I boarded the boat Taka on Friday, not really knowing much about the itinerary except we had 14 dives to do over the next 4 days and I would be eating well. I was informed of the latter by some of the guests who had just come off the boat. From the time we left the harbor until we moored at 8am the next day, we were heading north. Because we were sheltered by the Great Barrier Reef, henceforth abbreviated to GBR, most of us, including me, slept pretty well. We got 2 dives in, then we kept heading north more, and got 2 more dives in. And then we got the news that I would have known had I done some, or any, research on the trip. We would continue north, outside of the GBR on our way to Osprey Reef, which is in the open Pacific, and it would be a bumpy night without the shelter of the GBR. Time to take the dramamine!

Top End

From Australia

My journey from Gili Air, Indonesia to Darwin, Australia went like this:

• wake at dawn with the chickens and take horse cart from bungalow to harbor
• board public boat which is just a biggish canoe lest you get grand ideas by my words, to the island of Lombok by wading through the water and climbing in, stupidly wearing a skirt
• take another horse cart to a minibus "station," which is a guesthouse with a space for a minivan to park
• take minibus ride for 2 hours to a port in Lombok whose name I never caught.  The ride was beautiful, complete with monkeys hanging out on the shoulder of the road
• bake in the Indonesian sun for 40 minutes waiting for the slow boat to Bali
• spend 6 hours crossing the incredibly deep waters separating Bali and Lombok (the fast boat takes no more than an hour and a half but costs at least three times as much).  I paid a dollar extra to sit in air conditioning, but my comfort was compromised by the "professional karaoke" show going on in the same room.  One man playing the synthesizer and one young, heavily made-up woman singing all kinds of songs, many in Indonesian but she made time for Lionel Richie's "Hello" and Sinatra's "My Way".  No one seemed to enjoy any of it except for the performers and the crew, some of whom took the stage themselves.
• walk to another minibus and board it for a 90 minute ride to the airport
• take a 5 hour flight to Darwin that landed at 3am
• crawl into the top bunk of a 4 person hostel room at 5am

Good times, right? 

Change of Plans

The morning after making it to Ubud in Bali, I checked my email. My pal, Ieva, was in Ubud too, and we wanted to meet up. When neither of you has a phone and you're trying to meet up in a place that neither of you knows at all, this is a little more complicated than it would typically be. But Yande, the sweet guy who ran the homestay Ieva was staying in, had given us clearance to use him and his mobile phone as our go-between. I called him that evening, and he was at the airport - could I call after 6? Yes, I could. So I called later that night, and he and Ieva had come by my hotel earlier to pick me up while I was at dinner, but the hotel had no idea who I was.

Can you say Hamengkubuwono three times fast?

The train from Jakarta to Yogyakarta (pronounced Joag-juh-karta) was uneventful and scenic for a few sections. It was comfortable if not sparkling clean; my window was so dirty on the outside that it was a little hard to make out the detail streaming by. But I realized that even if westerners didn't wear such revealing clothes, I think Indonesians would still think we are crazy. And that's because of the crap American movies they show on the trains. These flicks are not even direct-to-video - they must be direct-to-Indonesian trains. The two I saw were both subtitled and the volume was down, so I couldn't follow them perfectly, but I don't think that was possible anyway. The first was about a family that moves into a house that just happens to have a playhouse that was used by devil worshipers. Isn't that always the way? There was a bad twin in a prison or insane asylum (it was hard to tell), and the usual overuse of pentagrams and swarms of beetles. The second flick was called Turbulence 3 - Heavy Metal, and it was even harder to understand.

Living Dangerously?

Apa kabar? Tranlation: how are you?  I'm good, but feeling the jet lag.  After a hotel-to-hotel journey of 26 hours across 5 time zones, I arrived in Jakarta yesterday afternoon.  I was a little bit intimidated too.  Everything you hear or read about Jakarta can be summed in at least one of these three categories:  dirty, dangerous, or chaotic.  Even the good characteristics are slotted under chaotic.  Things like "the driving is atrocious" or "lock the taxi doors and roll up with windows - they'll steal your bag at a stop light" or "don't walk - you will be mowed down - take a taxi, but don't get ripped off by the driver!"  The scaredy-cat part of me worried that Jakarta would be like Cairo all over again.

Turkish Delights (I couldn't resist the pun)

Tonight is my last night in Turkey. I plan to celebrate my birthday with a nice meal, a long bath and that stubborn bottle of wine. Wild times! But I always have things in mind to post here and then I forget to do so. Consider this a sampling from the grab bag of my observations. Scary, I know.

I've really enjoyed Turkish food. I was expecting to find and love all the eggplant and yogurt, and I've never put away so many tomatoes and cucumbers in my life. The deliciousness and variety of the bread did surprise me. Turks are bakers! Fresh is best, and I've been hard pressed to get stale bread anywhere (not that I was trying). There's loads of street food, which is a trait I admire in a culture. Today, in the Ortakoy district of Istanbul, I tried the kumpir.

Last night was spent on a bus*, making it my 5th night bus in 65 days and my third in Turkey. Whew. But don't worry about me because I'm now enjoying my birthday gift from my family - being pampered at the Hilton! I've got: a view of the Bosphorus from my room, a bathrobe and slippers, champers and birthday cake, red wine and cheese, a beautiful fruit plate, and a gal at the executive desk who is taking care of all my needs and wants to emulate me and quit her job and go travel (it's contagious). It's pretty slick but I can still find a way to thwart myself in such circumstances. As I write this, tomorrow is my birthday, so I was going to save the bubbly for then and dive in to the red wine tonight. I started to open the bottle, and I broke the opener. So I called guest services, they delivered another of the same type within 5 minutes and...I broke it too. I just couldn't call again, so I popped open the bubbly, lit the candle on the cake and sang the happy birthday song to myself one day early. Now I think I'm going to go finish it (don't worry, it's a small bottle) on my balcony and watch the boats, barges, and ships sail by me on the Bosphorus.

* published on a day lag - do not complain to management

Cleopatra wuz here

After more than a week of being a beach bum on the southern shores of Turkey, I headed inland and east to Pamukkale.  Puh-moo-kuh-lay.  Turkish words have fairly even accents on each syllable, so however tempted you are to say Puh MOO kuh lay or PUH moo kuh lay or Puh moo kuh LAY, that isn't the way.  The word "kale" is all over the place, in place names, on car dealerships, on all kinds of signs.  I finally found out in Pamukkale what it means - fortress.  And "pamu" means cotton.  Are you dying for me to make my point already?

Sailing the Sapphire Seas

A few years ago, I came across a piece of travel porn. It was a gorgeous catalog full of beautiful photos of amazing customized trips that the company organized. The only one that ever really appealed to me was called "Sailing the Sapphire Seas" and involved traveling along Turkey's Mediterranean coast in a gullet, which is a traditional Turkish sailboat. The whole point was to hug the coast, popping into the numerous small bays and coves that are only accessible by sea, hang out on the boat, and eat. Doesn't it sound great?

Lagoons and Ghost Towns

The tourist season on Turkey's Mediterranean coast starts April 1, and I arrived on April 2.  After three days of checking out the remains of the three prehistoric volcanoes that created Cappadocia's landscape, I escaped to Fethiye with its warm weather, cool breezes, and harbor full of yachts and sailboats.  And it only took a 13 hour bus ride to get here!

Fairies or something else?

While still in Istanbul, I went to the Cemberlitas Hamami because, as my faithful readers know, I like hamams.  I was quite excited to check this one out because it was designed by Sinan, an Ottoman sultan's go-to architect, and built in 1584.  This hamam is swank, folks.  It's not cheap and the clientele seems to be mostly tourists, but they supply you with everything: lockers, sandals, towels, even a new pair of panties, which you keep, of course (and they're not even terrible granny panties). 

Cisterns and Simit

Merhaba from Istanbul! I'm still in a semi-zombie state due to waking up at 3am four days ago and staying up until 5am two days ago. I am way too old for those kinds of circadian shenanigans. That has not stopped from me from making pretty valiant sightseeing efforts here nor from really liking Istanbul so far. So scenic! So historic! So stylish! So clean! This is the cleanest city of 15 million I've seen, and I abhor litter bugs so I strongly approve of the civic spirit of tidiness.

Downtime at the airport

It's 4:00am and I'm waiting out the night at the Cairo airport.  Today was my last day in Egypt, and I'll be in Istanbul in about 8 hours or so.  I would prefer not to keep too accurate a sense of that countdown.

Diving into another world

After leaving Siwa, I traveled from the far west of Egypt to the far east to Dahab- by bus! It really wasn't that bad, but 20 hours of bus travel gets old. Luckily, Dahab is nothing if not relaxing. It's on the Red Sea in the Sinai Peninsula, and you can even see Saudi Arabia from here (perhaps the closest I'll ever get to the land of Mecca). I'm no expert, but it really doesn't feel like Egypt. This may sound terrible, but it's just so clean. Except for rubbish along the shore and in the lagoons, which is a real shame because the shore drops off into some fantastic coral reefs that have taken a real beating over the last decade from divers and snorklers tromping all over them. Also, EVERYONE in Dahab speaks English and they speak it pretty fluently, which is different from the other places I've been in Egypt. But the vendors here in Dahab are inordinately pleased when I bust out a "hamdullah" which means "praise god" and is used extensively in conversational Arabic.

One of the people I met in Siwa, Andrew, was also heading to Dahab, so we shared the knee-numbing journey here. It turns out Andrew and I were unwitting neighbors back in San Francisco, and now we are roommates here in Dahab, sharing an ocean view room right on the Red Sea.

Dahab's beach isn't really a beach - it's more like a low wall of rocks with open air lounge restaurants covering the length of it. And there are loads of dive sites that you just walk to from the shore. So upon my good pal Jackie's recommendation, I decided to do the Advanced Open Water diving course here in Dahab. After a refresher dive to make sure I hadn't forgotten everything relating to scuba, I did 5 dives over the last two days, including a night dive and a deep dive to 30m in a site called the Canyon, a name which gives the game away. I also did a dive yesterday where you descend down a chimney-like hole for 26 meters or so, swim along a massive reef wall where you can't even see the bottom of the ocean, then come into the Blue Hole, which is also aptly named, a large circular formation with a depth of 110m.  I mentioned that the coral has really suffered here, but there is still a fair amount of interesting life to see, including cuttlefish and spanish dancers. But the physical structure of some of these dives have been pretty stupendous and alone worth getting in the water.

On that last dive, I noticed that my regulator just didn't want to stay in my mouth in the way you would prefer your link to life-giving air to do so. Regulators have a bit-like piece of plastic to hold it in place in your mouth, and I began to realize that there was only one on one side of my mouth and it felt very unstable. It was my first equipment failure in scuba! Luckily, you always have another, so I switched out, no harm done. But I still don't know what happened to that other piece. Did it fall off between dives? Did I somehow swallow it? I think I would have noticed, but there's lots of other things to think about when you're on such a lovely dive.

Tomorrow or tonight, depending on your viewpoint, at half past three in the morning, I'm heading on another dive trip, to a WW2 era ship called the Thistlegorm with an added dive in a marine reserve after that. And then one more day here in relaxed Dahab until I begin the journey to Istanbul via Sharm el Sheik and Cairo.

I'll have to come back to Egypt someday since I missed so much, but inshallah, I shall. And if anyone has recommendations of places to see outside of Istanbul in Turkey, please let me know. I haven't planned anything and I have more than three weeks there.

On a sadder note, my dear cousin Sarah is no longer with us.  Her husband, her daughter, and her family - my family - are very much in my thoughts now.  Please take care of yourselves and treasure each day, folks.  We really don't know how long we have, which is exactly why I'm taking this trip now.  Sarah understood that and wherever she's diving now, I hope she's smiling and laughing, as she always did in this world.

Love and light to you all,
Monica

The Screaming is the Soundtrack

I left Siwa a few days ago, and I would like to take this opportunity to recommend it wholeheartedly as a destination on any trips to Egypt you may be planning. It is really a special spot. The setting is amazing, the history is fascinating, but like anywhere, it's the people who make the place. But it is growing fast, so come as soon as you can, just in case. Inshallah, it will remain lovely for a long while yet.

Siwa Meya Meya

I am composing this post at a coffee shop in Siwa, awaiting my Turkish coffee with chocolate and "shweya" (a little) sugar. Not an authentic Egyptian drink perhaps, but it sounds good (update: it is!). Siwa is the perfect antitode to Cairo, where I experienced the first sustained feeling of hating a place on this trip.

What some of you have been waiting for

Photos, lots of photos, but not all my photos, are now uploaded to http://picasaweb.google.com/monica.e.shirley.  I will get more tags and descriptions as time goes by, but you're not gonna read that much anyway, are you?

Change of plans for me, I'm skipping Alexandria and heading straight for Siwa, where I hope to lounge in the shade, wade in natural springs, and gorge myself on dates.  Also, I'll try to avoid marrying a local Berber, whereupon I'd have to cover myself completely in public, go out accompanied at all times and travel in the back of a donkey led cart covered by a blanket.

Birthday wishes to Maggie

Today is my littlest sister's 14th birthday.  As she informed her mom recently, when she grows up, she would sooner be a "street performer" before she would have a "desk job".  So I guess she's smarter at 14 than I was at 30.  Happy birthday, Miss Maggie! 

No sky in Cairo

I've spent the last three days in Cairo, and I think I might hate it.  To be fair to Cairo, I did take a brief red-eye here, and isn't that the worst kind of red-eye?  You really need at least 6 hours to get a semblance of a decent night's rest.  But I have been getting terrible headaches ever since I arrived, and my first day here summoned up a migraine that put me to bed at 7:30pm.  There is no sky here. 

And there was wine

I'm still playing catch up with my posting, but I do want to write about our visit to Zagora, which Claire and I greatly enjoyed.  Now nothing went wrong, so there's no real laughs in it, but we stayed at such a wonderful riad that I want to tell everyone so that they will go and enjoy it too! 

Pas du Piste

The next destination was Skoura, west of Ouarzazate, and our plan was to bus to Ouarzazate and rent a car from there.  Now I have previously extolled the buses here in Morocco, but those were either the buses run by the rail monopoly, Supratours, or a very good public line, CTM.  All the other private lines lie somewhere south of those two on the quality, comfort, and safety continuums.  But the times to Ourzazate on Supratours and CTM sucked.  We needed to get in early enough to drive to Skoura before nightfall because the roads may be very good, but that doesn't make them safe.  So Claire and I chose to take what we call a ghetto bus.  I had taken a couple for short rides, and they really weren't bad.  What could go wrong, really?

We got good seats, right behind the second side door, and after the usual late start, we headed off over the High Atlas mountains, thinking we could perhaps get this trip done in 4 hours or shortly thereafter.  Not a chance.  Somewhere along the way, high up in the mountains, the seat one row up on the other side of the bus just collapsed.  One of the leg supports just flat broke.  The two men were leaning to the side and back, really cramping the personal space of the chaps just behind them.  I felt bad (and grateful that those weren't our seats) but I really got the giggles, as I tend to do when Claire and I encounter absurdities in our travels.  One guy opted to stand, the bus being full, and the other took the aisle seat and tried to enjoy the view, which was pretty spectacular.

These ghetto buses stop a lot, to let people on and to let people off.  Soon we stopped in the middle of nowhere, spat out some passengers, and got back on the road.  And then I noticed that the door, the big swinging bus door right in front of my seat, wasn't closed.  I was a bit worried because it's certainly a hazard to have this thing flying open at high speeds on mountain passes with guard rails and a bus driver who is not afraid to pass, but that's when I really got the giggles.  We weren't even halfway there, and this bus was falling apart.  And it's not like I knew how to describe the situation to the "staff" either.  But a Moroccan behind us noticed the problem and yelled it to the front of the bus, so the "conductor" futzed with it, and managed to get it shut.  Very shortly after the rest stop, the bus pulls over again.  Nobody was really sure why until they busted out the welding kit.

I applaud the quick attention to the broken bench seat, but you would think they would perhaps want people to get off the bus - for safety's sake, right?  Nope.  They pull that welding generator into the aisle and people, families, and Claire climb over it to get down.  But I had a pretty good view of the action so I stayed on and took pictures until it got too smoky and stinky.  And I just loved how blase everyone was about it all.  The guy who had been sitting behind the busted seat was smoking a cigarette outside.  When he saw the sparks fling, he climbed the stairs of the bus, reached over two guys holding up the seat and plucked his jacket from his chair.  Wouldn't want burn marks, would ya?

There was no further drama after that, and we got to Ouarzazate late but alive.  We rented our car and headed to Skoura.  Skoura is an oasis just west of Ouarzazate, Ouarzazate being the kind of place you go to to get somewhere else and Skoura the kind of place you go when you want to get away.  One of Claire's friends recommended Chez Talout, which is actually just outside of Skoura.  We saw the sign on the highway and took the turnoff onto a piste road.  I would describe piste as an unfinished dirt and rock road-like surface, and Claire's first comment once we were on it was "The car rental lady said no piste."  'Pas du piste' is an impossible request in Morocco, so we just kept driving on this one lane desert track up and down some rather steep hills for a compact 1.4L sedan.

This part of Morocco is a hard climate - very little vegetation, very little rainfall, lots of rock.  So traditional buildings are made of pise (with an accent over the "e" which I can't provide today), which is packed clay.  The walls are very thick, and they keep things cool during the day, blessedly, are warm at night.  Good choice for a desert.  Chez Talout is really in the middle of nowhere so you get wonderful 360 degrees views from the roof terrace, which is where we were served afternoon tea and breakfast the next day.  I will, I swear, get some photos up of the view.  But I know you're tired of hearing my excuses on that front.

The next day, we planned to walk to Claire's friend's house, which was about 2km away.  Martine is a French woman who has been living in Skoura for a number of years and had recommended Chez Talout to us.  So the staff, which outnumbered the guests, all 4 of us, drew us a map - a very good map too - and off we went.

We knew we would be crossing a river, not deep but fairly wide with some land showing in spots between.  Claire and I opted, sensibly, to take off our shoes and tackle the river that way.  Somehow, not surprisingly, we got the giggles, and between maintaining my balance, holding onto my boots, laughing too hard, keeping my stomach in check as motions were still loose, AND walking on rocks in frigid snowmelt, I made crossing that segment of the river both harder and funnier than it had any right to be. 

The Red City

Were you wondering where the gabby gadabout had gone?  I met up with Claire, one of my dearest friends from college, and so there was less time for writing to start with.  But Claire has a Mac and Google hasn't been loading on Macs in Morocco for the last few days. I certainly could have gone to a cyber and reported on all the fun I've been having, but spending time in a cyber when Claire and I could be hanging out didn't appeal.  My last dispatch was from Essaouira, and my last night there was lovely.

Photos, Films, and the Information Super Highway

I am sure it is user error, but I'm not having an easy time getting Blogger and Picasa to talk to each other. And as Tina says, they're supposed to be friendly!  However, I did manage to get a little film that I took in Fes uploaded to my gallery on me.com.  This was taken in the Medersa Attarine during a call to prayer, so don't mute it.  Unfortunately, I forgot that you can't rotate films.  But most of you can rotate your heads, so do that.

http://gallery.me.com/meshirley#100005&bgcolor=black&view=grid

This is a pretty typical, though very well maintained; example of Moroccan architecture and decorative elements.

Essaouira: Latitude:31.51272 Longitude:-9.77172

In Meknes, I met someone at the hostel.  He is super cute, from Switzerland but half-Indian, half-Mexican, and we were both thrilled to have someone to speak English to. 

Killing time while my photos upload

This is going to be a rambling post, but I would like to get the following disclaimer out there:  All the browsers here are set to French as the default language, and the keyboards are Arabic, so I would like full immunity for any and all spelling errors.  Let the rambling begin.

House of the Labors of Hercules

First, thank you to all of you who have let me know you're enjoying this - I appreciate it.  These posts do not write themselves, so encouragement helps.  Yesterday was a travel day - Chaouen to Fes, Fes to Meknes.  I am staying at the youth hostel and last night I was the only guest who was not part of a group of French high school students.  I did not stick out at breakfast AT ALL this morning.

Latitude:35.57097 Longitude:-5.36377

Today, I'm writing from a cyber (internet cafe) from Tetouan, a city about halfway between Tangier and Chaouen.  I am only here for the day, and it happens to be the same day the king is here too, so the big street, Avenue Mohammed V, is largely barricaded to allow His Highness unobstructed access to his Palais Royal, which is right where the Ville Nouvelle meets the medina.  I didn't see the king, but I did get to see his royal motorcade leave the palace.   Everyone was pressed against the barricade waiting for him to leave.  I had originally started waiting a few blocks away but got impatient.  And I'm glad I did because even with a view of the palace itself, all I saw were guards in dress unforms salute and secret service types bow as a slew of Mercedes and Beemers flew out of the gates.  And the people clapped.  His Highness must have recently returned to the palace because I heard the crowds clapping just a few minutes ago.

The royal family is highly revered here.  Most towns and cities use the same names for their main thoroughfares and plazas:  Mohammed V, Hassan I, and Hassan II.  Mohammed V was exiled to Madasgascar and returned to Morocco in 1955 when, I believe, it gained independence (fact-checkers activate!), so he gets the most street cred, literally.  But most businesses keep a photo of the current monarch somewhere, and you are advised by the guidebooks not to criticize.

I have bad luck being in cities when the museums are closed in Morocco.  It's typically Tuesdays, but it varies, so I won't see the Musee Ethnographique here in Tetouan since it's closed Sundays and Mondays now.  But the consolation prize is a school almost at the coordinates above where they teach Moroccan crafts to the young.  Only boys may attend this school where leatherworking, woodworking, and other artisan skills are taught.  But when it's open, you get to wander through the classrooms and see the action happen, which is a really cool way to see how all this beautiful stuff is made.  And the building itself is wonderfully decorated with a central gallery displaying the fruits of their labors.  Very neat and alone worth the visit to Tetouan.

I did finally break down and buy an umbrella - the battered thing I had brought so far was simply unable to cope with the frequent deluges I'm experiencing.  If I am repeating myself, I apologize, but you absolutely should visit Morocco.  However, absolutely do not come in February.  Not a single day has passed where it has rained less than 6 times a day, not counting drizzle or mist.  The only time I'm ever truly dry is when I get out of bed in the morning.  From there, it's a constant dance along the continuum of damp to dripping. 

But it's just water, so yesterday after the hammam, Anouar (this is how he spells it) and I brought our umbrellas on a hike up the hill that Chaouen is built on.  It was fantastic - beautiful views of blue Chaouen below and some of the countryside beyond.  It's part of a national park, and there is camping as well as more extended hikes of the 6-7 hour variety.  It's a special place - you are high up, with the Chefchaouen mountain in front of you (loosely translated 'to see the horns' as the mountain has two peaks), and the oued (river) below, and all the wind moving the clouds over the mountains so quickly you can just watch it.  After all that walking and nature appreciation AND learning to count to 10 in Arabic, I was hungry, and I wanted to treat Anouar to dinner as a small thank you for showing me his town, so we had a fried fish feast at a restaurant in the ville nouvelle.  Good stuff.  I will get you photos - of the view, not the fish, though I was tempted to take a photo of that too.   I think I was just too hungry to be bothered to get my camera out.

Tomorrow, inshallah, I leave the north and head down to Meknes, west of Fes, and formerly an imperial capital.  Not sure how long I'll stay, but there is a lot to see, including Roman ruins at nearby Volubilis.  And I'm a sucker for Roman ruins.  And maybe I won't need my umbrella...

Yesterday, or Saturday, I left Fes on a very nice bus heading to Chefchaouen, also known as Chaouen, also known as Xouen.  It's about a three hour bus ride, and it is truly lovely, going through orange farms, hills, over many rivers, all of which are moving quantities of silt downriver at this time of year.  I didn't nap, and that is unusual for me.  Planes, trains, and automobiles typically put me right to sleep.

Chaouen is a very picturesque town in the Rif Mountains.  I am writing from memory, so fact check at your leisure, but I believe it was founded by Andalucian Muslims escaping Spain after Ferdinand and Isabella  expelled the remaining Muslims at the end of the 15th century.  And all the guidebooks love to mention that only 3 Christians had entered the town walls prior to 1920, all under some form of disguise - and one of them didn't make it out - he was poisoned.  It's quite different today, as the town seems to be a required stop for backpackers in Morocco.

At the bus station in Fes, I had met a couple of Californian college students who were visiting Morocco after studying in Berlin.  We ended up staying at the same pension and sharing a room together, and I got to have real conversations that didn't require hand signals!  Truly a treat.  The town is adorable.  It is like a little Spanish village in many ways - tiled roofs, buildings painted in varying shades of blue and white, and more Spanish than French being spoken, though more English than I've encountered elsewhere in Morocco (people kept asking if we were Australian, so I think they see it all in Chaouen).

After a fantastic beef tagine with apricots, prunes and onions at Restaurant Timmeskal, we went to the "bar."  Alcohol is legal in Morocco but certainly not omnipresent.  Rare is the restaurant that serves it, and ours hadn't.  But our waiter told us that Hotel Palador had a bar, so there we went.  Imagine a brightly lit hotel lobby that is decorated more like an old folks' home, and you're getting the drift.  Inside the bar itself, which was off to the side, it was smoky with nary a female until we walked in.  No wine on the menu, but liquor and beer.  But they were out of the Moroccan beers, so we each got an Alhambra, all 250mL of it.  That was our wild night, and Becca and Elisha were off to Assila today.

Now we come to my umbrella.  It's just one of those umbrellas you buy from Walgreens when you're caught without one, but I somehow managed to hold onto this one for four years.  It had one droopy spine when I left the US, but so much the better from my perspective - I could ditch it at any time and no one would want to take it.  This poor umbrella has seen a lot of use in the last 13 days, and has degenerated considerably.  Half of it drooped, and closing and opening were feats of wrestling on my part.  The night manager of the Pension Castellan saw me fighting it this morning, and offered to repair if I would wait 5 minutes.  Now I have seen Anwar in action - he is handy, learned it from his father, he tells me.  But 15 minutes later, no amount of copper wire, plier application, or wood splints was bringing this one back to full life.  He did improve the opening and closing of it though, so I was quite grateful.

A bit later, standing on the square updating my GPS coordinates (35.16921,-5.26112 if you're interested - you can pop them into google maps and get the satellite view), I heard my name being called.  Anwar wanted to know if I would like a traditional berber soup for breakfast.  Yes I would!  So he took me to a small stall where we had a very tasty pureed soup of beans, I think, topped with olive oil, and eaten with chubs (ch like challah), which is how I'm spelling the round loaves that are omnipresent everywhere I have been so far in Morocco.  Some olives on the side and some mint tea, and I was satisfied.  I did feel rather like I was impinging on manly turf because I was the only female dining under the plastic awning, but foreign women live by looser rules as far as I can tell.  But it was another example of Moroccan hospitality that I have enjoyed.

My pension is next door to a hammam, and since the weather is terrible, that is my next destination.  Tomorrow, I may travel to Tetouan, or I may start the long journey to Essaouira on the Atlantic coast.  I haven't decided, but I will break up the journey to Essaouira in either Meknes or Marrakech or both.  I'll keep you posted.

I am having trouble inserting the photo, but here is a link that hopefully will work.  Ladies and gentleman, a shot of Chefchaouen:  http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/kDQnNR2hV7yV6KVI8OByKQ?feat=directlink

The Never-Know

If you ever watched Arrested Development, you may remember Tobias was a Never-Nude.  I have determined that I am a Never-Know because really I  never know anything - not where I am, not what somene is saying,  not if I am heading in the right direction, etc.  Basically, I am almost always somewhat confused and sometimes totally clueless. 

Keyboqrds qre tricky

Upon the advice of my friend, Claire, and the not-explicit advice of my guidebook, I blew off Casablanca, but where to go?  The distances in Morocco are enormous, but it has a very good network of trains and buses.  So I could get to anywhere but it might be late and dark, and that did not appeal.  So I chose Rabat, Moroccos capital (pardon the spelling and punctuation - Arabic keyboards are tricky - it took four of us to find the exclamation point!).  And I am glad I did because Rabat is very manageable, especially compared to Fes, my current location.

Error Checking

Good evening and happy Valentine's Day, folks.  I realized I either need a copy editor or I should not write blog posts after Chianti.  I was looking over last night's post and I realized I committed apostrophe errors (horror of horrors!) and I also informed that Michelangiolo's David was at least 12 inches tall.  Yes, I pulled a Spinal Tap Stonehenge gaffe.  It is now corrected.

In that vein of the dumb things I do, there is nothing like travelling to really make you realize you don't know anything.  For example, I popped into a supermarket in Florence yesterday, getting some provisions for my train ride, and I picked up a couple of mandarins.  Once I'm getting checked out, the girl says something to me, I automatically apologized (a useful reaction when you don't know what's going on), and then she leaves her station, goes to the back of the store, returns after a bit, and waits until another employee brings back my two little mandarins with the addition of a sticker that has the weight and price on it.  That was my job to do.  Who knew?

My first night in Florence, Mathias had invited me to meet him at his rowing club, which just happens to be in the basement of the Uffizi.  I left my hostel a little late, so I raced through all these tiny little cobblestone streets (a 23 minute walk that had 15 turns) and keep coming upon these landmarks, the Duomo, the Palazzo Vecchio, the Uffizi's sculpture platform.  But I was late, so no time to enjoy the view.  I found the entrance to the club - it's this low green door on the ground level of the Uffizi, right on the Arno river, and I pressed the buzzer.  I heard the lock unlock, so I pulled on the handle.  I pulled and I pulled, making the kinds of sounds you do when you think you're alone.  I could not get this door open.  Just then, a member of the club comes by, and he saunters on up to the door, greets me, and pushes it open, as easy as can be.  I laughed more than he did, but he didn't see my struggle.  A few minutes later, I tell this story to Mathias and his rowing partners, a group of strangers I'd just met, and the bartender at the club interjects something in Italian.  I believe she said that when I was trying to open the door I sounded "like a whining puppy."  And she imitated me for the group.  I dispute that exact characterization; however, I will admit sounds of a plaintive nature may have been made.

I have been paying extra attention to push and pull signs from that moment on.

Off to Morocco tomorrow, I will get you pictures sometime....

Plus Florence

Tonight is my last night in Florence.  My days have been spent ogling the riches of the Medicis and my nights have been handled by my Florentine travel advisor, Mathias.  Mathias and I were introduced by our mutual friends, Matt and Kate.  Both Matt and Mathias are lawyers, so here is how Mathias describes it to Matt:


Hey Matt and Kate,

so here are my hours spent with YOUR friend Monica.

Three evenings out:

1st night after rowing workout....took her to authentic Pizzeria with friends: 3 hours
2nd night took her to my favourite restaurant and then on to a party with view onto Arno and Duomo: 8.5 hours (yes, we had loads of fun and some drinks)
3rd night invited her home for dinner: 3 hours

My hourly billing rate is: $250
You do the math!!!!



Mathias is obviously a trooper - putting up with me and even introducing me to his friends who have been both lovely and informative (they are all working on PhDs at the European Institute here in Florence).



But you can't eat pizza and hang with the rowing club all day long, so I have seen some of what Florence offers to the eager museum-goer. I need to emphasize the "some" because there are so many museums and churches...well, let's just say I'm on crucifix overload.


Some observations:

Michelangiolo's David is waaaaaaaaaaaaaaay bigger than I realized. Someone who isn't paying 1€ for 15 minutes at a computer can tell me the exact height, but the statue has to be at least 12' tall, not including the base.  And it is a masterwork.

The Medicis were not afraid of acquiring.  These people owned 100 of everything so far as I can tell, but bless Anna Luisa, the last Medici, to give it all to the city of Firenze upon her death.

The Uffizi is the Italian Ikea.  You know how Ikea stores have the path that you must follow?  So it is with the Uffizi.  Do not try to reverse course!  You will be rejected, no matter that the staircase is rightthere.  Dude does not care.  Go the long way, tourist.

All in all, Florence has been a delight.  I even got another room with 8 beds and no roomies again, so the lodging hasn't been too much of a shock to the system. I'm back on the slow train to Rome tomorrow (the difference between the slow and the fast trains?  Three hours and 28€ each way!), and then to Morocco on Monday, where the acclimation period officially ends.  I've had rumblings from my devoted cult following that my posting is too light in frequency and photo content.  Please be patient.  I am the woman who has never brought herself to update her facebook page.

Rainy Roma

I've spent the last two days in Rome and will be heading to Florence later today.  I took a too long, too late nap yesterday, so I've been awake since 5:30 and decided I might as well be productive and update here.  But I left my camera in my room so no pictures for now.  I've been staying in Trastavere, one of Rome's oldest neighborhoods across the river - all cobblestones and teeny-tiny alleys and piazzas. 

If you ever want Rome without the crowds, come in February!  Now it might be drizzly, gray and cold, but it won't be crowded.  My only waits have been for restaurants, and those have been worth waiting for.  I "did" Rome many years ago, so I decided to just wander instead of sightsee.  And aside from my using a payphone at a hospital to call my credit card company (yes, payphones in Italy are just as crap as those in the US) to get the hold taken off my account, things have been very easy.  Except for the Trenitalia site, which has the unfortunate tendency to accept only about 20% of US credit cards.  So I'll buy my ticket to Florence at the train station.  But those are easy problems.

Let's get to the important stuff - food!  How could I have lived this long and not have had sweet dried cherry tomatoes?  And dried lime slices too?  I picked up those at Campo de Fiori, and then I popped around the corner to get a couple of pignole, those delicious amoretti-like cookies topped with pine nuts.  Last night, I had pizza at Da Poeta, which is tucked away on a small alley here in Trastavere.  The patataccia pizza with potatoes, mozzarella, and sausage was very good and will be my lunch today on the train.  But the calzone stuffed with nutella and ricotta I had for dessert!  If I could do it over again, I would probably skip the pizza and get the grande (large) calzone instead of the piccolo (small).  It was fantastic. 

I did do a few other things aside from eating - the aforementioned wandering, a church or three, a museum, and the Pantheon again, which is technically a Catholic church now, but it just doesn't feel that way to me.

It's now a respectable hour for me to make noise in my room, so I'll sign off.  But I want to thank everyone who has wished me well on this trip.  It was a hectic month prior to departure, and in the last few days, I was veering between completing my to-do list and getting weepy at the enormity of this.  Extra thanks go to those lucky folks who got to deal with teary Monica! 

PS - snow is predicted for Florence today and tomorrow.  Now I'm really glad I have boots.

Dismantling a Tidy Life

Until very recently, I had a job, an apartment, too many shoes, a social life, a gym membership, and a yoga studio membership.  But 10 months ago, I decided to ditch all that and go travel for about a year.  Obviously, it took me a while to get it all together.

But here my trip comes.  I've moved out of my apartment.  I've packed the backpack that will be my traveling companion (it weighs as much as a 5 year old).  I've got the Cipro, the vaccinations, and the dramamine.  I think I'm ready.

I have flights booked for the first six months of travel, 182 days to be exact, and that's about all I've got in terms of plans.  Here's the itinerary:

2/8/2010 Rome, Italy
2/15/2010 Casablanca, Morocco 
3/8/2010 Cairo, Egypt
3/19/2010 Istanbul, Turkey
4/16/2010 Jakarta, Indonesia
5/6/2010 out of Bali, Indonesia to Darwin, Australia
5/12/2010 Cairns, Australia
7/12/2010 out of Melbourne, Australia to Christchurch, New Zealand
8/8/2010 out of Auckland, New Zealand to Bangkok, Thailand

Do you know anyone in these countries?  Have you been and are dying to share your tips and recommendations?  Let me know what you know because I haven't done my research.  I was too busy getting rid of my stuff.