Behold.

  -->

So we all know that I moved to Portland last October, based in large part on a sign from the PattyPan Squash Gods. Well, plus Kim lives here, and she swore to me (liar) that it never rains (big liar), that it’s really just “cloud mist” that envelops the atmosphere (did I mention that liar thing?). Right.

But The Kone and I have been settling in, in spite of the many quirks that Portland is home to, including an inability to have any single street actually go through more than, say, 4 blocks. They might as well rename this city T-Stoplandia, or OhAreYouLostLandia, or perhaps HaHaGoodLuckGettingThereLandia. I think that might be next on the county’s docket, a renaming to a more accurate moniker.

Still, in spite of our newfound love for this strange land, The Kone and I had no intention of buying a house here. None. Zilch. Zip. Nada. After all, I’m a Midwestern girl at heart, and sometimes I pine for my endless cornfields, blazing hot muggy days, feet of snow, and oh yeah – houses that have some actual square footage. Mainly that.

Because my mom has been determined that I should buy a place, so she sends me listings, I go to the occasional open house, then back away in horror at the paltry size of basically everything in Portland. 600-800 sq. ft on the main floor? Umm, in the Midwest we call that a closet. Even the classic bungalows in Chicago – the housing that to my mind is parallel to the ubiquitous Craftsman houses here – have way more space. Maybe we have more stuff. Maybe we like keeping open the option of having our Midwestern cattle or corn grow inside the house. Maybe the City of Big Shoulders isn’t just a cute nickname.

 

I have no idea.

All I DO know is that these tiny wee houses were damn expensive, like $350K and up for a shoebox. So I humored my mom by looking at the listings, going to the occasional open house, but having no intention of buying anything – also because I didn’t know the different areas of Portland enough to know where would be a good place to buy.

Then came Silverton. Where Hated Cancerchick Friend Kathryn lives. (Kathryn is lovely in every respect – sharp, funny, uberwitty, kind, genuine – but she’s also on occasion wittier than I am, hence she must be hated.) The first time Kim and I went down to Silverton to see HCF, it was a dark rainy night, but even through the pelting rain, I could see the town all twinkly with Christmas lights, and I thought, wow, it’s like Bedford Falls!

Me: Look, Kim, it’s just like Bedford Falls!

Kim: You’re so weird.

Anyway. This meant that one time I mentioned Silverton to my mom, and she latched onto that like Kone on an Italian beef sandwich, which is to say quickly, determinedly, and while I wasn’t looking.

Which is how sometime in April, my mom sent me a listing for The Manor, as I have since christened it. Fate conspired to keep me away, perhaps to see if I really wanted it – the guy who sent the listing to my mom never returned my email, and then there was some confusion on the part of the listing agent and we didn’t get to see the inside as planned. I was ambivalent – it was probably a mess inside, or at least kind of meh.

But what was probably an errant pattypan put the thought in my head that I must see the inside of this house. So I went back down to Silverton, and as soon as I stepped inside, I knew.

 

This was my DreamHouse.

High ceilings, gorgeous original woodwork, and oh, that staircase. The staircase! Swoon. Straight out of IAWL, my friends. AND! The house came with an entire extra plot of land – room for my tomatoes and for The Kone to run around!

Really, I had no choice.

So after the usual bargaining and back and forth and rigmarole, which I won’t bore anyone with, my offer was accepted, the inspector said that out of the hundreds of houses he’s seen of this age, this was the one in the best shape, and my mom started ordering furniture.

It’s a historic house  - the Timothy-Geneva-Allen House, built in 1890 – and I am its latest steward who will bring it back to perfection. Oh, it’s pretty close, but let’s face it, the ugly 1970’s wallpaper in the stairwell has to go, and the renters of the last few years didn’t do the place any favors.

There are 4 bedrooms upstairs, including the Anne Frank room which has a wee door that leads to an odd hidden room big enough to fit an entire Guatemalan family in there. There’s a garage-barn (henceforth known as The Carriage House), 2 extra sheds, and a canning room/wine cellar in the basement. There is apparently a family of deer that ambles through the yard most mornings on their way to the nearby creek, and possibly a skunk family that tries to take up residence under the porch.

It is perfect.

You are all welcome anytime. Croquet and mint juleps on the lawn will be forthcoming.....

Miss Tasha, Upset Again

So I recognize that I’ve been a little, shall we say, lax in writing my usual charming and witty blog posts, to keep my legions of fans entertained and enthralled. What with buying The Manor and all that, some things fell by the wayside.

No more.

Especially since the purchase of The Manor - my very own 1890 drafty old house -  means that I’ll have many tales to tell, as we all know that everything falls apart under my watch. Always.

Today though, we’re going to revisit one of Miss Tasha’s favorite topics: health insurance. Favorite topics to rant about, that is. Because BCBS has provided some major suckage over the years, in many stupid and fascinating ways, that have left me in tears many a time.

But now that it looks like I’m staying in Oregon for the duration, I decided (fool that I am) that I should look into actually getting health insurance in OR, as opposed to continuing to pay for insurance I’m not using in IL, but am too paranoid to let go of. With good reason, as it turns out.

Because last week I called Kaiser, and spoke to 2 perfectly lovely agents who were OH so helpful. And nice! Bending over backwards! This in spite of the fact that the VERY FIRST words out of my mouth when I talked to each of them were:

“I’ve had cancer – is this going to be a problem as far as my getting insurance?”

Oh NO, I was told. Certainly NOT.

Fool that I am, I believe them. And filled out their stupid and annoying 20 page form detailing every bit of my medical history. And waited.

And there was my response, 3 days later: denied. For what? Why, The Cancer of course!

What. The. Fuck.

Had they told me before I filled out their Stupid-Ass Form that it would be pointless, I would have been slightly annoyed, but that’s it. That was kind of what I expected. But now?

Now Miss Tasha is pissed off. And bitter. Oh so bitter.

So I assure you, come January 1sr 2014, when the Affordable Care Act takes effect as far as pre-existing conditions, I’ll be back on Kaiser’s doorstep, thumbing my nose at them, oh yes.

And you know how right now I barely ever go to the doctor? It’s true. I stopped seeing my oncologist, since she’s of the “no scans without symptoms” school, doesn’t believe in the use of tumor markers, and doesn’t even do any blood tests. So I basically go to her to get felt up, which, quite frankly, I can do on my own well enough. Hence, no more onc, and I just go for my mammo once a year. Simple enough. Trust me, the last 3 years, BCBS has made WAY more money on me than they’ve paid out.

Once I’m covered by Kaiser though, I’ll be damn sure to get my money’s worth. Oh yes. Hell hath no fury like a woman who’s wasted her time filling out a lengthy Stupid-Ass Form, time that could have been better spent in a myriad of ways, like getting through level 273 on Candy Crush.

So those of you who insist we don’t need health care reform because you have your perfect happy little plans, well, I’m tired of it. Our system is broken. We need to do something, anything, to fix it, or at least start to.

This reminds me of states like Texas and Oklahoma, whose congressmen vote against federal aid for other states, but are there asking when suddenly it’s their state in trouble. Of course they are. Because no one gives a shit until the chickens come home to roost – and eventually, they always do.

Trust me on that.

Still in Morocco

 

And since it’s April already, this has apparently been the 5-month long trip. I’m thinking it’s time to wrap things up, as I have All Things Portlandia to write about. So, to that point, here’s a rundown of the key things from the rest of the trip:

 

* * * * * * * * * * * *

That evening, we stay in a lovely hotel with a fireplace and gorgeous view…..that gives us a heater on a brick. We do not freeze.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

The next day, I’m ready to bike like the wind! My cleats are fixed, I can clip in just fine, certain death no longer awaits me! Whee! Wait…..why is the wind almost blowing our van off the road? Uh oh.

Yes, the Santa Ana winds or whatever they are have kicked in today, and we all know that wind is #1 on Tasha’s Hierarchy of Cycling Suckiness. And this isn’t just wind, it’s Wind. To the point that I’m going uphill at a resounding 2 mph rather than my usual stellar 5. This sucks. I solider on through some stupid number of miles, with Khaled and Mohammed as my trusty sidekicks, with all of us joking around about how much this sucks…..until finally I’ve just had it. Done. Fini. We’ve been biking for hours, but I’m pretty sure if I squint real hard, I can still see the place where we started. Basta. (I think that’s Italian for “you’ve got to be freaking kidding me.”) Khaled suggests we take the SAG van, and I’m all for this – but instead of waiting for it, we decide to cycle back and catch up with it, and then we’ll get the tailwind.

This is how strong the tailwind is. I fly down the hills at breakneck speed, and when I get to an uphill, I decide to stop pedaling. The wind is so strong it literally pushes me up this mountain. No lie. It’s like being on a ride at DisneyWorld, Mr. Toad’s Madcap Adventure or along those lines. This is pretty damn excellent.

Of course, by taking the van some of us miss the “fun” that Stacey experienced, of being accosted by the Redrum children. Yes, three little hooligans – 2 girls and a boy – who stood in the middle of the road, prevented Stacey from passing, grabbed onto her bike, and kept chanting menacingly at her. “Bonbon bonbon BON-BON!” I guess Moroccan delinquency is a little different than what it looks like in the States.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

That night back in Marrakesh we go for a final dinner with the gang, replete with everything from tagine to pastille to platters of fruit. It’s all astonishingly good. At one point, Stacey looks at the dessert tray and asks, “Oh, are those the cookies we like? The Kristallnacht ones or whatever they’re called?”

Somehow I don’t think they have cookies named after the bombing of Dresden, but for better or worse, the nickname sticks, and for the rest of our time in Marrakesh, we’re on the lookout for the Kristallnacht cookies.

Speaking of Marrakesh, Stacey has found for us the most incredible riad to stay at, Riad Orangerie. You find it via a nondescript door in the souk, which opens up to a little slice of paradise, complete with expansive rooftop deck and a gorgeous courtyard. It’s such the perfect little oasis that we might stay here forever.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

The next night, we head out to meet up with Sayeed and Khaled for drinks. The bar we go to has a little couch sitting area, and we make ourselves comfortable – across from what seems to be a Moroccan gangsta. Who’s either terrorizing the people around him or keeping them amused, tough to say which. At one point, Khaled seems a bit concerned that we’re going to all get into a brawl. You see, Stacey has had one gin and tonic which consisted of a glass full of gin and a splash of tonic. Me, I’m not drinking much, but when Gangsta tells us something along the lines of “Motherfucka don’t know fuck don’t you know fuck he is went motherfucka,” I am immediately offended. Because of the poor grammar, of course. Those are probably the only words he knows in semi-English, but I give him a frosty glare, and am about to point out his grammatical shortcomings, when Khaled smoothes things over. Hmph. Maybe we should just head out and look for some more Kristallnacht cookies.

I believe this is the first time Stacey is told to “chillax” – and it’s amusing then. It’s shocking when she hears someone yell it to her the next day in the souk. Chillax, seriously?

* * * * * * * * * * * *

The flight back to the US was uneventful, other than Iberia being the least customer-service-oriented airline known to man, and their losing my bike somewhere between Madrid and Dallas. I would have been worried, except that they also left a couple of other bikes and a snowboard behind, so I felt my bike was at least in good company. And of course, she was delivered to me the next day, so all was well. Until the next Grand Adventure…..

Broken cleats, broken dreams

--> Today is a day that “will be great! Lots of downhills!” according to Sayeed, said in that chipper voice that occasionally makes me want to strangle him. Okay, not really, though at times today I do find myself cursing everything else: my bike, the road, the mountains, my crazy and stupid-ass self, etc. But I get ahead of myself.

As usual, we set off by dodging and weaving through a sea of people walking willy-nilly in the road, meandering about on motorbikes, and so on. I comfort myself with the thought that we’ll be going downhill a lot today, apparently, rather than climbing up those blasted mountains, which my acute bronchitis doesn’t appreciate. By the way, I’ve now collected a whole heap of various remedies to try for my illness: half a cut onion put on the bedside table at night, milk and ginger, ginger alone, absinthe. I don’t know if the absinthe is exactly a remedy, but it’s alcohol, so I’ll take it. At one point I’m pouring that shit into my mint tea like no one’s business. Doesn’t help my cough, but who cares?

We then get to the downhills.

Whereupon Miss Tasha discovers that she has a slight problem. Which I had been starting to notice before, but which becomes all the more evident when I need to clip in fast because my bike is going to go careening down a very steep mountain.

This problem is that my cleats are so worn down that they won’t clip in to my shoes anymore. At all.

This means that when I try to clip in before heading down a 23% grade with a hairpin turn at the end, I’m up shit’s creek since I can’t, and I have no control over the pedals.

This is not good.

But, intrepid and stalwart crazy person that I am, I soldier on, one insanely steep mountain at a time, thinking, what the hell is up with Morocco? Was it built on an Indian burial ground, such that the whole damn country slopes downward? Seriously people.

Then I get to one particularly steep and long stretch, with the requisite bumpy road of chip seal, and I pick up enough speed to hit 44 mph and feel my bike go into the classic “death wobble”, where it feels like it’s going to fall apart. And potentially send me hurtling over a steep cliff.

I stop. And wish for some absinthe, or even some cough syrup. Alcohol might be my friend at the moment. It’s also telling that all of the mountains have the “oh shit” sign, as I call it. Or as others in the group have christened it, the “OMFG” or “surprise!” sign. Take your pick, I think they all work.

Luckily, Khaled is toodling along behind me, so when I stop, so does he, and we discuss the history of Morocco, the language and culture, and the possibility of having a goat farm with goats that are guaranteed to climb trees. That part is critical, of course. I then careen down more mountains, and we stop and chat some more. We even stop at one point and take a picture of the two of us, as pictorial evidence should we actually lose our lives on these mountains. Hey, better safe than sorry.

I’m proud of myself for actually cycling down all these mountains rather than revisiting my walk-a-thon from the Great Alpian Trip – until I get to one completely ridiculous stretch that has a crappy steep road, hairpin turn, then an even steeper descent to another hairpin. Umm, no. And did I mention that my cleats are useless? I put my cleatless foot down, and Khaled, ever-cheerful guide that he is, says "okay!" and walks down with me, as we chat away happily knowing that we're avoiding certain death.

But after walking that one, I make it down the rest, somehow, shaving a few years off my life, until we congregate at the lunch spot. When I learn that the remaining day’s ride is full of more of these damn descents, I pack it in, since I know I have an extra pair of cleats and we can replace them for tomorrow’s ride. At least I have company – Biljana and another person join me in the van, as they couldn’t deal with descending with a death grip on the brakes the entire time.

And by being in the van, I have more of an opportunity to look for small children with chipmunks on strings. This is apparently a “thing” in Morocco, or at least according to the guidebook that Stacey and I found in our room at the riad the other night. This book claimed that children would catch ground squirrels (aka chipmunks), put them on string leashes, and sell them to people to take to local restaurants to cook them up. Thus Stacey and I also remain vigilant in our search for these BYOC restaurants.

I kind of think the guidebook was just fucking with us.

That afternoon we’re all “entertained” by David and his rubber chicken, which he oh-so-nicely continues to give to little kids to ooh and aah over….until he takes it away. I weep at the trail of broken-hearted children left behind in Morocco, who’ll always be haunted by illusory dreams of that one day in the past when their rubber chicken dreams came true….

I also try to check in on occasion with my mom, at least when we have internet access. At this point, my missives are consisting of the bare basics, a posting on Facebook that notes “Still alive!” What else is there to say?

Near death misses: too many to count

Goats in trees!

Sadly, we have to leave our little Moroccan paradise to actually get on our bikes and peddle on. But wait, no we don’t! Yes, we’re spared the prospect of cycling in freezing temps because we have to take the van to our next take-off spot, because there are no good non-trafficky roads that would get us there.

And as we’re driving, this is where we get into goats-in-trees territory. Or as I like to call it, GoatSpitLand. All you folks out there using argan oil on your hair? Though the marketing geniuses in the US refer to it rather obliquely as “Moroccan oil”? Yeah, that’s basically goat spit. No really.

You see, argan trees only grow in two areas of the world, the only the ones in Morocco bear this little fruit. That the goats climb into the trees to munch on, after which they spit out the little hull. That hull is then opened and the nugget inside is ground up into argan oil, used for cosmetics, soap, cooking, etc.

 

So yes, basically goat spit.

The tragedy of the day is that as I’m walking to get an up close shot of the goats happily climbing their trees, I drop my camera and it goes ptooeey. I am very sad – until I remember my brilliance in recently upgrading from my big bulky phone that was large enough to also make toast – to a smartphone! With picture-taking capabilities! Saved!

We finally get on our bikes to go up more damn mountains, and at some point……we lose Stacey. Our resident mountain goats Khaleed and Sayeed set out to look for her, and it turns out she’s gone off-roading. Literally. Because she and Sharon and Ely made a wrong turn, and Stacey in her competitive fervor had to pass Sharon and Ely, so that when Sharon realized they were going in the wrong direction (the gravel road was a giveaway), Stacey was too far ahead to call out to.

Note to self: there is great wisdom in being slow.

We get to our next town, where whee, it’s time to do some shopping! This is replete with hilarity, of course. The triumvirate of fun:

-       Stacey attempts to speak French with a guy at the market selling spices and Morrocan treats like sesame balls. Him to her: “Your French is really terrible you know.” Oops.

-       Stacey and I at the argan oil co-op, where we’re both buying some face cream. There are 2 types, and we have no idea what’s what.  The lady explains to us:

Argan oil lady: This one is for people before they have wrinkles, to prevent them, this other one is after you already have wrinkles.

Me: Oh, okay, so which one should I use?

AOL, after inspecting my face: Before wrinkles.

Stacey: Which one should I use then?

AOL, also peering at Stacey’s face: Oh, after wrinkles, definitely.

I guess around here they really don’t believe in soft-pedaling the customer, eh?

-       Then there’s the spice purveyor from whom I want to buy saffron and some raisins. He measures it all out, and then uses a little calculator to get the total price. As soon as I see it I know something’s wrong, because the price is lower than what just the saffron will cost. I shake my head at him, he calculates again. Again wrong. I shrug and figure hey, I might as well save some money on this wizened old spice seller, right? Nah. I keep insisting that the price is wrong – and then I finally realize, as he’s punching the numbers in, that he’s only inputting 4 grams of saffron instead of 5. Aha! Apparently this is the first time ever in the history of Morocco that anyone has ever wanted to pay MORE for something, so his astonishment and gratitude is something to behold. I think I got a family of pygmy goats, a son in marriage, and eternal good wishes bestowed on me, but I’m not too clear on that.

The next day is a rest day, or perhaps I should say “rest” day. Because off we go on a cheeky little jaunt to see some famous blue rocks, and said jaunt turns out to be more of a 6 mile trek. Said blue rocks turn out to NOT be the gently hued rocks I was expecting, magically looking a shade of dusky blue by some particularly odd angle of the sun. No, they’re actual blue rocks, painted at some point in the 70s by some wacky Dutchman, that have now become a weird tourist attraction. We arrive at the starting point to see what was a New Years rock concert, still in action. Morockapalooza? Apparently so, as there are trailers and camping equipment and a lot of hippie-looking dancing people. Odd.

On our way back I become the cliché of the person buying rugs in Morocco, as I stop off at the rug emporium with David and Mark. Since I suck at negotiating (sorry Wharton), I’m sure I vastly overpay, but I do wind up with some lovely rugs for me and my mom at a reasonable price, so how can I complain?

That evening we’re told that the next day’s climbs and descents will be epic – or “cheeky” as Sayeed likes to put it. Wait, what? I thought we already did that. Well, shit.

Where the hell were we?

  -->

Oh yeah, Day 3, waking up to freezing water and a hole for a toilet. Needless to say, we do not linger that morning at Chez Lack-o-Heat, and are soon on the road again. A road that is, oddly enough, neither steeply mountainous nor careening downhill at frightening speeds. Strange.

One of the great things about cycling in a place like Morocco is that your rest stops, instead of being at a convenience store where you buy a beef stick and a Coke and are then off again, are at glorious old mosques from the 11^th century, where kings were crowned and people beheaded and battles fought and princesses showered with jewels before being entombed.

Okay, so I totally made that last part up, but we DO meet up at Tin Mal, a truly incredible mosque that is centuries old, for photos and snackies. The Saddle Skedaddle people are taking very good care of us, needless to say.

Except that they’re a bunch of liars. Well, that’s how I look at. Sayeed in particular, who explains the day’s routes using vernacular like “cheeky climbs.” Calling our climbs “cheeky” is like saying Pol Pot was a bit of a nutjob. Because we’re going either uphill for miles and miles at an 18% grade, or downhill, same, with hairpin turns. I guess those would be the cheeky downhills.

Nevertheless, after we leave Tin Mal and continue on our ride, I soldier on. And on and on. And on. Wth, how long is this damn mountain? We’re doing what I think has been billed as the worst day of climbing, namely the cheekiest. At one point I make a critical error, in that I stop to wave to some kids who are waving to me across a little valley, and then they come bounding over like the mountains goats that everyone in this country is (and I say that as the highest compliment), and my god, they’re friendly! There are no shivs, no rocks, no sticks being thrown! I’m so grateful for this that I give them my candy snackies, and….my GU Chomps. Which, let’s face it, is basically like candy. I then ride on, comforted in the knowledge that not only will these charming urchins be totally hopped up on sugar for the rest of the day (and hoping their parents don’t know any Moroccan curses to throw my way), plus that I’ve just given away all my nutrition for the morning.

Oh well.

Luckily lunch is never too far away, and after lunch we get to a stretch of road where we’re going to cycle along for another 17 miles or so, and then get in the van for the rest of the way because it’s a busy road. And miracle of miracles, these 17 miles are FLAT! Truly flat! There might even be a tailwind! And I’m SO fast, I’m the Queen of Speed! A veritable rockstar! For once I’m not the last person in the group!

Oh, and I think my blazing speed for those 17 miles manages to ratchet up my average speed for the day to around 9 mph. Umm, yay?

The real treat comes, however, when we get to our hotel for the evening, which is truly lovely, from the many orange trees where we can pick our own fruit, to the rooms – ah, the rooms! I walk into our room, and just stand there, basking in the glory of what is clearly a heated room. I then dart into the bathroom. Omg, a toilet! I turn on the sink. Omg, hot water! Stacey walks into the room, and I bound over to her and give her a joyous hug.

“Stacey! We have heat! AND a toilet! My god, the angels are smiling down upon us….”

Later that night, after having our special New Year’s Eve dinner and dance party special at the hotel’s restaurant, I sink into the warm comfy bed that’s probably the comfiest bed in the history of mankind.

“It’s like sleeping on the wings of angels, Stacey, angels I tell you.”

There’s no reply from Stacey because she’s doing some back-of-the-envelope calculations on what uphill speed she needs to maintain the next day in order to smoke everyone on the way to the lunch stop. Have I mentioned that she’s slightly competitive? I point this out not as a failing, but to note why at the end of our trip, Stacey winds up with a menagerie of wooden animals that she’s whittled as she’d get to any and all of our stops way before the rest of us. It’s a gift.

Day two, aka All Codeined Up

 

Yes indeed, it sucks getting up when it’s below freezing and there’s no heat. Our room has a fireplace, but the fire went out long ago. Sigh. I huddle under the blankets for a while, waiting for the magic Berber elves to come restart the fire, but somehow that doesn’t happen. Damn. I eventually get up, and start swigging down more cough syrup – sure, this stuff is basically pure alcohol, but combined with freezing cold, steep descents, and ice on the road, what can possibly go wrong?

Later

So it’s fun being in the van with Muhammed #2, because he speaks no English and I speak no French, much less Arabic. I’ve so far managed to expand my vocabulary greatly though, beyond just “oui”, to also include “magnifique!” while gesturing out the window. As a basis for conversation, this isn’t too bad. I blurt this out at regular intervals as I watch my compatriots careen down the same steep hill we climbed yesterday, some crazy-ass 23% grade with the loveliest of hairpin turns. No way in hell I’m heading down that, not with my poor-circulation hands and feet that don’t function at this temperature. I’m sure there’ll be plenty more hills for me to recklessly careen down in the days to come (note: slight bit of foreshadowing here).

We catch up with the group at our usual tea stop, and they’re not speaking to me. They’re not speaking to anyone, because they’re basically frozen solid. Am I suddenly looking like the smart person here or what?

 

Now that it’s warmed up though, I’m more than happy to start riding again. As I’m biking along and checking out the incredible scenery, I have an epiphany:

“I’m in fucking Morocco! Riding my bike!”

Okay, so I never said it was an especially enlightening epiphany.

A little later, I come across more Children of the Corn. The problem here is that the kids are either super-sweet or demonic, and you don’t know which they are until they’re darting in front of you on a steep descent, trying to send you swerving and flying off a cliff. Or like these kids – one of whom high-fives me as I go by, while his asshole friend throws a big stick at my spokes. And here of course I face the same dilemma that anyone else in my shoes would face: do I keep going, or do I stop and beat the ever-loving crap out of this bad seed? Lucky for punk kid, I was on an uphill, so I keep going.

We finally get to our accommodations for the night, a gite, that we have been warned is “basic.” That's evident, as Stacey and I wind up in the cavernous room at the end of the hall with what Sayeed calls a “Turkish” toilet, aka a hole in the floor. Now, I’ve stayed in some pretty rustic places before – the place in Tibet that had had a water leak so our room had wet moldy carpeting comes to mind – so that doesn’t bother me. The abject lack of heat does; I sense that’ll get ugly later on.

But hey, we have wifi! Sweet!

Note to gite management: perhaps next time when you’re presented with a package deal, go with heat (or space heaters, or something) over wifi. Trust me on this.

But hey, at least we’re all in this together! Our whole group, freezing our asses off in barren rooms with no toilets. A bonding experience, to be sure.

Later that evening at dinner

We’re all bundled up and huddled together for warmth in the room where we’ll have dinner, when Muhammed #3 comes in and starts a fire for us. Whee! So what that the sparks almost set Biljana’s coat on fire? It’s cold!

This, however, is when we learn that just like in Animal Farm, all the animals may not be quite created equal after all. Or something like that. Because the following conversation ensues:

Biljana: Oh, and it’s so nice to have a toilet paper holder for a change!

Sharon: Wait, you have toilet paper? Ours barely flushes with the scraps we have.
Jane: Wait, you have a toilet that flushes?

Me and Stacey: Wait, you have a toilet??

David: Wait, and are you guys not getting the mints on your pillows too, with the turndown service?

Stacey: Wait, you’re getting mints?

David at that point declares me an honorary Canadian, because I get his sarcasm and Stacey doesn’t, but the fact remains that somehow we wound up with the ONLY room without an actual toilet. What the hell! Hmph, they’re probably all hiding space heaters in their rooms too. Oh, the humanity.

That night, there is no 6 feet of comforters nor is there a hot water bottle, and so it was about as cold as you’d imagine. No wait, you can’t imagine how cold it was, unless you too have recently been trying (and failing) to sleep bundled up in all your clothes in a room that’s below freezing, where the wind is whistling through the window that doesn’t quite close properly. I spend the night not moving, because to do so will invite the rustling of the very cold sheets, and not going to the bathroom, because the thought of getting up is unbearable. I lay awake with this thought tumbling through my head: that when I get back to Portland, I am going to CRANK UP the heat, and just bask in the glory of a warm house. Kone and I won’t even have to wear socks or hats to bed, no sirree. My last words to Stacey before we hunker down even further under the covers to try to get some elusive sleep – “As god is my witness, I’ll never be cold again…”

Is that a mumbled “goodnight, Scarlett” I hear?

Near death misses: 1, from almost freezing to death

Day One, continued....

 

I hack and wheeze my way into the next town, where our group is already hanging out having tea. On the way, I’m almost crushed by a car that darts out from a road on the right – I shriek, and the hijab-wearing girls across the street giggle. I have a feeling that seeing people get flattened is kind of a regular occurrence around here. Then as we’re in the hustle and bustle of town, an old woman walks into the street right in front of me, not even looking up to see if anyone is coming. I shriek again, and swerve to the left, into the path of  a guy on a motor scooter, who isn’t even phased. Even though we’re so close as to rub elbows. I get a cheeky “bonjour!” from him, as I watch what’s left of my heart jump out of my chest and go off to look for some whiskey.

And this is just day one.

After tea, my racking cough has made our fearless guides decide that I should seek out some Moroccan cough medicine, which apparently has codeine in it, so of course I’m game. We head to the Pharmacia, and while Alf from our group has to engage in charades to explain what toiletries he needs, the guy has obviously listened to my cough as I’m waiting and so when it’s my turn, he just plunks down a bottle of cough syrup on front of me. I look at the label. Ethyl alcohol…..eucalyptus…..ah, there it is, codeine! Score!

Of course, later at lunch after I take a healthy swig (I’ve decided a swig is the correct dosage, since I don’t exactly have a measuring spoon), I discover that this crap is like drinking turpentine. Or doing a shot, of something. Not something good. Sharon takes a whiff and notes that “they didn’t exactly try to make it palatable for their customers, did they?” Umm yeah. Still, it seems to knock my lungs senseless for a while, so that’s a plus. While some may wonder at the wisdom of chugging random medicines bought in foreign countries, I figure, what the hell, I’ve already had cancer, how bad can this shit be? Any worse than dosing up my chest with radiation for 7 weeks, causing lung damage in the meantime? I think not. Bottoms up!

I also really like the people in our group, except for one thing: I can’t remember their names. I blame the bike crash/brain injury – that’s always a good excuse. For example, there’s Biryani – except I know that’s not her name, that’s an Indian food dish, but that’s the closest I can remember. Her and her husband Walter are totally awesome, living the life I want in the UK countryside, and here I am trying to sneak surreptitious glances at the tag on her rental bike, to figure out her name. Class act, I so am.

I won’t even comment on David and his rubber chicken that he’s tucking into his back pocket on all our rides – except that it’s pretty damn funny when he gives the chicken to a child to ooh and aah over….then sends that same child into paroxysms of heartbreak when they realize he’s taking the chicken back. Those poor kids may never be the same.

Our stop for that night is in the town of Imlil, and the town can only be reached by foot. Yes, there’s no road into the town. Going down the craggy hillside with my bike, I’m even slower than the donkey that’s carrying all of our luggage. Way slower. As I watch people clambering up and down this mountain with ease, I think of how ridiculous and easy our lives in the States are, that we don’t get in any kind of decent shape just doing our daily activities, like these people do, but we have to go cycling or running or to the gym. Any one of these people could I’m sure easily handle an Ironman race tomorrow, they’re that fit. I feel like there’s some deep yet profound realization here, but at that moment, I’m coming across the first in a long line of Children of the Corn, so I toss those profound thoughts by the wayside. Because what the hell, these kids are rude! And mean!

 

First they start yelling at me, saying god knows what, and then they start throwing things! The balls they’re playing with, for one. Now, here’s where the rubber meets the road, because while Stacey later in our trip meets up with the demonic Redrum children who try to take her bike, and remains all nice to them, I brook no such shenanigans. No no no no no! They do NOT call me Miss Curmudgeonly for nothing! “Hey!” I snarl. “Do that again and I’ll beat the crap out of you! I’m bigger and meaner than you!”

I have no idea if they understand me, but they get the intent, because they scatter like leaves to the wind. Hmph.

Our establishment that night, well, I’m not sure I can come up with the right adjectives to describe its wonderfulness. It’s a dark stone building that has little outbuildings, and everything is decorated like something out of Berber casting call. Plush colorful pillows, throws, candles, artwork – it’s truly incredible. The fact that there’s no heat here either, ech, it’s almost an afterthought. Especially since they load us up with about 4 feet worth of comforters, AND a hot water bottle tucked into our beds in the evening! This comes in handy when we come back from our first experience with a hamman, which is basically a steam room, where a half-naked woman then comes in and scrubs you down and throws buckets of hot water on you.

I highly recommend this to anyone traveling in Morocco.

That night, even though it’s below freezing, I’m snug as a bug in a rug, as they say, under my 6 feet of comforters. How the hell I’ll get up in the morning and get ready for cycling, I have no idea. Will worry about that tomorrow.

Near death misses: 3