Morocco

   "Jack, baby, what do you remember about Morocco?"
   "I remember there was yummy things to eat in Morocco. I remember the donkey came. I remember the donkey."
   "What else?"
   "I think we couldn't touch anything. Why we couldn't touch anything?"
   "Because those things were for sale."
   "Momma, what for sale mean?"
   "It means that people might want to buy the things we couldn't touch."
   "Do you remember anything else from Morocco?"
   "I think that's all I know. We didn't see any butterflies in Morocco."

I have to admit, Morocco was the hardest part of our trip for me. Harder than slugging luggage through busy airports. Harder than keeping a three year old still on a 90 minute bus ride. What's worse is I really wanted to feel comfortable there.

To be fair, my viewpoint is a little skewed as I only saw the desert crumbles of Agadir on my way to Taroudant. Also, I was only on Moroccan soil for around 5 hours, most of it on a bus tour. Our guide, Aziz, was Moroccan and spoke broken English.

He made many jokes about how lazy the women get to be and that they are very happy to wake up, go to the market to buy meals for the day, cook for the family and then take a nap until time to prepare the next meal. "What I mean is they like life, the women.It is easy for them."

He was also seriously concerned that we Western tourists understand that Morocco was becoming wealthy and therefore as important as any Western European country, especially as several manufacturing companies were coming in and creating jobs for the people. "What I mean is, Morocco will be as good as UK and a very happy country." And then he would laugh and make a joke about shop keepers not really working until noon or so, or when they wanted. "It looks like we live in ruins, but the way it works is this. Men want garage. They make shop in garage and then build house on top, little by little."

All of these topics tended to make me feel a bit alienated, ashamed, or just plain sad.

As he spoke I watched children walk or ride their bikes to school. "In Morocco, boys and girls go to school together," Aziz proudly said. "We are not like other Arab countries. What I mean is boys and girls go to same school, no problem." I watched as the girls loitered on one side of the school yard while the boys played soccer on the other.

 "It is nice to be important," he interjected, " but more important to be nice." And he would laugh.

"Morocco is not concerned about religion,"he said. "You find people can go to the Muslim church or the Jewish church or the Catholic church. No problem. What I mean is people in Morocco are not concerned with religion. Religion is between the people's heart and God."

We spent most of our time in the souk or market in Taroudant. Taroudant is a walled city that has maintained much of its Arab tradition. The open air stalls were filled with mostly men, bartering and haggling, occasional donkey carts and several motorcycles. The air was full of amazing smells and the most beautiful, vivid colors I've ever seen. Shop keepers would pick up Jack and add him to their displays for a photo opportunity (always expecting a little Euro for their entertainment, though we didn't have much money with us). One of the tour guides shopped as he herded us through the market. He would interrupt himself to squeeze a tomato and ask a price, continue what he was saying mid-sentence, and then wave away the merchant.

We stopped in a "traditional Moroccan house" to watch a man pitch his homemade apothecary serums. He would ask his assistants (mute ladies who shared no smiles) to please pass around the perfume or hold out the chicken spices for everyone to smell. Then he would hold up a product and ask how many we wanted to buy. "He's a good salesmen, he is," one of the British men next to me remarked.

I couldn't leave the souk without bartering. I knew I was terrible at it, and was, by the way. I tried to smile as I bargained, but it came across as a frightened grimace. Fortunately, I was told with an annoyed wave of a hand, to just take the scarf I wanted to buy for the original price I offered (little more than a fourth of the initial price) and move on. I didn't feel cheated, but I felt incompetent.

I suppose this huge rambling post illustrates my own confusion. I really want to believe Morocco is this wonderful, free, exciting place that Aziz described. I really wanted to feel completely at ease. People were, on the whole, friendly. Yes, the culture was incredibly different from one I'm used to, though perhaps not so different from the Hispanic culture I grew up (and felt comfortable) in. But I didn't feel at ease that day. Everything felt very severe to me and dire. I watched people walk across the desert and I couldn't see where they were going. And I also saw tree climbing goats reaching for fruit at the top of barren trees.

Darius & the Clouds

'You can never have too much sky. You can fall asleep and wake up drunk on sky, and sky can keep you safe when you are sad. Here there is too much sadness and not enough sky. Butterflies are too few and so are flowers and most things that are beautiful. Still, we take what we can get and make the best of it. 

Darius, who doesn't like school, who is sometimes stupid and mostly a fool, said something wise today, though most days he says nothing. Darius, who chases girls with firecrackers or a stick that touched a rat and thinks he's tough, today pointed up because the world was full of clouds, the kind like pillows. 

You all see that cloud, that fat one there? Darius said, See that? Where? That one next to next to the one that look like popcorn. That one there. See that. That's God, Darius said. God? somebody little asked. God, he said, and made it simple.'

from The House on Mango Street
by Sandra Cisneros, 1984

Introduction: Portugal, Morocco, and Spain

So, hey folks, I can now officially say that I've been to Morocco, Portugal, and Spain!  My passport says so if you don't believe me. See? It's completely true... Sort of. Being on a cruise is like that. I would call it vaguely travelling- tip-toeing near places without waking them up; peeking through the blinds at a new place on your front lawn because you're curious, but snapping them shut for fear of being nosy; sampling the food aisle by aisle at the newest Costco location with no intention to buy . You get the idea. This is why, I suppose, cruises are so popular among the Q-tip crowd*. This is also why cruises are popular for parents of young children who need containment and entertainment. The vacation part isn't really about the travel.

The vacation part  means that someone else makes most of your decisions for you or narrows down the options to a manageable quantity. Someone else tells you exactly when to get on the boat and when to get off; that you have a choice between these two excursions in this country, one with limited walking, the other a bus tour; you are told where to go for a prepared meal (with wine and music) and at what time,and  where to drop off your kids for two hours so that you can sip a pint and whip your husband at Texas Hold'em and so on. That's the vacation part - the paring down of decision making.

The actual travel is sort of a pleasant side-effect.

Because cruising (or any canned tour, really) is what it is, one can only experience bits and pieces of what I consider the most lovely part of visiting a new country and or a new culture. One eye must be trained on what is authentic - genuinely meeting people and feeling that life is enriched as a result of a meaningful exchange with someone different from you, whether through discussion, sharing food together, creating understanding through a knowing nod, smile or gesture when language is a slight barrier, etc. The rest is simply the aesthetic - what we choose to believe according to our own consciences married to what we hope is real, the sterility of being somewhere new without having to actually be there, our expectations sadly (or maybe relievingly?) left unchallenged.

I suppose any travel can end up that way if one forgets to be intentional about the authentic.

When I remember or write about this experience, I want to be sure and consider both the authentic and the aesthetic. Here are topics I hope to have time to mention in this space:

1. Considering the pluralities of the cruise
During the cruise bands reincarnations of "Achy Breaky Heart" followed by "Dancing Queen":
Ginger -"I'm pretty sure this is exactly the sort of thing that Dirty Dancing mocked."
Rich -"I'm pretty sure this is exactly the sort of thing Dirty Dancing celebrated."

2. Mint tea in Morocco- Agadir and the Souk in Taroudant

3. Kids Club Star - featuring Jack Haag!

4. Una mas cerveza, por favor, senorita - and other opportunities to dust off my espanol.

5. La Playa, volcanoes, and forest - The lost city of Atlantis found

* Q-Tip - definition - slang for person of a certain age who happen to now have white hair and who wear, inexplicably, white shoes that match their hair color; generally Q-tips don't mind meeting strangers who remind them of their grandchildren on cruises, but beware - approaching them could mean being assaulted by uncomfortable political or racial discussion, and or diatribe about nationality and/or child rearing. Also note - most are quite lovely. British ones don't mind being topless on cruise ships.

Disclaimer

Sleeping in your own bed is the major allure of being back home after having spent some time away. That's exactly what we got to do last night after a whirlwind vacation. Rich and I struggled with what to do on vacation. We needed something inexpensive and easy, something that would allow Jack to be entertained and contained but that also allowed for Rich and I to relax some, too. So we took a little cruise - a discounted one - that had a kids club for Jack to play in - and meals that I didn't have to cook or plan for - that took us to places we wanted to see (though kitch, I'll admit) - and that allowed for sunbathing and being still. Nice.
But we're home now. And safe. Tired. And happy.
More to follow..

Natural Spring Blooms Spark Urban Contemplations

Driving home from work the other day I noticed shiny new movie posters adorning the walls of the little bus stops that dot the winding, leafy Surrey roads. It wouldn't have been a big deal in the dead of winter, when the grass is contemplating brown and the gnarled tree limbs seem to cower from a foggy grey sky. In fact, apart from the car bumper in front of you and the suicidal bike riders darting around and in-between said bumpers, I would wager that the winter weather bus stop posters are a most effective form of advert, as they are a spot of color among the haze.

Spring, however, is completely different.

Where Texas has it's gorgeous bluebonnets, Surrey has its daffodils, or 'Daffs!' as the flower traders declare on their signs, 'only £3.50 per bundle!' The daffs are incredible here and grow like the gorgeous wildflowers that blanket the Texas Hill Country do - everywhere and in the most unexpected places. In addition to the innumerable happy yellow flowers, the trees in Surrey are in full blossom.

Jack and I were walking home from the park last week end when he stopped, took hold of my hand, and shouted, "Momma! That tree looks like it has icing on it!!" It was a gorgeous cherry blossom tree, the pink blossoms so thick that I admitted there could be no other description for what it looked like - creamy pink icing. We immediately went home and made cupcakes.

Add to this the fact that the days have been summer-like and pleasant, and all anyone wants to do is be outside.

But I digress. My point here is to say that movie posters, no matter how new. or glossy they are, ought to pale in the midst of such natural beauty. I shouldn't have noticed them, but I did. Thus, this post.

Mirror Mirror. That's the name of the movie. The posters depict Julia Roberts, considering the shiny red apple in hand, and the promise of a re-created Snow White fairy tale that is supposed to revive all Snow White stories in the same way that Cinderella was given new life a few years ago in the forms of Ever After, Ella Enchanted, and The Princess Diaries. Roberts plays the evil witch, obsessed with being the fairest one of all who, in what can only be called the extremest form of envy, decides to murder the newest one to win the beauty competition ((ahem.) Scholarship program).

In the 19th century Brothers Grimm version, Snow White is the daughter of a beautiful queen who desires and creates a beautiful daughter, "that was as white as snow, as red as blood, and as black as ebony wood."* When the little girl is 7, "she surpassed even the queen herself" in beauty. "Her jealousy gave her no peace," and she therefore decides to order her daughter's slaughter, the little one's guts to be brought back as proof and to serve as the queen's supper.  The rest follows, that the man ordered to kill the little girl couldn't follow through, she meets the dwarfs, the queen finds out, devises several other plots to murder Snow White by playing on her naivete and kindness shown to others, successfully puts Snow White into a coma with one bight of glossy red apple...you know this part.. sad dwarves, glass coffin, and a hot young prince who becomes obsessed with the beautiful dead woman and has to be in her presence 24/7 lest he becomes sad. One day, sans kiss, Snow White coughs up the apple stuck in her throat and happily marries the prince, much to every one's relief. The queen, in an odd turn of events, attends the wedding, is clamped into a pair of metal shoes at the after party which are ceremoniously held over a fire, charring her feet to the bone, and then is made to dance at the wedding until she dies.

Anyway, upon seeing the movie poster, I started to wonder about why this type of story is so popular now. Is it too obvious to say that as a middle aged woman, I am afraid of aging and feel intense jealously with regard to youth and beauty? Does the story simply mirror the seasons: the gnarled tree limb's jealousy toward the icing blossoms and daffs? Is it to acknowledge the obsessive nature of humans, whether it be towards something we desire (beauty, wealth, something that someone else possesses) or this major need for things to stay exactly as they are? What is it? Does it matter? Should it?

In any case, the bus stop became a place of contemplation for me.

*Source: Kinder- und Hausmärchen, 1st ed. (Berlin: Realschulbuchhandlung, 1812), v. 1, no. 53, pp. 238-50. Translated by D. L. Ashliman. © 1998-2002.

Spring Moving

Spring is finally settling in England. Apparently it's been unseasonably warm here and the threat of drought is whispered occasionally on newscasters lips, though most people are reveling in the unusually sunny weather. It took a little warm front for us to realize how much we miss having green space - a place where we can garden, sip a glass of wine on a lovely evening, go outside in the morning without changing out of our pajamas, etc...

In fact, on Monday I climbed out of our kitchen window onto a rooftop landing where I had just enough space to plant flowers in a planter. We can't actually see the flowers from our window (we need to find something to put the planter on), but it felt good at the time to get soil under my fingernails. With the planting came a sweet promise of parks and barbecues, kites and picnics, all of which are much needed after a tough winter of feeling very isolated, lonely, and cold.

We've started seriously looking for a new place in Surrey, one with some green space and lots of light. Now we have to decide when we can move - before we head home for a hot summer in Texas or after we come back. I cringe at the thought of packing up and relocating, especially since our little shoe-shop flat is now so cozy and organized. (I can finally reach for an item and it be where I thought it was!) But even Jack says he's ready to move.  I asked him where he would like to live and he answered "Cornwall". Sorry, little man. Surrey is our home for the moment. :)

It's All Rubbish

I told Rich he would eventually be one of those crotchety old men who wander the streets mumbling some nonsense that others won't understand, his fist shaking in the air, and me (his loving wife) would walk ten steps ahead and occasionally turn around to yell, "No one cares, you old codger! Shut up and move on!"

This made Rich smirk, as if he hoped to be that man someday. This is the exact opposite reaction than what I hoped he would have. In fact, without knowing it, he's been gladly practicing for this kind of future since we moved to England, as if he subconsciously understood that doing so would someday create a marital picayune for me.

It would be one thing if what Rich mumbled about was something hugely significant - like how the UN could possibly vote to ignore the heinous atrocities in Syria or maybe something to do with the Greek austerity and bailout crisis. If it were about people or injustice or something radical, I would help him shake that fist. However, Rich's irritation is personal. It's something that, I'll admit, it fairly irritating. The difference is my reaction is far more sensible and measured compared to Rich's - which is to roam the dark alleys of Weybridge and mumble personal vendettas with regards to the offender.

One of the perks to moving to England is that this country is far more efficient with their recycling. In front of each house is a trash bin, a recycling bin, and a compost pail. Every Monday (for us) the Elmbridge Borough Council makes sure that those of us who are tax payers have our bins dumped - one week for trash, the next for recycling. The composting is genius. We have a small covered pail with decomposable liners that sits on our kitchen counter. We empty the liners full of spoiled food into the small bin on our front porch to be picked up and composted by the county. It's brilliant! A perfect system! And if one plays his cards right,   he can use the bins so efficiently and effectively that none of the bins are ever overfull, aka unsightly to the rest of the street.

And here's the rub:
Our recycle bin keeps disappearing. Like clockwork. Twice Rich has circled the block and found the bin in a back alley. Rich has been on the phone daily with Elmbridge council, asking if/when the bin should be left. He's involved the shoe shop underneath our flat, the wine merchants next door and the property manager a few doors down. Of course they haven't seen anything. "No, Rich. No shady characters have been spotted that we know of. Nothing unusual to speak of.." He bought permanent markers to clearly mark our bin as belonging to us.

Still, it disappears.

If I didn't know better, I'd say that someone was playing a joke on the poor guy. In fact, I'm a little bit jealous that I didn't think of it.

Nothing gets Rich out of the bed in the morning. NOTHING. Until now. At the first sign of a truck on our street, Rich leaps out of bed and runs outside into the freezing cold. He is constantly thinking up schemes to catch the offender. He has constructed hundreds of theories as to why.. and who.. And I never get the impression that he is fully participating in anything anymore - eating, sleeping, breathing, sex.

And now he mumbles. I catch him as we walk home from the car park most days. I'll unlock the door to our flat and he'll say, "You go on in, Ginger. I just want to check the alley one more time."

Bits and Bobs

It's been a while since I've been here. That's ok. Life has a way of interrupting all good intentions. Potty training, for example, requires one to drop what she's doing immediately and run to the toilet (as they call it here), throw a Lightin' McQueen potty seat on the porcelain, yank down the trousers (also what they call them here) of the pre-schooler, plop him on the seat, and hold her breath until the pre-schooler has either done the deed or cries because he didn't. On a good day its the former, rewarded with a sticker. If the latter(or an accident on the way because Momma was too slow with her potty-seat throwing), then it's about consolation and warm hugs so as not to "demonize" the toilet experience.
Ahem.
In any case, my point is that life is full of interruptions.So here's what life's like at the mo for us:
1. School is fine. When I say fine, I mean insanely busy. That's all I will say about it.. Except that report card writing is coming which means mental hibernation is imminent, followed by a nervous week of duck and cover. It's not that bad, but my anxiety creeps up my back and shoulders at the thought of the frenzied, last minute marking, bartering, and reporting that's coming.

2. I wrote my first official journalism article with my friend Mark. When I say I wrote it, I mean to say that he had an idea, and I helped guide his thoughts into something a bit more structured. It was published in a little indy-magazine and has since been linked to other interviews and shared with other sites in other parts of the world, including Detroit where there is a concerted effort to talk about the church's role in the Occupy Movement. I just learned you can also see it here on IndyMedia UK and Democratic Underground. Um. Weird.

3. I'm going into London tonight to the TS Elliot Award poetry reading. Here are the featured poets, if you're interested. Carol Ann Duffy, a British version of Canadian Margaret Atwood will be there, and I will be stalking her.. Believe it. Fortunately for me, I will be with my new colleagues who will surely hold me back if necessary, or (more likely) give me a leg up boost over the waiting crowd to get to the front of the line for an autograph in my copy of The Bees. :) Also, I'm pretty sure I'll fall in love with Daljit Nagra.

4. We taught Jack how to ride his scooter. This was supposed to help with the walking/whining pattern that occurs anytime we walk anywhere. The Brits walk A LOT. A mile wouldn't be considered a long walk to the train station, for example, much less walking around the block to get to daycare, which is what Rich does with Jack every morning. So far, Jack rides for a few seconds, whines about it being too hard, and one of ends up carrying the scooter and the other Jack.. WHO IS GETTING TOO BIG TO CARRY. It hasn't stopped us from going anywhere, though, and Jack is getting better at riding.  Or maybe Rich is building a lot of muscle mass..

So that's a little bit about now. I am off to catch a train.. I'll leave the story about how we booked a Mediterranian cruise for our Easter break on the very eve before the great cruise capsize story hit the news for another post... (sigh). 

Monumental

Sitting in the vulnerable position- under the hairdresser's color brush and foils - I told her how I was looking forward to the faculty Christmas party.
"Did you buy a dress?" Pantine asked as she worked her magic.
"I plan to go shopping this afternoon," I replied, "but I'm not exactly sure how to dress for this event. The theme for the evening is 'New York'."
"Oh right," she said. "That is a difficult one. Gosh. I mean what do they expect you to do after all? Go as the Eiffel Tower?"

Here comes Santa Claus(es)

As I plodded into the town center, I saw in the distance a gang of Santas all clad in their red and white jingle suits who, from that distance, looked like they were going to audition for a role in a small town production of Miracle on 34th Street. “Festive,” I thought and grinned alongside all of the other passersby. When I got closer I realized they were a bunch of jolly, middle aged British ladies who quite literally stopped traffic (intentionally) as they paraded into the heart of Weybridge. Their hats rested at precarious angles on their heads, their coats open, revealing an array of colored stripes, bulges, and belly. Paper number signs were ironically pinned on their backs as if they were about to run a marathon. One brandished a small paper towel roll – It’s a scepter. No! a wand. Now it’s a traffic baton!! – in the middle of Church Street on a Sunday, stopping traffic.


I crossed the street with them as they continued their merriment in whichever direction they were headed. For a brief, fleeting second I found courage to ask them what they were doing, and I even toyed with the idea of joining them or following them to their festival to take a journalistic peek at the very least. But then imagination is so much juicier than reality, innit. Plus, I am much less bold than they, and so into the coffee house I ducked to write about it.