tea

September 8, 2025October 16, 2025

The flood and new friends

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.

August 9, 2025

Marrakech

I forget how much I love this place. The sounds, the heat, the colors, the chaos. Motorbikes carrying things you wouldn’t think could be carried; German shepherds, lamps, 5 people, trees. Traffic pulsing and rushing forward, horns honking. Palm trees, Moroccan flags, people everywhere. It’s terracotta and slate blue sky. Green palm trees. The Medina (old city) has a different kind of energy. No cars, smaller cobblestone roads. This time I’m staying in a more residential part of the Medina. The only other tourists I see are coming and going from my riad (B&B). Bougainvillea hanging across the road, men in barber shops, women gathered talking, chicken kabobs on the side of the street. Kids running. Men spraying down the sidewalk in front of their shops with water from a bottle. The sound of tea being poured. Tiny openings to stores which are really just a small room….I don’t know what you would call it…a place where things are ironed. Men using industrial sewing machines to make bags, men working wood in tiny shops…their projects out in the street because the shop is so full of lumber. Men hammering copper. Kids hanging on the counter of the hanout (like a bodega where you can get all kinds of things: shampoo, eggs, spices, yogurt, bread, tinned foods, pasta, toiletries, etc….the lifeblood of a neighborhood). There is one in particular I have visited every day and in my few words of Darija I can ask for “jouj perly afak,” two yogurts please…which I take home to the hotel and eat in the bed in-front of the air conditioner using the lid as a spoon. Hello let’s strengthen my immune system please. By the time it’s dinner, I have had my fill of interactions and sounds and am so content to be alone with my yogurt.

I have a path to the souks I take every day…this is both good and bad. I learn the neighborhood and the people learn me. There are a few I greet, and we wish each other good days. And there are a few I avoid…duck behind a crowd of people, look the other way. One man in particular calls out Shakira! Shakira! every time I pass. A group of boys stands in an archway (a gateway to the Medina) and cause trouble…one day telling me the way was closed because they were working on the mosque. Ok dude, not falling for that. It’s a game of sorts. “I saw you yesterday, I’ll see you tomorrow. It’s tomorrow and you’re still here. Come have a look!” And I say, “I’ll still be here tomorrow.” A man on a donkey drops his stick and asks me to hand it to him. Rewards me with the biggest smile as he trots off atop the donkey. The streets of the souks are tighter, with canvas or lattice hanging above to block out the sun. Dappled light. Hundreds of colorful shoes hanging from the ceiling; colorful leather, tassels, knots of colored leather. Sequins. Slippers. Piles and piles of shoes. Bags made from carpets. Clutches with big gemstone closures. Rugs piled high and hanging from the rafters, poufs. Spices heaped in bins, fish grilling for sandwiches, pashminas, jewelry, paintings lining the walls. Old coins spread on a blanket on the ground, a juice cart with sugarcanes six feet high and jumbled like straws in a jar, men selling prickly pears from baskets on the back of their motorbikes. Old men gathered around eating one after the other as the vendor peels them and hands them to the man greedily drinking them down as fast as the other can peel them. Donkey carts coming through carrying wagons full of cement. Scooters racing past at a speed that is incomprehensible for the tightness of the alleys and the number of people who could step out of line at any moment. Bicycles. Groups of people walking and stopping. You have to move like water, easy and loose to just flow through and around.

My first stop is to buy oils from the woman I met in March. Amina. I purposefully left everything home so I could refill with her. She remembered me! We chatted and laughed and talked about our lives. Come sit, be at home. Her boss comes in and we make faces at each other behind him and giggle like schoolgirls. Do you need this? How about this? Sure. Sure. Everything. She gives me Nila Zarqa which is a blue powder made from the indigo plant used for cosmetic purposes…and you can paint with it. I told her I would make a painting for her and bring it Sunday. Really? You’re serious? Yes. Promise. Yes, I promise. She is delighted. A jeweler calls out to me as I pass and comments on my earrings…can I take a photo? For my designs? And for some reason, I stop and say sure. I’m supposed to be surrendering, so why not? Tea? Why not. My mother would have a conniption. And we sit on the floor of the blue shop and have the wildest conversation. Answer me as your adult self and as the little child inside of you too. Slow down, tell me the real answer…you don’t have to answer so fast. I feel like I’ve entered a different world entirely. Like the universe wanted me to stop and breathe. And in the blink of an eye three hours have passed and I walk home a different person than the one who stepped out the door in the morning.

The riads feel like they have a dynamic all their own, a microcosm. I love watching the other guests…hearing all the languages. I try to find intimate places…ones where the other guests are friendly and open. It makes all the difference when you’re traveling alone. To have a home base where people talk to you. Even if it’s just the staff…better also to find a friend. It makes everything lighter when someone knows a little about you in a strange place. Says hello in the morning or at the end of a day. You can hear about their adventures, find out places you might want to go. And somehow, I always find someone. I loved my riad this time…beautiful courtyards, peaceful, conversations when you wanted them. I felt like I was living in a real home…I was, Peter planted the date palm in the main courtyard 60 years ago. He’s always around to tell lots of wild stories of his life.

And this time in Marrakech….everyone I spent time with…come back..stay here….I’ll help you find a place. I want you to be close and we will be friends. This really is the best place to be. And maybe it is.

July 5, 2024July 5, 2024

Six men sitting on a blanket at the base of a sand dune in the Sahara Desert. Just after sunset when the light is still bruised. A fire pit of coals dug into the sand to make tea. Here. In the middle of nowhere. But everywhere is somewhere and this is just my middle of nowhere. Though the more I’m here, the more I feel it’s my center. The light fading. The embers bright red. A smashed water bottle used to fan the flames. Turns taken to fan the flames. Tea madam? It’s hot and sweet in the little glass cup. Too late I wonder about hygiene but that also feels like another world’s problem. They pour the dregs of mine back into the green teapot decorated with enamel dotted flowers. Nothing wasted. More tea made to take to the man who will build the camps. While we sit and they laugh and tell stories. Though I don’t know what they talk about, really. It all sounds like song, rising and falling. I can hear where they will laugh just before they do and then I laugh too. Because laughing in a group is one of the delights of the world. You don’t even need to know what was said. You can simply feel the energy, the buildup, the release, the joy sparking out into the night sky.