Fez

Tuesday, 28 August 2007

Fez, Morocco. How does one explain Fez? It would make perfect sense if you had grown up in a medieval souk, but someone who grew up in the hills of southern Indiana is at a distinct disadvantage to tackle that definition. The Riad al Pacha is right inside one of the outer walls that circle the medina. In Morocco the three main areas to visit are the Ville Nouvelle (built by the French), the Fez el Djedid (Fez the New, built in 1273 by the Merenid dynasty), and Fez el Bali (Fez the Old, founded in 808 by Moulay Idriss II, the son of Morocco’s founder, Moulay Idriss I). The medina itself is in the Fez el Bali so I was in a perfect location to just step outside the Riad, cross the dusty parking lot, and enter one of the endless side streets. The more traditional approach would be to enter through one of the famous babs, or gates, the ring the walls.

Out of the week and a half I was away this was the only day that was really set aside for sight-seeing, so I was really excited about entering the medina. Once you are inside the medina you are faced with a bewildering and seemingly endless series of narrow streets, and I’m using the word streets in the most inappropriate sense of the word. With the exception of the occasional square where the streets magically and illogically come together to open up and allow the sunshine in, you are usually walking through a series of shady narrow corridors with alleys jutting off left and right at random. The average street is only around six feet wide (if that). In addition, there are over a thousand derbs (dead-end alleys) in the medina so the question is not whether or not you might get lost but rather when. With me it took about five minutes. In a way it was sort of liberating. There was no point really concentrating on which turn you had taken off what street because it was completely impossible to make sense of any of it unless you had grown up here. There weren’t many street signs, and if there were they were in Arabic or occasionally in French. The streets are too narrow for cars and especially for trucks so the only means of conveyance are donkey and horses, which means that in addition to having to watch out for a myriad of shop-keepers, religious scholars, women shopping for their daily household needs, children and tourists, you also have to look out for pack animals loaded down with so many goods that they took up the width of the entire derb. I’m proud to report that I was only knocked over by donkeys a couple times, which means that I was paying attention more than usual.

I actually found walking through the medina to be wonderful. The shops included butchers, every conceivable type of vegetable, electronics, call centers, e-cafes (which, again, proves my point that the only place you can’t find a Internet café is Burlington), pastries (I was hoping to get to taste pastilla, which is supposed to be remarkably sweet pastry made with pigeon meat, but it didn’t work out), tanneries, metal works, ceramics, fabrics, etc. – all sharing space with mosques and religious schools. For the most part people left me alone. One elderly shop keeper did yell at me for taking a picture of a boy cutting fish in his shop. I can’t blame him, and it’s just one of the chances you take – even when you’re trying to be inconspicuous. One teenage boy and one little girl of around seven followed me for about ten minutes a piece trying to forge a relationship that would lead to them being my unofficial guides. As in India, if you happen to just make eye contact the negotiations have begun. I try to maintain a look somewhere between total distain and absolute rage, hoping that will scare folks off and it generally works – of course, it’s the look that my friends tell me I’ve flashed at faculty senate meetings for years.

One of the places that I wanted to see in the medina was the Terrasse des Tanneurs, the medieval tanneries which are still producing leather goods today. I kept walking around the labyrinth of streets with quite finding it so I stopped back in a little shop for a Sprite and asked the shop keeper for directions. He fetched his son, Mohammed, and had him walk me to the tanneries, for which I gave him ten dirhams. As with most of the shops, as soon as you walk in one of the salesmen latch on to you and you get the official tour with the understanding that he’ll get paid for it somehow. You walk up winding steps to look down into the ancient dyeing vats where the sheep, goat, cow and camel skins are prepared and dyed. The skins are placed successively in saline solution, lime, pigeon droppings, and then a number of natural dyes – poppies for red, saffron for yellow, and mint for green. The barefoot workers pick up the skins with their feet and work them (sort of like crushing grapes for wine, I suppose) before the skins are laid out to dry in the sun. Today they were dyeing red and the skins drying in the sun were yellow. The negotiations for a couple goods were a grand opera of good cop/bad cop and a period when I was supposed to meet the salesman on the upper balcony for a bribe so that he could face his “angry” boss to explain the incredible “deal” I had just received. As is always the case, I’m sure I was ripped off magnificently, but I don’t worry about these things – as an Indian taxi driver told me once when haggling, “But you’re so big and I’m so small,” meaning that as an American I was “rich” and he was poor. One never knows where the great wheel of life will stop spinning and what life you’ll end up with, and as Americans we skip along so luckily it’s hard for me to get too angry for being ripped off a little (although I still get really angry at times when negotiating, so don’t take the philosophical spin too seriously). In the end, I’ll usually end up losing more sleep over giving up too many players in a fantasy baseball trade.

Earlier, when I was thinking about plunging alone into the chaos of the medina I considered calling Samil, the tour guide who picked me up the first night. I normally steer clear of tour guides like the plague, but even the tour books say that one of the few good times to hire a tour guide is when facing the medina at Fez. However, tour guides also tend to spend a lot of time taking you to shops where they get a commission, so I ended up not doing it. After visiting the tanneries I was sitting in the shade trying to cool off when I saw two Italian women, Laura Carraro and Viola Bollalia, who I had talked to the night before over dinner at the Riad. As I popped out to say hello I suddenly heard, “Ah, Mr. Gary.” It was Samil, and he was taking them on a tour. I figured if it was their fourth trip to Morocco and they were hiring Samil I might as well just give in, and I joined the tour. Of course, typically, he took us to a rug shop and then about four other shops where it was obvious he had deals. At one point I told him that the usual commission for tour guides and taxi drivers in India to take tourists to prearranged shops was between 15-20% and wanted to know what it was here. He admitted 5%, although I suspect it’s higher. Even so, he was an invaluable guide to the medina and helped me find the university and gave me directions for getting back to the Riad – not to mention all his help the first night, so I won’t begrudge him a few (well, a lot more than a few) dirhams.

At the end of the day I was finally able to get to Kairaouine University, which is the west’s oldest university. It’s still in existence although it only has a few hundred religious students. You can’t get too far inside, but it does have a lovely and ornate central plaza. There is also a mosque there and prayers were going on just as I was let into the courtyard, which was a little unsettling. Several Muslims made their way through the little crowd of French tourists and went to the tiny central fountain to cleanse themselves physically and more importantly spiritually before stepping into another area for prayers. The area for prayer was separate from the central courtyard by only a small wall and what looked like a dry moat. Non-Muslims are not allowed into mosques, generally, although I did get to enter a huge mosque in Amman one time. I think there is only one mosque in all of Morocco (I think in Casablanca) that allows non-Muslims to enter, so it was a unique experience to be able to watch the Muslims prostrate themselves during prayer.

Abdul just stopped by to wish me a safe trip. He apologized that he would not be able to deliver my 3:00 a.m. wake-up call but assured me that someone would. Mohammed is coming to pick me up at 4:00, and then my flight from Fez to Casablanca takes off at 6:00. By some miracle my luggage actually showed up at the Fez airport on Monday night, I wonder what the odds are that my luggage will get lost again on the trip home?

Last Day at Al Akhawayn University

Today is my last day at Al Akhawayn University. I have a series of meetings and then one larger presentation today, and then my driver shows up around 7:00 to take me back down the mountain to the Riad al Pacha in Fez. It's been a wonderful trip so far and everyone at the university could not be more supportive or enthusiastic about the project. As with all trips there have been difficulties - it's now Monday at noon and my luggage has been MIA since Thursday. Still no leads. For the last couple days I have been struggling with a particularly nasty lower intestinal bug (probably the result of my tea with the sheikh, but I wouldn't trade the experience for anything). You would think that after all my trips to India I would be immune to everything on this earth, but apparently not. At lunch yesterday one of the professors told me that I should go to the local pharmacy and picked up some Zithromax, which is an over the counter antibiotic which is supposed to lay waste to anything. I marshalled my resources and walked to town yesterday and picked up the stuff - I'm now two doses into the three dose pack and things haven't turned around dramatically, but I'm feeling a tad better. I don't know if I'll have the opportunity to post anything else about Fez until I get back because the Riad al Pacha doesn't have in-room internet access (or phones or clocks). I'm supposed to fly out 6:00 a.m. on Wednesday morning to Casablanca and then on to JFK. Maybe, inshallah, I'll even have my suitcase.

Dayet Ifrah

Saturday, 25 August 2007

Today is one of those days that make all the trials and tribulations of travelling worthwhile (and, no, my luggage still hasn’t arrived). Bouziane, one of the professors at Al Akhawayn University took me with him to visit a traditional Berber village where he does work on several UNESCO projects. The village, Dayet Ifrah, was only about twenty minutes outside of Ifrane, but it might as well have been several decades if not several centuries removed from the modern world. Something like nine hundred souls lived around a small lake in a number of rock structures. There were some amenities – there was electricity, but no indoor plumbing or water. All the drinking water has to be drawn from one main outdoor well and a series of cisterns. There are other wells but they are for agricultural water. The UNESCO project deals with providing safe drinking water. The goal is to train one of the local teachers to test the local water to prevent the spread of water-born disease. The wells are increasingly important – and increasingly deep – because the lake continues to shrink. This is one of those places where you can clearly see the impact of global warming. They showed me where the water level used to be and it has dramatically shrunk over the years.

Apparently everybody there knows Bouziane and he has done a lot for the village. He took me to see the new women’s center they’ve built, although they haven’t quite figured out what to do with it. Bouziane talked about providing a place for the local women to produce crafts and then organize selling them for the greatest profit. I told him that the American Center for Oriental Research, where I always stay in Amman, had a deal with local women and sold their goods at the center – I suggested that the women from Dayet Ifrah could sell their goods at Al Akhawayn, which is I think where he was heading with his plan anyway. Right now he’s trying to talk them into considering growing lavender as a cash crop. They started growing potatoes around ten years ago but now the fear is that within a few years globalization will bring in a lot cheaper potatoes from Chile and elsewhere and the market will collapse for them. The problem is that it’s tough for them to consider lavender because it’s not a food crop and it will take a couple years for them to make money so it’s a scary proposition.

At one point the local sheikh came down the hill to talk. He, like everyone else, knew Bouziane and greeted him with the traditional kiss on both cheeks. During the discussion he asked if we’d do him the honor of having tea at this house. We waited until after prayers and drove him back to his house. They unlocked the formal greeting room and waited for the tea to be prepared. Bouziane acted as translator and we chatted back and forth about the changing fortunes of the village and the sheikh’s plans. Bouziane was right in that the sheikh really seemed to have the village’s best interests at heart and was interested in change – for example, he’s very interested in the lavender proposal and also has started planting apple trees on his own land as an example of diversifying their crops. His son and grandsons brought the meal – hot sweet tea, olives and bread along with fresh butter, honey and olive oil – and the sheikh kept shoveling more and more bread my way. The picture up top is of the sheikh, his son and me. They loved the picture – and then I told them that it was of three very handsome men, which, after Bouziane’s translation, was a big hit. They then asked us to stay for dinner. I told them that I thought we had just had dinner, which they thought was very funny. The sheikh wanted to go out back and slaughter a sheep and prepare a big meal, but we talked him out of it. When they finally became convinced that we couldn’t possibly eat any more bread they then passed the plate on to the grandsons and some neighbors – there was definitely a pecking order.

Overall it was an amazing time, even down to the little thing. When we were looking at the well I had a chance to talk to some of the kids. They were pretty cute. There was an adorable black cat up by the sheikh’s house that was walking around and trying to rub up against a rooster which was having none of it. As we were eating the cat crept up and starting mewing and the sheikh dipped a piece of bread in olive oil and threw it to the cat, which jumped on it and started eating. You suddenly saw a very different picture of the sheikh.

It was one of those afternoons that reminds you of what an amazing world it is, and how great it is to get away from the middle of the road. I will never forget this day.

Al Akhawayn University

Al Akhawayn University has around twelve-hundred students and is situated on a beautiful campus. It reflects the European feel of Ifrane although it also has a striking mosque right in the center of campus. They are very interested in international education and have a great academic reputation, which drew me to them in the first place first as a potential partner for Champlain’s Global Modules project. In addition, even though the main languages spoken in Morocco are Arabic and French, the language of instruction at the university is English – which is another reason why they are such a good fit. The first person I ran into on campus, Bouziane, actually ran a Global Module on women’s issues with my friend Bob Mayer and it was a tremendous success. Over the last year we talked repeatedly about ways that our two universities could work together and I finally decided that it would be best to come here for more serious discussions, and I think I’ve made a great choice. The professors and administration has been very supportive. This should also be a place that we consider for study abroad opportunities.

In addition, they’ve treated me wonderfully well. They’ve put me up in a faculty residence hall, which is the same as a nice one bedroom apartment in the US – including a television and cable. It’s an interesting mixture of French, Moroccan and American programming – although the Simpsons is in French. They’ll show American movies in English with Arabic subtitles and leave in the cursing which would have been cut out of the same movies on regular American TV, which seems a little odd. Al Akhawayn also gave me a swipe card so I get free meals at the cafeteria, café and anything I need at the bookstore. They even bought me some Al Akhawayn shirts, which helps to make up for my still missing clothes.

I’ve walked down to the town of Ifrane itself a couple times, which is only about fifteen minutes down the road. Ifrane was built by the French as a pseudo-European village in the mountains. There’s a nice new section complete with fountains, restaurants and hotels, which was crowded on Friday night with families (which is pretty typical in the Islamic world). I bought a couple scoops of vanilla ice cream and just sat around and watched the crowd, which felt completely comfortable and welcoming. The next day I was able to make it to an older part of town called the mouche and buy some underwear and socks and swim trunks – my luggage has yet to show up despite the best efforts of the dean’s administrative assistant who has been calling the airport daily. Tonight I worked out at the school’s fitness center in my endless quest for some place to work out. The university also has an Olympic size indoor pool, but it won’t be open until Monday. By the way, it’s move in time for the first year students here at Al Akhawayn, which seems to be the tour I’m on right now after seeing them move in at Skovde and I’ll return to Champlain just in time to see it there as well.

Landing in Morocco

By the time I finally arrived in Fez on Thursday I was pretty certain that my luggage was lost so my enthusiasm was a little muted. However, I’m enough of a child to admit that my first thought on stepping down onto the tarmac was ‘five continents down, two to go.’ As I was waiting in the queue for passport processing I kept looking into the next room at the baggage carousel turning and I couldn’t see my suitcase, which is impossible to miss because it’s the world’s largest. Luckily a tour guide, Samil, associated with the Riad al Pacha was already there waiting for me. He helped me fill out the lost luggage forms (and calm down another traveler who had lost his suitcase and refused to give his address in Sudan, and grew quite agitated that someone would want to know it) and we were on our way to the hotel along with our driver Mohammed.

It was already dark because of the delay so I was happy to have the guide and driver (although I’m sure I’m getting way over-charged for the cab ride to the hotel, and especially for the ride to Ifrane on Friday, but beggars can’t be choosers – and if they had not been waiting for me my mood would have been much worse). Fez looked much more like Amman than Dubai, my main two points of comparison in the Islamic world (although nothing looks like Dubai anyway). We arrived in a dusty parking lot and then Samil and I started walking through winding narrow alleys (that were not much more than passageways) on the way to the Riad al Pacha. The hotel is essentially located in what remains of a sprawling medieval souk that hasn’t changed much over the centuries. We arrived at the door (pictured above, although when we arrived it was very dark in the alleyway) and knocked – I was expecting a little slot to open and someone to ask for a password. Instead a very friendly man named Abdul answered the door. Abdul spoke no English (Arabic and French are the main languages of Morocco) but was exceedingly friendly – and he was also the only staff at the Riad. I had received a cheaper rate at the Riad because it is categorized as a low season, and I guess it is because I was the only one staying there, which added to the rather bizarre nature of the place.

The Riad al Pacha is an old private residence that has been turned into a small hotel, sort of the American equivalent of a bed and breakfast. It was as quiet as a tomb and very otherworldly, not simply because I never found even one clock in the whole place (I kept waiting for a Lovecraft short story to break out). Before we did anything I asked if I could get on the Internet to see if I had any messages and to tell a couple people that I was alive, which they graciously allowed me to do in the lobby. Unfortunately, although logically, the keyboard was French which means a few of the letters are in different places – not a huge problem, but one that makes typing quickly impossible (I later learned you can just change the setting on the computer to American keyboard and it will just ignore what the keys actually say). While I was typing Abdul brought me mint tea and cookies. Samil had me draw up a list of supplies (tooth brush and paste, deodorant, etc.) that I needed and said that Mohammed would be back in the morning at 7:00 with them – I was skeptical and amused by this but complied. After Samil left Abdul showed me to my room and then insisted on taking me up to the roof. He was very proud of the view even though it was dark and I couldn’t make out much – it’s amazing how much you can communicate when you don’t share any words in common. He dropped me off in my room and later brought me some bottled water.

My room had no clock and no television. The ceiling was around 15 feet tall. Luckily, it did have a wall unit for providing cooler air which was located about twelve feet up on the wall (I had a remote control, which I initially thought was for the television that I couldn’t find). I read for a little bit (Paul Bowles’ The Spider’s House, which is set in Fez, and was suggested by Sarah Cohen from the library) but then just tried to get to sleep. The bed was so uncomfortable that it made me nostalgic for my old bed in my apartment in Mumbai, which was actually a bed only in the sense that I had to sleep on it. Unfortunately, I didn’t sleep very well, which was probably a combination of the craziness of the day and a quiet that was so profound that it was almost noisy. The one noise was the wind, which is my constant companion in Fez. I have this theory that Moroccans probably have as many names for the different varieties of wind as Eskimos do for different types of snow fall. I woke up early and, after going downstairs and not finding anyone up, went up to the roof to watch the sun rise over the medina. That was an amazing experience. I took a series of pictures, but I don’t think any of them did it justice. I sat at an iron table and chair on the balcony overlooking the medina and watched it slowly come to life – although it was a little quieter than usual because it was a Friday morning. I also tried to write in my journal (the actual physical one that my sister Beth gave me – another thing I bring everywhere – it helps make eating alone in countless restaurants manageable) but the wind was blowing a bit too strongly and a bit too coldly to make it possible.

After a while I went back down to the main room, picked out a table, and wrote a lot in my journal. The central room was beautiful and I’ve included a picture above. As I wrote the wind alternately rattled every door and wind in the place, almost as if it were looking for a way to get inside. Eventually there was a ring at the door which woke up Abdul, who I hadn’t realized was sleeping in a little room off the big central eating room where I was sitting, and he ran to the door. Amazingly, he brought me a little bag full of toiletries – Mohammed was as good as his word. I ran upstairs to shower, which did refresh me although I did have to then turn around and put on the same dirty clothes from the day before. By the time I made it back downstairs Abdul had prepared breakfast for me: a variety of breads and croissants, a sort of fried potato pancake, butter, marmalade, honey, coffee, milk and orange juice in a wine decanter.

Mohammed was waiting for me so I grabbed my things and we took off. I told Abdul (through Mohammed) that I was coming back on Monday and would it be OK if I just paid when I returned, which was OK with him. We also told him to keep a lookout for my suitcase in case it showed up – and we all smiled at that notion. Mohammed and I jumped in his van, stopped by an ATM (well, it took a third stop before we found one working) for some cash, and we were off to Ifrane. We talked a lot about Dubai, which fascinated him. We also talked about his one year old son and his hope that he would someday be a doctor. Mohammed had wanted to do so, but family problems held him back – plus, he was actually in Paris in university for further schooling at one time but couldn’t get his papers worked out and had to leave. When I told him that my son was 19 he couldn’t believe it and talked about the advantages of having children really young – he also couldn’t believe that I was 47 because he assumed that he, at 41, was older than me. We climbed up from the plains and into the mountains. Beyond the fact that we had to pass a lot of cars along narrow winding mountain roads, it was a remarkably pleasant experience. Mohammed assured me that Al Akhawayn University is the best university in Morocco and was happy that I was visiting there. We reached the university and he dropped me off, and another day was beginning.

Charles de Gaulle Airport

OK, let me make one point first, I really love France. For that matter I’ll go even farther – I even really like the French. They get a rap for being remarkably unfriendly to Americans but I think it’s undeserved. I’ve always found them friendly and even very warm at times. I can remember three separate tables full of Parisians all offering to pay for my lunch a few years ago when I had a credit card issue. Granted, they aren’t the types that would just plop down next to you on a tram and start blathering away about their day, but that’s one of their best attributes – I can get that nonsense at home.

That said, I hate Charles de Gaulle Airport. I know everybody says that, but I really hate Charles de Gaulle Airport. My friend Dave Kelley always says that he starts to get almost sick to his stomach as soon as the plane begins its descent into Paris. It’s not only that it doesn’t make any sense, but that it’s almost perversely, intentionally, cruelly nonsensical. I always half-expect to see the cruel, knitting, cackling crones from Dickens’ Tale of Two Cities sitting in the terminal watching you circle around endlessly. I used to think that the people at the airport weren’t interested in helping you find your way around, but instead I’ve come to the conclusion that they really don’t understand it any more than you do and just don’t want to admit it.

Anyway, my theory is that it’s not really the French that people hate, it’s just the airport. By the time you make it through the airport you’re in such a horrible mood that it automatically makes the French seem insufferable. It almost seems worse when you’re just passing through Charles de Gaulle on the way to another airport. If you’re actually disembarking at Paris then it’s worth it to spend time in that incredible city. If you have to put up with it and then move on to another city it’s probably France’s curse on you for not stopping in Paris. Of course, this is where my luggage was lost, and from what they’ve been telling me in Morocco it’s practically a daily occurrence.

Road to Morocco

Friday, 24 August

Not much time to write now because I'm in between meetings. I'm here in Ifrane, Morocco at Al Akhawayn University, although just barely. I'll write more later - suffice it to say that yesterday was a pretty spectacular nightmare from beginning to end. My luggage is magnificently lost, somewhere in Europe (we can't be more certain) - so no clothes or shaving kit or anything. I did make it to the Riad al Pacha in Fez and was the only one staying there. The only other person was the all-inclusive staff, and he didn't speak a word of English. However, I did hire a driver to drive me forty miles up into the mountains to the university and they are taking great care of me. More later.

Adjo

I'm just about packed. Tomorrow, bright and early, I'm out the door. Goteborg to Frankfurt to Paris to Fez, Morocco. Certainly no chance for difficulty there. I had a great last day in Goteborg. After a blustery start the day gave way to more glorious sunshine. I had two great meetings, first with the Department of Gender Studies and then with the Department of Sociology, so the professional side of the trip was much more successful than I had any reason to expect.

After the second set of meeting ended I stopped at a restaurant called Brasserie Lipp, which is right on the main avenue (Kungsportsavenyen), and had some sort of crayfish, shrimp, mussel and spinach pasta dish. It was wonderful. After that I took advantage of the late day for the art museum (Goteborgs Konstmuseum) and spent a few hours wondering around. Nice collection, featuring a lot of Nordic artists I had never heard of, but which were pretty good. The painting above is from someone more famous, Edward Munch, although I had never seen this particular painting before. It's called Vampyren - OK, so he had issues with women. I also saw a couple paintings from an artist named Julius Paulsen which I really liked, including a painting entitled Modellerne holder hvil which I kept coming back to because there was something about the look on the model's face that I found interesting/sad/unfathomable. I even bought the postcard, but it doesn't do it justice. There was also a really interesting sculpture I kept coming back to, but, of course, I've forgotten the specifics and haven't figured it out on the net yet. Anyway, I'm just about packed and ready for a new adventure. This time tomorrow, inshallah, I'll be at the Riad Pacha in Fez. Adjo!

The Last Day

I'll be taking off in a few minutes for my last full day in Sweden. I have meetings today with the departments of Gender Studies and Sociology, both of which should be wonderful fits for our Global Modules project. I'm hoping to get the opportunity to do some more sight-seeing late in the day, although I also have to get packed to take off early tomorrow for the next leg of the journey. I know the art museum, the Gotesborgs Konstmuseum, is open late on Wednesdays so that is good news. Whenever I visit a new place I inevitably find myself spending hours in the local art museum. It's like when I teach my history classes and my students grumble about how much time we spend studying literature and art - I try and express to them that in the end that is all that matters - it's what really expresses the greatest dreams of humankind. Maybe I spend so much time in art museums to try and discover the national character of each country. It's funny, when I was planning this trip I was fairly excited about visiting Sweden, but it paled in comparison for my enthusiasm for Morocco - and now I find myself pretty depressed over the thought of leaving Sweden.

Sjobaren's

OK, I've finally managed to get my Swedish meal. I had a second round of meetings at Goteborg University, this time with the History of Ideas department, which also went embarrassingly well. I'm feeling better about this project all the time. The support has been enthusiastic and really encouraging. After the meeting a couple of the professors took me for a walk through a really charming section of Goteborg - lots of shops and winding cobblestone streets - to a traditional Swedish fish restaurant called Sjobaren's. I had their fish au gratin with cod filet, shrimps and mushrooms served with white wine sauce. Oh my good god. It was so good I actually took a picture of it in the restaurant, and then quickly hid the camera under the table and looked around to see where the flash had come from (I was thinking that some sort of Harry Potter inspired apparition might fool people, but Swedes are too crafty). After that I went for a long walk and took some great pictures of the canals and a good picture of an Gustavus Adolphus statue (it's hard to think of a time when the peace-loving, liberal Swedes were the most feared military machine in Europe, but it hasn't been that long since the early 17th century - at least not for a historian). I finally managed to track down a place to work out and made a mad dash for Sportlife, although after that amazing meal I don't know why I bothered. Oh, and since when did I become that person who cuts short his sight-seeing to go pay to work out - there's something wrong there.

Geopolitics

Not much to report today, mainly because the day is full of meetings - which is great for expanding the Global Modules network, but not so great for sight-seeing (or producing something worth reading on a blog). What strikes me about Sweden is that it's much more multicultural than I thought, which is just a reflection of my own ignorance. I had a great conversation this morning with an Iranian taxi driver about American-Iranian relations - we had just about solved that impasse, but unfortunately we reached out destination and the two countries were left to fend for themselves. He told me that there were something like 100,000 Iranians in Sweden. He's been here for seven years himself, and said he came for reasons of freedom as compared to economic opportunity. Like a lot of Iranian ex-pats he complained about the present regime. He made an interesting point in that he thought that Iranians were actually less religious now than they were before the revolution because the religion was being forced on them now, as compared to it being a choice before. Obviously, just one man's opinion, but potentially an insightful one.

For lunch I fought the urge to go to the mall next to the hotel to McDonald's (I only eat at McDonald's when I'm overseas) and instead went to an Indian place across the street. It was wonderful and left me thinking how many Indians are now living in Sweden.

So far the trip has been wonderful and very productive. My biggest problem has been getting to meetings at various departments at Goteborg University. It has 60,000 students and the various departments are spread all over Goteborg, so it's pretty chaotic. Beyond that my great quest is to find someplace to work out - I hate to miss work-outs. I did manage to get in a swim at the Scandic Hotel Europa pool, but it was the coldest indoor pool I've ever been in - these Swedes are tough. I think I've located a place, but I'll probably only be able to work out once before I leave for Morocco. Over the last several years I've worked out in all sorts of odd places - from memberships in health clubs in India and Jordan to working out in the fitness center in the central park in Madrid. I remember asking a series of Indians where I could work out and they were so amused by the concept, which they viewed as a particularly odd American mania.

Skovde

Monday, 20 August 2007

All in all a wonderful day. I managed to not have any jet lag this morning, or at least not enough to leave me exhausted. I caught the train from Goteborg to Skovde. While standing in the Goteborg train station I was once again feeling bad about the pathetic state of the rail system in the US and envying the Europeans (of course, this led to the train starting out a half-hour late). I rode in the second class compartment, which was utterly clean and pleasant – and slightly different than the second class compartment on an Indian train (on this train, for instance, when you looked down into the toilet you didn’t even see the tracks beneath you).

Everyone I met at the University of Skovde was very nice and they were really excited about my Global Module system – and since this is the first stop in this semester long quest for partners it did a lot to cheer me up. It was move-in day at Skovde and they were doing the very same goofy get to know you trust-building games we do at Champlain (and every other university in the US) – someone must hold the international rights to them and is making a lot of money by making first year students stand in circles and connect with their peers in a really meaningful way.

After the meeting Kassie Sundin from the international program took me for a short drive around Skovde and then back to her house for a home-cooked meal. We had hand-picked mushrooms and crayfish (apparently August is a huge month for crayfish parties in Sweden). Her husband Patrick made some delicious salmon. Their two daughters, Amanda (6) and Caitlin (4), kept me busy as they ran around like monkeys. At first they brought me nuts and raisins from inside the house (along with specific orders on how many I was to eat each time) and then they started bringing me gooseberries that they were picking in the park next to the house.

Apparently, according to Kassie, if you get Swedes away from other Swedes they really open up. Some combination of their socialist philosophy and/or their traditional worldview makes them sometimes hesitant to call attention to themselves. For example, they might not automatically answer in English if they are in a crowd – not because they are unfriendly and not because they don’t speak wonderful English and not because they are afraid that you might laugh at their English, but because they are nervous about speaking up and seeming to call attention to themselves in front of other Swedes.

Sweden really is a lovely place. When I was on the train ride back and forth to Skovde I kept thinking how much it looked like Vermont – a lot of trees and farmland. Like I suspected, Sweden is definitely a place I could live. Everyone’s English is impeccable because all students learn it as a second language. Kassie was telling me that that many people in Sweden are lamenting the fact that fewer students are learning a third language. Patrick told me that when the girls were born he and Kassie both received six months paid leave. Plus, a university education is essentially free here, even for visiting Americans. I knew these facts and what an enlightened place Sweden is, but seeing it first-hand really brings it home.

Sweden really is much like Vermont, except a Vermont populated by pleasant, sane people who speak excellent English.

Goteborg, Sweden

Sunday, 19 August - I've made it to Goteborg, Sweden. It took forever, partially because it's impossible to get anyplace from Burlington (including Vermont). Burlington to Frankfurt to Goteborg. For some reason the security was really tight today - unusual for Burlington, although not unusual for Frankfurt. Say what you want about the Germans, they're damn serious about this whole terrorism thing. I don't think I've ever passed through Frankfurt where I didn't wait through two or three security checkpoints.

Goteborg, so far, is cool. Sort of an odd combination of Vienna and Amsterdam. It feels heavy architectually, which is a description for Vienna that I borrowed from my friend David Kite. There are also canals, which reminds me of Amsterdam - which is not surprising because there were apparently Dutch planners involved in laying out the city. I guess it's sort of a "nice" Amsterdam. I had this feeling on the way here that my response to Sweden would be much the same as my response to Australia - that is, I didn't think I would be blown away by it like someplace like India or Jordan, but it'd be a place that I automatically knew that I could live there. It's early, but I suspect I will feel the same way about it as Australia. Sweden has surprised me so far because 1) it's much more multicultural than I thought, and 2) the Swedes seem a lot warmer than I thought they would be - both pleasant surprises. I guess I've watched too many Ingmar Bergman films. I did see someone taking a streetcar with death, but they weren't playing chess.

I arrived late in the afternoon so I haven't done too much other than walk around and try to figure out where Goteborg University is (I have meetings scheduled there on Tuesday and Wednesday). I did spend a while walking through the Tradgardsforeningen (Horticultural Gardens) which was very nice. There were beautiful walking trails and rides for the kids and live performances - the places was pretty lively. Since I can't make up my mind whether or not Goteborg is more like Vienna or Amsterdam, I guess the confusion of purpose impacted on dinner as well. I ended up eating at a Spanish restaurant called E Corazon and had the mixed tapas, along with a Carlsberg beer (which is Danish). I guess I'll sort this whole Swedish thing out tomorrow.



Speaking of which, tomorrow I have to catch a train to Skovde for meetings at the university there. It's supposed to be easy, which means I'll end up in Oslo.

Off to Sweden and Morocco

Saturday morning, 18 August, typical pre-travel chaos. On this trip I'm heading off to Sweden and then Morocco on Global Module business. I need to either find more partners or expand current partnerships for Champlain's Global Module program. I'm flying out this afternoon for Goteborg, Sweden. While there I'll be visiting Goteborg University for two days worth of meetings and also a day trip up to the University of Skovde in Skovde (hopefully a beautiful train ride). Next Thursday I'll be leap-frogging through several airports down to Fez in Morocco. From there it will be on to Ifrane to visit Al Akhawayn University. At this point I'm still in my normal absolute pre-traval panic mode, wondering what I was ever thinking about in planning this or any other trip.