Comfort

My landlord is French. I do not speak French, and he has very little English or even Arabic, but we somehow get by. I did not take French in school. Yet, I recently had a meal at the neighborhood seafood place, El Snack Bahriya, in which I ordered in French and conversed in French with the waiter. I don't understand how that is possible, but there is no denying that it happened.

I am in a one-bedroom apartment with a lovely sitting area and small kitchen on Avenue Hassan II in Marrakech. I can sit on the terrace if I like and watch the little yellow taxis, the tiny European cars, the Mercedes SUVs, the motorbikes, and the bicyclists go by, as well as the occasional horse-drawn carriage with tourists out for a ride. I am not a tourist.

There is Farouk café next door and Clay Oven, an Indian restaurant, across the street, teasing me with its enticing scents and higher prices, but I can still get a full dinner there for under $20. A small pizza at the café, though, is only $2.50, and a coffee with accompanying bottle of water only $1. An American could retire here and live pretty well. I might do it.

The building is fairly new, with good security - cameras in the hallways, a guard sitting out front, keyed entry and a fob to make the elevator function - and I feel entirely comfortable in this neighborhood. Of course, I've never felt uncomfortable or in danger anywhere in Morocco, even as a woman navigating the country alone the three times I have come without my husband. 

Case in point, just now, two men requested to enter the building. They speak no English, but I saw their truck below for Maroc Telecom. I went downstairs and through their continued talk, I pieced out "weefee" and "fibr opt." I asked to see their paperwork, and I saw my landlord's name on it, Guillaume. I let them up because I have been waiting for this upgrade. As a writer who often works from home in the evenings and on weekends, WiFi access is essential. We are here, the three of us, now, alone in my apartment. I remembered the word for "sick," which I am, and let them know "Ana ta3baan" and am wearing a mask to protect them. They are trying to complete the wiring process, but I have tucked my bare feet up under me as I sit on the sofa, out of respect for all of us in this land where a woman's bare skin is taken as an invitation (more on that in a separate post).

To harm me would be to bring down the full wrath of the justice system, aware as they are that their economy relies on the good reputation for safety. More than that, I would be hard-pressed to find a more warm, tender, and welcoming people than the ones that populate this northwest corner of Africa.

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I can walk to work from here in ten minutes. I bid my doorman a good morning with "Sbah alkhayr" and make my way along the busy street, with students standing around the entrance to the local Ecole and men and women waiting for the Alsa bus. Along the avenue, I get a morning "qahwa nous nous" (half coffee, half cream) from the lady with the coffee cart, a relatively recent phenomenon in a society that enjoys their leisurely coffee and tea at a table in a café in real cups like civilized people. Asking for a "to-go" cup might bring a look of confusion in some places. I turn onto Rue Mohammed VI at the majestic Opera Theatre, dodging the various vehicles at the roundabout, and turn down the side lane to the offices of the High Atlas Foundation, the non-profit where I am working as a writer and editor. I am on a sabbatical from teaching. I love every bit of what I am doing.

The office is a beehive of activity, with most staff members in that post-university twenties age range and full of optimism and energy for the future of their nation, or foreign college-age student interns eager to fulfill service requirements and make a difference. I edit their blog posts and reports, and on occasion answer their grammar questions. I work with the foundation's president to write grant proposals to keep their work going. It is some of the most rewarding work of my life. I am aware of the immense opportunity that has been lain before my feet and I am trying my best not to squander it. When I am over this cold, I will go into the field to meet the women and youth for whom I have labored to secure funding for a literacy program. I expect, based on previous experience, that I will be gathered in a firm embrace that lasts seemingly forever, kissed on both cheeks, and served tea and cookies as a minor celebrity. That is the culture. That is what first made me fall in love with this country.

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On the way home from work, I stop at the local bodega (for that's what it is and I don't know what else to call it) to pick up bottled water, fresh-made bread, and perhaps some yogurt if I'm running low. The clerk knows my name and I know his (Hassan). He has seen the tattoo on my left forearm, the mark of the Amazigh (indigenous) people, the "free men," so he throws me some Tamazight words now and again from under his New York Yankees hat (that is puzzlingly pervasive among Marrakchi men though many do not know about baseball or even what the logo stands for). As I pay and collect my items, I bid him good night with "Tannemirt" (thanks in the Tachelhit language) and head up to the apartment, passing the men in the café having a tea and a smoke and watching me as the pale-skinned anomaly that I am. Tempted to stop at Daskalides, the gourmet chocolate shoppe next door, I save it for special occasions or just aljumma (Friday, the Muslim sabbath).

It is the "Golden Hour" when the sun is beginning to set and the streetlights are just coming on. I can stand on my terrace and overlook it all. Lately, my dinners have consisting of this new concoction of ramen noodles and canned tuna with chunks of cheese thrown in. Is it Moroccan tuna casserole? I suppose so. It is neither American nor Moroccan, but I enjoy it.

When I am out and about, I use as much Arabic as I can even when there are Moroccans who know English. It would be easier to speak English with them. I am not here to do the easy thing. I am not here to be comfortable. It is in discomfort that growth occurs. I am here for a little discomfort.