Day 3: The Old Course at St Andrew's

I woke up this morning to a cloudy, rainy, chilly day in Edinburgh, about a two hour's drive from St Andrews. Usually, seeing weather like that out the window would bring depression, but for a day at St Andrews, the weather couldnt have been any better. When I think of the Old Course I picture in my head golfers struggling out there in terrible weather conditions. Kind of like if I went to Russia, I would want it to be absolutely miserably cold. Bone-chilling, because that is how I picture Russia.

Along the way to St Andrews we stopped at a few coastal towns where I learned a few more worthless little tid-bits just as yesterday I learned about shit-faced. It's a shame that these are the things I will remember from my travels.

Botched: As in, "You really botched that." It came from a story about the Forth Bridge built here just outside Edinburgh. The engineer, Thomas Bouch, was awarded responsibility for the design and construction of the bridge, just after he completed the Tay Bridge nearby. Well, the Tay Bridge collapsed just before construction was to begin on the Forth Bridge, so obviously he was taken off the project. Thus, creating the phrase locally, "A Bouched job." Which, after some time, somehow, change to botched any time someone in Scotland screwed something up.

But anyway,  the main attraction for me was obviously St Andrews. When we arrived to the course, it wasn't as I expected at all. Not in a bad way necessarily, it was just...different. For one, it was three courses piled right on top of each other, crossing paths and overlapping throughout the entire grounds. I did not play the course, but walked it 1-18 and found myself confused numerous times about what course I was actually even on. What I will remember most is definitely the bunkers. They are insane. Watching pro golfers try to get out of them is funny enough, but watching in-person, average golfers attempt to get out was hilarious.

After spending the afternoon walking the course and getting in everyone's way (I literally walked right down the middle of number 18 and over the bridge during play) our tour headed back to Edinburgh after a couple more stops in small towns. 

It was the best day so far. It is nap time now. Tomorrow it is off to Norway.

Day 2: Shit-faced Drunk

"What did you learn today, Brad?" That's what my mom would say around the dinner table in elementary school. Well, she wouldn't be too thrilled with what I learned today.


No, I did not get shit-faced drunk if that is what you are wondering. I did not have a single drink today actually. I did, though, go on a 'free' walking tour of Edinburgh today with an Irishman as our tour guide. A bit odd since I am in Scotland, but it was a great tour nonetheless. As I mentioned yesterday, Edinburgh is an absolutely amazing city. I feel confident saying it is already up there in my top 3 favorite European cities and may take the number 1 spot by the time I leave here. It is how I pictured Dublin would be, which ultimately disappointed me as a city. If you have to choose between Dublin or Edinburgh, hands-down go with Edinburgh. 

Edinburgh Castle. Across the street from my hostel.

What did I learn on my tour today? Well, I learned that the term shit-faced drunk came from Edinburgh. You see, in old Edinburgh families had no way to dispose of their urine and poo except to throw it in the streets and let it work its way down the Royal Mile to the lake. Problem is, they would throw it down there from their 3rd and 4th story windows into the streets during the day and obviously people would become covered in shit. Not an ideal system clearly. To solve the problem a law was put into placed restricting people from throwing their feces into the streets until after 10pm...the same time the pubs closed. 

The story goes that the French would come into town not knowing of this practice and leave the pubs walking under the windows and be so drunk that they had no idea that the locals were throwing their piss and feces down on their faces...leaving them shit-faced drunk. And that, folks, is your fun fact of the day. 

the elephant house. Where Rowling wrote much of Harry Potter.

Other than that, I saw the room JK Rowling wrote the first two Harry Potter books and the cemetery. Basically, this whole city reminds me of Harry Potter. Probably because she was inspired by so many of the places here. Hogwarts was based on a local private school here, the houses all look like Potter's, and the names on the headstones of many of the deceased in the cemetery across from Rowling's flat are character names in Harry Potter.

Finally, I ended the night by catching the 10pm showing of the newest Dark Knight movie. My least favorite of the three, but it was nice seeing a movie in a theatre for the first time in two years.

Off to St Andrews tomorrow. I cant wait.

Chronicles of My Last European Trip

Today I begin my world-wind, two-week trip that has been in the works for the last few months. If all goes as planned, it should be the most memorable of any trip Ive been on in the last two years here in Europe. My time working in Garmisch is done and I have three weeks left before my return to the States. On my two-week travel agenda is Scotland, where I will be spending three days in Edinburgh and taking a tour of the Old Course at St Andrews, a golf lovers dream. After my time in Scotland I will be moving on to Norway, where I will be in Oslo for two days and then hiking the fjords on the western coast for two days. 

The fact that I am finally making it to Norway is important to me. In college I was assigned Norway as the country for my final project in one of my travel and tourism classes and I instantly fell in love with it. Working on that project is when I can pinpoint acquiring the itch to travel Europe, as travellers call it. In Norway I will be hiking Priekestolen, or Pulpits Rock, a massive cliff overlooking the fjords. Safe it will not be. After Norway it is a quick 45-minute flight from Stavanger to London where my girlfriend will be meeting up with me for the Olympics. I have been lucky enough to get tickets to the Women's Gold Medal Soccer Game. (Hopefully the US Women make it!) After three days of taking in the Olympics and showing off my American pride/stupidity and trying to make it into the background of the Today Show it is red-eye flight time to Krakow, Poland for the Coke Live Music Festival where we will be seeing my favorite band, The Killers. In addition to them, the other headliner is Snoop Dogg of all people, in this two-day music festival. We will be camping on the grounds, which should be interesting, because as of now I have no tent. Somewhere along the way I should probably look into that. After Poland it is back to Garmisch to pack up all my belongings and move to St Louis, in which my two-year stint travelling Europe will come to an end and a new American adventure will begin.

Off we go...

Day 1: Planes, Trains, and Automobiles

Edinburgh, Scotland

Today will be comprised entirely of travel. After awhile though, the actual event of travelling becomes quite enjoyable. Never more so than during my 3-hour train ride from Garmisch to Memmingen Airport. On sunny summer days like today, there is no place in the world more beautiful than the Bavarian countryside. The rolling hills with the snow-capped Alps in the distance, the cattle and horses casually roaming the farms, and the men, women, and children in their traditional dirndls and lederhosen ready for a day's work or, more likely, a day spent at the beer festival in a town nearby. Nothing beats Bavaria.

After spending a couple hours finishing up the first Hunger Games book on the train, I reach Memmingen Airport for my flight to London where I have a 5-hour layover. In the terminals and concourses of Stansted Airport in London you just feel the buzz of the Olympics taking place about 12km away in the heart of the city. Everyone is reading the news of the previous days' events. The Brits is reminiscing about Great Britain's Men's Gymnastics Team's Bronze Medal, the first medal in 100 years for them. Germans are walking around in their red, black, and yellow, British boys in their soccer jerseys are running around reenacting Ryan Giggs goal from the day before, and the Americans are all decorated head-to-toe in their stars and stripes...and jean shorts. 

At some point during my 5-hour layover it hits me that I am going to run out of money on this trip. I think it was when I exchanged the 105 EUR in my wallet and got 77 pounds in return. God, it sucks getting paid in dollars. I went from $135 to 105 EUR to 77 pounds. I have already committed to sleeping two nights in Norwegian airports to save money, but now it may be three. Ive researched the best areas of the airport for sleep (Yes, there is a website for that. Sleepinginairports.net). Norway is the most expensive place in the world. To put it in perspective, a McDonald's hamburger will run you approximately $6. Yes, for one measly, shitty, hamburger. The cheapest hostel I can find (which has awful reviews) will set me back $80/night. I find a hostel for one night in Oslo for $95 and a bed in a mountain lodge near Preikestolen  for $76. This is just for a bed in an 8-bed dorm room. I'll be sleeping in a damn bunk bed.

Pulpit's Rock

At around 11pm I finally arrive in Scotland and settle into my 8-bed dorm room. My favorite part about the UK? Reading and speaking ENGLISH, duh. It really is comforting after living in Germany though. The hostel is in a great location, just across the street from Edinburgh Castle. There are only two of us in the room. Me and a guy from Dominica. No, not the Dominican Republic which is what I thought, but a really small island nation down near South America in the Caribbean that Christopher Columbus named after the day of the week on which he spotted it, a Sunday (Dominica in Latin) November 3, 1493. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dominica He explains to me where it is and how he ended up in Scotland, then oddly, mixes in the statement 'I am not black,' which is odd, because clearly he isn't. He is white. I look into it later online and see that the island's 71,000 population consists primarily of former African slaves and is the first British Colony to have a legislature controlled by a black majority. This just goes to show, you can travel all you want, and think that you are cultured and fairly confident in the happenings of the world, but really there is so much we don't know. Maybe you knew about Dominica and its history, but I honestly hadn't a clue.

Time for bed now. Big day of walking around seeing Edinburgh tomorrow.

Inside the Mind of a Night Security Guard

For six nights, from 8pm 'til 5 in the morning, I was assigned to work night security at the housing complex I live in here in Garmisch. There are approximately 200 Americans living here, mostly in their 20's. 


Working with me was a man by the name of John E. John is a 61-year-old Vietnam vet who has most definitely had a fascinating life. For the past 19 years, John has worked here off and on, as the night security guard. He has been fired and rehired twice. The stories he has, while I can't confirm them to be true or not, seem to be 100% real in his head.

As John would tell me these stories I would email them to myself, literally WHILE he would be talking to me. Here is a little behind-the-scenes insight on what these emails to myself would look like:

"girls laundry chichi blest w chest bras girl got i t goin sexist  i am"

and…

“inside into the division blacks native american blood jet ebony sleeping udner car . condoleeza rice blood”

The following quotes came straight from John’s mouth, more or less.

On getting better vending machines in the Abrams:

We used to have a cheeseburger machine in here, but some fucking idiot kept unplugging it, so all the cheeseburgers went bad….and then someone threw a rock through the Budweiser machine and stole them all. That’s when they cracked down on that.

On an old colleague:

I used to work with this Phil Varney guy in 1979 in the ghetto in Oakland. Good guy. He had a 12-year-old girlfriend. Other than that, he was a good guy. He was 36. He let me live in his RV there for awhile while I was on the streets, but that didn’t last long when he refused to get rid of the boa constrictor that he kept in a big glass jar in the kitchen.

On his computer abilities:

I’ve had three hours of computer training in the last 19 years of security duty. One hour in ’90 from Neil Moore and two hours back in 2003 when we got these new computers. I just don’t get it. The hardest part for me is trying to figure out the mouse.

On why people with Indian blood in them shouldn’t drink:

I worked with some Native Americans back in ’77 in San Diego. Crazy people. There are three things they loved, and this is serious…Orange Crush soda, Winchester Rifles, and Sears and Roebucks kitchen appliances. Oh, and rocking chairs too. One time this man with Indian in his blood tried to shove me into a dryer. So, that is why Native American people shouldn’t drink. And they kill people.

On fighting residents:

You know, Brad, I like this job here. Problem is, we aren’t allowed to fight people though. Back in October 1978 I worked undercover security detail at a ghetto high school in Oakland and I was the only white guy there. They would always tell me, “John, you’s a cool motherfucker, man, you lasted here longer than any other white motherfucker ever.” I was 6 foot, 210 lbs back then. I am still strong now, look at my muscles (shows me his muscles). Ocampo told me I have old man strength. I was pissed off ‘til someone explained to me that is a good thing. I think I am so strong because of all the bottles I throw in the recycling everyday. That is what I tell the cab drivers. At that high school when I was working undercover secret security, we were allowed to fight students. Cant do that here. 

On finding cheap liquor:

There is a liquor store about a 15-minute cab ride away that has the cheapest Scottish whiskey in Germany. Bushmill’s 20-years-aged for 20 euro, 5 cents. I stopped going though because all the money I spent on taxis and one time I fell and broke all the bottles.

On Morgan bringing a coffee to me at work:

You got girls that are givers and girls that are takers. Your girl is a giver. My girl is a fucking taker. It is ok to be a taker if she looks like your girl, but this girl I got is 68 years old and is fat. I haven’t seen here in 5 years either. She sent me a post card from Alcatraz last week. Crazy bitch, man.

On stealing the Krampus’ masks:

You got this weightlifter in Accounting, Zook, that said he wanted to body-slam Craig Stout. He wanted to smash his face through a wall for ruining Krampus for everyone.

On me getting in trouble for not shaving:

I have had this beard since August of ’72. They tell me to shave it and I’m gonna fucking retire.

On if he should get an “Excellent” on his yearly review this year:

I’ve only had to beat down one motherfucker here in my 19 years. This fool was drunk, acting crazy so I beat him down with my 6 D-Cell battery flashlight. But, I ughh, got into some trouble because his dad was an ex-marine and my boss’ friend. I think that’s why I didn’t get an “Excellent” on my review that year.

More insight on Native-Americans and their flaws:

I’ve always had problems with Native Indian-types. Back in early ‘80’s when I was living in Phoenix me and my friend Tyron would round up all the crack addict Navajo Indians in his Ford truck…you know, those Natives will only buy and ride in Ford. They say, “Ford. Good truck. Last long. Chevy. Bad truck. Piece of shit.” Just like that. I’m not good with that accent they got, but that’s what they said. But yeah, we would round up all these crack addicts and take them to this 24-hour Denny’s for Grand Slam breakfasts.

On dating Latina women:

I’ve always had a thing for Latina women. I’ve had three for girlfriends. I dated this prostitute in Tijuana for five months. Her name was LUZ. L-U-Z is how you spelled it. Good woman. I had a red motorcycle back then and would drive 59 miles from across the border like a bat outta hell to see her. I was driving that fucker 95-100 MPH to see her a few nights a week, man. When you got to Tijuana, you couldn’t stop though because of all the stray packs of dogs that would attack you, so I had to meet her out in the desert. I would get a coke and a taco for one dollar and a night with her for seven.

On his favorite city:

Vancouver is the most beautiful city in the world, man. I’ve been deported out of Canada once though. Great Britain, too. Everyone used to think I was related to Pablo Escobar and would create a fuss at Customs. I don’t know if I am allowed in Canada anymore.

On transvestites:

I got an old friend, Jim Coleman, from Alaska who won $150,000 in a boating accident. He got fucked up pretty good. But anyway, he went to Thailand and told me that you gotta be careful there, man. The lady-boys there may have been male at one time then had a sex change. Sex changes are only $25k there. Did you know that? Then I had this other friend up in England who met this prostitute who turned out to be a transvestite, but he fell in love with her and wanted to marry her, but the British Embassy wouldn't allow it. It was all fucked up. Transvestites, man. You gotta watch out. I'm not into that shit, but when I was in Dublin they had this club called Transformations. I didn't go in, but I went by on a bus to check it out.

On courting younger women:
You got Al (his 68-year-old coworker that I was working for) here who thinks he can fuck 24-year-old girls. I told him to look in the mirror, man. That is my saying. Like Michael Jackson, you know, the Man in the Mirror. I take a look at myself in the mirror and realize I got no chance with these girls. I am 68. Unless they are fat or something, then maybe. There is a lot of fat girls here. I told Al I'd give him $100 if one of these girls went on a date with him.

Insight into the life of an African-American:

I worked in the ghetto for awhile, I think I told you that. (He had. About 15 times). I got an inside look at the relationship between dark-skinned and light-skinned blacks. My best friend was black and he let me read his Ebony and Jet magazines. Learned a lot. Shoulda took a Black History class in college.  But, yeah,  I literally took this guy under my wing and taught him the streets. He was sleeping under a car when I found him in Tucson. Did you know Condoleeza Rice has 52% Indian blood in her, 9% European white blood, and 47% African? (That equals 108%).

On wine? I think. I don't even know what the topic of conversation was honestly:
Man, I used to get all fucked up drinking MD 20/20 back in the 70's under the trees in Santa Barbara. All day long, MD 20/20. Cheap ass wine. One time I snuck a bottle into the hospital so my black friend and I could drink it while we watched the Cowboys game in his room. (With no transition at all, he goes on...) This guy Sam Sebasty's dad owned a winery when I was in 8th grade. I beat the shit outta him, man. I accidentally kicked him in his balls, so he wanted to fight, so I fucked him up pretty good. Turns out the motherfucker got pretty big in high school and tried to stuff me in my gym locker.

On enforcing the No Drinking policy:
I'm not one of those 4-year college guys, or whatever you wanna call it. I went to community college for three years and flunked out. Where I shine though is street knowledge. Would you agree with that? But anyway, yeah, there is no way to enforce a no drinking policy in the RAC downstairs.

On knife-play:
You any good with knives, Brad? (Do I look like I would be good with knives?) I always carry one on me when I go into town. You know the trick to fighting with a knife? You got this technique I learned on the streets called a punch-slash. (He shows me the maneuver) Ive only had to attack with a knife once. I cant believe you aren't allowed to carry weapons while working at the hotel. At least a small knife. Even a taser. Fucking soldiers are crazy, man.

And my favorite one-liner; no explanation needed:

“The Pope is a faggot.”

And finally, on my way out the door after working with him for a week, he says:

Did you enjoy working with me? I hope so. I think I’m a pretty chilled out dude, wouldn't you say?

I don't want to get old.

The Most Nastiest, Dirtiest, Ugliest, Most Beautiful, Wonderful Place in all the World

“Ain’t nothin’ like Atlanta. You don’t know what the fuck you gonna get. This is the most nastiest, dirtiest, ugliest, most beautiful, wonderful place in all of America. You could have all your dreams come true at Magic City, or you could get killed at a stoplight.” Katt Williams said this in the opening monologue of his comedy show, The Pimp Chronicles, taped in Atlanta in 2006. I probably watched this show 15 times in college. I highly recommend it. If he taped another show in Morocco in 2012, Katt would only need to replace Atlanta with Marrakech, Magic City with Jamaa el Fna Square, and America with the world.

“Ain’t nothin’ like Marrakech. You don’t know what the fuck you gonna get. This is the most nastiest, dirtiest, ugliest, most beautiful, wonderful place in all the world. You could have all your dreams come true at Jamaa el Fna Square, or you could get killed at a stoplight.”

Morocco is all of these things. Dirty? Yes. Beautiful? Yes. Ugly? Yup. Wonderful? Absolutely. And unfortunately, even nasty. And that is what makes Morocco so great. In no other place I have visited have I been more alert of my surroundings, vigilant, and, frankly, scared than in Marrakech. But also, never have I been anywhere more stunningly beautiful, thrilling, exhilarating, and eye-opening. Morocco is a beautiful country, especially outside of the big, busy cities. Morocco is roughly the size of California and boasts a variety of landscapes (mountains, deserts, metropolitan cities, beaches), sometimes in unbelievably close quarters to each other. Standing atop a sand dune in the middle of the Sahara Desert, I was able to view a snowcapped mountain in the distance.

Chillin'

As beautiful as Morocco is, it is unmistakably still a Third World Country. Yes, there are beautiful gardens, palaces, and the large business-minded commercial city of Casablanca, but it is impossible to overlook the widespread poverty. You literally can’t miss it. Piles of rubble, packs of stray dogs searching for food, malnourished and unhygienic old men, children in filthy clothes that don’t fit, beggars, entire towns without electricity and running water, and people sleeping in the streets.

Arriving in Marrakech

After a day’s worth of planes, trains, and automobiles we arrived at Menara Airport in Marrakech at 8pm local time. Two of our guides, Farid and Abdul were awaiting us with a sign with my name written on it. This is the third time I’ve had someone waiting for me with a sign at the airport. It is a pretty neat feeling I must say. Unfortunately though, I just watched the movie Taken a week prior, which, in-turn, lead to a lot of worrisome thoughts in my mind, especially when we got into the SUV of two random North African Muslim men named Farid and Abdul. (It was supposed to be a man named Mustafa that was to pick us up. That is what caused the uneasiness.)

Farid and Abdul drove us down the most chaotic, lawless roads I have ever seen in my life. St Louisians love to complain about the shitty drivers there, but here people literally drive wherever they want with no regard to lanes, stoplights, or human life. Two lanes are occupied by three cars, a donkey, two teens on bikes, and a woman on a motorcycle.  Stop signs and lights are merely a suggestion. They may as well say “Please stop. Or not. Fuck it. Who cares.”

Jamaa El Fna Square

We get dropped off in what I can only describe as the most rattling, unsettling area I have ever been in. And that says a lot considering I have driven through East St Louis at 2am on multiple occasions. You could have told me we were in Kabul, Afghanistan and I would have believed you. It is my first time in a Muslim country, so of course it was a bit scary. All we hear about in America is how Muslims are extremists, terrorists, how all they want is “death to America.” Of course, in reality this isn’t the slightest bit true, but at the time that is all I could think about. When I saw Osama Bin Laden’s twin brother zoom by on a mo-ped on my right, and four women in their full Muslim outfits (the kind that cover their entire body but their eyes) on my left, I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. You just FEEL everyone staring at you. When travelling, everyone knows to try to fit in, to try to not stick out and become an easy target. Here, though, that is impossible. You are going to look like a circus clown at a funeral no matter what.

One thing many Americans do when travelling certain places is to say they are Canadian. Especially in places with less than positive views toward the US. Nobody HATES Canadians. We tried it out. After a couple boring interactions, we came across an older man, maybe 60 years old, who asked if we were lost. We said no, but he persisted. He asked where we were from. I answered, “Canada.” 

“Oh, good," he said. Because I hate America. The President, I hate him.”

We dodged a bullet there. I now see why people say they are from Canada. Nobody can even name the leader of Canada. I couldn’t. (It is Stephen Harper. Whoever the hell that is.)

It is now midnight in Marrakech and we are walking back to our riad after checking out the world-famous square, full of snake charmers, souks, story-tellers, monkeys, and magicians. Walking down dark, dirty alleys you see children just sitting around doing absolutely nothing.

Don’t they have school tomorrow? Where are their parents? Another stand-up comedian came to mind. Dave Chappelle. I’ll let him explain: 

One phrase that kept popping in my head over and over was “eye-opening.”  At times I felt sorry for these people, but it crossed my mind, do they really know any other way of life? In a way, it just seemed like they were used to it; content. It made me realize how things could always be worse, and how, despite all of the bitching and complaining I talk about America, it truly is a great place to live, all things considered.

Afternoon stroll through the rubble.

We are free to travel anywhere we want in the world. Practice any religion we want. Eat and drink anything we desire. In Morocco, this isn’t the case. Our tour guide driver, Abdul, and I had a fascinating, all-the-while depressing, conversation one night at our hotel while making our way to the Sahara Desert. Abdul, who is a 34-year-old atheist in a Muslim country, has faced first-hand the harsh repercussions of living in a nation that is not “free”. Morocco is, by law, a Muslim country. As he explained to me, even if you are not Muslim, you must act as if you are, appear as you are, and claim you are. If not, this is punishable by law. Abdul said a large amount of Moroccans are atheists, Christian, Jewish, etc, but they must hide it, or at least not flaunt it. Just two years ago Abdul, a husband and father, spent six months in prison for drinking a cup of water during the Holy Month of Ramadan. He does not practice Islamic tradition, and told me that he believes the ancient traditions are ruining his country. Problem is, the government requires you to practice it.

A neighbor in his town saw him drinking water, reported him to the police, and he was taken away. When asked by the police why he drank water, he replied simply, “I was thirsty.”

Abdul went on to describe how it is nearly impossible for Moroccans to leave their country to travel – to see the world. He put it this way:

He said, “Brad, do you think you can go to the stars?”

Confused by where he was going with this, I just said "no."

Do you think you could ever go to the Moon?”

Again, I said "no" and asked why.  

“Well, America is our stars and Moon. We will never be able to go.”

Moroccans can’t leave their own country unless they meet very specific, and difficult to obtain, requirements. They must have a steady job, have money saved up, and a clean criminal record. Reason being, they would be flight risks. They are less likely to flee the country to never return if they are financially stable and have a job to return to. Understandable, until you consider that there are no jobs to be had.

Islamic marital tradition has had severe consequences on Abdul’s home town as well. In his broken English he explained how it was ok, and even encouraged that men marry as many wives as they want, without age being a factor. In their Holy Book, the Quran, the Islamic Prophet Muhammad had twelve wives, of which some were underage to say the least. In following the traditions of their religion, even in 2012, men across Morocco still adhere to this ritual. Women were, and still are, looked at as items. Not people, but in a disturbing way, collectibles. Abdul told how in his town there were men that would “have their way” with girls as young as seven or eight years old. The girls, young and naive, were not aware that anything was wrong with this practice, but as time went by they became severely depressed, confused, and suicidal. The same goes for the men. One man in Abdul’s town killed himself because he was so ashamed and depressed about what he had been doing to a young girl. He could not comprehend how this was morally acceptable according to his religion. Abdul, who is also in a band, was moved by this and went on to write a song about this man.

Yes, I’ve read books, news articles, and seen television reports of these types of things happening in Muslim nations, but to witness first-hand how people’s lives are affected is truly a life-changing experience.

Another sure-fire sign that you are far, far from home is hearing the Call to Prayer five times a day played over, in what I imagine to be hundreds of loudspeakers spread throughout Marrakech. The Call to Prayer is both haunting and peaceful at the same time. In Arabic, the chants translate as,

“God is great. I witness that there is no god but God. I witness that Muhammad is the messenger of God. Rise up for prayer. Rise up for salvation. God is great. There is no god but God.”

It can be heard throughout the entire city; at all times of the day and night. It woke me up, startled, twice at 3am The Call to Prayer takes place all over the Muslim world, not just Morocco.

Top Two Things Moroccans Love:

Farmville

Yes, as in the Farmville on Facebook. Every single one of our guides, and their posse, maintained and tended to their farms on a regular basis. They would check hourly, discuss their farms with each other, and ask us if we had any. I am convinced that Abdul brought his laptop on our journey across the country into the Sahara so he could check up on his virtual plants and livestock. They talked shit on each others’ farms. It was fantastic and bizarre. It also resulted in two of the most hilarious pictures of our trip:



Abdul doing push-ups while random man raises some cattle.

Abdul showing off his farm while we are in the Sahara Desert.

 Profanity



Our guide taking a break from refueling to give me the finger.

“Fuck you, man." "Good morning, mother fucker." "Get the fuck out of my car, asshole." "What the fuck!" "Where the fuck are we?" "Fuck, we are almost out of fucking gas." "Good night, mother fucker.”

Cuss words were thrown around as if they were pleasantries. Moroccans apparently can’t get enough of our four-letter words. When Mustafa saw a friend, he would greet him with a warm, “Fuck you, man!”, stick both middle fingers up, and add, “with two fingers!” They’d both laugh, we’d all laugh, and then they’d hug.

One of the best moments was a two sentence conversation between Mustafa, the riad owner, and a German tourist who was checking in. I can only assume that Mustafa thought the tourist was American, because he greeted him with a hospitable, “Welcome. Fuck you, man.” I shit you not. He said that. The German guy, startled for sure, responded calmly, simply, and with a confused look on his face, “Thank you.” It was truly the greatest exchange I have ever witnessed.

First World Problems

While eating lunch in Valencia, Spain, wasting time during our eight-hour layover on the way back home, the topic of First World Problems was brought up. Basically, First World Problems is an internet meme poking fun at things we Americans and Europeans complain about that people living in Third World Countries could not even fathom. In Valencia we found an all-you-can-eat Mediterranean buffet for 10 EURO, which was our best meal of the trip. Of course, we all indulged ourselves a bit too much and ate ourselves miserable. I made a comment about how I ate so much that I may throw up. Andy laughed and said, “First World Problem, man.” Here I was pathetically complaining about eating so much that I thought I may vomit. All-the-while, the day before there were literally people begging us for change, kids sleeping on dirt floors with no electricity, and grown men eating scraps from trash cans. It really put things into perspective.

Some more First World Problems :

I took such a long shower this morning that the hot water ran out.

All the dishes in the dishwasher are dirty so now I have to eat my waffles off a Tupperware lid.

Ew. The string on my teabag just fell into the water.

The restaurant didn’t have Dr Pepper so I had to order a Pepsi.

My pizza box doesn’t fit in the fridge.

This damn software update requires that I restart my computer.

Looking back, the seven days I spent in Morocco were some of the best of my life. Not as romantic as Rome or Paris, as clean and sleak as Stockholm, or as breath-takingly beautiful as the views in Cinque Terre, but perhaps more important. You dont really realize it while you are there though. If you are looking for a relaxing destination to unwind, this isnt it. What you will find, though, is that after you leave you appreciate life more.

I think that is the main thing that will stick with me when thinking back about the people I met in Morocco. Things could always be worse.

In conclusion, in the words of Mustafa, "Fuck you and thanks for fucking reading."