If You Didn't Learn Anything the First Time...

I have great news. For eight days, no one asked me if I were married! Granted, I spent eight days in bed sleeping and dreaming only the dreams that a fever brings. The ninth day brought only two inquiries into my married state. Then again I only had conversations with three gentlemen and the last one was so busy pouring me herbal infusions and putting cold compresses on my brow that he forgot to ask:-) The ninth day, this last Tuesday, I awoke and felt pretty good. (sound familiar?) Once again the shower, dress and out into the medina routine after the downpour had stopped and the sun shone bright. A slow amble found me on my usual stool at my usual stall. Being a special occasion, not only did I order a banana smoothie but an espresso as well! The stall is run by a father and two of his sons. The younger of the sons, Driss, speaks to me in French and I attempt to converse. When Driss asked if I would like another coffee, I at first refused and then, in the excitement of being outside of the house, ordered one with milk. Finally figuring that I had occupied one of the two available seats for far too long, I left. When I had left the riad, I had thought that a smoothie and then home was enough of an excursion. This was a good plan. If only I had stuck to it.

To my right and up the hill was the path that I usually took. I calculated that it might do me some good to walk slowly uphill a short way. Slowly I walked. When the rains came again, I stood on a store stoop under the awning and rested. Simo's shop is about a third of the way to the Bab Boujloud. His shop was closed and shuttered. This tells you that I had walked too far. Nabil was not at his post selling coverlet-sized striped throws in every colour imaginable. A fellow across the way recognized me though and after taking one look at me, offered me a chair at the foot of the stairwell opposite. Thus I met Fettah. I don't know about you, but when I am really sick, I don't feel much like conversation. Conversation in English. I feel much much less inclined to conversation in French as I'm certain that small tendrils of smoke begin to seep out of my ears as the rusty language cogs grind away inside my brain. He stepped away after a bit and a young girl came down the stairs behind me. She conked me in the back of the head with the tray she was carrying and her eyes grew very big. She looked relieved when I smiled and rubbed my head. All over the medina you can see small children up to adults carrying trays of covered or uncovered baking. They are bringing the trays to or from the communal baking ovens. Apparently I too could make bread and carry it a bakery nearby and they would bake it for me. Or even pizza! This is something that I've added to my list of things to try. Perhaps I shall try to make a version of my favourite grape and pinenut focaccia bread that is sold on Granville Island. The young girl turned out to be Fettah's cousin and he gently tapped her on the back of the head when she came back. By this time, I knew that I was too far from home. Stalling wasn't going to bring it any closer so I thanked Fettah, and with my new list of Arabic words, began moving downhill.

The thing about drinking a lot of fluids is that eventually you need to use the washroom. So, far from home and not near a restaurant that I had visited before, I began to wonder about exactly where was I going to find a washroom? Invariably on my walks, I look into shops or at people passing by. I do not often look at signs. Lo and behold, every day I had passed a sign indicating washrooms ahead at the Moulay Idriss Mosque. When I got to the mosque, I stood and thought. Non-muslims are not allowed inside mosques. To the left looked like a promising bet as every day I walked around the mosque to the right and had never noticed a restroom. So to the left I went. There looked to be only a wide arch and a dim couple of steps down another short hall. Back to the seated policeman I went and asked. He did indeed walk me to the arch and the dim steps and to the care of a man with a broom. The man with the broom held out his hand, palm up. Usually one offers a donation to a small dish after using the facilities if there is an attendant. Apparently this was a cash up front establishment. I fished three dirhams out of my coin purse which I think made him quite pleased. (Traveller's Tip: always be generous to bathroom attendants.) A young man leaving the very large restroom said that ladies use the stalls on the left. Bathrooms here are predominantly communal except for in high end establishments like The Majestic or Les Trois Sources restaurants. I like both restaurants immensely. Not just for their restroom facilities mind you but the food is wonderful too! Right now my niece-in-law is reading this and laughing because she knows what kind of facilities met my eyes when I entered the stall on the left. Shanghai all over again! (okay, but not like the washrooms in that bar with the dirt floor..that was something altogether different!)

In the center of this large communal washroom was a huge rectangular fountain filled with clear water. The attendant scoops a small bucket full of fresh water and hands it to you. Into the stall you go. (I am not writing all of this because of my need to share every detail of my travels, but someone needs to prepare you in case you ever find yourself in this situation!) In the stall is indeed a toilet. It is porcelain. It is white. Therein the similarity ceases. This toilet is flat. Each side has a furrowed foot rest. The center is a porcelain hole. (Mom, Shanghai has Western style washrooms also! Don't be deterred!) Being a somewhat savvy kinda gal, I always carry small packages of kleenex hidden about my person and disinfectant wipes. I strongly encourage everyone to do the same. So when you have finished with the facilities, you flush the toilet by pouring the bucket of water down the porcelain hole. When you come out of the stall, the attendant, that you've tipped handsomely, rushes over and pours detergent crystals into your palm. He then leads you to a bucket of fresh water where you can vigorously scrub your hands. He then gets another bucket of clear water and pours it over your hands to rinse. If, like me, you look ill and are holding your brow, he will take a cloth from you and hold it under the cold water coming out of the fountain spout. He then brings it back to you and indicates that you have to put it on your forehead. This is then the account of my first visit to a Moroccan style washroom. It wasn't a bad experience.

Downwards I continued and noticed that my legs had begun to tremble. This is not a bad thing if you've climbed the Grouse Grind and then are making your way back down the mountain. This is a bad thing if you've only walked uphill ten or fifteen minutes. I got back to my seat in the smoothie stall and was admittedly teary. Father and son behind the counter were worried and Driss came from away to put his hand on my forehead. Things were not pretty. I sent a text to Mouanis but he was very far away. Getting home was seeming more and more problematic. You can take taxis around the medina to the various gates but once you are in the medina, there are only people and donkeys and carts. I asked for a piece of cake, somewhat like my middle nephew's favourite boat cake which is a sponge affair, thinking that the sugar might do me good. As I sat and nibbled and thought about how to get a donkey ride home, a Western woman with lovely red hair walked by. We smiled at each other as most people who recognize another outsider tend to do. A few moments later she came back and said that she had seen me earlier in the day. Thus I met Nina who is from Finland but taking her Master's in Paris. She said that while visiting India, she too had been sick and had recognized that same look on my face. As we talked and the cake had somewhat of a positive effect, the trip home seemed more doable. She was kind enough to give me a hug when I asked. I have been in need of a hug. She was even kind enough to offer twice to walk me home. Being that she had a long walk up to the Bab Boujloud herself, I didn't think it was good to divert her so far out of her way. (If you look up stubborn in the dictionary, there is a photo of me with my eyebrows drawn together and my jaw set). That is why a few minutes later and about 100 yards along, I found myself seated in another stall drinking the precursor to Buckley's and with drops of some herbal-infused water dripping from a cloth on my forehead.

I buy dates every week from the same gentleman. I love dates. There are many, many varieties on offer here. I had stopped to buy some on the way home knowing that I would need something to eat along with the fruit for dinner. While the date seller measured out the dates, I held onto the arm of the young man who owns the stall beside and who was acting as translator. My trembling was pretty obvious I guess and he jumped into caretaker mode. This tells you exactly how ill I felt that I would drink without question or argument a herbal drink that tasted so horrible and that I had no idea of what it was. Though the taste was wretched, it did have some recognizable taste and may have been beneficial. He kept indicating it was good for the stomach. It is understandable that he thought I was suffering from traveller's stomach as so many do, but how could I explain that it was the flu? Okay, the flu and my own stupidity for going further and staying out longer than I had the stores of energy for. Thank you to my doctor by the way who gave me the prescription for preparing my stomach in advance!

At last, good reader, I made it home. If I didn't learn anything from last Friday's excursion, I certainly learned something from this Tuesday's excursion! Wednesday I ventured out for twenty minutes to buy a beignet (doughnut/cruller) and some mango juice. Thursday I ventured out for thirty minutes to buy some apples and fresh eggs. Today is Friday and I actually made it back to my smoothie stall for a coffee and a sesame cookie. Driss and his father seemed pleased that I was not crying in the corner any longer and the elder gentleman who is a regular stopped by to chat. He is a merciless flirt and has a sparkle in his eye. Today I learnt the Arabic words for dear, sweet and I love you. He had taught me the Arabic word for beautiful before. He is funny and Driss has laughingly told me that I have to watch out for this man!

Now that I am almost entirely mended, I promise to go forth and take some more photos to post. How many pictures of the trees in the courtyard can I add to my Flickr page?! It is time to head down to the kitchen and heat up some fresh milk (yes, fresh from the farm and poured into my beautiful cherry adorned milk bottle:-). I think it is time for some Bowen Island spicy hot chocolate that I packed in my suitcase especially for a cool night such as this. I have to make the tin last, my brother made me take the second one out...