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We just returned from a trip to Morocco. It is the 22nd country I’ve been to, and it’s easily the most “different” place I’ve been to date. Rather than a detailed re-telling of everything we saw and did, I’ll try to capture some of my general impressions of this beautiful, exotic place.

All of the major cities we visited had similarities to the others, while maintaining their own character. Casablanca, Rabat, Meknes, Fez, Tangier, and Marrakech all had vast ancient medinas encapsulated within high medieval walls. These old marketplaces were a snarl of thousands of tiny shops selling everything from argon oil to hand-woven carpets. Most also boasted traditional workshops where artisans produced beautiful products using the same methods that were employed in the 11th century. The medinas that were designated “no-vehicle” zones were far preferable to shop in than the then ones whose alleys were clogged with trucks, carts, motorcycles, and bicycles. Dickering on the prices was expected, and the merchants could get quite aggressive. As we made our way through these markets, our senses were assailed with colors, textures, aromas, and sounds that made it hard to focus on any one thing. There were times I felt like Aladdin in Ali Baba’s cave of treasures, wanting to scoop up everything within reach and take it home with me.

Outside the walls, the new parts of the cities were frenetic in a different way. If there are traffic laws in Morocco, we saw no evidence that anyone followed them. The roads were a free-for-all of motion and sound. Five lanes of traffic intertwined through streets designed for two lanes. Horns shrieked and beeped all over. Cyclists appeared to be on suicide missions as they wove between buses and trucks, passing on the shoulder, challenging cars for a coveted space in line. We never saw anyone wearing a helmet.

Each of the cities we visited had one long main road named Mohammad VI (the name of the current king)which carried traffic through the center of town. It was usually a wide boulevard, lined with tall palms and elegant, modern buildings. Once we were a block or two away from that main artery, the cities took on a shabby look. Buildings were dingy with dirt and worn paint; sidewalks were rough and cluttered. Riding in cars or buses was nerve-wracking, but walking posed its own set of problems. Not only did we have to keep a constant watch for tripping hazards on every block, but we were frequently followed by beggars or young children trying to sell us small packets of tissues, sunglasses, coin purses, or an array of other small items. They were relentless. They also appeared to be completely unattended by an adult as they followed us for blocks.

We spent several hours over the course of our week in vans and trains, able to observe a wide swath of the countryside as we moved to more remote villages. Much of the land reminded me of the Napa Valley, with rolling hills and and sprawling groves of cultivated olive trees. Man-made structures were rare, and were usually adobe style houses that looked abandoned, but were sometimes occupied. We saw donkeys trudging along the roadsides, packed with all manner of stuff. Occasionally we’d see a farmer struggling behind a team of horses, plowing a field with and old iron blade. Nearly every adult we passed was dressed in clothing that appeared to have changed little since biblical times.

We were delighted to spend time in the small mountain villages of Moulay Irdiss and Chefchauoen. In my opinion, if everyone could visit the latter place, with its clear mountain air and houses washed in shades of icy blue, we would all be happier people. The magical, fairy tale quality of this little town has to be experienced to be understood.

On three occasions, we were lucky enough to eat in private family homes. Although there wasn’t much variety in the menus, the food and hospitality were top-notch. A filo-wrapped chicken/almond pie was a dish I will request as my last meal if I ever find myself on death row. To die with those delicate flavors on my lips would be a joy!

One of my favorite memories will always be waking up every morning hearing the muezzines calling the community to prayer from high atop the mosque towers. Such a beautiful, haunting sound! Sunsets brought a similar program, and seemed to bring each day to a peaceful close.

Our trip was enlightening, exhausting, exotic, and eye-opening. I don’t know if we’ll ever return because there are so many other places to see in this world, and time is racing by. I do know that I’m deeply grateful to have experienced Morocco once.

Well, folks, a bit of time has past since my last post, hasn’t it? When we returned from Morocco more than a year ago, our social life picked up dramatically. Every week brought introductions to new faces and most days were spent living my dream of gathering with friends at cafes, restaurants, and pastry shops for leisurely conversation. Our progress learning Portuguese was slow, but steady. We entertained a little and we worked on sprucing up our living space, which now looks more like a mid-range hotel than a dorm room in a mediocre college.

And then came the Scourge! Covid-19 arrived in Portugal a few days before my birthday, crushing my plans to spend the day in a nearby mom and pop cafe, holding court for friends who wanted to stop by an share a bite ( or a sip). Tim and I went inside our apartment, and stayed there. We’d venture out with our masks and backpacks to bring in some groceries, occasionally relying on food delivery services for salads or pizza. Our Portuguese lessons became video chats with our tutor, and video chats with family and friends in the States became our lifeline to sanity. You know, pretty much what you and the rest of the world were doing during the early weeks of the Covid Era.

Here we are, nearly a year later, and Portugal has become a hotbed for the virus. The government has put a tight lid on movement of the population. Driving or walking within one’s own municipality is curtailed to only essential business. Leaving one’s municipality is forbidden, except for rare exceptions. We’ve been instructed to carry ID with us if we’re walking outside. People can be stopped by the police at random, and if their identification shows they’ve strayed too far from home for no good reason, they are fined on the spot. There doesn’t seem to be too much push back on these restrictions, but I’m not sure I have a complete picture of the situation. The reality here is that our public health system is good, but small, and easily overwhelmed. Like much of Europe, vaccines are in critically short supply. Remediation of the killer virus is still a long way off, so folks seem to be taking these government enforced avoidance tactics very seriously.

So, how do we pass our days? Well, friends, like most unemployed/retired people, we’ve found our groove. I am reading a long, detailed book about the plight of Central American migrants. As they endure their grueling trek across miles of inhospitable landscape in blazing temperatures, confronting all manor of danger and degradation, I’m able to get some perspective on how much worse my life could be. Although I haven’t set foot outside our apartment in nearly six weeks, I take comfort in the fact that, if it ever stops raining, I can sit on a balcony and watch the world stand still. I play a little mental game as I gaze out over our city world from my 10th floor perch. Not counting the ever-present sea gulls, I like to see how many moving objects I can count in one minute. Cars, trains, people walking their dogs – the variety is admittedly limited. But once, the count came pretty close to double digits!

There was one day that provided an unexpected bit of excitement for us both. There’s a high rise building just across the traffic rotary by our place. Very high up on the side of that building, the local McDonalds franchise displays a six-story tall banner touting the delectable treats and easy convenience of their local eateries. Imagine our thrill when on a recent day, we chanced to see a small crew of workers in the process of switching out the sign! We each grabbed a hot beverage and stood, rapt and eager, as the crew removed the signage we’d grown accustomed to and replaced it with a brand new message! Now, this process is no small feat. The guys must lower themselves over the edge of the rooftop terrace, suspended on tiny ropes. They carefully detach the mammoth banner from the building and gently, safely lower this half acre of vinyl signage to the sidewalk several stories below. Then two for the guys rappel down the wall and wrestle the behemoth into a tidy roll and haul it away, while their teammate dangles from his precarious seat. Eventually, he is rejoined by the two others and the real excitement begins. They attach the new sign to the top of the building and proceed to s-l-o-w-l-y unroll it down the building, attaching the sides to some kind of fasteners as they go. The excitement meter really spikes when a gust of wind catches the vinyl sheet and the men swing way out over the pavement as they attempt to tame the billowing mass. Why hasn’t somebody made an action movie about this? Meanwhile, our hot beverages having long since gone cold, we stand in itching suspense wondering what the new sign will reveal about the wonders that await us at McDonalds.

But lest you think we rely solely on strangers to provide all of our entertainment, let me share a story that happened this week, involving just the two of us. A few days ago, my beloved announced that he might just take the trash and recyclables to the dumpsters across the plaza from our building! For a moment, I thought I might go with him and break my long stretch of “house-boundedness.” I came to my senses and decided I’d have more enjoyment watching him from our kitchen window as he ventured out into the real world. That way, we could compare his street view of the adventure to my aerial view. It gave us something to ponder and anticipate for a couple of days until the aroma emanating from the kitchen trash bin told us it was time. As luck would have it, the timing of the trip removed all chance of adventure. It turns out nothing much happens at 1:10 AM on a Tuesday in the plaza outside our building during a pandemic.

Another game I like to play is trying to find something to watch on the six TV channels that provide English language programming. Limited choice eventually led me to start watching a National Geographic program called “Live Free or Die.” It’s a long-running show about stalwart individuals who strike out into the varied wilderness of the United States and build a life off the grid. Believe me when I tell you it is riveting! These people fear nothing – poisonous snakes, deadly accidents, fiercely inclement weather, griping loneliness, near starvation, hostile wild boars, and dirt. Lots of dirt. Not only is their determination and innovative spirit inspirational, I’m certain I burn calories and build muscle just watching them chop down trees, and haul heavy jugs of water up a mountain ridge!

Tim and I were pleased to have been invited to a Thanksgiving feast at the home of an American couple we know. I think there will be eight or nine people there – mostly Americans. Our contribution to the meal will be a pumpkin pie, an apple pie, and a veggie tray. The Big Day is still four days away, but I’m already starting to get nervous about cooking.

Now, I’ve never claimed to be much of a cook, but during my happy homemaker years I managed to keep a husband and most of the kids from starving. My specialty was reasonably nutritious, well-balanced meals that could be prepared with typical equipment found in most 19th century homes. It’s true that I once had an out-of-town friend borrow my kitchen to prepare a birthday dinner for her daughter who was attending a local college. Before she got there, I’d placed a skillet and a saucepan on the stove, and got out of her way. After I found the friend going through all the cupboards and drawers in the kitchen, I asked her if I could help her find anything. She asked me where I kept my pans. I looked at her incredulously and pointed to the stove. “They’re right in front of you,” I said. She actually wanted plural pans! I never managed to acquire fancy pots and pans, an expensive blender/chopper/whirrly thing, or gourmet utensils, but I provided meals day in and day out for many years. I baked bread, threw together delicious salads, turned out hearty casseroles, and could even manage to roast decent chicken, pork, or beef. For years, I managed two kinds of pies for every Thanksgiving meal. So, what’s different about this year?

I’m cooking in a foreign land. We had our first real run-in with the challenges of overseas cooking early in the COVID-19 lock down of 2020. Tim and I decided we could fill some of our empty hours baking bread, as we’d done in the early years of our marriage. I’d had the foresight to pack a few of my favorite tried-and-true recipes into our meager luggage when we made the big move to Portugal in 2018. We happily spent the better part of a day crafting several loaves of our greatest hits of bread. We had to guess a little on where to set the temperature dial on the oven to approximate the Fahrenheit temperature shown in the recipes, but that was an easy adjustment. The loaves took longer to brown up but were under cooked when they finally came out. The texture was subpar and the flavor was unfamiliar. (Not in a good way.) After attempting several recipes, there was not one decent loaf in the bunch, and certainly none worthy of giving to nearby friends. We knew the flour produced in Europe has a fraction of the gluten that has been engineered into American flour, but we never dreamed that difference would have such a pronounced impact on the quality of our bread. We’ve eaten enough scrumptious Portuguese bread to know that their flour produces excellent results, but apparently not when using American recipes.

It’s been nearly four months since my last entry. For a time, life was humming along at a steady pace, filled with social engagements, Portuguese lessons, a little international and local travel, and other leisurely pursuits. But the world has been plunged into historic times, and I feel compelled to document my small glimpse of it.

As the entire human population watched as the novel coronavirus, of COVID-19 burned its way across Asia and into Europe, nations began to prepare for a cataclysmic disaster. Somewhere around Friday, the 13th of March, the Portuguese asked that everyone in the country remain in their homes for at least two weeks, except to go to work or obtain food. Tim and I had been stocking up on groceries for about 10 days on a hunch that the stay-at-home order was coming. Since we can only buy what we can carry on foot, it took several trips to fill or cupboards and refrigerator, but we were fairly well prepared when the word came down from Lisbon.

My birthday was a quiet, but memorable one. Naturally, it was the first I’ve ever spent in isolation from the world. Still, I enjoyed talking to several friends and family around the world, and to catching up with everyone on social media.

Now we are approaching the end of March and are still confined to our apartment. The request by the government has become an order, and businesses all over Portugal have shut down for the duration. Here’s a quick look at what life is like for us now.

Rather than try to keep weeks’ worth of bread from the grocery fresh, we had thought to buy plenty of yeast and flour. We filled several hours at the beginning of this era resurrecting our bread-baking skills. With no restaurants open for dine-in, we prepare nearly all our meals at home. Tim has had to venture out two or three times to augment our pantry, but I haven’t left our building for over two weeks.

Having been given this extreme gift of copious free time, we find ourselves being less productive than we’ve been for years. We have tried to lose ourselves by streaming TV shows or movies, but nothing holds our attention for long. I managed to finish reading one small book and have started another, but after a few paragraphs, I can’t remember what I just read. I’m a more ferocious news junky than ever before, spending hours combing news sights online, or watching CNN International news on television. It reminds me of the days following 9/11 when the World Trade Center in New York was struck by terrorists, except today’s nightmare is unfolding over weeks, and is enveloping the globe. The current news is too horrible to comprehend, and predicted future events are beyond grasping.

I am grateful for our balconies that hover 10 stories above the infected earth. From here we can see the patient, compliant Portuguese people lining up in front of a grocery store, eight to ten feet from others in line (a practice known as “social distancing”). They are waiting for one shopper to exit the store so that one other person can enter. The balconies give us a chance to soak up the sun and fill our lungs with fresh air. Those are luxuries not everyone can claim.

A few days into our isolation, I was struck with an idea to provide a little diversion to others in our city who were also staying inside. On a local Facebook page for expats in Setubal, I proposed holding an indoor scavenger hunt each day. A handful of people sign-up and I began sending a group message out each morning with a list of three items that might be found in their home. They were to send a photo of themselves holding the objects. It really captured the imagination of our “hunters.” Some of them got their children involved. (All schools have been closed by order of the government.) Everyone was trying to out-do other players with their creative photos and their ingenuity at creating items where none existed. At the end of Round 1 Week, I declared a winner, based on most items found, with bonus points arbitrarily assigned. The winner was assigned the task of hosting Round 2. It’s been much more enjoyable than I anticipated, and I think all of us would agree we’d hate to see the hunt halted. We’re even making plans to meet each other face-to-face when this whole terrible mess is behind us. It is a bright spot in a long string of dull days.