Navigating streets in the medina is made more challenging by the constant flow of speeding motorcycles. And were there donkeys pulling wagons filled with trash? Yes, indeed there were.
My students are safely returned home, Im standing in the passport control line at the Mohammed V Airport in Casablanca, and my vacation is about to begin. Im next in line when Im tapped on the shoulder. In the next line over is Steven, my martial arts instructor. Hes wearing a white fedora that makes him look like a Miami mobster from the 1960s. Months ago we conceived the idea of meeting in Morocco. Given the unpredictability of modern travel and our fluctuating through Barcelona and me the probability that wed ever meet seemed remote. But unpredictability is a street. Sometimes it can work in your favor.
A taxi takes us from the train station in Marrakech to one of the medinas gates. Beyond this point the roads are too narrow for cars. Well have to navigate the maze on foot using
Google Maps. Amazingly, it works! Each turn puts us on a narrower, darker street. A beggar sitting at the intersection of our last turn ominously warns us that theres nothing at the end of the street were turning onto. He tells us that we are lost. If I stretch my arms I can touch the walls on either side of the street, and yet a gang of kids is playing soccer there. They weave around us like were invisible. The street at a massive door. We knock. The door slowly opens and we are into a garden paradise. Water dripping from a fountain in the center of the courtyard makes quiet musical notes. In one alcove a pool of cool water awaits our hot, tired bodies.
Our hosts didnt speak English. I knew Steven spoke some French because he grew up in Montreal, but in fact, he is fluent. He even has a fair bit of Arabic due to his Egyptian heritage. Its a side of him I never saw before. It was as if I was looking at someone who looked just like my martial arts instructor from Santa Cruz, but melodic flawless French
was pouring from his mouth. It was as if he had been possessed by the spirit of Pepe le Pew. This hidden talent in very handy throughout our trip, but it will also mean that Id be left out of many conversations.
Steven and I know each other from years of me being his oldest martial arts student. this mostly consists of the two of us meeting on occasional Friday mornings at Seabright Beach for a light workout and some sparring. But travelling together is new for us. Itll take some time for each of us to get used to the others idiosyncrasies. This is Stevens first trip to the developing world. The many people on the street who want to be our friends and then lead us to the nearest carpet shop make him nervous. I squirm a little when he gives out too much information to strangers or asks soldiers for directions. Over the years Ive developed the habit of being vague when asked about myself. Often, I lie out of habit. But I see that Stevens open friendly nature charms a fair number of people. I will have to friendlier; he will
The narrow maze of streets that house the souks eventually spills out onto an enormous central square. At night everyone in here to watch acrobats, storytellers, musicians, and snake charmers. Steven and I sip mint tea on the balcony of a cafe overlooking the square. Afterward, we inch our way through the crowd. Snakes and monkeys are foisted on us for photos. Storytellers beckon us to play roles in their stories (which are being told in Berber). Steven snaps a photo of an exotic bird and the angry owner chases after him demanding money. It will be a miracle if we dont get COVID, I think to myself.
At the ticket booth for Majorelle Garden the guy behind the counter tells me that I look just like Donald Trump. He is visibly amazed by the uncanny resemblance. This is a step up for me. The day before someone told me that my face looked exactly like a football. European or American, I wondered.
Steven and I were happy to leave Marrakech.
