Here I am, sweating from every pore in xeric Marrakech, trying to focus on living in the moment, not on arriving back to home-sweet-home in 82ish hours.  Of the five of you who read this blog, at least four are as well or better traveled than I.  One of my goals in blogging whilst traveling is to plant seeds in the minds of my former students – hoping that they will envision themselves encountering the world beyond North America.  So, remind my stinky-sweaty-world-weary-weenie self:  why travel?

PS:  Mad props to fellow lexophile and esteemed colleague Tandra for sharing the word xeric with me.

Written in the lovely air-conditioned hip Kechmara.

I left Azrou for Meknes last Sunday, spent Sunday and Monday nights again soaking up as much time in the RhoSho home as possible, then set out with the RhoSho clan and their summer volunteer helper Amanda for Rabat, where we stayed in the Hotel Berlin (not especially worth of recommendation, but context is everything, and it does have running water and toilets in most of its rooms). We wandered around near the shore (Atlantic, just in case you don’t have a map handy) Tuesday night and Wednesday until I carted to the train station my now rather onerous baggage (before it was just unwieldy and seemed heavier than it ought considering the frugality of my pre-trip packing; now it’s barely possible for one guy to walk any distance with it as I’ve added a crate of souvenirs – mine and Nat/Rod’s. I can’t wait to show off the authentic Berber carpets and impressive woodwork.)

My five hour train ride took me from Rabat to Marrakech, one of Morocco’s largest cities and known both by its less conservative culture and as a tourist magnet. Neither is something that pulls particularly strongly on me – far more enticing would have been a trek to the desert, or another few days in Azrou – but given the constraints of time and luggage, and the train which connects it both to Rabat, and Casablanca (where I end my trip in a just a few days), it seemed like an okay destination, all things considered. Plus I got a cheap (but not painfully uncomfortable) hotel.

I’ve done minimal roaming in my first two days here. The idea of a yet another market, and one known for its aggressive sellers at that, sounds rather off-putting. And I could tell right away getting off the train that Marrakech lives up to its hurly-burly reputation when I asked the taxi driver to use his meter (something I didn’t have to ask anywhere in Morocco) and he unabashedly told me, “No meter,” and then suggested a price that I knew was inflated by at least two or three times what the route ought to cost. But given that it was 9:30PM, and that even calling his bluff and moving on to another taxi meant carting my luggage like an oxen pulling a too-full wagon behind him, I paid the 50 dirham and didn’t lose any sleep over it. But at least I knew from the get-go that I was back I’d left “regular” Morocco behind.

Besides the travel-weariness that has contributed to my lack of exploration, Marrakech is hotter than just about anywhere else on this trek. Cairo would be a close competitor, but the nights there were a bit cooler I think than here. It’s not so bad as that I can’t sleep at all, or that I’d contemplate upgrading to a hotel with a ceiling fan or air-conditioning, but the heat is certainly oppressive.

Still, I’ve only got four days left on this trip, including the rest of today, so I want to make the most them. Tonight or tomorrow I plan to venture forth into the heart of Marrakech’s old city, and hopefully take in a hammam.

Hopefully, too, I’ll find some time to catch up on posts that I’ve been composing mentally for weeks but not managed to get typed and uploaded. And there are more pics and vids to upload, but that takes a more reliable wi-fi feed than I’ve currently got.

And now, my lunch of endive salad with walnuts, apples, tomatoes and parmesan calls to me.

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For some reason, homesickness has been hitting me hard the last couple mornings. I suppose it’s because the end of this trip is just a week and a half away, and so rather than look out ahead to the next leg, I’m starting to be more aware of the parts of my life in Elkhart that I’m missing: football camp, my gardens and yard, hanging out with friends on my deck. It’s been almost five weeks since I’ve sent a text or listened to NPR (!! – till now, I doubt I’d ever gone more than a week without NPR in the last 15 years), or felt a single drop of rain. Don’t misunderstand me; I’m not complaining. Once I start roaming and exploring amongst the hills and little Azrou streets full of small shops and mingling amongst the local Berbers, I love it here. And my hotel is perfect – not so “nice” as to induce guilt, but with enough creature comforts – western toilet and shower in my room, luxurious foliage climbing the walls and balconies, wi-fi (even a couple of bars worth in my room – woohoo!) – combined with the rural sounds of sheep, chickens and donkeys in the neighborhood.

I wish you all could see just how earthily picturesque Azrou is, but I’ve been loathe to carry my camera. Not only is it the equivalent of sending up a sky-high smoke signal announcing, “Hey y’all, there’s a tourist here!” but I’m reluctant to photograph locals. Nat & Rod do a fantastic job of taking shots that humanize locals in their photos, but when I snap the pic I often feel like I’m objectifying people I don’t know. There are exceptions. Hopefully in the next few days I’ll be able to write about visiting Abraham’s tomb in Hebron/Al-Khalil (first name is Jewish, second is Islamic – I feel obligated to use both so as not to take a side). I put aside my rules against photographing locals to ask the young Muslim boy who showed me Abraham’s tomb if I could take his picture, and it’s perhaps the photo of all the hundreds of the last weeks that twists my guts the most.

In the past, traveling provided me time to think and then post those reflections on the blog. Lord knows I’ve had as many or more thoughts and reactions on this trip, but I’m struggling mightily to put them into coherent threads. Nothing in Japan or Korea approached the discombobulation of the Israeli-Palestinian issue, or the historic and modern interactions of Islam, Judaism and Christianity. Like Descartes, I’m stuck trying to figure out a base of reality from which to synthesize my observations and reactions. In the meantime, here are a few photos I snapped on my way to Azrou and from my hotel balcony.

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After a stellar week with Rho-Shos and Nat & Rod, I’m back out roaming the world solo. I headed out this morning from Meknes via Grand Taxi (“grand” simply refers to being larger than the petit {small} taxis – there’s nothing grand or fancy about them as they’re shared taxis in which up to six people who don’t know each other squeeze in with the driver). About an hour later I’d arrived here in Azrou, a smallish Berber city that’s off the obvious tourist routes (in fact my Frommer’s guidebook doesn’t even list it in the index). Rho-Shos brought us here a couple days ago to experience the authentic Moroccan carpet-purchasing experience, and the town struck me as a perfect place to come back and slow down and purposefully reflect on my trip thus far, as well as dive back into the Karen Armstrong’s books on the three monotheistic religions. So I’ve checked into a simple hotel in the foothills of the Middle Atlas Mtns and I’m looking forward to alternating contemplative time with adventuresome strolls throughout the town.

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I’m writing mid-afternoon on July 10, just a little less than 48 hours after arriving by train to Meknes. It’s been so bloomin’ great to hang with Jason and Carmen and their three chillins’ Dara, Lydia & Luke. We’ve kept pretty busy, so I haven’t had time to write or get online. Jason and Carmen’s family (plus a summer helper of theirs named Amanda – she fits right in and has been a welcome addition) are staying with Nat and Rod and me in a riad (large old-fashioned traditional Moroccan multi-floored house) a couple blocks away from Meknes’ medina (old city). We’ll all stay here another couple nights, then re-locate to their apartment, which is spacious enough to host all of us and will allow much easier and more frequent Internet access.

Besides just enjoying re-uniting with such cherished friends over a number of Moroccan foods (seriously good stuff), we’ve spent time exploring some of Meknes’ notable sites: We rambled in the dry heat for a couple hours through the souq (street market), and wandered around what’s left from Meknes’ heyday – 300 hundred years ago when Sultan Moulay Ismail ruled with ferocity and great success. He built enormous palaces using captured white slaves from Europe and colonial American ships. Most have crumbled but parts are being re-excavated so we dug around there and then went to his mausoleum.

Today we learned how to cook several traditional Moroccan dishes from a talented young Moroccan woman, and later tonight we’re going to explore and picnic near Volubilis – Roman ruins some two thousand years old.

Here’s a quick smattering of photos. In the first, Nat, Rod, Jason and Carmen play a simple carnival-type game in which they tried to maneuver a ring on the end of a strong onto a plastic soda bottle. I’ve got some video of it that I’ll post when i can.

Here we are sitting down to enjoy the authentic Moroccan noon meal we’d prepared earlier today.

Every chance I get, I talk to Luke about American football. (-:

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My last two days in Spain were in Sevilla and in/near Jerez de la Frontera. Both were good. As is true for every village and city I’ve seen on this trip, I could have easily spent a good more time exploring and learning in each (well, not so much Taba Heights Resort – one night there was enough).

Sevilla, especially, would have warranted more time. I got in some good roaming time around the old city, and then almost made the mistake of skipping the Cathedral. I was thinking, “What’s one more big church? Seen one, seen ‘em all.” But since it’s such a landmark I figured I’d give it a quick visit. As I walked there, I mentally began writing a post explaining why I wasn’t so impressed, and comparing it to our Nat’l Cathedral in DC. I was going to write about how our Cathedral is free from the bloodstained religious history, and how we’ve got some pretty dang cool details like the moon rock stained-glass and the Darth Vader gargoyle.

Then I walked into Sevilla’s Cathedral. I was dumbstruck. I literally couldn’t close my mouth with using my hand to push my jaw back up. This doesn’t diminish my loyalty to ours in DC, but, honestly, Sevilla’s Cathedral kicks our flying buttresses all over the floor. It’s such a combination of gigantism, intricate detail, and a pervasive, powerful sense of history.

There were a number of other such sites in Sevilla that I’d have visited if I had the time, but I was there for just one evening and the next morning. I left around noon for Jerez de Frontera, which I explored on foot that evening, and then the next morning I drove to Cadiz, where I picked up Nat and Rod. After nearly three weeks of travel alone, it was pretty terrific indeed to meet up with some of my closest loved ones. We drove a bit to the north to Sanlucar de Barrameda, where we spent several lovely and fun hours touring a sherry bodega and eating lunch on the coast of the Gulf of Cadiz (off the Atlantic Ocean), then we headed south to Algeciras where we spent the night before crossing into Morocco by ferry the next morning.

I hope to write more about my time in Spain next week (and I’m still mentally composing posts about Jerusalem, Cairo and the Israeli-Palestinian conflict).

Nat & Rod were such a sight for sore eyes that I snapped a photo as soon as I saw them. (-:

Here’s one of the pics from the picturesque bodega:

Here I am, just about to board the ferry to cross the Strait of Gibraltar into Morocco.

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Written Sunday morning, 8:30AM, July 5.

1. Washing clothes by hand is a pain. Not that it’d be less of a pain to have dragged along enough clothes for six weeks without washing (um, I don’t think my closet would've sufficed), but I can’t believe how long it takes to wash, rinse, wring, wring-inside-towel and then hang to dry. For pete’s sake, I’ve only got ten or so pieces of clothing with me total; how could this take more than 15 minutes? And, it’s boring as snot.
2. This trip isn’t half-way over, but thankfully I’m almost at the second stage: no more hopping from nation to city to nation to city – I’ll be in Morocco from July 8 till I return home July 28, and much of that time will be in one location with close friends. Woohoo!
3. Still, one of my favorite parts of traveling is the passport stamps, and I’ve gotten a few good ones in the last couple weeks.
4. I think I’ve finally beat what I’m officially calling the Cairo Stomach Monster (CSM) – double woohoo! Mind you, I’m still treading lightly, but I branched out beyond crackers yesterday afternoon, first trying some pasta with pesto and then a couple hours later a simple cheese and herbs pizza. Fourteen hours later, and all seems well. But I’ll continue to go easy today; I don’t want to jinx this recovery. I’ve lost enough weight that the only two pairs of pants that I brought fall right off unless cinched up tight by the belt, and I think we could fit two of me in my shirts from home. Yeah, it’s not the sexiest look, admittedly. But that’s never been my strong suit, so I’m not worried. It’s my charm that wins people over. (-: And I’ll never manage to get rid of these chubby cheeks, no matter how much weight I lose. <sighs>
5. One of the biggest downsides of this trip has been that I couldn’t take a group of kids to DC this summer. I got a little melancholy yesterday when I realized it was July 4 – the last three years I spent the holiday on the National Mall with dozens of really superb, stellar young citizens (well, putting aside Brodie). I feel like that’s where I belong on July 4.
6. I’m a bit of a loner, but wasn’t sure how I’d take this much alone time -- I’m now at 2.5 weeks without hanging with any of my friends or family. It’s actually been okay, for the most part. There were some good conversations at Bustan Qaraaca, and here and there I’ve managed to push beyond my modus operandi to engage with those around me, albeit briefly. Interestingly, I’ve been able to do that the least in Istanbul and Spain. Istanbul makes sense – I spent the vast majority of those 36 hours in bed, laid low by CSM. But why not here in Spain, where I speak far more Spanish than my oh-so-limited Hebrew and Arabic? Maybe it’s the rental car that’s causing my isolation; in retrospect I kinda wish I’d have used the buses instead. But also it feels that the Spaniards are far less welcoming than the Palestinians, Israelis & Egyptians. Here, even when I go out on a limb and use my limited and no-doubt ridiculously badly-pronounced Spanish, I get almost zero English words in response, even though I’m willing to bet my left pinkie that the average Spaniard knows more English than the average Palestinian or Egyptian. And whereas in those places I was frequently asked, “Where are you from?” there’s been not one proffer of verbal curiosity and even engagement here thus far. A couple of warm smiles, but mostly just cool cordiality.
7. Speaking of being asked where I’m from, I was advised by people at home and a couple native Arabs to either avoid answering, or simply to say somewhere other than the USA. Alan, my host for two days in Egypt, told me that under no circumstances should I ever tell an Egyptian that I’m from the United States. I’m not naive – after all I’d discussed openly with my students that I might buy a shirt implying that I’m from Canada. But I just couldn’t live that lie. Sure, some things are worth lying about, and maybe in some circumstance this would be one of them. But every single time someone asked where I was from, even when I couldn’t tell offhand whether they’d be friendly or not, I told the truth. How will people around the world ever get past stereotypes of Americans if those of us who try to travel authentically and with respect lie and say we`re from Canada? (Wait a second – I bet that’s what’s been going on for years – no wonder everybody loves those bloomin’ Canadians!). Only once did my honest answer turn up the tension, and that was with an elderly Israeli woman.
8. I met her in Eilat – she runs a small photography shop and I needed a photo from the Egyptian bureaucrats to get a visa. When she heard I was an American, she did the same thing that many others had done, she brought up President Obama. Only whereas virtually everybody else who raised his name did so with excitement, she was careful to say his name slowly and emphasize his middle name. Barack Hussein Obama. “What do you think of him?” she asked. I gave my stock answer – whether at home or abroad, because it’s both safe and sincere -- “Time will tell.” She repeated my words slowly a couple times while looking me in the eye, then proceeded to tell me that he’s from a Muslim family and “they are all devils.” I didn’t bother to argue; I just wanted my photo. But I sure as heck didn’t nod in agreement. I simply looked back at her and repeated that we’d see what the future holds.

And so we shall. Sometime soon, I hope to post about my visit to Abraham’s Tomb, tying that experience to the Israeli-Palestinian issue, and I’m also hoping to post both verbal reflections and pics from Jerusalem and Cairo. Hopefully I can find some strong wi-fi spot and get flickr to work. Otherwise I’ll keep adding pics to Facebook.

Time to empty this lovely simple Cordovan nook of my stuff and head to Sevilla.

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Written 8:30AM, Saturday July 4, Posted mid-day Sunday July 5

Originally, I’d planned to hit four major Spanish cities from the time of the Muslim caliphate: Cordoba, Malaga, Grenada and Sevilla. But given my still-tempermental stomach, and the fact that it makes more sense now when I’m here on the ground to actually slow down, breathe and feel a place than just stop, snap photos, sleep and go, I’ve decided to only visit Cordoba and Sevilla -- spending two nights in each.

Last night was my first night in Cordoba. I found a website compiling inexpensive Spanish hostels, and managed to snag a small apt. with bathroom all to myself only a block from the Mezquita Catedral (Mosque Cathedral). Yes, that’s what it is: It was a major mosque during the time of the caliphate, but after the Christian re-conquest they built a big cathedral right in the center of the mosque. Very Jerusalem, eh?

Actually, it’s not so much Jerusalem-ish as it is just plain human, or so I’ve learned from Karen Armstrong’s books that I’ve been lugging around (for a guy who only brought 2 pair pants, 1 shorts, 2 pair socks, 3 boxers and 4 shirts, my luggage is irritatingly heavy – but I think it’s the books). When a new religion takes hold, it often subsumes and supersedes the physical structures, mythical symbols, and special holy days of prior religions.

For example, she writes, “Abraham’s God was probably El, the High God of Canaan.” What eventually became monotheist Judaism began by picking the most helpful of local pagan gods. Christianity in turn not only built on Judaism, of course, but probably wouldn’t have survived without the support of the Roman empire, which included the practicality of taking on favorite pagan celebrations. I remember when for a couple years of my youth we weren’t allowed to have a Christmas tree, because it was a vestige of the pre-Christian pagan Roman celebrations. And Islam has done its share of building on what was previously sacred to other faiths. You know how Muslims are tasked to make a hajj to Mecca at least once (if possible), and while there they circle cube-shaped Kabah? Well, according to Armstrong, “The Kabah was of extreme antiquity even in Muhammad’s day and may originally have been dedicated to Al-Lah, the High God of the Arabian pagan pantheon. Muhammad Islamized the ancient rites of the annual pilgrimage to the Kabah and gave them a monotheistic significance…”

Back to Cordoba. So at its heart is a combination Mosque and Cathedral, which I’m off to visit in a little bit. Mostly, though, I’m just soaking up the ambience of the town, and, stomach issues as they are, catching up on my reading and reflecting. I’ve moved on from Armstrong’s A History of God to another of hers, The Battle for God: A History of Fundamentalism which is proving particularly helpful as I continue to sort through my conflicted reactions to the Israeli-Palestinian situation.

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