Thus Hank began his minute by minute recap of his first day at the children’s hospital. That would be a hoot wouldn’t it? You really think I can remember what I did a few minutes ago, let alone a few hours ago? The answer is no for those of you who do think I have an average, normal short term memory. The main lesson learned today was that I would be completely screwed if it wasn’t for Denis. I am under the belief that he has only one N in his name for I’m also not the type of person who would just assume someone isn’t named Dennis. He may not speak Arabic but he does speak French pretty well and with his background of being pediatrician, he’s able to tell me lots of things about what the kids are going through that I don’t understand at all and just happen to nod and pretend that I do. It’s interesting surely, yet interesting doesn’t make up for my lack of medical knowledge when he uses words that stand for parts of our body that I didn’t even know existed. I mention this conversations because for this first hour and a half or so, the asthma ward was calmer than he’d ever seen it in his couple of weeks there. I also didn’t know asthma incorporated sending toddlers to Switzerland for heart bypass surgery, which again shows my ignorance on the potential severity of common ailments. Soon after that though we moved onto a place that I should be able to remember but it’s in French and even though I think I can remember it, I would have no idea how to spell it. Upon my arrival there, it was made quite apparent how dumb I am. That’s not true. Or maybe it is true. It’s probably true to the staff that worked there. Works there. Might as well keep it present tense, I sincerely doubt that they’ll be canned by tomorrow. From two toddlers to fifteen children of varying ages, Denis and I forged on. Ready for the battle of having to actually deal with children like we planned and were excited to do. Maybe when you’re a doctor who studied medicine in Italy, and took French in preparation to work for Doctors Without Borders in Sub-Saharan Africa, you’re more inclined to pick up languages easier than a boy who could muster up two sentences in Spanish after living in Latin America for four months. Muster up two sentences in a conversation. At a time. Like hundreds of sentences, just not like, in a row. Something like that. All I know is that it led to an attractive either nurse or Sociology student doing this as an internship yelling at me in regards to the Arabic element. As the manly man I am, I stood there and took it with an extremely goofy expression on my face because I had no idea what she was saying and no matter what you’re saying in Arabic it always sounds like you’re yelling. Was she yelling? I still don’t know. I just know apparently her words were trying to say “Would you like to learn some more Arabic” and my face said “I’m peeing my pants right now whilst also watching a clown perform an uproarious act of physical comedy.” That’s not the point though. The point is that I got to play with action figures with a five year old and have a tyrannosaurus rex fight a helicopter pilot who also happened to be carrying a sword. And oh wait, King Kong too. The dinosaur won. Because of course it did. I did mention something that had a semblance of a relationship to filmmaking didn’t I? As the title. Yes, yes, I did. A camera crew, a news crew, a camera man, did appear in the building that I can not name due to it being French and started taping. Am I star? Probably. What was I doing? Sitting at the least occupied table that held about two kids while the other two tables had about seven children and their mothers? Yes. Did the camera ever pan over at me? I’m not sure because I was so focused on what I was doing that I didn’t want to look like I was star struck. As I am a star, why would the camera bother me? Let’s go with the possibility that there’s a small chance that camera avoided catching me because I didn’t need anymore attention. However, on the off chance that they did, or even if they didn’t, I’m going to tell you what they would’ve seen. They would have seen me struggling to put a pink saddle onto a camel toy. I’m pretty the pink saddle didn’t have anything to do with the camel because it already had a saddle on, and the bright gaudy pink looked completely out of place but I sure struggled with that for quite a few minutes. I also moved a semi realistic gun from off the table because I didn’t know the stance on toddler violence. I also stared around the room helplessly as a child kept saying “Mama” and I had no idea who her mother was and I had no ability to communicate in a language of which she could understand. That’s great television! So it goes.

I’ve written so many blog posts and now, and with my stupid idea of never actually reviewing or re-reading any of them, I might be rehashing the same topics, themes, talking points, at least when I’m not recounting a day or a weekend. And that’s okay. Why is it okay? Because I make it entertaining enough so you don’t get bored. And because I’m not intentionally rehashing the same ideas, sometimes they just come back to me in full force and I’m inspired to write them down all over again. This morning, as per usual, I was thinking about Michael Jordan and Mia Hamm. As as avid Chicago Bulls/Washington Wizards and the US Women’s Soccer team fan, that probably isn’t a shock to most of you. I have no idea when the song, or rather the commercials for “Anything you can do, I can do better…I can do anything better than you.” came out and if I guessed I know I would be completely wrong. I remember them clearly though. I think Michael Jordan was even swinging a baseball bat in them which is a bit strange. Strange for you youngbloods who never even got to watch him play. Let’s not focus on Michael Jordan though, let’s not focus on basketball at all even though the Finals are nearing day by day. Let’s not focus on how I haven’t been able to watch a single game of the playoffs because they all start at around 2 AM here and I’m fast asleep. No, let’s focus on that commercial. You all know it. If you don’t, look it up, it was pretty popular, it can’t be that hard to find. Something I remember from an old therapy session was expressing that I felt if I couldn’t be the best at something, then why should I bother even trying? Which is a dumb way to think, because as she said, as is obvious, almost no one is going to be the best at what they do. They might be great, they might even be a prodigy, but more likely than not, someone is going to be better than you and you just have to face that reality. Let’s not focus on that though. Let’s focus on the commercial. I think this thought was brought back into my head because of a fellow volunteer who is here partially to get experience for Doctors Without Borders. He’s been out of practice for quite some time, but he said from his position doing administrative medicine, he saw doctors doing what he did and he realized he could do it better and he should be back doing it. I really do believe, I’ve mentioned this before, but I’ll say it again if I want to. I see the same thing, I’ve seen people here, (here meaning over the course of this whole trip) especially those working with children, that I look at and think I can do it better. Sometimes these people are trained to work with children, sometimes they aren’t, but most times I come out thinking that I can do a better job than them. Which isn’t an inflated sense of my own ego, because well, I’m not going to be the first person to tell you how great I am. I feel most of what I say revolves around how great I’m not. This also doesn’t really even pertain to today, or pertain to this current crop of volunteers, it just pertains to me walking around today enjoying life and thinking, I am good at what I’m doing. And then thinking, I’ve been thinking that at every place I’ve been at. That maybe I don’t start off immediately perfect but by the end, I am proud of what I’m doing, I’m proud of how I’m doing it, and I’m proud of the example I’m setting. This isn’t supposed to be a sappy love letter to myself, except I just feel there were so few moments over the past few years where I even felt these emotions that I want to make note of them when they do arise. I also don’t want this to come across like I’m putting down the other volunteers. Because I can’t even tell if I am or aren’t. I’m just saying that I’m better than them. Or can been. Or have been. Not all of them, just some of them, most of them. Better in my own subjective mind that is probably completely biased. Hey now, this isn’t where I was even tryin’ to go when I first started. What has happened here? There’s been plenty of great volunteers here and I imagine there will be quite a few good ones before I’m done with this too. I’m mainly trying to say that I’m feeling inspired, that I’m feeling good (round three or four), and I think I keep on growing. I just want to make sure that people know these things, or even I know them about myself when I’m posting blogs about how it’s starting to take a toll on me. Which this is, which it has, but it doesn’t mean that I’m not still enjoying the hell out of it and I think I’m becoming better and better because of it. Sometimes I do want to have a bit of  a positive spin on what I’ve been doing because it is going well and I’m become more well off because of it. I’m just saying that I agree with Denis, you can see how things are going and you can become inspired to change it. Or you can sit back and watch and know you could do a better job and just see what happens. That’s probably what the old me would do. The old me would think “I might have a better thought for this” but keep quiet and watch a travesty unfold. Not anymore, I’m tired of watching and thinking and not acting. I’m ready to act. I’m ready to star on Broadway. I’m ready to win my Academy Award. Just going with the acting analogy, not trying to divulge my new dream of becoming a movie star. Did this post end up how I thought it would when I started writing? No, of course it didn’t. I do feel that it started off great with the Jordan/Hamm talk and it may have devolved into a mess of random thoughts but that’s what I do. I write what the brain tells me and it’s a bit eclectic. If you made it this far, I’m proud of you. That ride was a doozy. So it goes.

I imagine with a title like this everyone thinks I’ll shower them with praise and tell them how grateful I am for birthing me and raising me to as close of a male model as they could muster. I’ve heaped on quite a bit of praise of them already and if I haven’t heaped enough, I imagine that’ll be a theme of a future blog post or two. But no. This is more important than that. Because this is about me. About my future. And when you’re a cool dude like I am, then you need a cool ride. This post is just a reminder to them that they have my full approval to do whatever they want with the Toyota Camry. If they want to donate it to a good cause like a children’s hospital then feel free. Could it become a makeshift ambulance? I’d like to think so. Can it be turned into a submarine? Of course it can, the Japanese are ingenious people. I’ve made comments about my relocating to some new place once I return home (eventually, not immediately, friends and family who are worrying that they won’t even have a chance to see me). Do I know where I’m going? Of course I don’t know where I’m going. What I do know? Camry’s are big. They’re practically the Ford Excursion of the sedans. What would be better than that? Who knows? Something smaller. Something all terrain. Something that could weather the trails no matter where I end up. This isn’t an order. This is just a suggestion. This is just a reminder. This is just a reminder that I’m okay with doing anything with the Camry that ends up it not existing when I return to Florida. If it’s there, I’ll also accept that. With tears. With hot, streaming tears. Maybe a grimace or two as well. The moral of the story though. Obviously, it’s thank gosh for Bob and Katie and enjoy the rest of May, my blog fam. So it goes.

GRAPHIC CONTENT BELOW

I don’t know entirely how graphic the content below will actually be but I could find it being gross to some people so I figured I’d just say that so I can’t be blamed for it later. Is that how it works? I can’t go to court now right? I have no idea why anyone would take me to court anyway, everyone who reads this is beloved to me. Anyways, upon asking a faithful reader if I had mentioned bugs in one of the kid’s mouth they told me I had not. Which is a shame because I had a whole anecdote about myself related or at least relatable to what I saw/see at the placement. I need to just stick with one word and stick to it instead of giving very similar options in the same sentence. I do not want to harp criticism about the cleanliness of the placement of which I am working. At the very least, they are constantly cleaning, the children are bathed once a day, and they do the best they can to create a sterile environment. However, just because the children are washed doesn’t mean they can control all the problems the children have, such as for instance rotten or rotting teeth. It’s almost better to just ignore the mouths of the kids at the placement because it is not a pretty sight. Either you’ll see many missing teeth or you’ll see teeth that are brown or black or some color that should never be associated with normal human teeth. I’m not entirely sure what dental procedures are done there but I’m sure that there isn’t anything more complex than simply brushing their teeth. So if they start to rot, they will continue to rot, and I’d be very surprised if they are being given any form of dental care to help reverse or even stop that process. Sufjan is the worst though. He’s a boy completely prone, in a deformed position, with no speech skills, and I’m not sure what’s going on inside his brain. I push him around though because he seems to get ignored a little more, due to him just laying in a wheelchair and being a magnet for flies. See, I know they are washed daily but it doesn’t seem to deter flies from being attracted to them anyway. Normally when walking, you’ll see a couple flies just land on their arms, their legs, their hair, etc. and I do my best to shoo them away. With Sufjan, they like his mouth. And not just one or two, but say like five or six, just like to land inside and around his mouth, chilling out on teeth and just doing fly things. Which admittedly, I’m a little grossed out by. And some people might not think I’m grossed out by many things because I’ve shown from time to time to be a relatively gross person. Which then brings me to my own personal anecdote. A few years ago, going Jeeping (or just off-roading) in the Ocala forest with my father and Brother Shade, I remember pulling over and taking a pee break. During our adventures, we’re always dealing with constant and bugs and random wildlife and graves and hunters set to kill us but this time was different. This time was different because they usually left my penis alone. Not saying a hunter shot off my penis, I’m more just saying I remember dropping trough and I was immediately attacked by wild ladybugs. Ladybugs, those cute little insects with their spotted red backs, bugs that you look at and smile. I did not smile. And I even like ladybugs. Or I did. Until tens of them attached themselves to my penis while I was peeing. I would say hundreds but there’s only so many bugs you can fit  down there. It didn’t matter if I shooed them away because they came back and continued to crawl around on me. Which is terrifying, which was terrifying. I do not like seeing bugs crawl around on on things that are not natural. I don’t particularly enjoy having a bug crawl over my arm, or my face but it’s tolerable. I am not a fan of things crawling around on things rarely exposed to the world or mouths. I figured mouths should get their own category because they’re always exposed but we don’t assume we’ll have bugs crawling around our oral cavities. That’s another reason why I’m about ready to move onto another placement. There’s only so much you can take. One more week though. With new volunteers for this week, either way, it’s still a good place, it just takes its toll. So it goes.

Oh geez, I know this is a sensationalized headline. It’s just that I couldn’t think of anything else so I figured I’d write something that may be a tad bit exaggerated and try to dampen it during this write up. I’m also realizing that when I had this idea to write this up yesterday, I was going on a lot less sleep the night before than usual and that could have been a big reason why I was feeling the way I did. I’m going to write what I was planning to write anyway though, especially because one of the main reasons I didn’t write it up last night is because my computer’s internet seemed to only work in thirty second spurts and I spent most of my night trying to calm myself down and talk myself out of throwing the laptop out of the window. Suffice to say I did not destroy my laptop. I was a bit upset though, and I didn’t want to strew profanity all over this family friendly blog. And again, I almost feel bad writing this because I sure felt a lot better today but I try to be transparent in my experiences so I might as well share what I gotta share. Throughout my time volunteering, I’ve loved it, I’ve loved working all the places, seeing the new faces, trying (and failing) to communicate, working with kids, and eating pie. I haven’t eaten a lot of pie but the pie I’ve had has always been good. I’ve seen people who complained about volunteering and I never wanted to be like those people. Especially because their complaints were dumb. “I don’t like kids?” You’re wrong. In doing this work, I have come to the conclusion that I can’t see myself working in a field that doesn’t let me interact with kids all the time. Which is great, I always thought I liked kids, it’s been nice to have that proven to me in actuality. This isn’t me complaining though. Maybe it is. This is me being a normal person who can’t be perfect all the time (contrary to what you may think about me.) Where I am now is the only placement I’ve had where I literally do think I could not do this for much longer than I am doing. I didn’t even think I’d be doing it as long as I am, I did think I would be done this week but I still have one more to go afterwards. As I’ve mentioned before, I work with the extremely physically and mentally disabled. 95% of the kids are in wheelchairs, probably only about 20% of them have any speech function, and about 25% of them can even feed themselves. It’s truly a depressing sight. At least the initial sight. Actually, it’s depressing and just gets more depressing the more you get to know the kids. Sure, I can’t communicate with them with my lack of French or Arabic but as I just mentioned, the majority are non communicative anyway. Still, you don’t need to be able to speak to see a kid flailing their arms in excitement or breaking into a giant smile when they see you to convey what you’re trying to say there. It’s been a common staple of the locations I’ve volunteered at have all had been children in unfortunate circumstances. The only difference with those other unfortunate situations is that there was always a glimmer of hope. A small glimmer, but a glimmer nonetheless. With these kids, it’s different. As I’ve probably mentioned before, they live and die here. However long that takes. They get the best care they possibly can receive but an underfunded establishment can only do so much. When over half the kids are all skin and bones, where you can easily feel their ribs and the outlines of their skulls, you really do wish there was a better way of feeding them than trying to force feed them mush. My only problem is that there’s only so much screaming I can take, or exposed bone I can stand to look at that happens to be exposed after a bed sore runs that deep. And that problem leads to another problem. A problem I did discuss with a friend last night that helped me deal with it a little better. The problem of feeling like an asshole. The problem of feeling guilty because you feel bad when these kids are in much worse shape than I’ll probably ever be, and the feeling of guilt that you can’t do anything. I come back sometimes and I’m like “Gosh, that was rough, I can only handle so much of that.” and then I think “Wow, these kids suffer or possibly suffer in their conditions every single day of their live without much hope for a successful future and I’m complaining about dealing with this for a few hours every day?” I wouldn’t say I’m complaining about dealing with it. Though that’s for you to judge. I’m saying that it starts to wear me down. That I know I couldn’t do it forever which is a thought that rarely ever penetrated my brain at the previous placements. The nurses and staff at the center are saints. Well, most of them are to say the least. I was going to make a separate blog post about that, but we’ll see what happens. That they’re every day smiling and working is a blessing to see. Not that I’m not smiling. Not trying to give off the impression that I’m not looking like a beaming light of joy to these kids. Of course I am, I do the best I can, I make them smile and they never see me in any mood other than ecstatic. Which I am, I’m happy to be there, I’m happy to help, I just know I can’t do it forever. And I know I can’t help them. I can’t give them the money to afford feeding tubes to make sure the kids eat. I can’t get them to hire a full time physical therapist to work on the kid’s mobility. I can just volunteer and smile and put a smile on their face or try my best. Even if they don’t know who I am, or don’t remember me, or don’t even know what’s going on in the world, I’m not going to stop trying. Just from time to time, you feel like a real dick when you have your own feelings that aren’t as happy as they should. I’m only human though? Maybe I’m a heartless cyborg. I hope not. I wish I could do more. I always wish I could do more wherever I end up going. Sometimes it just sucks when you can’t. So it goes.

I realize that Mother’s Day was yesterday. I didn’t actually realize that until last night though. I say this even though I saw all over on Facebook that people were discussing Mother’s Day and I just figured they were getting it done early as so they wouldn’t forget. For some reason, Mother’s day, Easter, and those are probably the only two, seem to be Sunday holidays. Just like Thanksgiving is always Thursday, Christmas is always who cares it’s Christmas, and Halloween should always be a Friday night. If elected to President in 2028, you have my word that I will make all those dreams come true. I have no other campaign promises yet. But Mother’s Day though, people from time to time ask me what inspired me to come here. Why I’m here? What am I doing? How did I get this life? I did write a pretty long response to that and sent it out to a couple of people but I’m not going to publish that here. It had some harsh language and some things I spoke in there were a bit too personal for me to expose to the general public. What it all comes down to though? Mothers. And fathers. Family in general. Consider this like a joint post for both mother and father’s day because I’ll still be abroad when that day falls upon me as well. One of my problems with depression, or rather my own depression, is that I always thought my reasoning for it wasn’t good enough. I was ashamed that it all started, or the straw that broke the camel’s back (Africa reference!), the catalyst, could all be traced back to a break up. Surely it wasn’t all that and I would never blame the depression on a singular issue. I am just thankful that throughout the whole experience I’ve gone through, the whole endeavor, good and bad, I had a very support, caring family to be there for me the whole ride. The whole ride in which I wasn’t very forthcoming when any of my feelings at all, where I kept the majority of my feelings inside, where I cut myself off from communication and just had a silent struggle alone. Why I’m here is because I had people who were there for me the whole time and didn’t quit on me when I might have quit on everyone. I would have understood people having given up on me after I gave up on everyone else and especially when I’d never speak of any feelings, I would never blame them. My family never did though, my parents especially. At times I told myself that they only didn’t because I was their only child and the next best thing they had to expect a legacy from was a pug. I am of the notion now that that’s a preposterous idea and I think that’s a horrible assumption of any parents that they’ll give up on one child because they have another to succeed and they can essentially forget about the other one. I think I just told myself that when I was down in the dumps because I wanted to convince myself that there was some ulterior motive to their support of me other than altruistic love. That was dumb. It’s not true. Well, it could be true for some families but I am pretty confident that even if I was one of ten children my parents would treat me just as well as they have throughout this ordeal. Mothers though, this is about mothers. Nothing I like better than speaking about mothers because it’ll let me completely a butcher about mothers from Islam. Don’t let my bastardization of the story turn you off from it though. Crap, now that I wrote about my butchering/bastardization so much I’m already forgetting the story itself, I turned off my own knowledge of the tale. It was just a man asking Muhammad about the most important people e in life after God, or who you should put on your pedestal after God, and Muhammad said your mother, then the man asked again and Muhammad responded your mother, then the third time and the answer was your mother, only until the fourth time where he said your father. Muhammad, Islam, and probably countless other religions do stress the importance of the mother and for good reason. As they’ve said, and much as we seem to take for granted, is that these women birthed you over a nine month period, and then spent the next eighteen years of their lives, no, eighteen isn’t a fair representation with it being too low, spent the rest of their lives raising you, caring for you, nurturing you, and helping mold you hopefully into a great person. Of course not all mothers are like this, some aren’t ideal, some are toxic, not everyone is perfect, and even the perfect ones have their downtime. I’m not speaking for all mothers though, I’m more speaking of the idealized mother, but I’m also speaking of my mother. It’s not just anyone that will help and support sending their only son on a seven month journey abroad hoping to help them find their selves, to find their passion, to grow as a person. I wouldn’t be here without the love and support of my family as I constantly say, that I’m here because they backed up through thick and thin and now I finally do find myself in a good, happier place and I’m forever grateful for them. Because as I also keep mentioning, I gave up on myself, but they never did. Happy Mother’s Day. Happy Father’s Day. A day late, a month early, it doesn’t matter. I’m always happy to have them in my life. So it goes.

Edit: Apparently Mother’s Day wasn’t yesterday. It is today. It actually is always on Sunday. That makes sense why I always thought it was on a Sunday too. Is Thanksgiving always on a Thursday? I really should not have said these would be my campaign promises as your late 2020’s president. Well, with that said, the first couple hundred words of my blog post are completely irrelevant. Regardless, I think the message still stands. I was confused. I am sorry to all the people who look to this blog as the final word on where holidays stand. What’s coming up next? Memorial Day? Usually is on a Monday isn’t it? Is it always on a Monday? Don’t ask me.

https://picsurge.com/g/q1U3GO

I’ve posted this link before in this blog, but I uploaded around 500 more photos to it and I wanted to keep everyone up to date. I just decided to now have it arranged newest to oldest, so you’ll see my most recent photos taken in Morocco immediately going all the way back to the end of my stay in Peru, and covering my entire stay of Costa Rica. Especially in Costa Rica, there might not be as many photos as I would have liked because some of my most fun adventures I didn’t bring a camera along with me for fear of it being destroyed (white water rafting, zip lines, rappelling down waterfalls, etc.). However, it should be a nice photo update to what I’ve been up to for the last couple of months and probably the last update I post before right around the end of my trip. So there will be plenty more photos of Morocco and wherever else I end up going eventually, but in the meantime bask in the glory of these photos. So it goes.

I always get so amused hearing a man speak in broken english explaining something about what we’re seeing when they just happen to intersperse the word shit in there. Like in the tanneries in Marrakech, with the guide explaining how they use pigeon shit for it’s natural ammonia. He would call it guano a couple times but he always ended up back at shit. Or this guide in, a town that I can not spell, nor can I spell it close enough to even google it to find out the correct spelling. It was the sight of the oldest Roman ruins in Morocco from about the time of Christ to 300 C.E. or something like that. He started off talking about the second hand water that the plebeians would get in the lower areas of the territory before he stopped sugar coating it and said they would have to wash and bathe in shit water because the shit always flows downhill. Then they laugh, I laugh (internally), and we all had a good ‘ol time. Then I tell myself, I’m going to specifically use that as a blog post so I can always remember how funny I specifically thought it was, hearing a word I’ve heard thousands of times before. I tell this story because as I mentioned in the last blog post, I wish I could remember all that I heard and reconvey it back to my readers. I just can’t, it’s impossible.  Though on this day, Sunday, yesterday, we did travel to three cities after leaving Fes. Originally planning on using a train, we ended up picking an extra traveler for the day and took a ride with a driver for the extent of our journey. The details of Mauricio’s life are not important, mainly because I only know a few anyway. All that matters is he was there with us and he probably remembers more about the cities names than I do. What happened yesterday though entailed going on a guided tour through the ancient Roman ruins of Morocco and looking at a lot of worn down architecture and mosaics that I totally understand part of due to my obsession with Roman and Greek mythology as a young teenager. I totally knew a few of the trials of Hercules and that may count for something to someone. Then following that, we ended up in another tiny city which mainly just involved a single mosque for us to see but somehow we got suggested into taking a walk for a panoramic view which ended up taking us forty five minutes and being quite a hike. Good pictures though, good pictures, and a guide that apparently wanted more money than we offered him but I just ran away with the driver when he was frantically looking for us and hoped that everyone else survived. For all intents and purposes, they sure did. More and more driving commenced, a multitude of photos were taken, I complained to someone about the abundance on flags everywhere, the sun boiled my blood, we almost got hit by cars, and we talked to some girls from the Netherlands. I really do feel like there’s a lot more to this story. This was just yesterday. I should remember yesterday. I remember looking in the mirror in a bathroom and noticing that I had poorly applied my sunscreen and walked around like that for the whole day and understood why people were staring at me. I also remember looking in the mirror later that day once I’d arrived back in Rabat and thinking that I looked dead. Maybe that’s why I don’t have a clear memory of just yesterday because I couldn’t even stay up late enough to watch the evening news. I don’t know where I was going with that joke. A comment on people being old? A comment that only applied to those stateside or actually any side but still only works if they have a tv? I’m just saying is that all I desired to do upon arrival last night was to lay down in my hot bed and sleep and hope it was better in the morning. It was. It doesn’t help when a good chunk of your day is a train ride that keeps randomly stopping on the tracks for big chunks of time for no good reason. Or no apparent reason at least. Just like how there was no reason why I shouldn’t have a seat since I paid for a first class ticket only to spend my first hour of the ride standing alongside other people’s belongings. I’m really hoping these pictures manage to upload (even though there is no reason why they wouldn’t) so I can just point to those instead of my piss poor explanations here. It’s not that my brain is fried anymore, it’s just hard to comment on what I was thinking during the frying process  because I do believe most of my thoughts were wondering if my skin would melt. It didn’t. And I realized that boots were the best investment I’ve made in the past five years of my life. I’d write more but I’m not entirely sure what to write about and the longer I type, the less likely it is all these photos make their way onto the interwebs. So I’m gonna go do that. Y’all enjoy them if you please. So it goes.

Since…no, no, no. I’m not going to start off this blog post by quoting an atrocious song by Staind that I probably enjoyed throughly throughout my youth but now looking back on it with a better head on my shoulders, I do realize it’s atrocious. I probably should have back then too. That’s not the point. The point is that I haven’t been blogging all that much. And that’s a problem. A problem that will be fixed. I can’t promise a set amount of posts that will be coming but I can say that they will become more frequent. Even if it’s me rambling on about the political turmoil of Morocco. I don’t even know if there’s turmoil, I’m just writing words. And you’re enjoying it. Moving on. This was a busy weekend. So busy that this blog post will be divided into two parts mainly because I should have posted one last night and I didn’t because I had been walking around the medina of Fes for eight hours prior. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves though. Labour Day was Friday so we had the day off. Also the mosque in Casablanca, the only one in the entire country that non Muslims can enter decided to take the day off. Which would have been fine provided we weren’t informed that it would be plenty open and left early in the morning to rush to it ultimately to find that it was closed. It was pretty great though. When I say pretty great, I also mean it was the third largest religious building in the world behind Mecca and Medina in Saudi Arabia. It was quite gorgeous from the outside at least, I just wanted to see the inside because the entire floor was glass so you could see the ocean underneath your feet. Oh, and it cost 600 million US dollars to build. Though we’re adaptable people. If one plan doesn’t work out, then we’re well on our way to improvising something else. We didn’t actually do that; however, just taking pictures and walking around before we ended up at Rick’s Cafe. Yes. Casablanca Rick. Humphrey Bogart Rick. The movie I watched a grand total of forty five minutes of the night before because I wanted to have some idea what I was getting into. At least it taught me that Rick is the main character and he owns the restaurant, or gin joint or whatever it is in the movie. I’d go on and on about the dated qualities of Casablanca, but this isn’t a film review, this is sentences upon sentences of something. In full disclosure, I am completing writing this post a day after I started it even though I started this entire post going on about how I’d be producing more content. I can’t help it, I was exhausted, and I’m not a big fan of the heat without humidity thing. Some people say the problem with humidity is that the cold gets into your bones, well that sure doesn’t apply when you never experience the cold. So my opinions on the lack of humidity seem to concern that it felt like my blood was boiling inside of my body with no form of release. But that’s talking about Sunday. Oh golly, am I still only on like Friday? I don’t even know where I am because I refuse to re-read what I’ve already written because I don’t want to taint my brilliance by even considering correcting it. Let’s assume I’m on Friday. Our time spent in Casablanca wasn’t too long, nor was the intention to stay there long, off we went on a five hour train ride to Fes. Or Fez. I saw it spelled both ways, but more often than not it was spelled Fes so I’m just going to go with that one. I would talk about the train ride but there aren’t many ways to make a five hour train ride sound exciting. I read a book. I listened to some music. I slept. That was it. Fes though! Almost 700 words in and I haven’t even begun to talk about it. Other than what I’ve already said about it. It’s a pretty magical place. And I actually remembered to take pictures so I have photos a plenty as well. Whenever I hear the world medina, I always end up thinking it has to do something with a market maybe only because it starts with an M but I think it’s more because you do see all the vendors and stuff while in there. It doesn’t mean though. It just means it’s the oldest part of a city, that could be hundreds of years old if not more, and it’s something that won’t look like anything you can find anywhere else in the world. I mean, like the US, or even most of Europe world. It’s also becoming obvious to me that I’ve been out of the blog writing came for a little bit because I keep trying to make actual coherent thoughts and then going on these random tangents and whatever I do I can’t seem to stop it so I just accept my fate and continue to do so. Fes, founded in 808, has over 9,000 alleys in it’s medina. Just to get to our hotel, or riad (because there’s a difference), we had to have the driver walk with us for fifteen minutes winding and zig zagging our way through the streets. To fully experience Fes, you need a guide. A guide for the entire day. A guide that took us on an eight hour journey of the city. A trip that included mosques, Koranic schools, vendors, shops, lots of donkeys, free samples, carpets, leather making, you name it. It was just nice to explore a city so rich with history where the entirety of the journey wasn’t spent shopping. I’m not complaining about the shopping adventure of the week prior, because it allowed the ladies to get some great souvenirs, but I am thankful that I got to experience a city completely with the help of a great guide. Sure, there could have been instances where it seemed he took us places where he was chummy with the people except those were still places that we wanted to go to. Did I personally buy an expensive Moroccan rug? No. Was I tempted even though I have no place to put a rug and I have no idea how things match to give it as a gift to my parents? Yes. They sure are convincing. Or they’re convincing enough to separate each of us into different rooms and not take no for an answer. I refused though because of my strong mental fortitude but it wasn’t easy. As I mentioned, or at least alluded to, another woman in the party did buy one. They also bought the hand crafted ceramics we’d see later. I would write on and on in great detail about Fes, but I can’t. At least I have photos to show from it. It was just that we learned so much about the history of the place, of Morocco itself, that it was going to be impossible to remember any of it even just a few minutes after the fact. What I want to remember from the experience was that it was what I thought Morocco was like before coming here, and not just seeing shops. Because that stuff is great, but I can get objects anywhere, I can’t get history. Though I am sad about the lack of rose petals in my room. The weekend before it did seem like they thought I was on a honeymoon vacation with my new wife and they made sure to set the romantic tone. This weekend, it was like they knew I was just a single guy on a trip. A single guy who apparently liked to take showers while sitting on the ground of his shower because the shower/tub combination was created with the intent of someone washing you apparently. You can’t win ’em all. So it goes.

I may have wanted to post this blog post earlier, or yesterday, or what have you but Morocco isn’t known for their internet. I have no idea the veracity of that claim, but I think it applies regardless. The internet is spotty, there have been nights where it cuts out completely for the entire night and then there are nights where it goes away for an hour, a half hour, and just comes back in patches. I’m hoping the blogging won’t take a toll because of it and if issues continue to persist, I’ll figure out some way to make sure I get up at least three of these babies a week. Maybe more, I’m aiming for 100 posts before I return home. I’m getting there. Okay though. This post is mainly about my weekend in Marrakech. It could have other ways of spelling the city’s name but that was how it was spelled for the password to the WiFi at the hotel so I’m going with that one. I didn’t spend much time in the New part of Marrakech (i.e. none at all), but I should say that the first thing I saw when entering the city was that Snoop Dogg would be making his first appearance in Morocco there. I don’t know when it is, all I know is that I’ll be there. That is almost completely untrue, especially knowing that Pharrell is coming to Rabat! I do hope I return to Marrakech though because it’s one of the only cities known for camel rides and I feel that if I’m here for forever, I must do as many touristy things as I possibly can because camels seem to be a bit spare here in the ‘ol USA. Did you know that you use five parts of the camel for leather? I sure didn’t. The benefits of going through a tannery. Also hearing an Arabian man say “pigeon shit” repeatedly and talk about it’s natural ammonia. Nothing better than working in pigeon shit daily to make leather for foreign tourists to buy. I also went through a Koranic school, and got to see how those old scholars spent their days studying the Koran. In cells. In barren, dark cells. No, no, they didn’t work there, they slept there. That must have been fun. I am curious though, and this doesn’t apply to just Islamic architecture, that why do you go through such painstakingly specific minute details to make the buildings so elegant and ornamentative just for Muslim priests to work in. Men that probably choose to live a life of abstinence, poverty, and all around craptastic life (by our shallow American standards), and yet they get these masterpieces of a building to work in. This doesn’t apply to the Muslim world when you see it in all these churches and mosques and synagogues, but in this case it’s more similar to a convent and even those are elegant too. I mean, I get it, religion was king back then, it was different, it was put on the pedestal, these people are royalty in their own way, it’s just crazy to me. It could be my ignorance shining through. I’m appreciative of it though. It’s great to look at it. It just seems like so much work for these men who are just studying a Holy text and most likely do not care at all about what surrounding they are in when they sleep in dark rooms on the ground. It doesn’t matter. I don’t need to dwell on it. It was a cool place. And then the shopping, oh the shopping. Hours upon hours of shopping. Not me though, as people know, I’m a cool, collected guy, that isn’t phased by the constant cries of attention from the vendors in the medina. I just walk on by and stare intently at the ground. Of course, I bought one souvenir after ten hours of browsing because I need time to find the perfect thing. Or I was so tired of walking around looking at different spices and tangiers and magnets that I was drawn to something that reminded me of home. Old school Coke signs. I’ve already showed the photos to those who matter so if you haven’t seen it, well sorry sucker. It was just quite an amazing city, which the joy of it all could be encapsulated inside the hotel that we stayed at. I set myself up earlier to say I was with two other women. I just noticed that I did not actually state that I was after the sentence that I wrote as a set up to that reveal. Well, there ya go. I was with two other women. We stayed in a great hotel, and the all knowing staff, knowing I’m a single man who seems to be entirely deplete of romantic interests, made sure to put rose petals all around my bed, all around my sink, all around my entire room period. The food was amazing, so much lamb was given to us, the hotel house cat was great, the swimming pool that was a tint of green wouldn’t be what I would call amazing but I’m just in the habit of listing stuff right now so I’ll keep thinking of things to say. It was great. The city is great. I really wish I had written this like a day or so ago because I know there are details I’m already forgetting and leaving out. There were snake charmers, monkeys were put on me. Monkeys which I tried to avoid because I knew they’d expect money from me and I know there’s a single photo out there in the world with my face in a grimace as these two monkeys are crawling on top of me and I’m trying to pull my arms away. I somehow didn’t get pickpocketed which is always nice because I felt always on edge in regard to that. And oh jeez, good grief, how did I forget the motor taxis? Why am I calling it a motor taxi? I don’t know. It’s a motor scooter. I could change it but I’ve written this much and I don’t want to have to go back and correct sentences and titles. In the streets of the medina, the old market, it was a constant flurry of both motor scooters and bicycles. They would occasionally beep when you were directly in their way, but outside of that they seemed to scoot along at top speed narrowly avoiding pedestrians. I emerged unscathed because I’m known for being quite nimble and graceful like a ballerina. The women I was with also emerged unscathed and they’re no ballerinas so I’m just going to go with them being lucky. That’s it though for my trips until, well, this coming Friday. Then I’m off to Casablanca for the day which will be followed by Fez. Since we’re apparently going to Rick’s on Friday, I’m going to make sure to actually watch the film Casablanca prior to that to know what Rick’s is other than some bar that Humphrey Bogart I assume is a patron of. Until next time my loyal readers. So it goes.