There is something about the middle of winter where time seems to slow down and jump ahead at the same time, sort of like a wrinkle. I feel like I have accomplished nothing but still have no time. Not to mention, I have not thought of writing any more than I've thought about venturing out into the cold weather.
I wonder if you've experienced cold like I have in my life. I know some of you have, and I know some of you think you have. But until you've lived in the flatlands of the midwest, where wind whips like an angry slave-driver, you have no idea. The first step outside on a sub-zero day with gusting wind sucks the breath right out of your body. You are literally gasping for air. A few more steps and your eyelashes have frozen together and you are suddenly aware of the amount of frozen snot in your nostrils. If you're lucky enough to not have to spend ten minutes scraping your windshield, then you jump in the car hastily, only to find another layer of ice has accumulated on the inside. The engine takes a few encouraging words of, "come on, come on, you can do it" before it turns over, but the radio has retired until warmer weather.
So why do we live in these places deemed unsuitable for humans? Well, I'm not sure I can answer that question. Family, jobs, school, tradition. Not knowing anything else. I talked to a friend the other day who still lives in the frigid plains of the Midwest. She said she hates winter, absolutely despises it. It affects her mood, makes her depressed. "So why don't you move?" I asked her. "Because there's something about spring. Something about April and May when everything begins to thaw, the birds come out, and I can see green again." I had to agree, there's something magnificent and truly magical about the changing seasons when you live somewhere with such drastic weather. To us, spring is not simply a change of wardrobe, it is a symbol of life.
But until that day comes, (which sometimes in the mountains may not be until June,) I have to resort to adjusting the thermostat and returning to humble activities. In the middle of winter I find myself yearning for some sort of nostalgic feeling, a time to reminisce with myself. Today I ventured out to the used book store, (the temperature finally rose to 10 degrees,) and browsed the children's section. I recognized titles and characters I had once cherished in my bedroom as a child. I thumbed through the pages of classics and series that I collected on bookshelves and in piles next to my bed. It made me remember when my parents would get so upset that I was still up at one o'clock in the morning as an eight year old, still reading with a flashlight. "You'll sleep til noon tomorrow!" So I would turn it off, listen for the light switches to flick off in the hallway, and then turn it back on when they left. I picked out three books, one of which I read as a child, and two that I had always dreamt of reading.
When I got home I stacked the books on the coffee table and got lost in reminiscing. I grabbed a photo album from the top shelf and opened it up. Middle school, high school, college. I hadn't looked at this in years! What was I wearing? What happened to her? How did we get out of that one? About six years ago I took all of my photos, boxes and boxes, and threw away 95 percent. I wanted to move on with my life and I didn't want heavy boxes and even heavier memories to weigh me down. So now, looking through one photo album gives me peace and the simple feeling of nostalgia I sometimes need.
I had the afternoon to myself and let myself regress in age, thinking about old boyfriends, teachers, vacations, and troubles. One photo led to the next and pretty soon I was flipping the pages of an old journal. I came across a checklist of life goals. What a goldmine. A writing teacher in high school made us make a list of fifty things we wanted to do before we died and told us to hold onto the journal to make sure we accomplished them. Reading them made me laugh, and I actually got to check a couple off today, but some of them are still far-fetched or pretty heavy, especially for a 15 year old to be writing about.
The first one is "1. Reach happiness." With pen in hand, I couldn't bring myself to check that one off. I have to say I am extremely happy and I have had some amazing moments in my life. But is this "reaching" happiness? Have I accomplished it? I don't know if I will, or if I ever want to check that box off. Because what happens after that?
Others were very specific like, "11. Eat at at the Plaza," "19. Own a convertible," and "50. Meet Savion Glover." Not so sure some of those are going to happen, but I love being reminded of my frame of mind so many years ago, in so few words.
Some brought me back to high school immediately. "52. Find the perfect pair of jeans," "16. Tell my kids about seeing the fall of the World Trade Center." Suddenly I remembered sitting at the grey, plastic desk, several rows back, writing and pausing, thinking and writing, making my list from whatever popped into my head.
A few pages later I found a list of sentences over three pages. I'm not sure what the assignment was, but the lines flow like a vivid memory, which I'm sure I wrote in five minutes just so I could finish my homework and go cruise around listening to music with friends. But now, ten years later, I am so glad I finished the assignment.
October 22, 2001
Dear Journal,
These are the neighborhood sentences:
When I was in the fifth grade a wild turkey ran down the street by Lindenwood Park.
Maggie used to be my best friend and we'd go talk on top of our neighbor's shed roof.
Every Fourth of July you can see the fireworks through the Lindenwood Park tree tops.
Rollerblading in the streets is always so hard because of the cracks in the street.
The squirrels would always perch on our fence and eat the fallen acorns for their meal.
Our tree was cut down last year because it had a disease and would have affected other trees.
Natalie and I went sunbathing on my roof one time and we could see the whole neighborhood.
Our block is so long that I have no idea who lives on the other half.
Sometimes I babysit the little girls down at the other end of the block which is actually really fun.
My mom and I sometimes sit in the gazebo in our backyard in the morning and listen to the world wake up.
Jess and I found out that we have ten people on our block who go to South yet we never hang out with one another.
When I was in the seventh grade, Maggie and I had a sleepover in the camper that her dad had borrowed for us.
In the winter our street is one of the last to get plowed because it's a very low-traveled street.
I go walking around our neighborhood with my mom when it's nice out which ends up being a two miles walk.
We've only had one block party ever since I've lived here and that was probably five years ago.
Even though I've ever really know the neighbors very well, it's a nice and cozy place to live.
When we step out in our front yard we always watch for storms coming cause you can see the huge clouds over the roofs.
My brother and I used to hide in the front yard pine tree that we had made into our fort.
Sometimes my brother and I would gather sticks and berries pretending that we were natives or orphans.
About five summers ago I invented the game tree tag and all the kids would play it in our front yard for hours on end.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
"So, what's the next step?"
How many times in our lives have we all panicked about our future? About work, a place to live, where to live, expectations, family. There seem to be so many milestones in our life, so many times that we have to go, "Oh god - what am I doing next?" I don't know many people who constantly have it figured out. They're probably out there but I'm certainly not friends with them. You know who I'm talking about. The person who graduates on time, has the job lined up, the wedding date picked, and the baby room already painted. If I have to choose between yellow or green wall color, I think I'm better off not knowing.
And that's where I'm at in my life, as so many times before. What's next? Today I met with the president of my university to talk about my graduate research. Last summer she met me and said, "Let's talk." Finally, six months later we did just that. I sat down, gave a thirty second summary of my research, and she looked me in the eye and said "So, what's the next step?" I felt my mouth gape and my eyes search the wall behind her for answers. Framed certificates, academic posters, a window. Nope, I'm not going to find the answer there. "Uh - well..." I sounded like a complete idiot, so unprepared for this great opportunity. The rest of the meeting was a blur as I spoke like a politician, avoiding the question. All that I could think about, in the back of my mind, were her haunting words: "So what's the next step?" Next step for what? Today? My research? After graduation? That adolescent feeling of doubt and fear swept over me as I spoke empty words to the president, thinking to myself, "What is next?"
Think of the phrases you have heard so often: "when you grow up," or "the real world." Am I nearing those toll bridges in my life? Many of us Gen Y-ers are just entering the work world, just buying houses, or just getting married. They say "40 is the new 30," so does that make 30 the new 20? If so, I have a long way to go until I mature and feel ready to enter "the real world." If that's true, our generation is still finding itself, growing up, realizing that we don't want to stop learning or stop exploring. I don't think it's a sign of immaturity, just a sign of open-mindedness and a willingness to keep seeing the world with wide eyes. If that is how we will continue to live, then I'm not sure any of us will ever "grow up" or enter "the real world," as our parents used to put it. But frankly, as far as I'm concerned, that's ok with me. We'll figure it out together.
And that's where I'm at in my life, as so many times before. What's next? Today I met with the president of my university to talk about my graduate research. Last summer she met me and said, "Let's talk." Finally, six months later we did just that. I sat down, gave a thirty second summary of my research, and she looked me in the eye and said "So, what's the next step?" I felt my mouth gape and my eyes search the wall behind her for answers. Framed certificates, academic posters, a window. Nope, I'm not going to find the answer there. "Uh - well..." I sounded like a complete idiot, so unprepared for this great opportunity. The rest of the meeting was a blur as I spoke like a politician, avoiding the question. All that I could think about, in the back of my mind, were her haunting words: "So what's the next step?" Next step for what? Today? My research? After graduation? That adolescent feeling of doubt and fear swept over me as I spoke empty words to the president, thinking to myself, "What is next?"
Think of the phrases you have heard so often: "when you grow up," or "the real world." Am I nearing those toll bridges in my life? Many of us Gen Y-ers are just entering the work world, just buying houses, or just getting married. They say "40 is the new 30," so does that make 30 the new 20? If so, I have a long way to go until I mature and feel ready to enter "the real world." If that's true, our generation is still finding itself, growing up, realizing that we don't want to stop learning or stop exploring. I don't think it's a sign of immaturity, just a sign of open-mindedness and a willingness to keep seeing the world with wide eyes. If that is how we will continue to live, then I'm not sure any of us will ever "grow up" or enter "the real world," as our parents used to put it. But frankly, as far as I'm concerned, that's ok with me. We'll figure it out together.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
State of The Union?
President Obama delivered the symbolic State of the Union address tonight to hundreds of Congress-people and millions of citizens. But what does this mean to me? I have to wonder if my daily routines are affected by the symbolic poetic rhetoric that is delivered on a night such as this. When I walk down the street and buy a gallon of milk? When I go to the library and browse the hardbacks? When I stroll to the local bar and get a drink?
But then I step back and think a little more critically. A walk down the street means I'm walking on carefully planned infrastructure based on intricate budgets. A gallon of milk requires countless regulations and subsidies. A trip to the library means committees, boards, and political action taken to pay for the hardbacks and computers.
So why aren't more people paying attention?
After the president's speech, a representative from the Republican party gave a response, followed by a representative from the Tea Party. Even though Obama asked us to unite despite our differences, the conflicting rhetoric increased with each representative.
Now I now why people aren't paying attention.
Picture yourself listening to three screaming children, all trying to tell you who was responsible for breaking the Lego castle, after it was so carefully built up. There is screaming, crying, hitting, accusing, blaming. And no one sits down to discuss the problem that, above all else, the Lego castle has crumbled and something needs to be done. How are you supposed to reason with these juveniles?
I agree it is hard to make sense of the issues in Washington and the political jargon that is associated with it, but you must give your intellect the credit it deserves. You can understand government and take a stand on the future you deserve. We have always been preached to about "our children's children's government." Well, think about your government. We can't be the forgotten generation, the generation that gave up trying to make sense of the mess that was left for us on the steps of our capitol.
So get out the books, stop listening to rumors, start questioning, and never, ever stop caring. This is our government, these are our days, and this is our chance to make a difference.
But then I step back and think a little more critically. A walk down the street means I'm walking on carefully planned infrastructure based on intricate budgets. A gallon of milk requires countless regulations and subsidies. A trip to the library means committees, boards, and political action taken to pay for the hardbacks and computers.
So why aren't more people paying attention?
After the president's speech, a representative from the Republican party gave a response, followed by a representative from the Tea Party. Even though Obama asked us to unite despite our differences, the conflicting rhetoric increased with each representative.
Now I now why people aren't paying attention.
Picture yourself listening to three screaming children, all trying to tell you who was responsible for breaking the Lego castle, after it was so carefully built up. There is screaming, crying, hitting, accusing, blaming. And no one sits down to discuss the problem that, above all else, the Lego castle has crumbled and something needs to be done. How are you supposed to reason with these juveniles?
I agree it is hard to make sense of the issues in Washington and the political jargon that is associated with it, but you must give your intellect the credit it deserves. You can understand government and take a stand on the future you deserve. We have always been preached to about "our children's children's government." Well, think about your government. We can't be the forgotten generation, the generation that gave up trying to make sense of the mess that was left for us on the steps of our capitol.
So get out the books, stop listening to rumors, start questioning, and never, ever stop caring. This is our government, these are our days, and this is our chance to make a difference.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Destination: Home
How am I supposed to answer the question, "How was your trip?" How was what exactly? The weather, the people, the hostels, hotels, dirty beds, bright colors, speedy mopeds, the smells, the history, the....what was it you asked me again?
It's nothing short of strange and beautiful being back home. Being able to walk the streets holding a coffee, getting into my car and driving...anywhere. But still I remain stuck on how to explain why I am tired or emotional, slightly absent-minded or aloof. I have great memories of my trip to Morocco but, unfortunately, it all feels like a dream with hazy details. I seem to have woken up sweating and shaking from a vivid dream that leaves me flailing in the dark for any specifics that I can remember. Just as in a dream, was there a beginning or an end to all of it?
Ask me again about my trip and I'll tell you about the native men trying desperately to sell me a handmade rug to support their family. Or what it was like to see a man in Casablanca wearing a traditional Moroccan robe, a turban, and new Ray Bans. Or getting lost in the walled city for three hours trying to find a way out. Or maybe I should tell you about the Brits I met on the beach or the girls from Belgium who gave me a free place to stay. It's a grab bag of hard working people, backpackers, cultural cuisine, and dusty roads. The lucid stories come and go in my conscious state like hallucinations.
And here I am at home with all the luxuries I missed. The grocery store has everything any human could ever want. The streets are big enough for four cars and void of garbage. I can talk to my family as fast as I can dial, and I can reminisce with all of you about my wonderful, irrational, indescribable adventure. I've been asked several times, "was it worth it?" Of course. I learned so much about a new culture and religion, about a person's desire to make a sale, about the rich and poor, and that passion comes in many colors.
But above all else, I am most thankful for the fact that I now have toilet paper.
It's nothing short of strange and beautiful being back home. Being able to walk the streets holding a coffee, getting into my car and driving...anywhere. But still I remain stuck on how to explain why I am tired or emotional, slightly absent-minded or aloof. I have great memories of my trip to Morocco but, unfortunately, it all feels like a dream with hazy details. I seem to have woken up sweating and shaking from a vivid dream that leaves me flailing in the dark for any specifics that I can remember. Just as in a dream, was there a beginning or an end to all of it?
Ask me again about my trip and I'll tell you about the native men trying desperately to sell me a handmade rug to support their family. Or what it was like to see a man in Casablanca wearing a traditional Moroccan robe, a turban, and new Ray Bans. Or getting lost in the walled city for three hours trying to find a way out. Or maybe I should tell you about the Brits I met on the beach or the girls from Belgium who gave me a free place to stay. It's a grab bag of hard working people, backpackers, cultural cuisine, and dusty roads. The lucid stories come and go in my conscious state like hallucinations.
And here I am at home with all the luxuries I missed. The grocery store has everything any human could ever want. The streets are big enough for four cars and void of garbage. I can talk to my family as fast as I can dial, and I can reminisce with all of you about my wonderful, irrational, indescribable adventure. I've been asked several times, "was it worth it?" Of course. I learned so much about a new culture and religion, about a person's desire to make a sale, about the rich and poor, and that passion comes in many colors.
But above all else, I am most thankful for the fact that I now have toilet paper.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Day 23 - Essaouira, Morocco
Apparently they don't have cyber cafes in the middle of the Sahara so that's why I haven't written in awhile. I can hardly explain to you the magnificence of the desert. I rode on a bus for two days out to the Sahara over nail-biting, heart-attack inducing curvy roads over massive cliffs. (I swear that only two wheels were on the road at several points in the journey.) The first day I wandered through an old village of mud huts where Gladiator, Babel, and many other desert movies were shot. It was such an honor to see these native children talk about the movies being filmed and how their families were extras. "I was in the movie! Did you see this scene? Remember this guy? That is me!" It was surreal trying to imagine cameras and celebrities walking around these dusty paths.
After hours of mountain roads and small villages with donkey carts and children trekking miles to school, we finally caught our first glimpse of the giant golden sand dunes. Dunes rolling across the horizon with a million shadows standing in stark contrast to the brilliant blue sky. We were approaching sunset so the Berber men (the native tribes people of Morocco,) quickly ushered us onto camels wearing saddles made of thick blankets and rope. Civilization disappeared behind me as I was led further into the Sahara, swaying back and forth, back and forth to the rhythm of the silent camel. I thought to myself, all I really know about the desert is what I have seen in movies. Lawrence of Arabia, Mummy, and all the others that take place in this barren land. So if movies are correct, as they always are, that means there should be a sand palace on my right, a mirage of an oasis in the distance, and ninjas ascending behind us. Ninjas?! Gallop camel, gallop!
Unfortunately I saw none of that; just sand for miles and miles and garbage strewn about, completely ruining my romantic expectations of the desert. But I could look past it, into the sunset, and imagine brave souls crossing the desert on foot so many years ago. I day-dreamed into the sunset and didn't even realize that we were soon riding camels in the dark desert as we approached camp. Camels were parked outside the walled tents as we fumbled around in the darkness trying to gather ourselves. When I entered the walled tent I felt like I was in Harry Potter when they open the flaps of the tent to find a giant room with candles, food, and warmth. Out in the middle of the desert these men had set up a palace with rugs lining the tent and lanterns providing light for our weary minds.
After dinner our Berber hosts brought in hand drums and finger cymbals and sang ancient Berber songs at the top of their lungs. It was amazing to see these guys, who looked so bored leading us through the desert, expressing themselves so passionately with their music. Pretty soon we were all up dancing, banging on drums, enjoying the history of the desert with Berber music.
By now, night had fully engulfed us and the temperature began to drop. I stuck my head outside the tent and gasped when I saw the number of stars in the sky - unlike anything I had ever seen in my entire life. Remember those posters of the constellations? Or seeing a show in the planetarium? It was even more spectacular than that. The Milky Way stood out like it had been brushed across the sky and the planets popped like diamonds. More heads popped out of the tent, one by one, and each person gasped in excitement at the moonless sky lit only by the billions of ancient stars. Just another bit of history still alive in this vast desert.
I began to make my way to bed when a Berber man said, "No, no. Get your shoes on. We're all going for a hike." A hike? It was pitch black and I was standing in the middle of the Sahara. I'm sorry, but where the heck do you expect to take us? He pointed up off in the distance. "We're going to the top of that sand dune." Oh boy. We all started strong, hiking in the uneven, exhausting sand but stragglers began to drop like flies. I pushed myself harder and harder, soon climbing with my hands and feet on the steep sand dune. I could see the top silhouetted against the bright starry sky but it felt like it would never come. Only ten more steps....only five more....three more...where's the top?! It felt like a step ladder at the gym where you hike and hike but get nowhere. Vertigo began to set in as my footing started to slip and my eyes refused to adjust to the pitch blackness. Finally! I made it to the top and cheered with excitement as the wind whipped my face and sand bit my legs and arms. This is Africa!
What an amazing adventure! But now I am out of the desert and meandering the streets of Essaouira on the coast. Once an American hippie destination in the 1960s, old hipsters still roam the streets with dread locks and long Moroccan robes. The white-washed walls of houses and buildings with purple and mint green trim set against the blue ocean make for an easy place to relax and dream about camels and sand palaces.
And now, with only three days left to travel, this will be my last Moroccan post. But don't you worry, the adventures will surely follow me back to the United States and with them, more posts! Thank you to everyone who has followed me and shown so much support. I look forward to taking you along on my next adventure. With a big farewell, I leave you with some inspiration from a favorite childhood author:
"I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel's sake. The great affair is to move."
- Robert Louis Stevenson
I hope all of you keep moving in your life, never forgetting what it's like to be a part of constant change.
After hours of mountain roads and small villages with donkey carts and children trekking miles to school, we finally caught our first glimpse of the giant golden sand dunes. Dunes rolling across the horizon with a million shadows standing in stark contrast to the brilliant blue sky. We were approaching sunset so the Berber men (the native tribes people of Morocco,) quickly ushered us onto camels wearing saddles made of thick blankets and rope. Civilization disappeared behind me as I was led further into the Sahara, swaying back and forth, back and forth to the rhythm of the silent camel. I thought to myself, all I really know about the desert is what I have seen in movies. Lawrence of Arabia, Mummy, and all the others that take place in this barren land. So if movies are correct, as they always are, that means there should be a sand palace on my right, a mirage of an oasis in the distance, and ninjas ascending behind us. Ninjas?! Gallop camel, gallop!
Unfortunately I saw none of that; just sand for miles and miles and garbage strewn about, completely ruining my romantic expectations of the desert. But I could look past it, into the sunset, and imagine brave souls crossing the desert on foot so many years ago. I day-dreamed into the sunset and didn't even realize that we were soon riding camels in the dark desert as we approached camp. Camels were parked outside the walled tents as we fumbled around in the darkness trying to gather ourselves. When I entered the walled tent I felt like I was in Harry Potter when they open the flaps of the tent to find a giant room with candles, food, and warmth. Out in the middle of the desert these men had set up a palace with rugs lining the tent and lanterns providing light for our weary minds.
After dinner our Berber hosts brought in hand drums and finger cymbals and sang ancient Berber songs at the top of their lungs. It was amazing to see these guys, who looked so bored leading us through the desert, expressing themselves so passionately with their music. Pretty soon we were all up dancing, banging on drums, enjoying the history of the desert with Berber music.
By now, night had fully engulfed us and the temperature began to drop. I stuck my head outside the tent and gasped when I saw the number of stars in the sky - unlike anything I had ever seen in my entire life. Remember those posters of the constellations? Or seeing a show in the planetarium? It was even more spectacular than that. The Milky Way stood out like it had been brushed across the sky and the planets popped like diamonds. More heads popped out of the tent, one by one, and each person gasped in excitement at the moonless sky lit only by the billions of ancient stars. Just another bit of history still alive in this vast desert.
I began to make my way to bed when a Berber man said, "No, no. Get your shoes on. We're all going for a hike." A hike? It was pitch black and I was standing in the middle of the Sahara. I'm sorry, but where the heck do you expect to take us? He pointed up off in the distance. "We're going to the top of that sand dune." Oh boy. We all started strong, hiking in the uneven, exhausting sand but stragglers began to drop like flies. I pushed myself harder and harder, soon climbing with my hands and feet on the steep sand dune. I could see the top silhouetted against the bright starry sky but it felt like it would never come. Only ten more steps....only five more....three more...where's the top?! It felt like a step ladder at the gym where you hike and hike but get nowhere. Vertigo began to set in as my footing started to slip and my eyes refused to adjust to the pitch blackness. Finally! I made it to the top and cheered with excitement as the wind whipped my face and sand bit my legs and arms. This is Africa!
What an amazing adventure! But now I am out of the desert and meandering the streets of Essaouira on the coast. Once an American hippie destination in the 1960s, old hipsters still roam the streets with dread locks and long Moroccan robes. The white-washed walls of houses and buildings with purple and mint green trim set against the blue ocean make for an easy place to relax and dream about camels and sand palaces.
And now, with only three days left to travel, this will be my last Moroccan post. But don't you worry, the adventures will surely follow me back to the United States and with them, more posts! Thank you to everyone who has followed me and shown so much support. I look forward to taking you along on my next adventure. With a big farewell, I leave you with some inspiration from a favorite childhood author:
"I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel's sake. The great affair is to move."
- Robert Louis Stevenson
I hope all of you keep moving in your life, never forgetting what it's like to be a part of constant change.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Day 14 - Marrakech Mania
Back to the madness of Morocco with the zooming and honking cars, screaming children, and donkeys trotting down the street. Quite a difference compared to the last week I spent in Barcelona with artists painting on the street and families lounging on the beach. Barcelona was very nice but it was easy, too easy. Does that make sense? I could go out for food, for drinks, sit by the ocean and dream the day away, whereas Morocco takes a lot of work. After nearly getting run over by motor bikes and beating off harassing street vendors, you appreciate your bed and privacy that much more.
I left Barcelona the day after Christmas and stayed in northern Morocco for one night. I met a Canadian boy on the train who is working in Morocco and we went to eat at his favorite restaurant. The owners love him and were ecstatic that he brought an American girl to their shop. They sat with us for hours drinking tea and smoking cigarettes, speaking in English, French and Arabic about the military, the villages of Morocco, and international politics. All was going well until they found out I had yet to eat cous-cous in Morocco. Everyone got up shouting as if the world was going to end. It was worse than the apocolypse!
(Which, by the way, I didn`t know Muslims beleived in. According to them, the Jews are going to rise up and try to kill the Muslims but Jesus will return and save them. Just a tidbit for ya.)
So anyway, after all the cous-cous drama they told me that I must come back the next day and eat homemade cous-cous. This would mean missing my morning train but I agreed. Who gets the opportunity to do this? They told us to arrive at 12:30 so we could eat leisurely and leave by 3. Well we arrived the next day right on time, the food was ready only 20 minutes later, but we sat and drank tea for two hours before eating. Time is relevant here. Once we started, we all sat down to eat with our hands. There was cous-cous, vegetables and a chicken in the middle of the communal tray. Have you ever eaten cous-cous? It`s damn near impossible to eat with your hands. So they taught me that you need to grab a clump and toss it around like you would if you were playing with coins in your palm. The food should quickly turn into a perfect ball which you pop into your mouth. Oh boy, the American girl made everyone laugh until they were crying when I tossed and tossed but just produced a messy clump of cous-cous and mashed vegetables. I tried to eat it but it fell all over the table, which made them laugh even more. Want to make friends? Embarrass yourself.
And now here I am in Marrakech after a long day of walking around the market, navigating through the medina which is the walled center of the city. Here`s a link to a map of the medina: http://tinyurl.com/24bra4t
You can see why I`m confused.
I can`t even begin to explain the sensory explosion here. It truly feels like you are in a movie with spinning cinemetography and special effects. Imagine listening to clarinets enticing snakes to dance and villagers banging on drums and playing finger cymbals, while smelling curry, sage, cinnamon, fried fish, and fresh squeezed orange juice. At the same time donkey carts go flying by squeezing you between horses and a dozen motor bikes zipping past. Vendors are calling you to buy their product at "a good price! a good price!" Women walk by wearing head scarves or burkas and men follow the loud speakers call to prayer. All the while you are caught in a whirlwind of sounds, people, and smells, lost in the medina, unable to find your way out. Scary? A little. Exciting? Unlike anything you`ve ever experienced.
I will stay in Marrakech exploring the endless streets of the medina until the 1st and then I will bring in the new year with a camel ride in the desert. Happy new year everyone!
I left Barcelona the day after Christmas and stayed in northern Morocco for one night. I met a Canadian boy on the train who is working in Morocco and we went to eat at his favorite restaurant. The owners love him and were ecstatic that he brought an American girl to their shop. They sat with us for hours drinking tea and smoking cigarettes, speaking in English, French and Arabic about the military, the villages of Morocco, and international politics. All was going well until they found out I had yet to eat cous-cous in Morocco. Everyone got up shouting as if the world was going to end. It was worse than the apocolypse!
(Which, by the way, I didn`t know Muslims beleived in. According to them, the Jews are going to rise up and try to kill the Muslims but Jesus will return and save them. Just a tidbit for ya.)
So anyway, after all the cous-cous drama they told me that I must come back the next day and eat homemade cous-cous. This would mean missing my morning train but I agreed. Who gets the opportunity to do this? They told us to arrive at 12:30 so we could eat leisurely and leave by 3. Well we arrived the next day right on time, the food was ready only 20 minutes later, but we sat and drank tea for two hours before eating. Time is relevant here. Once we started, we all sat down to eat with our hands. There was cous-cous, vegetables and a chicken in the middle of the communal tray. Have you ever eaten cous-cous? It`s damn near impossible to eat with your hands. So they taught me that you need to grab a clump and toss it around like you would if you were playing with coins in your palm. The food should quickly turn into a perfect ball which you pop into your mouth. Oh boy, the American girl made everyone laugh until they were crying when I tossed and tossed but just produced a messy clump of cous-cous and mashed vegetables. I tried to eat it but it fell all over the table, which made them laugh even more. Want to make friends? Embarrass yourself.
And now here I am in Marrakech after a long day of walking around the market, navigating through the medina which is the walled center of the city. Here`s a link to a map of the medina: http://tinyurl.com/24bra4t
You can see why I`m confused.
I can`t even begin to explain the sensory explosion here. It truly feels like you are in a movie with spinning cinemetography and special effects. Imagine listening to clarinets enticing snakes to dance and villagers banging on drums and playing finger cymbals, while smelling curry, sage, cinnamon, fried fish, and fresh squeezed orange juice. At the same time donkey carts go flying by squeezing you between horses and a dozen motor bikes zipping past. Vendors are calling you to buy their product at "a good price! a good price!" Women walk by wearing head scarves or burkas and men follow the loud speakers call to prayer. All the while you are caught in a whirlwind of sounds, people, and smells, lost in the medina, unable to find your way out. Scary? A little. Exciting? Unlike anything you`ve ever experienced.
I will stay in Marrakech exploring the endless streets of the medina until the 1st and then I will bring in the new year with a camel ride in the desert. Happy new year everyone!
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Day 9 - Barcelona
What makes a city great? What are the attributes that makes anything "great?" That is, what differentiates between a good movie and a great movie, a talented painting and a great painting, some good food and a great meal? Sure there are people who study this stuff: food critiques, art historians, anthropologists. But I don´t want to discount that the average joe or jane does not have the ability to declare something great. How do we know when we are walking down the street of a city that it is a great city? Cities include buildings, people, cars, busses, bicycles, restaurants, street lights, plants, everything that every other city has. So what separates from Paris from Dallas? New York from La Paz? Barcelona from Omaha?
After days of rain I finally had a sunny day to explore Barcelona. I listened to Spanish roll off the tongues of the natives as children ran around the dried leaves falling from the city trees. I followed the cobblestone streets to the harbor and watched the white capped waves crash into rocks near the beach as wandering souls built sandcastles for Euros and painted pictures for change. Pigeons swooped toward old men throwing bread crumbs and ladies gossiped on the park bench. How does this city differ than any other? Maybe it is the scences I see that I have read about in poetry and seen in movies and paintings. So why did artists choose a city like this? Does Omaha have the same potential of becoming a great city? It may be as simple as that we just need someone to write a famous poem about the beauty of Omaha.
The flat plains of glowing Omaha,
Oh how you make me wanna
Jump around the suburbs
In my Dodge Caravan
and sing about every woman and man
who goes to church on Sunday,
shops at Target on Monday,
and dreams about their growing roth IRA.
Oh glowing Omaha.
Ok now I´m just being mean to Omaha. But really, I´m not sure I can answer my own question of what makes a city great. I think it depends on the weather, if you have eaten or slept, and who you are traveling with. Cities do not give birth to greatness; it is the people as a collective that are responsible for their own greatness. Because of this, cities are in a state of constant flux and no one person could ever pin point the greatness of a city, or even what defines a city at all. So what defines Barcelona? I do, right at this moment.
But now it´s gone.
After days of rain I finally had a sunny day to explore Barcelona. I listened to Spanish roll off the tongues of the natives as children ran around the dried leaves falling from the city trees. I followed the cobblestone streets to the harbor and watched the white capped waves crash into rocks near the beach as wandering souls built sandcastles for Euros and painted pictures for change. Pigeons swooped toward old men throwing bread crumbs and ladies gossiped on the park bench. How does this city differ than any other? Maybe it is the scences I see that I have read about in poetry and seen in movies and paintings. So why did artists choose a city like this? Does Omaha have the same potential of becoming a great city? It may be as simple as that we just need someone to write a famous poem about the beauty of Omaha.
The flat plains of glowing Omaha,
Oh how you make me wanna
Jump around the suburbs
In my Dodge Caravan
and sing about every woman and man
who goes to church on Sunday,
shops at Target on Monday,
and dreams about their growing roth IRA.
Oh glowing Omaha.
Ok now I´m just being mean to Omaha. But really, I´m not sure I can answer my own question of what makes a city great. I think it depends on the weather, if you have eaten or slept, and who you are traveling with. Cities do not give birth to greatness; it is the people as a collective that are responsible for their own greatness. Because of this, cities are in a state of constant flux and no one person could ever pin point the greatness of a city, or even what defines a city at all. So what defines Barcelona? I do, right at this moment.
But now it´s gone.
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