La Means La

La. One of the most useful Darija words to have handy in Marrakech, has been employed regularly in the past three days. La means "no," and I find myself saying "no" a lot these days.

Touching down in Morocco

Brianna and Andy touched down in Marrakech on Tuesday afternoon. I had spent the morning getting ready for their arrival by wiping the ever-present coating of dust and sand off the furniture again and stuffing the last of my belongings into every nook and cranny in an effort to make it look like home. I was nervous about negotiating with my first taxi driver in a city notorious for hard-bargaining drivers who don't like to use the meter. Miraculously, the first driver quoted me the official rate to the airport, and I could relax for a few minutes as we wove through Marrakech traffic.

Bri and Andy emerged from the airport on time and unscathed from their travel. Then, they got to watch as I struggled to get a taxi back to our apartment for even close to the "official rate" as we piled all of their bags into the back seat and trunk. When I proceeded to direct the driver to drive the wrong way down a few one-way streets to get to our apartment (oops - I usually walk everywhere), I decided to be a bit more generous with the fare. Eventually, we all made it back to the apartment, and Bri and Andy got their first taste our dimly lit, dusty home for the year.

First glimpse of Koutoubia Mosque

After quick naps, they both rallied to take on the mosque, the Medina, and their first Moroccan dinner in a bit of a jet-lagged haze before crashing hard for the night.

Since their arrival, we have had a mix of necessary relocation chores and some serious tourist time. We've grocery shopped and hauled things home on foot. We found the hardware store and waddled home with two greatly-needed fans. I spent a hot hour at some kind of city office getting my lease stamped with some kind of official stamp. Then, we spent three hot hours at Maroc Telecom signing up for Internet service and setting up an appointment for installation (which yielded no Internet service and necessitated a return to Maroc Telecom the following day). For the first time ever, I appreciated the short 45 minute wait in the air-conditioned Verizon store that I used to whine about. We have sweltered in the sun and have even felt rain and watched crazy lightening from our balcony. Abdul, our go-to for all things Morroco at this point, tells me that this is the beginning of winter, and this stormy weather is normal. I am struggling to understand how 95 degrees and "winter" go together. Things are slowly coming together. We now have lights in all of the light sockets, our own WIFI connection, and a door handle on Brianna's room. Tomorrow holds the promise of towel racks, and, then, all of my dusty desert domestic dreams will have been fulfilled.

Jardin Majorelle

It hasn't all been work and waiting around. Yesterday we toured Yves St. Laurent's gift to Marrakech,
the Jardin Majorelle, an eclectic collection of plant species and an electric blue artist's studio in the heart of the city. Then we returned to the Medina for a second pass-through, which resulted in another three hours lost in the maze of alleys. We came upon the yarn/cloth dyeing souq and were whisked into a world of colorful powders, deep pots of dye, and silken scarves. We stumbled through the blacksmiths' souq which echoed with pounding and smelled of burning fires.

Blacksmiths' Souq

There we saw the magical Moroccan lanterns that I had imagined as I dreamed of Marrakech. We wound our way through endless quiet residential alleyways where locals find peace in this labyrinth of chaos. Brianna tried out her French skills in the back alleys in an effort to get a pain au chocolat. She handed the vendor thirty cents and walked away with four and a giant smile. Andy decided that, if you keep trying, you just might be able to acquire a taste for olives.There are surprises at every turn.



And...there are cats at every turn - gnarly looking street cats and adorable kittens, curled up in the sunshine in every nook and cranny. This is where the Medina "la" comes in. Not only have I been fending off vendors of every kind with my most polite (and then slightly more irritated) "las," but I have been fending off Brianna and her pleas for a cute, cuddly something to make our apartment feel like home. In between "las," I remind her that rabies are endemic in Morocco. She is undeterred.

I am willing to embrace all that Morocco has to offer - couscous, olives, lanterns, carpets, spices, henna, souqs, and hammams - but not a cat. La means la. Darija lessons start next week, and I will make sure our first lesson covers all of the possible ways to firmly decline a request.

Learning to tie a scarf in the "Berber way"

Tagine, Couscous, Pastilla

Jardin Majorelle

Medina Donkey