Feature Post

Is Sixty the New Forty?

Written by Lady MacLeod from Braveheart does the Maghreb

When I read this headline in the New York Times this week, my immediate reaction was to sit up, raise both my arms into the air and shout, "Yes!". I have been thinking it over however and I am put in mind of what Gloria Steinem said when she was told, “You don’t look thirty.”

She replied, “This is what thirty looks like now.” Perhaps this is what sixty looks like now. With a new emphasis on exercise and eating right more people are remaining very active for much longer. Sixty is not an outrageous age to begin a new career, a new romance, take up a sport, or move to a foreign country. We see actors like Bruce Willis (50’s) and Harrison Ford (60’s) star in action movies, and doing it well. Women like Catherine Deneuve (60’s) still setting fire to the big screen, give us with a smaller stage, ideas.

I am on the close side of sixty and lie about it to no one. In the past year I moved to a foreign country in which I do not speak either of the languages, and very few people speak English. I have begun a new career, and I have a romantic life as well.

Being the exception to the rule is not new to me, but in this case I don’t think it applies. My daughter’s grandmother is 75 years old and runs rings around men and women half her age. She and her husband who is the same age are presently in the Bering Sea in their sixty-four foot boat for four months – quite alone and very much capable of the physical and mental agility required for such a voyage.

The cultural permission and even encouragement, to get out and do more challenging activities as we age is contributing to a generation that is going to the barn much later than generations before, and liking it. We feel we still have much to contribute to the world at large and our own lives in particular.

One observes climbers going up Everest that are sixty and beyond, marathon runners are getting older by decades, and even baseball legends are remaining on the field long after their predecessors had gone. I think this is a trend that will continue. Who knows with the advances in medicine and research how long the life span can be extended.

This generation is also more interested in the development of a true spiritual life, not to be confused with a religious life, than their parents. There is no longer a stigma associated with meditation, yoga, and exercise that also centers the spirit such as Tai Chi.

Tales of study into the creation of human clones, growing new organs with stem cells, and the old standby of plastic surgery lend credence to the hopes of active and attractive centenarians. What was once science fiction may become the scientific truths of the near future.

I think in this day of longer and healthier lifespan we can ask ourselves the same questions we did at twenty. What do I want from this life? Who do I want to be? Do I want to coast along or have adventures, take some chances? It is easier this time ‘round I should think as we are not now encumbered with the responsibilities of parenting a young child, or starting a new career, or meeting our parents expectations. Take that trip you “always wanted to”. Learn to skydive. Flirt with a stranger. Close your eyes and point to a place on the map and then head out.

I think this is what sixty looks like and it looks damn good from here.

Lady Macleod at Braveheart does the Maghreb.
The daily tales of a western woman living in North Africa with the occasional political rant. Posting recently on heat, shopping, emergency medical care, and how to dress for a Moroccan wedding.

Part I of the adventure in Tadra Gorge

Written by Lady MacLeod from Braveheart Does the Maghreb

I looked straight up and all I could see was rock, pinkish rock with sides so smooth it looked like a carving. The walls shoot up 300 meters of brown limestone and I could feel the heat of the day locked in the rock and pulsing outward. The wind coming off the water carrying the spray was cooling me like a fan. It was after two, the sun had passed overhead and the temperature had plummeted like a rock. I was actually shivering. After having spent the day feeling like a piece of chocolate melting and leaking out the sides of the packaging, it was bliss. “Feeling better are you?”

“Mercy yes. I'm afraid I don’t do well in the heat,” I said as I stood there still dripping and wiping my face with his kerchief.

“That really begs the question of why you have decided to stay in Morocco,” Hassan laughed. God he has great teeth. Sorry I have a real thing for great teeth and a nice tight bum (Q just read ahead if you roll your eyes any further back you could lose them).

‘Many reasons not the least of which is that I love the people here,” I said feeling decidedly cooler and more articulate. I think my powers of verbalization decrease as the temperature increases. I bent down in a squat and rinsed my arms and neck in the very cold river water.

“We best turn back here if I am going to get you back in time to feed the cat. The airport in Rabat won’t allow landings after six-thirty and we need to have lunch and pick up Ali. We can have tea on the plane if that’s alright,” he said taking my arm and helping me over the rocks. Yes, yes I didn’t need the help, but I ‘m not completely stupid!

It all began with a walk to the market on Saturday when I decided to take my cherries (of which there is a bounty and they are magnificent) over to the park. I am sitting on a bench eating my cherries and watching the people, like you do, when I spot coming toward me a cutout from “world’s yummiest men”. In the heat he was wearing a three piece Saville Row suit complete with red power tie. He looked as though he was walking through a fall day in London, not ninety degree heat in Morocco. I was dressed in my gold djellaba with the black trim and black linen trousers. Thank the gods I had just done my hair! I don’t think my makeup had melted off just yet.

“You are not a tourist,” he said sitting down beside me. He spoke in English with a soft Moroccan accent. When Moroccans speak English it’s like they polish the words first like a river rock, takes all the rough edges off.

“No, are you?” I said being a smartass.

“No, but I am visiting Rabat. I'm taking my plane down to Quarzazate tomorrow and I wondered if you would like to come along and visit the Todra gorge. I hate to fly alone. You are Lady Macleod are you not?” He had the look of someone who had just said, “gotcha”.

“Yes, but how would you know that?” Now I was really interested and not a little nervous. I am pretty sure I had managed not to have my mouth hanging open.

My son attends university in America and his friend from Fez told him about your blog and he read it. He wrote me to ask if I knew you.”

“If you KNEW me? Like a celebrity? Oh my giddy aunt!” I really had no idea how to react to this. Morocco is not that small a country.

‘Yes. Exactly like that really. He told me where to find you on Facebook so I would know what you look like when I told him I was coming to Rabat before I leave the country.” He was saying all this as though it was all perfectly normal that in a city the size of Rabat he would just buzz into town and FIND ME.

“Now you don’t want to pass up another chance like the chap in the market do you?” he asked looking like the cat who ate the cream.

“What? How…” Oh shit I am thinking perhaps the blog has become a bit too personal.

If you are interested the tale of the rest of our day and the visit to Todra Gorge along with photographs can be found in my archives of 4,5,6,7, and 9 June 2007. It was a fabulous trip but I have a word limit here so… Ciao.

A Day In The Life

Written by Lady MacLeod from Braveheart Does The Maghreb

Morocco, Fez, 0600hrs local time

We went to bed last evening at nine p.m. local time, beaten down and wasted by days of relentless heat. The online thermostats from CNN said it was 100 degrees Fahrenheit with 18% humidity this day, but you know those people weren't here – it was hotter than that.

Q had spent the morning at classes, and attended luncheon with her fellow students while I tried to weave my tale and catch up on my email box. We did the proper and only sensible, Moroccan custom of remaining indoors and quiet from one to three p.m. Truly even the dogs are louder at night. During that period in the afternoon you must strain to hear the sounds of traffic or any life at all. The heat lies heavy on the city, smothering it in a blanket of dust and lethargy. The dogs crawl under the houses, the cats find shade under a bush, and the people go indoors. The shops close, and the city appears to have been deserted as if there was some sort of evacuation of all life.

At three, we set out to hail a Petite Taxi to take us to the other side of town to the French Mall of Marjane, which is well and blissfully air conditioned. As we strolled slowly (yes, even my Highlander pace was taken to task), up and down the aisles basking in the cool air, we both made note we were right in tune with the other shoppers. Acquiring items on a list did not appear to be as urgent as the need for relief from the outside furnace.

We had great fun translating and interpreting the prices and descriptions of the items we needed, and some we just found irresistible – yes, of course, it was books. Tara found a replacement for her worn French dictionary and a new Koran (I left mine in the States). I found some lovely French children's books to help my 'gutter French' back up to speed. In spite of the horror of my linguistically gifted offspring I do quite well with my polyglot of languages.

Basket loaded with a pair of big fluffy bed pillows, a case of water, an iron, towels, a lighter, milk, yogurt, bread, honey, batteries, pillowcases for said pillows, a bag of walnuts, notebooks, and pencils, we left the nirvana like coolness of the mall (after convincing the lovely young woman at the check-out that someone with as honest a face as I did not really need my passport to use my credit card…) to find another taxi. Alas! Arriving in the parking lot at the proper station, I mean hey, there is a sign; there was not a taxi to be seen. "Well, this never happens," we both said wilting once again. Fortunately we did not have to wait long for not one, but three, then four, and five taxis to arrive unloading five and six persons from the tiny compartments meant to hold three at most. The polite, and handsome young man who was waiting before us most gallantly offered us the first car, and we piled all our goodies inside and squished ourselves amongst them for the ride back to the villa. The most notable sight along the way was the gathering of the 'men' at the outdoor cafes all along the streets, and the rare appearance of a couple of women scattered here and there among them. They had gathered in large plazas and small corners, tables close together, men three and eight to a table all facing out toward the street, drinking their tea and coffee. Talking and gesturing with great emphases; methinks the Moors and the Romans have some common linguistic ground when it comes to speaking with their hands. In almost every neighborhood we saw laundry and satellite dishes on the roofs, terraces, and out the windows. Washing machines are common, but dryers are not considered necessary. Electricity is at a premium.

It was not cooler, but warmer once we had unloaded and unpacked, and arranged and put- away our new items of comfort and necessity. Food? Not worth the trouble, not in this heat. Tea for me! Even Q, who can eat and sleep in almost any circumstance had only a bit of bread and honey.

That grey 'mist' I had seen this morning was sand suspended in the air. There was a huge sand storm that had been blowing in toward the city for days. The worst of it was over, but as we came further inland to Fez it is hanging still in the air.

I woke this morning at 0230hrs and have been unable to get back to sleep. The heat is too much for me at this point. Q was restless and finally around 0330 hrs, we both gave up and got out of bed to hit the computers and do a bit of work. I made some tea, the universal panacea of the British for all ills. Q arranged the fan with a pan of water in front of it hoping to get some moisture in the air. We opened up our doors onto the patio, and just went with it. We heard the calls to prayer ringing through the city at 0400hrs. She meandered back to bed around 0530hrs, and is sleeping peacefully.

I went out to the patio with my tea to get some relief and noted a strong and quite cool (it is all relative right, cool being around 75 to 80 degrees) breeze. Well sports fans I took myself into the back hallway and managed to get that big double window open and the wooden blinds pushed back. There is now a lovely strong breeze blowing in from the east pushing out the hot air from last night. Ta da. I knew that whole high I.Q., intellect crap would come in handy someday! No, I do not have any idea if I can get the wooden blinds back in; but at this point I don't care.