An American Abroad 
By Pete Behr

We left our shores in Boston, where we were subjected to the usual security scrutiny, courtesy of our craven politicians and bureaucrats who have turned us into Fraidy Cat America. Marjorie, who wears a walking cast when traveling to protect her tendonitis-stricken ankle, was placed in purgatory while security personnel determined whether this 76 year-old grandmother was a terrorist threat. 

I always feel like I’m coming home when arriving in Paris, though it is much different than when we first went there in 1959. Back then it was polluted and dirty from the burning of coal, which provided heating and power. The buildings and monuments were all dirty gray, almost black. Then natural gas came, and nuclear power. Coal is gone, the buildings are clean, and Paris is a cream-colored beautiful place, especially in the spring. April this year is the way it is supposed to be, with the chestnuts in blossom, and the sidewalk cafes full of happy people. On the downside, there is pollution from the cars which cram the streets, and the French are worried about global warming, too. 

The first person we met in France was a young man who brought a wheelchair to help Marjorie negotiate the long walk through the terminal. He seemed surprised and pleased that we spoke French, piloting us through immigration and customs in record time. After we claimed our baggage, he put us in a taxi, and I gave him twenty euros, the first installment of my good will program. 

As some of you may know, the French are having a presidential election. Their election, which happens only every six years if the president lasts the full term, is short and efficient. Campaign advertising and television time is very limited, both in time and money, and all legitimate candidates, in this case twelve, get the same amount. At the end of the very short official campaign period, a first round of voting occurs, which happened on April 22. It is sort of like a primary. Unless one of the contenders gets over fifty percent of the vote, there is a runoff two weeks later between the two leading contenders. 

Thus, on next Sunday, May 6, Nicolas Sarkovy, the center-right candidate, and leader after the first round, with about 31 percent, will face Segolene Royal, the socialist candidate, a woman, who garnered about 25 percent of the vote. A centrist candidate received about 15 percent, and a far right candidate 11 percent, with the other eight candidates sharing the rest. The turnout was 85 percent of the registered voters! Think about that. In America, elections are often decided by about 30 percent of the electorate.

Mr. Sarkovy is dedicated (he says) to improving France’s moribund economy and relations with the U.S. Madame Royal’s politics are "woolly, even by modern standards," according to The Economist, including old-style left-wing economic policies.

Leaving France for Morocco, we were helped by a young Algerian, who zipped us through security and onto the plane. When he found out I spoke French, he became very talkative. Where are you going? Morocco. Why don’t you visit Algeria? Been there many times (naming places). What are you? An engineer. Oh, you were working on petroleum projects? That’s right. My father works for Sonatrach (the national oil company). I know Sonatrach well. I am working here at Orly to get money for my education. Good luck, I said, handing him twenty euros to help with his schooling. 

This conversation, which was actually much longer, took about ten minutes. At this rate I could solve the Israeli-Palestinian impasse in a week. 

Arriving in Marrakech, we were met by a young Moroccan woman, who hustled us through immigration and waited while we collected our baggage. Arabic is the first language in Morocco, with French spoken almost universally, as well. Since tourism is an immense part of their economy, many Moroccans have learned English. The young lady pushed us through the crowd outside customs, and we found the hotel driver waiting for us. She accompanied us to the parking area. Another twenty euro contribution from my fund. The driver gave us some cold water and fresh orange slices, a nice welcome.

And so our trip continued. Morocco is a little like California, with a long coastline, verdant valleys, high mountains, and a mild climate, except in July and August, when it is stifling hot. It is like Arizona and New Mexico, too, with mesas and desert. We met many people, including the Pasha of Taroudant, where we contributed to an orphanage. We agreed we should all get along better. Space does not permit more details - maybe some other time. 
 

Pete Behr writes a regular column for the Vermont Standard