The Nouvelle Ville

When Charlie and I first arrived in Marrakech, we were so thrilled, we spent days wandering the alleys of the Medina. We were enthralled by the feeling of stepping into a different time. The men wear heavy, woolen robes with pointy hoods similar to the one worn by Obi One Kenobi in Star Wars (as scenes from Star Wars were filmed in Morocco, Charlie and I speculate that Obi One Kenobi's brown robe is based on the one Moroccan men wear), and not infrequently the men ride donkeys carrying bundles of sticks or wheat. The women cover their body and hair in black robes and scarves, and sometimes even their face in veils. It is very much like a scene out of the Old Testament.

Of the thousands of people I passed in those several days, I saw maybe one young Moroccan girl's elbows and immediately thought, "What courage to bare such skin! She is my hero!"

And then Charlie and I went to the Nouvelle Ville. And there they were... the cool kids. The Dolce-&-Gabbana-sunglasses-and-skinny-jeans wearing, Ipod-listening, cell-phone-talking, arm(-and-even-shoulder)-baring young people of the Morocco of this century. And where were they? Hanging out at McDonalds, of course. Such is the contradiction that is Morocco today.