After tea in the cafe overlooking the Atlantic, I felt keyed up. It probably had something to do with all the sugar in the tea; or maybe my own nervousness in a conversation that kept switching from French to Arabic and back again that caused me to drink more tea than I needed. No matter, we were off.
The eerie violins of Moroccan music screeched out of the old tape deck as we careened through the streets of downtown Rabat.
After a harrying ride, we arrived at my professor's apartment building and piled out of the small Fiat.
Good thing I was with three Moroccans, because in this dusty middle-class neighborhood, every building looked the same to me -- white concrete, built to six stories.
The apartment was modest, the floors covered with handmade rugs, the walls with books and pictures of the couple's wedding -- a reminder of the importance of marriage to Moroccans.
At the door we were overwhelmed with good greetings. Two employees and one student of the language institute joined me, so everyone was on familiar terms already. Since I was my professor's only student, we had developed an excellent rapport. At first, she had appeared as a strict and demanding teacher, but this quickly faded and we had become fast friends.
I was excited to meet her husband, about whom she had told me a good deal. They met while they were both completing their studies in France, and lived there together for 12 years.
We immediately fell into conversation as he walked me out onto their back patio between the other whitewashed buildings. He checked the fire and found it ready to grill le viande. Our conversation meandered from his work to the treatment of Arabs in France and Spain to tourism in Morocco and Tunisia. Then, le viande was ready and we hurried inside to join the others.
As we gathered around, what could be described as a coffee table in the living room (there was no dining room in this small apartment) I received a lesson in Moroccan music. After shuffling through a few tapes, I was treated to a sampling of classical Arabic, traditional Moroccan, contemporary and finally Andalusian music. As I tried to follow the explanations of where each type of music came from, the instruments involved, and its current audience, I was distracted by the food appearing on the table. The first large dish, set in the middle, was the salad, consisting of various separated vegetables and olives. Then came the bread. One round loaf for each of us. Then came le viande that we had grilled outside. By now the music conversation had stopped and we were all eating -- what a fantastic meal, I thought as I was starting to feel good and full. As the salad and meat slowly disappeared I began to relax in the glow of such a strangely pleasant evening.
But to my surprise, the meal was far from over.
Out came the wine. To Westerners this is banal, but not to Muslims. It immediately was apparent that my companions weren't having any spirits but they were interested and tolerant. It was fascinating to observe the facial expressions and body language of the more traditional local Moroccans to my older, French educated professor and husband. Now the mix of customs and language was complete: Berber tribal designs on the carpets, French conversation and wine, traditional Moroccan food and classical Arabic music. To break any tension her husband praised the beauty of having a liberal wife, and I accepted my glass with a smile.
Replacing the large salad bowl at the center of the table was now a tangine filled with chicken, olives, spices and vegetables. Now, like the Prophet Mohammed, we began to dig in with the three fingers of our right hands. Using our fingers, or some bread if we wanted some sauce, we reached and helped ourselves to bite after bite -
no need to stop at one's plate -
of this delicious dish. Finally, a desert of fruits was served.
We wound down our evening with more tea and conversation about generational changes in Morocco
- how the generation of '68 had been more radical in defying traditional Muslim practices and now the pendulum had swung in the opposite direction. As evidence, one of my female friends from the language institute chimed in that her biggest concern at the moment was finding a husband, while my professor and her husband enjoyed cigarettes. Bizarre!
The music in the Fiat was soothing as we cruised home through the now nearly empty streets of Rabat past the closed teahouses and billboards of the benevolent King. The few women with head coverings and the lingering men on donkeys seemed to be making their way home, too. As I stepped out of the car, I felt thrilled and exhausted
Ah, Le Maroc, quel pays!
Read More
A song lyric became my best piece of advice
By Emily Barrie | YesterdayToo often, people — including myself — get so attached to the idea of "forever" that we miss the value of short-term experiences.
At Emmy Squared, Detroit-style pizza is upstaged by star handhelds and sides
By Xander Tilock | 5 days agoEmmy Squared is a Brooklyn-based restaurant that serves Detroit-style pizza and recently expanded into Charlottesville.
Sustainability in the lecture hall and beyond
By Ingrid Gay | May 6, 2025Students in all three of these programs stress that now, more than ever, it is important to be learning about our environment.
