Observation: RAIN!!!!

After writing on the drought in Catalonia, I was blessed with a day of rain! Barcelona is a beautiful Mediterranean city in the municipality of Catalonia. Although the weather is temperate all year round, lately there has been a lack of precipitation causing worry among the people.

Sitting in studio working on our project, the day dreary and gray, we were surprised to hear the rain. It's rained on a few occasions- at night and for short bursts- throughout the entire time we've been here. The rhythmic noise of the rain hitting the surfaces of the city is refreshing and welcoming, increasingly so because of the drought. The peaceful sound fills the city, rejuvenating it physically and psychologically.

This impact on the urban scale is evanescent, the sound only last as long as the weather, but thats what's intriguing about sound. Specific sounds are never perpetual, some are reoccurring though. The noises that are reoccurring trigger memories and associations, while newer sounds trigger curiosity at the source. Both types, reoccurring and newly occurring, can be (and are) used to impact the perception of a space. Water is added to spaces to tangibly refresh and cool, but the sound of water is just as important. Water fountains that create the trickling noise from their flowing water are advertised as "calming" and "refreshing." The sound of the water is what brings about these feelings. On an urban scale, water features (like the linear path of flowing and cascading water from Joan Miro to near the MNAC) fill the garden space with a memory of refreshment as well as the tangible. Materiality within buildings effects the soundscape as well. Tin roofs ping with the impact of rain, while tiles absorb more of the sound.

As kitschy as it may be, when I'm inside and I close my eyes to the sound of rain, I can feel the wet drops, drawing from previous experience. Eric reminds us that any writer can describe rain as wet, but only a good writer can make the reader feel the wetness of rain. I'm not a prolific writer, but I'm becoming a better designer.

Observation: Placa Espana

Although Catalonia is in a drought, major landmark fountains come on in the warmer weather. Fridays and Saturdays from 7-9 on the half hour Placa Espana is flooded with people enjoying the fountain show. A grand axis from the traffic circle up to the MNAC is dotted with water features, including the main fountain shown. Choreographed to music and lights, the water dances to the beat.

The music fills the air of Montjuic. As I walked down the mountain from the Fundacion de Joan Miro on Friday I could hear the crescendo of the music and I could envision the rise of the fountain to match its tenacity. Sound used in the urban landscape in this manner is used to draw people in. Visually and acoustically attractive, the water show is a tourist attraction as well as a draw for the locals. Although the main point is the beauty of the water, music enhances the patterning of rise and fall.

Observation: Morocco

Compared to Istanbul, which is covered in older and grander mosques, Morocco declares its religious zeal modestly. Although multiple minarets topped with megaphones aren't found surrounding every mosque, call to prayer is still vocal in this younger city. Morocco is substantially more conservative Muslim than the European-style Istanbul (interesting because Morocco was founded by Europeans). Smaller and more frequently occurring, mosques are found throughout Morocco; tucked in between shops in the Medina, or situated on corners in the newer parts of Fes. Their prevalence makes up for their size in creating a presence in the urban environment acoustically. Call to prayer is still heard throughout the city 5 times a day. Shopkeepers will put a piece of wood across their booth, signifying their absence due to prayer. Meanwhile, neighboring shop owners will chaperon the store until the return of the actual owner. Again, this act of faith is beautiful and very evident to someone visiting, leaving an impression on visitor's perception of the city: sound shaping memory.

The mihrab is the non-electrical megaphone of the mosque. The person leading salat (prayer) faces the wall and speaks loudly. The sound bounces off the curved surface and intensifies in volume, echoing loudly to the faithful lined up for prayer facing the qibla (wall facing Mecca containing the mihrab).

Mihrab

Morocco: Day II

I wake to my alarm, satiated from my slumber. I fill a hot bath and slip in, anxious for the say ahead. Dressed and ready before 8 am (I know...you don't believe me), I joined my group for breakfast. Fresh squeezed orange juice, so delicious you feel like you should be biting instead of sipping, baskets of different breads and toasts, accompanied by jams, honey, butter, cheese and yogurt. As we cleared one plate of bread a new variety would arrive at our table. Finally, we had fueled ourselves and demolished the spread before us. Unable to eat anymore, we waited in the adjoining courtyard to meet our tour guide.

Jessie, myself and Stacey at breakfast

Muhammed, affectionately known as "Mo-mo," greeted us with bursting enthusiasm. He stands looking like a regal friar, in his ankle length traditional hooded kaftan and groomed mustache. A native of Fes and a tour guide for many years, Mo-mo has guided Robin Williams and Hillary Clinton.

Mo-mo

Now we ventured into the city with assurance as we tail our pint-sized guide. Our first stop was at the Dar Batha Museum, which was originally a palace. Again, we had beautiful weather and the gardens were in full bloom, containing a variety of flowering plants, evergreens, and palm trees- a paradise within four walls. We leisurely lay in the sun, sketching the layout of the palace, the details of the arches and the patterns of the doorways. I pulled out my watercolors and worked on a new piece until the museum closed for the day.

Dar Bartha Museum Courtyard

To kill some time before lunch we sketched the Bab Boujoud gate. I picked up some postcards to send the family (especially since I've been clacking on postcards during my overseas adventures). Then we returned to our Riad for a traditional Moroccan lunch.

Bab Boujoud gate

We feasted on a variety of appetizer plates. Moroccan potato salad, olives, tomatoes & peppers, carrots with parsley, and something that tasted like b-b-q (and was delicious). The main course arrived in a covered platter. When the waiter removed the top hot, he revealed chickens- whole little chickens- arranged radially with lemons and olives. Immediately some people;s interest dropped because they weren't prepared to work a whole chicken to get meat. They were probably expecting boneless chicken breast. I decided to go for it local style: with my hands. Dessert was fruit salad, oranges and strawberries with nutmeg and mint leaves. Finishing off the meal was the traditional mint tea that I had already become very fond of. After lunch we were ready to introduce a Spanish siesta to our Moroccan schedule, but we had a packed afternoon so we had to keep moving.

After leaving our Riad we headed for the royal gardens, but because of construction we had to take a detour around the city wall. The gardens were being renovated so we only were able to glimpse the beauty of the geometric patterns of flowers. We passed many historical sites and stopped to take pictures as we covered a lot of ground. One courtyard we were only able to stay in for a few minutes before prayer time began and they kicked us out.

Courtyard of a Mosque/School

We walked through the winding streets of the Medina, discovering little shops and interesting urban planning (or lack thereof). At one point in time we were in front of the Royal Gates...which they don't like you taking pictures of. We weren't informed of this fact until after some of us had snapped shots. The guards pointed at the offenders saying they saw five people take illegal photos. They had picked out four from the herd and then looked around until they spotted me. Falsely accused, I showed them my camera to confirm I had not taken a photo. After that confrontation we were careful to ask Mo-mo before taking pictures with guards in them.

The Royal palace is also a nesting ground for storks. Supposedly, the myth of storks bringing babies to homes originates from their culture. In June there is a large festival with much drinking and debauchery. People are happy, the weather is nice, add some booze and conception happens. Nine months later babies are being born left and right, coinciding with the return of the storks from their migration pattern. People would "blame" the storks for the increase in babies, rather than their actions nine months before. And that is why storks are associated with babies. Good story...thanks Mo-mo.

We had been walking steadily through Fes for most of the day. Mo-mo took us to the bottom of Fes' version of 5th Ave before taking his leave for the day. We wanted to trek up to see the sights and to find the large grocery store at the end of the road for provisions. Walking up the street lined with cafes, we noticed men. Lots of men. There were almost no women sitting in the cafe chairs (save for a group of 4 we spotted several blocks in). It was an interesting observation. It was slightly unnerving, but not as annoying as the random kids that would come and pester our group. One girl was nonstop asking us to buy gum. She hung with us for 4 or 5 blocks before being told nicely by Hawra in Arabic that we were not interested, and then I repeated our intentions in French. By now we had been walking for a solid 15 minutes, passing fountains resembling koosh balls and cafe on top of cafe, but we still had not spotted the grocery store. With the guidance of a couple that Adrian had befriended during on our walk, we saw the glaring neon sign announcing our destination.

The grocery store was yet another cultural experience. Their product layout was different than the US, and subsequently so was the smell. I'm not sure how to explain, but we picked up some chips, cookies and drinks (we're health conscience) and headed to check out. The cashier struck up conversation with me (in English) and we began to talk about the upcoming election. He was curious to see if anyone was supportive of Hillary Clinton, which, not to make this a political statement, I am not. After some more fragmented question and answer, I paid for my purchases and bid my first friendly local goodbye (Okay...I had met other friendly locals, but they were either being paid to be nice or they befriended Adrian first).

Our next adventure was flagging down a cabbie to take us home. Stacey, Josh Humphries and I paired up for this particular feat. The first cab had someone inside, but tried to take us as well. We passed and tried to the next cabbie, who repeated our previous encounter. When we were able to find an unoccupied cab, the driver to understand where we wanted to go and started telling me "Adoit, adoit..." meaning "Right, right..." in French (as in the opposite of left). Confused, we decided to take the next cab, which after a little bit of mispronunciation figured out where we needed to go.

Home again, we dined on our junk food. I was exhausted after a day of walking around and decided to go to bed after a bit of reading.

Morocco: first day in Africa!

"One nice greeting and 99 glares." - Michael Doster (a stereotype of how we felt after walking up a hill and feeling unwanted until a little girl waved at us and said "Bonjour!")


We arrived in our most foreign and exotic of cities via Ryanair, an Irish budget airline that has its stewardesses sell scratch cards and other idiotic trinkets. I just read and gazed out the window at the Mediterranean while Stacey dozed, leaning occasionally on the stranger to her right. We arrived in Africa (my 3rd continent of the week!) and walked off the airplane into beautiful, warm weather. I could have run around in a sundress...if I wanted to risk being stoned.

Exchanging money was gratifying because the Dinhar is weaker than the dollar. With 560 MAD in hand (approximately $75) I felt richer than my usual European student status. Our bus driver drove us to our Riad, a house with a garden courtyard, in Fes while chitchatting with Adrian in French and Hawra in Arabic. Its nice to have that language connection in such a foreign city.

Stopping at the walkway by our Riad, our bus brought us in the middle of a pack of male teens. None of us were reasy for the gawking and harassment so soon to out arrival- we wanted to at least drop our luggage off first. Luckily, the discomfort was kept to a minimal because we are such a large group and we have an even guy to girl ratio. [Although tourism is boosting Morocco's economy, I feel that tourists are a burden on their culture. In Turkey everyone was selling- laughing and friendly. Here it is much more reserved. As I walked through the city throughout the trip, I initially would feel a sense of intrusion as I maneuvered through traffic, down alleys or markets.]

We walked up to our Riad, passing stuccoed plain walls. Hidden behind these walls lay ornate homes, courtyard gardens, and bustling households. The home is a sacred place in the conservative Muslim culture of Morocco; interior beauty of the architecture is kept a secret because of a combination of modesty and privacy. Windows never give views inside, front doors never sit directly across from one another, and bedrooms never open directly onto courtyards.

Entering our Riad, we were not disappointed by our accommodations. Ceramic tiling, in vivid blues and white; intricate motifs carved into walls, framing the doors and windows; stain glass arches and windows; sunlight streaming into the courtyard filled with potted plants centered around a bubbling fountain with floating rose petals. We were greeted warmly by the hotel staff and offered mint tea. We anxiously awaited the unveiling of our room. As they lead one pair and then another to their suites, we glimpsed four poster beds fit for a king and delicately carved sofas and armoirs. Finally, a staffmember garbed in a loose fitting burgundy tunic and pant outfit walked Emma and I up to the winding stairs. As we ascended up the tight and winding staircase, I likened the experience to a Princess climbing up to her tall tower room. I felt like a Princess when the bellhop opened our door with a big brass key to our room, which we were delighted to find our four poster bed draped with beige and gold sheer fabric, natural light filtering in through the large windows. I jumped on the bed in my excitement, leaving the bellhop in the doorway to laugh at my childlike enthusiasm. After I gracefully got off the bed, I followed him as he motioned us to a small hallway off our bedroom. We descended a few stairs and turned a corner to find our bathroom bathed in natural light with a double high ceiling- akin to our bedroom. Not too shabby.


After we grasped the concept that we were living in a house/palace, we began roaming around, discovering balconies and terraces, as well as our neighbors (all CUA people since we took up 10 of the 12 existing bedrooms). We had jacuzzies in some rooms, terraces in others, a loft in yet another. Each room was uniquely beautiful and absolutely spectacular.

Applauding Christy and Adrian for their fruitful efforts we gathered in the courtyard to embark on our first Morroccan adventure. All the girls made sure they were properly covered, not baring shoulders or collarbones. Its not so conservative that we need to don Burkahs, an islamic head scarf, but caution in flashing skin was heavily advised.

Tentatively we exited our Riad, apprehensive of our reception as we walked through Fes. Some people stared, young boys heckled to impress their friends with their mock bravery, most people continued on- unconcerned with yet another group of tourists.

The day was warm and the beautiful weathered melted some of our anxieties as we began to appreciate Fes' understated vibrancy. We passed the gates of Bab Boujoud that mark the entrance into the Medina. We headed uphill, still inside the city walls from the 13th century. A large space to our right swarmed with people involved in the flea market. People sat next to their towels covered in various goods- from shoes to pottery- as others wander through the tight aisles of trash and treasure.

Walking through Morocco

Passing under the city wall I started to sweat under the warmth of the sun in my jeans and jacket, but because od modesty ( I was wearing a tank top underneath) I couldn't shed layers without offense. We crossed the bustling roadway unscathed to begin an upward ascent for a good view of the city. On our uphill travel we witnessed a funeral procession. Men carrying a pyre containing a body draped with a traditional cloth passed us chanting praises to Allah in Arabic (thank you for the translation Hawra). I found the procession intriguing and slightly archaic, while some of the other ladies in the group thought it disturbing.

After our first culturally shocking exhibition of the day, we continued onwards and slowly upwards. Finally, after passing a high school, a scenic outlook and a hospital, we reached the hilltop crowned with historical arches crumbling with age. One local boy, who rivaled most agile monkeys, had successfully climbed up one such deteriorating structure and sat triumphantly in the center of the arch. His friends found it amusing to chuck stones at him. We all looked on with a sense of amusement at their form of affection. The boy began to scramble down as his friends continued to deter rather than aid in descent. At one point, the monkey-boy cheered at us, trying to get us to take photos of his feat. As amusing as the picture was, we weren't gullible enough to take a photo knowing that the little boy wouldn't leave us until he extracted a fee for his impromptu photo op.

The arch the monkey-boy conquered

Content with our other photos of the Moroccan scenery, we headed down with two new friends- policemen who were nice enough to watch over us because the locals might give us some trouble. At first they trailed us, but then Adrian and Emma struck up a conversation with our volunteer guardsmen in French.

The light began to fade and we were getting hungry from our hike, so we set off past the shepherd and his flock of sheep to get some dinner. Backtracking to Bab Boujoud gate, we entered Medina and were quickly convinced to try a restaurant near the gate entrance by their friendly Maitre de. Seated on a terrace overlooking the bustling street, we dined on local favorites of cous cous, targine, and skewered meats. For desser we were surprised to have sliced oranges sprinkled with nutmeg, simple, but delicious. My stomach still didn't trust me from my ill-adventure in Istanbul, so although I tried bits of many things, my full appetite had yet to return.

View from our terrace dinner

The sun had set and our travel weary bodies yearned for the comfort of our gloriously indulgent looking beds. Entering the Riad I bid good-night to my teachers and classmates and beelined for the bedroom. Settling into bed after my nightly rituals, I finished off a book and quickly fell asleep.

(pictures and the rest of my adventures to follow).

Observation: Istanbul

Call to prayer echoes across the cityscape, blaring from megaphone speakers affixed to the minarets. Five times a day the Arabic chanting fills the corners of the cities. It begins as a hum and grows rapidly, beckoning followers to show their faith and love for Allah. Filling the inside as well as the exterior courtyards, people gather in the mosques to practice the forms of the body movements of prayer. Aligning themselves parallel to the ground, groveling in their earthly ways and then raising up to reach the heavens in a symbolic connection to a higher being.

The beauty of this ritual strikes me as a Catholic living in a city with more churches and cathedrals and actually practicing Catholics (exaggeration, but it feels that way). Although I know that not all Muslims are conservative or even diligent in their prayer, Istanbul city echoes faith and tradition in its soundscape. It could be the megaphones that allow great amplification or the urban planning that placed the great mosque structures upon hills. Also, the highest points of the city in the old city, by law, are the minarets and domes of the religious buildings, leaving the speakers unobstructed and granted more clarity in their projection.

Night prayer at the Blue Mosque

Istanbul: Easter in a Muslim Country