City II City

I don't have a sweet little story for you, just tidbits of windy towns and winding roads. We left Marrakech for Essaouira, Essaouira for Casablanca, and Casablanca for Fes. Essaouira is a beautiful seaside town, all crashing waves and rocks and ramparts.  The fish market was in full swing every morning, as troupes of boys hauled the big blue fishing boats in and out of the water and the fishermen displayed their catch at little tables.

We spent the (theoretically) 6 hour bus-ride from Essaouira to Casablanca chatting with an Australian couple, our new favourite people.  The view out the windows was often pretty spectacular as well, as the landscape varied from desert to lush fields.

Our new friends Robin and Michael tipped us off to the existence of a giant mosque in Casablanca that non-Muslims are allowed into.  Casablanca is otherwise a sprawling industrial city, an economic engine baring little resemblance to Hollywood movies of yore.

The Mosque was as impressive as promised.  It was built just recently in a direct effort to give Casablanca a jewel - something to anchor the city on the tourist circuit.  It was unbelievably enormous and ornate, with plush rugs covering the floors and exquisite tiling and carving at every turn.

We spent just one night in Casablanca and then hopped on a train for Fes. My mom adores trains so I think that maybe made up for the lack of alcohol in this country? (I doubt it - girl likes her wine.)

Fes is nice, so far.  My mom and I have agreed that it's definitely her feminine charms attracting the 20 or so propositions directed our way every day. "Hey, where you from? Holland? You're beautiful. Ca va? You speak English?"  It would be flattering if their intentions weren't written all over their faces. As it stands, mostly creepy.  I've taken to telling them (on my mom's behalf, obviously) that I'm from Kazakhstan and I don't speak a word of French (the common tourist language here.) Sadly I also don't speak English. Or Kazakh. 

Brave Dispatches II: So Fresh and So Clean

Ahhhh, hammam. Hammams (pronounced as two syllables - ham-mam) are Moroccan bathhouses. Locals do most of their bathing at these public steamrooms, heading to them twice a week to scrub themselves with black soap made from olive oil and charcoal and rinse themselves clean with scoops of water.

The hammams are heated by pipes running under the tiled floors. Everyone brings a bucket or two to fill with water from the pipes. Get your bucket, sit your (naked) butt down, and get scrubbing. It's also a super social experience - kids play together while their moms chatter and wash.  There are, obviously, seperate hammams for men and women (or divided hours).  

As you've probably guessed by now, I'm telling you all this because we visited one today. Our riad offers a visit (scrubbing included) and we couldn't resist. It took about an hour in all - we were scrubbed briskly, pulled around the place by the hand, lain on the ground to enjoy the heat coming through the tiles and rinsed clean via buckets of water over our heads.  It really does feel like we have new skin after all the scrubbing - getting rid of a couple of days worth of Marrakechi grime sticking to your body is a great feeling, let me tell you.

All in all, a good experience. I think my mom is starting to itch for some home comforts (she needs a GIANT cup of coffee, not a teacup of coffee, people!) but I'm just getting the adventure ball rolling. She'll be sipping tiny, super sweet mint teas with the rest of us in no time.  Until next time, bon voyage on all your own journeys (be they to the Casablanca or Casa Ritchie).

To Essaouira tomorrow! (Unless we change our minds...)

Brave Dispatches

Two nights in London, not a single funny story to be had. It was altogether nice, though.

I have this idea in my head, a mental catalogue called Things I Have Seen. I expanded it these last few days with a trip to the British Library and wanders around neighbourhoods I'd never bothered to visit before. I also ironed in a few old favourites - the Tate Modern, particularly, but a general rewandering around the grandly historic areas of London. For a history nerd like me, there's a distinct thrill to even just seeing objects or places once owned and inhabited by famous historic personages. Things I Have Seen, then, got a few highlights and underlines as I thrilled at Wordsworth's scribbles at the British Library and gaped at the statues in Trafalgar Square.

I've met my mother - she successfully navigated her way from Heathrow to Gatwick despite crutches and two different shoes. We're on a flight now to Marrakech - a city I doubt I'll be describing in words so soothing as "altogether nice."

As the title of this post (and obviously my future book) alludes, I'm clearly not the first person to ever go to London. I know I sometimes find other traveller's breathless reports of Mexican beaches or NYC cityscapes irritating - however, it's my belief that you're reading this because you'd like to be and therefore appreciate my posts on the day-to-days of travelling.  As such, I will proceed to blog, confident in the knowledge that I am indeed the first person ever to travel to London.  My brave dispatches will continue in this vein. 

PS. We're in Morocco now!