chapter 2
The Crescent Moon and Star
I opened the curtains in my hotel room and stared out the window at the strange combination of soot-covered modern high-rises and old Arabic shops that make up the Casablanca skyline. The noise from radios, honking cars, and ship horns created an irritating cacophonous symphony. Women hidden under veils and dark-eyed men crammed the narrow sidewalks, rushing, hurrying somewhere.
It was the beginning of my trip. I was in the heart of the city overlooking the harbor on the Atlantic coastline. Casablanca is the largest port in Morocco, the economic capital of the country, and the fourth largest city in the Arab world. Romantic illusions had filled my head about the exotic beauty I would find here. I had imagined scenery such as that pictured in travel books—stone structures with pottery, foliage, and the use of vibrant colors so reminiscent of this part of the world.
Casablanca had all the colors I had anticipated. An exotic combination of tangerine, red, gold, blue, and green decorated my hotel room. But Casablanca was not what I had expected. Poverty bordering on desperation permeated most of this seaport city—including this four-star hotel. The vibrations emanating from this place were so foreign, so exotic, so dense my body could barely adjust.
I had flown into Casablanca from Paris the night before last. It was dark when I arrived. On the way in from the airport, I noticed that drivers didn’t bother using headlights at night, except momentarily when they approached an oncoming car. It saved on batteries.
Paris had been everything I always imagined it would he—from all the stories I heard about my French ancestry, from my years studying French in high school, and from all the times I had seen the Eiffel Tower in magazines and movies.
I chose what I thought would be a fine hotel for my stay in Paris. But when the manager opened the door to my room, I felt instantly overwhelmed. The room looked so formal, so beautiful, so elegant and refined. So French. It was like a palace. The room was stuffed with Louis XV antiques. An oil painting framed in gold hung prominently over the bed. All the furnishings in the room were edged in gold. I just stood and stared, my mouth agape.
“C’est bien?” the manager asked.
I had no idea what he was talking about—none whatsoever. I tried to retrieve some kind of memory from a French class of thirty years ago, but I couldn’t.
I spent most of my first day in France in my room resting up from the trip from the United States, adjusting to the time change, and feeling intimidated by the luxury. Then, I grabbed some magazines and studied the attractions. I was flying out of Paris the following day, but I was determined to see a few sights before I left.
On my way to the airport for my flight to Casablanca, I did a whirlwind tour. I sat on a stone ledge at a scenic overlook and stared out through the winter fog at the Eiffel Tower. I strolled through the Museum of Man, a special historical exhibit. This museum is divided into sections that represent the various countries in Africa—the continent where many anthropologists believe human life originated on this planet. Each country’s display depicts scenes about the same issues people have struggled with since the beginning of time: birth, health, marriage, family, religion, divination, and death. Then, on my way to the airport, I raced through the Louvre, briefly connecting with some of most breathtaking art in the world as the vortex funneled me deeper into the heart of this tour.
I had chosen Paris because I wanted to get off to a good start, one with a little flair and comfort, as I had expected my time in the Middle East to be stressful and probably deprived of comfort. Now, staring out the window in my room in Casablanca, it looked as if I had been right. I wasn’t looking for comfort here, anyway. I was looking for something else.
I planned to spend a few days here in Casablanca. I would store my luggage at this hotel, then fly into Algeria tomorrow, carrying only a backpack. I would stay in Algeria for a few days, maybe a week. I wouldn’t decide for certain until I arrived there and saw what was happening. Then I would fly back here, get my luggage, and go on to Cairo. From there, I thought possibly I would fly to Greece. Other than for the final leg of the trip in Greece, I had made hotel arrangements for at least the first night in each city I planned to visit. I wanted to be flexible and let the rhythm of each country and the rhythm of the story that unfolded guide my plans.
I closed the curtains and rode the elevator downstairs to the hotel lobby. Outside the combination restaurant and bar, a Humphrey Bogart look-alike smiled and nodded to welcome me, his head bobbing like a human puppet. I went in, sat down at the bar, and ordered a café au lait.
I looked around the room. There were two other people—including the bartender—besides me. The bartender wore a navy blue, short-waisted suit that resembled a military uniform. A chic woman with short black hair and wearing high platform shoes sat in a booth to my left. She looked as if she was in her late twenties, maybe from Italy. She kept glancing toward the doorway. I assumed she was waiting for someone.
When the bartender brought my coffee, I looked at the milk, hesitating for just a moment. I wanted to be careful about what I ate and drank on this trip. Hell, I was careful at home. But they boiled the water for coffee. This should be fine. I poured the warm milk into the demitasse of espresso.
“It’s quiet here,” I said to the bartender.
“It’s Ramadan,” he said.
Although I had heard about Ramadan, I had not been aware it would be taking place during my travels. Ramadan is a month of fasting in Islamic countries, the month when Muslims believe God—or Allah—sent the Koran down to Mohammed, the prophet and founder of the Islamic faith. Islamic religion prohibits Muslims from eating, drinking, smoking, and sexual activity during daylight hours—from dawn to dusk—during Ramadan. Ramadan ends when a reliable source sights the new moon. Muslims consider this a time not so much of deprivation, but of obedience to God.
“Where are you from?” the bartender asked.
I told him I was from the United States, feeling complimented by his question. I had wanted to blend in, to not stand out as an American tourist traipsing through the Middle East. To do that, my friend and hairdresser, Angelo, had cut my hair to less than two inches long, then colored it almost pitch-black. I had carefully chosen dark, inconspicuous clothing for this trip.
“Business or pleasure?” the bartender asked.
“Business,” I said. “I’m a writer.”
“What brings you here?” he asked.
“A story,” I said. “But it didn’t really bring me here. I’m just in Morocco to get my bearings and find a place to store my luggage. Tomorrow, I’m flying into Algiers.”
Wrong answer, I thought, seeing the scowl on his face. I was used to that look by now. I provoked it whenever I told someone I was going to Algeria. I had seen that look on Christmas Day, back home in Los Angeles, when I had told my friend Maurice, a Moroccan Frenchman who lives in the United States, that I was going to Algiers. The scowling disapproval no longer bothered me. I hadn’t let it stop me when I planned this trip. I certainly wasn’t going to let it stop me now. I dug out a handful of dirhams, the Moroccan currency, paid for my coffee, walked outside, and hailed a cab.
“Take me to the souk, please,” I said to the driver.
“The souk?” the driver asked, looking at me like I was crazy.
“Yes. The souk,” I said.
I had heard about souks before my trip began. They were huge marketplaces, cities within a city, old Arab towns tucked away in the midst of urban high-rises. I heard that some people spent their whole lives in souks. They were born, lived, and died in there. One travel agent said people can go in and never be seen again. I had also heard stories about the wonderful open-air herb markets in the souks, the clothing, food, and silver goods. I wanted to see for myself.
The driver parked the car at an intersection where the streets began to narrow to one lane.
“We’re here,” he said.
“Wait for me,” I instructed him. “
I’ll be back in an hour.”
He smiled as if he knew something I didn’t.
I lasted five minutes. I had walked only two blocks when three men, probably in their early twenties, began first following, then closing in on me. I hurriedly crossed the street and ran back to the cab, making my way through the shoving people, the bicyclists, and the old wooden carts.
“I’m done here,” I said. “Take me back to the hotel, please.”
I returned to my room and began rearranging my luggage, preparing for tomorrow’s flight to Algiers. I had traveled a lot, both in the United States and around the world. Sometimes I had gone for pleasure. Mostly, it was for business. In 1989, during one of the controversies in Central America, I had gone to Honduras with some other media personnel from Minnesota. It was part of my work as a journalist for the daily paper in the town where I lived. We had flown to Panama and Honduras in an Air Force bomber. A five-star general had given us a tour. We were kept under armed guard in a hotel. Then we were flown into the heart of Honduras in a helicopter.
I was used to going out and finding the story.
Only this time, I was going alone.
I brought my suitcases down to the hotel lobby and asked the concierge to secure my luggage for a few days. I thanked him, tucked my claim checks in my purse, and returned to my room. It didn’t look as if much was going to happen here. This city wasn’t opening up for me. I guess I hadn’t expected it to. I had only intended this to be a safe place to store my luggage while I flew into the not-so-safe neighboring country of Algeria.
As the sun set, the chanting from the evening prayers rose from the mosques scattered throughout the city, filling the air like verbal incense. Lightning flashed, thunder crackled, and the sound of the howling winds intermingled with the prayers and songs. Then the winds began to blow so hard the windows rattled and shook.
I remembered the first time the winds had blown, the winds of the vortex that brought me here. It was the night after Thanksgiving. They’re strange winds, the Santa Anas. They blow hard, yet warm. They’re different from any wind I’ve ever felt.
The next day, I discovered the Santa Anas had blown so hard they whisked my garbage can away. While I stood on the street behind my house looking for my trash can, my daughter, Nichole, pulled into the driveway with her boyfriend, Will.
I like Will. He’s an actor in Los Angeles. He’s young, but he’s had a degree of success already. He has a good spirit and a good heart. I liked him from the first time Nichole brought him home and introduced him to me.
That day, Nichole and Will were glowing when they got out of the car. They had something important to tell me.
“We had a great experience last night,” Nichole said. “We thought we were going to Venice to have dinner with some friends of a friend. It turned out to be more than that, though. Master Huang was there. He’s a special holy man from Taiwan. He only comes to the United States once or twice a year. He pulled Will and me aside, talked to us for a while, and asked us if we wanted to receive our Tao. We said yes. So we went through this beautiful ceremony and got our Tao. We also got the Three Treasures, the three secrets to life. But I can’t tell you about those. We promised not to.”
Nichole tried to explain more about this mysterious ceremony and exactly what it meant, but I didn’t understand.
“Mostly, getting your Tao means that your karma has ended,” Nichole said. “We don’t have to reincarnate or recycle again, evermore.”
I have never understood karma. I don’t know—not in the way a journalist needs to know—whether reincarnation exists or not. Sometimes I think if we care so much about recycling cans, God would probably want to recycle souls. As for karma, whatever it is and whatever it means, it has always sounded like trouble to me. And I certainly wished I could get mine to end.
I glanced up and down the road one more time, as if staring hard enough could bring that garbage can back. Then I gave up and headed down the stairway leading to the house.
“Tell me the secrets,” I said to Nichole.
She refused.
“I’m your mother,” I said firmly.
She refused.
“Are they like . . .”
“Let it go, Mom,” she said. “I’m not telling.”
I didn’t think about the vortex, the Three Treasures, Master Huang, karma, or my trash can again for a while.
As the end of the year approached, I was busy with the holidays and my travel preparations. I wasn’t excited—not the way we feel when we’re going on a vacation. I knew then this trip was going to be intense. My plan was to research my next book, but I knew from the start it was about more than research. The trip was an important part of my life. It was something I had to do.
When I saw that crescent moon and star in the sky on Christmas night, I knew for sure I had to go. The newspaper, the radio, all the guests who had come to my house for Christmas Day were buzzing about this crescent moon and star in the sky. The newspaper was calling it a phenomenon—“Venus Kissing the Moon.” I didn’t know about all that; I only knew how I felt when I stood outside and looked up at that beautiful sliver of moon with the glowing star at its tip.
It had been only the night before, Christmas Eve, that I had told Nichole the Christmas story. We were driving into Santa Monica to do some last-minute shopping. She wanted to get a book for Will, and one or two other small gifts. We both felt a little dispirited.
Holidays had been difficult in our family since my son, Shane, died. This holiday season was no exception. While “Deck the Halls” blared on the radio, a dull throbbing pain pounded in each of us. This was our fifth Christmas since Shane’s death. This holiday pain didn’t surprise us anymore, but we still weren’t used to it. I wanted to cheer up Nichole; I wanted us both to find some meaning, even in the pain. So I just started talking while we drove down the Pacific Coast Highway.
“You know, everyone talks about the Christmas story, and they talk about no room in the inn, and they talk about all the events that took place that day,” I said. “But some other things happened, too, that were an important part of that story. Do you know that three men—we call them wise men, or Magi—looked up in the sky and they saw a star? They had enough faith in themselves, in their hearts, in God, and in the universe to start out on a journey across the land to be part of something that they couldn’t see, couldn’t know, couldn’t touch—couldn’t even read about. They just had a feeling, a sense. They knew how connected they were to the universe. They knew that star meant something and it meant something important. They knew how connected God was to the universe, to the world around them. So they started their journey to Bethlehem—a trip that took months, maybe years, across the desert.
“Yes, the day Jesus was born is important. So is the message of having faith and of honoring our connection to the universe and how it speaks to us. So is the story of the wise men, and how they must have felt, and what it took for them to make that trip. That’s a Christmas story, too,” I finished quietly.
Many subtle incidents and events had led to this trip and propelled me into it. I had known for years—in that quiet way we know things—that I would someday be journeying into Africa, although I hadn’t known exactly when or where. As the time for this trip drew closer, my sense of knowing the right time and place became clearer.
Last year, to research a meditation book I was working on, I had loaded my computer in my Jeep and traveled for several months around the United States. That trip had been research for that book and a test to see if the universe would dance with me and tell me the story I was trying to write and learn.
It did. And that trip prepared me for this trip.
Now I was here as a journalist, a storyteller, and a student. I was about to test my skills in the Middle East.
In looking back, I think my whole life led up to this trip—or at least the last ten years. It was as if I had been searching for a missing piece. I had been searching for it since I wrote Codependent
No More. No matter what I did or tried, I couldn’t find it. I suspected this trip would hold the key to that missing piece.
Then, on New Year’s Eve, when the winds of that old vortex blew again, I knew for sure this trip would lead me to what I was looking for.
That night, I went to a party for a while. I wasn’t feeling too social, so I left the party early. By then, the winds were blowing so hard I could barely stand erect as I walked to my car.
I went home and wrote a list of all my resentments, fears, betrayals, and dead dreams. I tossed the pages in the fireplace and set them on fire. I sat cross-legged on the floor and watched my list turn to ashes.
Moments later, all the lights in the house blacked out. Then the winds blew so hard that the windows rattled and the house shook and my bird, Max, fell off her perch. I opened her cage door and let her jump on my shoulder. I found a flashlight, turned it on, and set it on the table. We just sat there—my bird and I—in the middle of that floor, listening to the winds shake the house.
The next morning, when I went outside, my trash can was gone. The winds had blown it away again.
What I didn’t fully understand, or understand at all, was that on November 25, 1995, the time when the winds had blown before, a group of people had assembled in a back room of a small house in Venice, California. The house is only a couple blocks from the pounding Pacific Coast and the famous Venice boardwalk. While roller skaters skated by the open-air shops, carefully avoiding the eyes of the deranged beggars, Master Huang ceremoniously awarded the Tao to the twelve people sitting on metal folding chairs in the back room.
First the men, then the women, were called by name to come to the front of the room. Each person knelt according to the place the Chinese woman assisting Master Huang indicated. The altar glowed with candles. A girl of about nineteen tenuously took a position in the back row of the women kneeling before the altar. The Chinese woman motioned for the girl to trade places and take the honored position in front of the incense pot. The girl held the incense and placed it, at the appropriate time, in the container, as she had been instructed to do.
Stop Being Mean to Yourself Page 2
