Original Article: http://dartreview.com/archives/2005/08/26/the_morocco_beat.php
Friday, August 26, 2005
Ever seen Casablanca? Well, that's how I imagine Tangier during the glory days—as a glamorous foreign hub of danger, love, and adventure. (Casablanca was, and remains, a dingy commercial metropolis, although a
After the second cataclysmic war in some thirty years had concluded, the city was invaded by a different group of foreigners—homosexuals. Tangier, you see, was the world's first gay resort; the first place where this relatively small percentage of the population realized they could increase their odds of finding a partner by congregating in the same place.
These two factors—international flavor and libertine tradition—attracted writers of the Beat generation to Tangier. What attracted me was my flight back to America. I had spent the previous quarter studying in Fez, Morocco, and had scheduled my return for two weeks after the program ended, without knowing where I would go. I ended up in Spain (where, among other things, I was kicked in a sensitive area by a prostitute on Las Ramblas in Barcelona) and, needing to work my way back to the Casablanca airport, decided I'd check out Tangier on the way back.
After taking a bus south from Madrid, I boarded a Tangier-bound ferry at Malaga. There is perhaps no quicker way to move from the First World to the Third, as just a couple hours later I found myself besieged by Moroccan hustlers at the port. Blowing them off, I hailed a cab and set out for the Tangier Inn. The hotel appeared deserted, but a middle-aged woman appeared out of nowhere and greeted me warmly. I asked to see a room, and she ushered me to #4—which, I knew from a guidebook, had once hosted Jack Kerouac and Allan Ginsberg.
The woman knew it, too. She quoted the price of a night's stay at a non-negotiable 130 dirhams—about $13—double what I was used to paying for accommodations. However, I figured the room's fame was worth a few bucks, and I needed to get rid of my Moroccan currency anyway. I moved in and was initially puzzled to find only one bed. Had Ginsberg and Kerouac stayed there together? Both had come to Tangier to help William S. Burroughs, who was living in the hotel, get a handle on the manuscript of Naked Lunch—with limited success, judging from the final project.
Perhaps the room used to contain two beds, but it seemed unlikely that much had changed in the past half-century. It was rather like staying at my grandmother's in Wisconsin—wallpaper on the bottom of drawers, that sort of thing—except the room had a (leaky) shower; my grandmother has only a claw-footed bathtub and Green Bay. Regardless, I settled in and went for a long run along the boardwalk, followed by a sumptuous pizza dinner.
After my appetite was sated, I decided to check out the famous beach bars, but they were nearly deserted. It was a Tuesday night, and there's not much nightlife in Morocco on any night (I once went to a bar in Fez at 10 p.m. on a Friday night, only to find it was last call). Moreover, Tangier had become a shell of its former self. The famous Emma's BBC—a British joint—was closed, seemingly for good. All traces of the port's former glory days were virtually invisible in the present; the expats were long gone.
Feeling depressed and nostalgic, I stopped on my way back into the hotel to talk to the Moroccan proprietor about his recollection of the Beat generation legends. He ushered me into the ground-level bar—which was more crowded than anywhere else I had been—and pointed to the wall. On it hung original, black-and-white photographs inscribed nonsensically by Allen Ginsberg. In one, Ginsberg, Kerouac, Burroughs, Paul Bowles (whose novel The Spider's House is the definitive text about Moroccan independence) and several others squinted into the sun.
Moreover, I soon discovered the older times survived in the person of the hotel's owner, a salty British expat (I think his name was Peter) who referred to William S. Burroughs as "Bill." Bony and in his 70s, Peter was sort of on odd fellow, but he was the only other English-speaker in the place. Plus, I figured I was talking to living history, a relic of another time who traveled around on a wooden yacht.
Peter complained that Americans' teeth were too straight, citing mine as an example. My eyebrow ring—an ill-advised and short-lived addition acquired in Spain—had set him against me when we first met. At one point, he yanked on it unexpectedly, only to remark in surprise that "That's really in there!" He also unleashed a tirade against the rap music that was playing on the stereo. Peter kept barking orders to the young Moroccan behind the bar for drinks, but I couldn't tell whether he was intoxicated or just a little crazy.
After we had been chatting for some hours, he asked me what was on my mind. Seeing as this would be an opportune time to depart—the journey into the bar had been unplanned, and I had an early morning ahead of me—I said I was tired and thought it was time for sleep. Then I returned the query.
"I'm bisexual, and I fancy you," he replied nonchalantly.
I was utterly shocked, needless to say, and could only muster an "Um, ok" by which I meant "thanks, but no thanks." Peter, though, seemed to take it as an affirmative, following up with an "So how 'bout it then?" My calm façade of crumbled, and I ran out of the bar, shouting a quick "Good night!" and feeling a little too close to Allan Ginsberg. The next morning, I left early without encountering Peter and proceeded to Casablanca. I spent the next night in the airport, with Thomas Hardy's The Mayor of Casterbridge as my only companion, but that's another story for another time.