It's a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood

Apologies to my fellow Americans for that ear worm, but it expresses the feeling I have when walking from the bus stop to my apartment. My employer provides transportation via bus to and from school every day, and so at 5:15 p.m. most days, at the corner by our apartment complex, all of Gueliz neighborhood can see the parade of the étrangers. We're a good-looking crew, I think. Friendly, at least, judging by the occasional shout from a passing motorbike: "Hello!" "Welcome to Marrakech!" "You are welcome!"

That last sentiment is my favorite. Upon learning that you are not from this country, most Moroccans will tell you that "You are welcome." The absence of the implied here gives a sense of warmth that is absent in the albeit friendly American, "You're not from here? Cool! Well, welcome to the United States!"

You are welcome. That's what the café owner told me my first morning here, when I helplessly held out my dirhams for her to pick the correct amount for my breakfast.

You are welcome. That's what the souk vendor told me in Essaouira last weekend, even after I refused to buy his spices, and he meant it.

You are welcome. What a lovely phrase to learn in any language.

But I haven't even gotten to the street crossing, and here I am rambling about my favorite phrases. To continue my walk home from the bus stop--

We cross the street at the busy intersection, keeping an eye on the faculty kids if they're near us. (Motorbikes recognize no laws but their own.) Once we're safely on the other side, we begin to disperse. Some go to the French bakery, some duck into a hanut (a tiny convenience store) for some phone data recharge cards. I've been wonderfully befriended by some people from subsaharan Africa who hang out by the first hanut, and it's the highlight of my afternoon to hug them and chat for a few minutes.

We move on, passing by the row of hanuts--the hardware store, the cleaning supply store, the food store with the friendly owner who teaches me Arabic--and the cats who hang out with the parking attendant. He always says hello to me, but if I'm with another guy, he'll point to me, grin, and say, "Very strong!" with a thumbs-up. I was kind of piqued until someone told me that in Berber culture, strength is a wonderful quality, and "very strong!" actually is high praise. (Take that, Western patriarchal values!)

Passing by the dumpster that stinks in hot weather but feeds the cats that hang around it, we approach the guard shack. The head guard is always there, with his grandfatherly charm. He and I have great rapport, and he always asks me, "Ça va?" I'm always good when I talk to him. He noticed when I was sick last week and didn't get the bus, and then later in the week when I overslept and had to take a taxi to school, he got me one and bargained for a fair price for me. (Maybe it's my Italian heritage, but I got real Godfather vibes--in a good way!--from that. He's a good man to know, is all I'm saying.) Recently, he's been taking to asking me how I am in Darija (Moroccan Arabic), and I'm responding more or less correctly! Every time we talk, he places his hand on his heart and smiles. It's our signal now.

Morocco--Marrakech--Gueliz--none of these areas are perfect. But what I'm learning to appreciate is that people look out for each other and notice each other's doings in the communities here. Getting to know people is easier than it is at home. Maybe I'm being naive and Pollyana-ish, but it seems to me that the culture here is more community-minded than what I experienced back at home.

I'll take it.