THE END?

Well... Yes and No. 

This is the end of this story, 
but I'm still traveling. 

It's been a wild ride and I've appreciated every click and every word of support, but now we have an even bigger task to undertake! Now I'm working to be inducted into the Traveler’s Century Club (TCC) by age 40. “What is that,” you ask. Well the TCC is an international organization where all of the members have traveled to 100 countries and/or territories or more. 

If you're interested in following me as I tackle the globe and reach 100, 
then follow me on Instagram as we go Beyond 33!

If this is your first time here at 33@33, then I encourage to start at the beginning.  
Don't worry, it's a quick read!
 

That B, Re-Entry: New York

(Continued from previous post...)

This is the story I didn't want to write. This is stuff you don't actually tell people. This is a hashtag - #FirstWorldProblem. Nonetheless, it's my story and my blog for that matter and in the spirit of transparency, I'm going to share something with you about the crappier side of long term travel: Re-entry.

When I returned to NY, I was on such a high. I had lost 50 pounds while abroad and I was knee deep in buying a new wardrobe for my new body and my new job. I was also intent on picking up my career and on duplicating my adventurous lifestyle abroad while I'm NY.  If there was an event that I was invited to, then I was there. Happy hour after work? Regularly there! Gallery openings, concerts, museums, the theater, and fabulous new restaurants? All over it! I was going to explore NYC in the same vein that I had explored other cities around the world.

Day in and day out, I'd try to balance this need for adventure and newness with the expanding hours I was spending at work. I was learning my role, my coworkers, and my new company and the more I poured into work, the more miserable I became. The more miserable I became the more I tried to offset it with excitement. I was clearly unhappy, but caught In a circle jerk of denial. Denial of the fact that things weren't really the same.

In leaving and setting out on this wild adventure, I had opened a proverbial Pandora's box, allowing all those elements that garner my sense of self to break free and conquer dreams and entertain desires. Once I came back, I found myself trying to reign everything in and put it back neatly into that box, so that I could function the way I had before I left. Unfortunately, it didn't work. Nothing fit and the things I wanted before I left, no longer seemed sufficient.

So there I was forty days into my new job telling my direct supervisor that this wasn't a good fit and that I needed to resign before things went too far. He convinced me that I should stay and that things would turn around in due time. My intuition, which I'd spent the last eight months honing, was screaming and throwing up red flags life a MF! Did I listen? No. "We're back in the 'real world' again, we'll just have to make sacrifices," I said to myself.

And sacrifice I did... I would literally cry everyday on the public bus on the way to work and everyday on the way back. On really bad days, my husband would pick me up from work in the middle of the day and simply drive around Manhattan giving me the opportunity to cry without an audience of coworkers to witness. Fridays at 5pm were like Shawshank; I'd crawled though tunnels of crap and had finally seen the light! But on Sunday evenings, someone pressed rewind and I'd rage about being dragged back in.

To make matters more complicated, my husband and I were fighting all of the time. Listen to me... ALL OF THE TIME. He'd have to write his own blog to give you his side of the story, but for the most part I am now a firm believer in the old adage "If mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy." Little things would have me seeing red. It didn't matter that he had always done them. I was now in a "Don't nobody put baby in a corner" kind of mindset, where I was trying to protect what was left of my 'travel persona.' So I interpreted every action as a slight, as him challenging my new found strength, my intelligence, my ability to stand on my own. Add this to the constant crying and you could imagine how frustrated and confused he was.

So after 90 days in my shiny new job, 90 days trying to get things to fit, 90 days of crying and fighting, I quit. Again.

Now when I tell you that I quit, I mean that I quit everything. Listen to me... EVERYTHING! I'd stay in bed for weeks, cry even longer, and I surely gained every last pound, plus some, back. I had stopped going out, stopped returning calls to friends and I can recall months where I didn't even leave the apartment. I wasn't traveling. I wasn't going to school. I wasn't going to church. I did nothing!

Occasionally, I'd put on a face and attend whatever event that required our attendance, but as soon as humanly possible I wanted to get away. It was difficult to be around people and to be introduced as 'the girl who just traveled around the world.' After the mirage of questions about where I went and why, the question of 'what I was doing now' would always rear its ugly head and embarrassingly I'd have to respond "nothing." I had never been a 'nothing.' Never had to identify with doing nothing, making nothing kind of money, or having nothing to contribute to society. This was new. This was a MF!

 "If you're so upset about doing nothing, then choose something, ANYTHING, and do it," my husband would always say. He actually didn't care if I made money or not; that was my guilt, my hang up. He just wanted out from under this dark cloud that had descended upon our lives.

So I started taking random classes. No pressure, no intent, just bliss. Started taking care of my health. Started traveling with hubby on his jobs and collecting things and creating things as we went. Bliss! Somewhere in the midst of all of this, we were smiling and having fun again and I realized that I was truly at my best when I was creating and moving. I was at peace.

The funny thing, though, is that I've always been at my best when creating and moving; that's a part of my core. My core, those elements of me that I was desperately trying to shove back into that proverbial Pandora's box, were left whole. The pieces hadn't changed, the box had! The container that held my essence was now lined in gold and sprinkled with diamonds; it had become more valuable, more precious to me. At the end of the day, that trip had taught me to covet myself; to continue to break free, conquer dreams and entertain desires because I now saw myself as worth it. Ahhh.... Nirvana. Things started to fall in place.

Last week, a friend put this meme on her Facebook wall.

As soon as I saw it, I almost did a church faint. Seriously... break out that sheet and cover my legs because this spoke to me like a MF! This was my story! This was my journey! Every move I make going forward, including traveling again and writing this blog or collecting and creating things, selling them and writing another blog, is me chasing my bliss and putting her to work! It's me creating the job that will manifest the life that I want to live far beyond 33 countries.

That B, Gravity: England

Flying into London from Marrakech, I started thinking about all the places I had been, all the people I had met, and the fact that England was the very last stop on my world tour and I began crying. Not a cute, date movie cry, but an "Excuse me, Ma'am are you alright? Can I get you something?" cry. Yep... I was that chick. The one everyone else on the plane watches closely because they think that she's going to do something irrational like open the plane doors and try to take everybody out. Not cute!!

I was experiencing every feeling from happy and celebratory to sad and scared all at once and for the first time in my life, I had no words to fully describe the concept of full. So I simply cried.

By the time I'd landed, I tried to pull it together and get into the holiday spirit. It was Christmas time in London and my friends, Dalia and Yusur (remember them from Indonesia and Germany), had gathered all of their friends and they were determined to show me a very British Christmas: High Tea, shopping on Boxing Day, Stonehenge, Buckingham Palace and Windsor Castle, and a guided tour by Unseen Tours of the underbelly of London given by homeless people. Yep! Homeless people... We spent our evenings in little cafes smoking Hookah and eating Arabic food, while Dalia and Yusur's friends drilled me on 'American ways.' "So... honestly... Am I considered a terrorist in your town," they'd ask jokingly, but not really.

I was having a wonderful time, but still couldn't
break out of the doomsday feelings. Is this really the end? I don't want this too stop!

"Whats wrong with you? You've been really down these last couple of days," Dalia said calling me out one night over dinner. "I think you need to shake things up a bit." I had no clue what this meant exactly, but after another tourist marathon through London, which included a city wide scavenger hunt, I found myself strapped to a vomit inducing contraption that took you six stories above the London skyline and then dropped you! Multiple times! Two things: 1 -This heffa knew that I was afraid of heights and she still dragged my tail up there and 2 - Gravity is a Bitch!

Shopping at Portobello Road Market!

I had no interest, whatsoever, in throwing up in public. Again... So I screamed at the top of my lungs for the conductor to stop and let me off. He let me off and what followed was the female version of the
most emasculating ribbing ever received - a model looking, 110 pound, sweet girl in a hijab, calling you every variation of a 'punk' is a new low for me and my ego took a hit that day. In hindsight... I should have just stayed on the ride and puked. Seriously... at the very least I would have retained my 'Bad Chick Badges.'

Christmas with the Zinc Clan!

Cold days came and went and Christmas Eve finally arrived. Yusur's family mercifully took pity on me and bailed me out of my hostel right before the wards drunkingly decided to perform a makeshift Christmas play. Though her family doesn't celebrate Christmas, they wanted to make sure that I had a nice holiday. So they cooked up a traditional
American Christmas dinner and we ate, laughed, and ate more. It was a perfect Christmas Eve and I will never forget the kindness of these strangers turned family.

By Christmas Day I'd finally shaken off the funk and I was looking forward to going home, but first I had to make THE call. Every year, my entire extended family (all 40+ people from grandma to aunts and uncles to cousins) dial in for our Christmas conference call. THE call is typically multiple, very loud, conversations where everyone is talking over each other, while laughter, crying and background noise mix seamlessly until my grandmother is ready to pray. Through all of the madness, my aunt screamed "Hey Davita! Where are you this Christmas?!"

"Oh! I'm in London celebrating Christmas with an Iraqi family," I replied jokingly, but not really.

Crickets... Not one damn word.

I died laughing and proceeded to tell them about Christmas dinner. I told them about the shopping at the vintage markets on Portebello Road, the massive Christmas displays at Harrods and I even told them that I was nearly arrested (slight exaggeration, but only slight) after Yusur's little sister had us climbing fences and sneaking into closed amusement parks! They got the gist; I was having an amazing time with good people and that was all that mattered!

Amazing time with good people

A few days later, I set out for home and I felt fantastic. I needed sky high platforms with fish swimming in the heels by the time I landed in New York - full pimp mode! I had done it! I set a goal and conquered it. I had realized a dream. I had just traveled through 33 countries in celebration of my 33rd birthday and frankly, I could have gotten "Who gon check me boo?" tattooed across my forehead and it would have been quite appropriate on the new me. I was coming home to a waiting husband and a brand new position with a major company and I was feeling myself!

Gravity, though, is indeed a bitch and sometimes your highest highs foreshadow just how low you can fall...

(To Be Continued)

Yusur and our lovely tour guide!

Blending: Morocco

It hasn’t escaped me that at this very moment I probably look homeless…

Note: I left my camera in the hotel in Marrakesh. It's being shipped back,
but I'm grateful to Dalia Farah for allowing me to use her photos in order to complete my post.

Seven months ago, I would have never even considered sleeping overnight on the floor of Madrid International Airport or any public building for that matter. Tonight, however, I’m doing it for the third time and it has occurred to me that I’m actually finding it increasingly easier to blend in. For example, tonight I’m just another young traveler, hippie type, sleeping on linoleum to save money and time, while patiently waiting for my early morning flight. With Indian scarves and Indonesia sarongs thrown over our heads to keep out the light and passports and money secured tightly against our bodies to guard from the night time pickpockets that troll these parts, another traveler and I share a wall space with an outlet and arrange our bodies in a manner that camouflages our charging laptops, iPhones and iPads. This is yuppie style homelessness circa 2011 and I’m learning to blend with my surroundings.

Tomorrow, when the airport turns all the lights back on to full strength and security gently nudges those who haven’t gotten the hint that it’s time to “look normal”, I will wake and join the women in the restroom washing and changing into whatever appropriate attire is required for the next leg of their journey. This time is different though…

Having spent so much time in Spain trying to get well while juggling sightseeing and tourist demands, I didn’t pay attention to the fact that my next stop, country number thirty-two, is Morocco. I mean, I knew I was going to Marrakesh, but I didn’t really think about the details. Morocco is a North African, Muslim country and I am a female; there are rules to engagement when traveling to countries like this and up until this moment I hadn’t even thought about it. Crap!! Where is my head?! Pulling out my laptop, I immediately started searching. What should I wear? Do I need to cover my head? What about my arms and legs? Can I wear pants?

The first website I Googled, suggested that I purchase a Jelaba, throw it over my clothing and wear it as soon as I leave the airport. It was too late for that so I searched more and found a women’s travel forum where other women advised that modest dress, which consisted of ankle length skirts, no pants, and long sleeve shirts, was a must for women traveling alone through Morocco. This wasn’t my first time in a Muslim country and in general, modest clothing is a rule of thumb for all females traveling solo wherever you are in the world, so I was okay with these suggestions. The no pants and ankle length skirts thing, however, threw me for a loop and I began to worry because I had nothing packed to fit the bill. Opting for a long sleeve, turtleneck tunic over jeans, I changed my clothing and checked in to my flight hoping that I could still blend in.

Let’s be honest… As a black, American, female traveling alone, I rarely blend in completely with the people around me and have learned to live with the stares, questions, random hands reaching out to touch my hair and all the other oddities that go with people trying to “get to know me.” Having long ago given up the notion that I can fade into the scenery, I now opt for being me, in full color, packed with an understanding of my principals and the cultural norms of my host country. To me, showing reverence for your host country’s customs is the cornerstone of blending in.

For the last seven months, I’ve been so in tune with the changing customs and culture of people from one country to another, that I actually get mad when I see western tourists who travel and disregard “the rules.” Seeing booty shorts and tight leggings with spaghetti tanks on the flight to Marrakesh enrages me. When people leave their home and visit another country expecting to act the same because of their status, I see red. In more cases than not, the locals are kind and will give tourists leeway in terms of not understanding all of their customs, but to flagrantly disregard the easiest and most widely accepted standards is a slap in the face. Occasionally you see the same scenario in India, the same in Malaysia, and the same thing in temples, mosques and cathedrals across the world where these same tourists become angry when they aren’t allowed to enter and I walk past with a smile. Idiot!

As the flight lands and I make my way to my hotel, I am absolutely beside myself in wonder. The dessert sand and camels along the side of the road are such an odd juxtaposition to the palm trees, modern red clay buildings, fountains, and contemporary stores of the city in which we are headed. The snowcapped High Atlas Mountains in the background make for an even stranger painting, but I enjoy the contrast. The sun is shining brightly and I’m hotter than hell in all these layers, but I think I’m going to love it here and I can’t wait to get out and explore. However, first I need food and a real nap; not necessarily in that order.

Once I checked into the hotel and got comfortable, I crashed. It was dark outside when I finally woke up, so the hotel ordered me food and I waited in their formal restaurant which they opened for me only. This is my first lesson in the inexhaustibility of Moroccan hospitality and lesson two was on its way…

While sitting alone in the empty, large restaurant among low, dark, wooden Moroccan tables and booths crammed with lustrously colored pillows, the waiter from the hotel’s restaurant at their other property, Samil, enters bringing my food. “I saw you enter the hotel earlier and you look so happy,” he says excitedly while destroying the blanket of quietness, “The British don’t smile, so you must be American!”

“Yes,” I respond giggling; his energy is infectious.

“I love Americans!” he proclaims, clapping and then throwing his hands in the air. He immediately reminds me of Balki from the 1980’s sitcom Perfect Strangers and I’m not surprised when he sits down and talks to me for my entire meal telling me about the landscape, things I should see, and places I should visit while in Marrakesh.

The hustle and bustle of the souks

“Samil, I’m concerned that I don’t have appropriate clothing and I don’t want to be offensive. Should I buy a jelaba tomorrow?” I ask towards the end of the meal.

“Oh my goodness,” he replies rolling his eyes and chuckling. “Maybe a decade ago! Marrakesh isn’t like that anymore,” he continues, educating me about the new family laws that King Mohamed 6 created giving women more power and rights as civilians and individuals. “Now you will find four types of women: those dressed entirely in traditional attire and covered completely, those who dress modestly and wear hijabs, those who dress modestly but don’t cover their head, and those who do whatever they want. I, personally, think the short skirts and high, high heels are too much, but it’s their choice,” he says.

Let’s be honest… Everything I thought I knew about Islamic culture I learned in the U.S. I learned it through television. I learned it through superficial interaction with Muslims while in college and I learned it by reading. This, however, was the second time I had actively engaged a young, Muslim in a conversation about their faith and everything I was learning was in direct contradiction to what I thought I knew. So, over the next few days I set out to see and experience modern day Morocco with my own eyes.

At the tanneries! Photo courtesy of Abdel Jalil

My first day out, I joined a tour in order to get outside of the city and see the surrounding areas. The tour took me to the Jardin Menara, along the outer wall of the medina and also along Ave Mohammed V up to Koutoubia Mosque within the medina. I saw the Royal Theatre and the Palace of Congress on that route. I also drove through La Palmeraie, an area north of Marrakesh that consists of palm trees as far as the eye can see. It’s so beautiful that expensive resorts, golf courses, and equestrian centers have begun to muddle the backdrop and I’m happy to have seen it now before it becomes over commercialized. I finished my day by rambling through the souks at Place Jemaa El Fna and getting both lost and overcharged at every turn.

Thankfully, my friends in London hooked me up with one of their friends in Marrakesh, Jalil. So on the second day, I connected with him and I was able to re-explore the souks and the Old Town neighborhoods in depth. If I said I wanted to see it, then he made it happen. Jalil guided me through the different areas of the souks, helped me by negotiating prices for things I wanted and took me to the leather tanneries, which were fantastic and uber smelly. I work in fashion production, but seeing first-hand how the skins were cured in pidgeon poop and lye gave me a new appreciation for people in my industry. Experiencing these types of off the beaten path places is one of the benefits of traveling with someone from that country. Not only did I see things that wouldn’t have been on anyone’s tour, but I ate in places in would have NEVER gone into by myself.

Jalil carving wood. Photo courtesy of  Rachel Moyse.

Another benefit of traveling with a local is the ability to ask questions, and boy did I! I know that Jalil was probably going mad answering all of my questions, but as usual the kindness of Moroccans is nearly limitless, so he took it in stride. Nevertheless, I kept apologizing for running him all over the city and asking him a million things about Islam, Muslim culture and cutoms, and Moroccan history, to which he replied, “Americans always ask these types of questions. I don’t mind answering because how you guys view all Muslims is insane; we are people and each person is different.” He’s right and I realize that what I’ve learned about modern Islamic culture during my short time in Morocco has forever changed my outlook on Muslim people.

Many Muslims are essentially just travelers moving through a time period where they each have to negotiate changing international customs and cultures.  As such, they are learning to live with the stares, questions, random hands reaching out to touch their hijabs and all the other oddities that go with people trying to “get to know them.” Having given up the notion that they can fade into the scenery, they have now opted for being themselves, in full color, packed with an understanding of their faith and the world’s shifting norms. These are modern Muslims circa 2011 and they too are learning to blend with their surroundings. 

A Nightmare on Spanish Streets

I know that catching a cold is really just a part of life, but life has a tendency of getting in the way sometimes and when you’re traveling it can really complicate matters. For example, getting medicine or going to the doctor in a city where you don’t speak the language is a nightmare. A real, honest to God, nightmare! If you think medical terms can be difficult to say in English, try looking them up in French or in Spanish and then repeating what you read to a nurse. I learned this the hard way in Spain when I went to the nurse to get something for my runny nose, headache, and chest cough. Rough spanish meets rough english meets Charades and thirty minutes later, she gave me fifty pills and advised me to take one every eight hours. I couldn’t read the labels and was slightly unsure of her verbal directions, but figured that anything was better than nothing and I needed help if I was going to get through Spain.

Oh, Spain…

At La Boqueria

I love Barcelona, but will definitely have to return someday and do it right. The architecture, the people, the language, and the food are all so divine and so vast that you need time to really explore it. I, unfortunately, was being a tourist while simultaneously fighting a nasty cold. So I spent the first few days alternating between bed and the Barri Gotic, the Gothic city center. There I visited the Market of la Boqueria, where I was amazed by the food presented, and La Plaça Catalunya, where I sat for hours with a box of tissue watching street performers and tourists. The highlight of my time in the Gothic Center was visiting the World Press Photography exhibition at Centre de Cultura Contemporània de Barcelona. The photos were mind blowing and I will definitely be on the lookout for this exhibition for years to come.

 Gustavo Cuevas' photograph of the goring of bullfighter Julio Aparicio from the exhibition

Like I said before, Barcelona is huge and although I visited a few places I hadn’t even scratched the surface. Unfortunately, any attempt to explore further outside of the city center was complicated by my cold. I missed two walking tours and repeatedly got lost having fallen asleep on the train. As a result, I spent the very last day sprinting around the city trying to see Barcelona’s main sites from a 2 ½ hour hop on- hop off bus tour. Nightmare! Thankfully, I did get a chance to see the works of famous Spanish architect, Antonio Gaudi, which includes La Pedrera and my favorite Casa Batllo, with its tiled roof made to look like dragon scales. From the tour I also saw the Caixa Forum, Barcelona Palace and the Olympic Village. What I didn’t get to explore at length were Frank O’ Gehry's Peix (Fish) sculpture and Gaudi's La Sagrada Familia, which are the two main attractions I wanted to see. Sigh…

 La Pedrera

Staying on schedule, I left Barcelona and took the train to Bilbao. I came to Bilbao for two reasons. The first was to meet up with my friend Santiago who had just finished his Master’s program in Bilbao. I met Santiago in Venice and he offered to be my Basque Country guide before heading back to Columbia to resume work with the U.N. The second reason I wanted to go to Bilbao was because there are only five Guggenheim Museums in the world and Bilbao, a city of roughly 400,000 people, plays host to one of them; completely unusual. Not only do they have a Guggenheim, but, as mentioned before, the museum was designed by architect Frank O. Gehry. This building is considered one of his best works and the fact that it’s in Bilbao says more about the quality of life there than anything else.


My train to Bilbao arrived late in the evening and Santiago and his friend picked me up and took me to my hotel. I was still feeling sick, but I was determined to get through the last days of my trip in good spirits. So, I popped my last pill for the day and headed out.

Guggenheim Museum, Bilbao

“Where are we going tonight,” I asked, trying to sound chipper and up for the night’s events.


“We are taking you to a weekend Basque tradition,” they answered and we walked.



Bilbao is absolutely lovely, especially at night, and it’s very walkable. As we headed to our destination, walking along the riverfront, passing little shops and quaint squares, I couldn’t help to notice how into Christmas the Bilbotarras (people of Bilbao) were. Everywhere you looked, shops, streetlights and anything not moving was decorated to the hilt and heaped with lights, trees and bows. Apparently the decorations had been streamlined this year due to the economic crisis, which is actually a scary thought because the display was already amazing.

City Hall, Bilbao

We continued down narrow, cobbled streets until we arrived at a long corridor of bars packed with people mingling and drinking everywhere. Santiago’s friend explained that the area we were walking through was Bilbao’s historical old town district known for its seven streets, Zazpikaleak or Las Siete Calles it’s called. This particular street is where the traditional tavern crawl is done on the weekends. Jokingly, he explained the rules saying, “You start at one bar at one end of the street, have a drink, talk and then head to the next bar. You do this all night until you get to the other end of the street and can’t walk anymore.” The length of the street and the number of bars, not to mention the number of people, suggested that this was going to be a very long night.


“I’m on meds, so I’m not drinking alcohol. I’m sticking to tea,” I informed them.

The Riverfront, Bilbao

This sounded like a great plan, but the very first bar didn’t serve tea or coffee, so I had to be content to just hang out listening to the Spanish conversations flowing all around me and occasionally be pulled this way or that way to meet this or that person. Still serving as my Basque country guide, Santiago introduced me to a wine only made in Bilbao. “This is the Basque National drink.” Santiago said. “It’s light; I think you would like it. Here take a sip of mine.” It’s just a sip, I thought to myself as I tasted the sweet, smooth, drink with ridiculously high alcohol content.


This is when the real nightmare began…

Ten minutes after my sip, my mouth started to water, my internal organs felt like they were congealing, and suddenly I was dizzy. I thought it would pass, so I waited it out swallowing my spit to quell the uneasiness and pretending to understand the woman speaking to me. Five minutes more and it got violent; the way in which it attacked my stomach suggested I was in trouble. “Where are the restrooms,” I blurted, loudly in English, interrupting several conversations around me. “Towards the back,” Santiago offered, pointing in the distance.


I made my way back there, soundlessly berating myself for mixing alcohol and prescription drugs. I’m not eleven, I know better than this!Unfortunately, hindsight was of no help, as the line to the bathroom was ten people deep! “I cannot be that chick that throws up in the club,” I thought to myself trying to muster up my fleeting pride. Two minutes later, the line hadn’t moved and realizing that I just might be that chick, I high-tailed it for the streets. Pushing my way through a mass of people, I said “pardon me” in English, Japanese, and Croatian, but could not, for the life of me, remember how to say it in Spanish, which is the easiest!


Desperately, I ran down the corridor, sweating, stumbling and searching for a quiet place, an alley off the main stretch, a port-a-potty, ANYTHING!! I finally found an empty side street and ducked down it, spilling the contents of my stomach all over a shopkeeper’s steps and dropping to the ground in exhaustion. Nightmare! In the distance I could hear people coming down the street and not wanting to appear like the drunken, black, lady in the alley, I slowly picked myself up and leaned against a building hiding my face. Pride…


“Thank God that that is over,” I thought as I collected myself. The people passed and I gently made my way back to the bar. Mid way down the corridor, the viciousness that attacked my body earlier and moved north suddenly reappeared, this time moving south and FAST. WTF?!!! I raced back into the bar, really shoving people this time and not apologizing for it, and quickly told Santiago and his friends that I was ill and was leaving. Then I turned around and ran back out before he could offer to take me back to the hotel. I cannot have witnesses to the events of this evening! Pride…


Trying to remember the directions from which we came, I prayed HARD while awkwardly swaying down streets lit by f’ing Christmas lights that were once beautiful, but were now only making me dizzier. “Heavenly Father. Jesus. Mercy. Oh my God.” Taking my passport and credit cards out of my purse and putting them in the back of my pants like a gun, I was mindful enough to know that anyone could rob me at this point and I wouldn’t be able to do a thing about it! “Oh, Christ the Lord. Jesus. Please God.” It’s one thing to puke in public, but there’s absolutely no excuse for anyone between the ages of seven and seventy to shit their pants in public. “Father. Christ the King. Help me, Jesus.” I came to a busy intersection and God must have heard me because out of nowhere appeared a taxi stand I hadn’t seen before. Of course there was a line…


If anyone or anything was going to go in the streets of Bilbao, it was going to be my pride first; Pride definitely goeth before the fall! I jumped the short taxi line, hopped into the first taxi, threw my hotel key card into the driver’s lap and pleaded, “Rapido, Por Favor. Emergencia! Andale, arriba, arriba,” like a crazy woman. He took one look at my face, one look at my key card, put the car in gear and ran two lights getting to my hotel in record time. Not waiting for change, I overpaid him, and raced through the lobby like Freddie Kruger was chasing me. Riding to the seventh floor in that slow ass elevator I started crying! “I’m not going to make it! I’m really not going to make it! Oh, my God! Why did I put my passport back there?!”

I made it and twenty minutes later, I sat in a bath tub calling my mother. “I think I should go to the hospital,” I told her. “What happened? Are you okay? Where are you? Do we need to come out there?” She asked, panicking and shooting off questions before I could answer. Finally, I recounted the events of the evening and once I finished, all I could hear was hysterical laughter on the other end of the phone. “It’s out of your system now,” she said in between big guffaws. Parents can be so cold sometimes… This was literally the worst night of my life and here she is dying of laughter.

Pintxos!

The next day I woke up late, threw out the remaining pills, and contacted Santiago to apologize for deucing out on him and his friends. His only gripe was that I hadn’t called once I made it back safely and since I didn’t want to explain what happened, I just apologized again and let it ride. We met up later for a trip to the Guggenheim and a mini tour of the rest of Bilbao, which included the Alhóndiga a new uber-modern, interactive, community, exhibition hall and media center built in the center of Bilbao. Since Bilbao is also known as a gastronomy epic center in Spain, we also went to dinner and ate Pintxos, which are Bilbaoan tapas consisting of really elaborate toppings on toasted French bread. Over dinner, Santiago said, “So what happened last night? By the look on your face, I knew it wasn’t good.”

I responded, "It wasn’t and I honestly don’t know if I’m even going to tell people about it.” Thinking it over and still trying to revive the last of my dying pride, I added, “If I do decide to write about it and you read it, can we please act like it never happened?”

“Wow. That bad, huh?”

Nodding my head in disgust, I replied, “A nightmare! I’ll never forget Spain, that’s for sure.”

Supermarket Vending Machine in Train Station

Casa Batllo

Réveillera (Wake up): France

This is the second time I’ve been to Paris and I’m happy I returned.  The first time I was able to do all of the touristy stuff like Euro Disney, the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame and the Louvre. This time, however, I was able to just wake up and walk! You really can see the city with new eyes when you have no agenda and you can simply go wherever captures your eye. Sometimes I woke up and wandered along the banks of the Seine. Sometimes I woke up and purposely got lost on the train, getting off wherever it took me. And sometimes I woke up and sat on a park bench and people watched for hours while eating French pastries and sipping chai.

It sounds cliché, but watching regular people do regular things amongst a backdrop so saturated in beauty is surreal. At times I wanted to stop the lady playing catch with her dog and say, “Do you realize that you’re playing in front of the Eiffel Tower?” Or tap the man screaming at his children and say, “Hey, you’re in the Louvre!” The reality of the situation is that many of us can get so caught up in everyday life that we don’t get the opportunity to simply wake up and be. Wake up and appreciate.

I have no story to tell of Parisian wonders or traveling mishaps, but it’s Christmas Eve and I wanted to first say Happy Holidays to all those who read this mess of a blog. I have three countries left and my trip is winding down, so I may be feeling sentimental. Nevertheless, while you’re rushing around the house cleaning, cooking, and opening presents, I wanted to encourage you to take a moment, breathe, and enjoy.

Here’s to waking up!

Sex, Drugs, Rock N' Roll: Netherlands



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When I was little, the mothers of the church forbade us to cross our legs in church. Till this day I’m not sure what God and crossed legs have in common, but like wearing red lipstick or short skirts, it was one of those church rules we were supposed to follow. I, on the other hand, mentally added it to my list of rebellious acts to perform. My mom use to say that a “hard head, makes a soft butt”, but I figured that that only applied if you got caught. So, whenever I got a chance, I dangled my bobby socked foot like a grown woman, crossing chubby thighs, slick with Vaseline and glistening to Sunday perfection.

Breaking the rules carried with it a sense of manifest destiny, a rush of living on your terms. However, let something bad happen later, like a fall off a bike or a Nintendo game that won’t play even after blowing on the cartridge a thousand times,  and the first thought that would come to mind is, “I shouldn’t have crossed my legs in church!”  Interestingly enough, it doesn’t matter how old you get, the initial freedom and subsequent guilt associated with doing something “wrong” can rear its nasty, little, head in just about any old place. I use to think that this cycle of freedom and guilt was a universal truth that everyone experience; I’ve since learned that this may just be cultural.

Old Gates of the City, now a restuarant.

So I’m in the Netherlands, Holland, home of windmills, pointy hats, and clogs. However, I’m specifically in Amsterdam, home of sex, drugs, and rock n’ roll, so all the other cliché landmarks can be placed on the back burner. This is a trip of exploration and I have every intention of exploring all the legal avenues placed before me or so I think.

National Monument

The first day, I took a massive three and a half hour walking tour of Amsterdam.  We met at the National Monument in Dam Square and then headed all over the city seeing the Amsterdam's Royal Palace, The House of Anne Frank and Descartes, Rembrandts Home, and the Old city gates of Amsterdam. The guide on this tour was excellent and really funny, so people asked a lot of questions. While touring the canals, one of the ladies in the group asked why there were no railings and warning signs along the banks. “This is really dangerous! People could fall in if they were drunk or something,” she commented. The tour guide responded, “Of course they could and they do fall in all the time! They just have to swim and get out.  Railings and warnings aren’t needed because this is Amsterdam, where personal responsibility is paramount. The state shouldn’t have to help you protect yourself from your own poor decision making.” 

“Well, that’s a new concept,” I thought to myself as we proceeded along the way.

Towards the end of the tour, I’m talking to the guide and he asks, “So, what are you going to get into tonight?” I respond, “Well, I was thinking about going to a live sex show.” He starts coughing, nearly choking on his spit. “Sorry about that,” he says looking slightly sheepish, “I didn’t expect you to say that. You don’t look like the type.” Now, I’m not sure if this is a compliment or an insult and I’m left wondering what my type looks like; nevertheless, I just nod and say, “No problem.”

The houses lean and are built pitched forward....

“If you really want to go to a show tonight, then I have some suggestions,” he continues. I know that I’ve seen some things, but a live sex show is wading into new waters for me, so I’m all ears. He begins advising which theaters I should stay away from. “They are cheap, but a little seedy and they don’t care what the performers look like,” his says. Levels of seediness? Ok.  Finally, he determines that I should go to Casa Rosa.” The theater is bright, there are a lot of tourists there, and you should feel fine going alone,” he says with finality.  It’s legal, it’s Amsterdam, and it’s on my bucket list. I’m there.

After explaining how to get there, he scrunches up his face and asks if I’ve even gone into the red light district yet. The way in which he is asking me this, makes me think that he sees a Burqa, instead of the jeans and sweater I have on. Nevertheless, I feel the need to show him my “rebel persona”, so I tell him that my hostel is actually in the red light district. Thank you very much! I began recounting the previous night’s tale of arrival. Walking past S&M shops, condom stores, and clubs with a ‘shoes only’ dress code, I was initially shocked that I hadn’t read the directions to the hostel more clearly before booking, but more excited that I was actually in the famous red light district.  “Yea, but have you seen the windows yet?” he asks. I hadn’t, so he suggested that I take an evening tour with the guide first.  It’s an upsell. I recognize it a mile away, but I sign up anyhow.

During the evening Red Light District tour we visited the World’s first Stock Exchange, China Town, The Condomerie, Warmoesstraat: the hardcore leather neighborhood, and The Old Church, a massive church directly in the middle of the red light district. The tour would have been great, but our guide, a fifty plus, American, male, kept using popular slang for genitalia, instead of the proper names (which drives me crazy), and he kept commenting on the girls he wanted to “come back and bang later.” With these types of comments and a tour group of nearly all female, solo, travelers, the tour quickly became kind of creepy, instead of informative. So, I cut out early because I had an appointment with Casa Rosa; the oldest erotic theater in Amsterdam.

How do I explain a live sex show without placing a warning on this post?

Let’s start with a story…

During my sophomore year in high school, students were required to watch a slide show of sexually transmitted diseases as a part of our Biology course. This was such a big deal that we had to get permission from our parents and the upper classmen had been hyping us up about this since freshmen year. The day of “The Event” everyone was on time for class and excited about seeing something consider so taboo. The first slide went up and there was a noticeable shocked silence in the room, followed by a chorus of uneasy laughter. I recall looking at the teacher and thinking, “You guys are not playing around!” After viewing slide after slide of mangled penises and putrefied vaginas, towards the end it just started looking like… Biology.

This is exactly how I felt in the show…

Every ten minutes performers went on stage in a choreographed and thematic display of sexual intercourse done to music: the emo couple, the urban couple, the punk rockers, the country western couple, the Latinos etc. After the initial shock, uneasy laughter, and thinking “You guys are not playing around”, it just became… Biology. It initially felt “wrong” to be watching something so taboo, but in the end I could have been watching the mating rituals of bovine on the Animal Planet and it would have had the same outcome: no big deal at all. Between the red light district tour and the live sex show, I felt like I had sufficiently explored the Sex clichés of Amsterdam. So I checked it off my list and moved on to drugs.

Now, coffee houses are abundant in Amsterdam and the opportunity to get high on marijuana is as easy as ordering a Starbucks latte. With that said, I don’t live in Amsterdam; I live in “New Amsterdam” where the usage of marijuana is not looked upon highly, especially in the job market and I have to get back to work. So, I made a grown folks decision to opt out of this experimentation and settled for a different type of “higher education” – Cannabis College.

According to their website, The Cannabis College Foundation is “a non-profit information centre based in the heart of Amsterdam. [They] strive to provide visitors from across the globe with correct, objective, and honest information regarding every aspect of the Cannabis sativa L. plant.” The College has several experts on hand to answer visitor’s questions regarding marijuana and hemp. They also have literature, displays and movies about hemp and its usage. Lastly, they have an organic, public Cannabis garden growing in there basement. Which I had to see…

I went to Cannabis College the next morning and walked in feeling like I was breaking the law, but prepared to learn something. The moment I stepped through the door, I walked up on a man taking a hit off of the Vaporizer, which looks like a blender with a sandwich bag attached to it. He was coughing like crazy and in a Katt Williams voice I wanted to say, “Do you know that I can see you?” Unconsciously, I kept looking over my shoulder and waiting for the police to come in and raid the place. I was so uncomfortable in there that I didn’t ask a single question. I didn’t view the marijuana garden and I didn’t even stay long. One lap around and I immediately left. In my head, I still associate marijuana usage with people sneaking around red light parties or rolling at home in privacy, so I realized that I wasn’t really comfortable with pubic drug use. It still felt “wrong.”

In order to actually get my higher education, I went to the Hash Marijuana Hemp Museum not too far from Cannabis College and was rewarded by a wealth of things I didn’t know.  Hemp can be used for just about everything from building materials to medicine to clothing to soap and beauty products. When I finished touring the museum my view on the plant, in general, had changed. I now had more respect for its properties and didn’t see it simply as a 420 point of celebration. The museum also has a display about how marijuana is viewed in many cultures around the world. Seeing many of the old, propaganda films out of the U.S gave me greater insight into my own psyche and made the experience that much more profound.



Hemp Guitar



So, here’s what I really like about Amsterdam. When you’re a kid and someone tells you that you can’t do something, you immediately start looking for ways to get around it. If you were like me, then you did it when no one was looking.  You crave the opportunity to rebel, break the rules, and live life on your terms. In Amsterdam, many of the things we consider taboo in the U.S are actually accepted (hard drugs not included). Since nothing is off limits, you would think that there would be high addiction rates, crime, and pimps beating up prostitutes on the corner. Yet, it’s the exact opposite; lower drug related crimes, lower rates of STDs, etc. So, instead of creating a culture perpetuated by a craving for rebellion followed by feelings of guilt, they’ve created a culture of self-awareness and personal responsibility. A culture where, like I did, people can determine their own limits, what’s right and what’s wrong for them, and then act accordingly. Hmm…Brilliant!