It’s not just because I’m traveling again – after a two-month travel hiatus – that I’m so happy, nor is it simply because I’m in a new and exciting city.

I’m so happy because two of my best friends in the world are about to join me in Europe for a ten-day reunion!

Erin (middle) and Alex (right), two of my very best friends.

The three musketeer, exploring Europe together! :)

I met Alex and Erin almost a decade ago in Bangkok, Thailand.  We had all arrived mid-school-year to teach English at a private bilingual school in the city.  Though our time together in Thailand was brief, we took full advantage of school holidays to explore the region, creating lifelong memories along the way (one of my best ever was camping on a deserted island in the Philippines with Erin; I’ve also had a few epic trips with Alex since then, most notably to Egypt and Zimbabwe).

Alex now lives in Singapore and Erin in Washington, DC, so the only time the three of us have been together since Thailand was in 2012 for Erin’s wedding.  Here in Barcelona, all that was about to change.

Three Nights in Barcelona

Barcelona is the perfect backdrop to a girls’ trip.  The city is large, exciting and energizing.  The weather is mild and sunny.  Cafes and tapas bars line the streets – the perfect places to have long lunches.  Which is exactly what we did.  Over glasses of wine and mini tapas plates, we reconnected and filled one another in on each of our lives.  We looked like total locals with our late, lingering meals.

The Gothic Cathedral of Barcelona

Wacky Gaudi architecture.

Palm trees and balmy weather

Erin hadn’t been to Europe in about 14 years, so we did make sure to do a bit of sightseeing.  Most of it involved Antoni Gaudi.  We visited the Sagrada Familia, a cathedral that is perhaps the landmark of Barcelona.  Its construction began over 100 years ago, but, because of its magnitude (and other factors), the cathedral is still not finished.  It is hoped that the structure will be complete by 2026, exactly 100 years after Gaudi’s untimely death.

Our Air BnB was only a 7-minute walk from the Sagrada Familia, so we were lucky to catch a glimpse of its imposing exterior several times and in different light.  Though the interior was celestial, for me, the cathedral is all about its exterior facades and skyscraping arches.  I’m happy we got to soak up the grandiosity of the Sagrada Familia over the course of our three-night stay in Barcelona.

The infamous Sagarada Familia

We did an audio tour inside the Sagarada.

And saw cool things like this very celestial ceiling!

Because our accommodations were just down the road, we got to see the Sagarada Familia in all different types of lighting!

We also visited Gaudi’s Parc Guëll.  The park is massive, but we concentrated our guided visit on the inner Monumental Zone, where you can find a few preserved homes, Gaudi’s infamous mosaic salamander, and the old viaducts.  We were so lucky that it was warm and clear, and so we stayed long enough to sun ourselves, and to catch an epic view of the entire city, with the Mediterranean Sea in the background.

Admiring the panoramic of Barcelona from atop Parc Guëll.

The famous mosaic salamander at Parc Guëll.

The lovely viaducts.

Some of the funky Gaudi buildings inside the Monumental Zone.

With the rest of our time in Barcelona, we wandered fairly aimlessly around the city (talking, of course, all the while).  We went to Barceloneta, the area of town where locals congregate along the city beach.  It was pretty happening on this Saturday afternoon, with hawkers set up along the wharf and bands performing on the street.  We had an al fresco drink, Alex got a mini-massage, and we dipped our toes in the Mediterranean as we watched an incredible lightning show in the sky over the sea.

We also wandered around the alleys off Las Ramblas, in the Gothic area.  We stumbled upon the Catedral de Barcelona, a small farmer’s market selling cheese and wine and honey, and we feasted on the best churros y chocolate in town.

We ate really well throughout our trip, actually (thanks to Erin, who had done her research).  Our first evening we dined at La Yaya Amelia, where we had a tasty (and affordable) three-course meal.  Funnily, the restaurant was almost entirely empty at 8pm, but started to get packed as we left around 10pm.  Our final afternoon, we stumbled upon Arume Restaurante, a super popular and funky place famous for its paella.  Amazing food and ambiance.  I highly recommend both!

Churros y chocolate, with some more chocolate on the side (cuz why not?)

Tapas!!!

Arume, a delish restaurant.

Paella, and an amazing artichoke dish, at Arume.

A Night in Carcassonne

From Barcelona, we took the train to Carcassonne, France.  I had long wanted to visit this city, as it has a massive medieval Unesco World Heritage fortress on its hill.  On the day we arrived, we were shocked by the wind and plummeting temperatures, but we braved it and visited the fortress, anyway.

Actually, I didn’t plan the trip very well.  In the off-season, the castle and ramparts close by 5pm, and we were too late arriving to enjoy the recommended two-hour visit.  We were happy to know we could still walk around the outskirts of the ramparts, which allowed us to get sweeping views of the city.  The buildings sported the same red Roman tiles as the roofs in the south of France, but because of the dampness here, the red has gone a greenish grey.  I like that you can tell which region of France you’re in based on the color of the roofs!

View of Carcassonne from the fortress ramparts.

Lots of cafes inside the fortress, but not the weather for sitting outside!!!

Carcassonne’s picturesque fortress walls.

Happy to find out we could walk the perimeter of the ramparts!

Carcassonne’s Cité is full of kitsch tourist shops, which doesn’t make for the most authentic experience.  I think tourism has ruined what could have been a very charming village.  But what makes Carcassonne absolutely worth the visit is a view of the fortress walls at night.  The place looks like a Disney fairy tale castle and it’s hard to believe that, not only is this place real, but it’s 1000 years old.

Fairy tale castle, right?

Erin is the selfie queen.

Carcassonne at night – the highlight of our time there.

When in Carcassonne, one must try the regional dish of cassoulet, a white bean and meat stew.  Because it was Monday, the restaurant our Air BnB hosts had recommended was closed, but the girls still managed to try the dish at the only restaurant open in the “nouvelle cite” (for one should never try cassoulet in the fortress).  Then, because it was cold and our apartment was just so darn cute, we bought wine, cheese, charcuterie, and chocolate mousse, and headed home for a proper French girls’ night.  I’m so glad Air BnB exists, as we were able to find lovely private apartments at each destination, which maximized the time we could spend simply being together.

Cassoulet, Carcassone’s infamous dish.

And our nightcap at our lovely Air BnB. :)

Two Nights in Bordeaux

This city was high on Erin’s destination list, because she’s totally in love with Bordeaux wine.  Our first afternoon there, we simply wandered around the old town, which is mostly pedestrian streets and funky shops and brasseries.  Because it was still so cold, we had a hot beverage under the heat lamp overlooking a cathedral and a square.  It felt very French.

That evening, we visited L’école du Vin, where we could sample glasses or flights of wine from the Bordeaux area.  The staff was knowledgeable, the environment sophisticated, the glasses affordable, and the pours generous.  I loved it, and Erin was in absolute heaven.

Bordeaux’ Old Town.

We sat outside sipping on hot beverages with a view of this lovely cathedral.

Bordeaux’ classy pedestrian streets, lined with boutiques.

The next day, we decided to make her dream of visiting a real Bordeaux château come true.  We hopped on a local train to St. Emilion, one of the most famous wine-making regions of Bordeaux.  We had no plan and no idea what to expect, but the village was so charming that I didn’t even care if we didn’t visit a single château.  We ate crêpes by another cathedral overlooking another square, caught glimpses of the green-grey-tinged Roman tiled roofs, and wandered past endless rows of perfect grape vines.

St. Emilion, one of Bordeaux’ wine regions.

So.Darn.Charming!

Vineyards as far as the eye can see.

So.Darn.Charming!

We did eventually head to the tourist office, and they were very helpful in organizing a wine-tasting visit for us.  First we visited one of two domaines in the village proper that allow you to wander through their underground wine cellars for free.  It was a quick visit followed by an equally quick two-wine tasting.

Next, we visited Château Haut Sarpe, a smallish family vineyard.  The tour was in French (because we booked last-minute in the off-season) so I did quite a lot of translating, which allowed me to truly understand the entire process of wine-making from grape to bottle.  I found it absolutely fascinating, and would recommend a visit for any wine-lover or curious individual.  It made the tasting at the end all the more delicious and meaningful.  One day, I’d love to return to Haut Sarpe in September to help with the grape harvest for a few weeks – what a cool cultural experience that would be!

The Chateau we visited, Haut Sarpe.

Haut Sarpe not only makes great wine, but it’s a historic chateau with lots of pretty old buildings, including this wind mill.

Pretty stoked to have visited St. Emilion with my besties!

Four Nights in Agde

After getting to visit three new European destinations (yay!), I brought the girls home to Bruno’s neck of the woods.  I wanted Erin to meet Bruno and see our little home and village (Alex already had back in 2015), and it was also a way for us to save a bit of cash while winding down the tourism part of our trip and focusing on soaking each other up as much as possible (because who knows when the three of us will be together again?).

I took the girls to La Table d’Emilie, my favourite French restaurant in Marseillan, for a gourmet five-course meal.  They loved it all up.  I took them to Pézénas, the medieval fortified city full of talented artisans selling their wares (the shops are much more interesting here than in Carcassonne).  And I took them to the local spa, followed by an outdoor lunch of moules frites along the edge of the Herault River.

But mostly we cooked.  We talked.  We walked the beach.  We talked.  We sang.  We talked.  We laughed.  We talked.

Enjoying dessert after 4 previous courses at La Table d’Emilie.

La Table d’Emilie, in Marseillan. Fabulous restaurant.

Walking the beach (despite the wind) outside our home in Agde.

And we promised each other we would meet again soon.  This trip had been rejuvenating and illuminating for our souls, and we knew we needed to make one another a greater priority in our lives.

That’s the thing about long distance friendships.  Time makes you slowly forget, adapt.  You lose the urgency of being with that person.  But the moment you’re next to one another, you remember.  You pick up where you left off, you soak it all up, you fill your heart with that person, and you hold on to them that much more tightly because you don’t know when you’ll be able to do it again.

I’m sitting at my departure gate at the Barcelona International Airport.  Our girls’ trip has come full circle, as I’ve returned to the city where just ten days before I happily awaited Alex and Erin while contemplating the quirky architecture of Barcelona’s renowned Antoni Gaudi.  I’m tired – exhausted, actually – but I am happy.  So, so happy.  Over the past ten days I have discovered three new regions of Europe, which is always exciting for a traveler.  Better yet, I discovered these regions with friends.  There’s no better way to discover a place.

Saying goodbye (for now) at the Barcelona airport.

Most of the photos for this post are courtesy of my lovely talented friend, Erin Socia.  Thanks for letting me share, and for being our official trip photographer!!!

Such was the case with Tucson, Arizona.

The first time Bruno and I came to Tucson, back in November of last year during our search for a new home-on-wheels, we settled ourselves into a part of town that was entirely lackluster.  It had wide boulevards, large retail stores and heavy traffic.

The only photo I have of our first trip to Tucson (shows how uninteresting a place it appeared to be at the time).

So we were even more surprised when, upon our return to Tucson in February, we learned that this town had charm!

The Air BnB home we moved into was a ranch-style bungalow built in the 1950s.  It had a brick façade, a long gravel driveway, and a backyard with a few scruffy plants.  From the outside, the house wasn’t beautiful or flashy, but, as I soon learned, it was perfectly typical of the neighbourhood.  Each house here was unique – none of the new cookie-cutter homes of Phoenix – yet built according to similar design principles.  Over time, these houses came to represent an important aspect of Tucson’s charm for me.  I liked them from the get-go.

From the moment, I stepped inside the house, I liked it, too.  The house had the character of an older home, but because it had been recently renovated, it had a clean, fresh look.  The large kitchen had been totally renovated – there were even brand new appliances – and the floors and paint job were new.  The furniture was simple and sparse (the rental was designed with Tucson’s infamous Gem Show in mind, meaning that most renters would be bringing large amounts of rocks) but with a few tasteful artistic flourishes.

Our Air BnB house – very typical of Tucson.

See what I mean? This isn’t our rental house, but it may as well be, right?

Our neighborhood.

On one of our first nights, I rode my bike down toward the university to take a yoga class.  I had already ventured around the neighbourhood and noted its cracked and potholed roads.  I had noticed the rough-around-the-edges locals, some wearing cowboy hats and boots, others with tattoos and gold teeth.  The dusty buildings looked like they’d come out of the Wild Wild West.  The town had already given off a clear south-of-the-border feel that appealed to me, especially after the truly American feel of Phoenix.  Arizona’s largest city was sprawling, busy, commercial, new, and totally devoid of character.  Tucson’s imperfections gave it so much more charisma.

When I rode down 4^th Avenue, I was even more pleasantly surprised.  Here was a street totally lined with colourful restaurants and funky shops.  Students walked the streets and sat out at cafés.  Tucson, I discovered, was also hip, artsy, and multicultural.

4th Avenue, filled with funky restaurants and shops.

An artsy shop on the corner of 4th Avenue.

The university area of town is young and hip.

I also soon learned that Tucson was exceedingly liberal.  Free newspapers discussed the country’s new president with crude banter, people displayed tri-lingual signs (in Spanish, Arabic, and English) on their yards saying “No matter where you’re from, we’re happy you’re our neighbour,” and I saw more bumper stickers advertising ideas I could get behind than “Make America Great Again.”  I didn’t expect to encounter these viewpoints in the middle of the desert in the southwest United States.  It was yet another welcome surprise.

The sign to the right of this adorable door is the trilingual welcome sign I saw all over the city.

Donald Trump, the piñata.

For one-and-a-half months, I rode my bike along the streets of Tucson.  Mostly, I was headed to hardware stores, RV shops, and the occasional yoga class (Tucson, by the way, has a phenomenal yoga culture) – Bruno and I were on a mission to convert a bus and didn’t have time for tourism.  This was unfortunate, for I would have loved nothing more than to dig deeply into Tucson and see what it was really made of.  But even these daily bike trips, and the interactions I had while making my purchases, revealed a lot.

They revealed that Mexican food was king here – I saw more taco trucks here than anywhere I’ve ever been.  A sign on 4^th Avenue boasted Tucson’s several miles stretch of “best Mexican food in the USA” (it also boasted about being a gastronomical capital, generally).  Tucson Tamales Restaurant is famous across the entire state and beyond.

The bike rides revealed the city’s architecture.  Its desert flora.  Its intoxicating spring blossoms.

They revealed that Tucson was really just a small town.  Its center had about three skyscrapers, and even they were only twenty or so stories high.  I could get almost anywhere I needed to in a twenty-minute ride.

And biking around town revealed that Tucson’s people were the type of friendly that you only experience in a small town.

Through my interactions with these friendly people, one recurring theme struck me.  Throughout the month of February, as winter just wouldn’t let go its grasp, locals discussed the weather with gratitude and relief.

Isn’t this weather great? 

Sure am thankful for this stretch of cold. 

Phew!  One last wave of cold before summer sets in.

As a Canadian, and general warmth-seeker, I wasn’t happy about the below-seasonal weather in Tucson.  I was struck by the different perspective of the locals, but it made total sense.  It was summer that was Tucson’s difficult season, the one people dreaded and gritted their teeth to get through.  Summer meant stifling temperatures, dust storms, and the monsoon season, so it only made sense that locals were grateful for every extra day of cold.

When March arrived at the weather shot up 15 degrees celcius overnight – and we experienced two weeks of +30 degree weather – I understood their perspective.

This was my main mode of transport around town, and I quickly got used to the full backpack.

Tucson’s neon sign isn’t a saguaro cactus for nothing – it gets HOT here!

On two occasions, I managed to pull myself away from our bus conversion and take advantage of the city I was quickly learning to love.  The first was an event called Meet Me at Maynards, which was suggested to me by our Air BnB host.  This weekly 5-km social walk is put on by the historic Tucson restaurant, Maynards.  At 5:30pm every Monday night, people meet up at the restaurant, grab a badge and a light, and walk or jog a historic circuit around the downtown area.  Afterwards there are raffles, drinks, and discounted food at various restaurants around the city.

I went thinking I might grab a map and walk/jog it with the hopes of seeing a bit of the must-see parts of town.  I ended up, instead, joining a group doing a slow guided historical tour (we did only about half the route).  The tour group was composed entirely of locals out for a weekly stroll.  They showed me architectural details I wouldn’t have noticed on my own and gave me historical facts that, truthfully, were too out-of-context for me to grasp.  I remember only that a few famous bandits and outlaws came through town, and that the railroad was vital to the town’s economy.  I will never forget the El Barrio section of town, with its absolutely enchanting restored homes.

From my tour group, I learned that Tucson has an amazing array of events and festivals, which I could learn about in the Tucson Weekly or the Visit Tucson website.  They all seemed to love their town so much, describing it as lively, community-focused, and with a special aura about it.  I definitely felt what they were saying.

Maynards Restaurant, the meetup point for the weekly Meet Me at Maynards social walk/run.

The old Rialto Theater, another famous Tucson landmark.

A few photos of the absolutely enchanting El Barrio district.

The other occasion I got to get out on the town was with my Air BnB host, Krista.  She kindly offered to show me some of her favourite spots one Friday night.  Krista is a Tucsonian, born and raised, with an infectious love and enthusiasm for her city.  She took her role as tour guide very seriously, pointing out some of her favourite houses, drawing my attention to artsy details around town, and giving me a play-by-play of why each place we visited held a special place in her heart.  She took me to an arcade, a pizza parlour, a trendy fashion shop, and at least a half-dozen bars.

My favourite moment of the night was our stop at Tucson’s infamous Hotel Congress.  This old hotel has seen it all – the expansion of the downtown area, the roaring twenties, the railroad boom, the arresting of the John Dillinger Gang, ghosts.  That night, however, it was just a typical Friday night party.  A DJ was mixing Mexican mariachi music, and Krista pulled me onto the empty dance floor.  After I got over my initial shyness, I let loose, so happy to hear something other than electronic music or Top 40 stuff.  Soon there was a crowd dancing around me.  We were multicultural, happy, and laid-back.  Under the silhouette of Tucson’s most famous landmark, I experienced a truly Tucsonian night out – and I loved it.

At a bar with Krista, my Air BnB host and Tucson tour guide for the evening.

Hotel Congress, a Tucson historic landmark…

… and the scene of a really fun Tucsonian dance party!

For one-and-a-half months, Bruno and I made a home for ourselves in Tucson.  I biked around a city I found aesthetically, culturally, and atmospherically attractive.  I felt part of a small yoga community.  I made friends with the employees at all the hardware and RV shops.  Best of all, we made a comfortable home for ourselves in our Air BnB home.  We had a bedroom and bathroom to ourselves, and a second bedroom and bathroom for our HelpX guests.  There was a bright living room, a garden in which we took almost all of our meals (to the chirping songs of the plentiful birds and the view of the rocky Catalina Mountains), and of course, that amazing kitchen where I cooked up a storm.  Our bus was parked on the side of the house and we made ourselves a makeshift workshop in the yard out back.  We were incredibly lucky to find such a perfect set-up for our project, and I am eternally grateful to Krista and Chris, our hosts.  If you’re ever in Tucson, do consider staying here.

My amazing kitchen for 6 weeks.

Our spacious living room.

Our bedroom.

Our makeshift workshop in the backyard.

The Catalina Mountains off in the distance.

I do wish Bruno and I had had more time to discover Tucson.  I’m sort of bummed our bus conversion took up all our time.  Tucson is so worth knowing, offers so much to be discovered.

But I’m mostly just happy that I now know about the secret gem that is Tucson.  Now that I know, you can bet I’ll be going back.

On Christmas Eve morning, Bruno and I woke up to a flat tire and rain in a Planet Fitness parking lot, airplanes from the next-door airport whizzing over our heads.

On Christmas morning, we woke up in a charming cottage with leafy garden views and toasted with mimosas while streaming Christmas music on a high-tech sound system.

Over two weeks later, I still cannot believe how wonderfully Bruno and I managed to rescue Christmas.

We rescued Christmas!

Bruno had been sick – like I had never seen him in the nearly-five years we’ve known one another – for days.  We were caught in a series of the craziest rain storms I had seen since Zimbabwe’s rainy season.  And we couldn’t find a decent place in Los Angeles to park our home-on-wheels for a few nights, while we checked out the used vehicle selection in town.  We’d already spent one night getting kicked out of a Planet Fitness parking lot and ending up sleeping along Venice Blvd among a few beat-up RVs, and we’d only managed the second night by pleading for special permission with the parking lot security guards.

My poor sick Bruno!!

He chose a pretty decent spot to get sick, thankfully. But after 4 nights, we needed to move on and continue our vehicle search. That brought us into L.A. and the rain.

In all the time Bruno and I have traveled in Totoyaya together, we’ve only ever broken down and gotten a hotel once.  We were in Port Sudan, and had been camping in the Sahara Desert for a week.  I was itching for a proper shower, and the sand storms had become challenging.  With Bruno’s birthday coming up, I managed to secure an amazing 2-night deal at the Port Sudan Hilton, and we took it.  Funnily enough, we slept terribly, and were both quite happy to return to our tiny home-on-wheels.

The conditions in L.A. were more desperate (IMO), as I was much closer to the end of my tether (but I’ll leave that story for another post), so I turned to a resource I’ve only ever used as a property owner: Air BnB (plug: the link to our own Air BnB property, in the south of France on the Mediterranean Sea is here.)

It wasn’t only our vehicle search that made Bruno and I decide to stay in a city that had no boondocking or camping options for us over the holidays – it’s that, frankly, Los Angeles seemed like a glamorous setting for a holiday (and one I’ve always wanted to visit).  We had entered the city from the highway (where, by the way, Totoyaya reached her 600,000^th kilometer!) and had come down from lush hills into a valley overlooking the vast Pacific Ocean.  We had driven through the Hollywood Hills past the renowned Bel Air neighbourhood  (yes, I rapped The Fresh Prince of Bel Air the entire drive – and poor Bruno had no clue what I was doing), where the homes and views were just as luxurious as I’d imagined.  We had passed the string of high end shops in Beverly Hills and pulled up at red lights beside Bentleys and Rolls Royces (which we’d also done, to hilarious effect, in Dubai).

Totoyaya reached her 600,000th kilometer! We were only able to photograph the event 14 kms later because we were on an 8-lane L.A. highway!

It is not surprising that so many Americans have flocked to southern California over the years in search of “a better style of American living.”  Los Angeles is the American Dream, all wrapped up into a single city.

The Air BnB cottage we booked offered us a better style of American living for a few days, too.  On Christmas Eve, we ordered pizza (a total luxury for people who almost never have a fixed address or an abode near enough to a restaurant to do delivery) and drank prosecco (a welcome gift from our Air BnB hosts) while soaking in the private hot tub in the back yard.  After days of chilling rain, the stress of not knowing where to sleep that night, and general holiday-induced anxiety, this luxury was all the more sweet.

I didn’t need to unwrap any gifts on Christmas morning.  The gift was waking up in this quaintest, cosiest of cottages.  Bruno and I ambled down the ladder from our loft bed into a warm, sunny room.  I turned on the Roku, searched for Christmas music, and sang along to the tunes while Bruno prepared breakfast.  I poured him his first mimosa.  We talked to my family for over an hour on Skype, another heart-warming luxury that my usual internet-limited self never takes for granted.

Our Air BnB cottage.

Bruno checking out the L.A. coffee table from the comfort of our Air BnB guesthouse.

Preparing Christmas breakfast in our warm, charming guesthouse in L.A.

Toasting to a wonderful Christmas!

By the time we stepped outside after lunch to take the bus to Hollywood, I was glowing from the inside out.

Yes, Bruno and I went to Hollywood on Christmas afternoon.  It was our first opportunity to be tourists in Los Angeles, and this was the perfectly clichéd place to go.

Of all the reasons for Los Angeles’ growth and fame, Hollywood is probably the primary.  The motion pictures industry, which grew out of Hollywood almost one hundred years ago, quickly flourished, becoming the 5^th largest industry in the United States by 1926.  It drove the city’s population boom more than any other industry – more than transport, oil, or agriculture – and helped transform Los Angeles from a little Hispanic cattle town to the 5^th largest American city by 1930.

The City of Dreams was the epitome of the American Dream.  It was the final destination of the famed Route 66 (a fun road trip we just finished) and the place where ordinary people could, by skill or chance, become rich and famous.  Marilyn Monroe wasn’t the only little girl who placed her hands and feet in the moulds of stars that had come before her and saw that her own hands weren’t so different from theirs.

Hollywood and Vine was the intersection where would-be stars came to be discovered.

Shoot, my hands are too big to become a star.

Hollywood is full of famous, sparkly theaters and stories of dreams being made.

My friend, Adam, is one of many people who’ve moved West to make their dreams come true.  He had often shared with me his dream of being a screenplay writer between our philosophy classes at Lake Forest College.  An unrealistic dream, many told him, and perhaps they are right.  But a few years after college, he made the bold move out to Los Angeles, and has been working hard ever since, writing tirelessly and trying to make the right Hollywood connections.  It’s a tough game, he would tell me when we’d meet up a few days after Christmas for dinner, but if you don’t play you can’t win.  His biggest success so far?  A screenwriting and production credit in the award-winning but little-known film, Nightlights.

Having dinner with my friend, Adam, after not having seen one another in over 5 years!

Adam move out to L.A. from Chicago a few years back to make his screenwriting dream come true. “Nightlights” is his biggest success so far.

Ah-MAAAA-zing vegetarian appetizers at the restaurant where we dined.

Most of us, though, just visit Hollywood to pose for photos with their stars and handprints.

Bruno had been to Hollywood almost a decade earlier (just after shipping Totoyaya from South Korea to L.A. on his first trip around-the-world), and he was surprisingly excited to revisit.  He was positively giddy to show me the Walk of Fame and to point out the stars of the many famous Hollywooders he knows (demonstrating how pervasive is the influence of Hollywood, for France has a strong movie-making culture, too).  I had fun searching for stars I particularly like and deciphering signatures on the concrete plaques outside the infamous Chinese Theater.  We caught a glimpse of the infamous Hollywood sign and a few sideways glances of the costumed star-imitators on the streets.

The Hollywood sign!

Checking out the stars.

There are tons of well-costumed impersonators on Hollywood just waiting for a photo-op with you.

Satisfied that we’d left the house at least a little bit, Bruno and I scurried back to our cozy abode for a Christmas Feast (ordered from Whole Foods, thank you!), a Christmas movie (on a big TV!) and another hot tub session (complete with thick white bathrobes, my-oh-my).

Christmas dinner, yum!

Our private hot tub.

Yes, yes, let’s use the hot tub. And let’s toast, again!

The morning after Christmas, we received a surprise gift from our Air BnB hosts – an extra night’s stay at no charge.  They had made a slight booking error and this was their way of making it up to us.  This gift was like waking up to Christmas a second day in a row!  I had been absolutely savouring our stay at Tweet Loft Guesthouse and Hot Tub, and was already counting down the hours until our unfortunate departure, so I counted my lucky stars to get to stay another day.

What did we do with our gifted time?  I headed for a couple yoga classes up the street.  We took a walk through the neighbourhood, admiring the unique mid-century homes and even more unique mix of tropical plants and arid succulents.  We ate spicy roasted corn among the too-cool hipsters at nearby Echo Lake.  And we did a lot of chilling at home, tea-drinking, ordering in, sitting in the hot tub, and taking luxuriously long, hot showers.

Yummy! Street corn at the lake!  (One is Bruno’s, I proooomise!

Echo Lake, just north of downtown, and within walking distance from our Air BnB.

There was an achy, naggy voice in the back of my head urging me out into the streets.  You’re in L.A., it said, and there’s so much to see.  Go to Venice Beach!  Go shopping in Beverly Hills!  Do something – just get out of the house!

I realized, though, that what Bruno and I needed most of all was not to be tourists in Los Angeles.  We need a nest.  A place for Bruno to get healthy, and for me to spread out after weeks of feeling cramped in Totoyaya.  A place that would keep us warm, would protect us from the inclement weather.  The gift of this Air BnB was to be a reset, a recharge.  And so I silenced the voice in my head by telling it we would return to L.A. another time to be tourists.

Besides, we’d already had the quintessential Los Angeles experience – a close-up encounter with a Hollywood star.  Driving in the hills above L.A. a few days earlier, Bruno spotted an old car behind us.

“Check it out,” he says, “it’s Al Capone’s car!”

I, as usual when it comes to car-spotting, react with lackluster.  But then the vehicle pulls up beside us and the driver motions us to roll down our window.

“That’s a really cool vehicle!” he exclaims.

“Yours is pretty cool, too!”  Bruno replies over the hum of two old engines.  “I know a family with three kids who travels around the world in a car like that!”

“That’s very French,” replies the man before wishing us happy holidays.

Bruno waves, rolls up his window, and I turn to him, heart racing, “Oh my god!  That’s Jay Leno!”

“Who’s that?” my Frenchman replies.

It’s Jay Leno! And he liked our car!

Jay’s car (yes, we’re on a first-name basis) isn’t so bad, either!

Of course I had to pose next to Jay Leno’s star when we visited Hollywood.

Two weeks later, I sit and write this post from the Pahrump Public Library (a small town just west of Las Vegas, Nevada).  We’ve had two below-zero nights, and even the days are cold and grey.  I’m at the library primarily to stay warm, and so that we’re not cooped up inside Totoyaya all day.

Writing this post brings me back to Christmas at our amazing BnB in Los Angeles.  I long for that hot tub again, that charming warm space.  I’m a bit bummed I’m not there now.  But mostly, I’m just infinitely grateful for the time we did have there.  It really was the perfect way to spend Christmas in L.A.

Times Square scintillates in the NYC night.

Check out those crowds!  How to get through…?

It’s neither of our first times in the Big Apple.  Because of friends and family that live here (and because New York is a great international transit hub), I’ve had the fortune of visiting countless times.  Bruno came twice in the 90s, as a bookend to his cross-country Viarail trip.  During those visits, Bruno – already no lover of cities but young and curious enough to explore anyway – checked out Central Park, the Statue of Liberty, Soho, and of course, Times Square.  If it weren’t for our desire to have him meet my aunt Louise, Bruno would have happily taken a pass on this trip to the supposed City of Dreams.

After taking a quick flight from Toronto (our first flight together ever, surprisingly!), Bruno and I emerged at Grand Central Station, a mere ten minute walk from Louise’s.  The building has the perfect name, for it is certainly grand in every sense of the term.  As soon as we stepped outside, we experienced that onslaught of senses that only cities can offer – horns honking, traffic whizzing by, the buzz of millions of voices, the faint scent of garbage and sewers.  The electric vibe sent an excited quiver through my own body, but Bruno already looked totally lost.

Grand Central Station, our starting point in Manhattan.

Here’s another view of Grand Central, with the Chrysler Building popping up behind.  You can always tell who the tourists in NYC are because we are all looking way, WAY up!

Thankfully, things looked up once we stepped into Louise’s apartment – literally up.  My aunt lives on the 44^th floor of a Manhattan condo and has an absolutely priceless view of the city.  Bruno was immediately mesmerized with the vista before him, and spent much of that first day trying to identify important buildings (you can see the Chrysler Building, Empire State building, and the new One World Trade Center from Louise’s 180 degree windows), observing the tiny vehicles and people below, and capturing the scene in photographs.

I didn’t expect Bruno to be so taken with this cityscape, but I was happy he appreciated the privileged staging ground from which we would explore the city.  City-hater or not, our home base was one most people can only dream of.

A jaw-dropping view of Manhattan from my aunt’s 44th floor condo. Not for those with acrophobia!!

A 180 degree view over Manhattan’s setting sun.

The City that Never Sleeps, from above.

Indeed, we maximized our use of this magnificent space throughout our visit.  In the mornings, the three of us breakfasted with the view, sharing the New York Times newspaper amongst ourselves.  We night-capped our evenings with a glass of red wine gazing sleepily down at the lights of the City That Never Sleeps.  And in between, we ventured all over Manhattan from Louise’s centrally-located home.

The first morning, Bruno and I headed south to Union Square.  Bruno hungrily snapped photos of all the eccentric people he spotted in the park – old white men working on their tans, vagabonds dry-shaving their legs, and homemade race car drivers.  It wasn’t with malice that he photographed these people, but rather with awe that no one around so much as lifted an eyebrow.  In New York, unordinary people are extraordinarily ordinary.

In nearby Washington Square, Bruno and I listened to street musicians before wandering past a movie set on the streets of Soho.  We dined on thin-crust New York pizza-by-the-slice with the busy lunch rush, checked out a few Soho art galleries, and shopped for exotic in fruit in Chinatown.  Bruno laughed that Chinatown could be a shock to his senses when we’d already been wandering around Manhattan all day; he speculated as to how people accessed their vehicles in the makeshift multi-tiered parking lots on every corner; and he popped into every sporting store he came across.  He seemed to be having fun.

Unordinary people are extraordinarily ordinary in NYC.

Washington Square.

Street musicians in Washington Square on a sunny fall day.

New York-style thin crust pizza-by-the-slice.

Stumbling upon a movie set in Soho.

Incredibly, Chinatown totally overwhelmed our senses, even though we’d already been wandering around Manhattan all day!

How do the people get their cars down from the “second floor”?  Must involve a lot of manoeuvering and rearranging!

The next morning, we headed north with Louise.  We stumbled upon a little street market, and, after Louise noted that she happens upon unexpected things in New York all the time, we feasted on street food.  Then we headed up to Museum Mile, where Louise showed us the incredible view of Central Park and the city skyline from the roof of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.  The sunny fall day was beckoning, so after getting a taste of all that the museum has to offer (which is a lot, by the way – too much, really, for a tourist on a tight schedule to grasp), Bruno asked to visit Central Park.

Louise and Bruno chowing down on street food.

I needed a bit of help with my tacos!

A view of Central Park and the Manhattan skyline from the roof of the Met. The beautiful building on the right is where John Lennon was staying when he was shot at the edge of the park.

The park, too, was too massive to comprehend, so we contended ourselves with a stroll past a large grass field (perfect for napping on, which Bruno did), a duck pond, and castle, until we reached the John Lennon memorial in Strawberry Fields, which Bruno especially wanted to see.  I wasn’t used to Bruno guiding our city visits.

Central Park, with a few skyscrapers behind.

You gotta have a pretzel in Central Park!!

Central Park is pretty romantic!

We emerged back onto the city streets near Times Square, and Bruno, my new city tour guide, decided we would walk through it.  Though we would occasionally take a bus, taxi, or subway in New York (which always makes for fascinating people-watching in the city where anything-goes), we generally preferred to walk.  Cities reveal themselves on foot, and New York is no exception – for, more than a list of sights to see, New York is about its people, its rhythm, its sheer sensory overload.  Times Square, with its giant television screens, beaming lights, bizarre buskers, and chaotic crowds, represents perhaps the epitome of all this, and I was surprised Bruno willingly placed himself in the belly of the beast.  What was happening to my silence-loving husband?

Waiting for the subway. Despite my expression, I actually do LOVE this mode of public transpot!

Heading into the belly of the beast, Times Square.

Did my globe-trotting Bruno perhaps find himself somehow at home in New York City?  I mean, in a way, the entire world is contained within the city.  Take, for example, the dinners we shared with Louise each night (all of which were fantastic and massively appreciated, by the way).  One night we stepped through a pointed door into a dimly-lit room decorated with Berber carpets and Arab flourishes and dined on tagines and spiced couscous.  We were immediately back in Morocco, where we’d spent three months last winter.  The following evening, we were treated to a six-course tasting menu at a fine Indian Restaurant (called Amma); with each course, we were transported back to our respective times in India.  The third evening, we tucked chopsticks into several family-style dishes of Chinese food, and we recalled our experiences learning to use these tools in Korea, Singapore, Thailand, and Japan.

Getting ready to dive into our Indian tasting menu at Amma restaurant in Midtown.

The main course, including a roti wrap, some fried okra, and a stuffed curried potato. Total yum!!

Enjoying our third evening of world cuisine at a Chinese restaurant!

Or, take our afternoon spent at the Nepali festival of Dashain in Queens with my friends Muna and Aya.  After taking a quick ride on the 7, reputedly the most multicultural of New York’s subway lines, we emerged on Bliss Street (great name!) and walked to a primary school in Woodside.  Women dressed in dazzlingly-coloured saris danced to tinny Nepali music.  We were given a welcome blessing, complete with red-rice tikka, by the leader of the festivity, and then we gorged ourselves on Nepali daal bhaat and perfumed chai while speeches were given in Hindi, Tibetan, and Nepali.  It was as though Bruno and I were physically in Nepal, together.

My friends Muna and Aya. We’re heading to a Nepali Dashain celebration in Queens.

Beautiful, strong women celebrating the victory of Good over Evil.

Muna getting a blessing, with red rice tikka.

My favourite part – daal bhaat!

I can wear a tikka in the subway without feeling a twinge of self-consciousness because, let’s face it, this is NY!

And if it wasn’t the multicultural aspect of New York that Bruno loved, perhaps, then, was he falling for the city because it afforded him new experiences, something that is difficult to come by for a man who has seemingly done it all?  Bruno may have climbed Mt. Kilimanjaro, trekked through the jungles of Borneo, and sailed across the Atlantic, but he’s never been to a jazz club or to a Broadway musical!  Thanks to New York City – a truly, thanks to Louise – Bruno experienced both.

After our Moroccan dinner, Louise walked us to a nearby Jazz Club to watch a jazz vocalist and his trio reinterpret old standards in a style reminiscent of Frank Sinatra.  And after our Chinese food meal, Louise walked us along Broadway toward the Neil Simon Theater, home of the new production of Cats.  Not only was this Bruno’s first musical ever, but it had been my own first musical sixteen years prior, when I visited New York City for the first time.  That visit – which occurred exactly half my lifetime ago – was the only time I truly visited New York as a tourist.  Now, thanks to Bruno’s enthusiasm, I was getting to be a tourist in New York City again at last.

Jazz at Kitano.

Waiting in line with the crowds to get into the Broadway production of Cats. I can’t wait!!

We snuck this photo during the second act, heehee!

It is late at night and I am walking home via Times Square with Louise and Bruno.  We’ve just gotten out of the Neil Simon Theater, images of cats and colours and dances moves still on our minds.  Times Square is heaving with people and cars and lights and I have to push my way through the crowds.  Normally, in this situation I would worry about Bruno – the headache he surely must have, his longing for silence and tranquility and nature.

But tonight, I’m not that worried.  Bruno’s busy staring at dudes drumming on buckets and women painting their nipples the colours of the American flag.  He’s enjoying the brisk evening walk home, which offers us a different city perspective that we usually don’t experience.  He’s about as happy as he can be in a city.

Street performers warming up and trying to draw in the crowds. It’s almost midnight.

Does this photo need a caption?!? (Stop staring, Dad! Move along!)

Bruno had a blast taking night shots in Manhattan as we strolled home.

Our final day in New York City, Louise takes us along the Hudson River by boat to the Financial District, where we catch one final view of Manhattan, and even a glimpse of the Statue of Liberty.  The three of us wander past Wall Street, where my Uncle Gary had worked many years ago, and to Ground Zero.  Louise insists that we not leave New York without seeing what has come of the gaping holes the Twin Towers left when they tumbled, fifteen years ago.  Now, in their place are tasteful water fountains enclosed by the names of all those that were lost that day.

Nearby, the new One World Trade Tower reflects clouds on its glass windows, and the newer dove-shaped World Trade Center shopping mall sends a message of peace to New Yorkers.  We visit the 9/11 Memorial Museum and spend three hours reliving that day through the eyes of its victims and onlookers.  It’s a powerful and emotional experience, and one I wouldn’t likely have experienced had it not been for Louise’s encouragement, and Bruno’s uncharacteristic enthusiasm.

Taking a ferry ride to the southern tip of Manhattan. That’s Louise photographing a new building she finds funky.

It’s the Statue of Liberty!!

My uncle worked here many years ago.

The new Westfield World Trade Center Mall.

The new One World Trade Center Tower reflecting the clouds, that’s how tall it is!

That’s when it hits me, the reason Bruno sort of fell (in his own way) for New York City.  It was because of Louise.  My aunt had been a wonderful host – offering us apt insider tips on what to see and where to go; devising thoughtful plans for our afternoons and evenings; graciously offering us the rare comfort of her Manhattan condo; and displaying an even rarer generosity throughout our time in New York.

Later that night, when we boarded our flight to Paris, Bruno exhibited the typical headache and fatigue that comes with his city trips.  He was, indeed, ready to leave New York City.

But what I found surprising was that, as the airplane took off, he seemed genuinely saddened to go.  Of all the gifts Louise gave us during our time in New York, this was surely the most precious.

A mere thank you can’t even begin to describe our true feelings of gratitude, Louise.

Bruno is totally ROCKIN’ NYC, thanks to Louise!

And so, my trips through the US ceased, and my friendships floundered.  It had been three years since I’d stepped foot into our neighbour to the south.

Until a few days ago.

Originally, Bruno and I had planned on driving Totoyaya down the East Coast of the US this fall, allowing me to drop in on a few good friends along the way.  For various reasons – visa regulations, bad timing for certain people, and close friends and family to visit elsewhere – we have opted for a different route south.  And so I knew that making a special trip to New York and Washington DC, to reconnect with long-lost special people in my life, was in order.

Tale #1: New York City

First up was three nights in New York City to visit my old friend, Muna.  We went to Lake Forest College together over a decade ago, and she’s the one that gave me such a stellar introduction to Nepal that I ended up living there for fourteen months.  We also taught English in Bangkok together, and when she moved to New York in 2009 I visited her there four summers in a row.

Muna now lives in Sunnyside, Queens, with her partner (and fellow LFC grad and friend) Justin.  They welcomed me into their “tiny (literally!) life,” as Muna put it, referring to her cozy one-bedroom apartment with an open kitchen/office/living room, a gorgeous-but-moody cat, and walls decorated with their funky touch of Nepali portraits, string instruments, and chosen mode of transportation.

I’m in NY, baby! :)

Justin, Muna, and me.

My “bedroom” in Queen’s for three nights.

Muna and Justin’s cat, Mila.

On that first sweltering New York summer evening, we invited another old LFC friend over, and we all shared a simple meal over deep, intellectual conversation mixed in with breezy laughter and moments of reconnection.

From then on, New York City became the backdrop to our reunion.  We went to Jacob Riis Park (also known as “the People’s beach”) on the outer peninsula of Queens, a semi-urban retreat from the urban-sprawl heat of the city; we took the 7 subway into Manhattan to watch Justin’s friend perform a one-hour solo singer-songwriter performance at a bar with three stages; we wandered around Chelsea Market, a massive trendy indoor market housed in the old Nabisco factory complex in the meat-packing district of Manhattan; and we shopped for spices and ate Nepali food in the Jackson Heights neighbourhood of Queen’s.

But being with Muna – talking to her, seeing her life, hearing about her plans and dreams– was the primary goal of this trip.  As with every other visit I’ve ever had to New York City (with the exception of my one-week trip here in 2000 to visit my aunt Louise), then, New York City itself was not the subject of my trip.

Perhaps that is why, even after almost a dozen visits to New York, I’m still utterly perplexed by the place.  The city is so full of people that it’s overwhelming.   Its size, magnitude, scale is dizzying.  The endless choices of things to see, do, and eat is paralyzing.

I personally couldn’t live here, but I love to visit.  Each time I’m here, I understand more and more what the fuss about New York is all about.  It’s just so alive.  There’s a pulse that’s energizing, invigorating, exciting.  There’s so much to look at.  The city seems to be in perpetual breath, movement, growth.  You can never be bored here.

I loved stepping out of the busy LaGuardia Airport into the bustle of people, of all shapes and sizes, waiting for the bus into town.  I loved squeezing myself between strangers on to a subway seat and gazing at the faces of those who choose to call New York home.  I loved emerging, disoriented, from the subway into a different panorama of this chameleon of a city.  I loved pretending, even for just three days, that I was a local, walking up and down the streets of Sunnyside or Manhattan, popping into cafés, shops, and markets like Muna does every day of the year.  For someone who loves trying on new shoes, there is almost no pair in the world like those of a New Yorker.

The People’s Beach, Queen’s.

Muna and I having lunch on the Highline.

A view of NYC from the Highline.

Nepali dinner with Muna, yummy!

The diversity of New York is what I love best.  It seems that a microcosm of the entire world, with every nationality, food, and idea that exists existing here.  As I said in a blog post about New York years ago, what more could a traveling girl in search of culture want?

Tale #2: Washington DC

The morning of my departure, New York City had one more surprise in store for me – a quick catch-up coffee with my friend Sahnah (yes, the Sahnah from Morocco and Thailand and India and Mauritania and Senegal).  We met up in an unknown (to me) neighbourhood of Queen’s (Long Island City), which faces Manhattan on the other side of the river and offers an unbelievable view of the city’s skyline.

And then, I was off.  A five-hour Megabus ride brought me into DC’s Union station, where I met my friend Erin.  We had met several years ago while teaching English in Thailand (where we’d sung in choir together, put on a high school musical, and traveled to the Philippines together among other things), and I’d visited her in DC twice since then, most recently in 2013 for her wedding.

DC felt like a drastic change after the urban megapolis of New York.  Getting to the outskirts of the city, where Erin and Mauricio live, took a mere twenty minutes by car, and their street felt residential, with duplexes, a nearby community garden, and a forest park filled with deer (yes, I saw one!).

Within minutes of my arrival, the three of us were off on their road bikes into town to watch a 90s cover band, White Ford Bronco, perform at an outdoor venue near the Nationals’ baseball stadium.  We rode on a bike path past the metro line and then past streets of residential townhouses, each painted in a different bright pastel color.  We biked into the downtown, where, at every turn, was a beautiful, famous monument.  Wide boulevards were lined with tall trees, and there wasn’t a skyscraper in view.

A quick coffee catch-up with Sahnah.

On the bicycles with Erin and Mauricio.

The townhouses of DC.

The 90s cover band, White Ford Broncos.

Over the next two days, Erin, Mauricio and I did a lot of biking.  We biked to a restaurant for brunch, then to a few breweries to sample their flutes of microbrews.  We biked to a weekend farmer’s market and a couple of bike shops.  And we biked to an Ethiopian restaurant for my first dose of Ethiopian food since my search for the perfect injera in 2014.  It was sweltering hot – even hotter than New York – and Erin and I found ourselves dripping just as much as we had when we’d worked together in Thailand!

As with Muna, it was wonderful to see Erin and to get to experience her life firsthand.  I got to meet (and re-meet) some of her friends on Saturday night, as they hosted a fun party for me on their rooftop.  I got to spread out in Erin’s luxurious second bedroom with ensuite bathroom, and drive around in their car to get errands at Walmart for the party.  And, of course, I got to chat the days away with my old friend!

There’s a funkiness and epic-ness that felt missing in DC after New York City.  There seemed to be less culture, less ease of transportation, less density of life.  Yet, it’s a much more manageable size than New York, and I appreciated the bike paths, space, and aesthetics of the downtown core.

At the brewery trying out flutes of microbrew.

Brewery number two.

Parking our bikes in front of the Ethiopian restaurant.

Our yummy Ethiopian meal, OMG.

Both Washington, DC and New York are worthy cities to visit.  They meet different needs, but both should be on any traveler’s itinerary.  Go to DC to visit the museums and monuments, to experience the history of the United States, to get a pulse of modern-day politics in action.  Ride a bike or take a bus tour, and make sure to visit the residential neighbourhoods.  Then go to New York to be blown away by its diversity and magnitude, to feel and be part of its pulse.  Ride the subway, get off on random stops, go out to the boroughs.

If you’re lucky enough, like me, to have friends in each city, then all the better – both towns make great backdrops for happy reunions.  If not, go anyway, and let these amazing cities speak for themselves.

We had just arrived in Cartagena, Spain, and were settling into our campsite for the evening.  It was grey and cold, we were far from town, and we were surrounded, as usual, by retirees.  We figured we’d spend the night and head on the following morning.

But then: “You’ve arrived just in time,” gushed the Spanish owner when we approached her office to check in.  “Tomorrow starts la Semana Santa!”

I had no idea what that was, but I learned pretty quickly.  And what I learned had me convinced I should – no, needed – to go into town the following day instead of driving on.  I silently thanked myself to traveling with the freedom and flexibility to reinvent our plans as we please.

La Semana Santa translates as Holy Week, and refers to the week or so leading up to Easter Sunday.  It’s a once-a-year festival that is celebrated all over the country – in fact, it’s one of Spain’s most famous events and rather surprising that I hadn’t heard of it.

Basically, the festival is a series of religious processions (like parades) that sort of re-enact the Passion of the Christ while serving as penance for participants.  Most processions involve carrying extremely heavy floats on one’s back, and some routes are as long as 14 hours, so penance here is taken quite seriously.

Lucky for me, Cartagena hosts one of the best and most unique series of events, including the first procession in the entire country – the following morning at 3am.  I didn’t expect to attend that one, but decided to attend the two other processions happening at more human in the day.

And so, just after lunch that penultimate Friday before Easter, Bruno and I hopped on a bus into the historical district of town.  What struck me immediately was the palpable anticipation in the air.  Crowds of families were in the streets, eating their notoriously late lunch.  Vendors peddled bright plastic toys and balloons – there were even a few carnival rides in one of the main squares.

This could have been a typical Sunday in Cartagena, but a few clues gave things away.  Flags and posters with religious insignia were draped over residential balconies, and heaps of plastic chairs were strung along the sides of the pedestrian-only streets.

It was clear that Cartagena was awaiting something big.

Balloons, carnival rides, and plastic toys for sale in the historical part of Cartagena.

Plastic chairs lined up for the day’s Semana Santa processions.

Religious banners hung from balconies and businesses.

Flags with religious insignia hung from balconies, and residents loitering, clearly waiting for something big to happen.

I’d learned a bit about the Semana Santa processions the previous afternoon from the very gracious and loquacious campsite owner.  The processions are organized by the city’s four religious brotherhoods, the oldest of which dates back to the 17^th century.  Despite a bit of friendly rivalry between the city’s two main brotherhoods (the Marrajos and the Californios, the groups work together, dividing amongst themselves the days leading up to Easter to re-enact the Passion bit by bit.

I would witness a traditional Cartagenan Semana Santa procession that evening, but first up was a unique procession – the floral offering to the patron saint of the city, the Virgen de la Caridad (Our Lady of Charity), in honour of her yearly Feast Day.  In this procession, women and children (and a few men), dressed in traditional clothing and carrying elaborate bouquets of flowers, parade through the streets of historical Cartagena with the goal of depositing their bouquets in front of la Iglesia de la Caridad.

Bruno and I were parked at a café when the participants began to arrive and converge in front of a beautiful baroque building.  It was pure chaos with loads of women, from barely-able-to-walk to surprised-they-still-could-walk, and I was doubtful that any procession would emerge out of this crowd.  You could tell this event was a big deal, especially for the many little girls, who were totally dolled-up and posing for the many cameras.

Participants of the floral procession converging in front of this lovely building.

Dolled-up little girls posing for a proud mama’s camera.

From the youngest to the oldest, all marched in this procession.

The goal of this procession is to offer flowers to Our Lady of Charity. This is her church.

This is her offering.

Yet the procession itself was quite casual.  Women pushed strollers, chatted with their friends, and talked on phones.  Their kids munched on snacks.  One pushed her own baby doll on a stroller.  Each group was led by a banner which announced their organization or congregation.  The groups proudly showcased traditional costumes from different regions – some were dressed like peasants, others like sailors, and a few looked like they were ready to dance the flamenco.  Most dresses featured lace shawls, lots of satin and sparkles, and flowers in their hair.  These bright and shiny costumes, worn only once a year, seemed to celebrate femininity.

It was fun to watch the conviviality of the women and families walking in the procession, but it was even more fun to watch the musicians march by.  There were loads of marching, and in each of them were an impressive amount of children!  There was also a group of bagpipers (I thought, of course, of my mom, who loves bagpipe music!), a few groups with castanets, and even a group of dancers with skirts that flared out when they spun!  It was the cheery music that contributed most to the feeling of celebration.

The procession itself.

And the musicians.

Even a dancing group of spinning tops!

And that’s why it was such a shock to witness that evening’s procession.  The procession of the Most Holy Christ of Mercy and Most Holy Mary of the Rosary was the complete antithesis of that day’s jovial flower parade.  Here, the participants (called “penitents”) were totally serious – they gazed forward, walked in union, and halted in unison, all to the beat of drums.  The whole thing was solemn and downright creepy.

It was probably the outfits that got me the most.  Almost every penitent was wearing a capirote, a tunic with a pointy hood with slits for the eyes that is so reminiscent of the Ku Klux Klan that it’s impossible not to shudder.  Though most were carrying candles, many held rods, guns, axes, and other weapons.  With their slow, unison step, I felt like I was witnessing a procession of ghosts arising from the dead.

The evening’s procession with KKK-like outfits.

The Semana Santa procession are very serious and very creepy.

Weapons were even being paraded around.

The truth, however, is far less eerie.  The conical hoods date back to the Middle Ages (long before the KKK) and were created so that those demonstrating their penance could mask their identities.  The items the penitents carried in their arms simply denote the hierarchy within the brotherhood.  And, anyway, the nazarenes, the mostly-young participants who look like Little Red Riding Hoods and prance around distributing sweets and postcards with religious images on them, definitely lightened the mood.

Indeed, red was the most popular color of the evening, for it is the color of the Californios brotherhood.  About half of the capirotes were dressed in red, and all the Nazarenes.  Whether wearing red or not, however, all penitents displayed religious insignia on their banners or sashes.  Some burned frankincense, others carried pure gold crosses.  All stopped intermittently to do the sign of the cross.

Red is the color of the Californios brotherhood.

We forgot to photograph the young Nazarenes because we were too busy getting sweets and postcards from them!

Banners with religious insignia.

Gigantic gold crosses.

Beautiful gold-stitched banners displaying religious insignia.

The purpose of the processions is to re-enact parts of the Passion of the Christ by showcasing a series of gigantic – and extremely old – floats, or paseos.  One unique aspect of Cartagena’s Semana Santa is the strict order of the processions.  First come the capirotes in certain formations and carrying certain tools, then the drummer and the band (a very important part of the procession as they keep the time of the march), and then the float itself.  Some paseos are pushed along on wheels, but the most impressive ones are carried.

I don’t know how much the paseos weigh, but it’s enough to warrant five rows of twenty or more bodies, squeezed together under thick wooden beams.  If there was one example of penance, it was here (though the soldiers walking for hours with high kicks comes a close second!).

This amazing float is being transported by at least 100 women. Talk about penance!

Look how squished together they are!

Men marching with incredibly high leg kicks. Also a good example of penance.

I was utterly entranced by the procession – by the entire day, in fact – so it was only later, as we caught the late-night bus back to the campsite, that I remembered how lucky I had been to be in Cartagena during its Semana Santa.  Witnessing the festivities was a fascinating treat and gave me a glimpse into an age-old tradition that is still alive and well in Spain.  It’s for these moments that I travel!

Two days later, as we drove through a little town north of Cartagena, I caught a glimpse of bright satin robes glimmering in the midday sun.  I smiled inwardly.  A few days before, I’d have had no idea what these outfits represented.  But, thanks to my serendipitous arrival in Cartagena, I now knew that the colourful robes were evidence that, here in Spain, religion is far from dead.

Driving through a random town a couple days later, I recognized these outfits instantly.

Penitents hanging out at a tapas bar post- (or pre-)procession.

Religion is alive and well in Cartagena – and, indeed, all of Spain!

Gibraltar’s entire aura was a world apart from the working-class, tapas bar-filled, Spanish-speaking town we’d cycled from.  As we followed the hordes of Spanish commuters across the border control and the airport runway, I sensed a strong military presence.  Classy convertibles zoomed along the narrow, pristine streets.  Petrol stations and duty-free shops advertised sales in British pounds.  And above it all, of course, loomed that giant mohawk-shaped rock.

From fishing boats to private yachts. We’re on our way to Gibraltar!

On the Rock of Gibraltar, the airport behind me. We crossed it by bicycle to get into the city!

Gibraltar has a big military presence, but it’s apparently been scaled back in recent years.

It was all very British, yet it wasn’t.  As we dismounted our bikes and began to explore the pedestrian-only Main Street, I heard English, of course, but also Spanish.  There were pubs on every corner, but they all had tons of outdoor seating because of the very un-English weather.  There were red telephone booths and red double-decker buses – but these iconic British sights seemed out of place in a town that boasted a harbor, a multi-million-dollar marina, and 300 days of sun a year.  Heck, the residents of Gibraltar even drove on the right side of the road!

Still, we planned to do very British things during our day in Gibraltar.  But first, I needed to get out of my sweaty cycling clothes.  I headed into the first pub, where, excited to speak English to the waiter, I blurted out, “Please may I use your restroom so I can change my pants?”  The moment the words were out of my mouth, I realized what I’d said.  The English use the word “trousers” to denote the clothes you wear on your legs; to them, “pants” mean “underwear”.  I’d just asked to use the toilet so I could change my underwear!  My first time in a country that speaks my mother tongue in months and I’d already put my foot in my mouth!  The waiter raised his eyebrows and sniggered as he showed me “the loo”.

Bruno and I wandered up and down Main Street, which, because of big English names – like Top Shop and Mark’s and Spencer’s – amid loads of duty-free shops, felt like an odd cocktail of of England and Andorra La Veilla.  When our appetite arrived, I brought Bruno into a proper English pub – with a proper English pub name – and introduced him to a full English breakfast.  For only a few quid, we feasted on eggs, toast with jam and butter, beans, grilled tomatoes and mushrooms, and of course, English breakfast tea.   Later in the afternoon, we would sit at a different pub and down a pint of ale.  When in Britain, do like the British, right?

Gibraltar’s Main Street.

The pub where we ate our English breakfast.

Comfort food!

An afternoon pint. When in Rome, right?

Gibraltar has been a prized piece of rock for millennia.  The Phoenicians were the first people brave enough to cross it; thereafter, the landmark denoted the starting point of the Atlantic Ocean.  Later, the Romans conquered it, and then the Moors, led by Tarik ibn Ziyad.  The name Jebel Tarik, Arab for Tarik Mountain, even gave Gibraltar its current name.

For the past several hundred years, the greatest European powers have fought over Tarik’s Mountain.  It was taken by the Brits in 1704 and, though it was made official soon after through a series of treaties, sieges have been more common on this small chunk of rock than almost anywhere else in Europe.  Indeed, one historian noted that Gibraltar is “one of the most densely fortified and heavily fought-over places in Europe.”

It’s the strategic position of the peninsula that makes it so desirable.  It served as a key stopover point for British vessels en route to India via the Suez Canal; later, it was an all-important tactical element during WWII, as it essentially gave them control of the Mediterranean Sea.

There are an impressive amount of history- and war-related sights to visit as a tourist, especially up on the rock.  I’m guessing Gibraltar is a sort of pilgrimage for Brits interested in their own history.  I, however, was more interested in the naturalist (and, of course, the gastronomic) side of Gibraltar.  I wanted to visit the Rock!

Lots of war relics scattered around the town and rock.

At the tourist office, we learned that, to get to the top of the rock, we could take a tourist taxi, join a guided tour, or take a funicular.  But it was a gorgeous day, and we were wearing sneakers.  Couldn’t we walk up the rock, we asked.

We got the same kind of look you’d get if you’d asked an Englishman to use the restroom to change your pants.

Still, we persevered, and eventually found out that for 1EUR a person, you can walk up and around the Rock of Gibraltar on its many short walking trails.  So that is what we did.  And it was the highlight of the day.

We wandered up from Main Street past streets with adorable English names and even more adorable steep walkways.  We walked past beautiful cathedrals and old castles overlooking the Bay of Gibraltar, the Union Jack waving in the wind.  And we hiked all the way up that steep rock, stopping for views (and our breath) at the many viewpoints along the way.

A beautiful cathedral in Gibraltar.

Cool passages with cool names.

English pride! Art up the steps of an old passage.

An old castle looking down on the Bay of Gibraltar.

During our final haul in Morocco, we’d driven into the High Atlas Mountains and caught a very quick glimpse of the Barbary macaques, an endangered species endemic to the Maghreb region of Africa.  As it turns out, those very same macaques live a very cushy life on the Rock of Gibraltar.  They most likely came to the Iberian Peninsula with the Moors as their pets; now, their population is thriving more than those that still live in North Africa!  That’s probably because they’re fed daily by local staff, and because they are the biggest tourist attraction in a country that sees almost 10 million tourists a year!

Or maybe it’s because of local legend, which states that as long as the Barbary macaques exist on Gibraltar, the territory will remain under British rule.

Bruno and I really enjoyed getting to see the apes close-up, especially as we had been disappointed not to see more of them in Morocco.  We watched them at the Apes’ Den, then crossed the Queen’s Gate and climbed the 662 steps up the old Charles V Wall, watching the apes all the while.  I was a bit nervous on the steps, as there were signs saying the macaques could become aggressive on the narrow wall if they felt trapped.  Sure enough, one giant macaque stood in the center of the steps, blocking my view, and it took me a good 10 minutes to muster up enough courage to pass him by.

Barbary macaques in Gibraltar!

Apes will be apes.

662 steps from the Apes’ Den to the top of the rock.

More apes huddled at the top of the steps.

The tourists at the top of the steps didn’t show the same caution.  They were with a tour leader who was illegally feeding the apes so as to attract them onto their shoulders for photo ops.  Bruno and I, angered by this irresponsible behavior, took photos of the guide and then found a security officer who was very grateful to receive the photos in order to prosecute and fine the tour guide (apparently tourists rarely react the way we did, go figure).  Feeding the apes has already caused them to forget their social structure and become dependent on humans for their food; it had led them to forage down in the city, destroying property in the process; and it has caused more than one unfortunate run-in with tourists.  When will tourists – and their guides – learn to view animals responsibly?

The views from the top of the Rock of Gibraltar were indeed beautiful.  On one side, we could see the city of Gibraltar, its bay, and the port of Algeciras, where our ferry from Morocco had arrived.  You could even see Morocco, which made me slightly nostalgic.  On the other side, we could look far out into the Mediterranean Sea, where several tankers were bobbing at a distance.  The Rock on this side was steep, rugged, and mostly undeveloped, apart from a single road and two little beaches.  I stood at the top of the Rock feeling very much alive and very thankful for our wonderful day.

The Rock of Gibraltar, looking out to the Mediterranean Sea.

The view over the “other” side of the Rock.

I feel so alive!!

I hadn’t planned Gibraltar to impress me; in fact, I hadn’t even planned to visit.  I’d been vaguely curious about this tiny British enclave, but it was more opportunity (opportunity being a quiet and cheap campsite nearby with a coastal bike path leading right to Gibraltar!) than desire that had brought us to the Rock that day.

I’m learning, more and more, that it’s those unplanned, unexpected moments of travel that are often the best.  The surprises that come in between our planned destinations often become the highlights of our time.  Our day in Gibraltar was no exception.

The three of us, having loads of fun in Marrakech!

The Djemaa el Fna, the scene of our greatest amount of Marrakech fun.

The Darker Side of Marrakech

Of course, it wasn’t all innocent fun in the Djemaa el Fna.  We experienced loads of buskers asking for coins before even having performed.  One man, sitting on the ground with a homemade violin, asked dad for a coin, to which he replied that he needed to hear a song first.  The man played – horribly – for twenty-seconds, and when dad gave him a dirham, he insulted him and demanded more.  The Djemaa was full of people trying to squeeze as many dirhams out of us tourists as possible.  We could barely approach a huddle of people before the buskers asked for money, even though no local person seemed to be paying to watch.  I got the feeling that it was the tourists, and not the locals, that sustained the musicians, even though it was the locals that got to witness the greatest amount of entertainment.  I guess that’s what the campsite owner had meant by Marrakech being a tourist factory.

Indeed, it wasn’t just on the Djemaa that I felt like an item going down an assembly line.  Wandering down alleys and through souqs, shop-owners announced to us, one after the other, that looking is free before conducting hard sales with my unknowing parents.  Men standing outside restaurants and hammams shoved fliers into our hands; henna-tattoo artists followed us around with photo albums of their art on offer; calèche drivers harassed us for rides; little boys tried to trick us into employing them as our guides.

So much to buy in so many shops means that tourists cannot walk the streets of Marrakech in peace.

One of the few streets where there were no shops, thus no people, thus no touts. Phew!

Amazingly we weren’t – and never have been – given the carpet hard-sell. That’s actually quite something!

Even though Marrakech’s onslaught was beginning to wear me down, I tried to keep a positive attitude about it.  I had expected this, and in many ways, the touts hadn’t been nearly as bad or as frequent as I’d envisioned.

A Tout in the Tanneries

It was only on day three, as we wandered around the souqs, that something happened to thoroughly sour my mood.  Random men, one at a time, came up to us to tell us there was a special event happening in the tanneries, the area of town where leather is made.  Without even being conscious of it, our random wandering became directed.  One man, who was headed to his nearby shop, offered to show us the way to the tanneries, and even though we initially declined his offer, his laissez-faire attitude convinced us he really was just a local trying to help out.

When we arrived at the tanneries, my parents were whisked away by another man to visit them while my vegetarian self stood outside sniffing fresh mint to stave off the horrible smell.  Even though a guided tour like this isn’t usually my style, I felt happy my parents were being shown an area of town by someone who could explain things to them.  Indeed, on this tour they learned about the various products used in the leather-making process (from bird dropping to donkey pee) and to distinguish between Arab babouches and Berber ones.

Leather skins drying outside the tanneries.

Leather skins drying outside the tanneries.

I don’t know how the tanners do it all day every day.

Nor do I know how mom and dad managed it… oh, that smell!

At one point, I was told that my parents were in a leather cooperative, so I had to walk past the dye vats and animal hairs strewn on the ground to get to them.  When I found them, my father was trying on a leather money pouch, and I feared I’d arrived too late to help him negotiate a fair price.  Thankfully, when the man quoted $80 for the thing, dad laughed, handed back the pouch, and we left.

Outside, however, the “tour guide” was waiting for us.  He asked for a little something for his efforts, and when dad handed him a ten dirham coin, an amount that is fair in Morocco for the twenty minutes he’d spent with them, the man demanded 100 dirham, or about $14, “for the workers.”  His tone, body language, and insulting demand made something in me snap – Marrakech had finally become too much for me to handle – and I told the guide what I thought of his demand.  Dad, feeling unsure, doubled his initial offer to the guide, which means the guide’s pressure tactics worked.

As I skulked off, I realized that this whole tannery-tour had been one big, complex tout to get us to hand over money.  We’d been funnelled, by a network of men, from the edge of the souq to the tannery, and handed off from one man to the next like a relay-race baton.  We’d been brought through the assembly line, churned up, and spat back out at the leather shop.  And I, who’s usually wise to the wily ways of tourist touts, had fallen for it.  The tannery tout should be in the guide books, it’s that good.

Years ago, a lot of Morocco had been like this tannery funnel.  All over the country, tourists were touted and harassed by locals trying to make a buck.  A few years ago, after tourism dropped off, the brigade touristique was created to crack down on this problem.  Tourism, see, is a massive piece of Morocco’s economic puzzle.  The brigade touristique, or tourist police, began to arrest locals they’d spotted merely speaking with a tourist.  The harassment problem ended quickly, tourists started coming back, and, according to Bruno, Morocco is now a much more relaxed country to visit.

I should have threatened the brigade touristique on our tannery tour guide.  His pressure tactics would have stopped immediately.

An Invitation to Couscous

Just when I was getting ready to ready to write off the people of Marrakech as only interested in our wallets, the city surprised me.  We’d just finished dining in a wonderful rooftop restaurant off the Djemaa, recommended to us by the owner of our riad.  The food had been delicious (tangia – a crock-pot stew of seasoned lamb slow-cooked in the fire of a hammam, and a Marrakech speciality – for my parents, and briouat – Moroccan samosas – for me), and we had been serenaded by two very talented classical Arab musicians (a nice contrast to most restaurants’ American radio music or live belly dancing, which isn’t even Moroccan).

Looking down at a pedestrian street off the Djemaa from our rooftop restaurant.

Us with our host, Ibrahim, and the classical Arab musicians, with the chefs in the background. Dad is, of course, being the goof.

After praising the musicians and cooks, the host led us to the door, encouraging us to come again, that we were no longer clients but family.  I joked that we would come back the following day to share couscous, then, which is the all-important, once-a-week dish shared by the extended family from a common bowl.

“Of course,” the host replied.  “You would be most welcome.  Come to my home tomorrow for couscous.”

My parents and I laughed him off, but as he walked us down the many sets of stairs, Ibrahim remained persistent.  His offer was typical of true Muslims, who are infinitely hospitable, generous beyond words, and whose very religion requires that they offer room and board for three days to any traveler.  The offer spurred an excellent conversation with Ibrahim about the true, peaceful nature of Islam, a conversation that continued between my parents and I the next day as we sat watching the sun set behind the Koutoubia Mosque over Djemaa el Fna and listening to the muezzins reverberate throughout the city.

Despite the intensity of Marrakech, our brief encounter with Ibrahim had afforded us one of those quiet, philosophical moments that are the very crux of why I travel: to understand that, despite palpable cultural differences, if you peel away our outer layers, you find that we’re not so dissimilar after all.  Ibrahim, like our riad, provided a true haven in the heart of Marrakech.

The sun sets over the Koutoubia Mosque and the Djemaa el Fna.

My parents and I engage in a wonderful discussion about Islam as we sit at a rooftop terrace over the Djemaa.

Christmas in Agadir

We departed Marrakech on a bus to the ultra-modern coastal city of Agadir to meet up with Bruno and spend Christmas together.  I hadn’t spent Christmas with my parents in five years, they’d never spent a Christmas outside of North America, and it was the first they’d spend with Bruno.

I personally find it difficult to recreate a traditional Christmas abroad, and I’ll admit that, in the last few years, I’ve stopped trying.  Christmas, to me, means snow and huge family dinners and fires in the fire place and Christmas music.  It essence, it’s about being with my family.  Since I have never have my family abroad with me (except for Bruno, but he doesn’t do Christmas), I’ve stopped caring about Christmas.

Christmas is, however, very important to my mom.  And I could see her initial disappointment in Agadir after Marrakech – our riad wasn’t nearly as nice, we were in a big modern city that didn’t have nearly as much personality as Marrakech, and we were far away from the beach.  By the time we were settled in and showered, it was late on Christmas Eve and all we could do was have dinner at a pizza restaurant nearby.  Thank goodness Bruno had downloaded a few of mom’s favorite children’s Christmas shows.

Christmas Day, however, turned out fabulously.  Over breakfast in the hotel, mom and dad had Bruno and I open a stocking full of little gifts they’d painstakingly flown-over from Canada.  Then they went to the nearby hammam for a two-hour couple’s hammam and massage that Bruno and I had organized as a gift to them.  During that time, I raced over to a nearby supermarket and purchased foodstuffs so that I could prepare a picnic for the four of us on the hotel’s rooftop terrace.

Christmas Eve dinner, olives and pizza… Well, it’s unique, anyway!

Bruno and I opening our Christmas stocking, the first ever for Bruno!

Christmas breakfast in Agadir!

Mom and dad in front of the hammam, just prior to their Moroccan bath and massage experience!

When mom and dad returned, looking oily and infinitely relaxed, from their hammam experience, we sat in the warm Moroccan sun and ate a huge salad, cheese, bread, boiled eggs, and a rotisserie chicken, with freshly-squeezed orange juice, strawberries, and chocolate for dessert.  Christmas music rang out from my tiny Ipod speakers.

After lunch, we headed by taxi to Agadir’s beach.  We spent the next three hours walking with our toes in the ocean, sitting on the sand, and people-watching.  We saw a lot of local women with uncovered heads, legs, and shoulders, and we even saw lots of public displays of affection, which led me to understand that Agadir is a modern town in more ways than one.

Once the sun had set over the ocean, the four of us walked along the modern corniche with an ice-cream and then headed to a nice restaurant for our Christmas dinner.  We’d spent a lovely day outside and we’d gotten to Skype with both sides of our families, so I’d say our Christmas in Morocco, both the Marrakech lead-up and the actual day itself, was a wonderful Christmas, indeed!

Me prepping our rooftop terrace lunchtime picnic.

Walking along the long sandy Agadir beach on Christmas afternoon with my parents!!

Gazing out at the sun over the Atlantic Ocean. On the other side of that ocean is where mom and dad usually spend their Christmasses.

Christmas dinner in Agadir!

Bruno and I had gathered a lot of very strong opinions on Marrakech during our drive down the Moroccan Atlantic Coast, and this phrase, uttered by a local campsite owner, about sums them all up.  Not a single person we spoke with had anything positive to say about Marrakech.

So why was I on a four-hour-which-turned-into-a-seven-hour bus ride to the city which churns up tourists before spitting them back out?

I was picking up my parents for our Christmas in Morocco, that’s why!

Christmas in Morocco!

I was positively giddy to be welcoming my parents to Morocco.  It would be my parents’ first time in Africa, and my first time traveling to a developing country with my dad (if you don’t count our holiday at a Mexican resort when I was fifteen, that is).  I couldn’t wait to witness dad’s culture shock and to help both parents begin to navigate all things Moroccan, even if it was in Morocco’s very own tourist-factory town.

Our Moroccan Riad

I arrived first at the riad my mom had booked for us in the heart of Marrakech’s medina.  A riad is a traditional Moroccan house, often several stories high and with narrow rectangular rooms, and, essentially, an inner courtyard.  Riads were once popular because the inner courtyard (or garden) allowed families to have a quiet and cool private space in medinas that were typically very densely-packed, a country that was generally oppressively hot, and a culture that valued the privacy of women.

Nowadays, dilapidated riads are being renovated as guesthouses; ours, Riad Signature, was no exception.  A few years ago, a Frenchman purchased this crumbling traditional home and spent the next two years painstakingly renovating it.  I’d recently finished reading A House in Fez, a book about an Australian couple’s experience of renovating a riad in another Moroccan city, and their tales of bureaucratic challenges, the Moroccan work ethic, and pains modernizing an old home made me wonder if any riad-renovation project wasn’t foolhardy.

It’s a good thing Riad Signature is as beautiful and comfortable now as it is.

The courtyard of Riad Signature.

The Marrakech skyline from our riad’s rooftop terrace.

When I’d arrived in Marrakech and hailed down a petit taxi, the local taxies that can ferry up to three passengers short distances within a city, the taxi driver had told me he couldn’t bring me all the way to my riad.  The medina is too small for taxis, he’d told me.  I was prepared for this – it’s a common taxi ploy in Marrakech.  That’s too bad, I’d replied.  I was looking for a taxi to pick up my parents at the airport later, but I need one that can take them all the way in.  They have luggage, you see.

Well, that changed the taxi driver’s tune immediately.  He not only brought my down the narrow lane that, a moment ago, he’d refused to drive down, but he ferried me directly to my riad, which, situated at the dead end of a tiny alley and without a sign, I never would have located otherwise.

The front door to our riad, without a sign.

The dead-end alley of our riad.

So, I’d found my ride to the airport that night, where I picked up my parents and whisked them through the medina to our little riad haven.  Dad chatted and joked with the taxi driver in a mixture of French and English that he’d use throughout his time in Morocco and that would make any Acadian proud.  Inwardly, however, he was experiencing immediate culture shock at the tiny, dirty, alleys and seemingly-primitive way people lived.  Mom, sitting beside me, was simply glowing giddily.

Into the Souqs

The next morning, after a wonderful typically-Moroccan breakfast of msammen (Moroccan crepes) and baguette with honey, jam, cheese, and butter, freshly squeezed orange juice, and tea and coffee, the three of us ventured out into Marrakech’s medina.  I’d already discovered the pleasures of wandering aimlessly through Morocco’s mazes of medina alleyways, so I watched my parents ogle the sights that lay before them as we made our way past shops and souqs and narrow streets.  Men sat drinking tea and playing chess.  Spices, olives, and dried fruit, all piled high, sat out in the dusty streets; shopkeepers dribbled water onto the roads to keep down the dust.  Donkey carts filled with goods squeezed past us, as did the speedy motorbikes that kept us always on our toes.  My parents’ eyes looked filled with wonder at everyday life in Marrakech’s medina, so much so that mom almost ran into a huge carcass of meat hanging over the side of the road.

I’m demonstrating the pouring of Morccan mint tea at breakfast at the riad.

My parents, adventuring into the medina of Marrakech.

Watch out for the motorbike!

And the donkey!!

My parents soon got their first lesson in bargaining in the babouche souq, a souq filled with almost nothing but traditional leather slippers of every color and design.  As we passed the bright displays, shop owners called at us to visit their shops and shouted the standard price of fifty dirhams, or $7, for a pair of “handmade” babouches.  As we explored, I explained to my parents that bargaining is a way of life for Moroccan locals, and that it must be such for tourists, too, uncomfortable though it may feel.  I’d heard from several sources that tourists should never pay more than a third of the price initially quoted by a shop-owner, and though that had sounded like a large difference, I quickly learned that in Marrakech’s souqs, it was a conservative estimate.

In the babouche souq.

Babouches everywhere!

We approached a stall displaying wooden puzzles of desert scenes and I saw mom’s eye linger.  The shop-keeper saw her lingering eye, too.    Tell me what you want to buy, but let me do the bargaining, I’d told mom earlier, unwilling to let my parents become two more ripped-off tourists in Marrakech’s souqs.  So when the shop-keeper announced his opening price of 150 dirhams (about $20), I couldn’t help but take over:

“That’s your tourist price,” I smile.  “Give me your Moroccan price.”

“100 dirhams,” he replies without skipping a beat.

“Hmm… that’s still really expensive.  What’s your last price?  I mean, your lowest, lowest price?”

“How many do you want?  Two?  Three?”

“Just one.”

Pause.  “80 dirhams, for you,” he replies with a smile.  He’s almost cut his price in half, but I’m done yet.

“Sir, I think we’re going to keep walking around.  Maybe visit a few more puzzle shops.”

“That means you’re not coming back, doesn’t it?

“It just means we’re going to shop around, get an idea of price.”

“Ok, 60 dirhams and you take it now.”

“30.”

“50.”

“40.”

“45.”

“Deal.”  And the puzzle is ours, for less than a third of the initial price.

“How many do you want?” continues the shop-keeper.  “Two?  Three?”

“If you want to give me two for 45 dirhams, I’m fine with that,” I laugh.

He looks at my mother.  “This woman could put me out of business!”  And he hands us one puzzle.

My mom seemed a bit uncomfortable about this encounter, like we’d ripped him off or something.  The price just seemed too far from what he’d initially quoted.  If the man sold me the item, I assured her, it meant he’s ok with the price.  The entire interaction had happened with smiles on our faces.  It’s all a good-natured part of the Moroccan purchasing process.

It was a lesson my parents would have many opportunities to practice during their weeks in Morocco.

A Palace, a Tomb, and a Medersa

Over the course of Morocco’s fascinating history, Marrakech was often a strategic city along the caravan routes from Sudan.  As such, there are a few sites of historical importance that my mom and I really wanted to see.  We dragged dad to the Bahia Palace, a giant riad-style palace built in the 19^th century, and a great example of traditional Moroccan design.  Ceramic tiles (called zellij) adorn the floors and walls; the doorways and ceiling trim are elaborately carved; and ceilings are intricately painted with geometric floral designs.  In typical Moroccan fashion, the palace doesn’t look like much from the outside, but inside you enter a maze of long, rectangular rooms whose windows and doors face inwards, to the inner courtyards and gardens.  Important ruling families, warlords, and even French generals lived here over the past 200 years, and it was interesting to picture their lives, tucked away from the bustle of the medina.

Mom and I at the Bahia Palace.

One of the many intricately-decorated ceiling of the Bahia Palace.

Later, we stopped by the Saadian Tombs, a 16^th century cemetery for the ruling Saadian family.  There are tons of tombs, and a few mausoleums demonstrating Moroccan ceramics and carvings, but we passed through quickly, rather unmoved.  I suppose a guided tour could have improved the experience because, as is typical with sites in Morocco, there are few signs describing what you’re viewing.

Of the three architectural sites we visited, I found the Ali Ben Youssef Medersa most interesting.  A medersa (“madrasa” in other Muslim countries) is a Koranic school, and this one, built 600 years ago, was once one of the most important in all of North Africa.  The same types of zellij, carvings, and painted doors and ceilings exist here as in the Bahia Palace, but what I found more interesting was the plain and stark dormitories for the 900+ students at a time that received religious and legal education here.

Just outside the medersa, or Koranic school.

Mom admiring the Ali Ben Youssef Medersa.

Dad, admiring the same, but from above.

My parents aren’t the only ones admiring the medersa.

The Djemaa el Fna

None of the architectural sites we visited held a candle to the Djemaa el Fna, however.  Djemaa means “Friday mosque,” the most important day of the week to pray in a mosque, but that’s just a Muslim way of expressing the real meaning of the term, namely a “congregation” or a “gathering.”  In Marrakech, the Djemaa is the ultimate gathering, for it refers to the Central Square and beating-heart of the city’s medina.

On our first evening, we ventured to the Djemaa around sunset to witness halqa, the street theater that has been performed here for the past thousand years.  During the day there are snake charmers, colorfully-dressed water-sellers clanging brass cups together, and self-claimed “dentists” displaying their curriculum vitae of pulled-teeth.  Once the sun sets, it’s the musicians, dancers, meat-grillers, astrologists, storytellers, potion-sellers, and cross-dressing belly-dancers that take over the square, strumming and pounding and shouting into the wee hours of the night.

A bird’s eye view of the Djemaa el Fna, or central square, of Marrakech.

A water-seller, taking a break.

A potion-seller in the Djemaa.

Dad took off at his typical breakneck speed, eager to see it all at once, but mom and I strolled slowly along, stopping whenever we saw a group of people huddled around a few musicians.  The musicians play for coins, of course, and we were quickly initiated into this ritual.  A group of Arab musicians played a tune that had everyone laughing hysterically then passed the hat around.  Of course, they asked us tourists for money.  I gave them a dirham, about $0.15, which my guide book had said was about right.  The man looked at my measly coin, announced to everyone that the tourist had given him an entire dirham, and then proceeded to jokingly curse me – May you never eat again, sleep again, or go to the toilet ever again!

The Arab storyteller who insulted me when I only gave him a dirham.

By the light of an oil lamp on the Djemaa el Fna, buskers have weaved their stories and songs for almost a thousand years. Well, maybe they didn’t always have oil lamps…

Later, we stopped in front of a lively group of Berber musicians, the other main ethnic group in Morocco.  We were offered benches to sit on and super-sweet mint tea passed around in the same glass (Mom refused it), and then we witnessed what my parents quite accurately described as a tintamarre, an Acadian party involving convivial marching through streets with makeshift instruments making as much noise, or clangour, as humanly possible.  Dad got up and danced in front of everyone, then one of the musicians grabbed his water bottle, pretended to drink it and to get very, very drunk on its contents.  We stayed longer here, gave a few extra dirham, and left without being cursed.

The Berber musicians on the Djemaa.

A Berber banjo.

The Djemaa became our evening entertainment, and we returned unhesitatingly the following night.  This time, we wandered through La Place, the hundred or so food stands arranged in the center of the square.  The stalls are numbered rather than named, and since they all sell almost the same thing, the way they differentiate themselves is by creating catch-phrases, which they wield in English at every passing person.  Number 87 takes you to heaven.  94 will serve you more.  Walking through the stalls felt like spinning through a factory assembly line, and, upon emerging, I took a deep breath of [semi] fresh air.  Dad, however, stayed inside a long time, coming up with his own catch-phrases and making up fake excuses about already having promised to eat at number 25’s stall.  It was almost as if dad had been Moroccan in his past life.

Dad testing out a new repertoire of jokes with the meat-grillers at La Place.

Stall #3, one of the few not offering straight-up meat. Instead, some kind of weird seashell soup.

Grill smoke everywhere. But it’s a pretty popular eating area, even amongst the locals.

Of course, as with all things, Marrakech wasn’t all innocent fun and positive experiences – there was a healthy dose of touting, begging, and general harassment, too.  But you’ll have to wait until Part II of this story to find out about the dark side of Marrakech!

Should we carry quickly on south, or tempt fate by slowing our transit down once we reach the Portuguese coast?  That was the question I left you with in my last post, when I described our southern migration toward warmer skies.

Bruno would have carried on straight south, but we were passing so close to cities that hold such sway in my imagination that I couldn’t help but tempt fate (I told you in my last post that I’m unable to transit with my eyes closed!).  And so, we thought-up a compromise – we would slow down just enough to give me a quick taste of Porto and Lisbon, and then resume our transit south.

Below is thus a tale of two pit-stops in the most tantalizing of Portuguese cities.

A Tale of Porto: Beaches, Ribeira Riverfront, and Wine-Tasting

I couldn’t jump out of the car fast enough when we arrived in Porto.  Actually, we were camped south of town, on the other side of the infamous Douro River.  But here, on this sunny Sunday, the city was fully alive.

Here was a coastline stretching as far as the eye could see, and along it, both a bike path and a boardwalk.  The sun was out, the locals were out, and I wanted – nay, needed! – to be out too.  At this time of year, you have to take full advantage of good weather, especially in notoriously rainy Porto.

Bruno and I spent most of that first day cycling along the bike path and walking over the dunes on the boardwalk.  We biked in one direction, past beach cafés, to a small white hexagonal-shaped chapel on a bed of rocks at the very edge of the water.  In the other direction we rode past the estuary bordering the city proper, and caught our first sight of the six bridges to Porto.

The “Miracle Chapel”, or Chapel of the Lord of Stone, on the beach south of Porto.

Nice boardwalk along the coast, with Porto in the distance.

Porto is a majestic-looking city.  Sat at the point where the Douro River throws itself into the Atlantic Ocean, its riverfront buildings are long and narrow, with an abundance of windows.  The pastel paint and bright orange roofs face south and sparkle in the sun all day, their hues changing with the strength and angle of the sun.

It was along this riverfront – Ribeira, it’s called – that Bruno and I spent our next day.  We donned our walking shoes because we’d planned to walk up the hill to explore the entire city.  We wanted to see the São Francisco Church, the Stock Exchange Palace, and the Mercado de Bolhão.  But every alley we turned onto seemed to lead us back to the river.  Eventually, we decided just to go with it.

The charming and colorful Ribeira Riverfront in Porto.

Some other parts of downtown Porto.

But all roads lead back to Ribeira.

On our side of the River, in Vila Nova de Gaia, we took part in the quintessential Porto experience – a port wine tour.  Porto not only gave its name to Portugal, but also to a sweet fortified wine called vinho de Porto.  This delectable wine is barrelled and bottled in Porto, and you can still see boats with wooden barrels bobbing in the water on the riverfront.  The grapes, which are grown 100km away – in the Douro River Valley – used to be transported to Porto this way, but now the boats are merely nostalgic, albeit charming, nods to the past.

We’d driven through the Douro River Valley to reach Porto because it’s considered by some to be the best drive in the world.  It was, indeed, both beautiful and fascinating.  The river meandered through the hills, where villages of whitewashed homes with orange roofs popped out around each bend.  On the hills between the villages was vineyard after vineyard, each announcing its company name with a giant sign in the center of the hill.  It reminded me quite a lot of the hillside vineyards of western Switzerland, minus the signs.

Me posing on the south side of Porto’s stretch of the Douro River, with Ribeira and port-barrel-loaded boats in the backdrop.

Having a picnic lunch at the top of the Douro River Valley before driving along the best road in the world.

It is the microclimate and special soil of the Douro River Valley that makes the perfect port wine grapes.  We didn’t know this at the time, though – we learned this at the Ferreira Wines processing facility, one of many plants along Porto’s piece of the Douro River.  For a few euros, we were given a guided tour of the facilities followed by a port wine tasting.

To make port, the grapes’ fermentation process is halted after a few days by adding clear, flavorless brandy.  This fortifies the wine, of course, but also allows some of the grapes’ sweetness to be retained.  Port wine is thus a perfect aperitif or dessert wine, best drunk in the Portuguese way – with chocolate, cheese, or nuts, but never with one’s meal.

Our tasting of port involved one of each of the three main types – a white (always served as an aperitif), a tawny (reddish brown because it’s aged in small wooden barrels; can be drunk before or after a meal), and ruby (deep red because it’s aged in giant vats so has less contact with the barrel and the air; is always drunk as a dessert wine).  As a tawny, we were given a 10-year old bottle, which is a blend of many different ages of port that average out to ten years and give the port a consistent Ferreira flavour.  And the ruby we tried was a 2011 vintage special harvest, which is made from a single grape harvest deemed to be exceptional.  This last wine is only made occasionally because not every year’s harvest fulfils the criteria needed to make an unblended port.  (According to a quick internet research, 2011 was widely declared the best vintage year in 20 years, making my port tasting even more special!)

Approaching the Ferreira Port processing facility for our port tour and tasting.

Barrels of port aging.

My trio of port.

Bring it on!

I may have walked out of Ferreira Wines a bit tipsy, but at least the buzz came with newfound knowledge of both port wine and the essence of what makes Porto tick.

A Tale of Lisbon: Pastries, Fado, and Ceramic Tiles

When faced with only two full days in a European capital city, what is the most efficient way to start?  A walking tour, of course.  Though I don’t join them often, I have a thing for free city walking tours.  They help to make sense of the history behind all the big, beautiful buildings that, admittedly, can begin to look alike after enough sight-seeing in Europe.  And they give me a connection to a local person that I would otherwise need time to foster.

I joined Discover Walks Lisbon, and ended up being the only one (Bruno had had his dose of city in Porto).  My private tour with Pedro in Lisbon’s west end, Belém, revolved mainly around Portugal’s Age of Discovery.  We saw statues of Portugal’s famous explorers, enumerated Portugal’s many old colonies while stepping over the world map mural donated by South Africa, and discussed Portugal’s legacy around the world as we walked past a Thai temple.

A Statue of explorer Afonso de Albuquerque in front of Lisbon’s presidential palace.

This Thai temple in the middle of Belém isn’t so random when you think of Portugal’s exploratory legacy around the world.

33 Portuguese explorers are immortalized in the Monument to the Discoveries.

I sensed Pedro’s pride in his country’s history.  There was a theme to his narrative – the Portuguese were the first to do a lot of things, but were never recognized for them, never made famous for their contributions.  Pedro seemed to feel that his country was small but mighty, that they’d influenced more than their fair share of world history, and that he was proud to be Portuguese.  I found this insight even more interesting than the facts Pedro shot off.

After the tour, I wandered around Belém, photographing the ceramic tiles that are so often on the façades of Portuguese homes.  It turns out that, in the 18^th century, Portuguese people often kept ceramic tiles of saints in their homes for good luck.  After the terrible 1755 Lisbon earthquake, many homes, being made principally of wood, were burnt to the ground.  Only the ceramic tiles remained.  Thereafter, covering one’s façade with ceramic tiles became popular as a way to prevent fire from burning down one’s house.

If you’d asked Lisboans thirty years ago what they thought of the ceramic façades so common in their country, most would have scoffed and dubbed them old-fashioned peasant adornment.  Nowadays, though, most locals nostalgically gush over the bright-colored patterns of the ceramic façades.  I agree, so much so that I opted to eat my lunch with a bunch of locals at a cafeteria covered in ceramic tiles.

Typical ceramic tiles on the façades of Portuguese homes.

Artsier ceramic tiling.

My local cafeteria lunch.

The fog had lifted after lunch, so I walked along the water to properly look at the bridges and the Monument to the Discoveries.  I popped into the massive Jerónimos Monastery and then waltzed next door, to the Pastéis de Belém.  The pasteleria dates back to 1837, when the cash-strapped monks next door started a pastry business.  Pastéis de Nata, small flaky tarts filled with custard cream, have been famous around Portugal ever since.  I brought some home to Bruno and we bit into them together.  One word: delicious.

The Jerónimos Monastery takes up a huge chunk of prime real estate near Belem’s waterfront.

Maybe that’s why the monks needed to open the Pastéis de Belém.

He likes them.

Maybe it was the pastries, but the following day I was able to convince Bruno to come into Lisbon with me.  We wandered up downtown Baixa’s main pedestrian street, which was filled with buskers, Christmas decorations, and stir on this sunny Saturday afternoon.  We ate, of course, more Portuguese pastries.  Then we walked past the São Jorge Castle into Alfama, the old Moorish part of Lisbon.  By this point it was evening, leaving us wandering up and down narrow alleys in the dark.

It’s so rare these days that I visit a city after dusk, but there was a reason I’d managed to convince Bruno to – I wanted to witness a fado performance.  Fado is a style of traditional Portuguese music that originates in Alfama.  The slow, nostalgic music generally involves a male guitarist (playing a Portuguese guitar, which is rounder and double-stringed) and a female vocalist.  Nowadays, fado is performed most often as dinner accompaniment in small tourist restaurants.  Even though it’s a tourist cliché to see fado in Alfama (like the port-tasting in Porto, perhaps?), it was one I wanted to partake in.

Lots of action on the main pedestrian street of Baixa.

He’s happy to see these pastries.

The Moorish alleys of Alfama after dark.

Walk in the lower alleyways of Alfama around dusk and you will see loads of restaurants advertising fado performances that evening.  It’s a challenge to pick a restaurant – you can never be sure whether the group performing will actually be good, or just there to lure in tourists – so we chose based on an early start time and the availability of vegetarian food.  And we actually lucked out – Fatima Moura’s five-person group at São Miguel Restaurant was great (at least to my untrained ear).  Thank goodness we got lucky, because the food was expensive (albeit yummy) and the drinks ridiculous ($5 for a small bottle of water?).

There were three guitarists, one of them on the Portuguese guitar, and another who sang sometimes; and of course, two alternating female singers.  Fado music is centered on the melody of the singer, who generally has a deep, strong alto voice.  It’s nostalgic music, full of longing, broken hearts, and hard times, but it’s not always slow.  I found similarities to traditional Greek music and Eastern European gypsy music, but that might just be because of the stringing techniques and the foreign language.

It’s all about the Fado in Alfama.

The Fado performance we witnessed in Lisbon’s Alfama district.

That there on the left is the Portuguese guitar, a crucial element of fado music.

I loved getting to see live Fado, but in retrospect, I’d have preferred a different venue.  The place was pretty empty, except for tourists that would wander in, eat, and be out in an hour.  The band would play 3-5 songs and then take a break that felt endless in a restaurant where it was too expensive for us to draw out our meal.  After 3 hours and only fifteen songs, we were the last in the place so decided to call it a night.  I’d love to see Fado again, but in a serious venue where people are there for the music, if that’s possible to find.

It was the Best of Times, it was the Worst of Times

With less than a week spent between Portugal’s two largest cities, it’s little wonder my tales come down to a few visual impressions, trivial facts, and clichéd tourist experiences.  The truth is I’ve been struggling with the pace of our travel in Europe.  There is so much history to experience in each square inch of European space that I perpetually feel as though I’m merely skimming the surface.  What often results from my visits is a feeling of dissatisfaction and frustration buried underneath my enthusiasm.

As a slow traveler and amateur writer, I’ve come to expect a certain depth or uniqueness of experience from myself when I visit a place and then write about it.  I want to share some inimitable inkling of a place with you; I want to experience something beyond the typical tourist-package.  I want to dig deeper, to gain some glimmer of understanding.

But that’s hard in Europe, especially when you’re in transit.

I’m working on accepting that.  To appreciate the fact that I’ve stepped foot into cities that, a few years ago, I wasn’t sure I’d even get the chance to visit at all.  To feel grateful and lucky for my experiences, however brief, superficial, or formulaic they may be.  And to tell myself that I’m doing some sort of reconnaissance mission for our better, longer, slower trip to Europe one day.  That’ll be the trip that will do the likes of Porto and Lisbon, two cities worthy of a wonderful tale, justice.

Happy in Lisbon at sunset… do I really need anything more?