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I Don’t Have to Love Every Place We Visit

Posted: 06 Jun 2011 04:37 PM PDT

I said this to my husband on our second day in Marrakesh, “I don’t have to love every place we visit.”

I felt defensive. I had been dreaming of Morocco for years. Marrakesh, especially, was somewhere that appealed to me, as the quintessential travel experience. I hadn’t realized it until now, sitting in Jamaa el Fna square that I had constructed this elaborate fantasy about Morocco.

In my mind, I pictured walled streets of the medieval medina painted white or soft grey or left a natural golden ochre and as you explore the endless twisting turns of the city maze, you stumble upon spice markets and leather shops or little cafes where old men are eating cous cous with thick almonds and stewed vegetables using coarse bread to scoop it up while sipping strong mint tea. Afterwards you’d retire to a stylish guest house, with an open air floor plan, a small reflecting pool in the foyer and perhaps a peacock running around the grounds. I’d dress in white, with my hair pulled into a loose chignon and wear a chunky leather belt and strappy sandals. I’d speak fluent French. Everything would smell of roses and sandlewood. My vision was like travel porn for women.

I swear this is the version of Marrakesh I had stuffed deep into my subconscious from years of reading Travel & Leisure’s full-page, sumptuous spreads on the décor, the food, the shopping, the unbelievable romance of it all.

To be dropped off at the entrance of the sprawling main sqaure — about a 15 minute walk from my hotel — with the vague instruction of “it’s that way” as my driver pointed across the exhaust-choked thoroughway, around the dilapidated horses shitting themselves as their sweating owners slept in the dirty covered carriages behind them, and as I contemplated the gnarled mess of streets that I would have to navigate, I saw the faint outline of tents and people and what must be main square beyond it, obscured by a bit of white smoke and my sudden rage.

“What? No. You are not dropping us off here and telling us to walk.”

Fine. It was our mistake for not clearing up with the driver before we left that it was actually possible to drive to our hotel. In fact, we later learned, he could have driven us to the other side and given us a short walk down a single street to our hotel. But I suspect, as it’s common to do in many places in the world, he simply dropped the unwitting tourists at the same spot they drop all of the unwitting tourists and when I threw my tantrum, he just unpacked the taxi more quickly and left me fuming.

The locals– aka the fixers, the hustlers, the guys waiting at the tourist dumping grounds were getting riled up in to a frenzy like piranhas on fresh meat. A distraught tourist! We can help her! (And then extort enourmous sums from her!)

“Madame, I know where your hotel is, I can show you.”

“Madame?”

“Here, Madame, let me take your bags.”

“Madame!”

Drew and I have been through this enough times that we’re quite aware of how it works and are able to refuse their offers. There is always a cost involved. Whether it’s an extremely large tip or they lead us to their cousin’s hotel instead or a jewelry shop — they are in this to make a little money. We start walking down the street, talking to each other about a game plan, wondering if we can get online somewhere to get better directions or to call the hotel via Skype.

Meanwhile, we’re being tailed. Well, not tailed, because that implies being followed from behind. We were being followed from ahead of us.

“Just this way!” he waved forward when he saw us notice him. ”I will show you.”

“Oh jesus.” I muttered to Drew.

We slow down. We say “No thanks!” cheerfully. Then curtly. Then we stop. He stops. He waits. We walk a little more, trying to not make eye contact.

We decide to start walking again, with purpose, and the guy following us (from ahead) keeps leading the way.

“What the hell!”

We’re lost, confused, tired, out of our element and by comparison to the locals, flush with cash. We’re totally screwed. Soon we’re beyond the main square and we are actually following him because we don’t know what else to do. We’re distracted and overwelmed, as every third person is talking to us, trying to sell us something.

The guy points to a street sign, posted on the wall, above a shop, among the millions of details that might catch your eye and so I look and recognize a word. ”It’s the name of this quarter, see, from the address,” he says, pointing to my piece of paper. I relax into it then, and decide it’s fine and calculate that a 5 euro tip would be extremely generous and probably worth it for finding our hotel quickly.

I’m cooling down. I’m over the minor inconvenience of the airport taxi driver. Walking is good for that. I’ve also lost all sense of direction and I push out the stray fears of getting murdered and robbed — something I looked up the statistics for once and happens so incredibly rarely you’re more likely to drown in your hotel’s swimming pool. Still, I think of it. Drew has now allowed our helper to carry two of the bags, I don’t blame him, but I think, “Careful, he’s just a guy, literally, from off the street.”

We weren’t murdered. Not robbed. The hotel was so deep into the city, that I doubt we would have been brave enough to venture so far, even if we had good directions, not just an address scribbled on the back of a Barcelona train ticket. As couples do, Drew and I had a barely perceptible conversation about how much to tip, that was started with a look, then answered with a hand gesture and completed with a nod.

Drew gave him what would be about $8 US for walking with us 15 minutes. He took the money and said, “You know this is only like 5 euros, you should give me 10 euros, I walked a long way.”

Which means the going rate in Morocco for giving tourists directions is over $60/hour.

He actually whined at us when Drew politely said ‘no’. The hotel staff ushered him out and the thick wooden door shut, the latch closed and we were in a different world. It was silent.

The hotel was divine. An open space interior that stretched up through the three stories of guest rooms. White walls. Red bed linens and sultry fabric draped around the room. There was my reflecting pool and roses — beautiful, fragrant, fat Moroccan roses — and a rooftop terrace overlooking the city, well, mostly just the ashen neglected rooftops of thousands of homes, and of course a charming French owner and his Moroccan chef who played with our baby in between making tangines and dressed in a crisp white apron — even when she napped on the sofa.

In the mornings we’d take breakfast on the roof, and Cole would chase the pet turtle and we’d drink strong coffee and eat croissants and everything was good, once again, in the world.

We walked around the city. It’s mostly just streets and little stalls selling goods. It’s like an outdoor, massive version of Pier One Imports. Except it’s not imported, it’s not a pier, and instead of a surly 20-something asking you if you want “some help with anything” you have a 40-something Moroccan man trying to stuff a flyer for a restaurant in your hand or to pull you into his shop or hand you a menu or sit you down at a table or to show you some of his wares, if you’d just, “come this way”.

It reminds me of India. A French version of India, where they sell pamplemousse jus in the main square. It took me about 5 seconds of staring at that sign to remember, from deep in my memory stores — ah, yes, pamplemousse is the French word for grapefruit. I love that word.

On the second day in Marrakesh, I walked the same streets, visited a mosque across town, googled “things to do in Marrakesh” and crossed off everything that didn’t have to do with shopping and as I slammed my second pamplemousse jus of the day (so refreshing), I thought, “now what?”

It’s true, I don’t have to like every place we visit. We booked a bus for the next day to Essaoiura, hoping that I could give Morocco a second chance.

I want to travel

Tuesday, June 7, 2011

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