Ain't no tan lines here: Baring it all in Southern Portugal

During the first week of my trip, I made a bucket list of the things I wanted to accomplish in my six months of travel. Number three on my list (as I look back at my journal to reference...be glad I don't put more of that stuff in my blog) was verbatim: "be happy naked [...] two weeks at a nudist lodge should give you a bangin' tan." Now, sometimes even in the privacy of my own journal that I know no one will ever snoop on (Mom...), I like to tease myself...cuz let's be real, I could have been naked every single day since my birth, and I would never achieve a "bangin' tan." It's genetically impossible (Mom...).

Two weeks in the lovely fishing village
Ferragudo, Portugal. 

Anyway, the bigger point is "be happy naked" — that I can work on. Let's be serious though, we all live in this world and we're all raised to feel a little uncomfortable naked. Not really sure how that happens because I know for damn sure I was one of those modern hippy kids that isn't allowed to smoke weed with the 'rents but is still told she's perfect in every imaginable way and that all of life's possibilities are within my reach — really quite overwhelming now that I think about it #firstworldproblems. Regardless, even those of us who were fortunate enough to be raised knowing we are perfect little imperfections feel uncomfortable with ourselves physically in one way or another. 

Get naked!
Front entrance of La Quinta da Horta

That annoys me. I decided that the best way to feel comfortable naked is to practice (in a non-disease spreading sort of way). Sometime in early April I wrote to the good people at La Quinta da Horta, a nudist lodge in the Algarve of Southern Portugal. They were looking for helpers and I was looking for nudity. Never a more perfect match. I would be joining "Ted and Hun, the Buns" (tagline for literally every e-mail exchange) in mid-July. 

We arranged to have Ted pick me up at the bus station on the night that I arrived. I had no idea what to expect....would I find an unusually tan, naked British man expecting me to strip down for a quick car ride? Would he be the creepy type that owns a nudist lodge but isn't actually a nudist? What did he expect? Was I supposed to be the hippy type? (I wore a purple bandana in my hair just in case...I have a real firm grasp on the definition of "hippy," believe you me....)

I jumped in the car and the very tanned, yet very clothed British Ted began telling me about the Estonian yoga group that would be arriving the next day. Apparently this Estonian group hosts their annual yoga retreat at La Quinta da Horta every year and rents out the entire place. My first thought: what the hell is Estonia? I thought it was a type of yoga. Nope, it's a country. A COUNTRY. Geography champ, right here. 

And we finally found Estonia.

After discovering that Estonia is indeed a country (a very small country...think 1.3 million people, which is apparently exactly the same population as San Diego...WOAH dream big), the next thought was: what are these random 20 Estonians doing (a) in Portugal, (b) participating in yoga, (c) participating in a yoga retreat at a nudist lodge in Portugal. Ted's response, "I swear to you, all Estonians are mad." 

Within five minutes of meeting Ted (who was now confirmed to be a nudist himself), he started on a mini-rant about the Estonians and the fact that he was going to have to cook "vegetarian poppycock for these damn yogis." Apparently, Ted doesn't believe in such "alternative crap." I almost died of happiness. I mean... you're a nudist, bro. How much more "alternative" does it get? I knew we were gonna have a great time; love those snarky Brits, especially the irrational, naked kind.

Nudist pool at La Quinta.

Then, we arrived at the lodge and I was getting all settled in to my own little personal cottage, I asked Ted for the wifi password: "barebums." YES, nudists with a sense of humor. Needless to say, I giggled inappropriately and then proceeded to check my e-mail. 

The next morning I got myself all geared up for my first day of "work." I headed down to the kitchen fully clothed to help Ted prepare the vegetarian breakfast and found him clothed as well and then saw a bunch of Estonians running around also clothed. Welp, glad I didn't get naked....if being communally naked is a little awkward, being the only one naked is very awkward. 

One of the various nude sketches around La Quinta 

Apparently most of the Estonians are not naturists, they are just Eastern European vegetarian yogis. Glad we cleared that one up early on. Occasionally, I looked up from my breakfast nook and would see a few of them running around naked and then heading off to the pool, but for the most part, they remained fairly clothed. Ted, however, did not. Many of our kitchen sessions (I was essentially his sous-chef and dishwasher that first week) consisted of him pointing to various vegetables and things for me to chop, mince, slice, and other various orders that I just always interpreted as "cut however you like," and he would do so completely naked as he fried up one vegetable after the other. It took me a little while to get used to, but our conversations proceeded as normal (fake it till you make it) and I became very well practiced at looking people directly in the eyes when speaking to them. 

A week later, the Estonians had finally moved out and it was time to clean out their rooms in preparation of the arrival of some true naturists. Throughout the whole previous week, naked Ted and I had spent many hours in the kitchen preparing the Estonians' veggie diet in the exact "cleansing" manner requested by their leader. One crucial aspect of their retreat was not only to practice yoga and meditation, but to remain on a cleansing diet (think ginger, beet, and carrot bake). I was thoroughly impressed at their diligence UNTIL the week was up and I went to go clean out their rooms. I have never seen so many empty beer cans in my life...and if you've ever seen Yale during "reading period" (HA) then you know that this was an impressive amount of beer. A little buzz to enhance meditation?  Clearly.

Beach at Lagos, Portugal 15 miles from Ferragudo

Eventually I finished all of the "rubbish runs" and it was high time to get naked. All the cool kids were doin' it...plus, I had spent the majority of my week down at the beach and had worked up some pretty horrendous tan lines that needed tending. So I grabbed a grocery-brand beer out of the fridge (those damn nudists can be pretty stingy people), popped it open, stripped down, and walked out to one of the many loungers for a bit of a naked nap in the sun. After a couple of hours of dozing in and out, Ted walked up to me (also naked) and began discussing the plans for the next day's cleaning schedule. I was so used to seeing him naked at this point that I didn't even really think about the fact that I was naked as well. Needless to say, the transition to full-blown nudity went much more smoothly than I anticipated. Looking back, I wish that someone had taken a picture of one of these full-blown naked conversations between myself and the man who was essentially my boss, but even the most classless of nudists know that it's poor form to snap photos.

A few days later, a new workawayer —Anna— arrived from Italy. Anna is not your typical workawayer. For one thing, she is probably in her late 40s (workawayers tend to be quite young) and she actually has a real job. Why she came to La Quinta to work is beyond me, but it really doesn't matter because she provided some hilarious moments during my short time with her. I'll just share my favorite:

Everything at La Quinta is a little "wild"

Now that I had become accustomed to my daily routine (fix breakfast for the nudists, clean up after the nudists, take out the trash produced by the nudists, stop by lunchtime, get naked myself, and go pretend like I'm capable of tanning), I really did not care that my favorite naked tanning spot was right next to Anna's cottage...it was still my naked spot. Thankfully, she didn't care either as she quickly stripped down herself. One afternoon, however, I was woken up from a tanning/napping session to Anna's broken English: "Lexi! No, no your tit is too red," and before I even knew what was happening, she was spraying me with sunscreen. LITERALLY SPRAYING MY BODY. Oh, Italians. If this would have happened two months ago I would have most likely experienced a life-altering anxiety attack, but what was amazing about this moment —aside from the obvious— was that I had no reaction except for gratitude. I do not want to burn, especially not there. So thanks for lookin' out, Anna.

For all intents and purposes, I think my moment with Anna may have been a breakthrough. I mean, a woman that I would still consider a stranger just sprayed my naked body with sunscreen. May we all have a little nudity in our lives, and hopefully, a little Anna. Thanks to the wild naturists and the encouraging sunshine of Southern Portugal. Mission accomplished and on to the next adventure. 

Bye-bye Granada, Hello Madrid. Bye-bye Madrid, Hello Portugal.

Plaza Mayor, Madrid

Sadly, after two and a half weeks of working at Itinere Hostel (highly recommended!) in Granada, the time came to pack up my overstuffed REI backpack and hit the road again for a new adventure. However, I couldn't leave Spain without experiencing Madrid — and I couldn't really get to Portugal without flying through Madrid anyway so it all worked out!

The bus got into Madrid around 7pm and I proudly navigated the metro system directly to my hostel without issue. Then, in search of a bite to eat, I followed one interesting street after another, letting my curiosity get the better of me until I was completely and utterly lost...I'm not even sure I was in Madrid at one point. One full month of travel and this was the first time I had to flag down a taxi. Despite my 7 euro mistake, I made one of the best discoveries of my life to date.

Dunkbucks!

Now, if you know anything about me, you know that my coffee consumption is a little out of hand. I will most certainly have heart palpitations by the time I'm 30; no amount of meditation will undo the damage already done. But I really don't care and that is certainly not the point. The point is that I found a two-storey Starbucks in Madrid located right next to AND beneath a THREE-STOREY Dunkin Donuts.

I just didn't know what to do. My dual-loyalty instincts wanted me to buy coffee from both and then befriend all of the Americans that were surely sipping their over-sized coffees inside. But it was already night-time and I didn't sleep very well the night before so I restrained myself and vowed to return the next day. To be sure that I wasn't just hallucinating, I frantically started taking pictures. All the Spanish people started looking around trying to see what all the fuss was about... Justin Bieber? Tom Cruise? Oprah?!? Nope...my two favorite coffee shops all up in each other's business. Oprah would have been pretty great though. (*NOTE: Again, Oprah, if you ever read this, I love you and I would like to be employed by you in pretty much whatever capacity you see fit.)

Shortly after this dizzying Dunkbucks (Dunkin-Starbucks...obvi) discovery, I got lost, found a very sweet cab driver who dropped me off dangerously close to my hostel door, and proceeded to pass out in one of the best hostel beds I've ever experienced.

The next morning I got up early to just completely nerd out and spend the entire day at the Prado Museum and the Reina Sofia. Essentially, I spent my whole day looking at paintings by Picasso, Dalí, Goya, and El Greco and pretended to be artistically inclined. Occasionally I picked a painting to stare at, threw in a little twist of the head and a nodded in a pensive fashion, and basically looked like an artistic GENIUS...especially in my mesh shorts and flip-flops. Let's be real though, I took one week of Art History and then dropped it like it was hot (#seniorspringproblems).

Royal Palace, Madrid

After a strenuous day of cultural enrichment, I ventured back over to my beloved Dunkbucks and faced the heart-wrenching task of choosing between the two. As I stood there slightly panicked and weighing my options, a young couple walked out of Dunkin' and a faint sound of country music snuck out with them. I died of happiness. "Small Town USA" playing in big town Spain...now that's what I call exporting culture.


Now I know for some of you, the sweet sounds of Nashville would have swayed you toward the Starbucks, but I do love me some country so I settled in for a few hours of coffee drinking, people watching, and journaling.

Definitely gave them a euro...
have no idea how they did this!

My trip to Madrid was a quick one — just three nights and then I had to venture off to the Madrid Airport (again, successfully navigated the metro) to experience my first European budget airline flight with RyanAir. Along my travels I've run into people with some horror stories about RyanAir: exorbitant charges for bags that are overweight, charging you to print out your boarding pass if you lose it, not stamping your boarding pass and then rejecting you at the security line, etc. So to continue with the nerdy nature of my Madrid trip, I showed up to the airport THREE hours early. Of course, my bag was the perfect weight, I had absolutely no problems, and I walked directly through security. So I had three hours to kill and drink some overpriced coffee and eat an overpriced sandwich. While these inflated airport prices would normally have thrown me into a bit of a hissy fit, I've had some amazing luck recently finding money in the most random of places so I don't feel as bad having to pay the inflated prices.


I found 3 euro in the SINK at my hostel in Madrid when I came back after an afternoon cafe jaunt. Then, the very next day, in the Madrid Airport, I found 4 euro in the bins for the security line. It's the little things in life. 


Anyway, the plane in Madrid arrived late. So we boarded late. And then the Spanish military (I know, I know...they actually have one of those...) was performing some flight operation so all flights were delayed. And then, when we finally arrived at the Faro Airport, the bus from the airport to the city center was late. When it finally arrived, it was packed full. So then I caught a taxi with a bunch of other frustrated travelers. Just when I was sure that I would miss the last bus from Faro to Portimao (where I was being picked up by the nudist resort owner), the bus from Faro to Portimao was also late so it all worked out. OH I SEE WHAT YOU DID THERE PORTUGAL.

Long story, but now I'm at the nudist lodge, which we shall turn to in the next posting. Good thing I'm all caught up because tomorrow begins my first two days off of work here in Portugal and I'm heading into Lagos for a night out...the Portuguese haven for dancing on bars and lighting shots on fire. 

Las Alpujarras: Off-road hiking & aggressive crickets

So it seems I'm about ten days behind in my blogging....that's alright though, just a sign of having a good time and cleaning too many toilets! Anyway, I started this post last week so I'm just gonna let it flow as I started it (aka when I say "this past weekend" I really mean June 30th - July 1st....forgive me) and I'll hopefully catch you up to speed with another post or two in the coming days.

This past weekend, I decided to take a vacation from my vacation, so I sat down and actually did a bit of research on where I might go. The fifteen minutes of Google searching reminded me not to go to grad school any time soon.

First night in Capileira.

I decided that since I had three days off from my toilet cleaning job, I would hop a bus for a casual weekend trip to Las Alpujarras in the Spanish Sierra Nevada mountains. The area is dotted with teeny tiny little picturesque villages and I chose Capileira, which is one of the highest in the region. Population: 559. 

What's incredible about the area is that there are three traditional all-white (talking architecture here) villages that you can hike between: Capileira, Bubión, and Pampaneira. I'm pretty sure that the people who created the trails between the three had my sort of humor because there would be a very clear trailhead and then half a mile later the trail would split into three places with no marking whatsoever. Naturally, I always chose the wrong one and ended up on someone's private property, their wild dogs would come sprinting toward me inducing a moment of terror and regret, only to be greeted with a sniff and then quickly rejected. 

Off-road hiking in Las Alpujarras

Other than these relatively isolated incidences of poodle-induced terror, I didn't have much problem with the whole "propiedad privada" thing. Except for the fact that I'm pretty convinced that crickets wildly reproduce in the summer-time because the second I stepped off the trailhead —rather, the second the trailhead straight-up disappeared— there were crickets everywhere. Literally in all the places. Every step I took, there were 6 or 7 crickets that would hop up out of nowhere. I'm not gonna lie, I died a little on the inside. I don't particularly care for bugs. I mean, who does really? Except for those adorable nerdy little kids with glasses who collect them in a jar only to study them and then grow up to be wildly handsome geniuses. You know who you are.

Anyway, it was kind of gross, and I'm pretty sure I accidentally killed 15 or 20 crickets. And I'm a bit of a pacifist so for a while there I was feeling pretty bad about myself. However, after a couple of miles of jaunting through cricket-infested territory, one very rude cricket jumped a little too high...and landed IN MY SHIRT. Yes, there was a cricket in my shirt. It gives me the heebie jeebies just thinking about it. I almost ripped off my whole shirt out of sheer horror but that would have given the cricket too much satisfaction. After that, I didn't care about killing the crickets. One rude cricket and my pacifism flew out the window. I'm pretty sure that's how wars start. One damn rude cricket....

Apartments in Bubión

Aside from the whole cricket jumping incident, my stay in Las Alpujarras was lovely. Two solid days filled with hiking, sitting by the pool, and chatting with old men about Spain's Eurocup domination. Since the weekend I was in Alpujarras was the weekend of the Eurocup final, the owners of the lodge that I was staying at turned their outdoor patio/garden into a raging outdoor sports bar— as raging as one can possibly get in a town of 559 people. Had I not been surrounded by wildly out of control small-town Spaniards, I probably would have felt almost sort of bad for Italy and their horrifying 4-0 dismal performance. BUT, when in Spain do as the Spanish do... show up late to meetings, eat dinner at 11pm, and NEVER feel bad for the Italians. 

Cultural Enlightenment & Learning the True Meaning of 42°C

The other day, I decided to dive head first into the cultural wonders of Granada by going to see my first Spanish movie. Well, I went to go see my first American movie in a Spanish theater...one step at a time here. 


Here's how this enriching cultural experience began: I looked out my window and saw a sign flashing 17:45/42°C. Struggling to do a bit of math, I realized that it was 5:45pm and I hadn't done a damn thing with my day. I ignored the 42°C part because only Google can tell me what that means. Big mistake. 42°C means "do not go outside." For those of us who ignore the norms of the rest of the world, 42°C is 107°F. Good thing I regularly apply my 100spf rain or shine. I have very delicate skin. 

Upon walking out the front door, I realized that the weather gods of Granada were NOT looking to play around. For a brief second I though about walking back up to my room, but alas, it's up five flights of stairs so I thought better. Thankfully, fours years of living on the 4th and 5th floors throughout college —room draw loser— prepared me well for these sorts of predicaments:
"Oh you left your room for lecture without your laptop? Ya, you're just not going to take notes today....well if you're not going to take notes, what's the point of going to class? Good point, Lexi, let's go see what terrible movies we can go watch today."


So I headed for the movies. After a pleasantly short walk to the theater (because I also don't know how to convert kilometers to miles), I entered a Spanish mall, took a hard look at the lovely casino directly inside the front entrance of the shopping center, then looked back at the movie theater and employed the very small amount of self-discipline I have left, and vowed to lose all my euro on Spanish slots another day. 


I walked up to the ticket office and the only thing playing was "Sombras Tenebrosas," the Spanish dubbed version of yet another Johnny Depp - Tim Burton collaboration (really...what's going on with those two? EIGHT movies together...??). Personally, I prefer Johnny with dreads (re: Pirates of the Caribbean), but it was the only thing playing and nothing is better on a hot day than sitting in a cool, dark theater and watching Johnny Depp dubbed in Spanish, amiright??

Brilliant choice because when I walked into the theater, they were jammin' to the great American classic, Miley Cyrus' "Party in the USA" (also, twitter tells me she's engaged? what is this madness). Following the ever-pressing needs of my freakishly small bladder, I danced my way up the stairs to use "los servicios" and what a blessed day it was to be among the small bladder population, because it bought me enough time to hear the next song — the best of Britney circa 2004 — "Toxic." Perhaps no other combination of songs could make me quite so happy to be an American.

View of the Alhambra from afar 

All-in-all, my whole American/Spanish movie going experience was quite enlightening, and although I could have easily been satisfied with my cultural experiences in Spain at that point, we all know that I'm an over-achiever.


So, in the time since I've last blogged (although tempted to just sit in dark casinos and play Spanish slots), I've visited the Alhambra (about seven centuries worth of culture right there!) and seen my first Spanish Flamenco show. 

Detailing on the walls
at the Alhambra

For those of you who have never heard of the Alhambra (other than Alhambra Water....apparently not related...), it's the tourist destination in Granada. It's basically the main reason why people go to the city. It's a huge Moorish palace and fortress that was built in the mid-14th century by Arab rulers and then taken over by Christian rulers after the Reconquista. Fast-forward over five hundred years and you have a UNESCO World Heritage Site boasting lush gardens, exquisitely preserved stonework, and flowing water and fountains through all parts of the sprawling fortress.

Now, I'm always a little reluctant to go stand in line and pay money to see those supposedly "must-see" monuments. Like the Louvre... a whole week in Paris and never went. What's there to see anyway? The Mona Lisa? My God you guys, that painting is tiny. I guess I'm just generally a bad tourist. I'd probably go to India and end up eating Chinese food.

Generalife at the Alhambra

So, naturally, part of me was a little reluctant to go to the Alhambra, but the woman at my hostel in Algeciras was very insistent that I go. In fact, I think she may have threatened me at one point. I'm not sure. She kept trying to practice her English with me, but she really didn't speak any English at all, so maybe it was a mistake when she said, "I come kill you if you no go to Alhambra"...?

She was a little scary though, so I dragged myself to the world-famous Alhambra; it was fabulous. I highly recommend it. In fact, if you come to Granada and don't go I may just have to pretend that I don't speak English and threaten you a little bit.

View of the Alhambra
from the outdoor Flamenco show

As if I hadn't culturally enriched myself enough already —like I said, huge over-achiever— the owners of the hostel that I'm currently working at organized an outing to a local Flamenco show. And because I have the easiest job in the world, they had my shift covered so that I could attend as well. So after a strenuous day of not working, I was relieved from my 3 hour shift and headed over to the Flamenco show with a bunch of Brazilian, Polish, and Argentine tourists. The show consisted of a 10-year-old singer, a 14-year-old flamenco dancer, a 17-year-old guitarist, and a 65-year-old poet.


The show was actually incredibly inspiring. The kids were all ridiculous talents, but my favorite part was the older gentleman's performance of some poetry by the Granada-born writer, Federico Garcia Lorca. Firstly, I actually kind of, almost understood it in its semi-entirety, which was awesome. Secondly, even when I didn't understand, all the Spanish people around me were LOL-ing hardcore, so I know he was funny. And, thirdly, his flamboyancy reminded me of home. Overall, he couldn't have been more perfect.

La vida tranquila: Granada, Spain

Life is pretty easy here in Granada. I'm working at a small hostel in the city center— and by "working," I mean 3 hours a day, 6 days a week for food and housing...let's be real, it will probably be a while until I have a big girl job. *NOTE: spontaneous offers of employment are always welcome.*

view from my balcony!

Some days I take the morning shift (cleaning) and other days I take the evening shift (reception). I must brag that I am exceptionally good at both tasks. Let me tell you, I can scrub a mean toilet. And, after an entire lifetime of my mother trying to teach me about "hospital corners" (seriously though....we don't even live in a hospital), I make beds like a true champion. While I am basically a human Swiffer, I also rock reception. In fact, after only two short days here, I worked my first solo-shift for check-in. The owners could probably tell that I was born to sit at a desk with my boxed sangria, facebook, text, mumble along to incomprehensible Spanish pop music, and then actually act quite charming on the rare chance that someone actually happens to walk through the front door. 

The people who own this hostel are a young, adorable brother and sister pair. Their father is Japanese and their mother is Spanish, but they were both born and raised in Spain, so I have encountered the interesting predicament of learning how to say their Japanese names — Sayano and Takashi — with a Spanish accent. So here's how I've chosen to resolve the issue:
"¡Hola, Lexi! Buenos días." - Takashi
"¡Hola, guapo! ¿Qué tal?" - Me
Just kidding...I'm rarely that forward so early in the morning. 


Anyway, the two siblings had a "welcome" dinner prepared when I arrived on the 21st and we all spent the evening drinking, eating, and chatting (¡pero, claro, en español!). They're incredibly laid back and want to make sure that they're "helpers" have ample time off to relax and explore. That attitude— combined with the fact that this is a fairly quiet hostel— gives me a great deal of down time so I've been spending the last few days exploring the city.

One of my great discoveries thus far in Granada is that whenever you order a drink here, the bartender brings you a FREE plate of tapas. The first time it happened, I was so incredibly confused; this sort of stuff never happens at Denny's. A cheery Spanish waiter came over, handed me my beer, and a little plate of food.  He saw the confusion on my face —probably not my cutest look— and just said "albondigas" — meatballs. As if that cleared things up. 

Turns out, this is just the way cafes work in Granada. Of all the major cities in Spain, Granada is one of the least touristy, so in order to compete for business, the restaurants keep customers coming back for the tapas because the drinks are pretty much the same wherever you go. So say it's 90°F outside (which it usually is) and all you want is to go sit in the shade and order an ice cold beer (which you will), you can go sit at pretty much any cafe and order a round of their local beer and then... let's be honest... order another one and just sit for a couple hours and people watch. Use the two beers and two little plates of food as your lunch, and you walk away having spent 3-4 euro on a couple hours of pure bliss. 

After one such dirt-cheap-drinking-and-eating-and-people-watching-cafe-extravaganza, I realized that I was being pathetically lazy, so I decided to walk up to Sacromonte. Sacromonte is one of the six barrios that make up the district of Albaicín, which is a traditional moorish part of the city (looks a lot like Morocco!). It's located at the northeast edge of the city, and people have lived in cave-dwellings there since the 16th century when the Muslim and Jewish populations of Granada were kicked out of their homes. That area is now an important site for Gitano (Spanish gypsy) culture. All-in-all, it's a pretty interesting part of the city, but the famous abbey (simply called la abadía) in Sacromonte is at the top of a veeeerrrryyyy long hill, the length of which I was unaware due to my lack of research. 

So I was an hour into walking up this hill in 90°F heat and stuffed with tapas, and literally no one was in sight —clearly everyone else had done their research and knew about this stupid hill — when all of the sudden I hear some distinctly American voices coming up behind me. I was so excited. People to walk with, maybe they're from California, maybe they know how long this damn hill is, maybe they're a bunch of quitters and wanna just turn around and go back down the hill and get more tapas with me...my mind is going wild with the possibilities. So I turn around to look back at where my new best friends are and they're riding up the hill on segways. Yes, segways. They are taking a SEGWAY tour of one of the most important areas of the Spanish reconquest. Damn Americans. Next thing I know, they've zipped right by me, not a drop of sweat to be seen on their faces, just oh so very pleased with their choice of transportation. 

the segway-ing americans
passing me on their way back down the hill

I ended up playing this very bizarre game of "walking-sweaty-girl vs. segway-luxury" tag with these people all the way up and all the way down the very long hill to the Abbey of Sacromonte. Every now and again they'd pass me and then I'd pass them when they stopped to do something culturally enriching, and then they'd pass me, and then I'd pass them after taking a short-cut on a footpath. I'm pretty convinced they were messing with me. They didn't just pass me once and then out of sight, out of mind, they kept rubbing it in my face. Next time, I'm finding out how to get myself a segway. And I will proceed to rub it in the face of whoever else is stupid enough to walk the hill to the Abbey of Sacromonte.

the abbey at the top of the very very long hill
...look a little like every other old building you've ever seen in your life?
(hint: the answer is "yes")

Anyway, I finally made it to the top of the hill and there was actually nothing to see. If only this were the sort of thing that would encourage me to do a little more research.   

Fés, Morocco

Let me establish this from the beginning just so there’s no confusion: I do not like Morocco. Is it harsh and unnecessary to generalize about an entire country based on four days in one city? Yes. It’s like if someone didn’t like San Francisco and then decided that they don’t like America. But that person would just be crazy because who doesn’t like San Francisco? Anyway, sometimes you just have to give yourself permission to be harsh and unnecessary, and I'm certainly not going to sugarcoat my feelings about Morocco. Now, I say this at the beginning because there might be a few moments when I say something nice about Morocco and I don’t want you to be confused: I don’t like it. 

Before I dive in to the top three things that I hate about Morocco, I just need to explain one very interesting phenomenon: the Moroccans (or at least those who live in Fés) are very touchy-feely people. Never between men and women, but within their own sex. When I first arrived in Fés, I saw two men outside of a market with one casually sitting on top of the other. Mind you, it is 90° outside and the last thing you want is extra body heat. This caught my attention, but I didn't think much of it until I saw nearly all the men touching each-other: holding hands, arm around the shoulder, grabbing a forearm... for a second I almost fell in love with Fés. I thought I had stumbled upon the West Hollywood of Morocco. Sadly, it's not. They just happen to be very physically affectionate people. 

After a momentary glimmer of loving Fés, it all went down the shitter:
Firstly, today I was almost hit by a donkey. Normally, I would think that's hilarious. If not fatal, getting hit by a donkey in NYC, Chicago, or Los Angeles would be hilarious. But a donkey collision in Fés, Morocco is just not funny, probably because it's actually a very real possibility. Three different people were yelling some variation of "watch out!" in various languages but none of them were English or Spanish and people tend to yell a lot in the Fés medina, so I really didn't think anything was happening. Then I looked up and there was a donkey coming right for my face

 colorful taxi in the medina

When I first arrived in the medina, I noticed a ridiculous number of packmules being tugged around by their masters. One young Moroccan man pointed, "The taxis of the medina," and proceeded to laugh. DEADLY TAXIS. But then again, all taxis in Fés are pretty deadly...no real rules of traffic. There aren't even seat-belts. I know it sounds silly to make a big deal out of seat-belts, but I've seen one too many episodes of Grey's Anatomy not to wear a seatbelt, especially when travelling through a sea of cars seemingly unrestricted by typical traffic laws, such as driving within your own lane.

Alright so my first problem with Fés was the possibility of a fatal donkey accident. Another (very frequent) problem was the “marriage” question. Now, for the women out there, we all have encountered certain situations or cultures where the "marriage" question is a huge focal point. For some of you, this may even be Grandma's house or your parents' friends, or a recent trip to Italy, but Morocco enforces the marriage question more than I've ever experienced in my life. Everywhere I went, if I talked to someone for more than 45 seconds, they asked me if I was married. The correct answer was obviously “yes” because God forbid you say no.

One particular conversation comes to mind that sums up the majority of my interactions with men throughout my time there (and now that I think about it, I had zero interactions with Moroccan women). One young guy claiming to be a student began to follow and guide me at the same time (much like Oskaar had done in Tanger). He started pointing in different directions and asking me questions and as much as I insisted on being left alone, we were suddenly walking down the street together. Not two minutes later we began talking about my imaginary American husband. 

“So your husband let you travel by yourself to Morocco?” he asked.

CALM DOWN, Lexi, calm down, “Yes, my husband is a revolutionary thinker.”  

Later that night, a man working at my hostel ("Funky Fés Hostel...indeed...very funky) took me to get some food at one of their Riads (nicer, homey hotels). This man, while not a nomad like my other Spanish-speaking Moroccan frenemy, spoke better Spanish than English so our conversation took place nearly entirely in Spanish. At this point I had spoken more Spanish in Morocco than in Spain. He too promptly asked me if I was married. 

“Yes, I’m married.” 

“Ahh to an American?”

“Yes to an American. Everyone seems to ask that question here. Why?”

“In Morocco we have 4 wives, so we are always looking.”

 Well dinner just got awkward.

After much talk of my imaginary, progressive-thinking, American husband, I was ready to go back to Spain. But, of course, why make it easy? When in a foreign country where you don’t speak either of the official languages, everything is haggled, and women are always accompanied by men, one should always get off at the wrong train stop. 

Views of the sometimes not-too-lovely countryside
on the train from Fés to Tanger

I got off at the wrong stop in Tanger (the port town with connections to Spain). After verbally abusing myself for few seconds, I realized I had only gotten off one stop early and would easily be able to hop a cab to the port. BUT, this was a very small train station and I really had to use the bathroom. So I walked into bathroom and quickly discovered that it was a hole in the ground. Literally a hole with markings for where to place your feet to assume the sorority squat. When in Morocco...And, of course, this was no free squatting room. 75 cents to pee in a hole. 

My last interaction in Morocco — while incredibly frustrating — in some ways could not have been more perfect. My hostel for the night was based in Algeciras on the southern coast of Spain and so I figured I’d take the ferry from Tanger to Algeciras. Little did I know that there are TWO ports in Tanger...the “new” port and the “old” port. I arrived at the “old” port 10 minutes before the ferry was to leave. In an attempt to quickly buy a ticket, a young man informed me that the boats to Algeciras were 40 km away. Well, damn. Another man rushed up and launched into helping me and verbally assaulting me at the same time (a talent I found common to nearly all of the Moroccan men who insisted on helping me in one way or another throughout my time there):

Fés, "Tanneries"
 UNESCO World Heritage site

“Why the f*$k you take a bus 40km to New port just to catch ferry?! Take one to Tarifa and then bus 15km to Algeciras” (now, normally, I like to do a bit of paraphrasing, but this is actually verbatim his opening line).

“Oh I can take a bus when I get to Tarifa?”

“Yes, come, give me passport.”

So I booked a ticket to Tarifa and as I was leaving, he pointed to the Yankees hat attached to the side of my bag (re: my sister’s hat. Sorry, sis). 

“That little boy over there likes your hat.”

“Oh ya? Yankees fan?”

“Why don’t you give it to him? For souvenir?”

“Hell no he can’t have my hat!” (I figured he started with the cursing, so I was probably in the clear on this one). Mind you, this “boy” he was referring to was probably in his late 20s. 

Then, as I began to walk off, he said, “hey, how about a little tip for me??” — for his service-minded attitude. So I handed him the change in my bag, which was probably the equivalent of $1.00 and he threw a hissy fit. Walk away, Peacock, walk away.

So I sprinted (the hiking backpack version of a sprint) to the ferry. If I had to stay in Morocco for three more hours, I was pretty sure I was going to end up in a Moroccan prison, and I would probably have to tip someone as they arrested me. I made it on the boat...last person admitted. Right near the entrance was a bar. GOD BLESS SPAIN. Now, here comes complaint #3 about Morocco: you can't find a beer ANYWHERE. I am told that there is alcohol in Fés, but it is kept hidden because it is technically not allowed in the medina. So, if you want to get a beer you have to pay way to much money and take your chances on some random man’s roof. Not really a great idea. So I had been beer-less for a solid four days in a blazing hot country full of stressful hagglers and hustlers. If I didn’t love Spain before, I’m a huge fan now. 

Holy Africa

Walking off the ferry from Tarifa and arriving in Tangier, I suddenly realized I've never been to a developing country. I also realized that I speak neither Arabic nor French. And that I'm travelling with an overly-stuffed hiker's backpack that screams "American." Anddddd that I am a distinctly non-Moroccan, 21-year-old female travelling by myself. Nice.

After this ill-timed discovery, I decided that I would act confident, self-assured, and much more like a professional/badass/nomadic traveller, so I walked directly to the medina in Tangier pretending I had been there a dozen times before. After a half mile walk propelled by a false sense of brimming self-confidence, I ran into a man named Oscar (Oskaar??) who had this strange gift of leading me and following me at the same time.

Oskaar was very chatty -- "Welcome. Where are you from? Thank you for coming to Morocco. Ahhh California! Mick Jagger lived here in the medina." His casual switch from California to Mick fascinated me. I believe at some point he also referred to me as "European" so I think Oskaar might have been a little geographically-challenged, but my sleep-deprived, slightly nervous self determined that those who do not know where they are going make the best tour guides. That's some WILDLY advanced philosophy right there if you didn't follow.

On what was now an apparently "guided" tour of the medina, Oskaar continually stopped at any building with a date on it, to re-emphasize the ancient quality of his town. After the third or fourth stop at yet another very old doorway, I turned to ask Oskaar:
"Yo, Oskaar!" (Heavily paraphrasing), "how much you chargin' me for this tour right now."
With a smile, "I just do it to keep the people happy."
WOW....this is gonna cost me a pretty penny, I can already tell. American SUCKER written all over my REI backpack. 

Now I just surrender and hope that the very favorable exchange rate balances out some of my stupidity.  But then, Oskaar makes a sharp turn into some clothing shop:

"OH HELL NO, OSKAAR" (Again, heavily paraphrasing,) "I'm not buying so much as a ribbon."

"Oh no. No, not to buy! This man live with the Saharan nomads. He teach you."  

"Well that makes sense. Okay." 

And, just like that, I was suckered. 

So this travelling nomad (Who knew there was such a thing as Moroccan nomads...? Not this girl.) was super friendly. "Welcome to Morocco, welcome to Morocco. You from California! Speak Spanish?" I am absolutely not paraphrasing on this one, his direct thought process was California --> Spanish. 

From then on, the conversation continued in Spanish. This brought up another fun fact about Morocco. Apparently areas of the Western Sahara speak Spanish as their primary language because they were a province of Spain from the late '50s to the mid-'70s. Missed that little historical detail throughout the course of my many Spanish and African history classes.

Somehow, after a cup of tea, casual Spanish/Moroccan chats, and some sort of prayer, the only way I felt comfortable leaving without being assaulted was by buying something, or rather, "participating," as my Spanish-Moroccan frenemy liked to call it. So I picked out what I thought was the cheapest item: a scarf.

Here begins my crash course in haggling. I asked the Spanish-speaking Moroccan nomad how much the scarf costs: "240 dirham" (24 euro or 30-ish dollars). Mind you, my budget for the whole trip in Morocco (including all my transportation) is 1,000 dirham. Trying to figure out how I could get out of buying this damn scarf, I figured the "I'm-going-to-offer-such-a-low-price-that-you're-offended-and-kick-me-out" strategy was my best bet. So I offered 50 dirham. He was not at all offended, which told me it was probably worth 30. In the end I ended buying it for 90 dirham, looking at it more as the price of my ticket out of there more than anything else. There goes 10% of my budget on a scarf probably made in China for a trip that will average 80°F.

As I left the shop, Oskaar insisted on walking me to the taxis. At this point, I'm not too pleased with Oskaar. He had led me astray in his guarantee that I "no have to buy"....so I'm just barely putting up with him because he's leaving me no other option. So we get to the bottom of the medina and I grab a taxi (establishing the price to the train station up front —quick learner!), and kinda-sorta rudely (he totally deserved it) shove my change into Oskaar's hand as I hop inside. Much to my surprise, Oskaar hops in with me and starts throwing a hissy fit over the 75 cents I had given him. After a small argument, I hand him $5 dollars and he leaves. Welcome to Morocco. 

Let's recount my mistakes for a second:
1) Meeting Oskaar.
2) Allowing Oskaar to follow/lead me.
3) Walking into the Spanish-speaking Moroccan nomad's store with Oskaar.
4) Drinking tea and chatting in the Spanish-speaking Moroccan nomad's store.
5) Asking the Spanish-speaking Moroccan nomad how much something cost.
6) Buying anything at all.
7) Leaving with Oskaar.
8) Handing Oskaar 75 cents.
9) Handing Oskaar $5.

In store for tomorrow:
Apparently Fez has ~9,000 streets so I'm giving myself the entire day to get lost and wander back to my hostel. I've heard the "tanneries" are amazing...whatever that means. All I know is that camel heads hang in meat shops and I want pictures.