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Casablanca:
before and after sickness
After several
days of expeditions through Fes' Medina we were ready for a new facet
of Moroccan life (well, ready is just a metaphor, as none of the information
we had absorbed in the past week was anywhere close to being processed,
but we seemed eager for a fresh bombardment of travel and difference).
Casablanca, or Casa as the locals refer to it, proved to be a rather interesting
challenge.
Our sojourn
in Casa was considerably improved by the heartwarming hospitality of our
hosts, Mr. and Mrs. Laraki- parents of Othman, a close friend of mine.
We spent several hours in the protection of their home, listening to tales
of a world we were only beginning to explore. Tales of life and not just
of imagination. We ate endless Moroccan meals, drawing nourishment both
from the food and from the conversation. I fared better with the conversation
than with the food, but Jon was there to back me up, making up for my
embarrassingly small appetite. Little did I know that my minimalist eating
habits would seem lavish when compared to my second visit, only ten days
later..... Jon left
that Friday, as planned- I had a difficult time falling back to sleep
upon my return from the 5am expedition to the airport. I couldn't help
but the feel the symbolism of the moment: this really was the beginning
of a new life. The Larakis helped me seal this impression by giving into
a curious desire of mine: the Hammam. Ever since Jon's stories of thorough
skin cleansing in the Fassi Hammam I was set on getting The
real shedding was to occur a few weeks later, when I contracted a rather
unfortunate intestinal bug which sent me to bed, to the bathroom and back
to France. The real problem was eating- and it became clear to all those
around me that I was letting my spirit dwindle with my appetite. In an
effort to revive body and flame, the Larakis imported me to Casa (literally,
I was shipped along with a car destined to be sold in Rabat!), where I
sought refuge in home made soups and crepes. While the mind tried (briefly
I confess), the body didn't really follow and my parents' presence in
Casa only worsened my fears. A last minute commando operation sent Mom
to Fes, where she battled elements, drowsy taxi drivers, ruined car engines
and unlikely travel companions to reach my passport and belongings in
Fes. We flew back to France the next morning- where I spent two weeks
recovering from 10 days of unwanted fast. |
Jon's
plane was scheduled to depart from Casablanca early Friday morning, as
this was the only possible way he could make the 1 pm flight out of Paris
to San Francisco. I had taken care of the travel arrangements, and wasn't
particularly concerned with the 50 minutes Jon had to catch his San Francisco
flight once he hit Paris grounds. He didn't seem too concerned either,
though it was obvious to anyone who knew anything about Paris and Morocco
that this would be a very tight call. We decided to ignore the ominous
warnings and enjoy our last few days in Morocco.
"I'm
glad we didn't start here" was Jon's only real comment about the
city. So was I. Not that it isn't a great place to be- but a unique one,
and not "typically" Moroccan (in the very orientalist sense
of the word). Huge stretches of developed land, never-ending neighborhoods,
cars coming in every direction and a very odd mixture of French and Moroccan
architecture. It felt like the bustling economic center it is renown for-
and neither of us was really looking for business vibes right now.
my
old skin removed as well. And so I went. And so I returned, red as a lobster
and clean as a cat. A welcomed shedding and metamorphosis. Soon,
the