Tucson, Arizona, USA
My belly is full of hamburgers right now, the second time in two days. That was my one priority when arriving back in the U.S. After being greeted by my Mom, Dad, and brother, Matthew at the airport two nights ago, I decided that we would dine at In N' Out Burger, a delicious, fresh fast food restaurant that's been around since the 1950's. It was great to see my family. I put on my zilaba so that they would be surprised. And I knew that my dad and brother would react adversely and playfully tell me to take it off, which, of course, they did. I'm pretty exhausted right now, although I do think I'm almost back on the local time.
I flew from Paris to Dallas, Texas and then from Dallas to Tucson. On the plane to Tucson, a man took out some dollars to pay for his wine. I saw him counting the dollars and it was very strange to me. After using Euros, and other foreign currencies, for over three months, to see US dollars seemed foreign to me. And earlier when I saw a woman using her cellphone, I thought about my use of a cellphone. That too seemed very bizarre, the idea of me using a cellphone. The idea of driving did not seem strange though. In fact, I was excited about it.
Someone told me at some point in the past week that it would be very different after returning home. This would be due mainly in part to the fact that I had been traveling and changing over the past three months whereas everyone and everything at home is exactly the same as it was before. Well this was very true. My Mom, Dad, brother, and dog were all pretty much the same, except that Samson, my dog, had a cool, new haircut that makes his tail look like that of a rabbit. It was one of my fears that I would come back to the States and settle back into the way of living from before. Obviously, I can prevent that from happening, I just have to be conscious of it. My little bunny-rabbit, snowball, sheep-boy of a dog is curled up and drifting off to the sweet world of dreams and gumdrops. I shall like to join him, so I will continue at another time.
Friday, December 21, 2007
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
The Meaning of It All
Paris, France
The last day of my trip couldn't have been more perfect. I will try to express in words what can truly only be felt and never accurately described. After arriving in Paris and retrieving my bag, I wandered around the airport for about two hours. However this wandering was not fearful and foreign, it was confident and comfortable, even though I was lost. I passed the area where I first wandered just over three months ago trying to act like I knew where I was going so potential pickpockets and thieves wouldn't target me. This time it was familiar and I knew there was no threat whatsoever, except maybe that of waiting for 25 minutes for the lady at the ticket counter to even acknowledge that there was someone else waiting to be helped. I practiced abundance and paid the fifteen Euros to leave my beastly backpack at the terminal overnight. Then I made my way back down the same corridors to the metro area where I purchased my tickets and boarded the train. It was cold and cozy as we sped along the countryside into the city. I put on my zilaba and I slipped in and out of sleepyland. I must admit I'm pretty close to making another trip to sleepyland pretty soon here. Anyway... I changed trains, heading in the direction of Rambuteau. I videotaped a boy walking slowly with his head in a book as the crowds bustled past him. I climbed the stairs to the chilly, near-dusk air outside. I entered the building of Dick Ahearne, the man with whom I stayed during my first days in Paris. We exchanged a few words, as well as the shirt he leant me for a bag of unnecessary belongings I had left behind. After wishing each other happy holidays and safe travels, I headed down to the bakery that I frequented when I stayed with Dick. I purchased my favorite, two sweet, chocolate-filled, powder sugar-covered pastries. In front of the Hotel de Ville, an ice-skating rink had been erected and people of all different skill levels skated around. I shot video and pictures of the large Christmas tree in front of the Notre Dame, as well as the dead trees lining the banks of the river. At this point my toes were feeling like they could fall off at any moment due to frostbite, and I'm not exaggerating. I went inside a nearby cafe and drank the familiar bitter and refreshingly hot coffee while journaling. I reflected on my trip and the growth and changes I've experienced. I will identify those things later. One thing I will mention now, though, is that I started writing all the things I was excited about: seeing my family for the holidays, making my short film when I return to LA, travelling with Ally, etc. And then I wrote that I was excited to meet up with my couchsurfing host and have dinner with him. Writing that brought me back to the moment. I was instantly flooded with joy and my eyes welled up with tears. I was there, journaling in a warm little cafe in Paris in December. I felt the awesomeness of life. After paying my bill, warming up my feet with the automatic hand dryer in the bathroom, and donning another pair of socks, I set off into the cold, crisp night. Finally I reached the place, Port Royal, where I was to meet my couchsurfing host Jerome. There was a young man standing near a bicycle writing on a notepad and an older man with glasses talking on a cell phone inside the housing of the metro stairwell. I was meeting a young man with glasses, according to the photographs from his profile. I made eye contact with the young man a couple times and was curious what he was writing. I tried to get a peek, but it was too small. I stood listening to my ipod until about seven minutes after the designated meeting time. I began searching through my bag for his phone number. Then I looked up at the young man and mouthed, inquisitively, "Jerome?" Momentarily puzzled, he said yes and then instantly realized I was me. He had had eye surgery and no longer wears glasses, and I was decked out in a zilaba, a beard (which wasn't in my profile picture), and I didn't have a large backpack with me. I laughed for a good while about that; there we both stood for ten minutes occasionally looking at each other while we waited for each other. After dropping my bags in Jerome's place, I was impressed to see that his walls are covered in paintings and photographs that he has created from things he's seen and experienced during his travels. It inspired me. He leant me a coat, as I didn't want him to have to endure the stares at my zilaba, and we headed over to the Cinema District. We ate duck confit, my selection, at a smokey little joint with cool popular music that was played a little louder than desirable. At some point I began talking about how all the people in that room were there, sharing the same moment, and yet they would be gone from our lives in a couple hours. I also mentioned how everything was so temporary; the group of friends could be dissipated in five years with one dead from a drug overdose and another married with a child, or the Chinese-caucasian interracial couple could be split up and in a relationship with someone else a month from now. And thirdly, I commented on how each person had his or her life which consisted of thousands of stories and experiences and that I would never get to know any of them. They were all random thoughts that came to me and I felt like sharing them. In fact, I didn't even think about it, they just came out. Well it spawned a two and a half hour deep conversation about living in the moment, breaking free from ego-self, and acceptance. It was awesome. As we were speaking about being present in the moment, I made every effort to bring myself back to what he was saying when little, fluttering thoughts tried to carry me away. I felt that I was rather successful and it wasn't too difficult. Eventually we came back to the apartment. We talked for a bit more, I showered, and then he asked me to speak for twenty seconds about what I see out my window at home, while his camera simultaneously recorded the western portion of the U.S. on a small, transparent, inflatable globe. Afterward he showed me a blog that he keeps with different random montages, photos, and graphics that he has posted, as he creates one every day. I was so excited. It was such an inspiration to see the work he's done. He said that he tries new things and he doesn't always like them, but the important thing is to do. I like that philosophy. Jerome is a really cool guy and I'm seriously tempted to move to Paris at some point in the future to hang out with him and potentially collaborate on art projects. This last couchsurfing experience on the last night of my trip is the epitomy of what travelling is about, for me. I have met and connected with such beautiful people. I've been given the opportunity to share my beliefs and discover those of others. I can't say how grateful I am for Couchsurfing and everyone that I have gotten to know over the past three months. I have made some friends that I will probably have for the rest of my life.
I am sure that there are changes in me that I may not be aware of until my family and friends point them out. However, there have been some opportunities for growth of which I am well aware and grateful. The first thing that comes to mind is my increased sense of self-confidence. As I have been having to make all my own decisions for the past three months, I have come to accept that I know what I want and that realistically there is no wrong choice. I feel comfortable deciding where I'm going, what I'm doing, or even the little things like what I want to eat or wear. I have also become significantly more accepting. I am now very accepting of others; I can discern whether I want to practice a certain behavior or not, but I no longer judge those who behave in a way that I do not. Additionally, I have a lot more acceptance for circumstances. While there may still be an inital slight irritation at a bus being delayed or something, I release it rather quickly. And along the same line, I have released attachment to possessions. On a couple of occasions, I had lost certain items which I valued, and I accepted that they were gone while being grateful for the time I had with them.
As evidenced by this evening, I feel that I stay connected to the moment more often. While I still get distracted by meaningless thoughts, it is easier to come back to the present and enjoy it. I've realized that I can be experiencing some intense fear or other uncomfortable emotions and it's not the end of the world. I'm not going to die. I can just feel the feeling and keep going. Similarly is the whole "fear of lack" situation. I have had the opportunities to practice abundance and generosity in my life, even when the fear is pushing very hard to keep me from doing it. I know now that the solution is opposite action. Even if I think that it is logic or rationality that is convincing me, I simply take action anyway. My thoughts only have the power that I give them and I choose to no longer humor fear-based thoughts.
I can't say how grateful I am for this whole adventure: the people I've met, the cities I've explored, the foods I've tasted, the languages I've spoken, the laughs and the tears, the music, pictures and video, the beds I've slept in, the pastries I've eaten, the hugs I've given, the songs I've sung, and the treasures I've acquired. It really has been the trip of a lifetime.
To you, the reader: I am very happy that I could share it with you. I hope it has provided you a glimpse into the life I have lead for the past 97 days across ten countries (including Monaco) and three pairs of underwear.
The last day of my trip couldn't have been more perfect. I will try to express in words what can truly only be felt and never accurately described. After arriving in Paris and retrieving my bag, I wandered around the airport for about two hours. However this wandering was not fearful and foreign, it was confident and comfortable, even though I was lost. I passed the area where I first wandered just over three months ago trying to act like I knew where I was going so potential pickpockets and thieves wouldn't target me. This time it was familiar and I knew there was no threat whatsoever, except maybe that of waiting for 25 minutes for the lady at the ticket counter to even acknowledge that there was someone else waiting to be helped. I practiced abundance and paid the fifteen Euros to leave my beastly backpack at the terminal overnight. Then I made my way back down the same corridors to the metro area where I purchased my tickets and boarded the train. It was cold and cozy as we sped along the countryside into the city. I put on my zilaba and I slipped in and out of sleepyland. I must admit I'm pretty close to making another trip to sleepyland pretty soon here. Anyway... I changed trains, heading in the direction of Rambuteau. I videotaped a boy walking slowly with his head in a book as the crowds bustled past him. I climbed the stairs to the chilly, near-dusk air outside. I entered the building of Dick Ahearne, the man with whom I stayed during my first days in Paris. We exchanged a few words, as well as the shirt he leant me for a bag of unnecessary belongings I had left behind. After wishing each other happy holidays and safe travels, I headed down to the bakery that I frequented when I stayed with Dick. I purchased my favorite, two sweet, chocolate-filled, powder sugar-covered pastries. In front of the Hotel de Ville, an ice-skating rink had been erected and people of all different skill levels skated around. I shot video and pictures of the large Christmas tree in front of the Notre Dame, as well as the dead trees lining the banks of the river. At this point my toes were feeling like they could fall off at any moment due to frostbite, and I'm not exaggerating. I went inside a nearby cafe and drank the familiar bitter and refreshingly hot coffee while journaling. I reflected on my trip and the growth and changes I've experienced. I will identify those things later. One thing I will mention now, though, is that I started writing all the things I was excited about: seeing my family for the holidays, making my short film when I return to LA, travelling with Ally, etc. And then I wrote that I was excited to meet up with my couchsurfing host and have dinner with him. Writing that brought me back to the moment. I was instantly flooded with joy and my eyes welled up with tears. I was there, journaling in a warm little cafe in Paris in December. I felt the awesomeness of life. After paying my bill, warming up my feet with the automatic hand dryer in the bathroom, and donning another pair of socks, I set off into the cold, crisp night. Finally I reached the place, Port Royal, where I was to meet my couchsurfing host Jerome. There was a young man standing near a bicycle writing on a notepad and an older man with glasses talking on a cell phone inside the housing of the metro stairwell. I was meeting a young man with glasses, according to the photographs from his profile. I made eye contact with the young man a couple times and was curious what he was writing. I tried to get a peek, but it was too small. I stood listening to my ipod until about seven minutes after the designated meeting time. I began searching through my bag for his phone number. Then I looked up at the young man and mouthed, inquisitively, "Jerome?" Momentarily puzzled, he said yes and then instantly realized I was me. He had had eye surgery and no longer wears glasses, and I was decked out in a zilaba, a beard (which wasn't in my profile picture), and I didn't have a large backpack with me. I laughed for a good while about that; there we both stood for ten minutes occasionally looking at each other while we waited for each other. After dropping my bags in Jerome's place, I was impressed to see that his walls are covered in paintings and photographs that he has created from things he's seen and experienced during his travels. It inspired me. He leant me a coat, as I didn't want him to have to endure the stares at my zilaba, and we headed over to the Cinema District. We ate duck confit, my selection, at a smokey little joint with cool popular music that was played a little louder than desirable. At some point I began talking about how all the people in that room were there, sharing the same moment, and yet they would be gone from our lives in a couple hours. I also mentioned how everything was so temporary; the group of friends could be dissipated in five years with one dead from a drug overdose and another married with a child, or the Chinese-caucasian interracial couple could be split up and in a relationship with someone else a month from now. And thirdly, I commented on how each person had his or her life which consisted of thousands of stories and experiences and that I would never get to know any of them. They were all random thoughts that came to me and I felt like sharing them. In fact, I didn't even think about it, they just came out. Well it spawned a two and a half hour deep conversation about living in the moment, breaking free from ego-self, and acceptance. It was awesome. As we were speaking about being present in the moment, I made every effort to bring myself back to what he was saying when little, fluttering thoughts tried to carry me away. I felt that I was rather successful and it wasn't too difficult. Eventually we came back to the apartment. We talked for a bit more, I showered, and then he asked me to speak for twenty seconds about what I see out my window at home, while his camera simultaneously recorded the western portion of the U.S. on a small, transparent, inflatable globe. Afterward he showed me a blog that he keeps with different random montages, photos, and graphics that he has posted, as he creates one every day. I was so excited. It was such an inspiration to see the work he's done. He said that he tries new things and he doesn't always like them, but the important thing is to do. I like that philosophy. Jerome is a really cool guy and I'm seriously tempted to move to Paris at some point in the future to hang out with him and potentially collaborate on art projects. This last couchsurfing experience on the last night of my trip is the epitomy of what travelling is about, for me. I have met and connected with such beautiful people. I've been given the opportunity to share my beliefs and discover those of others. I can't say how grateful I am for Couchsurfing and everyone that I have gotten to know over the past three months. I have made some friends that I will probably have for the rest of my life.
I am sure that there are changes in me that I may not be aware of until my family and friends point them out. However, there have been some opportunities for growth of which I am well aware and grateful. The first thing that comes to mind is my increased sense of self-confidence. As I have been having to make all my own decisions for the past three months, I have come to accept that I know what I want and that realistically there is no wrong choice. I feel comfortable deciding where I'm going, what I'm doing, or even the little things like what I want to eat or wear. I have also become significantly more accepting. I am now very accepting of others; I can discern whether I want to practice a certain behavior or not, but I no longer judge those who behave in a way that I do not. Additionally, I have a lot more acceptance for circumstances. While there may still be an inital slight irritation at a bus being delayed or something, I release it rather quickly. And along the same line, I have released attachment to possessions. On a couple of occasions, I had lost certain items which I valued, and I accepted that they were gone while being grateful for the time I had with them.
As evidenced by this evening, I feel that I stay connected to the moment more often. While I still get distracted by meaningless thoughts, it is easier to come back to the present and enjoy it. I've realized that I can be experiencing some intense fear or other uncomfortable emotions and it's not the end of the world. I'm not going to die. I can just feel the feeling and keep going. Similarly is the whole "fear of lack" situation. I have had the opportunities to practice abundance and generosity in my life, even when the fear is pushing very hard to keep me from doing it. I know now that the solution is opposite action. Even if I think that it is logic or rationality that is convincing me, I simply take action anyway. My thoughts only have the power that I give them and I choose to no longer humor fear-based thoughts.
I can't say how grateful I am for this whole adventure: the people I've met, the cities I've explored, the foods I've tasted, the languages I've spoken, the laughs and the tears, the music, pictures and video, the beds I've slept in, the pastries I've eaten, the hugs I've given, the songs I've sung, and the treasures I've acquired. It really has been the trip of a lifetime.
To you, the reader: I am very happy that I could share it with you. I hope it has provided you a glimpse into the life I have lead for the past 97 days across ten countries (including Monaco) and three pairs of underwear.
Monday, December 17, 2007
Near the End
Barcelona, Spain
Earlier this afternoon, I visited Gaudi´s "Parc Guell." It was rather nice. The sun was bright and warm. I sat on a park bench for a bit as the cockatoos in the palm trees squawked and chirped. Afterward, I met up with my couchsurfing host Sara and her friend Jordi, and we ate seafood paella near the marina. Later I sat near the beach and wrote a postcard. It was just after sunset and the strong, wintry wind made me shiver. My one, ungloved writing hand seriously felt like it could fall off at any moment due to frostbite. After dropping the postcard in the "Correos" box, I used my host´s card to take a public bicycle. I rode around for a bit, videotaping myself, and then headed back to the apartment. Upon arrival, Sara informed me that she was going to a friend´s house to watch a movie and that I was welcome to join her. I had, and still have, to organize all my belongings in my pack, journal, blog, shower, and shave, however I decided it was my last night in Barcelona and I should go for it. We ate pieces of apple, orange, pineapple, and banana dipped in chocolate fondue as we watched a Chinese film with Spanish subtitles. I dozed off a couple times but managed to wake up for the last 30 minutes. After the movie, we talked and laughed for a bit. At times I didn´t exactly understand what was being discussed, as they spoke very fast and with a thick accent, but I enjoyed myself nonetheless. We hung out for awhile longer before heading out. It was a great last day in Spain.
And now, the moment you´ve all been waiting for... the things that I will and will not miss most.
The things I will miss in Portugal, Morocco and Spain:
- My new friends (oh, how sweet)
- Madrid
- Buying something in Marrakech for really cheap by pretending to not speak English, Spanish, French or any other common language
- chocolate bars
- those fresh, grilled Sardines in Essouira
- Playing chess with Josh until 5 AM every night
- the sunsets in Essouira
- Riding on the back of Abdouaziz´s motorbike through the medina
- Getting pummeled by the ferocious tsunami-like waves in San Sebastian
- Eating with my hands in Morocco
- Spending time with new friends and feeling a part of (oh, what a sweetheart)
- Shooting video of myself on a camel, on a motorbike, on a bicycle, as well as some potentially cool video effects
- Practicing abundance
- Thanksgiving dinner three weeks late in Pamplona
- Essouira
- Wearing my zilaba
- my zilaba in general
- Romance in Madrid
- Recovering my Grandma´s scarf after it had spent the night fallen in the insanely windy, rainy Sahara
- Having my sleeping sheet
- Riding a bicycle in Barcelona
- Feeling alive and connected to the moment
- Walking through fear, mainly in Morocco
- the sweet, Moroccan mint tea
- Sharing dates (the fruit) with the old cleaning ladies at the bus station bathroom in Essouira
- Making a bracelet out of string I found on the ground in Seville
- those sweet, Moroccan honey pastries for 2 or 3 Dirhams a piece
- Getting billiards lessons from an old guy in Porto
- Listening to a few select songs by Counting Crows and feeling like it was the soundtrack to my life movie
- kebabs
- Lying on the grass, watching the meteor shower in Barcelona (thanks for the info Dad)
- Learning words in Arabic and using them
- the amazing people that I met and have become friends with... they are truly what I miss most about the places I´ve been
The things I will NOT miss about Portugal, Morocco and Spain:
- predatory vendors and commission-seekers in Morocco
- all the smoking in Spanish bars
- Travelocity and their incompetence
- Faro music (no offense to Portugese people and their culture, it just didn´t do anything for me)
- culture shock
- homesickness
- people in Barcelona, at a restaurant, refusing to give me tap water so they can charge 1.50 Euros for a bottle
- people in Barcelona, at a restaurant, trying to dissuade me from drinking tap water by telling me how disgusting it is, so they can charge 1.50 Euros for a bottle
- people in Barcelona, at a restaurant, scoffing at me when I request tap water so they can make me feel stupid and thus charge me 1.50 Euros for a bottle
- old men in Morocco that covered their faces or wouldn´t let me take pictures of them
- bathrooms without toilet paper in Morocco, which was 98% of them
- the old bathroom attendant man at the bus station in Fes who grabbed and shoved me when I refused to tip him for doing his job
- the homeless boys in Marrakech who followed me to my hotel begging for money or more chocolate, as I had given them some chocolate earlier when they weren´t begging
- the Portugese language (again, no offense to Portugese people, I just would have preferred you to speak Spanish instead)
- the Temple of the Sagrada Familia in Barcelona... big disappointment
- bartering for crap in Morocco
- Fes in general
- fear of lack
- compulsive thoughts regarding fear of lack
- the overnight trips on horribly cramped, freezing buses in Morocco
- feeling like every Moroccan you meet only sees you as potential income
- the torturous, screeching Moroccan music that was blasted throughout the long night bus trips
- the moments upon first waking up in Morocco where I felt alone
Earlier this afternoon, I visited Gaudi´s "Parc Guell." It was rather nice. The sun was bright and warm. I sat on a park bench for a bit as the cockatoos in the palm trees squawked and chirped. Afterward, I met up with my couchsurfing host Sara and her friend Jordi, and we ate seafood paella near the marina. Later I sat near the beach and wrote a postcard. It was just after sunset and the strong, wintry wind made me shiver. My one, ungloved writing hand seriously felt like it could fall off at any moment due to frostbite. After dropping the postcard in the "Correos" box, I used my host´s card to take a public bicycle. I rode around for a bit, videotaping myself, and then headed back to the apartment. Upon arrival, Sara informed me that she was going to a friend´s house to watch a movie and that I was welcome to join her. I had, and still have, to organize all my belongings in my pack, journal, blog, shower, and shave, however I decided it was my last night in Barcelona and I should go for it. We ate pieces of apple, orange, pineapple, and banana dipped in chocolate fondue as we watched a Chinese film with Spanish subtitles. I dozed off a couple times but managed to wake up for the last 30 minutes. After the movie, we talked and laughed for a bit. At times I didn´t exactly understand what was being discussed, as they spoke very fast and with a thick accent, but I enjoyed myself nonetheless. We hung out for awhile longer before heading out. It was a great last day in Spain.
And now, the moment you´ve all been waiting for... the things that I will and will not miss most.
The things I will miss in Portugal, Morocco and Spain:
- My new friends (oh, how sweet)
- Madrid
- Buying something in Marrakech for really cheap by pretending to not speak English, Spanish, French or any other common language
- chocolate bars
- those fresh, grilled Sardines in Essouira
- Playing chess with Josh until 5 AM every night
- the sunsets in Essouira
- Riding on the back of Abdouaziz´s motorbike through the medina
- Getting pummeled by the ferocious tsunami-like waves in San Sebastian
- Eating with my hands in Morocco
- Spending time with new friends and feeling a part of (oh, what a sweetheart)
- Shooting video of myself on a camel, on a motorbike, on a bicycle, as well as some potentially cool video effects
- Practicing abundance
- Thanksgiving dinner three weeks late in Pamplona
- Essouira
- Wearing my zilaba
- my zilaba in general
- Romance in Madrid
- Recovering my Grandma´s scarf after it had spent the night fallen in the insanely windy, rainy Sahara
- Having my sleeping sheet
- Riding a bicycle in Barcelona
- Feeling alive and connected to the moment
- Walking through fear, mainly in Morocco
- the sweet, Moroccan mint tea
- Sharing dates (the fruit) with the old cleaning ladies at the bus station bathroom in Essouira
- Making a bracelet out of string I found on the ground in Seville
- those sweet, Moroccan honey pastries for 2 or 3 Dirhams a piece
- Getting billiards lessons from an old guy in Porto
- Listening to a few select songs by Counting Crows and feeling like it was the soundtrack to my life movie
- kebabs
- Lying on the grass, watching the meteor shower in Barcelona (thanks for the info Dad)
- Learning words in Arabic and using them
- the amazing people that I met and have become friends with... they are truly what I miss most about the places I´ve been
The things I will NOT miss about Portugal, Morocco and Spain:
- predatory vendors and commission-seekers in Morocco
- all the smoking in Spanish bars
- Travelocity and their incompetence
- Faro music (no offense to Portugese people and their culture, it just didn´t do anything for me)
- culture shock
- homesickness
- people in Barcelona, at a restaurant, refusing to give me tap water so they can charge 1.50 Euros for a bottle
- people in Barcelona, at a restaurant, trying to dissuade me from drinking tap water by telling me how disgusting it is, so they can charge 1.50 Euros for a bottle
- people in Barcelona, at a restaurant, scoffing at me when I request tap water so they can make me feel stupid and thus charge me 1.50 Euros for a bottle
- old men in Morocco that covered their faces or wouldn´t let me take pictures of them
- bathrooms without toilet paper in Morocco, which was 98% of them
- the old bathroom attendant man at the bus station in Fes who grabbed and shoved me when I refused to tip him for doing his job
- the homeless boys in Marrakech who followed me to my hotel begging for money or more chocolate, as I had given them some chocolate earlier when they weren´t begging
- the Portugese language (again, no offense to Portugese people, I just would have preferred you to speak Spanish instead)
- the Temple of the Sagrada Familia in Barcelona... big disappointment
- bartering for crap in Morocco
- Fes in general
- fear of lack
- compulsive thoughts regarding fear of lack
- the overnight trips on horribly cramped, freezing buses in Morocco
- feeling like every Moroccan you meet only sees you as potential income
- the torturous, screeching Moroccan music that was blasted throughout the long night bus trips
- the moments upon first waking up in Morocco where I felt alone
Friday, December 14, 2007
Hustlers
Barcelona, Spain
My fingers are numb from being cold, which is strange because I´m inside the apartment of my couchsuring host, Sara. I just bought my plane ticket to Paris, as I fly home from there on Tuesday. It´s strange that my return date is approaching so rapidly... well maybe it´s not approaching any faster than it was two months ago, but it´s strange that it´s so near. In Morocco, my thoughts were frequently set on being home in Tucson with my family. Now, while I´m still looking forward to seeing them and spending the holiday with them, I´m also feeling like I wish I could stay longer -- although not necessarily in Barcelona. I´ve been having such a great time for the past three months, it will be foreign to spend time in one place, when I return. Fortunately, though, I think my sister Ally and I will do a bit more traveling after the holidays... (in a slurred, British accent) but that´s a different blog altogevah (altogether).
Barcelona is nice, although not one of my favorite cities. I have had some interesting experiences though. I arrived on Tuesday afternoon. I was walking down Les Rambles from the Metro to my hostel when I noticed a small gathering. As I passed, I observed a finely-dressed man knelt down in front a small mat, performing a sort of ¨Three Card Monty,¨ except with little upside-down baskets, one of which contained a small white ball, instead of cards. I continued on to the hostel and put it in the back of my mind. Later that evening, however, I say the same man doing the Spanish-style ¨Three Card Monty.¨ I stood a little ways away and watched. The people standing around him would hand him money, pick a basket, and if they won, he´d had the money back. They kept doing this. Then a girl nearby opened her wallet and took out fifty Euros, apparently the amount that everyone was betting. She handed him the money, he flipped over the basket, and it was empty. She lost. And her reaction of disappointment somehow seemed different from the losses incurred by the other betters in the group. Not two seconds had passed when everyone standing nearby and split up and walked off in different directions. Moments later, a police van drove by. The main guy just kept walking back and forth along the street, as did the others. He and I exchanged a look. Then he returned to the little mat with his baskets and the group reconvened. I realized that all those people who were constantly betting were actually part of the scam. I also realized that there were at least two look-out guys on either side of the street to call out if police were coming. Their language was foreign. They all looked to be Eastern European. I deduced that they were from former Yugoslavia. So they continued on, the guy swiftly moving around the baskets and his cohorts pretending to pick a basket and win money. Passers-by would see the group and assume that they were other tourists or passers-by simply intrigued by the prospect of winning. Eventually, one of the look-outs called out in his language and all the hustlers slowly vanished down the street. I stayed for a bit longer before heading back to my hostel. The following night, I went to a soccer match between Barcelona and a German team. It was fun, although freezing. Afterward, I had Indian food with an Australian couple from the hostel. So by the time we returned to Les Rambles, it was pretty deserted. While the prostitutes and guys illegally selling cans of beer were out and about, the scam group was nowhere to be seen.
Yesterday, I had checked out, put my bags in the storage room, and was wandering down Les Rambles shooting some video. I passed one of many newspaper/magazine/postcard stands and there on the the other side was the ¨Three Basket Monty¨group. I took out my video camera and began to record the man shuffling around the baskets. Not a minute had passed before the group dispersed. I didn´t quite realize what was happening. The suave main man and one of his hulking hoodlums were walking past me to the right, accompanied by another guy. That guy, in plain clothes, then told me to turn off my camera and he flashed a badge at me. A police badge. Instantly I was concerned that this was another scam to steal my video camera and whatever else I had. I complied with turning off the camera, but I asked to see a photo ID. Another undercover officer was now there and he begrudgingly took out his photo ID. They both showed them to me, but I wasn´t convinced. I mean, it doesn´t take much to make a fake ID and buy a fake, realistic-looking badge. Meanwhile the crooks were emptying their pockets. The second officer asked me to open my bag and show him the contents. I asked why and he explained that maybe I had a gun and he wanted to be sure. I carefully showed him the contents. Then he asked again to see what I had videotaped. I rewound the tape way past the con-artists, to show him my video of the street performers and the trees, so he knew I was just a tourist. He watched with interest, soon accompanied by his partner. They commented in hushed voices as they pointed to the ringleader shuffling the baskets. Then they told me that if I had videotaped their faces, that I would have had to delete the whole tape. They handed me back my passport and told me not to do that again. I walked away, relieved that they weren´t fake, scamming police, and also excited that I was part of a sting operation. A little ways down the street, I saw a guy who I knew to be part of the swindling troupe, and I was tempted to return to the police and tell them. However, I didn´t want a bunch of angry, potentially-Yugoslavian criminals coming after me later that night when I returned to the hostel.
My fingers are numb from being cold, which is strange because I´m inside the apartment of my couchsuring host, Sara. I just bought my plane ticket to Paris, as I fly home from there on Tuesday. It´s strange that my return date is approaching so rapidly... well maybe it´s not approaching any faster than it was two months ago, but it´s strange that it´s so near. In Morocco, my thoughts were frequently set on being home in Tucson with my family. Now, while I´m still looking forward to seeing them and spending the holiday with them, I´m also feeling like I wish I could stay longer -- although not necessarily in Barcelona. I´ve been having such a great time for the past three months, it will be foreign to spend time in one place, when I return. Fortunately, though, I think my sister Ally and I will do a bit more traveling after the holidays... (in a slurred, British accent) but that´s a different blog altogevah (altogether).
Barcelona is nice, although not one of my favorite cities. I have had some interesting experiences though. I arrived on Tuesday afternoon. I was walking down Les Rambles from the Metro to my hostel when I noticed a small gathering. As I passed, I observed a finely-dressed man knelt down in front a small mat, performing a sort of ¨Three Card Monty,¨ except with little upside-down baskets, one of which contained a small white ball, instead of cards. I continued on to the hostel and put it in the back of my mind. Later that evening, however, I say the same man doing the Spanish-style ¨Three Card Monty.¨ I stood a little ways away and watched. The people standing around him would hand him money, pick a basket, and if they won, he´d had the money back. They kept doing this. Then a girl nearby opened her wallet and took out fifty Euros, apparently the amount that everyone was betting. She handed him the money, he flipped over the basket, and it was empty. She lost. And her reaction of disappointment somehow seemed different from the losses incurred by the other betters in the group. Not two seconds had passed when everyone standing nearby and split up and walked off in different directions. Moments later, a police van drove by. The main guy just kept walking back and forth along the street, as did the others. He and I exchanged a look. Then he returned to the little mat with his baskets and the group reconvened. I realized that all those people who were constantly betting were actually part of the scam. I also realized that there were at least two look-out guys on either side of the street to call out if police were coming. Their language was foreign. They all looked to be Eastern European. I deduced that they were from former Yugoslavia. So they continued on, the guy swiftly moving around the baskets and his cohorts pretending to pick a basket and win money. Passers-by would see the group and assume that they were other tourists or passers-by simply intrigued by the prospect of winning. Eventually, one of the look-outs called out in his language and all the hustlers slowly vanished down the street. I stayed for a bit longer before heading back to my hostel. The following night, I went to a soccer match between Barcelona and a German team. It was fun, although freezing. Afterward, I had Indian food with an Australian couple from the hostel. So by the time we returned to Les Rambles, it was pretty deserted. While the prostitutes and guys illegally selling cans of beer were out and about, the scam group was nowhere to be seen.
Yesterday, I had checked out, put my bags in the storage room, and was wandering down Les Rambles shooting some video. I passed one of many newspaper/magazine/postcard stands and there on the the other side was the ¨Three Basket Monty¨group. I took out my video camera and began to record the man shuffling around the baskets. Not a minute had passed before the group dispersed. I didn´t quite realize what was happening. The suave main man and one of his hulking hoodlums were walking past me to the right, accompanied by another guy. That guy, in plain clothes, then told me to turn off my camera and he flashed a badge at me. A police badge. Instantly I was concerned that this was another scam to steal my video camera and whatever else I had. I complied with turning off the camera, but I asked to see a photo ID. Another undercover officer was now there and he begrudgingly took out his photo ID. They both showed them to me, but I wasn´t convinced. I mean, it doesn´t take much to make a fake ID and buy a fake, realistic-looking badge. Meanwhile the crooks were emptying their pockets. The second officer asked me to open my bag and show him the contents. I asked why and he explained that maybe I had a gun and he wanted to be sure. I carefully showed him the contents. Then he asked again to see what I had videotaped. I rewound the tape way past the con-artists, to show him my video of the street performers and the trees, so he knew I was just a tourist. He watched with interest, soon accompanied by his partner. They commented in hushed voices as they pointed to the ringleader shuffling the baskets. Then they told me that if I had videotaped their faces, that I would have had to delete the whole tape. They handed me back my passport and told me not to do that again. I walked away, relieved that they weren´t fake, scamming police, and also excited that I was part of a sting operation. A little ways down the street, I saw a guy who I knew to be part of the swindling troupe, and I was tempted to return to the police and tell them. However, I didn´t want a bunch of angry, potentially-Yugoslavian criminals coming after me later that night when I returned to the hostel.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Reunion
Pamplona, Spain
I´ve spent the past forty-five minutes trying to find a cheap flight from Barcelona to Paris, as I fly home from Paris in about a week. I am here in Pamplona, having reunited with Josh, the American chef that I met in Venice and with whom I travelled for the two weeks that followed. Josh lives here, has a girlfriend whom he´s moving in with in a couple months, and he starts a new job at a restaurant tomorrow. As I type this, he is back at the apartment, preparing a Thanksgiving feast. It was our intention to spend Thanksgiving together and have a glorious meal. However, my little detour to Morocco made that impossible. So we agreed to have one now. Better late than never.
I had an incredible time in Madrid. It was straight out of a Christmastime romance movie. One night, I went out with my couchsurfing host Pablo, and his friends. There I met and connected with Ana, one of his friends. The next day, she picked me up and we wandered around the Retiro park. The dead, black trees stood huddled together. There was a small pond upon which many people rowed around in little blue boats. A gregarious puppet show, using socks and gloves with eyes, brought smiles to the faces of small, scarf-bundled children and their families. I could feel the winter wonderland excitement everywhere. We watched rented movies, cooked, cuddled, talked. It was intense and wonderful. And it was perfect timing too, because she had the day off from her busy work as an up-and-coming lawyer. Also her family, with whom she lives, was away on holiday, so we had the house to ourselves to laugh and have fun. I was very fortunate, as currently there is an exhibit of some works by my favorite artist, the Renaissance painter/engraver, Albrecht Durer. So we attended the exhibition. I Loved it. And then I left Madrid. And the movie of my life has changed.
Yesterday, Josh´s girlfriend, Eva, drove us to nearby San Sebastian, known as a beautiful, ritzy beach town. We arrived to huge gusts of wind that made walking difficult. As it started to sprinkle, we decided to escape the elements and get something to eat. We headed into a couple different bars where we ordered a drink and ate pinchos. A pincho is a small, individual appetizer generally consisting of a piece of bread with some meat and garnish on top. That is the tradition, go to a few different bars having drinks and eating pinchos. When our bellies were full, Eva lead us up a set of stairs that lead out to an oceanside rode atop a cliff. Initially it took effort to move against the wind. The powerful wind created giant waves. As the waves slammed into the cliff and rocks they flew into the air where the wind then shot them forward like a wall of water bullets. People were getting drenched. We stood near the fence and got pretty wet. Eva wanted to leave, but I wasn´t ready. I suggested to Josh that we head down to the outermost part near the ocean. He agreed and we ran excitedly to the edge. We stood with our arms outstretched as a monster wave crashed and exploded into the air like a thousand fireworks and then dove down upon us like a giant cloud of tiny furious sea beasts. We were thoroughly soaked through and through. My supposedly water-proof, Goretex shoes gurgled and sloshed with each step I took. Josh ran and I frolicked, whooping and hollering, back to where Eva stood. Then before entering the car, we stripped down the bare minimum. I slowly dozed off as we wound through the sheep-covered hillsides back to Pamplona in the warm, cozy car.
I´ve spent the past forty-five minutes trying to find a cheap flight from Barcelona to Paris, as I fly home from Paris in about a week. I am here in Pamplona, having reunited with Josh, the American chef that I met in Venice and with whom I travelled for the two weeks that followed. Josh lives here, has a girlfriend whom he´s moving in with in a couple months, and he starts a new job at a restaurant tomorrow. As I type this, he is back at the apartment, preparing a Thanksgiving feast. It was our intention to spend Thanksgiving together and have a glorious meal. However, my little detour to Morocco made that impossible. So we agreed to have one now. Better late than never.
I had an incredible time in Madrid. It was straight out of a Christmastime romance movie. One night, I went out with my couchsurfing host Pablo, and his friends. There I met and connected with Ana, one of his friends. The next day, she picked me up and we wandered around the Retiro park. The dead, black trees stood huddled together. There was a small pond upon which many people rowed around in little blue boats. A gregarious puppet show, using socks and gloves with eyes, brought smiles to the faces of small, scarf-bundled children and their families. I could feel the winter wonderland excitement everywhere. We watched rented movies, cooked, cuddled, talked. It was intense and wonderful. And it was perfect timing too, because she had the day off from her busy work as an up-and-coming lawyer. Also her family, with whom she lives, was away on holiday, so we had the house to ourselves to laugh and have fun. I was very fortunate, as currently there is an exhibit of some works by my favorite artist, the Renaissance painter/engraver, Albrecht Durer. So we attended the exhibition. I Loved it. And then I left Madrid. And the movie of my life has changed.
Yesterday, Josh´s girlfriend, Eva, drove us to nearby San Sebastian, known as a beautiful, ritzy beach town. We arrived to huge gusts of wind that made walking difficult. As it started to sprinkle, we decided to escape the elements and get something to eat. We headed into a couple different bars where we ordered a drink and ate pinchos. A pincho is a small, individual appetizer generally consisting of a piece of bread with some meat and garnish on top. That is the tradition, go to a few different bars having drinks and eating pinchos. When our bellies were full, Eva lead us up a set of stairs that lead out to an oceanside rode atop a cliff. Initially it took effort to move against the wind. The powerful wind created giant waves. As the waves slammed into the cliff and rocks they flew into the air where the wind then shot them forward like a wall of water bullets. People were getting drenched. We stood near the fence and got pretty wet. Eva wanted to leave, but I wasn´t ready. I suggested to Josh that we head down to the outermost part near the ocean. He agreed and we ran excitedly to the edge. We stood with our arms outstretched as a monster wave crashed and exploded into the air like a thousand fireworks and then dove down upon us like a giant cloud of tiny furious sea beasts. We were thoroughly soaked through and through. My supposedly water-proof, Goretex shoes gurgled and sloshed with each step I took. Josh ran and I frolicked, whooping and hollering, back to where Eva stood. Then before entering the car, we stripped down the bare minimum. I slowly dozed off as we wound through the sheep-covered hillsides back to Pamplona in the warm, cozy car.
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
M'a ssalama Morocco! Hola España! (Goodbye Morocco. Hello Spain.)
Madrid, Spain
I´m sitting in the apartment of my Couchsurfing host, Pablo. I just finished eating a bowl of cereal, which is a foreign treat, as I´ve had soup and bread or bananas for breakfast for the past two weeks. I arrived last night on a plane from Marrakech. After collecting my bag and exiting the baggage area, it was very strange to not have eight guys try to offer me a taxi, a guide around the city, or some "good hashish." It´s funny how we become accustomed to the environment we're in. Last night at Pablo´s place, I was eating some fried fishsticks -- which tasted and felt more like cheese sticks -- and I realized that I was using a fork. I wanted to throw it down and use my hand, yet here in this civilized country, that seemed like a strange thing to do. Even the thought of wearing my zilaba tonight when it´s cold seems strange... although I have nothing else, so I will anyway.
My last night and day in Morocco were probably the best anyone could have. That night, I met Abdulhaziz at his shop. After closing up, I climbed onto the back of his motorbike, grabbed onto him, and we raced through the bustling, windy streets of the medina. It was unbelievably amazing! It was such a thrill. We met Abdoughani at his shop and hung out for a bit before he closed up. Then we hopped on the motos again and sped off through town to a little yogurt and fruit drink cafe that belonged to Hassan, another of the friends that I had met the night before, when offered tea. We went in and sat down. Over the course of several hours we drank spicy tea, ate egg and cheese sandwiches, talked, laughed, posed for pictures, and sang -- most of which occured in Arabic, but was enjoyable nonetheless. Haj -- Hassan´s old, dark-skinned uncle with a huge, rotting-teeth smile and a little white skullcap -- was the jolliest Moroccan I have ever met. It was such a pleasure to sit next to him and watch him drink his tea with huge, intentional slurps and a bang of the glass on the table, or clap his hands and sing with his usual heart-warming smile. Abdoughani told me that they all get together every night in summer, there at the cafe, and every other night in winter. Additionally, none of them drink, do drugs or smoke cigarrettes. I thoroughly enjoyed my time with them, before scooting back to the Place Djemma al Fna, the main square, to drop me off at my hotel.
Yesterday morning, after having a sun-soaked breakfast including fresh-squeezed orange juice and mint tea, on the rooftop terrace of my hotel overlooking the Place, I headed off to say farewell to my new friends. First I stopped at Abdulhaziz´s shop. I sat and we chatted for a bit. I returned to the hammam place to give Muhammed, the guy who cleaned me, more money, as it was suggested to do so the night before by Abdoughani. Muhammed seemed very happy and I was glad that I did so. Then I said farewell to Abdulhaziz and set off to see Abdoughani, with my giant, present-laden backpack, as well as my smaller day pack, and my new, old leather bag. When I arrived he was pleased to see me, as it was early in the afternoon and he thought I wasn´t coming anymore. I gave him a couple books in English that I've been carting around my whole trip and haven't read. We sat and talked for awhile. Then it occured to me that rather than worrying about stuffing my backpack into my leather bag -- as only one carry-on was allowed on the flight -- I could give the backpack -- which was kind of falling apart and I probably would have disposed of in the US -- to Abdoughani. So I pointed out its flaws and offered it to him. He accepted it. Then he gave me a couple small things to give to my mom and sister, as I had showed him pictures of them earlier. He asked if I was hungry and I admitted I was so he disappeared for awhile and returned with two pieces of bread stuffed with skewer-grilled pieces of turkey that tasted like propane; although I enjoyed it because I was grateful for his generosity and to be eating with a new friend. After bringing me a couple boxes of tea and explaining how to make tea, Moroccan style, I gathered up my things. We said farewell and he told me he´d call on New Year´s Eve. I joyfully walked back to the bus area, smiling at the conspicuous whispers to sell me hash. At the airport, there were free toilets -- there was even a sign saying so. And there was toilet paper! I didn´t have to use my own. It was quite a treat. I felt a real sense of peace, and a bit of thirst, as I boarded the plane to depart from the strange yet wonderful land of Morocco.
I´m sitting in the apartment of my Couchsurfing host, Pablo. I just finished eating a bowl of cereal, which is a foreign treat, as I´ve had soup and bread or bananas for breakfast for the past two weeks. I arrived last night on a plane from Marrakech. After collecting my bag and exiting the baggage area, it was very strange to not have eight guys try to offer me a taxi, a guide around the city, or some "good hashish." It´s funny how we become accustomed to the environment we're in. Last night at Pablo´s place, I was eating some fried fishsticks -- which tasted and felt more like cheese sticks -- and I realized that I was using a fork. I wanted to throw it down and use my hand, yet here in this civilized country, that seemed like a strange thing to do. Even the thought of wearing my zilaba tonight when it´s cold seems strange... although I have nothing else, so I will anyway.
My last night and day in Morocco were probably the best anyone could have. That night, I met Abdulhaziz at his shop. After closing up, I climbed onto the back of his motorbike, grabbed onto him, and we raced through the bustling, windy streets of the medina. It was unbelievably amazing! It was such a thrill. We met Abdoughani at his shop and hung out for a bit before he closed up. Then we hopped on the motos again and sped off through town to a little yogurt and fruit drink cafe that belonged to Hassan, another of the friends that I had met the night before, when offered tea. We went in and sat down. Over the course of several hours we drank spicy tea, ate egg and cheese sandwiches, talked, laughed, posed for pictures, and sang -- most of which occured in Arabic, but was enjoyable nonetheless. Haj -- Hassan´s old, dark-skinned uncle with a huge, rotting-teeth smile and a little white skullcap -- was the jolliest Moroccan I have ever met. It was such a pleasure to sit next to him and watch him drink his tea with huge, intentional slurps and a bang of the glass on the table, or clap his hands and sing with his usual heart-warming smile. Abdoughani told me that they all get together every night in summer, there at the cafe, and every other night in winter. Additionally, none of them drink, do drugs or smoke cigarrettes. I thoroughly enjoyed my time with them, before scooting back to the Place Djemma al Fna, the main square, to drop me off at my hotel.
Yesterday morning, after having a sun-soaked breakfast including fresh-squeezed orange juice and mint tea, on the rooftop terrace of my hotel overlooking the Place, I headed off to say farewell to my new friends. First I stopped at Abdulhaziz´s shop. I sat and we chatted for a bit. I returned to the hammam place to give Muhammed, the guy who cleaned me, more money, as it was suggested to do so the night before by Abdoughani. Muhammed seemed very happy and I was glad that I did so. Then I said farewell to Abdulhaziz and set off to see Abdoughani, with my giant, present-laden backpack, as well as my smaller day pack, and my new, old leather bag. When I arrived he was pleased to see me, as it was early in the afternoon and he thought I wasn´t coming anymore. I gave him a couple books in English that I've been carting around my whole trip and haven't read. We sat and talked for awhile. Then it occured to me that rather than worrying about stuffing my backpack into my leather bag -- as only one carry-on was allowed on the flight -- I could give the backpack -- which was kind of falling apart and I probably would have disposed of in the US -- to Abdoughani. So I pointed out its flaws and offered it to him. He accepted it. Then he gave me a couple small things to give to my mom and sister, as I had showed him pictures of them earlier. He asked if I was hungry and I admitted I was so he disappeared for awhile and returned with two pieces of bread stuffed with skewer-grilled pieces of turkey that tasted like propane; although I enjoyed it because I was grateful for his generosity and to be eating with a new friend. After bringing me a couple boxes of tea and explaining how to make tea, Moroccan style, I gathered up my things. We said farewell and he told me he´d call on New Year´s Eve. I joyfully walked back to the bus area, smiling at the conspicuous whispers to sell me hash. At the airport, there were free toilets -- there was even a sign saying so. And there was toilet paper! I didn´t have to use my own. It was quite a treat. I felt a real sense of peace, and a bit of thirst, as I boarded the plane to depart from the strange yet wonderful land of Morocco.
Monday, December 3, 2007
Escaping the Tourism
Marrakech, Morocco
Taking a deep breath... I feel pretty relaxed although there's still a tiny bit of tension in my stomach. I arrived in Marrakech the night before last. I entered the main sqare with an Italian guy I met on the bus. It was totally crowded with people with a huge cloud of smoke floating from the center. Upon closer inspection, however, I was very disappointed. There were tons of identical food, orange juice and dried fruit carts and stands. And bustling about in and around the stands were tons and tons of tourists. The area with the snake charmers and story-tellers were nothing more than a person sitting near a battery-operated lamp doing their thing, with people standing around. After paying a tourist price for a meager amount of food, I felt very upset that I had left beautiful, peaceful Essouira for this large African tourist attraction. And I missed the Moroccan friends I'd made in Essouira. However before going to bed, I journalled and decided I would keep myself open to having a great experience.
So yesterday morning, I went around from hotel to hotel in search of a single room, as the Italian guy had left early for a flight. I found one, put my stuff down and set off into the winding medina. Part of the Moroccan tradition is to barter for items, however this can be irritating as in most places, the first price they say is insanely high. Several times I felt very discouraged from even attempting to barter and I walked away. If they start high then even if you start relatively low, you bargain to the middle and you're still paying more than it's worth. I bought things, including some babush - the Moroccan pointed slippers. Eventually, when I was perhaps near the heart of the medina, I asked two little boys, one of whom wanted my watch, where I could find some food, the kind that locals ate. They showed me to a smokey, little intersection filled with holes-in-the-walls that had a stove or vat of soup. I approached one and ordered a little bowl of beans and bread. I then sat on my small, plastic stool and ate, alongside Moroccans. That is truly my favorite kind of dining experience. I continued meandering through the medina until I stumbled upon an area that wasn't filled with shops or tourists. Instead there were lots of locals working away at creating the things sold in the shops. I passed a man in an archway that I had seen earlier near the two little boys. He brought me back to the "studio." The room reaked of glue and it was a bit intoxicating upon entry. One of the guys offered me a seat and I watched as the four, later five, guys in the room cut, glued, hammered and sewed together babush. It was a little babush factory. I stayed for awhile, journalling and then shooting some video, with their permission of course. I decided to do a little act of abundance, so I went out and bought some pastries, one for each of them and me, and brought them back. They were very pleased and they had big smiles on their faces as they gnoshed on their treats. Later, I bought a scarf from a suit-wearing man whose shop was classy and clean, unlike others in the souks, thus making bartering a bit foreign. I realized that I overpaid, but I was okay with it. It was a pleasant shopping experience for once. I was glancing at some postcards, when a man inside the shop of the postcards offered me a glass of tea. My initial instinct was to decline, as that's often a tactic to sell things. However, I looked inside the classy ceramic store and saw four guys sitting around enjoying tea. So I agreed. I sat down and talked with them for awhile. They were extremely friendly and one of the guys spoke English very well. I showed them all the things I bought and they gave me the least amount that each would sell for... overall, I came out ahead. Although, I learned that my babush are not of very good quality and I must have better soles put on them in the US before I wear them. We continued talking for awhile and I asked about hammam, the Moroccan bathhouse thing. They wrote down directions for me and gave me a postcard with a picture of an archway nearby the hammam place. I agreed to meet Abdouaziz and he would take me there. So this morning around 10:30, I met Abdouaziz. I bought a bar of soap, a little bag of black, squishy soap, and a green scrubbing mit. Then I headed into the hammam house. I stripped down to my shorts and was lead into the hot room by my washer, Muhammed. He lathered me with soap and I sat on this insanely hot floor. I literally had to stand up every few minutes because it burnt my bum so. Then my feet would hurt, so I had to sit back down. Eventually, we went into the medium temperature room, where it was bareable to sit on the floor. He poured water over me and then proceeded to scrub me thoroughly with a previously purchased scrubbing mit. It was very abrasive though refreshing, as I laid there. I tried to stay present in the moment, but my thoughts kept wandering towards tiny bits of fear and regret. I'm really grateful to have met so many nice people and to be making friends in Morocco. I think the fact that I came here after being away almost two and a half months made it a bit more challenging... not to mention that I don't speak French or Arabic. However, this has been a very positive experience. I have been provided the opportunity to look at myself and examine some of my fears that have come up. Now I can release them. Although painful at times, it will be beneficial in the long run. And who knows, I may be living in Essouira at some point in the future.
Taking a deep breath... I feel pretty relaxed although there's still a tiny bit of tension in my stomach. I arrived in Marrakech the night before last. I entered the main sqare with an Italian guy I met on the bus. It was totally crowded with people with a huge cloud of smoke floating from the center. Upon closer inspection, however, I was very disappointed. There were tons of identical food, orange juice and dried fruit carts and stands. And bustling about in and around the stands were tons and tons of tourists. The area with the snake charmers and story-tellers were nothing more than a person sitting near a battery-operated lamp doing their thing, with people standing around. After paying a tourist price for a meager amount of food, I felt very upset that I had left beautiful, peaceful Essouira for this large African tourist attraction. And I missed the Moroccan friends I'd made in Essouira. However before going to bed, I journalled and decided I would keep myself open to having a great experience.
So yesterday morning, I went around from hotel to hotel in search of a single room, as the Italian guy had left early for a flight. I found one, put my stuff down and set off into the winding medina. Part of the Moroccan tradition is to barter for items, however this can be irritating as in most places, the first price they say is insanely high. Several times I felt very discouraged from even attempting to barter and I walked away. If they start high then even if you start relatively low, you bargain to the middle and you're still paying more than it's worth. I bought things, including some babush - the Moroccan pointed slippers. Eventually, when I was perhaps near the heart of the medina, I asked two little boys, one of whom wanted my watch, where I could find some food, the kind that locals ate. They showed me to a smokey, little intersection filled with holes-in-the-walls that had a stove or vat of soup. I approached one and ordered a little bowl of beans and bread. I then sat on my small, plastic stool and ate, alongside Moroccans. That is truly my favorite kind of dining experience. I continued meandering through the medina until I stumbled upon an area that wasn't filled with shops or tourists. Instead there were lots of locals working away at creating the things sold in the shops. I passed a man in an archway that I had seen earlier near the two little boys. He brought me back to the "studio." The room reaked of glue and it was a bit intoxicating upon entry. One of the guys offered me a seat and I watched as the four, later five, guys in the room cut, glued, hammered and sewed together babush. It was a little babush factory. I stayed for awhile, journalling and then shooting some video, with their permission of course. I decided to do a little act of abundance, so I went out and bought some pastries, one for each of them and me, and brought them back. They were very pleased and they had big smiles on their faces as they gnoshed on their treats. Later, I bought a scarf from a suit-wearing man whose shop was classy and clean, unlike others in the souks, thus making bartering a bit foreign. I realized that I overpaid, but I was okay with it. It was a pleasant shopping experience for once. I was glancing at some postcards, when a man inside the shop of the postcards offered me a glass of tea. My initial instinct was to decline, as that's often a tactic to sell things. However, I looked inside the classy ceramic store and saw four guys sitting around enjoying tea. So I agreed. I sat down and talked with them for awhile. They were extremely friendly and one of the guys spoke English very well. I showed them all the things I bought and they gave me the least amount that each would sell for... overall, I came out ahead. Although, I learned that my babush are not of very good quality and I must have better soles put on them in the US before I wear them. We continued talking for awhile and I asked about hammam, the Moroccan bathhouse thing. They wrote down directions for me and gave me a postcard with a picture of an archway nearby the hammam place. I agreed to meet Abdouaziz and he would take me there. So this morning around 10:30, I met Abdouaziz. I bought a bar of soap, a little bag of black, squishy soap, and a green scrubbing mit. Then I headed into the hammam house. I stripped down to my shorts and was lead into the hot room by my washer, Muhammed. He lathered me with soap and I sat on this insanely hot floor. I literally had to stand up every few minutes because it burnt my bum so. Then my feet would hurt, so I had to sit back down. Eventually, we went into the medium temperature room, where it was bareable to sit on the floor. He poured water over me and then proceeded to scrub me thoroughly with a previously purchased scrubbing mit. It was very abrasive though refreshing, as I laid there. I tried to stay present in the moment, but my thoughts kept wandering towards tiny bits of fear and regret. I'm really grateful to have met so many nice people and to be making friends in Morocco. I think the fact that I came here after being away almost two and a half months made it a bit more challenging... not to mention that I don't speak French or Arabic. However, this has been a very positive experience. I have been provided the opportunity to look at myself and examine some of my fears that have come up. Now I can release them. Although painful at times, it will be beneficial in the long run. And who knows, I may be living in Essouira at some point in the future.
Saturday, December 1, 2007
Sardine Feast
Essouira, Morocco
My hands still smell faintly of sardines. I was on the rooftop terrace of my hotel to watch the glorious sunset -basically a ritual in Essouira- when I met an Irish lad named Louie. Then the English guy, Chris, came up and met Louie as well. Then a Slovenian guy, named Dimitri, joined us. After watching the flaming disk slip behind the horizon, the four of us set off into the streets. We wandered for awhile, seeking out a zilaba shop, which we eventually found. Then we wandered some more until we were hungry. I suggested we stop by the port and ask my sardine-hooking friend, Ahmed, where we could go for a cheap fish dinner. When we arrived where he usually works, and I asked for him, his coworkers said that he was at the Mosque, praying. We hung out for a few minutes and then I asked a sardine boy of about 17 where we could go for fish. He asked what we wanted to eat, sardines? We said no. He suggested we just go into the medina. It was a vague response so we began to talk amongst ourselves. I mentioned the possibility of buying some fish from the market there and taking it to Abderachim to cook for us. No sooner had I said that then the boy approached me -I didn't even realize he'd left- and handed me a black plastic bag containing several kilos of fresh, salted sardines. I thanked him and told him to send my greetings to Ahmed. We set of for Abderachim's Kitchen, as I fondly refer to it. -- I actually had lunch there earlier this afternoon, which consisted of cous cous with vegetables and chicken, accompanied by milk which was quite possibly spoiled as it was lumpy and tastes strange. I drank it reluctantly. And of course I ate with my right hand, denying the use of a fork. It is the custom here to eat with the right hand, and I must say it makes the dining experience much more enjoyable. I can taste the difference between using my hand and connecting with the food and using a cold, foreign object that puts distance between me and my source of nourishment. After eating, I just hung out for awhile, out front, drinking mint tea and writing. -- So we arrived at the Kitchen and the Irish guy explained in French to Abdie, as I will now refer to him for for the sake of space, that we were given the sardines and had nowhere to cook them. He then added that they were a gift for Abdie. Then we sat down at a table outside, unsure of which contradicting message Abdie would believe. We ordered soup and waited as Abdie set up a little metal bowl full of hot coals and proceeded to load the sardines into a little griller. He was cookin' 'em up for us! I was very excited. I took lots of pictures and video and the English guy was embarassed or irritated or both. Then after the sardines were piled on a platter in the center of the table, I dug in. Quite salty, but good. This was Morocco! This was life! I was very content, sitting there in my warm zilaba, with a belly full of sardines and soup. Essouira has really been a wonderful experience for me. I was going to stay another day, but I think I will head off to Marrakech tomorrow, so that I will have a couple days there. Now that I've gotten over the homesickness and culture shock, I'm really starting to enjoy it here. A little idea popped into my mind today, maybe I will live here in the future. Yes, I like that idea.
My hands still smell faintly of sardines. I was on the rooftop terrace of my hotel to watch the glorious sunset -basically a ritual in Essouira- when I met an Irish lad named Louie. Then the English guy, Chris, came up and met Louie as well. Then a Slovenian guy, named Dimitri, joined us. After watching the flaming disk slip behind the horizon, the four of us set off into the streets. We wandered for awhile, seeking out a zilaba shop, which we eventually found. Then we wandered some more until we were hungry. I suggested we stop by the port and ask my sardine-hooking friend, Ahmed, where we could go for a cheap fish dinner. When we arrived where he usually works, and I asked for him, his coworkers said that he was at the Mosque, praying. We hung out for a few minutes and then I asked a sardine boy of about 17 where we could go for fish. He asked what we wanted to eat, sardines? We said no. He suggested we just go into the medina. It was a vague response so we began to talk amongst ourselves. I mentioned the possibility of buying some fish from the market there and taking it to Abderachim to cook for us. No sooner had I said that then the boy approached me -I didn't even realize he'd left- and handed me a black plastic bag containing several kilos of fresh, salted sardines. I thanked him and told him to send my greetings to Ahmed. We set of for Abderachim's Kitchen, as I fondly refer to it. -- I actually had lunch there earlier this afternoon, which consisted of cous cous with vegetables and chicken, accompanied by milk which was quite possibly spoiled as it was lumpy and tastes strange. I drank it reluctantly. And of course I ate with my right hand, denying the use of a fork. It is the custom here to eat with the right hand, and I must say it makes the dining experience much more enjoyable. I can taste the difference between using my hand and connecting with the food and using a cold, foreign object that puts distance between me and my source of nourishment. After eating, I just hung out for awhile, out front, drinking mint tea and writing. -- So we arrived at the Kitchen and the Irish guy explained in French to Abdie, as I will now refer to him for for the sake of space, that we were given the sardines and had nowhere to cook them. He then added that they were a gift for Abdie. Then we sat down at a table outside, unsure of which contradicting message Abdie would believe. We ordered soup and waited as Abdie set up a little metal bowl full of hot coals and proceeded to load the sardines into a little griller. He was cookin' 'em up for us! I was very excited. I took lots of pictures and video and the English guy was embarassed or irritated or both. Then after the sardines were piled on a platter in the center of the table, I dug in. Quite salty, but good. This was Morocco! This was life! I was very content, sitting there in my warm zilaba, with a belly full of sardines and soup. Essouira has really been a wonderful experience for me. I was going to stay another day, but I think I will head off to Marrakech tomorrow, so that I will have a couple days there. Now that I've gotten over the homesickness and culture shock, I'm really starting to enjoy it here. A little idea popped into my mind today, maybe I will live here in the future. Yes, I like that idea.
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