The Work & Whimsy of Mike Reis

Videos from Bruges. Part one is by Zac as usual, part two is by me; it represents my first foray into the world of shooting and editing video, so enjoy.

Zac's segment covers our arrival at the castle in Bruges and features a lot of awesome dancing footage, while my segment covers trips to a brewery, a french fry museum, and a chocolate factory.


TRAVELS: Day 20 - Bruges from zac minor on Vimeo.


TRAVELS, BY MIKE: Day 21 - Mike's Bruges from zac minor on Vimeo.

Berlin and Amsterdam are very different cities. The former is a picture of efficiency; Germany can seem so futuristic for a country so tied to its history. Public transportation is punctual, organization is logical, and authority figures are intimidatingly strict in their enforcement of “the rules.” As such, Berlin was almost shocking having come from Amsterdam, the city of “live and let live.”

While in the Holland capital, we witnessed punks as they overtook the streets, live music bumping from their truck, parading against racism throughout roads crowded with book stores, brothels, pharmacies, head shops, cafes and "coffeeshops," whose patrons never seem to have mugs in their hands. Clearly, the relative proximity of the German and Netherlands cities is not reflected in the local culture.

That said, Zac and my time in the two cities was spent rather similarly. After enjoying the standard free hostel breakfast of toast, fauxrange juice and mystery meats, we set out for the day, choosing to walk over taking public transportation for the most part. The often lengthy walks provided a great way to see the city on the cheap. Without an understanding of the local language, subway rides start to seem a bit repetitive from city to city.

We usually ended our hikes at a museum, taking a couple hours at each. In Amsterdam, favorites included the Van Gogh and Rijksmuseums; in Berlin, the East Side Gallery (the longest remaining stretch of Berlin Wall) thrilled, while the Checkpoint Charlie Museum was a bit of a let down.

The evenings played out even more similarly. At around 8 we would park at an outdoor restaurant, making sure we had a good view of the TV to watch the Euro Cup game or games for the night. I'd imagine it's tough for most Americans to understand why we would spend so much of our vacation sitting in front of a TV, but unless you've witnessed something on this scale, I wouldn't expect them to.

To speak generally, the Europeans are incredibly devoted to the game. If nothing else, you have to be impressed with the passion and national pride of the droves of onlookers. Watching Holland slaughter France in a packed Amsterdam bar was truly an unforgettable experience. Just as exciting was watching Turkey edge out a victory over Croatia in Berlin. It seemed like every member of the enormous Turkish population in Berlin was out in the streets celebrating. I would have sworn I was standing in downtown Istanbul (I've uploaded a video showing some of the celebrations below). With every goal, you have do worry about the health of your inner ears and the strength of the floor below you swaying under the weight of hundreds of crazed fans.

I'll never be able to view the now seemingly-lame Super Bowl the same way again.

Zac's coverage of our single night in Brussels. Very music focused, featuring the performances of Mount Eerie, Woelv and A Horse Called Turkey that we witnessed at the Sint Lukas Hogeschool.


TRAVELS: Day 19 - Brussels: 1 Night, 3 Bands from zac minor on Vimeo.

Travels: Day 14 - Paris from zac minor on Vimeo.

Travels: Day 18 - Paris Part Deux from zac minor on Vimeo.

Video highlights of our travels in Paris, as described here. Video shot, directed, and edited by Zac Minor.

"Do you know how to say "I travel" in Dutch?"

The desk attendant at the Lybeer Traveler's Hostel in Bruges, Belgium asked me this as Zac and I were checking out, not entirely ready to leave town after several amazing days in the tiny city.

He knew I didn't know Dutch. It seemed like such an odd question at the time, but I was willing to indulge him; the Belgian people had been nothing but amazingly hospitable, and rudely brushing him off just wasn't an option.

We had arrived still dazed from the previous night's activities (see Paris/Brussels post), ready to get some rest in what will surely be the smallest, quietest town on our trip.

Our interest piqued by pictures posted on hostelworld.com, we had booked a night in a bed and breakfast just outside of town called the Castle Tudor. Yes, a castle. At forty bucks a night, we expected the worst out of the place. The pictures looked great online, but at that price, it seemed too good to be true. Our cab there drove us into seeming isolation, pulling onto a long driveway. Our surroundings were obscured by a tall line of trees, and when the line broke, we were a bit shocked at what we saw.

The castle was exactly as pictured. We drove past a pastoral field, engaging in an impromptu staring contest with the sheep and cows that grazed just yards from the driveway. As we approached the building's massive front, we couldn't help but marvel at the immaculately kept garden that looked a bit like a miniature Versailles.

We walked into the building, expecting to find out that we actually owe 400 euros instead of just 40. Instead, we were directed to individual private rooms; we had only paid for one double, but they decided to put us up separately for free.

If this is starting to sound impossibly great, you're half right. Everything about this place was incredibly creepy. We seemed to be the only guests, and the B&B's staff barely spoke to us; it all seemed a bit too much like the start of a cheap horror movie.

After a very Belgian meal of mussels and French fries downtown, Zac and I returned to an empty castle. We took over a huge dining room, sharing a long, white tableclothed buffet table and a nice bottle of South African wine. We went to bed relaxed and only slightly fearful of being murdered in our sleep. We were kings for a night.

The next day we moved in town to the Lybeer hostel. We spent our time in Bruges doing as the Bruggians do, wandering amongst the canals, gazing at the Michelangelo held within one of the city's churches, and drinking dozens of Belgian beers.

In a more touristy moment, we visited the quirky Frites Museum, a self-guided walk through the history of the French fry, narrated by a fry named Fiona and her significant other, Peter Potato. It sounds ridiculous, but I promise you, its far more absurd than you can even imagine.

The culture and quirks of this city really sucked us in, and neither of us wanted to leave. We dragged our bags down the steep three flights of stairs in our hostel and checked out, slightly sad.

Having accepted the fact that we had to leave eventually, we just wanted to get out of there quickly and quietly in our tired state. I wasn't feeling super cooperative when the receptionist asked us that question:

"Do you know how to say "I travel" in Dutch?"

I tiredly replied with a curt "No."

His answer pulled me out of my bad mood, leaving me satisfied and ready to continue my trek across Europe, next stop Amsterdam.

With a half-smile, he said "Reis."

After two weeks of relative hermitude in London, I couldn't have been happier to be meeting friends in Paris on June 1st.

Under the red neon sunglasses on Boulevard Voltaire in the 11th district, Lauren, Meghann, Zac and I reuinted, excitedly exchanging our most recent batches of worldly stories over our favorite Parisian kebabs.

Lauren had just returned from Amsterdam, Zac from South Africa and Japan, and Meghann from her apartment on the other side of town. Conversation went late into the night over South African wine drunk in various public Parisian nightscapes. The mood was high even with the inevitable parting-of-ways we knew would come in the morning hanging over our heads.

The next few days flew by despite a short bout of illness. The daylight hours were spent mostly seeing the sites I missed my first time in Paris, with some repeats for the sake of first-timer Zac. We hit Notre Dame, the Louvre, the Pompidou Centre, Luxembourg Gardens, the Catacombs, and Sacre Coeur during the day, and caught a couple concerts during the nights.

Before we knew it, June 6th rolled around and we packed onto a midday train to Brussels, Belgium. It didn't take me long to fall in love with the tiny country. What it lacks in size, it makes up easily in character. Our first order of business was to get a waffle in the train station. At €1.50, it might have been the best thing I've eaten in Europe.

After settling into our hotel, we got ourselves a proper meal and headed to a local university for (yes,) another concert. Scheduled to start at 9, the first act didn't take the stage until nearly 10. They played two full sets, with a break in between, and were laughably bad. The following two acts were great, though, and the show didn't end until nearly 2AM--an unheard of hour in the States.

Rather than turn in, Zac and I made the most of our only night in Brussels. I had heard of a bar called the Delirium Cafe, which boasts the world's largest beer selection; over 2000 beers are available for purchase. Not a chance was I going to miss that.

At the bar, Zac and I were introduced to a couple of amazing Belgian beers and two Belgian students: a guy named Martin and his girlfriend, whose name sounded like "Audrey," but with way more vowels. Due to their relative inability to converse in English, we chose to speak the international languages of beer and cheese; we had a great time hanging out until the 4:30AM last call.

By the time we had returned to our hotel, the sun was rising on a Saturday morning in Brussels, giving us time for just a few hours of sleep before we set out to a much quieter town: Bruges.

As I write this I am traveling at a speed just shy of 200MPH. I'm moving east on the 15:30 EuroStar from London St. Pancras to Paris Nord, Bob Dylan singing all-too-appropriately in my headphones about wheelin' free across transamerican railways.

I had the time of my life in London, and seeing the British countryside disappear in blue-green streaks at my sides, like a National Geographic Home Video on fast-forward, is making me miss the city already. If you've managed to miss my incessant bragging over the last few weeks, I'll catch you up on my recent goings-on.

In my 14 nights in London, I attended eight concerts; the city is flooded with independant artists fresh off the early-summer European festival circuit, and I really took advantage of the situation.

I met dozens of wonderful people, including several very talented musicians and a few friends I hope to keep.

I slept a full eight hours every night, read a full three hours every day, and mastered the art of eating for less than 10 quid a day.

So what do I have to show for it?

I've got perspective, relaxation, memories and friendship. And it wouldn't have done it any differently.




NOTE: Many pictures have been recently uploaded to my Flickr. Sorry for all the concert shots.

My day began like all my days here in London have so far. I woke up fully rested without the weight of responsibility to pull me out of sleep prematurely. Still reeling from an unbelievable performance by Bon Iver the night prior, I showered, ate my Sultana Bran (that’s the Queen’s English for Raisin Bran), and picked up my guitar.

Despite Bon Iver’s powerful set, it was Okkervil River’s song “Plus Ones” that had taken my brain over this morning. I don’t much believe in superstition, but let’s call it a premonition.

I hammered my way through the song: D, G, Em, G, etc., singing loudly in a manner I only allow due to my isolation in a small basement flat in Pimlico.

After an especially lengthy jam session, I packed up my computer for my daily jaunt to the Victoria Station McDonald’s, the closest free wireless connection available. In the hour or so before my computer died, I needed to get my necessary email contact out of the way and make plans for the night’s activities.

I wanted to go to another show, and I had two options: to see Okkervil River with an opener I hadn’t heard of, or to see Bon Iver again, this time as the band supported Jens Lekman along with a female singer-songwriter from New York named Jaymay. Both shows were sold out, but I was confident I could get tickets.

I am a huge Okkervil fan, but ultimately I decided to try to get a ticket to see the other show. I’ve already seen Okkervil on this tour, and I was an established fan of all three of the acts in the Jaymay/Bon Iver/Jens Lekman show. The decision wasn’t too tough.

I showed up an hour early and immediately met Lauren Glucksman, the very friendly proprietor of www.getglucky.com, an indie music blog. Lauren had just interviewed Jaymay, and actually had two spots on the guest list to the show, but surrendered them to friends thinking she would be out of town. So it came to be that the two of us met, likewise stuck without tickets to a show for which no one was scalping. Hell, even the “touters” were looking to buy tickets to resell.

By an incredible stroke of luck, and due only to the fact that we were now a twosome, Lauren and I managed to get in at face value thanks to the kindness of a stranger with a heart. The show was incredible. Jaymay’s set was witty and cool, Bon Iver was almost as good as the night before, and Jens put on a brass-fueled, high energy spectacle comprised of only his best work.

The fun had just begun.

Having been separated from Lauren throughout the show due to the lethal combination of crowded floor and bathroom break, we reunited at the bar. The blogger and her two friends were discussing the upcoming afterparty for which they held all-access passes; I was predictably jealous. But in a gesture of good-looking-out-ness, Lauren immediately snagged Jaymay’s brother/manager and got me one as well.
Somewhat shamefully starstruck, I conversed at the merchandise table with Jaymay and a member of Jens band, identifiable by the uncut key strung around her neck. After the venue had cleared out, we followed the musicians upstairs to a private bar, where two excitable DJs blasted a fun set of sixties rock. Jaymay requested some Dylan, and by the time “Subterranean Homesick Blues” came on, we dominated the dance floor.

For as much fun as we were having, I was a bit disappointed that neither Jens nor Justin Vernon (lead singer-songwriter of Bon Iver) had arrived at the party. The other members of all the bands were interspersed throughout the room, all very sociable, but I really wanted to speak to Justin in particular. Bon Iver’s music can be strongly linked to my recent inseparability from my guitar, and if you haven’t checked out the band’s debut album For Emma, Forever Ago, I would highly recommend it.

When Justin walked into the room, the night immediately became one of the top ten best nights of my life. When Will Sheff and Travis Nelsen of Okkervil River followed in after him, top three.

After I had gathered my jaw up off the floor, I built the courage to talk to some of my heroes. As I look back on it, I recall that most of my conversation with Will and Justin was comprised of one-sided, embarrassing, tipsy, flattery. I really did my best to be cool, but in the face of these guys, really spectacular figures in recent folk/rock, it just wasn’t happening.

The night continued on, however, and I didn’t let my embarrassment get me down. Most of the night was spent partying with Jaymay, Lauren and friends of each. Drinking, dancing, and often sneaking glances at Bon Iver and Okkervil River to remind myself of the amazing situation into which I had fallen, I couldn’t have stopped smiling if I wanted to. At the very least, I formed some relationships that have made my time here in London more entertaining, and at the very most, I enjoyed a night that I will surely never forget.

Cheerio, chaps.

EDIT: Jaymay's performance of Grey or Blue can be watched below.

Yup, you read that right. I find it as hard to believe as you do, but my program, and my time in Rome, has officially ended.

I know what you must be thinking. "But Mike? What else am I going to do in the thrice-monthly periods during which I usually read your blog?"

Well fear not. I am going to be traveling for over a month and a half. Whenever possible, I will throw down some textual healing with my usual blend of photos and banter.

For those that are interested, here is my itinerary:


May 9-12: Rome with the Parents

May 12: Sorrento, Italy

May 13: Pompeii/Mt. Vesuvius

May 14: Capri

May 15: Amalfi, Italy

May 16: Naples, Italy

May 17: Back to Rome

May 18-June 1: London, England

June 1-6: Meet up with Zac in Paris, France

June 7-July 1: Travel Europe in the following order for as-yet-undetermined periods of time in most, if not all, of the following locations:

Brussels, Belgium

Amsterdam, Netherlands

Berlin, Germany

Prague, Czech Republic

Budapest, Hungary

Vienna, Austria

Munich, Germany

Salzburg, Germany

Frankfurt, Germany

I woke up the next morning refreshed and excited to meet up with the girls. It was after eight, but I figured I'd give them some time to get into the city and settled before I showed up at the hostel we had booked for the four of us. I wouldn't wait long; something told me they'd have an easier time getting around during the day than I did at night.

I sat in an empty restaurant and was served an amazing breakfast consisting of a fried crepe with honey, a pancake, two rolls with olive oil, a cafe au lait and a glass of orange juice. I couldn't help but think, "this place ain't that scary."

After breakfast, I walked back to my hostel ready to pick up my stuff to meet up with the girls. The sun was shining, and maybe I was on some carb-loading high, but even the charmed cobras seemed to be smiling as I walked through Djemaa el Fna. That was when I got a text message from Lauren.

"Hey, our train broke down over night. I think we are still about three hours out, but we haven't moved in a while. Text you when we get in."

The text wiped the smile off my face, but it was hard to get too down on life given my surroundings. I did some exploring around the square and relaxed with some tea back at the riad. Hell, I even got to surf the net a bit. By 1:00, I had received my awaited text and set off to follow the all-too-vague directions pulled off the Hostel World website.

The directions were based mostly on hardly distinguishable landmarks, but before I knew it I was sitting at the front door of the girls' hostel.

A woman answered and we spent a while trying unsuccessfully to overcome the language barrier.

"Riad?"
"Oui."

I tried to walk in but the woman wouldn't let me through.

"Riad???"
"Oui!"

Still no dice.

Eventually I just started saying Lauren's name, over and over, until the woman recognized it from the reservation. She got the message, but made gestures indicating that the girls were not staying at this hostel and to wait for a guide. I'm getting pretty good at translating Wild Gesticulation.

I waited for about 45 minutes in silence before my guide showed up. He led me out the door and grabbed a tiny black motorcycle that was leaning against the wall. He wanted me to get on.

After seeing the way the motorcycles dart through crowded streets, I was reluctant to say the least, but as the old saying goes: "When in Marrakesh, do as the Marrakeshians do."

Before I could get on, the woman from the riad quickly poked out of the window to hand my guide the tiniest can I've ever seen. It seriously looked like something James Bond would carry around to keep a spare set of two martini olives in, just in case.

I got on the bike, sitting behind my chauffeur, who was maybe half my size. For some reason, the "Odd Couple" theme song started rolling through my head as we started down the alleys. My knees bowed out at least a foot on either side of the bike, and the streets were so narrow they cleared the sides by less than 3 inches at times.

We hadn't ridden more than 100 yards before my guide stopped the bike, got off, and ran into a market. I watched him hand the tiny can off to a man working at the market, who in turn handed him a seemingly identical can. I was confused, but before I could even scratch my head we were cruising on the motorcycle again. The bike was so unbalanced with me on the back that it did a little wheelie every time he hit the gas. Darting between donkeys, tourists and locals while avoiding the ever-present cats was equally hilarious and terrifying; as I clutched onto the hips of my tiny trailblazer I couldn't do anything but laugh. He must have thought I was a total nut job, but hey, at least I don't ride a motorcycle, right Mom?

The can saga got infinitely more mysterious about halfway through our trip. Looking up, my guide yelled at a kid on a bicycle traveling down the street in the opposite direction. Without slowing down, we passed, and my guide had handed him the can. The whole transaction couldn't have taken more than a second, and served only to fuel my now hysterical laughter.

By the time I got comfortable on the back of the motorcycle, we stopped. We walked through the unmarked door of a hostel and walked up a small flight of stairs. As I ascended, the sheer ridiculousness of the previous 24 hours hit me. I truly didn't believe the girls would be waiting around the corner.

They were. I broke down half laughing, half sighing in relief, dying to tell someone my stories.

And thanks to the wonders of the Internet(tm), you can hear them too!

The rest of our time in Morocco was beautiful and eye-opening, if not as exciting as the first 24 hours, but I don't feel like dedicating any more time to it here; you are all probably tired of reading all the overwrought prose, and I'm tired of writing it.

Back to the Rome news!

As I finished my tea, a voice called from the kitchen which adjoined the courtyard in which I sat.

"Are you hungry?"

Fully expecting my host to emerge with a hot plate of cous cous, I replied enthusiastically: "I'm starved! Haven't eaten all afternoon!"

The steaming dish with which he appeared, however, was one of disappointment.

"No problem," my host continued, "I'll have [your guide] take you back out to the square."

More comfortable sitting hungry and safe than satisfied in the madness that waited outside, I nearly declined. But the temptation offered up by the smell of kebabs as I entered the square proved too much, and I felt much better knowing I had a leader I could trust. I left the hostel once more, inadvertently carrying with me all my cash.

My guide and I walked back in the direction we came, and I made sure to take note of my surroundings; I wanted to memorize the treacherous route as quickly as possible.

We walked under the arch that marked our exit from the complicated back streets and headed towards the light and sound of the piazza. I felt like a Californian mosquito approaching a Bug Zapper that just loves to burn Americans.


100 meters later, my guide stopped unexpectedly. Deep in concentration trying to remember the left-left-right-left-right of our walk thus far, I didn't even realize he was behind me until he started mumbling incomprehensibly in what I think was a mix between French, Arabic, and good old fashioned Jibberish. He waved his arms toward the now-almost-visible piazza. Before I understood that he was leaving me, he had already darted down a dark alley to our left.

"Merde!" was the first word that came to mind. Maybe my French is better than I thought.

Alone, but confident in my ability to get back to the hostel on my own, I ventured on. Within ten minutes I was thoroughly enjoying a hot, cheap, kebab avec frites. The only way I would have been more satisfied with the thing is if my dread for the walk home wasn't growing with every bite.

Stomach full and hands greasy, I started back in the direction I came. I pulled my hat down, casting my eyes in shadow, puffed out my chest and threw on a scowl in an attempt to look as intimidating as possible. I knew I could get back unscathed as long as everyone left me alone.

The homeless were still moaning, the stray cats were still eating garbage and if anything, there was more trash piled up in the street than there had been the first time I walked this way, but I gained confidence with every step. The path that seemed so terrifying just an hour earlier was almost familiar already, and I made it back to the arch in no time.

I knew I wouldn't make it through the maze of alleys on my first try, but that didn't bother me. The only thing that worried me was the possibility of any further human interaction before I got back to my hostel. I tried my best to look like I knew where I was going.

With every turn I made, I noticed familiar graffiti that solidified my knowledge that I was going in the proper direction. The only thing keeping me from getting cocky was the fact that I could feel the weight of my wallet which I regretfully had forgotten to empty prior to my little dinner jaunt. The feelings of fear associated with these particular alleys still hadn't quite left me.

Every once in a while I would pass an inevitably sketchy-looking person, but I was doing a great job of keeping my mouth shut and my hands in my pockets, eyes on the ground. The words "just don't talk to me, just don't talk to me" looped through my brain; that seemed to be helping because no one did.

At least for a while.

I instantly knew it when I made my first wrong turn, but before I could turn around a voice called at me from the shadows:

"You speak english?"

Not wanting to look lost, I kept on in the direction I was going without responding to my unwanted acquaintance.

"Parlez-vous francais?"

I kept walking.

"Hablas espanol?"

I could hear his footsteps behind me, but more than scared, I was impressed by the fact that this guy could speak at least four languages. Still, there was a creepy Moroccan following me down a dark alley, and my pace quickened a bit, despite the pitch black that lay in front of me.

"Deaaaaaad end...."

File that under "things you don't want to hear coming out of Moroccan strangers' mouths."

I took a few steps forward before realizing that he was right. The alley ended in the darkness, and I had nowhere to go.

I turned around to walk back, but the polyglot punk blocked my way. I had to say something, but I didn't know what.

I blurted out "Parlo italiano," surprising myself with what I thought was a pretty clever response. My self-satisfaction was dashed pretty quickly, though, as he instantly replied "Ah! Dove va, signore? [Where are you going, sir?]"

I told him that I knew where I was going, but he wouldn't leave me alone. As soon as he figured out where I was going, he sped up to a distance of about 5 paces ahead. He wanted to make sure I knew that he was leading me; I figured out his little scam pretty quick, but there wasn't really anything I could do about it.

We arrived at the hostel minutes later, and with a smile, my "guide" asked for "a little gift." Upset and exhausted, I argued with him a bit before Jiminy Cricket caught up with me. I realized that this was an obviously very intelligent guy that must not be in the best financial shape to be scamming tourists. For the first time in the night, I forgot about myself and recognized the humanity of those I had so spinelessly avoided. I pulled two bills (one 20 dirham note and a 50) from my pocket that I very thankfully had left out of my wallet after dinner, and handed him the 20. I knew for a fact this was a very generous "gift." Bowls of soup in the piazza could be had for three dirhams; thats a lot of meals for this guy.

As I handed it to him, though, his look was not one of appreciation.

"Give me 70 dirham," he said.

Any sympathy I had for this guy flew right out the window.

"No, I know 20 is already more than I should have given you."

"20 dirham?! That is nothing! That's not even two euro!"

"I know how much its worth."

"You Americans think you know everything! Give me 70 dirham!"

Apparently my Italian isn't all that convincing. But, as soon as he said the word "American," I realized that, yeah, he was right. 20 dirhams didn't mean much of anything to me, but I was still outraged at his lack of graciousness or courteousness.

I knocked on the door to the hostel and waited to hear footsteps approaching from within before I grabbed the 20 from his hands. I had enough of this guy. I looked him in the eye, handed him the 50, and told him, ever so delicately, to "get the hell out of here."

I don't like getting scammed.

The hostel owner opened the door, inexplicably energetic and cheery given that it was surely approaching one or two in the morning. He wanted to chat over more tea, but Conversational Mike had left the building.

My mouth said "good night," but I couldn't help to think, "arguably."

I crawled into bed, ready to wake up bright and early to meet the girls, who would be arriving in Marrakesh at 8:00AM the following morning.

Or so I thought...

To be continued.

Since my return from Morocco, I feel like I've constantly been spitting out the same flimsy response to the inevitable "how was its." I am quite aware that my reply of "amazing," doesn't offer much insight into my African experience, but this ain't the stuff of casual conversation.

So yeah, it was amazing, but grab yourself a drink and a comfortable chair, everyone; it's story time.

I woke up on Easter Sunday craving the Cadbury Creme Eggs I knew my family would be enjoying halfway around the world as soon as it came time to crack their Easter baskets. I missed my family, the tradition, and stomach-ache inducing sugar rush that had always come with the end of Lent, but I didn't have time to be nostalgic. This was no ordinary Easter.

The walk to the metro stop that morning was eerie. There was no one around the Colosseum; even the ever-present con men dressed as gladiators for pictures were nowhere to be found. Waiting for the metro was even stranger. The usual crowds that flood the platforms waiting for trains had disappeared, and I stood solitary in the usually teeming transit hub for the first time.

I was traveling alone. The plan was to meet Lauren, Rome friend Gilli and Santa Barbara friend Abbie in Marrakesh at 8:00AM after a night alone in a well-reviewed riad (hostel). Easier said than done.

Before leaving Rome, I grabbed my confirmation numbers and my riad's name, address and (at the last moment) phone number. Based on email correspondence, Riad Massine II would be expecting me to arrive at 7:00PM after getting into the Marrakesh airport at 6.

Naturally, the two legs of my flight were both delayed, and it wasn't until 9 that my plane finally touched African soil. After an hour in customs, I ran to the taxi stand before realizing I didn't have any local currency and needed to wait in another long line, this time for the money exchange. I had no idea how much to change, or how the taxi system worked, so I was grateful to catch the first English I had heard all day coming from a knowledgeable young Chilean guy queued behind me. He offered to share a cab since he was with five friends and needed to get two cars anyway.

I marveled as he haggled the cab driver down from 600 dirhams (approx. $85 USD) to a measly 150 dirhams ($20 USD, less than $3 each) for the 25 minute cab ride. Our destination was "the big square," or Djemaa el Fna as it is formally known. I had read that my hostel was there there...I hoped.


Upon arrival at the square, my single-serving friends ran off with a quick "well, see ya later!" All of a sudden I was alone on a whole new continent.

The two words best describing my surroundings would have to be "insanely overwhelming." Despite the fact that it was nearly 11 at this point, hundreds of people mobbed the piazza. On my left, a man played a flute, charming several cobras at one time with no barriers separating the deadly snakes from the onlookers. To my right, vendors selling fresh squeezed orange juice and dried fruits clamored incessantly for my attention. Motorcycles whipped by, coming within inches of my side. Multiple drum circles in the distance provided a manic soundtrack. I had to put down my bag for a minute to take it all in. I was certain this was a dream.

Several seconds later, the already uncomfortable dream shifted into a full-on nightmare. I began to look for my hostel, and several realizations dawned on me. First, the address I held in my hand was useless. The street signs were written in Arabic, a series of squiggles indecipherable to my untrained eye. Second, my phone refused to call the hostel's number. My phone had been functioning properly until this point, so I came to the horrifying conclusion that I had written the number down wrong.

After several minutes of desperately trying to conquer the language barrier and ask for directions to my hostel, I found myself in front of a public telephone. It was worth a try. The smallest coin I had was one worth almost a euro, and after inserting it into the phone, a digital readout told me I had 37 minutes to make my phone call. At least that was comforting.

I actually heard ringing, which is farther than I got using my cell phone, and I couldn't believe it when a friendly voice in English picked up. I apologized for being over four hours late, and arranged to be led back to the hostel. The voice told me someone would be able to meet me in front of the Cafe du France, which was located right on the square. I hung up, incredibly relieved to be turning in for the night.

I set out to find the cafe, walking rather quickly around the enormous square. My relief dissipated quickly as I got three-quarters of the way around the plaza and still hadn't found my meeting point. Nearly a half an hour after I had hung up with the hostel manager, I had made it all the way around the square and still could not find the Cafe du France. Frustrated, I walked towards the same public phone to call, explain and apologize. Just before I reached it however, I noticed the sign of the building across from the phone. In white letters on a red background, "Cafe du France."

I was alone under the sign if you don't count the giant donkey pulling a trailer full of trash that stood next to me. 20 minutes had passed, and I was certain my guide had given up and returned to the hostel. It had been almost an hour since I hung up the phone. I again approached the phone to call, explain and apologize. Before I could, however, a man approached me and began speaking in French.

"English?" I asked hopefully.

He didn't really respond; he simply gestured for me to follow him. Again relieved to be on my way, I did my best to keep pace. I was completely exhausted from the day of traveling, and my pack felt like it was filled with rocks. My feet were having trouble keeping up with the rest of my body, and it didn't help that my guide was the fastest walker I've ever seen.


We left the square and headed down a poorly-lit street. The path was covered in mounds of garbage which was being eaten by dozens of mangy cats. I looked down an alley on my right. A man facing me was urinating against the wall. The moans of the homeless could be heard escaping the shadows of every corner. I was glad I had my guide.

We walked for at least five minutes before entering a labyrinth of alleys too narrow for even the smallest car. Lighting was sparse, and the ground was unpaved. My guide and I were alone with the graffiti on the walls, and we continued making turns until there was no way I could find my own way out.

It was at this point that I remembered how I met my guide. He never said my name, and without any uniform or identification, this guy could be anyone. I was carrying cash worth a half a year's income for the average Moroccan and a professional camera rig worth twice that. I flipped from blind trust to crippling paranoia instantaneously, and for the second time that night, felt like I was surely dreaming.

I regressed to animalistic instincts, and adrenaline took hold. If this guy attacks me, do I run or do I fight? I felt the weight of my bag and made note of the guide's quick gait. Running was out of the question, so I sized him up. If things got hairy, I could definitely take this guy.

As soon as I had come to that conclusion, we rounded the corner of yet another dark hallway. Four men stood at the end under a lamp. I quickly debated dropping all of my stuff and sprinting into the maze of hallways, but I knew I'd easily be caught. I have never been so certain I was about to get robbed. Shrouded in smoke, the men stared us down. At this point, all I could do was pray I made it out alive. My heart was pounding quickly and heavily. As my guide and I approached, a slight grin opened on the mouth of one of the menacing figures. We were now close enough to smell a combination of BO and marijuana smoke emanating from the corner in which they were standing. I could see money and cards strewn on the floor where they had been gambling.

Ready to hand over all my valuables, my guide stepped quickly between the men and waved for me to follow. The men didn't say a word to us, and I found myself in a tunnel, five or six feet wide, and no more than five feet tall. I crouched way down to pass through, and actually gave myself a pinch; I refused to believe that any of this was actually happening.

A dead end approached. We walked to the very end of the hall and my guide turned to the left to knock on a black door. I don't know what I expected to find on the other side of that door, but I did know that there was no way the riad I had heard such good things about could be in an area like this.

The door creaked open.

"Welcome! Would you like some tea?"

I couldn't believe it. Not only was I safe, but the hostel was beautiful. I sipped my tea on a couch in a small courtyard, my hands shaking from a combination of relief and adrenaline. Now the middle of the night, I set my bag in my room and looked longingly a the big comfortable bed in which I would sleep.

But the night wasn't over...

To be continued.

Wow, I almost forgot how it feels to wake up from a full night of sleep and not have a hectic day ahead of me.

I finally have a moment in the eye of my recent storm of excitement to write. As such, I'll try to hit past, present and future for those of you that have surely been eagerly anticipating a a new post.

Zac arrived last Saturday night and completely discredited any whining I was doing about being too tired from midterms. After his 20+ hours of traveling, he ushered us into a car to take us to our first Italian soccer game. AS Roma was playing AC Milan, a somewhat strong rivalry, and we had incredible seats thanks to Zac's dad and his relationship with Milan sponsor Bwin. The crowd surrounding us lived up to its reputation of enthusiasm, making Roma's come-from-behind win all that much more exciting.

Our trip back from the game was slightly less luxurious, but far more Roman. We jammed into the #2 light rail from Stadio Olimpico to Piazza del Popolo which literally could not hold a single additional person. Squeezed so closely to our neighbors that we didn't have to hold onto anything to maintain our balance in the swaying train, we attempted to sing along with the vulgar victory songs belted out by our fellow passengers. In the middle of the train was a single Milan fan. He did not have a good time.

Later that night we gave Zac a tour of some of our favorite haunts near school. We got gelato at my favorite spot, Frigidarium, Fernet at La Botticella, and beers at Bir & Fud. Between the major soccer game, an even bigger rugby game, and the fact that it was officially St. Patrick's Day (the Pope moved it out of Holy Week to the 15th this year), Rome was alive with masses of drunken tourists and locals alike. Maybe the best part of our post-game night out was seeing a huge group of kilt-wearing Scots in La Botticella dancing around two enormous guys playing bagpipes. The worst part was definitely listening to it all go down.

Over the next week, I did my best to give Zac the true Roman experience. Our bellies were put to the test as we kept them pretty much packed with the best food we could afford and the cheapest drinks we could find. During the days, we visited all the sites we had time to, including the Colosseum, Campo dei Fiori, St. Peter's, Piazza Navona, the Pantheon, and Trastevere. To appropriately address Zac's love of film, we watched Fellini's 8 1/2 in a piazza where Roman Holiday was filmed. To appropriately address my love of sounding intelligent, I rehashed some knowledge from my art history classes while we toured Galleria Borghese. Zac is a patient listener.

Zac left early this morning, making him the only person to ever leave Rome on the day before Easter. I am interested in seeing how many people are on my mid-morning flight to Morocco tomorrow; something tells me I'll have more options than usual when I pick my seat. That said, I'm actually somewhat glad to be out of Rome this week. The city is predictably flooded with tourists, and I'm even getting tired of my recent favorite tourist-related activity: watching the faces of visitors are they leave the Colosseo Metro stop, tilting their heads to see the monumental structure for the first time.

I'll be in Marrakech, Morocco for three nights and Madrid for three more before returning on the 28th. I really don't know what to expect out of either city, but I can promise I'll bring back a ton of thoughts and photos for your blog-viewing pleasure.

All photos in this post were taken by Lauren Kunin, as my small camera has unfortunately disappeared.

Buona Pasqua!