Sensory Overload -- Marrakech

I'm starting this post from my host's apartment across the street from Lyceen Victor Hugo. I have my own room, a very comfortable bed, a bathroom, free access to the kitchen, and a lovely dog named Spin to cuddle up with. My host is mind-boggingly generous, very sensitive, and a pleasure to talk with. He offered to put me up for the entire two months of my stay in Morocco, and he's such a wonderful fellow to be around that I'm very tempted to take him up on it. However, as the reason I travel is to meet new people and learn about new cultures, I should probably stick with my original plan of staying with Mike for one week and then moving on. I'll see if I can stay with him again before I leave for Paris, though.

My night at Paris airport was miserable. I arrived at 22:30 and had to wait until 4:30 before they let me check in my bag. It was cold. Frigid. I was so dehydrated that I was starting to feel light-headed, so I bought a liter of water for the exorbitant price of 2 1/2 euros. An hour later, I had to pee. Unbeknownst to me at the time I practically chugged my entire liter of water, all the airport bathrooms closed at midnight and didn't open again until five. That's a long time to let a liter of water hang around.

After dropping off my bag (which is no longer overweight, thank god), I went through security -- assuming there'd be a bathroom on the other side. But Paris Airport seems to be structured differently than other airports I've encountered. In other airports, you pass through security and then have to find your way through a plethora of touristy stores and 6 dollar a cup coffee shops before you finally make it to your gate. In Paris, you pass through security and are immediately at your gate. Do not buy coffee, do not collect 200 dollars, and do not go to the bathroom.

I really, really had to pee.

My flight left at 6:00. Boarding started at 5:30. As soon as I got onboard, I beelined toward the back, threw my bag on a random seat, and thanked the good lord for airplane lavatories.

The seating assignments on EasyJet are random, so I was able to pick a seat near the back by a window. I was just about to celebrate having the full row to myself, when a woman plopped down next to me with the only baby on the airplane. Then she asked me to move to the seat behind her (without a window), so that she, the baby, and her husband could sit together.

I politely obliged, but felt terribly unlucky. I adore staring out windows. Bus windows, train windows, car windows, tall building windows. Airplane windows are my favorite though, and I was disappointed that I wasn't able to stare out at Africa.

Upon arrival at the Marrakech airport, I passed through immigration, picked up my bag, and put on my, "please recognize me" face. My host had told me he'd be there to pick me up at nine, so I positioned myself right in front of the entrance and waited for Mike to arrive. After about forty-five minutes of scrutinizing and double-scrutinizing everyone who entered the airport, a very friendly looking fellow approached me and introduced himself as Mike. He offered to carry my legendary behemoth bag (as it shall hence be called), and we headed off to his friend's car. We stopped for breakfast at a small cafe on the way to his apartment, and I had my first taste of the mint tea Morocco is famous for.

It is very, very sweet. I enjoy the flavor, but will always ask them to hold the sugar. I find it interesting that people who live in a desert drink such hot beverages -- given that the temperature in the summer can hit 44 degrees Celsius. 

I learned a lot more about my host over my cheese omelette and mint tea, and knew immediately that it would be an absolute pleasure to stay with him. He's one of the few remaining Moroccan Jews (most have emigrated, as life can be hard for them in a Muslim country), works as a solar energy engineer, is very well-traveled, and speaks excellent English.

After breakfast, we headed over to Mike's apartment. Spin assaulted me with all sorts of friendly dog kisses, and I settled my things into the extra bedroom. As I'd slept nary a wink the night before, I crawled under the covers of the queen sized bed and tried to get some sleep. The excitement of being in Marrakech was too much though, and I wasn't able to turn my brain off. I'd already seen three camels and an entire family riding one small motorcycle. My brain was on excitement overload.

Mike has a French client who owns hotels in Brazil and Marrakech. He invited me to join him and his client for lunch and to take pictures of the beginnings of the Marrakech hotel. I was more than happy to oblige.

A typical Moroccan salad

My first tagine in Morocco. It was so flavorful and good.

The bread served with tagine. You use your bread to soak up all the oily goodness at the bottom of the tagine. 

Jean-Cristof's hotel in progress. It's going to be stunning.

After visiting Jean Cristof's hotel, Mike took me to a luxurious hotel in the city of Marrakech where he was doing some solar panel work.

We went out for drinks later that evening, and I enjoyed my glass of sparkling water (look at me continuing to avoid alcohol) in the sumptuous upstairs lounge of the bar.

The last part of my first day in Morocco was so surprising and extraordinary that I still can't believe happened. Moroccan food is very popular in Brazil. Jean Cristof wants to bring a Moroccan chef to Brazil to work in his hotel. The chef candidate was preparing a few test courses for Jean Cristof last night.

And he invited us to join him.

Also invited to dinner was a stand up comic, an actress, and a makeover coach. All grew up and worked in Paris, but had Berber roots. They seemed very nice, but I couldn't understand much of what was said. French definitely comes slowly for me. When two people speak, I can understand a good amount of the conversation. When an adult speaks to a child, I can understand almost everything. When there are many adults conversing over each other, I understand nothing. Perhaps I catch the occasional "merde!" but that's it.

The food was spectacular, and I was so hungry that I could have eaten all of it. However, a good deal of the beautifully prepared food remained on the plates uneaten. Mike was feeling quite sick, so he didn't eat much. Jean Cristof didn't eat much (I have no idea why he restrained himself). The girls nibbled. I swear, my childhood lovebird ate more than the three girls combined.

So who was the culprit who ate the majority of the food on the table? The American. Look at me rising to the occasion.

This was all in my first day. One day. I still can't quite believe this is happening.

And just wait until I write about how I spent my day today...