Laos

Croatia

Sarajevo, Bosnia

Ice Cream Mustache Smiles in the Adriatic Water Kingdom

Reclined on a bamboo chair under a shady hut gazing out into the turquoise sparkling water watching the people passing around water polo balls, snorkeling around coral reefs, and way back in the distance, barbequing fresh fish on their massive boats and I think to myself, wow is me, I really have a rough life. Completely by myself except for Oqujisko Pivo to accompany my beer thirst and so incredibly happy. Alone, but in a complete state of peace, feeling at ease with the calmness that here I am in the far off island of Lopud on the Adriatic Coast of southern Croatia without the security of my fellow friends back in Barcelona and the U.S. or the familiar comfort of home, and I could not be bothered. CHILLIN in the most tranquil island I have ever laid foot on with mountains in the distance that one can endlessly hike around while taking in all the rich green forestry. The mysterious paths that I wandered through only to discover this beautiful serene beach at the end of the trail. JAMMIN out to Damian Marley’s “Jam Rock” while hearing the yackity chirping of birds and happy families joyfully chattering in Croatian, which sounds like a mixture of a Slavic and Italian tongue flowing in and out of my ears. I melt into Alex Garland’s world of The Beach which takes me on a journey throughout the treasures of southern Thailand in which I will soon become a part of on my trip scheduled just a few weeks away. I mean here I am reading about the south east Asian jewels that I will soon venture out to and at this very moment, I am in my own little Adriatic jewel. Its almost unreal thinking this is actually my life! I immerse myself in foreign lands not only because of the craving that kicks in to seek adventure and the unknown, but also the desire to immerse myself in other peoples ways of thinking outside the Western world. A constant eager student needing to learn about how others live and why. The desire to not fly through the world only floating on the surface of just bits and pieces like a typical Cantiki tourist wrapped tightly in a bubble instead of diving all the way down under into the world.
So I flew out to Dubrovnik solo with no accommodation pre arranged figuring all will work out, it always does. Should I be getting some kind of brownie button for venturing out on my own? That would be a big fat no considering by no means am I unique when I see the majority of the expats I have become acquainted with exploring the world way before the average American even decided to get a passport. Nevertheless, for me this was a good test to asses how I may indeed get on when going to Asia since I have decided to extend my stay after Lily leaves Bangkok. Might as well test the water for a few days on my own to see how my clumsy no sense of direction retarded ass manages before I am thrown into Vietnam Cambodia and Laos on my own. Speaking of navigation skills, as usual, totally lost the other day looking for the hostel with two huge backpacks hiking up hilly streets, a kind woman decided to not only point me in the right direction but walk me to my hostel. Seeing me dripping in sweat from the sweltering heat she must of taken pity on me even though I was as happy as a pig in shit admiring the beautiful sea all around me. In addition, since she owns a private home that she rents rooms out of, she quickly invited me to come stay with her tomorrow instead of remaining at the hostel. To my delight after being bunked up with four other people in a stuffy hostel, getting no sleep, and having to wake up super early to go search for a functioning phone to call a potential employer all the way in Sydney, I was thrilled to move my stuff over to the Francesca’s home. We communicated through symbols and writing on paper on how long I would stay, rate, etc. since I can’t speak a lick of Croatian and her English was not much better. This was my first encounter with the absolutely wonderful Croatian people. They are so friendly and welcoming but not in an outgoing cheery Italian way. They have their own unique subtle way which I love! The first to smile at you and point you in the right direction when lost. The sun baked ice cream mustache smiles from the children makes your heart melt. Francesca’s two girls in particular, Maria and Mahita, are always eating ice cream and playing on their roof top terrace, which has a stunning view at night of the outskirts of Dubrovnik. These homes perched high on the mountain tops light up like a million stars across the sky at night fall. Her husband reminds me of a younger version of the father in My Big Fat Greek Wedding. My first encounter with him was when I was unpacking my bag and he barged in singing some Croatian song and with a hearty smile and arms raised up shouts out, “Vell hello, and velcome to my house.”
Julie arrived today and I was so incredibly happy to see my long lost teaching buddy from Prague. From crazy drunken nights in underground clubs in Prague to now together exploring one of the most beautiful places in the world. We excitedly dropped off her stuff and headed for the Old Town. While entering this walled fortress we felt like we were literally entering a magical water kingdom. The white washed marble floors glisten like someone just polished them by hand. The walls around the fortress stand so high that they seem to be in a height competition with the surrounding mountains. The Venetian architecture is evident everywhere from many years of Italian invasions. Everything from the arches along the buildings to the churches are masterfully intricate and detailed that I could have spent hours photographing just one arch or fountain. The mixture of Italian, Greek, and Slavic influence is enriching. We wandered up these steps to get a panoramic view of the city and Adriatic sea. The mixture of colors from the bright red tiled roofs, polished white stone fortress, piercing marine blue sea, and surrounding ever green mountains are remarkable. After strolling through the neighborhoods admiring the locals relaxing with a cold drink in hand on their terraces and hanging up laundry on lines and we decided it was time to take a plunge in the water. Remembering the locals playing water polo along the castle walls I was hopeful they would be playing right now. I was thrilled to discover how popular water polo is in Croatia. You should have seen me totally in awe when I was wondering around by myself the first day seeing at every cove and bay area people playing polo in the freaking Adriatic sea! I was so tempted to just throw aside my belongings which included my passport money camera etc. and jump in to play that I had to contain myself. I felt like a kid in time out watching from a corner all the kids playing on the jungle gym. Not that teachers ever had to put me in time out or anything because I was a perfect angel and all. Okay there was that one time that I accidentally gave Johnnie a concussion by the raquet ball courts but that was one time people!
As soon as we made it to the water Julie and I threw on our suits and jumped in the inviting refreshingly cool water. I had my goggles on so I could see all the beautiful rocks piled up along the seabed and schools of fishes happily swimming all around me. I decided to go for a long swim outside of the bay and into the sea. Only thing I had to worry about was not to get plowed into by a big boat zooming by. I don’t exactly have a good record of avoiding large fast moving objects. The sea keeps you so buoyant due to the high salt content so I could just effortlessly float on my back if I were to tire. As I reached the deepest part of the sea the colors shifted from hues of green and turquoise to royal blue. The sun was shooting right through the top down to the endless bottom creating this golden shooting rainbow effect. As I swam at a steady pace my mind started drifting off to childhood memories of when I used to pretend I was Ariel in the Little Mermaid in the neighbors pool. I would spin around as fast as I could in circles like a mermaid singing, “Out of this world” under the water. Although in reality I probably looked like a lunatic flopping around having bodily convulsions while singing at a high pitched squeal, nevertheless, I was so in my own la la land and could not have a care in the outside world while I was in my own little underwater mermaid world. Not even after being in the pool for hours on end could my own mother drag me out of the pool except when she bribed me with chocolate ice cream. When she would come to the edge of the pool yelling at me to get out I would ignore her by repeatedly diving as deep as I could under and refuse to come up longer then a few seconds so I could catch my breath. When I would resurface to see her unimpressed with my mermaid skills I would gleefully shout, ‘Mom what are you going to do come get me. Ha ha you can’ even swim!’ Up until this point I can’t remember the last time I was completely at ease like this surrounded with my own thoughts. Just thinking for a few minutes about those few minutes back in my childhood when I had no worries and could let my imagination run wild made me feel at this present state so incredibly happy. I mean here I am pretending I am a mermaid in the Adriatic Sea swimming alongside a magnificent fortress with gorgeous Croatian men playing water polo off in the distance. Umm, have I died and gone to heaven. If so PRAISE THE LORD AND THANK YOU JESUS!
Speaking of gorgeous Croatian water polo players, when I came back from mermaid land and had Ursula turn my fins back into normal legs, I just couldn’t help myself to a little water polo delight. Julie busting up with camera in hand on the rocks watched me casually meander over to the men. At first I play it cool and am ball girl, meaning if one of them shoot over the cage, I casually swim over to the stray ball and throw it back in. Within about ten minutes I flirtatiously smile at two of the younger rookies passing and ask to pass with them. By the look on one of their faces I could tell I took him by surprise but by his boyish grin it was evident he was definitely going to pass with me. So here I am, two years of not even laying my finger tips on a ball let alone attempting to play and I am full on effortlessly passing in a rocky sea. After a bit, the two boys decide to take a break and tell me the men shooting at the cage are their main players so they weren’t really allowed to shoot with them at this time. HA! Screw that! I was on a roll and once the ball was in my hand, I just couldn’t resist the urge to do what I love most, shoot! So I playfully swim over to the men and a few of them say something to me in Croatian. Of course, it sounds like haba daba zchech bch and I don’t know what that means but it sounded hot! One of them is practicing the few words he knows like, “Very good” “Hullo” “You strong, yes.” I quickly waste no time and ask without hesitation if I can practice shooting with them and in unison like two bobble heads nodding up and down they say yes. One of them however seemed a little distant and quite possibly irritated that a female was going to attempt to indulge in a “mans” sport. Either way, round in a circle we go shooting at the Neanderthal goalie. So here was the moment I am probably going to make a total ass out of myself and demonstrate how out of shape I really am. Ball my way, egg beater up high, two quick pump fakes, rotate right shoulder, and bam, in flies a cross cage high corner shot. One guy, come to find out later is named Marco, smiles at me saying, “Good shot.” I think to myself hopefully this was not my one and only lucky shot because people are definitely looking now. Next shot, jump up, no fake, goalie predicting another cross cage shot, he is positioned too far left, thus skip shot ball into strong side low. Adrenaline rushes through my body as I remember how much I love water polo and that after all the years I played, my abilities have not flown out the window. My accident only a few months ago left me fearing that my pelvis and left knee and hand would forbid me to be able to rotate properly into an egg beater without a lot of pain therefore leaving me in an attempt to forget ever playing again even recreationally. Flashbacks of physical therapy in the pool when my knee refused to even bend 10 degrees to now rotating freely in full circular motions floods a note of triumph in me for a brief second. ‘How you learn shoot like this?’ questions Marco. I humbly reply that I used to play in college thinking this answer should suffice. ‘Yes, but how you do this, how you can shoot like this?’ I am laughing in my head thinking is this guy who is a natural born fish and on the champion Dubrovnik team seriously asking me how? And then I realize he and his teammates are dumb founded not because I am a good shooter who is outwitting their goalie but because I am a woman. Of course, daah women in Croatia really don’t play water polo even amongst each other let alone against a group of men. What a trip! Marco then obviously wanting to test me demands, ‘Now we play and you on my team. Go get on him.’ Oh shit here is where I am going to get my ass worked. Well sure enough, I managed to hold my own on a half court scrimmage out driving a few of the guys, stealing the ball a few times, and even better, actually scoring a couple of goals. At least Marco seemed pleased loudly announcing in front of the other team, ‘Ha ha you better then them. But, how you learn to shoot?’ Give it up Marco, I may be a female but I know how to hang with the boys! As happy as Charlie in the Chocolate Factory I had just lived the dream. Played water polo with the sexiest men alive, Croatian water polo players, in the rocky Adriatic sea, alongside a fortress, and icing on the cake managed to make plans tonight with Marco. A fun night certainly laid ahead!
Back at Francesca’s home we are just getting ready to leave by bus to Sarajevo and the dad is cheerfully writing down his number in my journal for us to call him when we are coming back. He then joyfully tells me, ‘Now, no calling early. I like lots sleep. I no work now, pension from government.’ I happily reply that’s great you don’t have to work sleep is much better.’ ‘Yes, the government give me pension because shooting my knees.” He then points to his thigh and both knees all the while still smiling. I naively say, ‘They shot your legs with a gun’ while role playing an actual gun shooting with my hand. ‘Yes, yes in the war” as he points to the mountains of Dubrovnik, ‘Serbs.’ My smile quickly transformed into a confused pitiful look as reality struck that the Defenders of Croatia exhibit at the museum we visited was such a recent tragedy for these wonderful people that I have become associated with. Only around thirteen years ago when I was a little teenager brat smoking dubees behind the school getting drunk off keg stands with Phoebe and Lily was this the same time a twenty something year old young man was fighting for his beloved Dubrovnik and family while having both of his knees blown to shit by the Serbians. The water polo guys were probably either off fighting as well or desperately struggling to keep their families alive from the massive bombing and shelling of the entire old town that now once again proudly stands without traces of destruction. So beautiful, strong, and resilient the town now shines just like its people. Once completely cut off from electricity, water, and food death lay along the city streets like road kill. The exhibit displayed pictures of all the young men killed and a slide show of pictures after the city was bombed. I stood there in shock seeing pictures of the same streets, homes, and churches that I had just walked through the past few days completely destroyed, blown to shreds, and on fire. Clearly with direct trade routes on the Adriatic Sea and massive wealth accumulated in this mercantile area its obvious to see why former Yugoslavia wanted it part of their “Greater Serbia” thus invading it so brutally when Croatia claimed complete independence. Amazingly enough, Croatia refused to back down and managed to tirelessly rebuild and restore their little paradise. One would imagine after such a tragedy their would be an aura of coldness amongst the Croatians considering this was all so recent. However it’s the complete opposite. They are the most wonderful and welcoming people in all of Europe. Not once did I feel a tinge of shadiness in terms of being scammed. I didn’t even think twice about my safety when happily sleeping over at their private homes, and never encountered anything but warm hearts and friendly conversations with the locals. I remind myself repeatedly during the day on my way to Sarajevo of just how privileged I am to never have had to deal with such an inhumane tragedy as the people of Croatia, Bosnia, and Serbia endured just a measly thirteen years ago.


MUSTAFA IN A NUT SHELL
Bosnia, how do I even begin to describe Bosnia? Well to start with, what were my expectations about Sarajevo in the first place? To be honest all I can remember as a teenager was seeing on CNN the tragedies of the Serbian armed forces siege on Sarajevo, women hugging their babies uncontrollably sobbing in the refugee camps, children’s schools bombed to pieces, and people of all ages lying dead on the blood drenched snow city streets with dark crimson pools seeping out around them. I recall fund raisers held to send food and aid to Sarajevo. Some place that I never imagined I would visit like its some far off universe that is unreachable and us Americans only have glimpses of it through a TV. set. There is something utterly twisted that for some reason, we can see war going on through a big silver plasma screen around the world, but can’t really identify or comprehend that these video captions and pictures are indeed really happening to real people like out brother, mom, or dad because its not happening on our own front lawn directly in our faces, to our own loved ones. Out of sight out of mind, why is that? Sure we are appalled when we hear of genocide and civil wars abroad but we are able to not let it affect us to the point of a complete break down as if it were happening live in front of us even though in reality, it is happening, we just don’t have to see it or deal with it if we choose not to. Not until the bus entered into the heart of the lush Bosnia countryside did I start seeing with my own eyes one building after another laced with bullet holes. Utterly fascinated with the holes of human invasion along the walls that I find myself unable to resist capturing one picture after another. Guilt rises inside me with the fact that I too was indeed guilty like many sheltered others in the western world that closed the blinds to the East’s massive human destruction years ago. Too absorbed in our own selfish lives to really understand the severity of lives being stolen from the Bosnians. What did I do to help these people in need? Lame excuses aside, the fact is, I did not do a damn thing. Just to think sure, I alone could not have made a difference but if everyone in the world including myself just did one little thing it may have been enough to put a quicker halt to this genocidal ethnic cleansing that rampaged their streets for years. Not until I physically entered into their lives am I able to clearly see just how selfish I was in my own Western world to not attempt to assist in putting an end to others suffering. Obviously what’s in the past is indeed history but I can only hope in the future I will do more then just be aware of what’s occurring abroad. Awareness of course is just the initial step but what are you going to do with that awareness? That’s a question that doesn’t really have an answer at this point in my life. I am not a sappy one to sing and chant Michael Jackson’s “Heal the world” but one thing is for sure, seeing Sarajevo hit me like a ton of bricks.
Arriving in Sarajevo and immediately we pass the Holiday Inn, in which the killing of ten people marked the start of the siege which lasted three and half never ending destructive years. When exiting the bus a perky aggressive woman asks us if we need accommodations and before being able to reply, tells us to come stay at her hostel. She speaks a mile a minute through a heavy tongued accent about her hostel being only three minutes from the city center, how clean it is, and that we only must share with two other Canadian girls. For only thirteen dollars a night Julie and I nod in agreement that we would take a look. I may be incompetent with a map but one thing I am is street smart. Right away I notice a shade of skepticism when we walk to the hostel instead of driving there as she originally said we would be doing. Next, arriving to a dingy brown bullet shot up building with a pile of bunk beds messily lined up in a living room, I ask her who else will be sleeping in this room and sure enough, the numbers from the original Canadian girls have some how increased. Julie looks unsure so I take the initiative to take action by kindly thanking her and telling her we are going to walk to the three minute away city center for a drink to decide whether or not to stay. Very sweetly she agrees and just tells to come back in twenty minutes if we are to stay. Off we head to the city center in the 100 degree hot weather with all of our luggage and the short three minute walk turns into a fifty minute long haul just to even reach the outskirts of the city center. Julie repeatedly thanks me for being suspicious of the hostel situation and I simply reply, can’t bull shit a bull shitter and that I could sense from the minute she slipped by offering empty promises that she was sketchy. Nevertheless respecting that fact that she has a business to run, no hard feelings towards her were left lingering.
The city center has a very modern section with boutiques lined up by cafes, yummy bakeries, and bars packed with people sitting outside. We enjoyed briefly watching a group of old men in deep thought and serious conversations playing life size figure chess outside in a park. Then we walked past the Opera House which had a huge Sarajevo Film Festival banner hanging on it. I thought to myself this is so exciting to be in Sarajevo during this time. During the war the people bravely continued to hold theatrical and musical performances not allowing war to stand in the way of their love for film and music. I can only imagine that these performances served as a very temporary escape from the harsh reality outside the theatre. Along the theatre walls there are numerous huge bullet holes from the entrance all the way up to the roof but the bright red film festival banner dangled high and proud dominates and does not allow the bullets to put a damper on the main attraction soon to come. The Turkish quarter where we found private accommodation with an old lady shifts to old cobble stone roads with numerous hookah bars and steak restaurants. Later on that evening we indulged in thick black Turkish coffee, goat cheese salads, and steak skewers that were so succulent that they literally fell off the stick. There is such a rich diversity of religions in Sarajevo that we made sure to visit each section and see the numerous mosques, Christian churches, and orthodox Jewish temples. What a sight to see; three religions intermingling freely in the cafes and on each corner stands a mosque, temple, or church like they are neighbors. Each intricately designed with such fine skill and detailed care for restoring what was bombed. The Turkish quarter, a melting pot of religious diversity with old thatched roof tops makes you feel like you are back in time. A few buildings here and there were still under repair from the shelling such as the National Library but for the most part, the Bosnians have done an amazing job repairing everything with such love and care that only the millions of bullet holes on every single building from the outskirts, to the modern section, over to the Turkish quarter are left to be touched up. One would think these bullet holes must be painful for the people to be forced to see on a daily basis. After all, the ones that were not able to escape through the underground tunnel made nearby the airport were left hiding in fear. Even crossing the street was dangerous. I saw pictures of mothers holding their babies with a group of others ducking by a UN military tank in attempt to shield them from the snipers when dashing across intersections. Markets and elementary schools were direct targets as well. In the museum I remember being in shock seeing a case filled with blood splattered children’s text books and markers. I recognized these pens and markers as the same ones I have used in my class, which makes it that more horrific knowing this is not evidence from some war way before my time. These are children’s belongings that were murdered just a few years ago! When I was sitting out on a bench with Julie an elderly woman walked over to us and just stared at us for what felt like minutes. She said something in Bosnian and we could not decipher what she wanted. I unfortunately pessimistically assumed by her gypsy attire that she was wanting money. Then she sat by us and as I was continuing my conversation with Julie pointing at the bullets in the walls, she began pointing at the bullets too saying something that clearly was related to the war by the sadness of her tone and shaking of her head. Then she waved good bye to us and continued on her way. I felt bad assuming she was wanting money when clearly she was just curious about us and was openly telling us something about the tragedy she endured. They are such strong and kind people that from what my eyes can see, they appear to be happy. It’s amazing how strong the human mind can be and how quickly one can recover from such trauma to continue living life to the fullest. When we were leaving Sarajevo waiting for the tram a young teenager came up to me and asked me something in Bosnian. As soon as he heard me speak English a huge smile stretched across his face and he said, “Oh great we can speak in English. I speak English and I was wondering if you knew when tram number one will be arriving.” We begin chatting and I found out he is a student in a private high academic Muslim school. His name is Mustafa and he lives in Tuzla, Bosnia. His English was immaculate and he was so thrilled to speak with me in English about California that he did not stop speaking the entire trip over to the bus station. He tells me his dream when he turns 18 in a few months is to travel to L.A. because he has this fascination with movies and Hollywood and oh yes, he loves the name Alex. I made sure to jokingly call him Alex from L.A. a few times which he got a kick out of. Of course I didn’t dare tell him that L.A. is a lot of superficial hype but did slip in that he should spend more time in sunny San Diego if he comes to California. It was so cute when he proudly pulled out of a folder he was carrying around of a certificate he won for an English speaking competition. He won first place in his school and carries around his certificate everywhere with him. When we arrived together at the bus station he insisted on carrying my heavy back pack and asked me if we could keep in touch via email. Of course I was happy to give him my email and after we said our goodbyes, he returned in a few minutes to give me some coca cola. Julie and I could not get over what a sweet heart he was and it was adorable when he emailed me that very day telling me that Julie and I were the most beautiful girls he ever met and that he wishes if he was a little bit older that he could make me his girlfriend.
The rich diversity and immense hospitality, happy to serve you in their restaurants and homes makes any traveler dying to get off the beaten path and away from tourist zones fall in love with Sarajevo. Imagine, Mustafa was basically born into a life of fear considering his first memories when he was only around four or five was encountering death terror and war. To think, such a terrifying childhood for his age group can create such a wonderful friendly person years later is totally mind blowing. Mustafa really is Bosnia for you in a nut shell.

Just me some Fish n' Chips and Maria in the land where safety has apparently decided to take the day off....

Well apparently safety has decided to take the day off at the Marrakech Airport. Dodging the nearby planes taking off right beside my feet, we walk as quickly as possible towards the entrance. After a little too quick of a transition through customs I am hopeful that leaving the country will be as smooth. Entering into the aggressive taxi territory waiting to wisp us off to the city center. “No biggie” I think to myself, I am used to negotiating rates with taxi drivers in Mexico and besides, there is a big bus we can jump on so we don’t even have to worry about being ripped off. So here I am with Mark and Kendel cruising down a big bumpy street with deserted homes, open vast dirt areas, and palm trees along the road, and once again I naively compare this to Ensenada, thinking they appear quite similar. The 105 degree heat infiltrates through the glass panes of the bus, the human smells of body odor circle around me, and the air is so dry it grabs a hold of my throat making me want to jump into a pool of cool water. Ten minutes later we circle around a bend and bam, I realize this is definitely nothing like Mexico! A million motorcycles with three or four people to a bike fly within inches of the bus, donkeys being whipped with hundreds of pounds of boxes piled on carts gallop by us, pedestrians flee in all directions in the middle of the traffic, fearless that within a flash of a second they could be hit due to the chaos of no direct pathways for the cars or even any traffic lights. Most of the women have their heads tightly wrapped, arms completely covered, and some even their hands sealed off. Immediately I feel shameful that I do not have more clothes to cover my body even though I am wearing sleeves and long pants. Attempting to tuck my hair as best as possible into my baseball cap, I realize these attempts are to no avail because either way, I will still be looked at as a flashy foreigner unless I invest in a full body burkha. To my relief I see a few women wearing regular jeans and flashy tops. The vibrant pink, Goldie yellow, piercing turquoise, and lilac purple colors of the flowing burkha that the women wear are eye candy, so appetizing, like seeing hard candy mixed up in a big bucket, that I just can’t pick my favorite. And they look so comfortable that I think to myself maybe I will wear one myself in attempt to also slightly blend in. The men have a variety of fashions going on themselves, some in full white robes with brightly colored wraps on their heads, while the others are in regular jeans and fake Emporio Armani t-shirt’s with flashy gold necklaces and stunna shades.
As the bus comes to a screeching halt the crowd pours off in different directions. I look around me and by the looks of the crowds of people walking towards a central square and towering mosque at the end, I assume we are in the city center of Marrakech known as Medina but where the hek are the street signs? I attempt to communicate with the bus driver in English and just my luck, no English. Next I try in Spanish, again nope, last pathetic desperate attempt German, nope the driver only speaks French or Arabic which I can’t speak a lick of. Well I clumsily show him on a map where I need to go and but of course he just points toward the main square so, off we go. While heading towards the city center my nose begins to follow the numerous lined up food stands piled with Lamb skewing on a stick, women patting down fresh hot thin bread that looks like Indian parratas, and fresh vegetables messily displayed on the tables. My mouth begins to water when we pass by the stands that have heaps of olives glazed in savory Moroccan spices soaked in olive oil but keeping in mind that the eye on the prize is to find Riad (House) Johanna, the roaring belly having a temper tantrum must be patient. While looking at a corner street hoping to see street signs I hear Kendel screeching 'Ahhhh holy shit!' While she claws into my flesh grabbing on to me for dear life, I quickly look to my left and sure enough there it is, three slimy black cobras doing a little neck stretching dance to the snake charmer’s hypnotizing flute type instrument while lurching forward every few minutes attempting to bite their owners. Chillin in the sun next to the aggressive cobras on a brightly colored Arabic rug is a gigantic yellow boa constructor that could not be bothered with all the chaos around him. Mr. Boa is taking a nap and enjoying the rays beating down its ten foot length back. The snake charmers, being very amused with Kendel and Marks cries began laughing and pointing at us. To our frightful delight the adobe brown sun baked man, who is missing a few very necessary teeth and has a snake tightly coiled around his neck, begins walking over towards us. I see that kind toothless smile but I am no fool bearing in mind there is a devilish glint deep within those dark eyes luring us over to his venomous cobras. Being direct bulls eyes without a chance in hell to blend in, we might as well have had American flags stuck to our heads. Calling out to the tall lone white Brit first, 'Hey Fish and Chips, come come.' 'Fish and Chips' I laugh hysterically while looking over at the very disgruntled Brit, 'That’s classic!' While the snake charmers join in on the laughter my other companion, Kendel, doesn’t quite get away without being renamed Maria. Somehow in a matter of seconds while I am telling myself that I am no fool to be lured into the snake pit, Fish n' Chips and I manage to have snakes put around our necks, which then proceeded with being lightly smacked on our head with the head of the snake being told repeatedly, 'For good luck madam, good luck.' Next, pockets being emptied out for a tip, and all in all we even manage to misplace our bad little Mexican girl Maria. Come to find out while I was being smacked by a snake and Mark was rocking back and forth in a fetal position in sheer terror while sucking on his thumb, Maria was kid knapped by a henna witch lady with spiky black hairy legs and mysterious grey eyes that inked up some trippy design on unwillingly Maria’s hand, which ended up looking like a glob of permanent poo. Let me tell you Maria was not happy with the fresh poo on her hand that left traces for weeks.
All around the center of Medina the locals huddle under umbrellas for shelter from the sweltering heat. Whether it be monkeys on chains jumping around doing tricks, women painting henna on hands and feet, fortune tellers sitting on rugs with bottles of crushed up bone, full sized dried lizards, goats and bulls horns neatly laid out by them, or teenage acrobats dressed in silky blue and red Aladdin looking pants flying through the air showing off their amazing skills, you name it, the Medina circus show was in full view and in your face. No time to lurk, we had to find our Riad Johanna. Off we set in one direction hopeful to see some kind of street sign in French. But whatever appeared to be a sign was in Arabic and therefore I began asking locals on the streets and merchants in the stores. A very small elderly man runs up to me and quickly gestures for us to start following him clearly demonstrating that he was volunteering to show us where Riad Johanna is. Hesitant and unsure whether or not we were being led into a trap we figured this man is about the size of my four foot grandma and there are three of us. Not that Fish n' Chips who’s width is about the size of my arm would be helpful, but at this point what other options did we have. As we walked out of one alley, the old man grabs his rick shaw and motions for all of us along with our luggage to jump in like we we’re his little toddlers going for a ride in the shiny red cart. I start shaking my head out of fear of breaking this poor mans back with our combined weight and so he nods his head with approval and again motions us to continue close behind him. After passing one multi-colored busy souk after another, pasting our bodies on the walls like fly’s so that the roaring motorbikes zooming within inches by us won’t hit us, and with the heat scorching throughout my body making me feel dizzy, everything began to quickly start blending in together and before we knew it, we were walking through a maze of alleys that had no people in them. Since I could not remember my ass from my elbow I certainly had no recollection of exactly which way was the exit to get back to the center. I pictured we were the mice in a famous science experiment in which you put the cheese at the end of two different mazes and place the mouse on the opposite end. One of the mice has been in a confined box filled with marijuana smoke resulting in inhaling a gargantuan amount of THC and the other is completely sober. In a stoners opinion you would think that the stoned mouse would find the cheese first because it has the munchies but in actuality, it’s the sober clear headed mouse that is able to navigate its way throughout the maze to get to the cheesy orange prize. Actually I just made that up. I don’t know if there has ever been such an experiment but I really did feel stoned and confused lost in a maze like a feeble mouse. Brown Kendel, now pale white in the face and palms sweating, has totally started freaking out yelling at Mark that she will never talk to him ever again for bringing us here and Mark is now looking at me to make the decision on whether or not we continue to follow this old man down another alley or cut our losses, loose the deposit, and head back to the main square in search of a cheap hotel. I look over at the old man and I now see he is talking with another man in Arabic. It appears that he is asking him where Riad Johanna is but for all I know he is plotting with his partner to let the other men know around the corner that now is the perfect time to mug us leaving us alone in Africa with no passport and money. Mark and I both make eye contact insinuating that we will not go down one more desolate alley and will be turning around in a matter of seconds. Count down three two one, and that’s it, I motion to them both we are going the other way. The strange looking man in the alley starts saying to me, 'Where you going, number 24 Riad Johanna, there, wrong way madam.' Then the old man starts waving his hands at us to keep following him, but at this point I am scared and am on the verge of panicking when all of a sudden he knocks on an iron door at the end of the alley and out pops a sweet females head about the age of thirty. They converse in Arabic for a second and the whole time she is nodding her head motioning for us to come into her home. Great so this is when she bands together with the men and rob us, right! But then in English she says, 'Yes this is Riad Johanna and I have reservation for you, share room. I have been expecting you.' I let out a loud sigh of relief along with Mark and Kendel and we very gratefully thank the strange looking man in the alley and the old four foot tall elderly one. Tipping him graciously in euro coins he walks off distraughtly examining the shiny coins in his palm confused as to what kind of currency we just gave him.

Part 2

I awake to the high pitched squeals of the snake charmers flutes less that a mile away in Medina. The merciless sun has marked its territory in my room and has left me feeling dehydrated and dizzy which was also attributed to an ungodly amount of wine and beer while laying out on the rooftop last night with Fish n' Chips, Maria, and a few fellow backpackers from Argentina. Before allowing myself to feel sorry for my own self liver abuse and aching headache, I quickly wash up in the sink which is outside our room in the courtyard. I guess there is some ringing truth when telling naughty children not to do something forbidden that automatically the allure and temptation to disobey increases ten times more. In our case, sure enough this saying apparently had validity. Last night when we excitedly rushed to the city center with a major beer thirst needing to be quenched, we were told in the cafes that alcohol is illegal in the city center and one must venture out of Medina to drink. In addition, in order to find alcohol we would most likely have to go to a nightclub outside the center and we were warned that women are not exactly considered very welcome unless of course we were planning on pulling a Julia Roberts in “Pretty Women.” Something told me that I am probably not going to meet Richard Gear in these nightclubs so I might as well follow the locals advice and stay clear. Where’s a Yardhouse with 150 fresh beers on tap to choose from when ya need a tall one? To our rescue, but of course, our dear Riad Johanna well equipped for drunken tourists, had a fully stocked fridge waiting for us at home. Before heading back to the Riad we decided to watch the lively night festivals taking place around the roasting lamb stands and drum circles. People everywhere were clapping hands, engaging their palettes with delicious Moroccan delights of seafood, lamb, nuts, followed by piercing bright oranges. Fortune tellers were sitting on rugs on the ground with their customers, grandiosely telling them their fortunes while crushing bones into colorful powders in exquisite jars and drinking Moroccan tea with fresh mint. As alive as this atmosphere was, I realized, something was very wrong. I looked to my left, then my right and was amazed to see that every single person aside from Maria, a few French tourists, and I, were men! Where were all the women? Am I to believe that the locals who obviously have an amazing spirit for festivity do not include their women? One, considered shameful and disrespectful to not be completely covered from head to toe in the sweltering heat: to ensure that other men can not look at you. Two, to always walk in the souks “supervised” with either a male relative or your husband by your side. Three, men may hold hands, any display of public affection between opposite sexes is taboo. Apparently this is how they run here. But am I really witnessing with my own eyes that women are shunned from such a joyous event? This whole concept is obviously so outlandish to my foreign eyes that I just can’t seem to justify this as normal and accept it as something I just can’t understand but seems to work just fine for them. After all, I view women and men as equals so how could I understand completely? In their defense, quite possibly maybe the women prefer to not engage in these male activities in the darkness of the night and instead, happily congregate amongst other fellow women free of their masking durkhas and shawls within the confinements of their sealed off homes. I guess I will never know, nor can I understand.
Chillaxin and stretching my legs out on the roof terrace, to my delight, Johanna has once again fixed us a delightful breakfast with fresh squeezed orange juice and crispy bread rolls. A little grub in the belly and I am ready to set off on a new adventure. Unfortunately Fish n' Chips and Maria look like dead logs unwilling to unlatch themselves from their comfortable nooks. I allow them to hibernate from the scorching sun and decide to follow my trusty Lonely Planet’s advice and find the tanneries. After all Morocco is very famous for their master skill in producing exquisite soft leathers so why not go check out the originals myself. Heading out of the curvy maze of peach alleys and I enter into the chaotic souks. Hundreds of people are bargaining at the stands for items such as spices, leather, meat, and pottery and the women are loading their bags with fresh produce. I stay clear of the zooming motorbikes bustling crowds and donkeys dashing within inches of me. Immediately I notice the local men are a lot more comfortable with allowing their eyes to wander freely across my body. Initially, I try to ignore the stares and snide flirtatious cat calling but within only a matter of minutes, I start feeling extremely self conscious and am very aware that I am “one of them.” “One of those” Western women that allow parts of their flesh to show freely and wander the streets unsupervised without a male baby sitter. Reluctantly, I have now resorted to keeping my eyes on the ground and head down low hoping that I will just evaporate into the ground or at the very least, receive less attention. I almost feel shameful like I have done something wrong leaving the Riad without Fish n' Chips and now I must face the consequences for not covering my exposed body in a burkah. Heading east, I realize I have no idea where the tanneries are even though according to the book, they are in this direction outside of the center. While trying to be invisible and independent by navigating my way around alone, my independence comes to an end when a man in a bright yellow shirt starts making friendly conversation asking me where I am trying to go. I politely tell him I am heading to the tanneries and continue on my way. Fortunately he is kind enough to point me in the right direction with out expectations for a tip. Just when I think how nice that he was just helping me out with no strings attached, he yells after me telling me his friend Abdul works there and since he is on his way to work, will show me the way. 'Shit' I think to myself how can I tell him no when the guy is apparently walking there too and its down what appears to be one straight road, so he will be on my tail either way. Without consenting for him to join me, Abdul with a sweet hearty smile introduces himself and starts walking by my side. Remembering reading in Lonely Planet that if you need assistance finding the tannery it is easy for a local to show you around and explain how the tanneries work with just a little tip, I think to myself I am fine with leaving a small tip so why not just enjoy Abduls company and let him show me how to get to the Tanneries.
Reaching the end of the road I realize there are no Tanneries in sight and we have been walking in the mid afternoon heat over dirt roads for over fifteen minutes. Abduls non stop chattering starts making me skeptical that maybe he was trying to distract me for some reason. But why? My guts begin churning and I start feeling the paranoia rise from the depths of my spine and grab a hold of my throat. Trying to remain cool and not show that my heart is beating a million miles an hour and perspiration from anxiety is formulating along my temple, I can’t help but think the worst can happen to me right now and if so, there is not a damn thing I can do about it. 'Why did you leave the Riad alone you retard! Damn it Alicia you are so stupid sometimes! Sure, try to be all adventurous and shit and now you have put yourself in a jam that you may not get your ass out of safely.' Abdul leads me through a few winding streets that go left and then right, then left, left, wait was it right, or then left, damn its starting to blend in, crap I can’t remember. Very alert of my surroundings at this point like a deer in headlights, I make sure to make mental notes of the landmarks that we are passing by to guide me back to safety if need be. I tell myself 'Okay take a chill pill Alicia.' After all, I am walking with a man that appears to be kind and although this is out of my character to go walking around with someone I don’t know anything at all about, he is just taking me to the Tanneries and then I can venture out again on my own once there.
Twenty minutes later and I smell a musky putrid aroma infiltrating the air. It is so pungent that I have to cover my mouth for a second thinking that the smell will dissipate within seconds of not breathing. Abdul seeing me struggling smirks and tells me, 'We are reaching the tanneries soon and this is the smell of the leather. Look up on the rooftops you can see the skins drying out.' There it is looming above my head, rotting cow skin boiling in the blazing sun on the rooftops. Scattered on the ground I see pieces of what appears to be pieces of black hair that used to be a cows tail. Passing by the stores I notice that they are not selling the typical goods as in the city but instead huge bottles of brightly colored liquids and sulfuric acid. The people somehow seem to have thinned out before my eyes but we have finally arrived at the Tanneries and since I have walked all this way, I figure I might as well capture a few pictures and see how this whole leather making thing works. Standing at the outdoor entrance is a man in a long white robe holding a parcel of fresh mint. He introduces himself in scattered Spanish and hands me the mint telling me I will need this to cope with the smell while he gives me the tour. Wait this can’t be the tour that I think the book mentioned. Or did the book even mention a tour? Where are all the other tourists with their dangling cameras and videos, spoiled bratty children loudly chirping creating unwanted attention, and maps falling out of their parents overloaded bags? For once in my life I actually want to be surrounded by the safety net of a bunch of obnoxious overly excited tourists. I must be loosing it! Instead, I am by myself now surrounded by two men and am about to be surrounded by many other men in the tanneries. As we enter in the huge outside walls about the size of a football field, I am in no ways prepared for what my eyes are about to see. Men, some older then my grandpa are waist deep in pools of brightly blue, red, orange, and purple dyes and are diligently working like slaves in the blistering heat. 'Smack smack' goes the cow flesh dipping into the pools then whacked onto the ground. Sulfuric acid mixed with rotting dead flesh infiltrates my nose and quickly reaches the back of my throat causing the sensation of immediate gagging. Nevertheless, I have to get some pictures of what I am actually seeing. Nauseas or not, this was inexplicable and I had to capture the moment with my camera. The guide explains the process of how the leather is made even though in reality, it was self explanatory and in your face. Lucky me, he made sure not to leave out what kinds of different animal piles of flesh were sloppily laid out within inches of my feet. Wowzers, let me just tell you the goat pile of flesh was definitely what sent me over the Titanic and although I was trying to pretend that everything was all gravy, clearly my face was probably turning sour green, thus the men politely escorted me out. Thinking that the quick tour that seemed like an anxiety filled eternity was finally over, I figured I would tip both men with the change in my pocket, thank them graciously, and be on my way. Well, maybe if we were in the Kansas Tanneries Toto and I could merrily meander off on the yellow brick road but not in Marrakech. Before I could turn my head Abdul rushes me into the nearby store packed with brightly colored fresh leather bags dangling on the ceiling, leather pillows and Moroccan rugs covering the floors, and a bulky glistening silver tea pot on the center table. 'Hello I am A Koos koos a boo boo and welcome to my store. Please have a seat and may I serve you some Moroccan tea with fresh mint.' Okay obviously that’s not how you spell his name but that’s what it sounded like. I blabber, 'Umm ahh nooo thanks, you have a beautiful store but I am sorry, I do not have money to spend.' Apparently either I was speaking German or A koos koos a boo boo is stone deaf because he did not even raise an eyebrow after my displeasing statement. “So let me tell you about my business. I journey to the border of Marrakech to trade my beautiful leathers for raw silk.” He then proudly grabbed a handful of magnificent piles of vibrant silk. I let the silk flow through my finger tips and sure enough it is the softest silk I have ever felt. Then proceeding to have his helper, no older then a 13 year old boy, throw a few rugs on the ground, he gets down on his knees and lights a flame on the rugs demonstrating that the magical rugs could not be lit on fire. At this point I was definitely impressed but keeping in mind I did not want to spend money, I tried my best to keep a polite smile but not infer that I wanted to purchase anything. Next, an elegant writing tablet laced with gold was placed on the table and I am told, “In Morocco there is no final price and this is how we shall bargain. You write your price on the right and I on the left.” Apparently I was bargaining for some camel leather pillow that you can sit on that had cool camel designs wrapped around in a circle. I glance outside the door to see if anyone may miraculously come to my rescue and see that there are three men waiting out front blocking off the exit. To my surprise there stands that man in the bright yellow shirt that initially pointed me in the direction of the Tanneries. Clearly he too was a part of the Tanneries business and had successfully worked his charm in convincing the stupid tourist to enter the sales pit. At this point I just write down 20 euros but A koos koos a boo boo is anything but delighted and quickly pulls out a cheaper cow leather pillow that has flashy red, white, and black triangles on an aged cream base. Well, I figure I have two options. Either I continue this torture and attempt to escape without purchasing anything or, I suck up my losses, buy the tacky flashy flesh and depart unharmed. Unsure of what to do, my instinct points my hand in the direction of writing down a slightly marked up price of 25 euros and to my relief, the tablet is closed and the deal has been made. Now I realize that I only have small change in euro coins to tip the two men outside so I hope that purchasing this pillow will suffice. “Not so fast little naïve one.” I have just entered out to three men with open palms waiting for their individual tips. So I grab the coins and place it in the dominant guides hand hoping they can either split it up or argue amongst one another. A distorted scrunched up look spreads across his face and I realize he does not know what the coins represent and as I am trying to explain to him that is all I have, and that it is Euros, he begins aggressively yelling in Arabic at Abdul. Fortunately the bright yellow t-shirt man calms the guide down explaining that the coins indeed do have value like printed paper currency and so he nods his head thanking me. The coast is clear and I realize this is my chance to get the hell out of this putrid smelling rotting flesh tannery and head back to my Fish n' Chips and Maria at the Riad. Nervously smiling and saying good bye to the intimidating men who have completely scammed me, tacky flashy flesh and I quickly head out on the road far away from them. While I am trying to calm myself down I recapture layer upon layer what just happened. Was I really in danger, meaning physical harm if I had just said flat out “No” and walked out of the store? What was the worst that the men could have done? Maybe yell at me for not tipping or wasting their time that I never asked for in the first place? Or, could the consequences have been much more dreadful? Just to imagine the unimaginable made me realize that I as a woman wandering around by myself, had made the right decision. Sure I would have been braver if I had friends by my side but alone was a whole other story. Suffice to say that it is an actual true statement that when traveling alone in Islamic regions a female tourist should always have her guard up and not walk alone or the result could possibly be unpleasant such as my experience? I really don’t have the answer but I do know that many female tourists do indeed travel alone to Northern Africa and probably have not encountered a dilemma such as mine. All I do know is for myself, I was scared, my blood was boiling out of fear which is ten times worse than out of anger, and that I was never so relieved as to when I was able to successfully navigate the trek back to Riad Johanna based on the landmarks and enter back to safety.
Entering back into Riad Johanna I set my eyes on the most amazing handcrafted tiled walls and floors with beautiful lamps dangling from the ceiling and I immediately start feeling at ease. A tinge of guilt hits me for being so nervous and skeptical of the kind old man who was just trying to help us find our home and the ruthless tannery sales men. After hearing so many horror stories the thought of being stripped of my passport in Africa or physically harmed is petrifying and I think it’s a shame that as a foreigner, I naturally have my guard up out of fear. Nevertheless Fish n' Chips, Maria and I share our stories in the courtyard and all agree that we have entered a Moroccan Paradise nestled in a brilliantly colorful city and on top of that, are staying in a spectacular private Riad for just 20 dollars a night. The Riad is three levels high with open courtyards on the top two levels. Each level has comfortable wooden patio furniture with intricately designed pillows to rest on. The roof terrace in particular overlooks the center of Medina in which the beats of the drums stretch far out above the colorful rooftops of the surrounding homes that have dangling Moroccan rugs and soaring red flags with a single bright green star in the center. The beats wisp throughout the four surrounding mosques and fill the air with a surreal warm aura. While capturing the stunning view through my lens, suddenly, the drums and cheering crowds all come to a dead abrupt halt within a flash of a second followed by a muffled crackling noise coming from within the north west mosque. A man begins singing Arabic hymns over the loudspeaker and within what appears to be a drawn out minute, the surrounding three mosques loudspeakers come on and I hear three other prevailing and mystifying voices loudly singing about Allah. They are calling their people to prayer and everyone in the entire city center including me has completely stopped what they are doing like in a trance like state in which time is standing still, and all in unison, intently listen to the Korans ancient words stretching out from the four mosques. Standing on the roof top slowly soaking in all of my surroundings, I watch the sun set over one of the grand majestic mosques with piles of smoke billowing behind, forming distorted animal shapes from the hundreds of kebab barbeque stands and think to myself, I have just entered an ancient mind-blowing world and can only imagine what lies ahead.

Barcelona, Spain---Scroll down to Barcelona from March if you would like to see the more pics from Gaudi Architecture or the food market we shop at

Merrakesh/ Medina Africa

2nd slide of Medina watch at same time as other

Praha

Gulpity gulp gulp gulp, and down goes another beer. They say it’s not only the cheapest, but the best beer in the world. So but of course if the beer is cheaper than the water, you bet your Benjamin’s I will be on a strict low water high carb beer diet. Reaching the bottom of the stairs with the other expats and surprise surprise, once again the entire bar including the bar tender, DJ waitress, and blind toothless old man in the corner have stopped whatever they are doing and have now physically turned their chairs around to ogle at me with solemn curious looks on their faces. It’s like a scene out of the movies when the most popular blond twit from school trips and the entire lunch cafeteria stops whatever they are doing and just stare. Where the music at the bumping night club comes to a screeching halt and everyone freezes. I used to want to run back up these long stairs to the fresh air, freedom from these dungeon underground bars and stares. But now, I just chuckle to myself. What else can I do? In their eyes, its like me chilling in a Hollywood bar and all of a sudden a group of white faced bounded feet Geisha’s hobble into the club and do a little dance around me with delicate fans. Of course I would fucking stare in shock, so how can I be mad at them? Steve on the other hand manages to have fits of childish tantrums against the men gawking at me, but it’s not like they have any clue what he is saying with his garble, so it doesn’t really seem to negatively affect me. Walking down another zillion flight of stairs to enter the underground nightlife of Prague, I say to my drunken self, “You should have been too young to remember those beastly Arnold Schwarzenegger bodies and flamboyantly extra tight neon orange shirts that show off protruding muscles but nevertheless, you have an older brother that subjected you to watch these cheesy movies in the 80’s.” The ruthless DJ is pumping out of this world music suddenly switching it from trendy gay poppity hippity hoppity that you know you have heard at the lame San Diego "On Broadway" club a million times, flowing into the land of the weird Karneval music that only wild German drunks can understand while dancing folk songs on the top of the tables, then transitioning into 2Pac preaching that’s the way it is. Well I guess “that’s the way it is” in the outskirts of Praha (Prague).The city that’s a four hour ride away from the infamous Bratislava, an even shorter ride to the most horrific concentration camp in the entire genocidal world of the holocaust known as Auschwitz, to a hop skip and a jump to Moscow where the people worship beastly world champion weight lifters and the old commies still linger at the pubs discussing their once very powerful Soviet empire that shed red blood to their neighbors in the west.
Communism, infiltrating all the way down to the heart of South America, Cuba and into the Far East of Mao Tse Tung’s China. Marx preaches of the common man, the laborer to be equal to the aristocracy, the supporter of the labor strikes, but unable to predict that a future like this throughout any part of the world can never be achievable because deep within the human soul there is a side of greed that is drenched in superiority. Consequently, eventually one corrupt individual will corrupt the rest, and leave their country economically destroyed with poor pregnant mothers waiting in line for three hours to get a loaf of bread to feed her three children and unborn baby. Where corrupt Stalin will disregard Marx’s Communist Manifesto by twisting its core values and rampage the streets of his neighbors and slaughter any non believer in his way because he distorts the principal communist beliefs of rebellion and strikes for equality into extreme measures of genocidal violence that permits his sick mind to ingest the literature of Mein Kampf .
Wow, so this is my life. I actually live in Prague. Wait, did I just really imagine that or have I actually moved half way across the world to a foreign pre communist world formerly known as Checklosovakia? The land where the people have formed a new country, government, and way of life just under twenty years ago. Where the Russians forced them to live under the red hands in which they were not permitted to fight for their rights or speak badly about their government or their neighbors would report them, resulting in them being thrown into prison. A land in which the people were not able to excel in their career or they would be deemed as abandoning the socialist ideas of the common laborer although their government was corrupting their world and hiding all the capital. Post the Velvet Revolution, in which hundreds of peaceful protesting students were surrounded by police along the narrow cobble stone alleys and brutally beaten like savages, now lies one art noveau café after another, beer gardens hiding behind the alleys, and live bands playing along the Charles Bridge. From the fall of communism is 1989 into 2007, I walk along the Cinderella land of castles and cathedrals that are all intricately criss-crossing throughout the Old Town never to be touched by the wraths of Hitler’s bombs because even this demented tyrants eyes could not bare the thought of destroying something so amazingly beautiful. The city in which you can now speak freely, rest in a park reading Milan Kundera's The Lightness of Being and listen to the beautiful music filling the air from various opera houses and synagogues in which orchestras are playing in. Where you can walk down any alley and come across a Chinese, Thai, or Indian restaurant nestled in between old book stores and little Muha art galleries.
Sitting with the other expats after another tiring day of teaching Czech adults in our Vyscokenska neighborhood bar, like an eager child eager to pick their wise brains, I am amazed by their world knowledge and open hearts. While Tyler, a published poet and teacher from Malaysia and Japan, and Jessica, a savvy New Yorker PR consultant and writer, discuss the world surrounding us, I glance around me and let my environment slowly soak in. The walls are lined up with antique black and white photos of the family members. Peering into the photograph I notice how they all look so cold and stoic, not a hint of a smile or cheerful twinkle peering out of their eyes. From so many years of tyrants like Hitler and Stalin imprisoning their souls, how could I expect them to understand a simple smile of joy. The wooden bulky long tables are all filled with street workers enjoying their large cheap Pilsner Urqell’s over an extended break from the humidity. The language that fills the air sounds like drawn out zzzzzzsssscccccchhhhh. Can I get a motha fuckin vowel please! They stare at me like a foreign brown object that does not belong. No tourist dares to visit these outskirts of Prague because its outer shell is diluted grey, not gleefully colorful like the heart of the city. Old run down factories line the uneven roads and train tracks of our neighborhood that I run along in the morning with graffiti scaling along the exterior. To think less than twenty years ago while Russia was occupying the country posting all the street names in Russian and forcing the school children to learn their mother tongue, these factories were up and running with the common laborers slaving their way through the day. Now after such hardship I ask myself why aren’t they jumping up and down for joy like a kid let out of the house to play in the snow? Their faces are so cold and stern with sheer traces of misery. Yet, they are not mean people nor are they snobby New Yorkers that enjoy boasting toughness and arrogance. The Czechs and their huge mafia that run the nightclubs, brothels, and most stores don’t need to try and pretend to be hard core because, they already are hardhearted. It lives inside their tough skin, within them, from a country that went through generations of torment and finally just recently broke the chains from Russia, the scars are just too fresh to adapt the ideology of individuality and thinking freely for oneself, yet.

Jewish Quarter of Prague at the Pinkas Synagogue Drawings of Children in the Terazin Concentration Camp

Typical Chillin days in Prague

Prague Nightlife

The Neighborhood in which you think the Russians still occupy! Good Old Vyscocenska

Budapest, Hungary

Vienna Austria

Prague, Czech Republic My new home

Salzburg Austria

Sicily

Rome and Milan

The World of Spanish and Italian Art

Avignon France

Venice Italy

Seafood, you get in my belly!

Seafood sea food seafood! Bolognese pasta pasta pasta! Gorgonzola with proscuitto pizza pizza pizza! Vino! Limoncello! Chocolate hazelnut gelato gelato gelato! In my tummy down you go, yummy yummy yummy! Basta basta basta (Italian translation: enough enough enough)! Oh so good, I love you so much Sicilian food, mamma mia, oh so good, I eat you every day, ah la la la. In the morning you give me loving with frothy cappuccinos and little chocolate cannolis. I come back in the afternoon to find little family owned lasagna specialty cafes on the top of a luscious green hillside filled with exotic Mediterranean plants and palm trees. Oh mamma mia my life is so hard, twelve different types of lasagna to choose from, which one will I have today? Today I get some meaty lovin with fresh plucked succulent tomatoes, hand made thick slabs of lasagna layered one on top of another with oven crisp sizzling mozzarella and three creamy fomaggios (translation: cheeses) bubbling on top. Oh mamma mia, soo good I eat you all the days. Deep in my belly you go to make a little cushiony home which will soon develop into a little village of pasta and lasagna. Then I come back for dinner and I get SEAFOOD! Aye yaye yay yaa I love you Mr. Seafood. You float along the depths of the Mediterranean into the Guardini Naxos beach and a little Sicilian fisherman chillin on a rock hooks you up for me to eat you, ha ha ha. Fork and knife in hands banging on the table for more of you, Papa Nimo (chef from our favorite restaurant) comes out happy to see me for the fourth night in a row to tell me what he cooks for me tonight. While sippin on delicioso vino blanche, I see mama and son Salvatore coming from the kitchen to deliver the seafood masterpiece. Risotto chillin on the bottom with black mussels, white clams, little pieces of octopus, and baby shrimp piled high on one plate. Jumbo shrimp, a full sol fish from head to fin, chunk of squid and swordfish sprinkled in pepper sea salt oregano green onions and bits of raw garlic, all neatly displayed on the other plate with a piercing yellow lemon to saturate the perfectly grilled fish in. All accompanied with fresh bread with olio (translation: oil) by its side waiting anxiously to be dipped into the seafood risotto sauce. Motta Benne (translation: very good)! And lets not forget but of course a little homemade from mama, limonchello night cap to finish off the perfect Sicilian seafood bellisimo experience. Arrive derche ( have a nice day) gratzie (thank you) and chow chow (bye bye). Put a fork in me I am done, meaning done for about three hours until the intoxicating smells reach my nose again and somehow like a dreamlike trance I find myself helplessly floating into the next café.
Guardini Naxos the first Greek colony in Sicily, lays out endless rocky beaches with crystal clear rich blue water softly rocking back and forth but never creating huge waves. So clear and tranquil, peering into the deepest part of the water, I can see down at the depth of the waterbed the color of the polished stones. Lying vulnerably on its own, only surrounded by water, Sicily was like an open wound for warriors to invade into from both the East and West. Therefore way before even the Roman Empire the Greeks, Moors, far east, and nomads had already left their marks. So close to its northern Italian family, but yet so incredibly different due to mass colonization for many centuries. From the powerful untouchable Roman gladiators, up to the wealthy merchant Venetians following the economic ways of Austria and Germany, over to the north west richly fashion diva known as Milan. All encompassing their own distinct cultures that upon arrival in Sicily, you can actually here the difference in their unique dialect, smell it in their Mediterranean delicious meals, feel it in their warm big loving hearts and kind smiles, and see it in the impressive Greek ruins and abundant flora and fauna along the agricultural countryside’s. Such a shame that many fear to head south due to Sicily’s reputation of years of depression, poverty, and organized crime from the Sicilian mafia. After all, the movie Godfather was shot only 10 km. from our hotel and you just have to come across my intimidating five foot tall best friend Phoebe who is half Sicilian and you would go running the other way in utter fright. Nevertheless, Sicily is filled with so many hidden treasures waiting to be discovered.
Sitting on the ancient stone layers of the Greek theatre on the top of the hill Taromina, I imagine the ancient Greek civilization that originally hosted numerous theatrical performances; lifetimes later the Italians will have taken over and host their own performances; and now in our present world of 2007, the theatre remains intact to continue the ancient tradition of musical concerts playing into the wee hours of the starry night. Across the hillside I see the gigantic Mt. Etna encrusted in snow blowing out puffs of smoke from its opening. In shorts and flip flops bathing in the rays of the sun I think to myself, tomorrow I will start my journey to volcano Etna.
Oh shit balls maybe the whole daydreaming of climbing a volcano while laying out on the cliffs of a sunny beach sippin on ice cold beer wasn’t such a good idea. Volcanic ash in my hair, ears, face, and feet. Pants shredded on the bottom from the sharp lava rocks and hands cut from eating shit twice on the slippery slope. Bitter cold snow numbs my hands and ears while icy wind burns my eyes. Yes I have officially arrived 2,500 m high to the active 500,000 year old volcano Mt. Etna. I can just picture Erica laying out in her bikini back at Guardini Naxos while here my dumb ass is climbing volcanoes. Formed under the sea of Catania, two tectonic plates collided, one from Africa to the west of Sicily, and the other from the east in Asia and out pops Ms. Etna. Lucky me, with four main craters that occasionally have gas and lava bombs exploding out, on the morning that I arrive, I am told that there was a lava bomb explosion in the middle of the night and somewhere on the massive peak lava was flowing out. Unfortunately I did not get the opportunity to see the lava flow out but then again, its about a smoldering 1200 cindegrees hot and full of gas so I probably would not want to get too close unless I wanted to be cremated and then dissolved into hot liquid.
On our way over to Mt. Etna we drove through the beautiful countryside of Catania. Some of the flora and fauna sprouting out of the bottom of Mt. Etna were so far out of this world that they looked like something from outer space. The wild fennel for example is an eerie kind of yellow and sprouts out of these green cabbage looking sticks. On other parts of the mountain there are miles and miles of pistachio and chestnut trees, vineyards with farmers pilling the soil, and extensive wildlife of foxes rabbits exotic birds and butterflies. Mixed within all the rural hillsides rests these abandoned palaces that Sicilian royalty used to live in. Now only remains and parts of the palace still remain. In the poor villages along Mt. Etna many of the old homes are actually constructed out of the lava rock. In 1983 Mt. Etna had a huge explosion and lave flowed from 2,800 m. to 1,000 m. On the side of the mountain that the lava crept down, streets, homes, and wildlife were completely destroyed. There are homes that I saw that were completely covered in the lava that now only the roof peaks out from the top. People are aware of the danger of virtually living on a volcano yet, many still live there either out of poverty or just pure Sicilian stubbornness. Fortunately the lava flows so incredibly slow like goops of thick mud that the people do not have to worry about being wiped out. As I circled around one of the inactive craters I was dumbfounded to catch sight of some weird green little bushes sprouting out of the red orange and smoky black lava. At the bottom of the crater I look towards the sky and notice some people are attempting to climb this mountain side. So curious was I to see what was on the other side, that but of course, I decided to go see for myself. After all I am not one to miss a party so of course I had to see what all the commotion was about on the other side. In diesel flats and nice brown pants I begin my trek up the volcano. Naturally I am not climbing on the top part which is so hot and black that all the snow has melted off and humans can’t possible stand the heat. While I begin my ascent upwards I notice that I am virtually sinking into the thick ash and thoroughly began enjoying the sensation that the back of my calves were about to explode from shooting hot fire spiraling up them. This feeling continued the entire trek up the mountainside along with feeling like I was going to faint and fall of the mountain due to the high altitude and thin air. Nevertheless an eternity later after watching one person after another give up half way and head back down, I have arrived to the top. Although the wind is fierce and cold, since I am dripping in sweat it feels like a cool dip in the ocean on a sunny San Diego summers day. Standing on bright red and orange colored volcanic ash, hair whipping around my face, witnessing the most spectacular view of the entire crater below me and the vast landscape of Mt. Etna all the way down to the bottom, a moment of complete peace springs upon me. I say a little prayer to thank god for always guiding my heart in the right direction and making me stronger throughout any obstacle in which I felt physically paralyzed and could not cope. Or with helping me at times when I was mentally lost with no answer as to which way to go in my life. Sure I could have led a life of feeling sorry for myself when adversary would come my way or constantly settle in a sea of lame excuses but there was always something looming above watching me in the clouds ready to kick me in the ass if I were to stop swimming. Before beginning my little rock collection of various lava pieces and then clumsily sliding down the mountain adding to my ripped pants, I blow warm wishes across the Atlantic to my adorable elf size Nanny. Wishing she could feel more moments of happiness and peace that I just felt, infiltrate light through her blind eyes to see the landscapes of natural Sicilian beauty, send her warm Sicilian sun rays, and a thousand hearty Sicilian smiles.

Various Art Pieces from French Museums

Impressionism

Montmarte, a foreign bohemian land back in time in which you can visualize various impressionists gathering together at a pub at the top of Sacre Couer with crepes melting in their mouth along with empty beer mugs spread across the tables analyzing their work and arguing passionately about how they refuse to conform to the conservatives classical demands and what they consider acceptable art. Lined up along the narrow cobble stone roads of La Butte at the bottom of Sacre Coeur are one crepierie, pub, fabric store, and flower market after another. The tall narrow homes are so ancient that they appear to be slightly crooked and on the verge of toppling over if a sharp wind were to fly by its roof tops. The home of the Moulin Rouge with the wind mill on top spinning its wing spans still show traces of what life was like in Montmarte back in 1900. I can visualize Toulouse-Lautrec’s Moulin rouge girls kicking their legs in the air to the can can in the red light district of Paris known as Pigalle while aggressively flirting with pointy mustache circus costume suit wearing men that are gulping down green absinth. High in the air jumping from one trapeze to another flies Edourd Degas’s Ms. La La while down below on the theatre stage floor his graceful ballet dancers twirl around in their pink tutus like winding puppets. Outside in the streets along the markets I see Peter Poudres poor orphan boys jumping out of the art canvas coming to life running around the streets stealing apples from the markets mixed with the struggling musicians and artists that have been shunned from the South of Paris as outcasts, working hard to make a measly few dollars. Impressionism, more than an era of compelling art, so influential that it has left its distinct marks along every inch of landscapes throughout Europe, streets museums and pubs in Montmarte, and deep into the heart of Parisian culture.
Picasso, Monet, Manet, Morisot, Cezanne, Renoir, and Degas refused to the best of their financial ability to follow the strict guidelines and mediums that their fellow classical ancestors had used for many centuries. Even after one museum such as the Louve in Paris or the National Gallery in London refusing their masterpieces time and time again, they still refused to conform because deep within their souls, they saw a new light others could not see and had no choice but to incorporate these mediums into their work. “Of all these things- hunger misery being misunderstood by the public…Only a few people understand anything about art, and a feeling for painting has not been given to everyone…you can be successful in spite of everything and everyone, without compromising oneself.” -Picasso Born with a gift that was very evident from a very young age, Picasso mastered the conservative techniques and outdid many famous artists first in his hometown Malaga and then the big metropolitan Barcelona. Nevertheless, he chose to go against the norm by incorporating a variety of cubist techniques in some of his later works, huge curvaceous women, and African tribal masks mixed with risky nude displays because to him, this was art. His own father was so astonished by his skill that he himself handed over his easel and paints to his son when he was only eleven because no one could compare, so why not leave it up to the master. How he captured each distinct line of the rib cage of a muscular men while still blending the lines in so softly, one would assume he had years of studying anatomy or at the very least worked hand in hand with Leonardo or Michelangelo’s masterpieces. During Picasso’s blue period which was most likely attributed to the loss of his dear friend Carlos Casegemas who committed suicide, he displayed his feelings of depression and despair. Moody blue backgrounds layered in very thick harsh strokes of paint to separate the people symbolized their inner most feelings of distinct lines of separation and isolation. There is no unity, hope, or evident hints of light. By positioning these people separate from one another with crouching dreary body mannerisms with lost facial expressions of sadness, Picasso succeeded in accurately portraying the feeling inside your heart when you loose someone you love. To the conservatives, not blending your work to display more accurate depictions of real life and having no unity of people within a piece was outlandish and unacceptable. From his Rose Period it became very clear what a wide variety of work Picasso could create. He altered his technique to depict colorful lighthearted partially nude acrobats engaging in various circus acts with vast scenic landscapes in the fore and background. The transformation from the blue period to the rose period of acrobats facial expressions of serenity mixed with excitement created a sense of enlightenment in Picasso’s new life. Moving deeper into the impressionists era, Picasso continued to experiment with the unknown and began his period of cubism in which he would create pieces that were very triangular symmetric and linear anywhere from pieces of fruit in a bowl to naked prostitutes spread across a bed with animalistic faces and tribal African masks. The majority of his work was not created to appeal to the conservatives that demanded more Christianity based pieces or real life depictions of every day life but instead, he portrayed many anti war messages with the use of violent toros attacking women or his most famous piece, Guernica, which have stark messages against the Spanish Civil War and the Franco Regime. Guernica depicts his anger against the war, fascism and the tyrant Franco by his portrayal of cold black and white images of dying people with limbs partially destroyed, screaming horses babies and women, crying birds plummeting to the ground in the shape of bombs, and many more horrific images. Guernica literally jumps out of the canvas and grabs you by the throat to demonstrate the horrific atrocities of life that war massacres. Later in his life Picasso retraced his love for classicism and used his son and lover as models. This new era for Picasso resulted in shocking many of his fans because they were appalled that he would abandon cubism but Picasso experimented and painted what he felt and was always searching for new ways of creating art just like when he took on sculpting or creating 3d canvases. He would never allow one to categorize his art into a group, therefore he continually experimented with different mediums such as abstract expressionism, surrealism, and pre-fauvism later on in his life. To many surrealists, Picasso was their mentor. “I have never had time for the idea of searching. Whenever I have wanted to express something, I have done so without thinking of the past or the future. But where is it written that success should always belong to those who flatter the public? I wanted to prove that you can be successful in spite of everything and everyone, without compromising oneself.“ -Picasso While tracing Picasso’s footsteps along the paths of the southern tips of Spain, up to Barcelona and over to Montmarte, I imagined what life must have been like for a man like Picasso. How can one posses the ability to reach the hearts of so many people on a political and psychological emotional level through ever transforming and evolving art?
Monet on the other hand, did not focus his attention on showing the world the harsh realities of the common man, anti war messages, nor depicted feelings of despair or enlightenment such as in Picasso’s blue and rose periods. Instead, he simply but masterfully captured the beauty of nature such as his famous water lilies that he planted at his home in Giverny. His landscapes and reflections on water were so amazingly powerful to look at by themselves that they alone stood out radiating auras of peace and tranquility. His 17 meter canvases of willow trees cascading over the water with lilies floating on top along with 3d light reflecting off the water at the museum La Orangerie and Museo Momarrton are so captivating that you literally need to step back five feet to take it all in or it will engulf you whole. Similar to the other impressionists, initially Monet’s pieces were not acceptable to Paris because he too used very thick layers of unblended paint and did not focus on depicting accurate proportions and photographic accuracy. Instead he captured impressions of the various colors of for example, the green blue and yellow of the ocean in the south of France resulting in giving you the visual effect of the ripples on top of the glassy surface of the water, the physical action of the fluidity in a wave, and the feel of warmth from the sun radiating off the sparkling cool water. Like many misunderstood artists, Monet and his family felt the harsh effects of living the life of a struggling artist desperately just trying to make a dollar. A humble man that had a gift to capture reflections of scenery in its natural state but was just too foreign for the world to understand at the time.
Renoir unlike the others did indeed become very famous during his time but also went through many obstacles going against the norms. Although in some of his pieces he did slightly conform by blending more of his pieces and using thinner layers of paint in order to get his pieces into prestigious museums, he still left his distinct trademarks of his style by only altering a portion of the piece like for example only one part of a persons clothing like a scarf or rim of a hat. In a way it was like he was playing with the conservatives because he knew they simply could not deny his masterpieces if he adjusted them just a little. Out of any of the impressionists Renoir mastered the skill of capturing the true subtle flesh tones of people and the voluptuous soft curves of women such as his maid. Its amazing because even though he was an impressionist, thus leaving impressions of people and scenery, he so accurately captured his models from the way a females long curly hair gently rests over her breasts to how her toes curve in ecstasy resulting in the piece almost looking more accurate than an actual photograph.
The streets of Montmarte only slightly lift the lid of Pandora’s box to Impressionism. But not until you allow yourself to dive into the canvas and let it engulf you, can you open your eyes to what these amazing artists have left for you to see. They take you back in time anywhere from Cezanne’s couples sunbathing by the Seine River, Degas’s ballet dancers fixing their slippers and stretching backstage, Picasso’s voluptuous Amazon women working in the fields, all the way to feeling the heart wrenching pain of a screaming woman holding her lifeless limbless baby after her Guernica had been mercilessly annihilated due to the cruelty of genocide. Trace the lines of their brush strokes within you, wander the city that lives eats and breathes art, and you will enter back into the marvelous era of Impressionism.