What Maisie Knew

Munich? Why Munich?

My job contract at the Trib is done Sunday.  Luckily, I just nailed another job.  Germany, here I come.  No joke. 

In a nutshell, and as far as I can understand so far, I will be working in Munich for the broadcasting company in charge of all the footage of the World Cup.  I will be flown out and put up and paid to be an e-Writer for them, which, I think means I am writing their website and newsletter.  It's not about soccer (but you should see the faces on all the sporty boys who get completely envious when they hear me start to describe the job), but about organization and behind-the-scenes stuff that the broadcasting company clients will want to know about. 

But frankly, I'm not exactly sure what the heck I'll be doing for them.  I don't care.  It should be exciting, I'll be doing some writing and get some reporting practice, and I will have 5 weeks in Munich during a very exciting time.  And as Sven, my German flatmate points out, "To be a woman working in Germany during the World Cup?  It is extremely lucky."  Apparently, the last time Germany hosted the world cup, a Brazilian woman named Silvia came to work for some silly little Cup-related job, and wound up meeting the Swedish king.  Who is now her husband.  Score!

What's great is that I got the Munich gig through a Brown connection.  This old-timer at the Trib, Sam Abt, has a son who works for the broadcasting company and he put me in touch with them when they asked Sam if he knew any writer-type kids who were available, and he threw the bone my way.  Sam went to Brown way back when, and until last summer, he hadn't been back since he graduated.  50 years ago.  It's commencement week right now, and yet again, I'm in Paris.  Maybe that will be my fate as well.

The plan now is to live in Munich, taste some schnitzel, visit some beer gardens, and perhaps the local nudist park, and then come back to Paris July 10, when the job is done.  Then I hope to stay in Paris for the summer at least (and maybe a few more months) and spend my time freelancing, trying to freelance, and depending on how that goes, looking for another job, most likely in the States.  Most likely in New York, because there are so many publications based there.  But who knows.

For now, anybody know anybody in Munich?

Marrakesh to Essaouira

MARRAKESH

"Take the train to Casablanca going south.  Blowing smoke rings from the corners of my my my my my mouth."  We actually took a bus going west, and the 13 hour ride in from the desert was nothing like express.  But it was still exciting to see Marrakesh, a newer, bustling modern-city version of Fez. 

The Djemma el-Fna square is wide and irregularly shaped and sloping.  In the mornings, there are orange juicers, selling fresh-squeezed juice from wheeled carts with high piles of the bright fruit.  We were warned to specify NO added tap water, otherwise you'll be sick.  In the afternoons stop by the square to buy dried dates and figs, which come squished into flat disks and strung onto twine.

We spent our time in Marrakesh waiting out the bouts of rain we encountered, and meandering through the bazaar-like souqs.  Even though I bargained down a leather and antique-carpet bag from 50 to about 35 euro, Sayeed, the manager at our riad, still made me feel I was ripped off.  He redeemed himself, though, when he told us his sister would take us to the hammam (see upcoming post). 

Bargaining in the souqs was amazing.  We went up and down the busy aisles, pouring over dusty shelves in cramped antique stores, searching for good kohl powder to buy for eyeshadow, finding real dried saffron for super cheap, and stopping to admire goods that caught our fancy.  We asked a million different vendors for leather bags  with antique carpets, and had a great time bargaining for them to see how low they would go.  None of the bags were very nice, but I got a feel for the Moroccan technique:

You offer a third of the price.  They act mock offended.  They come down a bit.  You don't budge.  They act offended.  You smile.  They tell you smilingly that you have offered an offensive "Berber price". You joke and come down a bit, or hold your position.  They toss up their hands.  You stick.  They say no.  You leave.  They say okay.  They beg you to stay.  You say, truthfully, "Well, actually, I don't have any cash on me," and leave. They say, "Mademoiselle! Please!" and drop their price.  "No, really," you say, "I don't have any cash on me."  They calm their voice and lean in closer and say, "Okay, okay, okay."  And come  down even further.  Now you are well below the price you asked for originally.  Well done.  Now you just have to find a cash machine.

We bargained for my leather bag, we bargained for babouche slippers, we bargained for handmade leather boots for Alice.  We bargained for silver earrings, for a turquoise pendant and silver pillbox, for rosebud and rosemary tea, which they told me was "viagara for women."  Oh well!  Heck, we even bargained for the rough exfoliating mitts we wanted to bring home for a whopping 25 cents a piece.  (they started out at .50).  Now, fifty cents is not much to pay, but the idea that they will jack up the price 100% just because they can spurns that competitive desire in me to get a good deal.

ESSAOUIRA

I don't have any pictures from Essaouira because my camera was full by that point.  Instead, here are 1,000 words.  Essaouira was different, and not just because it's name is un-pronounceable--wide esplanade-like walkways around white painted smaller buildings with bright blue trim, and a total beach atmosphere permeated the seaside town. 

We met up with friend-of-a-friend Ron, an American expat who teaches surfing half the year in Jersey and then surf surfs the rest of the year in Essaouira.  (You actually say it like Ess-ah-wee-rah if you're anglophone, or Swear-ahh if you're rocking the Arabic thing.)

We stayed in a nice hotel which treated us like crap until they saw on our Guest Information sheet that we work at the Herald Tribune. Then it was smiles all around.

Ron treated us to a tour of the main place/downtown area, which took about two seconds. He pointed out the oldest cafe in town, we had fish on a restaurant on the docks, and then we scoped where we would head the next morning for good coffee.

Cafe culture in Morocco does not involve women sitting at tables (as Mohamad the guide told us, "Women don't sit in cafes because they should be at home cooking.") but we didn't let that stop us. Essaouira has a much more laid back feel to it, so it wasn't uncomfortable to be a woman in a cafe there. After sleeping in, we went to the cafe and sat in the sun, reading Le Monde and the International Herald Tribune, criticizing everything because we had the advantage of not being there putting together the paper. (Too many typos! Bad skyboxes! What kind of page one layout is this?) Then lazily made our way to a hammam we'd read about that does good massages, and booked afternoon massages and a morning pedicure. Then off to the beach for lounging on chairs.

I felt a little uncomfortable in a bikini on the beach in an Arab country, but no one really seemed to mind, especially the 70-year old topless European woman sunning herself nearby. Back into town for a salad and the utterly relaxing massages with argan oil (Moroccan specialty, made from the crushed seeds of the argan tree, which are found, undigested in goat dung, and then pressed.  Seriously.), and then we met up with Ron again, who took us on an expedition to the small island off the coast.

Ron, a surfer, knew the tide schedules, and told us it would be an unusually low tide early this evening. So we put on waterproof shoes, rolled up our jeans and clambered down the big rocks near the shore, hopping and jumping around the tide pools, and making our way across the land bridge normally under water at this time, to the three nearby islands off the coast. No one else was around, and it made me nervous. I was thinking, this is exactly the kind of thing my parents would NOT want me to be doing. Alice was hesitant as well, but we continued, putting our trust in Ron, asking questions along the way such as, "How many times have you done this?" and "When will the tide start to come back in?" "What was it you said about that German tourist getting swept out to sea doing this?" and "We're going further?"

Ron told us he talked to all the locals about whether or not they'd come out to explore the islands, one of which houses an old stone watchtower that was taken over in World War II. "None of them had ever come out here! Isn't that wicked?" he said excitedly. Alice and I gave each other a glance. Much to our comfort, we did discover a handful of local fisherman, who were the only other people out there. they wore hooded rain coats that covered the tiny shorts we think they were wearing on their hairless, lean legs. They had spears, and plastic sacs. We approached one to ask what he was hunting in French. He didn't speak French but turned his ac inside out to reveal its contents, splayed now before us on the tide pools--a pulsating grayish purple octopus, tentacles clenching and releasing as it tried to make sense of its fate. We oohed and ahhed and thanked the man, "shokran" and listened as Ron led us further along, telling us about how once he came out here, put his hand in a tide pool to grab onto a rock and an octopus came out of nowhere and tried to eat his hand. More comforting stories.

The island was cool, and relatively untouched; serene and remote and provided a great view of the city. We got back with no problems and feeling rejuvenated by our adventure, grabbed a cool beer and some shwarma. Ron wanted to show us his apartment and so we went for a look, on our way passing through the Mellah, the old Jewish quarter, which all our guide books had told us to avoid at night. The black sky and lack of street lights was a big comfort, as was Ron's ambiguous comments about the Mellah being extremely dangerous. Was he kidding? We laughed nervously and followed him into a walled park-like area of razed land with Arabic-speaking voices coming from shadows near the alleys, stumbling over empty glass bottles and dodging groups of unsavory types. I suddenly realized exactly what the guidebooks had been talking about. The unlit enclosed mellah, full of blind spots, is not exactly a tourist's paradise.

We made it out unscathed, though, and up to Ron's apartment, where, while feeling my way up the unlit stairway, I put my hand on a hole in the wall and received a heart-stopping throb of electricity. After the jolt, and a brief bout of hyperventilation and an adrenalin rush, trying to make sense of having just been electrocuted, I was comforted by Ron's "Whoaaa, dude, I don't even know what that was...." Even the unique half-sphere copper tub in the bathroom and the ability to look down through his kitchen to the wide courtyard below and see the people living on the ground floor couldn't charm me once I'd been electrocuted in this building. The finger-sized cockroach scampering around the kitchen didn't help, either.

Morocco Mayhem-Fez and Food

Yep, they actually wear the fez in Fez.  And there are snake-charmers in the square, and camel heads hanging on hooks at the butcher in the medina, and striped djellabas to wear at home, just like the lyrics to Marrakesh Express. 

But what the Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young song--that I couldn't get out of my head the whole time--doesn't say is that Marrakesh is quite overrun with tourists.  Compared to Fez, it's newer, bigger, and with potted palm trees and esplanades, it's actually more like Miami.  But with less skin. The men everywhere--without fail--still call out to us girls "Bonjour les gazelles" or use the very informal "Salut les filles," but in Marrakesh they are more used to seeing tourists, so you don't get that weird-eye stare for being a westerner on the streets.  In 10 days we hit Fes, the only real sand dunes in Morocco at a place called Merzouga, Marrakesh and a beach town called Essaouira, where legend has it that Jimi Hendrix wrote Castles Made of Sand.

FEZ

We started in Fez and full sensory overload commenced.  Hiring Mohamad, our guide for the day, was the best idea ever.  For about 20 euro total, we had a private guide who showed us all around the Medina--the biggest medieval "old city" in an Arab country, covering 50 km2.  We started at entry gates called Bab Bou Jeloud, and used that as our marker, in case we got lost.  Mohamad, a native from Fez, said he has only been lost in the Medina once, and that was when he was 4 years old, turned a corner, didn't see his mom and cried until someone took him to the baker nearby.  Since then he has been able to navigate the impossibly labyrinthine alleyways and streets of the medina.  Some of the "streets" are barely wider than me. -->

The Medina is insane.  It's bustling.  There are donkeys coming at you from behind, and their presence is announced by the person riding or leading it shouting "Belak, belak!"  which means Get Out Of The Way Or My Stinky Donkey Will Run You Down.  Mohamad told us that some other tourists he had brought in, who were very into reincarnation  and the afterlife, said "When I come back, I just don't want to come back as a donkey in Morocco."  No joke. 

In Morocco, many things are different.  Thirsty on the street? Just look for the colorful, noisy dude<-- , who will sell you a sip of water our of a metal cup tied to him. Hungry in the souk?  Find a nuts n chews souk and you'll be offered a taste of dried apricots, dates, or figs, which come flattened into discs and are strung on twine.  Tired?  Pop into the Hammam for a steamy rub and scrub.  Need to brush your teeth?  Buy a pack of disposable, all natural <--"toothbrushes", or dried weeds used and scrape away.

FOOD

What did we eat?  Couscous, tajine, tajine, tajine, couscous, tajine.   The couscous is apparently rolled on the thighs of the women who make it for the right texture.  I'm sure it's good for the cellulite, too.  It's like the post-hammam hammam treatment.  Tajine is the word for food cooked in a shallow round ceramic dish with a conical lid.   There is usually lamb or chicken and steamed vegetables like carrots, potatoes and zucchini.  It's hearty but starts to taste the same after, oh, two of them.  I personally don't eat Moroccan fare more than a few times a year, if that, so twice a day was a bit much.  The mint tea is spectacular, though.  It is plain tea (we think verbena) with a lot of sugar and a sprig of fresh mint thrown in at the end, which, Mohamad says  the only way to do it right is to rub the mint quickly between your hands, releasing the flavor, before putting it into the tea.

Lots of the restaurants we ate in were in old riads, square shaped homes with a courtyard.  I found the architecture somewhat uncomfortable for a home.  The main floor is pretty cool, because it is often open to the elements, and has a little fountain or a tree growing in it, but otherwise, people congregate differently in riads than they do in western homes.  There is not really a central, large living room but many smaller same-shaped rooms off the courtyard.  The rooms are often dark and windowless.  There is interior light from the courtyard but no windows because the Moroccans like their privacy, and the Koran tells them not to flaunt their wealth or make neighbors jealous.  Slits for windows or no windows at all on the streets accomplishes this.

We had amazing pancakes for breakfast, spread with a jam made from something like apricots. We had gallons of mint tea throughout the day, and  feasts for lunch.  Pastilla, a thick pie of filo dough containing a mix of savory meat dusted with sweet cinnamon sugar on top, clearly resonates with the Spanish influence seen elsewhere in Morocco.  Pastilla (picture, front left) is often made with pigeons--just like the live ones you can buy, cheaper for the real DIYers, in the souq.  But it often comes with chicken, to appeal to less adventurous tourists.  I had both, and confirmed that I'm just not that into street fowl.

Also popular was harira, a delicious soup that reminded me of Campbell's minestrone, with a thick tomatoey vegetable broth and small pieces of vegetables and chickpeas floating around.  They eat it with small curls of fried dough, soaked in honey and then sprinkled with sesame seeds.  The sweet with savory combination is quiet popular throughout Moroccan cuisine.

The Big SheBang

Upon returning from Morocco (I know, I know, a post on that is coming soon) we had a massive soiree and broke in Alice's new flat, rang in her 26th year and the imminent departure of Dave and Amanda, along with Amanda's upcoming birthday.  It was a party to remember...or to forget.

Alice and I stocked up on uber-cheap vodka from Duty Free (why else would we have planned a party for the day after our African adventure finished?) and after Alice set out a dish of olives picked up the day before from the Medina in Fez, we were ready to go.

Click on the photo album in the margin at right to see the Amazing Pinon Brothers do disgusting party tricks, to see Andy Bower on fire, and other general party merriment.

I can't believe that Dave and Amanda have gone.  For good.  They were such a large part of my sense of Parisian life.  They always knew the answers to my questions--where to go for a hip drink near the canal, how to take the RER to the airport, who David Beckham* is, bureaucratic French nonsense like that.  They were really indispensable.  I mean, up until their last hours I was calling and asking them what the number for Information is. 

It's hard to picture my life in Paris without two of my best friends here.  It's also making me start thinking very seriously about The Next Step.  Paris's population of cool young people is nomadic.  People are always coming and going in a rotating-door fashion, especially at the Trib, where we are on 18 month contracts that start and stop at different times.  So it's tiring to  put a lot of energy into friendships and build a circle only to have it depleted every few months. 

Maybe, as Amanda Watts says, it's time to recognize this--the end of my non-renewable contract in June--as a good opportunity to make a move.   Maybe I should use it as a catalyst to try something new, or to spur me on homeward...  I'm going through a very confusing period here, trying to sort out what I want to be doing.

*just kidding.