* Please note, this baby does not belong to the Jolly Gringos
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Trips to Morocco’s desert are all the rage these days, a fact proven by the hoards of tourist who make the voyage not out of curiosity or intrigue, but to check off another item from their bucket list. Every guidebook on the planet hypes up the obligatory desert excursions with flowery phrases like “the perfectly sculpted seas of sand” and “the colour of the earth turns blood-red with the setting sun, and the sense that one has stumbled into a fairytale takes hold.” If you stop and really pay attention it’s pretty easy to smell a rat, or in the case of travel, a good scam masked by an over-marketed tourist attraction. While most foreigners book all-inclusive tours up, down, and around Morocco’s mountains and deserts, we typically end up with the locals on some sort of public transport barreling towards destinations of our own choosing. Naturally this makes us more vulnerable to those who wish to take advantage of what they perceive as the weak, especially when we roll into an area that’s a hot spot for tourism (like the desert). Reluctant to sign-up for anything sight-unseen, we slowly made our way to the Sahara’s fringes to determine for ourselves what all the fuss was about, and if it all looked good maybe hop on board a camel caravan to check out the dunes. Mubarak had different plans in store for us. As the lone tourists climbing off the sauna-box on wheels, we stood out a tad. The riffraff that typically lurk in the platform’s gates and shadows saw us before the bus showed signs of even slowing down, and fought for primo position to vomit their rehearsed spiel and offers in our faces. The sun was quickly setting, we still had 200 kilometers before we reached Merzouga, and it had been a very long day of travel as it was. A short man with caramel skin and honey colored eyes fought his way to the forefront and trotted along beside us as we exited the station. “I have two more seats in a grand taxi to Merzouga” he quickly spat out, “but we must hurry because it will be leaving shortly.” Instead of telling him to shove off and crawl back into his hole, we made the mistake of listening. Grand taxis in Morocco are an interesting experience. Described as a fleet of “elderly Mercedes”, the sedans charge per head and can comfortably transport four adults at a time, though the drivers typically opt for seven to make a little extra cash. We raced through the dusty canyons with all four windows down and the radio blaring some Algerian pop hit, over all of which Mubarak persistently yelled details about where we were going and our options for accommodation. “You look at my family’s place, only 50 dirham each.” In Rissani we upgraded from the cramped tan Mercedes to a roomy 4×4 and continued following the signs. Merzouga 60 kilometers. Merzouga 40 kilometers. Right around the 20 mark our driver impulsively (so it seemed) pulled off the paved road and began following tracks that lead straight into the desert, all without even breaking speed. I looked over at Allen and he was wearing an expression that mirrored what I was thinking: oh shit. After what seemed like forever, signs of life began to appear in the form of compounds surrounded by adobe fortress walls and clusters of camels lazily loitering about. We were in the middle of nowhere, literally, and it was miles back to the highway or the nearest town. Not surprisingly, Mubarak was all smiles when we arrived at his place. The room, which he sold for 50 DH a person on the ride, was actually 150 a person. The “hot water” that was part of the deal was only “hot” when the power was on, and even then only long enough to get shampoo in your hair. After 9:30 the power suspiciously failed, and we were left to light our way with wax candles. No matter how hard we tried, we couldn’t get any information until he was ready to divulge. “So, when exactly is dinner?” He didn’t want to tell us until he’d had gone over the expedition options, four in all, none of which sounding very enticing. When it came to prices we were blown away. I’m sorry, you want how much for this? Allen and I looked at each other in exasperation. We were already on the hook for the night, but in the morning we would find out where the actual village was. This was nonsense. The slippery little snake was in a foul mood the instant he realized we were going to be a hard sell. The more we all talked, the crankier he became, pulling out all the stops trying to confuse us into a deal. “It could be less if you have medicine to give the nomads. Like a trade.” “You saw our packs, we don’t have anything to trade. We don’t have much at all.” “I saw your packs! They’re tiny! The people who come with medicine come with huge duffle bags for the nomads. They come prepared! You can’t trade!” “Whyyyyyy did you even bring it up then?!” He didn’t seem to understand that it wasn’t our idea in the first place. Finally, when it looked like he was at the breaking point, he crossed all our scribbles out, threw his hands in the air, and said, “What price do you want then?” We pointed to a figure we wrote earlier. “This one.” He looked at us, half pissed, and said “fine.” And that was that. He was in excellent spirits for the rest of the night. Once they had our money, all bets were off. We ate whatever they felt like feeding us, whenever they got around to serving it, and left for the excursion only after Allen stirred our guide from his catnap. Hours behind their proposed schedule, we followed Hamul to the camels outside the compound where he helped each of us on our ride, then took the lead rope in his hand and began walking towards the dune. I immediately felt like a schmuck – this guy was going to walk the whole way, meaning we weren’t going very far. What a joke. The remainder of the trip went about as well as expected. The first night was spent in a tent at the “river” (read: gravel pit), where Allen was condemned by some snot-nosed teenager for his inadequate drumming skills. The following day we stopped for a “picnic lunch” at a mud-brick lean-to in the desert. Lunch consisted of one can of sardines, one tomato, one onion, one cucumber, and bread, all to be split by three. Hamul took leave while we were eating and didn’t return for three hours. When we finally started going again I was feeling a bit surly and made several comments about how much we paid vs. what we were getting out of the deal. He was too consumed with texting on his cell to hear me. That evening we came to a “nomadic” settlement where Berbers continue to live their torturous lives on the border between Morocco and Algeria. We passed a few places with satellites protruding out the side of the mud-brick walls, but the house we ended up staying at was without a doubt a throwback from prehistoric times. The severe desert life filled with anguish and poverty had transformed the matriarch from a normal 40-something woman into an ancient-looking, hunched creature with deep folds that completely concealed her features. She, her daughter, several toddlers, and a few other strays shared a single room that was littered with trash and shredded blankets, and wouldn’t be fit for most average American’s dogs. Mubarak had greedily taken our dirham and arranged for us to stay a night with this poor decrepit woman, without distributing some of the wealth her direction. We fell asleep to the sounds of the goats and camels outside our burlap tent, while the wind whipped sand into the air and caused it to rain back down on us through gaping holes above our heads. When our final morning in the desert dawned we were more inclined to walk back to the compound than mount those blasted beasts yet again, but did so dutifully. As far as animal transport goes, the camel isn’t exactly a Cadillac; it’s more like riding the wrong side of a washing machine up and down the dunes. In the end we too had checked off this particular “must do” from our Moroccan Visitor’s list, just like so many before us and so many after. Was it worth it? Not really. Are we sorry? Not really. I suppose one must have these experiences to appreciate all the others, and deal with shady people to value the honest ones. Our bums would be sore for the rest of the week, and a lifetime’s supply of sand would forever be stashed in our organs, but there’s always a silver lining. The sun setting over the desert, bonding with our fellow mates who also got suckered into the deal, and losing a few pounds at the Sahara Fat Camp, to name a few. Once back within the adobe fortress we piled into the 4×4 with haste, and without so much as a backwards glance or a wave, we were off. |
Diving into the Undeveloped: Impressions of Morocco
Published May 9, 2011 Africa , Morocco Leave a Comment
Europe is beautiful with amazing food and a wealth of history, but there’s really only so much old stuff you can pay a healthy wad to see before it all begins to blend together. Besides, the steroid-injected Euro continues to bend our wimpy little Greenback over, making every second spent in the Schengen extremely costly. Fortunate for us, the EU had a timely solution to our financial woes in a handy little thing known as the tourist visa, or, more specifically, the expiration of said 90-day tourist visa. We had two options: stick around continuing to pay out the rear just to breathe and then pay a fine of 700 bucks each for overstaying our visas, or skedaddle out of dodge and ride out the remainder of our travels where trips to the ATM don’t induce uncontrollable sobbing. As the later looked the most appealing alternative, we set our sights across the Strait of Gibraltar towards the dusty and somewhat mysterious Maghreb.
There’s always some cost attached to a cheaper price tag, and this venture from developed lands to those that are slightly less so was no exception. By stepping off the ferry at the port of Tangier we jumped back into all the little things that make the 3rd world such a unique experience. Where donkeys are the preferred mode of freight transport, the practice of haggling and bribery is alive and kicking, water is questionable at best, and prices always depend on who’s asking. Streets that smell of raw sewage and are littered with strays of all sorts vying for a little piece of what you have. Local bus stations that buzz with energy and confusion (mostly confusion), and markets that leave even the most staunchly meat & potatoes girl considering veganism. Ahhhhhh! Can you smell that? On second thought, maybe you don’t really want to.
Then you start to delve into the actual culture. By bidding Spain adios, we traded Barcelona’s slippery-fingered gypsies for Morocco’s salivating lines of vultures. Red-Rover is an actual sport in the underdeveloped world, and those who rise to the rank of true professional are dedicated to keeping their elite status, one scam at a time. The tangle of medieval adobe alleys that were originally constructed to confuse and slow down invaders have become the perfect setting for a literal tourist trap, winding in circles and leaving the fair-skinned westerners sitting ducks. Any male over the age of six is trained in the vulture profession, and spends their idle time keeping a keen eye out for someone to latch onto like a coked-up leech. They’re persistent little buggers, staying within the confines of your personal bubble and jabbering along in your ear as you try to ignore them. “This is a very confusing place. You will get lost. It will be impossible for you to find your way. This is Morocco, no hassle, no hassle. We’re laid-back, not like people from Japan or Hungary. I am official. See, look at my card; it has my picture on it. Official tourism. No problem.”
You try to be polite, saying “no thank you” and smiling while keeping up a decent pace, but any attention is good attention and only stokes their quest for mind-blowing annoyance. Before you know it they’ve herded you to a hotel of their choosing, then expect you to pay for the “service”. If you watch closely you’ll see the hotel owner slip their share under the table, while the other hand is open and asking for compensation from you as well. When you ask them about it, suddenly they no longer understand English.
If it isn’t a hotel you seek, there are plenty of other areas the super helpful street peeps would love to guide you towards. “Look, look at all the happy travelers I’ve helped” they say, as they whip out an antique cell phone and begin flipping through conjured up text messages singing praise to their service. “This one is from Poland, and this one Italy…” When they feel your attention slipping, they come in from another angle. “Where you from? Where you from? What’s your name?” When that approach doesn’t work either, they go for the third string, “You want good smoke? Hash? Heroin?” Any attempt to catch you off guard and draw you into a conversation is fair game, though the drug proposals could land you in a 3rd world cell if you answer 
incorrectly. Sometimes it’s fun ignoring them as they holler at you from the curb, because given enough time they’ll work their way through every European language in their repertoire, and maybe even a few Asian if you’re lucky. If in the end you are successful and they are not, you’re left with the parting response “Oy, fuck you!” Sure, It’d be charming, if the kid who yelled it wasn’t seven.
Morocco has an entirely unique culture to anything we’ve experienced yet, and is a welcomed change of pace from Europe’s tedium of always knowing what was in your food or where exactly your bus was headed. So long as the exchange rate stays at a civilized ratio it’s easy to bear the nonexistent cell phone etiquette, or the hustler who would trick you out of your socks if he thought he could get away with it. In a world where men rule while the women remain hidden at home or behind veils it’s clear that pretty much anything goes, and rolling with the punches is the easiest way to remain relatively sane, if not a little haggard in the process.
Last week marked the second anniversary of the Jolly Gringo globetrotting adventures, an event that was appropriately celebrated over a couple glasses of port and overpriced Indian curry. While popular belief claims we were changed people the moment our feet hit Quito, the truth of the matter is that our lives were altered long before that fateful flight. Before we left our careers, and before we sold all of our belongings. It all began the instant we made the decision to upend our happy little lifestyle in quiet Queen Anne and commit ourselves to see this crazy plan through. So much time has passed since those early days of tireless planning and dreaming, and we’ve become experienced veterans in the whole nomadic business. As we move about meeting fellow American’s and foreigners, all are curious about how we do it. There seems to be one question in particular everyone’s itchin’ to ask: “how can you afford it?” To their puzzled looks we respond with one word. “Sacrifice.”
When it comes down to it, everybody makes sacrifices based on their own personal priorities, beliefs, and circumstances. For some the focus is centered on building a career where they can make boatloads of money and hire someone to release doves every time they enter a room. Others simply want a rock star crib with ladies overflowing out of the hot tub and Crystal on tap. Though our travel lifestyle is, shall I say, rather unconventional per the accepted standards of today’s reality TV society, it’s a far cry from one long, lovely vacation. As with everyone else on the planet, we too have made sacrifices to be where we are, and to be living our lives in a challenging and rewarding way that we’re quite proud of.
The first luxury to get axed from our lives was stuff. All that useless, forgotten stuff that we collect in our houses and apartments, that lays in cupboards and the backs of closets alone and completely forgotten. We sold it all, from pet accessories to Tupperware. Furniture, clothing, dishes, gadgets, it all went. It would be pointless to get rid of the stuff only to restock your house with more, so for an entire year and a half our shopping was limited to the isles of the neighborhood QFC. No new ipad, blingin’ rims, or trendy threads. Instead of feeling deprived and depressed by our thinning stock we became more empowered with the departure of each useless item, and as the junk went so did a lot of stress and unnecessary “clutter”. Sure, it means I now own exactly three shirts, two dresses, and one pair of pants that’s become so threadbare in the crotch that they’re literally held together by a piecework of iron-on patches and hand-stitching. Gotta break ‘em in to be comfy, right?
Pinching pennies (or Yen, or Ringgit) hasn’t been limited to our pre-travel lives but is something we diligently practice every single day, meaning our second major sacrifice is comfort. Oh if the world could only see some of the sad excuse for beds that we’ve slept in, and some of the critters we’ve slept with to save a few bucks in the long run. You know you’re scraping the bottom when forking over an extra three George Washington’s for a shower with hot water is “splurging”. You name it, we’ve probably slept there; alongside the road, in a Loatian brothel, on the floors of buses, massage beds, hammocks, and moldy wrestling mats. If it met our budget and passed the safety check we were happy campers.
Though some of the sleeping situations have been dubious at best, bearing the bathrooms abroad turned out to be somewhat of a learning curve. In much of the world (including parts of Europe) toilet seats are optional, as is toilet paper, hot water, and general cleanliness. We’ve learned that it’s unrealistic to expect your hotel’s toilet to actually flush, which is why in many areas a faucet and bucket are close at hand to assist in the process. After just a short time we were on board with the rest of the world’s approach to bathing, not out of environmental, save the planet uber activism but simply due to circumstances. Showering daily isn’t practical (or necessary – unless you’ve got sweat glands like Chris Farley) so you learn your individual bathing threshold, stopping just shy of the rank beyond belief mark. Seven days is my personal limit. And laundry? Wear that shirt for five days straight, and then talk to me. Now that we’re seasoned to this whole game, we no longer cringe at the grimy bathrooms in guesthouses, or public toilets with an inch of standing urine. It’s all par for the course.
Forgoing all the stuff and comforts of middle-class America was a good start to long-term travel, but we found there was a much larger, much more difficult hurdle to conquer yet. To take the real plunge one must abandon the illusion of security, both physical and mental. The whole imaginary idea that by having a career and an established lifestyle you’ll be safe and sound and completely immune to the hardships of the outside world. This little recession has single-handedly shot that theory to the moon, leaving in the jet stream a whole lot of suffering within our own borders. Still we hold onto the idea with all our might, terrified of dipping our toes into unknown waters beyond. Cutting the strings and detaching myself from this life was by far the most difficult task of our adventure, and I questioned my own resolve even as we boarded the plane to South America. Would I do as everyone expected and fall flat on my face, crawling back and begging for my old life in the end? The thought of failure was terrifying. Despite the odds and onslaught skepticism, we managed to do better than just survive; we built an entirely new reality and set of priorities to suit our changed dreams and goals.
During the past 24 months we’ve run the gamut of sacrifices to be able to afford this existence, from missed relationships at home to surrendering our health and hydration at the hands of dysentery. As with every other human going about their days, there have been times when life was great, and times when things sucked and looked hopelessly miserable. Still we trucked on never once questioning our decision, or experiencing the unshakable feeling that our lives were wasting away. Every single day offered an opportunity for learning; watching the habits of locals, trying a few words of their tongue, and working out how to survive 36 hours a day in our partner’s company. What we’ve gained for all our efforts is far more valuable than the sum of all the stuff we’ve learned to do without.
Through our travels we tend do prescribe to the philosophy that the energy you put into the world matches that which you receive. This “what goes around comes around” mentality has served us well, opening up opportunities for cultural experiences that would have otherwise been absent, and serving as a constant reminder to focus on the positives of any given situation no matter how doomed it may seem. Though we do our best to abide by the golden rule, it would be a lie to claim there weren’t occasional lapses when we’re not necessarily on our best behavior. Still, we go to great lengths to show our gratitude and be respectful, particularly when invited into another’s home. Apparently I obsess over this, as thoughts of inadvertently offending one of our hosts have begun to subconsciously seep into my dreams.
The morning we arrived in Barcelona I was relating one of these dreams to Allen as we sat on a park bench outside the Placa Lesseps Metro station. I couldn’t quite remember the details, but I knew I asked a question that seemed innocent enough, then without warning our host pointed to the door and forcefully ordered us to leave because we were no longer welcome. Completely taken aback by the sudden turn of events, we followed as she escorted us outside where we remained utterly bewildered with absolutely zero idea of what went wrong. Her parting reply was simple: “I don’t like you.” Allen laughed at the absurdity of someone actually throwing us out of their house for no good reason, and we both chalked it up to my hypersensitive nature.
As we sat on the bench watching the minutes pass, apprehensions about our Barcelona accommodation options grew. Our Spanish trip had coincided with Europe’s Easter holiday, leaving the couch surfing scene over saturated and jacking up the hostel prices to about 60 bucks a head. Despite all of this, Allen had worked his thrifty travel magic yet again, landing what looked like the mother of cheap housing deals. For 10 Euros a person, the Craigslist ad seemed too good to be true. Just when it looked as though the countless emails to procure the place had been futile and we were facing a no-show, our new host tentatively approached where we sat at the metro station.
The rotund Chinese woman wore a look of uncertainty that mirrored our own feelings, but warmed up to us quickly. Jen talked animatedly about the conditions attached to accepting her room, while we followed behind trying to gauge her vibe and decide whether to bail or to stick around and give her a shot. She steered us through the doors of a tiny nail salon with posters of wacky hairdos plastered on the glass storefront. Inside we moved quickly through a small room crammed with manicure tables and smelling strongly of acetone, through a door that was only halfway concealed by an old lace tablecloth, and into a dark, narrow hall in the back. Dodging the storage cabinets and bulk supplies that littered our path, we followed her past a few more rooms until she stopped at a door on her right where she beckoned us to enter and have a look for ourselves. The tiny chamber that was to be our quarters while in Barcelona turned out to be the salon’s massage room by day, and an illegal way to make a little extra cash by night. Two portable massage beds stood pushed together against the back wall, a solitary airplane blanket folded and placed on top of each. The windowless room had just enough space for two people to stand scrunched up against the rickety beds.
Jen indicated for us to follower her further down the hall. “Let me show you how to do the shower. It is very old.” The bathroom served as the official border between the business in front and her residence in the back, and was shared by both. A curtain had been mounted in the middle of the room, and was presently held open by a moldy wood clothespin so that the toilet and shower spout beyond were visible. A mop was propped against the corner between the sink and the door, turquoise pedicure buckets were piled up against the wall drying, and a single light bulb hung from it’s ceiling-mounted cord. For the price it was perfect.
From here we began our new daily routine in Barcelona. In the mornings we quickly used the bathroom, packed our bags so the massage room was clean for business, and carried our garbage to the allocated bins in the neighboring alley. During the daylight hours we took full advantage of the city’s public parks and green boulevards by playing chess, taking naps, and eating our lunches on the benches next to bocce courts. In the evenings we sought out local tapas bars and outdoor cafes in the less touristy neighborhoods where we could practice our Spanish and relax before turning-in. It was a beautiful system that saved us a bundle and left all parties feeling hunky-dory.
The morning of our third day began just like the rest, and Jen made small talk with Allen as he pulled out a 20 to pay for the night. “Where you next city?” She started with, not waiting for our response before moving on to the next thought. “I don’t know, maybe the woman have bad experience when she in China. She just come and go and come and go and say nothing. This is my home – the woman have no respect. The woman leave today.” We were both a little confused because until that moment neither of us had realized there was yet another guest staying in the tiny business, but not all that surprised considering the circumstances.
She was visibly flustered, pacing between the manicure tables as she continued venting her frustrations to nobody in particular. After a few more minutes of rambling she gently touched Allen’s elbow, and lowered her tone. “I feel very sorry for you. You are okay. But the woman must go.” Suddenly the faintest of thoughts surfaced in my brain, and I looked from her to Allen, and then back to her again as the question slowly rolled off my tongue. “I’m sorry… but… are you talking about me?” Her gaze remained fixed on Allen’s chest, but she responded to my inquiry with such venom that it was clear she had been waiting all morning to unleash on me. “Yes you must go. I no like you. I know a lot of people. I see people from all over the world. I know what good people is. You think I nothing because all you see is this” she wildly flailed her arms in the air at the manicure equipment. “My father was a professor! I have many white friends. You have no social graces. You must go now.” The entire self-righteous monologue was spat out in one long breath.
Allen and I blankly stared at her, mouths agape, thoroughly dumbstruck. She took advantage of our silence by turning back to Allen and addressing him in her former tender manner. “I not know, I think maybe you choose wrong woman. I feel sorry for you. You are good person. You should not be with her.” All hopes of keeping the sweet setup in our massage room were fading with each word she spoke. She shuffled her feet across the floor, quickly moving between the hall and front room and adamantly avoiding my following questions. Amazingly, we both remained calm as we tried to reason with her, imploring for her to explain what on Earth had been so offensive. My hands were locked together at my chest as I pleaded for forgiveness, telling her I meant no disrespect, but she wouldn’t look me in the eye. Alas, our efforts were in vain. As we left the dingy shop her parting response was simple, just like in my dream: “I no like you.”
It was a rocky start to the day to say the least, and my composure was pretty shaken for some time to come. Personal attack on my character aside, I had just witnessed a complete stranger blatantly tell my fiancé that he could do much, much better than me. It was a deep ouch. Though there was no apparent reason for this particular episode, I have no doubt some instance of unwarranted crankiness in my past produced the curveball assault on my moral fiber. As we walked through the glass storefront doors for the last time there were many things we wanted to say, but neither of us bothered wasting our energy. It was enough to know that her conduct and negative attitude would undoubtedly attract even more trouble in the future. Meanwhile our positive travel karma remained untarnished, regardless of the bruised ego and uncanny sense of déjà vu.
To think our daily six-mile jaunts would compensate for the gluttony that was to ensue whilst in Italy, was about as realistic as believing a pair of Shape -Ups will offset that second helping of desert. Spoiler alert: it’s not gunna work. The Weight Gods were stacked against us, and we sensibly disregarded them just as one does food labels. In no time flat we had procured a temporary residence in what is known to some as the food capital of the boot, with the sole intention of eating.
Bologna’s well-earned reputation for culinary tradition – in part due to such scrumptious local specialties as stuffed pastas, meat sauces, lasagnas, and prosciuttos – lured our all too willing bellies into its snare, and afforded ample opportunity to indulge in pretty much everything that dared cross our path. From five-course self-service lunch counters with house wine on tap, to late night apertivos where an 8 Euro beverage wins you admittance to some of the best all-you-can-eat buffets on the planet. We partook in picnics of local salumi and Chianti, afternoons standing at the caffe bar sipping macchiatos, and evenings loitering around pizzerias and gelaterias. Due diligence was our motto in the quest to truly explore the gastronomic goodness of northern Italy, and we paid for it by the ounce. By the end of our 27-day tenure at No. 5 Via Nicolò Pisano my body had somehow grown by 8 pounds, while in an ironic and infuriating twist of fate Allen actually managed to lose weight.
Though the above caloric culprits were primarily responsible for my larger pant size, the massive sit-down feasts we attended along the way were by no means innocent. The first such incident was entirely self-inflicted, as we deliberately walked into the restaurant that we would later waddle out of, 70 Euros lighter. The instant we were settled at our two-top tucked away in a cramped corner, our glasses were filled with champagne, and a plate of local salumi magically appeared before us. The waitress, a chic gal in head to toe black with the shoulder of her knit T casually draped over the edge of her bony angle, was the sort of thin that immediately told you she never indulged in anything you were about to consume. She bopped from table to table, spending upwards of 15 minutes at each discussing the menu and wine list before moving on to the next. Per her suggestions we put in our order, hoping we brought enough cash to cover the bill only after the fact.
The food that was placed before us represented the perfect marriage between science and art. A series of delicate layers made up the lasagna dish, separating each ingredient so that the individual flavors of the fresh tomato sauce, finely minced meat, and sharp cheese each stood on their own. The folds of our handmade tortellini were filled with a creamy cheese so full of flavor it sat on your tongue long after the initial bite. With the first course settling nicely in our tummies the house special was delivered to our table, and instantly stole the show. Roughly the size of my balled-up fist and smothered in thick balsamic sauce that dripped onto the accompanying grilled vegetables, our meat course was far and away one of my favorite plates in all of Italy. The outside was slightly charred and crispy, while the inside remained the sort of tender and rare that melts in your mouth as you chew. We washed it all down with a delicious regional red.
Our second encounter with unashamed overindulgence came in the company of Filiberto and Angelica in their quiet Macerata home. Our four-course dinner was kicked off with the traditional antipasto, complete with a cloudy vase of olive oil from their private orchard, home-candied fruit, and a bottle of bubbles. A second bottle of white was consumed during the primo (pasta) and contorno (vegetable) courses. When dolce time came around, Angelica presented a plate of deep-fried treats traditional to carnival and the changing of seasons from winter to spring. A new bottle of burgundy-colored desert wine was dusted off and placed in the center of the table for our enjoyment. The concoction could have passed as cough syrup’s twin, in both viscosity and taste, and left a sugary coat on the insides of our mouths and throats. By the time caffe and digestivo were dolled out (basically, shots of sambuca to “settle the stomach”) it was closer to the next morning than an appropriate dinner hour. If the Bracalente’s goal that night was to get us thoroughly sauced, they succeeded.
The following day we were invited to join the couple and their friends for lunch at a bed and breakfast in the Marche countryside. A square table for 12 was ready and waiting in the renovated farmhouse from Italy’s feudal past, with bright rays filtering through the south facing windows and spilling onto it’s linens so that the meal had a cheery and spring-time air. It was a proper five-course, four-hour ordeal with bottomless pitchers of local wine and tasty Italian treats such as polenta dressed in Gorgonzola and pear, roasted boar, and Sicilian orange salad. During this elaborate banquet our party plowed through 60 different plates, 48 glasses, and 84 pieces of silverware, each of which varying in style and size.
Obscene quantity of food, wine, and dishwashing aside, we had a great time watching the group of friends enjoy the sunny Sunday and one another’s company. At one point, when the entire table was divided into passionate conversations complete with animated hand gestures and bursts of laughter, Allen commented that we had landed in a real-life Olive Garden commercial (only with far superior food).
We remained in our Bolognese hideout exploring the northern cities and cuisines for as long as time would allow, until the day finally came when it was necessary to move on. With heavy hearts and a much higher tolerance to alcohol we walked through the porticos one final time towards the city’s central station and beyond to new discoveries. While the eating adventures of the north (and my apparent intolerance for moderation) fattened me up in a ways I should be more ashamed of, it seemed such a waste to let the opportunity slip by while I guiltily counted the calories. Instead, we chose to forsake the absurd idea that in order to be happy we must look perfect, and found joy in the little delights served on our porcelain plates, one course at a time.
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