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On the bus ride from Tetouan to Chefchouan, I got another dreamy dose of the mountain life and green-hilled splendor. I like the feeling of being taken somewhere, or being driven to an end destination without any other responsibilities. There is forward movement, but my hands and mind are free to roam. Nothing to do except sit back and enjoy the ride, watch and notice the details, nothing more…. and so passing through the mountains means a chance peek or unexpected (uninvited) glimpse of secret life in motion.

Little villages and tiny dots of wool (sheep) spotting the mountainside. Boys racing bareback on their horses at breakneck speed, chasing each other and laughing hysterically.
Shepherds herding sheep. A dude peeing on the side of the wall, maybe his own house? Why?
A water well and trails of people walking from miles, carrying their empty water cans on the backs of soon-to-be overloaded mules.
A trickle stream river cutting through the pass. White tombstone road markers with a number written on the side of kilometers to the next town. Families of olive pickers in the orchards of trees. Freshly plowed fields of soil getting seed sprinkled by hand to beat the incoming rain. Bright, colorful chicken wandering, like pecking robots, around the fences (was I not paying attention spending all the summers on my grandparents pig farm? Were they all this colorful?). Lonely whitewashed houses with splashes of blue. Schoolboys arm in arm, loving and chumming each other along the road. A weird valley patch of fog that swallowed up an entire village, but left the rest of the landscape completely alone. A construction team of a dozen men, stacking cinder block for a future house that will never be finished. A lone mangey dog, sitting in the wind, contemplating the meaning of life. A mother corralling her children into their home. These are the things.

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Every town, everywhere in Islamic countries, you can hear the adhaan, the call to prayer, sung live, 5 times a day, through giant distorted speakers, high atop the mosque tower. It sounds like a singing poem or live poetry and rings throughout the entire town like a distant police car siren… each town has its own “muezzin” (the singer) who, 5 times a day, climbs the stairs to the top of the mosque and sings the call, starting with “Allahuakbar” (God is great)…. it’s sort of like the Catholic or Christian bell chiming… (apparently, around the time they were trying to decide how to get this message to the people, some dude told Muhammad he saw it in a dream that they should sing it to everyone).

I can’t understand a single Arabic word but I get hypnotized by the melody and haunting beauty every time (which is pretty much how I fall for any song). It is no longer the jolting novelty when I first got here, but has become a soothing comfort and instant reminder of where I am… and it gets me every time…

I think if we had the same thing at home, 5 times a day, interrupting the hustle of daily thieving stress, making everyone stand still for say, 60 seconds, anytime they heard it, like a forced moment of silence… it would be a happier day every day.

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One of my ancestors (on my mother’s side) named Stephen Deane was on the second ship (The Fortune) of the Pilgrims to America. The Mayflower came here in 1620. The Fortune came in 1621. Stephen was a young man when he came to Plymouth Plantation and not married. He married Elizabeth Ring. He built the first mill (for grinding wheat, corn) in New England.

Today I had a big sushi dinner for my Thanksgiving feast. I haven’t had any in months, plus it was the most different thing I could find away from all the daily Moroccan fare, so it made this day extra special and stand out from the rest. I think the waiters were curious as to why I seemed so happy.

I’ve noticed that celebrating any holiday while in another country, amplifies and magnifies my gratitude and thankfulness for being so lucky and blessed… to live in the best country in the history of the world… in the most amazing family in the world… to be surrounded by the best friends in the world… this life is so good and God has smothered and piled so many blessings on me…

When i got back to my hotel, I skyped in to my family’s dinner back home, watching them prepare and carve up the turkeys (they made three). I watched and heckled my brother apparently ruin the gravy (and kill our biggest family tradition). All my nephews were running around and making faces for me and telling me their best jokes…. It felt like “It’s A Wonderful Life” and I was looking in on my family from my fishbowl of a dream… After being passed around the table and talking with everyone, we had the Thanksgiving prayer… and I was then propped up in the corner like grandpa….. until I dozed off (8 hrs ahead) and fell asleep with the sound of my family’s chatter in my ears…

Such a perfect happy Thanksgiving…

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My grandfather passed away many years ago. Sometimes I see my grandfather channeling through me loud and clear… I wonder if certain life memories are true or bent and reshaped over time or a reflection and distortion of a remembered photo… either way, I’ve always remembered my grandfather to be stubborn at times, prideful, strong-willed…. and so I blame him for my faults and transgressions (I also wonder if some character traits I THINK came from family genes, aren’t magnified and re-assigned as a comfortable excuse).

All that said, I am pretty sure my granddad hated asking directions and would stubbornly plow through, even if he were lost, trying to get somewhere. I feel his spirit of rebellion coming over me in such situations and from time to time, can feel the bitter temper inside that he showed on the outside.

Today I walked far too far and got far too lost while the rain came pouring down. I simply wanted to get back to my hotel and just lay in bed, read, sleep. I could have easily taken a taxi and delivered myself to the hotel doorstep… but I knew I was so close, and stubbornly kept on, around and around, until I finally found it on my own… drenched and water-warped… I did what I said I would (to myself). I rebelled against the world and did it on my own. Sometimes I wish I were not so much like my grandfather… and so stubbornly wet.

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I had a vivid, colorized dream last night. There was a young boy running and playing in a park. He had a bowl-ish haircut. Light brown hair.

In the dream, I said first to myself, then outloud, “His mouth is like a little god.”

I have no idea what it means, if it’s supposed to mean anything, or if it’s a premonition or future prophecy… I just remember being filled with joy and amusement and curiosity as I watched little bowl-head.

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I jumped a bus to Tetouan, a tiny town at the foot of the Rif Mountains… like every bus, it fills up to the brim, every seat, and the seat next to me is always the last to go… mothers won’t let their children sit next to me… men cram in other seats to avoid mine… I am a leper… an alien… an unknown danger…

A sweet, brave girl needled her way through, took my window seat, and said “thank you.” It turned into the most precious conversation of Morocco. Meriam, on her way back to engineering school from her Tangier home, was extremely fluent in English and tried not to show how excited she was to be eating it up like candy (and I tried not to show how ecstatic I was to be getting to use it too). The long ride disappeared like magic.

Checked in to my hotel, pulled myself off the bed, and spent the evening wandering the medina and streets with the rest of the zombies. I can feel my restless ambition climbing back on me… unsatisfied… hungry and desperate… neglected…

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I checked out of my hotel and sat down on some steps to relax and figure out the day.

A girl came walking up the hill towards me with a big smile on her face and steady, unflinching eye contact, like we knew each other or were long lost friends. She was nicely dressed and sporting a smart looking backpack and I couldn’t tell if she was a tourist or a local.

She got right up on me, far past the comfortable, personal-space boundary, and stopped, still smiling, still staring.

I said “Hola” and we talked a couple minutes in broken English, before she explained something in Spanish about her ‘bambina’ at home. She finally cashed in all her chips when her “Don’t I know you, Poppy?” face turned into her “Give me money, Poppy” face, as she pinched some invisible bread to her mouth…

I told her, “No Sénòrita” and waved her on. I held my phone up to my ear as if I was in the middle of a conversation…. looked away… looked down… tried to ignore her… she stood there, not a sound, for 10 minutes… (TEN minutes!!) then walked on past…

A few minutes later, I could hear her walk back in front of me and I pretended not to notice, kept looking down, ignoring her. She stood there for 10 minutes again (not exaggerating, I clocked her, TEN), and kept making a mysterious crinkly, scraping sound that I couldn’t figure out. Each time I snuck a peak, she was freakishly staring at me… and in her mouth was a plastic baggie that she was blowing into, squeezing, blowing, squeezing… it was eerie and David Lynch-ian…

I was curious to see how long this could go on, but my sixth sense was telling me in very clear, colorful words that I should pick up my bags and slowly back away without any sudden moves…

I am pretty sure she was some kind of Pam Huffer, or glue sniffer, hitting off her homemade huffing device… or she was casting a voodoo spell on me… or both… it was spooky and very sad knowing her brain must be mush… either way, I know my sixth sense was correct… and I split the scene, man.

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Tangier
Last night at dinner, while I waited for my swordfish to arrive, the restaurant music was playing “We Are The World.” I was trapped and I had to sit through the entire song… beginning to end… it was the first time I’d heard it in 15 years… after the initial shock to my system, it actually started feeling good to hear some American music, let alone English (after going so long without) and naturally, I played my own “name that singer” contest in my head.

After the tear dried on my cheek, the next song that came on was Kenny Rogers’ The Gambler. It used to be one of my dad’s favorite songs and he’d sing it and quote it all the time, imparting all its deep, life-wisdom truths like he’d discovered a secret verse from the Bible… “You know, Michael, you really do need to know when to walk away when you’re sitting at the table…”
All the nostalgic memories flooded in and I savored each English word that Kenny so beautifully pronounced.

Next, John Lennon Imagine came on and melted my heart into the chair. I was now in heaven. Sitting all alone in a restaurant, overlooking the Tangier nightlife of the bustling city, I couldn’t help sing along, getting emotional and heart-achey. Some other patrons entered and were led to the other side of the restaurant’s lounge area, and… r-i-i-i-i-i-pppp, only halfway through, the song was abruptly muted. I could feel it yanked right out of my heart. The owner replaced it with a live concert cd of Stephane Grappelli and the whole dark, red-lit place took on the vibe of a groovy jazz club. Not the worst punishment ever, but for those two short minutes, I was definitely floating in the clouds.

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Tangier
While I lay in my hotel bed, mattress buttons sticking into my butt and legs, the sonic “boom boom boom” pounding downstairs from the disco directly beneath me is vibrating my entire body. That thumping sex music must be rocking the kids below my room and I must definitely thank the hotel staff for putting me here, when there were so many other vacant rooms throughout that might have spared me this fantastic cultural experience.

It’s my own fault. I HAD to stay here. I had to get sucked in to the romantic notion that sleeping where Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg and William Burroughs (wrote his famous Naked Lunch novel here)… all shacked up… right here… in the 50’s… in this hotel… was going to somehow inspire me to greater heights…

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I took a risk… this morning I woke up with only 58 dirhams in my pocket (about $7)… I needed to go get some cash, but I did not want to show up in Tangier with a big wad of money… superstitious perhaps, or maybe just more cautious than the last time I was here. So I chanced it. I walked to the train station (instead of taking a taxi), and climbed on the train to Tangier: 16 dirhams.

An hour later, it felt like the right stop, so I poked my head out and yelled to one of the officially uniformed train station officers… I might as well have lit myself and the entire train on fire. He and several others frantically rushed around me, hoisted me down and pulled me onto the platform as the train pulled away.

Apparently, I was on the wrong train going in the opposite direction.

I waited another hour for the next one returning in the correct direction… As I boarded, I got the equivalent of Moroccan high-fives from all the station’s staff… and a VIP escort that any handicapped person deserves = no extra charge.

Bathroom in Tangier station: 2 dirhams. Negotiated taxi to hotel, down to 30 dirhams… total spent: 48 dirhams, with 10 dirhams to spare… huzzah!