Last Scenes of Marrakech
When I see a sign like this, I get an almost irresistible urge to follow the road, to see what's over the hill.
A Moroccan stop sign.
In Mexico, they say "ALTO." Here, you can't even sound out the word. But its meaning is unmistakable.
This walk-away fruit vendor has what seems to be the standard offering in Marrakech: pineapple and cocoanut.
Street vendors in San Miguel have less elaborate presentation, more different kinds of fruit, and they'll sprinkle chile powder and lime juice on it for you. I've learned to like it that way.
Men hold hands. To me there's a sort of sweetness to the custom.
Once during an all-male dinner party in Seoul, one of the Korean guests held my hand while we stood side-by-side, appreciating our host's koi collection. I felt terribly awkward, at the same time realizing that I was just uptight and that I was holding back from experiencing a moment of friendship. As U. S. culture demands, I stopped holding hands with males when I approached adolescence. Moroccan and Russian men, among others, don't develop an aversion to this simple gesture.
A cute kid goes shopping with his mother. Or his grandmother. Or Michael Jackson for all I know.
All together now: AWWWW.
Jean triumphs in the bazaar. His asking price for the quilty looking cloth on the floor was Dh 1800.
Her price was much less. It took Jean a half hour to strike a deal for Dh 700. Way to go, Jean. I think.
Morocco deserves a harder look. We'll be back in a year or two for a look at more of the country. We'll rent a car and follow the arrows on that directional sign, to see the really, really big souk at Fez, to visit a couple of oases, to drive into the Atlas mountains.
And Jean will bring much bigger luggage. Empty luggage. You know why.