Fez

I awoke on the roof of Hotel Cascade in the old medina of Fez to the sound of birds squawking above. They dove and glided, celebrating the new day's sunlight peaking over the horizon. Perhaps two hours prior, the long and beautiful call to prayer from the nearby mosque had jostled my slumber. A few hours before that, I had been singing along to American folk song favorites with a large group of PCV's armed with a couple guitars and a desperate desire to create a home away from home.

I sat up from my sleeping pad. The sun glistened from the mud and stone edges of the cramped medina structures stretching on into the distance as far as I could see. Tired Americans and adventurous backpackers lay strewn about the hotel roof like dirty clothes on the floor of a bedroom. Rooms at the "Cascade" are affordable despite the hotels perfect location, but if you don't mind multi-national mingling until the wee hours of the morning, the roof makes a far superior place to sleep; especially on hot summer nights like these. Our taxi driver told us that it was 130 degrees the day we arrived. I didn't take him for his word, but I've experienced 115 before and Fez was hotter than that. At 7:30am, I was already beginning to sweat, so I took one more glance at the chaotic skyline of the medina and went downstairs into the hotel. I washed my face and brushed my teeth at the shared sinks in the hotel foyer, and then made my way to the third story patio. There I found the unusual, but gracious hotel host seating people for breakfast. Multi-lingual and eerily comfortable with his surroundings; like a Moroccan version of "the Dude" from "The Big Lebowski"; the "Moroccan Dude" wanders the hotel vestibules, sliding his flip-flops along the tile floors, making small talk with all the guests and always reminding them "MarHaba" (you are welcome here).

"SbaH lkhir" (good morning), I said. The "Dude" said something to me in French, to which I replied, "yeah, I'll take what their having", pointing to a couple of Europeans eating breakfast at the end of the table. A minute or two later, I was presented with a traditional Moroccan breakfast of sweat mint tea, fresh squeezed orange juice, a croissant, a slice of bread, a yogurt, a triangle of laughing cow cheese, and mnsinmn (a flat fried tortilla) rolled up and drizzled with honey. Just down at the street, I could have bought all these treats by the kilo, but Fez can be a daunting place, and having just woken up, I wasn't quite ready for the full experience. Besides, I was tired.

It had taken us two long days to get to Fez from our home. The first day we left around 9am, but our bus was delayed 4hours and got us to the halfway point much later than we had hoped. That night we stayed with a group of volunteers near the town of Rich. We stayed up until 3am making pizza and talking about our experiences. The next morning we all piled in taxis and headed into Rich, where we met up with more PCVs and doubled our group. Three sweaty taxi trips later, at around 4pm, we were finally pulling into Fez. We took city cabs to the old medina, checked in to the hotel and dropped off our baggage. There we were; we had passed through the famous L'Bab Oujoud (great entrance to the medina) and for the first time, set our feet inside one of the most historic sites in all of Morocco; one of the great cities in the world; the single largest metropolis inaccessible by automobile; riddled with history and culture. So what did we do? McDonalds!

Some of you might be grimacing as you read this, but don't judge us. We all came here to experience and embrace new cultures, and like it or not, that is exactly what we have been doing everyday, all day, for the past five months! And we haven't been just seeing historic sites from the comfort of a hotel room. We are living in the bled of Morocco. We are in fact so steeped in Moroccan culture that we must at times endure the prejudices of city dwelling Moroccans who look down on us for being too Berber! Even from the perspective of many Moroccans, we are living in a culture of the past. So if the ancient walls of Fez have stood as long as they say, surely they can wait until after we get our McFlurries!

The McDonalds in Fez was refreshingly similar to those found in the States. The major exception, besides the special "McRabia Tagine Flavored Burger", was that the employees were outstanding. They were sharply dressed, spoke Arabic and French if not English, and were all smiling and happy to be working there (I later heard that in order to work at an American fast food restaurant in Morocco, you must have a college degree). Because of the heat, I was not in the mood for cooked food, so I passed on the burger and fries and ordered a soft-serve ice cream cone and a medium coke. I was pleased to find ice in the coke, but I asked for more so I could really savor it.

With McD's in our system, now we were ready to return to the medina and appreciate it for all its historic beauty. For the next day and a half we wandered the thin, winding, stone corridors of Fez. Loud with music, boisterous discussion, and flamboyant sales attempts from the local shop owners, the streets bustled with a sea of people broken in sections by the occasional passing cart or donkey load of goods. Beautiful decorative shawls, carpets, leather slippers, and jewelry hung from the walls and outstretched awnings. The red geometric Fez hats lined some store entrances. Each inset room had new gorgeous offerings or unexpected craft. Just down from the hotel, in a wide spot in the alley, men stood meticulously carving Arabic text out of marble slates. I passed one small room maybe 8ft across by 4ft deep, by 4ft high, that was oddly offset about 5ft up from the road. To small for a man to stand up, inside the compartment was a woodworker sitting on the floor against one wall, carving away at a long strip of wood. Behind him, were layers of partially finished wooden works of art, material scraps, and tools.

Interspersed with the crafts stores, were cafes, butchers, delis, and pastry shops. Giant stacks of golden pastries glistening with honey competed for our attention with the smell of grilling meats, piles of delicious olives soaking in brine, stalls overfilling with mysterious herbs and spices, and gooey stacks of dried dates and figs. Occasionally, we would walk by a mosque with an open door and catch a glimpse of their cavernous insides meticulously crafted and adorned with plush red carpets and gold trim; rich and elegant, and yet somehow not ostentatious. The sight of such massive open space was particularly breathtaking juxtaposed with the ever thinning stone avenues of the medina, which make you forget open space all together.

Smaller alleys leading into the darkness, shot off from the more heavily traveled thoroughfares. One such alley weaves a short distance between tall adobe walls before a door appears on the left. This door is the entrance to "Cafe Clock", the brainchild of a particularly merry British expatriate. We had heard of the "Clock" as the place to go for a delicious camel burger, so we went one evening to celebrate Amber's birthday and try some camel. At first, it seemed like nothing more than a trendy cafe/restaurant, but when we took the time to wind up the steep four levels of stairs, we began to see how special the "clock" really was. Housed in what was once a large adobe house, each floor is a unique space of its own, and because the central area is kept open, you can see all the way down through to the bottom floor from each floor above. At the top, the largest seating area in the cafe, is a stunning multi-level patio section with funky, eclectic furniture, green foliage, and a view looking out over the medina, across from the detailed tile work of a historic mosque. The night we went, we happened to sit next to a man named Anise Hbiba. Shortly after our food arrived, the cafe owner came up to see how we were doing and introduced Anise to the entire room as one of Morocco's best and most famous contemporary singers. He then urged Anise to sing a few songs which Anise obliged. The next thing we new we were being serenaded. Between songs, while cafe staff asked for autographs and gave requests, we enjoyed our camel burgers and our date-almond smoothies. Afterwards we retired to the hotel roof for another late night of singing and some cake for the birthday girl. A more perfect night could not have been had.

Before leaving Fez we were able to walk through much of the medina, see the famous leather tanneries, look out over the whole of the medina from ancient tomb ruins atop a nearby hill, and spend quality time singing and chatting with fellow volunteers. But there was one thing I didn't mention, which was also a major highlight (If you didn't like the McDonalds story you might want to stop reading now.) Fez, like some select other major cities in Morocco, has a store called "Marjon". "Marjon" is like one of those super-Wal-Mart's in America. Its got cloths, house wares, office supplies, electronics, and groceries; more importantly though, it has imported groceries. When we arrived in the air-conditioned store, we wanted to make the experience last, so we decided to walk up and down each aisle, one by one. It occurred to me around aisle 3 how much I missed the experience of shopping in a store. In the bled of Morocco, everything is bought in the intense haggle-laden environment of the souq, or standing at the counter of a hanut asking the owner what he has. At "Marjon" we could take our time and pick up and look at items for as long as we wanted. We knew that we would have to travel a long distance home with whatever we bought, so we tried to limit ourselves to only the necessities. Still, we left with two big bags of groceries including, three boxes of cereal, rosemary, oregano, basil, thyme, curry powder, lots of herbal teas, quality chocolate bars, and balsamic vinegar. Because of a lack of a place to keep them, we ignored the exceptional selection of cheeses and meats. As we walked out into the blistering Fez heat, we were smiling from ear to ear. It's hard to go without the things you love, but it's wonderful to discover those little things that make you happy; for me its cereal and spices.