The members of my host family agree that this is the coldest winter in Moroccan memory. “If it reaches freezing, we will die” says one cousin, only somewhat facetiously. “Like the dinosaurs,” adds another.
I spend the afternoon watching Turkish soap operas and wrapped in a blanket as thick as a rug—a necessity in a house built in the traditional sense. The house surrounds an open courtyard and, though plastic sheeting now closes off the space, it is not much in the way of insulation.
My host father enters in his bright yellow coat, which never fails to remind me of a lobsterman. He says something to me in Arabic and my older sister translates: “he wants to know if you are having fun relaxing with your family.”
“Yes, yes,” I say, smiling and nodding. He places his hands over his heart and his thick mustache rises at least an inch, revealing a smile similar in landscape to the Atlas Mountains.
When I have had enough soap opera I retreat to the guest bedroom to read, and shortly after my sister carries in a tray of chewy dates, cream of wheat, and a hunk of delicious fresh Moroccan bread. I am sure that this bread, served daily, will be like my Ice Age…not a bad way to go.