We aren't in Epcot anymore

I learned several valuable lessons in Morocco. I learned first that a place can surprise you even when you are expecting to be surprised. I learned that I am not as well traveled as I initially thought, and that in fact, I've barely scratched the surface of world cultures.

And I learned that group tours are never, and I do mean never, the way to go. Okay, maybe I would do a group tour of North Korea if my only clothing choice was a bedazzled star-spangled God-bless-America cut-off tee - and even then I might risk it.

There is nothing wrong with wanting comfort and convenience - but if that means eating only in hotel restaurants and riding camels in parking lots, I personally will opt for traveler's diarrhea and a stolen identity.

Morocco, shockingly, is not at all like the Morocco in Epcot Center at Disney World. Yes, they both have Cous Cous and sand-blasted, eroded buildings, but in the real Morocco, the street vendors have a lot more poverty in their eyes and a lot less of that Disney sparkle.

It is also, again shockingly, nothing like the Bob Hope - Bing Crosby film, The Road to Morocco, where the tag line literally was "You'll Shriek At These Shieks!" I am also probably the only person under the age of seventy who has seen that movie.





Morocco is the most chaotic place I've ever been. The markets were thriving with rushing people, clucking and snorting animals, and dead animals in various states of preparation - from freshly slit, steaming throats to chickens cleaned down to the very last feather. Odors would seep from the cramped booths to burn your nostrils until you wanted to run, eyes watering, to the nearest McDonald's for a Shamrock shake and some distantly processed meat.



But the important thing to do here - I believe - is not to run to those golden arches that symbolize comfort and gluttony, but rather to take it all in, bit by bit, smell by smell. When the initial shock passed, I realized that, well, I kind of like Morocco. The cities there - of which we visited three, Tetouan, Tangier and Chefchaouen - are alive in a way that makes them feel more like separate beings, rather than a collection of buildings. They rush with activity and sweep you away in a blur of senses.

The few precious times they let us off the bus, I was blown away at how different it all was. Even just the writing - so foreign and beautiful and utterly meaningless to me. It was humbling to be completely and totally illiterate.



I also tried my hand at bargaining. Apparently, I am extremely good at it. The key, I find, is to not actually want any of it in the first place. One particularly persistent man - I kid you not - chased me down the street offering me a bracelet for free. No charge. If he had gone any lower, I may have taken it.

We were in Morocco for the last days of Ramadan, so of course Muslims were fasting during the day and being ruthlessly taunted by us at lunch time. We arrived in Tangier right before sundown on Saturday. Everyone in the city had abandoned their lives in search of one collective goal: food. The city was drenched with anticipation. At one point, two young men ran past, so excited - a crock pot in tow between the two of them. It was interesting to see a part of a culture that is totally foreign to me; even fleeting glimpses can show you so much.



So, I can now say I've been to Morocco and I can say I've been to an Arab country. Despite my gripes about the tour (never again), that is a pretty cool thing. Just means I'll have to go back.

So I didn't fall off a mountain

I haven't written in a long time, which must be a good sign, right? Although, ending my last post by saying I am going hiking in the mountains and then failing to write for over a week points towards me cascading to a premature death off a rocky crag more than anything. Well - that did not happen.

Instead, I fell in love with the Sierra Nevada mountains. They are barren and harsh and desolate, but at the same time, there isn't anywhere more alive when its taken in all at once. For me, these mountains epitomize the great outdoors, an overwhelming expanse of nothing and everything at the same time. Golden fields and rolling hills and jagged stone cutting the smooth lines almost violently. It even smelled different - fresher, crisper. I realize I am getting a little poetic but there aren't many places that I've been where I've actually tried to will myself to see farther. It was an intoxicating place.





Jeez, maybe I should get out more often. I'm sure half of you are picturing me weeping silently over my keyboard. You know what? Maybe I am.

But god dammit, those mountains were pretty. I hope I can get back there someday.

So, of course, more has happened since I wrote last. I went to Morocco. But...that should really have it's own blog post...I'll keep you on the edge of your seat for a while longer.

Nerhigh

Last weekend, the majority of us went to Nerja, a beach town on the Costa Del Sol. When I write sentences like that, I see that when it comes time for me to feel homesick, no one is going to feel an ounce of sympathy for me. So yes, Costa Del Sol...pretty good place I'd say. All in all, a successful weekend. Nerja itself seemed like any other beach town anywhere in the world - touristy, crowded, filled with sunburned people. No one spoke to us in Spanish. I don't know if I'd go back just for the beach. I've never really been a beach person, but the experience itself was certainly something to remember.

When we arrived, the owner of the hostel informed us that there were only 6 beds for the 18 of us. Most of us doubled up and there were people on the roof, on couches, in laundry rooms. It looked like his house was leaking Americans. The real spice of the trip, however, was the owner. Blake is that one guy we all knew in high school: growing up he showed some promise, ended up being way too smart for his own good and decided to annihilate his remaining brain cells on various gateway drugs. Intelligence is such a curse! The man had a pipe to his lips every time I saw him. Despite the ungodly amounts of marijuana, he did have one rule: cigarettes outside, weed inside. What a guy.

Despite the... quirky... sleeping situation, the hostel was exactly what a hostel should be: a character-building experience of inadequate bathing and cramped quarters. I enjoyed it thoroughly.

I also had my first Discoteca experience - if you can even call it that - in Nerja. Our downfall was that we chose the one bar, in a whole row of bars, that didn't have a cover charge. In other words, we chose the bar that no one in their right mind would pay for. I am all for cheap but now I know: some things should cost money. It was like we walked straight into purgatory. A place with awful beer, random, mind-numbing music and the strangest assortment of lost souls. Add flashing lights, awkward dancing and a woman in a bunny costume, and you, my friend, are in hell. Maybe I'll give the discotecas another chance, but next time I'll be prepared.

In other news, classes have been going fine - some are boring, some are less boring. I still feel like I am in the middle of an elaborate joke and I will be sent home soon. I learned recently that my Senora (yes, that does translate to "my missus") actually has 5 kids. So that language barrier thing is full of surprises. I also told a man in the elevator "buela", a wrong, but fantastic, combination of Buenos Dias and Hola. Baby steps for me with the fluency goal I guess.

This weekend we go to Alpujarras to hike the Sierra Nevada. I'm hoping for lots of majesty. More on this later.

So maybe it is a bit more different than I expected

So orientation is done. It went smoothly and I feel more or less prepared for the next four months. Mostly orientation felt like the first few days of living in the dorms freshman year. Where in God's name are we? Why are we here? Who are all these people?

We have seen a lot of the city already, including the Alhambra. Granada gained fame as the last Muslim kingdom of Spain. Its grandeur came from the Alhambra, the 14th century Muslim palace looming magnificently above the city. The Alhambra and the rest of Granada were finally surrendered to the aptly named Christian kings in 1492. As Boabdil, the last moorish king of Granada, was leaving the city to return in northern Africa, he looked back over his shoulder at his grand palace one last time and began to weep. To this, his mother replied "Yes, weep like a woman for what you could not defend like a man." Talk about motherly support.

The monument really lives up to its hype. The building's architecture is intricate and breathtaking. It is unbelievable to even fathom the time put into each carving. I can't really describe it accurately enough to do it justice. So I am going to cop out and show you a picture or two instead.





See what I mean?

Saturday we met our host families. My family consists of a mother, Paqui, and her four children, Cristina, Jesus, Antonio and Pablo. That first lunch was definitely when I realized that this is going to be a bit more different than I expected. The kids spoke so fast they could have been speaking in Italian for all I knew and anytime I was asked a question, it needed to be repeated several times before I could stutter out a grammatically incorrect and broken response. I sat mostly in silence, occasionally blurting out compliments about the food. It was humbling.

I do think I will improve. I am starting to be able to express some things about myself that hint at the fact that I have some sort of personality lingering beyond the language barrier. My house is bright and warm and friendly. I am enjoying the toy car collection by my new bed and the large communion portrait staring back at me across the room. I have also been eating my meals next to a full pig's leg in the kitchen. Yum yum.

So that is all for now. Classes have begun and I am getting lost with less and less frequency. Progress!

Fun tidbit: Granada means pomegranate in Spanish.