Hasta La Vista, Picha [JUNE 25, 2006]

Well, here I am. It’s my last day in Spain, in Cádiz, and I’ve come down to the beach for one final swim. For one final sunset. For one final farewell.


No more stunning views across the Atlantic...

It’s hard to believe how quickly the past few years have flown by. It seems like only yesterday (okay, not exactly yesterday but you know what I mean) when I first decided to come to España. I had come to Iberia to learn Spanish and can still recall the first time I ever set foot on this soil. The only words I knew were amigo, cerveza, and adios. Every time a local spoke it sounded like that rambling crazy guy from back home in Philadelphia that lived down the street in a box. Come to think of it, that rambling crazy guy was named Rodrigo so I guess it comes as no surprise that the Spaniards’ tongue reminded me of my fellow Philadelphian’s heated hour-long debates with the street corner fire hydrant. My quest to learn español led me from Barcelona to a brief six-month stint in Madrid to my final Spanish home away from home, Cádiz. And here I am, on the beach, nearly three years later, able to understand the conversations going on around me and vulgarly dotted with pichas and chochos. I’ve come a long way in this short time: I can hold my own with Spaniards in the café, watch a film on TV and understand the plot’s complicated intricacies (except for Jennifer Aniston flicks because, let’s face it, the plot in that Hollywood trash is usually as complicated as teaching a bear how to shit), and even listen to the neverending speeches of famous revolutionaries named Fidel. I’m confident that, when I eventually do return back to Philly, I’ll be able to join in the passionate conversations going on between Rodrigo and the fire hydrant. Who knows? If I play my cards right, I might even be able to teach the both of them a thing or two about thought-provoking European cinema.


No more sitting in the shade and watching the tide roll out...

But a firm command of español isn’t the only thing that Cádiz has given me. It has titillated my palate and shown me mouthwatering treats I would have never thought imaginable. Washing down cured ham, olives, and perfectly aged cheese with a bottle of wine – all shared between friends while seated outdoors in a plaza under the starry skies. Buying a bag full of freshly fried fish and squid as my fiancée and I strolled along the seaside slowly nibbling away. A warm plate of paella. A fresh pile of prawns. A cool glass of sangría...


No more sunsets that herald the cool evening breeze...

You have also, dear city, given me friends I will never forget. Some we met during Carnaval and, just as the drunken haze caused by those countless bottles of fortified wine consumed in the piss-soaked streets made way for the next day’s hangover, those friends were forgotten as quickly as they were made. Others have remained in touch and meaningful friendships have emerged that, I’m confident, will only grow as my fiancée and I say goodbye to Spain. Sadly, there’s one friend I’m leaving behind for good. A four-legged companion that I thought I would never love. Alas, she penetrated my heart just as her powerful bowel movements on the sidewalk penetrated the salty-sweet smell of a cool Atlantic breeze. But Ema will always have a place in my memories and I’ll never be able to think of Cádiz without thinking of that adorable, blind Labrador that passed away when we least expected her to.


No more sipping wine on the beach amongst boats and palms...

As I sit here on the beach staring at the boats bobbing up and down in the sea before me, possibly for the last time, I also can’t help but think of the countless adventures I’ve had here and the numerous places I’ve visited. My crazy German neighbor, a collapsed ceiling, Córdoba’s morbid Inquisition Gardens, and the treacherous stench of Moroccan lavatories will all linger on in my memory – probably for a longer time than I would care to keep them there. But at least I’ll have a helluva lot of great stories to regale the little ones with when I’m an old and wrinkled pervert telling them all to lend an ear, gather round, and pour dear ol’ GranPa Philo another double scotch on the rocks.


No more freshly caught fish eaten outdoors in centuries-old plazas...

And what about the kids I’ve taught here in Cádiz? Those spoiled little Spanish brats can kiss my ass and go to hell. I hope I never see them again and glad beyond words to be going back to a civilized country where children know how to behave in the classroom and have some respect. ’Nuff said... Ah, the memories.



No more romantic walks on the beach interspersed with passionate moments...

And so, our little journey here in España has finally come to its end. I suppose it’s time for one last dip in the Atlantic before the sun does its little dance over the horizon. I’ll have to make sure, though, as I emerge from those seemingly endless blue waters and look over my shoulder to catch the majestic pink hues being painted in the sky, that I don’t lose sight of the footprints I’ve made in the wet sand at the beach’s edge. For when I notice them, I’ll probably just stand there – staring – as the waves gently crash and the approaching tide inevitably erases away all my tracks from the face of this city. From that moment on, Cádiz will indeed become but a memory... one that I will carry with me and cherish no matter where I may be.

That's A Load Of Bull [JUNE 18, 2006]

The sweltering sun is beating down on the bloodstained dust as their eyes meet. Man and beast, standing there, nervous as to who will make the first move, while the crowds in the bullring bleachers – which eerily resemble those of the Roman Colosseum – cheer on the blood sport with a morbid enthusiasm not seen since ancient gladiatorial matches. The matador soon decides to break the deadlock as he waves a crimson red cape in front of the tired eyes of the enraged black bull and draws in their focus. The beast, a species known as el toro bravo (the courageous bull) and specifically bred for its ferocity in the arena, lowers its lethally sharpened horns and prepares to charge. The matador, whose name comes from the Spanish verb matar (to kill), arches his back and waves the cape once again, unwilling to allow the bull to succumb to the pain of the steel blades lodged into his spine and the numerous cuts and slashes that he has received over the past fifteen minutes. El toro bravo rubs his front-right ebony hoof against the ground, aims for the fluttering red cloth – which he has been conditioned to attack since calfhood – and takes off with the force of a locomotive. The streams of blood pouring down his torso and head, not to mention the excruciating pain, are temporarily forgotten. The only thing that matters now is the assault. Fight or flight at its most basic, except that flight isn’t an option. Just as the beast is about to strike his tormentor and end this torturous nightmare, the matador twirls about on the edge of his toes and effortlessly avoids el toro bravo’s lethal charge. The crowd goes wild as they salute the matador’s grace and poise in the face of death. He acknowledges them with a smug tilt of the head and turns to see where his foe has gone. The bull, confused by the whistles, cheers, and applause coming from the bleachers, soon realizes that he must have missed his target. The searing pain of those raw, open wounds makes the creature want to simply lie down there in the middle of the scorching arena and die. Ironically, the streams of blood trickling down his side are not only draining the beast of life but also serving to cool him in this unbearable heat. If only he could lie down in the dust and rest… slowly drift off to death as the ground sops up whatever blood his body might have left. But the matador won’t hear of it. He’s paid a hefty sum for this prize bull and is insatiably eager to hear more praise from the audience. He urges el toro bravo on and the docile brute, a slave to his instincts and conditioning, takes the bait as he prepares for another futile charge. He’ll have to wait at least a quarter of an hour to end this misery – until the matador has finally had his fill of applause and decides to plunge his sword into the beast with that skilled final deathblow. But a matador’s deathblow never actually kills a bull. It’s up to the assistants to lure the beast into a corner as he chokes up pints of blood and jab the creature two or three times in the neck with a dagger. Only then does the toro's nightmare end. Meanwhile, at the other end of the bullring, the judges are tallying up their scores as the matador takes his proud victory stride around the arena, accepting flowers from his countless cheering admirers. Success. Another Spanish bullfight has come to an end.


Dude! There's a bull on your balcony! I've got a BBQ grill on mine...

I went to my first bullfight within a week of moving to Spain. I had convinced myself, along with a little help from numerous guidebooks, Hemingway, and one vivid Cosmo article I can still recall (I swear it wasn’t my Cosmo – It was just sitting there on the dentist lobby coffee table. Honest!), that bullfighting was as much part of the Spanish national identity as inexpensive, quality booze and those green olives stuffed with the slimy red thing. Seeing as I had already gotten drunk my first night in Madrid and even found those tasty little olives at the bottom of some cocktail glasses, it was time to search out a toro. And so I came upon Madrid's Las Ventas bullring, the most famous building of its type in the world, and eagerly bought the closest ticket to the arena that I could afford. Search as I might, they didn't sell any popcorn or foot-long hot dogs once past the ticket window, so I sat down in the bleachers empty handed.


Everyone loves a good bullfight here in Spain,
even the drunkards wandering the streets and wearing crazy hats

What followed was the most gruesome, bloodthirsty and barbarous act that I have ever witnessed being committed in the name of sport. Thank God I hadn’t found any food before settling into my seat because, if I had, I doubt that I would have been able to keep that foot-longer down (Get your mind out of the gutter, you perverts). First off, an angry and confused bull ran into the arena. He had no idea what was going on and I could already see some blood on his sable coat which must have been the result of what is done to the beast backstage in order to enrage even the most timid of toros. Then a man bearing a lance and seated on a padded horse entered the arena and cornered the bull. The mounted man, known as a picador, proceeded to plunge his lance a number of times into the spine of the beast. I was seated close enough to see the bits of flesh and specks of blood which flew into the air each time the sharp blade pierced the raging bull’s hide – and I’m not talking about Robert DeNiro’s ass. After he had inflicted his share of the damage, the picador left the arena, proudly waving his hat to the audience. Next came a group of three banderilleros who each held a pair of ornate knives known as banderillas. One by one, the banderilleros would run up to the toro and lodge their banderillas into the creature’s spine. More bits of blood and gore went flying to the left and right. Finally, with the hope of putting the pitifully weakened bull out of its misery, the matador made his grand entrance onto the arena’s yellowish dirt. He glided elegantly to the center of the arena with his characteristically red cape... It would be another fifteen minutes before I saw the pathetic blood-drenched carcass of what was once a proud toro bravo lying there motionlessly before me. I couldn’t believe the amount of cruelty and inhumanity I had just witnessed and left with the stench of blood drying in the sweltering sun still fresh in my nostrils.


You won't see any Golden Arches or cigarette ads on Spain's highways...
Only Bull

I was shocked, awed, overwhelmed by what I had just witnessed. Was that barbarity in the name of art the same thing Hemingway had romanticized and Cosmo had raved about? If so, I never wanted to see it again – well, maybe once more. I returned to Madrid's Las Ventas bullring about a month later. Call me a heartless tyrant, call me an immoral hypocrite, call me a bloodthirsty sadist, call me Ishmael... But whichever name you choose to call me or how you judge me, know that I am human. I have a curiosity that is built into my psyche – it's helped my ancestors discover fire, create the wheel, and invent multi-angle DVD pornography – and it's that curiosity that drove me to the bullring a second, and ultimately last, time. One of the most well known matadors in Spain was going on stage that day and I had to see if his performance was as brutal as the first one I witnessed. Perhaps it had all just been some murderous amateur's fluke. Well, a fluke it was not. That day's events were even more barbaric than the first's. I swore off bullfights from that day in 2004 onwards and, since then, have stood by my decision happily. Hemmingway, Cosmo, and those tour books, I'm convinced, had it all wrong.


Hey Ernie, does this really look romantic to you?

The next time I saw a live bull was during a pleasant walk in the countryside a year or so later. He was grazing and stopped to take a shit. I took a picture and continued on my way.



The time after that, the last time in fact, that I saw a toro bravo was at a small running of the bulls. It was so small that it was actually a running of the bull. That's right, just one. It took place on Easter Sunday in a town called Arcos de la Frontera and located about a one hour drive north of Cádiz. My lovely fiancée and I had gone with a friend of mine who was visiting from the States. Guidebooks and Hemmingway had also promised him feats of untold bravery in the face of impending danger. Cádiz, however, does not have a bullring (the last one was torn down in the 1960s to make room for housing) so the unique one-day event in Arcos would have to do.


Ah, the local village's running of the bull...
Except that there doesn't seem to be much running going on

Now normally, the running of the bulls takes place in early summer. A bunch of bulls are herded off a truck at one end of town and plow through the streets until they reach the local bullring where they wait over the next few days for a matador to have his way with them. The most famous of these events takes place in Pamplona, a town in the north of Spain, and now draws in thousands of drunken tourists and Spaniards alike willing to pit their beer-muscles against the charging might and horns of a dozen or so hysterical beasts. (Newsweek recently quoted Julio Bernavides Alvaran, a Valencia resident, who was visiting Pamplona to participate in the famous festival, "Life disappears, and you feel your blood moving in your veins. Either that, or it's all the whisky.") Needless to say, there are dozens of injuries and even a number of deaths recorded each year.


"Charge the defibrillator and hook up the IV drip! Oh no, we're losing him...
There's no time for the Coke. Give me two CCs of whisky, STAT!"

In the mountains of Cádiz Province, though, we have no Pamplona. What we have is Arcos and its traditional running of the Toro del Aleluya (literally, the Hallelujah Bull) each and every Easter. The local vendors proudly sell tacky t-shirts with "Toro del Aleluya" printed on them and banners wave gloriously off balconies. As noon strikes, the Hallelujah Bull is released from its cage after a few jabs and sword slashes and charges through the streets of Arcos in pursuit of those stupid or drunk enough to cross the protective barriers erected by the town council the night before. Now, whereas the beast's warpath would normally end at the local bullring, the problem with Arcos de la Frontera is that it doesn't really have one... So they just sort of let the bull wander around town for an hour or two. When the Hallelujah Bull starts getting tired, or rather, when the locals get tired of looking at it just stand there and prodding it on, they rope up the bleeding, exhausted brute and drag him along the cobblestone street back to his cramped cage. A perfect way to celebrate the resurrection of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Hallelujah. Amen.


Don't Christians just do the darndest things?

In the end, I may find this whole fixation of torturing toros barbaric, but I acknowledge that I am a foreigner. I’m not Spanish and it’s not part of my culture. So who am I to judge? Besides, most Spanish people I know find the American system of not providing at least basic free healthcare to all of its citizens while, at the same time, spending billions abroad to protect business interests far more barbaric and inhumane than killing a few bulls could ever be. Who am I to decide whether bullfighting is morally reprehensible or not? All I can do is express my opinion and say I don’t like it. No sir… I don’t like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, I don’t like Roger Moore as James Bond, and I don’t like bullfighting.

I feel that Spaniards, however, do have a right to criticize bullfighting. It is their nation and their duty to condemn something as barbaric and uncivilized, not ours as foreigners (unless, of course, human rights violations are involved). In this respect, trust me, condemn it they have. One thing Hemingway, Cosmo and all those other romanticized notions of the bullring neglect to mention is just how disgusted many Spaniards are by the “art” of bullfighting. They call it brutal, bloodthirsty, barbarous – well, basically all the adjectives I’ve used to describe it. Anti-bullfighting organizations can be found in every city and major town of España. As far as their growing numbers are concerned, the Shame of Our Nation – as these protesters have dubbed the toro’s trials and tribulations – has no place in their homeland. It should be banished to the age of the Roman Empire and the gladiatorial matches from whence it came.


translation of a poster found in Cádiz:
"OLGA denounces The National Shame: Torture is neither art nor culture"

So, where does all of this leave the future of Spain’s national pastime? Well, with one third of the country cheering on the matador, another third boozing it up so that they can get enough courage to race in front of toros, and the final third disgusted by the entire spectacle altogether, the nation is as divided as ever. But as long as the sable toro bravo remains a symbol of national identity and ingrained in the cultural heritage of the populace, it looks like the status quo won’t be changing anytime soon. Meanwhile, that very symbol will continue to be slowly and gruesomely slashed, stabbed, tortured and mutilated in front of thousands of cheering spectators as stocks are dependably replenished and conditioned for next year’s fighting season. After all, the entire sport, art, or whatever you may call it runs on one thing and one thing alone… a huge load of bull.

E Pluribus Unum... To Go, Please [June 11, 2006]

Earlier this week over lunch...
"Hey, baby. You wanna hear a joke?"
"Not really. Especially if it’s one of your jokes but I guess I don’t really have a choice, now do I?"
"Nope. OK, so here it goes. Did you hear about the Polack who returned his bagel?"
"No."
"Yeah, well it turns out there was a hole in it!" I pause and wait for laughter – even a polite smile because I know my jokes are pathetically horrible.
But I get nothing in reply, "And?"
"And... Well, that’s it. Get it? A bagel? It’s supposed to have a hole in it."
"What’s a bagel?"
"You know, the breakfast food. The thing you eat with cream cheese. A bagel."
"Cream cheese? Do you mean that Philadelphia Cream Cheese stuff they sell at the supermarket?"
"Yeah."
My lovely Czech fiancée looks confused as she finishes slurping up a mouthful of spaghetti in white wine mushroom sauce and eventually washes it down with a sip of water. "Breakfast food with that Philadelphia Cream Cheese stuff... What do you mean? Something like a bread roll or toast?"
"No, no. A bagel. It’s like bread but round and hand-size. And it’s got a hole in the middle."
"A donut? Why would you eat cream cheese with a donut? That’s just disgusting."
"It’s not a donut. It’s made out of dough around this size," as I touch my index fingers and thumbs together to form a circle, "and it’s got a hole in the middle of it."
"Sounds like a donut to me," as she twirls up another forkful of spaghetti.
"It’s not a donut, for God’s sake. I think it’s originally Yiddish food or something Central European."
"Well, I’m Czech and you can’t be any more in the center of Europe than the Czech Republic. Trust me, I’ve never seen or heard of this bagel thing here, there, or anywhere in Europe."
"Hmm, I don’t know," as I twiddle the spaghetti in my plate around. "I guess it was a stupid joke anyway..."
"And why," my Czech asks after swallowing another mouthful, "would a Polish person make that kind of a mistake? If there are supposed to be holes in these ‘bagels’ of yours, wouldn’t he have known it beforehand? Why return it?"
"You know. Because he’s Polish!"
"So?"
"Come on... The stereotype that Poles are supposed to be, well, a little slow in the head."
"What do you mean? Like, stupid? Why would that be a stereotype about Poland?"
"I don’t know. It just is. At least, back home in America it is."
"Well I’ll tell you what’s stupid. Americans are stupid for having such an idiotic stereotype. I’ve met plenty of Poles and none of them were – How did you put it? – a little slow in the head. And what about Copernicus and Marie Curie? They were both Polish. Do Americans consider them to have been ‘slow in the head’ too?"
"Well, no. I guess not... You know what? Just forget I ever even mentioned the whole stupid joke to begin with," as the conversation comes to an abrupt end and we finish lunch in silence. It’s times like these I wish I were back home in the good ol’ U.S. of A.


The shelves are loaded with Philly Cream Cheese over here, but what about the bagels?

The life of an expat (that’s short for expatriate for all you who have never read a Hemingway novel) is not an easy one. S/He is mocked for making assumptions that seem normal enough back home and ends up passing each waking hour in a futile search for that elusive childhood-favorite snack food. My Achilles’ Heel is Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and I’ve spent the last five years on the lookout for those delicious little bastards but, alas, they’re as hard to come by in Europe as a bidet is in North America. And just as my imaginary Frenchie expat-brother in Minneapolis yearns to feel a high-powered jet of water tinkle his nether regions after a massive bowel movement, I too yearn to sink my teeth into a milk chocolate cup filled with creamy peanut butter... But some things are just not meant to be. Pierre will have to get used to double-ply toilet paper and I’ll have to make do with nougat-filled Swiss chocolate.

However, I along with my American expat brothers and sisters around the globe shouldn’t really complain about our situation. After all, we’re experiencing foreign cultures, broadening our cultural horizons, and wandering down that adventurous road less traveled – All while handling as little discomfort as possible. You see, as Americans, or rather I should say North Americans because Canadians are also included in this group, we have fewer hurdles to jump in a foreign land than any other expat nationality. First of all, and most importantly, we speak English and by far the most studied language the world over is – you guessed it – English. Whether a North American expat chooses to make his or her home in Timbuktu or Seoul, a local who has mastered the art of our spoken tongue is never far off. No matter how much a native French or Spanish speaker would like to make the same claim about their native tongue, it simply isn’t the case... Parents from Finland to Taiwan don’t send their kids off to learn French if they haven’t already conquered the world’s only true lingua franca, English. Now I know what all you Brits, Irish, Aussies, and Kiwis are thinking: "GC, you arrogant Yankee wanker, we speak the same bloody language!" That may be true, but unlike Americans and Canadians, you guys can’t drive on 80% of the world’s roads without confusing your left with your right. Even Winston Churchill was knocked down by a taxi-cab when visiting New York City because he glanced the wrong way before crossing. So trust me, when taxi-cabs are knocking you down because you don’t know where to look, being able to speak English doesn’t quite seem like such an advantage anymore.


"Is nice trash here. You like? I give you good price!"
(No kidding. I once spent a good fifteen minutes talking to this homeless guy in English!)

Language comprehension and road compatibility aside, there’s another reason why I assume that I don’t feel as isolated in a foreign land as most of my non-North American expat brethren. Like it or not, ever since the 1950s our cultural products have imperialistically spread throughout the world. American music, franchises, food and beverages have made their way across six continents and are set to stay. No matter what country you’re in, one can always get a bag of Doritos, wash it down with a 7 Up, and sit back to enjoy an episode of The Simpsons. Sure, you can’t always find bagels, but the very fact that every supermarket in Cádiz stocks three different flavors of Philadelphia Cream Cheese proves my point. American culture and products have conquered the world in more ways than just Coca-Cola, blue jeans, and McDonald’s. It’s on every other TV channel, every other radio station, and in everyone’s fridge. What does that mean for North American expats? Whenever you miss home, there’s always a flavor of it just around the corner – as long as you’re not looking for bagels and peanut butter cups.


Cheetos, Doritos, Pringles, oh my... Any American couch-potato's dream come true

In fact, this worldwide success of American products can be accurately judged by a single factor – the staggering amount of cheap imitation rip-offs. Every industrious entrepreneur from the four corners of the globe tries to profit in one way or another from the popularity coattails of American products. Here are just three of my personal experiences to back the claim up:

While wandering through the crowded food markets of a busy medieval Moroccan city this past April, I spotted a street vendor selling some snack food. He was huddled between two butchers’ stalls both covered with flies and the stench of death. What ready-made wonder was this poor Moroccan cook peddling to his hungry Arab clients? A tasty concoction he had dubbed the Big Mag.


"Praise Allah! I shall have one of your delicious Big Mags!
(I never did like your competitor's Whoopers.)"

Another McDonald’s related rip-off is from a little bit closer to home. There’s a fast food joint here in Cádiz that sells burgers and fries for a fraction of the Golden Arches cost. It’s also got quite a witty name, which is where it rips off the American original, but before you can understand it, a little explanation is in order. McDonald’s is often mis-spelled by the locals as MacDonald due to their accent. Furthermore, the letter C in Spanish can either be pronounced as a K or as an S. Therefore, Mac, as in MacDonald, is normally pronounced MAK but also sometimes jokingly as MAS. Confused yet? Hope not cause here’s where the word play gets tricky. Más actually means "more" in Spanish. The word for "less" is menos. So, what’s the name of this ever-popular Cádiz fast food eatery? MenocDonald.


Why pay MoreDonald's for your burguers when you can pay Less?

Although the Spanish love donuts and sell them at every corner shop and bakery, I have never encountered a store in this country dedicated exclusively to the sale of, as my fiancée would put it, the bagel’s sweet twin – That is, until I went to Córdoba. As I visited that grand Spanish city earlier this year and explored its countless cobblestone roads, I spotted a few of the locals carrying what seemed to be a Dunkin’ Donuts bag filled with a half dozen of those tasty treats I remembered from back home. I should say that, throughout my two and a half years here in Spain, I have never seen a Dunkin’ Donuts franchise. I’ve seen them in Prague, Athens, and London – so I know they exist in Europe – but never in Spain. Not even in Madrid or Barcelona. Imagine my surprise, then, when I finally rounded that corner in Córdoba and spotted it in the distance. I couldn’t wait to sink my teeth into a Boston Kreme or a Cruller as I made my way through the entrance. I stepped up to the counter, which looked exactly like the countless Dunkin’ Donuts counters I’ve visited over the years, and prepared to order from an employee who was wearing that same ol’ Dunkin’ Donuts uniform. Then it hit me... The place wasn’t actually a Dunkin’ Donuts shop. Everything looked like the franchise, from the store’s name to the colors to the donut rack behind the counter, but it wasn’t Dunkin’ Donuts. This place was called Duffin Dagels. A little taken aback but not discouraged, I chose to ignore the blatant copyright/trademark violation and ordered myself what had been dubbed as a "Dagel with Creme". I don’t know how Duffin Dagels does it, but that delicious little treat tasted just like a Boston Kreme from my youth. I greedily scarfed it down and went back for seconds.


Duffin Dagels, You've done it again!
What's the secret trademark recipe behind your delicious Boston Kre... I mean "Dagel with Creme"?

I’ve encountered many more blatant rip-offs throughout my travels abroad – far too many to mention here – but, as I previously said, it all mainly comes down to being an indisputable sign of just how omni-present American products are. When Muslim street vendors privately curse the Great Satan’s foreign policy yet publicly sell Big Mags to eager consumers in the heart of an Islamic city, there’s something to be said about our cultural influence around the globe. Like it or not, it’s here to stay.


Always Coca-Cola – whether there's a jihad going on or not

So, in conclusion, what does all of this mean? Well, for all of you North American expats out there, stop bitching and moaning about how strange other cultures are and how difficult you’re finding it to adapt. Compared to Japanese, Ukranian, or Italian expats, you’ve got it easy. You can speak your native tongue anywhere in the world, drive on the right with ease, and get yourself a Duffin Dagel in Spain that tastes just like the ones back home. As for all of you still stuck in the U.S.A. or Canada, scared to see the world through a non-package holiday or frightened to go live that adventurous year abroad in some strange country... Trust me, it’s not that strange. You’ll be able to communicate with ease and still buy those potato chips you love from back home, all while enjoying the wondrous experience of immersing yourself in a new land and culture. Just make sure you get your fill of bagels and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup before you step onto that plane because some things, no matter how popular America’s products may be, have yet to make it across the Atlantic. Oh, and leave the Polish jokes back home too. You’ll have more success getting laughs from the locals by making farting sounds with your armpits.

My Confession [MAY 21, 2006]

The way those large, erect cylinders draw my gaze from afar. The way they gleam in the sweaty, hot sun. The way that smooth surface, the closer you get, reveals itself to be marked with the slight imperfections inevitably associated with the passage of time... Hello, everyone. My name is GC Philo and I’m hear to admit that I have a problem. I’m a "Roman ruins" junkie.


Oh yeah, baby. Let me see those columns. You KNOW how I like it!

It all probably started back in my early teenage years, that time of constant change and self-reflection when we all try to discover who we really are. My parents flew the whole family over to Greece one summer and took us around those famed centers of Hellenic Antiquity – Athens, Corinth, Olympia and even Delphi. As we wandered the scattered stones and rubble occasionally interspersed with a pristinely preserved mosaic or engraving, I felt my imagination run wild. I was no longer in an age of video games and blue jeans, but one of Olympic olive wreaths and togas. I could see how those people – the most civilized Europe would witness until the High Renaissance some 1500 years later – lived and worked. I also saw how cruel history could be. It had the power to change a once mighty civilization, one that had dominated the known world for centuries, into a heap of marble that now only commands the attention of Japanese tourists’ cameras.



Lovely, lovely mosaics... Especially the ones that show little midgets with huge penises shooting storks.
You complete me - You had me at Hello.

Somehow, though, the Romans always interested me more than the Greeks. I mean, even though the Greeks started it all, the Romans did it more grandly, more enduringly, and more erotically. This healthy interest in Roman orgies, in fact, eventually developed into my Bachelors Degree in History. Okay, okay – I won’t lie to you. It’s even one of the main reasons why I moved to Europe in the first place. If this is going to be a true confession, I need to let it all out... I had to get my "Roman ruins" fix somehow and when the oldest thing you can find back home is a crappy Indian arrowhead from 1600, Philadelphia just doesn’t cut it anymore. Here in Spain, I’ve got enough smack to hold me over for a lifetime.


You can't find something like this back home in America.
Then again, I've never been to California.

I try to visit every Roman, or the rarer Greek and Phoenician, ruin no matter where I am and usually spend hours wandering through what was once the heart of these great towns. But, like I said, I’m a junkie and junkies don’t just look at the sights and snap a photo or two. No, they always go overboard in their strange and delusional ways and I’m no exception in the way that.... (I knew these "Roman ruins" Anonymous confessions were going to be tough, but not this tough.) I guess it’s time to come completely clean. You see, I actually adopt a Latin name for myself and those who are traveling with me each and every time I set foot on an archaeological site. Worse yet, throughout our visit, I only refer to the others in my party with these names. I know, I know... I need help. That’s why I’m here.


Sometimes I just hide in the shadows of Roman ruins and stare at tourists.
I call that my "special" time.

My Latin name is Testicles (emphasis on the last syllable just like in "Japanese"). My fiancée has grudgingly come to accept hers, Breasticlina, as well. But these are by no means the limits of what is indeed the sick and twisted reality within my head. I have wandered through Roman ruins in Morocco with Forgetfulcus. I have scaled the interior of the Colosseum with my ex-girlfriend Alcoholica Maxima only to see her change into Cunnilinga as we walked through the Pompeii city gates later on that very same week. I have witnessed the power of my old room-mate Flatullus Extremis as he expelled those famed noxious fumes within the very walls of the Athenian Acropolis itself. Even my own brother, Testicles Major, made a brief appearance in Cologne, Germany when I least expected to see him... Not to mention my father, Baldicus Maximus, and my friend from high school, Fat Fuckicus (who coincidentally happens to be a bit overweight), when they both decided to visit us here in Spain last spring.


"I assure you, Baldicus Maximus. There's no way THIS citizen
is casting his vote for Fat Fuckicus as next Roman Pro-Consul!"

However that, dearest support group, is not the extent of my dilemma. If only it were! You see, I also feel the need to speak in an antiquated fashion each and every time I visit these archaeological sites. I can almost remember the first time my lovely finacée and I stepped foot in a Roman theater together:
"What ho, Breasticlina?"
"What?"
"‘What ho?’ I say!"
"Are you calling me a ho?"
"Surely you jest. ’Tis I, Testicles. Forsooth, your heaving bosom knows no bounds. ’Tis no mere coincidence that your moniker bears witness to such a claim!"
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"Tut, tut. How you amuse me so! Such unfound modesty from a goddess whose brassiere can but barely contain the awesome fury within. Aphrodite herself shudders with envy!"
It kept going on like that for about ten minutes until she eventually started to ignore my crazed ramblings. Afterwards, once we stepped foot past the exit gate, I explained to her what had happened and only then did she fully understand.


So you already knew the Romans could build temples to last, but did you also know they had underground heating?

Breasticlina, though, has since learned to live with my illness. She humors me now every time we walk under an aqueduct or through a temple, and sometimes even cracks a joke. But I know that, under that smile, she’s actually crying. It is for her that I need to break this addiction and for her that I’m giving you this confession. I need to nurture the GC Philo she once fell in love with... not the Testicles I have grown to become.


"Very funny and imaginative, dear. Calling me Breasticlina because I have large breasts.
But why are we calling you Testicles, then? Those midgets in the mosaics had a bigger package!"

Breaking this bad habit, though, isn’t going to be easy here in Spain. The land of Hispania, as most of modern day Spain and Portugal were known to the Latins, contained some of the most peaceful and prosperous provinces in the entire Roman Empire. For this reason, Spain (along with Italy) is home to some of the best preserved two thousand year old sites the Western World has to offer. In the south of Spain alone, there are the extensive ruins of Italica (a few kilometers outside Seville) which was the birthplace of both Emperor Trajan and Emperor Hadrian and is home to the third largest amphitheater in the Roman Empire with a seating capacity of 25,000. There is also Mérida, once known as the "Rome of Iberia" and current capital of the Spanish region of Extremadura, which was more populated two thousand years ago with over 100,000 Latin-speakers than it is today with a bit under 50,000 Spanish-speakers. In fact my current home, the port of Cádiz, claims to be the oldest city in Europe having been founded by the Phoenicians, who named it Gadir, some three thousand years ago. A couple of the sights in Cádiz include a Roman theater nestled between a few modern apartment buildings and a Roman military wall that runs through the city center and fuses with whichever random building that happens to cross its path. How am I supposed to kick this nasty habit when the ghost of Testicles haunts me from every corner and I know that, no matter where I step, there are countless layers of un-excavated artefacts below my feet?


"Where do you live in Cádiz?"
"Go past the supermarket and, across from the basketball courts, make a left at the Roman theater. You can't miss it!"

That’s why I’ve come here today to this "Roman ruins" Anonymous meeting and decided to give this confession. I know that I need help and I also know that, by letting my addiction be known and admitting it to myself, I’m one step closer to finding a cure. It may not be easy and the journey will most likely be long and arduous, but it’s one that I’m willing to take in order to stop the suffering that I’m putting my loved ones through. They deserve better, especially my lovely Breasticl – I mean, fiancée. Just as importantly, I deserve better than to live life from one fix to another. That’s why I’ve decided to give it all up. Cold turkey. Come July, I’m saying my farewells to this land of unending Latin temptations and dashed orgiastic dreams. The only way to put that final nail in the coffin of Testicles and silence him, once and for all, is to deny the filthy beast the one thing he craves. In two months time, I’m off to ruin-less Prague and leaving this Spanish whore behind... You see, the Romans never made it as far north as the Czech Republic. I hope that it’ll work.

The Gypsy Blues [MAY 14, 2006]

Friday night. A crowded, smoked filled bar in the working district of a nameless town on the Andalucían coast. (Well, actually, it’s Cádiz but "nameless town on the Andalucían coast" just sounds a lot more travel-romantic, doesn’t it?). The clientele have been ordering their wine by the bottle for the past hour or so while nibbling on such typical Spanish tapas as jamón serrano, queso manchego, and tortilla. The once hushed table chatter has now built up to such a volume that you can’t even make out the strange language being spoken at that single table to the dimly-lit back... the one under that stuffed and mounted bull’s head. The only thing that’s for sure is that they’re the only ones not speaking Spanish in the joint.

"No way. Quantum Leap blew Fantasy Island away. Hands down!"
"Listen, all I’m trying to say is that is was a pretty creative idea. Don’t you think? I mean – An island where your fantasies come true. That is damn creative," my friend responds.
"OK. I’ll give you that much. But Quantum Leap was just as creative if not more. Some of those leaps. Like, like the time he became Marilyn Monroe was..."
"Hold on. I don’t think he ever became Marilyn Monroe. He turned in to someone who knew her. I’m pretty sure it was a chauffeur or something."
"Whatever. That’s besides the point. What I’m trying to say is... Forget it." I turn to my girlfriend, "What do you think, honey? Quantum Leap, right? A much better show, right?"
"I don’t know. What the hell is a quantum lip?" she contorts her puzzled Czech face.
"Oh right, the whole Communism thing. You guys never got those shows in the Eighties. Well, it was about this guy, a scientist actually, Doctor Samuel Beckett, who entered..."
"Enough already," she interrupts. "Will you two shut up? No one cares about your stupid Fantasy Island or Quantum Lip television programmes. Besides, something’s happening on the stage. I think they’re starting."
"Oh, sorry, dear..." I grab my glass of wine, lean back into the wooden chair, and take a sip before mumbling, "Quantum LEAP not Quantum LIP," to no one in particular.

As everyone at our table silently directs their attention to the motley crew of well-dressed Gypsies and slick-haired Spaniards who have now walked on stage, the tables around us continue their idle chitchat. The young guitarist plucks his first strings and the rhythmic clapping coming from the three others standing to his right slowly builds pace. The patrons surrounding us keep up their drone-like conversations, almost completely ignoring the performing musicians. Not many books have been written on Spanish manners – probably because there aren’t any. But that’s besides the point. Eventually, once the guitar and choral clapping reach what seems to be their climax, a heavier-set, middle-aged, Gypsy women to the guitarist’s left rises to her feet and belts out the first verse of a ballad of unfulfilled desire. Everyone in the bar instantly stops what they’re doing and turns their interested heads to the stage. The passion in her voice grabs the attention of the seated masses and doesn’t let go. She soon breaks into an elegant dance – the ripples of her multi-colored dress undulating in its wake – and draws the occasional "¡Olé!" from random, spellbound onlookers. A night of flamenco has begun.


Work it, baby... Work it!

Gypsies get a lot of grief here in the Old World. Their nomadic background and centuries-old reputation as swindlers and con-artists has done little to help the modern European perception of these cultural outsiders. Historians estimate that this ethnic group first migrated onto this continent from the Indian subcontinent during the first half of the last millennium (that’s 1000–1500AD for all of you high school drop-outs or unsuccessful GED candidates). Ever since, they have consistently formed the poorest and least educated sector of society. Gypsy literacy levels throughout the continent hover at an astonishingly low 40–50% which is even more shocking when you take into consideration that, except for Albania at 87%, not one European nation has a literacy level below 98%. This poverty and lack of education, obviously, also leads to a disproportionately higher rate of crime in the Gypsy community. I recently read a study, for example, that stated even though Gypsy women only make up about 1.5% of the Spanish population, they account for over 25% of Spanish prison inmates. Anyway you look at it – from Portugal to Russia or Norway to Moldavia – there’s a lot of work to be done in the Gypsy community.


Baby Bigot-Gomez finally realizes the wrongs of her ways, "Stinkin' Gypsies.
What d'ya ever give Spain?! Oh... right. The whole flamenco thing."

Outside of Central Europe, Spain boasts the largest population of Gypsies and Andalucía, with nearly 60%, is home to most of them. Spanish Gypsies, or gitanos, are no exception to the European norm. They are perceived as being lazy, thieving and government-leeching. They are discriminated against in interviews, schools and the media. They are the one neighbor that no self-respecting Spaniard would ever want to live next to. But despite all of this blatant racism and outright bigotry, no matter how much they are spat on or looked down upon, there’s one reason why a gitano always walks with a head held up high – Flamenco. The gitanos invented Spain’s most renown music and gave it its passionate dance and ostentatious dress. They started it all in their poor ghettos centuries ago – nurtured it, perfected it – and then eventually handed it over to the Spaniards confident that they would never be able to produce a national style of music that could ever rival their own. And the gitanos were right. Today, Spaniards from every walk of life dance, sing, and enjoy the flamenco rhythm. They perform it on stages and in bars throughout the country while blaring it proudly on home stereos. Flamenco encompasses what it means to be Spanish and is España at the very heart of the proud nation’s name... except that it really isn’t. It’s actually gitano and everyone knows it. Ask any Spaniard to tell you who plays the best flamenco in town and they’ll all agree: "Those dirty, filthy, thieving Gypsies down the road. God bless ‘em!"


"Damn. Those gitanos really know how to shake that booty."

My fiancée and I are fortunate to be living in one of the world’s foremost flamenco centers. Cádiz has been a hub of guitar making and innovation for centuries. In fact, some historians claim that the famed Pagés brothers actually invented the first modern guitar here in 1803. And, no, it probably wasn’t a Stratocaster Electric. Spanish guitars (which include most modern acoustic guitars) weren’t originally designed to play Blue Suede Shoes or Smoke On The Water. They were meant to accompany the passionate songs and exquisite dancing of the flamenco elite – of which we have no shortage of here either. The Province of Cádiz has been home to some of flamenco’s greatest performers throughout the ages. Just to mention modern times, the internationally-known Paco de Lucía, considered to be the best living guitarist, was born and raised here as was the greatest flamenco singer to ever walk the earth, El Camarón de la Isla. El Camarón, unfortunately, died in 1992 at the age of 41 after years of an uncontrollable lifestyle and heroin abuse. He was, of course, a dirty, filthy, thieving gitano... but that still didn’t stop the estimated 100,000 people that turned up at his funeral.


Granny Gomez is dancing the flamenco...
And she's lovin' every minute of it!

One of the results of this proud Cádiz tradition of flamenco is that one can see and hear it nearly everywhere. Young kids who just got their driving licences don’t cruise down the beach in dad’s car and ogle bikini-wearing babes while pumping out hip-hop on the factory-installed stereo. No, they do it while pumping out flamenco. When locals go out with friends just to chill out on a park bench, shoot the breeze, and drink a bottle of beer or two, it’s never long before the rhythmic clapping of a flamenco tune takes over. When mothers are trying to lull their babies to sleep, they moan and wail a flamenco song at the top of their lungs into the baby’s ear – well, I haven’t actually witnessed it but I’m sure that happens every now and then. What we have witnessed, though, was a flamenco "Christmas Carol" show this past December. A bunch of gitanos on stage started dancing and singing away about how a baby Gypsy had just been born in a manger in Bethlehem as everyone in the audience clapped away and threw in the occasional "¡Olé!" I had no idea Jesus was a Gypsy... I always thought he was Black.


The stage is set for the Gypsy Blues...

So, where does all of this leave me and my lovely fiancée? Well, when we first arrived in Cádiz about two years ago, we were eager to go and sit through as many flamenco shows as we could. By the time Christmas came round, and we found out that Jesus was actually a Gypsy, we were already sort of getting tired of the whole thing. Now, we’re lucky if we go to a flamenco show once every couple of months. The problem is, no matter how creative, lively, and passionate flamenco may be, it’s still something foreign to us. I guess it just either grows on you or it doesn’t and, after spending countless nights in seedy flamenco joints, the entire novelty of the thing has just worn out. At the end of the day, we’re not Spanish and we’re definitely not gitano... we’re just adventurous foreigners with a penchant for traveling. So how could we ever come to love this local art form as fervently as the people of Cádiz? The simple answer is that we can’t. Oh well, I guess we’ll just have to amuse ourselves somehow else. Now that I think of it, someone told me the other day that they’ve already released most of the Quantum Leap seasons onto DVD. Screw flamenco, it’s time I taught my fiancée some of the benefits of not living under Communism in the 1980s – quality television programming. Well, that and the whole freedom of speech thing.

Around Morocco In 8 Days [APRIL 30, 2006]

I thought I knew Morocco before I ever even stepped foot on African soil. Swarms of beggars, con-artists, and street urchins would surround me the second I got off the ferry at the seedy port of Tangier. Mysterious, turban-wearing men would try to sell me handmade carpets, scoopfuls of exotic spices, or magical monkey paws as I wandered through the winding alleys of the ancient souqs, or bazaars. And, to top it all off, I would have to haggle my way through the price of everything from taxi fare to a pack of chewing gum. But Morocco, dear reader, is a land of surprise. A land of false expectations.


Welcome to The Land of False Expectations

Our Gran Tour du Maroc began on a Saturday morning as four eager adventurers set off from Cádiz for Tarifa - the southernmost Spanish port and closest point to Moroccan Tangier from across the Straits of Gibraltar. Our coterie consisted of the Marquis of Maple (a fellow English teacher and native of British Columbia), the Baroness von Pierogi (a Polish friend and also English teacher in Cádiz), the charming Sancho Panza (my lovely fiancée), and I, the brave – as well as fearless – Don Quijote. Fortunately, the Baron von Pierogi (i.e. the Baroness’ boyfriend from Boston) had made for prior arrangements concerning our departure from the European continent (i.e. he agreed to drive us to Tarifa in their beat-up diesel Opel with Polish plates).


Adventurers: Ho, To Africa!

As the Baron and Baroness exchanged farewells on that southernmost tip of Iberian soil, the Marquis, Sancho, and I got into a queue for ferry tickets.
"What’s that you say? 50 € per round trip? Think I can talk them down?" I whispered to Sancho.
"What do you mean ‘talk them down’? This is a ferry. You can’t ‘talk them down’. The price is 50 €."
"I know, I know. But we’re going to MOROCCO, baby. You have to haggle for everything... and I need some practice."
"It’s a ferry. The price is 50 €. We’re going to pay 50 €."
"Yeah, yeah. Of course. Let me go first. I’ll offer the lady at the ticket window 1 Euro and we’ll see where it goes from there."
"You’re an idiot," Sancho concluded.
In the end, we each payed 50 € per round trip. Sancho was right – ferry prices are non-haggle-able, especially when you’re still on Spanish soil.


Our first ever view of the Dark Continent -
Apparently, it's not so dark from close up and the fare to get there is non-negotiable

The journey across the Straits of Gibraltar took a mere forty-five minutes although we had to suffer through a one-hour delay while waiting for our ship to dock. In the meantime, the Marquis brushed up our French a bit with what little he remembered as Sancho threw in her two cents and I tried to recall the glories of three years of high school French class. After a brief lesson in Arabic thanks to my trusty guide book (eeyeh = yes ; la = no ; shukran = thank you), we were informed that the ferry was finally ready to dock at Tangier port. All four of us braced ourselves for the swarms of Moroccans that would accost us upon disembarking and stepping first foot on African soil. We grabbed our bags, made sure zippers were tightly closed, wallets were sufficiently hidden, and passports were tucked safely away as we headed towards the exit...


Who knows what lay around the corner in this mysterious land?

A group of about ten people were waiting at port by the time our ferry had docked. They were looking for relatives or friends that must have crossed the Straits along with us. Only one taxi driver stopped us and asked if we knew where we were going or needed a lift. I told him, "La shukran," and that was that. He smiled politely and went back to his taxi.
"I thought there were supposed to be hordes of people trying to rip us off at the port," the Marquis started.
"Me too," chimed in the Baroness.
"Yeah... That’s what the guide book and everyone who’s ever been here said. It’s strange, isn’t it?" I pondered over why we had such a hassle-free time as we worked our way to a Currency Exchange booth. "I know! It was the ‘La shukran!’"
"You think?"
"Sure! Did you see the way that taxi driver left us alone?"
"Yeah, but he didn’t really seem too pushy to begin with..."
"La shukran, my friend. It was the good ol’ La shukran. Wine ‘em, dine ‘em, throw in a little La shukran and you’ll have a Moroccan eating out of the palm of your hand!"
"You’re an idiot," Sancho concluded.


Most of our accomodations throughout the Gran Tour even came equipped with a washing machine.
I'm convinced it was because of my "La shukran" policy.

Sancho’s deduction may have been true, but "La shukran" served us well throughout the rest of the Gran Tour du Maroc. They were the two words that a Moroccan could never respectfully ignore. Carpet sellers, fruit peddlers, and hashish pushers were all taken aback by "La shukran" and honored that we foreigners had at least taken the time to learn even this simple phrase in Arabic. To a Moroccan, respect of another’s wishes takes precedent over all else. Unfortunately, most Western visitors to the Maghreb (Morocco’s ancient name) find it a bit too difficult to deal with souq vendors who simply won’t take "No" for an answer. These merchants aren’t trying to be rude though. It’s just a part of their culture not to accept the first "No" that is given. When other tourists start responding with "I said NO!" , "Can’t you take a hint?!" or "Leave me alone, you turban wearing freak!" they simply insult and, worst of all, disrespect. All of this hassle and headache could be – and CAN be, to all of you future visitors of the Maghreb – avoided by a little wining, dining, and a firm yet polite La shukran.


I never did get the hang of those pesty Moroccon bus timetables,
"Which one is Tangier? And why the hell is it written backwards?"

And so our circle of four wandered the streets of Tangier for a few hours in search of the bus station and acclimatizing our senses to Africa. We eventually came upon the station and, seeing as it happened to be an Islamic religious holiday later on that weekend, found that there were far more people and far fewer buses than usual – not that Moroccan public transport was an easy thing to decipher anyway. We decided to take a long-distance taxi (one of the massive diesel-powered Mercedes vehicles dating back forty to fifty years and affectionately dubbed Grands Taxis by the locals) to our second destination on the Moroccan coast – a small port town named Asilah about 50km (30 miles) south of Tangier. As we drove away from Morocco’s most famous port and most frequent point of entry, I realized I didn’t really know this nation at all. My first and foremost assumption – that hustlers and beggars would swarm me at the port – had never materialized. Moroccan false expectation number one: Tangier is not populated by scam artists and street urchins who all coincidentally reside near the port. The Maghreb was indeed a land of surprise. I leaned back, stared out the taxi window, and searched for a seatbelt. There weren’t any and, apparently, the taxi driver had never heard of such a wondrous, yet mysterious, life-saving device either.


You know you're in North Africa when...
A man is sweeping the sidewalk! (Oh, and when the stop-signs are in Arabic too)

Asilah is a quiet resort town on the Atlantic coast renown for the long, golden beaches to the north and south. It’s a popular spot with Moroccans and Europeans alike (we saw a number of French and Spanish motor-homes and car-plates here) and the constant stream of tourists – along with the recent rise of beachfront property values as the taxi driver told us – means the residents aren’t nearly as poverty stricken as the rest of their fellow countrymen and women. In other words, it was a great place to spend a first night in Africa and gradually adapt to our new surroundings.


Asilah was the perfect, calm place to slowly prepare for the madness which lay ahead

Once the taxi had dropped us off, a friendly local sitting at one of the cafés asked us if we needed a place to stay and showed us to an unoccupied rooftop room in what must have been the home of his relatives. We greeted the cheerful children as we walked through the hallway and up the stairs and, after we saw the room and accepted it following a brief haggle, tossed our backpacks onto the floor and sunk into the sofa’s oversized pillows. The day’s long journey of passage into the Dark Continent had finally come to an end. As the Marquis and I rested our heads and quibbled over who had managed to pack less socks and clean underwear for the 8-day Gran Tour (he had only brought two pairs of each – one less than I – but I insisted that most of the three pairs I had brought were so hole-ridden that they didn’t even count as socks or underwear per se), Sancho and the Baroness went to freshen up...


Women are the same the world over - Nothing attracts them like a shiny piece of jewelery

Faithful reader, have you ever stared into the abyss of a dark hole, into the mouth of the Beast, and wondered what strange yet putrid surprises lie in its depths? Have you ever looked into the void and pondered as to what dwells in the bottomless bowels of the Beast? Well, Sancho and the Baroness took one look at the Beast (a.k.a. the Turkish toilet) that afternoon and cringed in fright. I won’t lie to you, even I – the fearless Don Quijote – felt my knees shaking as my bare buttocks approached the Beast’s all-devouring throat... But still I could not and left that dark lair in the shadow of defeat. There’s one thing about the Maghreb, dear reader, that you cannot avoid and that is the call of the Beast. He is omnipresent, lurking around each murky corner, waiting for you in His noxious lair. Worst of all, there’s nothing you can do for to befriend the Beast is your only option. But befriend Him you must. Don’t be timid! Loosen those britches, release your pale bottom, and feed Him. For the Beast, I assure you, must be fed eventually... His insatiable appetite knows no bounds.


The Beast is a formidable foe, but one that must be befriended at all costs...
Just take off your pants and go in smiling. No one comes out a loser, even if the first attempt was a failure.

As bad as the Turkish toilet was, and the realization that we would be stuck using it for the next 8 days, we still managed to find a few pleasant surprises that first day in Asilah. We wandered through the town’s medina (a term for the old Arabic part of each Moroccan city which usually consists of narrow, winding roads enclosed within medieval ramparts), browsed through the colorful fare of local clothing and shoe vendors, and discovered what the inhabitants of the Maghreb affectionately call Moroccan Whiskey – mint tea.


"I think I'll try some 'Tea has mint.' What about you, honey?"
"I'm not sure... Either 'Milk with the chocolate' or 'Lawyer juice' sounds delicious too."

While sitting in a square and sipping away at our delicious beverage (mint tea would become our drink of choice in a country where alcohol was near impossible to find), we soaked up the sounds and the sights of this enchanting land. The lovely Sancho even managed to get accosted by someone’s pet monkey that day... And "pet monkey" is not a euphemism for something else, you perverts.


"I don't care whose pet monkey it is, Sancho. I don't want you touching it. You're MY fiancée, damn it!"

The next morning, we set off for Meknès, a city of just under a million inhabitants and once capital of the mighty Arabic Maghreb Empire in the 17th Century, by train. The city was nearly 250km (155 miles) away from Asilah which translated into about a five hour journey including transfer. The less said about the train ride and conditions, the better. I felt like a prisoner in Nazi Germany being sent off to a concentration camp and, to top it all off, the call of the Beast was growing stronger and louder. We never took a train in Africa again and I don’t think I ever will.


The Marrakesh Express:
I don't know what Crosby, Stills & Nash were smoking but it must have been strong if they enjoyed THIS train ride

Meknès was our first true taste of the Maghreb and, as far as I was concerned, the best place we visited throughout the entire Gran Tour du Maroc. There weren’t too many tourists, the locals were extremely friendly, and the main square (overshadowed by Bab el-Mansour, the entrance gate to the medina and the imperial city) was a great place to grab a cup of piping-hot Moroccan Whiskey, sit back, unwind, and do some good ol’ people-watching. Because Meknès is also a city which doesn’t really pull in the tourists as much as, say, Marrakesh or Fès, it is also a lot poorer and reflective of how the average Moroccan truly lives. This isn’t a package holiday or group destination folks...


Our room with a view: My girlfriend forced me to keep my shoes on the window ledge because they were stinking up the hotel. I hope the homeless guy below didn't mind.

One visit to Meknès and you realize you’re in a country with an average monthly household income of 300 €, no social security or public healthcare, and one of the highest rates of illegal migration to Europe. The poverty all around you, though, is not something to be deliberately avoided. There’s nothing I hate more than the American and Canadian tourists who go to their Caribbean destination and never leave the hotel complex or see how the locals love. The same happens with Europeans in Africa and South-East Asia – the residents of wealthier nations come as tourists, stay locked up in their pool-side resorts, and never even bother to explore the sights, sounds, and tastes of the country in question. As long as the hotel has cheap cocktails and buffet lunches, everything is fine. That’s not traveling. That’s not tourism and that’s not Morocco. Meknès – in all of it’s charm, life, atmosphere AND poverty – is Morocco. As one taxi driver told us on the Gran Tour du Maroc, "I do not like the people who come to my country and stay behind high walls or take pictures of us from their scented and air-conditioned coaches. These people only take advantage of my country. But you – travelers who walk and talk with us, live with us – may come time and time again. As Allah commands, we shall always welcome you with open arms."


Meknès was Morocco at it's most authentic, from the metalworker's souq to a vegetable market

We stayed in Meknès for a few days and explored every nook the labyrinth within the medina had to offer. We entered mosques open to infidels (there weren’t many), wandered through the date, nut and olive section of the food bazaar, and even met a friendly man who showed us to his brother’s store in the metalworker’s souq where, after a short haggling session, the Baroness von Pierogi ended up buying a handmade bracelet (still no magical monkey paws in sight) for half of the original price. We ate at a, by local standards, expensive family-run restaurant filled with tourists and at a cheap canteen where we were the only ones who didn’t speak Arabic. That rundown canteen, by the way, served up the best meal I ate throughout my entire stay in Morocco.



The centuries of grandeur and empire have long since left Meknès... but the monuments still remain

The day before we left that enchanting city, as the medina started looking more and more familiar, the Marquis of Maple spotted an alley leading off of the main square that we had somehow overlooked during the previous days. We followed his lead and our noses. It was a peculiar aroma, one I couldn’t quite place my finger on. Was it the Beast? No, no – A finger can’t be placed on THAT odor. Then it dawned on me. It was the smell of blood. We had entered the meat section of the food bazaar. Pools of coagulated fluid covered the uneven concrete floor. Crimson specks dotted the rarely scrubbed walls of two dozen or so butcher stalls. Camel, goat, and cow heads – still dripping with gore – rested on the filthy ground or leaned against the stained walls. And the flies... The place was covered in flies. They festered on cow’s tongues, ground meat, animal hooves, and camel eyes. When an interested customer pointed to one of the cow heads on the floor and the butcher started chopping away at the skull, it was time to go. The Marquis was the first as he covered his mouth and nostrils and fled the sickening stench. The Baroness followed soon after. Once the cow’s skull had been breached and the brain (now freshly being invaded by a hungry swarm of flies) was being scooped out and bagged, Sancho and I locked palms and hurried towards the exit... You’ve never witness carnage, dear reader, until you’ve been to a Moroccan meat market – And I don’t mean Singles Night at Ali Baba’s House of Dance.


The meat market has everything to satisfy your cooking needs from cow heads to camel steaks

The Gran Tour also led us to make a day trip from Meknès to the popular attractions of Volubilis and Moulay Idriss. Volubilis was a Roman outpost of about 20,000 people and is both the largest and best-preserved of Morocco’s ancient ruins. It’s incredible how far south those wacky Romans made it and how durable their constructions were. Moulay Idriss is another important town from Morocco’s past but from about 1000 years after Volubilis. This town is the most sacred Islamic site in the Maghreb and contains the mausoleum and resting place of the founder of Morocco’s first royal dynasty. He was a great-grandson of the Prophet Mohammed, just as the current King is also a direst descendant of the Prophet, and his name was – you guessed it – Moulay Idriss. This town which bears his name, and its famous mausoleum, is perhaps the country’s most frequented pilgrimage site and has only allowed non-Muslim infidels passage through its city gates for the past few decades or so... although we’re, understandably, still not allowed entrance in the sacred final resting place of Moulay Idriss. We decided to set off early for Volubilis that day, in order to avoid the large groups of tourists, and then head off to Moulay Idriss where we could spend the afternoon before returning to Meknès. Unfortunately the Marquis, who as holder of the only watch/alarm was the official time-keeper of our company, had somehow forgotten to adjust his watch to Moroccan time (which is two hours behind Spanish time) despite the fact that we were already into our fourth day of the Gran Tour du Maroc. The result? We made it toVolubilis so early that the ticket office hadn’t even opened yet.


Smile dear -- We're infidel tourists at the most sacred Islamic site in Morocco!



Who's that among the Roman ruins?? Caesar Augustus himself!?! Oh, it's just you, Sancho... cute.

After a few days in Meknès, and having taken in all the sites both within that wondrous city and in the nearby towns, we headed off for the next leg of the Gran Tour – the imperial city of Fès. Unwilling to take another train and, once again, unable to find and inter-city bus, we decided to hire a Grands Taxi. The Marquis and Sancho, our resident Francophones, spoke to a taxi driver:
"OK. I’ll take the four of you to Fès. No problem."
"Great!" the Marquis smiled and gave us a thumbs up as he lifted his backpack to put it in the trunk.
"Hold on," Sancho interrupted. "How much is this going to cost us?"
"108 Dirham," the driver answered. That worked out to about 10.80 €.
"Hmm, how about we give you 100 Moroccan Dirham?" as Sancho decided to try her hand at haggling.
"I’m sorry, mademoiselle. 108 Dirham."
"Come on. You can’t knock off 8 Dirham?"
"No, I cannot. 108."
"Well then!" Sancho crossed her arms. I could tell she was getting a bit flustered. "Maybe if you don’t give it to us for 100 Dirham, we’ll find another taxi driver who will!"
"You’re welcome to try, mademoiselle. But 108 is the government set fare for the Meknès to Fès journey. It is the price we must all charge by law. No more, no less."
"Oh." Moroccan false expectation number two: Not all things are haggle-able.
I smiled and whispered into my blushing fiancée’s ear as we entered the taxi, "Nice job trying to talk him down that 80 cents... YOU’re an idiot," I concluded.


Now spices... THAT's something you can haggle over!

Fès is a city of nearly one million inhabitants crammed into the walled medina which dates back over one thousand years. It has been designated by UNESCO as a World Heritage site in its entirety and is considered to be one of the largest living medieval cities on the planet. It is the cultural and intellectual capital of Morocco and, until the French moved it to Rabat, was the centuries-old political capital as well... That’s what my travel guide book said. Personally, I found the place too big and too spoiled by the constant stream of tourists that contribute so much to the city’s economy. The medina just didn’t have that same charm as the one in Meknès and the locals weren’t nearly as friendly. In fact, it was in Fès where the Marquis discovered the limits of "La shukran" when one of the many pushy souq vendors rebuked him, "Are you Moroccan? No! So don’t speak Arabic to me."


You can find anything in the city's souqs from hand-made shoes to ready-made grandmothers

Another thing my guide book touted about this cultural capital were the countless mosques and Koranic schools which boasted ornate rooms and chambers built to be unrivaled in their splendor. Unfortunately, infidels such as us English teachers were once again not permitted entry into about 90% of these buildings. Instead, we had to make do with staring at donkeys dropping poo-pellets in the middle of the collapsed buildings and filthy squats which were often found right across the street from the grand mosque entrances. But Sancho was happy. She likes taking pictures of "cute" donkeys.


"Good thing we didn't get into the mosque. We might have missed this."

The most impressive thing in Fès was probably the leather souq. In the center of this district, we stood on a balcony and laid our eyes upon the fetid tanneries. The leather tanners working below us were using techniques developed nearly 7000 (that’s right – three zeros after that 7, not two) years ago and passed on from generation to generation. The sheep skins were being beaten and scrubbed to one side and then dipped and cured in mud-brick pits filled with, as we were told, an ancient liquid recipe consisting of pigeon droppings, cow urine, animal fat, brains, sulphuric acids, salts, and natural colors. The stench was overwhelming and, thankfully, the guide who had led us to this district offered us some mint leaves to cover our nostrils and mask the rancidness. We all gladly accepted except for Sancho. She claimed the noxious odor was nothing compared to the stink-bombs I launch at her each and every morning.


The colorful tanneries and us breathing through mint leaves as an immune Sancho snaps away

Something that happened to dawn on me while in Fès, although I had definitely first noticed it in Meknès, was the ridiculous amount of barbershops we had come across. Now that I think about it, it was also quite strange that these shops wouldn’t close for the day until about eleven o’clock or midnight – well after most of the hustle and bustle of the medina had already died down. Every corner, every street, every alley had a barbershop. Sometimes there were even two or three of them right next to each other. In fact, we even saw barbers shaving men or giving them a little trim in the middle of busy city squares and quiet public parks. Not surprisingly, most of the barbers we saw were never really doing anything seeing as there just weren’t enough customers. A case of too much supply and not enough demand, but I don’t think the average Moroccan on the street has ever heard of Microeconomics. It seemed non-academically obvious to me, though, that when you’re struggling to put food on the table, it’s a lot more feasible moneywise to buy a ten pack of BICs than to go to the barbershop every other day. It still strikes me as odd to think that we couldn’t find a single roll of toilet paper throughout the entire Gran Tour du Maroc but barbershops were a dime a dozen. And I’m also convinced this wasn’t just an isolated phenomenon peculiar to Fès or Meknès. It must be like that in every large city throughout the Maghreb. Black holes, the Bermuda Triangle, the origins of the Universe and bellybutton lint, and, now, Moroccan barbershops... Just one more mystery to add to the pile.


If you're ever in need of a shave, Morocco's the place to go.
You can visit a 24-hour barbershop or just have it done in the park.

The day before we left Fès, as the four of us wandered through the textile souq, the lovely Sancho bought an enchanting, hand-made wedding dress. She tried on a few, did a bit of haggling, and ended up paying half the original asking price for a beautifully embroidered three-piece outfit. While this was going on, the Marquis of Maple thought out loud about how interesting it would be to visit the Sahara. The vendor who had sold Sancho her dress and who was now wrapping it up, said he had a cousin who organized trips to the desert and he would gladly lead us to him once he finished. The vendor soon stepped away from his stall and led the Marquis to a carpet-lined entrance down a narrow alley. We all followed suit and soon found ourselves being shown carpets while sipping complementary Moroccan Whiskey.
"No, no. We’re not interested in buying any carpets," we all insisted as the Berber merchant rolled out one exquisite tapestry after another.
"Of course, friends. Of course. But it costs nothing to look," as he continued to unroll each intricate carpet and explain the woven symbols and process involved in making each of them.
"What happened to the desert?" I asked the Marquis when our Berber host wasn’t looking.
"He’ll probably tell us after this pointless little carpet show."
Before long, the Marquis was sitting cross-legged on the floor next to the carpet merchant and haggling over the price of a bright, mint green, camel wool carpet.
"An exquisite piece, my Canadian friend. All made by hand and with natural colors used to dye the camel hair. Of that I assure you. Every bit worth its price!"
"Which is?" the Marquis started.
"1100 Dirham." That’s about 110 €.
"Hmm... That seems a bit pricey. How about... 700 Dirham?" 70 €.
"What a haggler! My friend, please. Think of me and of my poor family! As I told you before, this is hand-made and of the finest quality. It took months to weave. Now tell me another price... An HONEST price. One that can help to feed this humble servant of Allah and his children. Think of me as your family."
"Hmm..." the Marquis thought it over. "How about... 900 Dirham [90 €]? No, no, sorry. Wait... That’s not an honest price... Let’s say 950 Dirham?"
"Very well, my Canadian friend. You are quite the haggler! Are you sure Moroccan blood does not course through your veins!? So, shall we agree upon 1000 Dirham then?" as he offered the Marquis his hand.
"Uh... okay I guess." They shook hands in agreement. "The only thing is I don’t have 1000 Dirham. I do have 100 € though."
"That will do fine." Then our Berber carpet vendor called over his assistant and had him wrap up the carpet. "And perhaps a small tip for hard-working Hassan here? Look how well he packages the carpet! Perhaps that 2 Euro coin I saw in your change purse."
"Sure. Here you go, Hassan."
"You are very good, my Canadian friend. Quite the haggler!"
The Baroness finally interrupted all of this, "What about the desert?"
"Ah yes. Well, here are some photographs," as he handed us an album full of pictures. He continued speaking as we flicked through. "What you see there is my hotel on the outskirts of the Sahara. It has all the amenities expected from such a hotel and even a swimming pool. If you prefer something more authentic, I have another hotel not far from there designed in the fashion of a Berber desert encampment. I would personally meet you here in Fès, drive you to either of the hotels in my Jeep, and leave you there in the capable hands of our staff. Truly a unique experience, my friends!"
"Yeah," I entered the conversation. "We might consider it when we have more time. We only have about a week here in Morocco."
"No problem, my friend. Of course. You may contact me at any time."
"Yeah, speaking of that... How would we contact you? Would we have to mail you a letter in advance? Of maybe a telegraph or something?"
"Of course not! Simply write me an e-mail or call my mobile phone." He handed us a business card with couscous@caramail.com on it and continued, "I have a portable computer that I take with me whether I am here in Morocco or abroad. You can contact me at anytime."
As we walked back to our hotel, Sancho holding her wedding gown and the Marquis with a mint green, camel wool carpet over his shoulder, the Marquis said, "Well, at least I talked him down 100 Dirham, eh guys?"
"Well, actually," Sancho replied, "you gave him 102 € with that tip."
"Oh, right. So I guess I only talked him down 8 €. Hmm, it doesn’t really seem like that much."
"And the exchange rate isn’t exactly 1 Euro equals 10 Dirhams. It’s more like 1 Euro equals 10.7 Dirhams. So I think you might have even ended up paying more than 1100 Dirham."
"Son of a..."
"But it’s a nice carpet. It was worth it. And you really wanted it, right?"
"Well," the Marquis fidgeted. "What I really wanted was a small wooden chess set... And maybe one of those traditional Fès hats with the tassel."
"No problem!" I finally chimed in. "If you want to return the carpet you can always write the poor Berber carpet merchant an e-mail on his brand new laptop. I’m sure he’ll reply right away... If he’s not too busy listening to his iPod or on holiday in Monaco."
False expectation number three: We never did find a souq vendor selling magical monkey paws, but we did end up buying a mint green, camel wool carpet.


The Marquis immediately after overwhelming the carpet vendor with his Canadian mastery of the haggling arts

Early the following morning, Sancho and the Baroness went to sort out bus tickets for the final leg of the Gran Tour du Maroc. The Marquis and I were left behind to make sure everything was packed and ready to go. The ladies returned with four tickets to Chefchaouen, a quiet little mountain town five hours or so to the north where we would be spending the next two days unwinding. We threw on our backpacks and headed towards Bab Bou Jeloud, the Fès medina main gate, where we decided to get a coffee before the long bus ride ahead. We sat down at literally the last café in Fès, the one to the right of and just inside Bab Bou Jeloud.


"You want a strong cup of coffee? Trust me, that last shop on the right is just the place."

A small, bald man with a strange Band-Aid covering his entire left eyebrow came to our table, "Coffee? You want coffee?"
"Uh, yes, please. I actually am in more of a coffee mood than mint tea," I replied.
The Marquis agreed.
"Black, definitely black. Strong, right? Black coffee?"
"Yeah, okay. But with some milk too. Café au lait."
"I’ll have a coffee too," the Baroness interrupted.
"No!!!" the waiter stated firmly. "No coffee for you, mademoiselle. Trust me." He turned to us again, "Only for these two gentlemen." The one-eyebrowed waiter then slyly rubbed his hands together and grinned, "Well, then. Two black coffees, gentlemen?"
"Sure, but with milk, please. Shukran."
His grin then burst into diabolical laughter as he continued to rub his coarse hands. "I shall make YOU a cup of coffee you will NOT soon forget, my friends!" and off he went into the kitchen.
[Well, maybe the conversation in that little café didn’t go exactly like that, or wasn’t even remotely similar, but that’s the way I remember it and I’m the one doing the chroniclin’ here, damn it.]
The waiter brought us the two strongest cups of coffee either of us has ever sipped. I added five sugar cubes to that little brown liquid concoction and it was still unbearably bitter. We finished our drinks, paid, and finally went towards the bus station as the one-eyebrowed waiter cackled maniacally in the distance.


I only went to one Internet Cafe while in Morocco because I ended up taking an hour to type a simple e-mail.
Forget the crazy coffee guy - whoever put those keyboard letter-keys in such odd positions is the real maniac.

Even during the long, arduous ride to Chefchaouen, the coffee was slowly working its evil black magic. The Marquis and I began to feel a bit under the weather as early as then, but brushed it aside as being due to the bus driver’s obvious lack of steering ability.

The Rif Mountains: Home to a pristine landscape, bucolic way of life, and reefer

Chefchaouen is a picturesque little mountain town set in the heart of the Rif Mountains (the slang term for marijuana, reefer, comes from here) where all the buildings are painted in quaint shades of blue. It was the perfect place to relax for a couple of days at the end of an exhausting Gran Tour.


Chefchaouen was a pleasure to explore...

The Marquis felt the first rumblings that very evening. We were having dinner at a nice little outdoor restaurant on the main square when he excused himself. Our traveling companion returned fifteen or so minutes later with a look of disbelief on his face. All he could manage to say was, "Now I know why the Japanese lost... Hiroshima must have been a mighty blast indeed." I would have to wait for the following afternoon in order to decipher his mysterious words.


And its hidden treasures were a pleasure to discover...

The few days we spent in Chefchaouen didn’t seem like we were in Morocco at all. Everywhere we turned, we saw Spanish college students, Spanish signs, and even Spanish food. As beautiful as that little gem of a mountain town was, there was one thing that unabashedly tarnished it and that was those young Spanish tourists. They spoke to everyone in Spanish peppered with slang and became frustrated when the locals didn’t understand a word or two. They ordered Spanish omelettes, Spanish breakfasts, and even Spanish paella from local restaurants and seemed shocked when these foods weren’t available. Morocco, to these young tourists from across the Straits of Gibraltar, was just a cheap place where hashish could be bought – nothing more. I lost a lot of respect for the Spanish of my generation during that brief stay in the Rif Mountains. In fact, I don’t think I will never be able to hear them – as they often do – criticize Americans again for I could barely see a distinction between frat guys from back home who fly to Cancun or Spanish college students who drive down to Chefchaouen, except for perhaps the fact that they’re on different continents.


"Another Spanish tourist?! That's it, I'm outta here."

The day before the Gran Tour was to end, I woke with a rumbling in my stomach that just wouldn’t go away. The coffee from the previous morning had finally shown its full potential. By the time we had seated ourselves for lunch, I could withstand it no longer. The call of the Beast had grown too powerful... He needed to be fed.


"Damn Beast is calling me again. Shouldn't have had all of that couscous last night."

What I am about to tell you, dear reader, is not for the faint of heart. Furthermore, I assure you, the things I am about to recount did come to pass. I have oft created stories, embellished, and even lied in the past – but these events, the ones you shall now read about, are factual and unaltered. I write them as they occurred and leave it to posterity, and science, to decide whether they are true or not.


"Gather round, children. I have a tale to tell:
It all happened a few years ago, when the famed Don Quijote visited our humble little town..."

As I bore my bare bottom to the Beast and relinquished what little self-control I had left, an explosion of unfathomable proportions spread out in a 360 degree radius. I was lucky enough to grab onto an exposed pipe protruding from the wall as I was propelled forward from the mere magnitude of that massive bowel movement. The ensuing shockwaves which resonated in that little tiled lavatory lasted for at least five minutes – eventually resulting in the shattering of a mirror and the dislodging of a few loose tiles. I struggled to clean up the mess in the aftermath, especially at the devastated Ground Zero, but soon found my relief efforts hampered by copious amounts of previously undiscovered natural gas which must have surfaced during the aforementioned explosion. I grabbed onto that same exposed pipe protruding from the wall and held on for dear life as my thoughts drifted back to that cursed café waiter in Fès – he had indeed brewed me a cup of coffee I wouldn’t soon forget.


"What are you doing, baby? Don't you know I got diarrhea?"

As I reemerged from the lair of the Beast, having fed Him a feast, I returned to our coterie with that same look of disbelief I had witnessed on the Marquis’ face but one evening before. How could one man produce so much gas? Only then did I fully understand the Hiroshima comment and nod to him in solidarity.
"Jesus," I began. "What the hell did that guy put in the coffee yesterday?"
"You think it was the coffee that did this to us?" the Marquis replied.
"It had to be! It’s the only thing we’ve had this entire trip that the girls didn’t touch, right?"
Sancho and the Baroness agreed. They were both diarrhea-free.
"What a way to end the week," the Marquis shook his head.
"I know. How can a little cup of coffee do all this?"
"No idea, man. No idea."
"That really IS the strongest cup of coffee I’ve ever had. If that doesn’t wake you up, I don’t know what will... Just think... If we could somehow harness the power of that coffee! Send tourists to that little café in Fès and then, a day or so later, capture the gas. Put it to good use. My God, do you realize what we’ve stumbled upon here? A continuously renewable energy source of such proportions... why, why... That little café could power all of Morocco!"
"You’re an idiot," Sancho concluded.


This guy must have overheard us as he appears to be pondering the same thing:
"If only we could somehow harness the power!"

The following day, we caught the only bus out of Chefchaouen directly to the port of Tangier. It was a three hour journey north but, thanks to a few miraculous pills the Marquis had wisely brought along from Spain, the call of the Beast was successfully subdued. As we arrived late in the afternoon, we found that one ferry had just departed and, due to yet another delay, would have to wait nearly three hours for the next ship to dock. Our Spanish home was just in sight across the Straits of Gibraltar as we sat on the concrete and waited.


Ah, Spain - the land where bull is king - is calling from across the Straits

Our ferry finally arrived as the sun completed its slow descent over the horizon. We boarded – the weary Marquis of Maple, the fatigued Baroness von Pierogi, the exhausted (yet still lovely) Sancho Panza, and I, the battle-worn Don Quijote – and sailed off towards Spain, Tarifa and, eventually, dear old Cádiz. As I stood there on the deck of the ship along with the fading daylight and stared southwards, to Africa and the Maghreb, I felt sad that the Gran Tour du Maroc had finally reached its end. It had been a great adventure and a great discovery of a mysterious land of false expectations I had once known nothing about. I continued staring at the fading lights in the distance and feeling that strong sense of sadness – until I realized it wasn’t sadness at all. No, that was a different feeling altogether... One that could only be subdued by those miraculous little pills the Marquis was carrying. Thank Allah we were going back home.