Goodbye Spain; Hello Morocco

Cadiz, in the south of Spain, is a sweet old town. Said to be the oldest in Western civilization in continuous use. Don´t they always say that. Continuous use. So how many towns just lay down and die never to rise again. What I love most about Spain and now Morocco is that they have been conquered over and over again and it has only made the people more resilient, beautiful, and aware that one must live each day to the fullest.

Cadiz is vibrant in the evenings. I love to sit in one of the many plazas and watch the people. Whole families gather. Maybe they´ll have a cup of chocolate or an ice cream. Or just a stroll. My favorite place is in front of the cathedral. Yesterday I hung out over an hour with olives, jamon de espana y the ubiquitous vino tinto writing the stories of my childhood living above my grandpa°s bar in western Pennsylvania. I´m encouraged by my new friend, Robert, but writing about myself seems so audacious and egotistical in view of all the amazing stories we, each and everyone of us, has. At a cafe I met Brian, an Australian man who loved eating and drinking so we had a good night roaming the town trying out the tapas bars. Alas, he dumped me. He wanted to meet the following morning at 6 or some ungodly hour of the morning and I said noon would be better for me.

I took pictures of a young man and his frisky poodle puppy and some boys playing soccer on a riser of something that is being built but is now covered with a tarp. It´s about 5 feet high and they kept having to go over the side to get the ball. No problem. And students sitting on the steps with their computers in front of a cathedral that is centuries old really puts a spin on perspective. I especially love it when the bells ring to remind the catholics who is the boss of them. The church is quite dark inside and gloomy, the perfect place for Jesus to bleed on the cross for infinity. Cadiz is surrounded by a Roman wall that is hard to imagine them building w\o electricity or a big crane. Now I see that building walls is what men did back then- before they had cars to work on.

Next I took the train to Tarifa, the southern most Spanish town on the mainland. When the bus pulled in it seemed as if I had landed into the eye of a hurricane. My umbrella lasted about a minute. I blindly fought the wind up the street and took a room at the first place I came to- the Hostel Dodi. It is an old building that still has its bidet and a tank above the toilet with the chain. It had a nice window and a double bed that I immediately napped in. This city is full of energetic surfers: wind, kite, and water. From here you can see Africa. Well, if the weather were clearer one could see it; I haven´t actually seen it yet. The Internet cafe that I write from is in The Center. You get to The center by walking thru a many centuries old arch that appears to have nothing to offer, but when you pass thru the ancient arch you are confronted by beautiful white buildings that seem to be one but are many set close together, with wrought iron balconies and hanging geraniums and very narrow passageways. Just enough for a slender burro and his cargo to get through.

My first day I had lunch with a young family: mom, dad and two boys ages 5 & 2, from London who had just come back from Morocco. He, Patrick, laughed when he said "one has to buy a rug, and one has to have a guide because if you have a guide the others leave you alone." They also said the Rock was a mess-dirty and slummy so maybe I will pass on that. But still, I will have to fly to London from somewhere.

Next I took the ferry to Tangier, Morocco. By chance I found the internet cafe and believe me; writing is slow because the characters on the keyboard are in different places than I am used to and surrounded by Arabic characters that look like some ours but.. I°ll experiment. You just pretend it°s secret language only we know.

On the train here the woman sitting next to me had intricately hennaed hands and feet for her friends wedding. The train had individual compartments instead of a row of seats. There were five people in mine. Only one spoke English but they all wanted to know who will be our next president; McCain or Obama. Everyone I talk to asks me that question. They cannot believe McCain even has a chance and wonder how we got to be in such trouble? I say I don't know; that I only have one vote and can only work so hard. Some have suggested I pray. I agree to because I think it sets good karma in motion.

I spent 2 nights in Tangier. It is a busy, complex city with an amazing history where you can see signs of the different nationalities that ruled, esp the Spanish & French- & English too a bit. I stayed at Riad Tanja, a former palace or home of a wealthy person of note and now a mid scale hotel. In Fes, Morocco, where I write from now I°m told riads always have a patio and a bitter orange tree.

From Tangier I took the train to Asilah, less than an hour south on the coast. Many people there speak Spanish & Portuguese and are very, sometimes too, friendly. The touts are annoying as hell but can be helpful too for a few dihrams ( 8 + in a dollar) they guide me to places I need like the lavenderia and stor to buy wine. As I rest I hear the men in the mosque praying. I'm not sure how often it happens but it is several times a day and they sound like braying donkeys thqt might be in pain. Thankfully it doesn't last long. The guide I had yesterday in Fes said that if a person does°n have a good voice they should keep quiet because Allah doesn°t need to hear unpleasant sounds. I asked him if he had ever heard of Karoke? He had not. Cased closed.

In Asilah I went to a traditional hammam, the public bath house for a scrub & massage. Jesus. Mary. Joseph! The woman who led me naked except for panties thru three rooms of progressively hotter steam rooms packed wall to wall with Moroccan women and active children was a quasi=moto, sumo wrestler type with short legs, a round body, small round head with eyes that never smiled, and pendulous breasts the size & spirit of prize watermelons left to go soft in the fields.

She filled buckets with water then motioned for me lie on the tile floor. With a green brillo pad glove, she began on my chest. In round motions she scraped the first layer of epidermis from my body as if she were preparing a recently killed goat for tanning. For maybe a half hour she rolled & flopped me to suit herself, scraped even the tender parts of my under arms, jerked my panties up into the crevices of me ass and vulva and rid my body of skin I°ve had since I was six months in the womb. Every now and then she splashed me with a bowl of water from the bucket and took a rest apparently satisfied. This went on until I was ready to tell any truths she wanted to hear. And I paid for this! After, I went to my hotel room and read a murder mystery.

Now, because I am a person of impulse, I diverted my course and am in Fes instead of Rabat or Casablanca. Yesterday I toured the old Medina with a guide and spent too much money. But, Patrick was exactly right; you have to buy a rug and you need a guide so the rest leave you alone. Last night I had dinner at the home of Kalied, a man I met on the train. His sister prepared meat balls with camel meat. Of course with the 49 spices that he said make up the sauce it could have been any meat but it was delicious. All was well until I left and he wanted to kiss me °with passion because he is a divorced man and ...° It is not dull here in Morocco and I take everything I ever said about being invisible back. I may take to wearing a caftan and a scarf. Kalied said he had plans for us. We would rent a car and drive into the countryside.. I called him and we have put off the wedding and intend instead to roam around other parts of Fes. I admit tho, it is nice to be referred to as °my sweet woman° or beautiful sweet woman°..
Today I walked in the rain.

At the Cafe Central a few hours ago a friendly waiter asked me to come in. I said, No, gracias.
As I was leaving an adorable boy ran up to me and took me by the arm back to the cafe. I never could refuse adorable boys. I was one of only 2 or3 customers in the place. We all hung out; waiters, bartender, cook. We talked religion, America, peace, food, and when Jahal asked me to adopt him, and I said it would make his own mom too sad, mothers=almost another perfect country song. Really this place is amazing. That°s us in the last pic before the battery gave out on my camera.

Museo Crawling

I started writing this at the Tryp Arenal Hotel in Bilbao, Spain, because that was the hotel that was where the bus let me out, now I am in Sevilla in Andalusia in the south. It feels as if a century or so has passed; or as if no time at all exists. From Bordeaux I took the train into Spain. My room at the Tryp was in the attic. Both the bedroom and the bath had windows that open to the sky with about a 30* angle. I especially appreciated them when it rained.

In NYC I visited the Metropolitan where I never got further than the Egyptian wing because I met my childhood friend, Tad, or as he told me long ago that he would rather be called Rock Argentine, for lunch that lasted the rest of the sweet afternoon. Of Course we solved the worlds´ problems.

Then in Washington D.C. I visited Macy´s extensive shoe collection. Then Paris and the Louve. Jesus! Just hose me down. I was astounded at the huge statues that I felt surely would speak to me at any moment; one bunch of particularly beguiling men all had curled penises or is it peni.

And then the Guggenheim in Bilbao. What an amazing place that is. It is not boring in the stuffy sense of museos. Gehry (am I right on this?) made a museo that opens up space and forces the stuff in it to say.. hey. look at me!!! Aren´t I pretty! come on. have your picture taken with me. Love it!!

My French was very limited: wee, nohn, parlyvu english?, au revoir, mercibeaucoup, see vu play...you get the picture, and having realized too late that Paris is a lonely place for a grandma-even a bold, gregarious one like myself, traveling alone, I was excited to get to Spain where I know a few more words.

But, in Bordeaux. I met Graham Taylor, at the Cafe Des Artes. I first noticed his Nikon and then when we talked, his blue eyes. Turns out, Graham was staying at the same hotel as I. The next two evenings we spent at a jazz club located conveniently in the hood by our hotel. We sucked down our vodkas-his with coke-yikes; mine a martini with flavored vodka in a Pilsner glass to start, until at my urging, Graham explained to the sexy waitress that the vodka should be plain; at least that´s what I thought he was talking about as he leaned over the bar with a perfect view of her lovely cleavage.


There was no music because it was Monday, so we talked and talked. I let him talk some. I´m glad too, because Graham is not only smart and funny, he is 29. He holds the view of most of the people I´ve met, that Bush really fucked up the state of affairs of the world with his war and that the education system-both his in England and ours-in America, sucks, is boring, and not conducive to learning. We decided that history is not boring, history teachers are boring. Show Mel Gibson movies for God´s sake; Make some animated cartoons, teach geometry on a pool table...

And I met Helene and her friend from Beijing. Lovely women who also give me hope for the future of the planet. I hope to see her next year in her home town.
And did I mention that Putin is now my age? To celebrate he had himself videoed doing his black belt karate chops in his bare feet. What a showoff. My feet are prettier.


After Bordeaux I took the train to Spain. I was so excited to be going where I would be able to understand the language and actually voice my needs with several parts of speech. Everything was good until I got to San Sebastian. They do not speak Spanish in the Basque country. It is said to be similar to the Celtic language with a lot of hard consonant sounds. Whatever. Gergurfff is not easy on the hearing aides. But that´s not the point. In San Sebastian I got on the wrong train. I was rescued by a business man who put me in the proper place to catch the correct train but alas I got on the wrong train again. This time the train was going in the general direction of Bilbao, with only one change, so I stayed on it.

These trains in northern Spain are one gauge trains. Remember the little engine that could-well, as this one was chugging up a hill it couldn't. So it stopped. After a few minutes we all exited the train in the back, jumped onto the tracks, and walked on the tracks several blocks to the town and then to the station where we waited for a bus that drove us to Bilbao. A burly women helped me carry my heavy bag along the tracks. Then, as I said, I stayed in the hotel where the bus let me out. Life is simple really. What traveling does is remind me not to fight it..to flow.


Jump to Barcelona. the first night there I wandered down the street to the Liceu Opera House to get info. 102.euros later I had a ticket and was sitting in the 2nd balcony center. Despair, God, love, abuse.. the whole story sung in arias.. the place is known as the most opulent opera house in all of Spain. It didn´t move me to tears but the singing was good even if it wasn´t Placito Domingo who is my very favorite -ok next to Sean Connery. And then the Museo de Picasso. Who knew he got into potting after all those other periods. You see, age is just a thing that gets you warmed up as you go along.

I ended my stay in Barcelona with a Gaudi tour.. Jesus. I am in love with this man. He used broken concrete and tile pieces as no other has and toppled the right-angle architects on their ears. Sensual, colorful .. like snorkeling thru a building, weightless, surrounded with color.

I´ve been sampling the tapas. Good thing I brought Rolaids. Last night I had pescatitos fritos..little fried fish.. the not-so-little bones got stuck in my throat causing coughs that even vino tinto couldn't´t wash down. So more bread. Nobody seems to be fat in Europe but I don´t know why. bread bread bread.

Madrid. First day there I chilled by watching a John Wayne movie on tv in the hostel which is quite nice because it was the only English channel I could find. My own three story walk up room with bath and a complicated tv that I haven´t figured out yet.

That night I sat at a cafe and watched the people. So many of them had black suits and red ties. I thought the Mormons were convening. Some of them had what looked like they were carrying their own pool cues but they were probably flutes-maybe very long flutes. I wondered if the Mormons were infl¡trating the pool halls. Anything is possible. When I followed them I found that they were part of a private concert and was summarily stopped at the door. Ha. Private Mormon concert bettya. Walking around I saw the Museo de Jamon or Ham Museum. What a concept. And I went into a place that had cheap sweet clothes from India. If I had ANY room in my suitcase I would at least buy a couple of shirts but ...ok maybe. there are English version movies in the center parque near me- o.v. for original version, so I can spend an eve watching am American movie.. Ninos in Pajamas ..reyes.. I´m not sure what it´s about but it sounds right up my alley..

And them there was Madrid. The Prado is lovely. Velasquez, Goya, ... you name a Spanish painter and he was there. But stuffy..like most. And on the way from there I was at a news stand fixen to buy an English language paper because I wanted to read about the debate and a man behind me said, Are you really sure you want to read that.´His name is Robert. We soon found ourselves laughing, and dining, and listening to jazz. He is a writer from NYC and has convinced me that a one woman show is possible. See. Anything really is.

OK rough, but minutes are up and here goes!