Live Fast Die Hot (15 page)

I walked through an intimidating archway into a modestly sized suite steeped in rich reds and dark greens. An arabesque lattice screen divided the open tiled shower from an intricately carved bed. At the foot sat a silver tray holding a plate of fresh dates and a glass of lavender-scented almond milk. I was in heaven. Muslim heaven—the kind they promise suicide bombers. From my window I could see the top of the iconic Koutoubia Mosque jutting out from Medina Square.

I opened my roller bag and changed clothes for a victory lap around town. Tragically, I hadn't thought a lot about what I'd wear when I packed. I just sort of piled a bunch of colorful scarves and peasant tops in a bag and figured I'd piece together a look once I arrived. But no matter how I mixed and matched, I still wound up looking like a Wise Man from a Nativity scene. I settled on a long skirt, a tank top, and two equally offensive scarves.

Too self-conscious to stop at the front desk and ask for directions, I covered my face with one of the scarves, turning it into a makeshift hijab, and sheepishly walked out the front door.

I waited fifteen minutes for a break in traffic, then crossed the street to the Koutoubia Gardens. I hadn't been walking more than a few seconds when a man with dark eyes and a goatee noticed me. He looked like a mixture of my last Uber driver and a bad guy from the movie
Taken.

“Hey, hello! Excuse me.”

Ignoring him, I kept walking.

“It's me, Ussama! Remember? From the hotel? I just helped you check in,” he said in a tone that implied I was a racist for not picking him out of the crowd.

“Oh, sorry. I didn't recognize you for a minute because I'm jet-lagged,” I lied.

“I'm also in my street clothes now.” He smiled, looking down at his tight-fitting jeans and inappropriately warm Patagonia puffy vest. “I'm heading into the main square to meet my wife and twin daughters.”

Before he finished sounding out the word “daughters,” I had my phone out and was showing him pictures of Sid.

“I have a son. He's one. This is him at the park and this is him trying to press his penis back inside his body. He loves buttons.”

Ussama ignored me like a bad actor too attached to the script.

“So, you going shopping in the souks? You looking to buy a rug?”

“No, I actually already have one. I'm going to the mountains to meet the women that made it. Today I'm just looking around.” I started to sense where the conversation was heading.

“Mountains is a dangerous place for a delicate flower like yourself.”

Satisfied that I'd been mistaken for a delicate flower but annoyed that another man was telling me I couldn't handle myself, I started to lose patience.

“I think I can go it alone from here; thanks for your help.” I started to move away, but he pressed on.

“You are lucky. Today is the last day of the Berber market. Real Berber rugs. Tomorrow? You won't be able to find them. You have good luck. Come, I'll show you.” Ussama led me through the Koutoubia Gardens with a phony grin on his face. I studied his eyes, convinced now that he didn't work at my hotel or any other.

I'd learned on a trip to Istanbul that when someone tells you they are taking you to a special market, they are probably taking you to an alley to rape you. Not that I was ever actually raped. I had been with Jason and cornered by a menacing local when a group of shoeless children playing soccer with an empty soda can distracted our would-be assailant by spitting on his Members Only jacket, and we narrowly escaped. Maybe the guy was just planning on robbing us, or maybe he was planning on decapitating Jason and fucking me with his dismembered head. I'll never really know. The point is, I knew there was no Berber market.

As he grabbed my arm, towing me unwillingly past horse-drawn carriages and kids on motorbikes, I was furious with myself. I'd been outside the gates of my hotel for only a few minutes and already I'd allowed myself to be
Taken.
I'd just confirmed every fear about my own incompetence that I'd come to Morocco to disprove. That was it. There was no way in fuck I was gonna let Ussama scam me or rob me or
take
me.

Ussama dragged me across five lanes of traffic toward a large steel unmarked door.

“Go inside, have a look,” he said eagerly.

“
NO
,” I barked, the way my mom taught me to do if a stranger ever asked to touch my vagina.

Ussama was taken aback by my sudden shift toward bluntness. I, too, was rattled by my surge of self-possession. I wasn't normally the girl who asserted herself at the expense of someone else's feelings. I was the girl who would French-kiss a guy I never planned on seeing again just to extricate myself from a date faster. Proud of myself for taking a stand, I hustled off in the opposite direction.

When I was out of sight, my phone rang. It was Joan Arthur.

“
HONNNNNNNNEEEEEEY!
I just went to Joan's on Third for a fifteen-dollar juice and, honey? Joan got fat.”

“Honey? I almost just got
Taken
in Morocco. But I'm in the clear now.”

“What? Oh, shit, girl. Where are you? Do you know?”

“Not really.” I looked around, trying to get my bearings. “I'm surrounded by lamps. Lots of brass lamps. And I think I just saw the hind legs of a donkey get pushed by in a wheelbarrow.”

“Hold on, girl, I'm pulling you up on Google Earth.” I waited. “Are you in the medina?”

“Yes,” I said confidently. I was Carrie Mathison on the phone with Saul Berenson.

“Turn right,” she demanded. “What do you see?”

“I'm in the middle of a market.” I looked around and realized I was standing at the center of Jemaa el-Fnaa, the heart of the medina. The open arena was filled with oversize orange-juice stands, men selling teeth, monkey tamers, snake charmers, henna-tattoo artists, and child laborers. I was safe. Before I could tell Joan, a European woman asked if I'd mind posing for a picture with her daughter. I hung up on Joan and agreed, thrilled to be recognized so far from home.

“Thanks, Princess Jasmine,” the little girl gushed.

Rattled by the encounter with Ussama and the fact that my ensemble got me mistaken for a Disney princess, I hurried back to my hotel, stifling tears. By the time I got there, my fear had turned to anger. I walked up to the concierge with conviction.

“Hi, I'm here for two more days and I'm gonna need a full-time guide. In fact, I should probably have eyes on me at all times.”

“Yes, madame, I find you guide. You looking for rug? He get best price,” the concierge said in a scheming tone.

“I already have one!” I fumed.

I tried to stay strong, but I couldn't help feeling defeated. I was a stranger in a strange land where even the good guys wanted to overcharge me for a rug.

“By the way, does a guy named Ussama work here?”

“No.”

“Didn't think so,” I said defiantly, sweeping my scarves off my face and storming off.

Instead of heading up to my room, I decided to stop by the garden to caffeinate and devise a new plan of attack. Three German teenage boys sat with their parents to my right, and I eavesdropped as they tried to translate the menu for their mother.

“Nein, chevre chaud bedeutet heiss! Heisse Käse.”

Behind me sat a glamorous older Frenchwoman in white linen pants and a navy blazer. She ate a plate of smoked salmon with crème fraîche and toast points as a small terrier peeked out beneath her feet. I ordered a coffee and stared at her terrier.

“Bonjour,”
the woman said, and nodded.

“
Bonjour.
Your dog is so cute. I didn't know the hotel allowed pets.” I didn't even try to speak to her in French. My outfit was humiliating enough.

“Oh, umm…” She paused to translate her thoughts into English. “Fifi is not mine. She is a VIP. She belongs to a friend of mine. I'm just watching her for a few hours.”

Charlotte was from Paris, I learned. She was seventy-five and still sexy, with long, lean legs and a short gray shag. Her face wasn't pulled or peeled in any attempt to fight gravity. She wore her wrinkles proudly. I had a fantasy of one day doing the same, immediately followed by a fantasy of doing the exact opposite. Charlotte was discreet about the nature of her trip but did mention she had friends in the city and traveled there often. I told her about my experience with Ussama in the medina and she was empathetic but also unsurprised.

“The thing you must remember about Moroccans is that everyone is lying to you at all times.” She shook her head in disappointment. Charlotte implored me to give the city another chance and offered to take me on a tour after I finished my lunch. I eagerly accepted.

When I'd paid my check, I found Charlotte outside with Fifi and two older Frenchmen. Jean Georges was elegant and tan in a crisp white button-down and black trousers. His lover, Florent, was more portly and flamboyant, donning coral-colored culottes and pointy Moroccan slippers. The men didn't speak English, forcing me to butcher a language I'd spent seven school years trying to master. As the afternoon sun began to set over a clear desert sky, we walked leisurely through the park I'd felt intimidated in hours earlier. The weather was warm, ideal for someone dressed like Lawrence of Arabia. Water sellers in bright red costumes with large Berber hats stood by the entrance, clanking copper cups and asking for spare change.

Charlotte was explaining to me that her friends lived in Paris but spent a good portion of their time at a small
riad
they owned in the souks, near the markets of Marrakech. For Parisians, Marrakech was just a three-hour plane ride and an ideal place to own property. It was sunny and spacious, and offered all the luxury you'd find in the South of France for half the price. At first it seemed a strange choice, two openly gay men wanting a vacation home in a predominantly Muslim country. But as I looked around, I saw gay men everywhere. On a scale of one to gay, I would say Marrakech ranked just above Palm Springs and just below Mykonos. It was only my second time outside the hotel and already the city took on a different persona. Young lovers laughed and frolicked in the streets. Children hung off their mothers' legs, begging for crescent-shaped cookies filled with almond paste. It was as if my first impression was a test. Now that I'd passed, the city shed its ominous veneer and was willing to show me its splendor.

We arrived at Jean Georges and Florent's
riad
deep in the souks. A labyrinth of passageways on either side led to vendors selling plastic jugs of argan oil, piles of vividly colored spices, cheap metals, lamb innards, dried fruits, silk fabrics, and everything you've seen in the jewelry section at Cost Plus World Market. We made our way up to the roof of their narrow four-story compound and looked out on the sprawling maze below. Charlotte pointed to different buildings and told me their origins. She explained to me why Morocco was such a safe place.

“Everyone here is a spy. They are all informants for the king. Nothing bad is allowed to happen to tourists. They want the tourists to stay and spend money. You understand?”

I didn't even know Morocco
had
a king, but I nodded as if I understood completely. Fifi could tell I was lying.

Jean Georges offered me an espresso, which I gladly accepted. Florent held out a bowl of bonbons.

“Oh, no,
merci.
I'm from L.A.,” I said, certain he'd understand.

Charlotte's phone rang and she answered it. After exchanging a few quick words, she hung up and told me that a chauffeur was on his way to the
riad
to pick up the terrier.

“If you prefer, you can ride
avec
Fifi back to the hotel,” she offered.

Fifi looked at me, then back at Charlotte. She either didn't like the plan or was offended she hadn't yet been offered a bonbon. Florent let out a laugh.

“Royal doggy,” he said, and snickered.