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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Surreal in Sevilla

Sevilla… in a word… clusterf*#k. After feeling like I was getting the hang of plaza hopping in Madrid, I had no idea what we were in for. Sevilla is by far, the most confusing city I have ever been in. Alleys wind, dead end, fork, twist, narrow and interweave all the while possessing even less street signs than Madrid. It is really unlike anything I could have imagined. Actually finding your way home drunk here would be a true impossibility. (Note to directionally challenged Jacki: This place would lead to your demise. Don’t come here.) The necessity of keeping a GPS locator on you at all times is the understatement of the century. The one thing I will say is making it home without a map here is even more gratifying than figuring out the trains. Cough cough, we did it last night. I hear ego boosting!



On the agenda for our last night in Sevilla was the Feria de Abril. I’ll get to that in a minute, but first I have to tell you about something magical that happened to me last night. After sitting down to a large odoriferous plate of paella (it was paella night at the hostel) amongst our roommates, Anthony a solo-traveler from Portland, Oregon .and our three, pushing 60 Asian grandmothers (yes, this happened and we all slept in bunk beds together), I needed a little something to quench my thirst. One glass of sangria down, I decided I was in the mood for something a little different. I made my way inside to the vending machine and that’s when it all happened. Imagine, standing in front of what you assume to be a typical refreshment wielding machine. Your eyes start at the top. (Do I want a Coke?) Maybe they scan down a bit more. (Fanta, perhaps?) A little more yet. (Water. I should go with water. That’s the healthier thing to do.) And then it happens, just as you’ve made your selection, your eyes scan down one more rung on the descending ladder to greatness and you immediately realize you’ve sold yourself short. When what to my wandering eyes should appear but a cerveza, the Spanish word for beer! (Hopefully, you understood that that last sentence needed to be read to the tune of The Night Before Christmas. As it’s early in this new blog yet I feel a slight responsibility to guide you through my random mind. Later on, no such assistance will be
provided….just fyi.) That’s right…BEER IN A VENDING MACHINE. Could there be a greater sight in all this world? I dare you to prove me wrong. Triple dog, even. Obviously, I inserted my ONE euro, pressed the button next to the hand-written CERVEZA button (Clearly, the hostel staff took some liberties on what this machine was intended to vend…and I am forever grateful to them for that.) and waited for one of the best beers I’ve ever consumed to roll its way out of that beloved machine. Some would argue it was the brand. I would say it was the glorious sound of it clanking its way down to my hand. At any rate, Salud!

Sidenote: Something really positive has happened here in Spain. Not only do I have a newly discovered potential career as a flamenco dancer, BUT I’ve also decided that cerveza-vending vending machine lobbyist may be yet another way to go. We could get these things, in schools, DMVs, the mall around Christmas time, and other stress inducing places. Think how much more easy-going everyone would be. I’m expecting my Nobel Peace Prize in the mail any day now.


Lo siento! Perdon my digression. Back to the Feria de Abril, otherwise known as the April Fair…in May…yeah, I don’t know either.
Train tickets, hostel rooms, and other such necessary elements of travel were sky high this week and I quickly found out why. The much anticipated Feria de Abril was in town. We heard from other travelers that this is one of the most anticipated weeks of the year. How can it be that good you ask? Well, this fair is like the Indiana State Fair on crack. Actually, that’s not true. The Indiana State Fair is on its own breed of crack. Well, if I’m being regionally accurate, it’s on its own breed of crystal meth. The Feria de Abril is absolutely unreal. Imagine the rides, the games, the food stands you’re used to only replace the hillbillies with flamenco-dress-clad women and suited up men. Little boys dressed as matadors and women in these creations as far as the eye could see. Replace the elephant ears with churros and names of rides like the Mad Mouse with Super Rato con Queso Vacacion. Then add a thousand tents full of sangria-consuming, flamenco-crazed, dressed to the nines, Spaniards and you’ve got yourself a visual masterpiece of in-tents excitement! (Get it…in tents/intense. You see where I’m going here.)
While it seemed as if all of Sevilla must be in attendance for this 7 day, 24 hour straight bash, it was actually rather an exclusive event. All of the tents were rented by clubs, families, or organizations, so you had to be invited in. Too bad I didn’t rope in that flamenco dancing potential husband of mine when I had the chance. Then I would have had a real in! All and all, it was a seriously extraordinary event to be witnessed. Though not possessing the size or notoriety of Madrid, Sevilla has a soul one should be lucky enough to experience.



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Stomp La Plaza

A woman steps on stage, hair in a tightly wound bun, bound by a giant flower. Her body is perfectly tucked into a magnificently crafted, bright as the sunlight, butt accentuating dress. (She is really showing off her ass-ets. Bwahaha!) Hands start clapping, the music erupts, and her body immediately goes into a wrist twirling, foot stomping, fiery burst of seductive movement. This is a flamenco dancer. And, she is AWESOME! Flamenco is like African American fraternity/sorority step dancing for white people. (If unfamiliar with this style of dance, please check out STOMP THE YARD starring the one and only, terribly behaved, Chris Brown. It’s a classic. Wait, I sound sarcastic but really, I mean it. I have two copies.) Our first night in Sevilla, Jenny and I took in a flamenco show. I wasn’t quite sure what to expect but I’ll tell you one thing, after that experience I’m finally going to return home and tell my grandma that I have a career path sorted. I’m going to be a flamenco dancer! She’ll be thrilled. (Cue the real sarcasm here.) This dance may seem like any other dance until you watch it live and up close. I assure you it’s not. It takes over your senses completely. You won’t find something this good on America’s Best Dance Crew, even if it is hosted by Mario Lopez. We all have a soft spot for A.C. Slater I’m aware but not even that will do it. Furthermore, if a style of dance can turn a stereotypical greasy Spaniard into husband material in one brief dance, well then you know it must be serious. The beautiful thing about flamenco is that it’s so engrained into the culture in Sevilla that it’s perfectly acceptable for a young girl or boy to grow up and want to be a flamenco dancer. (Insert jealousy.) While you all are reading this post, you can be sure I’m off somewhere practicing my moves and looking damn good doing it. Ole’!

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Madrid: Lessons Learned

Ahhh Madrid, an absolutely perfect city to start off a whirlwind European tour. A big, bright, bustling ciudad with just enough of a stereotypical European flair to kick this thing off right. Winding back alleys full of cafes and little old Spanish men with their canes and cardigan sweaters, endless sun-drenched plazas perfect for people watching or siestas, and monument upon fountain upon massive architecturally magnificent structure…perfectamente!

Upon entering another country there is always a learning curve. In order to thrive, much less survive, in these places, you need to listen, learn and adjust quickly. The following are lessons that have been essential to the success of this trip so far…

1. Passing through Customs in Madrid is a joke. A moment of nervousness always sets in when I find myself waiting in a line, hoping to gain permission to a country that is not my own. Will they reject me, detain me, or tell me to do an about-face and find my way back home? I suppose many of the fears still reside within me because the last countries I was trying to gain access to prior to this were Singapore, Thailand, and Indonesia. Let me tell you, those people do not mess around. Perhaps, it’s all the stories of teenagers getting caned and the one that really hits close to home, Claire Danes getting shipped off to a Thai prison for being accused of drug smuggling in the movie, BROKEDOWN PALACE. Poor Claire. At any rate, Madrid went off without a hitch. The Customs official practically did a little dance when I walked up….he didn’t. With a momentary glance of the passport, I was in. Not only was I in but they never even checked my bags. No lines to declare or not to declare, and why not? THAT is the question. I definitely could have packed all my guns, drugs, and knives and REALLY had a good time in this place. Ok ok, I don’t own knives.

2. Es gratis? One phrase that is muy importante here in Espana. Spaniards, while seemingly wonderful people, are forever trying to gouge you. Water and bread at dinner, outdoor dining, everything has a price. As a server, I understand the concept of an up-sell, but for Christ’s sake if you set bread in front of me and don’t ask me if I want it then I certainly don’t expect it to show up on my cuenta. (Isn’t this Spanglish thing going well so far?!) Though I feel like such a cheap-o, when dining, the three most important phrases to mention so far are… 1) Es gratis? (Is it free?) 2. Agua del grifo (tap water) and 3. Terraza (outdoor) vs. Salon (indoor), cuanto cuesta? (how much?)



3. What you think is a sidewalk is likely a road. I always knew Europeans drove small cars but really, some of these vehicles, if you can call them that, are beyond impressive. Every day there is an instance when I’m positive that I’m on a sidewalk or at least a pedestrian walkway and then some car the size of something that would be gifted to you at the bottom of your Fruity Pebbles comes flying around the corner in what feels like a full blown attempt to end your life. Stupid Americans! I can just hear it now. I would NEVER, make that NEVER EVER, be able to drive in this country. Not only are the roads impossibly narrow, but there are no uniform street signs to speak of. They are often posted on the side of buildings, if at all, but the really fun part is guessing where. This makes getting around these cities an interesting task. I can’t imagine driving at 40 miles per hour, winding through alleys, trying not to hit people, all the while attempting to spot these signs. A remarkable feat no doubt! Overall, what I’m saying here is watch where you are walking or you’re likely to come home flattened enough that you could take up residence in your overhead compartment.


4. Pickpockets also come in the shape of pretty 20-something girls who wear red lipstick. I suppose I had my stereotype of what a pickpocket might look like. She wasn’t it. Walking home from Retiro Park in Madrid on our last night I felt a girl walking a little too close to me. I swung my bag around to the front and saw she had managed to get part of the zipper open already. Caught her just in time. Back the F off Chica!


Lessons learned. Points noted. Certainly, more of these gems to come.

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No Clothes on Anybody...Sickening!

In that ye old classic, HOME ALONE, our beloved prankster, Kevin MacCallister, utters those immortalized words as he happens upon his brother’s hidden stash of PLAYBOYs… “No clothes on anybody…sickening!” My sentiments exactly, Kevin. Well ok , not really, but close. I have two major points I would like to discuss about my trip to the Prado museum today…

1. Why are the subjects in art NEVER wearing any clothes?

And

2. What happened to all the “male parts” on half of the statues?

As the daughter of an artist, I’ve likely just sent my father to an early grave. Now don’t get me wrong, I took more away from this trip to one of the world’s most famous art museums than the two aforementioned points. How can one not be impressed when surrounded by the likes of Goya, Velaquez, and Rembrandt, their intricate work and attention to detail coupled with the fact that these men painted these pieces 3 to 400 years ago…but let’s be serious, you won’t learn anything at all about art in this post that I didn’t completely make up, so we may as well get back to my keen observations.

1. I DO NOT understand. If artists are trying to make their subjects life-like then why, oh why, are they constantly naked. I understand wanting to capture the beauty of the human form and blah blah but really, planting crops, playing instruments, fighting wars, all naked as a jay bird. Now that’s just not good sense.

And

2. Seriously, lots of berries today, not a lot of twigs. Let me explain more clearly though. It’s not that the “parts” were never there to begin with. They were. In fact, they were quite clearly chiseled off. King So and So clearly pissed off Queen La- Tee- Dah and she took it out on every man she could find. Honestly though, if I could ever figure out a way to google “missing weiners at the Prado” without getting kicked around to some medieval porn site, I assure you I would. My uneducated guess is that some monarch or clergymen was a) offended or b) perhaps a smidge jealous and made a decree to have them removed. Upon further contemplation, where are they being kept? Imagine stumbling upon a jar of male bits on your first ever archeological dig. You can bet they were never expecting that.

On a final note, I saw a sculpture of a daughter breastfeeding her…FATHER because he was in jail and starving. I don’t care how bad things get, that is never appropriate.

By the way, can one of my family members please not read this to my 94 year-old grandmother? While you’re at it, why don’t you go ahead and put a call into Tim and make sure he’s still breathing. Thanks or uhh, Gracias.

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Must....Keep...Sightseeing.

For all of you Hoosiers and wannabe Hoosiers, go with me on this. Little 5 rolls around. (For those of you who don’t know, it’s the greatest week of college drinking in America combined with a tiny bit of largely unattended bike racing.) You’ve saved your absences, strategically skipped all of your classes, and drank for a solid week like someone was holding a gun to your head, or at least inflicting you with water board torture. If you are a college grad you’ve certainly taken the Thursday night redeye, bailed on your job because you are going to “spend the weekend with your family,” and arrived in town just in time to cause plenty of damage to your liver. Now Saturday has at last made an appearance and after 6 straight mornings of waking up at 7AM to commence yet another round of highly socialized binge drinking, there’s nothing you can do but give in to all of your desires and take that highly unadvised afternoon nap. You know it’s not a good play because you will feel like you are dead when you wake up. But you just can’t help it. It has to be done. The only thing that will ever pull you out of such a slumber is a piping hot Big Ten from Pizza Express sitting on the table because your best friend, Erin, truly knows all of your weaknesses. This combined with the mantra that you’ve had on repeat in your head for a solid week, makes this extreme, agonizing task, something that will, in fact, happen. MUST…KEEP…DRINKING.

So no, I didn’t spend my first morning in Spain binge drinking, but I did spend it listening to a similar mantra with an almost identical amount of exhaustion. MUST…KEEP…SIGHTSEEING. My cousin, Jenny and I landed in Madrid after an 8 hour flight, which I slept an hour of if I’m being generous, and yet, somehow managed to navigate those Spanish trains with a speed and efficiency among the likes of something this country has never seen. Funny how a lot of people my age get their kicks from proposals, promotions, or buying their first home, while I, on the other hand, find equal joy in the act of switching trains TWICE and reading a map in a different language, all the while never having to ask directions! Ahh, the rush of it all!
Upon arriving at our hostel, we were told we weren’t allowed to check in for a few more hours. No big deal, except that a shower was likely my only saving grace to jumpstart the touristing. After a morning of being captivated by a new city and finding our bearings, Jenny and I headed back to the hostel to check in. At that very moment, it was as if the gods had descended upon us specifically to answer my very important prayer. The bluest of blue skies opened and started dumping rain. If that’s not an excuse to catch some Z’s then I don’t know what else is. When God calls, we must listen. After a few hours, the blue came back, we peeled ourselves out of bed, and got right back down to business… the business of sheer, unbridled panic.

I don’t know what it is about people speaking foreign languages to me but I literally just freeze. This is problematic for a number of reasons but mainly, Spain is the only place in which I have a fighting chance of speaking any of the language due to my years of high school Spanish. (Amendment: I did listen to 2 half hour Italian lessons in the car via cassette tape on the way to work week before last. Molto bene, Grazie Signore’!) What I’m trying to say is if this language thing doesn’t kick in soon, I’m going to be in a world of hurt. After observing our pathetic selves, Jenny and I made a decision. Day 1, stick to English, hope for the best, and simply point a lot. From Day 2 onward, Spanglish in full effect! and we haven’t looked back since.

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