Marrakech, Morocco

Editor’s note: Written on the Ryanair return flight from Morocco, November 30, 2008.

It was my goal to write the remainder of my Morocco stories in my journal on the two hour flight back. Then I realized I left my journal at our amazing riad, so I tried to sleep. But the obnoxiously loud Catalans in front of me won’t allow that either, so I’ve found some blank space on the back of Mohamed’s map and will do what my heart will not allow me to live without after such a great trip – write. My stomach is still churning with the feast of last night while the loads of bread and “sehmen” (a wonderful flat, squarish tortilla-like thing) waits its turn. After being praised by Mohamed, our guesthouse manager, for my bargaining skills, I think I can say I absolutely love Morocco. I was cursed at by little boys, street performers and followed by a scarf vendors but somehow I didn’t really let it get to me. The culture is very distinct and different, but full of flavor and authenticity. I bought so much I could hardly fit it in my bag and have no idea how my flight back to the U.S. is going to look. I am absolutely in love with the style of plates, pillows and rugs and wish I could have bought the entire city.

We took an excursion to the Ourika Valley, an area at the base of the Atlas mountains, a ridge that separates Marrakech from the Sahara desert. We stopped and did the tourist things like photos in costumes and pose in front of dangerously unguarded cliffs. We rode awhile with in our white van with the word “tourist” written on it in French and Arabic, as if were weren’t blatantly obvious enough with our cameras and nice clothing. We traveled until we were about an hour and half outside the city, where flat, dusty asphalt roads give way to hardly paved, winding pathways around vertical ascents and little girls wear veils and walk through mud to school.

Our last night here proved to be amazing. We did the traditional Arab bath, right alongside naked, bathing Moroccan women. Yes, it gave the term “community bath” and entirely new meaning.

So there were naked down to our underwear. We were assigned an old stout Moroccan woman with skin as dark as leather and a fine veil of dark hairs above her upper lip. She led us into an open tiled room that echoed with the splash of steaming water and French and Arabic conversations. To the right were a couple of Moroccan women sitting on mats and scooping from buckets of water to rinse their hair. We were lucky enough to have small stools to sit on as our naked Moroccan filled and refilled our personal buckets from spigots that protruded out of the cracked plaster walls. In a garbled mix of French and English she handed us globs of a Moroccan soap that smelled like cheap shoes and looked like silly puddy made from snot. After we’d finished the stuff we were rewarded with buckets of hot water tossed onto our soapy bodies completely without warning. But the next part was definitely the best – the exfoliation. I basically felt like a horse getting bathed for the first time. The Moroccan attacked my arms with a glove slightly less gritty that a nail file and scrubbed until the first couple layers of my dead skin rolled into brown clumps which were later washed away by bowlfuls of water. None of us could believe how incredibly dirty were, but considering we’d climbed up and down a part of the Atlas Mountains things weren’t too bad. Afterwards, we each got a handful of some kind of Moroccan mud slopped on our heads, which we were then motioned to rub in. The Moroccan then attacked us with something that looked like a cat brush, raking if through our cakey, tangled hair. Afterwards, was more bucketfuls of water poured over our heads, which resulted in the mud trickling into places where mud does not belong. As I’m sitting here on this flight, I’m still picking it out of my ears!

The whole thing was something I wouldn’t trade for the world. I only wish I had more time to explore the land of the glorious culture. Oh yes, and did I mention this is the only kind of bath they ever get?

Paris for the Cheapies... Like Me

A budget-conscious visit to Paris might sound like an oxymoron. For the young traveler with ambitions larger than his or her wallet, there are endless creative ways to save.

The number one stop for culture lovers in Paris is the Louvre, the treasure chest of the art world situated in the heart of the city. The palace-turned-culture-storehouse is the largest and most visited museum in the world, with more than 8.3 million visitors last year. The Louvre was once a medieval palace and the crown seat of 700 year's worth of French royalty. It now houses 35,000 works of art including Leonardo da Vinci's Mona Lisa to Egyptian sarcophagi to Venus de Milo. Visit on the first Sunday of the month for free and pocket the regular $16.50 ticket price.

Cut the Eiffel Tower admission price in half and hike the stairs to the second floor, 277 feet above the Paris skyline. The cost is about $4 versus a typical $10 elevator ride. Tourists won't have to do all 1,664 steps since climbing to the very top is prohibited, but be prepared to be out of breath from the view and the exercise.

Enter into the most visited Parisian landmark, Notre Dame, for free. The church, a UNESCO World Heritage Site, teems with milling tourists by day and transforms into a courtyard of wine drinkers and guitar players beneath its stone carvings of the Virgin and Jesus in heaven by night. If ascending the towers is an absolute must, pack some identification with your birthday on it to get the reduced rate of about $6.10.

Don't overpay in tourist trap souvenir stores. The streets of Paris are teeming with street peddlers ready to haggle down their prices. Name a price and stick to it. Most of these guys come armed with goodie bags full of Eiffel Tower key chains five for $1.50, Pashmina scarves for $5 and jewelry gift sets for less than $10. Visit the nearest supermarket for some $6 bottles of French wine or chocolate that easily survive a plane ride home.

Avoid paying the average $15 Parisian daily special by heading to a corner crepe stand. Watching crepe-makers morph the batter into buttery pancake-like triangular wraps is entertainment in itself. A ham and cheese crepe with a chocolate banana combo for dessert can come out to less than $7.

Most museums will slash prices for you and thrifty opportunities await despite Paris's posh image of costly living. Even in Paris, ways around excessive spending are endless for the frugal and young.

Published in University Star, November 19, 2008, Volume 98, No. 36

Roma, Italia

Roma, Italia was a facinating city that was well worth the 70 EUR extra taxi fare my roommate and I had to shell out for missing our bus to the airport. I got to meet up with an old friend of mine from high school that I haven't seen in years, saw the Colesseum, St. Peter's Square, the Pantheon and ate many pizzas. We treked the city for three days, posing in front of ancient pagan temple ruins and trying to make our selves understood by old Italian waiters who didn't speak English. November is actually a quite beautiful time of year to visit if the weather is merciful. You skip the incredible mad tourist rush and lines of summer peak season and can enjoy six hour tours of the city without boiling to death under the Mediterreanan sun. Typically things were a bit cheaper than in Barcelona, so that was a bit of break for my exhausted wallet.

Girona, Spain

Internationals and the U.S. Election

The U.S. bites their political fingernails just days before the election, while internationals have mixed views about its significance but a clear choice of a candidate. One thing’s for certain: if the world could weigh on next week’s election, Sen. Obama would receive some serious global support.

According to a recent Gallup Poll surveying 3.2 billon citizens of 73 different countries 24 percent of internationals prefer Obama in contrast to 7 percent who prefer McCain.

Some of the strongest support comes from Europeans whom, if given a stake in the election, would ensure a landslide Obama victory.

“If I could vote I would vote for Obama because for me he represents the change not only of the national direction but international,” said Alberto Arévalo, an international lawyer living in Barcelona. “Normally from experience we’ve learned not to trust presidents, but with Obama I’m sure there will be change.”

More than 60 percent of Europeans believe a new U.S. president will have an impact on their nation and Obama is the favorite with 65 percent of the population preferring him.

The European leg of Obama’s world tour can be credited for the spread of “Obamamania” across the pond. His Berlin speech led to the German press dubbing him the “The New Kennedy” and one Frankfurt editorial screaming the headline “Lincoln, Kennedy, Obama.”

However, the international view of the election is a patchwork of opinions. A whopping 69 percent of world-citizens didn’t state a presidential preference and typically don’t believe the election makes a difference in their country.

“First of all it’s not my country,” said Sienae Kim, an interior design student from Seoul. “It’s not happening in my country and secondly I don’t really know about the political things and third I don’t believe what they’re saying.”

U.S. political attitudes in South Korea have gaping generational differences. The “386-generation,” known for anti-American sentiment and Korean nationalism, are stark contrasts of their war-era parents. Still, Obama fans represent a significant portion of the country. Kim says if made to choose she would pick Obama because she believes McCain equals Bush.

“When you’re disappointed with something you look forward to a new person,” she said.

Others believe the election has proved to be more of a media sensation than anything else.

“It’s kind of horrible how much we do know about the American system,” said Wendi Smallwood, a Canadian English teacher. “We should know more about our own country,” Smallwood said she purposely tries to avoid reading U.S. news but believes Obama would prove a better president.

“It seems like he’s a bit more concerned with education and medical insurance rather than going and bombing the world,” she said. “Obama seems more willing to be a team player in the international community rather than a vigilante.”

Published in University Star, October 29, 2008, Volume 98, No. 27

Museum of the Strange and Deranged Salvador Dali

Visit the Salvador Dalí Theater-Museum in Figueres, Spain to view the world’s largest piece of surrealist art.

The museum, designed by Dalí, has a touch of all the oddness and abnormality that is prevalent in his work. Here, some of the Figueres native’s finest pieces, as well as full-room pieces created explicitly for the museum, are on permanent display. The Dalí museum holds it all from recreating the sex-appeal of May West in an exhibit made of giant lips, eyes, and blond hair to ceiling paintings of melting watches and elephants. The building was completed in 1974 atop the rubble of the original Figueres Theater, which was destroyed during the Spanish Civil War.

“Some of his stuff was kind of disturbing but it was good,” said Krystle Yague, an international student visiting the museum. “He was brilliant.”

Dalí is most known for his surrealist paintings. Pictures of melting clocks and semi-human figures blurred into objects are typical, but realism and cubism works can be found here as well.

“I feel like he took the weirdest stuff he could find and put it together, but it made sense. It turned into art,” Yague said.

Dalí’s surrealist work was partly inspired by a method he developed all of his own — the paranoid critical method. The method is the way of perceiving reality an artist uses to find different ways to view the world, such as his painting Metamorphosis of Narcissus. The artwork seems to be of two bony hands with eggs perched on the fingertips emerging from a pool of water, but it the figure of a thin Narcissus with a sulking head appears on the left.

Dalí’s artwork was not restricted to the canvas. He designed jewelry, crafted sculptures and painted the entire ceiling of the Palace of the Wind, an ambient parlor on the second floor. The ceiling is resonant of Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel, with immaculate detail and surreal religious allusions. The work portrays a barefoot Dalí and wife Gala in a near-embrace above a cloud of angelic figures. A scene of the Apocalypse, where melting clocks and broken wheels cascade over crowds of confused figures, borders one end of the ceiling while a scene of the two entering paradise contrast the other.

Dalí’s most concrete inspiration was by far his wife with whom he was madly in love and includes in his works. However, they lived several miles apart and Gala had many lovers.

The Spanish crown bestowed the title of Marquis to the Dali before his death, a title written on his crypt in the belly of the museum where the artist rests beneath his life works.

Published in University Star, October 22, 2008, Volume 98, No. 24

Barcelona's Vanity Fair

The Rambla is a tree-lined historical avenue three-quarters of a mile long that pulsates through the center of Barcelona.

It’s a seemingly endless parade of flower stalls, cafés and street performers where one can buy anything from Russian hamsters to dancing Simpson figures. The street dissects two of the city’s oldest areas: Barcelona’s aesthetic Gothic Quarter on the east and the slum-turned ethnic enclave, the Raval, on the west.

The Rambla derives its name from the Arabic word “ramla” meaning sandy ground. However, the people-infested street makes up for its lack of actual sand with colorful displays of Barcelonan culture. It is by far one of the top attractions in the city.

The Rambla is so large it is divided into six sections, each named after a close-by building or landmark. The Rambla de les Flors, for instance, was the only place in 19th century Barcelona where fresh flowers were sold and the Rambla dels Estudis was named after a nearby mid-15th century university building that no longer exists.

Today the street maintains most of its quaint charm. The avenue pulsates during the daytime with the murmur of European languages, the incessant blaring of mopeds and the guttural chants of gipsy beggars. Roosters crow from animal stalls, waiters serve sangria to patio clients and human statues dressed as everything from soccer players to the Grim Reaper line the walkway. However, the Rambla loses a bit of its charm at night as artists and flower vendors give way to the rendezvous of drug dealers and ladies of the night. According to the Barcelona Reporter, 20 percent of prostitution in the city occurs in the Raval, which borders the southern half of the passage. Still, the area is often teeming with late-night partygoers enjoying the Barcelona nightlife until daybreak.

Towards the northernmost end of the Rambla is the Plaza Catalunya, a nerve center of the city. Halfway down the avenue is the Boqueria, a huge farmers market selling everything from dried figs to squid tentacles. Here there are more tourists than actual grocery shoppers, but the color and smells of the place are enough to veer anyone from a Rambla stroll.

A walk to the end of the avenue leads to the Port Vell, the original harbor of the city constructed in medieval times when Barcelona dominated the Mediterranean trade scene. A 197-foot Columbus monument signals the end of the Rambla journey with a giant figure of Christopher Columbus pointing across the Mediterranean toward the New World.

The Rambla is dotted with crude drinking fountains looking like old-fashioned water spigots. The fountains aren’t the least bit drinker-friendly, yet like all things on the Rambla, even these have their charm. According to folklore, whoever drinks from them is destined to return.

Published in University Star, October 15, 2008, Volume 98, No. 21