My Thanksgiving Day

Fes, Morocco

I am a little irritated as flies occasionally alight on the side of my face. I have spent the morning wandering around the old Medina, bargaining with vendors, being declined the ability to take pictures of old men, and observing little boys trying to cut off pieces of sugar cane from a large stick. It is interesting, although I am feeling a little burnt out. It might be because I only got about five and a half hours of sleep last night. Or it might be because of all the effort in declining the constant offers to guide me around the Medina or to sell me drugs, which usually comes after I decline the guide offer. I dont know if that last sentence is grammatically correct or even understandable but at this moment, I dont care. Yesterday when we finally arrived at the bus station in Fes, I was pounced on by a scammer guide, like a cat on a mentally retarded, three-legged mouse. Note: I just glanced around the internet cafe to see where the noise is coming from as it seems someone is watching a movie. I happened to notice another patron viewing a hardcore pornographic movie on his computer. The same thing happend in Madrid, so I guess its not just Moroccan guys. But either way I could have done without that. Anyway, back at the bus station last night, a couple from the bus offered for me to share a taxi with them to their hotel which cost 80 Dirham a night. In the confusion, I dont really know how or why I was confused, but the Moroccan managed to confuse me long enough for the couple to walk out the door. For the next two and a half hours, I deeply regretted having not gone with them. I asked many people about finding a cheap hotel near the Medina. One guy suggested that I get a cheap hotel nearby and visit the Medina in the morning. I didnt want to find a place and sit around in the new part of town, which resembles an Arabic Chicago, albeit Ive never been to Chicago. So I continued on, declining an offer to stay at the house of a young man that I asked for information about a cheap hotel. I was afraid I would be sodomized and robbed in the middle of the night. At this point, I was consumed by fear. I was seething with anger at the hustler from the bus station and the fact that I was alone and without lodging in a big, totally foreign city. I happened upon some Australian people who seemed to know where they were. We all sat down to have a coffee and they let me look up some places to stay before giving me the pages on Morocco, from the guide. Grateful to be speaking English and the companionship, I treated them to the warm beverages. However, that was only a temporary reprieve from the cold, harsh world that existed outside the doors of that little cafe. I continued on for the next two hours from hotel to hotel and they were all full. I visited about seven. My pack seemed to grow exponentially in weight from each hotel that was booked. And my back was now in serious pain. I found another place that was also sold out, but the guy told me to sit down and he would make a few calls after he finished eating. So I sat and massaged my back. He found me a place down the street for 100 Dirham. I agreed and headed off to the hotel. After dropping off my pack, I returned to the soup kitchen I had passed on the way, where locals dined. I approached the entrance and was trying to figure out how to order when the guy sitting near the doorway understood my desire to eat and ordered for me. I realized -- or invented -- that this guy was like a young mob boss who ran that neighborhood, or at least that restaurant. I feasted on my greenish soup, chunk of bread, and sweet mint tea. Through the course of my Thanksgiving dinner, I was aware of the nearby boss smoking, presumably marijuana, from a long wooden pipe, as well as possibly selling drugs to passersby. After my second glass of tea, he invited me to his table. I sat down and he ordered me a third glass. He then began making conversation in French or Arabic, neither of which I understood. And his friends were able to translate one or two words in English. At some point the topic of my zilaba came up -- which I happened to be wearing, as I am now. He asked how much I paid. I told him. Then I believe he offered to buy it from me for 10 Dirham more than I paid, approximately 1. 50 US Dollars. As I consciously raised the language barrier and pretended to be very confused, three thoughts ran through my mind: 1- I do not want to sell my zilaba, 2- If I were to sell my zilaba, I would not sell it for such a tiny profit, and 3- This man could potentially rob me of my zilaba, video camera and money, and ditch me in a dark alley somewhere and no one would do anything about it. I kept up my faux misunderstanding long enough for the subject to change. Although the conversation took a potentially-expected, though even more uncomfortable turn. Mr. Bush. The boss casually joked about the assassination of our President using gestures of a gun and slapping the back of his head. I politely nodded and smiled, hoping the satellites that were now videoing that conversation couldnt catch my face, from their angle in space. As I write this, I realize that it will come up in some database somewhere, but as those were the mere ramblings of a drugged, Moroccan hoodlum, I am not worried. I took some pictures of the scene before heading off to purchase some honey-glazed pastries. I ate my dessert and finished off the Swiss chocolate that I bought in Lugano weeks ago. And after journalling and reading, my Thanksgiving day ended as I drifted off to dreamland in a small hotel room in Fes.