Seconds

This has been a trying week of red tape, traffic jams, dripping fridges, and medical angst.  But a few weeks ago I actually had a successful day on the town.  Let’s focus on that.

There is something to be said for going to the same place twice. And I am going to say it now.

Today I had an appointment in the city, after which I set off in search of waterproof shoes. I simply must have dry feet this winter, and the rest of the Moroccan populace has transitioned instantly from flip flops to Uggs. Everything is binary here, it seems. Morocco is not about in-betweens.

The lovely lady at the reception desk kindly directed me to a nearby shoe store, which did not have waterproof shoes. But while I was there, I remembered that I had forgotten to pick up my receipt, and so I trotted smartly back to the office I had just left. This was my first second visit of the day.

“I need the paper that says I gave you money,” I said. Yes, that is how I talk around here. It’s humbling.

“Ah! La facture! Attendez-vous.” Right. La facture. I knew that, from all of the factures I’ve been receiving from my many French lessons. As if I forgot what a facture was.

“Natasha!”

I turned. Well, wouldn’t you know it. Kenza, my fellow alto in the Casasawt Chorale was standing there in front of me.

“Miss Regehr!”

I turned again, and there was one of my students grinning up at me.

Seriously? I come back for my facture and I meet two people I know?!

I am starting to feel a part of this place.

My quest for waterproof shoes than became a joint endeavour, as both women directed me to a second shoe store that might have just what I need.

It did not. But I had fun walking there anyway, and I kept right on walking until I got to the Twin Centre. This mall-ish collection of odd little shops had more shoe stores than the world has feet. But alas, no waterproof shoes. These accessories were all about fashion and flashiness. Glamour shoes, largely unwearable. Time to move on.

“Medina,” I said to the taxi driver. I commented on the beauty of the Koranic music emanating from his radio, and wrote down the station. He was surprised, and touched. It’s funny, what taxi-drivers choose to listen to as they drive. The Koran-music guys are always the kindest. A ride with them is always peace-inducing, even without a common language.

Expert-like, I indicated exactly where I wanted the devout driver to drop me off. Oh, but it feels good to disembark spontaneously when I see familiar landmarks. Like it’s my city, too, you know.

Where to first? “I’m going to look for an authentic Apple phone charger at the place where I bought my inauthentic phone charger two months ago. You never know. He might have one.” This was my second second visit of the day.

They guy at the knock-off phone shop recognized me instantly. “Washington?” he asked, eagerly.

“Canada,” I responded. Really, do I look like I’m from Washington? I do not.

“Oh, you mean George Washington Academy! Yes, I work there!”

He lives near the school, he said, and sees me from time to time. And he remembered my last visit to his shop.

“I bought a cable here once,” I explained, “and it doesn’t… ummm…”

“Marcher?”

“Oui. It doesn’t work. I want an Apple cable.”

“Ah, attends.” Wait.

We plugged all manner of inauthentic Apple cables into my phone; I eventually overpaid for one, and he threw in a second, gratuit. A gift, he said. “You’re very kind,” I said. He hugged and kissed me as I left. Fake kissing, you know, Moroccan style. I’m getting used to it.

“Now,” I thought. “Somewhere along here is that cute little shop with the kind woman, and all sorts of funky clothes for $5. I am currently faced with a serious t-shirt shortage. This is the perfect place to remedy that.”

This was my third second visit of the day.

The woman did not recognize me, but I recognized her. I struggled in and out of a great deal of shirts, fully prepared now for her to whip the curtain aside periodically to check on my progress.

“Ah, c’est très jolie,” she said after every single fashion show, nodding approvingly at a series of shirts that were clearly too big in the shoulders and wayyyy too tight in the bust. She, in her draping robes and covered head, was less concerned about my modesty than I was. This place is so weird.

I chose a funky/frilly blouse with an acceptable tightness:cuteness ratio (it will look smashing with my funky/frilly/frumpy cardigan, which I wear shamelessly every single day). As I paid, I told her about my first visit to her shop, and how I remembered her kindness and her interesting wares. She showed me pictures of her daughter, and suggested that we work together to learn each other’s languages. We exchanged names and phone numbers and took selfies together. I photographed her shop so I could be sure to find it for a third time. We parted as friends. Such deep satisfaction. I love the women here.

And now, back to the shoe-quest. The medina has a whole street dedicated pretty much entirely to the buying, selling, and repairing of shoes. Cheap knock-off shoes, mostly, of dubious origins and dubious usefulness. “No matter,” thought I. “There is a Sketchers store here, and I am going to find it.” And I did. This was my fourth second visit of the day.

The man at the store recognized not me, but my footwear, immediately. “Where did you get those?” he asked, in his pretty darn fantastic English. He’s Moroccan, but used to live in Philadelphia, where the sandwiches are yummm.

“I got them here!” I said. And he proceeded to show me anything in his nicely stocked shop that remotely resembled waterproof. Which basically meant I spent half an hour trying on winter boots. Flip flops to Uggs, you know. Nothing in between.

“I’ll keep looking,” I said, “but I’ll be back. I found you twice, so I can find you again.”

I meandered through fake-shoe heaven, trying nothing on and making eye contact with no one. This is the only way to avoid buying crappy shoes that you don’t really want. Feign disinterest. Oh, but it’s hard.

Just as I began to wonder if I was getting lost, there was Sketchers in front of my eyes, and the proprietor sitting expectantly on the front step. “I saw you looking at all those fake shoes,” he said with friendly disapproval.

“I didn’t even go in,” I countered. “I just kept walking. I know your shop is the best.”

His name is Sam, and he was clearly concerned about the well-being of my feet. I took a photo of his shop, and he did not pressure me to buy boots I did not want. “You’re my customer,” he beamed proudly. “I’ll take care of you. Do you want to take my phone number in case you get lost?”

This I declined, of course. One mustn’t take phone numbers of strange men in medinas, no matter how genuine they seem.

I found my way out of the medina easily, found a taxi home, and recognized places along the way. I felt enormous satisfaction with myself. Places are becoming familiar. People are becoming friends. I am beginning to belong. No shoes, no matter. This was a highly successful day.