It's been a while...

One continent and nearly 3 months have changed since my last entry. I've been suffering from a most severe case of writer's block. Whom does this effect? Well, I really don't know who reads this so perhaps just me. And why? Oh I don't know. Lack of time, general malaise brought about from the normal-hour-workweek, filled with filing things and stuffing envelopes for my internship, wrapping up wine bottles for my job, and some philosophy and writing classes sprinkled in between. Yes, perhaps this has led to my writers block...so can I, as a writer, exist within a routine? Here's hoping.

the blues...

I once heard that to sing the blues you had to feel it, that if you weren't feeling any pain, you just couldn't possibly be playing the blues. So it makes me wonder, to listen to it do you need the same? Can you listen to the blues and not have the blues?

See, I could make a prayer out of a good blues riff of bass line I listen to. That kind of beat, tone, vocal layering, repetitive rhythm that won't allow you to sit still and those addictive guitar cries, that's what makes me close my eyes and go somewhere completely metaphysical where I can't be bothered by anything aside from the beating heart and soul of music. That's what stops time, or realistically doesn't stop it at all, but takes my focus away from it, takes away the power it has over me. No, I don't think you have to have the blues to listen to the blues, but it certainly takes you somewhere, to sometime you've been hurt or felt too much weight on your shoulders. So then maybe you have to remember what pain or intense passion feels like to really play the blues and when you listen, you just connect.

Sometimes I wish that time had a heart; I wish that time's heart could be broken, that way it would understand the way all of us. Time has no sympathy and sure as hell no apathy, but if it did, than maybe it would slow down every once in a while. So maybe I wish time could play the blues.

What kind of music does time play for you?

ain't that something worth writing about

memory's a game we've got no choice but to play, holding onto moments momentarily our own and when we blink we tend to miss them and we miss them though we never had them in the first place. we can take a picture but the lens steals a bit for itself some part of the time in time we'll come to try and recall and we'll put our heads against the wall and ask to go back but to no avail because it's all a one way forward flow we've just got rear view mirrors and all's closer than it appears or maybe it's the other way around but it doesn't really matter, really. time escapes usor we escape time or however we choose to part time doesn't care, doesn't have a heart to be broken by anything or anyone, isn't that a lonely thing? smile through the tears, we do, it's good to feel a little. forgive me if i've run off course i must be in a real right state thinking i'm so eloquent when i stutter, i'm a little crazy but hell we're all a little out of control, control, that illusion we cling to in our ocean 'til it dissolves or evaporates and we drown, or, we trust the tides. who am i to write this all down? just a girl on a train playing the memory game.

You look best dressed in happiness.

A little girl jumps up and down on her parents' big queen sized bed.  Compared to her bunk bed, she's jumping up and down on an enormous sea of pillows.  She's allowed to jump on the bed when her mother's around, 'I'll catch my little monkey before she falls,' she always hears.  She wouldn't jump on the bed without her mother around anyway; what's the point?  She likes her mother's attention perhaps even more than the sensation of her curly blond locks bouncing up and higher than her whole body does while she is free and airborne. 

There's a skylight in her parents' room, so she always makes sure to jump in the center of the bed, as if she's jumping into the sky, like she's taking off to fly.  Today the sky is like a hundred lines, all different shades of purple and blue and a few streaks of yellow.  It all blends together, gorgeous and pastel, and she imagines that if she jumped into it, she'd create ripples in the plum, lilac, powder blue and indigo, making a design like the pretty edges on the dessert plates she's seen in fancy restaurants.  She wants to dive in so badly, like nothing she's ever wanted before or could ever imagine wanting in her lifetime.

She sat down, or rather, bounced and landed with her feet swinging off the side of the bed.  She looked at her mother, blue eyes meeting blue and asked, "Where's the top of the world?"  "The highest place you stand," her mother replied, bemused.  "Well, how can I get there?  Have you ever been there?"  Her mother had an expression on her face that the girl couldn't recognize.  After a few moments she said, "If you believe."

Later that night the girl had vivid dreams.  First she was tiny - so small that the lillies of the valley looked like huge church bells.  She climbed to the highest bell, peered over, and all of a sudden she was on top of an oak tree.  She looked up and when she looked back down she was on the wings of a nightengale and she closed her eyes only to open them and see she was on a mountain peak looking down at the moon's reflection in the water.  She stared at the moon, and in that moment, woke up. 

She walked into the kitchen to find her mother drinking coffee and reading the paper before she had to leave.  Her father had already left for work.  She sat down next to her mother and drank milk out of her favorite mug, pretending it was black coffee like her mother's.  "What if you can't make it to the top?  What if you never stand at the highest place?"  That same expression.  "You just have to believe, baby girl."

That little girl grew into a young woman; she went through the trials and tribulations of being a teenager, went to college, started smoking, quit smoking, travelled, fell in love, wrote a book, adopted a puppy, got married, bought a small house, and always made it home for holidays with her family.  She had a baby girl of her own whom she named after her great grandmother, and who had the same blue eyes as her mother and grandmother.  When she brought the baby home, her mother gave her a book.  The cover was black, and inside were pages upon pages of her childhood - photos, poems, trinkets, dried flowers - all the way up to the present.  The last page was a photo taken when she must have been just born.  Next to it was written, in her mother's perfect cursive, "This, my baby, is the top of the world."

mice, amongst other things.

One of the tasks I have been assigned to is cleaning out the basement of the Loyola Nachbar Huis.  I did not know there was a basement in the Loyola Nachbar Huis.  The basement of the Loyola Nachbar Huis is terrifying.

The stairs are creaky, and it's this ancient looking corridor with doors on the left and right that enter into more rooms that are dark, cold, and smell pretty funky.  It reminds me of a prison or something from the middle ages; I expect to see a man holding his arm out from behind bars with a bone attempting to entice the dog with the keys around its neck to come over.  

I start working at 6 am because it is so hot in Belgium and my delicate body cannot handle manual labor in extreme temperatures.  What is glorious about this job is the fact that I can roll out of bed, put on some clothes, have a cup of coffee and walk downstairs to work.  So anyway, I walk all the way downstairs to work in the basement.  I'm carrying up boxes, broken toilet seat covers, old computers and awkwardly shaped bags filled with god knows what.  But I'm also carrying up boxes and boxes of just...people's stuff.  It's all from years ago...10 or 15 years ago, all belongings people left, perhaps intending to come back and collect.

I was simply carrying up the boxes until I worked my way to what I'll call the 'damp area.'  Word to the wise, if one tries to pick up a cardboard box when the bottom has been eaten away by moisture and time, it will break.  The contents will spill everywhere.  If you're lucky like me, a huge dead mouse/rat will fall at your feet and its surviving children will scamper away from you further into the creepy corridor.  After jumping up and down yelping a few times, I disposed of the dead mouse and proceeded.  The next bag contained a fur coat (which, after the aforementioned experience, appeared to me at first glance as a mutant super rat), and a few beer glasses.  The other boxes contained various things...old papers, files, books, a few pictures, a few geodes...keepsakes.  I wonder about the people who left these things.  I picked up a colored pencil drawing from one of the boxes...its ripped edges tell me it came from a sketchbook.  A pretty landscape graces the page, a blue sky strewn with clouds...its very pretty, and I wonder, why'd this person tear it out of the book?  And why did he/she keep it?  Why didn't he/she come back for it?

Its funny to be going through other people's things.  I'll never know who this person is, but I've got a piece of his/her sketchbook hanging on my wall because I think it's pretty.  I know that life isn't about material things, you know, that 'the things you own end up owning you.'  But nevertheless, I'm fascinated by belongings.  I find it interesting, the items people choose to keep, to hold onto.  I'm touching things that a while ago, people possessed, wanted to keep.  It's like a little connection across time.  Every box could tell me a story, if I wanted it to.

stayyy, just a little bit longer...

So as I mentioned in my previous post; I'm sticking around Leuven for an extra few weeks.

(3 months ago...)

Opportunity: I shall present myself in the form of a summer job.

Me: Ah, opportunity, you interest me.

Opportunity: I shall present myself in the form of a summer job which requires you to stay in Belgium.

Me: Well you're very enticing, opportunity, because as luck would have it, I've very much enjoyed Belgium.

Opportunity: Is that coming from you or the  Rochefort 10 you're holding in your hand like an oscar?

Me: ...

(present day...)

Me: This house is empty! My feet hurt! I have no air conditioning!

Opportunity: Oh get off your high horse.

Me: What high horse? Come on... I don't want to work, I just want to play.  And I want the last 10 months to replay.  On repeat.

Opportunity: Do you hear yourself?

Me: Yes, why?

Opportunity: See the forest for the trees.

Me: What does that even MEAN?

Opportunity: It means; relax.  You're going to be okay here.

So my biggest chunk of comfort zone left me.  More pieces of said zone will exit soon.  What's a girl to do?

Try something new, be positive, put some effort in, and hopefully continue etching away at this sculpture-in-process I like to call "Peace."

"Tick tock, try to stop the forward motion...

... all heads tend to fall behind, wasted withers of the wish cut steeper is always running out of time." - Motion City Soundtrack 

Running out time, huh..hm...

So as I sit here, a bit buzzed from white wine, I am of course, thinking about the end of study abroad.  In a week and a half, my new American friends will fly off back to that land that seems so oddly close but still so far away.  Home.  And it's weird.

I've never been good with endings; I'll admit to that freely.  Those sayings about every ending being a new beginning, or every closing door opening another, or, it's not a goodbye, it's a see you later (my personal least favorite) never cut it for me.  Sure, I know it's true.  Something else is going to start when this ends; I get it.  But that never makes it any easier for me.  I remember back to the summer before my freshman year of college, remember talking to my brother's former room mate, and he was asking me how I felt about getting ready to go to school.  I told him I was excited for college, but not sure about leaving what I had right then.  He told me that was great...nothing better than loving where you are and being excited about where you're going.

Yeah, he was right.  What he said is still right.  How could anything be better than that?  But here's the catch.  There's an in-between - a transition.  And that's what trips me up, like switching from 4/4 common time to 6/8.  It's hard for it to be smooth.  I'm just not good at it.  I don't know what it means, really, or what I want.  Do I want things to last forever?  I don't think so...I'm not that naive or short sighted.  But what I've realized is that in-between bit?  It's terrifying.  At least for me.

Here's the thing.  I always brace myself; always.  I make changes, endings, harder on myself, because I'm strained, I'm trying to hold on, stand in front of time and stop it, but that's roughly as successful as throwing your coffee cup at the train when it's leaving without you because you were a few minutes late.  I can't stop time, but I try, I brace myself for the affect it's going to have on me, some sort of life changing epiphany that comes from a new phase in life.  But guess what...it never happens.  Sure, it's a shock.  Certainly, things are different.  But it's like I clench my fists, close my eyes, tense up my jaw and wait - and when I open my eyes, it's different, but I didn't feel a thing.  Do I want to feel something?  Would that make it better, easier?  I don't know...but I don't.  It just... is.  Time just goes, goes and goes, and as much as we feel left behind by it sometimes, truth is, it's our time, so really, we're right there whether we like it or not.

I'm not saying nothing has changed.  A lot has.  Hell, I feel like a completely different person than I was ten months ago.  But could I tell you precisely when it happened?  Not a chance.  That's how it always is.  College changed me from the girl who graduated in 2007, and if you wanted to know when, I'd toss a dart at a calendar and tell you plus or minus 9 days.  And this summer will happen, I'll stay here working or doing whatever it is I'll be doing in Leuven until August, and I'll brace myself again, fall asleep on a plane, be back in Philadelphia, PA, and you know what?  I'll be in Philadelphia PA, and I'll keep going.  Then I'll brace myself again and move into my house for senior year.  And I'll open my eyes and be living with 5 other girls in Baltimore.  And I'll brace myself again and again, and my life will change and move on.  But the truth of the matter is, bracing myself for it, being scared of the end?  It's pointless.  The real shocks, the things I need braced for?  Those will hit me when I haven't more than a minute to realize what's going on.  Those are the big things...the things worth worrying about probably won't be something I can prepare for in advance.

I guess what I'm saying is, life moves on, and sometimes you're in such a rhythmic motion that you don't even realize it, 'til you've switched tracks and it's smooth because it's been planned all along.  So endings like this?  Like the end of an absurdly wonderful experience?  That's a smooth track switch, not a de-rail, so I suppose I should save my worries for a real shock.

Maybe now it would be appropriate to explain the title of my blog, "be careful if you turn around."  Truth of the matter about this blog is, I don't know who reads it, really.  Occasionally people will mention it, and it feels great...to know people take the time to read what I have to say.  So for anyone who does, if you've been wondering about the title, here it is.  When I was in middle school, I went to a John Mayer concert with two friends and my parents in Philadelphia.  My dad was driving the car, and we parked in a parking garage near the venue.  Concert was great, and when we left, my dad handed the woman the ticket and the cash for the fare.  She saw the exit we were pointed to, and told my dad, "It's a one-way street out there - be careful if you turn around."  My friends and I joked about how metaphorical it was.  And you know what?  The words of that parking attendant always stick in the back of my mind.  Be careful when you turn around...but don't be too careful, or you'll be stuck in the garage. 

I didn't write this, Bob Dylan did.

Bob Dylan - Last Thoughts on Woody Guthrie

When yer head gets twisted and yer mind grows numb

When you think you're too old, too young, too smart or too dumb
When yer laggin' behind an' losin' yer pace
In a slow-motion crawl of life's busy race
No matter what yer doing if you start givin' up
If the wine don't come to the top of yer cup
If the wind's got you sideways with with one hand holdin' on
And the other starts slipping and the feeling is gone
And yer train engine fire needs a new spark to catch it
And the wood's easy findin' but yer lazy to fetch it
And yer sidewalk starts curlin' and the street gets too long
And you start walkin' backwards though you know its wrong
And lonesome comes up as down goes the day
And tomorrow's mornin' seems so far away
And you feel the reins from yer pony are slippin'
And yer rope is a-slidin' 'cause yer hands are a-drippin'
And yer sun-decked desert and evergreen valleys
Turn to broken down slums and trash-can alleys
And yer sky cries water and yer drain pipe's a-pourin'
And the lightnin's a-flashing and the thunder's a-crashin'
And the windows are rattlin' and breakin' and the roof tops a-shakin'
And yer whole world's a-slammin' and bangin'
And yer minutes of sun turn to hours of storm
And to yourself you sometimes say
"I never knew it was gonna be this way
Why didn't they tell me the day I was born"
And you start gettin' chills and yer jumping from sweat
And you're lookin' for somethin' you ain't quite found yet
And yer knee-deep in the dark water with yer hands in the air
And the whole world's a-watchin' with a window peek stare
And yer good gal leaves and she's long gone a-flying
And yer heart feels sick like fish when they're fryin'
And yer jackhammer falls from yer hand to yer feet
And you need it badly but it lays on the street
And yer bell's bangin' loudly but you can't hear its beat
And you think yer ears might a been hurt
Or yer eyes've turned filthy from the sight-blindin' dirt
And you figured you failed in yesterdays rush
When you were faked out an' fooled white facing a four flush
And all the time you were holdin' three queens
And it's makin you mad, it's makin' you mean
Like in the middle of Life magazine
Bouncin' around a pinball machine
And there's something on yer mind you wanna be saying
That somebody someplace oughta be hearin'
But it's trapped on yer tongue and sealed in yer head
And it bothers you badly when your layin' in bed
And no matter how you try you just can't say it
And yer scared to yer soul you just might forget it
And yer eyes get swimmy from the tears in yer head
And yer pillows of feathers turn to blankets of lead
And the lion's mouth opens and yer staring at his teeth
And his jaws start closin with you underneath
And yer flat on your belly with yer hands tied behind
And you wish you'd never taken that last detour sign
And you say to yourself just what am I doin'
On this road I'm walkin', on this trail I'm turnin'
On this curve I'm hanging
On this pathway I'm strolling, in the space I'm taking
In this air I'm inhaling
Am I mixed up too much, am I mixed up too hard
Why am I walking, where am I running
What am I saying, what am I knowing
On this guitar I'm playing, on this banjo I'm frailin'
On this mandolin I'm strummin', in the song I'm singin'
In the tune I'm hummin', in the words I'm writin'
In the words that I'm thinkin'
In this ocean of hours I'm all the time drinkin'
Who am I helping, what am I breaking
What am I giving, what am I taking
But you try with your whole soul best
Never to think these thoughts and never to let
Them kind of thoughts gain ground
Or make yer heart pound
But then again you know why they're around
Just waiting for a chance to slip and drop down
"Cause sometimes you hear'em when the night times comes creeping
And you fear that they might catch you a-sleeping
And you jump from yer bed, from yer last chapter of dreamin'
And you can't remember for the best of yer thinking
If that was you in the dream that was screaming
And you know that it's something special you're needin'
And you know that there's no drug that'll do for the healin'
And no liquor in the land to stop yer brain from bleeding
And you need something special
Yeah, you need something special all right
You need a fast flyin' train on a tornado track
To shoot you someplace and shoot you back
You need a cyclone wind on a stream engine howler
That's been banging and booming and blowing forever
That knows yer troubles a hundred times over
You need a Greyhound bus that don't bar no race
That won't laugh at yer looks
Your voice or your face
And by any number of bets in the book
Will be rollin' long after the bubblegum craze
You need something to open up a new door
To show you something you seen before
But overlooked a hundred times or more
You need something to open your eyes
You need something to make it known
That it's you and no one else that owns
That spot that yer standing, that space that you're sitting
That the world ain't got you beat
That it ain't got you licked
It can't get you crazy no matter how many
Times you might get kicked
You need something special all right
You need something special to give you hope
But hope's just a word
That maybe you said or maybe you heard
On some windy corner 'round a wide-angled curve

But that's what you need man, and you need it bad
And yer trouble is you know it too good
"Cause you look an' you start getting the chills

"Cause you can't find it on a dollar bill
And it ain't on Macy's window sill
And it ain't on no rich kid's road map
And it ain't in no fat kid's fraternity house
And it ain't made in no Hollywood wheat germ
And it ain't on that dimlit stage
With that half-wit comedian on it
Ranting and raving and taking yer money
And you thinks it's funny
No you can't find it in no night club or no yacht club
And it ain't in the seats of a supper club
And sure as hell you're bound to tell
That no matter how hard you rub
You just ain't a-gonna find it on yer ticket stub
No, and it ain't in the rumors people're tellin' you
And it ain't in the pimple-lotion people are sellin' you
And it ain't in no cardboard-box house
Or down any movie star's blouse
And you can't find it on the golf course
And Uncle Remus can't tell you and neither can Santa Claus
And it ain't in the cream puff hair-do or cotton candy clothes
And it ain't in the dime store dummies or bubblegum goons
And it ain't in the marshmallow noises of the chocolate cake voices
That come knockin' and tappin' in Christmas wrappin'
Sayin' ain't I pretty and ain't I cute and look at my skin
Look at my skin shine, look at my skin glow
Look at my skin laugh, look at my skin cry
When you can't even sense if they got any insides
These people so pretty in their ribbons and bows
No you'll not now or no other day
Find it on the doorsteps made out-a paper mache´
And inside it the people made of molasses
That every other day buy a new pair of sunglasses
And it ain't in the fifty-star generals and flipped-out phonies
Who'd turn yuh in for a tenth of a penny
Who breathe and burp and bend and crack
And before you can count from one to ten
Do it all over again but this time behind yer back
My friend
The ones that wheel and deal and whirl and twirl
And play games with each other in their sand-box world
And you can't find it either in the no-talent fools
That run around gallant
And make all rules for the ones that got talent
And it ain't in the ones that ain't got any talent but think they do
And think they're foolin' you
The ones who jump on the wagon
Just for a while 'cause they know it's in style
To get their kicks, get out of it quick
And make all kinds of money and chicks
And you yell to yourself and you throw down yer hat
Sayin', "Christ do I gotta be like that
Ain't there no one here that knows where I'm at
Ain't there no one here that knows how I feel
Good God Almighty
THAT STUFF AIN'T REAL"

No but that ain't yer game, it ain't even yer race
You can't hear yer name, you can't see yer face
You gotta look some other place
And where do you look for this hope that yer seekin'
Where do you look for this lamp that's a-burnin'
Where do you look for this oil well gushin'
Where do you look for this candle that's glowin'
Where do you look for this hope that you know is there
And out there somewhere
And your feet can only walk down two kinds of roads
Your eyes can only look through two kinds of windows
Your nose can only smell two kinds of hallways
You can touch and twist
And turn two kinds of doorknobs
You can either go to the church of your choice
Or you can go to Brooklyn State Hospital
You'll find God in the church of your choice
You'll find Woody Guthrie in Brooklyn State Hospital

And though it's only my opinion
I may be right or wrong
You'll find them both
In the Grand Canyon
At sundown

just a little free form...

Rain always helps her to fall asleep.  Nature singing a lullaby, the drops fall in a rhythmic steady chorus and some hit the window with a pleasant change of timbre, then silently drip downwards, leaving pieces of itself along the way and combining with its brothers and sisters.

Yes, rain always helps to ease away any stress and anxiety that block the path to a restful night's sleep.  But thunderstorms are even better.  The thunder cracks, a booming timpani, and the lightening flashes, allowing for a glimpse at the sky's tiny, falling musicians.  Thunderstorms she loves - the freedom the sky must feel, the release and relief - she wants that too.  She wonders what the sky thinks; thunderstorms are the most passionate acts of weather, not the rage of a tornado or hurricane, not the peace and drowsiness of a soft snowstorm, not the child-like joviality of a sunny day, they're emissions of strong emotion, a scream, a cry and a laugh all in rapid succession.

She thinks she'd like to be baptized in a thunderstorm.  What better a way to connect with whatever God you please, and mother earth?

She lay in bed when the storm wakes up outside.  She turns off her music - nothing special, just quiet and easy to ignore - to listen to it.  The rain falls, crescendos with the wind.  Then comes the timpani.  She counts the beats between this crack and the lightening strike.  Seven.  She remembers what she was told back in kindergarten, that the number of seconds between these two events is equal to the number of miles between yourself and the center of the storm.  She could run seven miles, or rather, less than seven, and meet it halfway.  Could I find it, she wonders, the very center, and would it feel different.  Would she feel it, really feel it, like feeling the very core, the very essence of any pure emotion?

She wonders many things as the tempo of the rain picks up.  What if it came to pass that the world were at my fingertips, she thinks.  Resting on the nave of my upturned hand, what would it feel like?  Heavy?  Would it radiate heat, vibrate with the energy of 6 billion bodies and 6 billion souls, of rushing rivers, pounding oceans, the gently breathing forests, the pumping blood of animals, the power of thunderstorms?  And if I felt all that, would I be able to comprehend the inexpressible and value and fragility of what I hold?  And if I could grasp the concept like I do the complex sphere, would I cradle it like a baby?  Drop it out of fear?  Could I change it; would I mold it to the contours of my palm?  Or, would I toss it to the universe and let it flow in the sea of fate?

She finds herself walking outside, standing with her arms outstretched, the rain drenching her body, mixing with her tears.  She opens her mouth and tilts her head back, closing her eyes and she realizes: I better make my choices wisely, because the world is right here.

Praaaaahaaaa

So...Ginger, Tim and I jet-set to Prague.  4 day tripp, one night with an actual bed planned.  Nice and homeless, just the way I like to travel.  Sounds silly, but oddly liberating.  I felt like a "real" backpacker, like those people I saw walking around Italy when I was 15 who seemed so much older and wiser, carrying their big backpacks laughing and drinking beer out of big bottles.  I remember wanting to be like them.

We arrived in Prague, got some Czech koruners (which I will refer to as Czech money thingy's), hopped on a bus we didn't pay for, and took a metro to the Castle side of the river.  I've always wanted to go to Prague, but for no specific reason, no monument nor museum, I've just always wanted to go.  Wish fulfilled, and Prague is simply so...so... so damn cool.  If Praha were a person, it'd be about 24 years old, educated in everything, listen to good music, smoke hand rolled cigarettes, wear low cut jeans, sweet hats and big sunglasses, and drink double espressos.  Praha is a hipster with history.

We checked out the main sights at our leisure and just wandered.  We took in a breathtaking view from Pêtrin tower, saw the light come through stained glass and paint the interior of the Palace Cathedral, and got terrifically lost in nature.  It's pretty nice traveling without a plan, wandering less for the sake of ticking famous sites off a list and more so to just be in a new place; not sprinting through on a time schedule snapping photos of guidebook hits.  It's nice to just enjoy the change; to not need or want it to be more than just a chance of scenery and pace, a new place to exist.

We ate a delicious dinner at a vegetarian restaurant recommended to me by an old high school friend, and from there went to catch a midnight bus to Vienna.  We arrived at the Wombat Hostel deliriously tired.  Thank the ever-loving Lord that our room was ready early because if it weren't, I wouldn't be writing this.  I would've passed out from exhaustion somewhere in the capital of Austria and never returned. 

Took a nice nap and headed out around noon to explore.  Saw a lot, ate some falafel, but spent my favorite part of the day on a huge grassy hill in front of a palace.  We sat there, wrote, read, and I dozed off a bit in the warm sun...everything I could've wanted.  Tim mentioned that he was enjoying every bit of the moment.  I couldn't respond because I agreed to much.

At night, we got pizza and listened to a free "jazz" band.  Yikes.  Allow me to set a scene here.  Tunnel Vienna advertises this free jazz concert.  I love jazz.  I love free things.  Those bastards lured me right in like a moth to something shiny.  The band goes on stage - the guitar player having an alarming resemblance to Kenny G (I say alarming because the world would implode if there were to exist more than one Kenny G) and they announce that they will open up with "Get this Party Started."  Remember 7th grade dances?  Pink?  Yes, they did indeed do a cover.

So we're trapped through "Love Hurts," some other tunes that proved out of pseudo-Kenny G's vocal range, and lest I forget to mention, a rendition of Kelly Clarkson's "Because of You."  Kelly Clarkson is a sweet all american girl.  But in the name of all things holy, why would you call yourself a jazz group and torture ears with a karaoke-esque version of a pop hit?

Regardless, went to bed tired and happy, and woke up and checked out the pretty Danube river and hopped back on a bus (after sprinting to make it on time) to our homeless state in Prague.  Attempted to see the Spanish Synagogue, but got there too late to enter.  Signed the John Lennon wall and met a drunk hippy.  Stumbled across Prague's "Witch Burning Ceremony" celebrating the end of winter.  Nothin' I love better than a good old fashioned ritualistic burning in the late afternoon.

Sat by the water, watched the sun get lower and lower over Prague, and as it did so, the reflection of the city in the water grew more and more detailed as the street lights came on.  Sat there quietly with Ginger and Tim, breathing in, and wondering, as I do so often, what I'm meant to do with all these memories.

watching the current

where do you look to find who you are?

in the reflection in front of you or 

somewhere very far

away in the distance, off over there?

will you look hard enough 

do you care

enough to search out reality

sift through all the bullshit and fog

until you see

what's really real?

portrait

streetwise 

on the cobblestone lay a man barely resembling a man

dressed in little more than heavy dark brown rags

(but who knows their original hue).

cloaked in a layer of dirt

the accumulation of days 

and days of nothing, of lack of shower change or shave

no opportunity or no reason or both,

he snores loudly, his mouth a gaping hole

expanding and contracting as if not he

but the grizzly beast of a beard upon his face breathes in

and emits a dull guttural noise.

three empty bottles of wine stand in front of his body

as if to create a distasteful portrait of Bacchus 

and the stale permeable scent of body odor and misfortune

wafts into the mid afternoon air.

why? how? don't you try?

later on he's asked to leave as he's made patrons uncomfortable 

less likely to enjoy their entrée,

so he stands up unsteady and teetering. 

like a small child bewildered and looking for his mother 

he stumbles off, and i'm no longer disgusted,

not glad to see the scene tidied up,

my heart aches, i'm sad and guilty.

where? what? how'd you get here?

envy? hope? do you wish?

once just a baby a boy a young man

when?

i'll never know, never come to understand, so much, so many.

If I'm on a train to the real world, will someone wake me up at my stop?

On April 7, Gregorian calendar year 2010, I sat on the steps of the Piazzale Michelangelo overlooking Florence, Italy, the Duomo and Campanile sticking out above the city line (in my humble opinion, it resembles a duck; don't take this offensively, it looks like a regal duck, and, I like ducks).  The gorgeous landscape encompasses the history and life of Firenze and I find it hard to fathom a life of my own that is anything other than this.

I spent an afternoon with some friends, eating cheese, foccacia, sun dried tomatoes and olives, popping open cheap bottles of delicious italian wines and taking in the sun rays; come on now, that's the life.  My friend made the comment that her parents sent her an email reminding her that this "fairytale life ends sometime."  I mean I think about it all the time, what's to come after playtime's through, but honestly - what the hell?  There have been so many "where in the world am I, and how did I get here," moments since I've been abroad that any monotony back home could put me in shock.  I feel like I'll need some sort of decompression chamber to safely enter the "real world" without imploding.  Real world, this world, real world, this world...why the distinction?  What is this mythical realm of the real world I keep being warned of, keep planning for?  

Admittedly, it isn't this life, exactly...weeks spent doing spurts of work but mostly just traveling, goofing off, trying to live up to that "live life to it's fullest" requirement, which is in itself kind of silly after all, isn't it?  To think you know?  There won't be a bell that goes off, no special measurement to know - oh, shit, this is it - you just feel happy, feel content, and that has to be enough.  So then, sitting there in Italy isn't my full time job, I'm lucky and out of the ordinary, but I'm still real.  That moment is still real, living...breathing...feeling...what's more real life than that?  Shouldn't being in the real world mean being connected to what you're doing?  Being in it?  Not just cruising along on autopilot, dozing off?  John Lennon sang, "life is what happens while you're busy making other plans."  I wonder how he defined the real world.

I'm real.  I'm alive.  Sure, I went on a Tuscan wine tour, learned about Chianti wines at two vineyards (swirling the glass around, a few steps above drinking yellow tail pinot grigio from the bottle in the back of a baltimore cab), saw a Caravaggio exhibit in Rome, drank wine with my friends by the Trevi fountain, sauntered through ancient ruins, sat on a beach and swam in the Adriatic sea, and then fell asleep on a 22 hour bus ride through three countries.  So alright, call this a dream if you'd like, I'm okay with that.  But even if I'm dreaming, I'm lucid enough to appreciate it.  I'm awake in this dream, and so for right now, just this second, this is my real world.

take a left at the third 'apple light.'

It took us a good 7 hours to make it to Berlin.  7 hours in a tiny rental car.  Being the only one who knows how to drive stick, I piloted us the whole way - pretty smooth sailing until we got a bit - well, not lost per say, but rather, not exactly en route.  A few stops at gas stations proved ineffective due to my lack of any german language knowledge.  One woman who didn't speak a lick of English recognized my plea for "Zentrum! Berlin!"  She pointed me onward with drastic 90 degree angle arm movements and a kind hearted severity.  So we continue on our merry 3 am exhausted way.  Thank god for humor and Lady GaGa or I think our moods would've been a bit less jovial.

We stopped again where a very nice gas station attendant, who kept apologizing for his "not so good English," which was in reality our saving grace, but he continued to sincerely ask for our forgiveness for the fact that he couldn't speak my language fluently enough to guide me around Berlin.  Honestly, I hate my underdeveloped language skills.  Throughout my time here, I've met so many people who speak 2, 3, 4 or more languages and it's a completely understated ability.

Why of course I speak Norwegian and Arabic and spot on Spanish; I'm a native Dutch speaker, but I'd be more than happy to translate to English for you.  Jesus.  My inadequacy at it's finest, I'm often embarrassed by the fact that I can only speak English and a comically simple vocabulary of French.

But regardless, we made it to Hostel #1, where at 3:30 am the receptionist told us we were too early for breakfast.  Right.  Then we headed up to our room wherein we shared bunk beds with a few men who seemed to find pants superfluous, and a few others who remained clumps of blankets.  Welcome to Berlin.

Berlin was just a cool city.  So much history.  We wandered around, through the Brandenburg gate, went to a few museums, saw Checkpoint Charlie...strange to think what is now a tourist attraction, complete with street vendors boasting flasks with the communist logo, was once a divide in the Berlin wall, separating East and West.  My friend's mom was in Berlin, and at the time of her travels, the wall was still standing.  Crazy to think of - I can't even picture it, or imagine it.  But I suppose it isn't so unimaginable - bombings in Moscow, boats blown up near North Korea...times are different, but I guess a divided city and fast spreading ideologies is not such a wild idea after all.

We next stopped and stayed at a tiny town called St. Goar right on the Rhine river, under a castle.  That's correct, a castle.  The friendly receptionist greeted me with the true spelling of my last name - Löffler, and told us there probably wouldn't be anything open in town for dinner.  We managed to find one place to eat - Asia Kim.  They basically re-opened the place for us, so to reciprocate, we had ordered a few sake bombs, some german beers, and some very, very tasty meals.  Decided to pour hot sauce all over my rice.  Breathed dragon-like fire for a while.  Saw an old castle the next day, wandered around passageways and dark tunnels, and drove back into Belgium.  Another great adventure to talk about.

A resumé, you say?

So I'm attempting to obtain an internship for the fall.  Yes folks, taking the proverbial next step, I am looking to find an entrance into the writing real world.  Good for me!

Everything seems so simple.  There is an internship class offered at my University, I sign up for it, and my professor helps to locate somewhere that will take me.  Great.  Grand.  Wonderful.  Just send me your resumé and we'll get the ball rolling.  Oh...right...okay...

I've never written a resumé.  I've held jobs before of course; however, the application process didn't require one.  So, you know, I sit in front of my computer, google search how the hell one goes about doing this, e-mail my brother who deals with an inordinate amount of them per day, and begin.  Name.  Simple enough, contact info, got that one in the bag.  Objective?  What is my objective?  Well to get an internship...objective...that's a plan.  A plan?  A plan?!?!  I don't have one of those.  I don't know what I'm doing with my life.  I like to write, I like to travel, I like to make people laugh.  Is that an objective?  No, no it's not.  

So I take a break to avoid an existential crisis.  This is just a simple document, after all.  I make a peanut butter and honey sandwich, and sit back down.  Next up?  Education.  This one I have covered.  I list my places of study, and the things I've done during my time at each.  I finish it up, and read through it.  Now I realize; I've done so few things.  So few things.  My education spans 16 years, what in the world was I doing with my time?  I mean I felt like a mildly accomplished member of society until this moment.  Right at this moment, this moment with my peanut butter and honey sandwich and the blinking cursor.  And look at this, from 1997-2007 I was a music student, playing in concert bands, jazz bands, orchestras, I even went on American Music Abroad and played concerts in multiple countries.  I don't play the clarinet or saxophone anymore, they sit lonely in their cases at my house.  Why'd I stop?  I start to miss it, I go to the instrumental music section of my iTunes, and lament, feeling like I left a good friend behind.

Great, so now I'm still on the verge of that objective existential crisis, and I'm sad, and I still have no full resumé.  I have to take a break again so I go make some coffee.  Chat with someone in the kitchen, feel a bit more relaxed, have some energy from the coffee, quell my issues a bit, and sit back down.  Experience.  Alright, so I worked in a grocery store, I worked at a wine store, and I was a caterer.  Now, none of these are the most glamorous of positions, but I feel as though I have actually learned things.  

Firstly.  People get upset if they purchase a watermelon and it tastes bad.  They will be angry with you, the customer service employee, as if you farmed said watermelon, planted the seed in poor soil and didn't water it enough.  They will feel cheated.  You will be confused by their misdirected frustration, and you will have to learn how to make them happy.  I can do this now.  People will try and take advantage of you, try to get money back that they don't deserve.  You will have to learn how to calmly say no, to make sure the company isn't just tossing out bills to any John or Jane who comes in displeased with the texture of their pasta salad.  Basic situations, but good training.  Managers will like you if you are pleasant, and if you do your job and aren't lazy.  If you have the option to stand around, but you clean up instead, or do little odd jobs that would have to be done later, people will notice eventually.  If you have a nice smile when a customer comes with a question, if you direct them to someone who can find them the perfect wine to compliment the chicken marsala they just described to you, they'll like that.  If you add a few extra ribbons to the gift wrapping, everyone wins.  If you're working at a wedding and you make small talk and jokes with your tables, they'll remember your name.  If you carry a tray with 9 meals on it and don't complain, and stay late because silverware needs to be sorted, someone is going to thank you, and you're doing your job.  I think about my jobs, and do I love them?  Do I want to do them forever?  Negative...however, I think I did a good job, I think I worked hard.  So this part pleases me.

Personal statement?  This, this I like.  I can say things, I can try to be more than just a bulleted list.  So I write a little ditty, an abbreviated (WHY is abbreviation such a long word?) bit about who I am.  

So you know, I'm feeling okay.  I have a friend look over it, and she tells me I should get it on one page.  My brother says the same thing.  One page...okay...formatting thing, thats fine, that's fine.

One page?  ONE page?  One page is how I'm to be introduced?  This throws me into a tailspin.  I mean I get it, it makes sense, resumés have to be short.  You can't write up a biography and send it in, expecting that everyone has time to learn your life story to decide if you're right for the part.  But how do I appear on one page?  Can you read one page and know me?  Certainly not, but all of a sudden I feel trapped.  I feel confined in this one page, size 10 font, like the lines that separate the Objective, Education and Experience sections are walls and I'm stuck in them.

But it's just a document, right?

Jealous?

Jealousy...envy...seductive words, aren't they?  One would think that an act up there in the 7 deadly sins, an emotion that is, from personal experience, highly unpleasant, would have an ugly name.  But it doesn't.  Jealousy...envy...they roll off the tongue vampishly, like a 'come-hither' look across the room at a bar.  That's whay jealousy and envy are, aren't they?  The sexiest people at the party who flirt shamelessly for sport and coyly lead you...nowhere.  Jealousy, you minx.

I'm jealous of people, envy them, because what they have that I don't is tantalizing to me.  But what good does it do?  I give into jealousy's saucy pickup lines, 'now that's what it's all about, why not you? why aren't you fluent in 4 languages?'  And jealously then coyly slinks away, but his cologne still lingers, and I'm worse for the wear.

Jealousy's such a sleeze ball.  Shameless, absolutely shameless.  Not my type, but immunity is difficult because jealousy knows my weaknesses and I crumble, end up a puppet on a string.  And I'm tired of jealousy.  Because he's a player; he's a liar and a fake.  He's really never going to take me anywhere at all, I will gain nothing from this relationship.  Fuck off, jealousy, allow me to enjoy my beer in peace.

Right now, I can think of many things I want that others have.  Being in better shape.  Better work ethic.  People in love.  High intelligence.  Flamenco dance skills.  So here I am, and jealousy saunters over with a dirty martini, trying to make his moves.  "Damn Lauren, that's so terrible that you've never had a real boyfriend," he says, and gives me some puppy dog eyes.  But dammit jealousy, you don't give a shit about me, you've got the guy who's envying his friend's promotion in your peripheral vision if it doesn't work out with me.  I throw my drink at you, jealousy, you're SUCH an asshole.  

But you're always lurking, hanging out in the corner, seeking out vulnerability, and I hate knowing that I'll probably give into you again.  But there are more fish in the sea, jealousy, you're not the only game in town, and I'm going to find someone better than you, and we'll just see how you deal with it when I show up with a little someone named 'self confidence' on my arm.

Morocco.

Memory always seems inadequate - at least the sharing or retelling of memory.  Photographs are beautiful, but they'll never quite capture the bluest blue or the crispest divide between river and rock.  But hell, we try don't we?  We try to hold onto them, bring them up again, because we know they're there.  Things happen, and we want to talk about them.  But like slides that fell out of their chronologically ordered rack, the memories blend together, become jumbled and fantastic, take on their own life.  So thus in recounting my trip to Morocco, a time I never want to come close to forgetting, I'll do so as inaccurately and as randomly as I please.  The memories are up in a little box of wonderful pictures, and I'll write them as the fall down.

First time in Morocco?  A thousand welcomes.  Now pay the man 100 dirhams.

         What the hell are we doing in Morocco?  Seriously though, guys, what the hell are we doing here?  We arrived in Marrakech sleep deprived and malnourished after an absurd layover in Madrid which consisted of sleeping on a cold floor and eating tasteless, unhealthy and far overpriced snacks.  Fucking airport food.  They have a monopoly on the market though, so it'll never change.  Bastards.  So anyway we arrive at the airport and 5-6 taxi drivers levy for our attention and patronage.  150 DH later, we are dropped off in the city.  We meander our way through the alleys and derbs to check into our hostel.  The reception area is dark and freezing.  We sit down and an employee brings us tea and forms.  We fill out our information and pay, receiving 0 change, as he took the liberty of calculating his own tip.  How nice.  The tea is sweet and warm and reminds me that I'd like to pass out in a cozy bed for a few hours. 

"Ah, we take a tea for the last time.  How was sleeping for you last night?  We were fine since we had two blankets,” says a fellow traveler across the room.

“Oh my god we were FREEZING! Christ.  You know, this has been fun; but after last night I am DONE with Morocco.”

This charming sentiment was an overture to the entrance of an Arabic woman who was to show us to our room, in another building.  So we followed her to a tiny alley and she walked into the building, knocked on a closet door, spoke quick Arabic, and a phantom hand emerged from said closet holding the key to our room – number 4.  I felt a bit like Alice must’ve felt in Wonderland as I turned around from this queer little scenario to see a donkey pulling a cart of fruit, 2 or 3 stray cats and a woman fully veiled pass by.

We entered our room to find 3.75 beds (the .75 accounting for the baby sized bed), a clothes tree, and 6 inches of free walking space.  My friend Tim went and forged for food for us; we ate hot bread and brie cheese and fell asleep on the hard beds with no sheets.

The four of us woke up at 1 pm and decided to explore.  We purchased a map; however, the labyrinth of the medina with few street signs and even fewer that weren’t solely Arabic made navigation a difficult task.  So we adopted an attitude of ‘we’re lost, fuck it, we’re in Marrakech,’ that served us well.  I took a picture of a snake charmer who then demanded money.  I deleted the photo and avoided altercation.  Had my first experience of culture shock while being stared at like some sort of creature with an inordinate amount of limbs.  Walked through the souks for the first time, purchased a tea set for 120 DH.  The man told me he was putting an extra tea glass in the box to make a good deal.  He didn’t.  I was over it until I saw many awesome glasses and my friend Ginger decided to give me shit about my tea glasses, and not let it go.

Drank more mint tea, watched the sun set on the merchants.  Back to the room, took freezing showers, lay in bed talking and goofing off until drifting off to sleep in our perfectly parallel beds.

“Not a problem.  This is Morocco.  All that matters is money.” – Hostel owner explaining that I don’t really need to be 23 to rent a car.

“It’s the call to prayer.  Welcome to an Arab country,” mumbles Tim in response to the rest of our questioning as to what the rhythmic and very loud hymns were, and more importantly, why before the sun came up.  I know the sun had not yet risen because upon walking across to hte bathroom I looked up through the absence of roof to a dark cold sky.

We got a few more hours of sleep, or at least I did, then got our breakfast of bread, butter, honey and tea.  Let the carbo-loading begin.  We set out this day hoping to find some sites but fully aware that we may not.  Wandered around for a few hours, received 6-7 false directions and made a giant circle.  Great.  Got a glass of DELICIOUS fresh squeezed orange juice however.  Did some more shopping, we were getting better and better at bargaining.  Kara and I held chameleons.  I thought that if the chameleon came back to Belgium, it would turn grey.  I wanted to see what it would do among the vibrant purple, pink, yellow and green dyes in jars, but settled to let it cling to my fingers.

Saw the Saadian tombs.  10 DH entrance fee, and you had better have exact change.  Saw a palace.  Explored the ruins, remains of orange fields, saw storks’ nests, made friends with a stray cat, ate vegetable tagine and bought lanterns.  Walked bcack toward the circus of the Djeema al Fna, along the way passing a hole in the medina wall that sufficed for a home for five.  Passed by the man’s outstreched hand, palm up and open, international code for ‘please help me.’  Considered what the spare dirhams in my pocket would actually do.  Probably nothing.  Wondered how many people thought the same thing, maybe in this same spot.

We spent the evening on the rooftop terrace of a restaurant overlooking the Djeema, Tim smoking a cigar while we ladies sipped our tea.  A night of many where we just chatted about everything and nothing, laughing and occasionally reflecting on the fact that we never predicted this in our own futures.  Learned many of eachother’s childhood stories.  I turned my chair around and looked out over the scene below.  The sound of the drum circles put me in a trance as I watched the crowd walking in time with the beat beneath the canopy of swirling smoke from the grills cooking kebabs, bowls of escargots and who knows what else, the men at the fruit stands creating a chorus of ‘3 dirham! 3 dirham!’ and from where I sat, the square was less a place and more of a living, breathing being.

Retired back to the room, showered again in the room that made me feel like a pony with the ability to wash itself.  Lay in the dark thinking of the family in the hole in the wall, wondering what they think of before bed, wonder if they hope to leave the hole, or if it’s the end of the line.  Wonder what they eat.  Wonder if they think about me, the tourist who didn’t give away her spare change.

Pulled up a waterfall by a strong Berber hand

Went to Europcar at 9 am promptly to rent a car.  Walk up to a closed door and women cleaning, telling us they don’t open until 8:30.  Yes, you do, and it’s 9 am, we tell them.  No, it’s 8, they say.  Look at the clock!  Look at our phones; that clock says 8, but these say 9.  Look at ours, they say, it’s 8am.

On day 3 of Morocco we became aware of the time change between Marrakech and Brussels.  We go get breakfast, tails between legs.  Return.  Age requirement omitted from conversation, the car is rented, and we wait an hour for it to be ready, the employees running down the street to bring us tea while we wait.

Drive off into the Ourika valley.  Beautiful mountain passes, snow capped peaks, varying brown rock, green fields.  The view is never boring.  At Setti Fatma we stop and get a guide to take us to see the waterfalls.  Stunning.  At one point our guide, Mustapha, essentially hoisted me up a rock.  For some reason I trusted him as soon as I met him, and after we met his family and had tea and cookies, I realized, I love the Berbers.

I learned that people from the peace core lived in the village and learned the language.  Would I ever have the guts to do that?

Returned to Marrakech, aka, death trap for drivers.  Got pulled over 3 times throughout this day:

1.     extorted for 100 DH for false charges, made an ‘arrangement’ to get the charge down from 400 to 100.

2.     Policeman: Vous n’arretez pas (you didn’t stop.)

Me: Mais oui, j’ai arreté là bas (but, yes I did stop back there).

Policeman: c’est 100 DH pour cette infraction (it’s 100 DH for this infraction).

Me: Mais, je n’ai pas fait une chose interdit (But I didn’t do anything illegal).

Policeman: Touriste?

Me: Oui.

Policeman: Go ahead.

3.   Policeman: Vous n’arretez pas (you didn’t stop).

Me: (getting out of car) THERE ARE DONKEYS AND SCOOTERS EVERYWHERE COMING AT ME!!

Policeman: First time driving in Morocco?

Me: Yes.

Policeman: Go ahead.

 

Learned rules are different here.  Went to bed sharing more funny stories, mostly about Ginger’s big family, entertaining ourselves in our tiny room.  Discovered the 5:30 am call to prayer was so loud because a minaret stands, conveniently, next to our window.

Pretty views, a mosque, but no shot at a free lunch.

         Headed out for a day of car window sight seeing.  Drove up and down the high atlas mountains, through the valleys toward Tisi-n-test.  Learned that busses pay no attention to the width of roads and oncoming traffic.  Drove past 10-15 hitch hikers and women carrying huge piles of herbs on their backs.

         Made our way to the Tin Til mosque, not quite an ancient ruin but not a practicing mosque either.  Regardless, being able to walk through door of a mosque was still a privelege, and somehow the lack of roof cover brought life to the place.  The golden brown of the structure contrasting the baby blue sky with fast moving puffy white clouds.  Thought, I could pray here.

         Walked out to find Tim sitting with two kids on the hill.  Decided to head back and find food on the way.

         Stop 1:  A bathroom, nice terrace, man with 5 teeth, no english, a big of french, but no food.

         Stop 2: Very nice place, cute pathway, but a 4 hour break between lunch and dinner in which we happened to fall.

         Stop 3: Expensive place, middle of nowhere, lantern-lined pool.  Tim’s about to pass out from lack of food so we stay. 

         Head back to Marrakech where my driving skills are tested again.  Thankfully I can parallel park, and yes, my life did depend on it.  Went to the square, harassed by every stand owner claiming there food is the best. TIP: they are all the same.  Ginger and Kara get dinner, I got tea, and we all got swindled out of money for the bread and olives that they placed on the table.  Ready to leave Marrakech.

Berbertastic...delicious dinners and a family in Tisselday

         Got some smoothies before hitting the road.  Mine was avocado and milk – tasty!  We arrived at Dar Isselday, a hotel remodeled out of the owner’s father’s Berber home.  Kamal greets us warmly and brings us mint tea and snacks.  He speaks no English so my French is put to the test.  I realize I actually know more than I thought.  We tour the Berber village where Kamal grew up.  Kind of feels like we’re on another planet.

         He shows us almond trees, fig trees and quartz rocks, and a Berber cemetary.  The cemetary is little more than a vacant plot of grass.  Kamal explains that after a member of the village dies, there is a 40 day mourning period during which friends and family visit, eat together and talk about the life of whomever passed.  After this period is over, he says the grave site isn’t visited.  “The dead are dead,” he says, “the memory lives on but after the mourning is over, the village must move on.”  Can’t decide if that’s comforting or not.

         We walk back to the house, crossing a river to do so.  Kamal runs across the rocks, explaining that you can’t think about it too much, or crossing becomes difficult.  You let go, run across, and you’ll be just fine.

         We sit upstairs for a while and we’re brought out delicious home cooked tagine.  The chef is Kamal’s oldest brother, a happy excited and personable man.  Full and warm, Kara and I sit outside and look at the sky.  High elevation and no city lights or clouds opens a curtain to a gorgeous starry night.  We see three shooting stars, and Kamal’s brother tells us they call part of the sky their river of stars because it appears to be flowing.  We agree and I sit there, purely happy, with my friends, the stars, a fire, and a family who wants to share their culture.

Bob Marley’s Camels and shelter from the storm

         Camels are awkward creatures.  Strange, gangley animals.  Four of them were waiting for us, eating hay.  Four chamaux, more accurately, one hump.  The man who owns said fauna has some of the nicest dreadlocks I’ve seen.  Kamal explains that he and his family are rastafarians.  I picture a clan of dreadlock-headed babies and it makes me smile.

         Sitting on a camel while it stands is unlike any other feeling; forward, up, completely tilted toward the ground, then the back legs go up, and up again.  You know what riding a camel feels like?  I don’t really know what, but it’s not comfortable.  You know what makes it worse?  Pouring rain.  All we could do was laugh as a rainstorm came in over the arid terrain, and we dismounted our steeds, climbed some rocks and hid out in caves, formerly inhabited by Berber tribes.  The rain fell, our camels grazed, seemingly unaffected by it all.

         After the rain let up, we returned via camel to the town, got bcak in the car, and headed back for hot showers.  I took a nap and when I woke up, got to help out in the kitchen.  We watched the proud chef make his tagine.  I got to fan the fire.  A good tagine has to simmer for about 2 hours, and so in the meantime, what better to do than a Berber drum circle?  Drums were passed around, clapping dancing and singing ensued, us and this family.  I kept thinking...this is there life, what brings them joy.  I like it.

         We had dinner – oh wait, correction, 2 dinners.  And then we sat around talking and holding the house kitten, an adorable black and white male – no name.  Went to bed hoping to come back some day – inshallah, as would be said...if God wills it so.

Local Busses

         Family photos, then back to Marrakech.  Caught a local bus to Essouaira, complete with sacks of grain on the top.  4 hour trip, frequent ‘stops’ during which passengers more or less had to run to get on.  Arrive in another rainstorm, can’t see anything, lost in the medina.  Soaking wet, we arrive to a haven of Bob Marley, hookahs and the owner named BizBiz.  Wrung ourseslves out, and met a trio of women from Chester, which is NOT Manchester, but between there and Liverpool.  This is important.

         Chatted with them for a bit, listening to their discussion on whether or not at 29 you should just settle for ‘the bloke who’s there, ya know?  He’s alright, and he’s there.’  Woke up to them the next morning yelling through the halls, “Jules, do you need the key, Jules?”  Not sure if she did.

“They’re sneaky motherfuckers.  Like monkeys.” – BizBiz on his experience in Bali

         The next two days were pretty relaxing.  I attempted to surf, which was a blast.  Met an Irish surf instructor in the ocean.  Eventually was able to stand, but acquired a pretty large bruise.  Free souvenir.  Ginger and Kara had to fend off flies, stray dogs and salesmen on the beach.

         I got offered drugs on many occasions.  Apparently I look like someone who goes for a walk on the beach to find opium.  Like in Marrakech, we couldn’t go anywhere without attracting attention.  Found delicious ice cream, were forced to drink tea at a fruit stand regardless of our fear of the herpes simplex virus, found some cool art and beautiful woodwork – thuya wood. Bought a few things, and dreamt of furnishing my house some day when I’m rich and famous.  Had a barbeque on the roof of the hostel, drank a few beers and hung out.  Decided we’d stay here the next night instead of going back to Marrakech, BizBiz assured us that we’d have a driver at 3 am.  Tiba (as I’m spelling it phonetically), one of those guys you just trust and love without him really saying anything, wouldn’t let me stop eating.  Looked out over the city, pondered my luck, and where it could take me from here.

Argane oil and Colombian acrobats

         Kara and I gathered the courage to try out a hammam.  Best decision I’ve made in a while.  The dark room is heated by water pipes and wood stoves.  It feels like a combination between a sauna and a steam room.  Sweated more than I have probably ever, and it put me into a meditative state.  Then I laid on a marble table and a woman exfoliated my entire body, throwing buckets of warm water onto me which felt incredible on my skin that felt so new – I won’t go into detail on how much skin came off of me, but suffice it to say I felt like a new woman.  Then she washed my body and my hair, and put a thin clay mask on my face.  I felt kind of like a baby – the feeling of being washed was familiar in a comforting, subconscious way.  Then we sat in the heat for a while more, and after a massage with argane oil, I felt so fully and incredibly relaxed.

         I’m not kidding, the air felt different on my skin.  So did the sun.  Everything did.  I wish I could do that every month, I felt so refreshed!  Kind of goes along with the theme of rebirth that seems to be underlying my life story these days.

         Kara and I spent the afternoon on the beach, and left when we could no longer stand every man stopping to talk to us, or sell us ‘happy cakes’ the last straw being the Colombian man who told us his life story – cirque de soleil wanted him – and he wanted us to watch the sunset with him.  Worst of all, he invoked one of my pet peeves, the, ‘it seems like you don’t want to talk to me,’ line.  No shit I don’t want to talk to you, fast-talking man on bike, I have my headphones in and I’d like a moment of peace looking at the ocean, if that’s alright with you.  But, apparently peace is only available in small doses.

Epic journey home

         I decided that sleep was futile in the scenario of traveling home, so, I didn’t.  I won texas hold ‘em against some Aussies and Californians, bonded with Tiba, got offered a job, and woke everyone else up at 2:30 am.  Now, our arrival at the airport hinged on the fact that BizBiz arranged the driver, and at this point, BizBiz was drunk and asleep on the couch.  Tiba assured me, it’s all good.  So we soldiered on with faith.

         Let me say, the crazies come out of the maze at 3 am.  We walked through the street past a man with his pants down, pissing, who tried to get our attention by shouting out his love for us.  He grumbled in this disgusting tone of a cave-dwelling monster with a serious phlegm issue. I didn’t look at him, but as we continued walking we heard him yell, “Don’t you know who I am?  I’m Jimi Hendrix!” As we turned the corner I heard that far too distinguishable sound of vomit hitting pavement.

         As we kept walking outside the walls, passing a man digging in the trash can with the blankest of expressions, I kept thinking how many faces of this place I’d seen.  Merchants who just want your money.  Beggars.  Little children happily running through the streets playing soccer.  Beautiful mountains.  Trash on the beach.  Dirty water.  Wonderful home made meals.  I guess every place where’s different masks at different times, and then again, maybe they’re not masks at all.

         We reached our ‘taxi,’ a large unmarked car.  Most uncomfortable seats in existence.  Our driver stopped at one point to get coffee and casually smoke a cigarette, not as if we had a time restraint or anything.  But by this time in the trip, nothing surprised us.  We met Jimi Hendrix already.

         When the police pulled us over, I thought for sure we were trapped, just like back in Marrakech when I broke the key off in the lock with us all in the room (woops).  But, we arrived, went through “security,” and after 2 flights, about 20 hours, bad timing for trains, lots of snacks and hysterical laughter later, we made it back to the huis.  An amazing adventure complete.  It was fun, Morocco.