Saturday, April 15, 2006
Sardines
I am in Casablanca for the last couple of days of my Morocco trip.
I checked myself into my fairly deluxe hotel room (arranged for me by Amy via a local travel agent; thanks Amy), put the DND sign on the door, and didn't leave the room for almost 30 hours. I've been reading, writing, sleeping, enjoying the best internet connection I've had in a while, and generally resting up.
I finally made it out today, driven largely by hunger, expecting that the streets of Casablanca would surely offer some better cultural and culinary values than a third order placed with room service. I wandered into the local market, another typical Moroccan maze, and got lost for a minute, something that never happens at home. The couple of times I've gotten lost here, it seemed to be only because the Moroccan streets (if you can call them that; many are too narrow for any car to pass) violated the most basic laws of physics, topology, space, time and compassion.
I speak no Arabic and not really enough French to get by. I found a sandwich shop where a man was ordering sandwiches, which were being assembled on the counter. I'm trying to avoid wheat these days, since I seem to be mildly allergic to it (or anyway, as soon as I eat it, suddenly I have hay fever from something else). But one can't be choosy when there is no menu and about the limit of one's French is même chose, deux, sil vous plait. I ended up with nice French bread filled with cheese, something that could be generously described as bologna, and sardines. OK, this wouldn't have been my first choice, but it was palatable.
Why are you reading this? It is tres mundane. Sorry.
Not that I can promise an end to the mundanity as I press forward.
There are 5 calls to prayer here each day, starting around 4am. Being from southern California, I woke up early one morning after dreaming about packs of coyotes howling in the night. That's what my sleeping mind did with the sound.
I figured I had good timing getting out of L.A. for my hay fever season. Whatever it is in L.A. that makes me sneeze, it's blooming here too. Maybe not as much though.
I see a lot of tourists suffering with dysentery, complaining about it, waiting for it to end. As soon as I experience any hint thereof, I take some Cipro, and it goes right away. Seems pretty simple, and better than suffering. I mention it to Americans, and they say they don't have any. I mention that here, as in most non-so-called-"first-world" countries, you can buy it over the counter. They shrug and stick to their plan. I stick to mine.
Near the Casablanca airport, there are guards stationed every 250 meters or so. It's really not safe to stand anywhere within 15 meters of a freeway... and they don't. They stand in the weeds on the other side of the fence, under the hot sun, in their neat & clean, formal uniforms. I cannot imagine what is actually accomplished by this. I feel for them.
I checked myself into my fairly deluxe hotel room (arranged for me by Amy via a local travel agent; thanks Amy), put the DND sign on the door, and didn't leave the room for almost 30 hours. I've been reading, writing, sleeping, enjoying the best internet connection I've had in a while, and generally resting up.
I finally made it out today, driven largely by hunger, expecting that the streets of Casablanca would surely offer some better cultural and culinary values than a third order placed with room service. I wandered into the local market, another typical Moroccan maze, and got lost for a minute, something that never happens at home. The couple of times I've gotten lost here, it seemed to be only because the Moroccan streets (if you can call them that; many are too narrow for any car to pass) violated the most basic laws of physics, topology, space, time and compassion.
I speak no Arabic and not really enough French to get by. I found a sandwich shop where a man was ordering sandwiches, which were being assembled on the counter. I'm trying to avoid wheat these days, since I seem to be mildly allergic to it (or anyway, as soon as I eat it, suddenly I have hay fever from something else). But one can't be choosy when there is no menu and about the limit of one's French is même chose, deux, sil vous plait. I ended up with nice French bread filled with cheese, something that could be generously described as bologna, and sardines. OK, this wouldn't have been my first choice, but it was palatable.
Why are you reading this? It is tres mundane. Sorry.
Not that I can promise an end to the mundanity as I press forward.
There are 5 calls to prayer here each day, starting around 4am. Being from southern California, I woke up early one morning after dreaming about packs of coyotes howling in the night. That's what my sleeping mind did with the sound.
I figured I had good timing getting out of L.A. for my hay fever season. Whatever it is in L.A. that makes me sneeze, it's blooming here too. Maybe not as much though.
I see a lot of tourists suffering with dysentery, complaining about it, waiting for it to end. As soon as I experience any hint thereof, I take some Cipro, and it goes right away. Seems pretty simple, and better than suffering. I mention it to Americans, and they say they don't have any. I mention that here, as in most non-so-called-"first-world" countries, you can buy it over the counter. They shrug and stick to their plan. I stick to mine.
Near the Casablanca airport, there are guards stationed every 250 meters or so. It's really not safe to stand anywhere within 15 meters of a freeway... and they don't. They stand in the weeds on the other side of the fence, under the hot sun, in their neat & clean, formal uniforms. I cannot imagine what is actually accomplished by this. I feel for them.
