Black and White Guide

Day three in Morocco and things are going wonderfully--clear blue skies and temperature again in the 70's. Somehow it is surreal to be walking around in a t-shirt in the mid-December. I start the day with my the usual glass of fresh squeezed orange juice and then trudge to the Sabien Tombs. A cemetery for royalty, I find this facility most intriguing. At the tombs I am offered a free guide. A curios black and white cat decides to show me around. Oddly enough the cat seems to know every tomb I want to see. It leads me there, meows about the significance, and off we move to the next one. This is surprisingly familiar to my experiences in Italy. I thank the cat for the information, paying for the service with a small treat. As I exit the tombs I ponder what to do next. Well as I am on a death tour, I hike across the southern medina to the Jewish Cemetery. It is located in one of the oldest ethnic neighborhoods in the world. The Sheik isolated the Jews here because their practices ran contradictory to Islam. Deciding to change gears I head to the souq for some more shopping. One can only spend limited time here as the interactions are draining. Lunch was fair and dinner was at the now famous food cart #1, again greeted as "couscous."

Medina Maze and Ginger Tea

Day two and plenty more to see. After a modest breakfast it was off to Palais al-Bahia. Then to another rich guy's house that is now a museum. I was feeling hungry so I headed for lunch. Now I am not the kind of person that gets lost, as a matter of fact I have a good sense of direction. But in Marrakech it is quite easy to find yourself helplessly turned around. Navigation is complicated for many reasons. None of the streets are straight, and they are quite narrow restricting your range of view. You can only experience about 200 feet either in front of you or behind you. Signage is either non-existant or in Arabic which does little to aid me. Paths constantly terminate in dead ends forcing one to repeatedly double-back. Finally, everything is the same shade of pink. I wandered for a good couple of hours determined to eventually stumble across some form of public space that I could locate on a map. To no avail, hungry and tired, I finally broke down and hired a young boy to show me the way back for the bargain price of $0.50. As I was enjoying my "traditional" meal of Berber Beef and potatoes, I witnessed a woman across the street wailing loudly, as if there is any other way of wailing. A crowd of mostly men quickly formed, obscuring the woman. Scooters stoped, wails continued. Eventually, the woman is helped into a nearby store. When she is returned to the street she is vomiting. A friend helps her clean up. Kind of makes you lose your appetite. After lunch I went to the souqs and did some shopping then back to food cart #1 for dinner. I figure since I did not get food poisoning from eating there last night it is a good choice. The couscous and chicken filled me to the brim. I was welcomed as "couscous" man. After dinner I decide to have a little Italian passegiata. Across the plaza I end up having a glass of mint tea. With the tea comes some sort of gingerbread cake. It is gritty and has a pungent bitter taste, but when combined with the tea the results are amazing. It is filling and the flavor is hot. The combination of the spice and temperature of the liquid is most enjoyable.

Today I Make my Marrakech

After the exhausting travels from the day before, I somehow find myself awaking early and eagerly heading out alone into the unknown. Today I claim my Marrakech. The town crawls like a teeming ant hill--the hustle and bustle of motion. Grinding horns and bells alert you to their presence. Cars, trucks, horse-drawn carriages, bicycles, donkey-drawn wagons, people-drawn wagons, and curious little motor bikes you start with pedals all race by, passing over the hot plaza tiles from shadow to shadow. Museum Marrakech is my first stop. Aimlessly I wander with a general sense of direction before suddenly stumbling upon the museum. Islamic architecture, with its mysterious culture and exquisite detail has always fascinated me. After the museum I head through the souks (marketplace) towards the Palais El Badi. On my way I find every imaginable animal for sale. Lizards, snakes, owls, turtles, monkeys, and some furry rat thing all dangerously wait in a hot musky cage. Chickens are bought live--butchered, plucked, and cleaned for all to see. Fruits and vegetables are neatly stacked on blankets in the street.
Near the palace whooping cranes nest. A majestic animal, it sits atop the old city walls making guttural clicking noises. People smile more here. The place is loud, smelly, and thick with smog. The nearby Atlas mountains cloaked in a cancerous veil contrast the vibrant clay red of Marrakech; radiating a sense of comfort, warmth.
For dinner I return to the square, eager to eat from the carts that role in around sunset. The square bustles with energy, smoking aromas waft from the food carts. Vendors yelling in all tongues eager to lure you to their smorgasbord of delights. Musicians, fortune tellers, story tellers, comedians, acrobats, and snake charmers feel any available space. Twenty men eagerly sit in a circle placing wages on which scorpion in the box will survive the longest. The operator, continually closing the box to shake it with renewed furry.
Food cart #1, that is where I will eat. Chicken kabobs, sausage, potato cakes, and bread with not one but two sauces. All cooked to order, right in front of me. Clearly they are a family which operates this eatery. The father, grill master of course, and the mother whipping up a mad batch of couscous. Her sons practice their Arabic, French, English, Turkish, Spanish, and Italian on the patrons. Who says you need to go to school? Now I watch the mother draw in customer after customer it uttering the only English I think she knows, "couscous?", she confidently beckons as she lifts a teeming scoop from the pot. Now this is important, as I am nearing the end of my first night, I see the mother preparing her famous line. So I mimic, "couscous?" My timing is flawless, her sons erupt in laughter and a genuine smile beams across her face. My joke would not only bond us, but to generate my Moroccan nickname, "couscous?".
Rhythm describes all that is Marrakech. An underlying pulse of repetition, prose, and beat. The architectural forms, cars, noises, movements, floor tiles, and birds all appear to respond to some underlying law of meter.

Final Round

With my ticket in hand I proceed to security rationalizing my new purchase in realizing I can always dispute the charges with my credit card company. The line moves well enough and I am the lucky winner of the full body search. My bags are torn apart in front of me: sans shoes, belt, coat, and dignity. Next up passport control. More problems. I hand the woman my passport and boarding pass. The toad of a woman, roughly resembling Madeline Albright, but in a less dignified manner, croaks at me in Italian. A smile and a simple reply that I don't speak Italian. She croaks back that she doesn't speak English. So now I must get the translation from the other passport control officer. She continues, croaking and holding some blue governmental form with a picture that I am supposed to have. I tell her I do not have one. She inquires, are you sure. I am not Italian, therefore when I reply no it means no, not I am really lazy and if I say no and act uninterested maybe you will go away and I won't have to work. "You must have a blue form." Maybe the school has it, I have never seen that form before in my life. "Where is your blue form." Ok so now I am at my breaking point. I respond in a slow, calculated, enunciated manner. "I don't have a fucking clue." She gives me a stern lecture and tells me I need it next time I leave Italy. Sure I tell her, maybe I should just stay in Morocco. With some time to spare and because I enjoy pain so much I attempt to try and get my tax refund. Now technically you have to show them the goods, which of course are in storage in Rome. But I reason it is Italy and they are pretty laid back. Not so, he stamps two of the forms and refuses to stamp the third one. Then writes on the third one that I was unable to show the goods. Ok, two out of three isn't bad. Next to the money line to get the dough...or not. A plane load of Chinese tourists has just rendered the line helpless. To the gate before the world ends. Once again I am searched before boarding the plane, but alas they let me board. For six hours I was harassed, poked, prodded, ridiculed, and threatened. When that plane finally took off with me in a seat I had bought twice, I quickly fell asleep. I was exhausted, worried, frustrated, and uncertain of what Morocco would present. Ding...this is going to be close...in a split decision the winner is...oh thank god I am not in Italy.

Round Two--Missing Ticket

Sent on my way from round one to two with a salute from the Carabineri I reluctantly join the line for Royal Air Morocc. When I arrive at the counter the polite woman informs me that my ticket is being held at the booth just across the hall. Now my paper ticket was supposed to arrive by mail. Those were the directions of the French email I got. By purchasing the tickets from the French version I saved 225 Euro, go figure. So when my tickets did not arrive at the Rome Center I called the New York office, because I could not locate a Rome office and they speak English...few. They informed me to pick my tickets up at the airport. So at this point I assume there is no problem. However, the inquisition from the Carabineri should have been an indicator of what I was up against. The man across the hall informs me that I have to buy my ticket. Well, I thought I already did. He says that the website does not charge the credit card, simply holds the reservation. He ensures me that in buying my ticket here, I will not be double charged. Fine, a small loss in my translation of French. Then Maximo (typical) tells me that my ticket is back at P. Barberini waiting for me to pick it up. Well that is great, how the hell was I supposed to know that, not to mention the ticket is therefore a two hour round-trip away from the airport. I ask him how I was supposed to know this when neither the confirmation email nor the airline notified me of this. Knowing that arguing will get me nowhere, I ask if he could find a solution. He calls the Rome office to see what he can do. Great there is a Rome office, why wasn't this information on the email! Surprise, Surprise...he can not issue the ticket here at the airport. Why? Because the ticket was mailed to me on "5 (not fifth) of December". Well it is now the 7th, I have checked the mail box multiple times on each day and guess what Maximo, no ticket! 35 minutes of me nicely arguing that the ticket did not arrive and him countering that he can prove that it did, yield me no closer to Morocco and no further from Rome. A solution I plead, I need a solution. You can purchase your ticket again for the same price and when you return go to P. Barberini and get a refund if in fact it was our fault. Terrified yes, I know all about refunds in Italy. Left with little choice, as I have nowhere in Rome to live, hardly any money, and a frail hope that everything will somehow work itself out, I reluctantly buy my seat for a second time. Ding, in an overwhelming slaughter Rome takes the Round...Levi appears to have little fight left in him. Will our desperate hero ever enter the promised land of the "secure" in the airport?

Terroista, Italian for this could take a while

So I finally arrive at the airport after the serendipity on the tram. As I am quite early for my flight (this would be my saving grace) I decide to find a place to sit. Well if you have ever tried to sit in Italy you know how difficult this is. Benches do not exist in this country and if you do find one there is likely a man with a whistle to ensure you don't sit on it (try Monumento Victtorio Emanulle II). So needless to say I am mindlessly ambling around the airport until I can procure a boarding pass and enter the "secure" part. Then out of nowhere a Carabineri points his machine gun at me and barks, "Passport" with a thick Italian accent with just enough entitlement to his voice. Dumbstruck and startled I am sure I fumbled trying to recall which pocket my passport was in. I hand it over while he radios for back-up as if I must possess some super human power that renders me bulletproof. Perhaps he is just unconfident with his shooting skills, a common theory amongst us. Now I have four more machine guns pointed casually at my chest and two at my head from the level above. Casually is the only word to describe how Italians hold guns, but the poses were unmistakably Italian. The conversation is quick and animated, all I can discern is "terroista". So glad to hear I fit some profile, I start looking at my chest half suspecting to see small red dots peppering my chest. Then the Sarge come sashaying across the terminal. He views my passport, mutters something about me being an American and I am free and on my way. Ding, Round one goes to Rome.

Ciao for Now

So I know it has been quite some time since I have updated. But alas the trials of world travel combined with the requirements of the holidays have delayed my writing. So to get things back in order I need to catch up on my travels to Morocco.
Deciding that I had endured enough of the Italian attitude I decided to leave the country for some much needed relaxation. An assignment had just been given to me on the last day of class and I was in no mood to focus on any more school, I mean my quarter was over right? But I have never had so much trouble leaving a country.
I guess it was Rome's way of getting even with me for some unforeseen cultural violation I must have made in the past quarter. Upon boarding the tram to Statzione Trastevere we were greeted with an accordion playing gypsy and his rattle playing gypsy son. The tram did its normal skid--stop routine, but instead filled with a carnival of noise. At the next stop a group of school children boarded, their small bodies rearranged by the jostling tram, music providing comic rhythm, and me eager for the clowns to board. Little did I know that this was the end of balloons and cotton candy.

Rome top 10

Top 10 Worst of Rome

10-Pizza, if I have to eat any more mediocre pizza caldo, I think I will vomit.
9-Via Arenula, not having to avoid the wobbly sidewalk tiles that get your shoes soaked
8-Animal noises, why do they make animal noises when they try to pass you
7-Umbrella salesman-even if you have an umbrella they try and sell you one
6-Italian mindset, piggybacking off successes from 2000 years ago is no way to leave, get up and do something great.

5-Dog shit, I will be so thankful not to see it or potentially step in it.
4-Hobit hole apartment, finally a space without leaks, roaches, bums, and shoty electricity.
3-Bargaining, why do you have to bargain for a fair price for everything
2-Filth and decay, I know the city is old, but why is it acceptable to throw your trash on the ground and allow your dog to shit on the street?
1-Italian efficiency, at least they are efficient at creating chaos.

Top 10 Best of Rome

10-Scooters, the smells, sounds, movement, and danger I have come to love.
9-Campo screaming lady, listening to her scream or eat spaghetti off a car shakes things up enough
8-Make-out central, seeing people of all shapes, sizes, and ages making out somehow makes the country feel more romantic
7-Cuisine-not knowing what you are ordering and still having it taste well is so rewarding
6-Anonymity-the ability to talk freely and not everyone can understand you.

5-Dinners with my roommates-sitting down and enjoy good food and good company
4-The river tiber, the fluctuations, runs, and floods
3-The back streets of Trastevere-a 24-7 street, a joy to experience at any time
2-Ladies of Rome-great looks, tan bodies, and a mysterious language
1-Landmark walking-the chance to walk past the...(Pantheon, St. Peter's, coliseum...etc.) on your way to run an errand.

Calcio: Italian for Anarchy

Soccer like no other sport. Attending matches in Italy has further confirmed my stance that soccer is by far the most amazing sport. I was lucky to get to attend the Serie A match between Juventus and AS Roma. For those of you who do not understand, this is a great rivalry. I conveniently took a group of classmates, many of which had no clue what they were getting into despite my repeated emails about the severity of what we were going to see. I located us in the section adjacent to the visiting fans and informed everyone not to wear black and white (the colors of Juventus). They listened to me and were glad they did. Hearing 88,000 fans singing in the AS Roma song in unison is one of the most intimidating and spine tingling sensations I have experienced. Things started off pretty well, we sat in our area, specific seats are not respected, and noted riot police on both sides of the plexi-glass wall maintaining an increased buffer between us and the unruly visitors. The key to surviving any soccer match is to watch the game and to react like the people around you. So when a bad call is made, you thrust your right hand in the air and yell. But all hell can break lose when one passionate Roma fan lobs a firework into the seats of the visitors. They didn't see it coming. BANG...like a bomb going off. There was a moment of calm shock, the fear on their faces quickly eroding into hateful scowls. And then it is on like Donkey Kong Bitch. A barrage of missiles...small tubes of coffee, plastic beer and coke bottles, come raining down on you. Somehow sitting in a modern stadium at this moment seems like you are participating in a medieval castle siege. The key to safety is reaction. Needless to say after some exchanges of vulgarities and obscene gestures we collect their objects and return the volley. The entire time the riot police do nothing. Fantastic. The battle continues as does the match, although for safety reasons I am unable to comment on the specifics of the match. As the battle appears to be reaching a crescendo, Juventus like a good general, rallies their troops. They score a solid goal. Now the Roma fans are even more upset and as the game heads to halftime, they have 15 minutes with no distractions to express their anger. The battle surges, the vendors eagerly resupply the mercenaries at the bargain price of 5 euro per missile. At this point the beverages are not being consumed and the vendors are not removing the tops. In other words full bottles of coke and beer are being violently hurled. One explodes near us enveloping Ian and I in sticky shrapnel to the cheers of the Juventus fans. We return fire, deliberately selecting our targets, this time throwing coins. They hurt more and are impossible to see. I know this from personal experience. Our whole unit of 20 is engaged in the battle. A couple of our troops cower from the onslaught requiring the consoling of the team mother. War brings out the worst in people. At some point the game resumes and Juventus scores three quick goals. With the soccer game secured for the visitors, all the home side can do now is beat them in the stands. Any shred of control is lost, seats are being ripped up and thrown like frisbees across the wall. The police constantly fall victim to misfires. Exploding bombs. Eventually, the police determine something must be done. As one officer on the Juventus side is struck with a seat, they surge, clubs in the air, face guards down, and shields up. The visitors are compressed into an area 1/3 of the original. People are stampeded, trampled, and beaten. Beaten like step-children. Tag team, club weilding, third-world beating. The surge of course encourages the Roma fans. They cheer and thrown with more conviction as a good home town ass-kicking is on. Order is restored, but not before many bloodied faces and bombs are delivered. Unconscience spectators are drug from the battle field. The game ends and both sides of riot police move in to separate the fans and to get the home crowd out of the stadium. The visitors cheering loudly, so we throw more. One of us is nearly beaten by the military police who have now reinforced both lines. We walk out saddened by our teams outcome, but raging with adrenaline. Somehow being able to unleash my frustration for this country by throwing projectiles at random Italians is soothing. I went back for more the next Sunday. What a great game.

Legge Bene Jonathan

Legge Bene Johnathan, Legge Bene!

By far, the most entertaining quote of the program. Imagine our Italian teacher vehemently pleading with Johnathan to speak better Italian. I can understand his confusion as the letter 'c' embodies more sounds than a specific character from Police Academy, but funny nonetheless. Johnathan is a smart man, he knows French. But when you hear him start making Italian words sound French it become funny. Sounds become more rounded, letters are removed from pronunciation, and the 'r's, oh how I love the sound of a French 'r'. The verbal garbling of the Italian language teased her (our teacher). Sometimes getting her so excited she almost threw objects at him.

Va bene.