anewhome

I visited Mrs. S. at the nursing home today. She seemed in good spirits. Mercedes, her aide, had returned her radio from the repair shop.

I told her that we’d had a good lesson, that she must have slept well the previous because she’d been extremely alert, and I was saying my good-byes when explained that she’d slept well because the nurses now gave her sleeping aids. I sat back down in my chair.

Why?

Mrs. S is incredibly accomplished, well-traveled, and well-educated. But now she can barely see and she moves little and only thanks to a walker. Her main connection to keep abreast of the outside world and beating back the loneliness and boredom of the nursing home is her radio.

Her radio is tuned to the national radio station which has been covering of late protests in the street. They’ve been especially attuned to the more violent and destructive elements that have helped turn some of the protests and strikes into riots. In fact, it’s likely they’ve probably been giving these events more coverage relative to the more peaceful elements of the protests.

Mrs. S has been glued to the radio and to reports of riots, looting, and mayhem in the streets. And she’s anxious. And so, she takes pills to sleep.

My kid's dance teacher was very bothered by the whole thing. We'd just had the first days of real cold of the season and the central heating was broken in the dance studio. The dance teacher had called the technician as a matter of course. The technician had diagnosed the problem, gone to the parts store, come back, and realized that he'd misdiagnosed the problem. He was going to have to order the part. And, of course, until he installed the part, the dance studio would go without central heating. She'd arranged an ad hoc solution, but was unhappy with it.

So, with an exaggerated frown on her face, she dragged me by the elbow into one of the studios. I took off my shoes and entered. She pointed to this big contraption: a movable heater powered by a big butane tank. The three burners shone a bright orange and the room smelled of what I suppose was the burning gas.

I couldn't immediately place it, but the smell of the burning gas, the sight of the burners and the big butane cylinder, made me smile. I breathed in deeply, exhaled, and told the teacher everything was going to be alright. These things always happen with the first cold. If it isn't the heater, it's the hot water heater. And the technician will be able to fix it all up soon enough. The kids will just have to wear an extra layer of clothing. I smiled at her, let her get on with her class, and walked out.

The cold air hit me on the way out of the door, and I remembered.

I first visited Rabat in January 2013. I was there only for a very short while for some preliminary research. It was cold, but it was the rain that was especially impressive. I imagine being so close to the Atlantic impacts rainfall, and that winter was especially wet, as I remember it. I'd come back to the place I'd rented soaked. My jeans, shirt, sweater, coat, socks, shoes, everything except for my waxed canvas messenger bag was just absolutely sopping wet. It was a miserable time walking to and from the tram to the research site or to the airbnb, and I was quite tired by the end of the day.

Naima, the host's mom, made everything OK, though. She's a brilliant cook and there was always a warm meal waiting for me shortly after I'd walk through the doors. But I'm most grateful for the butane gas heater she'd had her husband bring up.

Homes in the Middle East and North Africa, and in India too, for that matter, are often big cement boxes that are then beautifully decorated. You'll find plumbing, but sometimes gas isn't piped in, and people often use gas cylinders for heat and cooking.

The gas cylinder was old and so was the heater, and my privileged ass was extremely skeptical of the apparatus. Would I die of gas poisoning? Or would the fucking thing just blow up? Naima showed me how to work it: push the dial in, twist, and hit the ignition. Twist again if you need a bit more warmth. Twist again if you want it on full blast.

It took me a few days to become comfortable with it. I'd come home, undress, hang my things on the backs of chairs, and place them at a reasonable distance from the heater. The heat was never quite right: I was either a little uncomfortable because I was too cold or too hot. But soon that mattered little. The heater was a good friend. I'd move my chair closer or further depending on whether I was feeling the chill or crisping up. I'd sit further away from it as I digested one of Naima's wonderful tajines, or closer after coming back from finishing a cigarette in the chilled air late in the evening.

I was diligent about turning if off.

I'd slip into the cold bed as the rain poured outside. The muezzin called believers to prayer. I'd fall asleep.