Welcom back, kotter
Trip Start Mar 14, 2010
12Trip End Ongoing
Map your own trip!
Show trip route
oh, hi'ya. long time no see, stranger. the kid's been hit with a pinch of the ole writer's block and a dash of shitty internet service in morocco, yet again i pipsqueak and hope for the best:
paris. climbed sacrecouer and montmartre. neckcricked the eiffel tower. lived in the lap of luxury at casa david&eric. really though, three things stand out: 1) no? my daughter can't use your toilette? well howzeebout we dirty americans just pees on your restaurant floor. paris, terrible town to take a leak. 2) i'll go out on a limb and say that luxembourg gardens in the left bank has the all time greatest playground! a friggin zip line circling the perimeter! climbing-webs skying thirty panic inducing feet! whip-arounds that reach speeds requiring g-force measurements! beer for the dads! 3) vair-salleys: yeah, yeah, yeah, i get standing in awe at the adornments of gilded fripperies and mirrored halls, and excuse me for stepping off the reservation, but ole loooey quinze, the friggin sun-king fer cryin' out loud, had godawful taste in women
upwards and onwards to morocco:
the theater of it all! to enter a marrakech souk is to unlock a orgiastic and felictious pandora's box. one meanders its narrows sampling nuts and fattened figs while haggling over a versicolored handbag one has no intention of buying, or perhaps, you would be interested in a moroccan tea set: handpainted glasses, brass tray and gild-plated teapot. it's as though the gods of impetuous purchase have seen the future and moved h.q. from the butt end of the checkout line and replaced the tic tacs and toenail clippers with an endless array of tapestries and silk brocades. ah hell, its all for sport, isn't it, lu?... we lumber on, smiling and weighed down by the aforementioned now purchased tea set...
the soundwaves of a souk do not horizontally attach themselves to your ears, but rather the groan of this echo chamber settles to the roughly hewn cobblestones like sediment in a jar, knits and it crackles, before rising like static mist and gaining ingress through your lower chakras
we earn egress and find ourselves in djemma el-fna, the heart and soul of the medina
i am challenged incessantly by young men eying my tattoo and then quickly won over by the incongruity of a westerner adorned in such cosmological musings--'ahneufs' .
california. i know california. the snoop dog...
and op-arah winfrey (comes a voice off stage left, hidden in the darkness of yet another handbag stall)
snoop, yes, oprah, no. she's from chicago
oh yes, i know chicago
and then, as if on cue, a tasmanian devil appears from the corner of the blacktop, tossing glassware and greenawnings before stopping directly in front of lulu clutching coltrane and frozen in abject wonder. marley and i, of course, are huddled beneath a now strewn pile of 'i love newyork' sweatshirts. our new friend having not inched from his stool, takes a casual sip from his piping hot minttea:
marrakech, too, is a windy city. but no fat people on television.
presently a mohammadean moon, gaunt'like and stiletto-stamped, slides filaments of electric silver light across the receding desert as we rollick the rails to fez.
until next time...