Friday, February 12, 2010

If you come to Morocco, make sure to bring a baby with you

posted Sat, 30 Jul 2005

Did you guys know that getting a facial meant that someone else – the facial giver – squeezes out your blackheads?

I did not know that.

If you ask me, that is a little too much intimacy, especially when you consider I think paying someone to touch my almost-nekkid body is pretty much about the most I consider acceptable. And that's only because that feels so darn good.

Henry is our passport to Moroccan society. He is now 15 months and charms the heck out of everyone he sees. He does his little Miss America wave and grins his four-toothed grin and they fall at his feet. It doesn’t hurt that Moroccans love children. Even the most stern Moroccan men will see Henry and smile, bend down, and kiss his tummy as they pass. It happened three times today as we walked to the beach.

I had never had a facial before today. I was a facial virgin. Megan and I decided to take advantage of what are usually relatively inexpensive prices for personal services and get a massage and a facial this afternoon. I’ve only ever had one massage in the US and that was a gift. I would never pay $60 for a massage at home – that’s a week’s worth of groceries.

But here, it costs $10 and the facial is $22 – which makes me wonder how much a facial is at home. Not that I will ever find out. I can take care of that particular little problem myself, thank you very much.

Megan is finishing her massage and is then going to get a pedicure while I do this.

We went to the medina (the old city) and the souk (the market) this morning. Omigosh. You could do some serious shopping in this country if you were so inclined. The textiles, leather goods, rugs, tile work and furniture are gorgeous. Unfortunately, I don’t have any more room in my house, but – I do have friends! Friends who are getting married, who just had or who are having birthdays. Christmas is coming. So I might be able to find a reason to buy something.

The nice thing is that the vendors are not aggressive the way they were in Turkey. Those guys were awful. They would scold you if you ignored them. No. More than scold. They got angry. “I am talking to you,” one said to me furiously as I walked past his stall in Istanbul.

Steve just rolled his eyes and kept walking when I stopped at the bra stall, but I have had such good luck with the three-Euro strapless bras I got in Sicily last year at the flea market that I thought I might find some of the same kind here. I found the kind with the detachable straps. They were the right price, but the vendor didn’t have my size.

“Petite, Madame,” he sighed. “Petite.”

Yes, dammit. I know.

The bra stand on Sicily last year.

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