Volubilis

July 14, 2013

From where we parked our van and paid to enter the ancient village of Volubilis, it was a hard climb up a hill in temperatures of over 100 degrees.  When we reached the ancient village, we were awestruck by the view of the valley below, filled with harvested grain, grape vineyards, and olive tree orchards, a beautiful and obviously fertile valley.

The gate to the city still stands.

According to our guide, the original city was developed in the third century BC onwards by the Phoenicians.  Romans in the first century captured the city and enslaved the Berbers who lived there.  Volubilis was inhabited by 15,000 people; half were Berber slaves.  An aquaduct started at the top of the hill and ran throughout the city, bringing water to the fountains, horse troughs, wash troughs, and solarium. 

Main Street had been uncovered by archeologists, paved with large boulders leading from the entrance gate at the top of the hill to the exit gate below.  One side of the Main Street was for the plebes; the other was for the patricians. 

The markets are still marked with rock etchings of chicken, bread, wine, goats, and pastries.  I could just imagine walking down a bustling street with other Romans or Berbers two thousand years ago.

We saw the mill, where the grain would have been ground into meal for their bread.  Imagine watching the whole process, the grinding, the baking, the smell of the fresh bread, probably not too different from the loaves you might eat in Italy today.

Although most of the walls are gone, many Roman columns (all different kinds that you studied in Humanities) are still standing.

See the bird's nest on top of one of the columns?

  

This is the solarium, where the patricians lounged in the sun.
It would have been filled with water from the aquaduct.

The foundations of the houses, several of which still have mosaic tile floors intact, decorated with scenes from Roman mythology, were uncovered by French archeologists.  It made me sad to see them open to the sky, the sun, and the rain, surrounded by wild fennel, weeds, and sticker bushes.

The stone where the slaves washed the togas was rubbed smooth with their scrubbing.  Nearby was the water trough for the horses.

Of course, there was a podium for speeches.  I couldn't help but remember all the times I taught Julius Caesar to my tenth graders, imagining Brutus giving his speech behind this podium, "Friends, Romans, Countrymen, lend me your ears."  Well, I know it wasn't Rome, but still...

Our guide, a local, teaching us some Roman history.

My favorite ruin was the foundation of the house of a rich politician.  These steps led into the home of the patrician, who owned the largest house in the city.

Our guide showed us where his toilet was--with six marble seats.  He told us that in the winter, the toilet seats were first warmed by the slaves.  The politician would invite his friends over to join him in the toilet, where they would discuss politics. 

Nearby was a vomitorium, where they could relieve themselves if they ate too much rich food.

An Arc de Triumph over Calligula still stands, having been rebuilt by French archeologists.  

The morning glory was the symbol of the city; we saw a couple of tiles of that flower.  

The remains of the temple, 
where the Romans worshipped those Gods you studied in Roman mythology.  

The altar

I included a couple of etchings for my Latin teacher friend to translate for us. 

 

 

As we left, looking over the whole city ruins, baking in the hot sun, I was amazed that it’s just sitting there, barely attended to, when so much could still be uncovered there.  It made me want to become an archeologist.  I think I might be too old to start a new profession, though.

Jerry, smelling the wild fennel.

Casablanca

July 12, 2013

Groggy from sleep and scotch, we had no trouble catching a taxi from the train station to the hotel at 5 in the morning, but when we started to get out, there was a confusion about the cost of the taxi.  Jerry asked me to go inside the hotel to get change.  It was pretty dark inside the lobby.  No one was at the receptionist desk, so I called out, and the receptionist came from somewhere back in the office.  I'm sure I had awakened him.  When I asked for change, he asked how much the driver was charging us.  Soon the doorman was out of his nook by the front door, outside helping Jerry communicate with the taxi driver. The taxi driver was trying to overcharge us for the ride.  The doorman was telling him so, and the driver was mad.  Finally, he accepted the agreed upon price. This was Jerry's second experience in dealing with dirhams, and with the language barrier, everything was confusing. We were glad to have the porter's help.

We had arrived at the Hotel Morocco.  The receptionist presented us an enormous key but said meaningfully, "For decoration."  He explained that the smaller key would open our door, and the card like an American hotel card, would turn on the lights in the room.  The bellboy carried our bags up with us and opened the creaking door.  "Be careful to step over this board at the bottom," he said.  Later we would learn that traditionally in Morocco, there are two doors, a smaller one inside the larger one. This big blue door creaked like one in Frankenstein's castle.  We understood why the receptionist told us the big key was for decoration.  There was a keyhole big enough for it to fit, one you could actually peep through.

 

Our room was sky blue, the ceiling darker blue.  The beds were covered with a silky canopy, and the walls were decorated with paintings of women in a harem.  All the furniture was wood, hand painted with designs familiar to us from the Alhambra and with elaborate cushions.  Jerry and I collapsed into separate beds and slept late.

In the morning we were able to see the lobby much better.  The walls were covered with painted tiles like the Alhambra, the wooden chairs were hand painted with cushions.  An elaborate and colorful chandelier hung from the ceiling.  One room was large chairs with red velvet seats.  

Upstairs, breakfast was served on the mezzanine, with table of food surrounding three sides of the room.  The coffee was too strong to drink. Rather than filling mine with hot milk, I added hot water.  We chose from an assortment of fruits, cheeses, juices, and breads.  An attended cooked us omelets, adding the ingredients we asked for.  The walls of the rooms were surrounded with couches with elaborately embroidered red pillows and seats. We sat at one of the tables to eat our breakfast.  The last table was filled with plate after plate of cookies and other baked treats.

  

After breakfast, we asked where we could find a laundromat to wash our clothes.  No one had a clue what we were talking about.  I was reminded of the villager I had met in Uganda who had asked us what we thought of technology.  "I hear that in America they have machines that will do your laundry for you. Why do they want to take people's jobs away?"  The daytime receptionist told us the hotel laundress would be glad to do our laundry, but when we looked at the price list, we changed our minds.  Twenty dirhams (about $2.00) for "drawers" and socks, much more for shirts and trousers.  

Jerry and I went back to our room and sorted through our clothes.  We picked a few shirts and shorts to send to the hotel laundress wash but decided to wash the rest in our bathroom.  I guess I could have used the bidet, but I washed my undies in the bathroom sink.  Jerry hung lines across the room, and we left our clothes hanging as we took off for a walk through Casablanca.  

All the shops were closed.  We didn't know until then that Friday is prayer day for the Muslims.  It was rush hour, and the drivers were frustrated.  Except for the main streets, many intersections had no stop signs, so it was every man for himself.  We headed back to our hotel for a nap, listening to the cars honking outside.  We looked at our watch.  Yes, 3:00--the same time the Muslims on the ferry had gotten so cranky.  Still a long time until sundown.

We checked our Lonely Planet again and discovered Rick's Cafe was within walking distance.  Dressed in clean clothes, we strolled several blocks toward Rick's.  On one side of the street we could see the harbor behind a wall.  We spotted Rick's Cafe and walked toward it.  Beside the cafe, we came upon a sign announcing the refurbishment of the Medina.  Medina means "old city," and the sign declared it would be the new old Medina, an understandable oxymoron.  The neighborhood around the construction was full of children and families.  They recognized we were tourists but still were friendly, even though the ma in this photo asked us not to take their pictures.  (Sorry, too late.) There were a few little shops where you could buy bread or cigarettes or food. A pile of garbage stunk up one section of the neighborhood.  Kids played in the street, their parents nearby. 

Turning the corner, Jerry and I approached the door of the cafe.  It was one part of a much larger building, but only the cafe was freshly painted white.  The entrance was right by a curve in the road.  A doorman stood outside the door.  As Jerry and I looked at the posted menu (in English and French), he asked us in English if we wanted drinks only or dinner.  The Lonely Planet book told us that few locals visited Rick's Cafe.  Maybe they weren't familiar with the movie, or maybe it was too American or too expensive.  We told him dinner, and he escorted us inside, where the maitre'd called us a waiter. 

We passed the downstairs room, with its black and white floor that reminded me of a M. C. Escher painting.  We saw "Sam's" piano, but the waiter said the pianist, whose real name was Issam, would not begin until 9 p.m.  We were going to have to make this dinner last a while.  Like so many other buildings we'd seen, this one had a large atrium with seating surrounding the sides.  We climbed the winding stairs to the second floor, and our waiter seated us at a table directly overlooking the piano below.  Our table, dressed in black linen, glowed with a 1920's beaded lamp. 

From the atrium and along the walls, Moroccan lanterns lit the room, all designed to let the light shine through artful holes, leaving light and shadowy patterns dancing on the white walls.  American music from the 1940's and 50's played softly in the background.  The drinks waiter gave us the bar menu, all the prices in dirhams.  We ordered Rick's special and were enjoying that when soon the waiter brought us the dinner menu.  We ordered hors d'oeuvres and a bottle of wine.  Shortly after we were served, the waiter asked if we minded if they took a twenty-minute break to eat dinner.  The sun had just set, and all the Muslim waiters were ready to break their fast.  They sat together quietly at a large table at the back of the room enjoying their meal, while we sampled our hors d'oeuvres and wine, glad to have more time to spend in this magical cafe, while we waited for the pianist.

While our waiter ate his dinner, we walked around the second floor of the cafe. One room had a dining table for eight with a fireplace.  We checked out the bar, called The Blue Parrot, in honor of Rick's competitor from the movie. Its fireplace and cozy chairs were inviting.  There were a roulette wheel and craps table, another piano, posters of the movie, and a TV continually playing one scene from the movie.  The scene was Bogart and another woman, not Ingrid. Outside the windows, setting off the palm trees from the entrance, the sky darkened.  

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Back at our table, our waiter returned.  We actually had two waiters, one who served the drinks, and one who took our orders and served our food. Jerry ordered lamb chops with mint.  I ordered green pepper stuffed with cheese. Oh, but there was so much more!  The waiter brought several small bowls to our table, cooked carrots, new potatoes, mushrooms, and spinach, all flavored with the most delicious spices and cooked perfectly.

A woman dressed in red came by our table to introduce herself.  "Are you Rick?" Jerry asked.  She laughed, "Yes, I'm the owner," she said, shaking our hands.  She told us she had been an American diplomat, but it had always been her dream to turn Rick's Cafe from the movie Casablanca into a reality.  

Finally the piano player started playing.  All were sentimental love songs--Johnny Mathis, Frank Sinatra, blues songs from the 1940's, and of course, to end, "As Time Goes By." Leaning over the balcony and watching him play, I was disappointed he wasn't really Sam and he didn't sing.  Still, the experience was nostalgic. 

Our bill came to 94,000 dirhams, less than $100, for all that.  It was arguably the best meal of our trip (don't forget the one in Pamplona), but the ambiance of the place was beyond compare.  The waiter told us we could keep our menus for a souvenir.

Before we left, we visited the bar again, where two other travelers invited us to join them at their table, one from Boston, the other a math teacher from Florida State.  They, too, had been to Pamplona and run with the bulls the day before Jerry did.  They gave us tips about what not to miss on our Casablanca walk tomorrow, pretty much the same places we had already mapped out for ourselves.  "Definitely don't miss the Catedral de Sacre Coeur," they advised us.

The maitre'd met us as we left, took our picture with my iPhone, gave us each a souvenir postcard to go with our menus, and tried to talk us into buying the owner's book.  Smiling, we stepped outside, where the doorman hailed us a cab back to our exotic hotel in Casablanca.