Madrid...with Cheese

I just returned to Morocco after spending a week in Spain for vacation. Coming back to Morocco from Europe was possibly more of a culture shock than when I first arrived here from the States. The contrast between Europe and Africa was so stark that I started to feel displaced and confused.

As I wandered the streets of Madrid with Spencer I wondered where all of the cats were and felt uncomfortable stepping on the immaculate streets. The beautiful, ancient buildings loomed over me and made me feel especially small and insignificant. Dry, dead leaves crunched underfoot and I was reminded of fall in New England which, apparently, was bypassed this year by freak weather patterns which debilitated most of the greater Hartford area for over a week. (During that week I sat comfortably in the Kasbah enjoying the mid-sixty degree weather and snickering at the fact that I, living in Africa, had electricity while people at home did not. This may sound insensitive, but it was merely retribution for the fact that I was mocked by some for wanting to go to what they presumed to be a third world country simply because it is in Africa.)

The first day in Madrid I sounded like an idiot struggling to come up with the proper words for 'please' and 'thank you' in Spanish. My initial reaction was to respond to strangers with my limited Arabic, then French, then English and finally my practically non existent Spanish. People generally did not wait for me to try an communicate with them properly and just attributed my incoherent babbling to the fact that I was a foreigner and a tourist and therefore couldn't be expected to do any better.

Although I have never studied Spanish before I knew a few basic words which helped me navigate my way through the city. I could pose questions but had no hope of understanding the answers. I would smile and nod and pretend I had understood and usually ended up more confused than I had been at the beginning of the conversation, which isn't even an appropriate term for what I was doing because a conversation implies that at least two parties are capable of understanding each other. Luckily most menus were written in both Spanish and English or else I would just point to the Spanish items and hope I knew what I was ordering. This worked rather well until my final evening when I mistakenly order a plate of steamed salmon and fried mashed potatoes, which had not been my intention at all.

Switching between eating mainly with bread and my fingers to using utensils and napkins with every meal added to my confusion in switching between cultures. I've realized up until living in Morocco I took utensils for granted and to suddenly have them at my disposal again was a nice change but also felt oddly formal, frivolous even. Thankfully I hadn't forgotten how to use a knife and fork.

I was struck by how large the buildings were in comparison to Morocco. As I have mentioned before, Hassan II towers (pun intended) over everything else in Rabat. It draws attention to the fact that there are no skyscrapers and practically no apartment buildings in the city. In Madrid, the buildings are all so big that they seem to be competing against one another, trying to reach the closest to the heavens.

The Palacio Real de Madrid, however, makes all competition futile. It dwarfs the otherwise enormous buildings and seems to preside over everything else around it. I couldn't stand far enough away to be able to take it all in without having to turn my head. The church across the street which would appear grossly out of place in Rabat (due to it's size as much as it's religious affiliation) seemed comically small in contrast to the domineering Catedral de la Almudena which took up and entire city block next to the palace. On the other side of the palace stretch the Sabatini Gardens which are peaceful and romantic with their neatly trimmed hedges and conveniently placed benches.

In comparison the Parque del Retiro was much larger and more wild, more like being in a well groomed forest than anything else. Just walking by the park on one of the main streets, you can smell the difference of so many plants in one place filtering the air. Despite all the cars passing, the area around the park smells distinctly green. In the depths of the park is a lake almost surrounding the Palacio de Cristal which at one point housed exotic plants but now is apparently used to display weird, incomprehensible modern art. Or maybe I just didn't understand the point of the huge blue plastic shaped to fit inside the palace and stamped with different symbols found on a keyboard which I got yelled at for touching. I guess they were afraid I would scratch off the tacky exclamation points. Aside from that however, the palace itself was very elegant.

The Museo Nacional Del Prado had a much wider and infinitely more tasteful selection of paintings and sculptures. My personal favorite was a painting by Rubens of Cronus devouring one of his children- tearing at the human flesh with his teeth, a crazed look in his eye. I scoured the gift shop for a copy of this image because I desperately wanted to have it in my room; preferably a life size poster that I could put on my door to greet people. Alas, it was apparently not a very popular novelty item because I couldn't find so much as a postcard with it's image.

I would be content to eat and drink my way through Europe. I found I was constantly eating in Madrid, there were so many new and different foods to try that it didn't matter how much I had eaten, there was always room for more tapas.

One of the things I miss most while living in Morocco is cheese. The only cheese we get is usually Laughing Cow which is not cheese at all. The butter in Morocco is rich and creamy and delicious and I could probably eat it with a spoon. But for whatever reason cheese is not a staple ingredient in their cuisine. So upon arriving in Madrid, we made our way into one of the many carniceria (definitely just googled the word for 'meat shop' in Spanish) and I order half a kilo of Chorizo (damn near impossible to find any pork products in Morocco, not really part of the cuisine either for obvious reasons) and half a kilo of Manchego cheese made from sheep milk in the La Mancha region just south of Madrid where Don Quixote hailed from. As always, I was a little overzealous in my estimation of how much a half a kilo of anything looks like.

Paella is everywhere in Spain and while it can be very tasty, I wouldn't say it was my favorite dish. Aside from the awful steamed salmon I accidentally ordered the last night, I thoroughly enjoyed the smoked salmon we ate in both a salad and on toast with cheese. We also had grilled prawns which were delicious in their simplicity with just a little lemon juice and black pepper.

Hot chocolate is one thing but the Spanish got it right with their version which is literally chocolate that is hot. It was like eating warm pudding and I would fly back to Spain right now just to have another cup. Maybe not the most healthy drink but when it comes to chocolate I just find it hard to care whether it's good for me or not... Actually, now that I've looked up the recipe, I've discovered that there is actually a lot of milk in it and cornstarch to give it the pudding like consistency- so it's not just warm chocolate, but still.

By chance, Spencer and I came across the Mercado de san Miguel. I did not do nearly enough research before going to Madrid so I had not read anything about this place and I am so glad that we happened upon it because it was one of my favorite places in the city, although I can't say that there was any part of the city that I didn't like. As I read later, it is one of the oldest covered markets in the city, built in 1916. Inside, the market was separated into stalls for meat, cheese, seafood, yogurt, sangria, beer, pastries and other tapas all served in small portions for a few euros; a very affordable lunch although it was very easy to get carried away with all the different options.

We wandered from one stand to the next trying whichever dishes looked the most unfamiliar. Most everything was delicious: yellow caviar on avocado spread, Chorizo sandwhich, sausage paella, tomato and mozzarella skewers (okay maybe not so unfamiliar but always a good choice) cherry concentrated sangria and my favorite was yogurt with fig preserves. With the exception of a plate of assorted fishy sandwiches which I picked for the interesting shapes they were cut in and the skewer of undercooked calamari with potatoes, I enjoyed everything we tried.

I however don't know how to stop when I'm ahead and bought something which at first I thought was an enormous cupcake and then discovered was meringue. It wasn't hard like a meringue cookie but rather still soft how it is before it's baked. It was delicious until about the fourth spoonful in when I realized I couldn't possibly consume that much sugar at one time. I didn't want to waste it so as we left the market I carried it under a paper napkin and watched it melted sadly as we walked through the rain.

Alcohol is available just about everywhere that has a cash register, including gas stations and fast food restaurants

but there were a few choice bars we frequented. O'Neills is a cool, relaxed Irish pub where I finally tried real Guinness on tap which I discovered I liked a lot more than I thought I would. One street over was La Fontana de Oro, named after a book by Benito Perez Galdos which I now feel like I have to read. They gave us a few tapas with our drinks which made my night- any place that gives me free food is worth revisiting.

Madrid is a beautiful city and it was impossible to see all of it in one week. I will have to go back someday and revisit all of these places (first on the list will probably be the Mercado de san Miguel) as well as the parts I missed the first time around. For now I'm back in Morocco and plan on eating as much couscous as possible before returning home.

عيد الأضحى Eid al-Adha

For the past week traffic has been backed up all over Rabat because somewhere there is always a group of two or three men struggling to get a very disgruntled looking sheep into the back of someones car or into a cart. The sheep are stubborn and refuse to move, they pull at their leads and mumble angrily as men grab at their hind legs, forcing them to wheelbarrow down the street. Flags have been going up around the city. There are huge platters of cookies being sold and there is an air of excitement everywhere I go. Eid is approaching.

Eid-al-Adha is a Muslim holiday in which a sheep is slaughtered to commemorate Abraham's willingness to sacrifice his son Ishmael because God asked him to, however God allowed him to sacrifice a sheep instead once he was sure of Abraham's faith. The meat is supposed to be divided into three parts: one portion for the family, one for relatives and neighbors and one for the poor or homeless. This exhibits one of my favorite aspects of Islam which is the element of charity. An important part of Islam is giving to those less fortunate than yourself. I see this on a daily basis watching random people on the street who almost always give money to beggars. It is heartening to see a group of people who are sincerely trying to help one another in anyway they can. Donating the meat from Eid is just another example of this.

I came home a few days ago to find a terrified sheep tethered outside our front door. He was leaning against the wall, motionless, as if hoping I couldn't see him. Unfortunately for him, his muddy coat did not do much in terms of camouflage against the bright blue walls of the Kasbah. Since that day we have acquired three more sheep. Emilie forbade me from naming them.

Lately when I walk through the mdina I've been seeing men sharpening knives on whetting stones every few feet. People are selling large steak knives and barbeque skewers all over the place. I did not connect any of these things with the approaching holiday until today. Suddenly walking through the mdina seems much more ominous, or rather it should, but the excitement is so overwhelming that I can't focus for too long on the fact that we are all preparing to kill a bunch of innocent sheep.

My host uncle asked if I was afraid of the ritual, and I am not. My mother always tells me that when we were living in Bulgaria when I was a child I came home from my nanny's village one night babbling about how I had watched a pig being slaughtered and was apparently very excited about the whole affair. So if I could do it at the age of three, I can do it now. It's not so much fear as a feeling of sadness on behalf of the animal. But I can't think that way because I have never been a vegetarian and don't plan on being one so if I'm going to continue to eat meat I have to accept the fact that cute animals have to die. And I'm okay with that. But watching it happen is an entirely different situation. I think it will be good for me and put things into perspective a little bit.

I have the feeling the sheep suspect something though.

On that note I will go to sleep because the slaughtering starts early tomorrow. Eid Sa'eed!(Happy Eid) !

A Day In The Life Of Houriya

Today is Sunday and I'm feeling particularly unmotivated. I will stay inside all day; I'll read, maybe write in my journal, spend an unseemly amount of time on Facebook and generally waste my time as the world passes me by outside. I am unproductive and lazy.

Staying inside all day adds to my moodiness. I feel trapped by the walls and irritated by the lights. The open windows allowing fresh air into the house only make me feel resentful and mocked. I can see that outside it is a beautiful day. I know that all I have to do is get out of bed and go be a part of it. Yet something prevents me from doing anything. The sullen, angsty Maral urges me to stay inside and make it worse. Allow my feelings of dejection to fester and multiply. So I do.

One of my host aunts, Houriya, is always the one I see the most on these days because she stays at home all day too, except she is much more productive than I. She does laundry, cooks most meals and cleans the entire house daily usually singing in a striking, warbling voice which echos through the walls of the Kasbah. I never see her leave the house, although I know she must at some point. But for the most part, she stays inside or in the courtyard just outside of the door and goes about her daily duties without complaint.

As far as I can tell, she gets up early and eats breakfast before I'm even awake, and I usually wake up around 8:30am. She is usually the one to make Emilie and I our breakfast. She is quick to pick up on our habits and tastes. We can tell where we are meant to sit because Emilie's place always has the small glass tea cup and mine the zebra print coffee mug. Houriya knows I like milk in my coffee, but not too much. I don't like salt or cumin on my eggs but Emilie does. She notices everything.

(Houriya making cake)

As I sit at the kitchen table quietly eating my eggs, she is already busy washing dishes from the previous night and preparing for the days cooking. Depending on how chatty she is feeling she might ask me about my day.

Soon after breakfast is over she beings the cleaning of the entire house. Everything made of tile is washed down and the floors are swept and mopped. There's a solid hour every day where it is a hazard to walk from one room to the next because everything is so slippery, so it's generally a better idea to stay put.

After cleaning the house it's usually time for tea. Houriya has been up for hours working around the house but she smiles good naturedly at me as she pours my tea, constantly encouraging me to eat more milwee (which I have misspelled but more importantly is a type of bread which is sold on the street but which most families make at home as a warm filling midday or midnight snack for that matter). Usually by tea time I've found a reason to start feeling sorry for myself over some insignificant homework assignment or else just generally feeling resentful about the fact that I have to grow up and face the real world soon.

When I see Houriya sitting happily on her terrace enjoying a much deserved moment of relaxation I cannot help but feel a little ridiculous. This is her life everyday, who am I to feel suffocated? She cares for this house and maintains it and still has time to keep up on current events by reading the news online every evening. Although she spends so much time inside her own house she is hyper aware of the outside world and makes a point of educating herself.

She practices her English daily and will occasionally call for Emilie or I to come translate something on the computer for her. Usually it's a pop up claiming you can win a Green Card to the United States if you just answer the question who is the President of the United States: George W Bush or Hillary Clinton? No lie, I've seen this pop up several times now.

I can tell that when she was in school she was very studious and can't help but feel a slight twinge of regret that she no longer really has the opportunity to go to school. She could go to University but that of course requires money and the family requires someone to run the household so she is, in effect, stuck. If I feel that twinge, I can only imagine what she feels.

This is her life, day after day; and while I can't imagine it for myself, I respect her so much for doing it. I always knew it was hard work washing and cooking and taking care of people, but I never thought about the monotony of it or how physically and emotionally stressful it is to spend the entire day in the same house all the time. So many women in Morocco (and at home for that matter) have the job of running the house and watching Houriya repeat the same tasks over and over and never complain has given me a new found respect for that role.

Manger!

On Meals:

I will be lucky if I have not gained at least forty pounds by the time I leave this country. The cuisine is delicious. Moroccans incorporate a variety of spices I am not always familiar with, although I can always detect the cumin and am growing accustomed to the turmeric which is also a staple ingredient.

The two dishes I have encountered most frequently have been Tagine and Couscous. I don't believe there is a restaurant in the entire country which cannot offer you at least one form of Tagine which is named for the heavy clay dish it is prepared and served in. When ordered in a restaurant, or served at home, the Tagine arrives to the table steaming and sizzling in this thick dish and the person who makes the mistake of trying to touch the plate will quickly learn to enjoy their meal with caution. Tagine is made with either beef, chicken or fish and of course a variety of vegetables. My favorite by far was made with beef and plums which gave a wonderful tangy-sweet perfume to the sauce, which I can only describe as succulent. Tagine in general I would equate to a stew although the meat tends to be left on the bone in the center of the plate and covered in vegetables; a tiny mountain of food which those seated at the table collectively demolish.

Most meals at home are served this way. There is a large plate in the middle of the table and each person is allotted what seems like an entire loaf of bread with which to scoop up mouthfuls of food. Utensils are rarely used and Emilie and I are the only two at the table who are given napkins. This was made clear the first evening when we ate fried fish, which is meant to be eaten by picking the meat carefully off of the bones with your fingers. Half way through, Emilie and I sat staring helplessly at each other, greasy fingers held aloft. We were soon given napkins and that seemed to set the precedent because we receive them at every meal now while everyone else is able to maintain clean fingers despite the fact that they are also eating without utensils. The trick is to learn how to use the bread as a spoon and also a guard between your fingers and your meal; a trick which I have yet to master.

Couscous is also eaten out of a large communal plate although because the couscous is so tiny we are given spoons. As Emilie and I discovered when trying to clear the table, it is extremely difficult to clean up individual grains of couscous. I also can't imagine eating couscous with bread (however it is always set at the table) because it is so heavy to begin with. The small grains are so filling that by the end of the meal everyone is sleepy and immobilized, somewhat like the effects of a large turkey dinner. We have couscous every Friday, usually with what seems like half the people on the block. Couscous is also prepared with beef or chicken and vegetables but the vegetables are arranged in a very aesthetically pleasing tower over the meat. I think I could write a book on the architecture of Moroccan cuisine.

Every meal includes several loaves of bread. It is baked fresh every day and is delicious but when I stop to think about just how much of it I'm consuming, I start to worry about the grain supply in Morocco. If everyone is eating as much as I am, and I believe they are, where on earth is there enough flour to make this much bread?

<...preparing couscous...>

Like wise the amount of couscous served every Friday, if gathered together from the entire year, could easily fill my house to the rafters and have some left over to feed the rest of the block.

This is not to say that the food goes to waste, because it certainly doesn't. Actually, I'm not sure where it goes, but I know it is not being thrown away. When walking through the streets of Rabat I have seen many baskets filled with the crusts of bread that hasn't been eaten, left there for whoever really needs it. There are many people who are not as fortunate as we are to have such an abundance of food, and the Moroccans recognize this and really do look out for one another.

Needless to say I am very well fed. This past weekend as we ate Sunday lunch, I sat back for a moment to allow the three slices of bread soaked in tagine juice I had just consumed to settle. After about forty five seconds of peace my host sister, who is twelve years old, turned to me and said,

“Manger Maral!”

She was demanding that I eat more in a tone that suggested if I didn't she would be personally offended. I jumped and immediately grabbed the closest piece of bread.

Observations

I am taking a much deserved break from my Arabic homework to write more for you, reader, and now I'm having trouble coming up with the words I want in any language, even English. I have realized it is pointless to try and record what happens every day here on my blog. I am therefore attempting to write mainly the observations I make that I believe are most pertinent and interesting for you.

As I sit here on the terrace, I'm facing the comfortably furnished T.V. room. I can see one of the kittens blissfully asleep in the shade under the table and would like nothing better than to follow his example and take a nap through the hottest hours of the day. However, I am committed to you, reader; I hope you're appreciating the effort I am putting into this.

On Life Around The House:

I find I spend most of my time on the terrace, largely because of the magnificent view but also because it seems to be the center of the household. We eat all of our meals here seated around this green plastic table. Occasionally we have tea at the table the kitten has claimed in the T.V. room, although I have the feeling this is mainly used when there are guests, specifically important guests who are elderly.

The terrace is by far my favorite spot in the house. It's hard to worry about much when you're facing the ocean, listening to the ebb and flow of the waves below and the sizzling of some meal being prepared in the kitchen (one of two) which is situated off to the side of the terrace. There is a second kitchen downstairs, the main kitchen, which is next to our bedroom. There is also a bathroom downstairs and one up here.

I suppose the house could be separated into two homes because they both have all things necessary for a family. There is enough couch space alone to seat at least thirty people, I'm sure. But cumulatively, in terms of space, it is just big enough for the family, myself and Emilie. If I have not explained already, Emilie is studying here in Morocco through CIEE as well and we share a room here in dar Baoudi (the Baoudi family house). I don't know if that's the proper way to say it in Arabic, but my romance language training inclines me to believe that it's at least somewhat correct.

Naturally, the culture is completely different than back home, but there are certain things that seem to be universal within the family life. For instance, while I'm doing my homework in my bedroom, I'll receive a Facebook message from my host-sister saying “hello”. Although she's still learning English so it came through as “heho”. It's fantastic because it reminds me that although I am somewhere I'm not used to, I can always rely on kids to be kids and families to look out for one another. I am very comfortable here. Aside from the fact that I'm still not entirely certain where the trash can is located (not as simple as you might think). Or the fact that I need assistance turning the hot water on to shower. But these things will come with time.

The one thing I am embarrassed about is that I really don't understand their familial relationships. There are constantly family members and neighbors coming and going, and sometimes it's hard to tell how they are all related to one another and where they live. It is clear, however, that this house in the Kasbah is the preferred meeting ground as opposed to other homes. This is due to it's prime location and I expect the fact that the atmosphere around here is always light-hearted and fun. At least that is how I feel. I've stopped trying to figure out their relationships and just think of them all as my extended aunts, uncles and cousins. It's working for me.

Back to School

It has only been four days since my last post and already I feel that I've seen and done too much to be able to properly relay all of it here. But I will try.

On classes:

I left off writing that once classes began I would no longer be a tourist, and I was partially correct. Four hours of intensive Arabic (Darija) class a day is more than enough to make me feel like I am not on vacation. I am in beginner's Arabic because I have not once studied any form of Arabic ever. Ever. I could never have anticipated this type of crash course. It is so fast paced I start to feel dizzy if I don't maintain focus every second and cling to my Professor's every word, which I suppose is how it should be. I am certainly working much harder in class here than I usually do at home with the exception, perhaps, of my language courses at University of Hartford (pour vous Professeur Ealy:).

Our teacher speaks a fair amount of English and French. To explain our lessons she uses a combination of the two to translate. So there are consistently three languages whizzing around my brain and by the end of class I am physically and mentally exhausted. Physically exhausted because I am hunched over my note book gripping my pen in anxiety at the possibility of missing something and mentally exhausted from trying to not let my thoughts stray for a second, which is difficult to do when I look out the window and see the bright Moroccan sun beating down on the top of a solitary palm tree.

On life in the Kasbah:

I continue to be astounded by the beauty of this country. Every morning I wake up from a combination of the heat and the cool ocean breeze coming in through the window and am reminded again of how lucky I am to be living in the Kasbah. At the risk of sounding dramatic, I must say it truly is magical here in the Kasbah. I feel much more attuned to the people and the culture here than I expect I would living somewhere else. My host mother fondly says that we are “ vraie Marocains”, true, real Moroccans. She and the rest of our family has made us feel so incredibly welcome and comfortable. Already the Kasbah truly is a home away from home.

Day Three: Rockin' The Kasbah

Literally, my host family lives in the Kasbah. Yesterday I wrote how I would become lost so easily but I already feel that I have a better grasp of the crooked alleyways. At the top of the house is an open terrace which looks out onto the city and the inlets from the Atlantic ocean. Half of the terrace is used for meals and the other half is set up as a T.V. room with ornately covered couches wrapped all around. I'm sitting here now, listening to the Moroccan music floating across the water and staring out at the city lit up against the night sky.
Today has been hazy and it still is, but it doesn't take away from the beauty of the city. I can see the Tour du Hassan that I mentioned yesterday and it looks even more majestic from afar because it is so much larger than all the buildings surrounding it. I can picture how thousands of years ago a man, miniscule at this distance or probably invisible, stood at the top of this building calling the Muslims to prayer. When the call to prayer comes now it is projected through loudspeakers which echo across the water giving the impression of an army of people all calling to one another from around the city. It is simultaneously overwhelming and moving.
Tomorrow classes begin and I will have to accept that I'm not simply a tourist and there's actual work to be done.