Flights of the Phoenix

CASABLANCA PART ONE

2006-07-23T08:00:00.000-06:00

Casablanca, to those who haven't been there, is a place of intrigue and romance, where ceiling fans spin slowly over steamy bars, elegant former lovers toss off heartbreaking remarks and sex and danger smolder just beneath the surface.
But the real Casablanca, I'd heard, the place you have to fly into from New York before you take off for more truly mysterious parts of Morocco -- like Fez or Marrakech -- isn't so charming. It's a chaotic town, full of messy traffic and hastily constructed concrete buildings. Casablanca is the no-nonsense economic center of Morocco, where the only thing called "Rick's Cafe" is a drink at the Hyatt.
I didn't want to spend time alone in Casablanca, but a canceled flight left me with a couple of days there before I was supposed to meet up with a male friend. I was anxious about being alone in an Arab city. Years ago, the one time I spent a few hours walking alone in Egypt, I was nearly raped, saved by the fact that I hit my assailant surprisingly hard and fast and then, praying he couldn't swim, escaped into the ocean. That's another story, and while I rationally knew it could have as easily happened in Miami or St. Tropez, I was still scared to be alone in an Arab country. But there I was, and since I didn't want to simply hole up in a hotel while I waited for my friend, ordering room service, I decided to try to seek out the company of women in Casablanca.
In Morocco, as in many Arab countries, there is a strict division between the public and private -- male and female -- worlds. The private world, largely unseen and unavailable to travelers, is in the home and the inviolable space each woman carries around with her in the long, shapeless robe she wears, the djellaba. The public world is the world of men. They drive the cabs, greet you in hotels and run the souks, offering you the opportunity to just come in and look, lady, it's not expensive. As a woman traveler, visiting the public world, you interact only with men. That creates some tension, because while everyone in Morocco seems happy to see a free-spending American tourist, they don't seem to understand women who walk around, heads uncovered, without the company of their husband or a male relative. Nor do they comprehend women who would wear shorts on the streets in their country -- and neither do I.
That isn't to say that you feel threatened as a woman traveling in Morocco -- just a little exposed, no matter how much you cover up. Men will approach you to sell things, to guide you through the labyrinthine medinas, but they are usually put off by a good-humored refusal. Sometimes, on buses or in the street -- as happened to me a couple of times on my trip -- they will pull hairs out of your head. It wasn't until I read anthropologist Elizabeth Fernea's book "A Street in Marrakesh" that I understood that this was not an aggressive act. Blond hair, she explains, is so unusual in Northern Africa that Moroccans think it's full of "baraka," or good karma. Pulling a piece of baraka from a stranger's head is just a good-luck charm, like plucking a four-leaf clover. It isn't hostile, but it's a little hard to get used to.
I started planning my days in Casablanca on the flight over. I chatted with the Moroccan flight attendants, asking them where to eat and what to visit in the city, and by the time we were midway through the Atlantic and the movie, we were asking one another about our marriages. They were amazed, in my case, that a marriage of love could end in divorce. One of the women was in an arranged marriage, and quite openly said she hated her husband. Another had refused to comply with her family's wishes that she have an arranged marriage and, at 32, expected to remain single. A third was waiting, living at home under the protective eye of her father.
By the time we were over the Azores, I made the mistake of inviting these three friendly women to have dinner with me one night in Casa. They exchanged some rapid Arabic among themselves, and finally said that they must invite me. I hadn't realized that women in Morocco, even in their 30s, don't just pick up and go out to dinner unaccompanied by men, and that for a Westerner to ask Moroccans to dinner in their hometown is like inviting herself to their house for a meal.
I tried again, explaining that I was a journalist and that in America the custom is for the magazines to always pay to take people out to dinner in other countries. This, of course, wasn't true, but I was doing my best not to impose on them. Another conversation ensued, apparently with some disagreement. Finally they reached a conclusion: I was in their country, and I would be their guest. Arab hospitality makes no exceptions for expense accounts.
In the morning, I arrived in Casablanca and made my way to the hotel where I had a reservation. The manager seemed surprised to see me. I hung around the lobby long enough to realize I'd been booked into a bordello. Businessmen kept arriving with heavily made-up women, and no one had any bags. Interesting as this scene was, I didn't like the way I was being eyed. So I consulted my guidebook and hailed a taxi to drive me what turned out to be four blocks, for which the driver tried to charge me 100 dirhams, the equivalent of $10 (never pay more than 15 dirhams for a ride in town). I checked into the four-star hotel (still only $60 a night), no hookers in sight, slept off my jet lag and called my new friends.
When I phoned Aisha's house, the father and I communicated only well enough to determine "no Aisha." Khadija wasn't home, either. I finally connected with Halima, who made plans for me to come to lunch the next day.
I spent the afternoon visiting the spectacular new Hassan II Mosque, built with the best traditional Moroccan craftsmanship that $800 million can buy. I walked to the medina, exploring the narrow ancient streets lined with souks, where cheap Western clothing and household goods were for sale -- but not the brass lanterns, kilim carpets, Ali Baba slippers and hookah pipes I expected in Morocco. This was practical Casablanca. I walked around town fairly easily, giving prospective guides a friendly
"Non, merci," and changing directions when I was hassled.
I crossed the street from the medina and entered a cybercafe, traversing from one century to another, so I could leave a message with my friend in Paris, telling him not to meet me at that bordello. I ran into a couple of Americans there, who seemed distraught. When one went out for a cigarette, the other told me that he'd just been in a car accident in which he'd tried to pass a car and was hit; his mother died, his aunt was in the ICU in Casablanca and his wife's face was disfigured. You always travel to exotic countries in search of the edge, in search of an experience that heightens the preciousness, the temporality, of life, and then you are surprised and dismayed to find it.
to be continued

Barcelona

2006-02-14T00:00:00.000-06:00

Six Days in Barcelona
Barcelona, Spain
No luggage.No friends.No cell phone.No hablo español.What in hell am I doing here?
After nearly twenty hours in the air, two delays and three connections, I think I’m in Barcelona. But I’m jet lagged, exhausted and for all I know, I could be in Uzbekistan.
Wandering around the airport, I watch the trendy Europeans peruse the boutiques of Louis Vuitton and expensive perfumes. I imagine my luggage spending eternity in the abyss of lost and forgotten items, the casualties of modern travel. I picture myself as well, doomed to wander the isles of the brightly-lit airport mall, babbling incoherently and searching endlessly for my friends. I was a tad overly dramatic; my luggage turned up, as did my friends - eventually.

Walking outside, the heat hit me immediately. When I left Ottawa, it was minus 40 degrees Celsius, freezing rain and a bitter wind. To step into the humid Barcelona air (albeit only 20 degrees), it felt like the volcanic fiery pits of hell (minus the negative imagery). Throughout the week, in the mild winter season, the locals bundled up in their “light years ahead of us” winter fashions. They wore heavy over coats, expensive scarves and trendy hats. I, on the other hand, wandered around the city in a T-shirt and flip-flops. I would be told later that this was a dead give away that I was a tourist.

One of the first things I noticed about Barcelona was the people. They seemed like some genetically modified race of super beautiful humans. I wondered if maybe they were part of a top secret government experiment. I have never seen so many beautiful people up close. The men were gorgeous - lean and dark, dressed to the nine almost effortlessly. The women were stylish and gorgeous. Even though Barcelona women at that time had fallen victim to the ever dreaded return of the mullet hair cut, still they were exquisite - as if they all just rolled out of bed looking like a Noxzema ad.

Throughout the week, we frequented all of Barcelona’s most famous tourist attractions such as the Salvadore Dali museum and countless famous architectural achievements. To travel a city that inspired an artist like Dali, Picasso and famous architects such as Gaudi was inspiring in itself. Yet, more memorable were the sights of painted tapestries hanging along the sides of buildings and over the balconies of residential homes, all with the same phrase No a la Guerra. Spain had just been the victim of an all too familiar terrorist attack on its railway system. Having left North America where the same wounds were still fresh and tempers still raging, I was amazed at the difference in how this country’s victimization was regarded. I saw no hateful graffiti, no racist or religious slander - just a simple white sheet, hand painted and modestly hanging.

I learned many things in Barcelona. Vegetarians are not welcome. Barcelona’s most famous dish, paella, is a clear indicator of how much this city loves its meat and fish. I saw it prepared in many different ways but traditionally, paella begins with a bed of rice and then can be created with any combination of mussels, prawns, shrimp, pork, rabbit, fresh squid and clams. I never knew one could subsist for an entire week on cheese croissants and strong coffee. Can anyone say croissant con queso?

While vegetarian choices may be hard to come by, restaurants make the process easier by posting their menus outside. Be forewarned, though, words in Spanish that sound like words in English are not necessarily the same. Case in point, on a particular night, I skimmed the posted outdoor menu for something edible and saw lengueta. I thought linguini. Lengueta is not linguini, not even close. It's tongue. At another restaurant I attempted to try my Spanish, asking the elderly restaurant owner if she had anything vegitariano on the menu. She yelled and chased me out of the restaurant with a wooden spoon. Back to the croissants for me.

First Flight-Amsterdam

2006-01-13T16:04:00.000-06:00

Arrival in Old Amsterdam ( a work of fiction mixed with facts,with more then a little plagiarism,so sue me!my efforts are to bring you info from around the world,if I write of a resturant or museuem,hotel,what ever-it is a real place and I present real facts,now then,on with the show this is it!)

After a six-and-a-half hour flight from JFK, I arrived at Schiphol Airport in Amsterdam to meet a group of over forty journalists who gathered to see all there was to see in the capital of Holland. After a half-hour bus ride, a third of our group, myself included, arrived at Barbizon Palace Hotel. All I wanted to do was to climb into a large tub of water and soak away some of the stiffiness my body was experiencing,but they group had other plans for us.I will say that the hotel more then meet my expectations.I would have an hour to unpack,quick shower and as short nap,no long soak and deep sleep!

This renovated Old World style hotel is situated in the heart of the city opposite Central Station, where the trams and railways can take you anywhere you want to go within the city and beyond. Lucky for me, the Barbizon Palace is near the “nine-alleys,” which are main streets that crisscross Amsterdam’s many canals. These streets are filled with quaint little pubs, all kinds of restaurants, and various places to shop. Each establishment is more exceptional than the next, and most have a real old European feel to them. Of course, there are more modern, hip establishments sprinkled in, and this old and new trend reflects the city as a whole. Amsterdam is a historical city with ambiance and a contemporary feel -- it’s an interesting and very cool dichotomy of Old World charm mixed with modern metropolis.

Walking Tour of Old Amsterdam
After I was settled in, napped and showered, (and very angry at myself for forgetting to pack my contact lenses), I joined my peers for a walking tour of the city and was almost run over by a bicycle -- there are over 400,000 bicycles in this city! After I recovered, I learned all about the city’s 165 canals. Since I’ve been to Venice, I expected these 10 foot canals, complete with picturesque bridges, to smell and be devoid of fish, but I was mistaken. They are clean, full of aquatic life, and have adorable houseboats bobbing on them -- some even had floating gardens. The city itself is built on wooden pilings and concrete, an architectural marvel in itself.
Visitors can get an excellent view of the historical buildings with their ornamented gables by taking a boat tour. All the sights are all illuminated at night, so none of the city’s rich architecture is missed. The tall, narrow brownstone houses and buildings date from the 16th to the 20th centuries, with some spectacular structures from the 17th century, Holland’s Golden Age, when Amsterdam was the wealthiest city in the world.
One random architectural factoid I learned was that each building has a protruding beam with a hook on its roof to hoist up large furniture and belongings, which are then put through the large open windows. Staircases aren’t an option when moving belongings for Amsterdam residents. Since they are close together and so tall and narrow, every thing and every space in these buildings has a purpose and a function.
There are many well-hidden attractions in this compact city, and walking is best the way to discover them. Smack in the middle of a street amongst the trendy bars and restaurants was an ornate Buddhist temple, very close in proximity to the famous Red Light District.I wish I could tell you some outlandish tale of sexual debauchery,and it was very tempting to taste some of the flavours offered,but my own new moral sensibilities and the chaparone effect of the group left me,let's just say a little wanting!

A floating flower market is another main attraction. For bargain hunters, there are flea markets where, depending on what day you go, books and art are sold. Simply walk into an old-fashioned drug store or first-class cigar shop to experience Old World charm. Every turn on each block has something to see and offer.
The Museums of Amsterdam are amongst the best in the world,and my old junkie buddies would be very surprised to learn that I have always had a love affair with the past,and find museums some of the most desirable places to be,as I love to learn of the past.The more I learn,the more I am shocked at how little things hhave really changed.We are still making the same mistakes over and over.When will we learn just to love one another and to accept our neighbours for what they are.ENOUGH-this is not to be an editorial!

There are 35 museums in Amsterdam, so art lovers will have much to do. A visit to the Anne Frank House is a must, but timing is essential. There’s usually a line out the door, but I managed to breeze right in late on a rainy Sunday afternoon. The Secret Annexe has been restored to make the house resemble its appearance when Anne Frank and her family and friends hid from the Nazis during World War II. There are many exhibits to keep visitors immersed in the time and happenings of that period. Some were: narrated films playing in the close-quarters of the Secret Annexe; interactive computer programs giving detailed description of each room and the front factory; and of course, the diaries themselves. Pencil markings scratched on the wallpaper of the children’s growth during their time there, and Anne’s pictures of movie starts adorning her bedroom walls were truly heart-wrenching to see knowing their fate. If you’ve read the diary, or even if you haven’t, this is truly a touching and important historical stop on your visit to Amsterdam.
The Stedelijk Museum contains impressive artwork from such masters as Pablo Picasso, Paul Cezanne, Claude Monet, and Jackson Pollack, as well as many collections of modern art, photography, design and new media. The Rembrandt House Museum is also a must-see for visiting art enthusiasts, since he was Holland’s greatest 17th century painter and resided there from the age of 25. On the 400th birthday of this world famous artist, visitors can take a walking tour of the many locations that played important roles in his life. Some will include: the Oude Kerk (Old Church); the Waag (Weighing House) where he painted his anatomical lessons; the Royal Palace on Dam Square; the town hall; and the Westerkerk Church. Of course, the Rembrandt House, which features 250 of the 300 etchings Rembrandt created, is included in this tour. The House is restored to resemble its original façade during the Golden Age when Rembrandt lived and worked there for twenty years.

The Five Flies Restaurant – Traditionally Dutch

Restaurant d’Vijff Vlieghen is a traditional Dutch dining establishment fashioned from five attached row houses that were built in 1627. Five original Rembrandt etchings hang in the restaurant’s Rembrandt Room. The restaurant also contains 16th century armor and a collection of Golden Age handmade glassware. There are nine cozy dining rooms adorned with Old Dutch décor, yet each has a different feel and flavor. There are artworks, sculptures and knickknacks everywhere you turn, but more importantly, the traditional Dutch food is quite tasty. My favorite part of the evening was sampling their original homemade gin at the meal’s conclusion. It’s flavored with herbs and honey and only costs 13 Euros for a small bottle -- a real bargain for something so original!
I will wrap things up here for now,lets call this part one shall we?I have much more to tell you of Amsterdams wonders,but the hour draws late,the mind is wandering,so till we meet again.......

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2005-12-28T09:35:00.002-06:00

here is how to edit an image.
Login to Blogger,then go to Edit Posts and then edit the portal page with the image.There should be two tabs top left corner of the toolbar for writing the post.One tab as Edit Html and the other Compose.

click on Edit Html

see the very first URL inside the code for the image,Change that URL to the URL of the site you want the image to open to if clicked.They way it is when clicked it opens to a copy of the image,but you can make it open where you want.

Be sure to include target"_blank" at end of URL.

to see how I did this one-go to your browsers "view" and select page source.