Going to war

Tags

Adventure, brave, Casablanca, courage, driving, friends, heart, markets, morocco, mosque, peace, smile, travel

“You drive?” Rita asks me. A few of Haitham’s friends had taken me to lunch out in Casablanca while he was working. Were about to leave and it’s the first English I’ve heard in a 10 minute conversation. I answer a distracted, “Of course.” Doesn’t everybody drive?

“Ok. You drive.” She gets out of the drivers seat and I immediately panic. “Wait. What?” I attempt. She slips into the car next to us with a few friends and speeds off, hand waving out the window through the dust. I stare after them, mouth hanging open.
“You have your license on you?” Kenza, her little sister, is still with me looking at me expectantly from the back seat. I slowly unbuckle my seat belt and slip out of the passenger side. Is she serious?

Miami has earned the title of the worst drivers in the entire country, three times that I’m aware of and the worst of what I’ve seen there pales in comparison to the terror I’ve felt here as a passenger in Casablanca. Every stop sign, light, lane marker, roundabout, pedestrian, and speed bump are merely suggestions. If you need to turn left? You drive into traffic and honk til they honk back and possibly slow down. Need to cross the street? Just run into traffic and hope they stop long enough for you to escape to the other side with your limbs intact. Oh, and watch out for the bikes. There is an army of tiny motorcycle thingys that dodge and weave through it all like little curveballs waiting to take out your side mirrors and possibly small children.

Haitham drives a very nice, very, VERY fast car. I’m completely confident in his skills behind the wheel. Yet I clench everything straight down to my butt every time he hurls up behind slower drivers and honks the customary Moroccan three honk, “get the hell over or else” warning with simultaneous light flashing and swearing in Arabic. I melt like an opossum every time we survive a maneuver. Don’t they know this place is a death trap??? Also, its been a good three years since I’ve driven a stick shift. I get behind the wheel and think, “Holy fucking shit.”

I’m shaking internally and can’t seem to sort out my feet on the gas and the clutch. I know what awaits me. I’m going to war in a tiny Peugeot.
“Are you ok?” Kenza asks.
I breathe deeply and nod. “Yep, just need to get my bearings, it’s been awhile since I’ve driven a stick shift. It’s like riding a bike though, right?” I laugh nervous and realize I’m using a cheesy American saying. Jesus, I can be so Midwestern sometimes…
“But not today,” I think to myself and hit the gas.

We careen out into the fray and I follow Kenza’s directions. She’s a bit scattered and I’m getting more and more frantic. She ponders whether to take a left or just go straight as my panic level starts to hit atomic bomb strength.
“You don’t drive?” I ask nicely.
“No. I got into an accident.” She explains, ramming one balled fist into her palm. “I hit a wall.”
“Ah, right.” I spit out barely breathing, not cognizant of which lane I’m in or what direction I’m going.
“Let’s go to the mosque?” She suggests.
“Absolutely,” I agree thinking that praying is in my best interest as of right now.

As it has been explained to me, the mosque in Casablanca was the idea of the 5th king. Whether they liked it or not Moroccans contributed money to its being built and the result is an incredibly huge infrastructure of staggering height and intricate details. Fountains surround slightly tiered steps, so as one appears to float downwards to the entrance, intricately placed brightly colored tiles adorn massive archways all around. It is the biggest mosque in Africa.

Despite the size of our landmark, we miss the turn and spend a good three to four minutes in and out of the north and south sides of an unlit, death trap of a tunnel. We finally careen around a pile of cinder blocks marking the entrance, and the usual pack of street kids scurry to harass us for a parking fee as soon as I pull the emergency brake. No matter where you are, there is someone to collect a coin in exchange for telling you how fast, and in what direction to turn your wheel, all while keeping an eye out that you don’t hit another car whilst parking. Honestly?…I think Miami needs these people.

I keep my eyes down and purse in hand like Kenza tells me to as she barks Arabic to the guys. Not in a bad way, the language itself is just a bit abrasive. Plus, I stick out in ways I don’t even know. I do know that everyone that can, immediately speaks English to me. I’m not fooling anybody.

We explore the grounds of the mosque, it’s closed to the public at this hour. Dozens of people are just hanging out, and I totally get why. It is a place of utter peace and beauty. Kenza is a doll and takes a ton of pictures of me. She is so supportive and encouraging, “Anything you want to do, let’s do it,” she prods. I adore her immediately.

We leave the mosque, the peace of it follows and I feel more relaxed as we get back into the car and Kenza hashes out change from a 100 dirham. To my surprise the guy scurries off and brings exact change right back. “Maybe not the scavengers I thought,” I think, scolding myself.

We head next to Old Town Casablanca. A assortment of stalls where Kenza tells me, “They sell everything.” Crossing the street is an adventure in itself. I stop curbside and wait for people to slow down. She looks at me strangely and leads the way straight into traffic explaining on the way, “They’ll never just stop.” We skip past cars, dodging our way into the old stone structure.

They do indeed, sell everything. Silver tea sets, lamb skin leather bags, fresh oranges and counterfeit designer bags. It’s surreal and gorgeous. Time has left this place. The goods have changed, but this exchange has been going on here forever. I’m very aware that I’m an observer, but I’m also incredibly charmed. This is a different world.

Kenza bargains with a vendor for me while I stand and smile holding a few beautiful leather pouchettes for souvineers. As we leave, we both rush right into traffic and she laughs with me as we skip and dodge moving cars. “See?” She says. “You’re Moroccan now!”
“Haitham will be so proud!” I exclaim, feeling suddenly quite capable.

Behind the wheel again, I remember how much I love driving a stick shift. I even recognize landmarks. The buildings and places are slightly familiar on the route back. I relax a bit, and just drive, following Kenza’s directions. Someone roughly cuts me off in a roundabout, and I honk a few times and throw up a hand barking, “Ayyyy, come on!” Kenza smiles at me and we both laugh.
And just like that- I’ve totally got this. I shift into third, smile, and drive.

Writing it down

Tags

Adventure, beginning, change, driving, epiphany, explore, future, hope, Hopeful, letter, love, note, quote, self, travel, universe, writing

Back in September, I was driving late at night, suspended over the ocean on the causeway, top down, music slightly louder than my singing…. Utterly content, belly full of food and wine, I felt invincible. I felt like I was capable of whatever I wanted. Of course, the question popped into my head- What DO I want? I mean really truly deep down want in my life? I grabbed my phone, hit record, and began to ramble whatever thought went through my head. Keep in mind I was slightly cocked.

This- is that ramble of thoughts. I listened to it today- going through old voice memos on my phone. A little funny, a little scattered, I’d completely forgotten about it. It’s been 6 months- and it’s curious to see what’s come true and what’s coming to fruition. Regardless, it feels like a time capsule, a nod from my subconscious. A “Hello future self” letter to me, from me. A little reminder to keep me focused on what I want to surround myself with, who I want to be.

Sept 19, 2012
1:41 AM
Things that I want;
I want perfectly soft scrambled eggs. I never want to eat burnt toast. Bread should crackle like it does in France. I want chewy bacon. I want medium rare steaks.

I want pants that fit correctly. I want heels that are the perfect height, and never give me blisters. I always want my hair to look absolutely amazing.

I want my women selfless, kind and generous. I want my men to be slightly unavailable, completely loyal dashing gentlemen.

I want to be able to travel anywhere I could possibly want to go. I want to be able to make my job photography, writing, food and travel.

I want to be held to the highest regard because I am completely respected. I am admired, and I am trusted. People want to be around me, people want to be me, people want to be with me. I want to be important, but I want to be completely unaffected by it. I donʼt want to be an asshole.

I want to spend the rest of my life from here on out with the man that I am supposed to be with. I want to be with somebody that I adore as naturally as breathing. We’ll bring out the best in each other, inspiring and supporting, each the others biggest fan. We’ll reciprocate all that is good, build something strong. I want us to be stupidly, ridiculously consumed with love. We’ll have our own language; our routines, habits and inside jokes invent our own universe amongst everyone else here. I want the world to be ours, and I want our world to revolve around each other.

I want to write. I want to have the diligence and perserverance and patience to be able to write things that are really important. I want to be able to write things that are unimportant. I want to be able to write whatever comes to my mind, have the wherewithal to be able to continue it, and pursue it in a way that is consistent enough that I could do something like a blog or a book or a movie…. I want to be able to submit that to somebody and have them say, “Where have you been? Youʼre revolutinizing things! You are brilliant we are going to publish this immediately! We couldnʼt be happier.”

And to this I will say “ Yesss yess yesssss….”

Crashing a car

Tags

beginning, break up, change, driving, end, Ibiza, light, love, peace, plateau, sunset

August 24th 2012

Driving back from our last trip to the beach, both of us still warm from the sun, he smiled at me.
“I had such an amazing time,” he sighed, content. “All expectations surpassed.”
“Me too.”I responded quietly. I thought back to the conversation we had earlier. Perched in sunlight and silence upon a huge rock that melted into the Mediterranean he asked me, “Why didn’t you end up with David?”

I surfaced from my blissed out state of unbelief that hadn’t subsided since my arrival. Marc would tease me daily, “Where are you?” he’d ask.
“In the Med!” I’d squeal, both of us laughing. Our little jokes never got old. I couldn’t believe I was in Ibiza.

Opening my eyes slowly… I couldn’t believe he was bringing up an old boyfriend. I sighed heavily, never sure our conversations were safe ones. What was his thought process? Not coinciding with mine, I knew.

I spoke slowly, carefully, “I loved him very much, but deep down I knew he wasn’t my person.” Saying it out loud a million years and miles away, the words resurrected that pull from my insides. I felt sad.

He was quiet for a minute. Then asked, “So, why don’t you believe me when I say that I know you aren’t my person?”
I didn’t immediately feel the impact of those words. Those words have ricocheted me from a fighter to a useless puddle a million time since; but in that moment, that space, it was just me and him, and he was telling me something important in a way that I could finally understand. In that moment, it was peaceful.

The sun was setting, my last one of the trip. My instinct was to fight for this, fight for this man that I loved with every bit of energy I had. Instead we sat, silent again watching the sun dip below the hills, the fight in me quiet. We had a million perfect moments together, how could this be the end?

I thought about our morning. He’d snuck out while I slept and driven all over the island scavenging the perfect breakfast, even buying a vase for a perfect sunshine replica gerber daisy. I’d held his face in my hands and kissed his forehead. “You have no idea what this has done for me.” He held my hand listening. You have no idea what this is going to do to me.” I knew the end of this would destroy me, but for now, I was settling with the sun, on a plateau of light and love.

We gathered our things and walked to the car. Driving through this magic place I tried to sear it into my memory. I wanted to remember everything. Suddenly, all of it clicked into place. It really was as simple as it sounded. He is not my person.

I looked at the man that I loved, “I want you to know, from the deepest place in my heart- that if you’re not him; if you’re not the one… That you pointed me in the right direction to find him. I’m not the same person I was when I met you.”

“That’s the most heartfelt thing you’ve ever said to me,” he smiled.

“I’m just so grateful for this”, I said, mentally pleading for him to understand the enormity behind my tiny little words. He’d wined and dined me all over the world. I fell deeply in love. I had lived a fairy tale, and it was ending. I felt like I was speeding in a car and realized there were no brakes. Devastation was inevitable, but god damn it I was enjoying the ride.

“You deserve it,” he charged uncharacteristically into the conversation. “You are such an amazing person, and you have so many good qualities. You deserve everything I can give you and more.” He paused to take my hand in his. “You are so special- and I think deep down you know that. You deserve everything.”

“That’s the most heartfelt thing you’ve ever said to me,” I smiled, happy tears wetting my cheeks. For the second time that day, we held hands so hard that it hurt when we finally let go.