The Gallivanting Grasshopper: Bonjour, ça va? Hello, how are you? Hola, como estas? -- Marrakech

The perils of traveling as a single lady in Marrakech haven't been too great thus far. There's been no kidnapping, raping, robbing, or poisoning (just a bit of indigestion). I have a wonderful place to stay, great company with Mike, am enjoying the cuisine immensely, and get to ride backseat on a ducati nearly every afternoon.

But regardless of all the good in my life, Marrakech is in the process of turning me into an asshole. Why? Well, here's an example of a typical walk about town:

I wear jeans, a modest T-shirt, covered shoes (the streets are filthy), and sunglasses. I leave my video camera and all of my important documents at Mike's, and carry only my iPhone, a water bottle, a notebook, a pen, and Mike's spare set of keys. I take the elevator to floor zero and say, "Bonjour, merci!" to the Moroccan man who opens the door for me. That single, "Bonjour, merci!" is the first and last friendly interaction I have during my solo walk. The harassment starts as soon as I get to the street.

"Bonjour, madame. Ca va? Madame? Parlez-vous français? Hello? Como estas?"

In Ireland, people say hello just to say hello, and having friendly interactions with people I meet on the street has become a favorite pastime of mine. Ireland taught me to love asking for directions -- simply because it gave me an excuse to talk to someone (even if you don't really need an excuse to talk in Ireland). However, the Irish also know that when one is journaling in the park, it's best to leave the person alone with his/her thoughts. In Europe and the United States, we generally have a decent amount of respect for personal boundaries, and when we say hello, it's generally just to say hello. In my experience, anyway.

In Marrakech, people do not say hello just to say hello. Not usually, anyway. When someone says, "Bonjour, madame. Ca va?" and you respond with a friendly, "Bonjour, ca va," you will immediately find yourself being followed down the street by a man trying to sell you something. I've been chased down the sidewalk by men on motorcycles several times because I naively answered, "Ca va." So within the span of five days, I've learned to ignore all salutations, regardless of the language in which I'm addressed (people here WILL know the language you speak). I don't smile, don't turn my head, don't acknowledge the other party in any way. I leave Mike's apartment feeling on top of the world, and I generally return to it a few hours later feeling tired, hot, and irritable. I've experienced bouts of loneliness and isolation during my nine months of solo-traveling, and I imagine that if I didn't have someone as wonderful as Mike to stay with, I'd be in full-throttle isolation mode now. It's a culture that is very hard for me to adapt to because it's a culture that forces you to isolate yourself (if you want to maintain any level of sanity, that is).

I am very lucky to be staying with Mike.

The hissing, honking, and cat-calling is also hard to deal with. I don't last 5 minutes in a public area without being hissed at. It's very unsettling, especially since I know that there's nothing I can do about it.

I wandered around the souk for a few minutes on Saturday, and found myself accosted by the orange juice man.

"Ah, I see you again. Why are you here?"

"Just wandering."

"You not come for seeing me? I look for you everywhere."

"No, just wandering."

"You join me in my riad? I make traditional tagine. I make for you massage. Massage so good that you come back to Morocco every holiday. EVERY holiday. Then we make oogie boogie. Not a lot oogie boogie. But a little. You know what means oogie boogie?"

*Frigid nod*

"I make you little kisses, you make me little kisses -- very, very nice. I like you. You make my heart happy. Why not be happy? Why not?"

"I have to keep walking."

And I bid the black-toothed scalawag farewell and continued my trek into the depths of the squalid, mystical souk.

I'm harassed a bit more than usual due to these factors (I think):

I'm foreign

I'm a woman

I'm young

I'm alone

I especially don't like it when I'm walking on one of the many sidewalks lined with benches. Groups of Moroccan boys sit on the benches and stare me down as I pass, and as soon as I'm within earshot, they start addressing me in every language they know, trying to elicit a response. As soon as I cross in front of them, they hiss. I've never felt so objectified and bullied before. My host told me that some women come to Morocco because they enjoy this. Blows. My. Mind.

Walking with Mike is completely different. All manner of harassment stops and I'm free to enjoy the city for the lively, sensational place it is. I see other tourists (they're very easy to spot here) walking as couples, and they don't seem to be harassed much. So my advice to ladies visiting Morocco is to come with a friend, a boyfriend, or find someone like Mike. Unless being hissed at and asked to "oogie boogie" is what you're after, of course.

It isn't my intention to disparage Marrakech or to discourage tourists from visiting -- but I thought I'd be a bit remiss if I didn't mention the few difficulties I encounter when walking alone. It doesn't seem dangerous at all -- it's just disrespectful and annoying.

All in all, my experience in Morocco has been absolutely phenomenal and I have nothing to complain about, but the extraordinary nature of my week is due primarily to the kindness of my host and his friends.

The tombs across from the souk

I am endlessly amused by the desire people have to carve their initials into things

At the souk. Olives are cheap and plentiful in Morocco.

Dried fruits are also abundant

Grapefruit, lemon, and orange juice stands are everywhere. I do my best to avoid them these days. 4 dh translates into about 50 cents. So one can enjoy a glass of fresh squeezed orange juice quite cheaply.