Friday, September 23, 2005

homesickness




i’ve avoided writing about morocco because to write about it would mean i was just remembering it instead of living in the memory. i feel as if the friend who invited me gave me a gift in a small box, and when i opened it a huge spill of golden light came pouring out, like the sun. it seemed very light for him when he handed it to me, but when i realized the weight of what was inside i was left speechless.

when people ask me where i went and what i did, i don’t have an answer that makes a good story. we stayed at home, went to the market, slept, ate. his mother made three meals every day, which we ate with our hands. there was one cup for water on the table, which we all shared. meals were sometimes silent, sometimes noisy, filled with talk in three languages. when they made fun of me too much i would talk back in japanese, or imitate his mother talking; “kat kat kat.”

we sat on the roof of his house, which looks out over the old maze city of fes, talking of light things or heavy ones, politics or family, cooking, love. when the time was right the sky would be filled with calls and cries, laid over each other like the reverberations in a concert hall, not so much beautiful as they were primal and a little frightening. they filled me with a wild joy, like i could spread out my borrowed robe and leap off the roof to join them in the air.

my friend’s sister told me her secrets and listened to mine. his brothers dusted off their old languages, forgotten since school, and teased me like real siblings. his mother went to the police station to get a notarized form saying that she was responsible for everything i did and anything that might happen to me, a requirement to staying with a family in a country with strict controls on ‘guides’. she gave me the paper and told me i was her daughter now. she walked behind me on the street, pulling my shirts down, holding my hand in the crowded squares.

in the old streets, grown up out of the earth a thousand years before i was born, my sense of direction was useless. i could remember each street, but not how one place turned into another. the streets were a deck of cards, reshuffled every night. ten days was not enough time to learn to count the cards. every street was like an image from the tarot, like a dream remembered since childhood, like a face – full of concealed layers and symbols, regarding me with its own thoughts. i was lost in that crowd of faces but safe with a family not my own.

only ten days, it’s not a long time. but when i came home, beside the usual strange perceptions that travel gives you, i was filled with such loneliness. i miss those street faces that make up the crowded city, i miss the mother and brothers and sister around the table.

the second day home i was sending instant messages to the youngest brother, trying to tell him how much the welcome his family gave me meant to me, trying to explain the strange closeness i felt with them. i said to him “you know i don’t have any brothers and sisters…” but he interrupted me. “no. you are my sister.”

and ignoring the office moving around me, the televisions chattering and the ringing phones, i put my head in my hands and cried.

Friday, September 16, 2005

jet lag

So I got back from Morocco Tuesday, called in sick Wednesday, came in to work yesterday. Forgot until after it was already over that I'd made an appointment for acupuncture. So I called the acupuncturist, told him that I am an idiot, and asked if I could come anyway.

The answer was yes, so I stopped to get cash at an ATM that would only talk to me in Spanish no matter what buttons I pressed. I transferred $100 from checking to savings before finally succeeding in getting some money out of the thing.

Then I walked along 56th Street, looking for the address I'd just written down. The acupuncturist is Japanese, and midway between 5th and 6th avenues I found a sign for the Osaka spa. The address and suite were what I thought I remembered.

I told the girl at the desk that I was here for an acupuncture appointment with Dr. Murata. She seemed busy but said "yes, yes" and took me to a little room. "Take off all your clothes," she said, "and wear this towel." When I poked my head out, she guided me to a steam room.

I spent twenty minutes sitting in the eucalyptus clouds, watching as the henna patterns dyed on my hands seemed to dance through the steam. Warm water dripped from the ceiling.

When I came out of the room, the busy girl took me to a Japanese style bath. It struck me as odd that she should be Korean. I showered and moved between the hot and cold baths, completely happy to be back in this environment, one of my favorite parts of living in Japan.

The girl didn't seem to want to come back, so I poked my head out again. At this rate I'd only get 30 minutes of acupuncture, which wasn't what I thought I was signing up for. She told me to please sit down and drink my tea, which was waiting for me outside the bath.

Then the manager came. She was also Korean. The henna on my hands horrified her, she was convinced that it would absorb through the skin and mess up my immune system. She wanted me to fill out a form, and asked who had recommended me. I said that my old boss had told me that Mr. Murata was an excellent acupuncturist.

A little cloud passed across her face. "Dr. Murata?" she aked.

Long and short of it is: I had to pay a visit to Dr. Murata's office to apologise for missing two appointments in one day. The eucalyptus steam bath was half price, because it was only half my mistake.

Dr. Murata is a sweet man with an office a few doors down from the Osaka spa. He forgave me from behind a screen, came out to look for something, and saw my hands. His eyes filled with delight. He lived in Morocco for 6 years, doing acupuncture for the last king. And he cupped my hands in his own, turning them as delicately as if they were baby birds.

Friday, September 02, 2005

行ってきます

i’m off to morocco for ten days, but just had to post before i left.

i found a site detailing the religious significance of hurricane katrina.

this person is crazy, but crazy in a really detailed, organized, connected way. i wish i had the sheer drive and ability to retain information necessary to construct fantasies like his.

i could live without his utter lack of sympathy for anyone, and his desire to blame almost everything on female promiscuity, but the ability to concentrate… wow.

i’ll put up pictures of morocco when I get back.

keep me in the light, please.