Denise said she wanted to go to Morocco, and I should learn about the country. I immediately fixed myself an Old Fashioned and listened to Marrakesh Express. In case you are younger than dirt, that is a song recorded by a band called Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young. I bet your grandfather has some of their records.
Denise thought my research a bit superficial. She had a point. So I fixed another drink and watched Men in Black International, which has a chase scene set in a Marrakesh market. Then I watched the first three Indiana Jones movies. I told Denise I was ready.
* * *
I will tell you about Marrakesh, our first stop in Morocco. First, however, I want to tell you about our second stop, Essaouira, a seaside city best known for not discriminating against any of the five main vowels.
Essaouira, like Marrakesh, is a walled city. If you want your entire city enclosed by a wall six meters high, you will need to squeeze your infrastructure into a constrained space. That presumably is why the buildings are nearly all connected, and why the narrow streets are a spider web maze of wrong turns and dead ends.
Both Essaouira and Marrakesh now spill out well beyond the original walled city, which is called a “medina.” Within the medina, the visitor will find (among other things) “riads.” Riads typically started life as fancy homes for the city’s elite. They are built around a central courtyard, usually with a pool or fountain in the center. I do not know if any medina riads still are used as private homes, but it seems they all have been converted into hotels. We visited three cities and in each case stayed at a “riad” in the “medina.”
The medinas are “Old Town” markets. People go there to buy hand-crafted goods made in a Chinese factory. There also are locally grown spices, genuinely handmade rugs, and striped djellabas, outer garments featured in Marrakesh Express. In Essaouira, much more so than in Marrakesh, there also is art. Paintings and sculpture and music.
It is the music that makes me want to start with Essaouira.
* * *
Every trip should include a series of small decisions leading to a wonderful surprise. In this case, the first such decision was my napping while Denise shopped. Because I did not accompany my wife, and because of that nap, I was feeling fresh at 8:00 p.m. “Let’s go to that jazz club we saw just outside the medina,” I said.
Denise, who had doubled her 10,000 step quota, and who had not slept, was less enthusiastic. She is, however, a trooper. We set out on the ten minute walk to D’Jazy.
As we entered, I was put off by the music’s volume. The speaker was right there. We walked toward the back, which was conveniently located near the bar. I ordered two mojitos.
We sat at the table closest to the bar and listened to a man play an electric guitar, accompanied by recorded music. It was subdued jazz. As I listened, I realized that my first impression about the volume was incorrect. It was not too loud, nor too soft. It was Goldilocks sound.
From where we sat in the back I couldn’t see the man work his guitar, so I asked Denise to move with me to another table. Finding ideal seats wasn’t difficult. There was only one other couple in the entire bar.
I thought I should be annoyed by the recorded music, or the lack of an actual band. Usually I am very adept at being annoyed, coming as I do from a long line of easily annoyed men, but the guitarist was so talented, and his music so soothing, that I just couldn’t muster a good pique. I found myself smiling. Denise gave me the last half of her mojito and the smile widened.
I think I was polishing off Denise’s mojito when our waiter, still wearing his blue smock, sat on a cajon and added percussion to the music. “Good,” I thought. “Maybe I can be annoyed by this amateur presuming to sit with a professional musician.” In very short order that thought was dashed. The waiter was good.
I waited for a lull between songs and went to the bar. This time I would have a margarita. The man at the bar waved and the waiter got up from the cajon to mix my drink. Something must have been lost in the translation because what I received was some kind of martini. This did not annoy me because the beverage was much more delicious than anything containing triple sec.
I sipped the martini and the waiter resumed his position on the cajon. Soon I heard a whistling sound. I listened attentively because it didn’t seem to be a recording and neither musician had the puckered lips of a whistler. “Damn,” I thought. It was coming from the waiter. Nothing about his face suggested noise might be coming from his mouth, but it definitely was him. A little bit later he was singing. I have no idea what he was singing, it might have been a Moroccan sea shanty for all I know, but it was beautiful.
I was finishing my third adult beverage when two young women walked into the bar. Someone announced that tonight was special because all the patrons were Americans. “Splendid!” I said, perhaps a little too loud. I upended the glass and used my teeth as a filter. Only the last trace of fluid, not any of the ice, entered my mouth.
Turning to Denise, I gushed, “Let’s go talk to them. See where they are from!” This seemed very important, at the time. It was less important to Denise. She said, “You’ve had enough. Let’s go.”
I was just tipsy enough to think that the two women would be charmed by an elderly couple taking an interest in their fellow Americans. But I was not drunk enough to argue with Denise. “Okay,” I said, and peeled off enough currency to pay our bill, and then added more for the tip.
On the way home I challenged Denise to race while skipping. She declined. I suggested we skip, without racing. She declined. I said we should go in the restaurant over there, the one with Moroccan music wafting out an open door. She agreed.
The musicians were a trio. The lead played a three-string leather-clad bass called a sintir, or sometimes a guembri. The other two just played with oversized cymbals, but they all sang. I couldn’t make heads nor tails of the lyrics, but the Moroccan music was hypnotizing.
* * *
There actually is a train called the Marrakesh Express. Unfortunately, its route does not include Marrakesh to Essaouira. And that’s a genuine pity because I will return to Essaouira, and I probably will have to do it by way of Marrakesh.
I think I will wear my new striped djellaba.
We LOL!
Suzette and Ron
Good to hear from you!