Our Arabian Night

Sound track of the day:
Sharif don’t like it
Rockin’ the kasbah

Current Temperature: A desperate relief from the French gris

Culture clash: When people are hospitable here, you really have to consider that this is just how they are। No ulterior motives. Not always.



Our arrival into Marrakech was nothing short of magical. We caught a cab from the airport to the medina at a cost of 20 euros, which in hindsight seems like a rip-off but at the time was reasonable. It wasn’t until we arrived at our destination that we realized the price we paid for a 10 minute ride. However, budgets aside, I have no regrets.

Our driver was a gentl- seeming man, Arab, communicated with us only in French, but did his best to understand and be understood. He let us use his phone to call our host at the Dar Soukaina Riad. After I had reached our host he signaled for me to give him the phone. He would handle this.

Shortly after, ten minutes to be exact, we pulled up to Riad Larrouss square where our host was to meet us and walk us to the guest house. Our driver let us out and opened the trunk to retrieve our bags. The square was dark, indicative of businesses shut for the night and an early retiring old city. The corner where we had parked was dark, and shadows existed only by the grace of the yellow glow from a single street lamp.

It was quiet except for the sound of cars in the distance. This was the end point for vehicular transport. No cars allowed in the medina. A gang of small and gnarled cats crossed us staring with curiosity and then moved on. In the distance from beyond the street lamp a dark figure appeared wearing a black cloak, the only discernable feature the ember from a lit cigarette. The figure entered the circle of light cast by the street lamp. I was initially alarmed, but felt safe in the presence of our driver and was compelled to stare as he approached us. He greeted our driver, shook hands and then turned to me.

Bonjour. Welcome to Marrakech.

Our host was a handsome young man in a crisp gray linen suit with a mandarin style collar and sporting brown leather sandals. He was a beautiful sight to behold. His name was Ibrahim and would be taking us to our home for the next four days.

Through narrow alleys inhabited by a large population of stray kittens and late night loiterers we strolled. Colorful awnings and windowless walls lined the streets. Each home was assigned a single decorative doorway. Some had no doors at all. We gaped in amazement at our surroundings. Finally! Something truly foreign, meeting all my fantasies of this other world. A couple of suspicious characters were writing in chalk along the perimeter of a door, in Arabic, something I couldn’t begin to decipher. Was this Moroccan graffiti?

We were escorted through a low doorway made of carved wood, and lowered ourselves into the hearth of the house. The entire interior of the house was painted white with lavender adornments, shutters, curtains, and vases.

Our room is on the second floor of the riad and fit with its own balcony overlooking the centralized courtyard. The ledge of the balcony is of the same stone material as the rest of the house, with arched lookouts and thinly-veiled with lavender curtains. There is a table and three cushioned chairs. This is where I’m writing now. Clay pots sit on the ledge.

Our room has a double bed where Jen and I will be sleeping, and a twin bed for Jonathan. There are small, thoughtful pieces of art decorating the room like metal lamps, vases and picture frames. Everything is made of stone: the walls, floor, sink and shower.

I couldn’t ask for a better introduction.

On tonight’s menu:
14 (we counted) Moroccan salads: pumpkin, spinach, peppers, sweet onion, cucumber, eggplant, sweet tomato, carrot puree, and so much more
Lamb tajine
Crème Brulee

Moroccan red wine

Pomme Frites are not enough

Sound track of the day:
A golden bird that flies away
A candle’s fickle flame
To think I held you yesterday
Your love was just a game

Current Temperature: Sad, rainy, cold, empty

Culture clash: The people in Brussels are very nice, and much more forgiving and patient about my French।

Brussels.

There are two circumstances under which a non-EU Commission employee should visit Brussels.

1. If you have never visited a European city before and have no expectations and standards by which to judge
2. If you have visited every European city and have nowhere else to go, a free ticket, and love Morrissey

We had our agenda: fries and beer. Other than that we had very little ambitions for Brussels and felt like we should just keep an open mind and wing it. There had been very little literature about traveling to the capital of the EU.

Upon arrival at nearly noon yesterday, after riding a very cool and very smooth high speed train from Paris, Moonkey and I embarked on our first journey together. We looked for an information booth. There were a couple, which is more than you’d find in any terminal in Paris. However, being that it was noon, they were all closed. Working in shifts is a concept either foreign or rejected by the Europeans. Lunch is lunch and no one is going to fuck with it. Especially not some simple tourists on the hunt for fries.

So we went to Relay and I bought a street map, which turned out to be very helpful in the end. Jen had the name of a recommended place for fries so she browsed through some guide books for the address. Based on a metro stop and a street name we headed for Schuman Place. When we emerged from the train station, from which we rode the ghetto-ist and roughest trains I’ve experienced so far in Europe, into a giant (yes, another one) roundabout adorned with brightly colored tulips and many cars speeding through it during lunch hour.

Because I desperately had to pee and was also feeling nauseous and because we were unable to find the Place Jourdain Plein, we headed in an arbitrarily chosen direction toward a large park in hopes of finding a decent restaurant and a bathroom. We ended up at a café called Brasserie Merode near the tip of Parque Cinquantenaire. There we witnessed the consumption of a lot of boeuf tartare. Dude, call me a philistine but I just don’t get it. Yeah yeah, I have no problem with tuna tartare, or ceviche, or any kind of raw fish for that matter, but something about raw cow meat doesn’t suite me and watching is a study in human behavior. Take high quality (I hope) ground beef and mix it with mustard, olive oil, vinegar, and some other herbs and put it in a large mound. Then garnish it with salad and accompany with a side of fries. There you have it. A culinary delight. For me it’s a little bit like “gross me out the door.” To each his own, but I had a hard time not staring at each woofing down his own. Gag.

We headed back through to park in the direction from which we came and continued to observe that there were hardly any people on the street. It was ominously quiet. Add that to the gray skies, threatening rain, cold air seeping into your bones and an overwhelming sense of sadness and you’ve found yourself in a scene from the invasion of the body snatchers. The park was gorgeous but there was hardly any one there to enjoy it. Maybe the Belgians have more sense than the French and don’t like to hang out in the dank grayness. Maybe more Belgians work than French and therefore don’t have time to loiter around parks in the day. Or maybe there aren’t that many people living in Brussels and the city has begun its decline.

We finally found Place jourdain Plein which was just a couple of blocks from Parque Napoleon. After walking around the square and finding nothing resembling the pomme frites establishment we were seeking, we asked a nice woman sitting outside a bar who pointed across the street. Before our eyes was a food stand that, by the looks of it, could only serve fried foods. Maison Antoine.

Jen ordered frites with Bicky Ketchup sauce in tribute partially to Vicki and partially to her mother who has used this name for Vicki for years. I got the fries with tartare maison. Both were delicious and even better when mixed together. The fries were perfectly crispy, fried twice as required, and served in a paper cone. Then downed with a glass of Leffe beer. They were lovely, but very filling. And we needed to walk it off.

We headed alongside Parque Napolean toward a main center and found where all the people were. The Grand Place is a square scattered by cafés alongside grand buildings which looked like they were once of regal employ. I was elated. Finally, now here is the reason to visit Brussels. After about 20 minutes of staring in awe, attempting to capture that awe in photos, window shopping and people watching, that reason had met its end and I was again bored. According to our map, if we walked down a wide alley extending from the center of the square we would reach Manneken Pis, a sculpture of a naked boy taking a piss as part of a fountain. This fountain is found in an unassuming corner just beyond Violet Straat and is always surrounded by people.

I believe this is one of the biggest tourism public relations scams ever done.

The fountain is literally of a boy, very cherubic in design, peeing out of his little wee-wee into a small bowl, propped up on the corner of a building. No joke. This is what the fuss is about? You see this kind of thing in any city abundant in fountains. A boy peeing into a fountain? You could even see the water tube that ran into his back. How fucking original is this? Not.

I felt robbed.

This is when I knew I was done with Brussels. It was over.

We did some quick chocolate shopping at Pierre Marcolini and then sat at a café across the street to kill time until our train out. Three more hours.

We ordered a beer. I had a Hoegaarden. Didn’t feel like doing anything new at this point. I was saddened. Jen ordered a raspberry beer. We sat and talked and marveled at the city’s insignificance, the country’s inability to choose one language by which to conduct its official business, the death and catastrophe cause by this lack of conviction, and the weirdness of our experience.

The train ride back was quick although littered with loud conversations by a Portuguese group of friends, a woman on a phone who had a hard time sitting on the train without talking on the phone, and the woman behind me whose salad eating was so loud it was like sticking your ear up to a horse while feeding him a carrot. No joke. SO I turned on my iPod and tuned out.

I won’t be going to Brussels again. Not even for the fries.