Knick of time; a story of 9 lives and one bloody death

The starving kitten, so common in these parts, so helpless, unsure if it will see another sunrise, or if it even would want to. Here in the desert the tourists flock to escape the soul-sucking cloud cover of northern Europe, to breath in the life that one great star sheds down upon us. But when you're a kitten- already struggling to scrape up enough fuel to move from one shaded alleyway to the next, the burning rays of the midday sun are anything but a benediction.

I'm fascinated by these little creatures. Not only is their omnipresence all the more remarkable as they seem to go unnoticed by most, but the role they play in Marrakechi society seems almost entirely reserved to the ranks of schoolgirls. The kitten is in some way the barbie doll of North Africa- a training device used as an outlet for budding maternal instincts. 

As I wondered through the souk, as aimlessly as if I didn't actually want to be there, I came across a modest sized group of felines, composed of a mother figure, entirely inattentive, indolently siesta-ing in the shade of a kumquat bush, and her three motley offspring, ribs exposed, eyes infected, but still lovin' life. 

I found the whole scene quite tragically charming, really. 

All evidence points to the fact that these creatures are unloved, unneeded, and all around purposeless. But my oh my, someone sure loves them. 

Resolving to grant them one precious moment of my attention, I reached into my bag to grab my camera. 

A click of my Canon, and a little voice popped into my head. Except it's not in my head, it's chasing me down the alley. I glance to the left and am hit with "Excusez-moi, monsieur! Vous n'avez pas le droit de prendre des photos! S'il vous plait, donnez-moi l'appareil !" and despite the startlingly good French, all I my shriveled, dehydrated brain stem can process is "RAW RAW RAW! ME WANT EAT MANFLESH" 

A 6 year old child. Running at me, spearheading the movement for feline rights. 

Have you ever been struck with actual butt-cheek-clenching, forehead-sweating fear in the face of a 6 year old girl? Neither had I, and frankly her ugly, brutish temperament immediately doused the interest I would have normally taken to such impressive language skills.

Time to act, Zachary. Do I lie? Do I give her my camera? All my money? Do I punch her in the face?

Run. Oh my fucking god, just run!

And thats what I did. Like little Ofelia in Pan's Labyrinth when the psycho Franco-fascist chases her to a gory death in the maze of stones. Down another street, at one point panicking as I hit a cul-de-sac, cursing the day I was born.

Oooh and all that fear, she could smell it. She took great delight in it. 

I was well aware that Moroccans tend to shy away from photography with a sort of nervous, suspicious modesty, but I didn't know that cats were allowed identity cards, and I didn't know kittens had brains (see attached photo). Next thing you know, they'll want the right to vote and to marry one another!  The world has gone to the dogs, I tell ya. (that was ironic and funny)

Sooo there ya have it. The next generation of maneating soccer moms is alive and well here in Morocco. So if you signed up for it, I suggest you don't forget the goddamn Capri Suns. 

Frog legs and meat pies; Trapper and my pal cross the channel

Frog legs and meat pies; Trapper and my pal cross the channel

"In that dream I'm as old as the mountains, still as starlight reflected in fountains. Children grown on the edge of the ocean. Kept like jewelry, kept with devotion" -'Grown Ocean' Fleet Foxes

Sitting in this tiny seat reviewing my fledgling Arabic, I am finally en route for the Red City, el Medina Hamra, Marrakech. 

Having purchased a shitty 3 euro coffee which will decidedly serve no greater purpose than to warm my inner-thighs, I have decided to give up my quest for chemically-induced animation, and instead let myself be invaded by the sweet, adrenalized sensation of victory. Not only am I finally off to Africa after so many weeks of anticipation, preparation, re-preparation, and occasional resignation, but I also managed to survive an extended birthday weekend with Nikolas Sargeant, filled oh-so delightfully with hipster and chav watching, indian food consuming, hours upon hours of tube riding, tree climbing, Harrod's shopping, Hyde Park picnicking, market going, party throwing, and British ale drinking.

I have had the good fortune of visiting Nik in gloomy, gray England three times this year, and each time was well endowed with the above-mentioned nonsense and general, memory-forming tomfoolery. And I've decided that I truly do love that country. Hopefully the flow of time will float a cottage in my direction one of these days.

This time was slightly different, but in an almost entirely positive sense. Firstly, It was the first time I spent the entirety of my stay in London, without venturing off north to Norfolk to gallivant around in fields of green, in fairytale forests, and on cliff-lined beaches. Although I would've greatly enjoyed one last visit to that little square of earth which speaks so clearly to my soul and so strikingly resembles my native Hobbiton, I was nonetheless happy to spend a bit more time in the lively capital.

Nik has been living and working in hip east London for a bit over a month now, suffering the woe-inducing blows of suit-ironing, early bedtimes, and the other sobering realities that post-grad adulthood seems to have in store for all of us. Buuut living in London is pretty incredible, and Nik lives in one of the coolest parts; a vibrant bourough  which allows him to enjoy a 20 minute walk to work in the financial district, all the food and amusement of Brick Lane, and of course the hoodrat Bengalis of Gibson Close ruling from their throne at the local basketball court. 

All in all, I got some mad props for my home-boy makin' dat moneyyy. 

<3

This weekend we split our time between Bethnal Green in the east, and the suburbs of west London where Nik's lovely lady friend Katy lives; in layman's terms: an hour and a half metro ride. Sick nast.

Buuut it was our birthday, and wine and candy was brought, and good times had. After a fascinating house party filled with Norfolk-ians (Norfuckers?) and the British equivalent of a fraternity pledge class, we managed to break away from the train-wreck for an early-ish sunday morning in the center; the dust was brushed off of my sunglasses, cheese was eaten, fig and walnut bread was used as a vehicle. Nom.com

Despite the ales and my hurting pocket-book, I made it out of london monday afternoon after some tea and scones in Soho at my favorite tea salon- "Yum-Chaa", on Noel Street. 

This place is amazing, and no trip to England is complete before I have  squealed and foamed at the mouth and thoroughly satisfied my lust for simple starch and caffeinated leaf beverages. 

Not only is the tea and nosh outlandishly tasty (today I had a caramel white chocolate black tea and FULL FAT CREAM- *Enter Cool-Aid Man through brick wall* "OH YEAHHHHH!") but the actual structure is grand in itself. It's like one day a B&B tea room from somewhere up in Yorkshire was strolling around near Oxford Circus, and, after a determinant decision to follow the wafting odors of curry down Bertwick Street, crossed the path of one of Seattle's supah hip hillside coffee shops- complete with music from obscure local bands, seedy regulars ceaselessly hunched over MacBooks in a back corner, and the slightly industrial ambiance one finds in any thoroughly urban caffeination station. A cheeky glance from the opposite sidewalk, a hotel room booked on the spot, and the two of them spawned. 

"YUM CHAA" ermahgerddddd

After a quick yet disdainful stop in at King's Cross to snatch a photo of the tourist vermin infesting platform 9 and 3/4, I was off to catch my 30 euro flight all the way out in Luton- a town some 45 minutes (and a 25 dollar train ride) north of London. 

Second adreline shot of victory espresso.

That sweet high when, after days of anxiety and a thousand suitcase repackings, you smite Ryan air, leaving those Irish money pilfering bastards to rot in shame as you 'pwn' them at the weight station. I, Zachary Badass McMacken, have once again outsmarted the European budget airline, and am cosily bathing myself at the back of the plane in pride, sweat, and the juicy fruits of my labor. After losing yet another pair of flip-flops to these weight-conscious fascists, I decided to take the reigns of destiny into my own hands and quickly smeagoled off to the bathroom- pretexting an overactive bladder condition and promising a messy scene and embarrassment for all parties should my request not be granted. 

Who could that be on the horizon, teeth glowing in the afternoon sun, galloping toward the Security line on a white steed of self-adulation? 

'TIS I !

Be not fooled by my new appearance, you dunderheaded schlemiels! Though I have indeed reemerged from the abyss a changed man, 'tis but the effect of illusion playing games with your halfwitted minds. 

Fatter, you say? Nay, you chowderheaded dipsticks! 'Tis only the SIX SWEATERS AND TWO COATS I hath doned so as to keep from cold in Africa!

Stronger, you say? Nay, you dopey dullards! 'Tis only the EXTERNAL HARDDRIVE, CAMERA, IPOD AND FIVE BOOKS I HAVE HIDDEN IN MY POCKETS AND COAT SLEAVES.

Bionic man, you say? Be not ridiculous, you dimwitted boobs! 'Tis but the THREE KILO BIKE LOCK AND MAC CHARGER I accidentally forgot in my trousers! Fear not the mechanical appearance of my left butt cheek, nor the lumpy, tumorous outline of my right calf. I've been told It's only slightly contagious. 

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A lonely sunbeam kissed me on the arm monday evening as we flew into Moroccan airspace 11 kilometers above Rabat. I opened the shutter and found myself face to face with that stern glance and glowing countenance I've missed so profoundly, like two old friends who, embarrassed with speechless delight after a long period's separation, stand there in the doorway grinning stupidly in silence, examining each other's familiar traits, until the new-comer suggests they move inside. 

"Oh! Uh, oh my goodness, is it really you, Sun? Wow, hello! …"

"Yeah, I, uh, probably should've called first, I suppose… can I come in?"

Or perhaps it's the face of a lover you begrudgingly left behind, only to realize the weight of his or her presence once alone on the tundra, braving the frigid nights of winter with no arms to take heat from.

I won't leave you again, sun. 

Not ever. 

Sitting on the rooftop terrace of the beautiful Riad Malakramy, after a wonderful day back in Morocco with great friends, I can't help but revel in the good fortune I've had in this life. As the sun sets behind the Atlas, I am healthy, happy, and where I need to be- and that, my friends, is a luxury to which few can wholly lay claim. 

<3 

Between a rock and a hard place; today was a revolution

"Mountains and canyons start to tremble and shake, as the children of the sun begin to awake" -Led Zepplin "Going to California"

2012-13 will always remain gouged in my memory with French-manicured nails, free-falls in the stair well, and deviation signs as the year of Beth Doyle. Not only are all those who know her slightly unsure of where she comes from due in large part to the mongrel accent that mysteriously seems to change in accordance with the propriety of the subject matter (think Guiness talk vs. tea talk) and the amount of gansta rap healthy eardrums can cope with in the course of an afternoon (white girl Eminem holla holla whaddup), but this blue-eyed, ivory-skinned Irlando-brit was, to the disbelief of many, born an Emirate princess.

Recap:

Whilst merrily reigning from her poolside throne in Abu Dhabi, at the first call from the minaret, an ill-fated day arose from the east and spread its scorched wings out over the desert gulf. An omen, it was. Following an unfortunate series of events, curiously involving one of her father's eight wives and a failed dance battle at court, Bethany soon found herself fallen from grace, from favor, and exiled mercilessly to French school in equally exotic Sveetzerland (think Petrol-state problems vs. Cahuzac problems). After becoming quadrolingual (or something like that), a touch stingier than your average Joe, and all around awesome, she returned to her roots on the Emerald isle, braving the stench of the Liffy, and reassembling the tatters of her improbable existence to become an honored scholar at Trinity College. These days, our desert maiden can be found stalking the…ehem...moist streets of Brussels, where she frequents the cheapest hipster bars, and, in her spare time, works in social networking for billionaires (anticipating a possible return to power via rich Saudi husband? The question remains to be answered.)

Essentially, my dearest Bethany (aka sugar mama B Doyzzle) is a mystery, a great party accessory, and my best friend.

InchALAH, our fortuitous meeting was to take place at 8 a.m. on a friday morning in Paris while scouring the pages of the Quran in religion class. And basically nothing has changed. You can still find us up at ungodly hours drinking herbal tea discussing thoroughly intellectual topics, our noses firmly wedged in the crack between two pages of a text book. And that, my friends, is how you take a good thing, and make it PG.

So yeah, anyway, at the end of the day its important to understand that I don't actually live in Lille. I work there four days a week, and spend the remaining seconds in Beth's lair being a parasite and enjoying the best Belgium has to offer. Aka beer, fries and waffles.

Yet, as this last weekend was my final visit to Brussels, we decided some soulful deliberation was in order, and, intrigued by the energetic Sunday disposition of each and every one of Beth's four roommates, we came to the conclusion that a lifestyle intervention was well merited,  consequently finding ourselves shackled and dragged off to the gym. But not just any gym… A rock-climbing gym. (cue maniacal laughter from Barbara and J.S.)

Turns out that a fair few Belgians, when not being recluses in the aforementioned cheap hipster bars, consider rock-climbing to be a worthy time investment. And I suppose they will be the few to survive in the event that some unforeseen cataclysmic event of global consequence causes a new fault line to form and this once despairingly flat country to become the new Himalayas- beer-brewing monks and all.

After learning to tie some goofy cub scout knots that subsequently may or may not have saved my life, we were off.

Harnesses on. Camera out. Arms and legs sprawled in all sorts of unnatural directions. Lots of awkward ass pictures were taken.

Several hours and many a laugh later- what did we learn (besides of course that we are easily coerced and make some questionable decisions) ? That vertical surfaces are not as easy to move across as horizontal ones. That continental Europe would never think to educate you nor make you sign a waver for fear of lawsuits, and instead simply lets any old hillbilly from Namur come in and tie a knot around his buddy's waist before scaling a 30 meter wall. That forearms are awkwardly weak (like, seriously, so weak). And, well, this one isn't really new, but lets say we were reminded of my skill in emitting some pretty great handicapped gorilla roars when in fear of plummeting to my death (think bike accidents and public humiliation).

In the end, we all managed to climb some pretty impressive shit, and considered ourselves more than deserving of a Moroccan dinner and cookies to top off the weekend.

In sum, it was a great culminating event to finish out a year of adventures. I have had the opportunity this year to spend some very precious moments in Belgium with amazing friends, both old and new.  However, it would appear I have once again found myself in the position of abandon-er, leaving my new home and most cherished friends behind to pursue some giant question-mark in the sky whose allure is shameless and more than I can bear. It surprises me, I surprise me. As if all this were unanticipated or against my will. And yet I know that I chose this, that I chose to leave when I did. But where the fuck am I going?! Africa?! Oy vey.

 Its too early in the evening for me to be a crying hot mess and all, but I truly mean it when I say that this year has hammered home a new message about the value of people. 

As a new grad, extracted from that world of academic convention to which we professional students become as attached as we do inured, I cannot quite seem to account for the greater part of what I have learned this past year, spent idly wandering from city to city, spending so many consecutive moments with the same familiar faces, and meeting so many fresh ones, both at home and afar. But some lessons are repeated, or solidify when the sandbar shifts and exposes enough dry earth for roots to take hold. 

I have learned that anywhere can be paradise when friends are true and the mind stops drifting too far into the joys and woes of yesterdays or tomorrows. When it is simply present, awaiting opportunities with a detached glance at the skyline and, when need be, changing course to avoid the whirlpools and shoals set out to capture the idle sailor who strays from his post and loses sight of where he is going.

I've learned that human generosity can in fact be boundless. 

That a mother's love can only grow sweeter as children ripen and the sands of time, once loose as the dunes of the Sahel, condense to form the foundation of mountains. 

I've learned that the sun cures all hurts and the sea cleans all wounds- and that the light of the Mediterranean inspires the eye to see poetry in everything is falls upon. 

I've learned that I should in all things look to my sisters for guidance- like two North stars, they will always be the brightest in my night sky, even when seen from afar. 

I've learned that poverty cannot be measured in bounty or the price of gold, but in the weight of smile, the depth of laughter, or the sweet fragrance of mint tea. 

That souls wandering blindly in strife, need simply take up a book and listen to the words

 as though they were music, with an open ear and an open heart. 

That there is a great deal of creation to be found in art's consumption- books must always be interactive and a song is never heard twice in the same way. 

I've learned that a teacher, provided he remain perceptive to the worldview of his students, will forever remain a child. And that a little more childhood would do the world a whole lot of good.

As of this afternoon, I have finished my first teaching contract, and celebrated the strike of the clock as the '2' of my twenty second year awoke from four seasons of slumber, veered in a new direction, and became a 3. 

I am too dumbstruck to grasp the entire extent of what this all means, but I was hurting pretty badly today thinking of my students smiling faces and reading their kind words as I left Lille for the last time. I'll have to save the events of my last week in France for another post, once I've slept, drunk at least a bathtub of tea, and found a napkin to wipe the drool of my chin with. Slobber, so hot right now.

As I finish this post, the symphony begins to play and another chapter comes to a close. I am seated at a cafeteria table on the ferry crossing the windswept channel to her royal England,  Gay London, to be exact. Looking out through  the salt-stained windows, I can nearly see the white cliffs of Kent as the setting sun pulls the curtains of twilight shut on what will always be remembered as a dazzling performance. If I didn't know better than to be duped by the tricks of time, I would likely sit here emphatically crying 'Encore! Encore!', awaiting the actors' reappearance from behind that dark skyline for a last round of applause. That moment of indulgence after a truly magnificent spectacle  when at long last you burst to your feet and release the cascades of praise left boiling inside since the very first act. That precious moment when, for once, the demands of convention and emotion actually coincide, and your actions are led entirely by impulse, unadulterated.

 But that moment won't come. Not this time.

In my ear I can hear the soft echo of a Semisonic song- "One last call for alcohol" 

Except its not really an echo, that was just the ferry staff announcing the end of duty-free sales. And there all the Brits go running! 

Drunk, drunk, drunk! nom, nom, nom! Pim's, cheerio, poppycock!

Well, I'm gunna make my way back to the bus now.  

Peace, love, and mince pies to you all <3

There and back again; an endless homecoming

I have often and with no lack of presumption made reference to myself as the worlds greatest Tolkien groupie. As it were, I have once in a blue moon stumbled upon fellow aficionados who have, to my dismay, proved more skilled in the art of spontaneous film quotation, or who, like myself, spent the countless hours of nonage slobbering through the non-alphabetized pages of an Elvish dictionary, yet none to date have come within a stone's toss of embodying the spirit of a true Baggins (perhaps even a Took, I daresay) to the same extent as yours truly. Because, despite my giggling propensity for being shipped off in the blink of an eye on the most improbable of adventures, my general love of travel, and the contentment I feel whilst recapping said experiences before a throng of wide-eyed 15 year-olds, I am infinitely more fond of my time spent gallivanting down the sidewalks of memory lane; attempting endlessly and often fruitlessly to capture the most facile details of that place I hitherto and evermore call home. And, daggumit, that is why I'm a Baggins.

As a child, (and I should perhaps clarify that in my mind's eye 'childhood' if a reference point easily extended to 15 or 16 years old) I was lucky enough to live in the most ideal of environments; a small island with enough inlets and woodland to provide the security and peace of mind my mother's puttering heart so greatly required, and, inversely, the right dosage of thrill needed to keep mine revving. After taking to the high seas aboard the most knightly of Kirkland signature paddle boats, I would proceed sans reservation to quench my thirst for adventure by charting and naming the different "regions" of Lake Tapps, replete with descriptions of their history, inhabitants, flora, fauna etc. 

While charting each and every inch of that island, every stone lining its coast, I systematically (and shamelessly) stole the names of the idyllic lands portrayed in the works of Tolkien (my inlet being the Elf haven of Alqualonde, of course, and the woods behind the Barfoot residence bearing in my eye a striking resemblance to Tom Bombadil's old forest) And in that way, despite the cramping immobility of adolescence, I lived every day as a journey; for as much as I dreamt of foreign landscapes, exotic tongues, and general alterity, and for as much as I have since fled the shores of North America in search of greater thrills yet to come, my greatest fortune resides, and always will, in the interest I took in my humble island- in absorbing its every arcana, the most mundane details of my surroundings having since become treasures of inestimable nostalgic value.

Considering my sudden departures and reckless abandon of family members, I should think myself bold in saying this, but it would seem to me that, of all children, deepest delve the roots of a he who takes his home and creates a model world from it- of he who truly loves that terrain on which he frolicked through the huckleberry moments of youthful dictatorship- when kings were made and neighbors (more frequently than not) forced into a humble, if not humiliating state of subservience- (P.S.- At 22 years old, I am ready to apologize for my adolescent bossiness. I will pay you all for your services the day I win the lotto.) (P.P.S.- Never let me run for elected office. That wouldn't bode well for the future of democracy.)

I wanted to preserve it all. Record the dates when, year after year, the first guppies would follow a happy sunbeam and emerge from beneath the dock, only to find themselves face to face with predators, neighbor kids,  and all the bitter reality of piscesian adulthood. I wanted to graph the explosion of the blackberry bushes who, at the first breath of springtime would break the chains containing them to lifeless hibernation as though provoked by an errant hunter, and throw their heads back in a fit of ravenous growth.

This may sound like a whole crock of flower power, but remember- I'm not a hippy, I'm a hobbit. 

And with each word I wrote, with every new venture in fictitious cartography, those lines on the paper turned to arteries; roots binding me inexorably to that island. And those roots grew ever more vast in the waters of Lake Tapps. I can still feel on my skin the way the turquoise waves seemed to pile upon one another, eventually barring out the chaos of the surface, whose face was endlessly gashed and scored by boats and breezes, creating a safe haven beneath the progressively cooler layers of calm until at last I would come to rest upon the murky bottom. There, at absolute zero, the water would turn to smoke and all motion ceased. The suns feeble rays can barely make it down to you and their warmth has long since been extinguished in the tumultuous descent through endless strata. Up above, you watch the turmoil as two worlds collide- a border dispute, if you will- with the lament of jet skis and motor boats resonating through this empty world.  

In my ear I hear the soft echo of a Corinne Bailey Rae song- who's sweet words will always remain engraved in my fond heart as I think of my home in the waters of Lake Tapps- "cause down here theres no fear, no cause for panic, just bright, cold calm"

I would like to call it beauty. yes, that's it.

Worlds will end, and new worlds will begin, and I swear every year I'm here is a lifetime of men. Which is most certainly how Tolkien would have things done- life is not linear, nor is it literary, nor is it a Joyce novel; Life is the Thousand and One Nights, its a finger lick and a page turned and the pang of surprise to see the final paragraph of a chapter you thought would ramble on with the stubborn persistence of tradition. Its a glance out the kitchen window in late afternoon when the glare of the sun hits the lake water and, despite the released floodgates inundating you tear ducts , you're certain you can see a giant brush outlining a stage over the horizon-perhaps even an amphitheater- on which new stories will be imagined, written, played. And that's how I intend on maintaining this blog. Story by story, with no logic, no current guiding my train of thought. Sorry!

After ten months in France, fondly spent in the company of today's Bieber-loving, burger-eating youth, my story in the land of the Flems will shortly come to a close. Curtains drawn, may the after-party in London begin!

Each night in my under-heated jail cell, as I slither into a 5 euro sleeping bag and lay my head down to sleep (on an Ikea bed, mind you- Now wasn't THAT and interesting life chapter!) I thank that creepy little 12-year-old me for the contribution he made to my general epanouissement. For making me at home wherever my mind and memories find a quiet harbor in which to cast anchor. 

Rip tide. Apprehension. 

In the evening, my beating heart falls into anxious cadence with the waves of anticipation rolling in at low tide, swallowing me as I await my up-coming departure for the cradle of humanity- Africa; most mysterious of frontiers, and my current adrenaline-high.

Sometimes I can't really breath, so I turn to my right and think to open a window, only to realize I'm underwater- lying precisely where I left myself at the bottom of the lake over ten years ago- that anchor holding me steadfast, blanketed by those same undisturbed layers of quiet blue and murk. And with a flick of the light switch, wrapped in the dark of my bedroom and all the synthetic warmth provided by polyester bedding, everything returns to…bright, cold calm. 

Crisis averted.

I shall soon join the ranks of the true adventurers who, like myself, were fooled by youthful pretension into believing that a few years in Europe would be enough to change, educate, elevate them. I will be leaving the old continent in just over a week, and more than ever I am sure of where I am, sure of who I am. Traveling through my 23 years has always been motivated by a yearning for knowledge, as though some surreptitious rite of passage awaited and I would one day awake as an enlightened individual. Indeed I still maintain that it has taught me everything I know, including the most important lesson of all: that I already knew things.  That I come from a place, and somewhere as wondrous as the shores of Bretagne, the fjords of Norway, or the sands of the Sahel. That I already was an individual, and not even a dull one, at that.

I am a journal writer, and consequently unaccustomed to the demands of a literary public. As such, I will strive to replenish this well of egocentrism as often as downtime permits, sharing whatever anecdotal    observations the day-to-day in Africa is sure to bring about.

So my faithful readers (hi mom), I say to you now- pour yourselves another glass of wine, light up a pipe of the finest South Farthing leaf, and follow me down this rabbit hole. I would be honored to take you along for the ride.