From Tinder to Morocco: Our Life (so far)

Tinder brought us together on October 25th, 2017 in London, England. Me, a 52-year-old American divorce from New York City with two 20-something children. Aziz, a 43-year-old native South Londoner, separated with two young girls. Like Hollywood movies, we knew quickly that we would marry. What we didn’t know then was that within a two-year span, we would buy a house in and move to Morocco, start a business and be hurled into a byzantine corruption case, but that is a story for another time.

My graduation from SOAS, Summer 2018

We really truly were never supposed to meet. Ever. Different countries, different ages, different interests, different heritages, different music, the list goes on as it does with many modern relationships.

I was finishing up a Masters’ degree at the School of Oriental and African Studies (SOAS) in London and Aziz was working in the insurance industry. After a year and a half of being in a very wrong footed relationship combined with spending hours and hours alone doing research for my degree, a girlfriend (it’s always a girlfriend) pushed me to get on Tinder and ‘see what happens’. Disclosure: it’s weirdly difficult to meet people in London, at least it was for me.

I was reluctant but put my best foot forward and wrote what I thought was a compelling and truthful personal summary. And of course the well curated photos. Excited about finding Mr. Right, I was impatient and wanted the perfect match but after three weeks of continual disappointments, I began to say farewell to meeting my soul mate.

Tinder algorithms apparently thought me an excellent match with very large, very bald, very unattractive men whose penchant for posting photos straddling their Harley or next to a dead animal (or ex-girlfriend), was uncanny. For the record, I have nothing against large, bald, or unattractive men.

Three weeks in and about to give up, along came Aziz. Oh my God, I could not believe my eyes. Forget about what he wrote or ‘who’ he was deep down, I was simply giddy to be matched with a man whose looks, from top to bottom, represented the ultimate for me. And his height! Having previously been with a very short man, I could finally wear heels. And his heritage. First generation British born to Moroccan parents…if you know me, you know.  

We quickly arranged to meet. ‘I’m dying to meet you. Can you meet me tonight?”, he said. Love a decisive man.  

I arrived at our meeting spot outside Camden Town tube station. Coming from the library, I was carrying a 10-pound backpack full of books and my laptop. My armpits stank to high heaven, a lifelong problem for me, so I stopped into a Boots to buy smelly lotion which I smeared all over. Aziz arrived looking dashing, in a perfect first date outfit. Turning the corner and seeing him for the first time…I don’t think I’ve ever been so excited.

Ten months later we married in the back garden of our Kentish Town flat. Fifty friends and family celebrated with us. My children were there with us helping prepare for the big day before hand. They were so supportive which I am sure took a lot as they had met Aziz only once. I’ll never forget those days leading up to our marriage as the most joyful time in my life.

All was perfect. We loved our flat and our neighborhood. We took long weekend walks far and near in the English countryside. Aziz enjoyed his work and I enjoyed being newly married in London, a city I was still getting to know.

But perfect is nothing I’ve ever been drawn to.

A month later, on a belated honeymoon, we took off for a two week Moroccan tour. Aziz’s command of darija (Moroccan Arabic), his childhood memories, and my internet and research skills combined to produce a fantastic itinerary that included staying a few days in the beautiful Atlantic coastal town of Essaouira. New to us both, we were particularly excited for this part of the trip as any mention of Essaouira in travel magazines is virtually flawless.

Before arriving in Essaouira we decided to schedule a few hours with a real estate agent, as you do, just to ‘see’ what properties were like. We toured two countryside properties and within minutes my mind was racing with bucolic visions of life in the bled (countryside in Arabic). In keeping with our proclivity to jump in and say ‘Yes!’, we were proud owners of an abandoned and unfinished house on an acre of land twelve hours later. We had no plan, no reason to make such a hasty move, but just carried on as we had been, riding the intense wave of new love and new possibilities.

Our new house, Essaouira

After the honeymoon, we nestled back into our London life. Construction began on the Essaouira house and we followed the progress along remotely. After months passed, however, we slowly began to imagine a life in Morocco. This thought was a real leap for Aziz who had never lived outside London. For me, a habitual seeker of ‘disruption’, the possibility felt like a warm blanket. But what would we do in Morocco? Far from the ages of retirement, we wanted to move to our dream house and create a business. A lifelong love of mid-century furnishings quickly morphed into a business idea, Mid Century Maroc, our online ‘souk’ of mid-century furnishings found in Morocco.

During the first Covid lockdown, we floated the idea of purchasing a large stock of mid-century furnishings from a local seller in Essaouira that we knew well. He was game, the price was agreed upon and within weeks we owned a treasure trove of European and Moroccan mid-century furnishings. One year after our marriage I moved to Essaouira to start preparations for the business.

A small city with an approximate population of 79,000, Essaouira boasts a beautiful UNESCO World Heritage Site Medina, endless beach, perfect weather and a quality of life sought out by many. Fascinating history, natural beauty, warm hospitality and a rich cultural heritage create an idyllic environment for global ‘seekers’ like me.

After living in New York City for 23 years, followed by arguably a more bucolic London, I was craving nature. And I have certainly gotten it here. Our home is surrounded by close to 200 trees and we abut a protected cedar forest. With a central courtyard open to the sky and doors and windows that don’t close properly, we pretty much live ‘outside’. Every view leads us to trees, sand dunes, sky. You don’t have to try hard to clear your mind here. But that doesn’t mean we are constantly in Paradise.

First, I live in a constant Orwellian world of language barriers. In Morocco, people speak dialects of shilha, an Amazigh language, darija (Moroccan Arabic), French, and Spanish in the North. My French is OK, my darija, meh. I do a lot of listening as darija is all around me all the time. This is a good thing, and I’ve taken classes and have the Peace Corps Moroccan Arabic manual to help. But the penny hasn’t dropped yet and I’m still missing more than half the conversation not to mention nuance. Much of the time I imagine this translates this into, ‘she knows nothing’, ‘does she have a brain?’, ‘does she speak?’. Normal I suppose. And bless Aziz for being my constant translator, which he does with an abundance of patience. So I use a lot of body language, listen endlessly, smile often and wait for the magical day when my darija ah-ha moment arrives! I will get there.

Then there are the things that we can’t get here. For me the list is short because I honestly don’t give a shit, but if someone put a gun to my head and said ‘WRITE!”, it would go like this:

Aveda shampoo

Bobbi Brown Smokey Eye mascara

Bikini wax strips

The NHS

I asked Aziz what he misses and he said ‘everything’. But if I were to shorten that list it would go something like this:

English cheddar

Selfridges

Mortadella

Central heating and AC

And then there is the fact that Aziz and I have experienced Morocco differently so far.

I’m pretty much like a kid in a candy shop. Just about everything elicits an internal or external, ‘Wow, so cool!’. Everyday delivers around twelve scenes straight out of the 7th century. An old man, djellaba clad, sidesaddle on his donkey with a rear cart full of freshly picked mint. An old Amazigh (Berber) woman bent over a walking stick alone in the countryside with a herd of sheep. To the donkey and cart driver Aziz would likely say, ‘Why is he driving IN the road? He’s a safety hazard!’. Or to the woman in the bled (countryside) he may remark, ‘God, she better be careful out there! Snakes, scorpions, wild dogs! Who knows what ills could visit her!’. I tell him sometimes that he is messing with my reality. That through my rose colored glasses, everything is beautiful and that I like it that way. He then tells me, ‘But darling, I can’t help it. It’s natural for me to assess any situation based on its risk.’ Oy. He wants video surveillance surrounding our house. I don’t. He wants two German shepherds for protection, I want two stray mutts for cuddles. And the list goes on, but we agree to disagree.

We didn’t live with the above mentioned dynamic when we were in London. Living was basically easy with few stressors but new triggers have come up as a result of moving to a new country. It’s not for the faint of heart and relationships naturally rejigger due to brand new stimulus and endless navigation of the way things are done here, from building a house, opening a business, to bargaining for everything under the sun. In this terribly exciting and sometimes turbulent year, one thing has remained steady, however. Aziz. He’s been my rock, my constant loving companion, and always pushing me to fulfill my goals.

Looking back on the last year, we’ve accomplished so much. And I’ve never felt so alive. This is incredibly important to me as I careen into my late-50s. I refuse to go out gently and inshallah I have many more years, but now is the time to get cracking. I refuse to live small. And with Aziz by my side, I am and we are stronger than ever. Alhamdulillah.

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Welcome to the Mid Century Maroc family.

Aziz & Brooke