Salam Aleikum from Morocco

Or where the Queen revisits 13% of her roots

Don't let her stunning slavic looks fool you.

Thanks to the recent popularity of DNA kits, the perfect genetic combination that makes our Queen who she is was revealed: The Queen is 13% moroccan.

In fact, 13% is a small ratio compared to the overwhelming presence of Moroccan culture in my childhood home: The food my Polish mother had to learn prepare was Moroccan couscous, the songs my father was constantly humming and whistling were the hauntingly beautiful, rhythmic laments of Moroccan artists he had grown up listening to. We sang those with him, repeating words we did not understand. The family reunions on my father's side were big, joyful and held in Moroccan arabic punctuated with French words.

I would have learned a few arabic words if as a child and later a teenager I had not been deeply ashamed of this noisy heritage. No kid wants to be different, and I was no exception. I preferred to tamper down this exotic part of my life and never bothered to know more than what was forcefully narrated to me. But willingly or not, some stories made their way into my subconscious and they would resurface uninvited during the twelve magical days I spent in this beautiful, welcoming, magical country of Morocco.

First impressions

Hot! Morocco in July is beyond hot and beyond sunny. The Queen of SPF 50 had forgotten that her 13% Moroccan genes were swimming alongside 48.7% of translucent Eastern European counterparts, outnumbering by far the sun-resistant fellows. I quickly learned that life in Morocco during the summer months takes place early AM and late PM, when the heat is bearable and a delightful breeze refreshes your skin. A notable exception to this neverending sauna is the windy area of Essaouira, but more on this gem of a place later.

Messy! I dare anyone to drive a car in Casablanca with a North American attitude. Here, right-of-way is a purely academic concept. If you want to cross an intersection, assertiveness and horn are your tools, not the law. The city streets are encumbered, busy, noisy and downright scary to the non-initiated.

Pedestrians are not spared in this mega-mess. The first time I attempted to cross the street next to my hotel, I simply could not. There was no way to cross, there was no opportunity to be taken without risking my life. An incessant flow of cars entirely oblivious of my desire to get to the other side.

But locals do cross the street, and they barely slow their pace down while they do. At first my strategy was to piggyback the locals. I was their shadow while they risked their lives, and I was right behind using them as a potential shield.

Then, I talked to Mohammed.

Mohammed is a friend, and one of the reasons we were in Casablanca was to attend his daughter's wedding (again, more on that later). He gave me the secret to street survival in the cities of Morocco.

"It is a learning process, but you must always remember no one wants to hit your car or to run you over. All you need to do is make your intention clear, start crossing the street with confidence, very importantly make eye contact with the driver of the car about to hit you, hold the gaze, and keep walking"

Simple and beautiful. It worked. Not only was I crossing streets left and right, I witnessed no accidents. Is there a lesson here?

Friendly! Immediately noticeable, and unrelenting, the friendliness and warmth of the people. It is almost hard to believe at first, how people can be so nice. My cynical mind was automatically programmed to attribute it to a good sense for tourism. Wrong. Everyone is nice, everyone cares. From the obvious niceness of the rental car agent to the shopkeeper who offers you tea only to discuss moroccan oils, and then leaves his shop with you to show you a nice restaurant, from every employee of every business you cross path with to every friend of a friend of a friend you casually meet, to every nurse and janitor in the hospital (Sadly, more on that later too..)

People are nice and accommodating, people look you in the eye, not always the most efficient, not always the quickest to serve you, but why rush when it is so hot and you are having such a good time?

Hot, messy and friendly, what else?

Beautiful, touching and authentic.

If I carry 13% of all that, I am already pretty set up for life.

The wedding

Simon and Maha, the newlyweds. Mohammed, Maya and The Queen trying desperately to fit in.

One of the reasons I came to Morocco was to escort my friend Maya to the wedding of the daughter of her friends, Mohammed and Naima. A traditional Moroccan wedding, with a Henna ceremony the day before.

All in all, this was the wedding that set the bar for me as the most lavish while tasteful, most impressive, most joyful and folkloric two-days feast I ever attended.

Anything I had seen before, and probably everything I will see in the future in terms of big weddings will pale in comparison to this endless deployment of delicacies, dishes, shining caftans, dancers, singers, and most importantly of pure happiness for this beautiful and loving family.

I felt welcome right away, when I left, i had a dozen people I needed to genuinely hug and say emotional goodbyes to.

Naima loaned us traditional caftans, it required special skills to walk with those without wiping the floor, but we were cool.

There were musicians, with unusual instruments, such as Bendirs and Derboukas.

Amazing rhythms.

Truth be told, the Queen is not the best oriental dancer. But look at her, she really tries...

I let go of each and every dietary restriction I usually follow and gorged myself with pastillas, tagines, pastries of all kind, and stopped counting calories after I reached a few thousands.

A good memory, a good intro to Morocco. Lots of happiness to Maha and Simon.

Sidi Kaouki

The second part of the vacation was the small surfing village of Sidi Kaouki. We rejoined a few friends at a small hotel-restaurant, Le Kaouki for 5 days of total relaxation. This is the area of Essaouira, a bigger town with a historic Medina. There, the climate is quite different, temperatures are lower than in Marrakech and the wind is ever present.

Endless sandy beaches, populated by surfers, camels, horses, dogs and jewelry peddlers. If you are into surfing, go nowhere else. If you are not, still go there. It is beautiful and it offers a vision of Morocco away from the hustle and bustle of the big cities. You can cross the streets here without a gazing contest. You can walk in the sand for miles with the water rinsing your feet, you can swim in the neverending waves and get some welcome lymphatic drainage.

You can appreciate Morocco at a slower pace and still experience the same warmth and culture that has beautifully resisted the invasion of modern civilisation.

This is the aspect I liked of Morocco: It is modern, it has all one might need in terms of digital wonders, cellular network, fashion, movies. But it stays true to itself, to its food culture, to its kaftans and hijabs, to its sense of hospitality.

Did I have prejudices before I flew to Morocco? Yes I did.

Did they all vanish the first day of the trip? Yes they did.

Women Hammam, I am hooked

The Queen went to a Hammam.

And true to the spirit of the whole trip, she did not go to a fancy tourist-adapted hammam. She went hard core.

A few words of intro for the uninitiated : The Hammam is a traditional bathing ritual that Moroccan women attend weekly. It includes soaking in warm water, exfoliating the skin with black soap and a kessa glove, and rinsing off.

It costs close to nothing to enter, and just a bit more than nothing to have a woman attached to you who washes and exfoliates you.

The Queen opted for the whole package. She then entered a surreal place, entirely covered with intricate mosaics, populated by oily naked women of all sizes and ages. Being naked is a great equalizer, we are all alike, bigger or smaller, younger or older. No one cares about the size of your derriere, or the scars of your child births.

There was one woman particularly. She was huge. She was beyond huge. She was sitting on the floor, lavishly and sensually rubbing every inch of her enormous body. She was tending to each and every fold, pushing masses of flesh aside to reach all hidden areas. She was taking her time, she was enjoying every minute, and at this moment, she was the most beautiful woman on earth.

The Queen had to adapt a little bit. Although very caring and professional, her washer meant business. She was washing and scrubbing and rinsing. And rinsing was not a gentle drip of clean water from a delicate amphora. It was the washer throwing in the Queen's face the whole content of a huge plastic bucket. The whole ordeal was fantastic, sensual and unforgettable.

The ceremony ends in a vast dressing room, where everyone dresses back into their persona. Some wear pants and shirts, some disappear entirely behind jilbabs and hijabs. But the Queen now knows that under those garments, there are beautifully oiled women bodies.

Should I?

Should I talk about the last days of my stay in Morocco? I really don't want to. But I would miss a big part of the experience if I did not. I will do my best to be concise and only emphasize the points worth emphasizing.

I fell and broke my left foot. Badly.

The foot came out of its socket and created a horror movie scene I will never forget. An angel came out of nowhere (actually the room next to mine at the hotel) and promptly twisted my foot back into place.

By doing that, he saved my foot.

I ended up in surgery and was awarded seven screws and a plate in my bone.

The real story is the hospital, and the doctors and the nurses.

I spent 3 days at the Hopital Universitaire de Marrakech where I received world class medical care. I wasn't expecting that (those prejudices again).

The nurses were like sisters (Fatima, Soued, Affaf, Jamal and other names I could not catch), the Doctor (Tarik Mesaoudi) was caring, dedicated and always present by my side. They managed my pain, my anguish, my hunger (with Tagines and weird concoctions), and they were nice and human, like everyone else in Morocco.

I also had best friend extraordinaire, Maya, by my side, who helped me pee when i was not able to do it by myself. that's a friend.

Here is to them :

My nurses. They poked me with needles, and served me tagines.

Jamal helped me get some clandestine fresh air, while it was strictly forbidden to leave the hospital

The effects of Morphine, a beautiful invention