Evangeline

Bringing back Cee Lo Green; did you know 'Fuck You' was written about the record industry that always passed him by? It makes the song better and easier to understand. Only you don't really need to understand it when you're driving the orchards ordering all the bare peach trees to suck it.

I was too harsh on Simon Pegg. His book is thoughtfully written and very earnest. He's interested in all the closed circles his life has taken - famous idols now friends, etc. Not the greatest, but nothing to spit on. If you're looking for an amazing 'autobiography' I would insist on Michael Palins diaries. It's not just a detailed look at the beginning and rise of Monty Python, it also deals with labor politics, paint colors for the kitchenette, IRA bombing, thirty year old men dressing as women, and the course of his fathers Parkinsons. It's hard not to be enamored, and while it's a tome it is comfortably broken up.

I forgot to mention that I sent a rough draft of the Cannibalism article to Philip and I was met with instant validation. Now I'm trying to find an article to mimic in tone in the journal we're aiming to have publish us. Which has only gotten me flustered. Gummy Tree Phylogeny activities and worksheets? I wouldn't pay attention, and even in Middle School I would have found that degrading. But then I was the aristocratic youth that got marshmallows suck up his nose. I would know quality.

Look at that ocean of testosterone - mucking up the floors with his raw, sloughing charisma. Pursed lips ready to tell you what-for.

So I'm either developing lactose intolerance or I have giardia. True to the superscript, I’m flaunting it.

We've shared Christmases before, but this is the first with a girlfriend. Matte has brought Sarah for the holidays and Mom had too much fun making her stocking. And sucking down a few begneits on our Lords Day is a great way to earn high standing.

She also joined us for the Wolf gathering in Portland. It was an oddly sedate ordeal for my extended family. The highlight was early on when my Moms dad pulled her out to his car. We watched and narrated a shady deal as he produced a manila envelope, many black bags, and finally a revolver.

He promised Mom a gun for her birthday. In November he sent her, not a hand canon, but a single, unmarked photograph of his selected gun on a very soft looking pastel towel. You could almost make out the engraving of 'Happy Birthday' if it wasn't actually engraved with 'The Judge.'

So we watched as he pointed the gun at the car in front of them, and he read her some scrawled rules about safety, and produced more guns! These were just to display what she couldn't have because of her strength. Which she quickly grabbed and cocked back. We are classy folk. Why did he also give her five hollow point bullets? The popular position within my family is one for each of my uncles. Which isn't his true intent, because he'd want Richard to live.

I'm closer to being 25 now and that's the time that you're not allowed to wear hoodies (which you promptly ignore as a rule because you're 25 and nothing matters anymore). I'm tired of wearing t-shirts. Maybe its my memory of listening to Bruce Chilton lecture us on early Judaic sacrifices while wearing a green alien t-shirt that has instilled this in me. My conflicting idea is that I'm somehow marginalizing myself and losing character.

Making a pie from scratch.

When I start throwing knives at the tree outside or hitting the wammy bar on a small red guitar I found in a cereal box, placing it purposefully by my pelvic girdle, thrusting into the throng of my imaginary audience I realize that I'm all me.

On the other end of the dress spectrum is my brother. Who was wearing spants, striped socks, a t-shirt with a suit vest under my fur vest coat, fully waxed beard, and jangling plastic Indian feather necklace as he proclaimed how sad it was that the people who will fall in love with Portlandia are the very people they're mocking. Like cats unable to recognize their reflection they continue juggling and attempting to fondle you from on top their tall-bike. Unfortunately some people may not realize that the people featured in Portlandia are not outliers, but the center of the bell-curve.

I saw Tron for a second time - as a date with Dylan. It is what it is; biodigital jazz, man. After overdosing I could use some Willow or Stardust to counteract it. I'm pretty sure Dylan watches the scene where the midget in Willow rides horse to sober up. Tangentially, Zodiac is not the best movie for Christmas eve.

I don't usually proclaim a New Years resolution. However I've been forced. So this coming year I'll vow to decorate wherever I live - make it mine. No matter the length of my stay. I haven't done it in the past and it was a mistake. Tapestries are a must. I enjoy traditions, and I'm excited to make some of my own. I envision taking town the tree as hacking it to death with Holiday machetes, smashing all of the sugar ornaments we made over the past weeks. 'We' being my family.

Off to Oregon

Wednesday night I went out with the ladies from Amys. Fearful of anyone else noticing, or doing some 'triumphant return' I hide by garbage, watching a man wipe down the interior of his car. While at dinner I accidentally elbowed the waitress while dancing to Girlfriend. She was disturbingly happy about it.

What followed were a few days of specialty shopping, movies, reading, getting paid to be a dancer, lunch with Pam, and going to the American Museum of Natural History with Emma. Last night I also caught the tail end of Mike Molinas annual Man Day. We went to a bar in Chinatown before getting cuban sandwiches and watching the Rock.

I was shown a website called www.pornfortheblind.org it is apparently a volunteer operation of narrating porn for the blind. Some people are faking it, others can't shell out some of their own money to narrate more than a 40second clip. Mike and Addison and I decided we could record some noir pornography and make sound effects by hitting celery against a sidewalk. Which soon segued into plans of staging a two-man show of the Rock, including the Terminator score and very confusing gunfights.

We finished the night at the Randolph on Broome for more libations and I elbowed another woman shaking my chest to Cee Lo. It is now the song I get dressed to.

I've been reading Simon Peggs autobiography. Since he hasn't had a huge life I expected it to be him being cheeky. After all his major appeal is charm. The moments he goes on tangents about Star Wars are pleasing for that very reason. Too bad half the book is 'formative experiences.' It doesn't read like a justification of his career path, but whenever biographies focus on some birthday party where they got a guitar, or that their parent was an actress I hear them plucking a predestined string. And that readers should be comforted that they didn't end up a big artist, because these people were so obviously meant to do it. It's a Protestant Work Ethic explanation and I have gripes against it. If you're upset that you never were a musician, and never wanted to be one, then that's just confusing (I deleted a few lines that culminated in that last sentence).

And Dylan, I went to see TRON. I don't regret it because I was dancing the whole movie. They let Jeff Bridges be himself - really.

Then Bob and I got into a long discussion about the Coen Brothers. He insists they have no soul, just smarts. And without proper casting, their movies are nothing. True Grit and Lady Killers really prove this. If you like how they stylize a movie, then you'll like it. After that we got into a fight about the difference between fun and great movies. Bob thinks if a movie isn't great, it's trash. What's wrong with being a well-executed fun movie? Tokyo Drift, Easy A, Yes Man, are well done as they are. In protest I'm going to watch Troll 2.

One topic that kept coming up was that women feel there is a dearth of good men in the world, while there is an excess of good women. If that's true, then I will reap all the benefits.

You're Still Into This

Back in New York. There are a few surprises to returning, but none of them have to do with meeting Randy Quaid. It's that I don't feel any change - that is to say, I feel like I'm still traveling. Which is completely correct, as I'm leaving for Oregon on Sunday. I know the feeling won't leave there either. And it's not a bad thing, as far as I can tell. Even this morning, the usually loathesome Grandma and I had a long talk (as long as you can have at half your inside voice, shrugging - making small silences stranger). Which never happened before. It might be practice, novelty, or dare I say, something did change a bit in me.

But after having a choice of movies on the plane, and choosing to watch Eat Pray Love, I can't abide by the latter. While I'm happy she had no linear growth I was upset she got with Javier in the end. Nothing gave me any indication that it was a compelling relationship. Oh wait, it was a bad movie. I also watched the Swimsuit Issue (damn cute), and the Other Guys (which is quotable).

The last stint of my trip involved being stranded in Heathrow airport for twelve hours, then Frankfurt for fourteen, where I flew out a day late. When they made the announcement that there were no other flights to America, I spotted a flight to Chile. I started thinking, Antarctica.

Oh, returning to London I felt pleased, probably because I had a good time there - not much to read into. Landing at JFK I only realized that this place has no mystery to me. The city seems to me like clean-up after a large party (HRVHS HOME OF THE EAGLES!). You know people were there, but it's gotten comfortably quiet - the options are toil, or nap, and you might have one friend around to help.

Looking out of the cockpit, because I flew the plane, I saw a man on the tarmac. I immediately thought, that man speaks English (which probably isn't true). Links were formed and I suddenly saw this place as an English speaking colony. And that's how we present ourselves - as settlers. We should have had a war on our soil, because we have hasty throw-ups and never replace the buildings. That's the source of American stank. Not rustic enough to be classy - not sloppy enough to be third world.

Doing my final currency exchange to USD made me giddy. Not for what it precluded, but that it is the money I grew up with. I see it as real money. The green! The faces! I kept taking peeks at it in my pocket, hiding it from view - lest people get jealous. Although Switzerland wins for coolest foreign currency. Digitalized pictures and swooping colors - fitting for a nation that requires the least amount of decoration to be a setting for a sci-fi movie.

I thought that once I got back I would have some final thoughts, or a compulsion to speak my inner mind. In that spirit, I present you with a few things learned and done while abroad:

Three prose poems written. I won't copy them here, as they are on themes like snoring, and are borderline.
If I want to find people that get my sense of humor, I should look for Italians for the macabre and raunchy, British for the sarcasm, and middle-aged South American women for silliness - especially if they're wearing comfy shoes.
The Mona Lisa is small
The French really are dirty
German art is great, especially that it centers on reuse.

Most excited moments: Tower of London and finding an old Os Gemeos in Sevilla
Best ritzy vacation: Hamburg in the Summertime
Best scurvy vacation: Tangier
Place I felt most at home was Northern London, perhaps because it was so similar to parts of Oregon. Even the kids in the only theater in town made me think of growing up in Hood River.

Biggest regret: Not having a book
Greatest boon: Bringing 1000 q-tips

I have never felt more inhibited than when I was tipsy. I didn't enjoy it, and in the end would be more proud to carry on the family tradition of getting thrown out of a bar whilst being the designated driver.


The big life lesson I guess is that some things suck, and some don't, and that's okay.


I was happy to have Bob yell at me for not taking the job offer in the Lake District. He told me to go fuck myself and leave - that nothing was left for me here. That was endearing. It really was!


Here is a sequence of pictures from my last morning in Geneva:

 


Tonight I go out to dinner with three ladies, pull down my pants, and make gingerbread houses.

Everyone Gets Swiss Army Knives For Xmas

The party is winding down. On Thursday I got into Geneva early in the morning. I couldn't find an alarm clock to buy (mine had broken) so I stayed up all night watching movies, sleeping the with lights on to stay awake to catch my flight.

What a relief to be back in the cold, meteorologically and culturally. Swiss aren't my type of people, they are reserved and not very straight forward, and are made uncomfortable by a chatty tourist.

And the smell is so much better here. Cold air, fresh water, chopped wood and mulled wine. That and horn players and yodelers. And oddly a metal statue of Freddy Mercury.


Keeping up with seeing castles I visited Chillon castle, but you can't expect great stories from the Swiss either. The castle had no bloody executions, was attacked twice and both times it was short and the occupants fled. Nice place, but pale.

The thrill of the hunt.

Vivianne and I went on a quest to find a two-headed animal display in Laussane, but found it under construction. Now added to my very limited French vocabulary is now two headed lamb.

Let me tell you, hiking here is so boring.

Stupid.

And because my traditional pose was being overplayed:

This was taken from a small car garage. A peasants viewpoint.

One great relief about being in a home is that there are books on shelves, and finally books to read. There is something so secure in having a small library - that grounds you. And it made me nice and limp. Oh baby.

And since I was in Montreux, I had to pop by Nabokovs grave. Not that grave sites ever do much for me, but it was a good thing to do, finally have a semi-physical connection with him. To know where he settled and died. To imagine him in boots and shorts, chasing butterflies in uncharming hats.

Tomorrow I go. An early swim in the lake, and then the airport. Another sleepless night in London, then back to NY. But honestly, I don't think the blog will end there. Because it would be unfair to treat Americans as the norm, and not assess them - if there's any I can muster. Not like I have a changed perspective, but it's fair. Also, because I won't be staying. The trip is ending, but I don't feel bad either way.

I'm trying to convince some girls to go on a date with me to Medieval Times in NJ, but some women just aren't as enthusiastic about jeering on jousts while getting sloppy with mutton. That would be a pure woman.

High School Musical!

I'm tipping 100% like it ain't no thing. Seriously, it is nothing. It makes my 10 inch thick crust 4 dollars. It's because I like the guys - or maybe because one jumped out of the store, ran to a pink vespa with bedazzled keys and quickly rode off into the crowd.

I'm going along with things that I probably shouldn't. Well, when someone lunges to shake my hand, never lets go, and talks about the ash and mother we are from and then offers to join me (I didn't know I was going) in the Hammam I let him tag along. I'm not really that big of a patsy, I was planning on going to one today anyway. 

It was a relief to escape the lived-in cat smell to a more fresh cat smell. And muddy floors, were there tiles underneath that? There was no aroma to the foam mats they massaged me on because it was brick. A platza massage feels like a cruel practical joke that embarrasses you, but ends up killing the prankster and leaving you with their pet Kodiak that always pays for dinner, even if you insist it's your turn. I would have loved one of those. I forget what string of word was associated with the maneuver that turned me into a canoe.

All the talk made me reminiscent of Johns friend, who only knew the words; "money" "very rich" "drug" and "lick it."

Physical abuse makes me laugh. More so when it's directed at me. I fondly remember a few rucks that I cackled underneath. The confused stares and crushed ribcage made me laugh more, in a parabolic way. So the massage, while doing nothing for my body - or nausea, made me feel chipper.

So good that I sat on the roof writing, and then went out to watch Never Let Me Go. I did cry, but not at the end. It was the middle that got me. What about you?

I suppose I have an unofficial beard experiment on. Ah, science...

I have to rise early and catch my flight to Switzerland!

www.youtube.com allows you to share videos with friends!

I can't decide if it's the power of the pound, or the proximity to England, but everyone identifies me as British. And I immediately correct them in two ways; in my Scottish or Benjamin Button accents. Look forward to hearing them again in person, dear reader!

I don't think this country has refrigeration. Which solves some problems, but will it cause anything to stir when I'm gone? (Related link; I was constantly prepared for this while I was with John). Do you wonder if I do things just for the links I have, or do I find links for the things I have done? Make your predictions.

One of the very nice things about Marrakech in the winter is that people try to show you around, or get you to buy such and such, but they're polite, and if you're polite as well then no harm. Which is extraordinary. What is also extraordinary? Finding your livejournal from High School still exists. Not much to report except that I am so much cooler now. So krispy!

Okay, it's clear I didn't get out much today. There is something stirring in me already. And only one thing can stop it. Or plenty of water. But I did make it out to some more gardens. Blah blah, enough about travel, more about me.

Though I should say, aside from graduating, having been to 5 continents, and including links in my new blog, it would be hard to tell the difference between past me and present. I won't provide the link for your own comparison. The voice is stronger, but the content is largely the same (except the private posts I made on livejournal OUCH!). Maybe I am cynical about blogging, or I haven't yet accepted that this is essentially a mass e-mail. What would you like more of?

When I'm back amongst companions, you'll have more pictures (does that make John and Unnamed Assailant companions?).

P.S. For "OUCH!" I was trying to find this nice picture I have on my external hard drive, yes I have a collection. To find it I meant to type "exposed, vulnerable" yet I found results for "exposed vulvernable." All medically accurate?

Okay, one last thing. I read even further, to when I had signed the papers to go to Bard. And I say to myself that I didn't want things to change! Which is laughable now, in a good way. Yet it made me recall what Isabella told me in Camden. The gist is that she constantly is changing and only claims responsibility for the past 6 years, before that she wasn't a person. And right now I agree. However! There are times I find myself pretty funny. At the least I respect that some things just won't change.

Here's looking to the eleventh year of the Willenium!

Some Time All Too Alone

This is really lucky for me. After the first night, I was restricted on any computer from accessing anything related to Google. So no blog or e-mail.

Here are some snippets from what I wrote on the side, sort of a jumbled story:

12.3.10  I remember being told that Marrakech is rather boring. How could that be when I was having poorly rehearsed sing-alongs to the Bee Gees and Third-Eye Blind along the coast with two strangers the night before? There’s no mass exodus during prayer, as some people pray at different times and for different lengths - there’s even a ‘joke’ about how much someone prays in a day.

I’ve seen monkeys paraded around and numerous shops that seem to sell the exact same thing. At least I eat for 4 dollars a day, which to a man with no other cash that what he has on him, is a godsend. As luck would have it I’ve come in time with the Marrakech Film Festival. Who else is excited to go to a conversation avec Francis Ford Coppola?

As I go on with limited funds, I feel more and more the need to stop spending. And that fun times to me are burning things, drawing, baking, and rides around the country. I felt great having an unofficial purpose of finding street art in Europe. So I give myself the purpose of finding some cake.

12.4.10   Well, so much for the Ouzoud falls, or the cooking class I had scheduled. I feel like shit.

Being in Marrakech is like an extended stay at the Oregon Country Fair. One indelible similarity is that the strangest sights aren’t with the residents, but those who’re visiting. Though I have yet to find a Dr Vortex store.

And haggling. At your best, it’s more fun that television, at your most sick and hungry, it makes a short day a blessing. And what better way to end the day than upturned in the only room I’ve been in that lets you shower and poo in the same 4x4 inclined square.

I have an unusual urge to bake.

12.5.10   I ate lunch with a nice British couple. I walked around the city, especially the Cyber Park. A park with free kiosks for the internet scattered about trees and fountains.

I’ve lost a great deal of appetite, and feel like shit still. However, I did go out in the ammonia air to watch Keanu Reeves present Speed (too bad I won’t be here to see John Malkovich do the same for Con Air). He tried greeting the crowd in true Arabic/Keanu style. It was hilarious, especially since he really didn’t understand why he was there, as emphasized by his final, crouched and dramatic words, “SPEED!”

Ice cream. Oh thank god for ice cream.

I’m having trouble planning my life. How will I be a teacher and a role model while launching a major series of erotic photographs? And how will I afford the series featuring close-ups of weightless erogenous zones? Why is life so DIFFICULT?!




12.6.10  I wandered out and found the closest thing I could to cake. Sort of a marshmellowy mousse. Upon returning to the Riad I was shoved upon a Norwegian as I was the only person that spoke English. Roger and I went for some tea. He had just left his job composing music to travel and write his second childrens book (Of course I'll find the name). We walked around and have made plans to go to some music tonight.



In preparation for a long series of airports I have downloaded Daybreakers, Bad Lieutenant, Easy A, Dinner for Schmucks, and Get Him to the Greek.


I'm excited to leave Marrakech. It is kind of boring, but maybe that's just because I've been confined. And in my confinement I can't get Ewan McGregor out of my head. But then I've referenced so many men, that I should show the more attractive, and fairer sex (Of course I mean Holly Hunter).


And I have become purposeful, yet disheveled:

I found Tangier filled with friendly people. I never want to return.

Please note that I didn't have a miniature panic attack on the 1st, nor today.

I took off early for Morocco. I had the hostels numbers, addresses, I had a plan, knew the schedules of ferries, how to haggle a petit taxi, read the guides and even had the Embassy locations. Well, lets go.
The sun began to set as I crossed the straight. We were heading into ominous stormclouds that covered Tangier. So no pictures. To get to Algeciras I took the bus and I enjoyed seeing Spain from the road. It is very Californian in a way, even in poverty. I felt very good seeing the Mediterranean for the first time. I was going to Africa.

I got off the ferry and get onto the free bus to the center of Tangier. On the bus a man starts talking to me, he works in Gibralter as a plumber and his English name is John (Real name Jalahl). He insists that I come, get dressed, have real Moroccan tea, and then we go eat.

So now I’m on edge between having a good time, or avoid being stabbed. John is affable, so I start thinking he’s a very skilled con man. Three new handshakes later, some phrases, talk about the English, and evidence of British pounds; We departed the bus and he swatted away all the hustlers. He told them in Arabic that I work with him in Gibralter and that they should lay off. Maybe he’s the king con-man, claiming his prize.

I started to memorize the route we took to his house. I insisted that I couldn't stay there, but must get to my hotel after tea. He agreed to take me to it after he prayed. A very religious con man. He then said that I enjoy his hospitality now, and then a year from now, I treat him to my home. Quite a long-term con man, and not in the bad side of town. Already I have a leg up on Brad Strange who followed a man, not from the ferry, but prison, to Harlem to buy weed.

The tea was great, and as he dressed me in a wool hat and jabala (he assured me that I’d look Moroccan and that many Moroccans are ginger), I started to think I’ve either found a very kind man, father of two married daughters, or I’ve found the most patient sadist on the continent. Judging from how I looked, I was leaning toward the latter.

But enough awkward sips of tea, constant crumpets, and hearing prayer over Arabic subtitled Talladega Nights, we must anon to my Hotel. They didn’t let me book online, but I found it from Lonely Planet guide book, I knew how t get to it from looking at maps. I am Jason Bourne.

Thankfully I convinced him to remove the robe. And we took a taxi, which added to the confusion. Lets get to the hotel, then some money (ah, the killing zone) and then I will treat John to some dinner.

The hotel doesn’t exist, or it’s name and the street name have both changed. The number from the guide and the internet, didn’t work. John and the driver (a friend of Johns, naturally) ferried me around asking locals about the place, the street name (that I double checked from Google (damn you 3rd world Google)). Eventually we found it “Hotel California.” Number 8 on, this new street name, where it should be, but not what was advertised. John warned me that it looked shady and I could stay at his house.

Well, that’s enough. I’ve got my bags safely tucked away in the cellar, have it locked from prying hands. Lets get money, get robbed, and buy some food.

Now here’s something that no internet guide, tourist site, Lonely Planet book, or other weighty tome in the lobby of your Sevillan hotel tells you: KeyBank will never accept an ATM withdrawal from Morocco.
Finding that out was a bit difficult, having the taxi driver leap around town in fine leather Volvo mini style, to every ATM he knows. None worked. So we found a phone. No good, as they didn’t have a country code for my calling card. Off to the internet, where they blessfully gave me access for free. Maybe it’s Johns mob connections.

I eventually called with some dirhams from the driver, already it had been an hour. The bank eventually discovers that due to high fraud rates, KeyBank does not allow transactions from ATMs. He put me on hold, and wouldn’t you know, the American bank is playing a melody of Arabian Nights.

Well, best option was to go to a bank with the card, passport, and get a cash advance, if they let you, otherwise, there is no option. Beg my way to Spain. John and the driver were exclaiming repeatedly how unfortunate it was. That I had no money. I shouldn't be ashamed, I should go out and eat with them, tomorrow we can get the money. I wouldn't have it.

So, John, the driver and I agreed to meet in the morning, to go to a bank, pay the driver handsomely for his help, buy John whatever he wanted, and pay the hotel. And then, I realized that I’m the worst person to rob. And that despite my hesitation (natural), without John I would have been dead in downtown Tangier. Still looking for a hotel.


This was written in my cell:
"So now I lay. Cut off, and I wonder….if it all works out I get my 300 American dollars (3000 or so dirhams - enough to buy five nights at a hotel, a bus ticket, and plenty of food, and the driver) do I continue on to Marrakech.
Have I been beaten?
After all, I did leave early, no one but Rachel knows. But I do have a plane ticket from Marrakech, and a REAL hotel - pricey - ie in existence.
I remember that for Watson interviews they asked if I could continue my project, when I had no place to stay, no money, no language, in the rain. Could I keep going.
Foolishly I answered yes. And I think foolishly, I say yes again tonight."

In the morning we ran from bank to bank, until by luck and pressure I found myself tucking various wads of dirhams into different nooks in my body. Proud that I could afford to hop back to Spain, or continue on. John was very pleased and I took him to breakfast. Only you can't take a Moroccan man anywhere without him running into one friend for every block you pass, or he has to make a phone call. Despite his usefulness and the fact he showed me his family, I'm still not convinced about John. I don't feel bad about it. Especially after he politely offered me to smuggle something to Spain for a friend. "So many tourists, just under your coat, and woosh woosh, 200 euro, under your jacket." Whatever it was.

He didn't understand why I'd want to go to Marrakech, when I had to stay three days in Tangier - to see everything. We could rent a car, go to a hamman, and then go out for drinks. Imagine. I thought it was more important to pay the hotel, buy my bus ticket, and then we could do something.

And we rented a car. I was gleeful to see that the owner of the rental car had a few movies stacked on his desk; Traitor, the Mummy, and the Mummy 2.

I have a few moments of pride when it comes to driving:
Descending Dead Mans Pass in pitch black during a tornado thunderstorm, trucks hydroplaning the switchbacks.
Weaving around traffic in Sao Paulo during another storm where all the streetlights and traffic lights went out

But I'm not sure I'm proud of learning stick shift in Tangier in perfect weather while a man you still think wants to borrow your organs yells at you in Arabic. But we do eventually go for a ride along the coast with his friend, to see the mansions, the hole where Hercules lived, the empty resorts, Assilah - to negotiate for half an hour for oranges from a relative and to see more relatives in the medina, and the creme de la creme; the airport. "Just to tell people you've seen it."

I did get to make that momentous phone call to America, leaving a message that 'I was fine, in Tangier with some very nice men.'

'Bill Ubell here. I'm on a pay phone. I am still blindfolded. My arms are bound. But a young boy has been kind enough to assist me. There's not much chance I'll get another opportunity to call...so I thought I would ask if....what? No.'

 Soon after this, we ate a complex meal of fries, beef, bread, and tea along the road side.

Brad Strange ended his night quietly mugged and left unharmed wondering where his weed was in Harlem. Mine ends with John leaving me at the bus station. Ticket in hand, and advising me not to trust anyone. Still I was wondering if you should trust someone just because they tell you not to trust anyone, but he just left. He gave me his phone number but didn't ask for mine, didn't want my address. Nothing.

So I waited for the overnight bus to Marrakech, talking to a local people watcher in Spanish. We talked about the Moors in Spain, his favorite Agatha Christie novels, and how sad he was when Lady Diana died. He insisted that Sherlock Holmes and Agatha Christie are huge names in Arabic literature.

I've made it to Marrakech. I'm staying at Riad Fantasia room A3 and I've paid to stay until my flight on the 9th. After sleeping, I need to get more cash.