of Greece, Gods and Salted Gold

Half-way through the month and a little over a third through the pregnancy.

Or as I like to call it, the habitation or invasion.

EDITOR'S NOTE:
Before I go on, I should warn my dear readers that I am not (thus far) of the glowy-happy preggo persuasion.  That probably goes without saying for my regular readers, but in case you're new to this corner I'm giving you fair warning.*


Yes, these past few months have felt more like being host to a parasite than making a cute baby, and I know parasites.  I drank the water in Turkey and ate the street food in Morocco.  I know parasites.

Here's a tip, to you from me, Pinky Lee, don't schedule a beach holiday in the middle of your first trimester. Especially if that holiday is in a country where you can't flush toilet paper so every toilet, public or otherwise, has an aroma which sends you dry-heaving even when you're not 8 weeks pregnant.

Two days after we moved, we left London for the sunny beaches of Greece.  We hadn't had a proper relaxing holiday in over a year (Morocco doesn't count, we were both sick twice and spent at least half the time in a crowded and hot SUV. I said relaxing holiday) so we were looking forward to a week of laying around and eating.

I did a lot of laying around.  Not so much eating.

attempting glowy-happy & failing

I spent four point five of the seven days rotating between the bed, the balcony and the toilet.  Eating was next to impossible   The buffet on offer turned my stomach before I even got close enough to see what I couldn't eat.  I was stockpiling apples in the room and the only things I could keep down were generic cocoa pop-like cereal in the morning and bland spaghetti in the afternoon and evening.  But even then it wasn't a safe bet.

Before I forget.  You know what's awesome when you're feeling like you are dying?  And I say this with complete sincerity, salted crisps.  Regular potato chips.  They are a gift from the gods.  Seriously, the mythic gods worshiped in the surrounding temples reached down from the heavens and delivered me crunchy, crispy, salted gold.

Of course that could have been Pete coming back from the local store.  He is olive skinned with dark curly hair and I was laying on the dark bathroom floor.  It's entirely possible I was hallucinating.



So preggo tip No. 1, no beachy holidays with plumbing that won't accept toilet paper and salted potato chips are AMAZING!!!!







*These experiences are completely my own and I pass no judgement on glowy-happy preggo women or mean to cause pain to those suffering through infertility.  

5 minutes in the medina

Last October I spent 17 days in Morocco.  Five of those were spent in the medina of Marrakesh.  The above photos were taken over a span of five minutes while sitting at a cafe waiting for lunch.  The teeming humanity of the medina and souks is hard to explain or illustrate.  

bread-wool sacks
logs-iron rebar
satellite dish
safety vests
pastries
cinder blocks
donkeys/scooters/handcarts/mopeds/bicycles (100s)
misc. bundles
rolled bundles
juice
coffee kettle with attached stove
boxes of cupcakes
van w/bikes
sacks of dates
TOURISTS
humanity in general

This list comes directly out of my travel journal recording the contents of five minutes of traffic. While we sat, stationary, at the entrance of the souks the amount and variety of traffic was fascinating.  We had been weaving our way in and out of the teeming masses for a few days, had more than a few close encounters with speeding motorcycles or scooters in the narrow passages and pressed into the wall to avoid passing donkey carts.  But sitting here, just watching, the mass movement washed over me.  

I haven't been able to find the words to describe the majority of that trip.  I wrote a lot during the trip, but I can't bring myself to turn those scribblings into anything as of yet.  What I have been able to do is create some photo stories.  These five stories speak to themes I experienced in those 17 days.  

Thresholds for the slow realization of my transition.  
Red for the heat, and sometimes frustration, of the country.
Earth and Sky for the deep contrasts in colour and the inescapable basic elements.
Green for the lush valleys and ever-present sickness (of our own).
Crowds for the, well, ever-present crowds.  

At the time of leaving Morocco, I had no thoughts of going back.  Our organized tour was close to disastrous, although the moments spent on our own exploring were exceptional.  After almost a year, the memories of frustration and sleeplessness and illness have faded, a bit, and my opinion has changed.  
The magic and mystery of Marrakesh is worth another look and the sea breeze of Essaouira so refreshing.

a travel metaphor...

I've been thinking about journeys lately.  Geographical and temporal and mental and physical.  I guess it’s only fitting, being a geographer and all.  Places and movement in and between places is my jam. 

However, despite my academic pre-occupation with movement between places, in my everyday life I get very hung up on destinations. 

“it’s a nice place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live there.” 

Somehow, I got this mixed up.  My approach to life planning, thus far, is basically to settle into every destination.  I get nice and comfortable in my little squat and forget to go out and look around.  I seem to prefer to sit in the corner and complain about missing the colours and people I remember seeing on the way in, having conveniently forgotten there is a bus stop just down the alley.  Or worse yet, refuse to believe there is anything outside my tiny world.

This is becoming problematic. 

I’m not saying I want to live a life of aimless roaming.  That would be exhausting.  At the ripe old age of 33, I’m too old for that.  I like my comforts and routine.  But I’m also too young to be accepting that this is always how it will always be or that I am running out of time and have missed the boat, so to speak. 

Seven years ago, I was sure I would settle into a nice little college town in a nice little house, with some cats and a library and become that eccentric professor at the end of the hall.  I planned to travel, but I never really thought about buying the tickets or how I would manage it on my own. 

I had been working toward this particular version of life for a good while and it seemed like it would happen. 

Then, my university department denied me entry to their doctoral program.  A few months later, I failed my master’s degree defence.  My carefully crafted world was falling apart.  And I was dating a guy who couldn't care less. 

At the bottom of this well, at seemingly the worst possible time, I got on a plane to Africa.  I was going with a friend to make good on a declaration we had made four years prior during a sleep-deprived study session.  Note: memorizing fossils in the wee hours of the morning can drive you a little batty.

That journey forever changed my life.

The feeling of being in Africa, of travelling down those bumpy, red roads playing with random kids who just appear, walking through markets and witnessing the collapse of an economy, has all but disappeared.  Or at least the immediacy of it has faded. 

Sadly, something more than scenery and smells faded.  I can’t quite put my finger on it.  I got a hint of it in Morocco, but I think I was too sick to really focus. 

I think it is something akin to peeking behind a curtain, seeing the wizard for who he is.  A talented showman making the best of a difficult situation. 

Maybe that is a bit heavy. 

Two years ago, my world kind of fell apart again.  However, and here’s the part I’m struggling with, it was the pre-Africa part of my life which fell apart.  The half of my life directly linked to my African journey was fantastic.  It was the stuff of childhood dreams wished for, but never expected; an international romance turned marriage, living abroad and travelling the world. 

Africa changed my life, but I didn’t change my plan to fit that life. 

“the best laid plans of mice and men, oft times go astray”

You said it. 

What I want to get back to, if I ever really had it in the first place, is to have an itinerary but be willing to deviate if the possibility arises or an interesting road beckons.  I don’t want to wear blinders and I don’t want to flit from place to place. 

Is that possible?  

I mean in day to day life, not just travel-metaphors. 

Photos: Stone Town in Zanzibar, Kande in Malawi, somewhere in Mozambique?

Approaching customs...have passport ready

Seven years ago I landed in Heathrow airport, just another tourist.  I was returning to the US from a few weeks camping and travelling through east Africa.  A few weeks which had forever changed my life.  The night before I had said a very tearful good-bye to my holiday fling who, five years later, would become my husband.  


At that point I was not aware of the massive shift which had occurred in my timeline.  I was, however, very aware of not being sure how to get to our hostel.  The city was still in chaos following a transit bombing a few days prior. 

I remember being aware of a low level panic coupled with a determination to continue with life as usual.  I remember being aware of very strong body odour on the tube and bus and realising, with horror, that it was coming from me.  I remember a moment of silence settling over the entire city one morning.  


For three days, my dear friend and a new friend, roamed the streets of London.  We walked past Buckingham, Big Ben, the Eye and along the south bank (Southbank).  We browsed the book tables under the pedestrian bridge at Embankment and joined a tour through the Globe Theatre.  We wandered through Kensington Gardens and got repeatedly lost in winding streets with no signs. We rummaged through thrift shops in Notting Hill and marvelled at all the vegetarian options unheard of in the US and Australia.  


And when it was time to leave, time to return to my previous life of four jobs and no health insurance, we hailed a cab and asked to be taken to the nearest working station for the 'blue line.'  Not realising there are two blue lines (and what we wanted was the Piccadilly Line), we navigated a surprise mid-journey change with bulging backpacks.  




In little over a year, I would be landing in Heathrow again. The African holiday romance proved to be 'the real deal' and an interview with a university waiting for me. 




It's six years later and it looks like we are here to stay.  At least for the foreseeable future.  
This is exciting and a bit sad simultaneously.  We are attempting to move through that expat transition of 'when do we go home?' (a question made all the more difficult by having two homes and families to consider) to 'this is our home.'  This decision feels a little bit like an adventure.  Like an adventure on par with running away to Africa in that this one little decision, to call this place home, has the potential to change our timeline in a million ways we could never have imagined, even just a few years ago.  This is grown-up adventure. 


Having made the decision (or to be honest, giving in to the lure of Greenwich and earning GBP) to take up a more permanent residence here in London, means we also made the decision to endure A LOT of rain and non-existent summers.  We both grew up thinking summer was hot and sticky and sunny (albeit at completely opposite times of the year).  It's a bit heart-wrenching to think our children could grow up thinking our memory of summer a complete fabrication.  


And then there are the deeply-held and loved holiday traditions which either don't fit with our adopted country's weather patterns (Christmas Barbecue and New Year's baking on the beach), are slow to catch on (costume parties and Trick-or-Treating on Halloween) or are completely non-existent (Fireworks and parades on the Fourth of July, Turkey and football (American-style) on Thanksgiving).  And of course, the new-to-me holidays and accompanying traditions of Guy Fawkes, Boxing Day (which bare a resemblance to the Fourth and Black Friday) and random Royal events.




As most of my readers will know, there is a lot of talk on wedding/marriage blogs about creating your own traditions.  When talking of a wedding, this seems a nice concession to each family of origin and the couple and makes for great wedding stories  of harmony and independence.  Looking forward into a life of forever new traditions, this idea seems exhausting.  We aren't just talking about melding two families here, we are also adding three/four cultural heritages and customs to the mix*.   


Most of the time it is relatively easy to just go about our usual business and traditions.  Occasionally we include some friends willing to go along with whatever traditions we have mashed together and it really isn't such a big deal.  


Except when it comes to holidays traditionally spent with family.  Then it is just us two and the gatherings that make the holiday so special are absent.  The people we wish to be gathered with spread across the globe.  


When I left Africa seven years ago, I knew I would keep travelling.  Something clicked within and I knew I would be forever compelled to seek out new places and observe the similarities and differences and general beauty (and sometimes ugliness) the world has to offer.  


What I didn't know was that one stamp in the passport, one graphic permission to enter, would mean a lifetime of shuffling back and forth between families in three corners of the map.**  

Can I find the new and exciting, the beauty and the darkness, in places so familiar, yet far-flung? 




Will the stress of trying to maintain family traditions and customs mean that we resign ourselves to becoming *gasp* British?  








NEVER!!! 


They may take our accents and summers but they'll never take our pumpkin pie and pavlova.










*For those of you new to the Graphy and slightly confused on how I got to 3/4 when speaking of two of us, here's a crash course in our background.  I'm a mid-western American (1).  Pete is from New Zealand (2) and of strong Croatian stock (3).  We live in London (4).  (I occasionally claim my 1/2 Sicilian blood, but really only when I am overly dramatic/emotional or have to choose a team to back in European sports tournaments.)


**Don't hate me. It's really not as glamourous as it sounds, all this travel.  Anyone who has experienced the 30 hour one-way trip between NZ and London, 24 of those in air, will testify.  It is painful and maddening.  Scream-into-your-airline-pillow maddening.  


Apologies for the random white highlighting.  I've obviously done something Blogger doesn't like.  I'm working on a solution. 

Thresholds

This past weekend I dug out my flip flops.  They were still covered in Morocco.  That last night in country when we walked back from dinner at the vegan cafe (because we just couldn't handle anymore tagines) through the pouring rain.  Weaving our way through the medina's alleys and passages now familiar after three days of exploration.  Our legs and feet slowly caked in rain and red mud and whatever else ran through those streets where horses, donkeys, feral cats and motor scooters shuffle the teaming crowds of humanity, even at that late hour.  


Those last three days in Marrakesh transformed our experience of Morocco but also transformed our vision of ourselves.  We had returned to Africa with the same mindset in which we left six years prior, rough and ready and willing to experience some hardship in the pursuit of the travel experience.  Then came two weeks of driving in a stuffy hot car for hours on end every day, hot hotel rooms above pumping night clubs, waves of sickness, fear of water and the inability to wash.  When we arrived in Marrakesh at the end of our tour, all we wanted was a shower and a plane home.  I wasn't interested in exploring any more, I couldn't look at another carpet or leather bag or handcrafted shoe.  




That was when I knew something had changed.  I had no desire to ogle shoes and handbags.  Something was definitely wrong and it had nothing to do with the searing cramps in my abdomen.  




In the most 'backpacker' moment I have experienced thus far in my life, we loaded up, (front and back) and hiked through the crowded alleys of the medina to a quiet corner, deep in the rabbit warren.  The directions indicating turns at the 'corner carpet shop,' 'fountain,' 'mosque' completely useless as they apply to every corner within the Old City.  Behind the big wooden door in a dark underpass was a beautiful and calm space we willingly fell into, covered in grime and sweat, bowels churning.  


In those last three days in Marrakesh, when we had access to working showers and quiet rooms and the freedom to roam as we pleased, we got comfortable with the fact that we had changed.  We weren't the twenty-somethings that ran away to Africa for adventure six years before.  We were thirty-somethings with obligations and responsibilities that had replaced 'exotic' adventure and we really were just too tired to try and replicate those magical weeks/months we experienced six years ago.  


This realisation, that I am no longer who I was, is a difficult double-edged sword for me to swallow.  One edge is 'thank goodness that time of insecurity and arrogance and ignorance is over' the other edge 'what fresh hell is this 'grown-up' thing of responsibility and obligation and constant effort?'


It's the constant effort that is catching me up lately.  There is no resting.  And while this is a lesson best directed at somewhat intangible goals, it is one that has come home in a very tangible way in the form of my physical body.


Three months ago I signed up for a half-marathon.  




I'll give you some time to let that sink in.  


A half-marathon. 


Me.  


At the time of signing up I had never run farther than 6K (about 3.75 miles).  A half-marathon is 21.1 K (13.1 miles).  I'm not sure what I was thinking.  


Three weekends ago I ran 10K.  


I got very cocky about it.  I tweeted and facebook-ed status-ed about High School gym stinking-that-in-its-pipe-and-smoking-it. 




I have yet to do it again.  After that I stopped running three times a week and have only gone for runs on the weekend and have yet to reach 10K again.  This is not how you train for a half-marathon.  


There is no real reason for this sudden apathy.  The weather hasn't been great, but it never is and I still managed to run three times a week throughout the entire winter.  The same thing with my weight loss/gain.  This past winter I reached my goal weight and then slid back into unhealthy eating patterns.  Coupled with less running, I have put back on about 10 pounds.


No.  There is something else going on with me.  For eight months I have been crossing a threshold without really being aware of the process.  It started with that realisation in Marrakesh.  I am moving toward a different version of me.  A grown-up version.  But every time I get close to embracing this next transition, I stop.  Almost afraid to continue through the door and leave the previous me behind.    


Two steps forward, one step back.  Reach a goal with 'grown up' responsibility and accountability, and then expect to reap the benefits without effort with 'childish' arrogance and entitlement. 


Intellectually, I know this is how life works and I think I am excited about the possibility of new-ish Ariel.  How horrible to stay the 'same' your whole life.  

But, damn.  It would have been nice to figured that out before we booked the 'rough and ready' Morocco tour.  Working showers and night club-free hotels would have made a world of difference. 




Photos: Tomb of Moulay Ismail/Meknes, flip flop full of Morocco/Sahara Desert

Morocco Motoring: Baggage

It's four months since we came back from Morocco and the only bits I shared with you are a few instagram photos and a story about a shower.

It's inexcusable, so today I bring you the packing strategy. This may be the one thing that stresses me out more than any other travel experience. You don't want to be hauling around tons of baggage, but you also want to be prepared. The Girl Scout in me is always worried about not having that one key thing. (I know, 'Always Prepared' is the Boy Scout motto, but I always preferred their handbook to ours. I mean outdoor survival is much more interesting than cutlery position.)

The main issue for us in packing revolved around weight. Not because we were carrying our baggage on our backs but because we planned to shop. A lot. This trip was about exploring Morocco, but we also planned to finish the Christmas shopping. Whether our families liked it or not, they were getting Moroccan textiles under the tree.

Two weeks, one backpack. Shouldn't be an issue but there are always circumstances to consider. We would probably be sweating. A lot. The days would be hot, the nights cold. Also, as a woman travelling in a Muslim country, there was a very good possibility I would have to be covered the majority of the time. I did. Additionally, we were spending one night camping in the Sahara which meant dragging a sleeping bag along (taking up valuable space). We compromised here. Pete took a sleeping bag in his bigger backpack and I packed two thin wool Masai blankets (from our last trip to Africa) in my smaller backpack. I find it unfair that based on my height I have a smaller bag but such is the math of hiking backpacks.

When packing, I start with a list, pare the list down, then add things at the last minute, usually in a panic and they never get used. I resisted that temptation this time, a little, but it meant I forgot to pack tissues, headphones and wetwipes. These things may not seem critical, but I was operating under the assumption that toilet facilities would be less than hygienic and there was a good possibility we would get some kind of belly bug. (They were. We did. Twice each.) I had the meds for 'traveller's sickness' but I forgot the materials.

I did, however, remember to pack four packages of ginger snap cookies. These ended up being the most important item in my bag. These and my two sarongs.

Luckily, style wasn't a huge concern for this particular trip which made packing easier. However, I also knew we would be taking a lot of photos and, vainly, I didn't want to look too haphazard in the photographic evidence.

Here is what I eventually packed after a week of adding and editing:

linen trousers

zip-off trousers

lightweight hiking trousers

yoga/running pants

shorts

lightweight knee-length skirt

3 light tanktops

3 linen shirts

2 t-shirts

2 icebreaker tanks

long-sleeve shirt

icebreaker sweater

2 lightweight cotton sarongs**

bathing suit

2 pairs socks

winter hat

flip-flops

Keens

trainers*

yoga mits*

3 bras

7 knickers

pajamas

notebook and pens

2 books

camera (cord/charger/adapter)

small backpack

day bag

sunnies

headtube

ginger snaps

basic toiletries (no matter how basic, it still seems a ton)

travel towel

laundry soap

clothesline

* I never used the trainers. I never used the yoga mits. Of course I didn't. In all the times I have packed them, I have only used them once. The two icebreaker tanks were a bit fancier and so let me dress up but I could have done without them.

** The sarongs may be the most important and useful things I packed (after the ginger snaps). They serve as excellent head and shoulder covering but also work as a scarf, towel, sling, tissue, smell-blocker, window shade, belt, sleeping mask, bag, skirt, shirt, etc.

On the way home I added:

3 pairs of shoes
1 pair of boots
3 carpets (another 3 in Pete's bag)
4 necklaces
4 sets of mini tagines

　

And still came in under airline weight restrictions. Nice.

It starts with Turkey

Three years ago, Pete and I called our families and friends from a hotel in Istanbul to tell them the moment they had been expecting the past 3 years finally happened.  We were engaged. 

It seems a long time ago and at the same time, not so long ago.  We had spent the previous summer apart.  Our second bout of long-distance relationship-ing.  For those of you that still are long-distancing or have ever long-distanced.  My heart goes out to you.  It is tortuous. 

My lovey returned home Sunday afternoon and we are immediately back to what feels like long-distance again.  It feels like ages since I have been home and taking care of business.  We left for Morocco on October 8^th.  When we returned 18 days later, I had two very busy, non-usual, weeks before leaving for The States for a month.  When I return home on December 6^th it will be almost two months since I have had a regular schedule for housewifing and writing and working. 

On my first run after the gluttonous event that was Thanksgiving  week(end) I was thinking about how much I missed my usual running route but also about how much I missed my life. 

Being away from home and routine can sometimes feel like being in a kind of limbo.  I’m not talking about vacations, but more those necessary trips so common to us expats like family visits, visa visits, admin visits.  Those visits where you return to a place that should feel familiar, that is a part of you, but doesn’t really fit who you are anymore.  You hang between your past and current self.  You spend the days continually negotiating the space between these identities.  Or at least I do when there is nothing on TV and the cats are responding to my attempts to play with them. 

I find it next to impossible to get anything done during these trips.  This may be due to my own lack of self-motivation, but mostly I spend my time trying to come to some routine that works.  Routines are very important to me.  I find it very hard to function without one.  That’s not to say I can’t roll with it when I must, but on a day to day basis I like to know what I am doing when.  This doesn’t happen when I am away. 

Getting back to the Turkey.  It was appropriate for Pete to wait for Thanksgiving.  First, it’s one of my favourite holidays, right after Halloween, second, it is the time my family traditionally celebrates my birthday along with my Dad’s and Aunt’s.  I went into my thirties an engaged woman.  An identity I never expected or wanted until I met Pete.  Of course, I spent my actual birthday taking care of Pete and then eventually puking myself because we were foolish enough to drink the water in Istanbul, but let’s skip over that. 

I was thinking of all these things as I ran and I was thinking that I could never planned the life I am currently living.  As a young girl in Sheffield Lake I don’t know if I dared to think this kind of life was possible.  I know I had wistful dreams of being an explorer or a dancer or an actress, but I don’t think I ever really took those seriously.  Sheffield Lake is not a place that nurtures dreams. 

Today I am going back to Sheffield Lake to be a guest teacher in my old middle school.  I am teaching a class about Geography.  I know it is only a day, only one class, but maybe it will help a student dream of something bigger than Sheffield Lake and take that dream seriously.

Three years ago, I was in Turkey for Thanksgiving (which until that point had been just a joke on Everyone Loves Raymond) and was living a life that seemed impossible to a younger Ariel.  I was also embarking on a life that I hadn’t even gotten around to dreaming about as a younger Ariel.  Somehow, that moment I said ‘yes,’ and those few days in Istanbul, have come to mean so very much to me and who I am.

And here’s the thing, for as much as I like my daily routines, my larger life timeline and history happened almost entirely by chance or spur-of-the-moment decisions.  In the last year, as I slowly come out of a very dark time in which I thought I was a huge failure and life was one big screw-up after another, I have begun to realize that my obsession with planning everything is a bit of a an anchor.  When I just go with ‘it,’ ‘it’ seems to produce benefits, whereas when I attempt to plan my life, I end up in Limbo.  On the couch, trying to produce something and spinning my wheels. 

This Thanksgiving, and the end of The Days of Thanks, I am thankful for all the unexpected and unplanned moments and decisions in my life that have led me here.  Despite all my complaining, I am very happy.  Perhaps more happy than I have ever been. 

Turkey for all!!!!

I hope your Days of Thanks have been equally as illuminating and wonderful and send you into the holiday and end of year with a big smile and goodwill toward all.  Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a large pimple on my nose that needs attention.  It’s like my body knows I’m going to a middle school today and wanted to make sure I fit in, or at least knock me down a peg.

Home-made memories

21. Public transportation

Give me the tube, strikes and all.  I forget how difficult it is to get around in the US without a car.  I know people manage but it really is a bummer. 

Sure, the big cities have public transportation and a car is unnecessary, but the majority of the population in the US need a car to get anything done. 

This morning I drove my mum to work so I could have the car for the day and run some errands.  The first few times I get behind a wheel again I am always anxious.  It is a far cry from my driving style prior to the great migration across the ocean, but I find slow and steady allows me plenty of space to be cautious.  In the busiest lanes and at the busiest times, I find if I go the speed limit I am usually left behind the rush and have all lanes to myself and can take time with my driving decisions.

This is what happens when you stop driving for two years, drive a motorhome for six months, and then return to not driving.  You become that woman who grips the steering wheel in the 10 and 2 position and sits bolt upright. 

I can’t have music in the car anymore until I know where I am going and get the new map straight in my head. 

It is an odd thing to be unfamiliar with the place you come from.  Cleveland still stirs an emotional response in me, but it is becoming increasingly unfamiliar the more I make a home for Pete and I in Greenwich.  But that’s part of the process of growing up, yes? 

It hasn’t got to the point where everything suddenly looks smaller.  Although I have yet to return to the Lorain county suburb where I went to High School.  I haven’t been back there in close to a decade.  Wait, that’s a lie.  We went there during the wedding extravaganza for a minor league baseball game.  But as that stadium is brand new and we didn’t venture any further, I don’t think it really counts.  There was no nostalgia attached to the event.  Part of the reason I have avoided this area of town is because I am a bit fearful of what I might find there.  I am sure it no longer looks the way I remember from my childhood and bursting those memories will not be an enjoyable experience.  I like my sunny, sparkly memories of Dunny Ave and Ferndale Park and Shoreway Shopping Center as they are.  Reality might be a bitter pill.

I know memory is a relative thing.  Hell, I wrote a doctoral thesis on the shifting nature of memory (among other things) but knowing it and seeing it are two very different beasts. 

I would like to keep my memories of my childhood home as they are, for now. 

Today I am thankful for public transport, not just because I miss it, but also because the missing of it makes me mindful of the two very different places that make up my idea of ‘home.’  The one I came from and the one I am making. 

Two for One

You thought I forgot about you.  Not so at all.  I also did not forget about my promise last Friday. 

However, yesterday I was having one of the those great days where all your effort is validated.  I was too busy celebrating with baked goods and wine to put my gratitude into words. 

So today, you get two stories of gratitude and a soup recipe.  What a deal.

28.  A really great day

Yesterday was my first day of volunteering.  It has been a long slog to get a volunteer position anywhere and we moved our Moroccan holiday back so I could attend the interview for this position.  The slightly embarrassing part, for me, about this volunteer interview is that I applied for the position of the woman who interviewed me.   We also did our PhDs at the same university at the same time.  Regardless, I have the volunteer position and yesterday I walked to ‘work.’  It was a great fall morning.  The morning rain shower was over and it wasn’t too cold.  In a fit of optimism, to go along with my excitement about this first day, I packed a bag to hit the gym on the way home. 

The day went well.  It is a very self-directed position, but I got to show off my people skills, handled some Tudor artefacts, and proposed a new project.  Perhaps a bit overkill on the first day, but my boss sent me a very excited email at the end of the day, so I think I am on the right track.  It felt good to be back in this particular field and it validated my choice to step away from traditional Academia.

On the way home, I talked myself into actually going to the gym for my run.  Which at first I was regretting because running on a treadmill SUCKS HARDCORE after running on the street, but I sweat more than I have in a long time, so I figure that is a bonus.  When I got home and immediately ate a brownie and the last slice of pumpkin cheesecake, I felt completely justified in my snack choices. 

When the days are getting shorter and you feel your mood dimming with the sunlight, a day like yesterday is needed to remind you that it is just the season that is going dark, not your life choices.  It gives you something to talk about when the day goes dark at 3 instead of desperately looking for a re-run you can stomach watching, yet again. 

Yesterday I was thankful for this great day and the validation it brought to a very hard decision.

27.   Homemade soup

Another great part of the day was making dinner.  There are some days when I can’t be bothered making dinner.  It doesn’t usually come from exhaustion, but lack of inspiration. 

One of the contributors to our travel exhaustion at the end of Morocco was linked to food.  We were exhausted with the lack of choices.  For almost as long as we have wanted to go to Morocco, we have wanted to own a tagine.  A conical baking dish and the meal prepared within.  We kept ignoring the ones that would pop up at TK or at John Lewis.  We were determined to get an authentic one from Morocco.  After about Day 7, we were over it.  If I never see another tagine in my life, it will be too soon.   Don’t get me wrong, we had some wonderfully flavourful tangines in our 18 day adventure, but we also had a lot of not-so wonderful concoctions. 

On our first day home we made Potato Leek Soup.  It is an incredibly simple recipe.  But for some reason it is also a magical one.  I am not alone in this thought.  Julie Powell, author of Julie & Julia, cited Julia Child’s version as the spark for the year-long cooking project which ‘saved’ her life.  In my kitchen it served as a bit of a saviour as well.  But for our stomachs.  I was still throwing up from my last round of Moroccan Malaise and this stayed down nicely. 

Creating this very simple meal revealed to me perhaps why I was so reluctant to eat in Morocco near the end.  I had no hand in the creation of the food.  In this last year (and a bit) as a housewife I have found much joy and inspiration in cooking.  I complain and moan and pout, but overall I find it very calming to go through the motions of creating meal from scratch and watch it come together just as it should.  When my timing and rhythm is right, the plate-ing of a dish is the equivalent of a circus TA-DA.

Today, I am thankful for home-made soup. 

‘SPICY’ RED LENTIL SOUP

2 Tbl olive oil

1.5 tsp cumin

.5 tsp coriander

.25 tsp cinnamon & red pepper flakes

1 medium red pepper (de-seeded and diced)

2 medium carrots (peeled and chopped)

850 ml veggie stock

225g split red lentils

Salt*

Heat the oil in a soup pot.  Add the cumin, coriander, cinnamon & pepper flakes for about 30 seconds.  Mix with the oil.  Add the pepper and carrots and cook until tender (about 5 minutes).

Add the stock and lentils and salt.  Bring to a boil, then simmer until the lentils are tender (about 20 minutes).

Blend in whatever way works best for you.  I do batches in the blender with the steam vent open.  Others use a food processor. 

Serve with either a dollop of plain yogurt or onion bagel & Gruyere croutons.

* these are the measurements from the original Weight Watchers recipe.  I don't measure anymore and just sprinkle spices and salt flakes until it looks and smells right.  The spices are usually are a bit more equal in my version.

Showered in Gratitude

29.  a functioning shower*

It’s not much to ask for, is it?  It’s a very privileged thing to be thankful for, I guess.  Especially considering that many people of this world consider safe drinking water a luxury. 

But it was a rainfall showerhead with 5 trickles of rain that prompted me to turn toward Pete and say the following words.

“I think I might be an adult.”

Shocking, I know. 

This was at the end of 15 days of Moroccan Motoring.  We had returned to the cockroach hosting riad from which we began the journey 14 days prior.  At the time, 14 days earlier, it seemed exciting and exotic and the pitiful excuse for a shower just one of those quaint aspects of travelling that seem unimportant in comparison to the experience that lies ahead.  14 days later, I was recovering from my second round of ‘Moroccan malaise’ and arriving to yet another room of questionable cleanliness was heartbreaking. 

As I predicted in my final post in the Guest Series, Pete did wander the streets of Marrakech alone for the day.  But I wasn’t stressing about packing and to-do lists.  I was watching second-rate rom-coms, family-friendly comedies and a documentary about a basketball player on a TV Pete rigged to get the only English-speaking channel.  When the heat and stillness of the room got to me, I crawled to the bathroom and looked in dismay at the shower.  (I was crawling, not because I was that ill, but because the TV rigging required the room to be criss-crossed with cables that were precariously connected to various outlets and antenna.)  Surprisingly, this shower had a lukewarm setting and five streams of rain, so an improvement, all in all. 

In the course of the 15 day tour, I can remember about 3 passable showers.  Passable here had two requirements 1) luke-warm water 2) pressure greater than spit.  One of these three showers did not pass muster for Pete, as it apparently only had enough warm water for one shower that morning.  So that takes it down to two. 

I must take time out to tell you about one of these passable showers in particular.  It was in Ait BenHaddou.  For those movie buffs out there, this is the small market town on the edge of the Sahara that historically served as a stopping point for desert caravans to pay tax on their wares on their way to the bigger cities to the north.  Now it serves as a movie set.  First, for Lawrence of Arabia, in more recent productions, Gladiator and Kingdom of Heaven.  Back to the shower.

When we arrived, Pete was suffering from his second round of ‘Moroccan malaise.’  On first viewing the shower attached to our room, I was not hopeful.  The showerhead was held together with grey tape.  As I was viewing this repair from the toilet I had to use side-saddle because the room was too narrow to sit properly without my knees pressing painfully into the opposite wall, or smacking my head on the way as I got up, I did not hold out much hope for this shower to bring any relief to Pete.

Turns out, the grey tape was to keep the shower head down, not up.  The pressure was so powerful that within 30 seconds of beginning my shower, the showerhead migrated upward so that the water was basically shooting out horizontally from the wall.  I had to stand about three feet away from the shower to catch the water as it arched back downward. 

Fabulous!!!!!!  I won’t mention that each shower threatened to flood the little closet that was our bathroom.  Oops!

So back to that last shower in Marrakech which prompted me to wonder at my arrival at adulthood on the eve of my 33^rd birthday.  It was a rude awakening, really.  On our first wedding anniversary, Pete and I made a list of things we would like to accomplish by our 5^th wedding anniversary.  One of those items was completing another expedition like the one on which we met. 

That day in Marrakech, we looked at each other and came to the realization that we may not be able to complete that list item in the way we hoped.  We were at the end of a 15 day tour which had many more luxuries than our previous African adventure, but we were much more exhausted mentally and physically than we ever remembered being 6 years ago. 

We have become accustomed to our home comforts.  We like our pillows and mattress just so, and we like our showers hot and pressurized.  It’s true that the drug of new love and adventure may be softening our memories of that first adventure to a cheery rose-hue, and we don’t wish to seem like spoiled city folk that can’t take a little grime in the pursuit of adventure, but after 15 days in a cramped car and two rounds of sickness each, we just wanted a proper shower. 

Today, as I prepared for another day in our home sweet home, the hot water suddenly gave out and I was immediately reminded of the beauty of the ‘developed’ world. 

Today, I am thankful for functioning showers and the revelations that sometimes come with the ability to bathe.  Or not. 

*I realize now that this must be very  important to me, because I was thankful for it last year as well.  I also realize that I am not alone in my desire for a functioning shower and as Lyn so very funnily relates, functionality doesn’t have to be flashy.