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

Starting Out - Day One

 

After a frigid night in the Hotel Akabar, our group piles into a van to take us a ways away from Marrakesh, thank god. Cool city, but the cycling – well, let’s just say I’m sure the Saddle Skedaddle people have decided it throws a damper on things when you have a bunch of your cyclists being mowed down in the street on Day One. So off we go, our group of 13, all of whom seem very nice unlike some of the snotty arrogant people on our AlpCycles trip (cough Penny cough). And then there are our guides: Sayeed, Khaled, Muhammed, Muhammed, Muhammed, and Muhammed.

Basically if we go with the name Muhammed, there’s a high chance of getting it right.

After we stop and as we’re getting our bikes ready, we’re followed  by 2 cute little urchins, and I feel compelled to give them something. But what? A Slim Jim? A quarter? Aha! I settle on a banana and the grapes my mom stuffed in my bag way back in Chicago about 4 weeks prior (or at least it seems that way). Note to self: next time going to foreign country, pack fun little things to give to the local kids. (This is what I tell myself on Day One – note that this is before the Children of the Corn started showing up.)

I also make friends with a little goat, who does a amazing vertical leap of about 10 feet to join us, and then after I scritch his little head for a while, decides I’m his bestie for life.

We then set out, and while I’m getting my sea legs, so to speak, I realize one minor detail that’s slightly inconvenient: I can’t breathe. I mean I KNEW this before, thanks to the bronchitis that’s happily settled into my lungs, but it becomes more obvious as I’m trying to cycle. Especially since – and pay heed here, as this isn’t in the guide books – Morocco is all uphill. Yes, it’s true – like the whole country was built on an Indian burial ground or something. Because there we are at a steady 5% grade for HOURS. No downhills, just up! I kid you not.

 

Lucky for me, I have the company of 2 of our guides at the back – Khaled and one of the Muhammeds. This means that when I stop for pictures, I get the benefit of Khaled’s wisdom, and thus I learn about the formation of the mountains here. In a nutshell, the Anti-Atlas mountains came along first, then there were, umm, glaciers and stuff, and floods, and then poof, the Atlas mountains appeared.

At least that’s how I understood it.

 

(to be continued)

Hell is other people. In the Madrid airport.

So the trip started out fairly smoothly.  My flight wasn’t canceled, we got to the airport with plenty of time, and the Iberia airline people only charged me $75 for my bike instead of the theoretical $100 it was supposed to cost. Which I guess makes up for the fact that the Alaska Airlines people on the Portland-Chicago leg overcharged me by $20. Grr.

Anyway.

That is, all was rosy until I got to my layover in Madrid. Where I get off the plane, and see three signs: exit, baggage, gates. Okay, so follow my logic here: I go to “gates,” because I have a connecting flight. Crazy, right?

Apparently so, because for the next hour, I wind up taking the tram back and forth between terminals, while also going through passport control and security check a couple of times for good measure. And clearly I’ve gotten spoiled by the smiley niceness that is Portlandia, because everyone here is downright surly.

Me, asking a gate agent with info on connecting flights which is the gate to Marrakesh: Do you know which gate is for Marrakesh?

Gate agent from hell, pausing to deliver this with just the right amount of disdain: No.

Everyone else also has the same look of self-righteous disgust. What happened to my Portland people smiling at everything and everyone?? I start to dream of being back home, where it’s all sunshiney (I mean rainy) and rainbows and unicorns and food trucks and such. Even when I get on the plane, it’s more of the same – the Spanish woman sitting next to me glaring at me every time I cough. I’m tempted to cough in her general direction just to annoy her. Hmph. A friend has suggested I wear a mask, ala Michael Jackson, but the only Jackson look I can do is the one glove thing, which I don’t think will have the same effect.

Then I get to Marrakesh, where I wind up with passport control woman from hell. First she wants to see my boarding passes, as she doesn’t seem to believe that I came from Chicago. Then she wants my entire itinerary and all the hotels I’ll be staying at. I get through that, and finally get my bike box…..which has been opened by the TSA and not closed properly. Lovely. And since I didn’t sleep on the planes, now I’m REALLY surly, and counting down the days until I can get back to my beloved Portland to hang out with The Kone. Morocco, bah. Whose crazy idea was this anyway?

That evening

After napping for a few hours, Stacey and I decide to head to the main square for some sightseeing. It’s a gorgeous night, balmy, as we amble along Mohammed Ave. Suddenly, I stop and grab Stacey’s arm:

Me: Hey Stacey, just look at that building! It must have been modeled after the Aladdin Hotel in Las Vegas! It looks exactly like it!

Stacey’s face gets all twisty and scrunched – a seizure of some sort, perhaps? – so I hustle us along until there we are, at the market square. Now it’s like something out of Disneyworld!

We wander through the crowds, checking out the pigeon handlers, the ball throwers, and above all else, the amazing booths loaded with hundreds of kinds of dates (note: all my friends are likely to get dates as souvenirs), all sorts of fruit, and of course tchochke central. We stop and have what we think is mint tea, though it’s actually ginger tea strong enough to take the tar off one’s tongue. At one point the tea cart guy sprinkles some kind of white powder into our glasses, and we wonder what the powder is. Cocaine, I wonder? Rather, some kind of minty substance.  And while Stacey wonders how they clean the tea glasses, I don’t have the heart to tell her that they seem to just be dunking them in a bucket of hot water. “Oh, I’m sure they have some kind of complex mechanism for washing the glasses to standard, absolutely!”

Sometimes you just need to MSU.

After a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice for the equivalent of .50, and then a lovely dinner of tagine and couscous, which sets us back a whole $12, we wander back to the hotel for a fitful night’s sleep, given that it cools off quite a bit at night and there’s no heat in the room. En route, we dodge cars and scooters aplenty, as unlike in Portland, there is NO stopping for pedestrians here. None. Zero. Zilch.

Needless to say, Morocco is amazing.

Today's near death misses: 2, from foolishly thinking that pedestrians ever have the right of way

The Portland Garbage Underground

Garbage pickup in Chicago is pretty simple: you put your stuff in the alley, they pick it up.

That’s about it. You don’t even have to bribe them, which in Chicago is a miracle in and of itself. Not that I’ve tried it per se, but during the house-cleaning insanity, when I was dumping tons of crap in the alley, I happened to get home as the garbage folks were moving further on down the alley, so I trotted over to the guy in back to give him some cash. He actually shook his head at me, said “no no no, it’s our job, you don’t have to do that.” Weird.

And most of the stuff you put back there gets taken by the junk haulers. Anything metal? Yeah, it'll be gone in less than an hour.

But anyway, back to Portland. With this Chicago background in mind, the first week I was here I put out the garbage bin on Thursday night, for presumed Friday morning pickup. Note that I said garbage BIN – in other words, I put out the wee black one, and not the entire slew of 9 various receptacles that are congregating by my driveway. For those who think I’m joking:

Note also that the green and blue bins are massive, while the black one is…..but wait, I get ahead of myself.

So Friday morning comes and goes, and lo, the garbage is not picked up. Okay, this is a bit of an issue since the last tenants left it full to the brim, but hey, I can wait until next Friday.

The next week, I set it out again.

And again, nothing.

What fresh hell is this?

It’s only then that I learn about this wonderful quirkiness in Portland that is called “every other week garbage pickup,” or, as I like to call it, hell. You see, your huge blue and green bins o’stuff, namely the recyclables and yard waste, get picked up every week. The wee garbage bin, once every 2 weeks. So if you miss a week, basically you have garbage festering for a month, which I’m sure is quite lovely in summer.

But of course, no one would miss garbage pickup once you realize this, because to do so would be to invite madness. And decay and rats and bubonic plague and all sorts of pleasant things.

But back to my garbage problem – because now it’s been 3 weeks with no pickup of this stuff, and the bin was full in the first place so I have garbage bags piling up in the garage where I think there are mice. So I do the research and discover that – unlike in Chicago where you can pile up stuff to your heart’s content – you can set out an extra bag in Portland for an extra $5. I have no idea how they note this – do the garbage men have iPods in their trucks? No clue.

Beyond this issue of timing is the problem of trying to figure out what the hell goes where. I have 3 advanced degrees, and I still have no idea. Paper is recyclable, but paper towels go in compost. But other than that only yard stuff and food scraps go in the compost bin – oh, as well as pizza boxes. No other boxes, just pizza delivery. I’m tempted to eat nothing but takeout pizza in order to simplify things.

And then of course as garbage starts piling up, I start to wonder if there should be (or is) a Guerrilla Garbaging movement in Portland. Where people sneak around and dump their garbage wherever they can. Maybe this is why the dumpsters at the school next to the dog park where Kone and I go every morning are….locked. Yes, they have to lock up the garbage around here, to stave off desperate people. Umm, not that I checked or anything.

Of course, the bright side to all of this is that every 2 weeks, there’s a big celebration! First the anticipation and worry – did I do things right? Because the garbage men can refuse to pick up your bins if you’ve thrown things out incorrectly. Or if they’re too heavy. Yes, there’s a weight limit for the bins.

So all this leads to conversations like this:

Me: So I have some exciting news!

Patty: What’s that?

Me: They picked up my garbage this morning!

Patty: Awesome!

And now I realize why people are reluctant to give you extraneous boxes, like at Costco. “You don’t want a box for your things, do you?” Ha, I made that mistake once, and never again.

When I go to hang out at Kim’s, I bring containers that she’ll then have to discard, not me. “Oh I’d be happy to bring over a plastic container of orange juice! No problem!” Ha, my mother didn’t raise many foolish children, I always say.

Speaking of which, when my mom came to visit for Thanksgiving? Yeah, she gave up on the whole thing. “I’m leaving this on the counter, you can throw it out.”

I soldier on.

Greetings from BizarroLand!

Well, it’s been a long few weeks of driving that final stretch between Big Sky, Montana and Portland! Maybe it just seemed that way. Who knew that much of Washington state looks like South Dakota, and much of Oregon looks like Texas? I almost decided to turn around and head back to my sturdy Midwestern cornfield-homage roots, but instead called upon the pioneer spirit of my ancestors and forged on. It’s a good thing I did, too, because the stretch of driving between Hood River and Portland was gorgeous, as if to make up for the barren wasteland before it. Whew! I no longer feel gypped or deceived by laden promises of lush greenery.

Anyway! My nineteens of readers are surely wondering what I’ve been doing since I’ve been in Portland, thinking, have you cycled all the vastness of Portland yet, Miss Tasha? Started a crop of meconopsis grandis, aka the elusive Himalayan Blue Poppy (which I’ve tried to grow for YEARS, but the Midwest is not the proper environment; I have high hopes for the PNW though)?

The answer to that would be no, I have not quite managed anything that paltry, because I’ve had bigger fish to fry, so to speak. Yes, I had to take on the most critical yet difficult tasks that one could possibly ever have to navigate in one’s lifetime:

1. Getting HRH The Kone settled in and happy
2. Figuring out Portland garbage pickup

You can imagine the suffering I’ve had to endure as we worked our way through these weighty and seemingly impossible tasks.

First, The Kone. Our first few days here I believe we hit pretty much every dog park within a 5 mile radius – Brentwood, Woodstock, Mt. Tabor, etc. The Kone seemed pleased, and yet……he refused to get out of the car once we were back home. Hmm. And this was even with me carefully timing it so that we were outside only in between rainums. Hmm. I stopped at local Otto's Meat Market and got him some fine marrow bones. Meh. Kone and I went to Otto's since they sell yummy sausages from a grill outside (note: Portland rocks), and he was even given free spare hot dogs, and still the pouting. Hmm.

He had playdates with Lucy, his new BFF! A ridiculous number of toys and treats! A big yard to be all bouncy-pouncy in! Meetings with the chicken village next door!

Nada.

Clearly, he was feeling the pain of losing the Kone scones. Of course we needed to reprise our usual morning routine, as part of the strict disciplinarian approach I’m known for, so we started going to Brentwood dog park every morning, but then….where to go for the scone? My go-to coffee shop is Papaccino’s, where they already know my drink, yet they have nothing resembling a petite scone. Oh sure, I tried different things – Kone would either turn his head away, spit them out, give me a depressed long-suffering look, or all of the above.

We tried the Starbucks across the street at the Safeway, but those useless cretins don’t carry the petite scones, and the coffee was lousy to boot. We tried the further away Starbucks, which was too far away and had no parking so it all seemed a bit ridiculous. I mean really, we’re in Portland and I’m seeking out a Starbucks? So wrong on so many levels.

 

Our new solution: we go to the dog park, then Papaccino’s, where I get my (delicious awesome) coffee. Before we leave the house I put into my purse a substitute scone – or in the case of Angela doing some baking for HRH and shipping petite vanilla bean scones from Chicago – an actual scone. So when I get back to the car with my coffee, I can tell Kona that I have his yummers, and pull out his faux scone, and everyone is happy.

Whew. Major MAJOR problem solved.

Next up: Why one needs a PhD to figure out Portland garbage pickup….

The Kone Across America Tour

I’ve decided that South Dakota is pretty much the most awesome state we have. Why? Two main reasons:

1. The 75mph speed limit. That ratchets all the way down to 65 in construction zones. That right there would normally be enough, but as a bonus we also have…..
2. It’s not southern Minnesota.

Good god, people, could that stretch of MN be any more boring? I think not. There’s a good indication that even MN itself recognizes how god-awful the southern part of the state is. You see, I think of MN as an “urban” state – it likes to think of itself as being more hoity-toity with its big cities and its standard 55mph speed limits. (This is as opposed to the rough-and-tumble yee-haw cowboy states of, say, South Dakota and Nebrahoma.)

So the fact that even Minnesota throws us a bone by making the speed limit on that stretch a full 70mph is basically conceding defeat on their end.

Of course, one quickly realizes that the key reason the speed limit is in fact 75 in the cowboy states is because otherwise it would take about 10 days to cross each state, starting with South Dakota. I mean what the hell, you folks couldn’t have subdivided the state a bit? West Dakota? Dakoteappolis? Something? As it is it took me about 3 days, or maybe I’m still driving. It’s kind of all a blur.

As for Wyoming, there’s a state that shouldn’t have any speed limits whatsoever. What’s the point? We’ve just spent 16 days driving across South Dakota, I think we’ve got the driving thing down pat.

And when you get to Montana, hell, they should just strap the rocket boosters on your car as soon as you cross the state line. Talk about another endless state, with a lot of scrub brush to not relieve the monotony, and not even a Corn Palace. Hmph.

Speaking of the Corn Palace (which I am happy to note is open “year-a-round”), we did make our pilgrimage there, and The Kone and I were the only people there on a blustery morning, along with a family from Wisconsin, of all places. So after I took the requisite picture of them by the Big Ear of Corn, and they did the same for us, we discovered something astonishing when they heard me call Kona. Their dog back home is also named Kona. What are the odds? I take that as a sign that The Kone and I are on the right path in our quest for kayaking greatness in the PNW.

Other random thoughts on this endless drive:

• The 9^th circle of hell clearly involves having to listen to political ads the entire length of the state of Montana. Consisting of back and forth like this:
• “Jon Hastert has promised Montana that he will fell every tree in this state, and he will not rest until we are completely deforested. This is the kind of man Montana needs.”
• “My opponent Jon Hastert has promised the good citizens of this state  complete and total logging of every tree in Montana. I promise the same.”
• I’m not even making this stuff up.

• Dick’s Garage in South Dakota: it’s been 3 years since I’ve passed this way en route to Idaho for (ahem) Ironman CDA – yet your sign STILL reads “24-hour Toe Service.” Seriously? It looks newly painted too. Next time I come through here I’m bringing a bucket of paint.

• All through these endless states are barriers that will block off the highway, and signs that will flash yellow lights if 90 is closed. I repeat, if 90 is closed. Umm, does this happen that often, that you close down an entire major highway? It must, if you have these permanent structures in place. What’s the deal, blizzards, locusts, what? I find this rather fascinating.

• To the good people who named the town of Plankinton, SD. Why, I ask you, why? Why this level of unpronounceability?

• Another thing you realize while driving across state after state after endless state – the highway system in this country is pretty damn impressive. (In spite of the stretches of I-90 in Wyoming that are chip seal. What the hell, people?) Mile after mile of road, going god knows where. Who planned this out? How did it all come together? Why, it must have taken weeks to build, weeks!

• Speaking of, there’s a hell of a lot of land out there. What, we couldn’t coexist with the buffalo and the Indians?

• Construction. Endless road construction. I don’t get this. I don’t know how to put this nicely, but no one drives through your states. How can the roads deteriorate that quickly?

• Speaking of the lack of vehicles on the road, such that at one point I worried I had taken a wrong turn like I once did in Death Valley and found myself in a battle with almost certain death. Okay, not really, but I did get lost. Anyway. Back to those speed limits. How are you going to dole out speeding tickets? Station a cop at a “speed trap” where he has to wait until that day’s car goes by? Just wondering.
•  
• The Big Sky Motel in Superior, Montana - you're lovely and all, but point #3 on your list of rules for people who have pets? The one that reads "Pets are not allowed on beds"? Yeah, kinda laughable.

I would write more, but I need to scrub my brain from the suffering of trying to find any kind of radio stations to listen to. Next up: Radio stations in Nebrahoma, the 10^th circle of hell.

Don't cry for me, Chicago

--> I love Chicago. I really do. I was born and raised here, and I am a Midwesterner through and through. Chicago is in my soul, it’s part of who I am.

But I can’t live here anymore.

When I first moved back to Chicago after business school (ahem, Wharton), I was the most ardent evangelist for all this city had to offer. I scoffed when people asked if I would live anywhere else. Why would I ever leave Chicago? It’s livable! Manageable! Inexpensive!

It’s none of that anymore.

I’ve watched over the years as my property taxes have gone up to ridiculous levels (no, I can’t afford $9,500 a year, which would be more if I didn’t contest it every time), my water/sewer bill has shot up just this year from $700/yr to $1100/yr, we pay the highest sales tax in the country, the highest gas taxes – and yet we have the crappiest roads and the most broke state in the nation.

This is not my Chicago, not anymore. Not when I can’t use a simple quarter to park anywhere anymore, where we’ve been sold down the river by our former idiot mayor who just kept kicking the can down the road as he doled out hefty pensions and cushy deals to keep the peace. And now the bill is coming due. Yet, no one – or very few – seem to realize this. They don’t seem to get that this state is beyond broke, that we pay all this money yet the schools are no good, the streets are terrible, and things will get worse. Much, much worse. The pension crisis is coming to a head, and it will not be pretty. In fact, it’ll reach new depths of ugly that’ll make the Council Wars of old look like a Sunday in the park. We read in the papers daily about the cronyism and corruption and deals, and yet nothing ever changes. And everything is for sale to not even the highest bidder (hello, former Sears Tower!), but to those who have the most friends and family in high places. Or any place in government or politics, for that matter. It all reeks to high heaven.

And do people here really realize just how badly off the state is in terms of fiscal health?

Does anyone care?

I don’t know anymore. I know that I do, and have, and yet there are only so many letters that can be written, so many idiots voted against, so much yelling and ranting that one can do. And so I am finally leaving my once beloved Chicago. On some level it saddens me to be leaving, but then I always remind myself of the bottom line: I can’t afford to live here anymore.

That’s really what it comes down to.

That’s why my street, my little enclave of St. Ben’s, is becoming a haven for the rich, with almost every 2-flat being turned into an opulent single-family home.

That’s why those of us who can are leaving while we can, while there are still rich people who want to buy our houses, who can afford those insane property taxes.

That’s why early tomorrow morning I am leaving for a new life in Portland. My mom, who’s gotten on a mailing list for property in Portland, recently sent me an article about that city, where Portland was described as “livable, manageable, affordable.”

And I thought huh – it’s like I’m going back to Chicago. My Chicago of old.

And then when a dear friend told me that it was the end of an era, I thought huh, you know, it wasn’t all that great of an era.

I am hitting the reset button on my life.

A grand adventure awaits.

And Chicago will always, always have a place in my heart.