We’re always really sad to leave Morocco.  For several days before we go I tear up occasionally when I see the kids having a cuddle with an auntie or uncle, and there’s always a lot of crying when we leave for the airport.  I dread that moment.

Sunday night I got everything packed up and got to bed pretty late – around 1 a.m., planning to get up at 8 to head out for the airport at 10.  Seven hours of sleep is pretty good compared to my normal sleep habits.  At about 4 a.m. I heard the dreaded words, “Mom, I puked.”  I opened my eyes just in time to see Aliya throw up again on the comforter she was sleeping on.  I got her cleaned up and put back to bed, and then spent (what felt like) the rest of the night obsessing about how I was going to get a puking kid through the journey home.  Adlani had been poked in the eye the day before and had not opened his eyes since (this is the 4th or 5th time he has spent several days with his eyes closed after a minor eye injury), so I already had a blind kid.  Now I had a vomiting kid, along with Norah who is enough of a handful under normal circumstances but was now pretending to also have a stomach bug because of the sympathy and positive attention.

I finally fell back to sleep and woke up at 7 to obsess some more.  I started to feel like maybe I was sick too, and wondering what would happen if I puked or fainted at the airport, whether we’d have a problem getting through immigration with Blind Boy, and where Aliya would put the zip-lock bag I was going to make her carry in case she needed to puke (the only outfit she had left didn’t have pockets).  I decided that if there was ever a time to take one of my public-speaking pills, this was it, and I felt much better.  I got everyone ready to go, the 9 big bags and 6 carry-ons were loaded into the car, the crying commenced, and we were on our way.

To enter the airport in Casablanca, you have to go through a metal detector, and each bag is scanned.  I’ll give them credit…they picked out one particular bag and asked me to take it to a security guy.  I didn’t realize when I purchased the key to the castle in Marrakech (I’ve just got to find the right castle), that it looks very much like a gun on an x-ray, especially when jumbled up with a bunch of locks.  I pulled it out to show him…I think he must have thought it was some sort of a test because I would be the last person he’d expect to have a gun in their luggage.  He seemed relieved, and then sent me to another group of security guys to show them.  They told us that we’d have to check it and couldn’t take it in a carry-on, which was my plan anyway.

At the next security station I tried to ply them with my best Arabic so they wouldn’t dig around too much in our bags.  I didn’t have any contraband but it had taken me days to get it all situated and I didn’t want to have to unwrap anything.  We had a ton of food that the aunties were sending home to my nieces and sister-in-law here, which is really heavy.  The security guy pulled out one package and I told him it was “shebekkia,” which is like a type of cookie.  With a totally straight face he said that I couldn’t take shebekkia out of Morocco.  I wasn’t buying it, because we had done it before.  Then he asked if I liked shebekkia, I lied and said yes, and he said, that it was ok for me to take it.  I have not met many Moroccan security guys with a sense of humor.

We didn’t have a scale at home to weigh the bags, but only one turned out to be more than a kilogram overweight, so I pulled out a bucket of shebekkia and turned it into a 7th carry-on.  I got the boarding passes and was shocked to see that the boarding time was 12:10, for a 2 p.m. flight.  As it turns out, there was a time change in Morocco at the start of Ramadan, which for some reason also changed the departure time to one hour earlier (I think this is related to the fact that the date of Ramadan isn’t known ahead of time so the time on our ticket was the pre-change time).  Luckily we had left a cushion, because by the time I filled out the immigration forms, got Blind Boy, Vomit Girl, and the Faker through another security check and to the gate, the plane was boarding.  Our carry-ons were examined at the gate again, but luckily the agents were my shebekkia friends from downstairs.  Then I had to go behind a curtain and be frisked (Norah: “OK Mom, they’re gonna pull your pants down now.”) by a female agent.  Every adult who got on the plane was given a thorough pat-down.  Very thorough.

On the flight home I chatted with my neighbors across the aisle which really helped pass the time.  The flight was pretty uneventful and took about 7 1/2 hours.  We had lunch and then a Ramadan “breakfast,” although most people on the flight weren’t fasting.  You’re not required to fast if you’re traveling.  Immigration and customs went smoothly, we found a porter to help with our 9 bags, got on the parking shuttle, fought for my 20% corporate discount on parking ($280 for 3 weeks), and two of the parking guys loaded all of the bags into the car including the two strapped onto the roof.  That was unexpected and awesome.

The traffic wasn’t bad and we got out of NYC with no problem.  We decided to stop for dinner because it had been such a long day and we needed a break, and we ended up in Westport, Connecticut.  Dinner was great, and we were back on the road by 9.  It was at that point that I realized that by the time we got home at 11:30 p.m., it would be 3:30 a.m. Morocco-time.  Driving the last couple of hours was h*ll.  I drove while Ben napped, and then Ben drove the last hour or so.  We hauled bags and kids into the house and passed out.

This morning I woke up and realized that the cat was missing.  We looked everywhere for her and she definitely wasn’t in the house.  I couldn’t handle another unexplained cat death and I was just praying I wasn’t going to find her remains locked in somewhere.  I finally found her tonight outside.  I don’t know how long she had been out there but she was not happy. 

Ben did a lot of the unpacking while I worked today, and we’re getting back into the groove.  We’re very happy that yesterday’s long journey is over but we miss our peeps and the pace of Morocco.  Maybe we won’t be able to wait until 2014 to go back. 

My key to the castle:

Some (not all) of the stuff we brought back:

Here are a few pics of our accommodations in Ben’s brother and sister’s house:

The roof, where it all happens:

Looking up at our sad peeps:

Ben and Adlani wishing they could stay another day:

We finally sent our postcards yesterday so I hope y’all weren’t holding your breath.  Here are a few of Norah’s postcards…

Dear Nurse Mary, I like Morocco.  I am excited about primer grado (first grade).  Love, Norah

Dear Jazmyn, I wish you had come to Morocco, and my tooth fell out.  Love, Norah

Dear Gordon, I love the moussem.  They shot their guns.  There was smoke everywhere.  Love, Norah

The last few days have been very quiet.  We kept expecting the start of Ramadan and then finding out that it was not the next day.  It seems like the start date should be available ahead of time, since it goes by the phases of the moon and we can calculate when the new moon will be visible from any location, but that’s the western me talking.  Here, they wait to hear the siren indicating that fasting begins the next day.  They thought it might be Thursday or Friday, but the first day was actually Saturday.

I fasted yesterday in solidarity with my family.  The day typically starts with a light breakfast before sunrise (the meal is called s’hor), so I figured I could make it to 7:38 p.m. without eating or drinking if I woke up for the early meal (before 4:00 a.m.).  I heard some commotion in the middle of the night and figured that the girls were making food, but when I woke up again it was light out.  This has happened at home – I’ve missed the alarm and not woken Ben up to eat.  I always feel SO bad.  I couldn’t imagine why the girls didn’t wake us up to eat.  Then I found out that NOBODY ate.  They got up early to get everything ready, but by the time they had it on the table they heard the call to prayer and had to put it all away without eating.

I had been obsessing a bit over whether I’d be able to go all day without eating and especially drinking, so when I missed s’hor I really didn’t think I’d be able to do it.  But all of the other adults were fasting so I felt weird eating when they couldn’t.  I just took it one hour at a time, and it wasn’t that bad!  I thought I’d really chow down at dinner but I didn’t.  I think the fact that Moroccans don’t load up their plate and then try to finish it all really helps with portion control.  You just eat what you feel like eating and have fruit for dessert.

So anyway, we’ve spent the last few days around Mohammedia, with a little shopping, a trip to the beach, and a lot of packing.  We’ve given away most of our clothes so we have plenty of room for all the stuff we bought, but I had to figure out how to wrap it so that it would make it home in one piece.  Near our house there are several guys who make the Moroccan sofas (sdeddr) and they use a think pink foam, so we bought some and used it to wrap each piece of pottery.  It worked great!  I guess the proof will be when we get home but everything feels pretty secure.

It seems like we should have less bags than we came with since we brought so much for other people, but I think we’re actually going home with one extra piece.  Getting it loaded onto the top of the car will be a challenge without the stepladder and after a whole day of travel, but we’ll get there.  I think I’ve convinced Ben not to fast tomorrow.  People who are traveling or sick are not required to fast, and I’m worried that with the long flight, the 4-hour time difference, and his diabetes, it could be a recipe for disaster.  Instead of fasting for 16 hours, he would have to fast for 20 hours because it’s 4 hours earlier at home.  Our flight leaves here at 2:00 p.m. and arrives in NYC at 5:15 p.m., then we have to get through customs and get everything loaded, before the 3 1/2-hour drive home.  We’re going to be exhausted.  I don’t need an episode of diabetic shock to round out the day.

This morning we went to the souk to deliver the photos we took.  We found the butchers (Hamid and Aziz) right away, but it was kind of like a scavenger hunt finding the rest.  There are tons of people selling each item (olives, veggies, spices, mint and parsley, etc.), so we had to stand in front of the stalls and try to match up details to find the right one.  The people were really happy though.  We ended up with 4 people that we couldn’t find because there are certain things that aren’t sold during Ramadan, like squash for couscous (apparently people don’t eat couscous during Ramadan) or ready-to-eat things (since nobody’s eating).  We left the extra photos with the Hamid and Aziz so hopefully they’ll find their way to their rightful owners.  It was fun, but everyone was wondering what we were up to.

This afternoon we went back to the regular market area (not the weekly souk) to deliver a few more photos – to the locksmith who spent time answering my questions about his business, the young guy who makes the ouarka – basically like phyllo dough – one piece at a time (very cool), and the guy who polishes and sells old brass, copper, etc.  I sought him out the other day, remembering where he was located from another visit.  While we were negotiating over a couple of pieces (check out the beautiful copper bucket below), I asked if he had been working in that spot a long time…basically wondering if it was the same guy I bought some trays from a long time ago.  He said that he had been there forever, and then said that he remembered me from one time when I came with my brother.  That was in January of 2003.  Isn’t that amazing??

Tonight we were invited to “breakfast” (breaking the fast) with the lady who made my shirts, who is the sister of the wife of one of Ben’s friends whose four kids we brought sneakers for.  Apparently that entitles us to breakfast and a good price on my shirts.  She somehow got all of them done and they look and fit great!  We had a great time and it was nice getting to know yet another Moroccan family.  Everyone I’ve met has been so welcoming and hospitable.

Except for the pickpocket which I forgot to mention.  When we went to the souk, I was walking ahead of Ben and I heard him talking to someone, so I turned around and saw a guy grinning and hugging Ben’s leg.  I had no idea what was going on…I thought they knew each other.  We’re always being approached by long-lost friends and acquaintances…just today I heard someone saying, “Adlani?” which was Ben’s father’s name, and it was one of Ben’s old friends.  Another old friend came across the street from his hardware store and he spoke English but said American locks were too expensive, which is true.  Anyway…Ben tore his ACL playing soccer so he’s wearing a knee brace, and that was the leg the guy in the souk was hugging.  Then I saw Ben freak out, grab the guy’s face, yell at him, and push him away.  I thought he was mad that the guy was touching his bad knee.  I turns out that the guy “accidentally” bumped into Ben, then was joking around about whether he hurt Ben and maybe they should get the police involved, when Ben felt his hand in his pocket.  He had about $300 in there so it would have been a big payday for the “sheffar” (thief).  Luckily he got nothing and Ben has had a good story to tell about 200 times today.

Time to pack up the last of our stuff and get ready for a long trip tomorrow!

I have some more photos but Ben took my SD card reader so they will have to wait.  Here are a few…

This is the brass/copper guy who recognized me:

This is the copper pot he’s polishing in the photo above.  I paid $35 for it.

Some of our purchases wrapped in the pink stuff:

This locksmith was so nice, and was really happy and surprised when I brought a copy of his photo:

This kid amazed me…he was making individual sheets of ouarka (phyllo dough).  He would take a handful of the gooey dough, wipe it directly onto the hot surface with a gas burner underneath, and then lift off the sheet, put it on the pile, and brush a little oil onto it.  He said that the pan was hot but he had gotten used to it.  I took a video of the process which I will post after I get home.

Baby chicks for sale on the sidewalk:

One thing I always do when we’re in Morocco is have henna designs applied to my hands and feet.  I wait until just before we go back home, so the design lasts beyond the vacation.  The henna I’ve had in the past leaves a brownish/orange design on the skin.  It is subtle, and beautiful.

Today was the day for us to get our henna tattoos.  When I sat down with the henna artist, she asked in Arabic if I wanted the regular henna or the black one.  I had never even heard of black henna, but my sisters-in-law and nieces said it was “ouwadda,” which has always been a good thing although I’m not sure of the exact translation.  She asked if I was allergic to it and Ben translated that if I was allergic I could get “pimples.”  It’s tough to know whether you’re allergic to something when you don’t know what it is.  I thought it was a different kind of henna.  I asked a couple of questions but the language barrier was an issue and the artist said she would do a mix of regular and black henna.  After almost 3 weeks here I am chill to the point that I just went along with it.

I wish I’d Googled black henna but I didn’t do it until after she was done.  Black henna has PPD added to it – a chemical that is present in a lot of hair dyes.  It can cause serious allergic reactions and lifelong sensitivities.  The reaction is typically delayed so if I do have a reaction it probably won’t happen until I’m headed home, which will at least allow me to get to a dermatologist quickly.  After reading a lot about black henna on the internet, it makes me really mad that people are using this chemical even though it can cause serious damage.  I think the motivation is financial…people want the darker, longer-lasting temporary tattoos, and the artists can charge more for them.

Chances are I won’t have a reaction, but I definitely wouldn’t have had the black henna if I had known.  Plus I don’t like it as much since it looks kind of like someone drew on me with a black Sharpie.  Oh well…makayn mooshkeel, unless it becomes a mooshkeel (problem) within 2 to 7 days.  Keep your fingers crossed for me.  I’m very thankful that I didn’t cave in to Norah’s insistence that she wanted black henna too.  Both of the girls got the natural henna.