Maroon Bells -- Aspen, CO

I'm starting this post from the wannabe papasan (which actually looks somewhat like a dignified, fluffed up camping chair) in my warped and bare apartment living room, legs stretched out onto the coffee table in front of me. I recline in absolute stillness, not because I have resumed my meditation practice and am working toward samadhi, but because moving my wrecked limbs -- pardon me, my thoroughly ravaged body -- results in excruciating pain. Alex lovingly slapped my thigh a few minutes ago, and I nearly bit his well-meaning head clean off. I believe I would have, had I been able to perform such a delicate, complex maneuver from a seated position. As it was, I merely screamed profanities at his apologetic figure as he retreated/fled into the bathroom. I am dehydrated and desperate for a sip of tea, but my mug of fragrant Good Earth is coquettishly resting on the table a good two feet in front of me, and I'm not about to sacrifice the well-being of my arms to reach for it. "Within arm's reach" isn't good enough for me right now. In fact, "at my fingertips" hardly suffices.

I hiked a mountain yesterday -- a very tall, steep, scree-full mountain. I cursed and cried and laughed and self-deprecated nearly to the saddle of the Maroon Bells. In the last 15 months, I've hiked an impressive total of one meager hill -- so how in the world did I find myself at the godly altitude of 13000+ feet, you ask? Well, I'm still not quite sure, but my body is certainly paying for the foolhardy, spontaneous, thrill seeking, I WILL NOT BE LEFT OUT nature of my mind. It's afflicted with a deep, overwhelming soreness that doesn't go away in the course of a day. I'm not counting on going to bed and waking up tomorrow feeling moderately better. I'm counting on going to bed and waking up tomorrow feeling significantly worse.

It all started Friday night over a pleasant, perfunctory dinner at my parent's house. My mother had thoughtfully prepared three enormous platters of gluten-free enchiladas topped with some manner of nauseating vegan cheese (forgetting that the only member of the family avoiding dairy was off babysitting somewheres).  Alex and Jason discussed the next morning's trip up to Lincoln/Democrat/2 others I can't remember, and I sat in silence, duly intimidated by their modest ambition to summit four peaks in one fell swoop. Then my father inopportunely butted into their agreeable conversation, committing the unforgivable act of bringing me into the thick of things by innocently assuming, "Aimee, you're going up with Chelsea, aren't you?"

Stunned, I cast Chelsea a nervous glance, managing to mutter, "No... no, I uh... I don't think I am."

"Why not?"

"Yeah, you're welcome to come, Aimee," Chelsea returned my dazed look of shock with a warm invitation.

Now, before all of the reasons why I should have said, "Gee, thanks for the invite, but I think I'd better stay home," become glaringly apparent, allow me justify my response of, "Umm... sure. Yeah, okay. Only fourteen thousand feet, you say? I'll be super slow, but yeah. Nothin' in my calendar, so why not hike an enormous mountain?"

Justification #1: I've always wanted to hike a fourteener. I live in Colorado. If one resides in this mountainous state for as long as I have, it's practically a requirement to have a fourteener or twenty under your belt and on your resumé. I'm surprised I haven't been deported yet, due to my inexcusable lack of climbing tall things.

Justification #2: I like Chelsea. I like Chelsea a good deal. Spending a day outside with Chelsea sounded like gobs of fun.

Justification #3: Getting out of Grand Junction. Although I've been presented with an unfathomable amount of wonderful opportunities in the past two months, I still loathe this town.

Justification #4: Alex was hiking one. I mean four. Alex was hiking four. Yoga has helped me to conquer a bit of my unhealthy competitive nature, but has not eradicated it entirely.

After I'd ruminated over my justifications for an intense 15 seconds, and uttered my irrevocable, resounding, "sure," Chelsea proceeded to inform me that she would pick me up at the unassuming hour of one o'clock in the morning.

My spur-of-the-moment "sure" sure started feeling a bit sour as I tossed and turned in apprehension that night, deliriously drifting off for a completely rejuvenating half an hour before I had to wake up to prepare my camel-bak and await Chelsea's text. I stuffed my pristinely expensive and unused bag full of lara bars, a rain jacket, a headlamp, my iPhone, my camcorder, and an extra T-shirt. Feeling extraordinarily prepared, a slipped on my barefoot running shoes, gave my groggy boyfriend a goodbye kiss, and joined Chelsea, Katelyn, and Chelsea's four jars of chocolate almond milk in Chelsea's Subaru for the two and a half hour drive in.

The drive was uneventful, and I even managed to doze off for a minute or two near the end. We reached our destination at about four in the morning, and made the unanimous decision to nap for an hour before we began our traipse up the slope. I contorted my body into an uncomely ball of elbows and knees and backpack, and forced myself into the uncomfortable state between sleep and awake. The state wherein you're so tired that you can't move, but you're awake enough to be appropriately pissed off at your body for not being fully asleep. Chelsea's alarm jolted me out of my fog of peevishness at around five, and we unhappily roused ourselves and began to gear up. Chelsea and Katelyn tied on sturdy hiking boots and slipped into outdoorsy sweaters and jackets. I spent an uncomfortable, embarrassing few moments wherein I realized that other than my frumpy grandpa cardigan (solely for the ride up), I'd brought nothing warm to wear. After abashedly sharing my unpreparedness with the experienced mountaineers in the front seat, Katelyn offered up one of her layers.

I will forever be in Katelyn's debt. I donned the long-sleeved shirt, strapped on my camel-bak, and tumbled out of the subaru.

The hike itself started off well enough. The sky was breathtaking, the company couldn't have been better (unless my friend George had been able to fly out from Ireland to join me), and I felt much more capable than I'd expected. There was a steady uphill slant, but nothing undoable or unsustainable. I began to feel confident. I puffed out my chest, inhaled the pure mountain air, I began to feel like a true Coloradan. With each painless step, my hubris increased, compounding into a series of thoughts similar to this: "Maroon Bells, you got nothin' on me. I may have been born in California and have spent the last year and a half doing absolutely nothing physical other than my yoga practice, but I'm a Coloradan, dammit. I grew up in the mountains. I have adopted mountain into my blood. Climbing mountains = piece of cake."

Group yoga pose in front of the second lake -- about a mile and a half in. 

Marmot! A fuzzy creature indigenous to the Rocky Mountains but world renowned for its indisputable cuteness.  

 Three and a half miles in, I was still feeling pretty good. Tired and a wee bit wobbly, but in decent overall health and spirits. However, my false sense of belonging and colossally misplaced confidence became painfully apparent as we reached the foot of the foreboding Maroon Bells and I got a good look at what was next to come. 

"So, Chelsea -- just how high is that beast?"

"Four thousand feet."

"And how many miles?"

"Two and a half." 

Panic attack, commence. A four thousand foot climb in a two and a half mile hike. This was most certainly not what I had imagined when I'd given Chelsea my "sure". Four thousand feet in two and a half miles seems like something one ought to train for in a manner akin to a marathon. 

After stumbling along for about thirty feet, the self-deprecating humor and tears began. The scenery lost it's beauty, as looking up merely told me how much further I had to hike, and looking down reminded me of how little I'd actually progressed. The only consolation I afforded myself at how very often I forced Chelsea and Katelyn to wait on my winded, broken self was that I had warned Chelsea that should I attempt the hike, I would be very slow. My left hip began to ache, the pain in my knees was nearly unbearable, and my calves and ankles burned with each step. Oh, the absolute idiocy of wearing barefoot shoes up slopes of scree. I can say I have a very intimate connection with the Maroon Bells mountains, as I felt every single angle and edge of the rocks on which I stumbled. 

It was this steep the entire way up

Near the saddle, we met a meteorologist and a guide on their way down. As clouds were gathering rather ominously over the mountains, Chelsea and Katelyn asked these knowledgeable folks what they thought we ought to do regarding continuing our climb. We were told that reaching the saddle would be feasible, but they recommending we not attempt the technical climb to the summit, as the risk of being caught in a rainstorm and stranded wasn't worth the magnificent view and bragging rights to which reaching the top entitles you.

I would have loved to actually reach the top, but I was far from devastated at being given a perfectly feasible excuse for heading back down the mountain.

Chelsea couldn't pick a signature pose, so she put a rock on her head.

This goat blocked out way to the saddle. Chelsea called to him in an attempt to move him off the path, and he liked the sound of her voice so very much that he decided to follow us fifteen hundred feet down the mountain. 

It didn't rain. We could have reached the summit, had the clouds not scared us off. Katelyn and Chelsea were rather miffed and disappointed. I made an impressive effort to appear disappointed. 

After scampering dangerously down the mountain scree (finishing off my knees and ankles), and walking the three and a half miles back to the car, we clamored in and headed down to Glenwood. After gobbling up a gluten-free bagel, a white mocha, and a chocolate truffle, I felt significantly better -- although walking was still tremendously hard. Teaching yoga is going to be excellent fun this week.

Perils of Paris -- Grand Junction, CO

I'm starting this post from the proud hippie/homeless people populated coffee shop of Grand Junction, Colorado. The competent barista spilled my decaf coffee all over the tile floor before she managed to pour me a proper cup. After taking a seat in one of the only slightly broken chairs, the good woman proceeded about her business cleaning up, concentrating most fiercely on the area directly underneath where I was sitting, jabbing her offensive broom at my feet and passive-aggressively wiping the table around my cup. I stubbornly pretended not to notice, but then relocated outside after a few more jabs of her broom wore my mule-like nature down. There is a motley group of young men playing the mind-bogglingly boring game of hackey-sack to my left, but I'm finding the activity fairly stimulating, as an errant ball seems to end up in my lap every five minutes or so. They are very apologetic as they approach me to retrieve their balls. I smile politely and say, "Don't worry about it, I'm not bothered," and then continue on to write this rather snobbish paragraph regarding them. The joys of being a writer.

Needless to say, I do not enjoy this coffee shop. I am here because it is Sunday and my favorite coffee shop closes its doors at the shocking hour of 14:30 on the Lord's day. Jesus doesn't believe in afternoon coffee, apparently.

I have been back in the states for one month as of today. During this month I have:

- coerced six sane looking people into taking yoga classes from me. These people are not members of my immediate family and are returning, week after week. While I don't fully understand why they do this, the opportunity to teach is making me exquisitely happy. I have only injured one of them.

- been offered a job as a substitute teacher at a hot yoga studio in town. I taught a 75 minute class last week and received three raving reviews.

- volunteered at Mountainfilm for the third year in a row and was offered a position at Telluride Film Festival. Telluride Film Festival is where The Artist premiered. August 30th can't come quickly enough. My duties will most likely consist of answering phones and organizing events, and my free time will consist of drinking phenomenally good coffee, star-spotting, and watching films for free that most people pay a minimum of 390 dollars to see. Telluride Film Festival

- had one reading of my play about children and their nightmares and received very positive feedback.

- started writing a screenplay with Alex about a condition called prosopagnosia.

- got a part-time job working as a gardener with a delightful elderly woman named Judy. Judy has an exuberant yard completely blanketed with various local and exotic flowers. I spend my days with Judy planting flowers, pulling up elm, spreading horse manure, designing watering systems, and engaging in pleasant conversation in one of the most gorgeous, relaxing environments I could possibly have the pleasure to work in.

- started training for a 5K. I don't know if I'll ever actually run a race (I'm too competitive for my own good -- I used to get migraine headaches from playing cards with my grandparents. I can't imagine what a 5K would do to me), but I enjoy the training process.

- Wrote absolutely nothing. This was primarily due to the:

Perils of Paris...

I had ten days to while away in one of the world's most breathtaking cities. I had museums to visit, cheese to taste, wine to quaff, parks to nap in, tours to take, metros to navigate, couchsurfers to find, sausages to gnaw at, espresso to sip, and French to butcher (the language, not the people). This left very little time for writing, as you may or may not have noticed. I scribbled the occasional note in one of my yoga notebooks, making sure a particular jewel of an experience or snippet of conversation didn't slip into my subconscious memory without writing it here first. I wrote down the names of the famous painters I recognized (I'm terribly uncultured, thank the good lord, so the potentially limitless list was only about a page and a half long), and planned to write a blurb about each artist followed by a picture of the painting I was most profoundly affected by. I have gone to bed every night for the last month with Degas, Monet, Manet, Pissarro, Picasso, Renoir, Goya, Dali, Matisse, Cezanne, Sisley, Van Gogh, Seurat, and Signac all standing about my room with grave looks of bitter disappointment painted across their genius faces. "Why have you not written about the glorious things you've seen in Paris, Aimee?"
"It's just too much! I'm too overwhelmed! I don't know where to start! AAAAHHHH!"
And my tormenting artists disappear in a puff of brain smoke, my feeling of shame lingers in the air a few more seconds, and then I fall into restless sleep, punctuated by impressionistic lilies with abnormally long stems prancing through the desert.

I will write a decent post about Paris one of these days, but I'm going to skip over it for now. I need to start writing again, and thinking about the massive blog Paris demands makes my brain fog over and my fingers feel prematurely arthritic.

As my gallivanting is momentarily confined to the dreary town of Grand Junction, I will write about my playwriting efforts, my running training, my yoga teaching, my failed attempts to make the perfect pork belly crackle, my gardening experiences, and my plans to move to Portland by mid-September. I anticipate that this blog won't be nearly as entertaining or insightful, but it will serve as a necessary outlet for my itchy fingers.

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.