EXCERPT FROM SARA’S JOURNALJune
25, 1999
Rabat, Morocco
Rabat
At Meknes we transfer to the train and sit alone, in a cool compartment, on our way to
Morocco’s capitol, Rabat. Rich isn’t feeling well. His stomach gurgles and
complains and bubbles with anticipation.
In 1912 French invaders selected Rabat as a seat of government for its strategic
location on the Atlantic coast. Morocco’s King Hassan II resides here and keeps a
personal battalion of guards on standby to chase hustlers and beggars from the main
streets. The city is modern in feel, with many citizens in western dress and a higher
visibility of women. The King nurtures a healthy economy not entirely reliant on tourism.
Rabat is Morocco’s political and business capitol, swelling with civil servants, an
upper middle class and a flourishing Mercedes Benz trade.
Rabat is like any big city, and at the moment we’re looking for a late-night
pharmacy to settle stomach upsets. Something about the four cups of tea at the Fez Carpet
exhibition? The couscous? The bus ride to Azrou?
Hotel de Paix was grand at one time. The ceiling hints at something classy. An Art
Nouveau balcony looks down at a now busy, modern metropolis.
I smell smoke. We’ve climbed the stairs to the third floor, a large, dim tunnel of
carpet and doors. The elevator shaft is for decoration only. I then descend, and approach
the concierge. "Excuse me, sir? I smell smoke."
"Yes, yes, that’s smoke you smell. There’s a fire in the basement.
It’s for heating the water. Stay here and watch the door in case someone comes.
I’ll go upstairs and close the chimney."
Meanwhile, Rich can hear our conversation three storeys up. The hotel is an empty
cavern. All back and forth marble stairs. A kitten whines at our door. We stay in our room
and fight the beginnings of traveler’s tummy.
