People We Met

Showing Us His Irrigation Canals 

Visiting in a Home 

Gnaoua Musicians 

   

So far we’ve stayed in a riad in Rabat, had dinner with an Arab family, learned about Gnaoua music, and visited with a nomad family. We have also spoken to shepherds tending their flock by the roadside, a widow in Meknès-Tafilalet who survives by helping at parties and weddings, and a farmer in the desert who created an irrigation system and now grows olives and vegetables. Everywhere we went, we were served delicious, very sweet mint tea. Even the poorest home has at least a couple of dozen tea glasses, a teapot, and a footed serving tray. At the Berber Museum, I saw antique boxes for carrying tea glasses on camel back. A wonderful custom.

Three Generations of Nomads 

Today we spent several hours with a Berber family near Ouarzazate in western Morocco. After a tour of their home which includes a large special room with banquet setting for at  least 40 and the floor covered in carpets, the father led us out to his olive grove where he made us mint tea and served flat bread just cooked in the communal oven. His 7-year-old son and 4 other boys helped, then sang a couple of songs before heading to their afternoon school session. We returned to the house where his wife and her friend served us home-made couscous. Of course all these people are paid by OAT to accommodate us. It seems a more genuine way to help their economy than buying trinkets and souvenirs that I don’t want to add to my life. 

The Ever-Presented Mint Tea 

Making Couscous 

Traveler versus Tourist

Making Copper Pots in the Médina 

Olives 

Grant Eating Snails
While Hicham Watches. 

 Overseas Adventure Travels (OAT) prides itself on providing contacts with locals (being travelers) rather than just driving by and taking pictures (being tourists). To that end we have spoken with venders about their businesses, hopped off the bus and discussed herding with nomads, and eaten dinner with a Moroccan family.

At first, I was meh about this, but it has grown on me. I remember our family hosting college band members and other students when I was growing up. We were pleased to share our home with them for a meal or a stay.

Berber Nomads 

Dinner at a Local Family’s Home

On the other hand, sometimes, like going through the Fez Médina, we have been tourists, hurrying  along and just getting a brief glimpse of the area.

Saltwater Fish For Sale

Buying Camel Meat

  Our guide, Hicham, has herded us like baby goats. Even when he turns us over to a guide for a special area, he trails behind, making sure no one gets lost or left behind.
Actually, we are more like 14 not-too-unrulely cats who are easily distracted by all the things around us. Hicham gently nips at our heels to get us back on the path we should be following. There isn’t much slack in our schedule for us to wander off, and he consciously keeps us on it.

On To Morocco

We climbed down the stairs one last time at Charming Lavapiés, then rode the Metro to the aeropuerto for our plane to Casablanca. Grant, his suitcase, and I all made the trip easily. Now, three days later, and my suitcase still hasn’t arrived. I bought a T-shirt at the Rabat modern art museum but have resisted buying anything else, washing my underwear out each night, in the hope that my own clothes will show up soon. I am starting to loose faith.

To add insult, my glasses fell apart and are now held together with a staple until I get to an optometrist who can fix them.  Amazingly I found the screw. Plus my throat is sore, and my gut thinking about going down. Of course all our first aid and drugs are in my suitcase, now known to be in Madrid. As a woman on the tour said, “You really are a mess, aren’t you?” So true.

The Rabat Restaurant Cat  

But I'm glad we are here. Who knew there would be cats everywhere? We met the first one at the restaurant where we had lunch in Rabat, then noticed others all around the city. There were dozens at the Roman necropolis Chellah, cats waiting to be fed in the Kasbah, and cats sleeping in the royal stables. Traffic is amazingly terrible; lanes usage seem to be considered just a suggestion, people and cats walk everywhere, yet the roadside is not littered with bodies. It all seems to work.


 They seem to be cared for or at least tolerated. Somewhere between feral and house pets. Perhaps in the original cat role of rodenticide.
At lunch today in Meknès, a cat roamed around our table as we sat on the second story terrace. Waiters just walked around it as it checked to for any fallen food bit would have gladly taken hand outs.

Morocco Trip Route

Madrid and Beyond

Reina Sofia Museum

Seeing Guernica at the Museo de Reina Sofia, a guided tour of the Royal Palace, the day trip to Toledo and Segovia, and over the top delicious chocolate and churros at San Ginés took the rest of our time in Madrid. The Parque of El Capricho, Plaza de España and more have to wait for the future.

My list of things I want to do grows longer even as our time to do them grows shorter. This is true of our days in Madrid and of our life together. How to stay in the present rather than bemoan loss of possibilities?

At Toledo, we hustled through the narrow streets of the Jewish, Muslim, and Christian quarters to the central square, following our guide as he explained Spanish history. I would have liked to returned to the church with the El Greco painting, but the town is too much of a labyrinth for me to be able to find my way there and back.

Iberian Ham Sandwiches  

Grant had made us Iberian ham sandwiches to eat on the bus, but he enjoyed see all the possibilities in Segovia. If US Customs would let us bring it is, we be lugging a whole ham around for the rest of the trip. They sell ham bags so it could have its own luggage. 

Segovia Aqueduct  

The Roman aqueduct, built around 100 BC, carried water to Segovia from the mountains until 1923. Just stone on top of stone, no mortar. 

Back to Madrid in time for some performance art and a flamenco show. 

“A Political Mass”

Lavapiés

Pickled Cactus
by Chinaski Tapas Bar 

“We ask with love that you speak softly
to respect the sleep of your neighbors .”

We were in Lavapiés during Tapa-piés celebrations, with bars competing for the best tapa designation. Every block seems to have at least two tapas bars with reviellers spilling out from early evening to late night. 

While we weren't kept up by the noise, some of the locals weren't as enamored with the party. They also seemed not as interested in having Lavapiés gentrified. 

"Our Neighborhood is Real.
It is Not Your Theme Park.

For us, however, it was a richly textured experience rather than staying in the bland sameness of a chain hotel. By the third day of climbing up to our apartment and back down again, my tight knee had loosened up from my forced inactivity. Dang, exercise is good for me. 

Because the streets and sidewalks are narrow, there isn't room for trees along most of them. The locals make do with window boxes, from full to minimalist. People need plants.

Even in Segovia

The Minimalist

Full Balconies

Travel Anxiety

We are in Madrid at the beginning of a week here on our own before we meet a tour group in Casablanca. Even though I’d checked and double checked, then checked one more time, I was crazed with anxiety. I worried we were going to miss the plane, the SIM phone cards wouldn’t work, we couldn’t find the hotel I’d booked. I had heart palpitations and shaking hands.

Our Apartment in Charming Lavapiés
(that’s the hotel’s name)  

I don’t know why this hit me all so hard. Usually I’m a little excited mixed with a little worry but this time I was undone. Add the jet lag and missing sleep, and the first 24 hours were not fun.

After arriving via Iberia Airlinea at 7:45 AM, we diddled at the airport while we somewhat figured out installing and using our European SIM cards I bought on Amazon. An hour Metro ride with 3 changes, we were at a sidería, (cider bar), having a late-morning espresso and a slice of potato tortilla while we waited to met the apartment rep, Antonio, to give us the keys.

Exhaustion replaced anxiety. I could barely keep my head up and my eyes open as we sat. Two teens practiced English at a table next to us. They were replaced by five middle-aged women chatting in Spanish. I understood about half in my eavesdropping.

A Contemporaneous Mona
Without Crowds

Now we’re settled into our minuscule studio apartment in the hip district of Lavapiés, our minuscule  studio apartment on the 5th floor with no elevator but with places to hang laundry over the courtyardo. We’ve toured the Prado and found local tapas bars.

Las Meninas at the Museo del Prado  

Pouring Cider  

My Spanish is coming back to me, and many of the locals speak some English so we are communicating. Maybe not discussing the way of the world, but we get more than enough to eat and drink. Even though we’re walk up and down all those stairs, I doubt we are calorie deprived.

Rays

We were walking with friends Donna and Bob at Bill Bags State Park when I noticed a large (4' wide) brown ray, likely a sting ray, swimming along about 5 feet off the seawall. It was cruising faster than us, so we quickly lost sight of it.

It reminded me of when my first husband and I were living aboard our boat, the Lazy S, in the Bahamas in the early 1970's. For a while, we anchored at Little Harbor and enjoyed meeting the sculptor Randolph Johnson. He was creating large bronze statures at the forge he built.

One evening, as we motored back to the Lazy S, it seemed like the whole ocean floor began to move. It was the largest ray we had ever seen. Certainly bigger than our little dinghy. All we could hope was that our unreliable Seagull outboard would keep chugging a long (it often conked out at inopportune times) and that we would make it home without the ray coming up under us. Frightening and yet so wonderful.

A couple of years ago, we visited Paige and Trip in Hilo, Hawaii and drove over to the Kona side coast to have dinner at Rays on the Bays so we could see the big Manta rays at night. Unfortunately, the surf was too rough, so the restaurant didn't turn on its big flood lights. Next time. Perhaps we will do the night kayak tour too.

Weighed Down

Biking from Key West to DC, 2011  

My natural indolence, over-indulgence and forced inactivity have caught up with me. I knew it was happening by how my pants were getting tighter. Denial is not a diet. Today I gave in and stepped on the scale. 182. Dang digital scale. So exact. Time to get back on that fad of eating less and exercising more.

The least I've weighed since high school was in 2011 when I rode a bike from Key West to Washington, D.C., with a man from my congregation and some people he connected with through Adventure Biking. Riding 60 or more miles day after day really uses up the calories.

It all began when several of us spent a weekend biking on the Withlacoochee State Trail. While riding next to me, he mentioned he had always wanted to ride up the east coast of the USA, but his wife wouldn't let him make the trip by himself. Impulsively, I said I'd go with him. It seemed like fun. An adventure. (You can read all about it at CrazyGuyOnABike.com)

Grant was on board after we had a meeting, and the guy swore he would take care of me, no matter what. He was a life-long bike rider who could fix flats and repair bikes. He would do all of the logistics. All I had to do was train up for the long days. What could go wrong?

I still don't know what did. Perhaps if I'd taken part in the planning, I would have had a way to voice my needs when things fell apart. But I didn't. It was his trip, his dream, and when after 6 weeks of riding, he decided he would rather ride longer and faster with the other folk, there wasn't much left for me to say. I headed for my sister-in-law's house in Suffolk, VA. The rest went on to Maine. I was so hurt and angry.

In my mind, he never acknowledged that the trip only happened because I had agreed to go. Now I've gotten up on my high horse of self-righteousness, and I don't know how to get off. I haven't really spoken to him again. I've even ducked out of service to avoid saying hi. This is ridiculous. Why am I not able to just forget? There really isn't anything to forgive. He had his dream. I got an adventure.  We were barely acquaintances, so it didn't cost me a friendship.

Yet it still weighs on me. I am embarrassed by how silly I have been. Rather than paying attention to my wonderful life, I let this resentment get in my mind. How is that good for me? To paraphrase Buddy Hackett, while I'm carrying a grudge, they're out dancing. Or riding a bike.

I can't ride for another month, but I can walk. Yesterday, I walked a mile. Today I will do two. At service on Sunday, I will say hi to my bike riding companion. The weight will come off, and I will feel better.

Good Lives, Lived Well

We started our week with a funeral and ended it with a celebration of life. Each was for a woman who was an artist: one a professional singer, the other an amateur painter. We did not know either well, they were dear friends of friends. Monday evening we attended a Catholic mass for Maria, and even though the service and all but one eulogy were in Spanish, we were able to understand the priest and speakers' messages. Grief is a universal language. Hearing her songs sung in that sanctuary was a lovely last concert for a beautiful woman.

Saturday afternoon we attended a celebration of life for a quiet women from our congregation. Her house was full of family, friends and colleagues reminiscing about how much they enjoyed her company. It was also full of her watercolors and other artworks which I had heard of but not seen. I especially liked a larger-than-life closeup of an aloe, greenish grays and blues.

In our covenant group, Joyce was reserved, listening more than talking. Coincidentally our monthly meeting was Saturday morning, and the chalice lighting honored the friends who can be silent with us. She was comfortable being one of those friends.

I am almost exactly the middle age between when my mother (age 54, pancreatic cancer) and my father (age 88, old age) died. This week we celebrated two women who created beauty in their lives and shared it with others. What will be my legacy?

Masks

My Drawing of Myself  

Grant and I have participated in a marriage enrichment group (MEG) for almost 30 years. Using the format from an organization now known as Better Marriages, we meet once a month with other couples to have a dedicated time to work on our marriage. It is not a group effort, but rather a chance to practice talking to each other in a formal dialogue, after which the others may comment on our process, not the content.

The host couple presents a short session about a topic they choose, then we, as couples, discuss it. Last night, the topic was masks from an art therapy perspective. The suggestion was that we draw a mask that shows the face we present to the world and then a second one that shows what we look like on the inside.

It seems to me that my inside and my outside masks are pretty much the same, because I tend to speak my mind rather than keep my thoughts to myself. When does this flow from being a strength to being a weakness? A fond memory was when a minister who had absolutely no filters asked a person to read at a Christmas Eve service. Noting that the reader hadn't been at church much lately, she called him to the pulpit with, "Come on down, you old back slider."

When I am in my right mind, I can be forceful and eloquent without being harsh or mean. Decades of practice keeps my filters in place most of the time. I often remember my friend's admonition about waiting until the iron is cool before striking. Not nearly 100%, however better than if I hadn't tried and better than I used to be.

Thank you to the founding couple of our MEG and to the other couples who have participated with us over the years. My life and marriage are better because of them.