tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-91412514829182768492024-03-08T10:52:38.767-08:00medina solitaireThe Expat Experience: the yo-yo effect
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07217558321639384240noreply@blogger.comBlogger18125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9141251482918276849.post-54616604756328962252015-10-06T07:21:00.000-07:002015-10-06T07:21:30.092-07:00Noe Speaks<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">A (n expat) Toddler Transition Tale:
Morocco to Greece</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">and</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Discovering Humanitarian Spirit on
the Trail of the Syrian Refugees</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">In the
beginning, things pretty much sucked. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I first
remember being cautiously handed over to my father in a partially-sterile steel
box of a room two stories below ground.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
dim bulb threw a depressing shadow of my father on the wall – but his outline
was fantastic (!): <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I put my crying on
pause just long enough to observe his attempts at soft movement and soothing
tone – he was fooling no one: I could sense his remorse about being absent from
the delivery room (banished due to maleness) as easily as I sniffed out the
hysteria lurking behind the thin wall-of-noise cooing he was spitting. Anxious
underpinnings were plugging his heart-shaped declaration of love and a promise
of a great life – I appreciated the effort nonetheless. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I accepted the rough handling from the Moroccan
nurses only after being convinced of their proficiency.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was shoved onto the nipple with all the
delicacy of a pipefitter, but recognized their whittled-down attempts at
efficiency. You know, people doing more with less and all that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I exited the
hospital only after a near-violent standoff. My father screamed, “Who ever heard
of a cash-only hospital!” and then whispered to my mother, “If I make a move,
follow me without hesitation.” It was all very Bonnie and Clyde, as an early
screening of my formative expat years rolled in my imagination to the
soundtrack of an administrative office screaming match.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have no doubt he would have taken a swing
at those security guards. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">For eight
months, I ingested Casablanca pollution on exhaust-level stroller rides to the
markets for stinky sardines, only to return to a shitty high-rise apartment
with a nutrient-depriving lack of natural lighting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was plopped down on decorative tilework, surrounded
by a castle-high prison of embroidered pillows and lavish couches.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My whimpering was lost in the maddening mix
of ceaselessly impatient honking and unnecessary belligerent tones washing up
against all sides of my building Iike a foul moat. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wasn’t released until I was literally
climbing the walls. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">(One saving
grace: besides all the idiosyncratic Moroccan snapping of fingers in my face,
repetitive French-influenced “coucou”ing, and baffling over-concern for any
pinprick of sunlight to make contact with my skin, I was treated like a fucking
prince from all sides: street vendors, homeless, taxi drivers, our produce
lady, local surfers on the beach, the fruit guy, janitorial staff at the
school, apartment concierge, ruthless parking guardiens, my dad’s teaching
colleagues, spoiled students – everyone. It must have been the novelty blue
eyes.) </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Finally, my
complaints were heeded, and stakes thankfully pulled up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now I was asked to endure bullshit
strapped-in hard miles: car seats to strollers to airplane rides to “Kid
Comfort 1” backpack torture device.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All
I wanna do is hoist myself up on a piece of furniture and bouncy-bouncy on my
burly legs, and instead, I’m on an endless, binded nomadic tour: car ride north
to Tangier, ferry to Sete, France, visit with the grandparents in Nice,
transatlantic flight and back again to visit another set of elderly in Florida,
long drive through France and Italy, ferry to Patras, Greece, drive to Athens, and
lastly, eight more ferry hours to finally disembark “for good” (we’ll see) on
Amorgos, Greece. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Listen
closely now knuckleheads: for this place, I’d withstand the journey again, all
the way back to the primitive treatment of my legendary body at the Ghandi
Clinic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve gleaned from various
Chamber-of-Commerce-type literature, that I’ve landed on a small Cycladic
island with less than 2,000 inhabitants.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Santorini is close – I can smell the money - and Turkey can’t be far off,
because my dad says he’ll be forced to go there and back every three months.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The water is perfect blue, they even made a
movie about it here in the 80’s: “The Big Blue” – and boy, they won’t let you
forget it: countless establishments are named after it, and Le Grand Bleu Café
has multiple screenings per night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m
constantly being changed in and out of swim trunks, rash guard, and wide-brimmed
hats for saltwater baths, which I love, but we could can the annoying preamble sing-song,
“Noe want to swim in the blue blue?”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Ahh, but
isn’t life easy here; the food grows on trees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My parents get downright giddy about a process they call “four ageing,”
which involves climbing trees, bushwhacking through sharp underbrush and
stealthily hopping goat fences to gather figs, grapes, pomegranate, (extremely)
prickly pear, almonds, mushrooms, saffron and even snails.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m putting my fat foot down regarding those
sea urchins though; they’re nasty beasts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My dad is always marveling at their littered multitudes clinging to all
the rocks where I waddle into the sea – he shakes his head at the possibility
and mutters to himself about “a spiky goldmine.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I busted him googling recipes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hope their scavenging ways are not
indicative of our financial situation; I try not to dwell on how rarely either
one of them go off to do any work, or rather how rarely <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">anyone</i> around here seems to work. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I know the “your-ohs”
they do have come from working in Vissali’s Language School (which seems like a
real step down from the international/American school scene, but I don’t have
no say), unless they get paid for “getting brilliant,” which is when they
gather a head of stem and mom disappears with paintbrush to the apothiki, dad
sits at the computer, and they pace around drinking lots of coffee, smoking
cigarettes and pass me back and forth rapid-fire with increasing degrees of malice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Afterwards (after what?) they verbally
congratulate each other, undulate nakedity, and wash off with a swim. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">A concern:
things are smooth like olive oil on feta, but I’m suffering from a recurring
sensation (it’s not poopy pants).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe
suffering is too strong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How to
explain?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Each morning, I wake slowly,
guzzle formula and survey boat traffic in the port from my spot on the deck:
fishing boats in, sailboats out, maybe a spectacular yacht snuck in while I
slept.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rising sun chases ochre along the
rocks and out the bay into the Med proper in a race against drenching sunlight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The water shimmers glassy clear across to the
dormant string of picture-perfect restaurants and shops.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I eavesdrop on the day’s plan; I’m never at
odds with what I hear:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a swim, a hike,
“see food,” generous nap schedule – it’s bliss. My fear is when it ends, because
all good things must, eh?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It nags at
me, another in a long line of itches, inches below the pamper line, where I
can’t scratch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dread and doom waft over
me. Boom! Sippy cup hits the floor, and I’m reeling like a Greek fisherman on a
“weather day” ouzo binge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s frozen
perpetual angst for me homies; I’m two seconds from being swooped up and
plopped in a car seat amidst a cluster of luggage for a neverending journey,
nah mean?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That shit’s on a loop! But it
never seems to happen. With each passing day, I’m gaining confidence that
nothing is going to happen to ruin/change <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">this</i>.
</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Well,
something did happen actually.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Considering
the aforementioned predictable and joyfully mellow simplicity of our agenda,
things got slightly more intense this week.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Things ramped up after we went swimming at the scenic Mouros Beach, of
the epic sea caves (it’s “slabbalicious” – their words, not mine); that’s the
beach where we accidentally left our swim trunks and hats drying on a rock, and
they were still there when we returned <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">two
weeks</i> later.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My parents acted like
they discovered treasure, repeating with elevating enthusiasm, “That’s the kind
of place this is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s the kind of
place this is!” </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Apparently,
minutes after we climbed out of that bay, a boatload of lost Syrians washed up
on the beach.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were probably aiming
for the island of Kos, which is much closer to their Turkey launch site.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, they sure picked a spectacular spot; if
there’s a prettier place to swim on the island, show me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Would you label me dense if I wondered about
their ability to extract any aesthetic pleasure on the approach? </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Imagine: my
parents drag me to this laid-back castaway environment, and I find myself
smack-dab embroiled in the world’s biggest news story?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My parents had the idea that maybe I could
thin out the towering pile of onesies stacked on my crate with a donation to
the baby refugees. Won’t be as fun to topple, but whatever.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My dad is reading over my shoulder now, and
wants me to make clear that he is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">way too
selfish</i> (he insisted on the italics even) to be painted as a do-gooder or
humanitarian, and that every one of those outfits was generously donated to us
(this was an early red flag about their finances). </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Under,
instead of through, the grapevine, we learned that the refugees, after being
fed a free lunch at the Mouros Beach Taverna, were bedding down in the town
“camping.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Next morning, armed with an emasculating
bag of onesies with topical design schemes such as mustaches and eyeglasses (we’re
taken advantage of, stylistically speaking, as a demographic), we plowed our
shitty stroller through the loose rock run-up to the campground.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My parents were excited to put their
seven-word Arabic vocabulary (three years at The American Community School of
Beirut) to use, and I was excited about stepping up to shorts and tee-shirts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And we missed
them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Word was that they had been
shuffled onto an early ferry to Athens to begin the process of, well, I don’t
really know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I had so wanted to
give… </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Onesies were
unpacked and stacked again, and I reflected on my first lesson in island
misinformation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Serves me right for
being so ambitious: here they say, “siga-siga” = “slowly-slowly.” </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Almost as an
afterthought, I messaged out to my peeps for confirmation on the Syrian
departure, just to quiet their plight in my mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Only to find I was burned again! They were still
here, now being housed down south near Arkesini, in the Agia Paraskevi Church
(try that as a leap from goo goo ga ga). I roused the folks for another
mission, formalizing their commitment at the most opportune time: midway through
a tall bottle of retsina to capture their resin-soaked enthusiasm and ply their
liquid courage. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And again,
we missed them, by a few hours.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unlike
the campground, which had been cleared of Syrian existence, the church was in
full remnant-mode: signs of their presence were overwhelming - I could still
smell them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Long picnic tables and
benches were stacked haphazardly along the long covered outdoor corridors
running two sides of the church. Stuffed garbage bags were gathered around
pillars.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rejected donations lay around
in disarray: shoes, shirts, coats, toys (I had a looksee – I ain’t too proud to
beg).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I met a chick, bit of a plastic,
named Barbie: I’ve read the negative press, I don’t get it, she’s a doll! </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I guess it
just wasn’t meant to be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This time, we
cross-referenced and got reliable confirmation that the refugess had indeed slipped
our well-intentioned grasp and were aboard the Blue Star on the way to the
capital.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These guys were shuffled around
quickly, but by all accounts, treated generously, and they were privy to some
beautiful spots on the island. I like to think the eye candy slightly softened <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">their</i> horrific transition. Maybe our
donations will catch up to the needy babies if we send them on. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I can’t help
but draw a parallel between the migrating Syrians and my own traumas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I puff my pacy and reflect: my life has been
difficult so far: I’m rocking goofy used clothes, I got no Fisher-Price and I
eat on/off the floor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just like them, my
roots have been torn out, and “home” has become an abstract concept. I wish I
could have looked a baby Syrian in the eye and given her (purposefully picked
pronoun) one of my extra sloppy wide-mouthed kisses, and told her things would
get better, like they have for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
swing in a hammock and stare at another beautiful sunset, at a horizon
seemingly mocking me with a pink expanse of possibility. I hope they make it to
Germany or wherever they are going. I hope they find a playground that will be
their “regular.” Peace to all. </span></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07217558321639384240noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9141251482918276849.post-18893233653668900462015-02-12T04:01:00.001-08:002015-02-12T04:02:30.704-08:00everything is sacred<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BP5RcOkYjCg/VNyVuFSVT9I/AAAAAAAAAL0/JQ21D3kWJvE/s1600/everything%2Bis%2Bsacred1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BP5RcOkYjCg/VNyVuFSVT9I/AAAAAAAAAL0/JQ21D3kWJvE/s1600/everything%2Bis%2Bsacred1.jpg" height="400" width="280" /></a></div>
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07217558321639384240noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9141251482918276849.post-38134858201342139782014-11-06T04:32:00.000-08:002014-11-09T01:32:28.720-08:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PbzftErjCt0/VFto2IYOQDI/AAAAAAAAALU/Enet0KmBQ6c/s1600/CIMG8529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PbzftErjCt0/VFto2IYOQDI/AAAAAAAAALU/Enet0KmBQ6c/s1600/CIMG8529.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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me and my boy syncing with/despite bleating horns and the shouts of the wild boysAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07217558321639384240noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9141251482918276849.post-53594542226696214202014-08-21T12:08:00.002-07:002014-08-21T12:08:27.357-07:00Sahara Desert Solitaire<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ASc7wmzva18/U_ZDXJUJe1I/AAAAAAAAAKc/3p0sZ79IaUs/s1600/desertsolitaire.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ASc7wmzva18/U_ZDXJUJe1I/AAAAAAAAAKc/3p0sZ79IaUs/s1600/desertsolitaire.jpg" height="400" width="312" /></a></div>
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07217558321639384240noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9141251482918276849.post-60904121911383678012014-08-21T06:58:00.003-07:002014-08-22T05:11:57.218-07:00kattingolartut<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 18.399999618530273px;">I've</span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> coached everywhere </span></span><span style="line-height: 18.399999618530273px;">I've</span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> been.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I had a great team once.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<u><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Starting Five<o:p></o:p></span></u></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Joey
K<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Junior
K<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">David
R<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Eddie
R<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Douglas
A<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="font-size: large; line-height: 115%;">Joey</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">
</span></b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">(6’,
165 lbs.) was my best player. He was
undoubtedly one of the best players on the entire North Slope that year. He was aggressive. He was
ferocious. He was unrelenting. But mainly he was violent and angry. I sensed the simmering violence in most of the
males in the community - they’re warriors - but Joey’s brand was roiling, more
intense – quiet, viscous, final, scalding.
His committed and poetic drives to the basket were a challenge to any
motherfucker that wanted to get in his way.
Step in for a charge, and run the risk of getting charged yourself. By a snorting bull. Maybe later – outside. No referee.
That’s where he wanted opponents. He told me to fuck off once. I had to make a decision. I let it go.
In class, I could sometimes catch him “reading” with his book upside
down. I let that go too. He would nod at
me warily, contemplatively sizing me up.
He might even say something cheeky like, “Good book.” Overall though, I think we had a fairly
respectful relationship. I was a pretty
youthful and idealistic first year teacher, and could play ball better than any
teacher he had ever seen. Joey was cool.
Really.
Spine-crushingly cool. I could
see it. He had it. Very physically talented, all the standards –
speed and strength and athletic, like liquid…that could drain through any
defense, a natural wonder. All the boys
in the school were both petrified and in awe of him. It was like having a head inmate calling the
shots from the inside and handling discipline. If this community was still nomadic, Joey
would be leading the hunting parties and claiming the best woman as his
own. In a static community, Joey’s
physicality found an outlet on the court.
And with this savage on the floor, we could contend with anybody.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Joey was the coach’s son. I should explain that I only served as an
interim coach for a six week chunk of season while Tuukak (pronounced two cock)
was cruising Hawaii on government money – an extended conference trip. The Eskimos get a lot of money thrown at
them. I was only a month+ flash in the pan: a heroic
grease fire I like to think. But I did
hold the reins during a demanding mid-winter chunk of the schedule,
representing at three away tournaments in other villages – plane rides. Yeah, TwoCock had a firm grip on his team, as
well as the community. Think TwoCock was
the alpha male of the village? He
was. Bigger, more aggressive, higher functioning,
employed, more cock: he ruled unopposed.
Joey had been passed the alpha torch…cock – the torchcock. He was
Threecock. There was some rebellious legend
about 2 Cock throwing his shoes off and dangling them someplace high and
unreachable within the school during his own student days. In a strict
shoes-only zone I guess. TooCock had
another son: JR. He was the closest
thing I had to a post player.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="font-size: large; line-height: 115%;">Junior</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">
</span></b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">was
the beefiest player I had on the team. (5’10’’
and 185 lbs.) He was carved from the
mold of ol’ Double Penis, cut of the same foreskin - baby penis. Junior/Senior in full effect. Meaning he was thickset then, but the future
belly overhang was inevitable. I worked so hard to get him to play with his
back to the basket, when he so desperately wanted to shoot jumpers and drive improbably
to the basket like far-more-talented big bro Joey. He grabbed some big
rebounds, but his talent was in put-backs, throwing in easy ones from the paint
where his frame could greedily monopolize and grow roots. I really liked Junior. Saying he was soft-spoken is a bit redundant
within the very nonverbal Inupiat community, but that’s what he was: a big
soft-spoken bear of a kid – tough as hell, but sweet as an Eskimo doughnut. <b>(</b>To the politically correct: the
Eskimos are not offended by the term Eskimo.
I always used “Inupiat” when I was there, not working up the guts till
the end of my time there to ask students and other locals if “Eskimo” offends, and they all laughed and
said no. The majority were also pro
offshore drilling, claiming herds of caribou would pass right under pipelines,
unfettered. They didn’t want protester
interference. They wanted money. And to round out my knowledge on the subject:
the term “Inuit” refers to language.<b>)</b>
Jr. had a real sincerity. I remembering waiting for him to turn in a
vocabulary test: you remember: spelling, definition, part of speech, use in a
sentence…sometimes you gots to go old school. He was blatantly stalling, all
other tests in a pile on my desk, waiting for an opportunity to pull out his
crib sheet. I know that vocabulary tests are incredibly tempting for students
to cheat on (a real pitfall of rote learning), I myself once taped answers to
the inside tongue of my Pony Spud Webb high tops. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I said, “Junior, you’re cheating. Every time I look away.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">He replied in the typically drawn out and elongated
monotone, “Not now. Later.” Completely deadpan. Not trying for irony or humor. I had to deal
with the tension between the brothers often; they were not friends and they rarely
communicated, but the pressure hung around the gym like an over-inflated ball
ready to pop (kind of a cheap simile – sorry – my foul). I actually had two sets of brothers on the
starting five, not so remarkable a demographic when you consider this isolated
island village, north of mainland Alaska, population 300, only sported seven
different last names. Ruby had a
different last name.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">She was Junior’s girlfriend. A couple years younger, she delighted in
destroying my 8<sup>th</sup> grade English class. She was so awful to me. <i>So</i>
pissed off. Smart too. She acted aloof, but it was camouflage (she
knew her way around a rifle as well): she watched and listened for any chance
to trip me up, then riled the other knuckleheads (Jules? Levi?
Oh shit) into a distracting chaos, while smugly sitting back and smirking
at the successful sabotage she set in motion. When I came back the second year,
Junior and Ruby were parents – a baby girl added to the mix. Two-Cock was now an aapa. Mystery of the pissed off middle-schooler
solved: she had been pregnant. And
scared. Ruby had (at least) two cousins:
David and Eddie.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="font-size: large; line-height: 115%;">David</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">
</span></b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">was
my three point bomber, and he arrogantly liked to shoot well beyond the three
point line. A real hot shot. He could get “off,” but when he was streaking
it was game over. He hit four or five in
a row numerous times while I was at the helm.
David was hip-hop. Most of the
village boys were heavily affected by hip-hop: attitude, drug of choice, slang,
style: sagging jeans, tilted straight bills, headphones, NBA jerseys, FUBU, etc.
– but David <i>was</i> a gangster. Too cool to ever have a conversation with the
tuniq (white man) teacher, his intelligence came through anyway in his writing
and general demeanor. David was a bit
limited on the hardwood by his height (5’ 3’’) and his ego. He didn’t often run the risk of going inside
and having his shot blocked or fully committing to defense. I always thought he would have been an
amazing ice hockey player with his stature, aggressiveness, athleticism and
dedication to sport - all these boys really. I could have fielded an all-world hockey team
up there. But basketball was it. They had a half-ass coed volleyball season
and the Native Olympics (jumping events/strength exhibitions/pain endurance),
but basketball was the cultural obsession. Outside recreation was seriously
thwarted by permafrost, but I could have had ice. I was always a bit embarrassed because David
saw me get<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“scoped,” which is the term you use for someone that
positions their eye too close to the telescopic sight on a rifle when firing,
and comes away with a black eye. School
hadn’t even started out yet, and I was out with my roommate (fellow educator)
and a few high school kids shooting a high-powered sniper rifle into the Beaufort
Sea. My roommate was a Desert Storm
veteran with a wealth of firearms, and a proclivity for saying things like, “I
haven’t killed anybody in a long time.” I
got goaded into participating, with very little instruction I might add, and
the recoil blasted me into nausea and left a humiliating shiner. First day of school, 8:00 a.m., and I’m making my introductions to bunch of crack shots
and accomplished big-game hunters with a fucking black eye. David’s brother<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="font-size: large; line-height: 115%;">Eddie</span></b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">
was in that first period class. (5’6’’,
145 lbs.) He differed from the other boys because he didn’t give a shit about
basketball; he was not a gym rat, preferring to cruise around on his snow
machine. But he was able-bodied and athletic, so he played. That’s just how it was/is. The community demanded it. Eddie had an amazing talent for steals and
causing turnovers, and that’s all I asked of him. Literally.
I told him not to do anything else.
He lacked fundamentals but he was quick, cunning, physical and had a belligerent
aggression that was ruthless. He was a
thief. But his real genius was in the
understanding and respect he had for his role.
And that is why I am writing about this team; that’s where this
experience surpasses my other coaching gigs. It wasn’t a <i>team.</i> It was a tribe. These boys were so close, mostly related,
that they didn’t even really talk to each other. They were beyond that. And it translated on the court to a mature
confinement of roles, as if they were surviving on the tundra during a blizzard
– efficiently wringing their respective aptitudes into the talent pool: leader Joey
with his scoring prowess and acceptance of being the primary offensive “go-to”
player, Junior with the grunt work of being the “inside” presence and
intimidator, David with the long-range shooting and Eddie the turnover king and
defensive specialist. The experience of
coaching these guys was a large contributor towards supporting the loony rationale
of spending two years north of the Arctic Circle. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I went up there because I was broke. By the time I had finished getting a teaching
degree/certificate, I was $30,000 in debt to the federal government and various
credit card companies. I was missing
payments and getting persistently harassed by truly sadistic creditors with
malicious intentions. I could barely
feed myself and my mental stability was slipping. I went to the Portland, Oregon Professional
Educator Fair and walked right past all the brightly decorated kiosks of top
school district multimedia firework displays of superior quality of life and
smiling groomed representatives talking teacher student ratio and cross
curricular planning interactive student-centered high technological pedagogical
bullshit and found the sad lonely desk of the North Slope of Alaska tucked away
in a corner. There had a photocopied A4
map of Alaska with an X marking the spot and a pay scale – the highest in the
United States. A ten minute interview, followed by another ten on the phone
with the current principal, and I was an employee of the North Slope Borough
School District. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Douglas</span> </b><span style="font-size: small;">(5'10'', 150 lbs.)</span><b style="font-size: 12pt;"> </b></span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">was
my 5<sup>th</sup> man, the odd man (out), in a lot of ways. He was polite. He was respectful. He was
academic-minded. He was generous. He was serious. He was selfless and solid. And gentle.
Moderately damaged, domestically. He wasn’t a talented basketball player and he
didn’t fulfill an established role, except in not having a defined role. And I think that the intangibility of his
contribution, beyond what I’m willing to contemplate, might have been our X
factor – our edge. Doug provided me with the best moment I had in my entire two
years: he had speed, the quickest coast-to-coast
wheels on the team. He couldn’t hit a
jump shot or dribble with his left hand, but if he could get to a defender’s
hip, then he was already by. And he could make a lay-up. I constantly urged him to use his gift and contribute
offensively, but the killer instinct was hard to arouse - till the late rounds
of the prestigious Wainwright tournament.
I knew we needed more offensive firepower, and I had huddled with him
privately multiple times before the semi, and like to think I inspired
him. Or scared him with my intensity - I
probably cried a bit. The tears just come.
Regardless, he committed. He
would begin his mad dash from as far out as the three point line, head down,
arcing towards the basket with very little variation or creativity. He was just so damn fast defenders couldn’t
set their feet in time to obstruct him. He
scored 20+ in the semi and the final, and earned All-Tournament Team. It was special. Douglas invited me to be<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">part of his family’s whaling crew the following September, a rare honor for a tuniq I was told.
I had all kinds of adventures up there including blizzards and polar
bears and dog sled teams and the Brooks Range and things you’d expect from the
Arctic. I have a lot of respect for the
culture I got to witness and the people I lived with. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Qujannamiik. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07217558321639384240noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9141251482918276849.post-48310613484614965892014-08-16T14:26:00.001-07:002014-08-16T14:26:13.953-07:00canary tramp<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;">“Sometimes
the Wind Can Sound Like a Waterfall”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o:p></o:p></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3lagihiT7Mg/U-_MA-eITOI/AAAAAAAAAKM/xMcwv_iXF-U/s1600/london2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3lagihiT7Mg/U-_MA-eITOI/AAAAAAAAAKM/xMcwv_iXF-U/s1600/london2.jpg" height="320" width="211" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">you
begin your ascent according to script</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">and
for the right reason<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">somewhere
between exercise and as an exercise<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">and<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">wisely,
with no end goal, you’ve absorbed the Greats<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“Be
Here Now,” Bhagavan Das, mental floss</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">satisfied
with breath with step with rice without the special sauce<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">until
you heard it<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">roaring<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">you
spun your azimuth</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">pursued
the long hand</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">and
exposed yourself lengthwise</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">soft
underbelly</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">comp-ass<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">because<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">We
All Want Something Beautiful<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Steps
be-labored now<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">past
the point<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">of
damaged return<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">false
summits <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">disorientation<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">And</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">you
got slapped with an indifferent and stinging gust</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">because
you refused to acknowledge </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">that
sometimes</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">the
wind can sound like a waterfall<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07217558321639384240noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9141251482918276849.post-36537805017104317992014-08-12T12:44:00.000-07:002014-08-13T03:15:19.625-07:00Paradise Valley<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">We hiked
in Paradise Valley the other day, down Taghazout way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yeah, yeah, it’s cool: cascading pools,
smooth sunny slabs, jumping opportunities, palm trees – an oasis ripe with
canyoning and freshwater-soaking lizard-like hedonism.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">But it
was the French family that was memorable.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">With
some difficulty (unsure footing/pregnant Josie), we had navigated the river to
an in-between sanctum for picnicking and solo dipping.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Upriver a ways was the far point (river
mysteriously burrowing below ground beyond), the deepest pool with established
jumping spots and naturally terraced rock sprouting lunching tourist groups
like uninspired mushrooms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Heading
downriver the flow petered to a shallow lack of possibility. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">We
thought we would be alone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Big
sister was the head of the septuplepede worming athletically up the banks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Aptly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Even from a distance, her beauty was obvious: tall, tanned, fit,
elegantly nimble, brunette – mesmerizingly and shockingly clad in teeny yellow
bikini, flash running shoes, and aviator shades.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Only.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In
conservative Morocco?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hackles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wariness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Paternal-like concern.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The
other six were a blurry fringe, hushed tones out-watted-and-witted by the blinding
and brilliant canary hue foreground.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Peripheral
consciousness picked up a wealth of trailing exposed skin and familial ties,
but little else. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">They
kept coming.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Conscious
of her age, and her family behind, I tried to avert my stare, but it was a
traffic accident, impossible not to gawk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They were coming right up on us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>More hackles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Would they respect
spacing?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were peacefully solitaire,
and fiercely protective of that bubble, a cache of facial expressions and body
posture set to register irritation, mystification and resentment on the
ready.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I held off on cocking the
trigger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why not have a closer look?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">They
broke rank and stride ever so slightly, informally huddling on the move.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hyper-aware, my feelers exact, I confidently
(and correctly) surmised they were discussing destination, while also being spurred
to simultaneous realization that we were planted right <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>in front of what might be considered a
moderately high launching point into the river for the cautious – or to the
family of mixed abilities and mettle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">We must
have appeared very much the content couple in love, spread out on our India
blanket over elaborate lunchables with romantic drippings, obviously reveling
in our earned and isolated situation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">They
barged.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And this is what I loved about
them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They set up shop in front of us,
within a meter, essentially blotting out the river and our entire agenda -
endlessly jumping and screaming and splashing and cheering and cajoling and
laughing and photographing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Their
boldness titillated me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We barely
warranted a glance, and certainly not consideration.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe there was a highly evolved feeling-out
process conducted out of my stratosphere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Maybe there was a head nod.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I
don’t think so.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Collectively,
they gave no fucks. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Big
sister had a friend – a family friend. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Same
outfit, different colored bikini. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If big
sister was a 10 (and she certainly was), the friend was a 9.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These two are friends and high school
teammates on some sort of running squad – either track & field or cross
country, maybe both: they were definitely mid-distance to distance runners.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I could tell from their bodies, their rapport, their behavior, their
particular athleticism – hell, their entire essence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>(Later, on the hike out, I watched them act out their runner mentality
by <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">choosing </i>to run, with a runner’s
efficiency, the steep climb to the parking lot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Further bolstering my assuredness: they put on running shorts over their
bikini bottoms when they reached the car.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Considering their brazenness, I’m sure this was only to avoid burning
their upper hamstrings on hot upholstery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Yes, I was watching closely, but our proximity was merely
coincidence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I swear.) <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">These
two were so confident.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was virtually
no teenage insecurity present.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It wasn’t
that they carried themselves like far more mature women, they carried themselves
like some other species.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Aliens.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was as if they existed outside the realm
of normal human uncertainty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t
think they considered for one single second how inappropriately dressed they
were for this sporting endeavor, not to mention (till now) for this country, where
women swim in full burka. But that was their magic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They didn’t strut and they weren’t arrogant. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They weren’t stupid, vapid, ignorant, or
uneducated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t find them
culturally insensitive or insulting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They existed on their own plane.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A
higher order.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A foreign thought process
at work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I feel I
should further address their attractiveness. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Honor the reality.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tip my hat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Fall to my knees. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would like to
narrow my focus to the purely aesthetic, but I’m not going to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Let your imagination run wild.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Astounding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Fully mature bodies, before the onset of any mature imperfections.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Crushingly pretty but not prissy. The kind of
beauty that is as salty as it is sweet, just as capable of arousing anxiety, paranoia
and regret as pleasure. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They’re pain
inflictors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now… <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">quietly,
in the back of my mind this morning, as I work my way through this experience,
I’ve been debating on the necessity of some type of disclaimer regarding this
sketchy subject material. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I vowed to not
do it, but I’m chickening out: I would put the age of these girls around
16.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can imagine them in Driver’s
Education class.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Despite my goings-on
about the exquisiteness of these two, I want you to understand my <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">platonic </i>observations and cravings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The mental self-gratification I allowed
myself in Paradise Valley was a clinical and premeditated exercise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I got caught up in the idea of how I would
have felt about these two when I was 16.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I tried to see them that way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yearning
was what I experienced.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I just wanted to
be around them (not now, 16 year-old Adam).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I wanted to “hang out.” I hankered for interaction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wanted face time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wanted ATTENTION.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
reminded me of standing outside the house of Pam Hamilton in the middle of the
night, and getting off just on knowing she was behind <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i> window sleeping.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
guess that was close enough.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It wasn’t
sexual then (I was a late bloomer).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
wasn’t sexual this time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>AND, speaking
of self-gratification, I have married a woman so beautiful, so fucking hot,
that I find myself no longer capable of even keeping a stable of fantasy women or
situations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> The barn door is permanently propped open. </span>The ol’ right hand has been made
redundant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anyways…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">the
girls were really joyful in a non-cheesy way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But they <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">were</i> being cheesy:
tandem jumps, egging each other on, too much I Phone documentation, incessant
giggling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And this phenomenon, and all
the other contradictions, is what I think I’ve been trying to mine the last few
hours.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were somehow so delightful,
so good-natured, so beautiful, that they were afforded some kind of pass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span> All day, in every arena, they transcended all their flaws.
I spent the afternoon completely consumed by their appetite for joy and for life. I wanted to inhale them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I meant
to tell you about the rest of this amazing family:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">-the much
younger and fearless brother with the deep and smoky resonating voice that
echoed through the canyon all afternoon, despite being “shushed” four thousand
times<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">-the attractive
mom, who kept peeking and exposing her breasts to check tan lines<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">-the smiley dad,
snapping pictures with endless patience, seemingly blind to the parading half-naked
troupe he was traveling with<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">-unremarkable
little sister, gracefully unfazed by her unremarkableness<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">(-an
aunt/sister I really didn’t examine),<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">but I am
feeling the need now to mine some visceral activity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07217558321639384240noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9141251482918276849.post-29970296491053137632014-08-10T09:50:00.001-07:002014-08-10T09:50:35.018-07:00silence<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gsWkvQlkwEk/U-eioxS2LHI/AAAAAAAAAJs/_TDGcuE6ThQ/s1600/tiles+veil2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gsWkvQlkwEk/U-eioxS2LHI/AAAAAAAAAJs/_TDGcuE6ThQ/s1600/tiles+veil2.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07217558321639384240noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9141251482918276849.post-51625856323118235932014-08-10T05:10:00.001-07:002014-08-10T05:40:40.989-07:00Lefty<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">(Dear reader: Going to take you back a few months for a previously-written piece: we were living in Greece and had a good friend worthy of
documenting. Please suffer me the footnotes; I was reading <u>The Pale
King</u> at the time.) (Also, we decided to make an exception and allow for a
few photographs.)(Also, it is written in the rarely-used 2nd person. I have no
explanation for this.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-v3A7nU6rkCM/U-dgo9uzg2I/AAAAAAAAAJQ/zDZRo-l5EmY/s1600/IMG_3283.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-v3A7nU6rkCM/U-dgo9uzg2I/AAAAAAAAAJQ/zDZRo-l5EmY/s1600/IMG_3283.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OB0bz0lwgoQ/U-dgO48AoLI/AAAAAAAAAJI/xpv9LgqEZ00/s1600/cafeneon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Lefty is the first person you meet, again, upon disembarking.</span><span style="font-size: 7.5pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"> </span><b><span style="font-size: 7.5pt; line-height: 115%;">[<i>1]</i></span></b><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"> In fact, he is the first person you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">see</i> while still in the cargo holding
area, as ropes are tied off and bridge is lowered. In fact, this is the
second time this holds true – one year ago, same time, same place, same
story. This is the first inkling of a sensation that you will be in bed
with for the duration of your stay. You only and initially half-wonder if
it is possible to feel plagued by it, and lazily contemplate if it would be
right to be indeed plagued by it, but you know yourself well enough to
understand that it will actually be comforting. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">You quickly gather that Lefty likes the company of a pretty girl, and
you hunch that he would just be another village face if it weren’t for the girl
on your arm, and you would not be thinking about him and his offer of a ride at
all, but instead focusing your attention on the dire situation of being dropped
off at a port at 3:30 in the morning with no visible means of transporting to
the village beyond an overpriced taxi and a front to your sense of frugality,
as well as a blow to your self-perceived travel-wise wit. And
you’re alright with that. You think, “Use what you got.” </span><i><span style="font-size: 7.5pt; line-height: 115%;">[<b>2</b>]</span></i><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"> You
hypothesize that Lefty likes what being seen in public with an attractive
foreigner can do for him socially – for his image. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Lefty is in pole position when it comes to picking off tourists new to
town. He meets every boat and plane that docks or lands to pick up mail
for the post office as well as large parcels you gather is going to some kind
of seafood wholesaler or middleman (you learn later that you were correct),
evident in the scenario where halfway to the village he realizes he forgot a
box of fish on the ferry and you listen to him mutter “Moto Bellini” </span><b><i><span style="font-size: 7.5pt; line-height: 115%;">[3]</span></i></b><span style="font-size: 8pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"> </span><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"> in increasingly agitated tones as he
wheels around recklessly and races back to the port only to see the lights of
the ferry pulling away and the escalating “Moto Bellini’s” become sort of
aggressive and you will simultaneously feel guilty and amused by his antics and
wonder if it wasn’t the possibility of giving your girl a lift into town that
distracted him from his responsibilities. You are also relieved that you
are not riding in the open-air cab of the pickup like the nameless and mainly
faceless dude that is traveling back there ping-ponging between cab window and
boxes, probably holding on for dear life but downplaying the severity of the
situation as a means of preserving dignity. </span><b><i><span style="font-size: 7.5pt; line-height: 115%;">[4]</span></i></b><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"> Your
girl translates for you that yes, Lefty will indeed be in some level of trouble
with a multitude of taverna owners that will not have fresh fish options until
the next boat, though you remember all the wild-haired and crusty fisherman in
the village from the last trip, and surely something can be worked out?
He responds directly to you: “Is no problem,” giving you most everything of
what you need to gauge his rate of English comprehension and speaking ability. </span><b><i><span style="font-size: 7.5pt; line-height: 115%;">[5]</span></i></b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Lefty goes on to outline </span><b><i><span style="font-size: 7.5pt; line-height: 115%;">[6]</span></i></b><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"> his pickup schedule (consisting of mainly early
mornings) and the reasons behind his decision to give up the portside café he
operated (owned?)(because business was too slow in the long and unprofitable
winters that see the island mostly devoid of tourists off-season and the café
was only open anyway for a brief chunk of time before, during, and after each
scheduled ferry drop-off/pick-up). </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Only the name “Stefano” is discernible, peppering the otherwise wall
of noise Greek that Lefty spits, as you drop out entirely from the exchange,
instead electing to look inwards, alternating maddeningly between three foggy
and disjointed (due to your inability to get any sleep on the ferry as you
don’t have that particular talent for catching naps while in the process of
being transported) interior monologues </span><b><i><span style="font-size: 7.5pt; line-height: 115%;">[7]</span></i></b><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"> as well as working against allowing too
much of your weight to press against the suspect closing/locking abilities of
Lefty’s truck door on careening left turns. </span><b><i><span style="font-size: 7.5pt; line-height: 115%;">[8]</span></i></b><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"> It is
explained that Stefano is another “friend” of Lefty’s that is in or coming soon
to the village. It is not made clear whether he was also re-routed into Lefty’s
favor at the port or came into his life another way. But you are forced
to reexamine your snap judgment and rat-tat-tat machine-gun labeling of Lefty
as “the dirty old man,” and consider the possibility that is was a bit
premature to be so dramatically shooting your girl “that look,” a variation on
the eye roll featuring an emotively complex wide-eyed triage of dismay,
disbelief and frustration (then, the roll), intending to drag Lefty’s
motivations through the mud, assuming Stefano is a man’s name. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">And sure enough, later that very evening, after checking into “Poppi’s
hotel for the night (a long-term rental in the works but not yet finalized) and
accomplishing little else beyond a hyper-extended siesta, you find
yourself at dinner with all the before-mentioned characters and are served the
realization (and your first of many tzatzikis) that Stefano is indeed a man,
and you are now charmed by Lefty’s honest and transparent intentions, and
realize that social-climbing was just a projection from your own psyche, and
you further realize that Lefty simply likes the company of a pretty girl (and
who doesn’t?), and probably any other tourist, man or woman, that he finds
interesting, though as not to flatter yourself. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Stefano is a baby-faced 27-year-old Nordic cargo pilot from Holland,
and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">was</i> intercepted at the airport by
Lefty on one of his “runs” a couple years back. Using his obvious airline
perks and generous schedule of intensive long hour workweek chunks followed by
weeks off at a time, Stefano spends time on the island a few times a
year. An early observation of yours: Lefty’s guileless thirst for
visitor/tourist company plus Stefano’s youth, immediately apparent agreeable
nature and good humor make them a well-suited pair. Your perceptiveness
is rewarded when you learn that not only does Stefano fully immerse in the Lefty
lifestyle when here, a sort of “Lefty Fantasy Camp” comprised of a full buffet
of activities from the sedentary cafe/taverna crawling (up to five different
ones in a day!) to the foraging for culinary delights in the hills -
snail/mushroom/saffron, but he also now stays with Lefty in his traditional
home, escalating their relationship, in your mind, and with all things
considered, to more of a kidnapping. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Like any animal, you accurately and efficiently size up Stefano’s
threat to your mate in the first three seconds he was clear in your line of
vision. </span><i><span style="font-size: 7.5pt; line-height: 115%;">[9]</span></i><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"> He’s
a kid. An innocent. He's wearing pink. He's pudgy. You wonder
how he could possibly have the training/education and flight hours to be a
working pilot, but you don’t ponder on this thought for too long for fear of
thinking like the old person that you have become. You delight in
indulging the old man’s role and status as the “connector,” bringing the exotic
together for a meal on this far-flung island. Lefty is visibly excited
about this pairing of guests and the dizzying array of possible conversation
topics, sometimes sitting back in his chair, detached from the conversation,
and wallowing in what he has assembled. And like Lefty says, the kid does
have an easy and broad smile – “He always happy,” to which the kid can’t help
demonstrating. Over a burnt platter of grilled fish, he even shares some pilot
humor, and you laugh over-enthusiastically, recognizing the sound as an audible
stamp on the warm sweet spot of your early buzz. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">“How do you know when there is a pilot in the room?”</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">“He’ll tell you.” </span><b><i><span style="font-size: 7.5pt; line-height: 115%;">[10]</span></i></b></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Stefano</span><b><i><span style="font-size: 7.5pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"> </span></i></b><b><i><span style="font-size: 7.5pt; line-height: 115%;">[11]</span></i></b><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"> does up
the ante a bit however, when you get comfortable enough to rib him a little
about his incessant tap tap tapping on his technological device only half
hidden below the table line. He informs you that he is arranging a
reunion/rendezvous with a stewardess from Olympic Airlines, thereby fulfilling
not exactly a fantasy, but a queasy hunch about pilot/stewardess
relations. In addition, he will proudly share a picture he snapped on
said device, presumably from his seat in the cockpit, of an attractive air
hostess scandalously hiking her skirt up to reveal a sexy garter belt,
exploding your imagination as to what else goes on behind those curtains. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Up to that point, you had considered Stefano an almost asexual being,
owing to previously described attitude, style of dress, and that fact that you
hadn’t caught him even once eyeing your girl, even while she was scantily clad
in short-shorts and thin, cleaving-baring linen top. But now you
are forced to consider the possibility that he is a wolf in sheep’s clothing,
if he is indeed pulling a racy chick like the pixelated beauty he shared.
But your jealousy bone is massaged again by the gelled hair, trendy Euro
sneakers and soft physique of your limp rival, and you happily stuff another
sardine into your mouth. And with Lefty</span><b><i><span style="font-size: 7.5pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"> </span></i></b><b><i><span style="font-size: 7.5pt; line-height: 115%;">[12]</span></i></b><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"> now radiating grandfatherly vibes, you
scold yourself for suspecting sexually devious motives from the old man.
The whole plate of fish was grilled too long and burnt and at one point in the
evening the proprietor of the joint, without being spoken to or prompted, yells
“Speak Greek!” at you from across the room, but you are happy to be there. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">[1]</span><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"> Ferry language.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">[2]</span><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"> Technically, what she’s got, but as you two are
together, a team of sorts…</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">[3]</span><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"> Certainly a curse word (phrase), which gets put
on your agonizingly slow-growing short list of work-in-progress Greek
vocabulary. It is clear that this is one which will stick, owing to the
vividness and weirdness of the situation.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">[4]</span><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"> Unless that is just your way, and he could give
a damn about being seen to struggle, or more probable, he has traveled in the
back of so many pick-ups that he has pared the art down to its most efficient
and effortless core.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">[5]</span><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"> This, in no way, is a shot at Lefty’s language
capabilities, as you are the worst offender you know when it comes to
living/visiting in/a foreign country and never achieving beyond basic survival
_________ (insert language here), going as far as living in Guatemala for three
years and not becoming fluent in what most consider a fairly simple language to
pick up (I refer to Spanish here of course). Furthermore, you were so bad
that you were unwillingly entered into a “Worst Spanish Speaker” contest within
your local expat community and placed third (meaning third worst), and you felt
you were actually second (meaning second worst) or maybe had even been the
victor, but instead two other guys scored higher (or lower), probably
being given the honor only because they were even better established goofballs
than you, and would take the honor less personally and with a better sense of
humor – better party fodder in other words.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">[6]</span><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"> The reader can assume in situations like this,
that you are receiving all this information second-hand, through your girl’s
translation abilities. The author apologizes for the assumption that “Is
no problem,” would be enough to establish the fact that Lefty’s English
capabilities equip him with the ability to recognize key vocabulary aiding in
general comprehension and simple responses, but in no way give him (and
therefore the two of you) the ability to discuss higher order concepts or
specifics of any kind. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">[7]</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">A) “Listen close to the Greek being
spoken. Try and learn by using context clues and the like.”</span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">B) “You will never learn this way.
Why don’t you have a textbook or some other kind of aid? Why are you so unprepared?”</span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">C) “Have you really put yourself in this
position again? Imagine all the time you are going to spend outside of
any given conversation trying to force a look on your face that expresses
interest and contentment and not the reality of soul-crushing
tedium.”</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">[8]</span><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"> The three characters here are all riding in the
front seat of Lefty’s truck. The small rear backseat area, the kind where
seats can be folded down, is full of things you would imagine in a truck of
this type, in a place like this, and being driven by a man like this: buckets,
rope, fishing gear, old boxes, empty cigarette packs, liquids (?),
hoses/tubing, tools, and so on. The main protagonist’s girl is sitting in
the middle, somewhat uncomfortably, as she has to contort, or at least raise
left buttock, every time Lefty shifts gears. The protagonist only
slightly wonders if a feel is being copped each time this happens, and figures
the least he can do is to get over far right on projected gear changes so that
the girl can avoid probing hands if she should so desire, though this does put
the protagonist smashed up against previously mentioned suspect door,
illuminating a bit of a Catch-22, or at least a no-win situation.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">[9]</span><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"> Should be noted that this was not only from
behind (not even a full facial profile), but with the majority of his body obscured
by high taverna wall (you could tell from just the visible sliver of left,
puffy, cherub cheek that he sported a paunch that was even then butting up
against the cheap, plastic Greek table). Further bolstering your
confidence was the beaming, innocent (bordering on naïve) and obviously
non-threatening smile that lit your path to the table like a lighthouse tractor
beam. The effeminate fringe of his pink shirt collar poking out
from Abercrombie-type sweatshirt (of which you knew your girl would not be
impressed with, style-wise) was almost overkill, draping you with so much
comfort and ease that you started to feel a bit soft, to the point that you
almost started to crave a challenge, but stopped short of letting that idea
fully blossom, and instead were thinking something like, “Okay, let’s eat
some squid and drink some fucking ouzo!” by the time introductions were
officially made. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">[10]</span><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"> Not to belabor a point, but this self-effacing
humor even further relaxes you.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">[11]</span><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"> Not his real name. Upon introductions,
“Stefano,” corrects you (and Lefty) with his actual name, of which I cannot
honestly recall at the time of writing, but by then, it was of course too
late. Stefano.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">[12]</span><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"> Also not his real name. When first
re-introduced by your girl at the port, you tried to employ a memory device to
avoid just this type of confusion. The memory device was this: his first
name sounded like two first names put together: Left(y) + ________. But
it didn’t take. You struggle all night (and earlier during the ride),
pausing, stuck before each address: Leftarnold? Leftandrew?
Leftalan? Eventually you give up, and go with Lefty, gauging his reaction
for perceived signs of insult or disrespect, but find none. You feel
somewhat silly, like maybe you are at too mature of an age to use such a
“cutesy” nickname, or that maybe you’re level-stepping this relationship to
already have gone to a term of endearment, and that maybe there is some
cultural line you are overstepping, but “Lefty” seems to be responding without
being charmed or visibly disgusted, so you go with it. You also realize
you have become your mother, and have now fully surrendered to her habit of
mangling names of people and places to something more memorable to her (most
famously attaching the typically Jewish suffix, berg, for whatever reason, to
the surname “Green” of a couple that your parents were trying to buy a house
from in the original move from Ohio to Florida. The sale was a lengthy
procedure, giving her many opportunities to marinate her creation in the
nucleus of the immediate family unit, rewarding her with the sought after
groan/laughter combination and becoming the stuff of lore) – a habit you were
secretly amused and touched by, but feigned disgust in the typical complexities
of parent/child dynamics.</span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
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<o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></o:p><br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07217558321639384240noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9141251482918276849.post-15181702209802842602014-08-06T09:32:00.001-07:002014-08-10T09:43:30.669-07:00A More Direct and Literal Comment on Expatriaton: a discourse on conspicuousness and invisibility through which the yo-yo effect is illustrated<span style="color: white; font-family: inherit;">The
other day we had to go to the doctor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>J
had to have a series of blood tests to determine whether pregnancy has inspired
diabetes in her system, as per instructions from our doctor in Casablanca.</span><br />
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<span style="color: white; font-family: inherit;"> </span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: inherit;">As
Casablanca is a three hour drive and full of potential hazards (reference the
“tout” series of posts), not to mention the discernible perils of urbanity, we
researched and settled on an Essaouira institution to jab J in the vein. The
clinic is on the “outside,” town proper (locals-only), and I took time to
assess and take stock of my general level of comfort as we made our way towards
the medina walls:</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: inherit;"> </span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: inherit;">I
generally oscillate between the sensations of feeling invisible and feeling
conspicuous in foreign countries.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rarely
am I totally relaxed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not blended
in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not absorbed. I’m not
intermingling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m on the outside. I
have to always contend with my “presence.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And that often makes me feel invisible or conspicuous – polarized. </span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: inherit;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: white;">Invisibility
and conspicuousness <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">are</i> two sides of
the same coin, only the coin is spinning so fast, purely positive or negative
connotations get blurred.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s
mish-mash.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My brain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Six weeks ago there were far fewer tourists
in the medina; it just wasn’t high season yet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We got way too much attention: merchants, stall owners, beggars, drug
dealers and restaurateurs were funneling desperation and aggression down our
throats like a stale and heavy flow of cascading Old Milwaukee beer through a
three-story beer bong. We were turning heads.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We were being overly-noticed. We were choking on our own brand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was suffocating.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I started making excuses to stay in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I questioned my choices.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Decisions were debated. The light at the end
of this tunnel was dim.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Muted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is
conspicuousness in its worst form.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-M4aAF_mpgkU/U-JYd4lt_MI/AAAAAAAAAIQ/dK8s_HFoEzc/s1600/crowd2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: white; font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-M4aAF_mpgkU/U-JYd4lt_MI/AAAAAAAAAIQ/dK8s_HFoEzc/s1600/crowd2.jpg" height="271" width="400" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><span style="color: white; font-family: inherit;">After
all this time, I still haven’t learned how to lay the needle in a groove of
proactive mood resuscitation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I just
have to skip for a while, warped and undulating.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t make a conscious effort because I
always do recover.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I trust my
instincts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s learned apathy; I let my
frame of mind right itself – “Weebles wobble, but they don’t fall down” - they
always right themselves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It doesn’t take
much: a kind word or act from a local, a great meal, an adventure, a stunning
visual, a random thought, a look, a moment – it only takes a moment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And it always comes. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Chemicals shift, and then I am high, and happy
to be conspicuous. I am getting off on the uniqueness of my situation,
relishing in the same headspace that was eating me alive only seconds before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m hovering weightless above the status
quo.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m the fucking King of the World,
transforming these exotic circumstances into my plaything – a child’s toy. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: white;">Invisibility
is just as dizzying.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I crave it in
moments of conspicuousness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I want to be
unremarkable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Typical.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have that now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I go out to buy a liter of milk, I won’t
draw that much attention as there are other tourists to dilute my
presence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can focus<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"> on the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">actual doing or experiencing of something rather than theories or ideas
</i>(lifted from dictionary definition of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">practicality
</i>- fittingly<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">)</i>. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anxiety dissipates in the wind, the current
of company blowing gale force.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Power in
numbers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Repetition soothes nerves as
well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We get less and less visible when
we wind well-trod paths.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I don the
same long sleeve oxford shirt yet again for night-time medina carousing, I
contemplate this reflex as premeditated, as to become more recognizable and
therefore more invisible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I bought this
Chinese-made shirt of glorious nondescript nature to further supplement my
disappearance ($2).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But then, I hate being
invisible too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s not that a “tipping
point” gets reached, like I become so invisible that I crave attention and want
to be “special” again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a whole
other thing:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am out of place here =
not local with a long-term investment in the place, so I become invisible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am a “mark” at best, not to be fully <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">considered </i>by people living real lives
all around me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not being seen</i>, different from
invisible, but the same.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m a
ghost.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And far from home.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4YTN1Mw11dY/U-egN1AcXqI/AAAAAAAAAJg/ePksJHrYXb8/s1600/head.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4YTN1Mw11dY/U-egN1AcXqI/AAAAAAAAAJg/ePksJHrYXb8/s1600/head.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"></span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: white;">The walk to
the clinic is depressing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Outside of the
medina is less traditional, newer, filthier, filled with the exhaust of traffic
and honking taxis.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s slum-like.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m low.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We’re sized up, curiosity intense, yet stand-offish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Polarized.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Fear is present as well – health and the well-being of an unborn is at
stake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Are we crazy?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s apparent when we step into the
bare-bones clinic that our white faces are not an everyday occurrence, and I’m
awash with doubts – I’ll bet I was mildly shaking my head to the evil rhythm of
dark thoughts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Their conspicuous stares
were a shamanic guide, directing me inwards to forcibly explore this massive
feat of irresponsibility and decadence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span><span style="color: white; font-family: inherit;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: white;">And then
everything worked out fine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Better than
fine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like it always does.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span><span style="color: white; font-family: inherit;"> </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: white; font-family: inherit; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">We rule. </span><o:p></o:p></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07217558321639384240noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9141251482918276849.post-37629112488719100662014-08-04T11:38:00.001-07:002014-08-04T11:38:28.192-07:00Who's at da beach?The lounge chair/umbrella guardiens. That's who. I'm a devoted people watcher; these guys are "the show." When "on point," they position at the waist-high wall that separates sand and boardwalk. They use a severe and sweeping hand gesture (that says, "Lookatthisbeautifulsetuphereforyou") to attack the peripheral vision and capture the attention of potential beachgoers strolling the boardwalk. They'll also verbalize, peppering the pedestrians with the standard, "Bonjour; Ola; Hello; Two people? Very nice; Good Price." But they're easygoing - not too obtrusive or harassing. On the tout-scale, they register very mellow. Once they've fished a customer out of the passing stream, negotiations are cleverly-handled as an afterthought, after customers have been shown to what I've come to regard, through the guardien's eyes, as stations. A<em>fter </em>bags have been set down<em>, after </em>cushions have been plumped and <em>after</em> umbrellas have been angled to their shadiest degree, 50 dirhams is the often-quoted starting price. As to what price is possible after haggling, I'm not sure, for my highly-developed voyeur skills are left out of the more hushed-tone proceedings.<br />
<br />
These cabana boys have impressive bodies: suntanned and buff - really ripped. A cabana boy doesn't go ten minutes without dropping to the sand for a set of push-ups or crunches. I've seen creative versions of these classic resistance exercises that are brand new to me. I steal them. Occasionally, a serious bodybuilder friend to the "boys" hangs out and shows them new exercises that I think could all be classified as isometrics. He was the first to show them a set of handstand push-ups. (Nobody else has been successful yet.) I saw him give an entire clinic of drills utilizing the lifeguard stand: each movement building upon the last, climaxing in quasi-levitation. The friend is very short but almost as wide as he is tall. He wears a djellaba which I think he enjoys taking on and off for his demonstrations on the beach - life the sheathing and unsheathing of a knife. I enjoy the show too. When the boys intermingle, talk and attention always centers around developing bodies. This I can gather from a distance: the flexing, obvious assessing, playful abdomen striking and feats of strength. <br />
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The cabana boy takes on subcontractors. Littler boys. When "the boys" want to socialize, flirt, exercise, smoke hashish, or generally leave their posts, they employ very young kids to assume the position at the boardwalk edge and drum up business. They are much crasser and less polished (less interested, less at stake) with the passersby than a knowledgeable cabana boy, wrongly employing the aggression of a shop owner within the medina walls. If they collect money, they immediately run the profits over to the senior executive. If they cabana boy is between sets, he will shell out a commission. The young ones do push-ups too, but need years to beef up their skinny frames.<br />
<br />
The cabana boy has assumed the style of a surfer. On bigger swells, there is a wave right in front of their domain. Smaller swells break a kilometer down the beach at a more strategic and shifting sandbar, in the middle and at the shallowest point of this crescent bay. Higher quality surf is littered up and down the coastline. But these are not surfers. I can tell. The majority of them are way too beefy for surfers = loss of flexibility. They are swollen up in all the wrong places to be surfers - all biceps and pectorals. No matter, they have assumed the style and swagger of surfers - no one's judging. They all wear surf baggies pulled low, exposing name-brand underwear (one read, "Gavin Klein")(also, not a surfer trait - at least not of the soul surfer). The majority sport shoulder length sun-bleached hair, kinked and natty. They don't wear shirts: their tanned torsos shrug off the sun and their musculature is like body armor. Who needs a shirt? The shakas they throw at each other are more versatile than a Westerner's use of "dude." The boys resemble each other so closely they could almost be interchangeable - whittled aesthetically from the elements. <br />
<br />
The cabana boys are flirtatious. Surrounded by sunbathing European hotties in bikinis, who could blame them? I'm sure that's the reason for their dedication to fitness, hell, I'm a believer in the notion that that is why any<em>body</em> does any<em>thing</em>. Always quick to help reposition a lounge chair, shake sand out of a towel, or adjust an umbrella position in their station, but watch them l i n g e r at a station that includes scandalous beachwear. I watched one dance with the miniature poodle of a Dutch (?) mom and daughter team today. He waited till the daughter had her beach cover-up off, then went over, lifted the dog's front paws off the ground and spun like a whirling dervish. I think he charmed all three of them. I give way too much thought to how often these guys are pulling foreign chicks. I haven't seen evidence of it (and I've looked - a lot), but I'm sure they score. <br />
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I have a real soft spot for these guys. They're always smiling and joking around. They work at the beach! The parking lot "guardiens" are extortionists that provide an illusory service, protecting <em>you (</em>your car<em>) </em>from themselves - like the mafia. The cabana boys charge for a legitimate product: a soft seat for your fat ass and shade from the sun. If I ever come back to this earth as an employable wage-earning Esso local, somebody please direct me through the parking lot and out to the beach.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07217558321639384240noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9141251482918276849.post-19133055964722932822014-08-02T07:06:00.000-07:002014-08-05T14:41:46.779-07:00Little ManI can't go anywhere around here without intruding on a soccer/football game. (It still feels pretentious to call it football.) All the little alleyways that sprout off the main arteries crisscrossing the medina have an active game in progress, day and night. Often, these are the really young kids, the under-ten set. I imagine mama has set their boundaries, full freedom in the twisting veins, right up to the main thoroughfare where the flow gets heavy with chaos and potential trouble.<br />
<br />
There is no choice but to interrupt the game - shit is narrow. First priority is protecting J's belly as the game stops for nothing, no injury stoppage, no extra time. She's been clipped before, so have I. I don't blame them, if they stopped for every passerby it wouldn't be much of a game. I think sometimes they aim for us. Hell, I wouldn't have been above it at that age, or ten years on. Softening the blow is the lack of a quality pumped-up ball. We walk right through the impact, melon-sized red plastic ball pinging off us without any visible reaction, so as not to give them any satisfaction.<br />
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I've grown comfortable with the boys in my alley - familiar. I'll approach nonchalantly and then pounce on the ball if it is in my vicinity. Once I've gotten possession, I'll wave over a defender, with taunting if I have to, and try to dribble around with something impressive - nutmegging is all I really got. They humored me at first, but my limited skill-set was quickly sussed by superior football IQ's. Now, when I get the ball, they just stand paralyzed until I've had my fun. A peaceful demonstration. <br />
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The teenagers play on the beach. The "fields" are more elaborately drawn out than I've seen in other places, etched to an almost-permanent depth. They use "real" goals - futeca-sized. One end line almost reaches the end line of the adjoining pitch. It's tough to get to the water. There's lots of arguing. They all have six-packs.<br />
<br />
The adults play in sunken concrete arenas that temporarily split the cornice/boardwalk into two. There are fans. Pace is fast. Skill level is high.<br />
<br />
But yesterday I watched the most fascinating game. They were playing on a huge asphalt slab just outside the Bab Marrakech entrance to the medina, which I have to cut across to get to la plage. What caught my eye on the approach, partially obscured by a car, was the way a striker made one deft nudge with the outside of his foot toward the center of the field, lowered a shoulder, and struck the ball without raising his head. At a target goal that was about a meter wide and built of piled-up shirts. Amazing focus and court sense/field vision. And so fluid. Though I have some history with football, I don't claim to be a expert, but I <em>do</em> have hours of World Cup play still fresh in my memory. Robben, Van Persie, Benzema, Neymar, Messi - that's what it looked like - that polished. His shot was like a rocket, but careened wide. He gaped to the sky in disbelief, hands on cheeks, opportunity blown - I guess it was a "good look." As he jogged back up the field and into position with that efficient soccer-shuffle gait meant to preserve energy for the next explosive attack, he chastised his buddy for getting him the ball too late. There wasn't a player on the court older than nine.<br />
<br />
The young'uns had taken their game outside the city walls. It had the feel and organization of a "standing game," maybe maman cutting the jalaba strings for "special permission Saturdays." I was pleased to see them out there - it nags at me a bit to see their ultra-confined games, like an itch I can't quite scratch. The quality of play was beyond impressive, but their "mature" demeanors was almost like an optical illusion. I had trouble believing what I was seeing. <br />
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I'm always mesmerized by the appearance and behavior of third-world(ish) children living adult lives - specifically, the adoption of adult mannerisms. With boring consistency, I'll say, "That's a little man right there." I think it's understood that I don't intend this comment to be one of admiration or even respect, but also not one of sobbing sympathy. It's fascination. I know I'm witnessing a childhood robbed. I'm just an observer.<br />
<br />
"How old do you think that kid is?"<br />
<br />
"Six, seven?"<br />
<br />
"Maybe. That's a little man right there."<br />
<br />
And he's drumming up business: shining shoes, serving tea, pushing carts, selling tissues, giving haircuts, playing music, singing, dancing, performing, giving directions, guiding, pitching, begging, pleading, manipulating, stealing, lying, selling, selling, selling. Little man.<br />
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There's little smiling. There's no baby fat. There's only "adult" models, and <em>they're </em>all involved with scraping by. Food and shelter. Maybe candy. That's their reality. Five years before<em> </em>my world even expanded to allow for wrapping toilet paper around neighbor's trees or jacking basketball nets from<em> </em>neighborhood hoops, these kids are making a living, and probably helping to provide for their families.<br />
<br />
They dress like adults. They tilt their hats like adults. They relate to each like adults. They move like adults. They talk like adults. They fight and argue like adults. They work like adults.<br />
<br />
And play football in their spare time.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07217558321639384240noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9141251482918276849.post-22838295939819132692014-08-01T10:41:00.003-07:002014-08-01T10:53:34.126-07:00Take<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07217558321639384240noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9141251482918276849.post-5436244715823415372014-07-31T06:33:00.001-07:002014-08-04T13:04:37.275-07:00typical dayWell, I'm gonna circle back to conclude the tout saga later - I'm bored with it at the moment.<br />
<br />
I want to tell you what a typical day looks like before it's not typical anymore. Don't expect adventure stories, 'cause that's not how we're living. Things are quite mellow, and we're both good with that - feels as though we're wallowing in these uneventful days (and fighting the urge to feel guilty about it), stacking'n em up faster than harira soup is inhaled at an iftar-signaling call to prayer. We're keeping a wary eye on each other to see who will cave first and suggest a road trip or other exploratory mission, thereby shattering this luscious zone of comfort we're basking in. <br />
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<br />
Here's what the last month has been like:<br />
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On my better mornings I roll out of bed at 7:00 and run the beach, 2k out to the ruin at the far end of the horseshoe bay and back, but more often we get up slowly between 8:00 and 8:30. Ramadan just ended, so we hopefully will have the opportunity to pedal an earlier sleep cycle soon, as the medina is quiet and the beaches are empty in the morning. Up to this point, our sleep has been disrupted regularly. My experience is that participants in the month-long daylight hours fast rearrange their schedules to varying degrees for aid in matters of diligence. I lived through several Ramadans in Lebanon, and was granted access one summer to the complete reverse-sleep patterns of a pair of Beiruti socialites. These two women (sisters-in-law, living in adjoining suites in a posh Hamra apartment complex - I tutored their daughters four days a week) simply slept all day, and were up though the night, presumably stuffing their plastic-surgery enhanced selves with sushi and full Lebanese mezze spreads. Cheating? What do I know? But I had front row observation deck seats for the humble Moroccan version of Ramadan endurance, as we are on the third and top floor of a traditional riad with a large and open inner courtyard light shaft running consistent through the structure - imagine taking the roof off a dollhouse and peering down. These guys haven't fully reversed sleep cycles, but they stay up late, nap, then fortify themselves with pre-dawn breakfast before sleeping till noon. <br />
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We're sipping coffee by 8:15. We listen to news radio - usually BBC (for posterity: Ukraine/Russia, Israel/Palestine, Malaysia Flight 370 AND 17). We linger for an hour or more. Josie makes bread. It's a pleasure. Besides a two month stint working for room and board at my friend's surf camp in San Juan del Sur, Nicaragua (which consisted mainly of going surfing) and J's later-mentioned goat gig, we haven't worked a day in ten months. And we have tried to stay conscious, with the proper amount of appreciation, for that fact. We mainly succeed.<br />
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Late morning, we split paths. J goes medina cruisin' and souk shopping - she comes back with herbs/spices, vegetables, milk and yogurt, eggs, and seafood from the fish market (sardines, shrimp or dorado). Conservatively dressed, she takes a wicker basket like a loc-dog, and recedes towards invisibility with each trip. She walks with purpose. We revel in how cheap everything is, frugality caressed. I take this time to write essays (15 and counting to date) towards my teacher license recertification, or more accurately the transition to an Oregon Initial II Teaching License. If I take the time to tangent on the process and requirement I will become so incensed about this no-sense license (to be read with rhythm) I will get grumpy.<br />
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We make lunch: sardines fried, sardine spread, sardine pizza, sardine salad. We nap, lay around. <br />
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We go swimming, sometimes for distance, sometimes to bob.<br />
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We make love. I indulge in Moroccan treats, J drinks a smoothie.<br />
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We transition to evening with a podcast (I like Joe Rogan and Marc Maron - suggestions? I'm new) and dinner prep: sardines, soup, pasta, salad.<br />
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We stream documentaries from "Top Documentary Films," the only site that functions uninterrupted.<br />
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We sleep.<br />
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<br />
A theory on why we're so content to do little (and be home):<br />
<br />
a) We've been transient/homeless for nine months. A quick account: since I left New Zealand last October, shortly after to chase down J in Fuerteventura, Canary Islands, Spain (where she was herding goats and making cheese), we've been on the move: Greece, Italy, France, Florida, Nicaragua, Florida II, France II, Spain II, and finally Morocco. <br />
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b) The Spanish road trip. Greece and Nicaragua were multi-month situations with almost regular schedules, but the other stops we were guests or tourists, never static enough to own our surroundings, culminating in a six-week roadtrip thru Spain that was hardcore by anyone's standards: (mainly) camping on rivers or beaches or lagoons or in fields in sand dunes in campgrounds in forests, sleeping on the ground, eating by campstove, hiking, canyoning, swimming, cliff jumping, slab soaking, shapeshifting, driving: a complete delight but exhausting as hell.<br />
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c) Josie is almost six months pregnant and slowing down. Slowing way down to live in strict accordance with <u>What to Expect When You're Expecting.</u> I'm slowing down by association. <br />
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There are derivations of course. Sometimes we take a picnic to the rampart wall overlooking the ocean. We hiked in Paradise Valley. We read. There's French lessons. J sketches. We eat out occasionally. We stroll. <br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07217558321639384240noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9141251482918276849.post-65176667427803087122014-07-29T06:21:00.002-07:002014-07-29T10:34:02.788-07:00(cops are the biggest) Touts - part troisFast-forward five shaky kilometers down the highway (at a conservative 30mph). The nervous chatter in the car revolves around the fact that we have driven all the way from Nice without incident, and now, so close to our final destination, we run into trouble. So fitting. I'm keeping up a conversational front, but internally I'm trying to stay buoyant in a rising tide of conflicting emotions. Josie is returning the cordiality, thinking she's pacifying me with clumsily churned out and chapped lip service, but she's clearly even more in her own head than usual. So many daydreamed scenarios are vying for my direct attention, that I'm conscious of active sorting - working one out to its logical conclusion and then dealing with the next one that has slotted into place. <br />
<br />
Until I'm getting waved over again. There are a few cops in the middle of the street, and some cars pulled over to the side, victim to some sort of random "check." Coasting down this descent, the fortified Medina walls of Essaouira clearly visible now, I refuse the possibility that we could be singled out for another scam. The odds are against it. But it is definitely me he wants. My first thought is that "Senior" has radioed ahead with our vehicle description and plate number to exact more dirham from the disrespectful tourists. And I'm handing over: license...passport...registration... insurance. A beefier cop this time, he's off on a tri-lingual (English, French and some Arabic), mainly-incomprehensible monotone monologue of semi-rehearsed proportions. I interrupt his flow several times to find out the "charge." He signals for me to shut up, rewinding a paragraph or so each time.<br />
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I sink mutely back into my own thoughts, submissively facilitating his concluding. I muse how I have the sensation of driving through a minefield. I feel like "they're" out to get me (though deduced from tone, it's apparent that this stop is unrelated/independent of the last one). Taking stock, I'm not sure if I'm more frightened for our physical safety or depressed about the sequence of events that has led me back to a lifestyle like this - I marinate in the mix. My breathing is labored, deep gulps helping to soothe the idea that far from being able to protect me, the "authorities" are the biggest criminals. I feel exposed like an open wound. I'm not an active humanitarian, but I take a moment to commiserate with those for whom this is part of daily consciousness. <br />
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I'm slapped back to the present moment by the price tag - 700 dirham (70 euro).<br />
I ask, "What'd I do?" Seems a fair question. Not too exasperated, he pages back into the monologue, to the part about "keep people safe must pull over." I forcefully interject, consequences be damned (I'm at that point), asking Josie to get the straight French version. We're informed we didn't react quick enough to the "wave over," as we are a few feet past a makeshift stop sign. It's insulting in its un-creativity and implausibility, and I wonder if all the cars pulled over are hearing the same explanation, or do the cops improvise with each vehicle? I realize that speed traps and immoral traffic-stops-for-profit exist everywhere, but it feels a lot "heavier" here - my skin crawls.<br />
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I tell him that I'm a teacher, "Here to educate the youth. I'm on a peace-keeping mission." (The part about the peace keeping was ridiculous. I was nervous! But the educator bullshit can be effective sometimes - works for discounts as well.)(It used to work well in Guatemala to say, "I'll let the American Embassy know about the problem you have with me." That could scare off low-level or underage security forces, but I forget this gem in the moment.) He smile is wide enough that I think I might have just skated out of this one. He pages back into his script again: delivery quickening, words running together, shifting from one foot to the other, attention back up the road with maybe his next victim, and then I see it. He rolls his eyes! He's just physically recognized what a farce this is. <br />
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Newly confident, I tell him, "I'll be happy to pay this fine in town at the police station after I go to a cash machine. Give me the ticket. I don't have any money." He grins. <br />
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Happy to be in the later stages of the negotiation, he looks me directly in the eyes (all bullshitting aside), "Okay okay, you are a peace-keeper (I'm delighted to hear this absurdness come out his mouth), 300 dirham for you today." Delivered like a fucking car salesman. And what a coincidence. This must be the bottom line fine for the day, all up and down the highway. I vehemently repeat my offer, desperate to avoid paying two bogus fines in 15 minutes - would be such a defeat. He blabbers a bit about getting the money and then coming back, and then thinks better of it. There are potential victims stealthily sneaking by us at a steady steam, a million sardines in this sea (an Esso specialty), and he cuts his losses. He cheerfully indicates that we should carry on, even giving us half-ass directions for the Medina.<br />
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Bolstered by his soft spot revealed, I take a parting shot, "Great job today officer; keep those streets safe." He is unaffected.<br />
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Next: Touts - part quatre (I battle the parking "guardien" - same day)(will be last tout-centric post: didn't mean to get this deep into it, but now I must finish)Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07217558321639384240noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9141251482918276849.post-44645067182989539122014-07-27T17:36:00.001-07:002014-08-01T09:36:00.349-07:00Touts - part deuxSo, the 16 year old cop was waving the Peugeot over. I'm immediately thinking this is a shakedown - bribe time. I'm trying to relax, deep breathing and bracing myself for the inevitable bullshit to follow. He asks for my license (in French - Josie translating). Snatch! he grabs it with so much aggression that I involuntarily bare my teeth, my face going at least mini-snarl in the way that it does. <br />
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"Registration," he spits. Snatch! Even quicker this time. I couldn't see his hand. It was like a magic trick. I'm clenching my fists now. I want to smash this kid.<br />
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"Insurance." Snatch! Gratefully, the third time tickled me. It was officially ridiculous now - shark jumped - and the tension evaporates from my pores. I simultaneously work on suppressing a giggle and formulating strategy for escaping this situation without paying. I'm percolating.<br />
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In Nicaragua, when the police demanded that I "pay ticket" for "crossing the center line," I feigned confusion and lack of language (I had been coached). Unable to navigate my filibuster with protocol, that cop dropped all pretense, opened up his citation book, pointed to where I should insert the money, and screamed "20 dollars!" Charade abandoned.<br />
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"No entiendo," I persisted. Calmly. For maximum aggravation. He got frustrated and gave up. Based on that experience I assume these guys can only ask for the money, but will stop short of car detention, arrest, violence or murder. Maybe because the money is going in their own pocket, they don't have the backing of the "system" to further pursue?<br />
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The kid starts babbling about how I was over the speed limit and I realize I hadn't even considered what my offense was, I just assumed I was being carjacked. I get out of the car to sweet talk him, but he shoves the crude handheld radar in my face - it has video! Clever. I understand nothing. <br />
<br />
"Non compren," I say, doing my best bewilderment. He wants 300 dirham (30 euros). I switch tactics. Because I'm pissed off. Because I'm stubborn. Because I don't want to "lose" to this kid. Because I can't resist the risky proposition. I tell him I have no money, and that I would be happy to pay my fine at the police station in Esso once I've visited a money machine (Josie still translating). I'm quite certain this is not a possibility, as it defeats the whole purpose for the stop. Maybe I've found a flaw in their game. Before it's even out of my mouth though, I see the potential problems I could have just created. Maybe they'll keep my license, and I'll have to go into town, get money, and drive all the way back to pay. Maybe they'll keep the car. Maybe they'll keep Josie! Then I'll say, "Oh wait, I do have the money, I forgot it was in my wallet"? Then they'll get pissed about the lying and I'll suffer for being such a smartass. We're at a stand-off. It's a duel. I literally turn my pockets inside out and shrug my shoulders. His raised tone has more fear than authority - "300 dirham!" Not exactly the Wild West. He motions me to follow, and there around the back of a dilapidated shed is his back-up. Who knew? <br />
<br />
Here is the half-asleep senior officer, reclining in an official police vehicle. The kid relays the circumstance. He barks at me. <br />
<br />
"Non-compren." <br />
<br />
Anger. <br />
<br />
I reluctantly call Josie over for translating duties.<br />
<br />
Josie: "They say you were 8 km over the limit (68k in a 60k zone: on a deserted highway: 35 mph?!) and must pay 300 dirham." I feel a bit trapped in having to stick to my story but I'm committed now. <br />
<br />
"Tell him we'll happily pay in town at the police station." I think I grin a little, cause it feels good to call out these fucking crooks. Josie and the cop go back and forth a bit, volume escalating, body language gesticulating. Then Josie goes ballistic. She's through the car window, screaming in French, but I make out "fucker." Fucker? I don't think I've ever heard her use that word. And. And she pokes him in the chest! I see myself sitting in a Moroccan prison. It has dirt floors. Senior screams back, hand poised on the handle, threatening to exit the vehicle. He's pounding the passenger seat, pointing and screaming at me to get in the vehicle. I stop and start my way to the passenger side. Josie's telling me not to get in, the cop pounding the seat, Josie telling me not to get in, the cop pounding the seat. I stop. I start. Ridiculous again. This time I'm not giggling. I'm seeing my life flash before my eyes. Really. (Turns out he did not want to take me to jail, but to take me to see the speed limit sign back up the road - nobody tells me anything.) I bear-hug Josie and forcibly walk her back to the car. I walk back to senior, hand over 300 dirham, sign some papers, and we're shaking hands. He pantomimes, "Why you let your woman act this way?" I can't even be disgusted; I'm thankful. Things mellow so quickly I get the sense this was "routine." We're back on the road.<br />
<br />
(The cop had told Josie, "I don't talk to women," and that was what fueled the freakout.)<br />
<br />
Looks like there'll be a "Touts - part three," because this day was just getting started.<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07217558321639384240noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9141251482918276849.post-66199637036227466882014-07-26T06:59:00.000-07:002014-08-03T15:47:01.392-07:00ToutsWell, I've been meaning to tell you about the (often) suffocating tout presence in this place, and the addition of today's anecdote has given me sufficient motivation. In under a month, we have already amassed an explosive handful of interactions - real over-achievers. You're probably thinking this is out of character, eh? <br />
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It's all a bit humbling, or disappointing really. I like to think of myself as quite seasoned and thick-skinned, floating above the drama of your average tour-on like a Zen puff pastry cloud stuffed with wisdom and patience. Lots of patience. (J reading over my shoulder: "You're the opposite of that.") Anyway...<br />
<br />
I've had <em>plenty</em> of<em> </em>experience with touts. <em> </em>I didn't let it ruin my experience at the Giza Pyramids, and those guys are commonly regarded as the most relentless on the planet. I got kidnapped/scammed for an entire morning in Sri Lanka when a seemingly well-meaning local offered to give me a lift to the bus station in his tuk-tuk (he insisted I tour a few temples and visit the businesses of multiple merchants he was in cahoots with), and came out smiling, still in good spirits and only 390 rupees lighter (and with an understanding of Colombo geography). And I've developed a highly efficient brush-off move for the beggar, street vendor and hashish salesman. Chiseled down to the gracefully callous through repetitive use on the mean streets of Guatemala and Lebanon (pursed lips, lowered eyebrows, barely-audible "tsk," and the hand motion of a one-armed baseball umpire signaling "safe"), it's almost undetectable to the casual bystander, but <em>they</em> know.<br />
<br />
The wheels fell off just outside Essaouira city limit though, twisted off in ironic fashion, as we had cruised through the tout hotbeds of Tangiers and Casablanca without incident. Further irony: we at least halfway picked this place (Esso) to lay up for a few months (I start teaching at an American school in the fall) because of numerous descriptions in guidebooks and online forums praising the place's mellow vibe and less persistent toutage - it is something that has to be considered. The fact that Bob Marley and Jimi Hendrix famously spent time here is used hilariously as proof positive - 40 years later. Tangiers and Marrakesh, one expects to be touted, but Esso is supposed to be an oasis-like respite. And it <em>is</em> more relaxed here, but we have managed to find the cracks. Ten kilometers from the city, after a roadtrip originating in Nice, France, we got pulled over by a 16 year old cop standing in the middle of the road with a speed gun. <br />
<br />
To be continued.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07217558321639384240noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9141251482918276849.post-90902798200397235542014-07-23T08:49:00.000-07:002014-08-01T09:16:07.310-07:00Title explainedNot really solitaire. I’m here with my wife, but the blogging is evidence of my isolation. The other night I went almost sleepless, manically binging on newly-acquired internet access. Fairly successful in resisting porn and social media, I scrolled Edward Abbey quotes and my admiration for the man got rekindled. I have been to these pages before, in much the same way I always scan his section in a bookstore or library even though I know damn well I've consumed his catalog (same for Ken Kesey, Hunter Thompson, David Foster Wallace and Charles Bukowski: all the dead and degenerate that I crave). Does everyone do that? So it’s a shout out, and I’ll work real hard to achieve some sort of paralleling thematic bent to my writing to properly represent. So, that's how we start: back-asswards and cheesy. Medina = <span id="hotword"><span class="hwc onclk" id="hotword" name="hotword">the</span> <span class="hwc" id="hotword" name="hotword">old</span> <span class="hwc" id="hotword" name="hotword">Arab</span> <span class="hwc" id="hotword" name="hotword">quarter</span> <span class="hwc" id="hotword" name="hotword">of</span> <span class="hwc" id="hotword" name="hotword">a</span> <span class="hwc" id="hotword" name="hotword">North</span> <span class="hwc" id="hotword" name="hotword">African</span> <span class="hwc" id="hotword" name="hotword">city.</span> </span><br />
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