery boys and wait
staff come and go past all of us. I am
waiting a long time after finishing my food for the waitress to present me with
my bill. The pace is slow in
Morocco. The heat makes everyone
sluggish. I stare across the street at
the cinnamon and ginger-colored buildings with the couture shop and the optical
center, listening to a Maroon 5 song, Adam Levine vowing he’ll only stay with me
one more night. A teenage boy in a
Morocco football team shirt sits atop a two-tiered pallet of gas containers for
the home and scans his cell phone. A fly
lands on my wrist. I stare at it as a
tabby cat creeps under the next table for shade or food.
Ellen love your recaps. I can close my eyes and create an image. Your courage is admirable thank you for sharing
ReplyDelete❤️ To this⬇️
" I am tempted to eat at McDonald’s even though it’s terrible food because at least I know what I’ll get there. It’s easy. But I’m not here to do things the easy way. And even if I don’t fit in, I won’t be defeated."