On The Road

6,127 Miles
17 States
11 Nights Camping
6 National Parks
4 Bags of David's seeds (2 jalepeno, 2 BBQ)
4 Car repair visits
2 Books on tape finished
1 Visit to Taco Bell
1 Overheating incident
Many bottles of mountain dew

Santa Fe, New Mexico

Just a quick note to let all know that we are alive, well, and in Santa Fe. Finding internet has been spotty and expensive, and so the blog has suffered recently.

Our apologies.

We hope to post an update later today or tonight about our recent activities, including San Francisco, Yosemite National Park, The Grand Canyon, Santa Fe, and whatever exciting events occur today.

We hope that all are well.

UPdate

Northern California is sort of a weird place, man.

We have driven through a number of towns just today that seem to be completely populated by weirdo hippies, strange hippie-type shops, and little else. The employment opportunities and draw of these towns are not immediately obvious. The towns, at least at first sight, have little "draw" to them--no University, no major industry--nothing but a couple of shops and cafes.

The only answer we can come up with is that these towns have developed around the local Humboldt County "produce" that brings people to such places.

We have spent the last few days, last night not included, in relatively civilized conditions. A few nights ago we stayed in Seattle with our friends Alex, Matias, and Robin. The drive across Eastern Washington was fascinating, rolling out before us after crossing the Idaho border. Our first introduction was a drive-through espresso stand in Spokane, followed by the ubiquitious free coffee at Washington rest areas. Sleep the first night in Seattle was wired and fitful for some of us.

We walked around Seattle the afternoon of our arrival, checking out the strange depths of Underground Seattle (one can take a tour through the old, now underground portions of Seattle). In the evening we enjoyed some dinner, drinks and dancing around town at an interesting place filled with ridiculously dense clouds of fake-smoke. The Seattle bar scene we saw, mostly in the area called Capital Hill was interesting. It seemed less consciously hipster and slightly more daring than a Brooklyn style, but we've been told that it is equally conscious, just better disguised.



More than three weeks of traveling was supposed to allow for in-depth probing of places in this land when we felt appropriate. We would explore weird places, immerse ourselves in local culture. But there are just too many things to see, too many places to go. Instead, the trip has become a "tasting menu." We have interacted mostly with service people and fellow tourists, occasionally speaking with locals at our frequent haunts - gas stations and campgrounds. We have adopted Hemingway's writing mantra of always leaving a bit in the ink-well, so there would be something to come back to. We have left much ink in the well. This "tasting menu" of America does not allow for probing if we wish to reach even a small number of the flavors available. This is not to say that merely being in these places, experiencing these lands is not teaching us much about this country, but there is so much more.

We woke in the morning after our night of '80s dancing to begin what would become a two-day, apparently Pacific Northwest, Road Trip Tradition. Alex brought us to a delicious breakfast place, where he ordered a portion of "biscuits and gravy" for the table. However, a short while later the waitress brought out a small platter of oatmeal. Some discussion and probing ensued and it was revealed to us that the oatmeal was in fact a concoction of butter, cream, corn starch, copious amounts of sausage and lord knows what else and was curiously dubbed "gravy." Needless to say, such a potent combination was enjoyable, but heavy on the stomach. Somewhere within the oatmeal, biscuits existed, but their taste remains a mystery to even the most sensitive of pallets among us.

We left rather late and headed toward Portland to meet up with our friend Adam, who has been living in this beautiful Oregon town since the early part of the summer. The weather was hot but welcoming when we arrived, and we enjoyed a bit of hard core porch "settin" before heading off to play some bocce ball. For dinner we finally enjoyed a big-old buffalo burger, which while delicious, sort of tasted just like a normal beef burger.

In the morning we got into Adam's van and drove downtown to the weekly farmer's market. An entire section of the municipal park, a thin swath of land that runs the length of the city, was packed with stalls serving a variety of organic and local foods. Beautiful vegetables, brilliant flowers and local cheeses delighted in their scents and sights. After taking a loop of the stands, we made a beeline to the most important stand of the morning--the biscuit and gravy stand.

The Biscuit Stand (known as Pine State Biscuits) is owned by a couple of Adam's friends. This, unfortunately, seems to mean nothing, as the biscuits and gravy were just as pricey as always (five bucks for a moderately-sized plate, seven if you add a fried egg). They were pretty good though, the biscuits this time stood proudly and prominently and were scrumptious, but our now professional tastes suggest the gravy could have used less onions and more sausage, though a bit of paprika added some new excitement.

Portland is a charming town that seems to offer a healthy and balanced life. The rent is cheap, the people seem relaxed, and the whole town is surrounded by brilliant spots for hiking, climbing, and swimming. It was tough to leave, but the tasting menu is relentless and allows for little leeway. We spent a while cleaning out our car, reorganizing (twenty four hours later it is once again a total mess) and vacuuming in preparation for Yellowstone, where the bears are said to actually rip the doors off of cars that smell of food.

Our plan for last night seemed simple when we left. We thought that we would drive down Route 5 and head straight for Redwoods National Park. The drive was meant to take about four hours, which would have put us in the park around 8 pm. A few silly decisions, however, put us onto Route 101 (the coastal road), following our motivating desire to finally dip our toes into the Pacific Ocean. This turned out to be a beautiful but shocking cold experience. As night fell, we realized the coast on a Saturday night was no different here than in Seaside Heights, NJ, and our motel choices were close to nil. And so, we drove over nine hours, late into the night, searching frantically and futilely for a place to stay. We grew bitter as we read one sign after another turning us away from a place to rest our weary bones.



"No Vacancy" seemed the most normal of the signs, but some said "Sorry", which just seemed a bit weird, and to our bitter minds, somewhat sarcastic. And "No" struck us as just plain rude. After hours passing these signs, we finally found a campsite and settled in to sleep. As we had arrived in the evening, we had little chance to see the place.

We awoke in the morning to a mysterious, foggy air. The ground was drenched with the moisture of the temperate Redwood forest. Peeking out, and finally stepping out, we were greeted by a hearty call of "Howdy! You drink coffee?" Shaking cobwebs from our heads, we responded in the affirmative and went over to join our rather odd neighbor for a cup of "cowboy coffee" ("some might call it mountain man coffee," he told us).

The man, to describe him gently, was a freaking slob. His campsite was graced with two tents, both opened, one spewing forth a strange collection of clothing and garbage. His picnic table was strewn with open boxes and cans, books and papers, all sopping with water. Even his fire was a smoky, disorganized mess. Oddly, outside his tent sat a gleaming, brand-new mountain bike with front and rear suspension (as he would later proudly tell us). The man himself was dirty and hairy, in his early 30's. He was dressed in sweatpants and wore a pair of bent, wire-framed sunglasses.

He talked constantly, and about the strangest of topics. letting us know immediately that if we needed anything in town, he would be happy to help us out.

"Just pick your poison," he told us. "I personally am a pothead. But you let me know what you need and I can get it for you. Give me one day, and I can even get you an ounce of Columbia Gold." He looked at us over the rim of his battered sunglasses, eyeing us up to see if we understood the depths of his abilities as a procurer of illegal drugs.

"Really?" we politely responded.

"Yeah. Oh yeah."

Over the course of the next hour, we sipped coffee with the strange man, hearing of the time he had supposedly spent living around the country, of his time as a champion bull-rider (recording on the way) , of his girlfriend, his suggestions regarding the finest of California's wines, and of his record-breaking eight hour drive from San Diego to the Oregon border. After about an hour, we quickly and politely took our leave from this strange, generous, and apparently lonely man, leaving him with his sodden, messy campsite and a gift of a bag of rolling tobacco.



And today, a whole lot of driving, broken up by an overheating engine (now rectified), a Salmon Festival on an Indian Reservation, and numerous coffee breaks in strange hippie towns. All just snippets of so much more underneath the surface, but they will have to suffice for now.



(Note: This was written yesterday and published today--We are now in San Francisco--more to come soon)

Seattle

We have made it to Seattle. It only took us 3800 miles in Malibu Stacy to make it across a country that is supposedly only 3000 miles wide.

Curious.

We spent last night in a hotel--our first time back in "civilization" in a week or so. It was nice to take a shower, and I am sure that all of our friends on the coast appreciate it as much as we do.

We left Yellowstone a few days ago and headed north, as we wished to check out Glacier National Park, in Northern Montana. Planning our usual long drive, we assumed the legendary Montana roads would carry us on a chariot of speed to the northernmost reaches of our country. Not so much. Our timing was also hindered by a blown tire, grocery shopping, and a purchase of a new digital camera, all in the same Montana drive.

Annoying road construction, steep highway passes, and, yes, even slow Montana drivers kept us from reaching our planned campground in Glacier National. Instead, we followed a random sign to a state park in the middle of nowhere. Fearing we might be leading ourselves right into the hands of a Montana axe murderer who preys on late-comers to empty state parks, we instead found the last tent available tent site, which happened to be right on the shores of a beautiful mountain lake. The night was spent eating and drinking on its shores and the morning found us taking a refreshing swim.

Taking said morning swim was not an easy decision, as we feared the frigidity of the alpine waters. With a bit of prodding from Jason, however, Chris was convinced to take the plunge. Once in the (beautifully temperate) water, we discussed the importance of enjoying such events, and Jason reminded Chris that, "whenever in doubt as to whether or not to do something, think of our dear blog readers. We must do it for them."

We left the lake, refreshed, clean, and ready for the drive to Glacier. We entered the Park and followed Going-to-the-sun road through the park toward our chosen campground. The drive was exhilirating and frightening, pure mountain pass and switchback, hairpin turns and dizzying drops into deep canyons. The road was tight and small--so much so in fact, that a couple we met had knocked off their side view mirror against the rock face.

We spent the whole of the drive peering up at the peaks of the tall mountains, straining our necks and eyes trying to find a glacier that would fit into our mental framework of a "glacierness".

We found nothing.

The glaciers are small and mostly unimpressive. Sadly, it has not always been this way. The glaciers are quickly melting--another victim of global warming--and it is said that by 2030, the main glaciers will be completely gone.

Nonetheless, the Park is truly beautiful, and the mountains are grand and inspiring. The whole of the land is criss-crossed with hiking trails and peppered with strange Swiss-style chalets, a result of early Park planning for "civilized hikers."

After spending the entire day driving through the park, we finally settled down in our campsite. The sky was ominously dark and rain seemed sure to come. Using our combined skills learned in sailing, Boy Scouts, and the MacGyver television series, we rigged a tent fly, creating a large covered under which we could sit, protected from the storm.

A few drops fells and then the sky cleared. Eating our delicious dinner and cooking up smores on the campfire, we half-lamented the lack of rain, sad that our careful preparation had been completely useless.

And then, in the early morning, we woke to the sounds of a hellacious rainstorms. Fat drops fell onto our tent, and a river formed in the middle of our site. Sitting beneath our carefully constructed rain-free area, we dryly considered our options. Suddenly our protection had become a mammoth pain-in-the-ass. Biting the bullet, we left our dry oasis and spent a very wet twenty minutes dismantling our entire construction.

We left the area, driving as far from the scene as quickly as possible. After changing outside a gas station, we got back in the car and headed off, back on the road west.

And here we are. Pictures to come soon.

Yellowstone

Ahhh....Yellowstone.

Smell the pine, breathe deep (but not too deep) of the sulfur, carbon monoxide and carbon dioxide. Walk through the forests and along the alpine lakes, stroll amongst the herds of occasionally hostile buffalo. Gaze upon the geothermal wonders, taking care to avoid the "thin crust" that lurks in innocent looking meadows, barely covering scalding, poisonous waters. Cook your meals on open fires, smelling the fresh wood smoke. Just take care to clean up immediately, lest grizzlies and black bears pay you a visit.

This place is crazy. Beautiful and wild.

We arrived here yesterday, after having spent the night in Sheridan, Wyoming, home of overpriced motels and little else. We spent twenty five dollars that night to sleep in our tent on a patch of grass next to a dumpster. Luckily, the showers were hot and the wi-fi was fast, providing us with both cleanliness and the chance to provide all of you with a glimpse of our adventures.

The drive from Sheridan to Yellowstone was beautiful. We passed through miles and miles of ranches, watching cattle graze feet from our speeding vehicle as we ascended six thousand feet (up to 9000 feet above sea level) in less than an hour. The air grew thin, and the views beautiful.

At one point in our drive, we came upon a man sitting beside a trailer on the side of the road. A sign beside his trailer offered free samples of buffalo jerky, and as is apparently customary out here, free restrooms. We immediately responded to the challenge. After an earlier jerky incident at a Wyoming gas station where a request for a recommendation elicited - literally - a steely silence and a turned cheek, we slowly approached the man and carefully said hello:

Us: Hello!
Jerky Man: Hello!
Us: We heard you got some free jerky here.
Jerky Man: I sure do! Wait! Check this out! (At this point the man pointed to his pant leg, indicating the bumblebee resting there, clinging to the denim fabric.) He's been sitting here for about ten minutes. I just figured he'd stay until he felt like leaving. (Speaking to the bee) Isn't that right, little buddy?
So, which jerky do you want to try? We've got all these kinds, three different animals--buffalo, elk and beef.
Us: Well, we'll try all of them.
Jerky Man: Well, I would do the same, seems like a good idea.

We tried the varieties of jerky, moving down the row of hanging samples. We reached the end, impressed, but not exactly inspired by this man's jerky. We listened to the man talk some more with his bumblebee friend.

Jerky Man: You're a cute little guy, aren't you? Oh yes you are....
Us: So, uh, how much do these bags of jerky cost?
Jerky Man: Seven, Seven, Eight, Eight, Nine, Ten, Ten, Eleven...

He reached the end of his price list. We were "sticker shocked", to say the least. In our most diplomatic tones, we explained our lack of economic resources, watching his face grow increasingly crest-fallen as we spoke...and then we got the hell out of the place.

We moved on, rising in altitude and then coming back down, curving our way down the mountain. We reached the bottom, still very high in altitude now, and sped along the road toward Yellowstone, making a short stop in the cowboy/backcountry-dude town of Cody, Wyoming (home of Buffalo Bill) for a haircut and a quick search for the butane canisters necessary to continue using our new stove. Failing on the butane front, we left Cody, and by 4 PM had reached Yellowstone.

It is hard to explain the immensity of this park. At 3,472 square miles, Yellowstone is one of the biggest (and is the oldest) National Park in the world. The Park is packed with examples of extreme geothermal activity, and steam rises from the ground in the least expected of places. The sulfurs and steams create colorful abstract expressionist works against the canvas of rock and salt deposits. Interestingly, we learned from a garralous Harley rider at a lookout point and confirmed during yet another educational video, the Park is actually the remnants of a huge active volcano. Granted, the volcano has not erupted in thousands of years, but it theoretically could, and would likely lead to the death of much of the Earth's ecosystem. This possibility has also lead to the creation of at least one terribly cheesy novel being sold at the gift shop.











The numerous bubbling springs and jagged mountains give life to the fact that these hills are younger than their Eastern cousins. The landscape is constantly pockmarked with fire-scorched fields of trees, with new growth coming up beneath them. The earth is literally alive out here as it bubbles, burps, and constantly regenerates.

Of course, we watched the obligatory Old Faithful spouting, which was impressive in the sheer quantity of boiling water and onlookers.





The Park is also home to a ridiculous number of animals, many of which we have seen. Driving down the road, one must be careful not to run into any lumbering bison or elk. And while these animals seem sweet and tame, the signs around the park constantly remind us that these bison can weigh 2000 pounds, run 30 miles per hour, and sometimes get very pissed off.

Most of our time here has been spent driving around the "Grand Loop" (or as the French say, "La Grande Loop") of the Park, stopping at all sorts of bubbling things, seeing nice views and gawking at wildlife with some of the other visitors (approximately 30,000 per day in the summer season). We have camped both nights and cooked some delicious dinners, making sure to change our clothes before sleeping to avoid mauling by bear. The days have been very warm, but the nights have been surprisingly and terribly cold--below freezing in fact.



Today we are leaving the Park, moving North to pass through Livingston, Montana, before heading to Bozeman, and finally up to Glacier National Park, which promises to be absolutely frigid but fantastically beautiful as well. After the cold weather of the last few days, we just hope we won't have to spend the night in the car with the heat on.

More soon.

Playing Catch-Up

We have compiled a sort of play-by-play of some of the more interesting moments from the last few days, as a means of filling in certain unavoidable gaps. Unfortunately, this puts us slightly out of sequence...but so be it. Please be sure to enjoy the podcast in the post from late yesterday.

P.S. The photo above was taken during one of the strangest storms that we have ever witnessed, let alone driven through. The storm was in Central South Dakota.

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First Night of Camping

Our first night of camping (in Minnestoa, just outside of Winona) was hindered a bit by our inability to read AAA directions literally ("Off I-90" apparently means that the campsite is off I-90). We ended up a little short of our intended campground on the banks of the Mississippi, and instead found Beverly, a nice old woman who had plowed under about an acre of her field and put in water spouts, electrical hook-ups, fire rings and picnic tables. As we were the only campers there, we asked Bev if she would turn off the rather large area light shining on the camping area. Giving us a real taste of the Midwest, Bev replied, "Well, sure, I can turn off that light. But I usually try to keep it on, you know, just in case anyone else comes by at night needing a place to camp. Ok, well g'night."

A "no" without ever saying "no." Beautiful.

It's worth noting that Bev's register revealed we were the only people to come through her campground in the last week. Regardless, we cooked a delicious dinner of black beans and turkey kielbasa on our handy $25 Cabella's stove and had a nice fire going before bed.



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Super Wal-Mart

Somewhere in South Dakota, we decided it was probably a good idea to get some food for dinner. We decided to give Super Wal-Mart a try, and with more than a little bit of an ironic spring in our step, we entered the cavernous produce and housewares jungle. We now understand why Wal-Mart is the greatest shopping force in all of America and possibly the world. For a mere $7.85 we outfitted ourselves with enough food for two nights of dinner for two people.

Granted, we aren't making duck confit, but we bought a pound of ground turkey for $1.48, and saw beautiful pieces of beef for under three dollars.

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Badlands

The Native American word for Badlands is apparently that rare straight translation. They considered them "bad lands."

Coming up out of the prairies in the middle of nowhere rise these dark mud spires streaked with inexplicable red, gold, and green bands. They end 50 or 60 miles later just as abruptly, and one can't help but get the feeling that if evil spirits are flying around, they may very well sleep in Southwestern South Dakota.

We took a deep breath and slept there too, cooking in a whipping wind and watching the clouds burst with lightning flashes to the East.

Spamtown, USA

Well, as we mentioned in our earlier post, this day, annoying as it could have been, has turned out to be a Godsend. Running around the country in Malibu Stacy with powerless laptops and no wifi, blogging has been difficult. Our original plans to learn how to create podcasts have been stymied at every turn.

Until now, here in this small town in South Dakota, our car in the shop and time on our hands.

Listen here to the very first Bond and Weinstein Malibu Stacy Audio Production:

SPAM MUSEUM PODCAST

We hope that you enjoy and that all are well. More soon.

Some Photos and Update

Down and out in Spearfish, South Dakota, waiting for the guys at Queen's City Tire and Alignment to fix up Malibu Stacy.

It could have been much worse. When the car started acting up, we found ourselves in the midst of 500,000 Harley-Davidsons at the Sturgis, SD Harley Rally. Insanely cool, but not the place to find an open service station. When we stopped at the next available town, we figured it would be similar to the last 500 miles, which have been sparse, to say the least.

The travel gods seem to be smiling on us however, as our current stop seems to be the hippest town we've come across in a while. We have even found a coffee shop cum mountain climbing gear store to charge our laptops and phones. Life is never perfect though, and although wi-fi was promised, posting has been rather difficult.

Please stay tuned for the soon-to-come Podcast and more posts on the last few days.

Below are some photos of the Chicago Beach & Cityscape, as well as us at Cereal City. Enjoy.

Second City?

*As usual, photos are presenting us with quite the challenge. Stay tuned tomorrow for photos.

One of the tenets of this trip's "planning" has been that a lack of any plan would allow the freedom to explore. Today we made our first real detour into the unknown.

After a quick stop at the Salvation Army for some $2 cutlery and pots, along with some amazingly cheezy cassette tapes for $.79 each, we left Ann Arbor and any previously known roads behind. Passing Battle Creek, Michigan we saw a sign for "Cereal City, USA." Battle Creek, as we were to learn extensively, was the birthplace of the American Cereal. It was a must-see.

Driving down Main Street, Battle Creek we were bombarded by images of Tony the Tiger and foundations bearing the Kellogg name, apparently devoted to the advancement of people of color and/or mental retardation. We eventually came upon the Cereal City, a museum of sorts, dedicated to the history and explication of Kellogg's Cereal. Much to our chagrin, the admission fee was a hearty $8. Not one to be dissuaded, Chris immediately began to sweet-talk the young ticket-seller, asking about "teacher" discounts and producing his Fordham ID. As he spoke, he slowly morphed into a story about how he was doing research on popular culture (not really a lie) and that he might want to bring a group of his young acolytes to this very museum if Kellogg's would merely spring for our admission fee. When Manager Mike came over, he happily obliged at the prospect of a future group fee. Jason stood by respectfully throughout the machinations.

Upon entering, the museum whisked us up a stainless steel escalator to a floor filled with ridiculous oversize cereal boxes and admiring "suckers" alongside us. Taking this all with a healthy dose of irony we were happily amused taking a picture with Toucan Sam and competing (poorly) in a Kellogg's cereal knowledge quiz. Our irony became as stale as corn flakes before the invention of wax paper sealant. We wandered through the history portion of the tour and became fascinated by the fight for cereal supremacy waged on the shores of Battle Creek River (actual name). Edging our way into a tour of a simulated factory, we joined wailing children and their smiley parents, mouths agape as we donned our 1950's soda jerk hats and learned the process of corn flakes production.

Although technically complicated, we were amazed at the relative simplicity of production of this pre-packaged foodstuff. Take some corn kernels, peel the shell (now it's a grit), put on some flavor syrup, cook it, press it between giant rollers, flash toast it (1 min. @ 500 degrees), spray it with vitamins, and seal it in wax paper. Eh, voila, Corn flakes!

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From Battle Creek, MI, we forged onward to South Bend, Indiana, home of the famed "Fighting Irish".
We have decided to limit our description of the city to two words:
It blows.

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It's the end of the night and we've spent the remainder of the day on our feet as opposed to on our buttocks, so fatigue is setting in. The picture speak quite loudly about Chicago's hipness, but the best thing we can say is that there seems to be an entire city still left to explore. We've already recommended to multiple friends that they move here and questioned our own living environments.

The town has beautiful architecture, great lakeside beaches (replete with bars and volleyball nets), nice restaurants, and streets packed with people. There is something slightly different about this city, something about it that keeps on making us forget that we are still in the United States, leaving us saying things like, "Oh, they have Barneys in Chicago too?"

And the pizza is pretty good.

Good night.

Everything Old is New

Ann Arbor, Michigan

For me, (Jason) driving from New Jersey to Michigan is mostly old ground. We went on the same roads and stopped, surprisingly, at many of the same rest stops. But not being in a hurry, we noticed very different landmarks. At a truck stop in Western Pennsylvania that I'd stopped for gas at at least twice in the past, we enjoyed their self proclaimed "world's worst apple pie," a delicacy I'd never before realized was available. A sign above us proclaimed that "faith is a higher faculty than reason" attributed to the apparently lesser known scholar "Bailey." Although I wanted to begin the journey with a conversation with other patrons about this thought, the trucker next to me eating a giant BLT and mashed potatoes with gravy scared the crap out of me and I kept my mouth shut. My attitude will have to improve in the future in both having a more open mind to different ideas and not being such a wuss.

It is amazing to me (Chris) how much the country can change over a few short miles. By the time we had arrived in Western New Jersey and Eastern PA, people's waist sizes had gotten larger and teeth had become a valuable commodity. On the positive side of things, saluations had become much more effusive and serving sizes had become much larger.

The day was tiring, though we did little besides drive and listen to right wing religious and political commentary on the AM radio. We ate the road like ravenous monsters, passing through Jersey, Pennsylvania and Ohio, and finally arriving in Ann Arbor, Michigan.

Shortly before arriving at our final destination, we made a quick pilgrimage to Cabela's, which had been sold to me as the "Costco of the Great Outdoors." In truth, the place was a huge monument to American Bigness. Big were the prices, big were the people, and big was the "campiness" of this large camping and hunting store. Animal heads and mountains rose among the camo clothing and gun racks. A shooting gallery manned by a talking deer graced the back wall. The workers all seemed to be ex-marines, and said things like, "Gentlemen, how can I be of service to you?" and "To get to camping, head straight back, bear right at the mountain, and climb them stairs there." The place was, to be sure, a bit of a disappointment, but we did have the chance to take some extremely cheesy "thumbs up" photos.

Luckily, due to the generosity of certain family members and friends, we have tonight bedded down in a fine hotel. The beds are large and comfortable, the WiFi internet is fast and reliable, and the air conditioning is Arctic.

Tomorrow we head for Chicago, Illinois. The path to the West lies wide open before us.

Back Home

I have made it home. After a long plane ride and a long bus ride and a short car ride, I am back in my parents' place. I am going to rest for a few days, see some friends, and then I am back out in the wilderness.

On Monday morning, I head off into the great unknown with Jason Weinstein. We will be traveling by automobile, and plan to travel from coast to coast (and back again) over the next month.

We hope to be creating a regular podcast from the road, so please stay tuned.

I hope that all are well, and thank you for reading.

Madrid and Homecoming

In Madrid once again, once again (like last year) in the so called "High Tech" Petit Palace.

Last year, I commented on this hotel, mocking the suggestive name. As I said last year, the only thing that I could find to be "high tech" was a slow computer on the ground floor. Oh, and the bathroom doors were transparent.

This year, however, luck has smiled upon me and the other staff members in my group, and we have been given Executive Rooms....Mamma Mia! What glory! What luck! What beauty!

Let me tell you, if you have never tanned while showering, you are most certainly missing out. The shower is out of control, and each time that I step into it, I chuckle a bit, truly amused by the entire mechanism. A small computer screen on the wall allows the user to adjust water temperature and direction, to cause water to splash from all sides, and to (this is no joke) turn on the tanning lights located in one wall of the shower.

The rest of the room is not quite so insane, but is nice. We have a computer and a flat screen television and comfortable beds. The ceiling is purple and there is a balcony. The furniture is dark wood.

Madrid, unsuprisingly, continues basically unchanged. It is still as hot as Hades, the nightlife is still exciting and out-of-control, the bars and restaurants are still aplenty. As far as I can tell, the only thing changed in Madrid over the last year is the number of Starbucks. Quite obviously, this number has risen.

Tonight some of us are going out for dinner and a show.
A show in drag.
A show of transvestites.
I hope that the food is good.

I will be home Wednesday. I hope that all are well.

Still Here.

Still here in Spain, with little to say and no time to say it...

I hope that everyone is doing well, and please be patient for more postings when time and circumstances allow.

Just like Gibraltar

My apologies for the sparcity of writing of late. I have been busy here, and the truth is my quotidian activities, while quite fun, are probably not all that exciting for outside readers.

So we headed this weekend to Seville and Cordoba, beautiful towns here in Andalucia, Spain. We left Saturday morning, and within a few hours had arrived in Seville and entered the Cathedral.

Now I was one tired man on Saturday morning, and, being quite familiar with Seville's Cathedral (a beautiful piece of architecture that was once a mosque), I decided to relax while the students walked about. I sat down in the lovely Orange Tree Patio (Muslim) and tried to stay out of the sun.

Within a few moments, a short and spring-stepped man approached "my" bench. He pulled a baseball cap off of his bald head, sat down, and lit a cigarette. One of us commented on the heat. We both commented that we were tired.

With little warning, our conversation left the path of normality and veered sharply, turning onto the superhighway of strangeness.

"How do you like your women," he asked me, "skinny or fat?"

I responded slowly, indicating that I was not sure that I had a definable opinion on the matter.

"In Egypt," he said, "we have nice, beautiful fat women. Women that you can hold on to, women like those over there." He pointed at a group of large women passing by that might have been Egyptian. He called something out to them in a foreign tongue and they smiled back at him.

"American women," he continued, "are all so small...you touch them here (he touched his side, below the ribs) and you are already here (he touched his other side, in the same place)"

The man continued along these lines for a few more minutes, and we were soon joined by his friend, who seemed to have similar tastes for women. I stuck hard to my ambiguous answers, not really sure that I wanted to be a part of this conversation, but unable to stop laughing at his commentary.

"Let me teach you something," he told me, and began reciting what sounded like a poem, or perhaps a song. He indicated that I should write down what he was saying, so I pulled out some paper and a pen and began to transcribe.

It went something like this:

Kul al dunya bahar
urras erri sahar
went udi, went udi?
Aoud alarass eraq
ughanni

"What does that mean?" I asked him. He began to translate. His translation and explanation went something like this:

All of the world was water
And I was hard like a rock
(He interrupted himself--"the penis, you know, like a rock, like Gibraltar--and I nodded in understanding)
Where shall I sit, Where shall I sit? (asks a woman)
On the rock, where I will bounce and sing!
(He again interrupted himself--"she sit on you, you get it?"--I again nodded in understanding)

Now, needless to say, when this man reached the end of this explanation, I was somewhat perplexed. While my travels have accustomed me to strange conversations, I am certainly not used to learning lurid limericks with Egyptian men in holy sites.

As we continued to talk, and I continued to repeat time and again the Arabic words, learning pronunciation with my new friend´s help, we were joined by more members of his tour group. One woman approached us, a petite woman of around sixty years old, and the man grew excited. "This is my wife," he told me (I balked at her lack of fatty tissue), "repeat for her what I have taught you."

I looked around, confused and a bit worried. "Was he serious?" I wondered. Did he really want me speaking like this to his life partner? I did as I was told, and the woman began to laugh, losing control with every chuckle.

"Do you know what it means?" she asked me.

I gave her my explanation of the translation, adding that I knew that it was an Egyptian text.

"Has he told you that he is Egyptian?" she asked me. "He is crazy. We are Israeli. He is crazy and likes to tell people that we are Egyptian."

More people arrived. I was made to repeat again the odd lesson.

More laughter. More confusion. I had (and still have) no idea where these people were from, Egypt or Israel. Everyone shook my hand and listened as I read. Some people in the group tried to give me advice, telling me "never say that to an Egyptian--they will cut off your head," others telling me that there was no better way to seduce an Egyptian woman.

After a bit more time with my now large group of older foreign friends, I was forced to leave. I explained that I needed to return to my group and continue with our tour of Seville. We said our goodbyes and I left.

Over the next day, I told the story of our meeting many times, amazed to have had such a great, strange time in the Cathedral, amazed at how a place that had become so familiar to me could become once again new.

The next day, already in Cordoba, I heard someone call my name as I stepped down from our private bus.

"CHRISTOPHER!" sounded the voice. I turned in the general direction of the yell, and saw, once again, the wife of my strange Egyptian-Israeli teacher of dirty rhymes. She gave me a huge hug, yelling "You are the best! You are number one! My husband has gone to make pee-pee!"

The students looked at me oddly, the people around looked at me oddly. I reached into the pocket of my short trousers and pulled out a now wrinkled postcard. I turned it over and read from the back, in a now confident accent, "Kul al dunya bahar..."

When I had finished, I hugged the woman again, waved goodbye to the crowd, and continued on my way, wading through the traffic amidst sounds of car horns, Egyptian (Israeli?) laughter and the puzzled mutterings of my students.

On a final note: I return to the USA on August second or third, and within a few days will be leaving for a cross-country trip with my good friend Jason "Sturd" Weinstein. Along the route, I will be posting regularly, and if all goes well, Sturd and I will be working on a regular PodCast as well. I hope that all are well, and thank you for reading.

All Quiet on the Western Front

Things continue in a state of calm here in Southern Spain, in the city of Cadiz.

What I have lost in freedom has been made up in tranquility, and the days glide by in classes, excursions, cultural education and endless cups of strong, delicious coffee.

Yesterday we headed down to Tarifa with the entire group of thirty five students. Tarifa is the southernmost city in Spain, and on a clear day someone with good eyes can see all the way to Morocco.

Tarifa is famous for its wind, and as a result, also for its windsurfing. This is all good and well unless you enjoy sitting on a beach. The famous winds of the Strait then become a terrible hassle, blowing sand that stings the skin and upsets the eyes. Yesterday, I fell asleep for fifteen minutes on the beach and woke to find myself half-covered in sand.

Last night we went to a Celebration of Carnaval Music here in Cadiz. Cadiz, like Rio de Janeiro, Venice and New Orleans, is famous for its Carnaval celebration, and in the week before the start of Lent, the city becomes the stage for a hedonistic, bachannalian festival. People dress up in matching costumes, drink copious amounts of all sorts of alcohol, and fill the streets with urine and vomit. The city, while filled with disgusting smells, is beautiful during Carnaval.

One of the most important aspects of the Gaditano (from Cadiz) Carnaval is the music. Groups of people, dressed in amusing costumes, sing songs of criticism, humor and protest, accompanied by drums and guitars. For one week, the air of the city is filled with the sounds of songs that have taken a year to write and practice. As soon as one year´s Carnaval ends, people begin to prepare for the next year. Events like last night are a chance for these groups to perform outside of the small February time frame normally reserved for their music.

And that is that. The students have been great, although there have been (as there always will be) a few incidents that have required discipline and seriousness...but that is to be expected. For the most part, they have been wonderful, and their presence is really what makes this job so easy and such a pleasure.

That´s it. More to come soon.

La Plaza Candelaria

The little fat kid in the plaza needs a good kick in the head.

Sometime in the last year, for unknown reasons, many members of the Cadiz youth were transformed into roving gangs of annoying, obnoxious, rude little bastards.

The Plaza in front of the student residence is the favorite playground of many of these punks. The kids in our program have been taunted by these kids, who sometimes curse at them, try and look up their skirts, throw water balloons at them, and generally annoy the hell out of everyone.

They are harmless, but as I said before, they need a good kick in the head.

Some of the girls in the program have a plan. They are going to carry a pair of scissors with them from now on, which they will use to cut off the mullet or rattail of any offensive little boys.

I think that it is a fine idea.

Besides the presence of these ankle biters, Cadiz is much the same, and just as attractive as always. Locals continue to lisp their way through the Spanish language, and still call each other by the same strange and friendly terms as last year.

Walking the streets, caressed by the sea breeze that flows through the city, one hears the shouts of "oye, picha" and "que pasa chocho?" Truly, what could be sweeter than referring to your friends with vulgar terminology for male and female genitalia?

Nothing, as far as I am concerned.

My friends from last year are all still here, and work in a cafe right around the corner from the residence. Nearly every free moment that I have is spent sipping coffee with these guys and planning how exactly I will get the beautiful Moroccan waitress to fall in love with me.

My friends Raul, Vanessa and Natasha have returned to Cadiz this year, and we are joined by two newbies, Raquel and Christy.

OK. That's it for now, duty calls. Back to work I must go. I hope that all are doing just fine.

Work Work Work

What a change....

I am in Cadiz, here in Southern Spain (Andalucia), working with the Abbey Road Study Abroad Program as a Spanish teacher and chaperone to young kids.

Things are super busy, and they are working me like a pretty well paid, very lucky qnd extremely privileged slave. Still, it is strange to be working again, to be responsible again, to be not quite so free as I have been for quite some time now.

With the amount of work that I have, I do not even have time at the moment to write too much. I will, however, continue to post regularly and keep all informed of my travels and mini-adventures.

I hope that everyone is well, and thanks again for reading.

I change my plans more than my pants...

After writing earlier today, I headed off with my new friend to the Dar America, the American Cultural Center and library. I thought that I would drop off my resume, on the off chance that there was some available job for an American guy.

After passing through security, I headed into the library to speak with the librarian. His basic advice was to check somewhere else.

As he gave me directions for where I could go and check, a young woman in her early 20s approached and offered to show me the way to the school he recommended I visit. As even she could see from across the library, this guy's directions sucked. Quite a bit.

And so, we left, now four of us (her friend came along as well), and headed to the aformentioned school. The girls, Mona and Malika, turned out to have just completed their BA degree in English, and so were very happy to talk to us and practice their English. We, of course, were happy to meet some people from Casa.

The four of us walked around for ages after leaving my resume at the school. We walked through the city and discussed all sorts of things. I finally had a chance to discuss the role of women in Islam with an actual woman. I have a lot to learn, but Mona basically told me that the subjugation of women under the banner of Islam is the result of the cultural hijacking of a religion--that according to her, Islam is not a religion that limits the freedoms of women. Again, there is much to learn, and much to read, and there are many people to talk to. Still, she has offered to help me (virtually--via email) as I try to learn about Islam and the Muslim world, so this is a very valuable friend indeed.

They looked at me funny when I drank water sold out of the container of a man on the street. They looked at me even funnier when I mentioned how good the grilled sausages of the street vendor smelled. I guess I'm sort of a dirty traveler, and sometimes do things that people (at least sort of upper-middle class people) would never do.

Anyway, it was a great day, and full of interesting meetings. In recognition of this fact, I have once again changed my plans, and I will remain in Casa one more day. I am meant to meet up with Mona and Malika again tomorrow, to continue seeing the city and talking with them.

And so, until then, I leave you...

Casa Gone Wild!

Ahhhh...Casablanca. Where else can you see the third biggest mosque in the world and a man being given oral sex in a public park all in one day?

Just kidding. Wait, no I am not.

I went this morning to visit the Mosque of Hassan II, a brilliant, large, beautiful structure built over the sea here in Casablanca. As my Lonely Planet Guide has told me, the mosque was built with special public taxes, and the slums previously on the land were emptied and demolished (and no help was given to the non-relocated inhabitants).



All that questionable past notwithstanding, it truly is an incredible structure, and it's huge, beautiful interior truly radiates a certain peace.

The cedar ceiling, which weighs something like 300 tons, is retractable like a sunroof. The doors are made of cedar and titanium. The chandeliers are Morano glass from Venice, but nearly every other material used in the Mosque's construction was found within Morocco. Part of the building is built right on the water, and the entire exterior is constructed with Moroccan marble. Truly, it is quite a sight.



The tour, unfortunately, costs 100 Dirham, or about 10 euros, making this the costliest event of my trip (if I do not count that one night I went out to a bar in Marrakech with the Argentines, but let's not talk about that...)

On the way out of the mosque, I made a new friend, Jigar, who is originally from India but now lives in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn. He is only in Casablanca for the day, as he has a 19 hour layover, and so we decided to spend the day checking out Casa together.

After walking around like idiots looking for a part of town that turned out to be outside of town, we walked back and strolled through the souqs and the city center. This really is a much nicer city than I had previously thought, and I really enjoyed the markets and the winding medina streets.

We ended up walking a bit further downtown and decided to head toward the Parc de la Ligue Arabe, billed as the biggest park in Casablanca (which is not really saying all that much), which is where we stumbled upon the interesting public display of affection mentioned above.

We walked rather quickly through the rest of the park.

Tomorrow I head to Spain, and I think that I might actually make it to Cadiz tomorrow night...

Bye for now.

One More Thing...

I have just used Skype for the first time to speak with a friend. The connection was clear and there was very little delay. I would love to talk to so many of you. Please download this program at www.skype.com. It is free and well worth having, and seems to kick MSN's ass any day of the week.

Retracing Old Steps

So I lied.

I left the internet cafe earlier today in El Jadida and suddenly had a small panic attack. I started thinking about all the things that could happen on the way to Spain, and decided that it would be better to start the journey today, rather than tomorrow.

So I am back in Casablanca today.

What do you do if you in a city that you already know, and which you do not find all that exciting? You go to the internet cafe and write about it, thus ensuring that everyone that reads your blog will think that you are a complete loser that writes about doing things instead of actually doing them.

It's not as bad as it looks, I promise.

There is one thing that I really want to see in Casablanca, and I arrived too late to see it today. It will have to wait until tomorrow. The Hassan II mosque is the third biggest mosque in the world, and from what I have read it is truly an amazing building. Other than that, Casablanca is much as I remembered it--not a bad city, really, but nor is it anything to get all lovey-dubby about.

It is strange being back in a large city. Suddenly everybody wants to sell me hash again, and tons of people on the street randomly talk to me. Most of them end up wanting to sell me hash as well. It is really sort of sad sometimes, because many people in these big cities capitalize so much on the widely-acknowledged friendliness of the Moroccan people. After all the spontaneous friendships that I have made in Morocco, all the amazing things that have happened to me, I am forced to return to the familiar safety mechanism of thinking that everyone that talking to me wants something from me. And here, unfortunately, I think that I am usually right.

My favorite opening line so far (I have heard it or a similar variant three times today) is -- "Hey, man, I haven't seen you in a while".

"No," I always reply, "You've never seen me before." Do these people think I am really going to psych myself out, think that, yes, indeed, I have met them? I don't think so, but I guess the line works, because they always end up saying that I look just like someone that they met before. And then they run on into their usual schpiel. (Is that how you spell that word?)

So today is a relaxed day, a day of walking the markets a bit and eating strange street food (I just ate a corn on the cob with kernels so swollen they looked and tasted sort of like garbanzo beans). Tomorrow I will check out the Hassan II mosque and then on the 30th I will head to Tangiers, where I will catch the boat back to Spain.

And that is all for today. I promise.

Some photos

Finally, some photos. Oddly, the Internet cafe that finally works for photos also seems to be a graveyard for the slowest computers in Morocco. This being the case, I have not had the liberty of choosing with leisure the photos that I would really have liked to share. Nonetheless, these should at least give you an idea of some of the things about which I have written.

Saturday Souq (market) Ksr El Barrani

The Barrani Boys and I (wedding)

Abdou, Wedding

Bad Wedding Photo, Throne

Young boys, Ksr El Barrani

Ghost Town, Miski

Abdou and I, Miski (La Source Bleu)

Abdou's Maternal Grandmother

Wishing Upon a Sea Breeze

I met with Si (term of respect) Zouitni this morning at a nearby cafe. Of course, as is only natural for my first appointment in a month, I was a bit late.

Mr. Zouitni is a nice, quiet-mannered man, although I did not know this when I arrived at the cafe. And so I walked around the cafe, asking everyone if they were the man I was looking for. Just as I approached an obese man with a crutch, Mr. Z came to the rescue, raising his hand gently and motioning me toward him.

We spoke for an hour or so, discussing Morocco, my travels, and my academic work, as well as the city and University of El Jadida. Mr. Zouitni seems quite confident that the department will be able to raise sufficient funds to pay me, although I am trying not to get my hopes up too much. If all were to work out, I would start work here in the middle of September of this year.

I did almost nothing here yesterday, as the night bus had sapped me of all energy. After eating a delicious meal of fried fish, I retired to the hotel to indulge in the guilty pleasure of watching a couple of pretty dumb American films on the hotel television.

Tomorrow I head to Casablanca and then to Tangier, to work my way back to Spain, where I must be on the 1st of July.

El Jadida

Repeat after me:

I will never again take more than the recommended dosage of Moroccan cough medicine in a silly and quite ridiculous attempt to sleep through an entire ten hour bus journey.

Nightmares and fitful sleep. I think that the lady next to me thought I was crazy. I was moving so much trying to get comfortable. It was even more difficult than it usually is.

I got a bit teary eyed yesterday after the bus attendant handed me back my ticket. I knew that I was really leaving Errachidia, a place that has become very important to me. I know that I will return to see all the wonderful people that I met there, but it was sad nonetheless.

I arrived in Casablanca this morning at seven am, bleary eyed and still fuzzy and woozy. I gave all the taxi drivers and touts dirty looks and walked to the side to sit and clear my head. I had forgotten what a big city was like. One week of slow living and the cars were already too much for me.

I sat down just in time to get a perfect view of a large woman chasing a skinny man that had apparently snatched her pocketbook. I tightened the straps on my backpack and guitar and caught a cab. To hell with Casablanca, I wasn't ready for so much.

I got the Eight fifteen train to El Jadida and within two hours was lying in bed in a nice hotel. Oddly enough, the hotel has a television, which is not so common here. I get three channels, and one of them this morning was showing a terrible American film that I just saw a few months ago.

I drank my third espresso of the day and then took a nap for a few hours. When I woke up, I was still blurry, but coherent enough to take a walk and get a view of the city and take a dip in the ocean. This is a nice place, a small city on the water about an hour and a half south of Casablanca. There is a pleasant beach; although the lifeguards are truly a pain in the ass and seem to only let people swim in certain very tightly packed areas. It is quite weird and really annoying to hear them blow the whistles all the time.

I plan to call this guy at the University today and set up an appointment to meet with him tomorrow. I could see myself living here. I hope that it works out.

Still having problems getting pictures up. Hopefully I will get some up soon.

Time to Go

Today I begin to work my way back up to Spain. I start work in Cadiz on July 1st, a fact that is slowly begin to set in...and it is not setting comfortably...

The marriage continued last night, but I didn't. After two nights of nonstop dancing and late hours, I was finished, and went to bed to try and get some sleep. Unfortunately, although I was done partying, many people in town were not, and the music and honking of car horns kept me awake long after I laid down. I spent the night in a constant wake and sleep cycle that was only finally terminated with the rising of the sun.

Today I headed into town after breakfast to buy some gifts for the family and take care of a few other things before I travel. I shaved my head, bought some presents, and got my ticket for tonight, and then headed home. Sitting outside Abdou's house, I heard some music and a group of us ran off in direction of the noise.

And the marriage party continued...Today's celebration is a breakfast celebration for the first breakfast that the new couple shares. We were invited into the house, which was filled with women singing, dancing, and playing drums. A large table filled nearly half of a large room, and was covered with cakes, pastries, breads and candies of all sorts.

Not wanting to intrude, I stood off to the side and listened to the music, recording all on my IPod. Suddenly, my hand was being pulled, my hat was taken off my head, the weight of my bag was taken. I was pushed and pulled into a circle of women and made to dance.

My dancing, from the first step, elicited a flight of laughter from the women. Howling, they motioned to me to dance more everytime that I showed signs of slowing. Suddenly, the music stopped, and a tall dark women next to me started yelling something at me, laughing and pointing at another woman. She rubbed her two index fingers together in the international sign of marriage or intercourse. I understood nothing and understood everything. The chosen woman and I looked at eachother, silently exchanging hellos and sharing our mutual embarrasment.

All of the other women starting laughing (the tape is fantastic) and pointing at the woman, screaming "zwina, zwina" (good, beautiful). The pushed her into the circle with me and tried to make her dance. She laughed and resisted, but everytime that she tried to leave the circle she was pushed back in again. (Un)luckily, right at this moment Abdou motioned to me that we needed to leave, and once again losing all my volition, I was pulled from the circle.

We left and were asked to stt down in a nearby room for a minute, watching television with the groom and some other sleepy men. We made to leave (nobody explains anything to me--I just get told what to do on occasions like this) and reached the front door, where this time a group of men pushed us back inside, telling us that we must drink tea with them. Back in we went.

We drank tea with the men and ate pastries from the baskets that were presented to us. I was not hungry, but I did not even try and refuse their offerings, knowing that there was no use in even trying. I would eat pastries and drink tea, and then I would return to Abdou's house, where no matter how much I ate, I would be presented with more and forced to eat. And then, when I had reached the point of true fullness, had rubbed my belly contentedly and thanked God for the meal, I would be made to eat more. (The phrase, "just three more pieces of watermelon" has become as common to me as "hello" in my time here).

So that is that. The end of an era. It is difficult to leave this place. The people I have met here have been like family, and I have really enjoyed the feeling of acceptance that the people of the town have made me feel. I have enjoyed saying hello and being recognized, and being asked to carry groceries for old women. I think that I might even miss people watching over my shoulder while I use the computer.

I catch a bus tonight at 9 PM for Casablanca, which is only about an hour and half from El Jadida, where I must go and speak with Si Zoutni, Vice Chair of the Department of Letters of the University there. I hope that I will leave our meeting with a job offer, but I have a feeling that the whole thing is a bit of pipe dream. I will soon see.

I hope to upload some photos as soon as leave this town. Unfortunately, because I do not know what computer is the viral culprit here in Errachidia, I have enacted a boycott on all camera connections in this town. So, photos to come soon, Inshallah.

I hope that all are well, and thanks for reading.

Moroccan Marriage (part 2)

Quote for the day: "Driss, eat that chicken pancreas, heart and liver!"
--Abdelhak


Last night was Part II of the recent marriage here in Ksr El Barrani, and it was even stranger than Part I.

If you remember, in Part I, there was a DJ and a huge party with men and women dancing. The bride and groom were exhibited like extremely serious zoo specimens on a large two-person throne of gold and silver. Later in the ceremony, the were lifted on the shoulders of four men, who paraded the bride in groom around in circles.

Part II took place in a different part of town (which, given the size of the town, could not have been more than a 35 second walk from Part I's setting). Rather than using the house as the place for this part of the marriage, the street was the chosen milieu. The dirt roads were covered once again in carpets and mats, lights were strung, and sheets were hung to close off the space.

When we arrived, the band had not yet begun to play, but a large crowd had already gathered. People arrived constantly and began to fill the small street as the band started warming up. As usual, the crowds of sober people were interspersed with young men stinking of liquour and laughing too heartily.

As the band began to play, the streets filled up and the people started dancing. The lute player and the drummers all sang and played, and the violin wailed loudly. The few women present sat off to the side on a carpet as the crowd of young men danced feverishly.

It is a funny thing to watch a group of Moroccan men dance. Even when women are present, they seem to dance separately, and the few couples one sees dancing are usually married and dancing in an extremely modest manner. And so all the bumping and grinding and hip swirling that one generally sees between couples is exhibited between men. If I walked into this scene in New York, it would be obvious that I was in a gay bar. Here, this is completely normal and quite common.

Now, the entire point of the second night of the marriage is to celebrate the groom. The first night, as I mentioned yesterday, is the night in which the woman is decorated with Henna, and this serves as one of the most important occurences of the evening. The most important part of the second evening is the arrival of the groom.

Traditionally, the second night occurs as follows: The band plays and the men dance. At some point in the evening, the groom arrives on horseback, accompanied by his friends and relatives that (once again, like the first night) mime whipping him with scarves and cloth. I have no idea why people do this.

Unfortunately, there was apparently a problem getting a horse (this was the explanation I was given, although I can't really see how that would be a problem in this area), so the man last night arrived in a car. With exhaust pouring from the tailpipe, the car pulled slowly into the street and the people lightly whipped the windows and the trunk.

What was not changed in the ceremony was the traditional garb of the man, which is really something to see. Unfortunately, nobody has been able to give me a good explanation for his outfit, so I will have to research this when I have the time and the facilities to do so. The man is dressed in a dark robelike garment which is tied at the waist with a rope from which dangles a typical Arab knife. His head (this is, for me, the strangest part) is wrapped completely in gauze, opened only slightly at eye level to allow him to see. Rather than look dignified, the man looks like a hospital patient.

Once the car has dropped off the groom, he is led to some cushions, where he sits down with his friends and family. And then, while all others dance for hours and drink tea and laugh and clap to the rythym of the music, the groom sits. And sits. And sits. He does not appear to talk to anyone or dance or eat or drink (the last two would be impossible in fact). He does not go to the bathroom or stretch his legs. And think--He arrived around one am or so and I left at 4:15. He did not move in all that time.

And so passed the night again, with dancing and singing and clapping until late in the night, when we finally picked ourselves up and stumbled home, exhausted. Tonight is Part III of the marriage, which I believe involves the transfer of the wife to the home of her husband's family. After this takes place, the newly united couple retire to a bedroom to consummate their marriage. I therefore do not think that I will be much involved in tonight's festivities...

But, you never know...

More to come soon. Tomorrow I leave for El Jadida.

Moroccan Marriage

Unfortantely I am going to have to lay off photos on the blog for a few days. After all the problems that I have had using them, I went and got a virus on my camera. I didn't even know that was possible...Luckily I had already made a cd of the photos, so I merely formatted the camera memory...Still, I'll not be connecting my camera to any more of the computers in Errachidia...So that is that....

Now for...MOROCCAN MARRIAGE...

The rumors started yesterday afternoon that there was a marriage happening in town. I didn't really know what was going on, but suddenly Abdelhak's mother was wearing dark eye makeup and saying there was a wedding. And then that there was no wedding. And in the end, there was a wedding...Communication is interesting sometimes here...

Marriage is a huge affair here, and seems to be one of the most talked about affairs in the region. I have seen already numerous videos of people's marriages, and it seems that Abdelhak's mother (and other members of the family) will not rest until I have promised to get married here in Errachidia. I have tried to explain that I will have to talk that over with the girl I hopefully will someday meet, but that doesn't seem to work, since they still have not let up in their efforts.

And so, although I was exhausted form a trip earlier yesterday to the nearby natural springs of Meski, I knew that I would have to make the trip--per forza--to the wedding.

Marriages here are a three day affair, and yesterday was the first night. On the first night, the bride is decorated with intricate henna designs on her hands and feet and the bride and groom are paraded before the public in what seems to be the true announcement of their union. It is not, interestingly enough, until the third night that the couple consummates the marriage.

We followed the sounds of music through the dark streets and finally came across the house where the marriage was being celebrated. We were invited to enter and join the festivities. Six of uss passed by the young men sitting outside and walked down a long corridor, finally arriving at the interior patio and garden of the large adobe house.

The patio had been decorated for the night, and most of the packed dirt floor was covered in rugs and mats. Lights were strung across the open space, radiating off the palms and vegetables of the garden. In the far left corner of the room sat the two seat gold and silver throne used in marriages here, and beside that sat a smaller silver throne destined for only one person.

The music was loud, blaring from the speakers set up around the room. Young men leaned against the wall closest to the entrance, and little boys and a mentally retarded man danced without inhibition. Across the room sat a group of women, most of the young and beautiful in their flowing, brightly colored djalabas and head scarves. On the right side of the room, behind a thin curtain, another group of women sat or danced and clapped. Every few minutes the room would echo with a strange piercing warble, a sound that women here make at celebrations. Half covering their mouth, they wiggle their tongue and screech, creating a primal, beautiful sound that seems to enhance any music played here.

I entered, and stood with my friends by the front wall, checking out the place. Everything seemed to dazzle, the walls to shake with the music. I was made to dance, pulled along by friends and young kids, pushed and prodded and prompted to try myriad new dance steps, to shake my ass and wave my hands and thrust my hips.

My normal reticence in the public body rhythm department was greatly enhanced by the knowledge that I was being watched from every angle. Little boys looked at me, smiling and holding out their hands to slap me five or shake my hand. Men my age offered me tea and shook my hand, welcoming me into their house. Old women made sure to tell me that I needed to dance, that I was obliged to do so. And the tea cup was filled and replaced again and again and again.

Most importantly, and perhaps most noticeably, the women across the room would not stop staring at me, giggling and smiling whenever I looked over. Some of them were beautiful, and I could have happily passed the evening staring back at them, if I weren't still so damn ignorant about how these things work here and not just a tiny bit scared of getting dragged off and shot for disrepecting somebody's daughter.

I don't think it is time yet to start patting myself on the back too much, however, as I imagine that I could be the ugliest man in the universe and would still get stared at here. Maybe just a little pat on the back. Well, perhaps a medium one while I'm at it. And one more for good measure.

Anyway, so there I was dancing badly and smiling at girls across the room and shaking people's hands, and drinking tea and yelling at one of my friends to stop grabbing my damn arm so much (he doesn't speak French or English, and so he mostly commmunicates with me by grabbing me constantly and saying my name over and over, which to be honest, is sort of driving me fricking nuts, but he's a good guy nonetheless). Everyone is singing and clapping and warbling and slurping tea, and suddenly a fight breaks out between the sort of retarded guy and another guy (who everyone tells me is "also crazy") and these two guys are falling into the garden and punching eachother.

Some people pulled them the instigator out of the house, and the other guy picked up a soda crate and ran out after him. And then basically every male in the place ran outside to watch what might be a fight. Every male, that is, except me, since I was still sort of staring at the girls (I figured it was a safe time to do so) and Abdelhak, who I think stayed behind to block the door if I got any ideas about going to see the fight. Overprotection is the name of the game with my friends here.

At some point in the night, a chain of women came dancing in the door, playing drums and singing a song that basically said, "they're here, they're here, the bride's gifts are here." On their heads they carried blankets and floor coverings and silver tea pots and tea glasses. They danced through singing and drumming, and then disappeared into the interior of the house, only to appear a few minutes later with still more gifts for the bride's new family.

A few hours later, the bride and groom both appeared, and were made to sit on the large silver and gold throne in the corner of the room. True to what I had seen in the videos, they were extremely serious, stone faced, and to me looked absolutely miserable, although I am told that is not the case. Around their serious faces danced the women, and old women waved scarves at the couple and danced on the throne and warbled at top volume.

Other people climbed up beside the couple and stood for pictures, adopting truly serious faces as well, looking like they were at a funeral until they stepped down again and started dancing. The music continued and the tea kept flowing and the guests kept coming, bring gifts and dancing with everyone else.

Interestingly, four of my friends (Abdou and three others) were pulled aside and "tapped" for the very important job needed for the next part of the ceremony. (I say 'interestingly' because I don't think that any of them were really invited). They were brought into a back room and dressed up in a strange blue and white pants and shirt outfit. They were given a white cape and white gloves, and a funny little hat. Walking out into the main room, they waited until the bride came down from her shared thrown and climbed into the smaller one-person one beside it.

And then they picked her up and started dancing what seemed to be a carefully choreographed dance. They bounced her up and down and lifted her up as high as their shoulders and then brought here down and held their capes out like Batman and danced around the seat. All the while the music blared and the people danced and clapped and warbled.

After the woman was done, the man got into the throne, the same song was played again, and the same thing happened. This time with the help, the four of them picked up the throne and danced the same dance, swirling and bouncing and singing.

After this part of the ceremony, things seemed to go back to 'normal' and it was the same thing of dancing and singing and drinking tea. My friends and I stayed the last few hours on the right side of the room, checking out the ladies, trying to avoid the guy handing out tea, and dancing a little as well. We finally left around two-thirty, yawning and yearning for bed. Amazingly, the party showed no signs of slowing and the news that we were leaving was met with groans and attempts to make us stay.

And tonight, part II, which I think involves something with the groom riding a horse, but it's all rather confusing for a first-timer. Tonight the music is live as well, which should be great.

There is so much more to tell about so many other things. This place still makes my head spin, I feel like there is so much I want to investigate and that there is so much to learn and try to understand. But, there is always more time...

Coming soon (inshallah):

1. The Marriage (part II)
2. The Saturday Souq
3. Moroccans and Fighting
4. Moroccans and the Environment

I hope that you are all well, and thanks for reading. Please tell your friends and family to come check it out as well. Have a nice day.

More from Errachidia

Abdelhak's mother could beat the shit out of me.

She has big, strong arms and a broad, matronly chest. She is an imposing figure, her physique forged by a lifetime of kneading dough and heavy lifting. Two of her front teeth are missing and have been replaced by gold substitutes, which shine when she smiles, which she does often.

Her name is Izhoar, and her chores are demanding, and she completes them with a brusque grace. She balances baskets atop her head and picks up burning hot couscous with her bare hands, rolling it expertly into small, bite-size balls. She carries big loads of hay to feed to the sheep in the backyard and carries the groceries home from the weekly market on her back.

When she watches television she yells at the screen and laughs heartily when the hero kills the bad guys. She belches after eating and then says, "Hamdullah," thanking God for the food that caused that very belch.

Like nearly all the women here, Izhoar seems to wear her apron all day, atop a labrynthine layering of other garments. When she leaves the house, she wraps a floral patterned bedsheet around her shoulders and covers her head, thus protecting her head from the hot sun.

Seeing the women on the street here; it is difficult to tell who is who, as they all wear the same domestic, gypsy-like uniform. As everyone seems to recognize me, and I seem to have met half the town, I just say hello to all of them.

The women here are form a close community, and their daily work is broken up by visits to other houses. In the evening, groups of them congregate, bringing their young children with them. While the young kids play among the rocks and dust, the women talk, laugh, and say hello to everyone that passes.

The doors to people's houses are open most of the time, and there is a constant stream of visitors--friends, family, the town mayor/postman that receives all the mail and then brings it to each of the approximately 1000 families here. Few people actually walk in the open doors, unless they are family, but rather knock on the door frame and wait for a reply from within.

This morning, around 6:30; there was a knock at the door. I peeked my head out the window, calling "Shkun?" as I did so, and seeing one of the local women, greeted her:

"Ssallama leykum"

She responded with a smile and a string of unintelligble words. I motioned to her to wait, and went to open the door. When I did, she again started speaking, and I understood only one word--Izhoar--Abdelhak's mother. I again asked her to wait, and headed off to the room where Abdelhak's mother and sister sleep. I knocked lightly on the door frame, peering through the curtain, and said:

"Il y a une femme a la porte."

There is a woman at the door. Abdelhak's sister started to stir and began to get out of bed. I walked back to the front door to chat with the waiting woman.

Again she started talking, and I understood enough to tell that she was telling me why she was there, and why so early in the morning. Something to do with bread. And something about a strong smell. And bread.

Yeast! I figured it out, and made a face to let her know. She laughed and started complaining, wondering where Abdelhak's mother was. She kept talking, chatting about the heat, and wondering what everyone was doing sleeping when the sun (chamse) was already up.

As she talked, an old man appeared on the other side of the street. He looked at me, holding out his hands, making beggarly signs. I stared, surprised to see a beggar in this neighborhood, and especially surprised to see a beggar at such an early hour. He sat and lit a cigarette. I was thinking what a shame it would be to use the magic word "lesehell" at such at early hour.

My staring and thinking were suddenly and brusquely interrupted by a punch in the arm. I looked at the woman. She was laughing again and yelling at me--"Chuf!" (Look!) I imagined that the rest of her sentence meant something like "at me when I am talking to you young man!" I ignored the old man and gave her my full attention.

Abdelhak's mother appeared at the door, half-asleep but cheery, carrying a shallow bowl of yeast. The woman spoke to her for a few moments, asking her who I was, and where I was from, and if I was Muslim, and then she left to bake some bread. Abdelhak's mother headed to the kitchen to begin boiling water and making coffee with cinammon and ginger and heating fresh milk and boiling eggs, still laughing about the woman's early visit.

It is difficult in moments like this not to fall into the easy and erroneous pattern of thinking small town life is all cheery neighbors and industrious women, and that everyone is unified and helping eachother and working toward a common goal.

Just a stroll around the neighborhood and open eyes is enough to realize that tensions, anger, fear and anxiety must exist. Dust flies everywhere, and there is no way to get rid of garbage. People burn what they can, feed all the organic stuff to their animals, and throw the rest in the streets. The fields, while still rich and bountiful, are obviously not what they once were, and entire plots lay dry near the once great river, now a mere trickle.

What more, in the same way that relationships are created and strengthened by peoples ties by marriage, blood and friendship, so too are grievances aggravated by the same ties. What might be a small dispute in a big, anonymous city becomes a highly charged, very personal issue in a small town, as I am rapidly discovering on this trip.

Yesterday afternoon I cam across such a problem. A young man was walking down the street with his sister. Another guy, standing in front of his house, made a crude remark to the girl, the brother got mad, and a fight nearly broke out. The entire family then got involved and the scene got ugly as everyone began yelling at everyone else. The old women were shrieking, one young man was crying, another young man seemed to be hurling ugly threats and epithets at everyone. Luckily the brother and sister were soon pulled away (by Abdelhak) and the family returned into their house to continue screaming at eachother.

A few minutes later, the mother of the insulted girl arrived at the house, knocking angrily on the door. Within seconds, the two mothers, nearly identical in the above described uniform, were screaming bloody murder, saying all sorts of things that I could not understand. And then of course, the rest of the family jumped in to scream a few things as well.

We left then, having gotten the point, so I am not really sure how long it all went on, but the point is, these things happen.

Anyway, that's about all for today. Tomorrow I head off to Miski, which I think is a place with natural springs and swimming pools and oases and the like. Saturday I plan to leave here, saying goodbye to my adoptive Moroccan family and heading off back alone.

I hope all are well.

Turkish Toilets

NOTE: Excuse the rather base subject, but one must occasinoally discuss such things. They should, however, be approached in a respectful and dignified manner. Or something like that.

Having had a bit of intestinal difficulty recently, I visited the doctor at the local clinic, as I mentioned earlier. He prescribed a certain medicine with laxative properties, which I immediately procured in the pharmacy. The pharmacist, a young woman who was not in the least unattractive, repaired to the rear of the establishment in search of the product.

"Vous-etes constipe?" she asked me upon her return.

I responded in the affirmative, trying to figure out why else someone would buy a laxative. Perhaps she thought me the perpetrator of a some sort of locker room prank? Well, I would never know, since I preferred to change the subject as quickly as possible.

Arriving back at Abdou's home; I took slightly less than the recommended dosage of said medicine. It had a disgusting, slimy consistency and a horrible taste, and I choked in down sadly and bitterly. It was not long, however, before I had the opportunity to verify the efficacy of Moroccan medicine.

While doing so, I had the chance and the free time to let my mind wander and to consider somewhat base subjects and strange themes consistent with my environment.

I thought back again to the television program I saw about the Koran, on which a man recommended not dallying in the bathroom. I thought of Abdou telling me how he enters with the left foot and leaves with the right (my mistake in last post), and how upon entering, every time, he says something like "I spit on the devil". I also thought of how Abdou told me that once or twice he forgot his bathroom etiquette and starting humming, and how his mother rapped heavily on the door, yelling at him to stop all the music and take care of business. I thought too of my friend Taoufik, and how he giggled and said "ewww" when I told him that, yes, indeed, in my country people do read while using the sanitary facilities.

I daydreamed, thinking of all the bathrooms I had ever visited, and of the mockumentary entitled "Bathrooms of the World" that I made years ago with a dear friend.

And it occurred to me--on many fronts I have problems with American culture and politics and all the rest. I mourn the dissolution of the American family, the consumerism of the general public, the xenophobia and ignorance of many of my fellow citizens. BUT, it also occurred to me that in America, we sure do make a fine bathroom.

I do not presume to know the true history of the Western toilet or the typical American bathroom. I would like to believe that Mr. Crapper really is somehow responsible, but that story seems doubtful to me. I don't know who truly deserves the credit for the bathrooms of the United States of America, but someone surely does and I salute that person proudly and hail their achievement.

We have taken, in America, a wholly disgusting, albeit natural affair, and turned it into a luxurious and comfortable, even pleasant experience. We have built a throne and introduced the literary arts into the experience of human waste removal. We have placed the shower, toilet, mirror and sink in the same cloistered environment, allowing us to truly enjoy a "pitstop" type experience. In some cases, people even enjoy a sound system in the same room.

George Castanza is, of course, the ultimate fictitious standard bearer for this tradition, having turned a handicapped facility into an airy, well decorated room, complete with a wet-bar and a wealth of reading material.

And the Japanese, as we all know, have taken this a step further, a crucial step, with their technologically advanced toilets doing all sorts of crazy stuff.

Paradise.

And so, I say, Moroccans have better food, and I find their country filled with cultural wealth and myriad treasures in all the arts. But, for me, whether I am in Morocco or India or Italy or France, a hole in the floor just does not quite cut it. I can handle it, but I don't have to like it.

I don't wish to in any way assume an air of condescension or superiority. Things are just different, not necessarily better. Still, for me, the day that Mr. Western built his throne and raised the walls of a tiled palace around it, he not only made something new and different, but he took a step forward for all of humanity.

And that's all I have to say about that. Enough for today. Have a good day.