A Dog-Sitting Adventure

Photos courtesy of www.freephotosBeagles

Linda didn't know much about Beagles, but she wanted to please her step-daughter to keep the peace. "How long will you be away?" she asked Susan.

"Just five days, and we'll be in Key West. So in case of an emergency, we won't be far."

"Is Sargent trained?" Linda asked. "You said he's only a puppy."

"Well, mostly. He's pretty good at night till early morning. We've done some impulse control training with him and relationship-building exercises. I'd keep him on a leash, though, since we didn't finish the focus training without a leash. We never got to where he'd come back on command."

"You know I love dogs, so we'll give it a try. When do you leave?"

"Next Sunday. You won't be able to resist him! We'll call you Sunday morning before we drop him off. Thanks so much!"

"It shouldn't be too bad," Roger said, trying to convince himself. "Beagles are pretty small and they have a happy-go-lucky temperament, don't they? Their tails are always wagging."

"I guess we'll soon find out!" Susan replied. Over the course of the week, Linda removed small carpets and doggie-height accessories and stored them in a closet. She bought a $44.97 machine-washable, faux fur "Calming Dog Bed," sure she'd convince Rog to get a puppy if Sargent was a compatible house guest. She also purchased a collapsible gate, several chewable toys, a special training pad, a chow bowl, doggie treats, and the food Susan had suggested.

The following Sunday morning Susan appeared at the door with Sargent in her arms. Linda and Roger invited them in and closed the door behind them. Susan gave Sargent a kiss on his ear and a last hug while Sargent licked her neck. Then she deposited him and a bag of Sargent's "necessaries" on the floor.

Like a lightning bolt, Sargent was gone. Linda and Roger caught glimpses of his tail as he turned corners, racing from room to room down the hall. "Thanks again," Susan said. "We'll see you on Friday. Call if you have any issues." And then she, too, was gone.

"Sargent! Sargent! Come get a treat," Linda yelled on her way down the hall, as Sargent streaked past toward the kitchen in the opposite direction. "Rog, grab the gate and keep him in there! His bed's in there."

But Roger wasn't fast enough. Sargent skidded on the glossy kitchen floor and escaped past Roger into the living room where Linda stood watching. There, right in front of her, he lifted his leg and squirted against the base of the coffee table.

"Bad dog!" Linda yelled, cradling the dripping Sargent and carrying him to the training pad in the kitchen. "Rog, for God's sake, put up that gate! I'll get the leash and take him outside."

On the leash, Sargent took off after a squirrel and yanked Linda's neck so hard she couldn't turn it back to the right.  Under his belly he began to dig in the soft earth where Linda had planted daffodil bulbs. "No, Sargent!" she yelled, yanking him as hard as he'd yanked her. Not only didn't she want her bulbs disturbed, but God forbid if Sargent chewed them and got sick, or worse, poisoned himself!

She got him back into the kitchen and closed the gate Rog had installed. "I need some Aleve and a glass of wine," Linda announced.

"But it's only 11:00," Rog said.

"It could be 7:00 a.m. for all I care! I'm already exhausted and they just left." While Linda gulped down a couple of pain relievers and poured both of them a glass of wine, Sargent nipped at her ankles. 

"After I get the mess in the living room cleaned up, let's sit down to talk. I don't know what we've gotten ourselves into! Could you get the heating pad for my neck? Sargent yanked me so hard I can't turn it."

On her hands and knees Linda used a cleaning product for urine. She retrieved her glass and plopped down on the sofa next to Rog, who had already plugged in the heating pad. "What's that noise?" she said.

"What noise?" Rog couldn't hear a thing and refused to get hearing aids.

"That scratching noise." Linda dumped the cleaning product and heating pad onto the sofa and headed for the kitchen, wine in one hand.

"Oh no!!! Rog, come here!" When Roger arrived, Linda was inspecting new scratches on the hardwood floor. "I knew I heard scratching. Look at this! We've got to get this puppy off the hardwood. It will have to be refinished! I'm going to put him in the laundry room with his bed and training pad. He can't do any damage to the tiles in there. Please bring some of his toys in."

Linda laid newspapers from the laundry room to the back door and took Sargent for another walk before securing him in the laundry room. Then she and Rog collapsed onto their bed for a nap. Barking awakened them. "Let him bark!" Rog said. "It's like a toddler having a tantrum." Linda got up.

"We're going to get calls from the neighbors." She went down the hall and cracked the laundry room door open.

"I don't believe it! Rog, come look at this!"

"What now?" Not only had Sargent chewed his training pad, he had ripped the clothing into shreds that had been waiting for a wash.

"He must be teething," Roger said.

"No kidding!" Linda said with venom in her voice. "I can't take much more of this. Please get on the phone to Susan and tell her what's happened."

"They're probably in Key West by now," Roger said.

"I don't care. Ask her what she wants us to do."

Roger knew better than to argue. He dialed his daughter. "Honey, it's dad. We have a problem. We can't control Sargent. He's already peed in the house, scratched the floor in the kitchen, torn the laundry to shreds, and yanked Linda's neck so bad on the leash she needs a heating pad. What should we do?"

When Roger got off the phone several minutes later, he showed Linda a piece of paper. On it he'd written a website for training Beagles. "What's this?" Linda said.

"Susan said this website will help us reprogram Sargent's mind so he wants to please us. Then he won't be bored and destructive.  I guess they can't be trained like normal puppies. She already took out a subscription to this website."

"Lovely! We're supposed to spend OUR time finding out how to train HER puppy while she's enjoying herself. She could have told us all this before she dropped him off! I don't want any supper. Get your own!" With that, Linda stormed to the bedroom and slammed the door. A minute later she stuck her head out and yelled, "And don't forget to feed the mutt!"

Roger got on the internet. He learned Beagles' brains weren't wired the same as other dogs' brains. He read step-by-step instructions about when to give Sargent attention and when to ignore him; what tone of voice to use that didn't involve shouting; how to show Sargent who was boss by the way he held him; and how to reward Sargent's good behavior.

Roger fixed himself a sandwich and watched a little television. Linda still hadn't come out of the bedroom. Roger tried to apply some of the things he'd learned when he took Sargent for a walk after they both had supper. Somehow Sargent managed to pull 220-pound Roger to the neighbor's trash can, turn it over, and help himself to some of the contents.

Blood started to drip from Sargent's lip. "What the hell?" Roger said, bending down to examine.

"Got to take Sargent to that 24-hour vet," Roger yelled to Linda inside the house. "He must have cut himself on a tin can in the garbage. I need you to hold him in the car."

Linda's muscular arms that had earned blue ribbons for gardening cradled Sargent in the car. Covered in a knit throw blanket, the Beagle quieted. "Now we know what works!" Roger said. "We'll just keep driving around for five days."

Before bed, they gave Sargent another of the pills prescribed by the vet. Sargent never whimpered all night. They repeated the dose in the morning and got Sargent ready for his car ride. Their pill supply lasted five days. They had asked for a refill in case they needed it.

Florida Re-entry

Like the birds, Charley and I "migrate" twice a year. When the weather turns cold and raw in Massachusetts, we head to Florida. We do the reverse in May when the heat and humidity become suffocating in Florida.

After driving 1500 miles south this October, we unpacked the car,
raised the electric storm shutters, put sheets on our bed, and tumbled to sleep within minutes. Around 1 a.m. I got up to use the bathroom, rousing myself from dreams of lying on the beach, and shuffled with one open eye toward the nightlight. My other eye flew open when I heard a loud hissing noise. "Please, God, not a snake!" was my first thought. I turned on a light and not seeing anything coiled near my feet, headed toward the kitchen.

I didn't get to the kitchen. Squish, squish, squish. My feet hit water across the stone floor. From under the bar a fountain was spurting liquid sunshine down the hall. "Charley! Get up!" I yelled, folding to my knees. A split water hose made a direct hit and doused my face and hair in a second.

"Are you sick?" Charley said, stumbling out of the bedroom.

"Look!" I said, holding my thumb over the split in the hose. "Turn off the faucet under there! I'll get a bucket and towels." I handed him the hose so he could move his thumb into position.

  "The thing is rusted," he yelled, twisting his other arm into the back of the cabinet. "Get some WD40!" A new purple bruise spread across his forearm, as he wedged his football body inside the 2'x4' cabinet, while
water gushed past his thumb.

I ran to grab the WD40, towels, and a bucket, and headed back to my dripping husband who was sitting in water and looked like he'd peed in his pj's. Slowly, slowly, the metal knob began turning. Slowly, slowly, the water began to drip and then stopped. We heard  furniture scraping in the condo below us. "I hope this didn't seep into their apartment!" I said. That was when our phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Mrs. Carey, this is the security guard. Mrs. Rickover in the apartment below you reported water coming through her light fixtures in the ceiling."

"Yes, we've had a hose split in the bar area, but we've turned off the water."

"I'll be right there."

The damage was minimal for both of us, thankfully, but our neighbors called ServPro, to be sure. A plumber came for us the next day and the dripping from the Rickovers' light fixtures stopped without mildew. Their ceiling was intact and the light fixtures functioned. We both ran fans that week, called our insurance companies, and sent carpets out for cleaning. Good thing I'd had to make a pit stop (though I didn't make it back there for quite a while)!

But that was only the beginning...

During the course of the next week we discovered an ice block in the refrigerator ice maker; the internet nonfunctional; the cable out of commission for two televisions; the printer full of a blob of black ink (needed a new printer); sugar ants in the kitchen; and to top it off...I developed an eye infection!

The following week a cavity turned into a root canal.

At least we had sunshine and temperatures in the eighties!

The Flask Fiasco

Another true story...


     Josh couldn't believe his good luck. "Hey, Eric," he said on the phone, "you won't believe it! I just won tickets to the Pats' game next week at Gillette Stadium!"
     "No way?!!? You lucky s.o.b! How did you do that?"
     "I entered an auction at a fundraiser and had the winning bid! I got two other tickets and a limo both ways. Want to go?"
     "You kiddin' me? Course I want to go! It's a night game, right? How much did that set you back?"
     "A  lot less than buying a ticket from a scalper, and it was for a good cause. We could split it three ways. I'm psyched! You think Joe would want to go?"
     "Anybody in his right mind would want to go! Give him a call."
     "O.K. I'll let you know the details. I've got to talk to the limo company and pick up the tickets in the city tomorrow."
   
     On the day of the Patriots' game, the limo proceeded from Boston to Sudbury, Massachusetts, where the three men lived, a distance of approximately twenty-one miles. The driver picked them up at Josh's house in the late afternoon and proceeded to Gillette Stadium in Foxboro, Massachusetts, another 33.5 miles directly south.
     The three men wore navy Superbowl Championship sweat shirts. Red, white, and blue poster paint smeared their cheeks. "Here's my card, in case you need to contact me," the driver said, handing each a business card when he stopped at the drop-off entrance. "This is where I'll meet you after the game." The three bounded out and headed for the security lines.
     "Make sure you have my cell phone number," Josh told the others. "I've got yours. Here are your tickets, in case we get separated."
     Eric and Joe checked their cell phones and headed to the line on the right. Josh headed to the left. "Let's get a beer," Eric said, after the two had made their way through security.
     "What about Josh?"
     "I don't see him. We'll meet him at the seats."
     Twenty minutes later, Eric and Joe had settled in at the forty yard line. Josh hadn't appeared. "Call his cell," Eric said.
     Josh's cell rang and rang without an answer. "I'll go back down to the security line," Eric said. "If he shows up here, call me."
     It took fifteen minutes to buck the throngs of spectators coming into the stadium and maneuver down three ramps toward the security gate they had entered. No sign of Josh. Eric dialed Josh's cell again without an answer and turned around to join the thousands heading to their seats.
     "No sign of him," he said to Joe. "And he isn't answering his cell. What the hell could have happened to him?"
     "Beats me," Joe said. "He'll show up eventually. We got the coin toss, and Belichick likes to receive the second half. Here goes kick-off!"
     At the end of the first quarter, Josh still hadn't shown up. Eric called again without an answer. "Where did he go? There's no answer."
     At the end of the half, Josh still hadn't shown up. Eric called again without an answer.
     At the end of the third quarter, still no Josh and no answer on his cell.
     The game ended at 11:30 P.M. Josh still hadn't appeared. "What the hell should we do?" Eric said.
     "There's nothing we can do but go to the limo. Maybe he got a better seat for the game and he'll be there." Joe took a last swig from his cup and tossed it in a receptacle. "Brady's unbelievable, isn't he?"
     Josh wasn't at the limo. "Where's the other guy?" the driver said.
     "Beats me," Eric answered, red paint dripping down his chin. "He went through a different security line and didn't show up for the game."
     "They probably held him for somethin'. There an arrest warrant out for him?"
     "No way."
     "Well, the traffic getting out of this place is always backed up. It will take at least forty-five minutes, in case he shows up."
     Eric kept calling Josh's cell.  Around 1:00 A.M. the limo turned into Josh's driveway, where the others had left their cars. Eric's cell startled the two men from their semi-stupor in the back seat.
     "Eric! Help me!"
     "Josh? Is that you? Where in hell are you? You didn't show up for the game!"
     "I know I didn't show up. I'm in the brig underneath Gillette Stadium. Can you come get me?"
     "I'll ask the driver to take us back. Hold on."
     After agreeing on a price, the limo driver turned around with Eric and Joe still in the back. Gillette Stadium was a ghost town when they arrived. The floodlights had been turned off and there were no tailgaters in the parking lot. A guard stood near the entrance. Josh stood next to him in handcuffs.
     "Get in," the guard said, unlocking the cuffs and handing Josh off to his friends.
     "What happened? Where have you been?"
     "I had a flask in my pocket and they pulled me out of security and held me in the brig. Thanks for coming back! I heard my cell ring and ring, but they took it away so I couldn't answer. I owe you big time."
     "We're not the only ones you owe! You also owe this guy exactly two hundred big ones," Eric said, pointing to the driver. "And by the way, the Pats won."
   

   
   

   
   

Beam Him Up!

This is a true story...    

     Stan climbed out of his Fast Relief van in front of the nail salon and pulled up the bluejeans that rested below his hips. He scratched himself behind the driver's door, in case the owner was peeking out the window, and slammed it shut.  He turned his baseball cap backward over his blond ponytail, which was held together with an elastic and disappeared into his shirt collar. At the back of the van he retrieved his tool box and threw his wad of gum over the chain link fence.
     Stan jabbed the pass code buttons he'd been told to use on the salon door without success. "Anybody here?" he shouted.
     "Who is it?" Cheryl yelled back.
     "You need a plumber?" A few seconds later the front door of Cheryl's salon opened. "You got a problem here?" Stan asked.
     "I'll need your ID first, Cy - that's your name, right? It's on your shirt," Cheryl said, holding her cell phone in one hand.
     "Actually, my name's Stan. Stan-the-Man, that's me. Forgot my shirt this morning so I borrowed Cy's. I got this here card from the company, though," Stan said, handing Cheryl the company's business card.
     "Well, Stan," Cheryl began, scanning the card, "The pipe between my two sinks is blocked. I have appointments coming in an hour."
     "Not a problem! Stan-the-Man's here! Where's the pipe at?"
     Cheryl led Stan-the-Man to the back room. "I'm going to unplug the washer and dryer while I'm fixin', so don't go trying to do your dirty laundry." Stan-the-Man chuckled at his own joke. "Besides, we can't be too careful with those top-loaders. Front-loaders way better."
     "Why's that?" Cheryl said.
     "Everyone knows top-loaders is where they keep the cameras."
     "Cameras? To take photos of the towels?"
     "No. It's the Army. They can see us. They take photos when we ain't lookin'. I prob'ly shouldn't be telling you this. It's Top Secret. But no electricity, no photos."
     Cheryl's mouth hung open. "You work for the government?" she managed to get out without snickering.
     "No, I'm just tryin' to stop 'em from watchin'. They use digital space where they can. Like in them LED bulbs overhead. Better change those. Can't be watched through the old incandescents."
     Stan-the-Man mumbled something that only the plumbing snake could hear, as it wound its way down into the pipe. "Now turn on the faucets to see if we got it," he instructed.

     Cheryl leaned over the exposed crack of Stan-the-Man, whose butt was no more appealing than his protruding nose. She turned both faucets on full blast. "Are we safe now?" she asked, not realizing she was playing Stan's game.
     "Well, you want to be truly safe, you put tinfoil on the windows," Stan-the-Man responded, rising up with furrowed brows. "That way the infra-red rays can't penetrate."
     "I'll be sure to do that. The water is draining perfectly! I think we're good to go."
     "I'm good to go, as you said, but you'd better not be going anyplace before you replace those bulbs. You got customers to think of. You got a supply of tinfoil here?"
     "Oh, I'll be sure to take care of that after my clients leave," Cheryl said, hovering over her checkbook. What do I owe FR Plumbing?"
     "Just looking out for your welfare! That'll be fifty."
     Cheryl raced to the front door after handing Stan-the-Man her check. She stood with the door open until he had replaced the tools in his box. "Be sure to remember what I told you," Stan said, handing her a receipt on his way out.
     "I sure will," she said, feeling fast relief for the second time that day. She closed and locked the door with one hand while her other hand dialed FR Plumbing.
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   

Ischia, Italy, 2019

     In June, 2019, we again visited the island of Ischia in the Bay of Naples. We noticed subtle changes.

Town of Forio, Ischia

Il Castello, Town of Porto, Ischia

   

Overlooking Forio

     Our hotel, previously owned independently by a family from Naples,

Mezzatorre Hotel pool and tower rooms

had been sold to the Il Pellicano group, owner of three other large hotels in Italy.
     Giovanni, our beloved manager, had retired. The rest of the faces at our hotel remained the same, though Silvestro, the breakfast chef, was no longer cooking our eggs in the dining room but remained hidden in the kitchen. Giorgio, the pool and harbor director, now shared duties with a young man thirty years his junior, who spent time catching up with his friends on his Iphone. We struggled to remember all of the staff names, since their metal name plates had disappeared. "We don't have to wear name tags any longer," Fausto the waiter told us. "I guess any of us can be replaced."
     "Can we reserve our favorite table for dinner?" I asked him.
     "I'm sorry, Mrs. Carey, but we can no longer reserve any tables."

Breakfast chef Silvestro

     The first of two interior dining rooms had been converted into a circus tent with red and cream striping, while the second boasted a mural of dark green foliage reminiscent of an English hunt scene. Gone were the sorbets served at 4 p.m. to those lounging by the pool. Gone were souvenir raffia totes emblazoned with "Mezzatorre Hotel." The ubiquitous white linen draperies, three-foot scented candles, and aqua blown glass, reflecting the sea below, had been replaced with white ceramic guard dogs and circus elephants holding bowls of lemons on their backs. In our room the ambiance of Napoli had been replaced with generic wicker.
     But some things had not changed. Upon arrival, a golf cart picked us up half-way down the mile-long serpentine driveway. Although the new cart could now accommodate four with luggage and boasted a fringed awning, the neighbor's cement wall still veered at ninety-degrees into the hotel's driveway after eight years, making it impossible for anything larger than a Volkswagen "Bug" to approach. Obviously the dispute over territory between the new hotel owner and his neighbor had not been resolved.

Driveway to our hotel blocked for large vehicles by neighbor's stone wall

 

Two hungry seagulls

Stone steps from our room to the sea

   
     Bright green four-inch lizards still scampered away from our feet on stone steps leading from our room to the sea, while seagulls, emboldened by al fresco temptations, swooped above our tented platform.
     During our morning walk I browsed through tee shirts on display on the sidewalk while Charley disappeared inside and emerged with a grin and small paper bag. Since we would celebrate our fifty-fourth anniversary on the island, I figured he'd forgotten to purchase a card and had found one in the shop. I knew from past trips the sentiment would be in Italian, surrounded by champagne glasses and flowers. I was right.

Sunday recreation for the islanders

     When we sat at our favorite cafe for a drink, a local resident stood nearby to sip his espresso. He wore a peach printed shirt with rolled-up sleeves, rust-colored slacks, and matching woven leather loafers without socks. The next day he appeared in a navy and white nautical shirt with rolled-up sleeves, navy slacks, and navy canvas boat shoes. There was always a fashion show in Italy! Of course, there were also exceptions.

Who dressed this guy?

Cards on the beach

     Before walking back to our hotel, I paused inside the cream and white decor of a boutique. The clock on the street read 12:45 p.m. Fifteen minutes later I had selected a few options to take to the dressing room, but the shopkeeper blocked my path. "Cuiso!" (Closed!) she said, pointing to her watch. She shooed us forward as though she were sweeping the floor. Charley and I marched like school children into the street (sans merchandise) so she could enjoy her mid-day pasta.
     What else had not changed? The fragrance of wisteria and white passion flowers as we marched up and down never-ending stone stairs to the sea; the "Buon Giorno Signore and Signora Carey!" and bear hug from every staff member upon our return; the lavender and peach glow of sunset across our al fresco dinner perch; the fishing boats sputtering home at sunset and the screaming seagulls returning to their rookeries above; and the perfection of spaghetti a la vongoli (with clams) accompanied by a glass of local Bianco L'Ella.

Waterfront, Town of Lacco Ameno

   
 

Fruit and vegetable stand, Town of Forio

La  Mortella Botanical Garden

Notes from Morocco, June, 2019, Part III

This is the last in a series of blogs about a recent trip to Morocco. 

     After experiencing the Medina of Fez for four hours, we needed to clean up and chill out. At dinner in the Palais Faraj we enjoyed the company of a friend I'd grown up with and her granddaughter.

Marilyn, Claire, Charley, Pam

Our itineraries intersected at two locations, but their journey would end in the desert (south). Charley and I skipped the desert experience because of the heat in June.

Dinner entertainment in Fez, Morocco

     The following day we headed into the Middle Atlas Mountains. We passed orchards of cherries, nectarines, and peaches, as well as olive groves. After a couple of hours ascending two-lane winding roads with no guard rail, we encountered fog. Our driver “Bob” was not concerned and kept on till we reached the first village, where hundreds of day workers waited in the square to be picked up by orchard owners to work on the Plain of Saiss below. “We’d better turn around,” “Bob” declared, as we made a U-turn in a white-out while the temperature plummeted. In the back seat I wrapped my long wool pashmina over my shoulders and around my neck. 

     “Good idea!” Charley commented. “I was afraid to look down past the side of the car.”  We crept along the white center line down the mountain to the city.

     We drove from Fez south along the coast to Casablanca the next day, passing wide promenades above beaches filled with umbrellas or water parks. Our hotel in that city was on a street barely wide enough for one car, a refuge from the city’s 6,000,000 inhabitants. Shopping malls and condominiums were going up in every direction.

Casablanca skyline

     We made a reservation for dinner at Rick’s Café, made famous in the movie “Casablanca.” Although it was definitely a tourist attraction, the swordfish was excellent ($50 for the two of us, including a drink); we befriended a couple from Australia who owned a B&B on Bali; and we had our photo taken at the piano made famous when Bogart said, “Play it again, Sam.”

Piano in Rick's Cafe, made famous in movie "Casablanca"

   






  The next morning we visited the Hassan II Mosque in Casablanca, one of the few that non-Muslims can enter. With its mammoth interior and hanging balconies (for the women), it can hold 25,000. Another 55,000 can worship in the surrounding plazas overlooking the sea. The ceiling is nearly 200 feet high, although the roof is retractable so that the interior can be turned into a courtyard. Funded through public subscription, designed by a French architect, and built by a team of 35,000 between 1987 and 1993, it is the third-largest mosque in the world.

The many buildings of Hassan II Mosque, Casablanca, 3rd largest in world

Inside mosques, shoes must be removed. Bags are provided for tourists.

Main entrance, Hassan II Mosque, Casablanca

Main entrance, Hassan II Mosque

Balconies for women inside Hassan II Mosque. Women are not permitted to worship with the men.

     Five times a day faithful Muslims hear their call to prayer (the Muezzin) played on a CD. An estimated 99% of Moroccans are Muslim, with the king able to trace his lineage to the Prophet Mohammed. The second most practiced religion is Christianity; Jewish Moroccans remain another minority. Moroccans on the whole tend to be tolerant of other religions, interpreting Islamic laws in a less conservative way than in many Muslim countries. Modesty in women’s dress, for example, emphasizes covering the skin rather than disguising the female form. Young women around the universities wore contemporary clothing that was form-fitting but covered their limbs.

     It was a Friday, Holy Day for Muslims. After we'd visited the Hassan II Mosque, Rasheed (our guide) deposited Charley and me in a café for lunch, where we ordered sweet and savory bastillas, flaky dough with a filling of either chicken or pigeon. Rasheed excused himself to pray at a nearby mosque and was back in fifteen minutes. “If we have no time to pray, we can do so at home,” he explained. 

     In the mosques, shoes are removed upon entering. Men and women are separated, with a women-only section. On Holy Day, especially, all worshipers must purify themselves before prayer. In the Hassan II Mosque on the basement level there were round sinks of marble for worshipers to wash their hands, wrists, elbows, face, ears, ankles, and feet THREE TIMES before entering the upper sanctuary.

      Hammams were for communal bathing, used by Moroccans once a week before going to the mosque. Charley and I didn’t experience the hammam, since we had our own facilities where we were staying. Small, enclosed, dimly-lit to encourage piety and reflection, whether public or private, hammams segregated the sexes and “Salaams” eased anxiety for a tourist in semi-nudity.

Marble cleansing sinks, Hassan II Mosque, Casablanca

     During a trip to Morocco, my friend Pat followed her tour guide to the waiting bus. There were four men and seven women who had signed up for the “hammam experience” in Tangier, after two days in the desert. One of the men was Pat’s husband.

     The hammam is a bathhouse. Since the Moroccans visit the hammam just once a week, there were probably more foul-smelling Moroccans than Western travelers.

     The group drove to the Ouifak Hammam where two gorgeous ladies, Yatto (age 30) and Etoh (age 26), greeted the seven women. The men in the group expressed their disappointment that they had been greeted by a Moroccan male.

     The seven women followed Yatto and Etoh into a changing room, where a large number of women stood in nothing but their panties. Young daughters stood next to their mothers in the same state of undress. Their djellabas and hijabs (robes and headscarves) hung from pegs.

     Any female who’s tried on clothing in a communal Western dressing room can picture the scene—perky boobs still pointing at the ceiling that hadn’t nursed, saggy boobs in a race to reach the navel, and minuscule boobs that raised the question, “Male or female?”

Tile wall in cleansing area of Hassan II Mosque

      Like the others, Pat and her fellow travelers stripped to their panties. Etoh led them through two rooms of white marble to a wall, where she instructed them to sit on a colorful tile floor covered with hot water. She put a blob of dark olive oil soap in each visitor’s palm and asked them to lather themselves, except for their faces.

     SURPRISE! As in the ice bucket challenge, Pat felt the shock of a bucket of Antarctic water flung at her. The only difference was there were no ice cubes.

     Pat was first in the lineup. She heard Etoh say something and point at her. Etoh wanted her to lie on the hot, wet tiles on her back. Pat followed the gestures to the floor.

     Immediately, she felt a loofah mitt scratching her arm. It seemed like steel wool rubbing her skin off. When that arm was done, the attendant scrubbed Pat’s other arm and then her legs, ending with her stomach and chest. The attendant turned her over like a flopping fish and the torture began on her back and legs.

      “Back to the wall, please.” Pat heard and obeyed, waiting till everyone had a turn with the loofah.     

     SURPRISE AGAIN! Buckets of hot water flew through the air to wash Pat’s dead skin and soap down the drain.

     “Please stand up,” Etoh said. She led the seven Western women in a column to a cooler room, where they sat against another wall to . . . SING! The only English song Etoh knew was “Cum-bye-ah, my lord,” so that’s what they sang. Seven naked ladies sitting against a wall singing “Cum-bye-ah.”

     One by one Etoh brought Pat and her now best-buddies forward for the olive oil rub.  Up one side and down the other, but this time Pat’s beet-red skin stayed in place.

     Shampoos followed. On the wet tile floor, her back to the attendant, Pat aimed her nose to the ceiling and felt water dripping down her scalp, like a neophyte in baptism. The attendant worked olive oil shampoo into the wet strands and combed without restraint. Then more buckets of water.

     But wait . . . Pat’s feet were still unclean! A pumice stone fixed that, removing calluses that had built up hiking in the desert, as well as some live skin.

     Ninety minutes later, Pat and her best-best-friends emerged looking radiant. She didn’t tell me how much the “hammam experience” cost, but she said her husband looked like a new man, so it must have been worth it.

     From Casablanca Charley and I drove to Marrakesh and unloaded our luggage at the exquisite Villa des Orangers, an old French villa with a pool, library, game room, garden, small shop, and outdoor terraces for dining. Our room was similar to that in Riad Myra, consisting of a large bedroom with sofa and television and a tiled bathroom with walk-in shower and tub. The young woman who showed us to our room instructed us to put a fez (hat) on the outside of our door if we didn’t want to be disturbed!

     At poolside that evening we watched two wood storks nesting on electric poles behind the hotel.

Ceiling detail, Villa des Orangers, Marrakesh

Courtyard, Villa des Orangers, Marrakesh

     We avoided any drink that contained ice cubes and only drank liquid from bottles. We declined fresh-washed lettuce but ate the ripe, juicy tomatoes and cucumbers without a problem. Our “salads” were individual dishes of sautéed eggplant or cauliflower, stewed tomatoes, fava beans, or corn. For dinner I enjoyed chicken with figs and lemon and Charley devoured his beef with apricots and plums. Both meals had been slow-cooked in tangines with lids resembling circus tents.

     Since we were unaccustomed to the tipping mores, Rasheed stepped forward to tip whenever necessary: the toilet attendant, subjects of photos, etc. When we purchased souvenirs and arranged for delivery to our hotel, he called the shops to confirm delivery. He paid our entrance fees that had not been prearranged through his agency and bought us cold drinks from vending machines. For all this, we gave him $250 after our eight-day trip ended. After studying our guide book, we were able to use the local dirhams to tip.

Outside the Medina, Marrakesh

     The architecture of Marrakesh resembled the flat, adobe-style, red clay buildings of the American southwest. We relaxed in the Yves St. Laurent Museum (fashion, accessories, and culture of the Berbers) and among the bamboo and palms of Jardin Majorelle, owned by the late designer who had lived next door. However, I was most anxious to take a dromedary ride, offered outside the city in a Berber village. Charley declined, since he’d been on a camel in Egypt that had spit at him.

     Badis, a thirty-five-year-old father of two in bright blue robes, matching headpiece, with two overlapping front teeth, pushed me onto my high square seat atop “Madonna.”

     He assured me “Madonna” was a gentle soul. My thighs spread wide and my feet flopped without stirrups. I bumped up and down for about ten minutes, but soon was able to sit back with the gentle swaying rather than bounce in my seat. I became oblivious to the burning in my thighs. After twenty minutes, Badis handed me the reins. The poor dromedary merely followed his master, who walked beside her. The reins were really for photo ops, as this photo illustrates in silhouette.

     We plodded for an hour through acres of dirt and scrub palms toward his Berber village, wrapped behind high sand-colored walls that blended into the acreage. The only sign of life in the village was a baby crying. Rising beyond was a Club Med property and unfinished villas protruding under mechanical cranes. Water bottles, paper bags, and remnants of meals lay strewn across our trail of dirt, with water (sewage?) gurgling up in a pool far behind Badis’ Berber village.

     Motorcycles zoomed over a far hillside as we rounded the final turn of my ride. “That is my boss,” Badis said, pointing to one of the motorcyclists. Badis took almost fifty photos of me on “Madonna” using my cell phone, reminding me that he was a family man. At the end of the ride, I dismounted to join Charley and Rasheed in a café owned by Badis' boss. Badis followed, to collect his payment and his tip. The tents of the café were shredding, there was no food available (only drinks), the children’s carousel had been abandoned, and rest room faucets yielded no water. At least the toilets flushed! “The Berbers could make something of this for tourists, but they don’t care,” Rasheed said.

     We noticed in Casablanca and Rabat that buses and trolleys traversed those cities. Rasheed told us buses serviced the countryside, and a train ran from Tangiers south to Marrakesh. Below Marrakesh,  a bus ran into the desert. As we whizzed back to Casablanca on an eight-lane toll road, square sand-colored villages blended into the landscape, dwarfed by the backdrop of the High Atlas Mountains. 
     Rasheed and "Bob" walked us to our security screening area in the Casablanca airport.  Rasheed  transferred my carry-on bag to me, which he'd been pulling. He handed me his business card and hugged both of us. "Next time, call me direct," he said. "No fees for the agency!"


Read about our return to the island of Ischia, Italy, in my next blog.

    

    

    

    

    

Notes from Morocco, June, 2019, Part II

This is the second in a series based on recent travel to Morocco and the island of Ischia, Italy.

     On our second day in the city of Fez, Morocco, our guide led us through the four MILES of mysterious, mesmerizing, and overwhelming 8^th-century alleyways in the Medina (market in the medieval section of the city). Passing through one of the gates, we entered a time warp, despite numerous satellite dishes on the roofs. During the four hours there, we never retraced our steps! Shafts of sunlight streamed through thatched roofs of covered stalls, donkey drivers shouted “Balek!” (“Watch out!”) while pushing overloaded mules, coppersmiths hammered, and the muezzin CD called the Muslim city to prayer. 

Scene inside the Medina, Fez

     Each section of the Medina had its own specialty: fish, poultry, meats, brass (with zinc and without), woodworking, watch repair, tailoring, fruits, nuts, vegetables, spices, fresh bread, lamps, Oriental carpets, etc., etc. The strong odor of spices yielded to curing leather or fresh fish. The shops resembled caves, with sewing machines whirring at the edge of the workshop nearest pedestrians or jewelers and electricians huddling over work tables to reassemble watches and toasters. Heads of cows, goats, and camels hung outside the shops, advertising the specialties to the illiterate populace (yes, they do eat camel). Animal brains glistened before our eyes, while chickens met their demise on the pavement inside one establishment. Goat shins and hoofs lay in a pile at our feet, forcing us to step over the blood that ran into a drain in the street. Sausages rolled from a machine behind a counter, while the proprietor tied them in loops. At a “restaurant” stall, sausages and kabobs grilled on spits, choking the alley with smoke. “This is important for the customer,” said our guide, Rasheed, pointing to a goat’s hindquarters with intact testicles hanging alongside one of the stalls. “Male meat is more desirable than female meat, and the vendor proves he’s reputable by displaying them. Shoppers can see the testicles are not sewn on!”

Olives

Butchers with sausage machine

Salads

Our guide, Rasheed, buying a snack. Yes, that's a camel's head!

     Rasheed kissed the children he passed in the alleys and bought a pair of sunglasses for a four-year-old girl he’d never seen before. “She reminds me of my granddaughter,” he said. He could have been the mayor of the Medina, receiving shouts of recognition, handshakes, and hugs all along our winding path.

     “You wouldn’t dare touch a child you didn’t know in the States,” I said.  “You would be reported.”

 



   


     We were introduced to a short, rotund, balding man in one of the alleys. “A very rich man,” Rasheed said after they embraced. “He dresses in old clothes like he lives in the Medina because he doesn’t want to be recognized. He owns two shops and a large hotel.”

 







  “This man makes beautiful lamps,” Rasheed said, introducing us to a proprietor seated on a stool outside a storefront along one alley. The man jumped up, shook our hands, and led us to the interior of the building where thousands of glass teardrops in every configuration hung above our heads.

     “Did you create all these beautiful lamps?” I asked him. He nodded affirmatively.

Handmade lamps

     We followed Rasheed into another narrow “cave” where a wood oven burned in a far corner. Its smoke rose through a vent in the two-foot thick walls. “This is our local bread maker,” Rasheed said. “Each family in the Medina places an order for the week.” As we watched, the baker placed flat loaves on a pan with a long handle, similar to those used for pizza in wood ovens. He brought others out of the oven and stacked them on the cement floor.

   “May I take your photo?” I asked the baker, who shook his head affirmatively. Rasheed leaned over and gave the man a few coins, as he did whenever I asked permission for a photo. The baker’s helper, probably his son, placed a number of the hot loaves in a box and took off with the order on his bike. After thanking the baker for the photo, we followed outside and were almost run over by an elderly gentleman on a motorbike. The baker’s son juggled his box and tilted sideways against the wall of the bakery to avoid a collision. A shouting match ensued, with Charley and me in the middle.

     “Calm down,” Rasheed said in Arabic to both men, which did nothing to quell their tempers. After yelling epithets at each other, they continued on their ways. We trotted behind Rasheed like puppies on leashes.

Leather or fakes?

Figs

     I mentioned to Rasheed we were hoping to find a small Oriental carpet to ship home. He led us into a two-story establishment. “If you see something you like, begin negotiations at 50%,” he said. “This is a reputable company so they won’t cheat you. The price will include shipping and tax and another carpet of lesser quality will not be substituted.” Rasheed would receive 10%, of course.

     Charley and I settled onto sofas in the large covered atrium of the store. Along the walls, beneath our feet, thrown over furniture, and hanging from the two-story ceiling were Berbers, Kilims, Kirmans, Tabrizes, You-Name-It. In a room in front of us, two women wove knots onto the fringes of small carpets. In a room behind us, a family of Americans negotiated a price for the carpet at their feet. Rasheed introduced us to the owner’s son, Abdul, who offered mint tea or bottles of water. “You speak English very well,” I said to him.

     “I attended university in the States,” he replied. I showed Abdul a photo on my phone of the Bokhara pattern and coloration we were looking for. “Follow me into this room, please,” he said. We went into another room that was bigger than any of the others. More carpets hung from wooden frames along the walls and from the ceiling.

     We settled into another sofa. In front of us two men unrolled an 8x10’ Kirman in shades of beige and blue. Not even close to what we were looking for! Next they unrolled a 6x8’ Berber in vibrant reds. Even further off! The carpets continued to get smaller and smaller the more we shook our heads. “Abdul, please look at my photo again.” After thirty minutes of sipping water and shaking our heads, a small rust, beige, and black carpet unrolled in front of us.

     “This is the finest quality silk from Uzbekistan,” Abdul said. “The weaver signed his name in the corner.” We bent over and peered at the weaver's name. The size of the carpet was perfect but the coloration a little too dark.

     “Too dark,” I said. Two men flipped the carpet over. The colors were perfect, though the weave was much flatter. “Is this the price?” I asked, looking at the tag.

     “What would you like to pay?”

     I named a price one-quarter of the Euros on the tag. “No, I can’t do that,” Abdul said. “What would you like to pay?” he repeated.

     I named a price with a 60% discount. “This is silk of the highest quality,” Abdul reasserted. We agreed on a 50% discount. “Now I want you to put your initials on the wrong side in the corner so you will know there are no substitutes from my father’s store,” he said, handing me a magic marker with permanent black ink. We told Abdul the date we would arrive home and signed the necessary paperwork. Our purchase awaited us when we got home, with my initials on the corner. When I stood over the carpet under the lights in our home, its flaws jumped out at me. I should have been more diligent in the showroom!

     “You’ll be the only one to notice,” Charley said. “Besides, they give it character.”

Our purchase in the Medina of Fez. Lighting is distorting the evenness of the coloration.

     Having completed our purchase, we continued behind Rasheed through the Medina. “Look up at that apartment building,” he said, pointing at a four-story building the color of sand. “There was an earthquake in Agadir, southwest of Fez, in 1960 that killed 1500. UNESCO provided funds to rebuild the Medinas, but look what they did with the money!” We stared at wooden struts that buttressed the rear and underpinning of the building. “Another earthquake would be a catastrophe!” he said.

     Rasheed explained that the Berbers in the country consist of Arabs, Moors, and Africans that are direct descendants of the pre-Arabs of northern Africa. Berbers total 36 million, though the nomads of the country are not counted in the census. The southern regions, where most nomads live, have been marginalized and nomad communities can be found in their original state. “It’s a different country where they exist,” Rasheed said.

     Our final stop in the Medina of Fez was the medieval tannery. Rasheed led us into a leather shop crammed with jackets, purses, hats, gloves, and traditional slippers of every color. A shopkeeper handed us a few sprigs of fresh mint to smother the smell of decaying animal flesh from the sheep, goats, cows, and camels being processed outside. We declined his suggestions for purchase, but manipulated the soft skins that felt like butter. Giving up on a sale, he led us to wooden stairs in the back of the showroom. At the top we stepped onto a terrace (Terrasse des Tanneurs) with a spectacular view of the dyeing vats. The fresh mint beneath our noses was hardly enough to deter the fetid smell.

Bleaching and tanning vats, Fez Medina

     The shopkeeper explained that at the top right in our view the skins were piled with their furs. In succession they entered concrete vats of saline, quicklime, pigeon droppings, and any of several natural dyes: poppies for red, turmeric for yellow, saffron for orange, indigo for blue, and mint for green. Barefoot workers in shorts picked up the skins from the bottoms of the vats with their feet, and worked them manually. The job was VERY well-paid and in demand for a strong export market. 

Follow our journey in my next blog through Casablanca and Marrakesh, where I had my first camel ride.