Flying Angst

I’m starting this post from the twin-sized bed of my hostel in Paris. I know that I wrote in previous posts that I’d never again make use of hostels when something as grand as couchsurfing is an option, but when your plane lands at 23:20 and you know you won’t get into the enormous city until 1:00, staying in a hostel is probably the best idea.

Note to self: when using Kayak.com to find plane tickets, do more than just immediately pounce on the lowest price. Flight times do factor into the equation, Aimee. Avoid the flights that leave at 5:00 in the morning and the flights that land at 23:20. It is worth the extra twenty bucks to land at a decent hour and to be able to share a home with someone instead of booking a room in a hostel.

Flying used to be something that terrified me. Not the actual in-the-air part, but the navigating-my-way-around-hectic-terminal part.  It has now been reduced to an immense bother. Hazards of flying:

Murmuring in fear as the leering check-in attendant places your bag on the dreaded scales, “please be under 20 kgs, please be under 20 kgs…” Waiting in the mind-numbingly long security lines, a twinge of doubt rising in the back of your mind, “Did I remember to put my knitting scissors and needles in my checked-in bag, or are they in my carry on? Will they think that I’m a terrorist if they find my size two, knit on the round needles? I suppose I could very effectively strangle someone with them…At least my mace is in the checked-in bag. Wait… is my mace is the checked-in bag? *frenzied rummaging just before placing bag on belt* Does toothpaste really count as a liquid? God, I hate it when they search my bag, empty all the contents out onto the belt, and my embarrassingly large supply of lady-time stuff unabashedly plops itself smack dab on top of my suspicious laptop cords for the world to see (I have so many electronics in my carry-on that it is always searched). I’m wearing skintight yoga pants, for Pete’s sake – why must you frisk me when you can clearly see I have nothing dangerous hiding down there?” Silently screaming at the display “where the hell is my gate number?”  Rushing to the gate as soon as its number flashes on the screen, and inevitably finding that a robust line has already formed by the time you and your far-too-heavy carry-on arrive. Disgruntledly, you take your place at the end of the surging line, trying to strategically tiptoe your way further forward whilst making sure no one else has the opportunity to strategically tiptoe past you. Shooting angry glances at single people holding places in line for groups of five-ten. Feeling duly offended when they cut in front of you, trying to forget the fact that you would have done the exact same thing if you’d have a travel buddy with whom to share the burden of holding a place in line. Eyes glazed over with travel stress, but still managing to glare resentfully at the “priority” entrance line. Wondering whether or not it would be worthwhile to kidnap someone’s baby in order to get yourself a place in that line, while desperately hoping that none of those baby people booked their seats next to yours. Sitting yourself down in the narrow 2^nd class seat, wondering whether or not you should stake your claim on the inside armrest as well as the outside armrest, or if you should be generous and give one of them to your EasyJet neighbor. Your EasyJet neighbor seldom gives you this choice, however, as he/she generally confidently commandeers both armrests before you’ve finished thinking through your strategy. So you gingerly place your elbow on the lone armrest you have left, and half-heartedly flip through a few pages of the bad travel magazine located in the seat pocket in front of you (next to the safety instructions that show far less use). The baby in front of you starts to cry, but at least he’s only drowning out the droning voice in front of you, instructing you to remember that the nearest exit may indeed be behind you.

Then the plane starts to roll forward, and pre-boarding angst is quickly forgotten in the joy of takeoff.

This joy ends as soon as the seatbelts sign switches off, the babies recommence their desperate wailing, and the people surrounding you decide they need to pee. The air-conditioner is invariably too cold, and everything on the air-restaurant menu is far too expensive for a humble vagabond. Your knees start to ache, your lower back tarts to cramp, and you’ve got a galling crick in your neck because you didn’t bring one of those neck-braces (who has room for that sort of thing in their carry-on, anyway?). You are just waiting for the flight to be over.

Once your plane has landed (another moment of short-lived exhilaration), you quickly unbuckle, grab your bag out from under the seat in front of you, and join the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd in the aisle. Nobody is nice enough to let you squeeze in, though, so you remain in a half-standing/half-sitting position for a good ten minutes as you despairingly wait for someone altruistic enough to come along and let you pass in front.

So you’re off the plane. Congratulations. Now you just have to make it through customs, (another enormous line) grab your bag, and find your way out of the airport. Enjoy watching everyone else find his or her luggage and roll out through the exit doors as you stand by the belt, vainly scanning the circling machine for signs of your suitcase. Feel the sensation of complete helplessness when you realize that your luggage may have been lost and that there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it (if you’re frugal like me and don’t bother with insurance).

After an excruciating wait, you see your distinctive bag pop its precious head through the mouth of the belt, and you joyously rush over, heft it onto the floor, and roll the hell out of the baggage claim.

My flight to Paris was not very good.  In fact, it was pretty miserable. First off, my ticket didn’t take into account the time change (Morocco’s weird about daylight savings), so I had an extra hour to wait in the terminal. Secondly, the gate number for my plane didn’t show up until less than half an hour before scheduled takeoff. Marrakech’s airport is very small, so it took me all of two minutes to join the swelling line at my gate, but not knowing where you’re supposed to be thirty minutes before your plane leaves is rather nerve-wracking. My carry-on bag was extremely heavy, because I had to keep my checked-in bag under 20 kilos. 20 kilos is not a lot for 11 months of travel. Thus, by the time I finally made it to my arbitrary EasyJet seat, my lower back was throbbing angrily. Of course I managed to sit behind a woman with a perpetually unhappy baby, and the Texan couple sitting next to me graciously entertained me with nonstop drawling chatter. The lanky cowboy is asking his girlfriend how she likes her air-vacuumed sandwich and she has yet to open it. He is now going on about how stupid the US is for not using the metric system. While I agree with him on this point, I do dislike it when people simplify solutions so dreadfully, "All it would take is ten years. Ten years, I tell ya. Just start teachin' 'em in school now, and by the time ten years rolls around, the whole of America'd be usin' the metric system. Ten years, I tell ya." 

His girlfriend doesn't seem to be listening. She rubs strong anti-bacterial soap into her hands (it makes my nostrils sting) before taking a hearty bite of her ham and cheese sandwich that is good until the 15th. 

Hello, America. 

I cannot seem to escape crying babies. The seat in front of my rocks slightly (banging into my knees on occasion), and the curly brown hair of an extremely indignant, screaming child rocks in time as his mother coos to him in French. This doesn't seem to work, and the screaming escalates to an impressive volume that I can only hope is unsustainable. The mother tries a new tactic and abruptly hisses, "Ça suffit, maintenant!" 

This works. I am glad. 

Upon arriving at Charles de Gaul Airport at 23:30, we were loaded into buses and taken to the terminal. Unfortunately, someone had forgotten to unlock the doors. So all the passengers aboard my flight were forced to wait at least twenty minutes for someone to come and open the doors.

It was amusing to watch all the futile attempts by brawny men to open the doors by sheer force. The security guards were not amused, however, and all civilian attempts quickly ceased.

Once the doors were finally opened, the angry lot of us stampeded through to passport control.

Where there were no attendants. We had to wait another 20 minutes for the passport officers to show up, stamp our passports and say, “Bienvenue a France!”

Bienvenue, my ass. Things operated better in Morocco. Shame on you, France.

So, after forty minutes of waiting in lines and behind locked doors, I made it to the luggage belt. I waited for my moss green bag to roll around the bend, resting my heavy carry-on on the ground and propping my exhausted self up against a sterile airport wall. I waited. And waited. And waited some more.

After 25 minutes of waiting and watching the same piece of  black fluff circle the belt again and again, I joined the line of exasperated fliers at the “lost baggage” window. For the first time during my travels, I had to really contemplate what it would be like to travel without my bag. So much of my life was in that scant 20 kilos, and I had a hard time imagining what things would be like without it. My carry-on contained my camera, laptop, charger, diaries, glasses, and all other vital electronics. My checked-in bag contained all my clothes, SHOES, knitting, toiletries, souvenirs, and tripod.

“They’re only things, Aimee. You can live without them.”

Just then, the angel at the window told me to check to baggage belt again.

I nearly burst into song as I recognized my green bag rolling down the belt. I hefted it onto the floor and felt like I’d been reunited with an old friend. I believe I’ve developed an unhealthy love/hate relationship with this piece of luggage. It’s served me well. 

Things went much better after that. I was able to get a taxi without a hitch (a charming cabbie who played some lovely blues music on the 40 minute drive to my hostel), and checked into my room at about 1:00 in the morning.

I slept very well. 

Out of the Blue -- Marrakech

My last few days in Morocco were bittersweet, which seems to be the predominant emotion whenever I leave a city in which I’ve developed good friendships and start to feel like I fit. Being able to fit everywhere I go has become incredibly important to me. I have developed the ability to adapt and thrive in all sorts of environments, and am fiercely proud of this. It might seem like a selfish, insensitive goal, but by the time I leave a placement in which I've spent a significant period of time, I try to have become so involved and useful that the people with whom I've stayed don't know what they'll do without me. 

But leaving is hard. i have the confidence that I'll always find a way to fit, but saying goodbye to a life I've grown to love never gets any easier. The last few days can be contemplative and solemn, as you spend most of your time thinking, "This is the last."

It’s hard to think, “this is the last” so many times a day.

My lasts:

Mike took me out to a phenomenal last dinner at Al Fassia. We split a lamb shoulder that had been slow cooked in onions and almonds -- l'epaule d'agneau doree. An indescribably good dinner.

My last dinner for Mike was a lemon chicken tagine. Although it certainly didn’t compare to Al Fassia’s lamb, it was a damn fine tagine, if I do say so myself. I am going to try to convince my family to purchase this TAGINE when I arrive back in Grand Junction. It might be a bit expensive, but it guarantees a lifetime of good eating. As long as you can find the Ras el Hanout to go with it, that is. Ras el Hanout is a very popular blend of spices in Morocco, and one generally finds in just about every tagine recipe. The name itself translates into "head of shop," and simply means that what you're purchasing is the absolute best that the seller has available. While every Moroccan vendor has his own specific way of blending his "head of shop" spice mix, typical ingredients include (but are certainly not limited to): cardamon, clove, cinnamon, ground chili pepper, coriander, nutmeg, peppercorn, and turmeric. 

Reasons why Moroccan food is amazing. Goodness. And I assume that before the 1990s it tasted even better, as Ras el Hanout used to contain cantharides -- an ingredient which possesses certain aphrodisiac properties. However, as cantharides are beetles (and we all know that eating ground-up bugs is gross (*cough, STARBUCKS)), and they are mildly poisonous as well as sexually stimulating, they have been duly banned from the Moroccan spice market. Guess we'll just have to stick to eating avocados, dulce de leche, arugula, and oysters if we find ourselves in need of a little extra ingestible help in that particular area.

Stolen from Wikipedia:

Various preparations of desiccated Spanish flies have been used as some of the world's oldest alleged aphrodisiacs, with a reputation dating back to the early western mediterranean classical civilizations:

• In Roman times, Livia, the scheming wife of Augustus Caesar, slipped it into food hoping to inspire her guests to some indiscretion with which she could later blackmail them.
• Henry IV (1050–1106) is known to have consumed Spanish fly at the risk of his health.
• In 1572, Ambroise Pare wrote an account of a man suffering from "the most frightful satyriasis" after taking a potion composed of nettles and cantharides.^[9]
• In the 1670s, Spanish fly was mixed with dried moles and bat's blood for a love charm made by the magician La Voisin.
• It was slipped into the food of Louis XIVto secure the king's lust for Madame de Montespan.
• In the 18th century, cantharides became fashionable, known as pastilles Richelieu in France.
• The Marquis de Sade is claimed to have given aniseed flavored pastilles that were laced with Spanish fly to prostitutes at an orgy in 1772. He was sentenced to death for poisoning and sodomy, but later reprieved on appeal.

Last long ride on Mike's Ducati: we stopped at the Marjorelle Gardens for coffee, and then proceeded to take a spin through the extremely plush golf course. 

Last afternoon with Youssef: we had a lovely discussion over haagen-dazs (which is criminally expensive in Morocco) and visited his friend in the souk for a glass of Royal Tea -- which I still haven't figured out how to make properly. Boiling tea leaves and spices seems simple enough, but this fellow must add a special ingredient to the mixture that doesn't come in the standard customer's tea. He told Youssef that he could haul me off to the desert and trade me in for 100 camels (quite the compliment), but he had the gall to withhold his tea-making secrets. His tea is the best I've ever tasted. When I boil my own tea, it just tastes like dirt. I have tried four times with the same result. I am getting discouraged.  

Last ice cream with Youssef -- we both liked that the absurd length of the spoon made it seem as if you were trying to steal something. 

First (and last) ride in a private plane to Ouarzazate. We flew right over the Atlas Mountains to reach this southern-central Moroccan city, and it was by far the most gorgeous and unforgettable flying experience I've ever had. How was I lucky enough to be able to fly in a private plane from Marrakech to Ouarzazate? Mike's cousin is in the process of getting his pilot's license, and like all licenses, one must achieve a certain amount of hours before said license is issued. So Mike's cousin decided to fly around Morocco with his trainer in order to rack up his hours -- and he invited Mike and I to fill the two empty back seats. To which we not so reluctantly agreed. 

This is the most popular plane for beginning pilots, as it comes complete with parachute. 

view of the Atlas Mountains

Where we stopped for lunch in Ouarzazate. This city is known as the gateway to the desert, and is blisteringly hot. Morocco may very well be an impoverished desert country, but I have seen far more luxurious swimming pools in this boiling land than I've seen anywhere else in my life. 

Ouarzazate is the undisputed film capital of Morocco. The Living Daylights, The Last Temptation of Christ, The Gladiator, The Mummy, Lawrence of Arabia, Legionnaire, and Salmon Fishing in Yemen were filmed in this desert city. Because of this, one sees props from the various films strewn about the streets and hotels. This catapult-like structure was from Gilgamesh. 

This statue was used in the film "Samson and Delilah"

Last mechoui lunch. As I do not have access to a twelve foot hole in the ground, I very much doubt I'll be eating much mechoui in the states. I shall miss it. 

Last time seeing a family of four astride a single scooter. While I didn't get a good picture of this impressive balancing act, a quick sketch looks something like this: 

I have decided that people in Morocco consume obscene amounts of sugar for a very good reason. They need to gain enough weight to achieve sufficient padding to ride these dreadfully uncomfortable bicycles without too much torment to the derriere. Youssef took me riding on the back of his bike once. 20 minutes on his bicycle inflicted more pain on my unprotected backside than 2 hours on Mike's Ducati. I have no idea how the Moroccans manage. 

Last time seeing a mule pulling a cart of tomatoes down the main street. 

Last time buying cutlet and kefta from a butcher and taking it to the restaurant next-door to be spiced up and grilled real nicely. 

Last time being molested by a stray cat who loves cutlet even more than I do. 

Last mint tea. Sans sucre. 

Last evening activity with Mike: The Fantasia! A very touristic sort of theme park on the outskirts of Marrakech. I saw midgets, camels, belly-dancers, a magic carpets, and unbelievable equestrian acrobatics. I also witnessed a line of Moroccan horsemen charging the audience, skidding to a speedy halt a few feet in front of the stands, and firing their guns into the air. It was all very impressive. 

A few more notes about Morocco before I close this chapter of my travels: 

People think that eating goat makes one ill. To prove that an animal is a sheep and not a goat, the butcher will show you the testicles and/or the long skeletal tail. These things make it a sheep. I am not sure why goats don't possess balls and sheep do, but Moroccans seem to be assured that the presence of the fleshy sacks indicates "sheep". As I adore goat and don't give a lick of credence to the "eating goat makes you sick" belief, I didn't really care one way or another.  

In the US, if we want to prove that something is quality, we try to run it over with our enormous cars or drop it off of tall things. Good example being nalgene: 

In Morocco, they carry around handy dandy lighters and attempt to light their merchandise on fire. "you see? It doesn't burn. Not plastic." "Golly gee, you're right! That's gotta be some quality stuff you've got there." 

As mentioned earlier, ice cream is heinously expensive. As are feminine hygiene products and makeup. My hypothesis is that by charging an arm and a leg for tampons and mascara, they hope to encourage their women to stay pregnant and as invisible as possible. 

Women can lead really hard lives in Morocco. For all of the wonderful things this country has going for it -- the food, the weather, the history, the scenery -- I would never consider making a life for myself within its borders because of the way women are treated. It's a rather primitive, macho-man's world, and that is something to which I'd never want to adapt. Men don't know how to drink properly, women are frequently abused, and nothing is really done about it. I learned a good deal from my time in Morocco, had several once-in-a-lifetime experiences, and met some truly magnificent people, but I'm excited to get back to Europe on the 7th of May. It's definitely time to move on. 

Philosophizing at Taghazout

I’m starting this post from the living room of the seaside apartment in Taghazout that Mike has rented for three nights. The room is lined with stiff couches covered with flowered fabric, and the walls are decorated with mirrors and mosaic tiles. The TV in the corner is frequently flashing the faces of Sarkozy and Hollande and the Eifel tower as Election Day draws nearer and nearer. The sound of the ocean outside is lulling me into a peaceful repose, in spite of the wooden couch and rock pillows on which I recline. I spent the morning sitting outside on the terrace, sipping some yellow Lipton tea, and journaling very philosophically about the ocean, as I serenely watched the waves crashing in and easing out. 

Why are humans so damn fascinated with the ocean? I thought, as I gazed blankly out at the vast offender in listless awe. Why are there so many ocean soundtracks to help people sleep and to relieve stress? Why is it that when I listen to the rhythmic crashing of the Atlantic’s waves that I stop worrying about all the things in my life that don’t make sense and am quite happy to just sit here… doing absolutely nothing… just sitting. And listening.

I am very sorry to say that my philosophical ocean contemplations did not end there. Maybe it was the bad Lipton tea that drove me headlong into madness, or maybe it was a remnant of the fried octopus/calamari induced euphoria from the night before, or maybe it was simply because I was sitting on a terrace in Morocco looking out at this:

Watching a wave is like watching a life. I quickly scribbled in my tattered journal, immensely proud of myself for making such a profound connection. In spite of the Lipton.  You see the small mound of infancy in the distance and watch as it gradually gains height and strength, finally reaching its triangular pinnacle where it tucks its pointy top under, grows a full white beard, and crashes down to the sandy shore. It peters on for a few meters (some more than others), and then is quietly sucked back into the ocean to make room for the next crashing wave. The next crashing life rushing headlong to its end, reaching its bubbly fingertips as far out as possible before receding into the cosmic consciousness of the Atlantic. Christ, I need to lay off on the yoga sutras. 

I triumphantly clicked my pen closed in self-satisfaction, inhaled a deep breath of ocean air, and regretfully swallowed another gulp of Lipton (Good Earth tea, how greatly I miss you and all your rooibos goodness).

Watching the ocean makes you think of life. So what? Why is that relaxing at all? I represent life. That weird cactus thing over there represents life. I could paste the meaning “LIFE” on just about everything, and make a fine argument as to why the label fits.

Damn. I thought, as I despondently removed my Socratic hat.

Viewing life like this is encouraging because it helps us to visualize the wholeness of humanity. Once the wave is sucked back to sea, it does not just disappear. It becomes a part of the next crashing wave. It never ceases to touch – to be a part of – the ocean of life, and although the world will never see a wave just like Herbert or Olive or Ethel again, it will certainly see waves hat have been touched by these upstanding swells.

It’s hopeful because it helps people understand that in some way, they will always be. So what if I’m not crashing right now? So what if I’m at the end of my five meter foamy rush up the shore? I am an individual part of the ocean, and will never cease to be. The only thing that makes the waves different from the calm is that they become visible. They become more tangible to a different level of consciousness. When they crash, they affect the world around them, each wave doing its part to weather the jagged coastal rocks into a smooth, sandy shore.

God. No wonder I've never been very attracted to marijuana. My normal thoughts are high-people thoughts. 

As my time in Morocco draws to an end, Mike continues to go far out of his way to give me the best experience possible in his diverse, gorgeous country.  He’s taken me to the army tennis courts by his house a couple of times, and is teaching me how to play. Mike is excellent at sports – Frisbee, soccer, volleyball, badminton, and tennis. All of which I absolutely fail at. I’m decent at sports that require good balance, quick reactions, and sensitive hands (horseback-riding, yoga, and…knitting?) but when a sport requires a good amount of spacial-reasoning, I’m ruined. So although I had a delightful time hitting tennis balls over the fence, and hope to continue to flail a racquet every now and then when I return to the states, I never hope to be any good. Just like with directions. I never hope to be good at directions, but I hope not to panic and get upset that I’m so unforgivably bad. I have a wonderful time getting myself good and lost and I have a wonderful time hurling balls over the fence and into the poor boy chasing after my strays, getting the workout of his life.

I’ve eaten mechoui again, enjoyed a lunch and dinner at Mike’s cousin’s paradise home in the Palmerais, and am now in the middle of a three-day seaside vacation. From my vacation. We started our Sunday morning with a quick tennis session, went out for an omelet, packed our things, jumped into the rented car, and set off for Essaouira. For the fourth and last time.

I’m going to miss this city.

A view of Essaouira from the port

Carving up the day's catch

Taking pictures of seagulls by the ocean is like taking pictures of swans in Copenhagen. 

Fisherman on the dike

 We arrived in Esssaouira Sunday evening, perfunctorily settled into our mutually adored riad, and walked around the medina and the port for a couple of hours. I could amble along the narrow streets of the old-town day after day and not tire of it. Essaouira puts me into an alert but relaxed state of mind. Marrakech keeps me alert, but the lack of respect for boundaries causes a tension that's unsustainable for me. If I actually lived in Marrakech, I'd be sure to die after a few years due to the constant release of adrenaline into my bloodstream. I hear a "Bonjour, Madame!" and my fight or flight instinct kicks in. But Essaouira is different. People might be friendlier, or they might just all be insanely high. While I'd prefer it to be the former, after being offered "special" brownies by dozens of laid-back natives, I'm inclined the friendly demeanor of Essaouirans is directly related to the massive amount of marijuana they consume.

After a mouthwatering fish dinner and absent-mindedly imbibing an entire bottle of rosé, Mike and I headed back to our riad suite. I promptly fell asleep on the large living room couch (lulled to unconsciousness to the sound of French politics sifting into my foggy brain), and Mike took the warmly decorated bedroom. The next morning, we took our omelet/mint tea breakfast on the terrace and relished the fact that we were high enough off the ground to keep the begging stray cats from scratching at our shins.

We took one more quick jaunt around the medina, stopping to get a quick cup of ginger/mint/lemon/eucalyptus honey tea (DO TRY THIS AT HOME!) at a favorite café, and then repacked our things and headed down the road to Agadir.

Agadir... I adore this city, but it doesn't feel Moroccan to me. Agadir was first a Berber fishing village, then a Portuguese trading post, then a part of the Saadian dynasty in 1541. But although the city has centuries of entrancing history, it looks every bit as modern as Casablanca.  Agadir was devastated by earthquakes in 1731 (which closed the harbor and led to the establishment of Essaouira) and in 1960 (which led to the modern city we see today).

Agadir is very popular with surfers and the seaside road between Essaouira and Agadir is spectacular. I actually stopped knitting a very nice mustard-colored hat to better concentrate on the scenery.

At a small village on the way to Agadir

Watching lobster cook is maybe one of the saddest things I've ever seen. Seeing the claws slowly twitch as the Moroccan fanned the glowing coals with his cardboard cutouts made my stomach turn. Not enough to keep me from eating one the next day, but nearly. 

We stopped at an argan oil/honey shop on the way to Agadir. When on the southwest coast of Morocco, you can find argan oil everywhere, although the quality may be questionable. You come across big, well-organized shops like these, and Moroccan men and boys sitting by the side of the road selling their diluted oils like rosy-cheeked American kids with their lemonade. 

The beach at Taghazout

I very much enjoyed watching all the children play soccer. 

Moroccan dumpster divers

The place of our euphoric calamari. The cats are always ready to eat what you don't want and what the wind doesn't blow  back into the ocean.

flowers in Morocco are stunning this time of year