Significantly Late Update

Okay, so it’s 26 May 2013 and I’m back home in the States. In fact, I’ve been back in the U.S. for almost a full year, much to my sorrow.

A lot has happened since my last post, which has contributed to my lack of updates on this blog: I ran a marathon; I started my final year of school, and I finished my final year of school; I started working in a new department at Columbia, I finished working in that same department; I was named valedictorian of my class and graduated with a B.A. in Cultural Studies (minor in Women’s and Gender Studies), and earlier this week I presented my thesis project at my very first conference.

So, today is actually the first day in almost a year where I’ve got nothing on the horizon to distract me. With that in mind, I glanced at the desktop of my laptop in order to clear out year-end debris, and noticed a tiny folder marked “To Be Posted.” What could this possibly be, I wondered.

Well, it was three days’ worth of photos from my semester in London. In fact, it was my final three days’ worth of photos. So, not being someone who’s able to leave things like this undone, I am going to do my best now to pick up where I left off, and get these photos up. I’ll also be doing my best to recount what was going through my mind in these moments, but I can’t make any promises.

So, without further ado, let’s go…

Sadly, I don’t remember much about 02 June 2012, and the photos don’t offer too many clues about what else may have been going on. However, from what’s left one thing is clear: it was the day that my dear friend EN returned to the U.S. We met up at the Hammersmith stop on the District (green) / Hammersmith & City lines (pink) before making our way to Heathrow on the Piccadilly (dark blue) line.

Along the way, I snagged photos of EN’s last moments in London, both on the tube and at breakfast. An all-too-brief time later, we said our goodbyes, she boarded her flight, and I boarded the tube…

Until we see each other again in Chicago...in about three days.

[NB: In the busy year since, we’ve only managed to see each other twice, but that’s because she’s been equally busy going through her final year, graduating, being awesome and whatnot. In fact, as I type this she’s back in London visiting, as her post-graduation trip. I wish Nic and I were there…]

One other thing I have photographic evidence of from that day is that on my way back to KG & MM’s house, I stopped along the Hammersmith Bridge and watched as boats started queuing up for the gigantic flotilla in honor Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II’s Diamond Jubilee…

Boats lining up for the Thames Diamond Jubilee Pageant

But more on that in the next entry.

Morocco: Shukran For the Memories...

I need to write something non-academic for a bit, so let’s finish-up on the Morocco trip, shall we?

For my last day in Marrakech (11 March 2012) I knew that I wanted to do something beyond sitting at the hostel and relaxing (as delightful as that was). Fortunately, JE, another member of the Djellaba Crew, was starting to feel the impending end of her trip as well, and so we made plans to go out and do a couple of touristy things.

However, before I get to all that:

I woke up early on the morning of the 11th, and so I decided that ‘now’ was as good a time as any to head to Djamaa el-Fna on my own. You see, I had yet to successfully navigate the twisting streets of the old medina on my own, and I wanted to do it at least once…and I succeeded!

From a distance / Brett is watching yoooooou...

Koutobia Mosque and Minaret (built 1150-90), one of the 'big three' minarets built by the Almohads.

Now, you probably noticed that the first photo was from a distance. There’s a reason for that: if any of the street performers (e.g., the guys with the cobras) notice you taking a photo that’s even remotely in their direction, they will demand payment. And since there are so many of said-performers, you practically have to stand in Algeria to get a decent shot. As such, any hope I had of snagging an iconic shot of Djamaa el-Fna was foiled—you can find one taken by someone else here, however.

Similarly, I wanted at least a photo of one of the souqs before I left. Again, I had to practice a bit of subterfuge to get this, and so it’s not great. Also, because it was so early in the morning most of the shops weren’t open and there wasn’t much foot-, bike-, and cart-traffic. Nonetheless…

(More representative photos, taken by others, can be found here and here.)

After my brief foray to Djamaa el-Fna and the souqs I returned to Waka Waka, where I enjoyed a yummy breakfast of coffee (about six cups—my goodness it was tasty!), crepes, and more apricot jam! M’mm, m’mm, good!

Once JE and I had both finished breakfast, we set off for our sightseeing excursion. Since I had to be at the airport by around 5:00 PM, and it was already noon, we didn’t have time to do too much. So, we decided to pay quick visits to El Bahia Palace and the Saadian Tombs…

It took us a while to reach El Bahia Palace for two reasons: first, many of the people we asked had no clue where it was; and, second, if they did know, they would only offer generalized directions so that we would inevitably have to ask someone else (e.g., ‘go down this way, make your first left, and then turn right’…without mentioning the three alleyways in between).

Regardless, we finally reached the palace…or, at least the small part, because the main section was closed for construction. Now, I can’t say too much about this—or the tombs—because all of the signage was in Arabic and/or French…and neither JE or I can read said-languages (though I did learn how to say both ‘thank you’—شكرا / shukran—and ‘no thank you’—لا شكرا / la shukran—in Arabic by the time I was done in Morocco).

Sadly, there’s also not too much information about the palace online either, other than what’s to be found at Wikipedia. Nonetheless, it was quite pretty—in particular the courtyards and gardens:

The first of many courtyards

 From El Bahia Palace we headed to the Saadian Tombs. Much like the palace, however, there’s not much information on the interwebs about them—just that they are the resting place of about 60 members of the Saadi Dynasty, and they date back to the late 1500s—and this time there wasn’t even signage for us to attempt to read. Again, though, they were pretty:

As near as I could tell, the triangular things on the ground are like headstones.

No camera manipulation here--this was the 'natural' lighting in this chamber.

 By the time JE and I left the tombs, my time was almost done—I only had about two hours left before I had to be at the airport. So, we stopped at a café near the Mellah (Jewish quarter) for a drink before heading back to Waka Waka so I could get my stuff. While at the café, however, I was able to snag some decent photos of the Atlas Mountains looming over the rooftops, as well as some pix of these giant birds that made their nests along the medina walls.

The Jewish quarter, with big birds and mighty mountains!

Finally, it was time…

Back at Waka Waka I grabbed my gear and bid a sad adieu to the Djellaba Crew—I really hope I cross paths with each of those wonderful folk again in the future! 

I made my way out of the medina, and arranged a cab ride to the airport for the low cost of 20DH / 2€ and a cigarette—clearly, I got much better at negotiating by the end of my trip. En route, I had a wonderful chat (in very broken English) with the driver about how beautiful Morocco was, and we even got into a bit of a discussion about Islam and Christianity: he initially assumed that I did not like Muslims because I am American and think they’re all like Bin Laden, and I told him that such was not the case, and how it was just as unfair to judge all Muslims by the actions Bin Laden as it is to judge all Christians by the hateful attitudes of Evangelicals. All-in-all it was a very nice conversation, and I walked away hoping that I had—at least in one person’s eyes—helped to dispel the notion that all Americans are like the Religious Right.

And on that positive note, I sadly bring a (textual) close to my time in Morocco. I can’t thank Nic enough for sending me there, and enabling me to take one of the most holidays of my lifetime! 

Palm trees and snow-capped mountains...

Goodbye Marrakech, Morocco!

Morocco: Getting There is Half the Battle!

I should really start blogging about my Moroccan experience, don’t you think? So, here goes…

Technically speaking, my journey began on 7 March 2012. I say this because I woke-up at about 8 AM that morning so that I could start working on some last minute things (like, you know, packing and figuring out how to get to Stansted Airport from where I’m living), and I didn’t go to sleep again until the 9^th. But more on that later...

Nerves prevented even a brief nap prior to heading out for the airport, so that when I arrived at Stansted at about 3:30 AM on the 8^th I was already tired. Nonetheless, I successfully checked-in, passed through security (after being told to throw away my hair gel for security reasons), and worked my way onto the plane for a 6 AM take-off. 

(Yes, I’m one of ‘those’ people who gets to the airport at least two hours prior to a flight—this is, in part, due to a bad experience coming back from Ohio once wherein I almost missed my flight and lost a Whoopie Goldberg action figure while rushing down the concourse…but that’s a story for another time.) 

For the record, sleep did not come on the airplane either. Again, nerves were a factor—but this time there was the added ‘bonus’ of screaming, kicking children in the seat next to me and Ryanair’s insistence on promoting their ‘buy on board’ program over the P.A. system. Whatevs.

At any rate, about 4 hours later the plane was descending toward Marrakech. I was able to snag a few photos of the African landscape before one of the stewards snapped at me to turn the camera off. (I guess I missed the announcement that all electronic devices had to be turned off). Sadly, this means that I was unable to capture the most amazing image that I saw on the way in: the Atlas Mountains stretched out alongside Marrakech. Nonetheless, I love the photos that I was able to get, one of which you can see below:

The Moroccan landscape near Marrakech.

Upon arriving at Menara Airport I breezed through customs, and quickly made the switch from Euros to Moroccan Dirham (DH). Yes, I know you shouldn't convert money at the airport, but it's almost impossible to find someplace that will 'legally' convert to Dirhams in London—

As a quick side-note about the money: I sucked at using it effectively, namely because I was always having to convert prices in my mind into Euros and from there into US Dollars. This shouldn’t have been as complicated for me as it was—especially since 1€ = 10DH—but I was working on very little sleep the entire time! And this was on top of having to haggle over most prices, which I’m equally inept at. So don’t judge me when I start discussing some of my…less advisable financial decisions in a bit.

—At any rate, despite the fact that breezed through the arrival and visa process really quickly, it actually took me about 30 more minutes to work up the nerve to actually leave the airport. 

Yup, you read that right. 

In fact, I was so intimidated at that point by what might happen (I foolishly watched the AbFab ‘Morocco’ episode an hour before leaving for the airport) that I legitimately contemplated never leaving the airport.

What did I do during those 30 minutes you ask? Well, first I walked around the shops. And then I made my way out toward the taxi stand…but chickened out and circled back. Next I found a place to get some food and a map (which I never used). Then, finally, I made a second attempt at getting a cab. This second attempt at grabbing a cab was a bit more successful. 

However, all of the cabs were being coordinated by a single man who, after finding out where I was going, set the price at 200DH (20€; $40). This might not have been a bad price…if I was going more than 6km. Nonetheless, I was tired and lost, and so I agreed. (For the record, I tried to talk the driver down while en route, but to no avail—he wouldn’t go against the other man.)

The ride toward the hostel wasn’t bad. My driver was moderately fluent in English, and was able to point out sites as we drove around, and the contrasting imagery of brown buildings, palm trees, and distant snowcapped mountains was incredible. 

Two things worth noting about the ride, however:

(1) The road was clearly divided between incoming and outgoing traffic…but there weren’t any (visible) sub-divisions, meaning that each side had about three lanes’ worth of traffic (cars, buses, motorbikes, pedestrians, and donkeys with carts) weaving in and out amongst each other. That was a bit disconcerting at first—but I can honestly say that I didn’t see any accidents, and it all somehow worked.

(2) As we pulled up at one of the only stoplights between the airport and my hostel, and the driver was pointing out the wall surrounding the medina quarter (the older, fortified section of Marrakech, in which I was staying), there was a tremendous explosion!

Yes, explosion!

It was so jarring, that the driver and I both dropped in our seats and covered our heads (and probably loosed an explicative or two)…only to realize a moment later that we were stopped next to a construction site using dynamite. Sigh. Some kind of warning would have been nice, but at least it added an interesting side-story to the start my adventure. 

[NB: This is not my photo!]

Following that bit of excitement, it was only a few more minutes until the cab pulled to a stop. Now, we weren’t quite at the hostel yet, but cars are not allowed into the medina because the streets are so narrow and densely packed. 

But, I was prepared for this, and had directions from the hostel telling me how to get there from the drop-off point...

Unfortunately, the cab driver had other ideas, and whistled to a friend of his that was ‘conveniently’ standing not far away.

My driver told the man where I was going, and instructed him to take me there. I was also prepared for this eventuality, though, having read on another traveler’s blog about a similar experience that wound up costing them over 200DH. So, after paying for my cab and grabbing my bag (before the second man could throw it into his cart), I told UnwantedGuide-Man that I was not in need of his services and that I knew where I was going. 

But UnwantedGuide-Man nonetheless took the lead (headed in the direction which I knew I, too, had to go), and kept telling me that his services were free and that he would just show me where to go. No charge. 

(Sounding familiar? Perhaps you’re finding this reminiscent of my experience at the Basilique du Sacré-Cœur? Me too.)

In hindsight, it’s probably good that UnwantedGuide-Man was there, because even with directions I would have probably gotten lost. At the time, however, I was merely annoyed by his presence because I knew where this was leading (in both the actual and metaphorical senses). I kept telling UnwantedGuide-Man that I really didn’t need his services, and that I didn’t have the money to pay him.

‘No, no, no—it’s free! Come, come…’

M'mm-hmmm.

Sure enough, 5 minutes later we were standing before the door of my hostel and he was demanding 200DH. 

Regretfully, the entrance to my hostel was tucked into a very tight, very dark alleyway, and in that moment I was pretty intimidated since there was no one else around, and UnwantedGuide-Man was very physically imposing—also, it was taking forever for someone to answer the hostel’s door. I reminded UnwantedGuide-Man that I didn’t have the money to pay, but he kept pushing. Eventually, I (very reluctantly) parted with 100DH as a means of finally getting rid of him…and of course, the door just so happened to open at that exact moment, too. Funny that.

So, there you have the beginning of Moroccan experience—it gets a lot more fun and a lot less extortiony soon, I promise!

Here I am, London!

So, here I am.

London. The United Kingdom.

January 14, 2012. (Or, as the Brits might say, 14 January 2012.)

Okay, okay…it’s technically the 15^th at this point. But you can’t blame me for being confused—it’s been almost 48 hours since the last time I slept, but I wanted to get a lot of this out now, while it’s still fresh in my mind.

At any rate, my journey abroad began in earnest yesterday (today? two days ago?), 13 January 2012, at around 12:30 PM. With two large suitcases, a laptop, and my book-bag, Nic and I sat out for O’Hare. I was a mushy mess for most of it, but I did provide Nic with the…uhm, awesome (can I call it that?) pre-trip interview you can find linked here…

Who's This Handsome Traveller?

Okay, so maybe it’s not the best video in the world—but I think I looked cute in my little traveling hat. (By the way, did you catch my Anderson-Cooper-like nervous giggle around the 1:00 mark?)

Shortly after the video we made our way to the TSA security area and said our goodbyes. Pandas everywhere were weeping. It was pretty sappy, so I won't go into it too much here. 

And after that it was a matter of simply waiting for my plane…

And waiting…

And waiting…

And waiting…

It turns out that, thanks to the blizzard-like conditions on Wednesday, numerous flights in and out of O’Hare were delayed. Including mine. We didn’t actually take off until about 5:30 PM CST. Now, if I had been scheduled on a direct flight to London this would not have been a problem—but I had a connecting flight in Toronto at 8:30 PM EST.

Even then, I wasn’t too worried…

Until I learned that I would have to go through Canadian customs, collect my baggage, and then make my way all the way to the opposite side of the airport, recheck my baggage with British Airways, and then go to the proper terminal...

And then BA informed me that American Airlines had not given me the proper receipts for my checked baggage, so there was a chance I would have to pay again. (Fortunately, a call was placed to a supervisor and BA allowed me to just give them the copy of my receipt from AA.)

A long, tense story cut short: I made it on to the BA flight as scheduled, and we took off for London at around 9:30 EST. That flight was fairly uneventful, other than a baby who cried and cried the whole way, preventing any chance at sleep. Oh, well—I can sleep when I’m back in the States, right? Oh, and I got to enjoy a Canada Dry ginger ale while flying over Canada. It amused me… Clearly, I was already sleep-deprived.

At around 9:30 AM GMT my flight touched down at London’s Heathrow Airport. I was a bit worried going through customs because I had received conflicting information regarding the visa application process, and so I feared there was a chance I would be deported before I even had a chance to do anything deportation-worthy. Fortunately, the agent didn’t seem fussed, and actually commented that I had provided too much information—that all I actually needed (for the length of time I’m staying) were the letters from Columbia and UEL.

Within about an hour of my arrival in London, I was safe and secured in the home of our (mine and Nic’s) friends, KG and MM—they’ve been kind enough to provide me shelter from the elements until I conquer Buckingham Palace and make it my summer home… I mean, find a suitable (cheap) flat somewhere.

The rest of the day was pretty much a blur—I’m terribly jetlagged (hence the boring post here, which you probably stopped reading eons ago, meaning I can just say yadda yadda yadda shapoopie and no one would notice). I have already discovered two awesome shows, however. The first is called “Come Dine with Me” and the other is called “Borgen” (a subtitled import from Denmark). And, before I sat down to type this, I chatted with Nic and the Fish through FaceTime for almost an hour, which was wonderful!

FaceTimin' it with the Family!

And on that note, I need to grab some sleep.

Until next time…

Do. Not. Be. Alarmed!

In just 169 hours and 25 minutes—10,165 minutes from now—a plane will take off from Chicago’s O’Hare airport. Its final destination: London’s Heathrow airport. Its contents: Me.

But I’m not just any “me,” you see...

I’m an American…

An American who is traveling abroad for the purposes of going to school.

Now, you can’t see it but I’m nodding my head empathetically as you groan, because I understand all too well the penchant our people have for being terrible visitors in other countries.

But I’m not like so many of the others, I swear—I don’t believe Reagan, Palin, or Santorum hold the answers (hell, I don’t even think they hold a brain between them); I don’t like the Kardashians or John Wayne; and, I’d rather have my wisdom teeth surgically restored and removed for a second time than go to the Jersey Shore.

And to prove that I’m not like other American tourists, I hereby make this solemn vow to those unknown persons whom I will encounter over the coming months (as well as the US Department of State):

AS AN AMERICAN TRAVELER I WILL NOT…

• Wear anything with the American flag printed on it;
• Remind the Queen or her subjects that we “beat the Red Coats;”
• Speak/laugh loudly and boisterously;
• Tour portrait galleries and say, “But did anything actually important happen here?”
• Put my head under the vestments of Westminster Abbey’s clergy (as I once saw a young French tourist do);
• Refer to non-American ways of doing things as “weird” or “wrong” (including the usage of the letter “u” in words like “colour”);
• Try to hook-up with Pippa (though James Middleton and Prince Harry are fair game!);
• Claim that the American versions of “The Office,” “Prime Suspect,” or any other remake is better, ‘cause let’s face it they’re not…

And, of course, this is just an abbreviated list of promises. There’s more to it, but if I were to type it all out I’d be here all day.

 (Image from "National Lampoons: European Vacation")

Now that all of that business is out of the way, I should probably say something about the reason for my upcoming travels. As I alluded to above, I’m going to London for academic reasons: my home-school (Columbia College) in Chicago, Illinois, has selected me for the study abroad program.  As such—and with the support and encouragement of my wonderful partner who’s staying here in Chi-Town—I’ll be spending the Spring 2012 semester at the University of East London, taking courses through their Cultural Studies program. I won’t say too much more about it now, though, because I’m sure I’ll be flooding this thing with details in the months to come. Instead, I think I will merely draw this post to a close.

  

Until next time, sweetie-darlings!