Morocco: and an ode to this month.

I am in Morocco. I have not forgotten about ESSAOUIRA WALKING. As a matter of fact, I am getting a lot of material to write about. I am having a blast.

I apologize for disappering like that, but I will be back on rather soon. Thanks for hanging in there with me :)

Happiness—and an ode to Pablo Neruda.

I can’t say that I like poetry. I don’t read it. I don’t enjoy it. But there are always exceptions. At least one.

In my literature classes in high school, lessons on the work of Pablo Neruda were constant. An illustrious Chilean poet, one of the most significant and imposing names in Latin American literature.  But I was too young and negligent to care, until one day I saw an Italian movie called Il Postino. I became obsessed with Neruda, and his work became THE exception to my rule of not reading, and not enjoying, poetry.

This also explains why ESSAOUIRA WALKING is composed of odes, even if I don’t write what, by definition, an ode really is.

From his massive and diverse collection of odes (Ode to Tomatoes, Ode to a Large Tuna in the Market, Ode to My Socks), Oda al día feliz (Ode to the Happy Day) is by far my favorite one. It just makes me cheery whenever I read it.

And turns out that since I’m feeling particularly jubilant in the preamble of my trip, it goes perfectly well with my state of mind, and with what I’m expecting from my month-long stay with AK.

Now, because Neruda wrote in Spanish, I read him in Spanish. I feel that, if you can, it’s always better to read in the original language, to read the same words that the author chose. So, I have included the original Spanish piece and an English version that’s a combination of a translation that I found and some here-and-there touches of what I thought it should really say.

 ODA AL DÍA FELIZ

ESTA vez dejadme
ser feliz,
nada ha pasado a nadie,
no estoy en parte alguna,
sucede solamente
que soy feliz
por los cuatro costados
del corazón, andando,
durmiendo o escribiendo.
Qué voy a hacerle, soy
feliz.
Soy más innumerable
que el pasto
en las praderas,
siento la piel como un árbol rugoso
y el agua abajo,
los pájaros arriba,
el mar como un anillo
en mi cintura,
hecha de pan y piedra la tierra
el aire canta como una guitarra.

Tú a mi lado en la arena
eres arena,
tú cantas y eres canto,
el mundo
es hoy mi alma,
canto y arena,
el mundo
es hoy tu boca,
dejadme
en tu boca y en la arena
ser feliz,
ser feliz porque si, porque respiro
y porque tú respiras,
ser feliz porque toco
tu rodilla
y es como si tocara
la piel azul del cielo
y su frescura.

Hoy dejadme
a mí solo
ser feliz,
con todos o sin todos,
ser feliz
con el pasto
y la arena,
ser feliz
con el aire y la tierra,
ser feliz,
contigo, con tu boca,
ser feliz.

 

 ODE TO THE HAPPY DAY

This time
let me be happy,
nothing has happened to anybody,
I am not anywhere,
I am only
happy
through the four chambers
of my heart, I am strolling,
sleeping, or writing.
What can I do? I’m
happy.
I am more uncountable
than the meadow grass
in the prairies,
I touch the skin of a wrinkled tree,
and the water below,
and the birds above,
and the sea, like a ring
around my waist,
the earth is made of bread and stone
the air sings like a guitar.

You by my side in the sand,
you are the sand.
you sing and you are song,
today the world
is my soul,
song and sand,
today the world
is your mouth.
Let me
on the sand, on your mouth,
be happy,
be happy, just because, because I am breathing,
and because you are breathing,
happy, because I am touching
your knee
and it is as though
I am touching
the blue skin of heaven
and its pristine air.

Today let me
be
be happy
with everybody or without them,
happy
with the meadow grass,
and the sand,
happy
with the air and the earth
happy
with you, with your mouth
happy.

Happiness—and an ode to letting love drive you mad!

Pedro Calderón de la Barca once wrote “When love is not madness, it is not love.”

I like him! I like him  because I like letting love drive me mad to the point where I laugh to myself.

I’m crazy in love today!

I just called him, I just heard his voice right there on my ear, and I felt the sweet effect of his words go down my spine and electrify me. He told me he’s crazy in love today, too!!

Next week, we’ll be together. And those words would become much, much better.

I’m crazy in love today. 

ESSAOUIRA WALKING—and an ode to its readers and visitors.

ESSAOUIRA WALKING is a very young endeavor, conceived only two months ago, exactly at the beginning of August. The idea for it came from a mixture of things:

• My relationship with AK is everything but ordinary and for that reason, I needed a channel to let my words flow in a way that would help me make sense of my own thoughts and feelings towards him and towards our relationship.
• The adoration that I have not only for Essaouira, but for everything Moroccan. I decided that I needed my own little way to celebrate this country, along with everything it represents and with everything it brought into my life. And along the way, I hoped I could bring back good memories for those who have been there, or to inspire those who have not, to visit.
• I like to write. I like to read. I love words. I thought that if I had ESSAOUIRA WALKING, I would have an excuse to read, write and share words with some readers, even if when I started, I thought those readers would sometimes be imaginary. The feeling of having a blog nobody ever read was daunting, but I hung in there. I’ve been hanging in there, and I’m not disappointed.
• I have, what you might call, an ordinary life. My time goes between work, study, family, friends, the efforts of creating a better future. It’s not that I don’t like what I have and who I am; I love my life, but sometimes it gets to the point where one day feels like a Xerox of the previous one, and even the next one. I know things won’t be like this forever, but I didn’t want to let the circumstances of my life dictate the nature of my days. I wanted to have something that I did not because I had to, because I really enjoyed it. ESSAOUIRA WALKING fills that need.

 At the beginning, ESSAOUIRA WALKING was something just between AK and I, and he supported me and told me how much he loved the idea. When I felt it was strong enough, I presented it to some friends. Then, I let it be a public space, and ESSAOUIRA WALKING took off and has been progressing steadily, much to my delight.

 During these two months, I’ve been playing around with the blog. You could say that I’ve been establishing it. I installed a neat feature that tells me where my readers are coming from. I’m very excited about this! Because I see people are visiting this site from faraway places, even if at the beginning I didn’t know quite what to expect. Recently, ESSAOUIRA WALKING passed the 1000-visits mark (1,273, to be exact) and in just two months, to me, that’s a healthy number of visits.

 So, this is an ode to ESSAOUIRA WALKING readers and visitors!

 Those from the US: California, Florida, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, New York, Idaho (where ESSAOUIRA has a very special reader!) South Carolina, Georgia, Illinois, Texas, Indiana, Washington State. To those in Morocco, from Casa, Rabat, Marrakesh. To those coming to visit from Dominican Republic, a place that I have the luck to call “my country,” a place that I carry in my heart.

 To those from the United Kingdom, Canada, Spain, Argentina, Germany, France, Italy, Estonia, the Netherlands, Azerbaijan, Pakistan, Philippines, Australia, India, Brazil, Georgia, Israel.

 To everyone, thanks for dropping by! Thanks for making this a thrilling venture. And please keep coming back!

Books—Hope and Other Dangerous Pursuits and A House in Fez

I’ve just finished reading Hope. It’s an insightful, a heartbreaking story of what immigration does to people, not only to the ones that leap into the unknown country, but also to those who stay behind and wait for loved ones. In Hope, Halima, Faten, Aziz and Murad became different characters as I turn the pages. I was crushed to see them realize that their hopes, dreams and expectations were only beautiful and feasible while they didn’t pursue them, that those things had become a harsh reality. I was crushed to see them pay a hefty price: the loss of their identity and beliefs, of family and love. I was left with a desire to ask these characters, ordinary Moroccans, if life had become better or worse once they had set foot in Spain; to ask them if they thought it had been worth it to take that kind of gamble; to ask them which had been greater in the end, the risk or the reward.

I was touched by this book.

***

I have picked up A House of Fez: Building a Life in the Ancient Heart of Morocco, by Suzanna Clarke. This is my current read. Let’s see how it goes.

Essaouira—and an ode to pretty pictures!

I came across the photo collection of Buschinho in a website called Tabblo. I had never heard of this website, but it seems to be rather lavish and swanky for those of you who are into photography, whether creating them or watching them. Beautiful images of all kinds, you should check it out.

Buschinho has a “tabblo” (simply, an album) called La beauté du Maroc—Essaouira; you can imagine I wasn’t going to pass on that. I looked at the pictures over and over. I took in the faces, the colors, the way they depict life in Essaouira. They carried me back, to the same exact places that I saw with AK.

I enjoyed them so very much.

 

 

Forget Venetian gondolas. I think there can’t a more beautiful or charming way to navigate the waters than in these blue boats.

Essaouira is a city of fishermen and Essaouira’s port is world famous. The port is not used for commercial traffic and fishing is done only for local distribution. This plays a significant role in the overall atmosphere and lure of the port and has enabled it to retain its authenticity and breathtaking charm. The docks literally come alive with the movement and noise of local fishermen enticing passersby to purchase their shellfish, sardines, or other fresh catches. The jovial chatter of fishermen repairing their nets and selling fish while trying to discourage hungry gulls is a sight to behold, and it makes the port a really lovely place. But the best decoration is the rows of these colorful boats, which are made from eucalyptus and teak wood. These boats adorn the waters of the Atlantic with their magnificent blue.

 

 

It was right here, in Essaouira’s main square, that I sat for my first Kaab el ghzal. I wrote about that experience already, you can read all about it here.

 

 

Right across from that tree, there’s a place called Chez Mustapha. It was there that AK and I sat every night during our time in Essaouira, where we shamelessly killed the hours, listening to everything from Bob Marley to Gnawa to The Beatles, looking at people walk by, or looking at each other.

 

 

An alley in Essaouira. One of those alleys that I love walking through.

 

 

Essaouira’s blue. If a place is ever remembered by its color, then Essaouira should always be remember as a town of vivid blue skin.

 

 

But not everything is blue, of course. There are no blue pills; it’s Viagra Touareg in Essaouira’s authentic pharmacies.

 

 

Graine pour sourir – seed to smile. What could be better than that?

 

 

One of my favorite things about Essaouira are all the stunning scarves, given that I am an avid scarf collector. The colors, the lines, the way they shine in the sunlight, the artistic way in which they are arranged.

AK and I had a our first little fight over scarves. We were walking along an alley in the center of the medina, and I saw the most beaituful scarves in shades of red and orange. I wanted to stop, but AK wanted to get a haircut. He told me that we were going to come back, but after he cut his hair, we went back to the apartment. By the time he brought me back, it was dark and I couldn’t see the colors well. I was upset; if I buy only one thing when I travel, it has to be a scarf. But, after whining a little because he didn’t take me to the shop during the day, I bought 3 scarves in shades of purple, fuschia, and silver. They adorn my winter days in a very Essaouiran way.

 

 

Anyone would be inspired to cook a good meal if the spices are presented so beautifully. This is not just in Essaouira, though. All shops in Morocco display their spices like this, and I find it strikingly pretty.

 

 

Normal life in Essaouira. Mothers talking. Children playing.

 

 

 

 

The doors of Essaouira. There isn’t an alley in Essaouira that’s not festooned by one of these blue doors. They are everywhere, all of them beautiful. Should be especially nice coming back home if you get to open one of these doors.

 

*** All these photos are by German photographer Buschinho, his name in Tabblo. He seems to have fallen under the spell of Morocco over last summer and has some very lovely photos of Essaouira, Marrakseh, and Maroc! You can see all his work here.

Books—Hope and Other Dangerous Pursuits

Hope and Other Dangerous Pursuits. From the first moment I heard of it, I wanted to read this book. It was the title what first captured me; it is, at once, robust, candid and poetic. It intrigued me, and sometimes, I must confess, I’m that kind of reader: I judge a book by its title.

So the other day, when I saw I was reaching the end of my to-read pile, I went online and ordered myself a copy, along with copies of several other titles. A few days later, I found the package at my doorstep when I came home from work. I picked it up excitedly, praised UPS, walked into my apartment, and open the box to find a crown octavo of 195 pages. I must confess that I was taken aback by the size of this book, exactly 5 x 7.5—a crown octavo by definition (guess those Book Design and Manufacturing courses I took are useful after all). I was afraid this book was going to mock the most intelligent side of me.

But it is a book set in Morocco, about Moroccans, discussing a Moroccan social issue, by a Moroccan author—Laila Lalami—and so, because I have embarked myself upon the mission of reading about Morocco, I decided anyway that I would start reading it immediately. I made myself some tea and sat with my very little hardcover.

The book boldly starts right in the middle of the story, describing the frantic endeavor of 30 desperate Moroccans—men, women and children—trying to cross the Strait of Gibraltar illegally in a raft really meant for only 8 people. Among those 30 people are the 4 main characters: Faten, a devout Muslim girl from Rabat who finds difficulty to study in Morocco; Halima, a mother of three from Casablanca, married to a cab driver who’s always drunk; Aziz, a “repairman”, also from Casablanca, in love with his wife and devoted to his family who sacrifices it all in search of a better life; and finally, Murad, a street hustler and unofficial tour guide from Tangier, who tries and tries but can never make enough money, even with his degree in English. All 4 of them have a common yearning to flee the corruption, the poverty, and the abuse on the human condition they experience in their home country.

After reading just the first few pages, I realized that I was in for a bittersweet tale of survival, a tale of how, undeniably, wanting to make a better life for yourself, no matter how high the cost, is a unanimous desire and a fundamental human quality. But, like a range of other pursuits, hope can also be dangerous sometimes.

After introducing her characters and describing the risky trip from the coast of Tangiers to Tarifa, the author goes back to detail the dramas and slow desperation that drive each of the characters to board that raft and risk their lives. Then, based on my peeking of the pages ahead, Lalami writes about their fate after the trip and how they cope with the consequences of their choice.

So far, I’m reading about Aziz before the trip, and I’m impressed by the outstanding level of quality Lalami achieves in creating and portraying her characters. Even if the prose and the style of the book are not too special, she still knows how to tell the stories of the characters’ unwavering struggle, something that, in itself, commands solid credibility and compelling empathy. I’m also impressed by her descriptions of daily Moroccan life, which are loaded with the type of detail that only a native Moroccan would know so perfectly. In this sense, the author’s talent stands out, because her descriptions stand on their own to readers that know nothing about life in Morocco, but they also speak to and are genuinely reminiscent to readers familiar with this country.

I am certain that Hope and Other Dangerous Pursuits was never intended as a political read, but I already see that the book shifts the attention to the poverty, hardships and unemployment that drive Moroccans to risk their lives in search of a better place to live. I read that Lalami found the motivation to start writing this book after seeing an article that had been relegated to the back pages of Le Monde. The article told the story of 15 Moroccan immigrants who drowned while trying to navigate the 10-mile stretch that separates Morocco from Spain. In Faten, Halima, Aziz, and Murad, the reader finds the ability to put a human face to the anonymous “illegal aliens” that the media always refers too, those who always go unnamed.

I’m still not finished reading the book, but I shall share my final take on it once I’m done. In the meantime, you could check out Lalami’s website to learn more about her work, you can read reviews or an excerpt from the book, or you can visit Lalami’s always interesting blog, Moorish Girl.

Marrakesh—and an ode to the purse that almost got stolen.

A while ago I read a blog post about Moroccan hospitality on tales from the travels of an unemployed cook, which offers a wide and interesting collection of writings with a rather realistic, and a bit sarcastic, take on Moroccan hospitality; nothing like my own view on the subject. But on that particular post, what got my attention was the new angle of Moroccan hospitality to which it introduced me. The post recounts the story of a certain American who got mugged in Morocco, with a knife to his neck. There were two thieves, and while the first one only wanted the cash, the second one intervened and took the rest of the American’s valuables. Now, this is a scary situation, but Moroccan hospitality could, in some instances, make a difference and shine even through a robbery: before parting with all his worthy belongings, the lead robber gave the American a kiss on each cheek and delivered a sincere m’a salaama (peace to you).

Reading this, I thought it was pretty funny. It was something about the contrast in the robber’s behavior. But it also made me remember my own experience with Moroccan crime. And, as a matter of fact, my first experience with muggers in my whole life.

On our second night in Marrakesh, AK and I decided to get ready and walk to Jemma el-Fna for dinner and then, coffee. I’ve said before that food is always the powerful force that pushes us out of the apartment.  We walked out of the building where we were staying, crossed the street and got onto a side street with poor lighting (I can hear you say “bad idea!”). But the neighborhood where we were staying looked safe enough to me: there were plenty of people everywhere and at all times; restaurants, stores and coffee shops in every corner; cars constantly coming and going. I thought that in such a place, taking a side street simply made for a nice and quiet walk. Mistake! Apparently, in Morocco (and anywhere, really), this is a recipe for disaster.

We had walked one block when we came to cross a perpendicular street, and as we went to get on the sidewalk on the other side, two guys on a motorcycle cut behind us on the street we had just crossed. One of them slapped my back with such force I didn’t quite realize what on earth was happening, until I felt him violently pull the purse I carried across my body; then I understood: We were being mugged! I screamed and AK turned to give me an unsettled look. The robbers didn’t touch him, they were smooth and the noise of their motorcycle blended with the noise of the night in Marrakesh until it got lost. He had his arm wrapped around me while we walked and was consumed in telling me a story that I even forgot; things happened so quickly that he hadn’t realized that we were “under attack.”

I’m happy to report that the thieves weren’t able to snatch the purse from me (that’s one handy advantage of the cross-body bags I’m in love with), but things got dramatic all the same.

The robbers lost control of their motorcycle and fell into the curb. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a confused mass of metal and flesh falling under a dusty little tree, and then, two men trying to get up before they even reached the floor. AK pulled me away and pushed me into the sidewalk and behind a wall and got in his manly mode. Next thing I knew, he was looking for rocks; he was screaming furiously at the thieves; he was yelling at me to start running and to keep away. I couldn’t see the thieves because they were on the other side of the wall, but I was scared, I was confused, I was nervous, I was freaked out. I kept screaming in fear, and yelling at AK to drop those rocks and just run with me. Now that I think about it, that didn’t make a lot of sense because they had a motorcycle and we were on foot; we were never going to be able to get away if the robbers didn’t wish so. But by that point things had obviously gotten out of hand, and I wasn’t thinking well. I was scared about AK and I didn’t want him to get hurt.

After the most excrutiating and intense seconds I’ve lived (you’d be surprised how much happens during street muggings), the thieves realized that their robbery attempt had clearly failed. AK was able to scare them away with his rocks and disgruntled Arabic curses. They got on their motorcycle and disappeared into the Marrakeshi night. AK dropped the rocks, walked to me, took my hand, and told me to walk quickly. He kept looking back and around us and he told me that, after falling off the motorcycle, one of the thieves pulled out a knife. I guess these weren’t the same robbers that attacked the American; there was no m’a salaama for us. I squeezed AK’s hand as he held me, repeated tirelessly that I was scared, and became aware as I had never been of the noise of motorcycles nearby. We tried to grab a taxi but couldn’t find any. Still, we got onto one of the main streets and made it to Jemma el-Fna, shaken but unharmed.

I am what you might call a naïve traveler. I know that as soon as I get off the airplane in another country, I become an easy target, but I never saw myself in need of taking extra precautions to protect myself. I’m not trying to say that Morocco is a dangerous country. If anything, I would say that Morocco is a normal country, where minor crimes are a legitimate concern, like everywhere else. On the Moroccan section of the US Department of State website, I read that some of the most frequently reported crimes in Morocco are panhandling, pick-pocketing, purse snatching and thefts from vehicles stopped in traffic. Sometimes criminals do use weapons, particularly knives (like my thieves!), during street robberies.

But the truth is that, while pickpockets with finely honed techniques are likely to patrol the souks and unwary tourists are the most likely targets, violence is rare throughout Morocco. It’s safe to go anywhere with no great risk to personal safety because serious theft and burglary are not a widespread problem. Your best bet is to use your common sense. Be careful and always be aware of your surroundings. And don’t walk on side streets in the middle of the night! The fact that we got attacked in that dark corner wasn’t even the robbers’ fault—you could almost say we were asking for it. Instead, take those little taxis that move nonstop about town. They are safe, they are cheap, and they get you where you want to go really quickly.

And enjoy Morocco, and the so many other things it has to offer. Good culture, good food, friendly people, beautiful sights, and sometimes, even hospitable thieves.

October: and an ode to why waiting is worth it!

I’m giving myself a birthday present: I’ve bought my ticket and I’m leaving NY the night of October 15 and arriving in Morocco on October 16 in the early morning. The perfect birthday, this will be. He will pick me up at the airport, and we will spend the day together.

I can’t wait. I never thought I’d say this, but the Casablanca Airport is the most romantic place in my world!

I’m coming, AK. I’m coming to be with you.

 

 

***Image from Le Love

September—and an ode to a celebration goes on!

ESSAOUIRA WALKING is festive this month, and today I want to celebrate with art and color! After all, it wouldn’t be a party if there aren’t fun colors.

Before I go on, however, I want to apologize for finding myself at liberty of using the term “art” so loosely here. But to me, these are masterpieces! So, I sincerely hope you enjoy.

When you love someone that’s across the ocean, sometimes it gets difficult to express your feelings. You find yourself looking for better ways to say what you want; for ways to show him that you are thinking of him; for ways to let him know that even if you are far, you still want to take the time and put effort to create those little details to bring you closer.

When you love someone that’s across the ocean, you see that a mere “I love you” in an email, or on the telephone (even if you pull your romantic voice), won’t cut it, because it simply doesn’t convey what you feel within your heart. It’d be too meager.

And sometimes, when things don’t go according to the plan and you realize that you have to say “I’m sorry,” believe me that you understand that an “I’m sorry” in an email, or even with that romantic voice on the phone, doesn’t do much at all.

So, you have to get creative. You have to allow yourself to get a bit silly. You have to paint!

AK and I have found that this works wonders, we do it all the time. And to celebrate this September, ESSAOUIRA WALKING presents an special exhibition. ENJOY!

******

THE I LOVE YOUs

NK

***

AK

I love this one! I printed it out and have it on the wall in my office.

***

AK

AK’s art is composed of simple and consistent lines and a handful colors that combine to communicate a message that is meaningful. At least to me! I consider it very elemental, straighforward. One of favorite things about these paintings is the amazing level of details. In these two paintings, for example, the veil of the bride, the butterfly, the milk in the baby bottle. My other most favorite thing about his art is the fact that it takes me right to the moment that he paints for me.

***

AK

He asks me questions. I answer him.

***

And sometimes we paint together! In these two paintings, I did the first one and gave it to him. He said what he had to say, and gave it back to me.

NK

AK

******

THE I’M SORRYs

AK

I don’t remember why he had to say it; I forgot it with this painting. He said he would have brought me flowers, but I told him the painting was far better. It was going to stay with me.

***

NK

This was the first painting I gave him. I got caught up and didn’t make it to our date.

***

NK

***

And once, he wasn’t feeling well. I felt horrible I couldn’t take care of him.

NK

******

PROBLEMS

AK

This is raw, and I like it! It made me feel invincible. And it made me laugh!

******

MARRY ME?

This is how AK proposed to me. I couldn’t say no.

AK

He’s really something… He knew I was going to say siiiiiiiiii.

Is it a coincidence that it’s always sunny in our paintings??