Imagine a nation of people who have worked for centuries at perfecting pleasure.  A nation that has worked long and hard at enjoying the simpler and beautiful aspects of human life; like the subtle joy of the company of close friends and family, almost celebrating each gathering as if it may be their last. These people cultivate the arts like a necessary science of the heart, yet have also produced some of the world’s finest scientific minds.  Their culture treats each meal as it should be; the nourishment needed to fuel a productive life.  Their families are typically warm and inviting, no matter if you’ve known them for twenty years or twenty minutes, you feel like you’ve known them you’re entire life.

To me, this is what it means to be Italian.

But this was not always the case.

Growing up, even until my late teens the idea of being Italian was fairly one dimensional, either you were one, or you were a “Caker”.  You ate spaghetti carbonara or you ate kraft dinner, there really wasn’t much middle ground.But no matter where I went I always took my proud heritage with me, a source of self-esteem with really no reason for it.   At the time, sadly, the main thing I identified with being Italian was the mafia.  It seemed to be the subject of every movie, or movie legacy at the time; Goodfellas, The Godfather, Casino, the Untouchables, Donnie Brasco, and the list goes on and on.  Truth be told, I don’t particularly even care for these movies. I enjoy the Godfather because its a quality film, but the subject matter I could do without.  I remember always thinking to myself, is this what I’m supposed to be proud of? Is this what it means to be Italian? We’re just a group of menacing, uneducated bullies, who eat too much, disrespect women, and live a life of ignorance and crime? I used to compare these films to my family, who don’t fit that stereotype, and found it frustrating to always be associated with the Corleone’s of the world. Not to mention that my peers at the time were acting out their mafia dreams at any time possible.  The words, “Do you know who I am?” were certainly not a stranger to my high school hallways.

Thankfully, I went away to university, to expand my horizons and meet new people.  The first Jewish person I ever met  in my life (a great guy named Abe) lived on my residence floor, during my first year of University. I remember thinking it was sooo cool that I now lived with a Jewish guy, like he was a celebrity. Unfortunately, as it turns out, it was Abe that reminded me of my heritage’s image problems later that same year.

With 20+ students gathered in the common lounge, someone decided to put in Goodfellas (“this is a classic”), as I feigned enthusiasm. Not twenty minutes into the film does Abe declare to the crowd, “So Mike, this must be like watching family movies for you eh?”.  Ironically , I successfully furthered the stereotype I was against by tearing a verbal strip off of him as if he had called my mother a hooker. I didn’t know I had that sort of anger readily available, but it was too much of a reminder of everything I wanted to leave behind at the time.  Looking back, I think I was getting sick of being Italian.

It was not until a family trip to Italy as a teenager that I began to understand that many Italians were like me, and despised the mafia. They believed the growth of Italy and its ability to succeed as a nation was always curtailed, if not completed subdued because of the mafia.  I learned that many honest and hard-working Italians see the mafia as a black mark on their nation’s beautiful and celebrated history.  The nation’s lowest common denominator standing up tall for the world to see (this must be how American Democrats felt for the past 8 past eight years).

The revenue generated by the Italian mafia accounts for $204 BILLION, sadly, making it Italy’s top business. To see a recent article on the matter, click HERE.  Not surprisingly, the loudest opponents I have ever heard on the mafia were two residents of Campania and Sicily, the regions that are home to the largest crime syndicates in the country.  The gentleman from Agrigento, Sicily was a city councilor and the gentleman from Campania owned a small business.  Both of them had similar views in that the mafia, especially in the south, castrated local economies from growing and were effectively “killing” the south.  As the mob takes money from small and medium sized local businesses, they do not have the capital to expand, and therefore halting free market progress.  The effects of this is that the Italian government (who I believe to an extent are likely involved) is forced to take taxes from northern Italy (which is highly industrialized) to subsidize the lack of funding and revenue in the south. As you can imagine this has caused quite the rift between the two halves of the country each resenting the other.  This was hardly the type of legacy I wanted to be associated with.

It was not until I traveled to Europe to visit our family at the age of 20 that I discovered the means to appreciate the lineage that ran through my veins. More specifically, it was on the steps of Venice and Florence in particular that humbled me both to the history of the world and that of Italia, bella Italia.

I still recall the first time I sat in the first row pew at St. Mark’s Basilica in Venice.  It had nothing to do with religion, god, or the unnecessary chanting going on at the time, but with the power of history.  For some reason, it hit me like a giant bowl of ravioli in the face, I was now sitting in a building that was built nearly a thousand years ago.  It had been shelter and home to some of the most powerful and influential men in the world, and here I was a twenty year old “boy” on a trip with his cousins, still trying to figure out life. It was humbling. It was beautiful.  It was on this trip that my cousins, Mauro and Alessandro’s English skills progressed to the levels that, combined with my shaky Italian allowed us to forge real conversations.

I learned more about my own family, my heritage, and the world in which they lived.  Local and national customs were fully explained to me, and the mask of the country I had come to believe corrupt and poisoned began to reveal its true self.

The next stop on this trip, Mauro and Alessandro decided it was time for me to experience Firenze (Florence’s true Italian name).  If Venice hit me like a bowl of ravioli, Firenze was like an opera singer sitting on my head.

All the names I had read about in Italian school and seen on the History channel were suddenly coming to life.  As if the Medici Family had lined the Uffizi Gallery to welcome me to their home town.  Yet it was not until I stepped inside the church of Santa Croce that a rush of history consumed me.  This church is filled with the elaborate tombstones of some of the greatest minds in world history, Dante (the grandfather of the Italian language), Galileo, Michelangelo, Marconi, Machiavelli, and many more.

Our final tourist stop in Firenze before returning home was to climb the 643 steps to the top of the Duomo, the city’s basilica.  It was a grueling climb, but worth every second when we reached the top.  I still remember making a seat for myself in between the standing tourists, sitting cross-legged, leaning forwards against the safety fence looking over the entire red roofed city and into the Tuscan country side.  I sat there mesmerized for over half an hour, taking it all in.

I have been very fortunate to have visited the country a number of times since that trip, mainly to visit my grandmother (nonna), and once to tour southern Italy, which is equally as beautiful as the north yet in a completely different dynamic.  Picture the difference between New York City and the Grand Canyon, both majestic and awe-inspiring, but in two distinct ways.

My grandmother Antonia who lived in Italy passed away a few months ago, and I guess I never realized the impact she had on me until I began writing this post.  She was an amazing woman, who at 90+ years of age still chatted with her friends on her cell phone, gave you a good smack if you needed it, and spoke with the force of Tony Robbins and the compassion of Oprah (except intelligent).  It was my nonna who was the glue that kept the family so close together for so long.  It was at her house as a child that I received my first Spiderman doll for my 4th birthday, and began a bond with my cousins that I still consider extremely important.

So in essence I believe it was my nonna, and every part of her that has instilled in me the love and appreciation that I have for Italy.  The tough as nails matriarch that would scold me for  my crazy behaviour with one hand, yet soften the blow with the other.  Always a kiss and a hug, and the perfect panino (sandwich) tucked away just waiting for Michele.  I think the Italia I have now come to know and love, is the Italia my Nonna Inez loved and its beauty largely reflects everything she stood for.  It was the significance I had been looking for in my heritage when at the time all I was told to think in North America was, “fughed aboud it!”.

That’s why I look so forward to returning this summer to witness my cousin Mauro’s marriage to his beautiful fiance Claudia. After my trip when I was twenty, no matter how many times I return, my heart seems to beat a little different while I am there.  It beats with the understanding of where I came from, who I am, and what it truly means to be Italian.

I sat down for breakfast at the rooftop restaurant with my new acquaintances, two American girls(Nicola and Emma) and one Aussie guy (Sam), and chatted about what we all had planned for the day. Besides the fact that I had my mind set on buying a couple fake watches, the rest of our goals for the day coincided so we decided to sight see together. We started out at 10am and began the walk towards site one- The Saadian Tombs. We realized quickly that any map in the city was borderline useless. So we essentially followed tour groups and tour buses toward places of interest. The fact about Marrakesh that you discover fast, is if you appear to be at all lost you will have several locals quickly descend upon you offering their suggestions on where your destination might be… for a nominal fee of course.

After playing human Frogger throughout the chaotic streets, dodging donkey excrement and an abundance of beggars we made it. Anti-climatic justly sums this experience. When someone mentions tombs I think of catacombs, bones, and all around creepy stuff. The Saadian Tombs were more like a mediocre garden with scattered tombstones laid throughout….borrrrring. To add insult to injury, Sam and I were forced to feign interest and listen to Nicola read aloud the history of the tombs in her Lonely Planet guide and then watch Emma take several pictures of the stray cats wandering around. Sam and I realized we needed to find a way to ditch these feet draggers before I started contemplating the benefits of homicide.

After having to stop every 15ft as the girls found another market stall to browse in, Sam and I made our escape. We left the girls to go look for some fake watches and we agreed to meet up later. And by later we meant if we just so happened to run into them at our hostel before leaving for the airport the next day. Some ties just need to be severed early.

After about 4 stalls we finally found a place with fake watches worthy of my euros. All I wanted was a Breitling and I found a beautiful one that even though was much too big for my chicken wrists, I had to buy. The clerk told me it was one of their highest quality watches and would sell only for 500 DH (50 euros). I assumed “highest quality” was a joke. After 25min of bartering, (see: arguing) and both of us fake walking away at least twice we settled on 350DH and I possibly just helped fund terrorism. Oh well.

After a long lunch Sam and I went to find the Souks. The Souks are the main markets inside the Medina(the wall city) with hundreds of different stalls all grouped into categories depending on exactly what they sold. Thirty minutes into our walk we realized we were totally and utterly lost. A local Moroccan began walking with us promising to show us to the Leather Tanneries and promised he would ask for no money for his services. Obviously we were suspect of his real motives. Each time we ditched this guy he somehow managed to find us again and pull us in the direction he wanted to go. As he hurried us through the streets I could feel other locals staring at us and perhaps I was being paranoid but I felt like I was being led into the lion’s den.

We turned down a narrow street that appeared to venture into an area barren of tourists. Sam and I looked at each other and decided it was time to cut and run. We started walking slower to allow our guide to get a little further ahead and as he turned a corner we bolted in the opposite direction into side streets and alleys until we felt we had lost him. We eventually found the Souks about two hours into our journey and after a whole ten minutes of browsing we decided to head back. Shamefully we then realized the Souks was only a five minute walk from our hostel and had just spent two hours looking for it.

When dinner called, Sammy and I were determined to return to the food markets in the middle of the square. There’s no better place to be than in the middle of the madness. The “food markets” as I’ve not so cleverly dubbed them are essentially a large cluster of restaurant stalls that are set up each and every night in the middle of the old-town square. It amazed me how fast they’re assembled and how quickly they’re dismantled at the end of the night. I believe Ripley’s should be contacted.

Most of these stalls have the same types of food, with other serving delicacies like sheep’s head, sheep brain, and snails. The main stalls can hold a maximum of roughly 30 people at a time. There must have been over 40 stalls in the square tightly knotted together, and when their lights come on its totally anarchy as each stall owner and their staff maul you for your patronage.

People jump at you and block your path while trying to quickly explain the benefits of their skewered lamb over the skewered lamb three steps away at the next stall. In the pursuit of fun and stupidity we decided that instead of fearing the chaos, we would embrace it. Our game plan was to give our business to whichever stall owner had the best jingle or pitch. Let the games begin.

The two runners up: one man literally jumped in front of us like he was Batman yelling, “Stall 88, yummy yummy good for your tummy”, and two Moroccan boys did a fantastic Borat impression for no reason but could not seal the deal with us. The champion of the night was a large quasi-toothless man smiling from ear to ear promoting his own “Hell’s Kitchen. Stall 117 Take you to Heaven”. This man was quite the gem. With his sweater that looked as if it were only washed with the changing of each season, and his hair that likely shared the same pattern he was a clear winner.

For the equivalent of ten euros each we ate like the royal family. Beef, chicken, and lamb skewers centered our table and were accompanied by calamari, eggplants, roasted peppers, couscous and some unidentifiable yet delicious seafood. After about an hour of gorging we waddled out into the night to digest. Mission completed.

To cap off a brilliant day, Sam and I found a rooftop terrace overlooking the illuminated square and enjoyed a sub-standard hot chocolate. We had a long laugh while recalling the day we shared and agreed it would not have been possible without the other.

Its funny how things work out sometimes. I had traveled to Marrakesh not having any idea what to expect but solely curious to explore a city completely different from home, and 48 hours later I find myself telling jokes and laughing with a new friend like we’d known one another since highschool.

Marrakesh will certainly live on in my mind as one of the more interesting social environments I’ve been lucky enough to experience. As it was my first trip into the Muslim world it gave me the opportunity to personally juxtapose the cultures I have seen in the western world and now Morocco. As far as muslim culture goes I think Morocco is probably muslim-light in comparison to countries like Saudi Arabia or Iran but it still left a haunting impression on me.

It boggles my mind that on this planet you have some societies that are trying to cure cancer, explore the galaxy and successfully evolve while other societies don’t allow women to show their faces. I’m aware that is a very shallow observation but when the surface offers such mind numbing realities, sometimes digging deeper is just asking for a headache.  Sometimes its better not to explore the subtext and just simply enjoy the ride.  That being said, if you ever have the chance to spend a few days in Marrakesh, I would highly recommend it. But along with an open mind be sure to bring along an empty suitcase, plenty of money and your negotiating game face.

I started down a dark covered street filled with market stalls selling anything from knock-off t-shirts, watches, and Nike runners, to Moroccan spices and other items that have worse market appeal than Britney Spears. After wandering through the back alleys and lifting my suitcase over puddles of donkey…stuff, I realized that I had no choice but to enlist the help of a local. I scanned the small intersection where I stood for any signs of help; which I considered to be anyone with a full set of teeth and a grasp of english.

A kid approached me that must have been no older than 13 years old – my brother’s age – and asked me in passable english if I needed help finding my hostel. I made a small joke and laughed so he knew to laugh with me, a full set of teeth, you’re hired.

I told my new guide the name of where I was staying and away we went. On our 15 minute journey threading ourselves through the inner labyrinth of the Medina the boy spoke to me in French, English, and Italian, I was thoroughly impressed. I know many people, myself included, that took more than 5 years of french in school and lucky if we can remember the word biblioteque (and that’s likely spelt wrong). But here is this new teenager conversing with a stranger in 3 of his 4 known languages trying to impress me while he lead me to a fancy hostel. When we finally arrived to a dark door with the name Equity Point hostel faintly visible on the dark metallic sign our time together had come to an end and it was time for me to ante up. I pulled out 50 DH (5 euros) and put it in his hands with a smile. Being the Canadian that I am I thought that was generous, this kid looked at me like I just raped his sister and he began demanding 100 DH. I countered with the Italian “You talkin’ to me?” stare (wide eyed, nostrils flaring), and there we stood just looking at one another. After a few moments I came to several conclusions; no chance would I have found my hostel by myself, who does the 50 DH mean more to, and I’ll be honest, I was really blown away that he could understand Italian. Fine. 100 DH. Thanks for the help…you little bastard.
I rang the bell and walked through the door into a palace. A diamond in the midst of giant turd. This was no hostel, this was a Moroccan oasis. With the plush common gathering areas, a restaurant and rooftop terrace and a 5* room things finally started to look interesting. It was already well past noon so I dropped my bags, had a quick chat about Barcelona with Rob the hostel manager and headed out to meet the rest of Marrakesh.

What could I do with the day? I could tour the palaces, visit a Mosque, take a stroll through the Saadian Tombs, or I’m sure I could’ve checked prices on buying a Moroccan child. I’m sure the resale value in California these days is through the roof. With all these options I decided to take the classy route and take a walk through the markets looking for good, cheap, fake junk to spend my money on.

Though I ventured out with the dreams of a 2 euro Rolex I found myself spending an hour in what I like to call Blockbuster Marrakesh. A small market stall with 14 foot ceilings all lined with pirated movies in every different language, primarily French and English. For thirty minutes I played Roeper to the Ebert mind of a nice French girl who seemed to be showing the wonders of Marrakesh to her mother. She managed to convince me to purchase The Last Samurai, and I had to put on quite the song and dance to get her to invest in A Bronx Tale. Those French don’t part with their 2 euros very easily.

Upon returning to my palace I took a trip to the rooftop terrace to check out the view. Coincidentally as I made it to the roof the 5:30 prayer service started. And by ’started’ I mean multiple loud speakers throughout the city began blaring Muslim prayers for all to hear. I was speechless. As the anti-religion guy I found this whole experience fascinating. For at least 5 or 10 minutes these prayers were all you could hear from all corners of the walled city of Marrakesh. I immediately began having terrible flashbacks of home room during my highschool years.

As Allah-palooza ended I return to the common area to find a group of travelers gathered in the common area exchanging backpacking anecdotes. One person suggested we order an extra large pot of Mint Tea, which is supposedly a trademark drink of the city. As the pot arrived and I took my first sip I was surprised to find out how delicious it was. After about 40min I had put back a fair amount of tea and I was loving life. The room seemed more alive, conversations seemed more vibrant, and surprisingly I had stopped blinking altogether. I looked around at my nomadic friends and finally asked the question I should have asked at the start, “Ummm…so, what exactly is in this tea to make it taste so good?” Jon, a quirky and hilarious guy from Utah was more than happy to diagnose my current state of mania. “Well, there’s mint. And a fuckin’ shitload of sugar. I’m surprised your heart hasn’t exploded.”

The remainder of the evening provided a proper feast at the food markets in the town square (to be detailed in Part 3), and another story telling session back at our hostel that lasted late into the evening. A tame first day in Morocco, but little did I know what lied ahead for me…

I stepped into Marrakesh’s walled city, the Medina, and a thought crossed my mind, “This is the smell of a 1001 forsaken showers.” But as I turned to my left I realized a local donkey just tossed its lunch out the back door…pleasant start.

In the 30 minutes of research I did after buying my ticket to Morocco I learned 2 things;

# 1. Don’t talk or make eye contact with strangers #2. My hostel, though very highly rated and recommended, is apparently impossible to find.

But like most things in life, experience is the only way to to truly learn anything.

I stepped into the town square, luggage in hand, and spotted three men sitting around a Cobra seemingly talking amongst themselves. As the serpent stayed still for me to snap its picture, its owners burst into action like the titanic crew trying to keep the ship afloat.

“White tourist! All hands on deck.”

I agreed to give them a couple euros at the start, but is wasn’t long before I had a water snake wrapped around my neck and a Moroccan chanting good luck incantations while his compatriot (with my camera) snapped at least ten photos of the same pose. As the circus subsided, the negotiations began. Seeing as I did have a fun time with my two extortionists I offered 4 euros. This was quickly met with absolute revolt, disgust and an immediate DEMAND for 20 euros. My anger was just below boiling point so I pulled a 5 euro note from my pocket, placed it in the man’s hand, patted him on the shoulder and started walking away. Apparently this was not appreciated as he forcibly grabbed my arm and pulled me back into their circle. Neat.

At this point my anger was quickly substituted for a slight fear and an impending feeling of doom. The first thing that came to mind was, “If these guys pull out the Cobra on me I”ll give them 100 euros and just chalk this up to lesson learned,” but thankfully a saving grace stepped forward.

The smallest and youngest of my charming new friends noticed the combination climbing clip/compass/watch I had attached to my gym bag. This little trinket had been a useless fixture on my bag for the last four years, and deprived of any battery power for the last two.

When he asked me to hand it over to suggest we would have reached an agreement I nearly laughed. I quickly unclipped my item and threw it just above them into the air. As they looked up I grabbed my bags and hauled ass deeper into the square. I turned around after a few metres to see the younger man cherishing his new toy as the elder screamed at him for his poor negotiating skills.

Welcome to Marrakesh.

Check back for Part 2- finding my hostel and living like a Sheik.