Quest for the Giant English Crumpet

Working Lunch,
originally uploaded by Raven Weaver.

Awakening in the pitch black of my room, I wondered if it was before first prayer or after. Gasp, could I actually have slept through the multitude of calls? Or do I remember hearing it? The clock showed me that it was 7 a.m. and that yes, I vaguely had heard the morning call. Almost as soon as I had finished my banana and two dates for first breakfast, I began pondering my ability to backtrack upwards from R'Cif to the Bab Boujloud and complete my giant English crumpet second breakfast quest... I got ready for the day and continued to run over in my mind what bits and pieces of the walk I could recall from the day before. We had retraced our steps and overlapped them and then taken another path so many times. While I usually am fairly confident about my navigation skills (remember that epic walk from the bottom of Shanghai near the fabric market through the centre of the city where I grabbed the pickpocket's wrist until he let my mobile go, across to the Pudong side of the river and through the dark of midnight as the city workers placed a large bronze statue along the pedestrian path and finally to my hotel all without the aid of a map?), I admit to having about 8% confidence in my chances of getting to or from without having to call in Si Mohammed as a knight in shining armour. How embarrassing would that be. While I know that here I might be considered a lost Western woman, I prefer to be my usual independent, capable Haida woman self. Not auditioning for the part of damsel in distress today thank you very much. I think. (Okay, don't fill that role until you hear from me by the end of the day). Slinging my ugly, utilitarian travel purse across my body, I stepped over my note to Si Mohammed, explaining that I had gone for a walk and that if I encountered any difficulty I would call, and quadruple locked the riad and set out. (Si Mohammed was going to purchase a mobile for me so that if I did get turned the wrong way 'round, I could call him. Great. Another mobile to add to the pile of phones from Shanghai, France and Ireland. Why oh why can't I just remember to throw one of those other ugly, utilitarian travel phones into my luggage and get a local SIM card? The ever-present why? Of course, now that I've asked this, the next time I go somewhere I shall surely remember one of those phones. Not, however, the charger which will then necessitate going out and purchasing another phone/charger combination. I am forewarned.) Being somewhat concerned about this venture, I had looked online at my first map of the medina. I had written in my newly gifted travel journal (thank you Nikita) the various lefts and rights that seemed might take me to my destination. Yes, theoretically I was correct. Along to my glass-fronted fridge (Bonjour Monsieur Proprietor) and to the left. A moderately busy souk stretched out before me and I ambled along until I figured that I ought to be nearing Sensla Street upon which I should turn left. Uh huh. Sensla being written the same way in English as it is in French. Not, however, as it is written in Arabic. Alright. Ponder. Backwards to home was option one. Backwards to petite taxi stand at R'Cif and ride up to Bab Boujloud and wander down 200m to Cafe Clock was option two. Option two being the Western woman traveling alone wimpy option. Option Three being, well, wing it and hope for the best while assuming that eventually I might stumble upon something I recognize. Option Three also being the most adventuresome and being my best chance at getting lost. I would like to get lost just once. Getting lost is not too scary an option here as Si Mohammed's mobile number is in my journal and I need only telephone and sit tight until one of my guardian angels happens along. It would be a great story though...so option three it is. Forwards, left and then right and then totally distracted by all the types of leather and fancy-work mirrors and then an open square. A large arch on the other side beckoned. Forwards and upwards and upwards and on. Upwards and on and the brisk walking, which gives the false guides the false impression that I have a definite idea about where I'm headed and no, I don't need your help, is making me perspire. Oops, Aunty Carol, I meant glow:-) We are all going to pretend that the glowing was from the walking and not the anxiety that NOTHING was looking familiar. Wait! A beam to prevent donkeys and horses from passing. Under the beam and along the lane and under the other beam and to the right and YES, a chorus of angels sings out, the fondouk! Keep the fondouk on the left, upwards and to the right up the stairs and to the left and yes, still always up. Offer up silent thanks for first breakfast. This is a long walk. Is walking the kingdom ever going to be a short stroll? Upwards. Did you know that the English word "beautiful" is over used? Number of times that I've been greeted in Japanese since Wednesday: 4. Number of times called chicquita: 1. That better be the last time too. THE MOULAY IDRISS MOSQUE! I'VE BEEN HERE BEFORE! Take a left and, you guessed it, uphill again. Many many many minutes later upon the turning of my last left presides the immensity of the Blue Gate. Now where was that giant English crumpet? Retrace my steps. Think a bit more. Decide I'm on Tala'a Sghira or the Little Street. I know that I want to be on Tala'a Kibeera and that they run parallel but join at the top by the gate. Well, I'm at the gate! Who moved Tala'a Tibeera since yesterday?! Oh wait, I'm not close enough to the gate to see the lane that joins them. Small foolish smile. Widening into anticipatory delight smile as I spot the small stall with the giant English crumpet. Triumphant. One portion of crumpet please. Uhm, yes, with honey. And a glass of yoghurt. Slide onto a stool next to a man in djellaba and accept my second breakfast on a portion of brown Kraft paper. Every bite of that sweetened, buttery crumpet and every mouthful of chilled, creamy yoghurt was worth the moments of doubt, anxiety, slight panic and the steep, long, glowing, uphill trek. The crowning moment of the quest was found at Cafe Clock (after I found Cafe Clock) in the form of my first cafe creme since Wednesday! Followed by an americano (look, I have a caffeine credit) all enjoyed on the roof terrace in the warmth of the sun while sitting in, gasp, a shirt that showed my bare arms. FYI the riad I'm staying in is situated in the most conservative part of the medina. I am terribly immodest with my uncovered hair and not wearing a djellaba. I do want to wear a djellaba if only so I can stop wearing this Lululemon coat that is great in the rain but not so much in the sun but don't want any old djellaba. It has to be just the right one. That's a whole other quest...So atop the numerous stories of Cafe Clock I sat and chatted with my friendly server Nibll and another patron Hamid. Many hours later, when my tabouleh/hummous lunch was brought, Nibll suggested moving from the sun to the shade. Good idea. Who wants a repeat of yesterday. After catching up on my journal and reading an entire paragraph of Foucault's Pendulum (yes, it is going to last me the whole trip), I began to weigh my options again. Option One was the easy taxi trip home. Option Two was to wade back into the medina and hope that I could remember in reverse what I didn't really remember to begin with. With a Cafe Clock business card in my pocket and Nibll's promise that with a call, he would come and lead me back to the cafe, I set out. Downwards. Kind of thinking that as long as I kept downwards and to the right I would eventually end up near something that was familiar. Remember that square just past the leather stalls and the fancy-worked mirrors? It brought a very large smile to my face when I came upon it again. Lo and behold, I came to a bridge. I knew that if I went to my right I could go home through the souk or I could go straight over the bridge, veer right past the construction by one of the large mosques and enter through the far end of the souk. So at last there was my fridge. Striding along and anxious to get home, I realized that there was a young man walking about 5 feet ahead of me. Warning bell. Stop walking. Backtrack. Stand still off to the side of the lane. Yes indeed. Back around the corner comes the young man who says yes, you need help? You are lost? -Nope. Not at all.- Yes, follow me. Just up here, there is old wood? You would like to see? -Young man, this whole place is ancient. As I have already gone that way home a few times, I don't think that you have anything to show me that I have not seen already. (Take that what ever way you like).- You live in the area? -Yes. -Oh, I thought so, we all help one another here. We are friendly with visitors.-Uh huh (you can help me by moving on). So he at last turns to talk to the man sitting next to him and I walked back down to my fridge, smiled at the proprietor (we go way back) and cooled my heels until my quasi-guide finally came down the lane and went off to the taxi stand. Well, as I'm standing here, I might as well get another mango juice (not leben which I bought the other day thinking that it was milk for my hot chocolate-leben being milk with butter chunks. Will let you know what it taste likes when I get up the courage to try it). Setting off home, alone, I was pleased with my excursion but still not liking the uncertainty of the route. I've decided to ask Khalid to walk it once there and back directly without any side trips. After navigating the locks, I found my note to Si Mohammed gone from the top of the stair and his replacement one waiting for me on the table in the downstairs salon. With, taadaa, my new mobile and charger. His note stipulated my calling so I did. He came to call a while later and admitted to worrying that so many hours had passed between his first visit and my telephone call. He had spotted the paper with his mobile number sitting on the table and had feared the worst. Knowing my habit of misplacing important slips of paper, I had copied his number into my journal and left one at home. I figure if I happen to lose my ugly, utilitarian travel purse, at least his info will be safe elsewhere. And now it's in my new phone. Note to self: give his wife Hakima some Canadian maple candy that I brought in thanks for being so gracious as to share her husband's time to keep this Haida canoe headed in the right direction...