Paris: Something for Everyone

After the comfort of my Spanglish skills, France seemed a bit well, intimidating. Not that I don’t think pointing and smiling can get you pretty far but if I were to run into someone who didn’t speak an ounce of English, well then I would just be shit out of luck. Case in point, as glamorous as it sounds, Jenny and I spent our first night in Paris at….the laundrymat. You never want to have to give up a night exploring a fantastic foreign city in exchange for practicing your domesticity but that’s precisely what had to happen. After turning my underwear inside out for the third day in a row we figured it was time. Though, I love how we picked the country where I couldn’t decipher one written word of it even if there was a gun to my head to set out for a place where you are forced to read all of the instructions because the entire place is unmanned. Standing around staring at the literal writing on the wall and feeling like complete dumbasses for a good 5 minutes, some American girls finally came to our aid. Thank God for that or it would have been another week of unwashed clothes before we finally got to an English speaking country and I’m afraid I would have arrived smelling exactly like my frizzy-haired, sparkly- purple-clog-wearing friend, and well, that’s just not the kind of impression I like to make.

Sidenote: For some reason I crave Snickers when I’m in foreign countries. When I lived in Australia I wanted them all the time. So much so that my darling roommate, Brad, got me a ton of them for Christmas. It’s just odd because I rarely eat them in the States. Anyhow, during the laundry adventure I set out to find one and ended up buying one from a man who was camped out in his tiny market smoking a hookah. I’m sorry, I thought I had left Morocco. But there he was, smoking away. Sir, do you think you could please put down the hookah and hook a girl up with a Snickers. Merci. He finally smelled what I was stepping in and moved some boxes and other crap around to reveal a box of what I’d been searching for. The lesson here is that whether your Snickers comes from a CVS in the good old US of A, your cute roommate in Australia, or a hookah-wielding and highly disorganized market owner in Paris, a Snickers is a Snickers is a Snickers and wow, are they good!

One day while exploring the city and really making use of a 3 day Metro pass, Jenny and I were apparently and unknowingly cast as the new judges of PARISIAN IDOL: Metro Addition. While sitting on the train minding our own business, suddenly there was a ruckus and this girl started shouting. I assumed she was talking to a friend further down on the train and didn’t think much of it, that was until 50 Cent’s Magic Stick kicked on. One minute I’m riding the Metro, the next minute I’m listening to a girl rap in French to 50 Cent. What the shit? Apparently, she carted around this deafening speaker and assumed everyone wanted to listen to her mad rap skills and then pay her for it. What was a pleasant ride turned into a, “Is this really happening to me? moment” in the blink of an eye. Poor girl didn’t make much cash on our train so she quickly jumped off and was on to annoy the next round of passengers on a different line. I wish them luck. Truth be told, at least she was doing that and not working the corner somewhere, though I’m bound to think it would have been much more profitable for her. As if one wasn’t enough, our next train was accompanied by…wait for it….no really, it’s good….wait….a polka band! Seriously, accordion, trombone, clarinet. These men were having a grand old time and I have to say, so was I! I never knew I liked polka so much until I literally couldn’t stop bouncing to it and finally Jenny said, “Oh My God, stop.” It’s true, everyone was looking at me but that music was just so catchy and after the French female Fitty (dig that alliteration?) this was a Godsend. Now, you’re obviously thinking at this point my run in with Parisian Idol has certainly ended. Well my friends, you would be wrong. Last train of the night, we hop on….La La Bamba! La La Bamba! Oh yes, you visualized correctly, a slicked back-haired Latin man karaokeing to La Bamba, and why not right? Let’s really end this night off with a bang. Every city has street performers, but not every city can hit you with this kind of musical awakening all in one day via the metro no less. Paris, I thank you for it.

Here’s what else happened in France. I became impregnated with a crepe baby. There I am feeling so Parisian, wandering along the Seine between Notre Dame and the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre to my right, chowing down (in a very posh way of course, this is Paris after all) on a selection of pastries and it hit me, this crepe baby is expanding at far too rapid of a rate to keep under control. That was my cue. Paris, I loved you but in the hopes of not appearing as a woman in my third trimester I’m afraid it’s time to Hit the Road Jack!, or Jacques I suppose if I’m being regionally correct (which I always try to be.) Au Revior! Me and my new large ass will miss you.


And NowEuropeToDate…

Le Fork Bandit

Tonight, I took on an alter ego. I’m to be known from here on out, but only in the tightest of circles (including the thousands of people I’m sure are reading this blog) as, Le Fork Bandit. The mission was no easy task, but I accepted it. Let me first give you some necessary background information…

Before embarking on this European adventure, I was working hard for my money, so hard for my money at Fleming’s Steakhouse in Indianapolis with a seriously crazy cast of characters. I didn’t work there long but sort of immediately fell in love with these people and the idiosyncrasies of the place itself. If you have ever worked at a restaurant, they all have them, and this was no exception. One particular mystery of the restaurant was known as the Double Fork Bandit. You see, at Fleming’s we remove the appetizer/salad fork off of the table before the salad is served because new chilled forks are actually presented with the salad itself (Fancy schmancy, I know!). This being said, you end up constantly carting around forks. Well, this phantom character they call the Double Fork Bandit is always leaving a fork duo behind…at the soda machine, at the Aloha station, next to the bar. One minute they aren’t there and then the next minute…he strikes!...like a bat out of hell….you never saw it coming…and then you are left, as you can imagine, mystified because as much as you want to and as hard as you try, you can never seem to put a face to the perpetrator. So Double Fork Bandit, whoever you are, because I’m so impressed by your righteous skill set, this one goes out to you…

THE MISSION:

One Saturday at work I was setting up my tables, making them look visually perfect as we are trained to do, and I noticed that the bane of my existence had once again taken up residence on my table. The culprit was a fork, and not any fork, a mismatched salad fork that does not look like any of the other silverware in the restaurant. This bit of proof that Satan does exist kept appearing on my tables. Finally, I’d had it. I had removed this thing far too many times and there it was again, all shiny and looking up at me, just mocking me. I seized that fork from its platform of ridicule and took it straight over to my boss, Hunter. “Hunter!” I said. “This fork does not match any of the forks in this whole place and it keeps ending up on my tables. May I please get rid of it?!” Hunter, clearly empathizing with the sheer frustration pulsing through my veins, told me I could take it home, better yet take it to Europe with me. At the thought of this, I jokingly decided to make some other waiter’s hell and we decided that I should leave it on a table in France. There it was…my mission, all laid out for me. Obviously, there was no turning back now.

THE PLAN:

I needed a restaurant in Paris that had a) a view of the Eiffel Tower as proof that I didn’t just pull a fast one and leave this thing at an airport Chili’s To Go, b) an unsuspecting waiter, and c) a really fantastic disguise so they couldn’t trace it back to me (deportation is not a good look for me).

THE SCENE:

Le Dome Café…excellent view.


THE WAITER:

Garcon (even I couldn’t make that up). Totally unsuspecting, and kind of a dick. Even better, as I was about to make his life a living hell. Revenge is a dish best served cold!...or to a random waiter in Paris who has never harmed you but just happened to cross your European itinerary on the wrong day.



THE SET UP:

Alex, the American tourist. He’ll never suspect a thing.


Alex, incognito. Le Fork Bandit has emerged!


THE FOLLOW THROUGH:

Act clueless and American. Smile a lot. Distract him with my charm as well as the flash of my ever present camera. Stick that flash straight into his eyes if I must. No stone unturned! Order, eat, and leave that tip with a little something extra….BAM!

SUCCESS:

You just got forked you French F*#K!

Le Fork Bandit strikes again!!!...or, for the first time, but hey, who’s counting?

AndNowEuropeToDate…

Random Ramblings from the Ramblas

Barcelona, what an absolutely fantastic city… The blue waters of the Mediterranean lapping at the sand on Barceloneta beach, the hoards of people strolling up and down Las Ramblas, the fancy and far-too-expensive stores of L’Eixample, the twists and turns of the Gothic Quarter, and the whimsical touches by Antoni Gaudi covering the city. With so much space conquered, so many sights seen, I’ll just go ahead and hit you with my random ramblings from the Ramblas…

1. Mini Kazoos. Barcelona, much like every other city, has hundreds of people trying to sell you little trinkets that they think you’re dying to have. Case in point, the mini kazoo. I’m not sure how this type of thing actually says BARCELONA in someone’s mind but apparently these things sell. They are tiny little things that you hide in your mouth but when you blow them they sound like kazoos only much higher pitched and not nearly as pleasant as an actual kazoo. (How good is the word Kazoo!?) The people selling these mind numbing toys were EVERYWHERE on Las Ramblas. What should have been a pleasant stroll was made so anxiety inducing daily because these guys would not leave you alone. I’ve never come so close to punching anyone in my life. If I never hear another one of those things again, I assure you, I’ll die happy.


2. Siestas. From all of this travel so far I’ve discovered one very important lesson (as witnessed in my previous post), you can either be a day tourist or a night tourist, you cannot be both. With all the walking and sight seeing and planning and eating done in a day it is virtually impossible to have the energy to then go out at night. This is why I feel Spain is really on the ball. This whole siesta thing is beyond crucial. I believe there was only one day we didn’t siesta in Spain…never again. I’m a big sleeper as it is. Love to sleep. Love to nap. This culture is made for me. While I’m petitioning Congress for cerveza dispensing vending machines, you can rest assured I’ll be adding in a little something about the value of an implemented siesta program as well.



3. Gawdy or Gaudi? You may have heard of this man they call Gaudi and if not, I’m here to tell you he’s a total whackadoo…in the most awesome way possible. He designed structures like Casa Battlo, Parc Guell, and the world famous, Sagrada Familia. This man is freaking crazy and I love it. I’m sort of shocked that Barcelona was down with him designing what he did for the city considering the time period. I mean you would think this man was tripping on acid. His gingerbread like designs make you feel like you’re walking through Candyland and let’s be honest, I could really get into that. Sagrada Familia was completely awesome. The front looks ancient and like it’s melting while the inside is completely innovative and nothing like any cathedral I’d ever imagine. What’s so interesting is that though Gaudi died years ago, the people of Barcelona are so committed to his vision that people work on this cathedral for years knowing they will never see the final product. It’s meant to take another quarter of a century to complete. Seriously, 250 more years. Sheesh! I guess that means I won’t be seeing it either…unless something scientific and crazy happens here in the next few decades, somehow I doubt it though.



4. Nudity. What’s awesome is laying out on the beach in Barcelona, Spain. What’s not awesome is when you see a guy looking at you from across the way and then you realize he’s naked…on the main beach…naked. THAT is all.


And NowEuropeToDate...

Drinking and Touristing Do Not Mix

Let me paint you a picture…

You pop up in your bed, head from pillow to vertical in one far too quick motion. You’re sure it must be the middle of the afternoon and you’ve missed all your planned activities for the day. Your head is throbbing as if someone has done batting practice on your skull. Your mouth is so dry you’re sure you’ve somehow had a Freaky Friday moment with that Moroccan camel you rode as it wanders parched through the Sahara, no water in sight. Your voice sounds like a dude. And best yet, you remember 24 year-old Anders from Norway wanted to sleep in your bunk bed. Awesome.

Welcome to Barcelona!

Here’s what happened…

Our first night in Barcelona, Jenny and I had a great plan intact. We were going to go to the huge market off of La Rambla, pick up some picnic-y things for dinner and head up to Montjuic to see the Magic Fountains. All ready to go, we head outside and all of a sudden, it’s raining. After the bluest of blue days, it just starts coming down. Unfortunately for us we had no Plan B and an umbrella did not go with my outfit! So there we are, looking cute, yet running through the rain. All of us ladies know, this combination does not mix. Naturally, we did the only thing that made any logical sense….we took solace in a bar…an Irish bar no less…in Spain. (I’ll call it a small tribute to our grandmother.) Just as I was sitting on my bar stool, drinking my beer, feeling a little bit sorry that our plans were ruined, a group of Danes came in…wasted. They were in town for the FC Barcelona game and REALLY enjoying their trip. Needless to say, we spent our evening pounding the most delicious mojitos and hanging out with a large group of Danes….in an Irish bar….in Spain. The evening was a great success, so much fun and quite memorable….ok maybe not sooo memorable. Not quite what we expected for the evening but hey, best laid plans am I right?

To add even more of a bonus to this one, after knocking back multiple Excedrine and looking for food to soak up that alcohol like we were on a mission from God, I looked down into my bag to find it full of coasters. Coasters, everywhere. One bag…full of coasters. Apparently, Anders from Norway wanted to do a little decorating under his glass coffee table and I was willing to help out. What is my life?!

And NowEuropeToDate...

V is for Valencia and Very Awkward Hostel Situations

I hate to say this but Valencia never had a chance with me. As you may have realized after my love letter to Granada combined with my excitement to get to Barcelona, whatever city fell in between was just in a world of hurt when it came to its status in my eyes. I will say, Valencia was warm, sunny, had some gorgeous squares, and some seriously great ice cream. I found that all we did seemed to be sit in said squares and eat and eat…..and eat. It was clearly the refueling leg of this journey. Another nice part about our trip to the Big V was that I got my first chance to get these toes in the Mediterranean. Always nice to take advantage of a new waterway.
As I’ve pretty much already explained all we did in Valencia, I’m going to take this opportunity to give you a glimpse into the often unglamorous world of hostel crashing. So far we’ve been extremely fortunate. We’ve gotten private rooms everywhere except in Sevilla with American Anthony and the 4 Asian grandmothers as you’ll recall. While backpacking Europe screams FLY BY THE SEAT OF YOUR PANTS, I’m here to tell you that I’m a planner like my mother. Gretch, the G, ever heard of her?? Her preparation and organizational abilities are legendary. Well, from time to time I can be a chip off the very beautiful and terribly youthful block. However, on this occasion I diverted from the norm. Jenny and I were a bit up in the air about our Valencia plans so I dare say we pretty much waited until the absolute last minute. We didn’t think it would be so bad as we were able to book a 3 person room and it was only 2 nights. We thought, “Eh what’s one stranger to deal with?” We come to find out upon check-in that that is in fact the scenario…for the first night. Great, we think! Then, the other shoe drops. Because people had booked earlier than us (well done, you people), the next night one of us was going to have to switch rooms. This felt problematic because…

A) We hadn’t ridden any part of this trip solo so a night in different rooms just felt, weird.

AND

B) With the questionable lottery of potential hostel guests, who in the world were we each going to end up with?

The thing we both completely agreed on was that we had our fingers crossed that our new candidates wouldn’t be smelly European boys. (If any of my European guy friends are reading this, no offense, and I certainly don’t feel you perpetuating this stereotype.) Alas, I have to go with it. But come on people, you know that smell I’m talking about. My friend, Elise, once described it as the international…ya know…funk.
So moment of truth, after a day of more ice cream eating in front of fountains, we came back to the hostel to find out the results of our fate. NOT GOOD NEWS. We walk Jenny to her new room, open the door,…boys. Of course her bed is in the middle wedged between them. To make matters worse they were both napping and popped up startled as we entered…AWKWARD. The best I can say for this is at least they didn’t smell bad, body odor bad. They did however come in at an obscene hour doused in a cheap Drakar Noir, or so she tells me. Moving right along, we thought that was bad until we were taking solace in my room and here it comes…What’s behind door #2 folks!?....I’ll tell you what…a STINK BOMB European couple who were likely pushing 40. Weirdest third wheel I’ve EVER been a part of. The oddest thing about this though was that the guy, very nice, wasn’t even the worst offender. His honey removed her sparkly purple clogs with pink flowers and instantly, my world was rocked. I have never smelled a reasonably normal looking person (minus the horrendous shoe choice and unseasonably frizzy hair) smell this bad. I mean, she was a woman. Get with the program sister! Needless to say, Jenny and I wandered the streets of Valencia as late as we could that night to avoid the general awkwardness and damage to my nasal cavities. Eventually though, we gave in, as someone always does. We had an early train to catch to Barcelona. It was time. Unfortunately for me, we didn’t pass any gas mask vendors on the way home so I indeed had to rough it. That was one long night in Valencia, and sadly, one I won’t soon likely forget.

Granada: Lessons Learned

The city of Granada provided me with a few more lessons that are especially important to take note of. Some more pleasant lessons than others…

1. Como se dice, chaser?! For whatever reason, those hailing from Granada make a strong drink. I don’t know if it’s because the town is filled with pot wielding hippies who need more of a kick than your average human to awaken them from their haze, but regardless, I’d find anyone hard pressed to consume a drink that didn’t in some way or another, knock their socks RIGHT OFF! Whether, ordering what seemed like a common mojito one evening at dinner or being gifted shots of god-knows-what from our British waiter (named Juan Jose) on the proceeding eve, a word I would have liked to have had in my limited Spanglish vocabulary was “chaser.” On a mission from hell, “Como se dice, chaser?!” was immediately uttered to Juan Jose, or J as we called him. After a brief explanation, he understood that we meant a liquid follow-up to ya know, take the sting off. We never really did get a clear cut answer to that one. He sort of laughed in all his I-sound-like-a-Brit-but-am-named-like-a-Spaniard glory and as we walked away, I sort of thought to myself, “J, amigo, I meant it!”

2. Do not under any circumstances mail anything home from Spain without a
Spanish return address. This greatly confuses the women who work there. After gifting myself with a few things in Morocco that were far too big to fit in my backpack, and Jenny having the same dilemma, it became clear quickly that a trip to the post office was a necessity. No big deal we thought, we’ll just swing in before lunch, and pop these on over to Los Estados Unidos. Not so easy my friends. For one, navigating the post office was like combing your way through the Amazon jungle without a guide (or so I’d imagine.) With lines everywhere, tickets to be taken, and somehow not a word of English flying around the place, the post office was a nightmare at best. Try explaining to someone that your return address is in the U.S. because that’s where you live and you are merely here traveling, and then have her tell you that you need a return address in Spain all the way talking over eachotherbecause neither of you speaks the other language. After multiple rounds of back and forth in which she pointed at the return address blank on my box and said as loudly as possible, “Spain!,” and I tried to again tell her that I do not live here, my saving grace stepped in. The only person in that joint that spoke English somehow ended up next to me in line. I explained the situation to him which he then repeated to her, and what was her answer…. “Spain!” So the hostel’s address it was. This thing better make its way to the States without a hitch or that hostel is going to get an unexpected surprise from yours truly.

3. The important people DO NOT speak English in Spain. You know how people are always saying, “Everyone speaks English in Europe.” Well, if you haven’t been greeted with this phrase often, try telling your friends and family that you will be embarking on a somewhat solo mission to Europe. Then I assure you, you’ll hear it a lot. These people (or you, reader, you’ve probably told me this as well) are wrong. You know the people who do speak English in Spain, the people who work at restaurants that already have English menus or at least pictures to guide you, the people who try to sell you every souvenir under the sun, or the people that tell you how much that towel or hair dryer rental at your hostel is gonna cost you. The people who DO NOT speak Spanish are the people you really need to pick up what you’re putting down. This includes, the people who work at train stations who can’t inform you how to pick up your pre-ordered tickets or assure you that you are, in fact, on your way to Valencia, bus drivers, and clearly, those mailing your precious goods home. Note to self, start taking sedatives or at least asking your new friends in Granada for a bong hit before entering these places, and at the very least, always give yourself WAY more time than previously anticipated.

Lessons learned. Points noted.

Sidenote to my yogi friends: This means you ET Phone Home, Jack Attack, Gongdaddy, and Miss Leah J. I realize that my form in the picture above is not what it should be. For this I apologize. However, I would like to make clear to you that on the other side of that wall was at least a 20-foot drop onto cars and one seriously rocky road, and well, I was wobbly. Cut me some slack, drop the critique, and just love me because this one’s for you!

And NowEuropeToDate…

I Left My Heart In Granada

Ever heard the expression, “When you meet him, you’ll just know.” (If not, try being a single female in your late 20’s surrounded by people who think “it’s just about that time.”) Well this is the best way I can describe that taxi ride from the train station to our hostel upon arriving in Granada. As I looked out the windows, at the bright blue sky, friendly streets, perfectly European architecture, and the snow capped mountains framing it all, I just knew. This is one of those places that etches its way into your memory and you are never the same. I don’t think its one particular thing that I can put my finger on, but it was more of a feeling. I guess I can finally understand what that expression was saying.

Our hostel was tucked back in the old Moorish quarter known as the Albayzin, a quintessential maze of cobblestone alleyways bordered by the rushing waters of the Darro River where Spanish guitar players and the smell of incense abound. Atop the summit of the steep stairways of the neighborhood was San Nicolas viewpoint. Granada was a city short on “sights” but big on views and San Nicolas Square proved to be the crown jewel of them all. After a walk that leaves you undoubtedly momentarily lost on multiple occasions and winded as can be, you finally find it, round the corner, and have one of those “Holy Shit” moments of a lifetime. There it is on the hill across from you, the treasure of Granada, the Alhambra.The last and greatest of the Moorish palaces, the Alhambra, gives you a glimpse into 13th and 14th century Spain as it sits sun-soaked upon its mountaintop residence. Absolutely breathtaking. For me, that moment was right up there with my first train-door-opening glimpse of the Sydney Opera House and Harbour Bridge. One of those moments when you realize, this world’s a bit too magnificent to spend all of your days in one place. Granada felt like the Europe of my dreams. Quaint yet vivacious, vastly different though not overpoweringly so, a place one could easily call home.

I carry around a book with me full of fun information like train times, directions to
hostels, and to do lists that I started when I got the idea to move to Australia. However, it’s also littered with pictures and quotes about traveling to keep me motivated when I’m hit with more crazy ideas. One such quote I made up for myself. It reads, Live With Wings. For me, it’s a reminder to love my roots but not be afraid to spread these wings of mine. And I’ll tell you, after Granada, I’m flying high. I’m one hundred percent certain as I sit on a train heading away from this place, that I left a piece of my heart there as I have done only a few times before. I’ve happily made peace with this realization though because I’d rather have a heart that’s not whole if it means trading it in for one that’s bursting at the seams full. Full of places, full of people, full of adventures that dreams must certainly be made of…

"I think that the only pleasure greater than seeing Granada is that of seeing her again."

-Alexandre Dumas


And NowEuropeToDate…

Hola, Donkey!

Preface: Some people may not find this story deserving of an entire post but my friend Aubree and I curiously have an ongoing joke about donkeys so for the fact that this occurred, well, it was nothing short of timely and amazing.


Yesterday, while wandering the glorious streets of Granada, Jenny and I decided to walk up to a neighborhood in the northern hills called Sacromonte. This area was meant to be surrounded by old gypsy women and apparently, was a chance to see the way they lived. Well, we didn’t see any gypsies (maybe we had bad information) but I’ll tell you what we did see…a donkey. He was only partially in view as we came up the hill around a corner and I thought surely he must be attached to something, carrying a load of some sort, or at the very least, be accompanied by his burrista (baristas make coffee, burristas drive donkeys, or at least in my mind they do.) As he came into full view, it became clear to me that none of this was true. He was just simply a stray donkey, hanging out in the road, as if someone had let him outside to play. Naturally, after exchanging some words with him to the tune of “Hola, Donkey!,” I asked him if he wouldn’t mind posing for some photos with me. He obliged. Regretfully, after our photo session, we had to go our separate ways. We walked one way, he walked the other. I tried to get him to follow us but didn’t think the hostel would look kindly upon me bringing home a new house pet. Further along our walk, spray painted in black letters on a wall was a sign for burro-taxi.com (no joke.) Personally, I think our new furry friend was a rebel without a cause, a lone sole, and had fled that donk-sicle stand in search of greener pastures, or at least better views. For this reason, I will call him James Dean. I don’t know where you came from James Dean or where you were going, but I’m sure glad I met you upon your way.


Adios Donkey!

And NowEuropeToDate...

Rock the Kasbah

(Interesting how Morocco seems to be inspired by multiple 80's hits.)

Our last day in Tangier started off with a delicious breakfast of every carb under the sun while enjoying the view from Dar Jameel. After breakfast, we were promptly greeted by the one and only, Hassan. The previous day he had told us we would come back and see the Kasbah, the fortress that overlooked the city, at an earlier hour in order to see the snake charmers. Well, we showed but apparently, the snake charmers had other plans. None to be seen. I have to say I wasn’t too heartbroken about that as snakes freak me out more than maybe anything, EVER. I’m sure I’ve inherited this fear from my Grandma who can’t even look at a picture of one without squirming. I feel you Amah. Snakes aside, we toured the Kasbah while not enjoying the explanations on any of the signs because as I previously mentioned, they were written in 3 languages and well, English just didn’t make the cut.

Post Kasbah, we got our bit of typical guidance from Hassan. “What you want to do? You do what ever you want. Any man do whatever he want.” Jenny and I ultimately decided that we would take Hassan and a taxi to the seaside village of Assilah, which we both swear he said was 14 kilometers away. We came to figure out MUCH later and after the brief thought of being abducted and sold into slavery had finally slipped from my mind, that he must have said 40 kilometers away. On the way to Assilah, we stopped to take in some gorgeous cliff side views, saw the point where the Mediterranean meets the Atlantic, and wait for it….rode some camels! Along the drive men stand on the side of the road with their camels looking for takers and well obviously, that was a must. I’ve decided I will be purchasing a camel to bring home with me and her name will be Bara Bara Hutton.


Sidenote: The Story of Bara Bara Hutton.

The first day we were walking past a house near the Kasbah and Hassan turns to us and says…

Hassan: “This house of Bara Bara Hutton.”

Jenny and I: “Who?”

Hassan: “Bara Bara Hutton. You know, Bara Bara Hutton. Very famous American lady.”

Me: “Ohhhh Barbara Hutton. Is that what you mean?”

Hassan: “Yes, exactly. Bara Bara Hutton.”

(For the record, I had no idea who she was but upon wikipedia-ing found out that she was a very famous socialite who was married 7 times, once to Cary Grant, and spent many of her years in Tangier.)

After the driver gave my camel a whack on the neck to get him to lower me down, it was time to get moving. Our next stop on the way to Assilah was a place called Grottes
d’Hercules, the Caves of Hercules. Hassan quickly hooked us up with a guide who whisked us through those things like Wham Bam Thank You Ma’am! He was quick but efficient, telling us exactly where to stand to pose for pictures and making sure to tell us over and over that the cut out in the rock formation looks just like Africa as seen in a mirror. He was right and I was impressed. It was a brisk tour, but we got the idea. Hey, I get it. The man’s gotta make a living and he’s not gonna do it if we just stand there all day gawking.

Finally, we reached Assilah and I was again relieved to discover that such a place actually existed and we weren’t being sold off or dumped and left for dead. Assilah was a spectacular whitewashed town right on the sea. It wasn’t nearly as shabby as old town Tangier, which I have to say was a pleasant change.
Not that old town Tangier wasn’t incredibly interesting but it got a little dark in the tiny alleys and Assilah provided some much needed sun exposure. All and all it was another fabulous day spent somewhere I could have never dreamed of being so soon. Morocco, though so close to Spain, just feels a world away. Amazing how a mere 9 miles can make such an absolute difference. Old town Tangier is the type of place I think every American should have to visit once. It’s important to see how the other side lives. Completely simply, yet seemingly, perfectly happy.

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In Morocco, We Eat With Our Hands

“I felt the rains down in Aaaaafrica”…..I didn’t. But I’ll tell you what I did feel, my sweat. Lovely, I know. After an early morning bus ride, a long trek through town with full gear in tow, and some generous directional assistance from two native Moroccan girls, Jenny and I finally and sweatily made it to the port. After much anticipation, we boarded our ferry to…dah dah dah dahhhhhh…AFRICA! I’ve always wanted to go to Africa but thought I was surely a few years away from that prospect. Africa also doesn’t seem to cross your mind when planning a European vacation but when it became clear to me that Morocco is a mere 9 miles from Spain, the weekend jaunt seemed nothing short of essential. To say that we felt some trepidation on the ferry would perhaps be a bit of an understatement. After all, Rick Steves, our 3rd and very official travel companion, warned us of constant harassment by locals and pointed out the alarming fact that English is the 4th language in these parts. So the fact that I definitely don’t speak Arabic, surely don’t speak French, and survive on the most minute amount of Spanish, just felt like it wasn’t going to bode well for us. The best, and by best I mean BEST, 20 euro I ever spent was on our guide. As soon as we stepped off the boat it was a total mob scene of locals trying to get us to let them drive us places, wheel our bags, or be our guide for the day. After immediately being approached by someone from the department of tourism who was telling all of these other fellows to gently, “Back up off this!,” we followed his lead, and his lead took us straight to our main man, Hassan.



Hassan was a native Moroccan but looked like a mix of all sorts of backgrounds. I dare say he looked a bit like a nicely ageing, not too old, grandpa. He wore a baseball hat and a little sweater, not necessarily the garb you think befitting of a native Moroccan. This man took us under his wing and led us all over town. I know I thought Sevilla was confusing but the old town of Tangier had Sevilla beat 20 fold. Without Hassan, I would surely still be wandering those alleys in Tangier. That, or I’d have been pecked to death by the children trying to sell me their little wooden camels. Hassan knew exactly how to deal with those children too, he just swatted them with his hat. Everywhere we went, swat swat swat! The best part about Hassan was the wonderful cultural guidance he provided such as…

Hassan: “Where do you want to go?”

Me: “Take us wherever you think Hassan, this is all new to us.”

Hassan: “Any man do what he wants to do. You do what you want to do. You at home. Do like you at home.”

Hassan, I hate to break it to you buddy, but this is NOTHING like my home. God love him for being extremely amenable to our wishes but that being said, he would not make any sort of itinerary for us until we layed it out ourselves. Another favorite of mine after noticing the amount of stray cats roaming about…

Me: “Hassan, do you have any other animals common to the area other than cats?”

Hassan: “We have dogs.”

As you can see, he wasn’t always catching my drift but at least his answers always provided a laugh. A highlight of the day was being taken to a local restaurant where shockingly, Hassan did the ordering for us. When the food came out and we noticed the absence of utensils, Hassan informed us, “In Morocco, we eat with our hands.” So, that we did. We dug into bread, bowls of olives, and chicken skewers covered in saffron. Oh and there was the other option other than chicken that was presented to us…meat.

Me: “What kind of meat, Hassan?”

Hassan: “Meat.”

Could have been dog for all I know, after all, they are common in those parts. The rest of the day was spent taking in the views from the new part of town, winding through the maze of shops in the old town, and haggling with some vendors because after all, it was Morocco and I wasn’t walking out of that place empty handed. After an exhausting day, we got to come home to our GORGEOUS hostel, if you can even call it that, Dar Jameel. It was a traditional riad covered in mosaics and tiles. It was unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Here, see for yourself…





The rest of the evening was spent in the little rooftop porch that overlooked the entire city of Tangier and better yet, had a view across the Mediterranean to Spain. As we sat there breathing in the salty air and watching the children play on ragged rooftops, from speakers high above the Kasbah the Islamic call to pray started echoing throughout the city. Definitely a moment, I’ll not likely soon forget.





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Senior Pic-in' in Spain

Spain boasts some of the most awe-inspiring sights I’ve ever witnessed. However, when you are constantly taking pictures in front of these places of interest, your standard “stand in front of it with a smile on your face and an occasional hand on the hip” pic sometimes just won’t do. Plus, that’s dull. As Jenny and I have certainly added plenty of the aforementioned pics to the European mix, we decided to spice things up going forward. From now on you will be seeing a lot of photos done Senior Pic style. You know, hand under the chin, legs crossed behind you while lying on the ground, essentially everything that feels unnatural. So just a warning, here they come...






























Featured locations above that are now that much snazzier due to these little treasures. Alcazar, Sevilla, Spain and Plaza de Espana, Sevilla, Spain.

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