You might as well settle in with a cup of something hot, this is a lengthy saga with video that you just don’t want to miss. It’s not optimized for phones, either, so good luck if you’re viewing it on your mobile.

When we returned from Morocco in April we were intent on memorializing our trip by transforming our courtyard into a Moroccan garden.  In fact, I emailed our landscape gardener before we left Marrakech to make an appointment for the following week.

The mosaics we saw on our trip intrigued us, so we knew the our entryway had to include a mosaic fountain. Yes, some people call them “water features” but let’s just call it what it is. A fountain.

We looked all over. The fountains in the only Bay area Moroccan shop I could find were really shoddy.  I finally found a vendor in Orlando who seemed to have what I wanted. A Moroccan himself, he brought fountains made in Morocco into the US. And so we chose a fountain while our garden designer transformed the courtyard into a beautiful, colorful entryway. Come with me on a video tour of her work:

Ali’s website showed several different fountains that could be made for us in Morocco. So this was the fountain we chose. I loved the minaret-like design and could envision it in our courtyard. We saw many minarets and mosques and mosaics on our trip–what memories it would bring back!

We were very patient. Our order was placed in May, but it wouldn’t be here from Morocco until late summer. Ali would take shipment in Orlando first, as he needed to install wheels and the self-circulating pump. He would then ship to us.

Meanwhile, Rebecca took care of the garden.

Midsummer, we got a phone call from Ali. I figured our fountain had arrived.

“Your fountain fell off the truck in Morocco and broke,” he told me. “I can have an identical fountain made–which will take several weeks– or you can choose from inventory.”  Well, ok. Shit happens.

My husband raised his eyebrows so high he resembled Joan Crawford. But I trusted Ali. So I looked at inventory and chose this one, which he had shipped from Morocco after we paid. I didn’t like it as well, but I liked it enough.  It’s nice, right? I liked it almost as much.

Yes, I could picture it in the garden.

The third week of August, this email arrived from Ali:

Thank you dearly for your patience regarding this summmer’s shipment.

Hubby wasn’t impressed.  “The way things are going, they’ll probably find drugs in it. We’ll never get it.”

About a week later, I saw my caller ID flash in with Ali’s number. I was in class, so on break, I sent him an email:

Did you call?

Yes. Ali and I had become tight. Tight enough to text. I got this email response:

Attached was this photo.

Yes, I noticed the damage.

Wait a minute. Our fountain isn’t green. It doesn’t look anything like that fountain. I’d seen this one in photos and hated it. Had he sent me the wrong fountain?  I called Ali.

“Dude,” I said. Ok. So I didn’t call him “dude.”  But I did call him. “That’s not our fountain.”

I could hear Ali’s horror across all 3,000 miles.  (If I lived in Orlando, and I were Ali, I’d be horrified, too, at the thought of a disgruntled customer showing up at the front door. But I was 3,000 miles away and he was safe.)

“Oh no! I’ll call you back!” Ali hung up.

Yes, Ali’s employee had shipped us someone else’s fountain, and had shipped them ours. FedEx freight  found our fountain in Albuquerque. It was being rerouted to us. Whew! Just another few days.

On Friday, Sept. 7 I answered the phone.

“Hi, this is FedEx freight. We were due to deliver you a fountain today, but we aren’t going to deliver it because we damaged it in transit. A chunk is broken off and when we called the shipper, he told us to send it back to him.”

No. No. No.

By now Ali was in my speed-dial.

Pretty sure this photo I found online is of the damage to my fountain.

“Yes, yes,” he said, “that is the bad news. But the GOOD news is that I have a fountain almost like it in my shop from that same shipment. Let me send it to you.”

In Morocco still. Hmm… might like it better than #2, even.

Well, ok. We were now three degrees of separation from our original fountain, but what the hell, right? Since I did want to receive a fountain some time in my lifetime, I said ok.

Ali told me he’d had a stronger dolly made to hold the fountain–he wanted to insure the wheels would hold it. And then they packed it up. Extra carefully. Ali sent photos:

In Orlando

 I DO like it. It’s growing on me.

Notice that Ali is not in these photos

 I really do had to question this packing methodology. I mean, I am my mother’s daughter, after all.  You could barely get into her packages, they were so well wrapped. Why isn’t my mother here? Or rather, why wasn’t she with Ali packing this up, instead of in the afterlife?  These are questions to which there are no answers.

And off to FedEx freight.

A week passed; tick tock tick tock. When I got home from teaching last Thursday, Fed Ex had arrived. and the fountain was waiting.

It was best that I not be there, the suspense would’ve killed me.

Michael had taken delivery and unpacked it.

I liked it.  A few tiles had come off, but nothing that was a deal killer. The workmanship wasn’t as nice as I’d hoped close up, but it certainly was nice enough for the courtyard. We were good to go.

Well, not quite. Where was the self-circulating pump? I called Ali.

“Dude…” (you get the picture)

“Oh my God, Carol, I installed it on fountain 2 but in the hurry to get this one off to you it completely slipped my mind. I’ll refund you the money for the pump and just run to Home Depot to get one.”

Sigh. Ali, Ali, Ali…I do not run to Home Depot for anything.

M’s father owned a chain of hardware stores and he loves them– so off he went to commune with the pumps. But when he got one home,  the connector tube from Morocco was way too small.  After he fiddled around a while it appeared that electrocution was a possibility. He installed the pump but not the wire;  I found an electrician and gave him the phone number.

This empty space has been waiting a looong time.

But he did want to put the fountain in its place against the courtyard wall before the electrician arrived.

Now,I have to point out that M. still has a nice pair of guns, as nice as the ones he had when we were in our 20s. He was cute as hell then and he’s still cute as hell, and strong. However, he does qualify for Social Security (the early rate), has had a stent installed and generally speaking, is no longer a young man. Still, he was convinced that he could wrestle this 400 lb. fountain into place. Single-handedly.

It was ugly.

So ugly I was hyperventilating, which was the only thing that convinced him to stop and call for help. I gasped long and loudly. Because otherwise, that hugely expensive fountain was going to lay in pieces in the courtyard, a victim of Sicilian stubbornness.

Friday night, the electrician arrived. It took him an hour and change and lots of manipulation to set the pump up. Seriously, what kind of electrical wire do they use in Morocco?

And we found some muscle-y men to come help place the fountain against the wall.

Love the shirt.

Saturday morning, two young, strong men and Arnold, the brains of the operation, arrived to move the fountain to its place of honor. Here’s video.

They had to strategize, as the fountain’s way more fragile than you’d think. The straps made a big difference, as did the muscle.

 I give M. a lot of credit for thinking he could do this alone.

Ok, that’s a lie. I think he was batshit CRAZY to think he could move it alone.
More video.

If the camera is shaking, it’s because I was wincing the whole time, certain the fountain would come crashing down. I was trying to be calm, but you can hear me emit a tiny fearful noise at the end of this video. My earlier hyperventilation was not caught on video, but trust me, it would’ve earned an Academy Award.

In its place of honor. We’ll probably add some plants & these will grow out around it.

M. replaced the tiles that had fallen off, and turned on the pump and the water.

And so, the saga ends. A bumpy ride, but a happy ending.  Video below.

Every time I come home and hear the gurgle of water as I walk toward the front door, I smile.

Because our courtyard, in fact, is now a Moroccan garden.

And I relive the best trip of our life every time I see it.