Take You Wonder By Wonder

Fes, Morocco. It is dark and cold. Two thick opaque blankets cover my head, blocking out all light, sheltering me from the world. The chill air has penetrated my weak defense, seeped deep into my flesh, sent slivers of ice through my bones. The call of the Muezzen has roused me from my frigid slumber, a shrill cry eminating from the top of the minaret; first one, then another, and another. The sounds joined one another, jostled with one another, a rising crescendo, a blaring cacaphony of prayer. Dogs started to howl in solidarity, a barking benediction, or perhaps they just have no way of covering their ears as I had now done. It was pitch black under my woolen shroud, permanent night, and I had no concept of time. I let out a soft groan and pushed the button that lights up my digital watch. The luminous, blue indiglo blinded me and I cringed, trying to focus my eyes. It was 4:48am. Holy mother, mercy, of Christ, Yaweh, Zeus, or Allah. The Quran is very explicit in one regard: the Muezzen does not have a snooze button.


Now I'm not one to criticize another man's religion - unless they wear funny hats - but for a major religious movement, this pre-dawn zeal strikes me as preposterous. I'm not sure who or what god is, if he/she/it even exists, but what otherworldly being, what purportedly benevolent deity, would demand a call to prayer before the sun comes up? Hell, most people can't even put their underwear on straight until they've had a couple of cups of joe. That black, spiritless libation has surely roused more spirits than even the most purified sanctification. Nevertheless, every morning the call begins: "Aahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh" and my feeble brain, crushed beneath twenty-eight years of constant media bombardment, finishes for him: "Yeeeaaaaahhhhhhh." In truth it continues in Arabic but I always get a kick out of the beginning. This occurs every morning without fail. Piety in today's world can be refreshing but it would be nice if they took a morning off sometimes. Maybe even just once a month--sleep in, have a late breakfast, maybe read the paper. Afterwards, by all means pray. I'm sure it would help retention rates. I can even imagine the billboard: Islam, Now With More Coffee!" Obviously I jest. The morning call, when not accompanied by the howling canines, is often beautiful. I have lain awake carefully listening to the melodic words, the almost hypnotic tone, appreciating the sanctity of the burgeoning day. Then I roll over and go back to bed.



The medina of Fes beholds a fascinating array of sights, sounds, and smells. Wandering the ancient, medieval streets, one has a sense of being transported back in time - to about 1983. Seriously. People are dressed in one of two ways here: either in traditional garb or in street gear from the 80s. Faded flourescent jackets, old addidas jumpsuits, and worn Nike sneakers pass by at random intervals. One vendor had a pile of mismatched snow gloves and I'm positive I spied a couple of sets of Freaky Freezies atop the mound. I'm not sure where it all comes from but the denizens of Fes have unwittingly attained the heights of retro fashion. We walked for days around the winding streets and endless markets. Clothing, jewelry, art, rugs, a variety of crafts, and an immeasurable array of junk. The junk is the best. Countless rugs are spread out in the street, the vendors selling the most incongruous of items side by side: two dozen watches, a pile of remote controls, some potatoes, a doll with a missing head, three tampons, and a large bolt cutter. Persumably this last item has been used innumerable times to collect the junk on display. It boggles the mind. Food vendors abound: piles of juicy, ripe tangerines; hillocks of potatoes and onions; mounds of artfully arrange dates, figs, and nuts; barrels of beans and pasta; towering pyramids of brilliantly colored spices. Meat vendors display the choicest of cuts and proudly present the pieces we throw out--heads, tails, toes, stomachs, brains, kidneys, livers, and testicles. The only thing that might go to waste is your appetite. I even saw an entire camel head hanging limply from a hook. My personal favorite has definitely been pigeon. Cooked into an unlikely dish containing layers of pastry dough, secret hobo spices, lemon, and topped with cinnamon and powdered sugar, it is amazingly good. If anyone happens to notice a dearth of pigeons trotting around Central Park in the coming months it probably means I'm back home in New York.



Fes is incredibly large and complicated. 9400 twisting streets and alleyways. 350 mosques. Dozen upon dozen of site of interest. Despite our aversion to touts we decided we might need a guide for this one. Couscous (as he called himself) seemed a genial sort. He seemed to know the city, spoke decent English, and had a good sense of humor. Though skeptical at first, he won us over, and we arranged to have him lead us around the next morning. We were mildly surprised when he showed up with a replacement, claiming to be too busy. We hemmed and hawed a bit but agreed to go with the new guy anyway. The price was still too good to beat. The new guy ran us around the back alleys, occaisionally showing us an ornate doorframe or some ancient buildings, claiming all the while we were seeing what very few tourists saw. Our tour was supposed to last approximately three hours. I wasn't the least bit surprised when after sixty minuted he wanted to show us something extra special. You guessed it--his cousin's carpet shop.