The Chronicles of a Kept Man

I need a camera.

2010-07-19T09:52:00.002+01:00

Remember how my camera was stolen in Grenoble?

One person, staying at the same hostel in Carcassonne as I, offered to take some photos and email them to me upon returning home. I'll get those up later.

For now, a quick photo tour of Barcelona, care of a tremendously fantastic disposable camera.

Suck.

Sagrada Familia - Cathedral in Barcelona designed by Antoni Gaudi, construction began in 1882 and is still under construction.

View toward La Boqueria (Mercat de Sant Josep) from Las Ramblas.

Potentially a fantastic photo. My ugly mug in front of row upon row of whole hams. Mmmmm... ham....

Another potential shot ruined by lack of light and disposable camera. More ham, fruit, fish, etc.

Alleyway in the Gothic Quarter - Thought these walkways were pretty interesting.

Castle on Montjuic

View of Barcelona (toward the northeast) from the roof of the Castle on Montjuic.

Yep. Outside the Sports and Olympics Museum in Barcelona. Just around the corner from the Olympic Stadium

Terraced gardens and ponds in a park on Montjuic.

View of the Olympic Villiage. Perfect framing....jackass.

Olympic Stadium. Perfect framing again, ahem.

Primavera Sound Music Festival. Iced-tea in hand.

View from hostel.

The Paper Anniversary

2010-07-18T22:47:00.001+01:00

I successfully remembered our first anniversary. Our first anniversary, ever. We never had a specific date that it became official, we didn't note the date of our "first date" so we did without an official anniversary for many years.

I'm quite sure that one engraving on the inside of my ring helped me to remember; the other engraving certainly keeps me in line.

I knew full well that the first anniversary is the "paper anniversary." I'm sure that went over fine during the great depression: Here you go honey, you can have my soup-line voucher for today. Living in a far-off, exotic land, I had to step up my game.

Having never purchased anything for the lady other than little gifts here or there, or for birthdays or other religious holidays (I'm looking at you Eid), I ran some ideas by friends in Morocco and none of them seemed satisfying enough for such an occasion. Gift certificates for foot rubs, offers to mop the floor and cook dinner, perhaps even a "money back garren-tee to keep my bloody mouth shut and stop annoying you for at least two minutes." (I'm saving that one for the 10 year!)

Then inspiration hit me. First, since I now knew that our move to Prague was imminent, we would need souvenirs from our stay in Morocco. Additionally, there were a couple of options that I knew wifi had her eye on. One is a massive leather day-trip bag (such as this) typically found in dozens, if not hundreds, of leather shops around the Marrakchi souqs. Another idea was to find a couple of poufs (not this kind, but something like these).

These options are both a problem. First, Nuala is very picky about the type of bag she wants; from the buckle style to color of leather. Second, the poufs are similarly customized and varied in their size, color, style, etc. And finally, I have something against Marrakchi leather. It tends to smell like shit. It literally smells like shit because it is soaked in pigeon shit. Didn't I already explain the process of naturally tanning leather?? After spending ten minutes searching the archives of The Chronicles, apparently I didn't! Well, long story short, they soak animal skins in piss and shit for weeks. This smell carries over, sometimes, in the finished products whether they be bags, poufs, or baboush.

Instead, I decided on a gift that I knew Nuala had been eyeing, was a perfect souvenir for memories of Morocco, and would force me to haggle. Damnit! I decided a traditional berber gift of a "Moroccan wedding blanket" would be ideal.

A Moroccan wedding blanket, also known as a handira, is generally made from wool and is designed and woven by the bride's female family members (I believe it is generally the mother of the bride that takes care of this honor). Several days before the wedding, the bedding, including the wedding blanket, are taken to the bridal bedroom. These blankets can be very intricate in both weave design and the sheer number of sequins. That's right, dear readers, yours truly went to the souqs and spent the better portion of an hour sifting through dozens of Moroccan wedding blankets and saying either laa (no) or moumkin (maybe), shukran (thank you) to millions of sequins. There could be thousands of these on a single blanket.

In preparation, I emailed a world renowned American expat living in Marrakech. She is designing, building and opening a maison d'hotes with her husband and family. She is also big in fashion, photography and interior design; three things that I have no desire to explore (fashion and interior design) or at which I am terrible (photography - not having a camera certainly doesn't help much, either). Incidentally, she has a fancy blog. Anyway, Maryam also purchases wedding blankets and resells them to designers and wannabe's alike. As I had no reference point and generally suck at haggling, I asked for some help on what makes one blanket better than another, what to look for, and pricing guidelines. She was extremely gracious and after a couple of emails was able to give me the following rough guidelines when looking for a blanket.

Armed with information and Nuala's and my good friend Barrie, we ventured into the souqs. Barrie had already purchased a wedding blanket from one of the shops and offered to take me to see them. It turned out that this particular shop had gone out of business. Instead, we wandered across Place Lakdima Rhaba (a few doors down from Cafe d'Épices) into the cool confines of the tapestry and textile markets. We chose a shop at random; one of the men lounging on a pile of carpets on the cool white tile floor jumped up and jogged after us into his shop. He escorted us up the stairs to their show room, offered us a seat and a cup of tea.

This gentleman was just that. Instead of the typically hard sell that one has to deal with in Marrakech, this salesman let the blankets speak for themselves. One tactic rug and blanket salesmen use is to present you with literally dozens, if not a hundred or more, of rugs and blankets. At the same time, they will unfold them all, lose their breath and break a sweat. They are working extremely hard for your sake, after all... This gentleman seemed happy to assist especially when he found that it was an anniversary present. Barrie gave her two cents on the blankets, translated some French, more Arabic, while I wandered around peering at various rugs.

In the end, the price tag said X Dh. Particularly since this is about an anniversary gift I don't want to get to detailed about pricing, but I will tell you a little bit. He gave the ol' line "I like you... I'll give you Marrakchi price." This turned out to be about 0.40 * X Dh (a 60% discount off of ticket price isn't such a bad starting rate). We spoke back and forth and I finally got the salesman to say "Safi" and shake my hand for ((0.4*X Dh) - 300 Dh). I was happy. I got a blanket that I liked, I knew Nuala would like, and had all of the hallmarks of what was a quality blanket, per my expert sources in Marrakech.

And, in true tight-wad Fisher fashion, spent on the low end of the pricing guidelines set out for me.

Handira - Berber wedding blanket. Reversible. Ideally, we will get a white comforter cover and this will be a bed spread at the base of the bed. That's as far as my interior design "skills" go. Obviously doesn't go too well with the current comforter cover.

Alternating pattern between "shag carpet" style and tightly woven wool.

Another view of pattern and sequins.

Close-up of small, slightly rusting sequins.

A Little News Item

2010-07-16T16:07:00.002+01:00

It is official. After many months of delays in Marrakech, months of working "on a temporary basis" in Prague, Nuala has signed a contract setting into motion a move to the Czech Republic. (I'm taking inventory of our "stuff" today for a moving company estimate.) Her contract begins on August 1st, we will be traveling to Barcelona this coming weekend for an anniversary get-away-together, and at some point she will return to Marrakech to assist in the tying of loose ends.

We hope to have our things on their way out of Morocco and have me be settling into the hotel in Prague by the end of August. There is a lot to be completed, but as with many things, not much we can do far in advance. We have already given notice to our landlord in Marrakech, who incidentally is trying to screw us out of 400€, we will be arranging for the water and electricity company to provide a final bill to be paid so our deposit can be returned, we need to close our Moroccan bank account (which was of no use since we will be withdrawing the original 100€ we deposited to open the account), finish up any work handover items for Nuala, pack as much into two backpacks and one piece of checked luggage as possible as we will be living out of a hotel and/or apartment with our "stuff" on the slow boat to the Czech Republic, have all of our stuff packed up and moved on toward customs, have our landlord inspect the premises for my cleaning and maintenance abilities, get violent over our deposit, say our goodbyes and fly off for the land of former communists, cheap beer, nice people, equally crazy language of Czech, and cold.

So what can we expect?

Luckily, we aren't moving blindly as we did with Marrakech. We have, in essence, been living in Prague since January. I think we have an educated grasp of the climate, both winter and summer, culture, personality, and mores of the country. I think we know, mostly, what to expect. Surely, we can't be wholly prepared for this new adventure; there are certainly facets to life in Prague and the Czech Republic (CR) that we will come to know abruptly. Who would have it any other way?

There is a ton of bureaucracy in the CR. Though on the brightside, the Czech people do know how to form a queue and, as far as we know, bribes to public officials are not the norm and daily occurrence that it is in Morocco.

I am sure it will be new and different to be moving away from the land of no OSHA protections, donkey carts, massive construction projects on every block of every street, and into the land of warm weather (see above photo), cool beer, beautiful and old architecture,

a style of architecture renowned the world over and central to Prague,

Nice example of art nouveau architecture in Prague - The Municipal House on Namesti Republiky

super-mega-awesome advertisements,

and the land of sun rays warming your face in a quiet garden tucked away on a hillside.

We are excited.

This move will afford us many new opportunities that, unfortunately, Morocco was just not able to provide. First and foremost, it provides stability for both Nuala and I. We have been living month to month in terms of our expectations. We knew not where we would be, officially, and we couldn't plan to take language courses for a long period of time, we couldn't plan trips to exotic lands, and we couldn't even provide a well-planned two months notice to our landlord. (Incidentally, because things were delayed so much with the transfer, we will likely end up paying for our apartment for at least a month that we won't be living there. Fun, right?!)

In addition to stability in terms of time and geography, it provides stability for Nuala. Job security. Without getting into too many details, after delay upon delay, there were and are concerns about job security in the Maghreb. Finally, Nuala will be able to do work instead of revise Standard Operating Procedures for the umpteenth time, revising revisions of revised floor plans, etc. Finally, she will feel like she is working toward something (hopefully?). Finally, she will be working for an operation rather than dreams of an operation. Soon, she will be able to make the position her own rather than feeling like she is filling in.

For me, the kept man as it were, I will be looking at my options in the coming weeks. I think I may see work and/or school in my near future. Details have yet to be determined.

Of course, not everything about moving away from Marrakech to Prague are positives. The lifestyle in Morocco, with its annoyingly relaxed "inshallah" way of scheduling life's affairs, the relatively inexpensive groceries and restaurants, extremely inexpensive taxis, and an all around shrug-your-shoulders-and-not-worry-about-it kind of attitude. Think Spain but with more Arabic, bribes, and one giant siesta called Ramadan. We are moving away from colleagues of Nuala's, many of whom I can call friends as well. Also, Nuala and I will be moving away from several very close friends with whom, I suspect, we will be traveling to visit for years to come.

Bryan, Barrie, Amanda and Liz - Friends from Marrakech and beyond

On the other hand, we have explored our new town and made some new friends.

Tony and Alex... andiamo.

Not everything is dandy in Prague. It's not the end all, be all of moves; it's bloody cold, for one.

A warm summer morning in Prague... not really.

We are moving away from 50 degree winter weather and 110 degree summer weather for snowy 20 degree winter weather and 90 degree summer weather. I'm not sure which is the worse. Sure, I can't do too much during the summer in Marrakech due to the potential for heat stroke or ending up like Tom Simpson (or a more graphic photo of Tom Simpson's final moments for you morbid freaks). In the Czech Republic, I have somewhere between four and six months that I wouldn't be able to do much outdoor exercise activity for fear of ending up like Christopher McCandless or this guy:

But worst of all?

The bloody tourists...

Congratulations Nuala!

Why is this day different from all other days?

2010-07-14T09:13:00.001+01:00

Happy Bastille Day!

I love, and miss, you.

In Search of the World Cup - Marrakech, Morocco

2010-07-12T14:35:00.001+01:00

Uruguay eventually got what they deserved... a loss to Germany.

The World Cup is finished. Viva Espana!

Football is huge in the Maghreb. I have noted previously that exercise for its own sake is relatively rare. Though are certainly fitness centers, boxing gyms, yoga classes and a small jogging and cycling contingent, for the most part I have found that many Moroccans don't exercise outside of a football game. I am hesitant to make grand generalizations but I find that this is the case for much of the population.

If you are asking yourself, "Garren, what the hell is your point?" I'm saying that Moroccans play and follow football closely. A significant portion of the youth of Marrakech wear nothing but FC Barcelona jerseys; Jemma al Fna can be a sea of red and blue stripes. From this, and comments from a little kid at the summer camp from which I mooched pool privileges ("Barcelona is the greatest football club in the whole entire world.") I figured most Marrakchis would be supporting Spain in the final.

Unfortunately, many Moroccans were unable to watch the World Cup matches they desired. Al Jazeera Sports networks holds the broadcast monopoly for North Africa and the Middle East. This year, they were offering only 22 of the 64 total matches and were charging $15 million for broadcasting rights within each country. The Moroccan Ministry of Communications decided it was not in their interest to pay this sum for matches it considered to be less exciting or important; the 22 matches on offer excluded many games of interest to Moroccans including those of Spain, Argentina, France, Algeria and Brazil. This meant that the national television networks would not be airing any World Cup matches precluding your average Moroccan, or American Kept Man,who has only a free-to-air satellite receiver from seeing games in the comfort of their home.

The alternatives were three-fold: one could opt to frequent one of the many bars, cafés, hotels, or restaurants who have pay-satellite television with international sports networks. Another option was online streaming of the matches. A final option, apparently popular in Algeria, was the use of pirated satellite decrypting cards or descramblers to be able to receive the pay-satellite television stations in their home.

I haven't the means, desire, nor the knowledge to use a pirated decrypting card. I attempted to watch several matches from home using internet live streaming sights such as http://iraqgoals.net/ or http://atdhe.net/. Due to slow internet speeds and a tiny viewable screen, this turned out to be a less than stellar option. The final option, expensive for me and out of reach for many Moroccans, was to watch from a restaurant or café.

On Saturday, for the third place match, my friends and I went to Kechmara to watch on their projector screen. In true Moroccan fashion, the weather decided to screw with us. It was only 113 degrees out and it began to rain pretty heavily with strong wind gusts. The satellite dish on Kechmara's roof was blown out of alignment and we were unable to watch the match from their location. Do we get a refund on the beer we bought in anticipation? What do you think this is? Customer service? We wandered, quickly, next door to the Chesterfield Pub at the Hotel Nassim. The televisions were much smaller but the beer tab was also much smaller. The pub was super quiet with perhaps a dozen people viewing the match. After watching Germany's win, we decided that we should try the Chesterfield Pub on Sunday to watch the final even with the smaller screens.

The following day it was decided we would meet at Casanova Italian restaurant where they too were showing the game on a projection screen. We arrived to find a table set for about ten people and another large table filling with Italian expats. Ours was filled with Americans, Australians, Moroccans, British, Swiss, and Japanese. We shared a bottle of wine, baskets of bread, and laughter as we watched the first half of extremely careful play between the Dutch and Spanish - and an attack against Alonso straight out of Mortal Kombat.

Then it happened; at the end of the first half the power shut off. No projector. No air conditioning. No ceiling fans. No food. No cash register. A couple of guys took the initiative to speak with the owner and staff after some servers came around with candles. It was just too bloody hot for open flames on each table and I began to grow concerned when the blackout was isolated to the restaurant alone. All other buildings on the block still had power.

I asked if I could get my bill, just in case the problem wouldn't be solved and we would have to leave quickly to get to another venue. "No, no monsieur. This is just a small problem. It will be fixed in ten minutes." I decided to wait a couple minutes to see... I asked again for the bill and this time my request was met with "Monsieur, s'il vous plait... four minutes. Just four minutes." At this, my friend Mouad started laughing. He provided commentary from a Moroccan's perspective.

"You see, in Morocco, four minutes means ten. 15 minutes means 30. By the time they have this problem fixed, the second half will be over." Even though I knew this to be reality before, his reiterating what I knew to be true moved me to force the issue with the server at the bar and paid my tab.

As I was getting my change, one of the guys from our table came back inside shaking his head and chuckling to himself.

"So, all the buildings on the block have power. They are tinkering in the fuse box outside right now and one of the servers has a piece of wire he is going to try and jerry-rig in place of a fuse."

Wow... only in Morocco. 220V is not something I'd want to mess around with. After several false alarms of lights turning on and off, and only several screams of pain from electrical burns and heart implosions, we left.

Some of the group wandered from café to café looking for open seats and a large enough screen. I went with another couple back to the Chesterfield pub hoping it wouldn't be too busy. We were in no such luck. The day previously, for the high scoring and relatively exciting third place match saw only a dozen fans. For the final, the pub was packed to the rafters. I am speaking literally, as people were sitting on the spiral stairwell leading up to the loft above the main area. Beer was flowing like wine and the only spot I could garner was in a hallway with about a three square inch viewing space between a Brit's head and a Dutchman's shoulder. It was hot and miserable but we caught the last 20 minutes of the second half.

I should mention that my friends left their camera back at the italian restaurant and had run back to get it. Upon return they couldn't find a place to watch the game so they relaxed on the patio to wait out the game. They noted that the restaurant had they power restored but it was a 10-15 minute walk away. When it was sure we would see extra-time, we walked at a brisk pace to try and make it the restaurant to catch the action.

Wouldn't you know, when we arrived at the restaurant, the power had failed. Again. Sweat streaming down my back and face, I let out a laugh and a "Are you f___ing kidding me?!" It wasn't directed at anyone except my poor fortune. I didn't think twice as I hopped across the busy intersection to the café packed with around 50 locals huddled around an old-school 20" television screen. Not ideal but I could see a dot of white moving amongst blurs of orange and blue.

Finally, I noticed the neon lights for the restaurant flared on and didn't seem to flicker. My friends walked across the street to see if it was only a false hope while I decided I didn't want to miss anymore of the action. I kept looking back to the restaurant, with its fans, air conditioning, chairs, and beer expectantly. And then I saw him. The security guard that was the unfortunate witness to my frustration waved across the street, seemingly notifying me that the electricity was restored. It was safe to cross the street and watch the final minutes of the second extra-time.

We finished watching the game in comfort and style. Most everyone let out a great cheer when Spain scored the only goal of the night. It was almost as large as the cheer for when the electricity was restored. And the security guard who was waving me over, informing me that it was safe to return? Well, it was the owner of the restaurant, his boss that he was waving to. Apparently, he too was sick of the power outages and had resorted to crossing the street to watch the game.

I Can't Sleep: Marrakchi-Style

2010-07-11T12:41:00.001+01:00

I haven't blogged in a while. Many of you know about the trials Nuala has been going through. She was shipped out to Prague upon return to Marrakech after only a single day back to work. I stayed behind. I have been asked on numerous occasions by friends and acquaintances why I am not in Prague with her. The simplest answer I can provide boils down to finances and boredom. I can only do so much living out of a hotel, particularly when it is temporary. At least in Marrakech I have my kitchen implements, cycling gear, books, movies, etc. Additionally, flights from Marrakech to Prague are not cheap as I am forced to fly through any number of European cities to get a connection.

By the way, I'm getting really tired of explaining my being a house husband. It always seems to blow peoples minds and I need to explain what I am doing or why I am doing. I already feel inadequate enough. I already feel lazy, so I don't need some person, brand new in my social circle, to judge me. Perhaps it's just me judging myself.

So the blog... it's been neglected. It's very hot in Marrakech right now, at about 110 degrees F with humidity ranging from 30% to raining. The stress of uncertainty with work for Nuala and I has also been fairly overwhelming so all things considered, I couldn't bring myself to care about writing, even a brief update.

Until tonight.

I have no other choice. I can't sleep.

Who else can say they have been kept up late by a kaftan party?

Marrakech Express: No Moroccan Babies Style

2010-06-25T10:44:00.002+01:00

Reason number 34 we are happy in Marrakech:

We received a tip from friends that pharmaceuticals are inexpensive here. Before, I had assumed there was some sort of aversion to birth control and/or condoms and/or anything sex. No way would they provide means of preventing conception, I thought. Or is that only Vatican City?

After Nuala spending a RIDICULOUS amount of money on buying "the pill" in the States and having it shipped to Prague, we decided to give it a try. We walked into our local pharmacy and after about two minutes of deliberation, the three pharmacy attendants came out with a nearly identical product.

I won't disclose the amount we were paying for the pill in the States (sans insurance) but I will tell you that we got three months of prescription drugs for 95Dh. Roughly 8€.

Yah. Lessons learned: it never hurts to ask.

Granted, who knows if it is just produced more cheaply, prices are not fixed through pharmaceutical company and government collusion, or if it is a result of foreign aid. I don't know but I don't mind being the recipient of the way things are.

Long Way... Out and Back!

2010-06-02T19:42:00.001+01:00

I just got back from a five and a half hour trip through the dusty plains and high mountains of Morocco. On motorcycle. Over 150 miles traveled, about 5,000 feet in elevation gained and I am no worse for wear save for an ass, arms and hands that won't stop vibrating, a sunburned neck and an inflamed ego for looking like THE biggest douche in Morocco today. Go speed racer, go.

Did I mention that the motorcycle was only a 125cc Honda? HAH! The last 10k up the mountains I was going no faster than 15 mph. The lorries were even considering passing me through Tizi n Tichka Pass! I can't complain, though, as I traveled 150 miles on less than 2/3 of a tank of petrol and averaged around 25 miles per hour (top out at 55).

By the way, if you haven't seen it, I highly recommend you watch the documentary Long Way Round. Ewan McGregor and his buddy Charley Boorman travel around the world on motorcycles. Their follow-up documentary, Long Way Down, is their documenting their trip from the northern tip of Scotland to the southern tip of South Africa.

Wilco Primavera Sound 2010

2010-05-29T00:17:00.000+01:00

Not my photo.

Rad.

If not only for the fact that I had the chance to grab two drunken Catalunians by the shoulders and tell them to shut up, it was a great show. The Forum in Barcelona is one hell-of-a venue and seeing Wilco, finally, was great. No photos, alas, as a disposable can only go so far.

I'll leave it to say that the show is in my top three-ish shows of all time. You know when "their" set-list just coincides with what you presume to be the ideal set-list? Well, this wasn't it, but it still rocked!

Oh Barcelona...

2010-05-26T16:13:00.000+01:00

It was an early morning today, traveling from Carcassonne to Barcelona. Things they forget to mention when booking a hostel such as 30€ cab fare into town (each way) to catch an early train... ended up spending more on cabs than the accommodation. Oh well.

When I got in, I dropped by bags, stripped from my sweaty garments, took a shower and took a nap. Perfect... I am now getting ready to run out for a quick "overview" sightseeing of Sagrada Familia (four blocks away from my hostel), down to Catalunya Square and a walk down Las Ramblas to the waterfront, have a peak and then head back to the hostel to change into presentable wear. Then, I am going to try and catch our friend Christophe, who is working at the Mandarin Oriental Barcelona, and bug him into hanging out with me for at least a few minutes.

Then, party until 5:00am. Hah! I kid, I kid.

I did purchase my ticket for the Friday portion of the Primavera Sound Music Festival. Pretty expensive but I don't often get the chance to see one of my favorite bands of all time.

On that note, I posted my thief story to jetsetExtra if you wanted to reread OR to see some more photos from Grenoble.

Buenos Dias!

One of the Last Photos

2010-05-24T21:01:00.001+01:00

Pre-thievery. One of the last photos taken on the old trusty steed. Taken from above Grenoble (behind the photographers' back) at the hilltop Bastille. It wasn't that hazy nor did it seem like I was out of the 70s. Just liked the effect.

Suck.

2010-05-24T10:45:00.000+01:00

I'm on the train from Grenoble to Valence, then onto Carcassonne. I'm upset. I'm on the verge of putting my fist through the glass next to me. I am battling acute frustration and helplessness combined with sustained adrenaline production; it is still pumping through my veins, even after almost an hour passing...

This morning I awoke at 6:45, finished my last bits of packing. All clothes were dried and tucked away in my large pack. French text books, laptop, camera, and a few odds and ends in the smaller backpack. Passport? Check. Cash and credit cards? Check.

I went downstairs to the kitchen to retrieve my goods. I was half expecting them to be stolen from the refrigerator again; thankfully my repurchased fruits, veggies and homemade sandwich were as I had left them. After all of my posturing after having my food "stolen" (more likely thrown away by hostel staff), I couldn't bring myself to steal someone else's food. I have to go to the store in Carcassonne again anyway, as the hostel where I am staying is fully self-catering. I haven't stolen much more in my life than a few bagels at my coffee shop job or perhaps some food or beer from a roommate at university. No ingenious chewing tobacco heists for this Fisher boy.

Out the door, I went. The air was crisp, sky clear and gorgeous views of the French Alpes were all around me. After a couple days in the urban center of Lyon, I finally had a chance to do some jogging, hiking, and take some snapshots around Grenoble. My days in Grenoble were spent more outdoors and with less wine and fatty (good) food. Even on my to-do list I made for Grenoble, I wrote at the top, "No More Restaurants... you bloody moron." I held to it, having consumed only a beer or a glass of wine at cafés around the city.

With healthier food and activity, I had a spring in my step this morning. I knew when the bus was coming (no grève today), had my itinerary settled, and was excited to get to the train station for a cup of coffee and a moment to edit some photos.

I made it to the train station with plenty of time to spare and found the nearest open café. It was a good day, already. I found a pleasant 20-something willing to not roll her eyes at my elementary text-book French and explained, with a smile, that the coffee that I wanted was a "Café à longé." (Apologies to the server and other Francophones who know the correct spelling; that is my best guess as I figure it means "long coffee.")

There was a little old man with a gut, velcro shoes and a famous combover reading through his morning paper. He was obviously not traveling anywhere today, but he was relaxing at perhaps one of the only open cafés in Grenoble. Who doesn't have or didn't have a grandfather who went for his morning coffee "with the boys" on a set day each week? We exchange glances and a nod and we both went about our business. I pulled out the computer and set about some photo-editing. I had uploaded my latest photos from my camera last night so I was working on a Grenoble set. Stunning vistas, more self-portraits, more mountains, wine, self-portraits with wine... you get the idea. It was nice to relive the day prior without the sun beating down and sweat soaking through my t-shirt.

With about 30 more minutes before my train was due to depart, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I looked up to find the kindly gentleman pointing through the window and saying to me in quick French, "Cet homme a ton sac..." He was so nonchalant about it. I, on the other hand, understood the words "ton sac" right away. Your bag. That man has your bag. SHIT!

I went to run after him and realized I couldn't just leave my other bag and my computer. I shut the computer and looked at the man who seemed to have grown more concerned by this point and pointed to my large backpack and made it clear without speaking that he'd watch over it. Holding the laptop, I bolted through the door and after the guy. I didn't say anything for the first few seconds as he was still walking calmly, though quickly, with his back to me. As he reached a group of locals lounging around the train station, I screamed as loud as I could, "Arretes!" "Voleur!" "Arretes!"

The thief broke into a sprint, flying by the group of local guys who provided nothing more than a shrug and a chuckle. I picked up the pace, feeling an injection of adrenaline as I continued shouting for the thief to stop. After turning a couple corners I was actually gaining ground on him. Without looking back, he dropped the backpack just before turning a corner and sprinting out of sight. I grabbed the bag, opened it up, and let out the loudest explitive ever to have escaped these lips.

My camera is gone.

I don't know if I was more infuriated by the lack of response to the thief by the locals or their apparent disgust for my shouting "Mother F-er." It's not like they understood it anyway.

I took a deep breathe, fought back the urge to punch the closest person or object, and jogged back to the café to gather my other items. I was relieved to find the same old man standing over my bag and explaining to the other customers and the server what had happened. They all looked at me amazed to have my bag in my hands. I was irate, but I still provided copious "merci's" to the man.

I grabbed my things and set out to see if anyone saw anything or where the thief went, though I knew there was no hope. I walked a couple blocks radius and stopped a couple men who vaguely matched what the thief looked like from behind; it was to no avail.

When I returned to the station with only ten minutes until the train was due to leave, I sat down to take stock. My backpack also held the computer charger ($80+/-), terrible 18-55mm camera lens ($100 +/-), iPod ($200), and my passport ($ pain in the ass) Everything else was still there.

I huffed, I puffed, I fumed, I fought back tears... I approached the station's only security guard, standing relaxed staring off into space. I explained to him in my broken French what had just transpired and he replied with complete surprise that I got my bag back. He then said, with the little pouty lips and mini-strawberry as only a Frenchman can do, that I should kiss my camera goodbye. No shit... If I reported the crime to the local police they could then apply for a warrant to review the video footage. I cut him off and told him that I was leaving in a few minutes, "thanks anyway, I just wanted to let you know."

Once I get into Carcassonne, I will report it to the local police so they can at least be aware of what the guy looks like so there aren't any other hapless, idiotic travelers to suffer the same, or worse, fate.

Writing this has been therapeutic. I have finally calmed down and taken a moment to reflect. There was one other thing missing from the bag: an apple. Don't get me wrong; if I had caught the guy I would have had to hold myself back from kicking the shit out of him. No matter the poverty, it is obviously infuriating for people to result to theft. At the same time, he might be hungry.

Additionally, I have to be thankful that I still have my passport and other possessions. I have to be thankful that I was using the computer, as otherwise it too is normally held in the bag. I have to be thankful that I quit smoking (again) and began jogging six times per week, because otherwise there was no way I would have caught up and/or gained on the guy. I have to be thankful for the old man who took pity on me and made sure I didn't lose two bags in one day.

Finally, I have to be thankful that I continue to disregard the advice of others. Many people expound the virtues of packing light. I have been lugging around the backpack which, in addition to the computer charger and many other items, holds four books: a massive 500 page French textbook, a book of French verb conjugations, two thinner but glossy paged French textbooks from my classes in Prague, and an extremely thick trade paperback I have been attempting to read. In Prague, Lyon, and again that morning in Grenoble I had considered just donating the books to the hostel and lightening my load. If I had, the thief would have been carrying an extremely light backpack and surely would not have had to drop it because it was slowing him down.

So, with that, I say screw you Rick Steves and your reasonable advice born out of years of experience and desire to help others. From now on, I'm packing rocks.

That being said, I am still a little depressed that my trusty, crappy old camera is gone. I hope whoever the thief tries to sell it to laughs at him. Then boxes his ears for being an ass. I now don't really have a way to chronicle my travels with pictures. Sure, Nuala has her little compact digital, but it's hers and I prefer a DSLR. When I get into Carcassonne I'll have to see if I can find any disposables. I at least want some photographic evidence of my travel.

Lessons learned...

Note: Comments reflecting on my stupidity for not keeping a closer watch on my bags or the danger in chasing a thief will be noted and then your name will be added to my list of people to punch in lieu of the thief.

Lyon Photos

2010-05-22T19:16:00.001+01:00

A selection of shots from my time in Lyon:

View from near the hostel.

Self-portrait at the Roman ruins of Lugdunum, situated on the Fourvière above Lyon. Notice the basilica in the background.

Self portrait above Lyon near the basilica.

The odeon at the ruins.

Rhone waterfront

Best vantage point I could get of a couple of old guys and a grandson at the Parc des Hoteliers.

Apologies and a New JetsetEXTRA Post

2010-05-11T11:09:00.003+01:00

On a decidedly more somber note, my post about Terezin concentration camp in the Czech Republic has been posted on jetsetEXTRA.

Finally, after a successful 10k but miserable post-10k feeling in my body, I have decided that I will not be attempting a half-marathon. Yet. I plan on continuing my training and I have all intentions of trying to meet up with Tristan in the coming months to have a go. Who knew there was a marathon in Bordeaux, Norway, Switzerland, Sweden, Jordan, or Istanbul? If I remain a kept man for a little while longer, it might be a fun use of my time.

Cheers!

A Kept Man Canvass

2010-05-07T16:22:00.006+01:00

Dear Readers,

I am in the process of making a travel decision and I am soliciting the opinions of my friends and family. Nuala and I need to return to Marrakech by June 4th at the absolute latest. I have not purchased my return flights out of Prague and it looks like it will cost me at least $300 and a 12 hour layover or something ridiculous like that. So...

I thought perhaps it would be a good opportunity to do something a little cliché though new to me. I think I would like to fly into Paris and take the train south through Lyon then perhaps over to a little town called Dax to see first hand where my wife and sister-in-law spent their summers, then continue south through Spain and finally take the ferry from Spain to Morocco and finish with a trip to Marrakech from Tangiers. Sure, it would take a while. Keep in mind, dear readers, if there is one thing I have way too much of right now, it's time. So, I would like to spend at least two nights at each location (Lyon, Dax, Madrid or Barcelona, Sevilla or something along those lines). That would mean that I would need to depart Prague in a couple weeks...

OR...

Nuala and I met Tristan Miller last night. Tristan is an inspiration. He is attempting to run 52 marathons in as many weeks. I found his blog randomly in a search through Google and have been following his progress since nearly the beginning. He lost his job during the crisis so he decided to sell all of his belongings and take the leap of faith to begin his adventure. He began running only five years ago. And Nuala and I thought we were crazy brave!! Additionally, he is raising money for UNICEF and is trying to raise awareness through media interviews, his blog, and his Facebook page.

Tristan just got into town (Prague) to compete in Sunday's race around the streets of Prague. (I do not envy his having to run on the bloody cobblestones but at least they corral the bags-of-douche-tourists!) Long story short, I sent him a brief email a few days back conveying my respect for what he is doing and I asked if he had any questions or needed any help regarding Prague. We ended up hanging out last night and while we were chatting he mentioned a half-marathon in Hungary that will be taking place at the end of the month and that I should join him there and take part.

It's a half-marathon. I only started running (jogging/wheezing/cramping) a few months ago. I only gave up smoking (for the fifth time?) four weeks ago. At this point, I am up to four mile runs five to six times per week. If I want to run a remotely competitive (read: finish before the cut-off time) I will need to come up with a training plan stat. (And I would have to cut out the pint of filet mignon, foie gras and caramel ice cream I have each evening. If I jog four miles, I deserve it. Our hotel sure is one fancy place!)

So... what do you think?

(Final note: Please visit Tristan's website and browse his stories and his videos. It's really inspirational. Finally, if you find his story interesting, why don't you send him a "Like" (or whatever BS they are calling it on that crap-site Facebook) so he can create a bigger fan-base. He is essentially paying for this trip (including hundreds of thousands of kilometers of airfare) out of pocket, spending his life's savings. The more people he has interested, the more people donate to UNICEF, and the higher the likelihood of gaining sponsors to help pay for his travels. Thanks for your help!)

Repost: Holiday Spirit in the UK

2010-05-06T14:09:00.001+01:00

"Editor's" Note: Since those that shall remain nameless decided to delete my feature from their website, I decided it would behoove me to repost here to save it for posterity. Enjoy. Again:

After years of spending most holidays working in the hospitality industry I was able to spend this holiday season with friends and family. For years, my sense of “holiday spirit” involved being awaken by the screech of the digital alarm begging to be stomped upon, along with its evil neon digits taunting me with flashes of 5:00…5:00…5:00. What a stark difference it is to gradually rise to the sounds of the rumbling radiators, an old house creaking restlessly, and the scent of tea steeping downstairs. This occurs only in the homes in a generational gap; the children are old enough to sleep-in but young enough to only be considering having children of their own.

In the days leading up to the 25th of December, this having been my first time traveling to London, we spent our days in true tourist fashion: Winter Wonderland in Hyde Park in all of its crowded, mulled-wine drunken glory; harried visit to Harrod’s, dodging wide-eyed tourists, eager Hermés salespeople, and partaking in a wee whiskey tasting in the basement; the required race around the city to soak up the sights and ensure photographic evidence. Smelling chestnuts roasting and seeing holiday display windows goes a long way in nurturing a spirit of optimism. We spent Christmas morning exchanging grumpy good mornings, knocking back liters of tea or coffee until shifting, en masse, to the living room for gift exchanges.

Our host family in London is Irish. Part of their family holiday tradition is to visit their “local” (The Ox & Gate, 341 Oxgate Lane, NW2 7HS, London) in the early afternoon for a pint where they meet with the extended family for smiles, laughter and craic. I tagged along, where I met Uncle so-and-so and Granny, and experienced a buzz of holiday joy and hopefulness for the coming year.

My wife still works in hotels, so after a life affirming Christmas Day spent together she had to return to Marrakech, having sacrificed New Years for Christmas. With my dual statuses as both privileged kept man and amateur traveler I was destined for other things. The Emerald Isle.

I arrived into Belfast and immediately met by bitter cold and a biting wind. Grabbing a coffee at the nearby Café Renoir, I set about planning my accommodations and plans for my stay. I should explain that when I travel solo I rarely plan anything beyond the purchase of a guidebook. I think this could be due to stubborn spontaneity, wanting to travel and experience whatever or wherever the wind takes me; I tend to think it boils down to laziness. With the exception of a few long, aimless walks around an unknown city, my travel strategy has yielded positive results.

Belfast is a city with a soul. Underneath the surface, some report, lurks a hardening of political lines, but the city is no longer one to avoid out of fear. I walked the downtown streets alone in the evenings with nothing more than a sidelong glance from a stumbling, over imbibing local. I was blessed to receive a guided tour of the Troubles hotspots of Falls and Shankill Roads from my uncle, a Belfast native whose formative years were those of the Troubles. Who would have thought that the polarizing political murals would one day become a “must see” for tourists? One cannot recommend enough a Black Cab Tour for those without the “luck” of having family who lived through the horror. There are poignant reminders of your locale such as the Union Jack whipping in the wind above City Hall and the Red Hand of Ulster (many times associated with the loyalist paramilitary groups such as the Ulster Volunteer Force) marking walls around each corner. Though it is a city with a violent not-to-distant past, present day Belfast is a quickly developing city of tourism, good food and a cheery nightlife.

For a mid-afternoon snack of stew and a pint, look no further than the traditionally authentic Kelly’s Cellars (30-32 Bank St, Belfast) unexpectedly located down a quiet, narrow lane. In the University area of town, just down the street from Queen’s University, Botanic Avenue is lined with cafés, clubs, and inviting restaurants like AM PM (67-69 Botanic Ave, Belfast). If some late night “trad” music and a jovial conversation are your thing, Fibber McGee’s, behind Robinson’s Bar, is your best bet.

With no plans set in stone I decided to take a guided tour along the coast through County Antrim up to Giant’s Causeway. One day after my arrival, I was on a packed “luxury” tour bus with seats built for people the size of leprechauns being driven by an upbeat tour guide, Ian. Ian had pleasant smiling face with a story for every sight and an extraordinarily corny sense of humor that warmed the soul.

We rode along the roadways hugging the coastline for most of the way. We visited the nine glens of County Antrim and our ride was peppered with stories of Scottish cattle, Winston Churchill’s inheritance of the Londonderry Arms hotel, how seemingly every person of fame had a connection with Northern Ireland, and tragic tales. We came upon a rocky outcrop that formed a hole through which one could see the sea. It was called “Madman’s Hole” Ian explained in a soothing, even tone. A man once surprised his love by proposing “on this very spot.” She became overjoyed and in jumping up, hit her head, “and tragically died.” This was to become a consistent theme in Ian’s storytelling.

Later, in the town of Ballycastle, our guide pleasantly described summertime festivals, views we could expect to see, and the history of some memorable residents of the nearby town of Ballymoney, the Dunlop brothers. The brothers Dunlop, Robert and Joey, were something of local heroes for their motorcycle racing prowess. Alas, both brothers were “tragically” killed while racing motorcycles. Soon after, upon arrival at the remains of Dunluce Castle, perched perilously on an oceanfront cliff, ever the optimist Ian described castle life in Northern Ireland. He went on to describe the castle’s former occupants and the lady of the castle who wanted to move further inland. She finally got her wish after the whole of the cliff supporting the kitchen crumbled into the sea, and “tragically six of the kitchen staff were killed. At least it wasn’t the whole castle!”

I hope I am not giving the impression that the tour was not wonderful. It truly was. The price of £17, through Allen’s Tours, was just right for a seven-hour guided tour including Carrickfergus Castle, views of the nine glens of County Antrim, Carrick-a-Rede rope bridge, Giants Causeway, Dunluce Castle and Bushmills Distillery. Unfortunately, for my alcohol-enjoying-tendencies, Bushmills Distillery was closed for the holiday season.

We made it to Carrick-a-Rede rope bridge. This bridge was built by fishermen, supposedly over 300 years ago, to retrieve their nets hung just off the coast. It is now a tourist attraction for its exceptional vistas and death defying bridge crossing. Just before disembarking to hike for a view of the bridge, Ian broke into a reassuring anecdote:

“Ladies and gentlemen. You are about to experience the famous Carrick-a-Rede rope bridge of the County Antrim. For those of you afraid of heights or afraid that this bridge is unsafe, I want to assure you that it is safe. The bridge was originally built with only one rope for holding. In the rope bridges entire history no person has ever died in crossing.”

After so many fatalist anecdotes leaving Ian’s lips, one could sense a collective sigh of relief. He continued:

“One day not too many years ago a woman was crossing the bridge while holding her wee terrier in her arms. The dog slipped from her grasp and tragically… fell to its death.”

Downer.

Where to Stay:

The Merchant Hotel
35-39 Waring St.
Belfast BT1 2DY
Telephone: +44 (0) 28 9023 4888
Fax: +44 (0) 28 9024 7775

Currently undergoing an expansion due for completion this summer. The Merchant is a restored Victorian building, formerly the headquarters of the Ulster Bank, occupying space within the city’s commercial center with luxurious accommodations.

Tara Lodge
36 Cromwell Road at Botanic Ave
Belfast BT7 1JW
Telephone: +44 (0) 28 9059 0900
Fax: +44 (0) 28 9059 0901

Situated only steps away from the university area of Botanic Ave, Tara Lodge offers comfortable and efficient furnishings in a pleasant environment. This four star guest house offers a personal experience one might not find in a larger hotel at a lower rate.

Europa Hotel
Great Victoria Street
Belfast BT2 7AP
Telephone: +44 (0) 28 9027 1066
Fax: +44 (0) 28 9032 7800

While secure and inviting now, the Europa famously holds the record for being the most bombed hotel in Europe due to playing host to visiting dignitaries and political foes.

Taghazout, Morocco: Surf Season Year Round in Morocco

2010-05-05T08:27:00.002+01:00

Sup suckas!

I finally got around to posting about surfing in Morocco. Only two months overdue. Whatevs.

You can find the post here.

I hope you enjoy!

Ever Get That Feeling of Pure Hatred?

2010-04-28T11:21:00.001Z

Officially, there are worse places to jog than in Prague. I had grown accustomed to the exercise mores of Marrakech; I have a knack for dodging petits-taxis, high-fiving parking attendants, and getting groups of school children to cheer me on as I waddle down the street and up the steps of Marrakech city hall like Rocky-Mustafa.

Not really.

It's important to remember that I spent a good deal of my time in my first few months finding the best (read: least likely to get me killed) jogging and cycling routes. By the time I departed Marrakech this last time, I had a three and a half mile jogging loop mapped through residential areas of the city with minimal two-stroke engine exhaust exposure.

Prague is another story. While Morocco I have to deal with temperatures being just right or too bloody hot, in the Czech Republic I have experienced only a few days of perfect outdoor exercise weather. Also, Marrakech has potholes, broken sidewalk tiles, low hanging trees, asshole drivers, donkey crap, and no traffic laws.

Not my photo. What is funny is that I know where this was taken, am not surprised by this in the least and that the guy is dragging his cart through one of the busiest intersections in all of Marrakech.

Prague has some things much more sinister. Some things much more difficult to avoid. Some things that try my sanity. Cobblestones and tourists. One has a very dense top that can hurt my knees and ankles with each impact and one has a very thick skull that hurts my brain and heart with each encounter.

Typical Prague cobblestones.

Typical Prague numbskulls.

Tell you what, folks; the trail parallel to the Vltava River is wide enough to be shared. In fact, it is about 30 meters wide where I tend to always meet you. And yet you still insist upon walking toward me, 30 abreast, doddling along as if you'll receive the congressional medal of honor if you're able to hold your line. You can see me coming from at least a hundred yards away and I'm hard to miss. I'm the fat, wheezing American shuffling toward you, rocking out and singing along to REO Speedwagon. I know you see me. I know because you all simultaneously look up, chuckle to yourself, look at your neighbor and chuckle then REFUSE TO MOVE.

It's a well known fact that it's easy to spot an American anywhere in the world. If you ever see someone jogging or doing some form of exercise outside of the United States, it is an American. It's true and scientifically documented. Perhaps that is why they don't move. No matter, but it is so frustrating when I actually have to stop my stride, hold out my arms and shrug my shoulders and they look at me dumbfounded as if the two inches between Gertrude's breasts and Frauke's 1986 video camera was enough for me to slide between. So sorry to interrupt your tour, dear friends, but next time I have to do this I am going to shake my head around like a shaggy dog and soil your fancy new "Czech Me Out" t-shirt with essence de Garren.

I just can't fight this feeling anymore.

Spring Fever - Paddle Boats in Prague

2010-04-26T15:08:00.005Z

I have come to discover that people who live in the non-mountainous regions of California have no idea what they're missing. Please, I beg of you, do not get me wrong. I deplore snowy and dreary winters. I can't stand knowing that, mid January, if I need to run to the store and I'm already in bed I have to spend five minutes getting ready for the harsh environment waiting to freeze my tétons off.

On the other hand, as the saying goes, there is no pleasure without pain. Certainly, some areas of California experience sub-freezing temperatures, storms, some snow and the like. Other places, like Santa Barbara, are essentially stuck at 60-80 degrees fahrenheit in perpetuity. The only major change weather in Santa Barbara is putting a sweater on for 15 minutes a day in June because of "June Gloom" (fog and overcast) because, you know, that's a hardship I wouldn't wish on anyone.

I assumed I would be living a similar life in Morocco. Temperatures hovering between 60-110 degrees fahrenheit (greater range given because it IS Africa, for chrissake) with minimal precipitation. I got pretty much exactly that.

Then, Prague.

I never knew winter until I spent a winter in the Czech Republic. Cold and snowy. I didn't even have to worry about shoveling snow and it was still dreadful. Always mindful of ice on the sidewalk, boot soles wearing thin because of the liberal use of grit, and adding 20 minutes to your transit time due to heavier bodies weighed down by wool coats and searching for paths through snow drifts.

Then, all of a sudden, the weather changed. When the sun came out, it wasn't accompanied by blisteringly cold winds but heat upon the face. Warmth radiating through your skin causing you to take off your sweater. What?! Is this spring fever? Trees empty of leaves begin to bloom. Parks empty of people fill with locals and overly happy dogs. Streets and bridges empty of tourists fill once again with...bloody tourists.

I take it back. It takes an additional 30 minutes to get anywhere in Prague in the spring because of the complete lack of space between people in the streets. There is something to be said about winter in Prague. Only hardcore tourists.

My point is that you only truly begin to appreciate the spring and the color green after succombing to living in greyscale for several months.

A Taste of the Tétons

2010-04-23T10:08:00.003Z

I'm taking French classes during my stay here in the Czech Republic. For the past eight months, I have spent at least an hour a day with my French podcasts, textbooks and/or films to increase my knowledge. I was already aware that my understanding of French grammar basics is relatively strong, vocabulary weak, and listening skills piss-poor. So it is with that understanding that whenever the teacher speaks to me in French, my face glazes over and I stare into space trying to figure out what all of those words were strung together in nasal tones and snarky liaisons. The teacher is French-Canadian. I have recently learned that there's nothing snarkier than a Frenchman, except of course a French-Canadian-man. Who knew?

The class is a little bizarre. First, my classmates are Czech nationals who speak fluent English. That's great as the teacher can explain concepts in English as opposed to Czech or Arabic like the classes in Morocco. The bizarre part, though, is listening to the French language in a Czech accent. It's funny. Next, the class level is a peculiar mix of elementary French grammar and very basic French vocabulary. For example, the teacher converses with us in many tenses (present, passé composé, imperfect, conditional, etc) in which I have been self-taught. At the same time we are just now getting to the words for the human body. To me, a quasi-mediocre-self-taught French "speaker," it seems equivilant to memorizing your multiplication tables while finishing the class period off with introduction to multi-variable calculus. Sort of.

It still makes me happy as I am speaking and listening to the French language by a native speaker, even if he does have a crazy French-Canadian accent that makes me want to punch his Celine Dion loving face in. Still, he is a nice enough guy with a good sense of humor. Whenever the sole female student is not in attendence, the class generally devolves into dirty jokes and insults directed at Czechs, Americans and Canadians. His favorite, to assist in our vocabulary development of course, is to write dirty jokes in French on the white board. Quelle est la difference entre une blonde et une boule de bowling?

In discussing Le Corps Humain yesterday, once again the level of the conversation dropped rapidly. One must have fun while learning, right? So we discussed how no one except little children being taught to be polite actually refers to their butts as a "derrière." The teacher then went on to describe the many ways to refer to a butt and we came to the conclusion together that "cul" is the best. Next, breasticles were explored, in terms of vocab of course.

In discussing breasts I brought up Grand Teton National Park in Wyoming. The teacher was completely unfamiliar and I described for him the legend of the mountains' naming: French trappers, upon seeing some hills in Idaho, decided that the hills looked very much like boobs. After years of terrible map making and reading, the mountains in Wyoming were named Grand Tetons instead of the hills in Idaho. The teacher then corrected the legend by explaining the tétons are not breasts, but nipples. So, depending on with whom you are speaking, Grand Teton National Park can be translated as either large or tall nipples.

And knowing is half the battle.

Not Exactly Exciting, but...

2010-04-20T13:52:00.001Z

Took a photo of this sewer cover while waiting for a tram. Found it interesting on a couple of levels.

They Call Me the Hip-Hop-aPotomus, My Lycrics are Bottomless...

2010-04-19T12:10:00.009Z

Sunny Prague, in mid-April, is something to behold. The weather on Saturday was probably around 18 degrees C and perhaps even warmer on Sunday. Nuala and I planned to visit the Prague Zoo on Saturday but due to delay upon further delay, we decided Sunday would be better. In the interim, we took the funicular to the top of Petrin Hill in Prague for beautiful views of the city, architecture and gardens (another post on that at a different time).

We took the metro across the city and caught the 112 bus to the zoo. At first, we weren't quite sure where the bus stop for the zoo bus was until we saw the mass exodus of diaper bag wielding, stroller pushing hordes. Follow the pack, Nuala noted with only slight sarcasm toward my idiocy.

Prague Zoo is a great little park. It's really not even that small. Santa Barbara Zoo is only about a third of the size of Prague Zoo. The zoo first opened in the early 1930s, is situated on a hill overlooking the city of Prague was well as the plains below the cliffs along the Vltava river. In 2002, during Prague's worst flooding in history, many of the animals died. Sad story, for sure, but it is good to see the zoo has definitely made a comeback.

For random travelers seeking practical information, the zoo is open during the spring from 11am until 6pm and costs 150Kc (6€) for adults and 100Kc (4€) for children. We are glad we decided to wait until Sunday to visit as we ended up spending over four hours at the zoo.

Highlights included a pack of eurasian wolves, an astounding number of Siberian tigers, a collection of Przewalski's Horses (closest living wild relative of domesticated horses), a massive bald eagle, a polar bear, a family of gorillas including an infant gorilly (<- Czech for gorilla), and sexy turtles.

Though Prague Zoo does not have a giraffe with a crooked neck like Santa Barbara Zoo I still had a great time getting out in the sun with Nuala and exploring the park.

Did you know that Czechs are generally obsessed with the Wild West? It's true. There was a famous Czech writer by the name of Kafka who wrote about cowboys, indians, covered wagons, forging rivers, broken wheels, horses and oxen drowning and dying from dysentery. Hmm... Perhaps it was the German author Karl May who wrote about these things. Either way, Czechs are known to have appropriated and revered the image of the American Indian over the years and I think we may have seen part of that with the North American bison as residents at the zoo. Pretty animals. As one bison was dropping a deuce, I told Nuala about our frisbee that was shaped as bison shit. She didn't believe me.

Big scary bald eagle. It was probably 10 feet behind me and still that big.

I have seen a couple of very funny things in my days, particularly involving visits to zoos. One of these was witnessed at the San Diego Zoo. We came upon the polar bear enclosure very similar to the one below. One polar bear would stand at the top of the concrete slope pointing direction toward the pool of water at the bottom. S/he would then turn around and pee on the slope creating a slick, then it would jump and slide down the wet concrete into the water. S/he then would climb out of the water back up to the top and repeat. Fun times. Less urine this time but a beautiful animal.

Ever have a silverback gorilly stare at you? It was intense. Reminded me of the Central Park horses of NYC with sad eyes, but deeper. Sure, he used his coke fingernail to dig at his ear and nose, examine the results and consume, but it was still a very intense few moments of him staring at me from less than a meter away.

Nuala and I both noticed how, with the exception of the big guy above, the other gorillas in the enclosure would sit facing away from the windows. They seemed intent of giving a cold shoulder. Who could really blame them if they are aware of their being stared at, studied and examined. It was interesting though sad at the same time.

By the way, all cats are the same lazy pieces of shite. Wake up before dawn, screw with their owner/handler/fellow cat, eat too much, complain that they are out of food, run around for a few minutes, swat at a ball, sleep for twice as long as they were awake. Rinse and repeat. This guy above was out for the count happily snoozing with his head upside down.

Aren't you glad Nuala's camera allows for video to be taken?

Enjoy!

Off to one more opera tonight. We're going to see Carmen tonight. We'll see how this goes...

A Wee Taste of Moroccan Surfing

2010-04-11T05:22:00.001Z

Just a little taste of my surfing trip a few weeks back...

A Night with Friends: Marrakchi Football

2010-04-09T11:09:00.003Z

I received an SMS from my friend Jeff from the American School asking if I wanted to come out to the local football club's game against Rabat. All that I knew was that this game would decide who was in the lead for the Moroccan football league standings. Rabat and Marrakech were, as far as I understood it, tied. It was roughly 4:00pm and I had spent a nice afternoon on our patio studying French and turning myself into deep-fried-Garren.

"Why not," I replied. I suggested going out for a couple of beers before heading to the stadium after which I was told to buy a few (six) tall-boys and just make my way over to their apartment then. The game was to start at 8:00pm and I figured kicking back a few might be a nice prelude to the game. I went to the local corner liquor store (they do exist, it just took me six months to realize it) and purchased the desired Bière Especiale cans and arrived to find the guys drinking in preparation for the game and the girls considering getting gussied up for their "girls' night out."

I was introduced to some other Canadians currently living in London and visiting Marrakech for the weekend. We sat back, imbided, and began by discussing random Moroccan customs. This is a very typical starting point for conversation among expats, particularly when speaking with newly arrived travelers. The conversation quickly devolved to stupid movies that we three guys were obsessed with and equally appalled that the women had yet to discover; perhaps they were being avoided? Super Troopers. The Big Lebowski. The Hangover. (Note: Follow The Big Lebowski link at your own risk. Do not say I didn't warn you)

Due to our semi-fuzzy consideration that we were in fact comically-kindred-spirits, I was introduced to a talk show. Zach Galifianakis has hosted a series of "talk shows" called Between Two Ferns with such illustrious guests as Conan O'Brien, Michael Cera, Natalie Portman, Charlize Theron, and others. Genius.

After whiping away my tears of pure joy we gathered our wits and headed out for the walk to the stadium. Two brief digressions (hah! Brief my ass...):

I've never touched on the fact that Marrakech is actually quite a small town. Marrakech could be considered small both geographically and in terms of population. Including the surrounding areas, the Gueliz and the medina, I found that the population is actually over a million people. I don't believe this figure as my unqualified assumption is that they are including an entire region versus the city. Eitherway, it seems like the town in reality would be no larger than perhaps 500,000 in population. Beyond that, if you were dedicated enough, wore comfortable shoes and didn't mind a sweaty back you could easily walk from one corner of the city to the opposite in a couple hours.

Next, I don't know if I've ever discussed the monetary situation of Morocco in great detail. Surely I have explained that the currency, the Moroccan Dirham (Dh), is closed and that we have difficulty exchanging to Euro and/or transferring any money out of the country. Sure. That's straighforward and simply a developing nation on the E.U.'s doorstep attempting to provide stability for their economy. I have not discussed items of more simple interest. The currency itself and its day to day usage.

The Euro is roughly equivalent to 11Dh and the USD is roughly 8Dh. The Dirham is printed in paper denominations of 20, 50, 100, and 200. Coins are minted from 5, 10, 20, and 50 centimes as well as 1/2Dh (the same as the 50 centimes coin), 1, 2, 5 and 10Dh coins. The lower denominations seem to be a hot commodity. It can be rather difficult to get change from taxi drivers, corner stores, shop keepers and even the larger grocery stores such as Acima (I was able to find a photo of the grocery I frequent) and Aswak Assalam. No one wants to give up their small change and small bills. I will use small change with my local corner store (say it with me: Bo-de-gas) and taxis to avoid an argument. With large multinational corporations like Acima (owned by the French company Auchan) I will play stupid. I empty my wallet of any bills except 200s and 100s and will only bring four single dirham coins. The cashier will, without fail, look at me pleadingly for exact change and I will exclaim with shrugged shoulders, then a pat of my pockets, "J'ai pas!" The cashier will then give a sigh heavily-laden with attitude and an eye-roll and empty their till of 20s and 50s. If I am in a generous mood, I might even throw in a token few dirhams to round out the bill.

Why is it my responsibility to provide a for-massive-profit corporation their change? Pay for a bank and armored car to stop by a couple times a week. They have armored cars in Morocco, by the way. They look more like a VW Vanogan with thick windows and gun holes than an American version.

Anyway...

On our walk to the stadium we stopped by a bodega to get bottles of water. One of the Canadians gave the cashier a 200Dh bill for a six or seven dirham bottle of water and I could see the rage gathering in the shopkeeper's face. Just as he was beginning to shake his head and rais his hand to wave off the cash, the expats threw down smaller change to the shopkeepers delight. International monetary incident averted!

We approached the ticket line and our Moroccan escort explained the process to us newbies. There is a ticket kiosk where the tickets cost 50Dh. The other option is to purchase from the scalpers standing around the queue for the kiosk with tickets for sale at 60dh. We had arrived at the stadium about an hour early so we decided to save our extra Euro and wait in line. Until this point I had never seen an organized queue in Morocco outside of the airport check-in lines and even those are pretty unorganized. If you go to the grocery store, bank, or post office, you literally have to push your way to the front and yell at people that they shouldn't cut. Think 3rd grade waiting in line for your turn at wall-ball. NO CUTTING!

The queue at the football game was both straight, organized and quiet. Then I noticed the police and military presence. There were at least two dozen military personnel and a handful of police officers. Each time a young Moroccan would try to sneak up and cut in line, a police officer would grab him by the collar, scold him and throw him to the back of the line. We were even told to get out of line as only one of us would purchase the tickets for all five of us. Nice...

I ended up waiting for our other friend while the guys entered the stadium. Tickets in hand, I took a seat on the curb and awaited Chef Jeff's arrival. While waiting I soaked in the atmosphere of mingling buddies (more G-Star Raw leather jackets than necessary), Marrakchi sports concession stands (wheelbarrow with attached grill), and more police "activity."

Hot Dogs! Popcorn! Cracker Jacks! Marrakchi-style (Merguez and Cigarettes)

While awaiting my friend, he notified me that he was on the opposite of the stadium from my position and I would have to head in that direction with the tickets. Due to the government of Morocco sometimes being harsh with journalists (don't worry, I am not defining myself as one) I will be fairly vague with the following description:

As I walked through the partition where only paying patrons are allowed to enter I noticed a group of teenagers. They were all standing on the opposite side of the street from the wall surrounding the stadium area. One at a time they would sprint across four lanes of street, hurl themselves at the wall and scratch their way up hoping to grab hold of the top of the wall. About one out of every 10 attempts was successful and that particular kid gained free access to the game. Further up the street was a great queue of humanity. While the line my group was standing in was perhaps full with twenty to thirty people, this line had hundreds if not thousands. The queue was streaming between temporarily placed metal corrals, funneling toward a ticket checking station. No, not laser scanners or hole punchers. They were police weilding billy clubs. As the time of kick-off neared, the masses grew restless and began pushing harder and harder on those in front of them. The wave of pressure pushed fans through the police before they could check their tickets in turn causing clubs to swing. Dozens of bruised skulls later some of the ticket holders got wise and held their ticket high above their head with one arm and covered their head and face with the other while allowing the stream to force them between club strikes.

Moments later my friend and I found eachother and made our way to the stadium entrance. My expectations were fulfilled when I noticed a complete derth of women. Out of the thousands of fans in the stands I noticed a half-dozen or so thick-skinned women. If you weren't aware, going out for a local football match is a man's thing. Father and son. Buddies. Brosephs. Women are allowed but must be ready to deal with or ignore learing stares, vile comments, and likely quite a bit of touching. As I think it is the case with most countries, it is usually the young, uneducated, drunk and/or "classless" that tend toward this activity and disrespect for women. Interesting to note that while the conduct of men toward women is common in Morocco, shame from their family as well as their feelings about their mother are central themes to women defending oneself; though untested, I have heard that telling someone "Shame" or "Go to your mother!" in Arabic is enough to get someone to stop following you or touching you.

We discovered that our cheap seats were in fact the luxury corporate boxes of Marrakech Stadium. For less than 5€ we were sitting on only slightly crowded concrete steps surrounded by the who's who of Marrakech society. Concessions people were walking around with a tray of 4oz plastic cups, sugar cubes and instant coffee in one hand and carrying an airpot of boiling water in the other. Overpriced at 5Dh if you ask me. Other offers were candy bars still contained in their wholesale cardboard packaging and homemade granola bar-style nut bars. Sesame seeds and almonds, I suspected, held together by a sweet honey goo. They were good and for only 2Dh. Meeting up with our other friends holding our "seats" I noticed they had purchased scarfs from one of the roaming salesmen. I got a significantly cheaper quality version but a memorable souvenir nonetheless.

I'll be honest. The game was a bit slow; nil, nil through the first half. I'm not god-like, Achilles-style athlete. At the sime time, I can tell you when football players aren't of the greatest caliber. There were a lot of missed traps and more bunching of midfielders than a match between antsy U-4 players ("Spread out! SPREAD OUT!")

At the southern end of the stadium were the cheap seats. The seats filled with the throngs of young fans that I saw earlier in the evening, streeming past the club wielding police. In front was a massive sign denoting these fans as "Crazy Boys." Oh yes. Crazy boys. Lots of chanting, jumping and actually what seemed like charging toward the Rabat fans. Every 20 minutes or so a group of perhaps 100 fans would sprint toward the opposite end of the stadium, chant something, then jog back to their spots. It was entertaining.

Finally, during the second half, Marrakech pulled out to a three-nil lead over Rabat with a couple of well placed free kicks. Second half was better played and definitely more entertaining. I actually began to see smiles and laughter across the faces of the fans surrounding me.

At one point during the second half my friend Jeff, who hales from New Zealand, slapped me on the shoulder and said, "Get yer camera ready. Watch this." He bounded down the concrete steps in front of us and chased after the flag carrying fan.

Now that's hometown spirit!

Jeff wanting to hold the flag.

Success!

It turned out that the flag belonged to neither the original runner-of-the-flag nor Jeff. In fact, it was a very unhappy fan from further around the stadium that came to retrieve his flag. Jeff thought it was funny. The theif looked on a bit concerned. The owner looked angrily at the broken flag pole.

Fail.

In true Cliff Fisher fashion, we left the stadium 10 minutes before the final whistle to avoid the crowds. In walking home I noticed something that didn't seem out of the ordinary in terms of what I have grown accustomed to seeing. They were carting away the ticket booth. Will-call was being taken away on a wheelbarrow.

It was icing on the cake for an interesting and enlightening Moroccan evening.

A Ridiculous Post for a Ridiculous Fan Base

2010-04-07T12:07:00.003Z

In the States, I think there is a tendency for many of the "big name celebrities" to avoid the limelight in terms of advertising. That is to say, I think it is relatively common for A-listers (movie stars) to not lend their face or name to common products produced in or marketed to the American public. Obvious exceptions are sports stars such as Michael Jordon and Tiger Woods. For example, when was the last time you saw Tom Cruise or Julia Roberts lending their faces or names in the States to sell a Chevy?

So it came as a bit of a shock when I began to notice more and more familiar faces from the silver screen popping on on both the television and print ads around Europe. With each trip to somewhere new, I was noticing a new ad in the Paris Metro, in a storefront window, or in a television commercial.

Don't get me wrong. I do not idolize these douches. I just find it interesting the way these celebrities are able to maintain a low profile at home whilst whoring themselves just a few thousand miles away with many people none the wiser. Can a man maintain his masculinity in the eyes of an adoring American public if he is pushing Italian fashion? Perhaps the resounding assumption (or focus group results) is that they cannot. Perhaps these celebrities hawk their wares overseas to make their money while keeping the adoring, though potentially shallow, public ignorant.

I don't know. I'm making this up as I go along.

It got me thinking, though. There must be a market out there for someone like me. I am your quasi-average Joe. I don't have six-pack abs. If I allow myself to grow five o'clock shadow (after three days, mind you) my cheeks and neck still look like J Edgar Hoover's back (full disclosure: I should be lucky to have a beard with hair like that). There must be a market for someone of my stature. I decided that there are few things that I love more than what would be easiest for me to sell.

I have decided that my ideal market is a small tropical island in the South Pacific. Perhaps one of the islands of Kiribati. The products? Shitty beer and pork products.

Could anything suit me more?

What was the point of all of this? Is there ever a point? I needed to write something and can't bring myself to write about my surfing experiences in Taghazoute nor my trip with Nuala to neither Kutna Hora nor Karlovy Vary.

So... what to do except fun with photoshop?

Changing Perceptions of Cycling

2010-04-02T17:20:00.001Z

Many of you know that I like to ride my bike. It started with bent, misaligned training wheels and became a full-time obsession with my father's first push, sans training wheels, on Rinconada Drive in Citrus Heights. A few war wounds and Halloween trips to the ER later and it was my first taste of independence as a child.

As is the case with many American youth, my obsession with bicycles went by the wayside on my 16th birthday. The independence associated with an internal combustion engine at your disposal is an overwhelming opiate. I could probably count on both hands the number of times I road my bike in the few years after receiving my driver's license.

There has been an evolution of sorts in the United States. In my view, I have seen both the hatred and the subsequent quasi-acceptance of cycling as a recreational activity, sport and finally a legitimate mode of transportation. Try to imagine you are in 1980 and witness the following:

There is a man, clad in a skintight suit of yellow lycra, riding his road bicycle on a rural highway in Texas. He is hugging shoulder to allow vehicular traffic a wide berth in passing. The shoulder disappears suddenly and the cyclist shifts over into the lane to allow safe passage. Just as the cyclist changes position in the roadway and semi-truck carrying *insert descriptive and possibly humorous produce product here* comes into sight behind the cyclist. Because there is a ditch parallel to the road, the cyclist has no where to go to get out of the lane for the truck to pass. The truck driver grows more angry with each passing moment and when they reach a straightaway, she accelerates to pass. Though she has ample room to pass in the left lane, she hugs the cyclist as close as possible to "prove a point" and ends up clipping his handlebars causing him to careen into the dry ditch.

You may be saying to yourself, "Holy shit! Who did that happen to?" I would respond in kind, "I don't know. I just made it up." Artistic license, suckas!

Anyway...

I think it paints a picture of what cyclists have dealt with over the years in the States. Currently, it isn't perfect nor are driver/cyclist relations at an all time high, but there have been movements made by cycling organizations asking cyclists to obey traffic laws (and becoming responsible stewards of the road and ambassadors of the sport) and governments are slowly stepping in to legislate changes to traffic laws including minimum distance between a car and cyclist when passing. My point I am attempting to make is I feel that feelings toward cycling have relaxed and people are becoming more patient and accepting in the United States (even if my friends are still relentless in their insults).

This is not the case in Morocco.

Even though there is an international bicycle race, world famous marathon, and an active interest in football in Morocco, atheletes (both joggers and cyclists) are seen as a bizarre outsider's activity. I have mentioned before that I get sidelong glances and looks of non-understanding from locals when I ride by in my sweaty, lumpy glory. On many occasions I have to yell at drivers to move over when they are passing me or pacing me within inches of my handlebars. On other occasions I have been narrowly missed by cars blowing through stop signs because no traffic (cars) are coming.

While all of this occurs, I have reason to hope. I have experienced the youth of Morocco, as is often the case, is the most open. As I pass a Marrakchi youth commuting on bicycle, I have recieved on more than one occasion a hearty "Allez!" Last week I paced a kid riding on the Route to Ourika and we spoke briefly in broken French, shook hands, and off I went after picking up the pace. Five minutes later I heard heavy breathing and looked behind me to find the same kid drafting me at around 18mph with a huge smile on his face. That's some heart and some athletic ability for a kid riding a busted and jerry-rigged 1990s-era mountain bike.

This last week I came upon traffic stopped at a stoplight. I had to turn left so I made my way to the center line on the left side of stopped traffic. I am completely worthless when attempting to perform a trackstand so I tend to slowly creep toward the intersection while awaiting the light's change. In so doing this day, I was out of the saddle creeping slowly past a municipal bus. As is my typical experience, the crowded bus was full of curious eyes watching me slowly pass. I looked forward and noticed a pair of eyes staring at me intently in the sideview mirror. It seemed the bus driver was interested in my actions. Perhaps he was worried about me straddling in the center line. He sat up quickly and I noticed immediately that his intense stare was accompanied by a gleaming smile.

I continued to edge toward the intersection when I noticed the bus driver open his window and peek half of his head, from his nose up, out of the window. He shifted his weight and soon his body, from his shoulders up, were out of the bus. By the time I reached the bus window, the driver was hanging out the window from his waist up staring at me smiling.

I called out, "Salaamu alaykum!" with a quick wave. He replied, "Walaykum salaam!" We went back and forth with the labas's and bikir's when out of the blue, in clear and perfect English, he yelled "Livestrong!" with a fist pump.

I laughed aloud and shook my head out of pure joy as I road away with the changing of the light.

I Am Not "Cool" Enough For This Shit

2010-03-27T14:09:00.001Z

I know when I'm out of my element. When I see the staff at a local club/restaurant wearing the above t-shirts in white on black and there is a general aura of ennui amongst both the servers and the smoking, wrinkled, French-expat set, it's time to turn and run.

It seems fashion has come full circle as Converse Chuck's are the hottest thing in French/Moroccan casual fashion since capris on men (aka Manpris). With my typical costume of jeans, shirt (with accompanying buttons, if you're lucky) and black Con's, I actually fit-in this crowd. Scratch that, as only Moroccan's are allowed to have meat on their bones. White faces in the crowd must be accompanied by chiseled cheek bones and well defined ribcages. I just look like a Middle-Western meathead.

Anyway...

A couple weeks ago I accompanied a couple friends on a Marrakchi adventure. It all began when one of the chefs from Nuala's hotel invited me to get a couple beers. Another friend I met through the American School came along and we ended up relaxing at Chef's apartment for a while, chatting up our Moroccan experiences.

Turns out Chef had other plans in mind. He had met some local Moroccan trust-fund-babies at a club in days past and we were to meet them later in the evening. I should have known better as I had had my fair share of late nights with this trust-fund-baby crowd.

First we met up at a cafe-cum-night club named L'Avenue. A joint, that by day is a typical French-style cafe, was already out of my league in terms of chic-ness. I'm from Redding, for christsake. The rosé was flowing like beer and I noticed beautiful women instinctually flocking like the salmon of Capistrano.

After sitting silently for an extended period at a table of Francophones, we hopped in an over-powered Passat and drove at a significant pace through the streets of Marrakech. I chose my words wisely. By writing streets, I meant literally both sides and directions of the streets. Our "host" was driving on the wrong side of the road, swerving past traffic stopped at red lights, blowing through these red lights at +/- 60mph, while dodging oncoming traffic as if he were playing Frogger. I have not seen anyone drive so immaturely since I was 16 in Redding where we would burn through tires like they were going out of style performing J-turns, brake stands and old fashioned donuts. I noticed his eyes would dart from the road to the rear view mirror in an obvious attempt to see how impressed we were. If only I could drive like a insecure, attention seeking, over privileged child!

Later in the evening we reach a club called Silver. I have never been, nor do I foresee myself as a fan of night clubs. C'est la vie. I was along for the ride and I was told we were going to be put up in the VIP section and not have to worry about much. Past the line of fashionable and eager tourists awaiting entrance we skipped with me, in all of my frumpy glory, in tow.

The VIP area is a sight to behold. Not quite catering to delightfully intellectual woman dressed conservatively discussing current events and trends in philosophy over a wee dram of cognac. No. We experienced bottle upon magnum bottle of Belvedere vodka carried to tables, each accompanied by industrial sized Fourth of July sparklers. It was an experience.

Over the course of our two or three hours at Silver I consumed three drinks. Three. I joke-danced for a little while and later peered over the railing upon all of the "little people," much less amazing as I, I can only assume "enjoying" their non-VIP treatment.

I scoff at waiting for drinks. Gin and tonic. Sans sparkler? Hah! Don't you know who I am?

Clubs, parties, after-parties and after-after-parties are known to go until 7:00 or even 8:00am in Marrakech. I put my food down at 4:00am. I walked home after settling what was assumed to be my portion of the bill. For three drinks I was asked to pay 200Dh (roughly $25). That was fine. Hell, it was even better than expected considering it's such a chic place.

I fell asleep quickly in a booze-induced haze and was awoken four hours later by a text message from Chef:

"Last night cost me 2200Dh [$275] LOL"

It still isn't clear if that bill was legit. It isn't clear where those charges came from. It still isn't clear why I am expected to pay a 500Dh premium for a vodka and redbull with a sparkler-floater.

Yet another Moroccan happenstance and lessons learned.

*Interesting note about the video I linked above. Ignoring the photos, the first video portion is exactly where we were at the club Silver. The next video section is from the pool/club called Nikki Beach, which I never feel cool enough to go to (nor do I want to spend the money nor go without Nuala). And finally, the final portion of photos and video seems to be from the house of the owner of the hotel Nuala works for. I have been to one party at this house and they really do go all out for the Marrakech socialite scene. Interesting, to say the least. Not my scene...

How to Haggle Successfully in Marrakech

2010-03-17T15:46:00.002Z

Taghazout storefront, wholly unrelated to this post. Perhaps to whet your appetite for my future post about surfing in Morocco?

I have stumbled upon a new and improved method for getting the price you want while haggling in Marrakech. It's genius. It's unethical. Hell, it might just be plain lying.

One should keep in mind that haggling in Marrakech is a game that shopkeepers revel in. Under no circumstances is it considered morally corrupt to tell lies so long as it assists in keeping the final price on your side. That old "ends justify the means" chestnut.

For the first-timer or amateur shopping in Marrakech, it wouldn't be unexpected to experience the following defenses during a price war:

"No. Repeat previously stated price." Simple but effective if the shopkeeper thinks the buyer is an amateur. It's possible that an amateur will be too intimidated to counter after being told no.
"You are a Berber!" As I have stated previously, this is a favorite in Morocco. Calling someone a Berber is a playfully insulting way of telling someone off for being a hard bargainer. Ignore and continue.
What I fondly refer to as the "Laugh and Stomp" has been employed as a defense to my mad haggling skills on more than one occasion. The efficacy of this defense lies not in verbalizing their disdain for your offer so much as the simple act of seeming offended. Perhaps some sensitive soul would fall for this whereas I stand up straight, point at them and laugh in return. Not so effective as it is entertaining.
"This is very good quality. It is worth more than what I am offering to sell it for." A shopkeeper will act seriously indignant about an items quality and worth. Expect to see a great many hand movements, head shaking and looks of disbelief. A simple defense is two-fold. First, keep repeating that the item is "too expensive" whilst pointing out any perceived defects.
Finally, the most rudimentary defense employed most effectively against those with the greatest empathy, or what Douche Limbaugh might refer to as "white guilt". The appeal to your humanity or disgrace for your lack of humanity. "My friend, why are you trying to cheat me? Why do you want to pay so little? If I sell you this thing for so little, I won't be able to feed my dying children. My wife is bald and my dog has no teeth. Think of them, my friend. Think of my hungry, dying children."

A week or two ago I went to one of the many sidewalk stalls selling knock-off Coach purses, Louis Vuitton luggage and man-sacks (It's a satchel... they know their French-tourist market), Rolex watches, Mont Blanc stylos, and sunglasses. I ended up haggling over and purchasing a pair of knock-off Ray-Ban sunglasses for 100Dh in a style that until recently looked terrible on my face shape. I knew that I had overpaid for them but Nuala and I were in a hurry to meet up with friends and I just needed to quickly get something.

I enjoyed the glasses for a couple weeks and took them on my surfing expedition on the Moroccan coast. The lenses were actually of decent quality while the frames were obviously very cheap injection molded plastic. All was working out fine until on the final day on the coast I was sitting in direct sunlight on the beach for a few hours.

POP!

I hear this popping sound and the glasses immediately feel loose around my skull. My left eye was left squinting. It seems the plastic framing the left lens failed, popped, and the lens fell to the sand below, another victim of Moroccan UV exposure.

It is not that I expected the glasses to last a lifetime. I realize that knock-off glasses, by definition, are made cheaply to be purchased cheaply. What I expected was to not have to pay an additional 10€ for a pair of glasses I could expect to break in the Moroccan sunlight so easily. This is how I discovered my new haggling method...

I returned to the sunglasses seller yesterday. As I approached his shop I noticed he was taking a brief nap while leaning back in his chair. It's slightly evil how happy I was to wake him. I then offered a "Salaam alaykum," a handshake, heart pat, Ça va?, and a smile. I then explained that I had purchased glasses from him not long ago and that they had broken. He seemed unimpressed and wasn't about to offer a discount on any future purchase.

I went to the rack of sunglasses and began browsing the selection. I found two pair that would work for my purposes and acted more interested in one pair than the other (this is an old trick so that they offer a higher price on the item they perceive you as being more interested in, not that it ever works for me). He asked if I wanted to buy two pair to which I quickly replied, "No. I like these two and I want to know how much they cost." He then continued to push me to buy both and he would offer a better price. Yeah, yeah... I kept pushing for 40Dh and he wasn't budging from 100Dh.

As we were going back and forth on the pricing, a group of disoriented French tourists wandered up to his wares. They seemed interested in his sunglasses as well. I immediately came up with an idea as the shopkeeper turned his attention to his new victims...

In a slightly raised voice I exclaimed, "Excuse me! I told you that these sunglasses are cheap! The last pair I bought broke from nothing! I won't pay more than 40Dh!" The shopkeeper whipped his head around in horror and ran over to me and tried to shoosh me. "Come here... come over here... shh," he kept pleading as he was walking me away from the other shoppers. "Okay. Okay. You can have them for 40," he whispered while eyeing the other shoppers over my shoulder.

Haggling score to date:

Shopkeepers: 94
Garren: 1

Success!

Je suis revenu...

2010-03-15T01:17:00.000Z

...just now.

An extremely fun weekend spent with friends, old and new. Granted, "old friends" in Marrakech means we have known each other for seven months or less. I traveled by bus to Agadir on Friday afternoon with the girls from the American School of Marrakech. We then traveled by grand taxi north of town to the small stoney surf-hamlet of Taghazout. We met up with friends who had arrived just days previously and found our rooms at the brand-new Dfrost Surf Camp house.

Oceanfront.

Waves crashing.

I'm going to bed, but I'll leave you with this tidbit. Two nights, breakfast each morning, surfboard and wetsuit rental, etc. We ended up spending around 30€ each.

We will be returning, with Nuala the next time. (Further story and photos to follow)

Walk About Marrakech

2010-03-13T12:32:00.028Z

This last weekend I went on a walk around the medina with The Crew. We explored the kasbah and found a huge shop with fixed prices. Let's call it the Westfield Mall of Marrakech. They had everything from rugs and paintings to fighter jet models made out of ammunition. I was a bit surprised to find it in Marrakech as opposed to Alabama.

Later we had dinner at Earth Cafe, a vegetarian restaurant in the medina. Good food for little money. I had tea, water, entree and dessert for like $10.

I am aware that this is in the running for the worst post ever, but alas, I don't really care.

Either way, I present just a few of the photos from our day exploring the town:

Told you I would post while I was away getting thrown off a surfboard by baby waves.

You Guys Suck

2010-03-12T10:49:00.000Z

Or perhaps it's just my brothers. Michellle was quite right in her assessment that only my brothers (and Larry, you failed me!) would be in the know for this contest.

Without naming names, in the interest of making it difficult for someone to Google themselves and thus becoming offended by my blog, I will disclose that these photos cumulatively represent my high school "Personal Growth" teacher/high school track and cross-country coach.

I will preface that I have never actually had anything against this guy. From this point forward let's refer to him as Brumak. Why? Why not. Anyway... Brumak is the kind of guy that elicits strong feelings and opinions. There are those that love him and those that despise him. Sure, he teaches a thankless subject to a bunch of snot-nosed, know-it-all, zitty douches (a room full of Garren's - awww SNAP...wait...). I will also give you that he STILL has a Tom Selleck 'stache and mullet. I will admit that he wore funny shoes without socks and legend states that his testicles would fall out of his short shorts when placing his foot on the chair next to his desk. On the other hand, I will also tell you that I think the guy got a bum rap. I like the guy. I think he gets made fun of for his appearance by the likes of my brothers and me. He also was instrumental in teaching me to throw shot-put and discus and how to spot a herpes sore from 50m. The latter was the most helpful at Uni.

Why am I telling you this? I'm bored.

And, in the interest of full disclosure, I purchased a pair of short running shorts. I always told myself that I wouldn't be caught dead in something as skimpy as these. In reassessing my priorities, I realized I was tired of jogging in shorts akin to heavy basketball shorts, literally. Think of jogging a few miles with a damp towel wrapped around your waist. I have now noticed my jogs have become much more fun (focus on the running and not the annoying-shorts-issue) and interesting (watching the eyeballs of passing motorists and scooters go from my sweaty face, to my sweat soaked shirt to my sweaty balls). Ok, so not the "truck nutz" of legend but surely my sweaty quads.

These shorts are comparable to a relatively short soccer short and NOT the type of short jogging shorts you might be thinking of.

It seems I keep the 50Dh prize money. Losers.

While Nuala is toiling away in Prague I am going on a weekend vacation to the sunny coast of Morocco with some American friends of ours. We are heading to the small coastal hamlet of Taghazout. I will be heading out with some folks visiting from NYC to try my hand at surfing (again).

Now, for something completely different. On a final note, I have not been in the mood to post. Not one teeny tiny bit. Even this post has been painful, at best. I have a few topics that I have been considering and perhaps today after doing some pre-weekend holiday shopping, I will see if I can write something up and find an autopost option.

Don't hold your breath.

A Kept Man Contest

2010-03-07T18:45:00.000Z

Please review the following items and ponder their significance:

To the first person who can correctly answer what all of the above items have in common goes 50 Moroccan Dirham*.

I have brought shame to my family name. I have purchased something that I promised myself I never would. In spending money in this manner I have surely opened the doors to an honor killing.

Bonus Question!

I now offer an additional 50 Dh to the winner if he/she/it can correctly tell me what it was that was purchased. As a small clue I will admit that what was purchased is related to the answer to the above query.

My sincerest apologies, oh Fisher Family, as I hope to someday bring honor back to the family.

G

*The fine print. Moroccan dirham (Dh) is a closed currency. As such, I am not legally allowed to export Dh in any amount. Thus, for the winner to receive their winnings, they must make themselves physically available in Morocco to receive and spend their winnings. Always read the fine print.

A Jetset Shout Out to Papa

2010-03-03T10:01:00.003Z

I had a special grandfather named (for the wee ones) Papa. I am, in fact, the spitting image of him. I had to give a "shout out" to the man in one of my blog entries for Jetset Extra. In a review of a bar Nuala and I came upon in our researching something to do, a story of a typical greeting of our grandparents arrival to our home:

I like the drink. One might assume that this is due to my University of California, Santa Barbara “upbringing” and time spent in Isla Vista. Others might presume it was my grandfather’s influence. Papa never traveled without his “happy hour” bag, containing his favored liquors. Like many grandkids, we would race out to their car when they drove up the driveway. We wouldn’t fight over any gifts they brought us from their last adventure but for the honor of carrying the olive green faux-leather booze bag into the house. All the while, Papa would breathlessly watch us waddle back to the house, bottles clanking, struggling to carry the bag weighing half of what we did.

Andrew, my elder brother, received the family-famous bag (along with a length of pink yarn tied around one handle for maximum eye torture) after Papa's death, who I presume now uses the bag to hold eight heads. Or text books.

Nerd.

As he is a teacher in training, I think he should use the green faux-leather "happy hour" bag to carry papers for grading and the like. I couldn't think of a better use for the bag beyond of course carrying Bombay Sapphire gin and grandma's favorite, (gag) Canadian Mist.

Apropos, wouldn't you say?

Jetset Extra Feature, Suckas!

2010-03-02T15:48:00.000Z

Dearest Readers,

UPDATE! AGAIN!

Our internet in Marrakech has not been working. I just paid them 200 Dh to recharge our internet and after one evening of download speeds reaching 200 kb/s (phenomenal for this neck of the woods) it has failed to reach above 5 kb/s or even connect. Could it be from the wind gusts of probably over 60 mph? It seems to be working now. The wind just started up again. Corrugated steel roofing flying down alleyways. Grand.

I just shipped Nuala off to the airport to fly back to Prague. I already miss my woman. Our friends in Marrakech have kindly offered to take care of me while she is away but I think they just want me to cook for them. C'est la vie. Anyway, more about Marrakech later. I have quite a few entries I need to complete to bring everyone up to speed on the happenings....

It think the website for which I am writing tidbits here and there has finally launched. I write, "I think," because no one has really notified me of this.

Anyway, my "blog" on Jetset Extra is setup and a few of the things I have written have been posted: Garren Fisher on Jetset Extra

Additionally, one of my stories was selected to be included as a feature article and that has been posted as well: Holiday Spirit in the U.K. (They did butcher my bloody photos though... below are what they were supposed to look like in addition to all of the photos I posted previously about my tour of coastal N. Ireland.)

I hope you enjoy.

PS. I am fully aware that I am editing myself a bit too much for the other blog. I feel like I don't want to offend anyone. Good thing I have rethought this for future blog entries. I hope their cool with unbounded sexism, racism and just plain ignorance. Now THAT'S my cup o' tea.

Photographs as they should have been:

Sculpture Hunting!

2010-02-26T13:37:00.002Z

UPDATE!

Nuala and I have returned to Marrakech. After two months abroad it was nice to come home.

That's right folks, I just referred to Marrakech as home. It certainly feels that way. My French is getting much better (comparatively, that is, as it still blows), the weather is fantastic (it was just under 30 degrees yesterday - flip flops just hours after leaving Prague), and I am recognizing faces and they are recognizing me. Just today I saw one of our doormen outside that I hadn't seen since we were dragging our stuff to a taxi on December 19th. He is a truly kind and genuine guy. Today, he looked at me and I could see my face slowly register in his brain. A beaming smile crept across his face and he nearly yelled "Sala'am mulakum! Ça va?!" and offered his hand for a strong shake and the obligatory post-handshake-pat-of-the-heart.

It felt good to be home.
_________________________________________________________

The Czech Republic is home to a rather provocative artist by the name of Černý. He is known for his relatively "outrageous" sculptures on public display throughout Prague and is generally known to be controversial figure.

Possibly his first foray into controversy began in 1991 when he, as an art student, was joined by friends in the painting of the Monument to Soviet Tank Crews a bright pink. He was arrested under a typically vague statute of "public disturbances" and members of the Czechoslovakian military repainted the tank green. Later, a group of newly elected members of parliament again repainted the tank pink out of protest for Cerny's arrest.

I was perusing guidebooks on the area and one of them mentioned Černý's work around town and I decided I wanted to hunt a few of the pieces down.

First, I present to you a series of photos I took of his project "Baby." Built on the edifice that is known as Zizkov Tower, these babies, roughly the size of VW Beetles, reach far into the sky and can be seen from a distance. Interestingly, Zizkov Tower was originally designed to be used as a device to jam radio and television signals from Free Europe but, alas, its completion did not come until after the Velvet Revolution.

Next, I present Piss, a piece installed in the courtyard outside the Kafka Museum.

Obviously, Piss is a bit more...contentious. These two copper men face each other and piss water into the pool they are standing in. What's more, is their hips move. And their metallic phalli. They move so well that the stream of piss supposedly writes out lines from famous Czech literature. Did you know that when Piss was installed during Czech segregation, it was originally intended as a separate drinking fountain for Slovaks?

Not really.

Prague - Hotel and Food: Part Two

2010-02-16T10:42:00.001Z

Our Hotel Room

A Photo Essay

(1) Apples and a kiwi. Fruit I hoard after using the gym. There's a fruit bowl there. Why can't I take two?

(2) Nuala and "The Gopher." It's a tiny window and it's quite elevated.

(1) The soon-to-be-award-winning (did you hear that rumor about the Nobel Prize in Mathematics?) blog, The Chronicles of a Kept Man

(2) Little bags of almond cookies that I look forward to saving from the room service cart.

(3) Garbage almost overflowing. We are wasters, apparently.

(4) Super, hyper, uber, extra long ethernet cable allowing us to watch movies and Skype in bed. Why provide wireless when your average guest pays only 22€ per 24 hours of internet service?

(1) Electric water kettle. Best not to use on a stovetop.

(2) Crumbs due to Nuala's inability to use a plate.

(3) Most delicious coffee I have never tasted. Just add a pinched nose.

(4) Very large but useless electronic device (unless you would like to pay roughly 25€ per ppv movie).

(1) Nuala's Valentine's Day present. Yeah. I'm not completely terrible.

(2) I know how to make a bed to my own standards.

(3) Big, wide bed. Two twins pushed together, actually. Just call us William and Margaret.

(1) Not just any towel rack. This towel rack is attached to a hot water valve so it is heated. Makes it easy to dry your clothes when you don't want to pay 20€ to have your boxers washed and pressed.

(2) Another useless electronic device above the bathtub.

(1) Laundry detergent for my unpressed boxers.

(2) 12"+ diameter rain-shower shower-head

(3) Who knew we could clog a drain so quickly in a hotel room? I love this shower. Have I ever shown you our shower monstrosity in Marrakech? Remind me to when I get back. It's not so much a shower, in Marrakech, as it is a machine. I'm afraid of it at times. Anyway...

(1) A Kept Man

(2) Doing the dishes.

(3) Dishes soaking from the night before.

As you can see, there is a clear delineating line between hers and his sides. Nuala's brush is infriging on my territorial rights. Story of our lives...

(1) Only the most luxurious of hotels allows one to order beef carpaccio from room service whilst dropping a deuce.

(2) I think the housekeeper was hinting at something when she left this after the first week of service.

(3) Extra TP for long term guests. (That's right folks... I went for the poop joke trifecta in one entry of The Chronicles)

(4) Ridiculous collection of bath amenities. I might sell them back to them at check-out. Kind of like collecting coke bottles. Right?

Prague. The Hotel and Food: Part One

2010-02-15T14:18:00.007Z

Room service is amazing. I love to cook and as a kept man, I cook quite a bit. Five or six nights a week, en fait. Addictive, though, is the simplicity of perusing a menu, picking up the phone, saying a few words, and having the attendant make helpful suggestions such as "Mr. Fisher, would you like two Coke Lights again this evening?" to which I respond in kind, "Why Wilfred, what a splendid idea..."

A mere 25 to 30 minutes later I scramble to put on clothes as Nuala allows the server into the room with the cart (my natural state is in the nude). We have had braised lamb shank(see above photo), a burger, a fancy club sandwich, a fancy chicken sandwich on naan, chicken tikka masala on more than one occasion, indigestion, prawns, duck spring rolls, greek salad, insalata tricolore, caesar salad, tuna tartar, fancy grilled tuna sandwich, pad thai, salmon steak... essentially, we have ordered at least one of the entire menu. We just split a single entree as it is enough for both of us. Rather, Nuala eats and I have some of hers. I really shouldn't be staying here, anyway, and I tend to eat mainly from the groceries that we buy each week. We don't do this every night, either, though it is nice.

We have also explored culinary Prague. Czech food tends to be of the heavy meat, potatoes and dumplings sort. I would describe it as tasty but something akin to eating a Thanksgiving feast every night. Keeping that in mind, we have also partaken in eating Subway (eat fresh!) as it is close-by, inexpensive and has the caloric content that my Fisher-ass hates. There is a Thai restaurant around the corner called Noi that has good food and very good cocktails. We have visited local pub type restaurant called BarBar which serves a mix of different styles of well prepared food for decent prices. Nuala and I have also taken up a challenge from a local expat website that tried to answer the query, "Who makes the best burger in Prague." We have experienced two of the three thus far and we will complete this task, I assure you. And finally... we have discovered something that I have been striving to recreate in Marrakech. Something both Nuala and I have grown to love... Mexican food. Where there are a ton of American expats (and possibly Mexican expats?), Mexican food is sure to follow.

Side note...

I can't make authentic Mexican food in Marrakech. The best I can manage is a bastardized version taking the form of Tex-Mex style chicken fajitas. The ingredients and tools for flour tortillas are easily attainable. Other, more important ingredients are not:

Masa harina for corn tortillas
Chipotle peppers
Green chiles
Canned tomatoes for good red sauces (our local hypermarchés tend to carry only massive cans of tomato paste)
Variety of dried chiles (Ancho or serrano, specifically)
Tortilla press (not necessary but helpful)
Variety of beans (Nuala is probably stoked about that but garbanzo beans don't go very far in Mexican cooking. Mexican hummus?)
The list goes on...

Nuala will be packing some items in her suitcase for our return trip to Marrakech in nine days. We have purchased an eight-pack of corn tortillas (will last less than a week), some cactus, two cans of chipotle peppers, some red thai curry paste, and other tidbits to make cooking less predictable.

Another digression about Mexican food...

I, like many of my generation, have had the experience of growing up with and becoming close friends with people from central and south america, or their descendants. I had a roommate, while I was attending school at Cal Poly, whose name was Alejandro. He really wouldn't be worth mentioning but for a couple of interesting tidbits. First, he had a knack for waiting until I was nodding off to sleep to put the sock on the doorknob. There was more than one time that I had to fake a cough, clear my throat in the style of Mark Eugene Fisher, or throw a dirty sock in their direction to hinder the humping. Secondly, every time he came home from a school break his mother would send a gigantic disposable-tin of homemade enchiladas. I can imagine it now...

"Mijo! You look like you have lost weight... have you been eating? Here, take these back with you."

You're hungry now, aren't you?

Every time this happened the enchiladas would be gone before Alejandro, or any of my other Mexican friends later in life, had the chance to eat more than a bite of their mothers' enchiladas.

Anyway...

Nuala and I have rediscovered our love for Mexican food. The first restaurant we tried, located about 200 meters from the hotel, is called Cantina. We've been there three times. And I haven't strayed from my love, my old flame, my lover... the enchiladas. They are pretty damn good for being in the Czech Republic. We recently tried a different restaurant called Las Adelitas which is a ten minute tram ride away. I'm glad we went. It's slightly more authentic and rather tasty.

Here's a crappy video of the final few minutes of our time at Las Adelitas...

I'm an idiot, by the way. Can you spot the typo? Seriously, though, Mexican music in Prague? Rad.

We have been in Prague for a month and a half. We have been sleeping on one of the most comfortable mattresses I have ever experienced for the same period. The shower is massive (none of that French mini-shower BS). The bathtub is big with built-in TV above it (granted, the only channels in English are CNN, CNBC & BBC World, though I do enjoy the occasional Nickelodean-dubbed-in-German for kicks. Nothing says non-threatening education like "Die Karikatur Spongebob verrottet den Köpfen unserer Kinder. Auch, Hannah Montana ist eine Hure in der Ausbildung.")

The following is a breakdown of what happens during long-term and/or house use stays:

The mini-bar has been emptied, not because I drank my weight in Becherovka but to allow for groceries. Housekeeping comes but once a week to save labor. There is an ironing board as a permenant fixture in the corner of the room. Weekly dry-cleaning/laundry services are used. You begin to realize how much trash you actually accumulate in a week even without cooking, as your garbage is only emptied once a week. Housekeeping keeps adding additional soaps and shampoos each week upon servicing your room. You get stuck with a room with an undersized window that Nuala wouldn't be able to reach without using "The Gopher." You learn to keep the DND on the door to avoid eager room service attendants from walking into the room while you are jazzercising naked. You have also have an electric water kettle and crystalized instant-coffee at the ready for your morning joe. You steal every sugar packet you see in restaurants or from the room-service tray to accompany and mask the flavor of instant coffee...

Our Hotel Room - A Photo Essay will be posted tomorrow. Au revoir.

Gassy Little Green Things

2010-02-12T11:02:00.000Z

As it turns out, I love brussels sprouts.

Years ago, in my youth, I didn't eat vegetables. Anything green of any nutritional value was essentially off the table when it came to bargaining with the parentals. I loved salad, as long as by salad you meant iceberg lettuce with ranch dressing. Three cheers from water encased in cellulose smothered in cream!

I think part of this was due to my parents' habit of grossing me out. I mean no offense to them as I write this but I think the world should know their disgusting habits when it comes to cooked spinach.

They would purchase the spinach in the freezer isle. You know the one; the spinach that comes in a convenient frozen block. Eat fresh! They would cut the block in half, throw it in a pot and defrost it. They would then scoop a heaping helping of the limp, mangled mess onto all of our plates. My dad would then breakout his personal bottle of red wine vinegar and literally drown the spinach in the acid, with fumes reaching my developing nostrils and gag me. My mom, apparently trying to help form my idea of "what hell really is," would predictably retrieve from the refrigerator and scoop one or two tablespoons of bottled mayonnaise on top of her mossy, swamp veg (which just so happened to be leaking chlorophyl all over the plate by this time).

It came as a surprise to me later in life that I loved to eat plants. With the exception of raw broccoli and eggplant (evil purple bastards), I have grown an appreciation, if not love, for all vegetables that I have tried. Up until a few weeks ago, I had never tasted brussels sprouts. This was likely due to my parents' aversion to them as children. And so, it comes full circle...

I had them in London with the O'Malleys. Good lord they are crazy good.

Turns out I like beets, too.

Been Busy

2010-02-10T23:03:00.000Z

I've been relatively busy as of late. Hamburg. Snowboarding near the Polish-Czech border. Aida opera the other night with my dear. Bowling tonight with the Mandarin Oriental Prague crew.

I've also added an additional variable to my random, lazy life. I'm counting calories. I've been pretty diligent about exercise for the past year or so but I think my penchant for eating my weight in anything and a few beers turning into three beers, two whiskey's and a digestif have caused me to rethink my priorities.

I have given up the booze. Well... I have given it up to the extent that I was enjoying it. Bloody UCSB. I am also eating about 1,600 kcal's worth of food each day. I'm not used to this "empty but satisfied" feeling. Previously, I preferred eating until my gut told me it would explode if I took another bite, simply out of spite. Also, I am attempting round two of quitting smoking. Two weeks in. So...

I was doing well for about a week until we went bowling tonight. How can you not partake when beers are $1.00. Good beer. Thank god for nicotine patches.

Only in France: Going Postal

2010-02-09T15:15:00.000Z

Les Français. "We" make fun of them for many things. How does the French army train for war? Raise their hands. In my view, the average American sees the French as a cowardly nation. Granted, these same Americans are those who know little about history and/or have never visited France. Also, comments about hygiene, douchey conservative politicians comparing anyone who doesn't agree with them to the French, and assumptions about pretentiousness abound.

On the other hand, we never hear about efficiency of any sort. On the contrary, we hear nothing about the evils of their socialist government. Yet, the States is the one supporting the USPS in its endeavor to inefficiently operate in the red for years. Obviously, one can't blame all of the woes of the Postal Service on overhead due to long operating hours, but perhaps if people planned a little better shorter operating hours of the postal service would help in decreasing costs? Who really needs Saturday delivery service? Are you really depending on your AdSaver "magazine" to arrive on Saturday rather than Monday?

Just a thought.

Anyway, I took this photo at La Poste in a small town outside of Blois on our bike ride. We were hoping to get some stamps but we were disappointed to find them closed. Guess we needed to plan better. To be fair, this was a very small town in the countryside, but even small towns in the States have 8-5 post office operations.

(PS. It says Tuesday to Friday 9:15a-12:30p // Saturdays 9a-12p)

Irish at the Airport

2010-02-08T09:04:00.001Z

Stereotypes are funny things. Some say they are derogatory and degrading. Others may say that their origins lie in truth. I say those who use stereotypes are just so stereotypical. If I hear the lame anecdote "...walks like a duck, talks like a duck..." one more time...

Prior to arriving in Belfast I viewed Ireland, as a whole, as being an island of heavy drinking, loud speaking, and story telling people. I then split the North and the South into separate categories, with the North being working-class, ignorant fighters, while the those in the South were the more civilized and white-collar class.

Back in London, my mind was wandering as I was going through security and passport control at Heathrow. There was a line of us weaving in and out of seatbelt-fabric rows line dividers. Not paying attention to those in front of me, I proceeded to go the long way around TWO separate times even after the security staff had opened two of the dividers to allow people straight through.

After this, I looked up and saw a gentleman who had been behind me standing still and watching me with a gaping grin on his face. I stopped mid-step, looked at where I had just walked, where the dividers were open then at the man and shook my head saying, "Wow... I'm an idiot." He laughed a loud and hearty chuckle to which I offered to have him move in front of me saying, "Morons last." He smiled, refused, and kindly offered in the "typical Nor'n'iron" accent that "we all do silly things sometimes."

Moments later the line began to queue because of only one passport control officer being on duty. In front of me were three older men with thick accents indicative of the South of Ireland. They were going on and on about some woman they met the night previous. Their most-favoritist word for this particular conversation started with an F and rhymed with "fuckin'."

They were paying attention only to themselves and laughing up a storm when one of them finally got through passport control. That left one being processed and the other in line with him. They were still yelling at each other and having a great time when a second officer walked up and opened his terminal. The guy waiting in line didn't notice for ten seconds or more, due to his cursing quota needs, so I walked behind him and give the officer my passport.

I said good morning to the officer and we exchanged pleasantries when I heard a screech and an overly loud yell of "whaaaat the f___ duh yah think YEEEEEEERR doin'?! Jesus F____'in Christ, just think you can f____'in cut lines, do ya?!" Astonished, I grabbed my passport from the officer and take a step back only thinking about cutting in line to play wall-ball in 3rd grade. I bow a little and wave the guy through like I was working as a doorman at the Ritz (open palm!) and don't say a word. He continued to grumble to himself about my being "such a f___'in prick, who does he think he is" and so on.

Turns out he had to wait, anyway, because his friend was having trouble with his passport control officer. I won't say he apologized to me as I triumphantly sauntered by but he sure looked like an asshole to all of the other travelers who had witnessed his tirade.

Who is the low-class roughneck now?

Just the Tips! Cordoba, Spain Edition

2010-02-05T14:43:00.000Z

View of the minaret of the Mezquita. At one time it was The Great Mosque of Andalucia. After Cordoba was returned to Christian control, they converted it into a massive cathedral without demolishing the original structure. A pretty amazing edifice of which I will present more photos when I get around to writing about my Spain trip. Later...

A Night of Trad in Belfast

2010-02-04T15:52:00.004Z

Image of Fibber Magees - Reminiscent of the night I was there, though it was more crowded.
(Photo by Chris Warde-Jones for NYT)

...He must have been an admiral a sultan or a king,

and to his praises we shall always sing.

Look what he has done for us he's filled us up with cheer!

Lord bless Charlie Mops, the man who invented beer beer beer

tiddly beer beer beer.

The Curtis bar, the James' Pub, the Hole in the Wall as well

one thing you can be sure of, its Charlie's beer they sell

so all ye lads a lasses at eleven O'clock ye stop

for five short seconds, remember Charlie Mops 1 2 3 4 5...

Belfast. Largest city in and capital of Northern Ireland. A city with a soul, I feel. I loved it.

On the evening after I took the tour of County Antrim, I met up with a couple new acquaintances that I had met at the hostel. One was an American who had studied abroad through Queen's University and was visiting some old friends while another was a Canadian who was traveling for the sake of traveling. Knowing that I wanted to experience a night of traditional Irish music, trad, we decided we would go to a pub called Fibber Magee's.

The others had cider while I stuck to my Guinness guns. After several failed attempts of finding a place to stand, we eventually found a quiet corner amongst the throng. Our place to stand was bizarrely free of other people. Nice... we had breathing room away from the over-perfumed and painted singles.

As I squirm and stretch to catch a view of the "band" between heads and raised hands holding pints slowly streaming through the crowd, I look to my right and there is a guy trying to stand. He reminded me of Robin Williams character from Good Will Hunting, but with a severely impaired ability to handle his liquor. He looked at me; nay, his eyes were pointed at one of the four of me that his brain registered. His eyes trailing from one image to the next. All the while he is using one hand to hold onto the table in front of him and the other to chase his drunkenness with further debauchery. Someone had served him another pint. Super.

I look to my partners in crime who were already calculating the potential for trouble. Before I can turn around to perform my own calculations I saw a blur out of the corner of my eye. It took a split second for me to realize that he had literally gone head over heals for my friend's breasts, spilling his pint on her, and head-butting her chest.

Wow. The Troubles of Belfast, indeed. Luckily there were no serious injury except his ill-remembered dignity.

Unfortunately, this joint was definitely more of a touristed locale with many Canadians and Americans in the crowd, but the music was great nonetheless. My only other experience with trad was when I was about 17. A friend of a friend, who happened to be a former Irish Catholic priest ("I liked women too much.") would host many a local amateur musician at his house each month. There would be 15 to 20 people crowding every sofa and chair, with many spilling onto the floor and surrounding rooms. At the back of the main living room they had set up an old-school school projector with music printed on transparencies, illuminating an entire wall. There would be two or three guitarists, a fiddle or two, and perhaps a flute. Anyone with my musical ability would be given a bohdran to help keep time. The beer always flowed freely as did the smiles and laughter between misspoken lyrics. If only I were older, I would have appreciated it more.

That was the kind of trad session I was hoping to experience. Perhaps during the next time I visit Belfast.

The trad session I was hoping for...

This was my first experience, however, with a pint of Guinness only costing around $4.00. That's my kind of place. That night, one of my new friends explained to me something she referred to as the "Belfast bubble." Supposedly, either it is the tenders of bar in Belfast that are the not-up-to-par Black Stuff because of the travel; when a pint of Guinness is poured in Belfast, many times there is a bubble on the top rather than a smooth head. The Belfast Bubble. And knowing is half the battle.

One other thing my new friend said of dubious veracity was that one can sense a difference in traditional folk songs of the North and of the South. For example, one of her favorite "Nor'n'iron" (Northern Ireland) folk songs is entitled Dirty Old Town:

I met my love by the gas works wall
Dreamed a dream by the old canal
I kissed a girl by the factory wall

Dirty old town dirty old town

Her theory was that the songs of Northern Ireland tend to be more industrial, noting the lines about "gas works" and "factory" while songs originating in the South tend to be more of a natural, Irish Spring soap, or "rolling green pastures" nature. As an obvious example:

Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling

From glen to glen, and down the mountain side

The summer's gone, and all the flowers are dying

'tis you, 'tis you must go and I must bide.

But come you back when summer's in the meadow

Or when the valley's hushed and white with snow

'tis I'll be there in sunshine or in shadow

Oh Danny boy, oh Danny boy, I love you so.

I consulted Jerome, my uncle-in-law, and he took a moment to consider this. I think he was being kind and rather generous when he said that he didn't really think that was so but "it was an interesting thought." Later, I performed a wee bit of research coming up with some disheartening information. Dirty Old Town was apparently written by a Manchester native about his experiences in his hometown in England. Apparently, Danny Boy, THE most well known "traditional Irish song" isn't even Irish! It is a bastardized old Irish tune whose lyrics were written by an Englishmen.

Prague Photo-Blog

2010-02-03T16:08:00.005Z

Let's be honest. I can't write without a deadline. I haven't even finished discussing my final few days in Spain. You know, the days that I went traveling solo to Cordoba and Grenada? The ones no one except Nuala has had the opportunity to hear about?

I still need to write about New Years Eve in Belfast, our day trip throughout Belfast and Armagh with Jerome, my time in Dublin, and really, my arrival and time in Prague.

I'm lagging. Lollygagging, if you will.

For the meantime, since I really haven't shared any photos of Prague yet, perhaps I will do so now since it is a gorgeous city.

But FIRST!!! My favorite graffiti that I have seen in a long time from Belfast:

Seriously

Now, a selection of publishable photos from Prague (the ones I will not be castrated by Nuala for posting due to "hair issues"):

Skyline of Prague - View to east from Castle

Skyline of Prague - View to south east from Castle (That's Charles Bridge)

View from Charles Bridge of Prague Castle and waterfront

Non-castratable offense

Quaint, as my mother would say

Just the Tips! of the Tower on Petrin Hill (1/5 the size of the Eiffel Tower, but the same height due to the hill)

Just the Tips! of St. Vitus Cathedral inside Prague Castle. I am obliging Nuala with a smirk.

Hiding as I don't want to pose with the guard. I don't think they have any qualms about beating an American like the polished Brit guards do.

What good are tourist signs if your average tourist doesn't speak Czech? And all the buildings look the same... really.

It clearly doesn't take much to amuse myself.

Lennon Wall. (Is that an homage to Vonnegut?)

El Barto was here

View down a channel

Benches under Charles Bridge

It Ain't Over

2010-02-02T12:39:00.001Z

Valkyrie Gärrnhilde

Yes, 'tis true.

Nuala has persuaded me to accompany her to the opera. This Monday we will be seeing Aida. I arranged for the tickets at the box office of the Narodni Divadlo (National Theatre) today. 600 Czech crowns. That's about 24€ for both of us. I consider that to be quite a deal for opera. The equivalent seats at the San Francisco Opera for Die Walkure $230 for two.

There is no turning back. I will get shnazified, perhaps even a tie if Nuala thinks she is getting lucky. Perhaps I will even escort my date to a wee pre-opera dinner (is there a Sizzler in Prague? We've verified the existence of not one, but two, TGI Friday's in the Czech Republic). With all that I've agreed to she will now likely expect me to be holding a chilled bottle of Cristal as she returns to the hotel room from work, with me wearing only the tie.

I need to learn to manage expectations better.

Maybe after this Nuala will agree to accompanying me to a monster truck rally!

News Today

2010-02-01T18:29:00.003Z

I don't want to turn The Chronicles into a blog about my favorite videos. Facetwits are used for that purpose.

On the other hand, I happened upon this video explaining the typical piece on television being paraded as "news."

Brilliant.

Hamburg in Winter before Only in France

2010-02-01T10:52:00.001Z

I'm back from Hamburg. It was a fun time though cold and snowy. It's what I get for continuing to travel throughout the winter. In Central Europe. And close to the North Sea.

I will enter more into the The Chronicles at a later date about my Hamburg experiences but I will note that even through the haze of massive snow flakes, every surface frozen solid and camouflaged in a layer of freshly fallen snow, Hamburg is obviously a beautiful city. The Alster (huge lake) was frozen up to 20cm so it seemed half the city was taking their lunch breaks to ice skate together, while I dealt with matching holes in the soles of my boots.

Leave it to a native Californian to not realize that leather soled boots are not the greatest when mixed with slush and grit. Five weeks. That's how long the soles lasted. Again, I'm a genius.

I'm in the process of editing and revising so I will leave my entry today to another "Only in France." By the way, I don't really care if you like these entries. I chuckle to myself like an idiot at each of the photos so this is merely an exercise in humoring myself. Self-pleasuring, if you will.

Anyway... Another dose of the scaffold obscuring facade from Paris. I assure you that not all of these Only in France entries are of these photos. Seriously, though, a rollerblading cop? I'm personally a fan of the sweatband on his forearm.

That's hardcore.

Only in France

2010-01-26T22:36:00.000Z

Since I will be out of town for the next few days, I thought I would leave you with a little something. Something new.

A new theme to The Chronicles that I have been thinking about for some time. During Nuala's and my time in France over the summer (our honeymoon en route to Morocco) we came upon quite a few "interesting" things. Cultural phenomena, if you will.

So I give you the first in the new series "Only in France." Or, "One From a Series of Funny Photographs from France." Or, "N'importe quoi."

Enjoy:

I should probably explain. In Paris, when a building or structure of any sort is under construction, they seem to cover them in these films of less obtrusive scenery. So, this government building (apologies, I only remember that it was due west of Notre Dame) was draped in this skin to cover the scaffolding.

It's not the skin so much as the loving eyes one receives from this giant policeman. And the Frenchman staring at me as un silly tourist Americain. Who are you to judge me for judging you.

Damnit.

Cheeseburger! Cheeseburger! Cheeseburger!

2010-01-26T14:19:00.001Z

At one time, I lived in Santa Barbara and worked in the humble hamlet of Montecito. Humble...

While working at the San Ysidro Ranch, Nuala and I became friends with a couple of girls from Germany and Switzerland. Jil, originally from Wuppertal, and her friend Isabel were working as a management trainees. They were going to school in Switzerland for hotel management and were living for a time in the States working at various properties for experience.

We have tried to keep in touch as much as possible over the few years since we moved from Southern California. Our German friend is now living in Hamburg going to school while I am "living" in Prague wasting time and savings. Jil mentioned that since we are relatively close we should come visit; that was an interesting proposition.

After a few days of research on travel logistics, Nuala and I came to the conclusion that, with a seven hour train ride from Prague to Hamburg, it would likely be difficult for Nuala to come along on a short weekend trip. The decision was made that I will take the train Wednesday morning and return to Prague on Saturday. If I can find a decent tangential trip while in Hamburg (perhaps an American band playing a European tour) I might extend my trip to other areas. Elsewhere in Germany, Austria, Denmark, Belgium, Amsterdam... oh the possibilities.

The list of countries I have visited since August of 2009:

France
Morocco
Spain
England
Ireland (Does Northern Ireland count as separate?)
Czech Republic
Deutschland... as of tomorrow.

Not bad for five months. Not bad considering my only trip "abroad" had been to Rosarito, Mexico for five or six days for a spring break trip while at university. Rosarito felt more like Isla Vista than a foreign country. Who am I kidding? Rosarito was cleaner than IV. Let's say Goleta.

Speaking of which, I need to find my sombrero and track whistle.

Tomorrow, I travel to the land of Beethoven, the Third Reich, Bavarian Motor Works, and Claudia Schiffer. I don't really know what I am going to do. All I know is that I have a bed waiting for me in Hamburg and an 80€ return train ticket. I should really do some more research. Our friend has already told me that she is going to interview me for her dissertation on hotel management (who does she think I am?!) and after her classes are done for the week, we are going to go out to the Reeperbahn on Friday night. She noted in her email that I should look into changing the ticket for a later train on Saturday afternoon or on Sunday. Should I take warning from this?

The Reeperbahn is not only known as the center of the city's nightlife but also as Hamburg's red light district. Maybe she is taking me there to exploit me. To sell my body. Hopefully I won't get drugged and be forced to dress up in a dirndel. Nice jugs.

PS. I have updated this blog so that the hyperlinks from this point forward will open in a new window rather than direting you from this page. You should open the links if you want "the full experience" of The Chronicles.

Cold Day Touring

2010-01-25T12:23:00.002Z

I wrote on a previous post that I went on a tour of the Northern Irish coast toward Giant's Causeway. The tour company providing the service, Allen's Tours, was recommended by the staff of the hostel in which I was staying.

I also mentioned several days ago in The Chronicles that I have been asked to provide my thoughts through literary extravagance (hah... hah... hah...) on travel and living abroad. I will be writing some posts specifically for Jetset Extra. In such instances I may be forwarding your attention from my multimillion dollar revenue producing blogspot.com blog to the other site.

For now, I have offered my impressions on Prague and also the holidays spent in the U.K. and the Northern Ireland tour. Unfortunately, because the site has yet to launch, my dear readers will be unable to read my commentary for now. Rest assured that I will post a link as soon as the site launches and my blog is updated.

The weather was atrocious on the day I went on the tour. I wore my fancy new boots, long underwear, jeans, long sleeved t-shirt, sweater, pea coat, scarf, gloves and wool beanie. I was still freezing. Case in point:

My "happy" face.

Again, the weather was colder than a witch's teat. The tour guide was a genteel soul, Ian, born and raised in Northern Ireland. With a sense of humor cornier than my father's or my own, the stories he told tended to be eye-roll silly or tragic. You'll see this is my future post.

Without going into many details there was a funny happenstance. It turns out that when I arrived at the Giant's Causeway, my uncle-in-law Jerome was also there with his family. I got there at about 14:30 and they left at around 15:00. I took the guidebook's advice and walked the clifftop trail then down the steps to the geological formation (who am I kidding, it was Finn McCool's bridge). If I had walked directly down the road to the Causeway, I would have run into Jerome et. al. without expecting it. That would have been a trip. Anyway...

To hold you over, here are some photos from the tour:

Just outside Carrickfergus Castle looking out into the Belfast Lough.

View of des bateaux in the marina in Carnlough. Just behind me is the Londonderry Arms Hotel, at one point owned by Winston Churchill (inheritance). Above the boats on the sea wall is where I took this photo.

On the trail to the Carrick-a-Rede rope bridge. Finally, I got to see Scotland (far, hazy distance).

Carrick-a-Rede rope bridge. Closed due to wind gusts. I felt like I was going to fall off of the cliff.

Again.

View from the clifftop trail above the Giant's Causeway. That's not a golf course. It was nice to experience stereotypical green pastures of Ireland.

View from afar of the famous portion of the Giant's Causeway (this was on my walk down the steps from the clifftop trail. Very beautiful. But. Cold.

Just the top few steps down from the cliff. There were something like 172.

The only semi-decent photo I got of the Causeway.

This was at 1/50 sec shutter speed. Bloody wind.

Mmmmm... Strudel

2010-01-20T14:59:00.011Z

We have noticed signs around town advertising various foods and libations. These cinnamon roll things, mulled wine, and in particular, strudel. We try our best to try everything. It's the least we can do, right?

In researching "The Bestest Strudel Prague has to Offer," the resounding winner was Susta Strudl. Locals love it, tourists love it, and apparently Samantha Brown from the Travel Channel digs it. Interestingly enough, apparently they are only open on weekdays with bankers' hours, not to mention the generous hour lunch break.

With Nuala busy during her days and not being able to take a long break, I decided to venture out into Praha 3 (residential "suburb") on my own.

Digression: Prague's city planners have the city laid out in different sections, numbered one through ten. Praha (Prague) 1 is the city center encompassing the Mala Strana (Little/Lesser Quarter), Staré Město (Old Town) and Nové Město (New Town), Josefov (Jewish Quarter) and part of Prague Castle. From there the other districts of the city spiral around the central district.

So, I go to the local tobacco shop to buy my public transit tickets. Prague's public transportation system is actually pretty easy, once you get used to it. (At a later date, I will describe my less than stellar arrival into the city of Prague. I'll leave you hanging with the fact that instead of going directly to the hotel from the airport, I walked for two and a half hours, carrying my 20kg backpack through snow and ice, before finding the hotel.) I hop on the 22 tram at Hellichova stop and transfer to the metro which I then take for six stops finally getting off at Flora. From there, I walk northeast for about two kilometers before finding this:

View Larger Map

This is no joke. Susta Strudl is like something out of a circa-80s sub-par cold war film. Or, one of the top-five-greatest-films-of-all-time-starring-the-illustrious-pre-ER-Anthony Edwards, Gotcha!. You walk up to this little orange window. I couldn't even call it a storefront while maintaining a straight face. It's a closet with a workstation, oven, and a very unhappy looking pastry chef/attendant. You keenly look him in the eye, deftly hand him your money, and after looking over both your shoulders as nonchalantly as possible, you whisper your order. For me, it was, "Prosim, jablečný závin." He returned my gaze, rolled his eyes, corrected my pronunciation and handed me strudel. No micro-film. No secret documents. Just a 16" masterpiece of dough, apple, cinnamon and powdered sugar. For 42Kč. $2.30. It could easily feed three people.

I walked around the corner and discreetly unwrapped my treasure and began nibbling. Imagine a Home Run Pie from the grocery stores. Those glazed crusts filled with over-sugared filling that for whatever reason you cannot put your finger on why you love something so disgusting. Imagine that, but warm, covered in powdered sugar, lightly sugared filling, with a light pastry crust. Dig it.

I finished about 1/4 of the strudel, shoved it in my pocket and got back to the hotel ASAP. Nuala has to try this.

I Skype Nuala from the room upstairs and she writes, "I'm coming up for a bite." And she says she can't take a break...

No "Hi" nor "Hello" nor "How was your trip?" She looks at the package, immediately unwraps and then she studies it:

SHE ATTACKS!!!

She's happy:

I did feel a little bad. Have you ever tried to eat with a camera in your face?

Kelly's Cellars

2010-01-19T13:05:00.003Z

Later, I will return to the story of my trip through Belfast and Dublin. For now, I wanted to mention that my mother-in-law, Rosemary, as well as just about everyone I know who hails from Belfast has a particular sketch/painting. It is an old depiction of a man walking down an alleyway in Belfast and you can see a church and a pub; the reason Rosemary loves the depiction is because one can't tell where he is going, where he will end up.

One of my many goals for this trip was to find this location in Belfast. I was able to. In fact, I was able to frame a photo in the same manner as the picture.

This one is for your Rosemary:

Need I explain that I did not make it to the church? Actually, Kelly's Cellars was by far the greatest pub I have visited. Uneven, concrete floors, hearty beef stew, snarky tenders of bar, and low ceilings. Borderline misanthropes, really. I read signs hanging around the pub that stated "no baseball caps or tracks suits allowed at anytime." I suspect it is a generational thing, not a racial thing. This is Northern Ireland.

One is the Loneliest Number - Again

2010-01-18T11:25:00.015Z

We went our separate ways on the morning of the 29th. Nuala back to Marrakech and I onto Belfast. I was to spend a couple of days catching the sights and Nuala to spend a whopping two days at work before turning around and heading to Prague.

At the outset of this entry into The Chronicles, let me note that I prefer to travel with my wife. Yes, traveling solo allows for certain experiences that one may not normally be in a position to experience. Rick Steves' series "Through the Back Door" recommends traveling solo as a means of nurturing opportunities for experiencing a new place while it also presents a vivid double entendre. I'm a bloody child.

I won't be so crass as to assert that I am "old" but I feel so. Staying in hostels and meeting "new and exciting" people (immature college students) is not my current cup of tea. Contrary to my common and consistent misconception, I have yet to actually meet a group of traveling college students. With few exceptions, those I have met in hostels tend to be my aged or older. This could be due to the types of hostels I tend to frequent: smaller, non-institutional, independent ones. In Grenada I stayed in the brand-new, FANTASTIC El Grenado Hostel run by a Swede (Freddy) and his girlfriend. There I met a great group of Australian professionals (a doctor, a lawyer, and an interior designer) my age taking advantage of their five week vacation. I was absolutely spoiled from that point forward. In Sevilla, I stayed in a decent, smaller hostel overrun with a sweet, well-intentioned, but immature Canadian post-University crowd.

Anyway... suffice it to say that I prefer my travel companion, Nuala, to be with me.

Upon arrival to Belfast, it was not much different from my previous experiences. I sat down to a cup of coffee upon arrival to the city centre and set about planning my first moments. I called the first hostel on a list in my guidebook, Arnie's Backpackers, and made the 15 minute trek through the bitter cold. I was greeted with a cup of tea, a coal fire, two food-begging Jack Russell mutts, and a bottom bunk. WOOHOO! Granted, the bottom bunk was technically a mattress on the floor, in the corner between two large prison style beds, but one cannot complain about a "bottom bunk" for £10 per night.

View from my little corner. Not quite the Four Seasons but it did the job.

Aside: For those readers not hostel-bed-strategery savvy, top bunks are a pain in the ass. First, you have to stand in the middle of the room to do anything. If you are remotely respectful, you feel bad about shifting your weight on the creaky springs and climbing up and down the ladder; no one likes stinky traveling feet in your face in the morning.

The hostel was in the University "district" of Belfast, literally across the street from Queen's University.

As my arrival into Belfast was in the early evening, the first night I took it easy and explored a bit. I walked down to the city centre and around City Hall, I walked along Botanic Avenue (commercial center of the university district) and found myself back at the hostel watching a terrible movie with a pint and new friends. It's funny how parents always say to their children, "just be yourself." If I were to take that advice while watching National Treasure, I think I likely would have alienated myself at the outset. In fact, those who know and love me dearly (Nuala) know full well to not watch any silly movie with me (not good-silly like Caddyshack or Blazing Saddles, but lame-silly like Blade or Condor Boy. Yeah. Condor Boy.) So I kept my mouth shut and only allowed a few snorts of disbelief at Nicholas Cage's lines ("Put... the bunny... down.").

On the first night at the hostel, the owner recommended taking a van tour along the coast north of Belfast toward Giants Causeway. The tour would include a guided tour of the landscape, Carrickfergus Castle, views of the nine glens of County Antrim, Carrick-a-Rede rope bridge, Giants Causeway, Dunluce Castle and Bushmills Distillery.

A man and his daughter from Botswana had just returned from the tour and with an enthusiastic tenor they recommended the tour. I should have taken closer notice of their symptoms of exposure.

The tour was to depart in the early morning so it was early to bed for the Kept Man.

Prop 8 Trial Tracker

2010-01-16T10:13:00.008Z

Most of you are probably aware of the federal trial ongoing in the San Francisco district court. Beginning this last Monday, the two attorneys who fought it out in Bush v. Gore (2000) are back at it, but fighting on the same side. That's right, David Boies (Gore) and Ted Olson (Bush) have teemed up on the anti-Prop 8 side questioning its constitutionality.

For the past few days, as an extremely amateurish legal enthusiast, I have been following Prop 8 Trial Tracker who has provided a live blog of the proceedings. Without even touching on the politics of Prop 8, I can say that this is one interesting trial. Additionally, presiding over the trial is Judge Vaughn Walker. The Honorable Judge Walker's original nomination to the Federal District court by Reagan was surrounded by controversy because of his assumed anti-gay views. He was later renominated by Bush I and was confirmed successfully. The irony lay in the fact that he seems to be no nonsense with the games being played by the defense during this trial and seems genuinely interested in the prosecution witnesses' testimony. Also, the defense testimony should be quite entertaining, particularly once they come under cross examination.

Anyway, if you have an extra moment surfing the web and you are interested in law and rights, I highly recommend this read.

White Christmas in London (Part Three - Touristy Sightseeing Days)

2010-01-11T16:47:00.015Z

I don't know why, but she reminds me of Paddington Bear in this photo. You know, from Darkest Peru!

We had specific plans in mind. Nuala and I wanted specific cuisines whilst in London. The top few were Chinese, Indian and the ol' favorite, fish and chips. In Marrakech, we have a "Chinese" restaurant around the corner called China Quick. It is run by a middle-aged Moroccan man. You would be safe in assuming that the food from China Quick couldn't be considered authentic Chinese cuisine. In fact, it isn't even close to authentic American Chinese cuisine. Or Panda Express. Or those pot-stickers that you got to sample at Costco from time to time. The food from China Quick is more along the lines of Moroccan spiced meats in various gravies imitating the color of different bodily excretions. YUM! Oh, and their wontons looked and tasted eerily similar to puffed rice wafers.

So we were happy to try as many cuisines while in London as possible. Chinese food on a side street off Leicester Square. Indian/Bangladeshi food on Brick Lane. (Ciara and her fiancé Stephen mentioned this locale. After our Jack the Ripper walking-tour we walked a couple blocks to find two + blocks of Indian and Bangladeshi restaurants. One after another. They said that the food is good and that you can bargain with the staff of each for a good deal. Yeah, sure. When we got there, we were shocked. Outside of each restaurant was a waiter/manager vying for our attention saying such things as, "Good Indian Dinner, for you tonight, 30% off," or, "Come take a look. Good menu. 35% off tonight. Very good special." I guess I was so amazed by the variety of cat-calls, I failed to actually bargain and chose the first appetizing looking restaurant. It was good and relatively cheap, too, event without driving the hard bargain.)

We had cocktails at a steakhouse/bar off of Covent Garden. I got my fill of bourbon in the form of a Manhattan (I am my grandmother's grandson) and Nuala satiated her incessant need for tequila. My wife is a fiend for tequila. She will perform cartwheels down the street in Isla Vista with a mullet wig on her head, falling after each performance and resting between fits of laughter. All of this after just two shots of Patron. Um... no. That was me. Marrakech doesn't have cocktails, per se. They are of the European mindset that you provide the 0.2 cl of liquor in a glass with ice and they provide a bottle of your preferred mixer in a bottle. On one occasion, I asked for a martini at a rooftop bar in Marrakech only to find it DROWNED in olive juice. Who said dirty?

We also attempted a gastropub in the city where they were born. A gastropub is something between a neighborhood's "local" and a fine dining restaurant. Think pub-grub but with a foodie twist. Our favorite restaurant in Oakland markets themselves as a gastropub, so we wanted to try it in London. Though it was a very good experience with great food and really personable service (similar to our lost love, Wood Tavern) it wasn't quite the same. We tried a place called Cadogan Arms in Chelsea. Three cheers for venison. Also, though it was raining and sleet-ing on our long walk down King's Road, I found that I dig Chelsea. Who doesn't, right?

One night we went for drinks at the Mandarin Oriental London. Afterword, we went across the street to find a final Christmas gift or two only to find a store similarly priced to Harrod's. Concierge at MO London get's an F- for that recommendation. On a positive note, I was given the chance to see Uncle Joe's Mint Balls (my older brother has noted something disgusting about my younger brother Joe's testicles...)

Nuala and I wanted to see St. Paul's Cathedral. We decided that we would shoot for the 23rd of December to see Evensong where the choir sings. We arrived to find the entrances blocked police in riot gear ready to fight off the masses. Not really. There were two police officers looking bored and cold blocked two entrances in guardrails while we were not allowed entrance. It seems our lack of research led us to missing a special Christmas Carol service as well as a possible Russell Brand spotting. As everyone filed out from St. Pauls, we watched as a Mercedes swung around and parked on the sidewalk and the police converged on a very hairy, skinny man and a woman and escorted them to the car along with paparazzi flashes. That's my theory, at least.

If you look closely, you can pick out Russell Brand's poor taste. (There's that damn "satchel" again...)

Boxing Day in London. What a trip. Luckily we didn't really do anything on Boxing Day but even in the days after it was craziness. We went to Oxford Circus to find books and other items unavailable to us in Marrakech only to find insanity. Bad photo below of the intersection of Oxford St and Regent.

I'm not really into wading through masses of deal-scavaging-humanity.

After Christmas was officially over we went about our time in a touristy fashion. I needed to soak up the sights and do it quickly and efficiently. So we essentially saw everything that I wanted to see in one day. We started off by going to Buckingham Palace for the changing of the guard.

Isn't she pretty?

Though Rick Steves' noted in his guide book that part of the fun is to see every tourist in London gather in one place. It's true. I have not heard so many American accents in one place since leaving NYC. Not to mention Japanese, das German, les French, etc. Luckily for us, we had a couple different groups of Americans standing in front of us. To our left were a pair who went to college together. Gossip queens. Jesus H. Christ. One was from Ohio, spoke like a bloody valley girl and wouldn't stop talking about random inane bullshit. I wanted to slice off my ears and lance my ear drums. Seriously.

Trying hard not to choke Miss Ohio by her scarf.

The doosy was yet to come. To our immediate front and right were two families; one family from Georgia and one from Texas (and yes, she had the big blond hair that would do any Dallas-ian proud and he wore aviator sunglasses with blue tinted lenses. Oh, and he had a rat's nest on his head that would make Bobby Ewing jealous). One of the older daughters kept pushing back against Nuala. The other one kept bitching at her father that she couldn't see anything for the entire hour leading up to the pretty horsies and fat tuba players marching up to the palace. Jethro was being crazy patient with the kid until wifey piped up. (Thick Dallas accent) "Honey, why don't you pick her up so she can see? Honey..."

Billy Ray snapped. He started quietly yelling at his wife that he doesn't need her nagging him to pick her up and that there wasn't anything to see. He would pick her up when everything started but he couldn't hold her for an hour. Family dynamics. So delightful.

Meanwhile, over my right shoulder I had some tourist getting ansy-in-her-pantsy, as well. We arrived early to find a good spot at the top of the steps and I wasn't going to budge. While shifting back and forth between feet (holy shit my toes froze from standing on freezing granite) this woman was slowly creeping up on my spot. I think she found me attractive. No, perhaps my right tricep was attractive. Within minutes, she literally had her breasts on either side of my arm and with each time that she swiftly pushed herself on her tippy toes, it was as if she was stroking my arm... you get the picture.

Quit with the arm. Wifey is RIGHT HERE!

Finally, we made our way to the Tower of London and the Tower Bridge. Since our arrival into the city I had wanted to see the Tower Bridge. It's just one of those images of London. The Tower of London was an interesting sight to behold and our next time there I would love to go inside, but I found it really hard to part with nearly $30 for the entrance fee. I think it is ludicrous how much tourists are charged in London to see "the sights." That's my two cents. Now here are two more photos from our "touristy day on the town."

Unfortunately, that was the best shot of the tower and us. I got better with self-portraits...

See? Marginally... get it?! MARGINALLY?!

Darren just sits in the back of class with a smirk on his face.

2010-01-11T11:59:00.008Z

Half of being smart is knowing what you're dumb at. - David Gerrold

Soon, I will continue updating the Chronicles inline with my previous entries. Subjects yet to come will include our final days in London and my time spent in Belfast, Armagh, and Dublin. I spent most of my time in Belfast and Dublin. After hearing Jerome McCann say that a massive car-bomb was found in Armagh just days before our arrival, I was ready to skip town. How's that for someone growing up in the sleepy suburbs where some drunk shot at three people at random outside The Rusty Nail is the maximum in violence. Or perhaps my little brother getting jumped at the local intellectuals' haunt, Bert & Ernie's.

Anyway...

For now I will briefly mention that a friend of a friend, a person seemingly a wee bit nuts, has noticed The Chronicles and decided that she likes my style. I have been asked/invited to write weekly mini-columns for the yet-to-be-launched website JetSet Extra.

Wonders never cease.

My duty is to serve up information and insights on my area, usually Marrakech, though for the moment I may be writing up bits on Prague.

Unfortunately, it has been snowing like gangbusters around these parts so Nuala and I have only begun to dabble in all the greatness that is the Czech Republic. You know - gypsies, hookers, communists, buskers, and snow. I kid, I kid. Prague is so much more. They have sleet and bridges, too.

Wish him luck as this amateur shows just how pedestrian he can be.

Hey Boy-o! Just the Tips! London Edition

2010-01-09T21:28:00.003Z

Who knew that all of that soot caused color to be seeped out of everything? What a black and white experience...

I'm an idiot.

White Christmas in London: A Retrospective (Part Two - Our Hosts)

2010-01-08T12:14:00.006Z

The O'Malley clan with fiancé and friend

We couldn’t have asked for a better place to stay or with more wonderful people. They are like a second family to Nuala but it was my first time meeting them. The matriarch Christine is the quintessential mother figure, doting on her children and her guests, ever present and always ensuring their comfort. On no less than a half-dozen occasions did Christine offer me a bacon sandwich, out of the blue. It caused me to reflect whether she offered out of knowledge of our lack of pork consumption in Marrakech, my ever growing breast cup size or if she was just being that hospitable. I suspect the latter two.

Christine is the best friend of my mother-in-law, Rosemary, who also hails from Belfast. The two met at Irish dancing class as wee children and grew closer in secondary school, if memory serves. Apparently, per Christine’s account, they had a special diddy of a dance that they would perform together. What I would pay to see that… Funny after all the years of living on separate continents how Rosemary’s and Christine’s mannerisms and manner of speaking truly mirror each other’s.

Michael is the patriarch of the family, also a Belfast emigrant. With a wry smile and a smart-ass’ wit, he would proclaim that he wasn’t from the slums of Ardoyne, but rather the upper-class enclave of Andersontown. Michael has the sense of humor ranging from subtle to silly, causing his wife to show off her ignoring abilities and his children to roll their eyes and exclaim, “oh, Dad!” As a fresh audience, Nuala and I were most definitely entertained.

The symbol of post-adolescent sibling harmony lies in the O’Malley youth. Seana, Ciara, Aisling, and Connor exude love and patience for one another. Though sibling rivalry and tension likely lay below the surface, it didn’t show. The four obviously care for each other a great deal and appreciate family as a concept.

Nuala and I were taken in as part of the family almost immediately and welcomed seemingly wholeheartedly. Aisling gave up her room, against our objections, along with her massive flat screen TV and brand-new mattress for our use. That is until Connor went to the doctor for his broken leg that he suffered at the hands of a crazy Dutchman on the slopes in France. Returning home in a cast Connor found comfort in the more easily accessible room and Nuala and I were relegated to the upstairs loft. All the better, we felt, now being afforded more privacy and a private bathroom.

After the disappointment of our cancelled Scotland trip, we spent our days sightseeing and being tourists. Bundled up each day, we walked to the nearest functioning Underground station and traveled into the city centre. Due to London preparing for the upcoming Olympics they are going through grand upgrades to their infrastructure including shutting down several lines altogether at each weekend. On such occasions we typically took a bus to the nearest station on the Metropolitan or Northern Lines or if Christine or Michael pressured us enough, we would take them up on their offers to drop us off in their car.

My set of London-sightseeing-priorities was rather simple. I tend to mold my trips into a food and wine extravaganza with minor emphasis placed on sights of historical or cultural significance. I find food provides a true sense of place. Beyond that I wanted to see the Tower of London, the Tower Bridge, the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace, the Churchill Museum as well as the Cabinet War Rooms, and of course…Look kids, Big Ben, Parliament! Nuala and I also enjoy walking tours of places we visit and we had heard that the Jack the Ripper tour was a good one. While in New York a few Decembers ago, when Nuala was known as my “travel partner” for HR reasons, we went on a walking food tour of the lower eastside with Big Onion Tours. Even though we had taken the red-eye from Los Angeles and had been awake for over 24 hours, the tour was the best we had ever been on.

Alright, I have already received enough shit for the bag. I was doing Nuala a solid by carrying, damnit. I will admit I look pretty effeminate right there. Oooh! Horsies!

Throughout our days in London we switched between alone time in the city centre and time spent with the O’Malley family, as it was Christmas time after all. I slowly grew accustomed to the Underground, although Nuala would so kindly remind me that I was an amateur at navigating the subterranean passages saying, “yeah, we could have exited that way… you’ll get used to it.” One of the first days in the city we took one of Rick Steves’ recommended walking tours from Parliament to Parliament Square, then up Whitehall to Trafalgar Square.

Ever mindful of my better half’s food requirement to avoid the nightmarish McCann Fatigue Syndrome (MFS) we stopped by one of the ubiquitous Pret A Mangers scattered around the city. Pret A Manger: The Starbucks of London.

It was interesting to see Parliament along with the separate Green and Red tents for the MPs to take tea (red for Lords, green for the dirty Commoners). We heard Big Ben strike only once due to my complete inability to think in terms of bang for your buck, er… more bong for your walk? The statue of Churchill in Parliament Square would be laughable if it weren’t so endearing. As the story goes, there is a constant current of electricity flowing through the massive likeness because Churchill noted, prior to his death, that should a statue be raised in his honor he didn’t want his head to be covered in pigeon shit. Awesome.

Without going into great detail, we enjoyed our visit to the Churchill Museum and the Cabinet War Rooms. To put it simply, in a town filled with £30 entrance fees to museums and tourist attractions, the Churchill Museum was well worth the price of less than half the norm. There was a ludicrous amount of information on offer and a Churchill or WWII history buff could easily spend five or more hours sorting through it all. MFS was coming on strong and in my five years with Nuala, I have learned to book it at the first sign. Or else…

One night, we attended the Jack the Ripper walking tour through London. The guide was a seasoned actor with a penchant for singing the popular songs of days gone by in a cockney accent, as well as describing, in full detail, the wounds inflicted by Jack. In front of kids. In front of young kids. “Prostitutes in these days were hard old women. They would perform their trade standing up, up against a wall like this…so Jack left this prostitute slashed from the anus through the breastbone, with her entrails thrown over her shoulders.” I could not tell if the child looked on in disbelief or in boredom. Either a sheltered child or one numbed and desensitized by hyper-stimulation.

The ground was still smothered in slush; unfortunately, I came to London, and this tour, unprepared. By 10 minutes into the tour, my trainers and socks were soaked through and I was sloshing through the dimly lit alleys with 20 other warm-footed tourists. I was fascinated and enjoyed the tour, but my feet were miserable.

Group of friends with our hosts Christine (second from left) and Michael (down in front!!)

White Christmas in London: A Retrospective (Part One)

2010-01-07T09:38:00.005Z

Many of you are already aware that Nuala and I spent our first Christmas together in London. Previously, due to work commitments and compromises, Nuala and I would spend our Thanksgiving Days in Redding with my family in Redding and when Christmas rolled around, I could be found working dutifully in the service sector.

With my current status as Kept Man, I was able to sleep in on Christmas morning, partake in gift giving and receiving and massive food consumption. It was a nice change of pace when compared to the wondrous days of yore. Last year, I woke up at around 5:00am to ensure punctuality for a 7:00am shift at the Four Seasons. After commandeering a wee cup of coffee (several) from the lobby set-up, I set about readying myself for the day of good cheer. That is to say, I had to steel myself for the coming insults and condescending attitudes of unhappy guests.

Merry F-ing Christmas to you, too.

Nuala and I flew easyJet from Marrakech to London Gatwick. Having spent the last two or three days searching each alleyway, crevice and bureau de change for spare Euro or Pound Sterling, we were finally set to embark on our first trip back to an English-speaking nation. The Western world, in my ignorant view. Our trip to Spain, which I have yet to complete entry into the Chronicles due to prescient memory constraints, though technically a trip into the “West” it didn’t feel that way. I continued to have communication difficulties. The highly frustrating kind.

Imagine being a go-getter, of sorts. Someone who knows what they want and without the fear to ask for it (my better half would likely break down in a fit convulsions and tears if I forced her to ask a stranger for sugar in her wee tea). Now, imagine cutting that person’s tongue out. This is how I felt in France, how I feel in our adopted home of Morocco, and how I felt upon arrival to Andalucia. Granted, I studied Spanish for three years in high school. With two relatively worthless Spanish teachers, one of whom cared more deeply about being a crazy homophobe whose tests were “heavy like a Chevy” for which we would be “hurtin’ for certain” if we didn’t study because we would get a bad grade, but alas, “that’s how the cookie crumbles.” Such inane phrases as “Se llama Pablo. Pablo quiere ir a la pelicula hoy,” doesn’t really cover the day to day conversations while traveling.

England. London, specifically. A land of tyrant kings, young wartime queens, stern, no nonsense, manly, and ballsy prime ministers, and Churchill. Maggie Thatcher really was a handsome woman. Anyway…

With our legal sum of Euro stuffed away in random pockets, in the soles of our shoes, and no less than 1,000€ neatly tucked against my taint (apologies to the recipient of that 50€ note at the airport…) we made it through customs, passport control, security, easyJet baggage size limitations and Moroccan weather without a hitch.

There was a storm that swept through London just days before our arrival so the snow still blanketed the fields. Our flight departed Marrakech on time though our arrival was delayed due to the air traffic controllers sending our plane through a series of maneuvers around Gatwick, presumably to ensure our pilots weren’t on their laptops playing Warcraft or updating their Facebook statuses. That was fantastic, really, as even the 15 to 20 minute delay meant it was that much darker in the early afternoon by the time we got through the airport.

We made it to the train station where a middle-aged, middle-weight Indian woman was of negligible assistance when she essentially sold us two day-passes (£16 ea) at 4:30pm and told us to “get on any train.” Great. We should just get on any train and that will take us directly to the northwest of London.

We had a delightful half-hour of aimless wondering around Victoria station, the terminus of the particular train we randomly chose to board. Our eyes searching the departures boards in vain, shoulders pulling out of sockets from carrying the heavy luggage, Nuala gathered the courage and intestinal fortitude to ask for directions while I dealt with the luggage.

“Oh, we just need to take the tube? That’s it? Okay…”

We finally made it to Neasden, in the shadow of Wembly stadium, the home of our host family the O’Malleys.

The Dark Stuff

2010-01-03T12:45:00.001Z

Posting from the freezing "lounge" in the Abbey Court hostel in Dublin. Using my iPod. Off to the Guinness Storehouse in a few moments.

Will let you know how it is.

First Guinness-in-Dublin impression? Good. Thickest head on a stout I have ever had. Bed of roses? Limited imagination. Bed of Guinness-in-Dublin head.

After so many alcohol related pilgrimage disappointments this trip (Bushmills Distillery was also closed...) I am über-excited for this.

Off to Prague tomorrow.

F-ing cold. Er... colder.

If It's Not Scottish, It's Crap!

2009-12-24T10:17:00.008Z

Suck, friends. Suck.

Just a very brief update on our experiences thus far. Our flight from Marrakech to London was flawless and transport from Gatwick to Neasden was relatively painless. We spent a lovely evening chatting with our hosts, the O'Malleys, then off to bed with dreams of sugar plums and whiskey hangovers dancing in our heads.

We wake from a restful, cold, London slumber and pack our things. Last night Nuala's "cousin" and her new fiance were kind enough to offer to drive us to the airport (Luton) since they were already going there to pick up arriving family.

Riding in style on the wrong side of the road, we are flying through the northern outskirts of London toward the airport, fields blanketed in thick unblemished snow. It's cold and clear, without a cloud in sight. Not Chicago-in-December cold, but still.

We check-in at the counter and make our way through security. (Digression #1: I have definitely evolved a bit. When Nuala and I were first traveling together, I was a wreck. I was a stressed out, pissed off mess. If the train to the airport was a few minutes behind schedule, I was cursing BART administrators and their inability to manage. If I forgot a toothbrush, I was dwelling on the amount of money I would end up spending at the oral surgeon on reconstructive surgery due to the massive three-tooth cavity I would develop. A mess. Luckily, I have relaxed quite a bit and the only time I get "annoyed" is when security lines are inefficient and we are close to boarding time... deep breathes.)

We make it through security, with shoes left on our feet, to find the flight to Inverness was delayed by about 50 minutes. Whew! We can now relax a bit and have a coffee. We've already had "a tea" several times. I just want some brown caffeine delivery liquid. Nuala and I take turns watching the bags as we meander the shops and drink our coffee. We then both settle in our seats as the mass exodus of passengers bound for Tel Aviv slowly make their way through the barren corridors to their gate.

Finally! They call our gate. Boarding commences! After a five to ten minute walk down the corridors to our own gate, we come upon a mass of passengers with dumbfounded looks, many on their cell phones, and a member of the easyJet ground crew looking like he was just caught skinning his pet rabbit.

Seems our flight was cancelled.

Seems Inverness airport was having some weather issues.

Seems there would be no flights in or out of Inverness for seven days.

So, my dream of a pre-Christmas whiskeyfest in Scotland was shot down. We am currently awaiting a reply from easyJet to confirm their refund of both the airfare and the prepaid hotel accommodations in Inverness. Luckily, both were prepaid through easyJet so HOPEFULLY the refund process will be straightforward. Lest I count my chickens before they hatch, I am not assuming anything will be easy.

In the meantime, Nuala and I have been doing the typical touristy things. #10 Downing Street. Churchill Museum and the War Rooms. Trafalgar Square. St. Pauls (attempt #1 unsuccessful). Hyde Park. Mandarin Oriental London bar. Getting pissed in the pub and flashing all of the CCTV cameras in a two-block radius.

Not really.

Christine, our host, knows that I was disappointed (though not a stressed out, mouth foaming rabid mess) about our Scotland trip being cancelled and gave me a bottle of whiskey that they weren't going to drink anyway, as a consolation prize.

So...more updates to come. For now, Christmas eve, I have people around me I must spend some time with and thus I am on my way.

Merry Christmas to everyone.

And Away We Go!

2009-12-18T18:49:00.004Z

Off we go to Londres for the holidays. Our trip commences at 11:40am tomorrow.

Marrakech to London.

London to Inverness.

Inverness to London.

Garren's Tangent:

London to Belfast

Belfast to ...???

??? to Dublin

Dublin to Prague

Nuala's Tangent:

London to Marrakech

Marrakech to Prague.

Dig it.

PS. I will attempt to keep you updated on our travels and experiences once we arrive in Prague. We will be there beginning the 4th of January. Until then, Merry Chrishannakwanza.

New Years in Belfast with the McCanns. So stoked...

OSHA Nightmares

2009-12-16T13:31:00.007Z

The way I figure, if my brother is able to post after a two month hiatus, I suppose I should.

I have been in no mood to write. No mood to blog, twitter, myblog, or twitface. I have not been busy, per se; rather, I would best be described as lethargic. Luckily, I have come up with a new routine. I am going to bed at the sane hour of 11:00pm and waking up with Nuala each morning. I have been enjoying my coffee and early morning jogs. Additionally, I am attempting to keep up on housework. A little at a time probably makes for easier work. Smarter work.

Up until this point, I have been a major sweep, mop, and organizational tornado every two weeks or so. In the meantime, I would attempt to keep counters clean, sink empty of dishes, and Nuala's clothes from accumulating in the clothes basket.

Nuala has a tendency to not fold clothes. For months. I finally gave up and folded all of her clothes and just shoved them in random drawers. Apparently, this was more organized that she was used to as the next day she literally begged me to let her use the basket again. That woman has way too many clothes.

Anyway...

With the bi-monthly deep clean, I was finding mole hills of dust bunnies and Nuala's hair in several places around each room. I would spend at least a half-hour sweeping up the ubiquitous dust and grime and an additional 10 minutes pulling the entangled hairs out of the broom.

This is boring. I am writing about my penchant for blowing at cleanliness upkeep.

With moderately fast internet downstream speed and no goals, it's easy to get wrapped up in watching my TV shows. Currently, we are re-watching Twin Peaks. I remember watching it with my parents when I was a wee-child (<---that's me preparing for my time in Belfast!). Kcor Stel!

To add to the creepiness, I have been trying to learn the theme song to Twin Peaks. I figure there is no better way to wake Nuala out of a deep slumber with the most bizarre of dreams than to play this song.

Enough with the rambling. On to the intended subject of today's entry into the Chronicles.

OSHA: Moroccan Style.

Having grown up with California, working in kitchens, hotels, and the most prescient job, working on a survey crew for CalTrans one summer (California Department of Transportation - where you see three guys, supervisors, standing around leaning on shovels having coffee, you don't see the two "Student Assistants" down in the bramble and poison oak digging holes, pounding stakes and generally doing their supervisors' work. These guys define "working smarter, not harder." ) I have grown accustomed to seeing hardhats in arenas where it isn't exactly necessitated by the work being performed, latex gloves when a decent hand wash would do, and paperwork upon forms upon workplace posters declaring the law and workers' rights.

Then I see this:

Wait. That doesn't really give you the correct perspective. How about this one:

These are the Evil Knievel's of the painting world. Out our rear window I peered one day to find these guys painting over the chronically grey concrete edifice that we grown accustomed to. Painting it the Marrakech red that we too have grown accustomed to. All buildings must be painted this color, by law, in Marrakech. Something to do with matching the color of the old-school mud buildings.

So, these guys have their 4x8 tethered to a pair of ropes. They then proceed to belly over the edge of the roof (which is seven floors up, by the way) to their awaiting "chariot," paint buckets and all. Note how they don't take their hands off of the ropes. This isn't to make sure they don't fall off of their AP4X8 (that's tech-speak for "Advanced Painting 4x8") Copyright 2009. Don't even think about it Home Depot. Their hands don't leave the ropes because that is the end of the rope that keeps them in place. The rope winds itself through the pulley system lowering each side of the AP4X8. The intensity of these two guys staring at each other as they each loosen their ropes and lower themselves another five feet.

Window washers in the States have it easy.

Damn pussies and their unions.