Very Nice, How Much?

I'm blue dabadi dabadai.

When we woke up Sunday morning (still damp, of course), we had to check out already. Shortest vacation ever. We boarded the bus (where we spent about 40% of our time anyway) for ChefChaouen, a beautiful blue and white city squished between two mountains. The name means “with a view of two mountain peaks” – creative. Clearly, I’m fluent in Arabic now. Or actually, that may have been Berber. Our excellent tour guide, a candidate for 2012 mayoral elections in ChefChaouen, told us that and a thousand other fun facts on a back roads city-wide tour of ChefChaouen. The city is all painted blue and white, with four to five yearly paint-times. Politicians and organizations give out bright periwinkle paint like our government gives out cheese and tax rebates. America should consider this model because it is unforgettably stunning.

Future postcard children of ChefChaouen.

As we snapped photos of adorable children, they all shouted “No no no!” Words they learn from their parents so tourists don’t photograph them, in fear their children’s faces will end up on postcards. Don’t worry, my photography skills are far from postcard quality.

As we continued our camera documenting on streets and in courtyards, I thought about the equivalent opposite in my life: a ChefChaouen tourist coming onto Northwestern’s campus and taking pictures of me likely writing a paper in the library or eating snacks on my sorority’s couch while watching wedding reality television.

That time I dodge a goat in a Moroccan mountain range.

We were still in a live museum where no one had asked the subjects, the exhibits, if it was okay for us to watch, photograph, and step through their laundry by the river. When a herd of goats charged through our group, I knew I was getting an authentic feel for Northern mountain Morocco life.

We had some great bread and a delicious salad (we gave up on the “Don’t eat the vegetables because they’re washed in water and you’ll get the runs” thing because it looked good, and we were going home soon.) and as a vegetarian, I got a plate of curried vegetables. Everything had so many olives. Good thing I learned to like those since I’ve been in this hemisphere.

The coordinators told us to meet outside the Kasbah (what’s a Kasbah? Sounds like Plaza. Kind of is one. Figured that out on our own.) at 4:30 PM sharp. I exchanged 20 euro for some Dirham, Moroccan currency I was then compelled to spend because taking it out of Morocco is illegal. We locked down into bargaining mode, mentally preparing ourselves for some haggling over plates, bracelets, scarves, blankets, leather, and spices.

Chillin in ChefChaouen. 

It’s really weird to go into a store and see no pricetags. Remember WordGod? Now I was playing PriceGod – I make the pricetags. But, like any game, if you’re drastically ‘off,’ the shopkeeper laughs at you and it’s awkward and you lose. No, scarf-selling meanie, I still don’t believe that pashmina was hand-made or worth more than 5 euros, and I am still incredulous at the fact you laughed in my face. My $3 New York pashminas laugh at you and your market stall lies, too.

Around the corner, in an alley, a tiny old man in a shop with few wares climbed a stack of chairs and benches to grab a plate/bowl (plowl or blate?) off of his wall so I could bring it home for my senora, who collects decorative wall-plates.  I had to hold the top bench secure while Katie and Megan spotted him from side and behind.

I don't even know what these are, other than pretty.

Once we’d explored seven different alleys and bought all of the souvenirs we needed, we were exhausted and done. Some stores sold cool Moroccan things. Others sold plastic jewelry made in China and bootleg Nokia cellphones. There was no rhythm or rhyme to the snail soup shack next to the pajamas next to the mass-produced leather bracelets.

I walked away with some bracelets, a plate, and some weird soapy-perfumey mineral blocks. (And no scarf, you dumb overpriced scarf man. If anyone sees a reasonable forest and gold paisley scarf, please let me know, as I am now pursuing one). Overall, it felt very touristy or like gambling. Even the best bargainer could get completely ripped off and not ever really know – this was not a winning game and I had thought, since I am a persuasive and persistent arguer, I would love it.

A rare group shot. A common pretty view.

It was definitely a fun and enriching experience, as was everything in Morocco (okay, not the kids jumping under the bus part). I used my remaining dirham on a sandwich and some water and chocolate-covered oreos to share with my friends on the ride home.

I slept fairly straight through the next several hours of transit from bus to ferry to bus. We lost two hours, which landed us in Sevilla at 3:20 AM. You may guess that 9 AM class was unlikely for that morning. It became more unlikely when my neighbors and roommate and I could not find a cab. And walked home in just 45 minutes, all luggage in tow. I was in a complete daze.

By 5:12, I was in bed, exhausted, happy, and slightly more worldly, one might add.