The World Is Her Playground

I am a teacher. I am a traveler. I am a mother. Once in a while, I’m very lucky and these three worlds collide. This was the case this April, when I had the good fortune of bringing my daughter along on a school trip to Germany.

It turns out that five-year-olds are pretty awesome students. Their minds are open. They are not jaded. If my little girl could write a journal about what she learned, it might look something like this.

ART CLASS

The Alte Nationalgalerie (Old National Gallery of Berlin) and the Antikensammlung (Musuem of Greek and Roman Antiquities of Berlin)

What to do:

1.Get an audioguide. Listen.

2.Stand really close to a Monet painting. Then back up.

3. Bring a sketchbook.

4. Walk around,observe, and draw.

POLITICAL SCIENCE CLASS

Model United Nations of Luebeck

What to do:

1.Sit quietly and watch high school students solve world problems.

2. Confer with delegates. Share state secrets, network. Be diplomatic. Feel proud of the places that you have lived. Take occasional breaks to play games on Mom’s iphone.

LITERATURE CLASS

Guenter Grass House, Luebeck

What to do:

1.Tour the home of a famous writer, like Guenter Grass.

2.See the funny statues in the garden.

3.Listen to stories.  Ask questions.

4. Talk about the art, even the stuff the adults seem embarrassed about. (” I have never seen someone with THREE before Mommy!”)

5. Take a nap.

HISTORY CLASS

The Brandenberg Gate, Berlin. The Wannsee Conference, Berlin. Pottsdam.

1. Learn about the Berlin Wall. Wear funny hats. Talk about why the wall was torn down. Wear more funny hats.

3. Visit the Wannsee Conference. Sit quietly, because it’s a very sad place. Draw pictures in the library.

4. Take the train from Berlin to Pottsdam. Visit fancy palaces.

5.Learn about Frederick the Great.

6. Run around the gardens between Sans Souci and Neues Palais. Climb a tree!

DANCE CLASS

The Eifmann Ballet of St. Petersberg,Schiller Theater, Berlin

What to do:

1. Get dressed up. Even wear lipstick.

2. Go to a fancy theater. Sit with Mom and her students.

3. Watch amazing dancers perform Onegin.

4.Dance in your living room for weeks after. Say you want to be a “Russian Ballet Dancer.”

ARCHITECTURE CLASS

The Berliner Dom, Berlin. The Reichstag Dome, Berlin.

What to do:

1. Get a good seat, up high. Shoulders are preferable. Look at beautiful buildings.

2.Climb to the top of the Reichstag Dome.

3. Get an audio guide. Listen. Watch the world from above.

Here’s an alliteration for you: after long landlocked days, Leilani longed to lounge by the sea.

We built our own sea, with shiny goldfish…

…and a sea turtle.

Even our boundless creativity did not satisfy her, and we finally succumbed to her insistent requests. We drove to Taghazout, a surfing outpost on the outskirts of Agadir. It is the off season, and so Leilani had the great expanse of beach to herself.

And that, my friends, is what it’s all about.

Recently, I made my first trip to the Middle East, for this:

the Georgetown University  School for Foreign Service Model UN conference in Doha, Qatar. We had the good fortune to travel with six wonderful students to this event, which more than 30 international schools attended. I must admit, I knew nothing about Doha before we arrived there. My hectic schedule leading up to the conference precluded even a Wikipedia search of the city. When I left, I was still confused about what makes this place tick, aside from the obvious; Qatar’s natural gas reserves are the world’s third largest.

We didn’t see much of Doha for the first few days there, thanks to a sandstorm that blanketed the city in a thick white haze just before our arrival. When the skies cleared on the third day, Doha revealed itself, and its eclectic skyline emerged across the harbor.

There, a futuristic building-scape looms over  the vestiges of the city’s pearl village past. Today, pearling boats inhabit real estate next to yachts and urban outcroppings in the form of man-made islands. As we drove through the financial district en route to what would be one of several malls visits, my colleague likened it to traveling through a comic book. I have never seen an amalgam of so many architectural styles within such a small urban footprint.

The architectural gem of the city is, inarguably, I.M. Pei’s Museum of Islamic Art. Pei’s cubist-meets-North African fortress creation is a marvel of modernist design-at once peaceful, welcoming, and austere. I loved it.

While Qatar is home to a very strict branch of Islam, I never felt threatened or ostracized there. This is most likely because non-Qataris are the majority in Doha. Immigrants comprise much of the work force, in the service industry as well as the oil and gas companies. So, when we dined in a restaurant that was otherwise segregated by gender, no one seemed fazed the by table of mixed-gender Westerners nearby.

Still though, I was homesick…for Morocco. There is no denying the singular glamour of this part of the world, with its five-star airlines, and omnipresent Land Rovers. Louis Vuitton and Gucci are everywhere, accenting the traditional flowing thobes and abayas adorned by men and women, respectively. Even the city’s central marketplace, Souq Waqif,  feels like a movie set; it was reconstructed from the orginal souq years ago.

(There’s even a Dunkin’ Donuts!)

But, I missed the sounds and smells of Marrakech, the magical chaos of its medina and the maddening contradictions that loom in every corner. I missed the colors of women’s djellabas and kaftans, and the shouts of men hauling vegetables and hardware through winding alleys and large city streets by motorbike and donkey cart.

I am fairly certain that this won’t be my last trip to this part of the world. I know that there is more to discover beneath the surface, even in burgeoning cities like Doha, whose history is being written in front of our eyes.

My little girl, who has now spent the majority of her four years living here in Morocco, occasionally chooses to go out with a head scarf as part of her attire. I embrace this decision, although I realize that it occasionally garners second-glances from passersby. This is mainly due to the incongruous appearance that she and I give-why would a little girl cover her hair, if her mother does not?

The answer, of course, is simple. Her mother chooses not to cover her hair, and she, at least for that day, does.

I will not begin to interpret what this “means” to my daughter, as I don’t think she knows exactly. I think it’s fair to say that she wants to emulate so many wonderful women in her life, from her teachers, to her teenage friends, to my future in-laws here. I also think it’s fair to say that for her, this scarf represents a very peaceful, benevolent, and welcoming culture and religion, which has accepted us here pretty much unconditionally, as a single mother and child from a different culture.

I can also say,categorically, what this scarf is not, in the eyes of this four year old. It is certainly not a symbol of oppression. She is dressing to be like some of the most powerful, empowered, and inspiring women we know. It is not something to fear. It is, and perhaps this is the most profound thing, really not a big deal. She accepts it as normal, even if it may never be her normal. I think she will grow into this world aware that things are a lot less complicated than some people want to make them.

I realize that this is all a drastic oversimplification of what should be a very profound personal decision. I find though, that  the deeper meaning of things often lies in the simplicity of a child’s perspective.

Football.

Is it modern day Bread and Circus? A way to placate and anesthetize the masses, to distract the disenfranchised from injustice and inequity? Maybe. Will the dribbling, feints and footwork of eleven men create real change in the lives of their rabid fans? Probably not. Life goes on the next day. But, on this day, when Morocco will face off against Tanzania to qualify for the African Cup, it doesn’t matter.

On the road, everywhere, giddy, happy, beautiful  fools hang from car windows draped  in flags, taking it all in.  Men dressed like patriotic court jesters speed by on motorbikes, and kids race to jump onto moving vehicles-hoping to get that much closer to the stadium. The vuvuzela, thorn in FIFA’s side, bleats and honks in concert with car horns and whistles.

In the stadium, there are waves of red and green. The ground trembles from drum beats on seats and stomping feet. The rthymic thump of house music meets the syncopated beat of a marching band. The reveling crowd chants and jeers. Bodies rise and fall in choreographed frenzy. Moroccan fans do as only Moroccan fans can, organizing an awe-inspiring “Tifo” in the stands.

And, when Morocco scores, there is euphoria.

(Final score: Morocco:3 Tanzania:1)

We recently visited Ourika Valley, a fertile, green sanctuary just miles from the dry, dusty Marrakech heat.  The road through the valley ends at Setti Fatima, a Berber village well traversed by tourists hoping to partake of a tagine alongside the water, or to climb its lovely waterfalls.

We’d been to these falls twice before, when Leilani was two. This time, in spite of her pleas to make the ascent “ALL BY MYSELF,” we hired a local teenage guide to help us navigate the craggy terrain leading up to the waterfalls.

With Ibrahim’s help, we shuffled up the mountain alongside Moroccans and tourists outfitted in every kind of inappropriate footwear imaginable. Hands jutted out at every stage to pull women in flimsy flip-flops and high heeled sandals over the slippery wet rocks.  At the waterfall, Leilani happily stripped down to her bikini and prepared to plunge in. Her enthusiasm waned as soon as her little toes dipped into the frigid mountain stream. We frolicked under the icy torrents, accompanied by half-naked teens and fully covered women posing for family photos. It was idyllic by any standard-a refreshing end to an afternoon hike.

And then, we hit the wall. Literally. A sheer granite precipice, glistening with water. Our guide had presented us with the the choice of returning the way we came, or descending down an easier, more scenic path along the mountain edge. This sounded like a marvelous idea, until we realized that the precursor to this scenic path involved scaling the steep rock wall with the help of a rusty, rickety ladder secured only by an elderly man wearing worn plastic sandals.

And so it was, that an idyllic afternoon hike evolved into a moving meditation on risk, danger, and reward.  Grown men around us turned away when faced with this ladder, precariously posed on a rocky ledge. “It’s an easier climb down, after this point” our guide repeated. Leilani looked at my friend and me with a questioning glance. There was no place for fear in our response to her silent interrogation. I can do it, I assured my friend, As long as you go first. She did, and Leilani was next. I could always catch her, I thought to myself, if the ladder gave way underneath her. This would have been impossible in practice, because as soon as the old man took her under his arm and scrambled up the ladder, I instinctively shut my eyes.

Risk is a funny idea. I come from a place where we insist that our kids ride tricycles with helmets in our own driveway, (I support bike safety wholeheartedly), and yet here I was, allowing a complete stranger to hoist my daughter up a onto a steep, wet cliff wall. It literally took my breath away. Rendered paralyzed, I put my faith into his hands, which I knew had scaled these walls for decades. And, in those few seconds before I opened my eyes and saw her reach safety, I prayed.

We survived, of course. And the view was awesome.

Once the adrenaline stopped surging through my body, I felt the smallest bit empowered. My little girl, who is the offspring of a  vertically challenged gene pool , will undoubtedly grow into a diminutive young woman. A mother can only hope that her kid will face life head-on, no matter what her size.

Djemaa el Fna square.  It’s the stuff of fairytales. Storytellers, acrobats,  and snake charmers mix company with a motley crew of tourists and locals. Hijabs and halter tops intermingle at orange juice stands. Kids sell wooden snakes, which seem eerily real in one’s peripheral vision. Women perched on wobbly plastic chairs heckle and plead Henna, Madame??, as they wave their ink-filled syringes in the air. (Mommy, my kid says, Those ladies are selling the black henna. That’s NOT real. It makes people itchy. Real henna is green and stinky and turns you orange.)

Vendors everywhere hawk a dizzying array of products. Cell phones, tee-shirts, and pirated DVDs abound. There are teeth, should you require them, or, alternately, pliers, if one is bothering you.

You’ll find oils, soaps, incense, bars of amber, sticks of amber, powdered amber, ostrich eggs, creepy live lizards, and slightly…petrified reptiles. If you are a Harry Potter nut, or perhaps an old school Angela Lansbury fan hoping to embark on a correspondence course in witchcraft, Djemaa el Fnaa and its surroundings have what you need.

Thus, if you are in the market for pets of the reptile or amphibian variety, as we happened to be the other day, Marrakech’s old medina is sort of a one stop shop. Recently, in an effort to encourage my daughter’s burgeoning sense of independence and maturity, I succumbed to her repeated requests for a pet. My only qualifier was that I would never need to walk it or train it to use the bathroom. We spent an afternoon surveying the options, quickly eliminating the terrifying (but cool) Spiny Tail Lizard.

A chameleon was compelling, until I realized that I’m actually scared of all lizards, and couldn’t bring myself to touch one. They apparently start out like this:

And grow to this:

We settled on a little tortoise, who is alternately named “Asman” or “Rainbow,” depending on the day. Asman/Rainbow has taken up residence on our balcony, where he/she  enjoys leisurely walks, sunshine, and lettuce.

Magic!

We’re in midair. Hovering above New York somewhere, heading towards the Atlantic pass.  I try to surpress memories of Airfrance Flight 447, which dissolved over these frigid waters years ago. She cranes her neck to watch the clouds circling around us. She’s gotten used to a life in transit, in all of her four year old wisdom. Home will be where her bed is, where I am, where her teddy bear, or Cabbage Patch Kid, or Barbie doll is. It’s where she will have bathtime, and eat breakfast. Where she will wake up each morning, and where she will say “hi” (or “bonjour” or “salaam” ) to people on the way to school. For now, though, we are in Royal Air Maroc’s world, a neverland of stagnant air and stale peanuts. People around us are watching the setting sun, too, waiting to break their fast. I think about how travelers are exempt from Ramadan, and it makes sense. We are racing toward the sun. The passage of time is warped up up here, which is nowhere, really, in the scheme of things.

I have spent the last two years navigating Morocco, a process that has been as joyful as it is frustrating. I have not learned the language very well, it is true, as I spend most of my day speaking English, which is the language of my job and my home. My pitiful attempts at cooking Moroccan food won’t even fool my four year old daughter.

This is not my first “immersion” in a foreign culture. I fell madly in love with Brasil after spending time there as an undergraduate, later bringing the art of capoeira and one of its practioners into my life. This led to the brief and ill-fated marriage that produced, happily, the no longer toddling namesake of this blog.  I spent my twenties either traveling or entrenched in various enclave communities in New York City.  It was on Steinway Street in Queens, not Marrakech, that I first experienced the tang of North African preserved lemons and heat of harissa, and was jolted from sleep from the call to prayer by the mosque across the street from my home.  Sometimes, I wonder why it is that I feel so comfortable when I am uncomfortable, why the foreign is as intoxicating today as it was when I was a bored teenager in the manicured, suburban home of my youth.

For all of my wanderlust, I have spent little time exploring my own country. My time here has been mostly relegated to the coasts, in cities that are defined as much by their diversity as their own historical identity.  A motorcycle trip with my dad this summer offered an  an opportunity to see a sliver of this vast continent. The trip was fortuitous in its timing. My father was in the midst of an epic journey across Alaska and Canada. I was finishing a conference of international school counselors in Calgary. Our paths crossed in Banff National Park, and we made the trip home to the East Coast together.

PART ONE: GOING TO THE SKY

We met by Lake Louise in the Canadian Rockies. The streams of water that pour down the side of the mountains here are called “glacial milk,” though milky these lakes are not. Even on a cloudy day, the iridscent turquoise waters of Lake Louise and others, like its nearby sister Lake Moraine are liquefied gems.

A glacier over Lake Louise.

We traveled on this BMW GS: (looking no worse for the wear considering the mudbath it endured on Alaska’s Deadhorse Highway):

Our first step was Glacier National Park.  There, we climbed the aptly named “Going to the Sky Road” at the leisurely pace set by the construction crews along the route.

The road leads to the Continental Divide, the rift between the Rockies that divides Canada and the United States.

The park, which once was home more than 100 glaciers, now has 25.  Its lakes, fed by these waters, are spectacular.

PART TWO: AMBER WAVES OF GRAIN

The journey out of Glacier National Park and into the Great Wide Open began with a false start, brought to us by the Garmin.

Our off-roading adventure ended abruptly and unceremoniously at a pile of rubble that abutted a fence. A sign read “No Shooting No Dumping,” and had obviously been ignored.

Back on the open road, we battled winds for hundreds of miles crossing the beautiful state of Montana. We sailed past undulating fields,with nothing to break the gusts that whip ferociously across the flatlands. My father, a skilled sailor, pilot and motorcylist who has spent his lifetime negotiating with Mother Nature, braced us against her wrath. In lesser hands, we may very well have been blown off the road.

When the winds abated, the ride was idyllic. A patchwork expanse of green and brown rolled out before us,  interrupted only by the mechanical arms of irrigators and oil rigs and geometric patterns of hay bales.

Part Three: Onward and Eastward

We continued through North Dakota, which was still reeling from the flooding that had displaced thousands of families earlier in the month. It is a beautiful state, thriving even in this economy because of its oil and wind resources. We passed the Painted Canyons, which swell from the ground like giant anthills…

…and visited the World’s Largest Concrete Buffalo.

Part Four:Homeward Bound

The final leg of our journey took us around the Great Lakes, which I have never seen. It turns out that they really do look like the ocean.

We enjoyed the kind hospitality of friends in the town of Alpena, Michigan, before making the final push home, through Canada (again), New York, and Vermont, which felt, finally, like familiar territory. (I am, after all, a New England girl at heart.)

Our arrival home was marked by true New Hampshire pomp and circumstance: a lobster bake that celebrated my father’s birthday and the culmination of his six weeks and nearly 9,000 miles on the road.

I’ve said it before, but there really is no place like home.

I stopped writing recently, because life suddenly got very busy and I needed to focus my energies elsewhere for a while. I took this picture in the midst of all of the insanity. I was preparing my final grades, participating in a student-led international conference at Marrakech’s public university, and preparing for two trips to Italy for work (and yes, a bit of play.)

Anyhow, that day, the Atlas Mountains were spectacular. The skies had cleared after late “winter” rains, and the blue sky was a perfect backdrop for the fresh snowfall on the mountain peaks.

Awesome.