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