Operation: Get Us Home

During my travels, the last thing I was worried about my flight home. After all, I had a plane ticket that was already paid for. Two plane tickets in fact--one from Ghana to Madrid and then one from Madrid to Detroit. Steph and I had the same flight booked from Ghana to Madrid. That flight left yesterday morning and my flight from Madrid to Detroit leaves tomorrow morning. Yet here I am at an internet cafe still in Ghana trying to find a way home, while my sister is running around trying to find an ATM machine that actually dispenses cash.

How did that happen? Did we miss our flights, show up on the wrong day, lose our passports? No, no, and no.

When we showed up at the airport, the Royal Air Maroc attendant wouldn't let Steph board because her ticket was not actually a ticket, but more of a proof of purchase. I had bought the ticket for her in Morocco because you can't buy tickets in and out of Ghana online. So they issued me a receipt and said that we just had to go to the counter and everything would be fine. Well, not so. The guy said she needed the actual, physical ticket in her hand. Even though he could look her up in the computer and see that she did in fact have a ticket, even though she had proper ID and a receipt that said she had the ticket, he wouldn't let her on. But not to worry he said, the Royal Air Marco office, which is closed today because it's Sunday, will be open tomorrow at 4:30 am and you can just get on the same 6:15 am flight. What about me, I asked? No problem, you get one change to your ticket for free, he said.

Well, we were a bit skeptical that anything would open at 4:30am, but seeing no alternative we took his word for it. So the next day, we get a cab to the Royal Air Maroc office, which is near the airport. The office was locked and completely dark and the security guard informs us that they don't open until 8 am. Ok...since we're so close to the airport, we decide to go anyways to see if we can just force our way onto the flight. But, as it turns out that there isn't even a 6:15am flight today, but there was a 4:15 am flight, that was leaving as we got there. Go figure.

So first we try and find another flight to Madrid, so we at least don't miss our flights back to the states. When that doesn't work, we try and change our flights from Madrid to the US for a day later, but everything is full. As panic begins to set in, all we want is to get the next flight out of Africa. But even this is brings a whole set of problems...

1. As I mentioned, you can't buy airline tickets to and from Ghana online. Don't ask me why, you just can't. So you have to go to the airline's office to buy the ticket. Now it seems logical that the airline offices would all be sort of clustered together or at least within close proximity of the airport. But no. They're scattered all over the city. So our strategy has been to search for tickets online for the best prices/times and run to the actual office in an attempt to buy the ticket.

2. You can't buy a plane ticket with credit card, you have to pay in cash. This came as a surprise when I went to the Lufthansa ticket agency (after finding a flight online that leaves tonight). The lady first tells me it's all booked, but then apparently changes her mind and says there's space. I'm starting to relax now because it's almost taken care of. So I hand her my credit card. We don't take credit cards, she informs me, only cash. I'm astounded. How do you not take a credit card for a major purchase like a plane ticket? Are people really expected to have 10 million cedis in cash on them? Apparently.

3. None of the atms take mastercard, which is what I have. This is why my sister is trying to get cash, because she has a visa. But none of the atms within a 2 mile radius are functioning.

After several hours of running around, trying unsuccessfully to get cash and buy tickets for tonight, we resort to a tried and true method of problem solving: call mom.

A working African vacation

The term "working vacation" is somewhat of an oxymoron. An "African vacation," while not a true oxymoron is still somewhat of a misnomer as I've found many aspects of my time in Africa to be more difficult than work. So why I attempted to "work" while on "vacation" in Africa is beyond me. But at some point I thought it would be a good idea to do a story for my former employer. Unfortunately, the deadline came just when we reached a particularly remote area along the coast. There was not a computer, not to mention internet access, for miles.

To reach the nearest computer I had to walk down the beach to the next village and catch a tro-tro to the town of Busua, about 30 minutes away. Even then, it wasn't guaranteed that there would be internet.

So I make my way to the village. It is tiny, but there are two tro-tros parked on the beach. I ask and someone says that yes I can take the tro-tro to Busua. Ok, I say, is it going to leave soon? Yes, soon, very soon is the reply. So I'm standing for about 20 minutes and finally someone motions for me to just have a seat on the bench in the shade. Getting the feeling that this could take awhile I sit down. Two little kids, a girl and boy about 4 or 5, instantly take an interest in me. The girl especially keeps waving. And instead of calling me obruni, which is what most of the kids here yell out as you walk by, I was upgraded to "my friend," which was a welcome change. She keeps getting braver and braver, coming closer and closer to me, before finally she reaches out, touches my arm, and then runs away giggling. An older boy, probably around 10, who seems to know English much better but is too shy to talk to me himself, is whispering to the girl questions for her to ask me. "What is your name?" "How old are you?" "Where are you from?"

This goes on for about a half hour, then a group of girls around 10 walks over. As soon as they see me sitting there they run over to me, clamoring to get as close as possible. I have one on either side of me, holding onto each hand, and the rest crowded in front, firing questions at me. "My friend, what is your name?" They all wanted me to take pictures of them, but of course my camera is back at the campsite. After the initial enthusiasm dies off, there is one girl who remains attached to my side - Cynthia. She sits down onto the bench next to me as close as possible. Every so often she will ask me a question - her English is limited, but what she knows, she speaks perfectly. She is constantly looking at me and adjusting her position so that it matches mine. Every so often she will reach out and touch my arm. In sum, I waited for the tro tro for about 2 hours--longer than I actually spent using the internet and writing my story, all while a Christian song (something about My Redeemer) was blaring on repeat from the speakers. During the whole ordeal I couldn't help but wonder what my readers (or editors, for that matter) would think if they knew the circumstances under which I wrote the story.

Mutiny on the tro-tro

Going from point A to point B in Ghana is never as easy as you think. First there's the fact that nothing leaves on schedule. Then there's the problem of not always having a paved road. Even if you are lucky enough to have the first two, there's the likelihood that the vehicle you are traveling in looks, sounds and feels like it is going to fall apart at any second.

Yesterday my sister and I experienced what happens when you combine all three of those elements. Mutiny. Well, nearly mutiny.

After spending a couple of days on a remote beach in a tiny village (along with just about everyone we met in Cape Coast--Kofi and Benjamin (two ghanaians), and a group of Canadians who had been volunteering), we decide to head up to Kumasi.

Our adventure begins when we all pack into a tro-tro and head out on a very bumpy unpaved road, in a tro-tro that is literally on it's last legs. Maybe about a mile out, there's a very loud clanging noise, followed by a thud. Sure enough, looking through the back window there is a piece of the tro-tro lying in the middle of the road. So we pull over and it turns out it was one of the parts that holds the vehicle up off the tire (bad description, but my car mechanic knowledge is a bit lacking). And not only did it just fall off, it broke in two. The driver insisted it could be fixed. One woman decided it wasn't worth the wait and set off walking, complete with baby strapped to her back and a load of something balanced on her head. The rest of us decided to wait it out. Surprisingly, not too much later, the tro-tro is fixed. Somehow the driver recreated the broken piece out of a piece of wood. Not sure how long that will last, but it did get us to our first destination, Agona. From there, we take an uneventful tro-tro to Takoradi. At this point we part ways. The Canadians head to Accra, Kofi and Benjamin back to Cape Coast, and Steph and I to Kumasi.

We find the tro-tro to Kumasi, which is empty, a bad sign. We're assured we will only be waiting 30 minutes, but 30 minutes African time is more like 2 hours. As it turned out, 2 hours was even a bit hopeful. The way tro-tros work is that there is a driver and then several other people who help with luggage and recruiting passengers. The recruiters stand out in the middle of the tro-tro lot, and yell out destinations, then direct the traveler to the appropriate tro-tro. In this case, our Kumasi recruiter was not very good. About 3 hours later our tro-tro is only half full and some of the passengers (including us) are pretty annoyed. A couple of them get out and begin arguing rather vehemently with the recruiter. Couldn't make out everything they were saying, but they were trying to convince him that we should just go, we've been here so long. And they were also arguing about how many people needed to be on one of the seats before it was considered "full." The passengers said three, the recruiter said four. An hour later, our tro tro is full (but only because one of the passengers accidently got on the wrong tro-tro and we dropped him off a few blocks later), and the still unhappy passengers continued to yell at both the recruiter and the driver (Ali) even as we are pulling out of the lot.

Ali is pretty much oblivious to everything--the yelling passengers, the pedestrians, the other cars...The only thing he really paid attention to was his music - 90's love songs like Bryan Adams' "Everything I do," Whitney Houston's "I Will Always Love You," etc, that he proceeded to blare the entire trip and sing at the top of his lungs (which was highly entertaining). He also paid attention to the pot holes, which he avoided hitting at all costs, even at the cost of a potential head on collision. It must have been some pot hole for him to swerve out of our lane and into the other lane right as a car was about to go by. Fortunately he swerved back to our lane in the time, but I can only imagine what the driver of the other car must have been thinking. Probably something similar to what the rest of our passengers were thinking--that move elicited a few gasps and more angry yelling, all of which were duly ignored.

We finally arrive to Kumasi in one piece and Ali pulls up to the "station" and orders us all out. Well it's 11p.m. at night, and what might be a small station during the day is pretty deserted now. Again, the passengers are not having it. They begin to yell at Ali that this isn't the right station and every single person refuses to get out of the tro-tro. Steph and I figure they probably know where they're going better than we do, so we stay too. After a few back and forths, Ali drives to the next station, which sure enough is obviously more central and also has several waiting taxis, one of which takes us to our hotel--at the Obruni price, of course.

Stephanie's here!!

After a two day journey from Morocco complete with two overnight flights and a 10 hour layover in Casablanca, I finally arrived in Accra, Ghana. For whatever reason it was cheaper for me to fly from Marrakech to Madrid and then fly round trip from Madrid to Accra, then to just fly from Morocco to Ghana, despite the layover in Casablanca. Gotta love efficiency.

My sister got in the next day and it's been really nice having company. We're staying at the Crystal Hostel, which is less of a hostel and more just a family's house that they've turned into a hostel. So there's the main house with a living room, kitchen and all their bedrooms. And we have our own little room just off the main house with it's own bathroom.

Today, the plan was to explore the city. I had a hard time convincing Steph to put down her book and leave the hostel. She said she was determined to finish her book and couldn't be bothered with site seeing, but I was finally able to convince her otherwise. (j/k)

The place that we're staying is a bit outside the main city center, so figuring out public transportation to get there can be a bit tricky. The main way of getting around are tro-tros, which are basically like the big vans you'd use for high school sports. There's a guy who leans out the window of the door and yells out the destinations the van is going to. The tro-tro stops are also not easy to figure out. My method of finding a stop is to just look for people congregating on the side of the road. Also, it seems that they all have different routes of getting to the same place. For instance the route we took today, was completely different then the route I took to get to the same place yesterday. And, if you think you're making a good choice by getting in a tro-tro that isn't packed full, well you're wrong because the tro-tro won't leave until it's full, or at least close to full.

Our goal was to make it down to Jamestown, where there is a lighthouse supposedly with a view of the entire city, then to walk up through Accra and stop off at the Osu Castle. We did make it to the lighthouse, but only because we happened to see it through the window of the bus as we were driving by. However it didn't really appear that you could go up the lighthouse, and the so called "beach resort," that the sign by the lighthouse proclaimed, was less of a beach resort and seemed to be where everyone dumped their trash. So, we kept walking, and stopped off at the National Cultural Center, where there was an art gallery and other shops. I was instantly reminded of Morocco as the shop owners came out trying to convince us to come see their store. We did take up one guy's invitation to see his drum store, where he and about 3 other guys gave us a demonstration on their drums. They also showed us the different "keys" on the drum, which are the three different ways of hitting the drum.

I have to admit I was a little reluctant to go to the shop in the first place, and the instance they started playing their drums, I had a feeling we weren't going to be able to leave without paying for something, but the guys turned out to be very genuine and friendly and said it was Ghanaian tradition that when you first make a new friend it is your responsibility to entertain them. After that we finally made our way to Osu Castle, but it turns out that you need an invitation to actually go inside and see it and also are not allowed to take photos.

So far Ghana has been a relief after the harassment in Morocco. My interactions with the people here have been much more pleasant and the harassment has been scaled down a ton. Although I have already received one marriage proposal. It cracks me up how people will just ask you right then and there to marry them. I wonder what would happen if someone actually said yes to their request. Would they be prepared to follow through or would it turn out to be just a bluff? Unfortunately, I think that is a question that will have to remain a mystery.

The mountain I almost climbed

Jebel Toubkal is the highest mountain in Morocco. On a rare smog-free day in Marrakesh, you can see it's peak, which is snow covered most of the year. And according to Lonely Planet, the mountain can be climbed without any technical climbing gear. Climbing Toubkal has been on my mind the entire trip. I had second thoughts after my nearly disastrous hiking attempt in Azrou, but after talking to some other travelers who said that Toubkal is frequently hiked, I had psyched myself back up to do it.

Lonely Planet also said that from Marrakesh, you can take a bus to Asni, and then from there a shared taxi the rest of the way to Imlil and "if you are lucky," the trip should take approximately 2.5 hours. The only trick is that the buses to Asni don't leave from the main bus station in Marrakesh, but from a "dirt patch outside the medina walls." Anticipating this particular patch of dirt might be hard to distinguish, I set off early, ingraining the route and location into my head so I wouldn't look like a fool wandering around with my head in my Lonely Planet book, just begging for harassment. I make it to the spot on the map, which also happens to be right next to a graveyard, but there are of course no buses in sight. Determined not to be discouraged, I ask a woman who seems to be waiting for a bus if this is where I get the bus to Asni. Asni? she asks. Oui, I say. "Il n'y a pas un bus à Asni. Vous devez prendre un taxi." (There is no bus to Asni, you have to take a taxi).

By taxi, she means what is called a grand taxi, which are old Mercedes Benz's. There are different fares to different locations, and they squeeze six people into these cars (not including the driver), and the fare is split six ways. There are big lots where people shout out locations and you have to scramble to get a taxi to the right location, or if you're going somewhere no one else wants to go, you have to wait until the car is full or buy the remainder of the seats. Of course, as a tourist, the drivers attempt to charge you more then the regular fare or get you to pay for the whole thing yourself.

When I hear that this is my only option for getting to the mountains, frustration begins to set in. I walk back to medina to get coffee, sit and think. I don't want to stay here, but I have also had my fill of harassment, and don't think I can take trying to get a taxi to Imlil, most likely getting squeezed in with 6 other men, and inevitably getting ripped off.

So after coffee and breakfast I walk to the main bus station and buy a ticket to Essouira, a small, laid back, hassle free town on the coast. The bus of course, is not hassle free, and my "luggage fee" has now been increased from 10 to 20 dirhams (yes, I still insist on taking the local buses). Most of the ride here I'm kicking myself for not making more of an attempt to get to the mountains, see a new place, have a new adventure (bc I've already been to Essouira once) and of taking the easy way out and coming back to a place I already know. But when I get back to The Cave (the hostel that really is cave-like), and receive a warm greeting not only from Sebastian and Kashka (two other travelers I met when I was here before) but also from the guy at the internet café next door, I am feeling worlds better about my decision. Morocco may have won this battle, but at least I will have some peace of mind my last days here.

Life in the desert

"Fam-i-ly," cried Ali. And as the apricot he threw hit his unsuspecting target Mohammed smack in the middle of the forehead, an all out food fight began. Amid flying apricots and couscous, it felt nice knowing that family meals in Morocco are the chaotic, everyone for themselves because there might not be enough (for a family of 6), manners be damned (were you born in a barn?), free-for-all that I know and love : )

And despite the fact that few people there were actually related--it was myself, three other travelers, Mohammed and Ali (who are unofficial family members) and Besmad (who I think is related, but not sure how) eating at the house of our guide Hussein's brother--in the Sahara, everyone is family.

So, for everyone wondering why I haven't posted in awhile, I am alive, and haven't been traded for camels or eaten by dogs (although I had a close call). I've been in the desert.

My desert adventure began in Marrakech (a good 8 hours away from the desert) over breakfast when I overheard Brett from Australia talking about wanting to go on a camel safari into the Sahara. My ears instantly perked up and I said I was also interested. Brett had the name of a guy (Hussein) and the hotel (Hotel Afriquia) where we were supposed to be able to find him scrawled on a napkin from a New Zealand couple he had previously met. After finding the hotel and asking for Hussein, the receptionist told us that he was currently in the desert, but would be calling in an hour and we shoud come back then. An hour later we go back, Hussein calls, Brett talks to him for approximately 30 seconds, but we manage to ascertain that he will be back at the hotel tomorrow night and we can set something up for the day after.

We're a little worried that this might not be legit, or that it might fall through or be outrageously expensive, but we return the next night at 8pm and meet Hussein who offers us a 3 day, 2 night expedition at a price we couldn't refuse. Basically he and his extended family run small tours into the desert, where he drives us down from Marrakech, with stops along the way to see stuff and we spend two nights in the desert at his family's camps, ride camels and see the tallest dunes in the Sahara. This is all falling into place except that the other two girls who had said they wanted to go were nowhere to be found and we were supposed to leave the next morning at 8am. Around 11pm, we decide we can't wait any longer and ask an Australian couple, Peter and Storm, who are staying at the hotel if they want to come. They agree almost immediately and we head out the next morning.

So a bit about our guide Hussein--he was born in the desert and has lived there his whole life. He loves the desert. He is the youngest in his family with 4 brothers and 4 sisters. His parents, who used to be nomadic and are still semi-nomadic despite being in their 80's, now live in Algeria, with his mom's family. We think he was around 28 years old. Very soon in our journey we learned that he knows pretty much everyone. He must do the drive from Marrakech to M'Hamid quite often because everywhere we stopped he knew someone. He also knew quite a few of the other drivers on the road, all of whom seemed to be family. Hussein also had a habit of disappearing on us for pretty lengthy periods of time. We came up with theories that these desert tours were really just covers for his drug dealing business. In actuality, time in the desert takes on a whole new concept, and you're pretty much a slave to the weather. It doesn't really make sense to leave a shaded cafe in the middle of the afternoon, or the protection of an oasis during a windstorm. Thus 20 minute stops often turned into hours.

The desert itself was amazing. As we approached Erg Chiggaga, it looked like we were coming up on mountains, but it was all sand, and it stretched for what looked like forever. And with only a few tents in the small camp, the only sound was that of the wind and the camels. The tents we stayed in were not what you would imagine of tents. They're more like small huts, except the floors are made of rugs, the walls are a mud/clay mixture and the roofs are palm fronds. The door to the tent is another rug. There's one main tent for dinner/hanging out with a couple of tables and stools, all of which are very low to the ground. Cushions surround the edges of the wall for sitting. There's also a building that is the "kitchen." It's very tiny, but has a gas stove and is dimly lit by a gas lamp that if in the U.S. would most likely be breaking every fire code in the book.

The first night we had a huge dinner of tagine followed by a few of the guys playing the drums and singing songs. Our favorite was a catchy tune that was part in Spanish, part in French and part in Arabic. The chorus in Spanish went something like this - Vamos a la playa, Aqui a la playa, Solo la reina (let's go to the beach, here there is no beach, only sand).

The next morning after seeing the sun rise (at 5am) and eating breakfast we had a 3 hour camel ride into M'Hamid. How our guides could find their way, I have no clue. There weren't any trails or anything distinguishing, just sand as far as you could see with the occasional shrub here and there.

M'Hamid is an interesting town. It was weird to see a town where everything was sand. There was one main road that was paved, but other than that, only sand. We immediately went to the café, which seemed to be THE meeting place in town. Reminded me of a Western movie, where everyone meets up at the Old Saloon. During our three days in the desert we spent a pretty significant chunk of time at this café, as did most people in town. Also it seemed that Hussein's car was more of a communal car, rather than his. Many times we couldn't leave the café because either our car was gone, Hussein was gone, or both.

The next several days involved a lot of hanging out, climbing sand dunes, stargazing, eating huge home cooked meals and talking to people as best as we could--some knew English, and I became our french translator, which was pretty funny. The most entertaining person though had to be Besmad. He was an older man who spoke no English, but was fluent in both Arabic and French. Possibly the happiest person I've ever met, he was constantly laughing, smiling and pretty much non stop talking while he was awake. He would begin by talking in Arabic, and when we said we didn't understand, he would laugh at us, and continue talking in Arabic only slower, louder and with violent hand gestures. Mohammed was another interesting character. He would get very excited whenever he would see us, yelling out "Family."

Despite the fact that life in the desert can't be easy, everyone we met appeared extremely happy. Constantly joking around and laughing, everyone was really friendly and outgoing, and there was a totally different mentality, where everything is, communal, everyone is family and the only real rules are dictated by the desert. One afternoon in the café, Peter was trying to buy a coke and was looking for the person to pay (it was always unclear who owned the café and who was just there), so he asks who he should give his money to, who was the boss, and Hussein replied, "here, everyone's the boss, the desert's the boss." And after three days of getting to know desert life, and still waking up with sand in my bed, I have to agree.

Ok, I have a few photos...I tried to get more, but this computer won't let me put more for some reason

Our first morning in the desert, pre-camel ride breakfast

The camp we stayed at the second night

Hanging out on the dunes, it was a bit windy

A land of contradictions

After about two weeks in Morocco, I have to say it is both one of the most amazing places I've been and also one of the most difficult places I've been. I now understand the extreme reactions I got from people when I told them I was going to Morocco. Just when you think you have the place figured out, something happens that totally contradicts everything you thought about it.

Some of my observations in no particular order...

1. Gender separation - There is a huge gender separation here. Rarely do you see groups of mixed gender hanging out. It is either a group of women or a group of men. The interesting thing about this is that I think it makes people more affectionate with each other. Women almost always walk arm in arm, which isn't too surprising, but you will also see men be just as affectionate with each other. Never have I seen men hugging each other more than here, it's also common for them to walk hand in hand or to sit with an arm around another's shoulder, and the standard greeting is a handshake, hug, and a kiss on each cheek. But, in order to prove their manliness and heterosexuality they make an extra point of cat-calling every single woman who walks by.

2. The Cafés - This kind of goes along with the gender separation, but the cafés seem to be male territory. Makes getting a cup of coffee in the morning rather difficult and sometimes intimidating. But the cafés here are huge, always packed, and only with men. Some of them seem to be more like sports bars minus the alcohol. They'll have tvs on the inside showing football (soccer) and the place will be packed with men drinking mint tea or coffee and watching the game. There's usually also an outside terrace as well, which is slightly less intimidating and good for people watching.

3. Neccesity vs. Luxury - Satellite TV = necessity. Modern plumbing, including flush toilets and hot water = luxury. Seriously, EVERYONE has a satellite dish on their roof.

4. Friendliness vs Salesmanship - One of the hardest things to judge is whether or not people are being genuinely friendly to you or whether they're trying to sell you something. Almost everyone says hi and tries to engage you in conversation, but some people are looking to get you to come to their store, while others are actually being genuinely nice. For example, the woman at the hotel I'm currently staying in. Yesterday evening I came in and she was asking me if I had seen the whole medina of Fes. I said, some of it, but not all of it, because it's pretty huge. She said she could show me around a little later if I wanted. Whenever someone offers to show you around, immediately warning bells should go off, because it's usually just someone looking for money. This city is full of "guides." Some are officially registered guides, others aren't. Sometimes the unofficial ones will follow you for a few blocks trying to get you to go in a certain direction, saying they just want to practice their english, etc etc. So when she offered to show me around, my first instinct was to say no. But then I thought about it another second, and decided that she wouldn't try to rip me off because then she would lose a paying customer at her hotel, plus I hadn't gotten the chance to meet a lot of Moroccan women, so I took her up on her offer, which turned out to be sincere. But the whole time I've been here I've felt like I can never really let down my guard, especially when dealing with people.

5. The "Gringo Tax" - As Pete pointed out in another post, the luggage fee that I had to pay for my bus ticket was not in fact an actual luggage fee but a "gringo tax." That's happened several times - I got another last minute luggage fee on the last bus I took, this time 5 dirhams instead of 10. Also prices for things tend to vary, sometimes even within the same store. Sometimes a bottle of water costs 5 dirhams, sometimes 6 dirhams, sometimes 5.50, and all from the same store. Nothing is actually labeled with a price, so who knows what the actual price is, which is frustrating, but hard to justify arguing over 1 dirham, which is something like 12 cents (not sure the actual exchange rate). But I've also noticed that some vendors seem to go out of their way to ensure me that I'm not being overcharged. Yesterday I bought some postcards, stamps, water and a magazine (I got pretty excited about finding a magazine in English) and when he rung me up he went through each item telling me the price.

6. Making change - Another issue here is making change. In general people don't have much cash on them so if you have to pay for something with a large bill (which often happens because the ATMs only give you 100 and 200 bills), then chances are the person won't have change. Surprisingly though, they can be trusted to give you change when they have it (either later that day, or will go down the street and make change with another vendor) or will alternatively trust you to pay them when you have a smaller bill. Despite sometimes being charged a "gringo tax," no one has ever tried to rip me off by not giving me the correct change, even when it is something as small as 2 dirhams.

7. Religious piety vs. Modernity - Some of the funniest sights I've seen include women dressed in their full floor-length robes throwing back a beer or two; women who make fashion statements out of their head scarves and robes by sporting hot pink or all leopard print; a group of older Muslim men in their jellabahs crowded around a computer downloading hip-hop music; cafés that blast techno remixes of modern songs in English; and the old guy who worked at the hostel in Chefchouen who took the time to mute the MTV music videos he was watching for the call to prayer.

Berber hospitality; aka I'll invite you for mint tea and then proceed to try and sell you everything I own

One thing that is pretty prevalent in all Moroccan cities are souks - basically markets which selll everything from fruits, vegetables, meat, souvenirs, clothes, everyday household items and appliances and even underwear. That was one thing I found odd about Chefchouen, the only place to buy anything, including underwear, is from these vendors in the middle of the street. It's pretty strange, being in a Muslim city where just about every woman is wearing a headscarf and long sleeved robes to the ground, to then pass by a vendor selling leopard printed bras. What? So women who can't allow their hair or one inch of their skin to show have no qualms buying bras, underwear and lingerie in public? In Chefchouen, they are almost guaranteed to not only run into tons of people they know, but they likely also know the vendor by first name, since it is such a small town and everyone is so friendly with each other. I know that I, for one, would not like shopping for my underwear and bras like this. I don't even like to buy them in stores that are too crowded. I mean, I know I'm weird, but it's just something I'd rather do in private. Yet these Muslim women shop for their most intimate items of clothing, that once purchased, no one is allowed to see, completely and totally in public.

But anyways, that was totally off topic...So yesterday morning I set off to the souks of Meknes with three goals: 1. to buy bandaids for the blisters I got from hiking, 2. to do some shopping - christmas presents for my family, and 3. to meet and talk to one of these shop owners, since supposedly the Berber (pronounced Bearbear, as I had to be reminded more than once) people are known for their hospitality and friendliness. Plus, Shaun told me to : )

So I set out into the souks dressed in my oversized gender-ambiguous clothes (to not attract any extra attention) and sunglasses (to prevent eye contact). Walking into the souks is kind of like going into battle - do not go unarmed. If you do, you will find yourself being talked out of every last dirham and walking away with more handmade Berber blankets and carpets than you will ever be able to carry on the plane ride home, much less in your backpack for the next month.

My first stop was a vendor who sold a range of random stuff - water, soap, bread, etc. So I thought, maybe he has bandaids too. I tried to ask for bandaids, but not knowing the french word for bandaids, avez-vous les bandages?, he had no idea what I was asking for and calls over his friend, who supposedly knew English. So I say bandaids, and the guy has no idea what I want and asks me to draw it. Well, as most of you know, my art skills are a bit lacking. But I try to draw a bleeding hand. I even write the word sange (which i think is the word for blood in french) next to the drops of blood and then say "pour arreter le sange." This appears to go somewhere and the guy says, oh pharmacie. Oui. So he's like ok I'll take you there. I immediately get into self-defense mode, because whenever someone offers to show you where something is, it usually involves a fee or stopping by their store first. So I'm like no, that's ok, I think I saw one back there, it's fine. But he insists, and I figure, what the hell, it's not like I have anything else to do today. So we go wandering through the souks and eventually get to the pharmacie, but they don't sell bandaids. The guy offers to take me somewhere else, but I decline. Then he asks if I want to see his store. He shows me his card and it's a jewelry store. I figure, hey, handmade Moroccan jewelry, that could make a good present, so off to his store we go. We're moving pretty slowly, because the guy, whose name I've now found out is Nourddine, has a cane. He says he likes talking to tourists because he gets to practice his English. He's fluent in both Moroccan Arabic and French, but says English is hard for him. So we're talking, I ask him about the Berber culture and his opinion on the new French president, which was all over the news here. He said he liked the new French president, which kind of surprised me because everything that I've read seemed to suggest that he didn't hold the Berber people in very high regard. But Nourddine said he liked him because he was young and new and it would be a good change.

So we make it to the store that his brother runs. I browse, talk to him and his brother. They joke that they will give me a good price for a jewelery set, consisting of earrings, necklace and a bracelet. "Student discount" they say. So I find a couple of things I like and we start negotiating a price. But then I realize that I probably don't have enough money, so I tell them I need to go to the ATM and then come back. No, no, they say. We'll negotiate a price, you pay what you have now and then the rest later. Not totally comfortable with this idea, mostly because it is just so foreign to me, I figure, when in Morocco...

So we negotiate a price, I get a pretty good deal, or at least considerably less than what I was originally quoted at, plus I get a silver pendant thrown in for free. A present, they say. Then Nourddine and I go off so I can stop at an ATM and pay him the rest I owe.

First, we stop at my house for tea, he says, then get change. Ok....since I've already bought stuff, I figure this must be the Berber hospitality I've heard so much about. Well, it turns out his house is also attached to a store, where he sells, you guessed it, carpets (i would put multiple explanation points here, but there are none on this keyboard). So we go in, he has his son make tea, and we sit down in his store and chat. He is sort of trying to get me to buy carpets, but I'm like, all I have is a backpack, carpets are too big to carry. So then he tries to sell me a challabah (the long robe things), and I try it on just to humor the guy, but at this point I really don't feel bad about saying no because I've already bought souvenirs from him, which I remind him. So I try to steer him off "the sale" and ask about his family. He's married with one girl and one boy and has lived in Meknes all his life. He asks about my family, whether or not I am married and we actually have a pleasant conversation for a few minutes. Then he sends me off with his 10 year old son to the ATM to get the rest of the change I owe. The level of trust among the people here is pretty incredible. People are constantly saying, oh just pay me later. And the amazing thing is, people actually do.

So I finally settle my bill, and am about to leave, but still he is trying to get me to buy something else to help his family. I keep saying no, no, I already bought something. Finally he relents, and I think we are going to leave on bad terms, which is slightly disappointing, but then he totally switches gears and invites me to have a couscous dinner with his family. At this point I'm a little confused, so I thank him but decline. We shake hands, and as I am walking away he calls after me, "bienvenue à maroc."

The oh so reliable African bus system

This morning I left Chefchouen by bus at 6 a.m. on what was supposedly a 3 to 4 hour bus ride to Meknes. I was advised my Mandy, a girl I met in Granada, who has spent the last two years doing Peace Corps in Morocco, to only ride the CTM or Supratours buses. Well, not being one for actually taking other people's advice, I bought a bus ticket from a company whose name I don't even know because it was only written in Arabic. I figured it was a relatively short ride, no big deal, plus the ticket was cheaper. Well I get to the bus station about a quarter to 6 and go to put my backpack in the luggage compartment. The guy take it throws it in and then is like that's 5 dirhams. At first I think he just wants money for putting my bag in the luggage compartment, which I think is ridiculous because I could have just done it myself. Then he's like, no there's a luggage fee. Oh, well I paid that when I bought my ticket, I say. Although, it's not that simple bc he doesn't really understand or speak English and I definitely don't understand or speak Arabic. Then some random old guy comes walking down the stairs of the bus and is like 10 dirhams and is holding out his hand. At this point I'm really annoyed and kind of pissed, because I already paid the 10 dirham luggage fee when I bought my ticket, and it's clear that the guy that took my bag knows this. But now it's two versus one and the old guy is blocking my way onto the bus. So I hand him 5 dirhams and lie and say that's all I have and am allowed onto the bus.

The bus is pretty much empty when I get on and I sit in an aisle seat so creepy old guy can't sit next to me. A few more people get on the bus (none of whom paid any luggage fee) and off we go, only a half hour past schedule.

The thing I did not realize about the bus system here is that the bus stops for anyone, anywhere at anytime. And the way they stop is by coming to a rolling stop at the side of the road, the luggage guy opens the back door, people jump on, and the bus often begins pulling away before the luggage guy gets all the way back on the bus. If someone wants off the bus it seems all you have to do is just start yelling at the driver until he pulls over.

So when we hit Ouezzane, a town about one-fourth of the way to Meknes, an hour and a half into our journey, I knew it was going to be a long ride. Another thing I noticed about the busses here is that people, and particularly women tend to crowd towards the front of the bus. Even if there are open spaces in the back, people will fill the front seats first, and have no qualms about sitting next to strangers as long as they are of the same sex. I was sitting in the middle, but near the back and looking around noticed that it was starting to fill up quickly, but only with men. So when we stopped at Ouezzane I moved a few seats forward, and soon had a seatmate of an older woman. Another thing is that everyone, men and women, was wearing long sleeves and long pants. Many of the men were wearing sweaters, and all but one other woman were wearing the head scarf. Meanwhile the temp on the bus is quickly rising to well above 70 degrees.

So we're going along and I'm feeling pretty good about the bus ride, enjoying the mountain farmland scenery and the company of my seatmate, despite the fact that we can't really communicate, when all of a sudden the bus starts making a very loud grinding noise, only to come to a complete stop, pretty much in the middle of nowhere. (At this point I'm reminded of Kenny's photo that I have hanging in my room of the broken down bus in the middle of the desert, only we're in the mountains.) Once people start realizing that this isn't going to be a quick fix, they start getting out of the bus, which is starting to fill up with diesel fumes. So I get out too and find a shady place to sit. I notice a few people have wandered out into the fields, including my seatmate and are picking something - at first I think they're picking wild flowers, but then one kid comes back to his mom and dumps a load of some kind of peas or beans in front of her. They begin shelling and eating them. A little while later we get back onto the bus and head out, although at a much slower speed than before. The woman sitting next to me has gathered a bunch of the beans and shares with me.

Life is good as we start to approach Meknes, until the bus breaks down again. This time I think it was just a matter of running out of gas, because a few mintues later the driver and the luggage guy have constructed some sort of contraption and are pouring fuel into the gas tank and then we actually stop at a gas station and fill all the way up. Meanwhile the bus people (there are three of them - the driver, the luggage guy and the ticket guy) proceed to get into a yelling match with each other and the gas station attendants. I have no idea what about.

Needless to say, I arrived in Meknes, found a hostel and am feeling settled in. Maybe next time I will take a CTM bus, but then again, maybe not : )

"Sometimes the book can lead you astray"

This was the response of a Moroccan shop owner we passed yesterday morning while trying to navigate our way through Chefchouen's windy streets to get to the trail head to climb Jebel al-Kelaa, the mountain overlooking Chefchouen. He asked if we needed help finding anything and not wanting any hassle about coming to his store, buying hash, or eating at his restaurant, we quickly shrugged him off, saying no, we didn't need any help because we had a map and book. At the time, I didn't think much about it, because we were just looking at a map and had no interest in paying someone to point us in the right direction or get into a conversation that would inevitably lead to either an attempt at a durg sale or an invitation to come to their store "just for a chat," when what they really want is to sell you a rug or carpet or chalabah (the long wool hoody things that the men here wear). But, later on, as we're trekking up the mountain, his comment got me thinking about how we as tourists do affect their economy in a very real way. Particularly since Chefchouen is not as touristy as some of the bigger cities here and people still live very traditional lives; on both of our hikes we ran into more goat and sheep herders than other hikers. So each single tourist's impact is felt more. And it got me wondering how we affect not only the restaurants and shops we patronize, but the ones that we don't. If we just eat at the restaurants recommended by the book, it's very true that we might be missing out on someplace really good, but also if all the tourists only eat at the restaurants in the book, it's easy to see how this will only perpetuate the unequal distribution of wealth that already plagues Morocco.

The good, the bad and the ugly

Chefchouen is an interesting place and we've had some interesting encounters with the people here, ranging from genuinely friendly, people just looking to make a buck, and downright threatening.

When Adam, Jack and I first arrived to Chefchouen (Adam and Jack are cousins from Oregon who I met in the port of Tangier and we ended up splitting a cab to Chefchouen) our first encounter was with a guy wanting to first be our guide to our hostel and when we declined that offer, wanted to sell us hash. He pretty much descended on us as soon as we stepped out of the car. We said no, we don't need a guide, we know where we're going and have a map and a reservation. So we start walking, and he begins asking Jack if he smokes and wants to buy some hash. Adam says no, he doesn't smoke and doesn't want to buy anything. After a bit more fruitless pestering, he moves on to Adam. Adam gives him the same spiel, no I don't smoke, none of us smoke and we don't want to buy anything. But by this time the guy was getting desperate and would not leave us alone, saying we were bad people and if he caught us smoking hash we had bought from someone else he would make our time here miserable.

Well we manage to make it to our hostel without buying anything or giving him money, but unfortunately that wasn't the end of him. Later that night we're having dinner, and he must have spotted us (we were sitting outside), because as soon as we leave the restaurant he immediately latches onto Adam again, only this time more persistent, asking for more money and threatening violence if we he didn't buy. The situation had us all a bit rattled so over the next several days we devised alternate routes to avoid the plaza in the evening and Adam started wearing a scarf on his head to hide his blond hair.

On the other end of the spectrum, there have been people who are genuinely friendly to us. After returning from one of our hikes, we're walking back to our hostel and pass some school kids walking with their teachers. On seeing us, they immediately turn, start waving furiously and yelling out "hola, como esta," and laughing and smiling the whole time particularly when we wave and say hola back. Then the other night at dinner we walk into this restaurant that is for the most part empty. There is one kid eating in the back, who appeared to be the son of the owner. We walk in, sit down and immediately the owner and a waiter come over, lean forward with their elbows on our table and start going into an in depth explanation of the menu switching from spanish, french, english and arabic, talking about a mile a minute, simultaneously and gesturing and pointing like mad. When they are done with their explanation (somehow we manage to get the gist of what they said), they stay exactly where they are, arms firmly planted on the table, leaning into us so they are directly in our faces and staring expectantly. After a few moments of awkward silence we manage to convey to them that we need a couple of minutes to decide. They jump up in flourish, the owner runs off into the kitchen and the waiter just sort of stands back a few feet. A couple of minute later we place our order. The whole time we're waiting for our food, the waitor (who can't be more than 15 or 16) keeps looking over at us, sometimes just laughing, other times trying to make conversation. Then we hear some sort of commotion going on outside and suddenly the owner comes running in full speed, runs over to our table and makes like he is hiding behind us. The whole time, the waitor is just cracking up. After that, which startles us to say the least, the owner apologizes profusely, shakes all of our hands and does the whole double-cheek kiss thing. It was very bizarre, and we never did figure out what was going on. Finally our food comes. The waitor sets it down in front of us, steps back maybe about 6 inches and proceeds to stare at us while we eat, until the owner yells at him to leave us alone. Then as we are leaving, we pay our bill, and the owner starts asking me in French how long we're staying, etc. He says hold on bc he wants to give us his card. He goes running back behind the cash register (if you haven't figured it out yet, everything here was done at full speed) and is scrounging around for a business card. The waitor is still laughing his head off at the whole thing. He can't find one and motions for us to come over. So we do and the guy starts scribbling down his info on a napkin. Then he starts asking us questions, and it took us awhile to figure it out, but he wanted our names and phone numbers. Very confused at this point, we give him our names only and head out. The whole thing was very bizarre and definitely the most hilarious dining experience I've had in awhile.

Morocco

Well I made it to Chefchouen without getting traded for any camels. Met two other travelers at the port in Tanger while trying to negotiate a cab fare to the bus station. We ended up all just splitting a cab to chefchouen; probably got ripped off, but hey, sometimes you pay for convenience. Anyways, this is going to be short because the keyboards here are French keyboards so all the letters are in different places, which makes typing a bit more difficult.

But just wanted to let everyone know that I am in Africa and alive and well. Spent the day hiking in the rif mountains where we ran across numerous goats and a few goat herders. So that was cool and I promise one of these days I will post photos.

"In Morocco, I trade you for 200 camels"

Excuse me?

In Granada while out on a tapas tour with other people from the hostel, we were all talking about our travel plans and I mentioned I was going to Morocco. A guy sitting nearby, who happened to be from Morocco, made this comment when he overheard me saying I was going there.

He looks at me, says if I was traveling with that guy(pointing at another traveler), the two of them could trade me like a business deal. Me for 200 camels. "Camels are very expensive," he said.

I´m pretty sure the guy was joking around, but unfortunately we don´t share the same sense of humor.

Whenever I mention I´m going to Morocco, the reaction I get is always very extreme. People either love it or hate it. I´m either going to have a great time, or get traded for camels. I will either get constantly harassed because I´m a woman, or I will get left alone because I´m a woman. Moroccans are both the friendliest people, and also just looking to scam you. I have to say, all of this makes me a little bit nervous.

Fortunately, from what I gather, the people who have hated Morocco, have only been to Tanger and I´m not planning on spending anytime there, aside from walking from the ferry to the bus station.

I did meet a girl who has spent the last 2 years doing Peace Corps in Morocco and so far she hasn´t been traded for camels, so that´s a good sign. Also, she´s going to be in Morocco when I´m there so we may meet up for at least part of my travels.

Right now I´m in Tarifa, the southern most point of Europe, after spending about four days in Granada. Granada was beautiful. I spent one day biking in the mountains, which reminded me a little bit of biking in Palo Alto except the mountains were much bigger. Also saw the Alhambra, an old Muslim fortress. Granada was interesting, because it was a combination of Muslim architecture and a bit of Moroccan culture, with Spanish culture. Thus everything still kept the weird Spanish hours, that I still haven´t quite gotten used to. But there was also a lot more tea lounges and Moroccan shops. Granada was also the most laid back place I´ve been so far, which is saying a lot because all of Spain has been laid back. Everyone I met had gone to Granada with the intention of staying a couple of days, but a couple of days usually turned into a week or more. Granada was also not on my original plan, but I went there on the recommendation of some other travelers and am very glad I did.

Bull versus Man (well 5 men, a horse, some knives, a spear and a sword)

Alright, everyone is requesting that I write about the bullfight, so here we go...

I spent three days in Seville. The first day I was there I was checking email in the common area and met four guys - Ruben from Toronto, David from Houston (who, while working in Fallujah, almost had his hand blown off), Ben (I forget where he´s from), and Aaron from Oregon. The four of them were all traveling solo but had met each other at different points along the way. They were talking about attempting to get tickets to a bull fight later that evening and asked if I wanted to come along. I figured, hey, when in Spain...(which has sort of been my motto so far for this trip). About an hour later, we´re walking to the stadium, arrive right before the match/fight/slaughter (I´m not sure what the technical term is) was about to start and somehow managed to scalp $45 euro tickets for $20. I honestly had no idea what to expect. My only experience with bullfighting was from watching it on TV at the bar in Madrid.

The way it works is the bull comes charging into the ring, un-speared and full of energy. There are between 3-5 guys (we were calling them fluffers, again not sure if this is a technical term or not) with pink capes. They put on a show, waving their capes, having the bull charge at them, either swerving out of the way, or if the bull is coming especially fast, ducking behind a wooden barrier. The fluffers put on a show for a few minutes, then a horn blows and it´s time for the second act -- two guys on horses. The horses are blindfold and coated with some sort of armor. The guys on the horses have long spears. At some point, the bull charges the horse, hits the horse and gets speared by the guy on top. The horse act was my least favorite. The only purpose I could see was to maim the bull. The guy on the horse was not in danger because he was high enough up that the bull couldn´t reach him. I wasn´t so psyched that the horse, who was blindfolded, just had to take these hits from the bull without having any idea what was going on.

The fluffers at least had some skill and impressive footwork. Also there was a clear hierarchy even among the fluffers. It was obvious some were pretty new at this -- they would wave their cape and then immediately run behind the wooden barrier. Others stayed out in the ring, doing almost a dance with the bull, who at this point is charging hard and fast. The most impressive move was when one of the fluffers moved his cape just so and the bull hit the ground, horns first, propelling him upwards and then completely over into a sommersault.

So after the horses, come the knife guys. They have these decorated long knives, with points that I don´t think are too long, sort of like thumb tacks at the end, but longer for decoration and so the guys can hold them. Anyways, these guys provoke the bull to charge at them (they have no cape to swing away at the last minute, it´s just them versus the bull), then they also run at the bull, throw the knives into it´s back/neck area and dodge out of the way at the last minute. This one is also impressive because it seems pretty dangerous. The bull is only slightly maimed and a little tired out from all the running, so it´s still coming at the guy pretty fast.

After two of these guys have a go at the bull, the horn blows again and out struts the matador (seriously, every matador has a strut)....By this time the bull is heaving to catch its breath, bleeding, and has at least two of the knife thingys dangling from its back. Not exactly in top form. But to his credit, the matador gets extremely close to the bull, and to see how the two of them move together is pretty interesting. I have both photos and video, which I swear I will post, sometime soon. The video is interesting because I have video of the bull versus the fluffer and the bull versus the matador and the change in the speed of the bull is glaringly obvious.

So, in total, three matadors "battled" seven bulls and killed six. The bull that sommersaulted from the fluffer was spared (apparently the landing broke something, so it couldn´t do the turns). The first bull was half dead by the time the matador came out. And by half dead I mean that on its first charge at the matador, it collapsed. The fluffer had to instigate it to get it back up. So at this point I´m pretty disgusted by the whole thing. But it seems that there is a ranking even among the bulls because as the match went on, the bulls were more alive by the time the matador came out. The fifth bull was especially fiesty, and the matador was especially daring. His body was brushing the bull´s, as he barely edged out of the way. Then on one charge, the bull hit him. The matador flipped over the bull and landed as the crowd screamed and the fluffers rushed out to shield him from further bull charges. The fluffers are picking him up and start to help him out of the arena, but the matador is resisting and you can tell there is a struggle (I´m sure some of it was dramatized for effect) between the matador wanting to finish and the fluffers who don´t want him to get killed in front of a packed arena. My first thought was, well the bull has to fight to the death, so should the matador.

So the matador finishes the fight and kills the bull.

All in all, it was an extremely intense experience. I´ve never witnessed an animal that large get slaughtered. And I saw it 6 times. I´m glad I went, but I don´t think I will ever go again. My bullfighting companions all said the same thing and we all decided that we wish we had understood a little more about why it was such an important part of the Spanish culture. Although we did determine that bullfighting must be why the Spanish eat dinner so late. Watching six large mammals die slow, gruesome deaths doesn´t exactly pique one´s appetite.

Traveling Women

As a woman traveling alone one of my main concerns was with the guys I would inevitably meet. But so far, every guy I met has been great and oddly it's the women I've met that I've had issues with. I´m in Granada right now and it just so happened that three of the guys I went to the bull fight with in Seville are also in Granada, staying at a different hostel. So we decided to meet up. The hostel I was staying at had planned a tapas bar crawl, so I invited them along and as it happened, another girl they had met on their journeys was also at the hostel, so it was all working out. Until I actually met said other girl and her friends and they proceeded to ignore me all night. To be fair I shouldn´t say that they all ignored me. It was mostly one, but unfortunately she seemed to control the attitude of the group. So when she wasn´t around I actually had some pretty great conversations with the others, but when she was around, I pretty much did not exist. For example, there were five of us hanging out, she decides we should all do shots so goes to the bar and comes back with four shots, proceeds to hand them out to everyone but me. And right now, there are two of them sitting next to me, but I don´t really feel like I have to worry about writing this, bc I don´t think they even notice I exist.

On the other scale of the spectrum, every time I´ve met a woman traveling alone, it´s been a great experience. She´s been friendly and up for hanging out. But for whatever reason, whenever I meet more than one woman traveling in a group they seem to not only not be interested in knowing me, but want to make every effort to show that they´re not interested. Women are weird.

Sant Jordi

Alright, so I´m falling behind on my blogging, I know....It turns out the best time to blog is super late at night (by super late, i mean like 5:30am) when there are no distractions and people aren´t waiting to use the computer. Also, I think I might have screwed up the computer at the last hostel by downloading photos, so I´m not sure when I´ll be able to post more, plus now I´m in Granada and my photos are on a computer in Seville. Anyways, I should have some time to write so I´ll try to sum up the last few days.

My last day in Barcelona I was feeling pretty tired from all the sightseeing, ultimate and going out. So I had resolved to take it easy and enjoy the day in a park that I hadn´t visited yet. But it also happened to be Sant Jordi Day, which I didn´t think would be a big deal because it was described to me as like Valentine´s Day in the U.S. However, Barcelona takes it holidays seriously. Sant Jordi, is the patron saint of Catalonia, who became famous for slaying a dragon that was about to devour a princess. Once dead, a rosebush grew out of the dragon´s blood (or at least that´s one of the stories I found when I googled Sant Jordi). Anyways, it became tradition for guys to give girls roses as a symbol of love and girls to give guys books as a symbol of culture. (The book giving didn´t evolve until 1923, when Sant Jordi Day merged with International Book Day. Barcelona is also the book publishing capital of the world.) Nowadays, book giving goes both ways and vendors take the opportunity to set up tents and tables all along Las Ramblas where they sell books. Las Ramblas itself is packed with people and there is live Catalan music and dancing all day long in the Plaza de Catalunya. Even though it was technically a work day, the streets were so packed I would have sworn that the entire city was out.

After spending the day walking around, people watching and listening to the music (I did eventually make it to the park I wanted to go to and also the Arc de Triomph), I caught a flight to Seville, where there was of course another holiday to be celebrated...

English, por favor

You know you're having a good trip when you start falling asleep while standing up, on a moving train, mid-sentence of the new Spanish phrase you've just learned.

Barcelona was amazing. After a few days in Madrid of barely being able to talk to anyone, I hopped an overnight bus to Barcelona. Both Rocky and Shaun said not only would I love it, but I would never want to leave. Well, they were right. Barcelona was awesome and I can't wait to go back.

I spent the first two days walking everywhere. Each day I would start with a destination in mind, like Parc Guell, a park designed by the famous architect Gaudi, or La Catedral, a cathedral that sits within this entire neighborhood of gothic architecture, or the temple of la Familia Sagrada, another Gaudi piece of work. But everytime I set out with one destination in mind, I would end up going a million different places, half of which I don't know the names b/c they weren't in any tour guides. I would just be walking and think ooh, that looks cool, and then walk down an alleyway and stumble upon an amazing plaza, or just a really interesting neighborhood. So yes, I loved Barcelona. My hostel experience at the Sant Jordi Alberg was about one hundred times better than my experience at the Pop Hostel in Madrid, but that was just part of it. The other two nights I was in Barcelona I stayed with David, an ultimate player who Rocky knows. That turned out to be an awesome experience, b/c he lives in Barcelona, is fluent in Spanish and knows a lot of the history of Barcelona (and I got to play ultimate, which is always a plus).

But, one of the most interesting experiences was the interaction between David, Mariano and myself. Mariano does not speak English very well and I speak approximately zero Spanish. But Mariano was one of the nicest, most outgoing, friendly persons I've met so far in Spain. It was clear it pained him not to be able to talk to me in English (which I tried to tell him was not his fault sinceI was in his country and couldn't speak Spanish). So we had some interesting interactions that involved a lot of hand gesturing, some frustration and even some hurt feelings. What stuck with me though, was that he kept coming back, kept trying to communicate, and although we never really succeeded in having a full conversation, I feel like we both left the meeting feeling some connnection and common ground--the common ground of constantly having to battle a language barrier. David and everyone else was fluent in both Spanish and English, so they would easily switch between the two in the same conversation. Sometimes they would be talking in English so I could understand and sometimes they would talk in Spanish so Mariano could understand. But always, one of us was left out of the conversation. Usually at some point we would make eye contact and give each other the 'yeah, i know how it feels look' and sometimes the two of us would attempt to have our own conversation, but it was always a very time consuming and exhausting process that left both of us feeling inadequate. And while there was always a sense of humor and a sincere intention that went along with these failed attmepts, it was clear we both prefered our own languages. So I was both shocked and touched when at one point, David, Ben and Mariano were joking around in Spanish and Mariano looks at me and says, 'say it in English for Monica.'

(pics below are at the beach where we played ultimate. that is david and mariano.)

Hook, line, and sinker

Yep, I got scammed. I'm actually kind of embarassed to tell this story, because it was a pretty obvious scam, one that I've seen before and never fallen for because it's *that* obvious. So in Barcelona there's this area called Las Ramblas, basically a big street with lots of vendors, street artists, etc. So there's this guy doing the trick with the three cups and there's a ball under one of the cups, and he moves them around and you have to guess which cup the ball is under. Right, we all know not to bet on that. Well somehow I got sucked into betting on it. Not once, but twice. And all in a matter of like 10 seconds. I could see it happening and hear myself saying this is a terrible idea, do not hand him your money. You're going to lose. But it was too late. And I lost. Twice.

On language and pigs

One thing that has becoming glaringly obvious to me on this trip is the importance of language. I speak zero Spanish, and for whatever reason thought that would not be a problem when traveling to Spain (can we say egocentric American?). I didn´t even buy a freakin book of key Spanish phrases for christ´s sake. Anyways, I´ve found that it is a problem and while I´m really making an effort to try and pick up bits of Spanish here and there, it´s really hard to talk to anyone. And after awhile of "hablo ingles?", being the first thing out of my mouth, I start to feel like a moron for not being able to communicate even the simplest of things, like ordering from a menu, asking for and receiving directions, etc. Also, pretty much everyone in my Madrid hostel spoke Spanish, and Spanish only, except for a couple of people - Adriana, who was from Brazil, but now living in Los Angeles (she actually speaks Portugese, English and Spanish), and Gary, from Texas, who also speaks Spanish and is moving to Madrid to teach English. By the second day of being surrounded by people my age but totally unable to interact with them, I found that all I wanted to do was to go hang out in the English cafe/bookstore, where I could actually have a conversation with the girl there, who happens to be moving to San Francisco in two weeks (small world). That obviously defeats the purpose of traveling to foreign countries, which isn´t to go and find the one place that is familiar, but to actually experience something different.

So, by mid-afternoon of day three in Madrid, I decided to try and integrate myself. Feeling satisfied with the number of touristy stuff I had done, I set off on my own (up til then, Adriana had sort of been my translator). First I took the metro to go and buy a bus ticket to Barcelona. The metro in Madrid, is great and very easy to use, so by now I was pretty confident with it. And I must have looked confident and not like a tourist, because someone stopped to ask me for directions. I was psyched until I realized that I had no idea what he had said and all I could answer with was "no hablo espanol." Nonetheless, I managed to successfully buy my bus ticket speaking only in Spanish and hand gestures. Feeling like I deserved a reward, I set off to find a cervecceria (or bar/cafe). Finding one that looked pretty authentic, I walked in and sat down. There was bullfighting on TV and legs of pig hanging from the wall (I´ve found that ham, cheese and bread are pretty major staples of the diet here. So much so, that there was one restaurant that was called the bar de jamon, and served only stuff made from pig). Right, so anyways, I sit down at the bar and order. "Una cerveza, por favor." For some reason, when ordering a beer, you don´t have to specify. If you say una cerveza, you just get whatever´s on tap. My order got me not only a beer, but also an appetizer - two pieces of bread, one with tomato and mozarella and the other with pork (most likely coming from the pig´s leg hanging in front of me) and a slice of red pepper. (That´s another thing, when you order a drink here, you always get some kind of a snack, either what I got, chips, bread or nuts.) So I get my drink, am hanging out with the locals and watching bullfighting. The bartender proceeds to slice the pig´s leg hanging in front of me, but the portion he´s slicing has been cured, to some kind of bacon or something. He´s slicing all these little pieces onto a small plate, preparing the snack for his next client. He sees me watching and hands me a slice. I have to admit, by this time, with an entire pig´s leg (hoof and everything) hanging directly in front of me, the bullfighting on tv, which was just starting to turn bloody, and my pork and bread snack still untouched, the slice of cured pork (or whatever it was) was probably the least appetizing thing he could have handed me. But since it was a friendly gesture and I hadn´t received many of those, I forced myself to stomach it and stay for the rest of the bullfight (the bull lost). I then paid my bill ($1.50), thanked the guy (gracias is another word I know), and vowed never to eat pork again.

More Madrid

My second day of Madrid I did the whole tourist thing, visited the Royal Palace, the Museum of Reina Sofia (a modern art museum), and some famous plazas. Madrid has all these plazas. Some are pretty small, neighborhoody plazas, which are cool, because you´re walking around these tiny streets that open up into a big plaza, usually with outdoor cafes, benches and sometimes a fountain or grassy area. Other plazas are bigger and more touristy, usually commemorating some historical event. The Plaza de Mayor is the biggest and most touristy of them all, reminded me of Fisherman´s Wharf - tons of stores all selling the same cheesy tshirts, knick knacks and postcards.

The Reina Sofia was pretty amazing. Four floors of art, including Picasso´s Guernica, which covered an entire wall. And I´m not even a big fan of museums : )

The Royal Palace was interesting, both for its size (2,800 rooms, 20 of which are still used today) and its extravagance. For example, of the 2,800 rooms I´m going to say at least 1,000 were waiting rooms. Almost every room we went through on our tour was built originally as a bedroom, but as the palace expanded, was turned into a waiting room. Exactly who waited in the rooms and for what, was unclear. Also, the King, Charles (the 3rd, I think), had a thing for clocks, so the Palace has over 400 clocks in it, some of them very intricate and most of them made out of gold. Finding the clocks is kind of like a game of Where´s Waldo, since most of them are made to blend in with the furniture and decorations. For example, there is a mantlepiece of a horse drawn chariot, and the wheel of the chariot is the clock. Anyways, I could go on about the different rooms in the Palace, but I can´t really do it justice without the photos, which I will hopefully be posting soon.

Credit Cards

The good thing about using credit cards abroad is the exchange rate is pretty good. The bad thing about using credit cards abroad, is that if you don´t tell your credit card company you are abroad, they eventually put a hold on your card because your recent activity is not consistent with your profile. It´s a great security feature unless you´re in the middle of reserving travel accomodations for the next several days. Then it´s a bit stressful.

Madrid

Ok, I finally remembered what my password was to get to my blog. The fact that the entire site is in Spanish doesn´t help much either. Oh well.

My first day in Madrid I spent pretty much wandering the city and feeling a little overwhelmed at not being able to understand anything or anyone. However, the first place I happened to stumble upon was a tiny cafe/used bookstore that had books in English. jandjbooksandcoffee.com. After going god knows how many hours without sleeping, coffee was the first thing on my mind. Second, was finding a travel book on Madrid. I was in luck on both accounts and the girl at the counter even taught me how to ask for a map of Madrid in Spanish - tienos une planos.

Some notable things about the city that I discovered on my first day
1. All the stores and restuarants keep the most random hours. It´s hard to know when anything is going to be open. Some places shut down for siesta, which seems like it can be from anywhere between 3 and 6 p.m. Another dead time is 9 pm - too early for dinner and going out, but too late for stores to be open. My first night, myself and another girl from the hostel, Adriana, decided we were going to find a tapas bar. The guy at the hostel recommended El Tigre - buy a drink and eat taps for free. Sounded good to us, unfortunately it was closed. But we figured, hey we´re in Spain, it can´t be too hard to find a tapas restaurant. That´s where we were wrong. After walking around for what seemed like forever - either the places we found were closed (unclear if we were too late or too early) or they were only bars. So we settled for bocadillas instead - small sandwiches.

2. Aside from a few main roads, the streets are tiny. They are all one-way and so narrow that the bigger trucks barely fit, and when they have to turn, usually end up taking over the sidewalk as well. The sidewalks are also tiny, sometimes not even able to fit two people across. Also, everything is covered in grafitti. It´s weird, b/c we´re in a nice area of town with tons of boutique clothing shops, little cafes and bars, but the walls have all been spray painted.

More on Madrid later...

The last hours

True to form, it is 3am, my flight leaves at 7 am, and I am still finishing up last minute packing. Or more accurately, procrastinating packing while I type this. It's a little surreal to think that what started out as a daydream from being completely frustrated by work and life in general, is now reality.

My "Itinerary"

My mom recently asked me to send her an itinerary of my travels for the next two and a half months. Seeing as I've only bought one ticket and am leaving in a week this is going to be difficult. But my plan as of now is that I'm flying into Madrid, Spain, probably spending a few days there, traveling down to the coast with stops along the way, then taking the ferry over to Morocco, spending X number of days in Morocco and then going down to Ghana.

I'm keeping this blog at the request of some friends and also because I'm starting school in the fall and since quitting my job am a bit out of writing practice. Fortunately, I'm pretty sure NYU can't recant their acceptance.

Anyways, I welcome any and all comments or suggestions for how to make this an interesting blog. And yes, I know the name is totally unoriginal, but hopefully it will be easy to remember.