La Gazelle et Couscous vont à Marrakech

A few years ago I had a conversation with my friend Suzan from New Zealand about massage.

“I hate them.  I hate someone, especially if it is a man, getting that close, in my personal zone.  I suppose it is a British embarrassment thing…I find it hard to relax and enjoy it.  Once, when I tried reflexology I was so embarrassed at all the attention given to my feet that I spoke non-stop for an hour.” 

She had looked at me pitifully and with a soupçon of annoyance replied,

 ”How pathetic, it’s about time you got over that.”

 She didn’t really, of course she is much too nice for that, but that was the subtext and quite right she was too.

Thus two days ago I was standing naked in a Hamman in Marrakech being scrubbed like a baby (but not so tenderly) by a kind Moroccan soul.  I had booked a “couples” Hamman, gommage and massage for Mr. Jules and I.   Despite his protestant upbringing,  Mr. Jules’  family were quite hippy dippy when it came to family saunas so he revelled in my pretense at comfort and okayness with all my goodies on display.  (He was almost disappointed that he felt obliged, out of respect to the lady masseuse/torturer, to keep his trunks on).

Later whilst we were browsing in la Médina (souk) and whilst breaking out in a red rash from head to toe due to an allergy to the black soap scrub (yes go ahead analyse at will) he is amused by the salesmen who greet me as La Gazelle.

“Bonjour la gazelle j’ai des jolies choses pour toi,” they call out to  me.

“Et moi?”  He says feeling obviously left out.

“Toi?  Tu es couscous.

Touché mon amour.