I’ve always dreaded the 405 freeway that runs north and south from the valley to San Diego. Well, almost. But, for the past 17 months I have been using it to commute to EF International school in Redondo Beach, where I teach ESL or EFL (your choice). Day after day after day.
This particular life saga began two years ago. Stranded in Nyrita airport in Tokyo for 5 days, I met a guy who had just finished teaching English in Korea. Our discussions led me to the conclusion that reinventing myself as an English teacher could pay for my traveling lust. One is never too old for either.
After an exhausting 120 hours of intensive study the following January: think grammar learned in 3rd grade, resurrected from long, unused folds in your brain- and then some, I got my teaching certificate in Costa Rica. Only the salsa dancing and new friendships kept me sane.
A few weeks later, I came to Los Angeles with the intention of spending just a couple of months because my granddaughter, for reasons best left out, was living here with her best friend. Ahh. I just wanted to be close-to lend support for her if needed. I didn’t want to interfere with her life, but to be a small part of it. With that in mind, I took a job teaching ESL at EF. I intended it to be a temporary one, just for the summer. Ha. Cooper’s living arrangement ended abruptly. Mine too. Suddenly, I rented an apartment and we were living together.
16 months later, our relationship is tattered and torn like an old wedding dress from a bad marriage. I remember the feeling of being lonely in my own house, awake at night, worrying if someone I love is safe. It is not a good one. Our wildly fluctuating emotions have left a wake of sadness, resentment, and anger. I am exhausted.
Cooper will leave in two weeks with her mother, my daughter, Alice, to live in Oklahoma. I hope it will be a healing/growing time for her, because she is a precious, but wounded, adult-child making childish, potentially harmful decisions. I will love her from a distance.
I am heading to Chongqing, China where I’ll be teaching at Chongqing Normal University. With 55,000 students, it is one of the largest universities in China and boasts of having top-notch medical and art schools. Situated on a peninsula where the Yangzi and Jialing Rivers meet, Chongqing is said to be frequently shrouded in daytime haze and fog. The Lonely Planet reports that it is a city that comes alive at night, neon lights giving it a showgirl sparkle. I love sparkle.
The weather in Chonqing is generally hot. The cuisine is hot. The local food: hotpots. I can only guess about that. Eat hot to stave off the heat? Fine by me. Plus, as suggested by a teacher who is leaving, I will buy a bicycle. Goodbye street cleaning tickets, traffic jams & high gas prices. Hello lowered cholesterol & blood pressure. He also reports that my apartment is a comfy two bedroom with washer, dryer, and television. Chinese television! I’m told my students are delightful; that they are eager to learn. Imagine that.
Next July I plan to head north through China to Mongolia for their main festival. I have wanted to ride a Mongolian pony across the steppes since I was 12. The time has come.
After that, who knows? Maybe another gig in China; maybe another country? I have wanted to work at the Limbe Primate Sanctuary in Cameroon. Maybe the primates would enjoy learning ESL or they will teach me their language?
Life is full of possibilities. One thing for sure though, no matter how well organized you are, plans change. The road you take for granted can be heading someplace completely different than you think. So, Carpe Diem or as Poppy New says, " Only wrestle one aligator at a time."
Namaste
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Awake before dawn.
Boy I hate it when I wake up and it’s still dark out. Here in my gully grotto it’s just me and the burro on the hill. Heeehaaaa Heeehaaaa. Hawwww. In the daytime he sounds like he’s laughing but the dark puts a sadder spin on his plaintive rebuznos.
Well, maybe we’re not the only ones awake. Our opossum is probably cruising the hillside, pushing his Pinocchio nose into crevices & sliding through the bars of bodegas to see if some unsuspecting human forgot to lock down the pet food.
A few days ago, in broad daylight, a gray squirrel chased me off my hammock. Scared the hell out of me. I was laying there reading. Suddenly it flew across me-not 10 feet above my head, from tree trunk to tree trunk. There it hung or what ever it is they do with their sharp little toenails, upside down, yelling at me. Now I have mastered some Spanish derogatory phrases but not a single syllable of squirrel. I could tell by his body language and sheer decibel level though, that he was agitated about something and didn’t intend to back down. Sophie, lying in her crumbly cement/dirt hole and I looked at each other and agreed it was time to go inside for a snack. Then last week, heading inside through the back door I was surprised by a long slender Vine snake. It was lovely- sort of a burnished gold and slate green combo. They can make themselves stick straight up like a, well, stick.
Laurel and I took some road trips north and south along the coast exploring villages and new developments this winter. There are so many of the latter. Pretty, yes, but I prefer the coastline before it got privatized for the privileged few. One place, El Tecuan, was a ghost town of lovely homes over looking a wide expanse of pristine beach all empty. It was creepy. I could hear the approaching bulldozers and concrete mixers; if not this year soon. Soon.
Then, we were driving on 200 South when we encountered a white pick-up with a man standing beside it. He didn’t attempt to stop us, but I slowed down. When I did a blue van behind us ignored the fact that we were almost stopped and sped around. At the exact time, a stampeding herd of steers burst over the embankment onto the road. The van spooked them causing them to change course and head straight for us. I was going to back up but there wasn’t even time for that. It was a treat to see the caballeros and their amazing dogs working up close. They definitely saved the day!
My Anna visited me for her birthday in February. It was way too brief but so sweet. I took her to Yelapa where I am moving next year. It’s a several hundred year old village on the south/west end of the bahia. The only reasonable way to get there is by panga; the alternative being a mostly impassible road through the jungle or on horse back. I’ll move into Casita Jardin on my friend April’s compound, Passion Flower Gardens. Yelapa has a web site because there are many gringos there with palapas for rent or retreat. The draw for me is that it is small, has the river, the ocean, and horses and although now there are ATVs and electricity (fast few years), there is still no room for cars. Margaret will stay parked in Boca ready for frequent road adventures and shopping. Sophie, who as I write, has the runs because she drank too much aqua del rio, (poor Perrita) will appreciate the other folks and few dogs that already live there.
This week is the beginning of Semana Santa, Easter Week, here in Mexico. The busiest two weeks of the year. Folks come from all over Mexico to the beaches to party. Small bands, vendors, tents, and pickups full of extended families suddenly abound. Some of them wash in the river and change in the reeds along its edges. It is a reminder for me that little money is needed to enjoy life.
I am going to Zacatecas in a couple of weeks to see/hear Placido Domingo. I’m excited. I’ll stay at Casa Santa Lucia, a refurbished 19th century hotel next to what is said to be one of the oldest and most beautiful cathedrals in Mexico. It’s also one of the oldest and I think the most lucrative silver mining cities and a major site of the revolution. Gary Jennings, writes in his Aztec books about how the enslaved Indians actually lived in the mines. The women gave birth there and then the children, if they lived, became slaves, too. Most didn’t live long. The woman, because they were small and more nimble, carried the silver up the ladders on their backs. Isn’t it true that most man made beauty is so because of somebody’s sorrow.
On that note, I wish you all a wonderful Easter. May the bunny bring you good health, love and joy and the world, peace. -ruby
Well, maybe we’re not the only ones awake. Our opossum is probably cruising the hillside, pushing his Pinocchio nose into crevices & sliding through the bars of bodegas to see if some unsuspecting human forgot to lock down the pet food.
A few days ago, in broad daylight, a gray squirrel chased me off my hammock. Scared the hell out of me. I was laying there reading. Suddenly it flew across me-not 10 feet above my head, from tree trunk to tree trunk. There it hung or what ever it is they do with their sharp little toenails, upside down, yelling at me. Now I have mastered some Spanish derogatory phrases but not a single syllable of squirrel. I could tell by his body language and sheer decibel level though, that he was agitated about something and didn’t intend to back down. Sophie, lying in her crumbly cement/dirt hole and I looked at each other and agreed it was time to go inside for a snack. Then last week, heading inside through the back door I was surprised by a long slender Vine snake. It was lovely- sort of a burnished gold and slate green combo. They can make themselves stick straight up like a, well, stick.
Laurel and I took some road trips north and south along the coast exploring villages and new developments this winter. There are so many of the latter. Pretty, yes, but I prefer the coastline before it got privatized for the privileged few. One place, El Tecuan, was a ghost town of lovely homes over looking a wide expanse of pristine beach all empty. It was creepy. I could hear the approaching bulldozers and concrete mixers; if not this year soon. Soon.
Then, we were driving on 200 South when we encountered a white pick-up with a man standing beside it. He didn’t attempt to stop us, but I slowed down. When I did a blue van behind us ignored the fact that we were almost stopped and sped around. At the exact time, a stampeding herd of steers burst over the embankment onto the road. The van spooked them causing them to change course and head straight for us. I was going to back up but there wasn’t even time for that. It was a treat to see the caballeros and their amazing dogs working up close. They definitely saved the day!
My Anna visited me for her birthday in February. It was way too brief but so sweet. I took her to Yelapa where I am moving next year. It’s a several hundred year old village on the south/west end of the bahia. The only reasonable way to get there is by panga; the alternative being a mostly impassible road through the jungle or on horse back. I’ll move into Casita Jardin on my friend April’s compound, Passion Flower Gardens. Yelapa has a web site because there are many gringos there with palapas for rent or retreat. The draw for me is that it is small, has the river, the ocean, and horses and although now there are ATVs and electricity (fast few years), there is still no room for cars. Margaret will stay parked in Boca ready for frequent road adventures and shopping. Sophie, who as I write, has the runs because she drank too much aqua del rio, (poor Perrita) will appreciate the other folks and few dogs that already live there.
This week is the beginning of Semana Santa, Easter Week, here in Mexico. The busiest two weeks of the year. Folks come from all over Mexico to the beaches to party. Small bands, vendors, tents, and pickups full of extended families suddenly abound. Some of them wash in the river and change in the reeds along its edges. It is a reminder for me that little money is needed to enjoy life.
I am going to Zacatecas in a couple of weeks to see/hear Placido Domingo. I’m excited. I’ll stay at Casa Santa Lucia, a refurbished 19th century hotel next to what is said to be one of the oldest and most beautiful cathedrals in Mexico. It’s also one of the oldest and I think the most lucrative silver mining cities and a major site of the revolution. Gary Jennings, writes in his Aztec books about how the enslaved Indians actually lived in the mines. The women gave birth there and then the children, if they lived, became slaves, too. Most didn’t live long. The woman, because they were small and more nimble, carried the silver up the ladders on their backs. Isn’t it true that most man made beauty is so because of somebody’s sorrow.
On that note, I wish you all a wonderful Easter. May the bunny bring you good health, love and joy and the world, peace. -ruby
Monday, December 29, 2008
Ring the bell.
Christmas 2008
It’s 8am, the gallos and donkeys are conversing in the gully across from what will be our home for the next six months- The 1st floor of a three floor, solid concrete building in the jungle-surrounded by gays, but in a Mexican neighborhood, a block from the beach. The lunatic fringe of Puerto Vallarta.
I’m sitting outside at a table that I scrounged in the yard, along with two chairs in case a guest drops in, from a junk pile along its brick and concrete edges. I found chair pads in the 2nd bedroom.
A few minutes ago a crash-or so it seemed-occurred directly above me in the Cecropia Tree, a lanky, three story tree that has 9 lovely leaves in a circle on one stem that altogether measure about 2ft. in diameter. The rowdy perpetrators are chachalacas, large brown birds with a yellow underside and long, wide tails that are shaped like paddles. They are similar to wild turkeys. Right now there are 5 or 6 of them causing a melodic ruckus. Seconds ago a branch as big around as my wrist and maybe 3 ft. long landed a few feet away from me. I see the beauty of jungle living but Sophie, convinced the sky is falling, went inside.
Last night I met a Canadian couple at the beach who are here for 3months and looking for a reasonable place to stay. He asked me where I was and how much I was paying. I told him 500 dollars. He said, “Is it a dump?”
“Are you an asshole?” I think.
“It is Mexican funky. It has its share of creative wiring with the requisite, unrestrained use of extension cords, bare bulbs, and I believe hot water only in the shower, which is all I asked for, Dear Santa. And oh yes, and it has screens on the windows that mostly cover them, an air conditioning unit that I assume works because it is plugged into the wall, and the obligatory amount of rebar poking out of the outer wall as if it is perennially under construction; in other words, totally charming.”
Our first week here we I stayed at my friend Jodi’s. It was a good week. She’s a gem: intelligent, fun to hang with and obviously patient since she put me and Sophie up. Sophie prefers her house. It’s more dependable and has grass, a supreme luxury.
I took the panja to Yelapa to look at possible living spaces but couldn’t see the insides of any of the potential houses. But, Yelapa is always full of surprise and this time was no exception. I met Robert McLane, a writer whose book, Stop War America is an interesting narrative of his years as a marine in Viet Nam and later as an anti-war activist. Reading it transported me back to the complex 60s and 70s that fucked up so many lives, but no one more than the soldiers who fought; men, who when they had returned home, and were safe in the arms of women who loved them, cried in their sleep. One of the men in my life, Michael Reinhart, said he felt ruined, that he felt nothing could ever compare or erase the horror and shame in his heart. Michael went to fight in Rhodesia in the 70s. It would be nice to know if he is alive. Robert’s web site is wwstopwaramerica.com.
I find the struggle to keep in the present difficult when the past keeps popping up its’ intense head.
Sophie and I spent Christmas at Jodi’s with 20+ old and new friends. We stuffed ourselves with delicious offerings from each and every one of us, laughed, told stories and sang. After we got home Sophie and I walked around the neighborhood. I happened upon the Palm Bar down the street from me and remembered that Jodi said it might be a place to do some comedy. As it turns out the owner, Ron, was there and he too, thinks it’s a good idea. So we’ll talk next week. It’s been almost 30 years since I MC’d a male stripper club on Columbus Ave in San Francisco down the street from the Carol Doda’s Condor. Yikes. I may be turning into Moms Mabley. Life could definitely be worse.
As a post script to my last blog that ended in Morocco, I must say that the Leonard Cohen concert I attended at the O2 in London Nov. 13th was the best ever. I mean that. He is a man of grace: a humble poet that makes every word and note move my heart. I sat in the nose-bleed section beside a young Pakistani whose English mom had brought him there. During intermission he said, “He’s really good. He’s a poet and makes excellent music.” While reading Robert’s book I thought of the current senseless war that continues unabated-unless something has changed because I haven’t seen the news for a few weeks- and I thought of some of the words in Cohen’s Anthem that were probably written in the 70’s and still current.
The wars they will be fought again
The holy dove be caught again
Bought and sold and bought again
The dove is never free
Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in..
That’s how the light gets in…
For my birthday in l976 when my world seemed to be falling apart around me, Larry David Dunn, a wonderful artist in Chicago gave me a pen and ink he had done. He called it the Gypsy Wagon. The wagon is an old wooden one surrounded by light that comes from within. Larry David said it was a portrait of me; that I carry my own light. What a wonderful compliment it was. I have learned that it is what we all must do; let the light shine through our cracks and embrace it –and them.
To everyone, I wish you a new year filled with light, love and a heart full of peace.
-Ruby
It’s 8am, the gallos and donkeys are conversing in the gully across from what will be our home for the next six months- The 1st floor of a three floor, solid concrete building in the jungle-surrounded by gays, but in a Mexican neighborhood, a block from the beach. The lunatic fringe of Puerto Vallarta.
I’m sitting outside at a table that I scrounged in the yard, along with two chairs in case a guest drops in, from a junk pile along its brick and concrete edges. I found chair pads in the 2nd bedroom.
A few minutes ago a crash-or so it seemed-occurred directly above me in the Cecropia Tree, a lanky, three story tree that has 9 lovely leaves in a circle on one stem that altogether measure about 2ft. in diameter. The rowdy perpetrators are chachalacas, large brown birds with a yellow underside and long, wide tails that are shaped like paddles. They are similar to wild turkeys. Right now there are 5 or 6 of them causing a melodic ruckus. Seconds ago a branch as big around as my wrist and maybe 3 ft. long landed a few feet away from me. I see the beauty of jungle living but Sophie, convinced the sky is falling, went inside.
Last night I met a Canadian couple at the beach who are here for 3months and looking for a reasonable place to stay. He asked me where I was and how much I was paying. I told him 500 dollars. He said, “Is it a dump?”
“Are you an asshole?” I think.
“It is Mexican funky. It has its share of creative wiring with the requisite, unrestrained use of extension cords, bare bulbs, and I believe hot water only in the shower, which is all I asked for, Dear Santa. And oh yes, and it has screens on the windows that mostly cover them, an air conditioning unit that I assume works because it is plugged into the wall, and the obligatory amount of rebar poking out of the outer wall as if it is perennially under construction; in other words, totally charming.”
Our first week here we I stayed at my friend Jodi’s. It was a good week. She’s a gem: intelligent, fun to hang with and obviously patient since she put me and Sophie up. Sophie prefers her house. It’s more dependable and has grass, a supreme luxury.
I took the panja to Yelapa to look at possible living spaces but couldn’t see the insides of any of the potential houses. But, Yelapa is always full of surprise and this time was no exception. I met Robert McLane, a writer whose book, Stop War America is an interesting narrative of his years as a marine in Viet Nam and later as an anti-war activist. Reading it transported me back to the complex 60s and 70s that fucked up so many lives, but no one more than the soldiers who fought; men, who when they had returned home, and were safe in the arms of women who loved them, cried in their sleep. One of the men in my life, Michael Reinhart, said he felt ruined, that he felt nothing could ever compare or erase the horror and shame in his heart. Michael went to fight in Rhodesia in the 70s. It would be nice to know if he is alive. Robert’s web site is wwstopwaramerica.com.
I find the struggle to keep in the present difficult when the past keeps popping up its’ intense head.
Sophie and I spent Christmas at Jodi’s with 20+ old and new friends. We stuffed ourselves with delicious offerings from each and every one of us, laughed, told stories and sang. After we got home Sophie and I walked around the neighborhood. I happened upon the Palm Bar down the street from me and remembered that Jodi said it might be a place to do some comedy. As it turns out the owner, Ron, was there and he too, thinks it’s a good idea. So we’ll talk next week. It’s been almost 30 years since I MC’d a male stripper club on Columbus Ave in San Francisco down the street from the Carol Doda’s Condor. Yikes. I may be turning into Moms Mabley. Life could definitely be worse.
As a post script to my last blog that ended in Morocco, I must say that the Leonard Cohen concert I attended at the O2 in London Nov. 13th was the best ever. I mean that. He is a man of grace: a humble poet that makes every word and note move my heart. I sat in the nose-bleed section beside a young Pakistani whose English mom had brought him there. During intermission he said, “He’s really good. He’s a poet and makes excellent music.” While reading Robert’s book I thought of the current senseless war that continues unabated-unless something has changed because I haven’t seen the news for a few weeks- and I thought of some of the words in Cohen’s Anthem that were probably written in the 70’s and still current.
The wars they will be fought again
The holy dove be caught again
Bought and sold and bought again
The dove is never free
Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in..
That’s how the light gets in…
For my birthday in l976 when my world seemed to be falling apart around me, Larry David Dunn, a wonderful artist in Chicago gave me a pen and ink he had done. He called it the Gypsy Wagon. The wagon is an old wooden one surrounded by light that comes from within. Larry David said it was a portrait of me; that I carry my own light. What a wonderful compliment it was. I have learned that it is what we all must do; let the light shine through our cracks and embrace it –and them.
To everyone, I wish you a new year filled with light, love and a heart full of peace.
-Ruby
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Apologies & Moroccan Pictures
What a surprise to find my box from Morocco on the doorstep yesterday! So it was my mind that conjured up the scenario of anger and distrust; that worked me into a tizzy for nothing; made a mountain out of a molehill as my mother would say. How many times have I done that for naught? I will die with so many partially learned lessons that would have saved me anguish.
Alas, it was the Spanish box that was rifled; that someone opened and helped themselves to a few Christmas presents. Maybe at US customs-some else feeling the trickle down crunch. So my apologies to the Moroccan postal system.
I include the pictures Mohamed sent me. The tannery is the most amazing site with the vats of vegetable based dyes, and the old man and his donkey, not the one I saw but how different could their lives be, and the tiled dome of the mosque in Casa and the inside of another. I think the doors are of the kings palace but don't hold me to it. There's a wonderful sweeping view of the the medina -which one I don't know-and the Hotel Guynemer where I recommend everyone stay when you visit this sprawling city that I only just touched on.
Last but not least, Mohamed Sakami, handsome man, talented chef, and my friend who came to my rescue with pictures when I told him my camera had been stolen, ( I'll ask him for his delicious recipe for tagine & prunes). Thank you, Mohamed.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Crazy or Courageous.
I have lost all track of time. I know today is Sunday and that I arrived here in Gibraltar midnight Friday. Two trains and six hours Casablanca to Tangier on Thursday, befriended by Miriam and Nadia, two lovely Muslim sisters who were traveling to visit their cousin. Miriam, a nurse, insisted on carrying my bag on and off the train, because, she said, "I'm young. There was no refusing because she was right. So, I shared my sandwich and chocolate with them. Miriam said, "We are lucky."
The several hundred year old Continental Hotel in the Medina that over looks the port was a fairy land of colorful tile & mosaics, arches, and art work. Unfortunately it also sits directly above the parking lot for the numerous cargo trucks that carry African goods to port where they cross the Atlantic or Mediterranean and make their way into our lives for good or bad.
That afternoon my camera was stolen - at the cyber cafe. So every picture I took except the ones on the last blog is gone. The rest will fade from my memory as surely as photographs left in the sun do with time. I am sad. I am also exhausted. Being robbed is tiring in the saddest sort of way.
But, before the theft I let 2 children, Ahmad 10 and his sister Dania 14 show me the way to the Kasbah... after which I gave HER the generous tip & told her to share with her brother. He was pissed. His was a typical reaction of the Moroccan male who feels he is a bit above the female gender-still.
The Moroccan men. They congregate everywhere there is a chair to sit on: benches, around small tables in and in front of the many cafes, along the beach. But rarely do you see a single woman or any women in most public places unless they are with a man or another woman. The men are omnipresent for money at every turn. The touts 'helped ' me - by walking uninvited along side me, or offering advice or to to find the best of anything I wanted: food, lodging, goods... Only one invited me to sit with him for a cup of tea. And I felt myself relax.
But, before the theft I let 2 children, Ahmad 10 and his sister Dania 14 show me the way to the Kasbah... after which I gave HER the generous tip & told her to share with her brother. He was pissed. His was a typical reaction of the Moroccan male who feels he is a bit above the female gender-still.
The Moroccan men. They congregate everywhere there is a chair to sit on: benches, around small tables in and in front of the many cafes, along the beach. But rarely do you see a single woman or any women in most public places unless they are with a man or another woman. The men are omnipresent for money at every turn. The touts 'helped ' me - by walking uninvited along side me, or offering advice or to to find the best of anything I wanted: food, lodging, goods... Only one invited me to sit with him for a cup of tea. And I felt myself relax.
The cost of a taxi ride to the same place varied so wildly according to the whim of the driver that the battle began before I got in the cab. In Fes drivers turned down passengers- in Casa, they took as many as would fit and made everyone pay separate and unequal amounts.
On Nov 5 I had a melt-down. In retrospect I feel sorry for the old guy I yelled at but fuck it. I had stayed awake all night to watch Obama become president- crying unashamedly with Jesse. The polls closed at 1am in Casablanca; he gave his acceptance speech at 5am. Since my raging adrenalin would not allow me to sleep I spent the morning boxing up stuff I had bought for friends and went to mail it. With the help of the hotel staff (lovely men, one and all and exceptional it seems to me), I had a box, and got in a cab to head to the DHL office.
At DHL I was told my box would cost $260.00 DOLLARS! Jesus! I left. Carrying the box on the busy street I could not find a taxi for the life of me. So I walked-and walked. Finally a taxi ( with an honest driver)stopped and took me to the post office. At the post office I was told to go round to the side where packages were sent. When I got there a man standing on the steps got in step with me to the counter. After my box was weighed and I confirmed that I was willing to pay $50.00dollars to mail it the anonymous the man took the box. I asked the guy behind the counter, "Who is he?" and pointed to the man with my box. "He works for the post office." he said. "And you will pay him." I said. He smiled. Ha. The man, proceeded to take my stuff out, dump it into another box, tape it and show me where I was supposed to write the address...
When the box was safely (more ha) behind the desk I was given exactly 50 dh change. The man reached out his hand for it. I snapped. I gave him 10 dh which is about a dollar. He pushed the coin back. 50 dh he demanded. I yelled, For what! His voice got louder. The proper clerk behind the counter smiled. Ahhh. We are breaking another tourist-and extra points for a woman. I was ready to cry. Instead, I threw the bill at him. " I hate Morocco!" I yelled and ran into the street. They could care less if I hate the place or not. They got the money. And, since my box full of presents has not arrived in the U.S. I think they helped themselves to the contents.
The crazy bitch. Yell at us.
But then there was Mohamed, the chef at the Guynemer and Amina, a Moroccan woman I met having lunch at La Bodega.
But then there was Mohamed, the chef at the Guynemer and Amina, a Moroccan woman I met having lunch at La Bodega.
He, besides being an excellent chef is warm and fun to be with. When I got to the hotel Guynemer ( a n absolutly delightful place to stay by-the-way) without a reservation of course, I had to wait an hour or so until they kicked someone out of a room-a man the rumor goes, so I, a woman in need, could have it, Mohamed took me walking aound the central market to while away the time. And he was a staunch Obama fan. And he has emailed me pictures another tourist took . I will get them downloaded soon and share. So enough said, I'm a baby to complain.
And Amina. After my meltdown I went to La Bodega for lunch. A line stretched out the door but I was invited through it by the matre d' to the bar where I had a beer and a plate of tapas. A woman sat next to me. Vibrant, and gregarious, a Moroccon woman who had lived in LA with her husband and son for years quickly became my new best friend. After hearing my sad postal story she insisted on taking me for a wild ride in her lime green little car around the beach area of Casa.
Indeed it was a completely different part of the city than I had seen-so up scale European . To top it off she bought me a grommage and steam at the Hamman before she vanished into the night. Relaxed and with lowered blood pressure, looking no older than 35 I took a taxi back to the hotel. There I listened to the lute player and hung out for several hours laughing, and telling travel tales.
Pictures... in no particular order there is the stage door, (maybe for lions) and me standing on the stage of Teatro Roman in Cadiz, Robert & I in Madrid, a picture of a picture of a flamingo dancer, horses, and a narrow street in Sevilla, AA poster (something for everyone), Helene and her friend from Beijing in Madrid, the awesome church organ in the spooky, and very imposing cathedral in Cadiz, and the bridge on a rainy day in Sevilla. I really love Spain.
On the ferry to Gibraltar a Spanish buisness man who sat across from me said, "You are a crazy woman to run around Morocco alone." When I got to the Queens Hotel (w/o a reservation of course) at 1am, the night clerk who was Moroccan, checked me in. "You are courageous woman for traveling in my country. You like it?"
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
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!
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