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From Abroad

Ferris Bueller’s Week Off

A few weeks ago, Neri had invited a couple of us to go to Italy to visit his family. Of course, I jumped at the opportunity but it meant that I had to miss Thursday, Friday, Monday and Tuesday of classes. Currently, I am in serious catch-up mode but it was well worth the journey. My French professor said in the beginning of class that le voyage forge le jeunesse (traveling makes the youth) so I suppose that was my justification!

Last Wednesday evening, we took a cab (yet officially known as a ‘friend/driver’ as the petit cab driver secretly left Ifrane to drive to Azrou since petit taxis are bound by law to stay within a particular town) to the main station, where we took an overnight bus to Marrakech for an inexpensive flight to Torino. While waiting for our bus, I spoke with an illegal immigrant who sneaks into Spain to work and then makes his way back to Morocco from time to time. When we said our goodbyes, his hands felt of a rough sandpaper; “mis amigos y yo trabajamos mucho en espana, pero mucho dinero!” he said. He even showed me his fake ID for Spain.

From the rocky bus, we had a full view of the stars and this made it feel as if we were in a space flight simulator. The rear shocks of the bus apparently vanished as we swayed from side to side and were popped out of our seats. A few people in the front started puking so they distributed plastic bags to only those individuals who had already puked (what about the rest of us?). Going uphill usually means that we in the back are the unlucky recipients of the stream, but this time it stayed isolated. In the States, one pays $5 for a five minute ride on one of those space simulators but only gets to puke once. In Morocco, one pays $10 for a 7 1/2 hour ride and receives the golden ticket to puke all he or she wants. “How old could the half lamb carcass hanging on the hook be?” I asked myself as we stopped at a small roadside stand. I declined my stomach’s desire for some food in remembering my last roadside stand experience!

Finally arriving in Torino after an eight hour bus ride and a three hour flight, we were greeted by Neri’s mom and sister. From the airport, we drove through the countryside until we reached Torino. Speeding up narrow cobbled streets, we stopped in front of a yellow gate that marked Neri’s home. While Neri and his family were speaking in Italian, I tried to write down some words and phrases that I could make out so that I could at least say a few phrases when I met Neri’s friends. His mom took us to where we would be sleeping for the next four nights and I was utterly shocked. They had built a guest house for those coming into Torino for the 2006 Winter Olympics and they brought me into a master bedroom with a king size bed. Usually, I sleep on a mattress on the floor with a light bulb dangling on a wire from the ceiling (if it is a nicer, cheap hotel) so the standards of the Italian excursion produced in me a great levity and happiness. We slept for a few hours and then were awoken by Neri’s golden retriever. His family had truly taken us in as their own.

Outside Neri’s home in Torino, Italy.

Neri’s mom had cooked us some pasta and we indulged in some cheeses and prosciutto, an Italian ham. I felt at home and it reminded me of eating at my grandparents’ house. I had told them that my family had migrated in 1920 from a small village in the south of Italy, Bagnoli del Trigno, and I found it on a topographical map. His dad took us out for some delicious pizza (not as good as yours, Dad, don’t worry). That evening, Neri took us to meet his friends at a new club. It had been invitation only but Neri sneaked us in and I mingled with the extremely stylish and wealthy folks of Torino. I felt a bit out of place but tried to learn Italian as the night wore on, oftentimes resorting to speaking Arabic with Wak. As we walked out, Ferraris and Porsches growled by and it was yet another situation in which to adapt: living the high life for a few days. Obviously, I had no Ferrari but my Porsche sufficed. (Com’on!)

Every morning, I would hop in a shower that would spray me from every direction and I started out with a few cups of espresso and a large breakfast before heading to the art districts. We saw a few exhibits before heading out to dinner, which usually consisted of gnocchi, pasta, pizza and cheese. Neri had informed us that there was a large Moroccan immigrant population in the town so Wak and I were constantly on the search for Moroccans to speak with, as our Italian was more than limited. We spent a few nights in the town squares, with Wak and I making Arabic videos that parodied our ‘Al Kitaab’ book series: “Notice the difference between tasharaaaafffnaaaa and mucharfiiiin!” I think the art spirit got into me too much and I left the camera in black and white mode to be a dork.

Church in Torino illuminated by a local artist

Neri’s mom is a curator at a local museum and they currently have the remnants of artifacts from the Kabul Museum in Afghanistan. Interestingly, I, ‘Enrico Bertazzoli’, was the restoration superintendent, or at least my badge had proclaimed! We had procured some of the museum staff’s passes so that we could explore all of the museum. A few people moved out of my way when I was walking through and someone came and asked me something in Italian and I replied cherto! (of course! – his mom clarified whatever confusion I may have caused). Neri has to be the king of Torino; he brought us into a gallery where he knew the code to the door and then he spoke with the mayor in one of the town squares. Neri studies the ‘economics of art and culture’ so he, as well as his mother, know a great deal about the subject. She had written all of the signs around town and provided us with a wealth of information. Thus, learning took place outdoors and in galleries for the week.

Neri’s mom outside the Afghanistan exhibit.

While out in town after an exhibit, I walked into a kebab restaurant that was staffed by Moroccans. At first hostile, they inquired about my usage of Arabic. In English, one asked, “why is that you speak Arabic, is it for work or what?” I then replied that I wanted to be able to speak to people and then in Arabic quoted my only line that I can speak with great speed, “I study economics, Arabic, and Islamic Civilization at the university of Al Akhawayn in Ifrane, Morocco.” They asked if I liked Islamic Civilization and I meant to say that I was quite interested, but instead I said, with great enthusiasm, “I love Islam!” Their eyes lit up and they beamed and I tried to explain that I wasn’t a Muslim but Neri and Wak were waiting for me outside and were kind of tapping their feet so I just ran out. They yelled shukran shukran shukran (thank you) as I left. I got the feeling that people in Italy didn’t approach them with a benevolent curiosity.

The next day, we traveled to Milan since our plane left from that airport. We decided to just rough it on the street until our 4 AM bus to the airport, which in retrospect was exhilarating yet frightening. We went to a LaChapelle exhibit and returned to the center square as the sun began to set. It became cold and I decided to splurge on some Milan fashion, which to me was a black toboggan that was sold on the street by a Moroccan. We haggled in Arabic numbers, which was new to me as I usually do it in French. Thus, it took a while to knock the price down to three Euros and I spoke with him for a while afterwards to find that he originates from Casablanca. I grabbed another slice of pizza before we ran into a group of Neri’s friends that swarmed around him and gave him big bear hugs.

On the train to Milan.

The Grand Heist

‘Mucharfin’, I found, originates from a southern part of Italy and now studies economic theory in Milan. When I stated that my family originates from Bagnoli del Trigno, he exclaimed, “we may be cujinos (cousins)!” After we all had a shot of espresso and a glass of wine, he invited us into his apartment for some pasta. Mucharfin and I spoke at length about economics and it got incredibly arcane, enough to push everyone away from us. He is of the communist persuasion so we debated minute aspects of theory for a while; he even had a white board with mathematical formulas for his positions. Wak and I then changed the subject by teaching “how much wood would a woodchuck chuck…” and “she sells sea shells…” to everyone in the room. We moved back down to the street to explore and Wak and I called our girlfriends. As Wak wandered about on his own, Neri and I sat on the street and talked about Americans and Italians, their antics and peoples’ perceptions of them. It was a wonderful conversation and Neri and I got to know one another quite well. Later in the evening, Wak and I went back up to Mucharfin’s apartment to use the bathroom and upon heading back down to the street, Neri burst through the door with a shocked look on his face and said that he had been robbed by three men. Supposedly, one of them put his hand in his pocket and made a gun figure and they surrounded him to steal his cell phone and some money. Wak, a New Yorker evidently used to such confrontations, ran out the door and Neri and I followed in tail. As Wak ran up and down the streets looking for the men (not the smartest procedure, I don’t think) Neri and I flagged down the Italian carabinieri, who went out in mass to search for them. Mucharfin, after having a few glasses of wine, flew down the stairs with two butter knives in hand and a vengeance, apparently planning to feed them so much toast that they die. “I’m going to kill them!” he whispered with a grimace and disheveled hair. Neri and I tried to calm him down until one of the carabinieri took them away from him. Neri received a phone call and after only ten minutes, four carabinieri cars were in front of Mucharfin’s apartment with the three men in the back. After filling out some paperwork with the extraordinarily friendly and efficient police (who made sure to inform me that their Alfa Romeos were faster than our Crown Victorias), we took to the streets in mass to search for Neri’s phone. To no avail, we grabbed a taxi which began our sixteen hour journey back to Ifrane.

Mucharfin peaking through the short-framed door to his apartment.

Reflections

In traveling through Italy, I was able to look at my experiences from a different context. I enjoyed stepping back and sort of analyzing my experiences in Morocco and seeing what I wanted to accomplish in my remaining time there. Being back in a Western country enabled me to consolidate my learning and arrange everything I had seen.

Although I have thoroughly enjoyed my Moroccan adventure, a respite from squat toilets and food of questionable sanitation was likewise welcomed (not sure where the line of causality is in that). I also realized that I had become quite concerned about Moroccan politics, society and economics because I had so adapted to it that it became my country and AUI my home. At times, it is hard to remove myself from Morocco because it literally has become my place of residence.

This has reminded me that I am, of course, not Moroccan and that my home is on the other side of the Atlantic in lovely West Virginia (which I have explained is the greatest place in the world). I had a real taste of home when in Italy since all of Neri’s friends sang ‘Country Roads’ and Italian food is the norm in my family. Plus, drinking wine and eating ham was certainly a digression! Being around Neri’s family greatly reminded me of being around my own and it jogged my memory that I am an American from West Virginia and not a Moroccan from Ifrane. It is strange how much I had adapted to a Moroccan lifestyle, from wearing Moroccan clothes with Moroccan coins in my pocket and a carte d’identity national in my passport to a quintessentially Moroccan haircut. My concerns rest in learning Arabic and understanding Islam and Islamic economics. Everyone asks me, while I speak fragmented Arabic, whether I am a Muslim. Even people around Neri ask what it is like to be in Morocco, not in West Virginia! While Morocco is more culturally foreign than the US to Italians, it is still interesting to see that I was Neri’s Moroccan friend. All quite interesting, which is why I really enjoyed going home with him. After three months of sharing experiences with Moroccan natives, from riding in cabs to buying groceries to talking about politics and then afterwards reading a Moroccan newspaper, I have really organized my mind around Morocco and am grateful for the change in perspective.

The monolithic Milan Cathedral, one of the largest in the world.

The contrast between the lifestyles in Italy and Morocco is striking; In Italian trains, business people in stylish suits hold Blackberries and laptops, while in Moroccan ones, men in djellabas with long beards hold Arabic newspapers and a mug of tea de menthe. I adapted to the Italian lifestyle easily, wearing Neri’s clothes and drinking espresso (as deeply analyzing a work of art consisting of a blank white canvas can only represent something after five shots of espresso!). I sort of feared going back into Morocco, with its hassles and audacious cab drivers (which detract from the extremely friendly people and beautiful countryside), yet the purpose there is to learn and work hard while I am there, trying to understand peoples’ lives. Two cultures with great differences also share many similarities and it is all a wild learning experience.

I am truly indebted to Neri’s family and friends for everything?amazing Italian food, a bed, entrance to many art festivals and galleries, transport, as well as being incredibly hospitable. Thank you!! I owe a lot of hospitality to random strangers when I get back to Morgantown, which is but four weeks away. The anticipation is building to get back into West Virginia to see my girlfriend, family, friends, and start the transition from college to real life. While the nomadic lifestyle offers a lot of experiences and education, I’m realizing the importance of a community base. My dad had sent me a copy of Wonderful West Virginia as well as a letter and some food from home, which adds greatly to the anticipation of coming home. That is something Neri and I talked about on the street in Milan; it is interesting how one realizes how family and friends are of utmost importance and that all other things, while producing a lot of stories and experiences, pale in comparison. As Sarah Lovell recently wrote to me, Montani Semper Liberi! Hopefully the hills will be covered in snow upon my return!