Moroccan tea – Hiraeth Homecoming

I had a sad day and decided to go to bed early. Fully asleep I realize there is knocking on my door. It’s the night door man trying to tell me something important. I’m half asleep and in my nightgown but catch the word lma…water. So, I gesture for him to come in. He checks the grasses in the window boxes, and I gesture to the terrace. We go out. It is flooded! He shuts off the water and gestures for me to climb up on the ledge and look down at the flooded street! Yikes!! The water is off, he leaves, I go back to bed. Ding dong, it’s the lady downstairs and her daughter. Oh dear. She is telling me she is flooded and I understand she wants me to come downstairs with her. I’m trying to tell her I know about the water, and it is off now. She is adamant that I come with her, so I grab my keys and barefoot I go with her. She’s taking my hand and slightly dragging me. Her cat ventured upstairs so they grab the cat, we all four get into the elevator…cat very not happy to be contained in an elevator. Her bedroom is flooded with a half inch of water. Soaking. The rug is squishy, the wall stained, a pool of water all along her windows. I feel awful and anxious. I type a message on chat that I am so sorry and that I’ve written to the landlord and the water is off. She doesn’t have her glasses and so can’t see. She sends the daughter I think to get someone who speaks English. She gestures for me to sit on her bed. I’m trying not to cry so I decided to try to be her friend. I ask her name, and she asks mine and we are smiling and she rubs my back.

We go into the salon. Most Moroccan homes have these rooms used for hosting that are simply gorgeous. Couches lining the walls with cushions made of velvet, sequins, sparkle, tassels; lacy curtains, little end tables to put in front of the couches for serving. This room I love because it is blue and gold and sequins! English speaking couple shows up. They are animatedly all talking and the daughter is interacting with me with the dog they brought. The English speaking lady asks if the water is off. Yes. Can you please leave it off until the problem is fixed? This is not the first time it has happened. Oh dear. Yes, of course I will leave it off. It’s an automatic system and it seems it didn’t shut off. She said we are not upset with you, just the situation but don’t be worried. She lives above me and if I ever need anything to come knock. She and her husband start leaving so I make to leave with them, I figure this is my chance to go back to bed. No, no, Halima grabs my hand and leads me back inside. I wonder, are we cleaning? No. We are having tea. At 11:30pm in my nightgown and bare feet. She brings over a few tables, sets out muffins and crackers and a pot of tea. The daughter is sent to the hanout and comes back with more snacks they arrange in different quadrants on a plate. It is just lovely. And I know she is cooking something. Rice with milk which is a perfect late dinner because I am apparently also staying for dinner. We are chatting and not understanding anything and laughing and trying to use the phones. She tells me she is happy for the water because it brought me to her and now we are sisters. Tomorrow I will come for couscous. I offer to help clean the water which is met with a hard no. I say I really need to sleep so they give me shoes and show me the door and make sure I know which number they are, we all pile into the elevator to be sure I get home ok and they walk me to my door. I go to bed for the third time just smiling to myself. Where in the world do you flood someone’s house and they have you for tea and dinner on the spot and invite you for the next day? I was ready to be yelled at.

The next day I am debating what time to really come. They said 1:00, but is that 1:00 really or is there some Moroccan time figured in and I should come later? I have no idea. I go at 1:10…the most I can allow my prompt self to delay. I get to watch Halima make couscous which I have never seen done. I bring my handheld translation device so we can all actually chat. And I’m there for the full day. We chat until lunch. There is enough couscous for 12 people. We have a dance party and laugh. Chat more, language exchange, more dancing. Break for soda. Then we lounge. At some point I think Halima makes a cake which we eat with our hands as we drink tea. More lounging and laughing and chatting. Asking if I’m married and have children. I tell them I was married, and it wasn’t good so I left and have to rebuild my life so I’m thinking maybe I will do that here. She puts her hand on her heart and touches my leg, and I get choked up. They are my family now and anything they can do, ask. They want to show me around Marrakech. I am welcome anytime.

The next day they leave a voicemail, which is difficult because I don’t understand any of it beyond the greetings. I’m holding the phone up to the translation device which only catches half of it. I get the sense they are asking why I didn’t come see them again. I didn’t know I was supposed to! I say I can go tomorrow…then I think they are going to see her mom and aren’t back until Saturday. I really have no idea.

I was thinking the day of the flood, how am I going to meet more women? It’s easy to meet men, they are the ones working everywhere and with blue eyes, they want to meet me….but I want some real people, some actual friends. The very day I’m wishing for women friends, they ring my doorbell in the middle of the night. Magic!

One of the things that I adore about Morocco is the connection with people. The time is taken to have connections, to sit for tea, to shake hands and ask how you are, clasp a hand on the back, kiss cheeks. I told my waiter about the flood and the subsequent tea, dinner, couscous, come again interaction. He said, of course. Everyone in that building is a big family and you all have to take care of each other. I think if I was Moroccan, they would have let me help clean the water. Yesterday on the elevator, I chatted with a girl, Sophia. She was asking if I was staying here with a family and I said I’m alone. As we get off the lift, she wants me to follow her and she shows me where she lives…so if I need anything to come to her. I’m welcome. This place. It has my heart.

My favorite café so far in Marrakech is Café des Espices in the spice piazza (I’m sorry I will never not be Italian in naming this type of space). Rattan umbrellas three deep, stools, armchairs with red carpet pillows on the perimeter, straw hats on each table, greeter man, waiters and waitresses! scurrying about, huge straw bell shaped lamps hanging inside, misters and the perfect people watching. I’ve started going everyday. It’s close to both riads I’ve been in and it’s good to feel recognized. When I’m traveling alone, it’s these small connections that help hold the day, help you feel in a place, help you belong. Tether you. I think we have them too at home, we just don’t realize how important they are. We have our routines, our families, our coworkers and so I don’t think we really notice how important the connection of our barista is or the one waiter at the restaurant we always frequent. But I know on a visceral level how much better I feel once I have some of these connections in a place that’s new. Consequential strangers, they’re called. My friend Google tells me; they are important because they allow you to explore facets of your personality without the pressure of your core relationships. They provide a sense of community, and they are crucial for fostering a feeling of belonging. Yes!

They know me there now and know that I speak enough Darija that they will now only take any order from me in Darija, which delights me. The other day, the big boss saw me coming and pulled out my chair, “We were waiting for you!” The waiters say nice to see you and when I leave, see you tomorrow, in Darija of course. I think so much language confidence is started here in these small interactions that don’t really matter. It’s where you feel comfortable starting to use more words and trying to say more things. Half the draw of this place is the people watching. I watch as the vendors in the piazza unwrap their products stored overnight under tarp and rope and begin to set up shop. It reminds me of my art fair days, setting up, arranging just so. It’s a precarious foundation on which all these straw bags are stacked…flimsy cardboard boxes with cardboard laid out like a table on top. Bags stacked inside bags, inside sideways, inside diagonally until they are stacked eight high so all the designs show. Bags stacked inside the next inside the next inside the next and hanging from the umbrella. Said umbrella has only four working ribs and has copious amounts of wooden sticks rammed into the joiner. It takes about five tries to get everything to say put. One sharp breeze and it’s going to be a catastrophe. All the while, joking, laughing, chatting.

The henna ladies are who I really like to watch. One sits just across the way on her chair with plastic stools in front of her covered in laminated images of henna designs. Under an umbrella, she always has a slight scowl on her face. She stares and me, I stare at her. I’m half convinced she’s putting a spell on me. She alternates between calling out from a relaxed position. Henna. Henna. Sometimes she stands and tries to put the booklet into peoples’ hands. It’s interesting to watch the dance of it all. Women will be intrigued and stop; the men they are with invariably are like come on what are you doing. It’s a precarious moment for the henna lady because the woman is torn, she wants to, but her companion is trying to talk her out of it. It becomes a bit of a stand off between the henna lady and the man…each trying to convince the woman. Whenever she can, the henna lady inserts her body between the woman and the man, tries to take the hand of the woman and lead her to the chair. The problem tends to be, she is not the henna lady…she’s the front man and once she gets the lady in the chair, she has to go fetch the woman who will do the henna. And here is where it falls apart about half the time. She’s left the woman unsupervised with the man who is trying to convince her not to do it and when she returns, it’s the same dance of trying to get the woman to sit back down, but you know it’s futile if she’s gotten out of the chair. Once the henna is happening, she seems like a different person, relaxed, chatting with the woman. Gone is the hard face, the harsh tone, the slight glare. She laughs and I think she speaks every language. She’s been gone the last two days. The café boys tell me she went on vacation to Essaouira. I’m glad for her, but it’s a disappointment to me to have her be missing from her place.

I love watching all the groups of people come and go. They sit, they drink, they leave. No one seems to linger, and it amazes me the turnover that happens. Most want to go to the rooftop terrace, and a lot of the interactions are spent directing people to the correct staircase. I watch men hurry down the street carrying trays of tea, donkey carts full of cement pass. This seems to the be main thing they transport, the donkeys. The most incredible thing I see is a juice man. He has a white metal drum on wheels with metal rings hanging from the side to hold glass pints. A bucket of water hangs from the side. For some coins, he dips a cone shaped ladle into the drum, holds it high in the air and a light orange colored juice streams out the bottom. The customer stands there and drinks the juice while the next man waits for his. They drink it on the spot and hand the glass back. The juice man dunks it in the bucket of water and hangs it again from the side of the drum, ready for the next customer. I wonder about germs, but somehow this all works…like the tea glasses circled around everywhere with just some water washing them out between drinkers.

Sometimes I write in my journal, sometimes I just sit back and watch it all. I say see you again to my favorite waiter, but it will not be tomorrow. I go to my suburban apartment and start a new chapter in the morning. Feeling sad about leaving all these connections and routines. I wonder if they wonder where people go. I’m grateful for this place and I will miss it.

Tag: Moroccan tea

The flood and new friends

Café des Espices