QuinnRoads

THE ROAD TO MOROCCO

Part Two

The Marrakech Express

Where we explore the souk, buy a rug, and learn Flannery´s value in camels

The train trip from Tangier to Marrakech took 9 1/2 hours, including the hour we spent on the platform in Casablanca. During the first hours, we passed through a rugged landscape populated with flocks of sheep and goats, each tended by a shepherd or two; donkeys pulling carts or being ridden; villages of windowless mud huts; and the most litter-shrewn ground that I have ever seen. Mile after of mile was covered with millions of plastic shopping bags and drink bottles.
Nearing Casablanca, we passed through well tended, cultivated land. The hours before Marrakech the rolling land became increasingly barren but still quite beautiful. We arrived at 6:30 pm, took a taxi to our hotel in the new town (we´d learned our lesson about staying in the Medina), where we took a small apartment.
The new town is composed of broad boulevards that intersect at huge roundabouts. Walking from our hotel to the Medina along the main boulevard, Avenue Mohammed V, took 30 minutes. The avenue was lined with shops, restaurants and cafes. Unfortunately, our first walk was made in a driving rain. As in Tangier, the cafes were filled with men sitting at tables with nothing on them. I guess that even the Ramadan fast couldn´t keep them from their favorite cafe.
The rain had stopped by the time we reached Place Jemaa El Fna, the major square, where we encountered, once again, the jellebas-clad, tourist office-approved guides. There is absolutely no way, they said, that we could find our way around the souks without a guide. The price was only 150 dirhams, a bit over $15, for two to three hours. We accepted. Our guide, Mubarek, spoke decent English and was quite charming.
There were, he told us, over 4,000 shops in the souks. Each trade, potters, coppersmiths, cotton dyers, carpet makers, leather craftsmen, spice merchants, etc., has its own district. With few exceptions, the products are being made in the shop as you watch. At night the souks are closed behind multiple gates and doors; no one lives there. Mubarek was right; without him we would still be wandering aimlessly, hopelessly lost.
After a visit to a Ben Youssef Madrasah, a 16th century Koranic university, we explored the souks. We saw stacks of camel hides being cut up to make bags and shoes; smelled the strong scent of cedar as it was cut, shaved and carved; dodged a shower of sparks from the metal grinders wheel; heard the banging of the copper merchants hammers as they turned sheets of metal into lamps and trays; all the while avoiding the scooters and motorcycles that pressed through the narrow alleys.
Of course there was a catch. Part of our tour included stops at friendly merchants who were most happy to display their wares. The possibility that we might not want to buy what they were selling did not seem to exist.The only option was to bargain until an agreeable price had been reached.
At our first stop, we were served mint tea and shown at least 100 absolutely beautiful, handmade, hand-dyed rugs. "But we don´t even have a house," we told the charming master of ceremonies. "No matter," he said. "We must show you the complete selection." His two assistants brought out and unrolled rug after rug. He taught us two words of Arabic, roughly translated as: Put that one away, and Put this one aside. When 100 rugs had been reduced to a mere 15, the bargaining began. He wrote down a price on a piece of paper, which he handed to me. I was to write down a counter offer. He would then write down a lower number, I would respond with a higher one. We would proceed until an agreeable number was reached. His first number: 37,500 dirhams, $3,750. We told him that we were but poor pensions and couldn´t possibly pay one-tenth of that. We thanked him, shook his hand, and fled.
Other stops included Mubarek´s favorite ceramic merchant (the very best prices), where we bought a beautiful tajine dish, the spice merchant (herbs and potions to improve the taste of your dinner or the appearance of your skin), and another rug merchant, this one, according to Mubarek, much less expensive.
Our host, a Berber, told us to call him Ali. He was dressed in full desert regalia, from head wrap to burnous. A large man with an almost cherubic face, Ali was full of charm, joking and teasing. He praised Flannery´s beauty and commented on how much like her father she looked. He asked Flannery if she would come to the desert with him. He said he would give me five million camels. I insisted on no less than ten million. He smiled and upped the ante to fifteen million. Then we were served tea and taught to say: Put that one away, and Put this one aside, this time in both Arabic and Berber. We told him that we´d already experienced the full selection process and could only consider a rug small enough to hang on the wall. His assistant brought 30-40 rugs. We put away 30, leaving 10 for bargaining. We chose a 1 x 1.5 meter, blue rug, handmade of desert silk (the thread of a cactus plant) by people of the southern desert.
Ali insisted that I sit by him on the floor while we bargained. He wrote down a number and I was to follow. I was beginning to understand the system. He wrote down 9,680 dirhams, $968. Only about $918 more than we hoped to pay. Write down 500 dirhams, Kay mouthed. Embarrassed to write a figure that low, I wrote 1,000. You are being difficult, Ali said. I will write down another number, then you must write a higher number. We simply cannot go any higher, I said. We don´t have the money. I stood, thinking that the transaction was over. I accept, said Ali, and had our rug bagged.
The next day we returned to experience the square. At least three soccer fields large, this enormous, bare space is surrounded on three sides by the souks, on the fourth by a park and its horse carriage-lined entrance way. One can view the action from several second-floor and rooftop cafes.
During the afternoon, throngs of visitors, mostly Moroccans but with a goodly number of French, came to see the action: cobras swaying to the sounds of the snake charmer´s flutes and drums, animated story tellers surrounded by large crowds of eager listeners, colorfully dressed watermen from the desert and monkey handlers willing to pose for photos - for a price. We took it all in from a rooftop terrace.
We wandered along the edge of the square, dipping into the souks from time to time, and waited for eveing. Around five the performers began to disappear and were replaced by carts piled high with metal tables and chairs. Soon the square was filled with dozens of open air restaurants. Fires were begun, tables covered, chairs arranged. The smells of cooking chickens and meats (which included sheep heads and hooves) filled the air. Lights were strung from pole to pole and flickered through the smoke which blanketed the entire scene.
We had dinner in a very pleasant second-floor cafe overlooking the square. At sunset crowds of dinners filled the tables in the square below, and the breaking of the day-long fast began in earnest. Our dinner was delicious, the view was unforgettable.
We took the overnnight train back to Tangier. We´d booked a couchette the day before, and had a compartment with four, reasonably comfortable bunks to ourselves. The train left at nine. We got to sleep around eleven, after a couple of drinks and lots of laughs, and arrived at Tangier at seven in the morning. We were on the ferry by eight, back in Spain for lunch, and home by late afternoon.
Our rug looks grand hanging on the living room wall. Flannery has almost forgiven me for asking only ten million camels. Kay loves the mirror she bought with the camel bone frame. I had a memorable birthday dinner. We didn´t get robbed. The trip has been declared a success.

THE ROAD TO MOROCCO

Part One

Surviving Ramadan

During which Flannery thrashes the robber and we suffer an alcohol-free zone

Using my birthday as an excuse, Flannery, Kay and I went to Morocco. We took a bus to Algeciras on the coast, then the ferry to Tangier. From the ferry´s lounge, we could see Spain, Africa and the Rock of Gibraltar.
We arrived at 2 p.m., where we were met by a group of men wearing hooded jellebas, each of whom kindly offered to guide us around the city. Having already selected a hotel, and knowing that it was nearby, we declined. One of these kind gentlemen insisted on walking along with us. He spoke, as did many Moroccans, very good English. He informed us that because it was both Friday and Ramadan, everything (as in EVERYTHING) would close at 5 o´clock., and that everyone (as in EVERYONE) would be heading straight home to break their daylong fast. As it turned out, he knew the way to our hotel, which was behind the city wall in the Medina, or old city. He guided us through the right gate, which was helpful. We rewarded him accordingly.
The Continental Hotel, which overlooked the port and much of the Medina, was all that one would expect from a hotel described by the Michelin guide as a place where: "Writers, artists, and famous men have stayed here and the salons and patios have figured in films." It was almost empty, more than a bit threadbare and did not accept Visa. We checked in, then headed off into town in search of an ATM, train tickets and supplies for the room.
We discovered a travel office that offered train tickets. Cash only. Finding an ATM was now a must. Suffice it to say that Tangier is not an attractive town and searching for an ATM was difficult and unpleasant. The Medina is a maze and we had little time, so we headed for the new town. A very friendly man who spoke good English asked if he could help, then led us two blocks and pointed out a machine. We now had money. We found a small store and bought enough supplies, water, snacks, juice, etc. to fill a large, plastic shopping bag.
The straightest line between where we were and the travel agent was through a large, bustling square and then downhill through the souk, a maze of narrow lanes and alleys lined with street merchants and shops. It was now almost five and traffic - people, cars, bicycles and motor bikes - grew more and more crowded. It was getting increasingly difficult to make my way through with a shopping bag wrapped around one hand. Kay and Flannery were right behind. At one point Kay found she was walking on fish heads, which she could not see in advance.
Finally we found a street, rather than an alley, that headed downhill towards the harbor. We were definitely swimming against the current. Cars were pushing uphill through the crowd, which filled the street from wall to wall.
At one point, about half way down the hill, a man standing against the wall stepped in front of me and put his shoulder into my chest. I could feel myself being touched from behind. Fortunately I carry my wallet in one front pocket, money in the other. I put my shoulder down and pushed the man away and moved away from the wall and into the street, stopping only inches from the cars. I waited for Kay and Flannery. You okay? asked Flannery, who had seen what had happened. I checked my pockets. They didn´t get anything, I told her. Let´s stay close together.
We continued down the hill. I realized that I could protect only one pocket, the other hand was weighed down with the bag, and I didn´t want to take my money or wallet out in the crowd. No more than 50 yards later, I again felt a shoulder against my chest. Before I could react, the man broke away. Behind me I heard Flannery´s voice. I turned as Flannery uttered an oath (unrepeatable, this is a family blog) and saw her whack the would be pickpocket across his shoulders with her open hand. Ducking his head, he disappeared into the crowd.
"He had his fingers at the edge of your pocket," Flannery said. We were all pretty nervous by then, and staying close together, we made our way down to the main street that ran along the harbor.
We found another travel agent, but the men in the office, who were all very friendly and spoke good English, advised us to go to the train station for our tickets. And to take a Petite Taxi. It was now after five and the streets were becoming increasingly empty. We walked back to the hotel, where we left Kay, our supplies and valuables. Flannery and I left for the train station with just enough money for tickets.
As we walked, both pedestrian and automotive traffic decreased. The few Petite Taxis we saw were occupied. Things were not looking good.
Then a larger taxi slowed and the driver nodded at us. We waved and he stopped. Train station? Yes. And off we went.
Our driver was a jolly sort of fellow who told us that during Ramadan Moslems could not eat, smoke, drink anything, including water, or have sex. Soon the streets would be deserted, he said, because everyone, including the police, went home to break the fast. The only people out would be the bad guys. We were lucky he came by, he said, as the area near the station was very dangerous. About halfway to the station, at an almost empty roundabout, two louts were standing in the street; they had stopped one car. Our driver held down his horn and blasted through, sending them scrambling.
"It´s very, very bad here," he said, "very dangerous. I will wait for you at the station and take you back to your hotel."
"Yes!" we cried.
At the new and very handsome station, Flannery and I waited in line, bought for our tickets for Marrakech (3 first class tickets for the eight-hour trip were 85€, about $100), then rushed back out hoping our driver would still be there. He was. On the way back we encountered the ruffians at the same roundabout. They stepped out into the street, but he drove through, shouting out the window at them. They shouted back. Our driver stopped and put the car in reverse. Flannery and I looked at each other. This did not seem like a good idea. After hurling a few more insults through the window, he proceeded. The thought of our doing that walk, which we had considered, now put a chill in our blood.
Our driver drove us as close to the hotel as possible - the narrow alley had been dug up and was impassable - and said he would pick us up in the morning at eight for our nine o´clock train.
We had dinner in the hotel, along with two other guests. Our frazzled nerves called out for a relaxing drink. But there is no (as in NO) alcohol in the Medina, not even in restaurants. Back in our room, we looked out the window at a very quiet, very dark city, then went to bed.

TO BE CONTINUED NEXT WEEK

Part Two - The Marrakech Express

Where we explore the souk and learn Flannery´s value in camels.

SHOPPING AND COOKING IN GRANADA

From cooking empanadas to chopping off chicken heads, we've started an adventure in Spanish cuisine.
Grocery stores are around every corner, including fresh meat and cheese counters, fresh fruits and vegetables, and usually fresh baked goods. You can also find the small local butcher, baker or produce stores. Fortunately, all are combined into one neat, little store one minute from our doorstep. It is run by two lovely ladies who always provide good service with a smile. They even gave us a "present", a free, promotional glass even though we hadn't bought the required product.
On one of our walks, early in our stay, Boyce looked up at a sign and asked Flannery, "Doesn't mercado mean market?" We had suddenly come upon the city's central market, something Kay had only dreamed of. Unfortunately it was closed at that moment, but we promised to wake up early the next morning to see the action. The large, warehouse-like building is only two blocks from our house.
Early is not a word in the Spanish vocabulary. Not knowing that the market, like most stores, doesn't open until 10 am, we got there at quarter till that first morning. The next visit was postponed until 11, when we knew that all the stalls would be up and running.
The market consists of seafood, meat, cheese, fruit and vegetables. The seafood and meat stalls dominate in number, smell and sight. Entire pigs and chickens lay next to every type of sausage. Fish vendors yell out prices to beat strong competition and win customers' attention. Fruits and vegetables are not strongly represented inside because the pedestrian streets to the south overflow with enough produce to feed the city. Eggplant, yams, lettuce, onions, tomatoes, beans, squash, tangerines, pomegranates, all colors and sizes are displayed for the old and young women shopping for the meals of the day.
Another great find for us was the Dia % store: a self-service, discount grocery store. Here we found items such as decent, 2-euro bottles of wine, frozen croquettes, frying pans, toilet paper, table cloths; all at very good prices. We returned to this store almost everyday to do our initial setting-up shopping.
For the products we can't live without and that are not in the small, local stores, we shop at El Corte Ingles. The national department store with a supermarket on the basement floor has a very large variety of American cereals at half the U.S. price, peanut butter, fresh Parmesan cheese and small green onions. They also have the largest selection of olives and olive oil we have ever seen. The prices for those are incredibly low compared to the U.S.
The first recipe we tried from "The Best 100 Tapas", a gift from Flannery upon arriving, was breaded eggplant with a tomato and cheese topping. We picked out 3 spectacularly purple eggplants, handed them to the woman to be weighed and headed home. Peeled, soaked, and breaded, we fried the sliced eggplant, added the tomato sauce (prepared and sold in boxes) and grated Parmesan cheese. It melted in our mouths. Eggplant had never tasted so good. The market produce was a success.
The next tapas recipe we tried was empanadas: meat filled pastry pockets. We bought pastry dough at the discount store and freshly ground meat at the store down the street. The ground meat we sauteed with tomato sauce, Worcestershire sauce, soy sauce and Tabasco. The dough we rolled out using a bottle for lack of a rolling pin, and cut out circles outlining a large cup. We filled each dough circle, closed them with egg and a fork and fried them up. Delicious. So far we have been very pleased with our own homemade tapas.
As most kitchens do not have ovens, traditional cuisine is prepared on the stove top. We, however, wanted a roast chicken, just like we used to make on Jean Street. The microwave we bought to compensate for the lack of oven had a picture of a whole chicken on the front, so we assumed we could cook a whole chicken. Off to the market we went with roast chicken dancing in our minds.
We walked around the 10 meat stalls to price whole chickens. "I don't want one with the head and feet attached," Kay said. No luck, a whole chicken is a whole chicken. The best price was 1.60 euro per kilo (1 kilo=2.2 lbs). Upon ordering, Flannery asked for the smallest chicken and to please remove the head and feet. The large bellied man smiled at us and, without giving a second glance, slammed down his cleaver twice. "Would you like me to take out the liver too?" he asked us. He did, but put it in the package on top of the chicken, to Boyce's delight. The end result was a chicken for 3.60 euro, unfortunately we had to pay for the head and feet we discarded.
Kay prepared the chicken as usual and was about to put it into the microwave oven, when Flannery asked, "Aren't you going to take off the feathers?"
"How do I do that?" Kay responded with a look of disgust.
"You just pluck them off."
"Do I need tweezers?"
Well, we all learn by experience. The feathers (only 4 or 5) were easily removed with fingers and the bird was placed into the microwave.
Wonderful smells came out but we all nervously peered into the window to see what would come out. The chicken was delicious, maybe even better than it had ever been cooked in an oven. Kay was even able to make gravy out of the juices at the bottom of the plate.
We only ate a third of the chicken that night. Two days later we had a huge chicken salad and sandwiches for lunch a day later. Our 3.60 euro chicken went a long way.
Shopping in Granada has proved to be both pleasurable and valuable as a cultural and linguistic tool. Cooking is a new adventure everyday with results that are better than we expected.

TAPAS TOUR / PUB CRAWL

On our second Wednesday in Granada, we decided to go out on the town, a combination tapas tour and pub crawl. Granada is one of the few cities, I´ve read, where the tapas are still served free of charge with each drink. When Kay and I were in Madrid 30 years ago, and the tapas were free, each cafe offered a variety of small dishes: olives, small fish or calamari, peanuts, that sort of thing. When you bought a drink at the bar, you pointed to the one you wanted. In Granada, the tapas arrive a few minutes after your drink does, and you get what they bring. Most establishments seem to deliver their tapas in a specific order, with your first drink you get this, with your second, that.
Our evening began about 8:30 under a brilliant red sunset. In order to enjoy the view, we decided to take our first libation at an ourside cafe on the hillside. We climbed up into the Albayzin to a "pocket" plaza, a small area created by the intersection of three pedestrian streets in front on a small church. An iron fence protecting the church was only an arm´s reach away from our table. The tables leaned downhill on the rough cobblestones. Kay and I ordered wine, Flannery beer. The tapas was a small dish of olives and potato chips. Just before we left, two sisters in full nun regalia came out of the church, closed the gates of the fence and locked them with a bicycle lock.
Our second top was Hannigan & Sons, one of our neighborhoods two Irish pubs. The place was packed. The primarily English crowd was there to see the Champions League football match between Manchester United and the Glasgow Rangers. There were two large screens showing the game, plus a smaller screen showing Real Madrid and their two superstars, Beckham and Ronaldo. I had a Guinness, Kay a Jameson´s and Flannery a Murphy´s Red. Our first tapas offering was a dish of mixed nuts. With our second round came baked potato halves topped with sour cream, kernels of corn and strips of red cabbage.
On our way to Bodega la Antiqualla, a tapas bar on our street, we came upon a musical group playing for coins in the space in front of a closed news kiosk. The group included an accordion, three guitars, a drummer, flute, tambourine and a very pretty vocalist who sang with great enthusiam while playing a large tambourine/drum-like instrument. We were unable to identify the language. Gypsey? They were quite good and had drawn a large, responsive audience.
Flannery had already taken us to Bodega la Antiqualla, a small, stand-up bar located on Calle Elvira across the street from the hotel where she stayed before Kay and I arrived. We had sangias and a thin, ham sandwich on a crisp bagel-sized roll, along with a large handful of French fries, plus ketchup and aioli. We didn´t stay for the second tapas, a small hamburger with frieds.
From there we went around the corner to a second Irish pub, La Castellana, which, admittedly, doesn´t sound very Irish. But it looks like a pub and serves, in addition to Guinness, Irish coffee, beers and ales. We had wine and watched football. The tapas were chuncks of spicy, grilled pork served on a skewer along with potato chips.
By eleven-thirty we were ready to go home. The streets and sidewalks were becoming increasingly crowded as we walked up Calle Elvira. The Spanish were just beginning to come out.
Our entire tour and crawl had taken place with three blocks of our apartment. We could do this every night for a week and never repeat a stop, all within the same radius.
Ah, to be 22 again and to view midnight as a beginning and not an end.