There Must be a Place

circa 1982

The poem written by Lawrence Ferlinghetti after studying Olber's Paradox - a learned astronomer that there were relatively few stars nearby the further away he looked, the more there were.

And I heard the learned astronomer
whose name was Heinrich Olbers
speaking to us across the centuries
about how he observed with naked eye
how in the sky there were
some few stars close up
and the further away he looked
the more of them there were
with infinite numbers of clusters of stars
in myriad Milky Ways & myriad nebulae
So that from this we can deduce
that in the infinite distances
there must be a place
there must be a place
where all is light
and that the light from that high place
Where all is light
simply hasn't got here yet
which is why we still have night
But when at last that light arrives
when at last it does get here
the part of day we now call Night
will have a white sky
little black dots in it
little black holes
where once were stars
And then in that symbolic
so poetic place
which will be ours
we'll be our own true shadows
and our own illumination
on a sunset earth

Light is the oldest and most pervasive metaphor of spiritual experience.

The Irish were mystical people. I remember once sitting alone with my mother when the power went off. Suddenly all was darkness.  Mother said "Light is good -- it is Godliness -- dark is evil." The Irish always believed in this symbolism.  T.S. Eliot wrote "Light, light visible reminder of invisible light." Experience with my mother was one of feeling (sensing loss of light) reinforcing my faith in the supernatural.

Derelicts and Adventurers

September 11, 1974

Another day in Rabat where under blue skies with no threat of rain you could live outdoors all year. For that reason I don't think it is a great hardship to live in the one roomed thatched huts as many people do. Mrs. Thompson and El Kabera went to the market but we stayed home that morning. When David and Amy came home from school, we all went to Sale´ twin city of Rabat, to visit the pottery and basketry factories, euphemism for one roomed, mud floored huts. First to the pottery huts - one room adobe type huts, with a crude division of labor - from the getting of the raw material, a red sticky mud from river bottom, then stamping on it to make it usable, then kneading to make it pliable, the molding into shape on the potter's wheel, the placing of the design -- either a cutout or hand drawn one on the article, the painting, the baking ,and displaying it for sale. Again the high incidence of child labor sickened me, especially one very young boy with saddest eyes painting designs on pottery. Here they had for sale little spice jars, tea sets, cups, vases, large jars - all decorated in Moroccan style and shades of red, blue, yellow (harmonizing) with predominantly geometric designs and floral motifs with interlacing lines. I was tempted to buy, price was small, but was afraid that I would break them on return journey. How they could sell at such low costs was evident - minimal operating costs, maximum sales volume, and an efficient deployment of labor (child) and material resources. Behind these crude huts were the living quarters, more crude huts with several naked children running about.

Not too far away from the pottery making stalls were shops engaged in weaving strips of bamboo in woven fiber products - baskets, tote baskets, rugs - all made by hand using a division of labor similar to the pottery making, cutting the branches, stripping them, coloring some, and making the products. The structures housing this industry were open with bamboo type roof supported by walls of same material  or often supported by poles placed at strategic places. Several men sitting cross-legged, unhurried, and non-communicative, prepared bamboo for weaving. One man was white, English looking, possibly a derelict or adventurer, oblivious to tourists. There were many articles here which I wanted but I had been warned by David and Gail that there is a special way to bargain. David, speaking French, bargained, holding firm to his price much lower than their price. Gail, unemotionally, refused and was on the point of walking away when the merchants agreed to our prices. At this time, Morrocan money was difficult for me to understand and I kept asking David what it was in American money. After more haggling, we purchased colorful mats with red, green or blue geometric designs, baskets and a colorful fiber rug for a porch or patio.

In the bamboo making area, I noticed only one boy, engaged in selling. He was happy looking and business-like in his work but looked so strange with his ill-fitting man's sport coat drawing my attention. One seller asked Gail for an American cigarette, my first but not last experience with wheedling, coaxing, and begging. Finally we reached home where we gloated over our purchases which we felt according to American standards were bargains. At dinner, we had our first taste of Harira, a soup which Muslims use to break the day long fast during the month of Ramadan. This soup has a basic beef stock which is simmered alone in a pot for several hours. The vegetables, washed thoroughly (chick peas, lentils, beans) are soaked overnight. The next day they are placed in a pot containing water with other fresh vegetables - carrots, turnips etc and simmered for hours. Spices are added and it is thickened slightly with flour. The last procedure is squeezing small tomatoes and placing them in the soup. (I will ask El Kabera to let me see her preparing it before I leave.) Some Muslims add yeast to it. It is a delicious, filling soup. After the soup we had tajine.

Again Mohammed pulled the shades, lowered the heavy shutters, and locked us in securely.

Emerging Patterns

September 10, 1974

Mrs. Thompson had a special Moroccan dish, Tajin or Tejune, prepared by El Kabera, her beautiful warm loving cook. It was a stew simmered for hours on a slow heat in a special apparatus made of terra cotta, consisting of a round plate covered with a conical lid, placed over a charcoal burner which cooks it slowly. This stew with a meat base is composed of tomatoes, onions, celery, carrots, squash, turnips, and pumpkins. All vegetable are fresh, purchased in market by Mrs. T and El Kabera, thoroughly washed with water to which a little clorox is added. El Kabera is an excellent cook if this is an example of her cooking. I always prefer stews and this was exceptional. [This leisurely life style can become addictive.] After dinner we all drove through the town to the Mausoleum of Mohammed V, a historic and architectural pleasure. It would take many visits and much study to describe the beauty and richness of this memorial, glittering at night and bathed in sunlight during the day, enduring and costly. From an upstairs balcony we looked down at the seraglio where immobile in a corner a Koran reader chants constantly. We saw the marble inlays, intricately carved gold lanterns, the white robed guards. I later found at that the Mausoleum was built in the form of a quobba (?) in 1966 to permanently house the remains of Mohammed V.

On later study, I found that the arch of the mausoleum was light and delicately but intricately decorated. Geometric designs predominate (Islamic injunction against human representation and animal representation) but there were also script and floral designs with the whole emerging as an extremely complex pattern of interlacing lines. All other architecture had same general pattern according to my limited vision. On my first visit I felt a repugnance at so much wealth showered upon one lone ruler when this country teemed with the very poor. I found out later that Mohammed V. was much loved by his people and in turn he was interested in their well-being, their progress was his foremost aim. He was a leader with Al Fassi in the revolt against French occupation, suffering exile in Madagascar.

After our visit to Mohammed V's tomb, we went home where we drank the traditional Moroccan tea and socialized in this spacious living room. Mohammed as a nightly chore drew all the drapes and securely closed all the shutters, as necessary protection which all Moroccan homes in this residential area use.

Bewitched

Tuesday, September 10, 1974

Awoke today to dazzling sunlight, blue, blue skies.  Such a complete reversal of my life in such a short time. Here in Rabat, more precisely in a palatial home of the fortunate people in this city where the very poor penetrate everywhere. I had begun to read from books in the Thompson library, special ones chosen by Lynn's Dad, the history of this ancient place. Rabat (Rabat word meaning a monastery fortress) is the present capital of Morocco, transferred from Fez in 1912 by Alaouite dynasty and the third largest city. It (I learned later) is not too much one city but an aggregate of quarters - Medina, Mechanour, University sector, Government Ministries, cosmopolitan area around the hotels, residential area, and homes for the poor. As we drove past, Lynn's mother pointed out the various areas.

This morning a meeting, initial one this year, of Woman's Club was on our agenda. Any woman attached to the Embassy or any American in Rabat could belong. This meeting was held in the home of the American Ambassador which apparently was under Security, several, young men were lounging outside the entrance. The Ambassador's wife greeted us as we entered. This home suffered in comparison with the Thompsons, lacking its modernity and simplicity. It was a more traditional place, with each room separated and average in size. I'm describing only the areas I was able to see. However the dining room was open to the outside through the inevitable glass doors. We met several women friends of Mrs. T. - one a dark haired attractive woman interested in Catholic Relief, another young Turkish woman whose husband was head of the Peace Corpos, one older, dark haired whose brother lived in Shadyside and whose sister taught in Chatham, also a young American (advocate of Women's Lib?) counselor to Americans in Morocco, a position formerly held by a man.  Before the meeting again during the Social Hour I could have been in our own Social Rooms during a Guild Meeting - cookies similar to those we serve, coffee or tea, continual chatter and gossip of the women. Human nature is the same everywhere. After the meeting itself I bought a Moroccan cookbook and ordered a light beige handwoven woolen blanket and Lynn ordered two, differing in color and design. I had previously seen (in ads in NY Times) handwoven carpets similar to these.  While waiting, I stepped out into a formal garden, with a central fountain, and trellises vine-covered and filled with red and blue flowers. Later accompanied by the Ambassador's wife, we toured the gardens, noticing and recognizing flowers which we raise at home for a brief period but they raise to enjoy all year--marygolds, zinnias, lilies, coxcomb, pansies, roses. Some areas were recently seeded, some had tiny plants emerging, and some had seedlings ready to transplant - a never ending process. An unusual feature was the pen with the peacock. All this takes manpower which is cheap in Morocco. I was becoming increasingly bewitched with the magical spell of Morocco.

After lunch, we went to the Hilton Hotel primarily to swim in Hilton Pool where Thompsons have made arrangements for its year long use. David, Amy, Lynn and I walked there, pushing Tommy in his umbrella shaped carrier. We walked through the hotel lobby, which was decorated in Moroccan style with many hand-carved chests, white pillows, oriental rugs, large massive mirrors with brightly colored hand painted frames. Here again outside and the inside seemed to merge into one whole producing a spacious openness seldom found in Western hotels no matter how opulent.  People kept moving but we were scarcely noticed, all Americans must be regarded as customary Hilton residents. Amy and David, anxious to get into the pool and desiring us to meet the young manager, hurried until we reached the pool. This young manager had an eye for a pretty face, he became (broken English) interested in Lynn. The pool was almost empty; Tommy was more excited about the water than I had ever seen him - laughing again and again as David and Amy dived, wading in the little pool unafraid and gliding through the big pool on David's back. He loves the water. Afterwards we walked around the spacious gardens, sculptured, growing twice as big as the same flowers at home, blossoming profusely. We bought cards in the lobby, window shopped (glimpsing expensive items in specialty shops), observed people - saw an elegantly dressed young black man (dressed in native fashion) with a regal bearing (a tall prince figure, white woolen djellaba) entering the Hilton.

Morocco

September 7, 1974
Up here above the clouds, the air seems less polluted with no smudges to darken the glistening whiteness.  The ride was over too quickly but it had compensations.  Two Toms met me at airport with one Tom a stranger, a baby who had become an individual in a few months.  I hadn't seem him for several months and he was shy at first. Tommy let him sit at steering wheel with his hands on wheel, looking at me with an expression of pride. We stopped at a restaurant on way home where I felt he resembled Joey in his ability to show off in front of admiring audiences, especially those of young girls.  He is an unusually beautiful child with his large dark lashed eyes and his halo of curly hair.  I was so happy to see Lynn waiting for us...beautiful as ever. We spent the afternoon talking, running after Tommy, and examining the little gifts/clothing I had brought.  Later Lynn showed me all the articles she had purchased for this trip, remarking that we would be very well dressed. After a delicious chicken dinner, our guest Tom Carly (sp?) played a little guitar music which delighted young child Tommy.

September 9, 1974
On Monday we arrived in Lisbon where all necessary information was given contingent upon our leaving Europe to go to Africa. A bus took us to our plane for this final short plane ride. Lisbon airport was a disappointment to me, dull even, dirty, suffering in comparison with the other terminals. Our plane to Casablanca, gibberish blared out of speakers in French and Japanese and English with an accent, introducing me to a strange new world with strange new sounds.  During our entire trip, Lynn held Tommy, a year old baby and he had been restful most of the time. When we reached Casablanca, he had reached his saturation point, he was quite restless while waiting in Casablanca. It took the plane only an hour to reach this Moroccan city, bathed in sunlight under bright blue skies with the heat moderated by gentle breezes. Here the airport was modern, busy, clean but there was no one there to meet us. This would have been no inconvenience for two adults but it was almost impossible to calm Tommy who had slept for only four hours. While Lynn attended to our baggage, which was considerable, I held Tommy in my arms, walking up and down the outside corridor, trying in vain to pacify him.  Many grinning, gold toothed, bandy legged taxi drivers, sitting or standing on the steps near the entrance smiled sympathetically, managing to make me understand taxis were available. Using universal language, shake of the head, I answered. Lynn continued scouting for her family while I observed the human panorama, constantly hanging near the terminal.  Moroccans (Arabs) in native dress, carry musical instruments briskly walking to their plane, veiled native dressed women holding toddlers by the hand with babies adeptly strapped to their backs, women and children getting off buses, out of taxis, apparently bound for a plane--a constant stream of human beings chattering away and I could not understand a word. At this point, a young man approached me to ask if I knew procedure involved in changing American money into Moroccan; I advised him to seek advice from American consulate. Then a stocky man dressed in some type of military clothes approached me calling "Lynn Flanagan". I stopped him but since he could speak little English, he could not understand. Fortunately Lynn came, introduced herself and received a note from her father explaining why no family member was here to meet us.

Naturally we were happy to get into the car for the last lap of the trip, to Thompson home in Rabat. Then began the wild ride to the capital of Morocco, incessant blaring horns added to the confusion as we saw on the road men siting sideways on donkeys, motorized vehicles cutting in front, sheep leisurely crossing the road, and horse drawn carts. Our driver rode through the countryside with homicidal speed, passing the mule driven carts, motorized bikes, and other cars. Everywhere red earth, with wiry grass, was evident; stone walls, one room thatched cottages passed before us. We saw veiled women swathed in chilabas, men in ill-fitting jackets, and many people young and old, picking grapes, filling up baskets, and placing them on the side of the road for sale. Truly this is a land of contrasts. Soon we reached edges of Atlantic Ocean (driver explaining and pointing out interested places in his unintelligible English.) Here beautiful French built seaside homes glistened, almost touching the tin shacks of many, many poor.

After many miles of erratic driving we reached the new Rabat, shiny white city with its wide tree lined streets and its vine covered walled homes. We had reached the residential area, reserved for those who were able to live like Kings, many were working for foreign governments who had the Moroccan's interest at heart. The driver finally pulled up before one of these impressive homes, the Thompson residence with walls about ten feet high covered with cascading vines, blossoming with red, pink, and blue flowers. The outside metal latticed gate opened up into a small front garden with many shrubs and plants. Here is the entrance to the house itself. We entered a large reception hall with ceiling (cathedral) apparently up to the top. One wall of this hall was almost all glass, an extension to the outside flower garden in the inner courtyard. The stairway of black marble with beautifully polished brown wood balustrades, curved up to a hallway on second floor where we could go to the area reserved for children and guests or to the other area reserved as a master suite.

The children's sleeping area was so constructed that it projected out from the house, held up by massive stone pillars, and served as a roof for a section of the inner courtyard.  At the other end of the hall we walked to the private rooms reserved for the owner and his wife (Colonel and Mrs. Thompson). This suite of rooms consisted of a library, sitting room, bedroom with dressing room and bath, all private away from all other occupants. Through a heavy door in the reception room, we entered a carpeted hallway extending the full length of the house. Again this entire wall was of glass with glass doors, sliding, and access to the flowered courtyard.  The first room beyond reception hall was a large living room with three complete walls and one half wall. One of the three complete walls had a great portion glassed, again looking out to another flower garden. The half walled area enabled us to look out from the glassed in walls to the outside patio. Next to the living room, slightly more enclosed and much smaller, was a television room. At the end of the hall there were two branches, one leading to the kitchen and another to the dining room with a powder room located between the two. The kitchen with its two refrigerators and large freezer was ideal for its many uses. It was large with the functional area located at the opposite end from the hall entrance. There were many cupboards and sufficient working areas. Here again a door led to another garden with the ever present flowers and shrubs. Beyond the kitchen were rooms for servants with another closed in area next to the garage. The dining room was large with one wall glassed and the glass sliding doors which led again to inner courtyard and the garden which bloomed all year - pink roses, purplish blooms on vines, gold marigolds, striped orange and yellow zinnias, and all the flowers we enjoy for a few months.  Interior decorating, white carpets and white architectural design of the house. Lynn's mother, using an eclectic approach, pale greens and jonquil yellows to contrast with the stark white. To me all this beauty seemed to be a page from Arabian Nights Dream. Furthermore Colonel Thompson told us the house had historical significance, built by Al Fasi leade rof the Istiqual party, instrumental in bringing freedom to Morocco, putting exiled King Mohammed V back on the throne. At night outside was blotted out. Heavy shudders (inside) were lowered and securely locked. A fierce dog stood watch in courtyard.

Fly

Saturday, September 7, 1974

Anticipation may be a greater joy than realization. However I greatly anticipated this trip, squeezing out all the adventure I could from every stage in its development. On the last lap of my preparations I was calm, unusually so and not too excited. I was old enough to accept without qualms what the future held for me and was even anxious to fly across an ocean for the first time in my long life. Yesterday Daddy drove me to Rosemary's where she and I made final packing preparations in, as usual, a relaxed atmosphere.  Up early to-day to find out that the weather had changed, it was unusually cold. We all, Joe, Rose, Joey rode to Pittsburgh airport where I bought my round trip ticket to Boston, processed the luggage, had handbag checked, and went to our gate with Fiorills to await the plane. My farewell to them was a loving one before I boarded the plane for my trip into the "wild blue yonder". No matter how often I will fly I don't think I could ever lose my awe and my expectation of unparalleled visual delights. This ride, smooth and uneventful, proved no exception - reading high above the carpet of frothy pure white clouds I seemed to be suspended between heaven and earth. In fact this carpet of snowy beauty had for many years been my imaginative conception of heaven - the ultimate beauty. At one tie we seemed to be riding into impenetrable straight hills, but it separated for us. All I could think of was Edna St. Vincent Millay's "Lord, thou hast made the world too beautiful this year."