Another Worry

Tour Guide Hicham with 107-Year-Old Man 

MCI, Minor Cognitive Impairment, is my latest worry. As we age, our brains shrink and work less well. Perhaps we even become demented. MCI is a measure that a brain is aging faster than its body. I don't think either Grant or I have it, but then, would we know?

Of course, the suggested actions to prevent, slow down, maybe even reverse MCI are the war horses of eat less, exercise more. Why can't it ever be sit on the couch and eat potato chips?

We met a man in Morocco who claimed he was 107 years old. Each day he walks with his donkey up the mountain trail to sell herbs to tourists and locals. He was in great shape and sharp of mind. I have my doubts about his claim of being born in 1912, but could be true. He's not worried about MCI.

Since we aren't likely to follow in his footsteps, it's back on the diet and bike riding program. We came home at peak weight, and I am resisting ordering XL pants to replace my lost ones. All my clothes fit better if I'm about 10 pounds lighter. And now it seems my brain would benefit too. Rats.

Moroccan Cooked Veg Salad 

The suggestion is the MIND diet, a blend of Mediterranean and Dash diets, with emphasis on whole grains, berries, green leafy veggies, olive oil, poultry, and fish. That all sounds good. Not as much fun is the lack of sugar, fat, and alcohol.

Grant has been trying Moroccan cooking, and many of the dishes actually meet the MIND requirements, so maybe we will enjoy living to an old age with our brains intact.

Disoriented

Marrakech Medina 

We both still startle awake and momentarily don't know where we are. I think partially because of remnants of time-zone mismatch and some because the images of Morocco are floating through our minds. Such a strange, beautiful, foreign place. I am dealing with winnowing the hundreds of pictures we took down to a manageable few. First all uploaded to the cloud, then narrowed down to a slide show and coffee-table book.

Earrings My Sister Betsy Gave Me  

I am also dealing with claims for my lost luggage. Trip insurance, credit card benefit and airline responsibility all potentially going to reimburse me. Getting the paperwork done is tedious. Iberia Airlines does not seem to have an online claim form, so I filed a request for assistance from them, to which they emailed that they would analyse my request and respond in 21 business days or less. Until then, I'm trying to remember what I had in my suitcase. Thank goodness I didn't throw in my kiwi earrings at the last minute like I had intended.

When I packed, I thought about taking a picture of the suitcase and its contents. Thought, didn't do. I also thought about sharing our clothes between our two suitcases, just in case one got lost. Also thought, didn't do. One would think a person of my age could learn from other travelers' tips.

Perhaps just having enough to fit in a carry-on bag is the answer. I certainly did fine with the few clothes I had. And always tuck extra underwear in my purse.

Everything Costs Something

Al Haour On The Way to Marrakesh 

 As I understand it, traditional Moroccan life centers literally and figuratively around a mosque. Five times a day, the call to prayer is broadcast from the minaret. The men stop what they are doing and gather at the mosque to pray. That boggled my mind. Five times a day, the men got together. That builds community. The women are more separated, however they use communal ovens to bake bread, and our guide Hicham told us that every village had a spot where they met daily to sit and chat.

Village Near Ouarzazate  

Pre-electricity, back when the muezzin actually had to climb to the top of the of the minaret and shout out the call to prayer, villages had a natural radius of how far the human voice can carry. Once that limit was met, a site for the next mosque was chosen, and a new village grew around it. Repeat, repeat, and the country is covered in small villages with a minaret sticking up in the center. Hicham said each village was about 200 homes.

Now the calls are amplified, with no particular concern of the aesthetics of black loudspeakers attached to ancient tiled minarets. Easier on the muezzin I guess, but fairly jarring when we were in larger towns with mosques every few blocks. Competing voices slightly out of sync.

Outside of Casablanca  

Can this small village model translate into modern life? As we drove from Casablanca, I saw groups of high-rise apartments, bedroom communities for city workers. Built by companies speculating on growth, there are still central mosques, but not communal ovens for women to gather at, not groups of men who meet five times a day.

How do you build community in condos? In my experience, horizontal communities lend themselves to meeting neighbors; vertical ones do not. Walking around a neighborhood, with or without a dog, gives us chances to interact. Elevator rides encourage silence. With the exception of the condo president, I do not know the name of anyone in our building. Even the members' meetings are handled by video calls.

On the other hand, living in our little apartment has been easier than dealing with a house and yard and perhaps more economical. Our monthly electric bill is averaging $55.00 ($29.52 while we were traveling!), and since we are renting, no internet, garbage, or water bills. Ditto property tax, and our property insurance was $800 rather than $1,800, which didn't even include wind or flood coverage. The monetary downside is that we are paying $2,250/month rent and not building equity. Now that I have 6 months of expenses, I think I can figure the monetary cost/benefit of renting versus buying. We have until December 31, 2020 to claim our homestead exemption and the portability of our low house valuation.

Should we look at small villages of about 200 homes? A couple on our Moroccan trip live in one in Oregon that was designed especially to facilitate community. Perhaps we can find something like that in Florida. Not at the Villages, which currently has 122,460 people living there, but maybe a townhouse community within a larger town. There wouldn't be a central mosque, but with a pool that calls to me.

We Are Home

My Chopper and Bowl  

Oh, my goodness, the mildew. After the dryness of the desert, we came home to my beloved humidity and our apartment covered in mildew. Every surface was green. Shoes, toilet seats, counter tops, knife block, all covered in mildew. Our clean pillowcases were spotted with mildew; the pillows inside them ruined and now in the dumpster. What a mess.

We had left the balcony doors open so Annie could enjoy the sunshine. I guess even though the bedrooms' windows were open, there wasn't enough cross-ventilation.

I found some decent pillows, and we crashed. I'll deal with the rest tomorrow.

Madrid Again

In the Cellar at Sobrino de Botín  

On line, the only reservations I could get at Sobrino de Botín was for late lunch on the day we flew back from Morocco. I booked it, but knew not a prayer of our making that, so while we were in Madrid, we walked over to the restaurant to ask about possibly changing times. “Sí, señora”, if we could come at the early time of 8:00 PM, right when the restaurant opens for the dinner meal. Absolutely. And as long as I was pushing my good luck, could we possible sit in the cellar, which Anna’s brother Jose said was the most fun. Another “Sí”, and we were set. 

 Botín, founded in 1725, claims to be the oldest restaurant in the world in continuous operation. At least the Guinness World Book of Records has awarded it that title. Goya worked as a waiter there, Ernest Hemingway ate there. A must do while in Madrid. 

Suckling Pig with Brussel Sprouts 

We were one of the first tables seated, but the restaurant filled quickly, with locals and tourists.  Of course we had its famous suckling pig and a bottle of their house wine. Absolutely delicious. 

The stairs to the cellar were so treacherous, we didn’t dare an after dinner drink. And of course the tiny bathroom was on the second floor. I tried to celebrate that my Merle boots gave me good support, rather than miss my black heels I’d packed for special occasions like this. 

We caught the subway back to our hotel near the airport. Splendid evening, splendid trip. 

Good, Bad, Ugly

Secluded Garden  

The good of our Moroccan trip was our terrific OAT guide Hicham, who showed us his country with deserved pride, the lovely people we met because of OAT, the amazing food, and the varied scenery.

The bad was my suitcase never arriving from Madrid, so I had to buy clothes, which is trying in the best of times, much less in a Muslim country where, although fairly liberal, women wear long sleeves, no matter the temperature. Definitely not my style, nor the weight of clothes I need at home. I'm tall so the pants looked like capris, and the stores in the mall were full of the latest winter wear. I managed to find a pair of polyester pants and a long sweater, just in case the desert was cold. Those, plus a probably unauthorized AC/DC 1981 tour T-shirt I bought at a teen store, another T-shirt from the modern art museum in Rabat, and some underwear, rounded out my clothes. The frump-o-meter was spinning. I definitely learned I can travel with a lot fewer clothes than I had packed. I donated the unworn sweater to a women’s association in Marrakesh. The rest plus the skirt and blouse I had on when we flew to Morocco may be ritually burned when I get home.

One of My 2 Outfits 

The ugly was getting pink eye in not just one, but both eyes, half way through the trip. I couldn’t be satisfied with a bad cold and sore throat. No, I added pink eye. By the last day, two more tour members had caught it, and several more were looking possible. Fortunately, in Morocco, I could go to the nearby pharmacy and get OTC antibiotic eye drops without a prescription. Easy, peasy. I speak no French, and the pharmacist spoke no English, but after taking one look at my weeping right eye, she immediately knew what I needed. Back at the hotel, I consulted with the three doctors in our group about using the drops. Interestingly, the two internists were more cautious than the oncologist. I wonder if that's from the type of patient they saw in their practices. After waiting 24 hours at the suggestion of the internists, and my natural inclination, with my left eye now crusty, I began using the drops. I didn't dare ask what else could go wrong and temp the fates to answer.

People We Met

Showing Us His Irrigation Canals 

Visiting in a Home 

Gnaoua Musicians 

   

So far we’ve stayed in a riad in Rabat, had dinner with an Arab family, learned about Gnaoua music, and visited with a nomad family. We have also spoken to shepherds tending their flock by the roadside, a widow in Meknès-Tafilalet who survives by helping at parties and weddings, and a farmer in the desert who created an irrigation system and now grows olives and vegetables. Everywhere we went, we were served delicious, very sweet mint tea. Even the poorest home has at least a couple of dozen tea glasses, a teapot, and a footed serving tray. At the Berber Museum, I saw antique boxes for carrying tea glasses on camel back. A wonderful custom.

Three Generations of Nomads 

Today we spent several hours with a Berber family near Ouarzazate in western Morocco. After a tour of their home which includes a large special room with banquet setting for at  least 40 and the floor covered in carpets, the father led us out to his olive grove where he made us mint tea and served flat bread just cooked in the communal oven. His 7-year-old son and 4 other boys helped, then sang a couple of songs before heading to their afternoon school session. We returned to the house where his wife and her friend served us home-made couscous. Of course all these people are paid by OAT to accommodate us. It seems a more genuine way to help their economy than buying trinkets and souvenirs that I don’t want to add to my life. 

The Ever-Presented Mint Tea 

Making Couscous