From the Silk Market to the Souk in Marrakesh

MARRAKESH
When we lived in Beijing in the late nineties one of the more popular pastimes for expatriates was to shop at the Silk Market, a huge network of black market stalls selling all kinds of knock-off gear.  Peter got quite expert at bargaining for items.  He could spout prices in Mandarian as fast as the shopkeepers themselves.  I remember when we bought “North Face” jackets for Lily and Abby.  The shopkeeper demonstrated that they were waterproof by using a garden hose to splash water over them.  The first jacket streamed water inside it but the second and third remained dry so we bought them.  Even with compromised quality those jackets fit the girls for several years including hand me downs. 

So when we arrived in Marrakesh, a city famous for its “souks” or markets, I was ready to shop with Peter as our head bargainer.  The problem is that I am often a liability to his shopping.  Peter loves the thrill of the chase.  He doesn’t care if he actually buys an item; he often wants to test how far down he can make the seller go.  I get nervous and cave in or give up and walk away—not “reluctantly” coming back as Peter does for one of his successful tactics.  The shop owners in the souk are notorious for overcharging for goods of low value. 

During the afternoon of our city walking tour, our guide led us to some “special” stalls where he said we could find quality items.  (He told us this over lunch at a restaurant where he was obviously getting a special deal—his meal was free since he had brought a group of foreign tourists there.)  Lily, Abby and I all wanted earrings, and I wanted some Moroccan leather slippers.  Our guide took us to a large shop crammed full with all kinds of antique looking vases, carvings, lamps, wooden furniture. . . There were several alcoves with jewelry displays.  The shop owners were asking exorbitant prices.  My first mistake was to cut Peter short in bargaining for an antique bowl I knew neither he nor I wanted.  There went his credibility at that shop.  At another stall, we tried getting a volume discount by selecting several pairs of earrings.  The shopkeeper wouldn’t come down at all on his prices.  Our guide hastily scribbled a price on a scrap of paper that he said the seller would accept, and then scratched it out so the seller wouldn’t see.  Our guide was clearly on our side—NOT. 

 
Finally, Peter had good success buying some earrings at another stall while I tried to bargain for a  silver framed mirror as a surprise for Lily at the stall next door.  The earrings were purchased and we began to walk over to the slipper stall when our guide kept asking me insistently—did I get a good price for the mirror?  There went my surprise Christmas gift.  At the slipper stall the same scenario played out as at the second jewelry shop.  Our guide “helped” us determine the best price to offer.  I did end up with some lovely slim, floral designed slippers—though when I checked the price at the airport shop when we were waiting for our flight to Madrid I discovered the shopkeeper and our guide had skunked us after all.

Beth

Many Tongues

MARRAKESH
I’m still on the subject of Sasha.  She is a very accomplished linguist.  When she arrived to live with us in Charleston, she could speak Russian and German, and her English was already quite good.  In school she studied French and began Hebrew.  When she returned to Germany she even studied a little Chinese.  While we visited her family in Dusseldorf, Sasha switched seemingly effortlessly among English, German, Russian and French, translating for her parents, and her French boyfriend Sebastien (who speaks very good English, actually) and for us.  Wow!

But Sasha is not unusual for a European.  Most people we meet in Europe can speak multiple languages, and not only the educated elite.  The tourist industry relies on multi-lingual guides; the market vendors are incredibly adept at learning languages.

Rarely have we had to rely on Peter’s German or my French.  Yesterday the guide who took us out to the mountains beyond Marrakesh told us he speaks two different Berber dialects plus Arabic, French, and English. Lily pointed out that in developing countries, most people have to learn several languages just to survive in their society.  First they learn their native language or dialects, then at school they learn the national language or languages, which usually includes the language of the colonizer—in this case in Morocco it is French, and finally they learn another language or languages to communicate with tourists.  For now we are fortunate in a way that English is the universal language—but I suppose one reason Americans aren’t so adept at languages is that we haven’t had to be. 

Beth

A “Stück” or Piece of Time

DUSSELDORF, GERMANY

Both excited and sad, we left our temporary home in Wood Green and dashed to Gatwick Airport on Saturday morning.  The London term is over and we’ve begun an 18 day trip visiting first Dusseldorf, then Marrakesh, and finally Spain.

Sebastien (Sasha's French boyfriend), Sasha, her mother and father

Our time in Dusseldorf was especially memorable and wonderful because we were meeting Sasha’s parents.  Sasha arrived in Charleston, South Carolina in August 1995 as Peter’s and my exchange student for a semester.  She settled right into our American life and attended a magnet high school in our area.  She watched and waited with us as I was pregnant with Lily.  Then she returned to her parents and her new home in Zoest, Germany, where her family had immigrated from Russia only a few years before.  We didn’t know when we’d see Sasha again, but fortunately our paths have crossed many times.  She traveled to Rome to see us when we were on our way to China in 1998; she met us several times in London when we lived in Kent from 2001-2004 since she was attending the London School of Economics, and she even joined us for several days in Cornwall in the spring of 2004 before we left the UK.  This fall we’ve met her in Berlin, London and now Dusseldorf.

This December was the first time we’d met her parents—some 16 years after we met her.  As we sat down to dinner in her parents’ apartment, her mother’s eyes filled with tears.  She wanted to tell us a story about meeting a man with whom she’d taken a German language class many years before.  She saw him at a concert and he had his back to her.  Next to him sat his teenage daughter whom she’d never met.  When she touched the girl’s shoulder she had the experience of actually touching time as the girl's existence matched the number of years between her and her old friend.  

Sasha's mother was having the same experience meeting our daughters.  Lily is our “slice of time” connecting Sasha's mother to us and Sasha to her American adventure.  She is the baby we were all waiting for and for whom Sasha wrote a lovely letter that is still included in Lily’s album.  I had tears in my eyes thinking about this physical connection of time—and realizing that Lily is now almost the age Sasha was when Sasha lived with us in Charleston, and Sasha is now almost the age I was when I was pregnant with Lily.  

Beth