A BRIEF intermission: Month Five & “You need to have the funk to have the fun”

“You need to have the funk to have the fun.”

— Anthony

Never were truer words written to me via Skype.

Two days ago, I was messaging Anthony, one of the most amazing people I have had the fortune to meet on this Adventure of mine.

We talked about life, I caught him up on what’s going on back in America with my family, I told him I was in a funk and how frustrated I was that said funk was in progress.

It was then he wrote the funk was necessary. “You need to have a balance …” he began, and then he entered the words quoted above.

Instantly, my mood cheered. The gray cloud that had been hanging over me dissolved.

“You need to have the funk …”

For the past month, I have been struggling. It was not an easy time, to say the least. I teetered between tears and smiles as I navigated both an emotionally and physically challenging days.

(NOTE: the actual “Adventures of D” is about six weeks behind today, so you will read all about it … soon)

Every day, I would wake up and a time clock would go off in my head, the alarm saying to me:

“D … what are you doing with your life? You only have two months of traveling left …”

There was a rat race going on in my mind. Suddenly, I was out of the moment. I was into October. Living back in the USA. Trying to figure out where I would live, what I would do, who I would be.

In my waking moments, I was so consumed by these thoughts that I stopped enjoying. I stopped living in the moment and started to get the dreaded TRAVEL FATIGUE.

I tried to avoid it. I took some day trips. I explored. But, I had lost the spring in my step on my way to Month Five.

And it made me angry. Made me want to cry. I felt ridiculously overwhelmed with guilt.

There are a million people who would give anything to be where you are, and now you are pissing it away, D.

I was ashamed.

Here I am, living this amazing adventure and I somehow, somewhere in the past four weeks, stopped appreciating it.

Until now.

It took Anthony to make me feel better about it. Yes, I have Travel Fatigue. But, I don’t need to let thoughts consume me, and then let those bad thoughts about having those thoughts take over my brain and cloud everything. It’s a part of the experience.

So, Funk, Hello. Thanks for hanging out with me on and off for four weeks. It was great. You made me appreciate what I miss the most about traveling — The Fun.

Fun, I’m back.

Here’s to living in the moment in Month Six.

Serefe. Na zdrave.

Benidorm – the most British part of Spain

Benidorm. A city with towering hotels stacked 60 floors high above the multi-colored umbrellas lining the beaches which are packed with people.

If you are familiar with Benidorm at all, then you know it is a British hotspot. Fish and chip restaurants next to fish and chips restaurants, lobster-red people roam the sidewalks, white sands are blanketed with umbrellas and sun-worshipers.

To me, Benidorm is more like an American resort than a Spanish town, but every year, people flock there for the brilliant blue sea, the warm winds and to enjoy partying in Benidorm.

I have never seen so many people walking around in need of some major SPF in my life. Red red red.

Our fabulous #blogtripf1 gang toured the city, marveling at the unique pop architecture, and then headed onto a ferry to take us to an island for spectacular views of the skyscraper hotels lining the beach.

After the boat, we had paella and then headed to the sea to breathe in the salty air. For a few minutes, the group of us sat around, feet buried in the sand, talking and laughing. Then, we were waved back to the restaurant for our next stop … parked a few feet down the road were large yellow Jeeps decked with roll bars.

Four-wheelin’ off-roadin’ adventure!

I have never been off-roading and as soon as I saw the massive vehicles with the roll bars lined on the street, my face lit up.

We loaded into our transportation and headed up, up, up the hills of the city, bopping and smiling the entire way while a mix tape played loud above our squeals of delight.

“OK, you can stand up now,” our driver instructed.

Seat belts came off. Purses got tucked in. Heads popped out and hovered above the roll bars.

This was awesome.

Our rides stopped at the top of a hill.

My mouth dropped at what was in front of me. Blue sea. Skyscrapers. Lush green mountains. Fresh air.

Ahhhhh. What a sight.

Once our trip wrapped (too soon), we loaded back into our bus and SHA to freshen up and then back to Benidorm for a late night dinner, followed by some very quiet swimming and a quick hot tub dip.

Morning would come too quickly …

Disclosure: Land of Valencia provided all transportation, lodging, meals and activities.

SHA Wellness Clinic & #blogtripf1

I was so happy to leave Morocco. Partly because being there was exhausting as a single female traveler, but mostly because I was headed to the Land of Valencia for #blogtripf1, a gathering of travel bloggers invited by Land of Valencia’s tourism department to see the sites and witness the sheer beauty of the region.

I nearly missed my connecting flight from Madrid (thanks for the shoddy and disorganized mess, Iberia), but once I arrived, seeing the majestic white building where I would spend two nights, perched on the hill from Playa del Abir was a breath of fresh air.

I was exhausted, but as soon as I stepped out of the cab and into SHA Wellness Clinic, all of the tired, aches from travel, etc., melted away.

SHA was created to help people care for themselves through Eastern techniques and advanced Western medical practices. The Metodo Sha (SHA Method) combines macrobiotics and natural therapies with educational programs that are personalized for each person in order to meet their health goals. Every day, there are services for people, walks to the beach, yoga on the terrace, meals catering to each person’s particular needs, treatments to help remedy ailments.

Stuff I would LOVE to do if I had more time in Spain.

The clinic offers conferences, lectures, cooking lessons, a variety of exercise options and therapies, all designed to ensure guests walk out of their program healthier (and happier) than when they checked in.

I had stepped into an oasis of calm, serene beauty tucked into the Spanish hillside.

The meditative music, the all-white furniture, the pools, the fountains, the views, made every memory of the stress of Morocco simply disappear.

I could spend some serious time here.

I was whisked to my room, a delicious suite complete with a plush robe, slippers, toiletries that made my backpacker two-for-one shampoo/conditioner look lame, a terrace as large as my room with views of the blue water below, and music piped in to calm my traveling soul.

From there, I went up to the restaurant, which serves up macrobiotic food. to harmonize with Sha’s philosophy of combining Western medicine with Eastern therapeutic practices.

Before dinner, I joined other members of #blogtripf1, and took in the setting sun while sipping organic beer on the terrace and chatting with Alejandor Bataller, the chief sales and marketing officer for the property.

The group trickled in, one-by-one. I was waiting anxiously for Stefanie (AKA @Adventuregirl) to arrive. I had met Stef back in October via Twitter and she and I had remained in close touch. She had turned into my mentor and, more importantly, a friend, during those months … especially when I was making the life-changing decision to quit my job and go travel. I always had her support, her well-wishes, her insight.

At dinner, she and I caught up on life. We hadn’t been able to really catch-up properly since I had left America.

Once our group had arrived, we were ushered inside to enjoy a multi-course meal and wine.

I can get on this macrobiotic bandwagon.

And, it was goooooood.

The hours flew by, talking to Stef and her husband, Phil, and meeting and bonding with the other amazing people on our trip. Suddenly, it was the wee hours of the morning … time to pass out for the night.

I sunk into my bed, turned down the music (it even played in the bathroom), and passed out.

The next morning, the sun lit up my room early, peaking through the hillside and flooding my room with its sunrise yellow glow.

Did I have to get out of bed?

Breakfast greeted me upstairs, along with my group. Cereal. Breads. Fruit. Miso soup. Vegetables. All fresh. All fabulous. Even the OJ was divine.

From there, it was on to Benidorm to take in the sights of this haven for UK vacationers.

Disclosure: All transportation, lodging, meals and activities were courtesy of Land of Valencia.

How to barter like a pro

I’ve spent some time now in Morocco and Turkey, two places where the prices you see/hear are merely suggestions. If you are feeling unadventurous, go ahead and pay the ridiculously inflated prices. But, the only way to get the good deals on the scarves, shoes, pants, carpets, lanterns, etc., etc.,  is to talk talk talk and barter your way to those goodies you know you want to cram into your backpack.Continue reading “How to barter like a pro”

Thoughts from a Riad

An excerpt from the Journal of D:
22/6/10, Tuesday, 9:00 p.m.

I keep losing track of what day it is.

San Ambrosio was hardly a month ago, and yet it seems like an eternity. I’m sitting tonight on Riad Medina Azahara’s rooftop terrace in Marrekesh, listening to Moroccan music, mixed with the music of snake charmers in the square which occasionally wafts over to me in the night breeze, mixed with the calls to prayer from the mosques tucked into squares, alleys and elsewhere in the medina.Continue reading “Thoughts from a Riad”

One-thousand welcomes

I had been warned ahead of time, ignore people on the streets in Morocco. They will talk to you, befriend you, then demand money when you go your separate ways.

Oh yeah, I was going into Morocco armed with so much knowledge about what to do, how to act, what to wear (cover your body, no flip flops, don’t get your name hennaed on your body because then everyone will haggle you by name, etc.)

I was a bit apprehensive at first, wanting to stay in the safe confines of Spain a few more days.

Peter and I had spent the day together at La Alhambra (ridiculously romantic if you ever go with a guy), and then I headed from Granada to Tarifa via bus the next day.

Tarifa was lovely, a beach town straddling the Med and Atlantic with hourly views of the ferries whisking people from Europe to Africa.

I boarded one of those ferries a few days later.

As the ramp went down, connecting the boat to Tangier, my heart raced.

Was I ready for this?

I walked off the boat, head held high, shoulders back, trying to exude confidence in every step.

Immediately, I was hit with people who just “wanted to talk to me.” One man walked with me the entire way to the cab and when I got to the cab, demanded money for his company.

Yeah, right.

When someone went to take my luggage out of the cab at the bus station, I pulled a total Spanish move, wagging my index finger at them and saying “n-n-n-n-no.”

The local buses in Morocco are … interesting little tin can death traps. For three hours, I sat, smashed against the window in a seat too small, dripping sweat and watching as the glass rattled dangerously close to popping out of its setting.

And, then I arrived in Chefchaouen, a magnificent little city draped over a hill in the shadows of the Rift Mountains.

Once I arrived into the powder blue and white medina, I swiftly sidestepped anyone asking me if I knew where I was going and clung to my wits (and the instructions my cab driver gave me when he dropped me off at the medina after I exited the bus).

But, then I met Abdul, an older man, covered in time and filled with heart, who stopped me on the street after hearing me tell a guy on the street I knew where Pension Souika was located.

“I am going there, I will take you there,” he said. “No guide. I will just take you.”

A breath of fresh air.

I allowed him to walk with me the few hundred feet to the pension, thanking him when I arrived.

A few hours later, as I was walking out, Abdul was there.

“Where do you want to go?”

“Oh, I am just going to walk around and take photos,” I told him, avoiding any inclination I wanted a guide, just in case he was going to try to ask for money this time around.

“Come with me. I am so happy to have you here, I want you to see the city and tell other people about it. No guide. I will take you to my family’s carpet factory and for food. ”

Ah, the catch.

Yet, I obliged.

Together, this kind Moroccan and me, a wide-eyed American girl, traversed the streets of the medina, climbing upstairs, walking down cobblestone streets, until we stopped at the carpet factory.

Walls of carpets, piled to the ceiling, in a rainbow of colors, greeted me as soon as I walked in.

“This is my shop,” Abdul said, guiding me into the space.

Suddenly, carpets were being laid over the entire, intricate tiled floor. Sweet, delicious Moroccoan tea was being offered.

“Hello,” said an older man, stepping between the carpets. “Welcome. One-thousand welcomes.”

“Hi,” I said, smiling. I wasn’t sure if this was all a ploy for something, but their kindness and hospitality was a nice relief from walking about the streets solo.

I wandered about the store for a few minutes after being told, even if I didn’t want to buy, we could talk price, and then if nothing was agreed upon, we would still smile at each other following the bartering.

“I will go eat and then I will come back,” I said, eyeing the carpets, doing swift budget calculations in my mind.

Then, I was taken to a tiny restaurant, covered in blue and white carpets. For 40 dh I enjoyed an amazing and huge mixed salad, along with some veggie couscous (also amazing and huge), a whopping plate of fruit and Moroccan tea.

Before the meal was served, Abdul got up, informing me he had to go, but he would get his brother, Yassin, to come keep me company and then take me around town. (“No tour guide.”)

Minutes later, Yassin, probably close in age to me, was joining me at the little table.

After a lovely meal and a quick shisha, Yassin was taking me through the twisting, climbing, dipping streets of Chefchaouan, intent on providing me photo opps and general awe at the beauty of this mountain town.

We wandered up, up, up through the medina and out a gate, which took us down to a waterfall and a mountain stream where women were washing their clothes as the sun set behind the large crests above and around us.

“Wow,” I said to him. “This is … it is just amazing.”

And, it really was.

“I want you to see this,” he said. “One thousand welcomes.”

From there, we went back to his family’s carpet shop, where I learned the art of bartering.

It wasn’t anything like I imagined or have done before.

“We take a tea, and we go through three rounds of talking,” the older man from earlier explaiend as he sat me down and went through all of the various types of carpets he had — bourbor, nomadic, camel hair.

After he had unfolded and laid out about 15 of the world’s most beautifully colorful carpets, all hand-woven, all colored from nature (poppy flowers, saffron, etc.), he poured the tea and cheers-ed me.

“Now, you tell me which ones are maybe’s as I fold them up.”

I left four remaining carpets — three camel hair, all with intricate detail and colors, and one nomadic carpet the color of the Adriatic Sea.

Then, the man took a piece of paper, numbered each carpet, and wrote down prices, handing it to me to review.

“Now, you write down what you want to pay.”

I more than halved it.

“I’m so sorry. These are beautiful, but I am backpacking and don’t have a lot of money,” I said, handing him the paper with my terribly low numbers shamefully written.

“No, it’s ok.”

He wrote down new numbers.

“I’m sorry …” I offered, again writing low numbers to counter his high.

“OK, I will go ask the family,” he said.

A minute later, he came back, hand extended with an offer 100 dh higher than what I had wanted.

I bit. Mind you, the carpet is completely not functional for me. I have no home. I have two cats when I do have a home. It will likely sit in a box in the bedroom in my parent’s  house, which I will occupy briefly when I return from my trip.

But, I did it.

Armed with my carpet, Yassin and I headed back to my pension. He offered to take me out for beers, but I was enjoying the idea of detoxing for a week and declined. Plus, I just wasn’t interested.

The next day, we made plans to go and tour the city some more before I headed to Fez via bus. A proper bus this time.

Affairs of the something or other

The cluster of red flowers lay wilted on the table next to the bed, a silent testament to the evening that was.

I rolled over, looking at the flowers for a moment, just thinking.

Then, Peter came back into the room and crawled back into bed with me, wrapping his arms around me. I didn’t move, enveloped in a myriad of thoughts that delved deep into my past life, winding around the roads of the last three months, and plunging me back into his bed.

The past few days after Rwanda had been about recovery … in Sevilla. I missed out on a lot of the popular Andalucian city, but I caught up on the much needed sleep I had neglected during the 24 hours in transit from Kigali to Belgium to Charleori to Sevilla.

Then, it was on to Granada.

I checked in to Oasis Backpacker’s Hostel in the late afternoon, following a four-hour bus ride from Sevilla.

Immediately, I was taken with the city. The cobblestone paths with colorful Arabic markets lining car-free roads, the smell of the shisha wafting through the doors and spilling on to the streets, the tapas piled on diners plates outside.

I met Peter around 10 my first night in the city. The brother of two of my Spanish friends, we had spoken the night before and had planned to meet me out for drinks.

Of course, there was no way I would skip that. I get along well with his brother and sister (I stayed with her in Sevilla), so meeting another member of the family was natural.

As soon as I met Peter, I felt comfortable. His English was nearly perfect. He listened patiently when I tried to speak my imperfect Spanish, with a smile that stretched from his eyes down to his chin.

We started the night at tapas with some of his friends, me trying to speak Spanish, them trying to speak English, and despite the language barriers, we were still able to communicate.

After tapas, his friends headed home and he and I headed to a flamenco bar

“What should we drink?”

“Well …” I began, weighing the situation. “I like Jameson.”

“Me too.”

The decision was made. Two Jamesons.

This could get nasty … or something.

Peter and I stood at the bar for a bit, talking about our lives … learning different languages, how we both yearned to be like birds and be free (albeit very different versions of free).

Later, I discovered in a corner of the bar, a man playing guitar to an empty room, so I grabbed Peter and pulled him into the room. And then, I discovered the other room, where girls stood, stomping their feet and clapping their hands. So, I pulled Peter into that room.

We sat in the dark, smokey flamenco bar listening to men sing their howling, passionate tales of love, occasionally clapping our hands. I was utterly transfixed by the music and sat next to him, sipping on my Jameson and Coke, caught up in a moment I knew I would never relive.

“I think we go somewhere else now,” he said, nudging me to leave our table.

The two of us wandered the streets for a few minutes, looking for the next place to visit. It was on the way there he reached down and picked the little cluster of red flowers and gave them to me, and it was there I tucked them behind my ear.

It was nearly 3 a.m. when we came across the reggae club. Just as dark and smokey as the flamenco club, but much more energized, Peter and I bopped around on the dance floor, him twirling and swirling me around, until we were staring into each others eyes, faces centimeters apart. And then, there was no ‘apart.’

“We should leave,” he suggested in my ear, moving one arm behind my back to lead me out of the club.

“Si,” I whispered back.

“Let’s go to my house.”

“Si.” I had no idea where we were, where Oasis was, and going back to his house sounded perfect.

Hand in hand, we walked back to his flat.

This could be a hot Spanish affair or something.

But, I didn’t want that. Well, I did, but … the thing with Peter was I actually liked him. I enjoyed being in his company, and I didn’t want that to change.

Especially since the next day we had plans to go to La Alhambra.

I am pretty sure if his blinds had been opened, we would have watched the sun rise into the morning sky before we went to sleep.

Wrapped in each other, we spent the day sleeping. Well, kind of. A lot of the time I found myself laying there … thinking … enjoying where I was … but mingling with my brain more than anything else.

It was the first time on my adventure I had skipped out on my hostel, opting instead for someone else’s bed. And it felt amazing. I forgot how nice it was to wake up next to someone. To lay in a bed and feel safe and secure. To have the heat from someone else’s body radiating onto mine. I knew it was temporary, but I laid in his bed and just relished the feeling.

Whatever that feeling was.

When we finally emerged from the darkness of his room, it was nearly 6 p.m.

“I take you back to your hostel now, D,” he said.

I went back into his room and gathered my belongings. As I walked out, the red cluster of flowers caught my eye. I smiled to myself and then we headed back into the Granada afternoon.

“Will you write about me in your blog,” Peter asked.

“Si, por supuesto,” I answered. “But I will give you a code name.”

“Si?”

“Si. Peter,” I offered.

“No!,” he said. “Not Peter.”

Clearly, I did not listen to his objections.