far too much writing, far too many photos Saturday, February 28, 2004 Though Casablanca is the largest city in the country, a modern center of business (as the guidebooks chant over and over), it appeared tired, rundown, shabby in yesterday's post-rain afternoon light, as if slowly breaking down beneath the sheer weight of high population and widespread poverty. Heavy traffic circulated through the streets below (older vehicles, mostly, including weary-looking, rust-streaked city busses), bicycles and pedestrians threading their way through it with little concern. Compared with Madrid and Sevilla, it suffered. And of course I looked at it through the prism of my own mindset, not at its finest right that nanosecond in the wake of language gap, general airport scene, wildass, death-defying ride into town. To the point that I gradually realized as I sat there that a part of me wanted to curl up into a ball and pass out for a good long while -- part sleep, part fetus-like retreat. Either do the fetal thing or call my travel agent in Madrid, change my return flight from tomorrow to today. The guidebooks I've read say there's not much to do in Casablanca, touristically speaking -- the prospect of walking its crowded streets for two days didn't seem hugely appealing. And on the heels of that, I became aware of another part of me, feeling what I can only describe as glee at the fact that I'd just arrived and had already been neck deep in adventures. Goddamn, I found myself thinking, staring out over the downtown, the tower of a distant mosque visible above surrounding buildings, what an experience! An hour later: me, out poking around the downtown area, trawling for an ATM, checking out stores, restaurants, people. And the people here are unbelievably interesting. Like the city itself, a messy mixture of cultural elements -- Arabic, French, Spanish. Skin colors and ethnic types from all over the Arab world. Business suits, hooded desert robes, streetwear you'd see in any occidental city. Most, though not all, women sporting the hair shawl, a few completely hidden away in burkas. Cafés everywhere, virtually all the clients men, drinking coffee or tea, reading newspapers, checking mobile phones for messages. One thing I noticed: the city seems mostly dog-free (in wild contrast to Madrid). The upside of that: poop-free sidewalks (in wild contrast to Madrid). Depending on where you go, however, Casablanca conpensates for the poop deficit with garbage or mud. And compensates for the dog deficit with feral city cats, looking reasonably healthy and comfortable with their lot. I found my way toward the Medina, the old walled neighborhood -- the original site of the city before the French arrived and tossed together the current impressively alive, untidy monstrosity -- now known for the market that sprawls through most of the quarter's streets. On the way in, I found myself behind three Dutch 20-somethings, two males, one female, all in jeans/t-shirts. On impulse, I drifted along in their wake. A few Moroccan males they passed whipped their heads around to watch the young woman, their stares burningly intense. Friday, it turned out, is the market's least active day due to religious observations, the atmosphere was quiet. Interesting, but not scintillating. I drifted along (buying nothing, endearing myself to no shop folk) -- man, talk about an overabundance of shoe stalls -- passing different cassette tape stalls, each playing music, one song fragment giving way to another as I walked. Somewhere in there, I became aware of a soap opera playing on television sets in various shops. A badly-acted soap, Arabic dialogue and melodramatic music following me along several narrow, winding streets until I passed out of the Medina into afternoon sunlight and traffic exhaust. A nearby park presented itself, my butt settled onto a bench near a busy street/sidewalk. Busses, cars, trucks. Mopeds, bicycles, motorized carts loaded down with produce or scrap metal, young males hanging off on all sides, the odd bicyclist holding on for a free tow, looking like a slightly goofy pilot fish. I sat, pulled out a notebook, began writing. A cross-eyed, limping 20-something I'd seen in the market appeared, threw himself down on the opposite end of the bench, facing away from me. Five minutes go by. He does a sudden 180, now facing me, one arm up on the bench back, head resting on forearm. I continue writing, he sits there, motionless. Minutes go by. I glance over -- he might be staring at me, it's impossible to tell: his crossed eyes are bouncing around in their sockets like amphetamine-fueled billiard balls. Suddenly ready for a change of scenery, I get up and cross the street, wading out into the traffic with some other pedestrians. ****************** Detail, Casablanca hotel room: [continued in next entry] rws 6:06 AM [+] BLATHERINGS August 2001 September 2001 October 2001 November 2001 December 2001 January 2002 February 2002 March 2002 April 2002 May 2002 June 2002 July 2002 August 2002 September 2002 October 2002 November 2002 December 2002 January 2003 February 2003 March 2003 April 2003 May 2003 June 2003 July 2003 August 2003 September 2003 October 2003 November 2003 December 2003 January 2004 February 2004 March 2004 April 2004 May 2004 June 2004 July 2004 August 2004 September 2004 October 2004 November 2004 December 2004 January 2005 February 2005 March 2005 April 2005 May 2005 June 2005 July 2005 August 2005 September 2005 October 2005 November 2005 December 2005 January 2006 February 2006 March 2006 April 2006 May 2006 June 2006 July 2006 August 2006 September 2006 October 2006 November 2006 December 2006 January 2007 February 2007 March 2007 April 2007 May 2007 June 2007 July 2007 August 2007 September 2007 October 2007 November 2007 December 2007 January 2008 February 2008 March 2008 April 2008 May 2008 June 2008 July 2008 August 2008 September 2008 October 2008 November 2008 December 2008 January 2009 February 2009 March 2009 April 2009 June 2009 July 2009 .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . MORE FOCUSED BLATHERINGS Travels: London '01 Pamplona Italy '03 U.K. '03 Sevilla Casablanca Stoke-on-Trent Barcelona Québec/Ottawa Boston/Lisbon/Madrid Italy '04 Montréal La Sierra Events: Madrid -- arrival 9/11 Emergency Room I Holidays 2001 Holidays 2002 Holidays 2003 Holidays 2004 Holidays 2005 A neighbor's passing Madrid -- March 11 bombings   and aftermath Emergency Room II Israeli friend/Madrid Marathon Madrid -- Royal Wedding The DELE exam GONE, a novel: Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 THE BASTARD CHILDREN OF JOE ROCCO, a novella: -- Part 1 -- Part 2 -- Part 3 BURBANK SHRUGGED, a screenplay: -- Part 1 -- Part 2 -- Part 3 -- Part 4 Short stories: Murphy's Wife Another Autumn La Queja de Una   Hermanastra Muy Conocida Autobiography -- Personal History -- Hormones On Parade -- Accidents, Random Mishaps,     Personal Problems .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . OTHER SOURCES OF WHOLESOME ENTERTAINMENT People/Weblogs: dooce foxvox fudge it fear not rebekka bookslut 802online idle words madhaiku wockerjabby grow-a-brain rebel market letting me be out and about kung fu grippe fanatical apathy baghdad burning wfuv's music blog kexp's music blog mimi smartypants between the miles just a hippie gypsy the impossible cool tomato can brushes vermont homestead sugar mountain farm Good Clean Fun: gizmodo futurismic postsecret dave barry human clock mcsweeney's spaceweather book-a-minute internet archive self-portrait day my cat hates you out of context quotes surrealist compliment   generator strindberg and helium Makin' Musical Whoopee: last fm stereo8 pandora soma fm .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . ABOUT RWS/CONTACT This page and all its contents copyright © 2001-2011 by runswithscissors unless otherwise noted. runswithscissors would like to thank everyone who's ever lived for everything they've ever done. 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