My sisters, I am finding that in this patriarchal, predominantly Muslim, conservative country, I am virtually invisible to the typical man on the street. If anything, I am looked at with disapproval. The only people who greet me cordially are the shopkeepers, who would like me to separate me from my money.
I have learned quickly not to make eye contact, and after a week here I now walk with my baseball cap pulled down low on my forehead to avoid people’s stares. Since at home a large part of my job is to interact with strangers, it was difficult for me to remember not to smile at people. That is, until the first few sneers and rude remarks. One man yelled “Hootchie coochie” at me – I guess that’s the love call of the Moroccan male.
Even the little kids are disrespectful. One small boy deliberately kicked his soccer ball into my leg at close range, as his three friends watched. I caught the ball and held onto it as we continued down the street, only to discover that we had reached a dead end. As we made our way back, the friends, thinking I was coming after them, quickly pointed out the culprit. I knew just enough French to tell him that was a bad thing to do, and I’m sure he could tell by my tone of voice that I was very angry. I wonder, would he have dared do that to a Moroccan woman? I doubt it very much.
On another, related topic, girlfriends, let’s talk toilets.
Veteran travelers know not to expect American style bathroom facilities wherever they go. In Morocco, you look for the door marked Toilette or WC. What lies behind that door ranges from western-style porcelain fixtures within stalls with floor-to-ceiling doors with functioning locks, or holes in the ground with a footprint on either side. But let’s face it: sometimes you can’t be too particular about the facilities when nature calls. This is not a problem if you have come prepared. There is a very convenient item sold in travel speciality stores that can revolutionize a traveling woman’s life: it’s a little paper cone called Urinelle, and it allows a lady to avoid the necessity of coming into contact with off-putting facilities and to pee standing up, just like the boys do. Of course, one must be prepared in advance. And don’t forget the tissues. Or the hand sanitizer. Or one’s sense of humor!

A lot of people have asked us that question. My initial flippant response is to say, why not? But we do have some practical reasons.
All year long, we squirrel up our frequent flier miles, earning them for shopping, dining, gasoline, etc. Then we look for a destination and partner airlines that will allow us to use them, and hopefully manage to shave a few bucks off the typically exorbitant plane fares.
Another factor to consider is the exchange rate. The Moroccan monetary unit is the dirham, and the rate fluctuates between nine and ten dirhams to the US dollar. Our money goes very far here!
Hotel rooms are one of the great bargains in Morocco. The priciest place we stayed was a very elegant restored 18th century riad in Meknes, which cost $120 for a night. It was a suite with canopied double bed, sitting area, small table, and an elegant bathroom that included both a shower and claw-foot tub.
The suite in which we are currently camping costs $85 per night, including breakfast on the terrace. It is spacious and comfortable, with wooden shutters on the three windows so that we can keep out the cold night air. There’s also a large bathroom which is up to American standards. There are two couches, a small armoire, and several end tables. The woodwork throughout is painted in the colorful Moroccan style – even the high ceiling has painted trim work.
Coffee is not very popular here; the drink of choice is mint tea. This morning, after a nice walk along the river, Craig and I stopped at a little cafe for a rest. Forty-five minutes of people watching and two glasses of very sweet mint tea cost us $1.20. Tips are not expected, either, but are appreciated.
We have established a lazy rhythm to our days. Craig gets up first and heads out for a walk around town, while I slowly drag myself to consciousness. We have a late breakfast, then wander around town until we get hungry. Then we head to our favorite restaurant, Aladdin’s, which has five different floors and excellent views from each. The weather has been cooperative enough that we eat outside every day. A full meal, including Nescafé and dessert, costs from 85 – 120 dirhams (less than $12.) The waiters never rush the patrons. In fact, I’m writing this blog after another leisurely lunch on the fourth floor open air terrace. We avoid the bright sun and the cats, who are more numerous than customers today.
After more strolling, we usually buy a few snacks before calling it a day. When we return to our hotel, Casa Perleta, our hosts always serve us mint tea as we sit by the fireplace in the lobby to take advantage of the wifi connection. Then we head back upstairs to our rooftop room for a snack and a little reading. Six lovely pastries set me back 20 dirhams each – about 20 cents. We don’t find prices like that at Cross Roads or Maryann’s! A bottle of soda was 60 cents.
As far as shopping goes, we are holding off on leather purchases until Fes. But the hand knitted hats and socks here are irresistible. And at 25 dirhams, cheap enough to purchase in quantity. Plus, the Hat Man knocks a little off the price if you buy several pieces.

Craig got this great idea about six months ago: we should take a little camel ride in the desert, and then spend the night in a tent amidst the sand dunes. As I always say, you can find anything on the Internet. Before I could say Insha’allah, (God willing,) we were booked. Monday afternoon found us bouncing across nine kilometers of unpaved roads, headed for the camel stable and Auberge Sud, a beautiful hotel that we were not staying in.
Just a year ago, I attempted a little horseback riding while in Nicaragua, and ended the afternoon with a concussion and the worst bruise of my life on my jaw, where the horse clobbered me with his head. Since then, I’ve had a bit of PTSD around large four-legged creatures, so I was really being a good sport about this whole camel idea. They are much bigger than horses, you know. Plus there aren’t any stirrups, or even any reins! I had a metal T-bar to hang onto, which I did, with everything I had. Oh, did I mention how hard it is to get on a camel when you have a 29 inch inseam? Go ahead – picture it.

After about 45 minutes’ bumpy ride, we caught up to another group of about 20 riders, and scampered around the sand dunes to watch the sun set. Then it was back on onto the dromedary for another hour, but this time in the dark. Finally we reached camp and dismounted for the night.
Once the sun set, the temperature plummeted to about 7 degrees C. I don’t even want to know the conversion to Fahrenheit. Our camel wrangler Hassan cheerily informed us that we would be okay, because he made our bed himself and put six blankets on it. He was right, too. We kept all our clothes on with the exception of our coats, and managed to survive the sleepless night. Sleepless because the mattress was concrete hard and the blankets were so heavy it was nearly impossible to move, and because the 20 college kids did not sleep a wink. Those youngsters stayed up all night drinking, (they had smuggled wine into this alcohol-free country,) playing drums, giggling in four different languages, and eating everything they could scrounge. The guides sounded the wake up call at 5:50, and I was only too happy to call it a night.

Watching the sun come up in the Sahara Desert is a heart-lifting experience. The sand becomes a wonderful, rich shade of rosy golden brown. Even the camels look good, bathed in that glow. After an hour or so of climbing around the dunes, Craig and I were treated to a private breakfast outside next to a fire. Well, private once we paid off the five little children with the sad puppy faces who were experts at wrenching our emotions and extorting money from us so we could eat in peace. Then back on those lovely camels for another 90 minutes or so.
I asked Hassan what their names were, and he said Jimi Hendrix and Bob Marley. Then he admitted that they don’t names the camels, and instead refer to them as that brown camel or this white one. Easy to remember, I suppose.
As we plodded along, Hassan pointed to the mountains in the distance and noted that we could see Algeria, about 35 km to the east. I hadn’t realized we were that close to the border, and I admit to a bit of unease. Of course there was another part of me that wanted to detour over and collect their stamp in my passport.

In the Sahara Desert region, camels are everywhere. It’s the funniest thing to see a dozen of them strolling around an open field munching on the greenery. I’m told that at the end of the day they all just go back home.
Camel milk is enjoyed by locals, much more so than cow’s milk. It is believed to have greater health benefits, too. Of course we tried it – it was delicious. Camel steak – eh. Tastes like beef.
The smaller of the baby camels in the photos is about 2 months old.

After pulling ourselves together, we strolled downstairs for breakfast in the dining area. Our gracious host Yusuf served us crepes, chocolatines, and good strong coffee, as well as fresh squeezed orange juice. Suitably fortified, it was off to the ramparts and the fishing wharf.
The boats had only just come in, and the fishermen were busy selling the catch of the day: eels, stingrays, huge crabs, even a shark. Little silver sardines were immediately salted to help preserve them. Blue is the color for fishing boats, apparently. Many of them were being dragged to dry dock for repairs.
There were lots of women in the market area, alone or in pairs, but only female tourists in the area of the fishing boats, with the exception of one or two crones selling their catch. As a female who clearly wasn’t local, I didn’t feel particularly welcome. I wasn’t miserably uncomfortable, but I wasn’t at ease, either. By process of elimination, I discovered that it’s okay to smile at babies and their mothers, little children (but then they might try to talk you out of a few dirhams,) and shopkeepers of any age or gender. But the older guys are a tough crowd to warm up.
The medina, the market area, is surrounded by high walls for protection, as invasion by sea was commonplace in the old days. You can get some great views of the harbor from the top of the walls. For an authentic feel for things, you can shimmy into a guard towers and peer through the narrow little slits.

After a couple hours of walking, we stopped for lunch at an outdoor cafe. The weather has been quite lovely – we were pleasantly surprised by the warm temperatures and sunshine. As we ate, we were entertained By strolling musicians, gymnasts, and beggars, all of whom politely requested a few dirhams (10 dirhams = $1.) We enjoyed shrimp salad with avocado, pizza fruit di mare, and 2 bottles of water for $12 at La Mouette D’Essaouira.
More strolling, and a little shopping: hand carved boxes of Thuya wood, paintings by Ezba the young literature graduate, and a painting of the symbol of Fatima plus Berber folk symbols, done on cow skin, by a young man in a San Francisco 49er’s hat.
Up five flights to have mint tea on a terrace overlooking the water. These tall, narrow buildings are great for developing your thigh muscles! The view from the top was certainly worth the exertion.
The younger generation is very open to conversation. A young artist in a cooperative gallery explained that his fellow painters have only recently begun painting humans and animals, a practice that is forbidden by Muslim law. According to this young man, the rigidity of the former regime is easing under the rule of the new king. Still, he acknowledged, locals probably wouldn’t buy his work.
After a rather mediocre dinner, we bought some delicious little pastries, and strolled back to Les Matins Bleus for coffee. That’s when things went horribly wrong. As a hardcore coffee drinker, I am virtually immune to caffeine. This stuff, however, packed such a wallop that both Craig and I were awake well past 1 am. I have no idea what was in that cup, but it was not a species of coffee I’d ever met before. From now on, it’s mint tea at bedtime.

We had arranged our flights so that we connected in London and went on to Marrakech all on the same day. But British Airways had other plans, and shifted our times around so that the connection we had carefully plotted months ago would no longer work. So, we bend like the willow and flex our plans accordingly.
We arrived in Heathrow very early on Tuesday morning- we crossed the Atlantic Ocean in a little more than six hours! There was one heck of a tailwind helping us on our way. In fact, we were so ahead of schedule that we had to circle London for a while, because noise ordinances prohibit jets from landing earlier than 6 am.
The next adventure was getting to Gatwick Airport, about an hour away. We had done our homework online, and purchased tickets for the National Express bus. It was very easy to locate, with the help from the purple-jacketed airport info folks. “Cheerio!” Really, he actually said that after giving us directions.
We hopped on the bus with only a handful of others, and arrived in no time at all. I guess that means I slept through most of the ride. Gatwick is small and easy to navigate, so we made our way to the South Terminal, and found Bloc Hotel on level three. After giving us a discount coupon for the cafe across the terminal, the receptionist invited us to come back for a complimentary early check in at noon. By that time we could hardly keep our eyes open, and we staggered off to our cubicle for a nap.
Room 552 is a study in economy of space. It must be less than 150 square feet: big enough for a double bed, a night table, and floor space to open 2 suitcases. The bathroom is compact to the point of hilarity. Suffice to say one can shower and use the commode simultaneously.
But the beauty of this little nook is its location inside the airport, and its complete and utter soundproofing. Plus everything is controlled by a tablet mounted above the night table. So please excuse me. I must reach over and play with the window shades now. I’ll be back at 5 am for the next leg of our journey. Cue the music: “Don’t you know we’re riding on the Marrakech Express. They’re taking me to Marrakech. All on board the plane…”

I love airports. Admittedly, standing in line to check my bag makes me cranky, but such is life. Did I say checked bag? Yes, in fact I did. Oh, I managed to cram all three weeks’ worth of stuff into my little rolly bag, but it was seriously distressed, and I was unhappy. Not to mention that my backpack weighted a ton! Then I had an epiphany: we usually travel toward warm weather, which doesn’t require such heavy clothing. The elements were working against me this trip, so I knuckled under and dragged out the Big Red Bag. Now the sleeping bag liner (yes, you heard me) fit with ease.

We survived the painfully slow checkin process, as well as the near strip-search at security, and found our way to the relative tranquility of the British Airways gate. A comfortable seat, a cold drink, and a wi-fi connection, and I’m a happy traveler once again. The next time we touch ground we will be in London for an overnight, and then on to Morocco on Wednesday.