Southern Girl Gone Global

Christmas Day in London

December 29, 2014January 3, 2015Cindy McCain

Christmas Day we attended the service at Westminster Abbey, another gift. Seats had been reserved months in advance but days before our trip someone returned three. The sermon referenced the truce on December 25, 1914 between English and German soldiers. More on the story here. As we sang hymns and heard the children’s choir in a cathedral built in 1066 where William the Conqueror was crowned on Christmas Day, I thought of my city, Marrakech, built in 1062, and of my new friends who live there. I thought of all the unrest in 2014 in my home country and abroad. And, as I try to do every day, I thanked God for His power which is greater than the world’s problems. With hope I prayed for peace.

After church we boarded a cruiser on the Thames and sailed to the Tower of London and back. Then we caught a black cab to The Castle in Notting Hill where we joined the locals in eating turkey and roast beef, popping Christmas crackers, and wearing paper crowns.

After walking back to the hotel and Skyping with family, as if on cue BBC provided a tradition usually done after Taylor and I decorated our tree on Jenry Court. We watched White Christmas. So many Christmas miracles. My cup runneth over.

Here’s to light, love, and life in 2015.

On a boat before us someone released pumpkin-sized bubbles into the air

Christmas Eve in London

December 28, 2014November 23, 2019Cindy McCain

Seems like old times. My children are asleep in the next room and I’m up early writing. The Three Musketeers are together again.

We spent a Happy Christmas in Merry Ole England, my first love as an English lit teacher when I began traveling abroad. My son wanted to see London, and my daughter has loved it since she, my niece, and I toured when they were in high school. I know the Brits know how to do the holidays. In fact, last week my English department coworkers and their wives got the festivities started. Nick, Anna and their gorgeous girls dressed in holiday frocks rang doorbells to surprise neighbors with plates of cookies and candies. Richard and Louise (below), hosted a Christmas party at their apartment, where I bought handmade gifts Louise makes for her business, Bodkin and Binca.

I couldn’t wait to smell and taste mulled wine at Christmas markets from Covent Garden to Camden. For weeks colleagues talked of seeing our families again and of eating our ways through our destinations. Whether spending Christmas in the US, Spain, Portugal, Italy, Switzerland, Singapore, Austria, or India all dreamed like Clare of sugarplum fairies and other creature comforts we don’t find in Africa.

My mission was to bring back vanilla, nutmeg, and other spices for baking and to stock up on snuggle wear for the winter. Thanks to a colleague who turned me onto Primark, I was able to fill a carryon of plush sweaters, a scarf and a robe for 5 GBPs each.

Here’s how our holiday began…

In order to meet Taylor and Cole at Heathrow on Christmas Eve, I had to take a flight on December 23. The Colonnade, my first “sight unseen” purchase from Priceline was amazing. For $95 USD I booked this 4-star Victorian gem. The doorman led me to a room where classical music was playing softly and fruit, coffees and teas, and cookies were spread. After dinner next door at the Prince Alfred, I enjoyed my two favorite guilty pleasures for the first time since August–sliding into a bubble bath (I have only a shower in Morocco), then slipping under a down comforter.

Waiting for the loves of my life was very Love Actually. Family members stood, as I did, flowers in hand, staring at the door. I had to keep dabbing tears when I saw others hug, afraid I’d miss my two walk through the gate.

Since watching my fall addiction, BBC’s The Paradise, I’ve wanted to see Selfridges lit up for the holidays.

Taylor excited to be back on Oxford Street

Christmas Eve at Hyde Park’s Winter Wonderland

Love the little legs waiting patiently for a spin

A child inspired Christmas. They say Christmas is for kids. My gift this year was kissing my children–now grown– again. We missed celebrating with the rest of the family but knew–even before we Skyped–that we are always together in spirit. Watching The Holiday, the movie that made me want to do this trip years ago, we waited for Father Christmas. For the first time ever, there would be no tangible gifts under the tree, but we’d awaken as we went to sleep–with joy, thanksgiving, and love.

In Marrakesh Girls SOAR

December 7, 2014November 19, 2018Cindy McCain

Like many who come to Morocco, I have stepped off a camel onto sand soft as powdered sugar. I have stepped onto a balcony overlooking nothing but ramparts and sea. I have stepped around a corner in the mountains knowing that more blue alleys await. All marvels and memories under the Moroccan sun. But one of my best Marrakesh moments was stepping into a circle of girls who show up Sundays at Peacock Pavilions ready to SOAR.

Since before moving to Morocco I’d been following the award-winning lifestyle blog, My Marrakesh. I loved the author’s story of moving to Morocco and building a beautiful oasis for guests and girls. Maryam Montague, a writer, interior designer, and international humanitarian aide specialist, founded Project SOAR with her husband, architect Chris Redecke. I hoped to meet them one day when I moved to Africa but had no idea it would happen so soon. They are parents of one of my students and this fall the American School of Marrakesh began volunteering with the nonprofit organization, Project Soar, whose mission includes working with girls from the village Dourar Ladaam. From that first Sunday when I caravanned through gates where girls gathered excitedly, I saw all the good growing in an olive grove, hugged girls SOAR serves, and met students and adults of all ages volunteering. From near or far there are ways we can all help here. Led by a college mentor (her interview below), they filed in, took their name tags from the board, and joined hands with volunteers from Chicago to Texas, New Zealand to Austria. We all introduced ourselves and then, through wide smiles, the girls said their mantra: “I am strong. I am smart. I am capable. I am worthy.”

Maryam Montague and a volunteer show the girls America, the home country of their teaching artist, Designer Amy Butler.

Half of the girls were led to the arts tent where internationally known artist and designer, Amy Butler, taught them teamwork in making textile necklaces.

Saloia, fourteen, plans to go to university. She said she has been coming to SOAR for about a year and added: “I have learned sports and arts and how to be independent and work with my friends. I use what I learn here back home to be a good person.”

Souad (left) is thirteen. She said she has been coming since Ramadan in August : "I've learned to make kites and bowls. I've learned how to play sports and health information from the doctor who comes when we take yoga." — Souad (left) is thirteen. She said she has been coming since Ramadan in August : “I’ve learned to make kites and bowls. I’ve learned how to play sports and health information from the doctor who comes when we take yoga.”

ASM student Chama (center) translates from Arabic to English for Khadija (left) who does all things with giggles and confidence.

Outside, the other half of the girls learned teamwork as well as ASM student, Mehdi, and Upper School Principal and Basketball Coach, Todd Stiede, taught them drills and how to run relay races.

It takes a village to raise a child. Likewise, children inspire us to rise to our best selves. On any given Sunday one finds community, creativity, collaboration, and global citizenship here. Two ASM volunteers explain. Chama: “It’s important to share special moments with people from different cultural backgrounds. We open their minds to a bigger world and the idea that we girls in Morocco can do big things….The SOAR mantra is true, and no one can take that from you.” Says Sophia when asked why she regularly volunteers: “We have to. It’s the least we can do. As much as the girls learn from us, we learn from them.”

From the Desert to the Daily: First Three Months

November 22, 2014February 23, 2019Cindy McCain

November 18, was Morocco’s Independence Day, the 58th anniversary of freedom from the French Protectorate lasting from 1912–1956. It was a milestone birthday of my cousin, Annette, a loving lady who hosted our family reunion in Kentucky last summer. And it was a marker for me.

Three months ago I landed in this country and began a new era in my life. I’ve thought a lot about freedom—independence I’ve gained and lost with this move. Much has happened on this continent and across the world since I decided last April to come. Morocco, vigilant to safeguard against Ebola, decided not to host the African Cup. I walk past military police daily guarding against terrorism; and while machine guns, dogs, and other precautions first frightened me, I am so thankful for the constant presence at home, work, and around town of these men in service. No doubt I have grown in faith as I trust God for wisdom, peace, and protection from without and within. I’ve thought about FDR’s epiphany: “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself,” and Paul who said to pray and fret not, to think on whatever is true, honorable, right, pure, and lovely. I try hard to focus on the good people I’ve met, natural beauty in this diverse place, and opportunities for adventure.

Life keeps all my senses on high alert here. I have never experienced—smelled, tasted, seen, heard, felt, and, bit-by-bit, learned so much in ninety days about the world and myself. Last month I checked off one of two Bucket List items for North Africa–reasons for choosing this job placement. Though I still haven’t made it to the pyramids in Cairo, I rode in a caravan to a tent where I camped out in the Sahara. Sharing a meal by candlelight with fellow nomads, listening to Berber guides play drums and sing by the fire under a black canvas studded with stars, leaving camp under a full moon and arriving at sunrise at our van before the 15- hour ride home were scenes in the sand I’ll never forget.

From Marrakesh to Merzouga: Destination Desert

Though the two-day trip to Merzouga was long, the stops along the way were worthwhile in themselves. The first was in the Medina of Marrakesh where Monica, visiting me from Spain, and I were taken from the Le Caspian Hotel whose tour company organized the trip. I love their restaurant and trust their service. (Monica and I went there the first night she arrived for a rooftop drink and we ate lunch there the day we returned from Chefchouen at the end of this fall break.) The cost for 3 days/2 nights–transportation, breakfast, dinner, hotels, and camel campout–was 90 Euros–about 850 Moroccan Dirhams or $100 USD when we booked. From the hotel we were told to board another van where four of my coworkers were calling my name. They had booked through another company, none of us knowing we’d end up on the same trip that day. I’m so glad we did.

Crossing the Atlas Mountains which surround Marrakesh was surreal as watercolor peaks in the the distance came into sharp focus. Hairpin turns on cliffs’ edges summoned the same thrill I felt crossing the Swiss Alps and the Andes in Ecuador.

Ouarzazate, the Door of the Desert, is where films Cleopatra, Lawrence of Arabia, The Mummy, Gladiator, Babel, Kingdom of Heaven, Romancing the Stone: Jewel of the Nile, and Season 3 of Game of Thrones were shot. Being there was another dream come true. We climbed to the peak of the ksar , a fortified pre Saharan castle, Aït Benhaddou, which lies along the river where caravans traveled from the Sahara to Marrakech. UNESCO (United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization) lists it as one of 1007 World Heritage Sites (places of outstanding natural or cultural importance to the common heritage of humanity). There are more UNESCO sites in Morocco and Ethiopia than any other countries in Africa. Of the nine UNESCO sites n Morocco I have also experienced thus far the Medinas of Marrakesh, Fez, and Essaouira. Within Aït Benhaddou is an adobe Jewish synagogue; Jews and Berbers lived together in this region. Morocco has the largest Jewish community of any country in the Arab world. The Marrakesh Medina also has a Jewish Quarter.

Where Michael Douglas landed in a new world in Jewel of the Nile.

After the two-hour tour of the city on the hill, we had lunch and continued our drive to the Dades Valley. The rocks and gorges reminded me of the American West and my favorite tv show when I was a child, High Chapparal. Over the miles of the fall break road trips, memories of my childhood traveled with me. I hadn’t eaten Pringles since a kid at my Mama Sargeant and Granddaddy’s house, but after rediscovering them at roadside stops they became my comfort food. (Later that week they’d become survival on the nine-hour public bus trip to Fez where the driver went seven hours without a food or bathroom break). When I arrived at our amazing hotel in the Gorge, I called my sister to tell her about all I’d seen. Turned out she was visiting my mom in Kentucky. They were looking at Mama Sargeant’s recipes and watching… yep, High Chapparal. This wasn’t the first time we’ve marveled at how we’ve stayed connected across the continents. Before I left, Penny said to remember every time I look up at the moon she’s looking up at it, too.

At the Hôtel du Vieux Château du Dadès located in the Dadès gorges, we had a traditional dinner–tajine–and breakfast before heading to our final destination. Sipping coffee alone in the crisp, cool air as the river ran over rocks below was a welcome change from the day before when late October temperatures were in the 90s.

Day 2 we stopped in a Berber village in the Dades Valley. We saw how carpets are woven and learned to tie scarves turban-style to protect from sand and sun in the desert.

Workers took a break in the field for mint tea from a silver service. Moroccans traditionally have tea with bread and olive oil for breakfast, afternoon tea, and any other time during the day they desire. Men in cafes drink tea in towns while people or soccer-watching.

Fertile fields of alfalfa and fruit groves above the riverbank

My dad and his parents who once farmed and always loved nature would have liked this place.

We saw women washing clothes in rivers here and along the highway

At sunset we arrived at the main event.

In our caravan were Australian newlyweds and two French couples–one who had a little girl who preferred running in the cool sand and tumbling down dunes to riding a camel.

9451_10102872881494484_8365769797943063412_n — Thanks to Lexi Guthrie for this great shot.

My camel was crazy and codependent, throwing a hissy fit when he thought we were leaving the camel assigned to Monica. Though she’s a world traveler and possibly the most independent woman I’ve ever known, she said she wouldn’t have ridden mine. When I asked the guide for a different one the second day he said the camel was used to me and I could handle him. He was thin and cranky but settled down. My sister said we were a good pair—skinny and feisty.

Since moving to Morocco I am thinner and have been cranky sometimes too–the first from walking everywhere and the second from Moroccan food overload and carnivore cutback (meat sold in groceries can be tough). I quickly tired of tajines (like pot roast but with less seasoning than this Southerner uses). But thanks to the supportive community of colleagues, I continue to discover the treasure trove that is Marrakesh. In the past week… a new bakery, butcher, and expat restaurant where I attended my first Inter Nations social. Before that, a hamam on a hidden back alley. Thanks to my friend sharing her maid, I have more free time. Twice a month Saida cooks enough vegetable and chicken couscous for two weeks of lunches, cleans my apartment, washes my clothes, and organizes my life. She is a blessing. And though I’ve missed having a car to run to Kroger–open 24/7–and the freedom to go anywhere alone after dark, next to my apartment is a hanut–a one-room “minute mart” where my friendly neighbor rings up items from breakfast to late night from behind a counter. It’s a Moroccan version of country stores like the one my Uncle Henry had in Fairview.

Home. Maya Angelou said, “I long as does every human being, to be at home wherever I find myself.”

Though I’ve missed a Tennessee fall (though 70 degrees today was nice) and the house my children and I still call home and I plan to return to one day, I will be at home Christmas when I meet Taylor and Cole in England. I am home when I Skype with my mom in Kentucky and my sister and friends in Nashville. And when I returned to Marrakesh from fall break, eating with friends at my three favorite places —Chez Joel, Casa Nova, and Beyroute —made settling in after a week on the road feel more like home.

As Thanksgiving approaches I’m thankful for the travel I’ve done but also for the “little things”–like discovering the closest thing to Target—the “big” Carrefour– where I bought a soft blanket and house shoes and a juicer to fresh- squeeze the oranges that grow big and delicious. Strawberry season just started. Last Sunday I volunteered with an amazing organization for girls (more on that later), and Mondays are fun thanks to my dance class with Moroccan colleagues that involves jangling scarves and Persian music.

It has been a challenging three months. True freedom doesn’t always mean independence. It’s about asking questions and not worrying if they sound stupid. I’m learning to reach out and ask others all the things I don’t know and help others who are struggling too. Not speaking French or Arabic makes me vulnerable, but it also helps me understand firsthand how the Mexican moms I taught in my Nashville English class felt. When I depend on God for wisdom, strength, and love I live from the desert to my daily life in wide, open spaces.

Chefchaouen, Morocco: My Blue City

November 3, 2014October 22, 2019Cindy McCain

You have plenty of courage, I am sure,” answered Oz….There is no living thing that is not afraid when it faces danger. The true courage is in facing danger when you are afraid, and that kind of courage you have in plenty. Whenever I feel blue, I start breathing again. –L. Frank Baum, author of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz

Of course I have more often thought of Baum’s words since looking up at the sky over the Casablanca airport, “Toto, you are not in Kansas anymore.” Living in a new culture is exhausting and sometimes even scary. More on that in a later post but just know that all is not pools and palm trees. Fall break was at times tiring, too, given the trek from the Sahara in the deep south to Chefchaouen in the far north—over 800 miles one way by van and bus/roundtrip in 8 days—almost the distance from Nashville to Miami or New York—but a hiatus from Marrakesh with my dear friend Monica was what I needed. We met in Nashville where she taught Spanish, and she has been here three weeks. Having her and Ale, her husband, so close (they live in Vigo, Spain) was a huge benefit of moving to Morocco.

When I first saw Chefchaouen, “the Blue City,” after the dark and dirty Medina of Fes where a nationwide strike and demonstrations had threatened to keep us holed up in our riad, I heard the song in my head that Dorothy heard as she saw The Emerald City: “You’re out of the woods, You’re out of the dark;You’re out of the night; Step into the sun; Step into the light.” So while this was the end of our journey, I’m sharing it now. Like my Uncle Preston who ate my grandmother’s best-chocolate-cake-I’ve-ever-had with his Sunday lunch, I, too, believe, “Life is Short. Eat Dessert First.”

The ride to a hamlet of 35,000–near the size of my hometown– felt familiar as we passed land plowed by donkeys and John Deere. Winding through mountains covered in pine trees (minus the olive groves below) felt like riding through The Smokies or watching Bonanza. When we entered the gates of the most enchanting villa I’ve ever stayed we exhaled. Perched above Chefchaouen we found not only a room with a view but also a dining terrace/ pool/ rooftop/ gardens with views at Dar Echchaouen. We breathed. Moni says she can tell a difference in me since I’ve moved to Morocco. The rose-colored glasses have come off, but rather than seeing red about things that frustrate me or feeling yellow about things that scare me and make me sad, I am trying to trust God to give me His eyes. It was nice for a couple of days to become an indigo girl and see life through blue-tinted lenses. Humans most need love, adventure, and beauty. I miss the colors of a Tennessee autumn. Here’s what colored my world as fall break wound down. I hope the calming hues of sea and sky bring you serenity Blue is said to be a color of spiritual devotion and was used by Jewish refugees in the city to remember the power of God . Blue is known to decrease blood pressure and to yield peace, calm, stability.

Dar Echchaouen, our Bed and Breakfast, was so worth $88 USD/$44 each per night.

Compared to Marrakesh, the “Red City” which seems to never sleep, Chefchaouen is quiet and calm. It was founded in 1471 inland of Tangier (next on my list). Taken by the Spanish in 1920 and returned to Morocco in 1956, most speak Spanish here, an advantage for us since Monica is from Vigo, Spain. With only a couple of exceptions–a carpet seller in the Medina, a waitress in the top-rated Italian restaurant, a guy on the street who made comments though we were told it was the safest city in Morocco for women to eat dinner out alone –everyone was friendly or at least indifferent. Some might assume the young backpackers and the region’s reputation for being the biggest producer of the country’s cannabis adds to the chill vibe though it seems hard to believe, given the conservative appearance of the town. Unlike Marrakesh where restaurants serve alcohol, this almost-Mayberry doesn’t even serve wine in the Italian restaurant though the fancy bottles of balsamic vinegar had me fooled. It’s a place where school children rushed to school as moms with babies on backs talked in the square. A place setting up for a carnival this week like the one I grew up with–bumper cars and paratroopers– waiting for the fun to begin. A place that is true blue.

Moni scored me a great deal on a rug. Yes, it’s blue.

Seaside Escape in Essaouira

October 6, 2014August 5, 2020Cindy McCain

It was many and many a year ago,/ In the kingdom by the sea,/ That a maiden there lived whom you may know /By the name of Annabel Lee.–Edgar Allen Poe

Oh, baby, baby, it’s a wild world/I’ll always remember you like a child, girl. —Cat Stevens

Last weekend I discovered the writing retreat of my dreams.

My heart, churning like the waves beneath my rooftop terrace, was stirred, then calmed…pacified, then pounded… by the power and beauty of the ocean. I am so thankful for a four-day break and a panoramic view of Essaouira, a seaport city with a rich history of surviving and thriving.

Excitement mounted last Friday as I climbed seventy-three winding, tiled steps from the Medina’s ground floor to Number 7 of Jack’s Apartments.

I’ve always loved studios

and found this one with its balcony by the battlements perfect.

Although the fog shrouded the sea, I could hear the waves crash and see the seagulls sweep the ramparts where Orson Welles filmed Othello. It was a scene Shakespeare-worthy, and I’m sure I caught a glimpse of Hamlet’s father’s ghost in the mists. In the 60s this town attracted Jimi Hendrix and Cat Stevens, music legends; more recently it lured HBO myth makers to set Game of Thrones Season 3 here.

Essaouira, formerly known as Mogador,

was established as a settlement in the 6^th century by the Phoenicians. It has been the conquest of Roman, Arab, Portuguese, and French rule.

The “Port of Timbuktu” has weathered not only pirates but also the Lisbon earthquake and tsunami of 1755, natural disasters that partially prompted Voltaire’s Candide. For more on Essaouira’s past and present, go here. Today it is an artists’ colony and home to the Gnaoua and World Music Festival.

The coastal town introduces itself gradually, inviting visitors to meander through shops without the pressure to buy as in the Marrakesh Medina. Choosing this place where winds howl louder at the windows at night than at Wuthering Heights released in this romantic melancholy musings.

On my first extended break since moving to Morocco, I was given the time and space to slow down, relax, breathe, grieve… and return stronger for it.

On Saturday and Sunday after drinking coffee in bed while watching waves, I climbed to the rooftop where my only distraction from writing was my imagination. I spied Annabel Lee’s “kingdom by the sea”—a castle rising from the ocean. I saw cats curling around canons on the ancient city wall, and like Pablo Neruda, I, too, felt “The Poet’s Obligation” to share this seaside adventure with you.

It began with reinforcement of a lesson I’ve been trying to master my whole life– lose the illusion of control. Move onto a Plan B, maybe a Plan C, but first relax and let Plan A go.

I’d tried to buy a return ticket in Marrakesh –twice—because friends told me finding a bus back on Sunday, the Eid-al-Adha, might be difficult. I chose the beach, two and a half hours from Marrakesh, to escape sheep slaughtered on my apartment’s rooftop, then hung to bleed on neighbors’ balconies.

The Feast of Sacrifice is a sacred holiday for Moroccans. My students’ families gather together to kill, cook, then feast on sheep in thanksgiving. They believe once Abraham proved his willingness to sacrifice his first son, Ishmael, God spared the boy and provided a lamb for the sacrifice instead. They believe Ishmael, not Isaac, was the chosen one. I eat meat but did not want to see the sheep killed so I thought I was safe in an apartment hanging over the sea. I was anxious to get there but needed to secure my return ticket.

Following Supratours’ instructions to get one upon arrival, I rushed to the booking line. The kind French couple I met earlier that morning interpreted the message of the agent I feared. All tickets were sold out. I could take a taxi back Sunday or possibly find another place to stay Sunday night (my studio was booked). Hoping I could find a room for a third night, I bought a return bus ticket for Monday. I’d focus on first things first.

Walking out of the bus station, I looked for the shop where I was instructed to pick up my room key. I’d be staying at Jack’s Apartments, a property we call a “mom and pop” place at home. The sons of this mom and pop attend my school, and one is in my class. Seeing only the walls of the Medina and unsure of where to go, I struck a price with a man I assumed to be a cab driver offering to take me there. As he put my suitcase into a pushcart he explained cabs cannot drive into the Medina, so he took off and I followed through the gate, then down dark alleyways and tunnels through the Old Town. Counter-intuitively– having been taught to never follow a strange man to a strange place–I hurried to keep up as locals stared. Of course he took me to my destination where I was told a Sunday taxi could be arranged for 700 Dirham/$80 US dollars. Since that was the price of many rooms in town, I decided to try to find a vacant one and stay a third night.

But that first afternoon rather than scramble for a room for Sunday, I went to the seafood stalls, fresh catch squirming, chose a crab, cringed when its legs were snapped off, saw it cooked, and ate it.

As I paid the bill, coworkers called inviting me to Beach and Friends, an outdoor restaurant near the camels.

For the next two afternoons it was the group’s base camp for windsurfing, horseback riding, sun bathing, and lunch.

I was glad I’d run into them as I checked in. Turns out they were staying in the B and B next to mine–we’d realized how close when we waved from rooftops. Friday I left the beach to stroll through shops in the Medina, then met them for dinner at Taro’s. I loved the fish, the live band, the lanterns lighting the rooftop, and being included.

On Saturday morning there was good news and bad news. I booked a room and breakfast for $80 at Miramar by the Sea.

But below my balcony on the ramparts, a boy had tied a sheep. He kissed it and tended to it all day and into the next morning.

On the terrace near my balcony, another lamb bleated, pleaded, and stared at me likewise.

I decided to take off before noon on Sunday, the time I’d heard the killing would happen.

To take my mind off it, I focused on a group of girls, happy sentries, sitting and sipping wine on the wall below waiting for the sunset.

One scampered up the watchtower as a friend snapped her new profile picture.

They reminded me of my girls by the surf of South Beach and of my family on the lake late in the afternoon, of loved ones who sent me off in a big way and continue to support me weekly, even daily, on this new journey.

Sunday the sacrifice happened earlier than expected. I heard screaming from a building behind me, and as I locked my balcony to grab my bags, I saw what I was running from– the sheep on the ramparts was now spread in pieces across the stone.

After dropping my bags at the new hotel I ate lunch across the street at Cote Plage. Salsa music played and the restaurant was full of families and couples. I remembered what a coworker said when I told him I was leaving the US. “Being able to travel will be great, but I wouldn’t want to do it without someone I love.”

I spent a couple of hours on the hotel’s beach alone. The Atlantic was beautiful but across it were family and friends I miss everyday I’m in Morocco. The sea broke me open as did the Caribbean when I went to Puerto Viejo solo. Beauty does that. I hope Rumi’s right…that wounds let the light in. The salt water was healing.

I’ve been told by a lot of people I’m brave. To be honest, using an ATM alone scares me. So does signing up for the Smart Traveler services and then reading precautions for Americans abroad. But most of all, wondering what the future holds scares me because I don’t want to travel alone…live alone… forever. I guess the brave part is doing it anyway.

On the ride home today it again felt right to be in this strange land here and now. When Cat Stevens began singing “Wild World” from the bus driver’s radio I felt it was my song. And I’m not alone: I carry my loved ones in my heart as sure as there is One who has always carried me.

“The Poet’s Obligation”– Pablo Neruda

To whoever is not listening to the sea
this Friday morning, to who ever is cooped up
in house or office, factory or woman
or street or mine or dry prison cell,
to him I come, and without speaking or looking
I arrive and open the door of his prison,
and a vibration starts up, vague and insistent,
a long rumble of thunder adds itself
to the weigh of the planet and the foam,
the groaning rivers of the ocean rise,
the star vibrates quickly in its corona
and the sea beats, dies, and goes on beating.

So. Drawn on by my destiny,
I ceaselessly must listen to and keep
the sea’s lamenting in my consciousness,
I must feel the crash of the hard water
and gather it up in a perpetual cup
so that, wherever those in prison may be,
wherever they suffer the sentence of the autumn,
I may be present with an errant wave,
I may move in and out of the windows,
and hearing me, eyes may lift themselves,
asking “How can I reach the sea?”
And I will pass to them, saying nothing,
the starry echoes of the wave,
a breaking up of foam and quicksand,
a rustling of salt withdrawing itself,
the gray cry of sea birds on the coast.

So, though me, freedom and the sea
will call in answer to the shrouded heart.

Incognito: Moments in Marrakesh

September 29, 2014August 12, 2015Cindy McCain

If you look the right way, you can see that the whole world is a garden.

Frances Hodgson Burnett, The Secret Garden

So… my cover was blown. Last weekend I lost my huge floppy hat—the one I wear to shield me from the sun and would-be purse-snatchers. Gone are the days of tucking my hair in its crown and hiding behind sunglasses and in clothes bought in the souks. Of being so incognito a friend passed me in our courtyard, took a double take, and asked, “Is that you Cindy?” as I headed out to the grocery down the street. Though I laughed at friends from home who told me to darken my hair, I must now admit the only other person here I know who has been accosted (euphemism for mugged) was my blond teacher- friend across the hall. Add to that a Southern accent and you get being double-teamed in a narrow souk with a thirty-something man and a thirteen-year-old boy. Because the man on the motorcycle was following me so closely I feared he’d hit me, I turned and motioned him to pass. When he laughed and refused, enjoying his game, I turned to walk on, almost tripping over a boy kneeled in front of me. He was making a lewd gesture with his empty water bottle as if he planned to push it up my skirt. As I jumped back, startled and disgusted, he sprung out of the way like a cackling Jack-in-the-Box. Motorcycle Guy and two other men guffawed, enjoying the sideshow.

Pressing on, determined to keep the blond hair I’ve had my entire life, I decided to fulfill another fantasy. I’d be Grace Kelley. Though I have no convertible to zip around in– hair scarf blowing in the breeze–I’d be 60s chic (though without the period-perfect handbag I bought here but can never carry when alone). Thing is, pulling off Tippi Hedren is hard to do when wearing clown clothes. Genie pants, which I live in on the weekends, are comfortable but not flattering. Try to look like a local by wearing a loose smock with M. C. Hammer drawers. In disguise I am no longer a soft target, a lone lamb cut off from the herd, but I don’t look anything like the Princess of Monaco either. Not even the romanticized version of myself I saw tripping lightly down the street of my new French-flavored neighborhood.

But, honestly, whether I’ve been in a getup or not, there have been some shenanigans. Like last Friday when the cab driver agreed to 20 dirhams (less than $3 and a fair price here) to get me to the bus station where I needed to buy a ticket for the weekend. He later charged me seven times that amount after taking me on a no-joyride. When I arrived at the bus station, he insisted on waiting for me rather than my hailing another cab, chatting me up in English about what I was going to buy at my next stop, Djemma el-Fna Square. When I said “lanterns” he sped off, taking me to a friend on a deserted alley who owned a lighting shop far from where I was meeting friends for dinner. When his friend leaned into the car, confident I’d follow him inside, I told the driver again to take me to the square. Seemingly obliging, he sped off, this time stopping before another shop on the back forty, equally far from the square. Fed up, I said I’d just walk to the square, which he assured me was only a few blocks up the street and to the right. Thrilled to escape, I paid and trekked a half an hour in scary territory, burdened by an invisible “Kick Me” sign like the ones kids taped to peers’ backs in grade school. Not only did he dump me far from my destination. He charged me 150 dirhams for “assisting” me with shopping. Had I not been so desperate to escape, I’d have argued.

Still, of the countless cab rides I’ve taken these last six weeks, only three have been frustrating. In another case of Medina mayhem, my friend and I were taken for a ride. Literally. We showed our driver the address of a riad we’d read about tucked away in the souks. We knew he could only drive us so far, but when he dropped us off on a deserted dead end and assured us we were only two quick turns away from the restaurant, we trusted him. Once we turned that first and only corner, we realized we were in some back alley of a souk so narrow we had to walk single-file. Too late to turn back given there were no cabs where he left us, we were mice in a maze of 12 feet walls, unable to find any landmarks when we looked up. Twisting and turning several times–not the two he promised– for awhile without another human in sight, we feared what lay around the next bend. It was the stuff nightmares are made of. When we saw a group of guys coming toward us, we plowed through, picking up speed till we were running to the beams of light ahead. Finally spilling out into a main souk, we went into the first hotel we found, starved and scared. The clerk said the riad we sought was far away and his hotel was full for dinner, but with a flick of the wrist he signaled a white-robed man hovering in the alley to take us to a place he—this stranger—recommended. We followed the mysterious man with a camel-sized grin down another alley off the artery of the souk we’d finally found. Just as we wondered if this, too, was a trick, we rounded a corner where a heavy ornate door swung open to another world. Inside a secret garden awaited. I don’t recall where we were headed, but loved the serenity of Le Riad Monceau, where we landed.

One of the last pieces of advice I was given before I moved was to be wise about who I allow into my garden. Ah, to be known– unmasked, unafraid, undaunted. Being admitted into a garden, an oasis, particularly in the commerce and chaos of the souks, is rest and freedom. Happiness is to find beauty everywhere. So is remembering sometimes when we feel terribly lost and confused, relief is just around the corner.

Our guide who brought us here and loved to pop around for pictures.

Weekends in the Village

September 21, 2014August 12, 2015Cindy McCain

After a long workweek and Friday night on the square, a girl living in a tourist town sometimes needs a quiet, country retreat. Palmeraie Village Residence, 20 minutes from the Medina, is family friendly and Girls’ –Weekend- great. On my daily ride to work through the Palmeraie region, I see palm groves, saddled camels, and dirt bikers popping wheelies. On my Saturday ride to play I enter lush gardens, villas, and guests lounging under umbrellas.

Though called “The Beverly Hills of Marrakech” never in California did I find a two-bedroom, two-bathroom apartment for $144 per night (a bill which included 2 poolside buffet breakfasts and was split between a friend and me). Both bedrooms and the living room opened to a huge terrace with a table and four chairs perched above the fountain in the lake and the twin pools. Owned by the same company as the Village is Palmeraie Palace, a 5-star hotel with eclectic restaurants and a spa on the property. Taking advantage of the free shuttle, we went to the Palace grounds to eat at Toro Loco, a Spanish restaurant that becomes a salsa club late night. Discovering an oasis of sunshine-by-day and salsa-by-night, this Southern girl could not have been happier.

Friday Night Lights: Jemaa el Fna Square

September 18, 2014June 22, 2019Cindy McCain

They were women who wore brightly coloured djellabas with silky hoods halfway down their backs, and their hands and feet were covered in an intricate web of design. ‘Tattoos,’ Bea whispered. ‘Henna,’ the woman nearest me laughed, noticing my fascinated stare.-–Esther Freud, Hideous Kinky

Last Friday my friend, Jasna, and I returned to Jemaa el Fna where Esther Freud, great granddaughter of Sigmund Freud, lived in the early 70s with her mother and sister. In her autobiographical novel, Hideous Kinky, Freud tells the story of her mom taking her and her sister, Bea, from London to live in Marrakesh in search of adventure. The five-year-old paints their expat life as an exciting, confusing time. Real. Surreal. I get it.

Note–when the Henna Lady grabs your hand and begins drawing, despite your telling her plainly, “Not today,” she expects to get paid. Like the Turtle Guy, no matter how much she ignores your protests and claims to “just want to show you something,” she will ask for cash in the end. Lots. Likewise, be wary of some cab drivers when seeking a riad in the souks. More on that later…

The square was lit with the lights of a hundred stalls of food. They appeared at sunset and were set out in lanes through which you could wander and choose where to eat your supper. There were stalls decorated with the heads of sheep where meat kebabs grilled on spits, and others that sold snails that you picked out of their shells with a piece of wire. There were cauldrons of harira – a soup that was only on sale in the evening – and whole stalls devoted to fried fish, and others that sold chopped spinach soaked in oil and covered in olives like a pie. Each stall had a tilley lamp or two which they pumped to keep the bulbs burning and metal benches on three sides where you could sit and eat.

We sat up late into the night drinking syrupy mint tea.

A cousin to the Henna Lady and Turtle Guy, Food Stall Sam competes with the other guys who hand you a menu, grab you by the arm, and attempt to usher you to a seat. And yes, he jumped into the picture, then wanted to be paid. One of the other guys used flattery: “You’re so skinny. You must sit and eat.” Another called us his “homies” as we circled twice trying to decide, and another, took the pragmatic, perhaps more honest approach: “Same shit at all these stalls. Might as well eat here.”

In the end, I had lamb skewers and couscous, then chose sweets from a rolling cart to take home.

I’d be back, often. But Saturday I left the old for for the new, calm for cacophony, where I read by a beautiful blue pool. More on that in next post….

Walking in Carrie Bradshaw’s Shoes: Sahara Palace Tribute

September 10, 2014August 6, 2021Cindy McCain

So glad I did what I’ve told my students to do every year since I first saw, then began showing to them, Dead Poets Society. This move to Morocco is about “seizing the day.”

Before moving from Nashville, I finally looked up from grading papers to see my teens standing on their desks and saluting me with an “Oh Captain, My Captain.” Teaching is fulfilling. But because, like writing, it is hard work, I have to remind myself–even here where the majestic Atlas Mountains surround me– to take a break, look up, and be thankful for unbelievable beauty.

Thus, one of my first Must-Do-Weekends in Marrakesh was heading out with my friend, Jasna, to a destination I’d put on the Must-Do-Weekend- Fun- List months ago. Since 2010 when my girls and I went to see The Girls in Sex and the City 2 I’ve never forgotten the exotic setting of the movie.

Seeing Abu Dhabi for real, I thought, would be one of the perks of taking the teaching offer in Dubai. But a day after I signed the Morocco contract instead, I read the movie was actually filmed at the Sahara Palace (formerly called the Taj Palace) in Marrakesh. As we headed there in a cab, we realized it’s near my school. I asked the cab driver if it’s nice. “It’s like heaven,” he said.

The manager allowed us to pay to use the pool and offered me a tour of the SATC suite when I said how much I loved the movie. Though we weren’t staying there, the staff treated us like Carrie and Charlotte. From bringing me a Mai Tai Saturday while I was in the pool to serving sushi- with- a- smile that night under a full moon, they graciously and kindly responded, “As you wish,” to our every word.