ultimo noche

Se acaba. Sies semanas para aprender espanol, se acaba.

I went to school for the last time and after classes had a goodbye drink with my teachers. I went to the beach for the last time and dove into the divine Mediterranean for the last time.

Now I am going home.

I love Spain, but it’s a different love from the one that I have for my home. It’s a love that has saved me.

I looked back on all my pictures from the beginning of this journey, and I looked into the eyes of the visage staring back at me, at a wounded soul who was searching for healing and praying that God would intervene, and He did.

Now, I think I am ok.

When I go home, I can take with me the lessons I have learned here, not just Spanish, but from life:

For one, being ok is a state of mind, it doesn’t matter where you are, it matters how you feel.

Love is love, no matter how you classify it, and it’s beautiful.

Life always grants you opportunities to learn from your mistakes, and realize that when you think you have catastrophically fucked up, it’s really not that deep, because somewhere, across an ocean, on a beach, none of that matters.

Spain has a lot of pork.

The alcohol in Spain is a salve for the stomach.

The beach in Spain is a salve for the soul.

Air conditioning is underrated.

The Yankees aren’t really that important. Except Robinson Cano.

Spanish people like to touch my hair.

Grammar in any language is a bitch.

There are other black people in Spain. They’re just hiding.

Siesta isn’t so bad.

Sunsets are just as beautiful as sunrises.

Al sol le brotan ramas de alegria.

I am really pretty when I am dark as hell.

Meeting new people is a good thing.

Spanish men love shaving parts of their bodies.

For some reason, Spanish people hate bulls. I liken this to the South Park episode where the Japanese kept attacking whales and dolphins.

French people stink.

I love my family. They know who they are.

I am truly blessed. And I thank God for this everyday.

Next year, I am gonna try to learn French. I’ll see what happens….

El Toro

I went to the theater del corrida this evening. It wasn’t too far from the beach, as nothing in Malaga is far from the beach. This is a beach town, water, sand, and sun. I stood in the center of the city, earshot from the waves and watched as Spaniards traversed towards the roofless structure. Sun baked the populous running inside the amphitheater, making the areal view what I imagined look like rice pouring backwards through one side of an hourglass. I wasn’t really paying attention to the areal view, as the amphitheater has no roof. I was looking at skin, naked, satiated, shining. People clamoring for a space and running and grabbing one another in excitement.

There would be a bullfight today. The first in a while, as this is summer, the offseason.

I crossed the street and joined the clamoring filtering frenzy and stood in awe of what reminded me half of a Greek Orpheum, half of Yankee stadium. But this was Spain. The dazzling sun reflected against small gold flecks sewn into the red and yellow that displayed three stripes flourishing in a wind that still smelled of sea spray at this, the sun lit evening.

I looked around (quite literally) the cornerless dimensional icon that I had entered. There was a shadow to my right side, and that side was full, women clutching albanicos, children clutching each other, men clutching opened cruzcampo’s. The right side was full to capacity; people sat in the shade and stared to the center, a perfect sand circle empty-ready for the main event.

To my left as the audience who sat sparsely scattered the sun sat as well. In the old days these would be considered the cheap seats. Of course this is common sense. The heat was oppressive to this side, as beautiful as it was.

I grabbed a seat on the stairs, a couple feet away from the outskirts of the shadow provided by the ingenious architecture.

The show began. Horses donned in Spain’s flag and outrageous and beautiful adornments rode into the sand circle, pulling a chariot-like wagon, carrying trumpeters and clarinetists. I couldn’t see the drummer, but I could hear him. The music sounded like a mix of Ravel and The Godfather (2) and in my moment of American isolation and awkwardness, I pictured Robert Deniro climbing rooftops in little Italy, breaking up a gun…

The music was eclipsed by the sound of the adoring audience, as the matadors took the stage. There were 5 in all, dressed well, sleek; their bodies slight yell well built, their costumes garish and immaculate.

They waved and shucked, the crowds gave and they took. Their flare for the theatrical would have been considered effeminate at home. But here, amidst the salt air and red and yellow banderas, these men were rock stars, movie icons, machismo at its most brazen and desirable, I gathered from the sighs and coos drawled from young supple females in a slightly audible Andalucía tongue.

3 of the matadors had pink frocks-they held them and tossed them about in the light, even before the bull came thundering in, to applause and screams.

2 of the men had red frocks, I laughed to myself thinking that they sure were in trouble.

The bull was released into the circle; a kind of bounding confusion in his step-he jumped and bucked and ran all at the same time, and then stopped for a moment as if to get his bearings. He looked around-there were the 3 men with pink frocks at different parts on the outer fringes of the circle standing behind podiums strategically placed in the circle- chose one, and ran at him in a non-chalant teasing kind of way, and then, realizing that the shade was on the other side of the circle, trotted over to the crowded seats, but not before taking another half shot at another pink frock twirling directly across from me. The bull looked to be enjoying himself for about 4 minutes. From the beginning it was obvious to any onlooker that the animal was startled by the environment, but it seemed like the matadors who taunted the animals were doing so lovingly, playfully, and the animal was just following suit. When you watch something like this at first, you are more than aware of the obvious and immense danger that can erupt at any possible moment.

This is no house pet, or trained circus animal. This is El Toro, the bull. At least 900lbs of confused muscular fury crowned with 2 sharp elephantine horns that lead with every charge of the animal’s movement. This is a creature to be reckoned with, deserving of all allure and respect and fear that it garners.

This animal appears on the waving Bandera atop the amphitheater, it sits in the center of the 3 stripes.

There were some turns like this. The animal allowed itself to be toyed with, and toyed with the matadors with effeminate frocks. The audience shouted and the matadors put on a show. During the initial time, they ran around relentlessly, and there was palpable fear in their movements; there were times when a hesitation by a matador was accompanied with a slightly audible yelp, or a grunt that followed a jerked, dodgy gesture. The bull was dangerous, after all.

The sun moved slowly but deliberately in the sky, providing a bigger shadow and more comfortable seating so the crowd spread itself toward the sunny side of the theater. The bull followed suit. The animal was a bit closer to me now, and I could see from its labored panting and limp tongue that slapped the side of its face that it was quite fatigued.

The crowd applauded. The animal took a breather.

The men in pink gave way to the matadors in red.

The two men with the red frocks rushed in, jiggling their bright smocks in the tired animal’s face. His tongue swayed, snot flew from his pierced nose, but still he played along. As close as the matadors were, not once did the animal go after them, just the frock. The jeering was a team effort, like watching horse and trainer. In my naivety I read some affection between the two, as if the matadors weren’t really going to do what everyone in that amphitheater except me knew they were going to do when the dance was over.

The men in red had swords. I watched their dance; filled bravado became more balletic-hands held in por de bras, toes pointed on the end of an outstretched leg. In the left hand remained the frock. From it was pulled a long sharp nevaja, a sword long enough for killing, but not an animal of this size. The matadors waved their frocks in the face of the creature again; lunging and pleyaying, giving some kind of artistry to the macabre dance that would signify the end of the animal’s play time. As animal and matadors fell into a routine, the men in pink came out of nowhere, holding 2 giant party favors. As the men in red distracted the beast again, the men in pink stabbed the animal in the back with the party favors.

Now the bull lashed and bucked, tossed, trying to dislodge the sharp party favors that hung from the muscular skin right above its vertebrae, and would stay for the rest of its short life.

The crowd is impressed. Shouts of “Ole!!” resonate around the circle, like an audible “wave” that would appear at any sporting event with dignity.

I learned recently that the shout, “Ole” originated from the ancestors of these Andalucía’s- the Arabs that enjoyed the bullfights of old would shout, “Allah!” when they saw something unbelievable. The progress of years and differences of location and dialects have turned Allah into Ole.

All of the party favors (two for each of the men in pink frocks) have found their way into the bull’s massive spine.

The primary matador takes his place in the ring, sword shining, in a stance reflecting conquest-very Spanish, very conquistador.

He comes closer to the animal, which looks tired, and completely defeated, and it seems as if they make a deal-one more go around. The matador holds his red frock out, and Toro, badly bruised, bleeding and exhausted, charges one last time, never touching the matador, and never once looking like we wanted to. I think that is what saddened me the most that the beast was so docile, even in the last seconds of his life. Never once did he appear to want to harm any of the men that taunted and stabbed him.

Towards the end, he collapsed out of exhaustion. All the matadors gathered around him, as he sat, as if in a meadow, staring out, waiting.

The head matador took out a knife, closed in on the animal and plunged it into the beast’s neck, right where the spinal chord attaches itself to the brain stem. The first try was unsuccessful. The beast bucked as the knife was extracted for the second try. The second try was as well unsuccessful, now the audience grew impatient and began to boo, began to encourage the matador to end the beast’s life.

I don’t know if it was out of sympathy or brutality, but I too, wanted it to be over.

The third stab was successful I am sure, as Toro made a curdling sound and a bleat, and then collapse into a death rattle.

The crowd cheered. The matador bowed. The horses came back into the ring and the other matadors attached the bull to the chariot and dragged his dead body around in a circle before leading it outside to the slaughterhouse.

Ole.

perdido

Someone fell into the water tonight. I was at dinner, and afterwards took a walk on the boardwalk with my roommates. All of the sudden I heard a fretful familiar sound-a helicopter, close to the water. I laughed out loud and said “Very American.” I hadn’t heard a helicopter or a plane overhead in over a month.

We walked further down the boardwalk and heard an ambulance siren just behind us gathering momentum. As commonplace as these sounds are to me when I am home, here in Spain, especially in Malaga, where the town exists around the water, and where crime is something that you watch on noticias, the sounds scared me. They were unnerving. I wasn’t the only one. Around this time the beach is crawling with children, families eating, selling their wares, young people falling in love. Old ladies started to look around, counting family members. Mothers began collecting children into strollers. Men rolled up their sleeves as if there was work to do.

We walked on a little further and saw the men from the ambulance prepped to set up triage on the sand. The helicopter came closer to the water, shining a giant strobe light onto the water. People began to talk- a student, someone young-was missing.

A crowd started to gather at the ocean’s edge. People settled around the site in groups. Women crossed themselves. For the first time in over a month, I was afraid. The air even changed, it was colder, and it was less forgiving. The warmth that had beckoned me to walk to the night this evening was now intolerant, unindulgent. There was no benevolence behind the sound of spray that once seemed like melodious wedding song, now the trembling of ocean reaching sand and crashing against rocks resonated a funeral march, or at the very least, a pentatonic processional on the verge of a direful denouement, a bleak tragedy whose cacophonous soundtrack is also the culprit.

My love, the sea, had killed someone.

Here in Malaga, a life was gone.

The unsettling electricity of the boardwalk concentrated its efforts on prayer for the lost child. This gave me hope, although my feelings were not shared by the experienced rescue workers, or by the shrewd fisherman, who stood by their boats docked on the sand with knowing somber faces, as they remarked to one another and shook their heads-not a callous gesture, but as recognition. They knew whom this lost child was up against. They had known this sea all their life. And they knew what the outcome would be, regardless of the tears shed or the prayers shouted.

With every fiber in my soul I wanted to shout something. My insides were screaming-“THERE MUST BE SOMETHING! ANYTHING!” common sense and fear of being arrested prevailed, and I stood there silent, with a look of utter disbelief on my face.

How could the sea do this? Here, in Malaga, where everything is beautiful?

I looked around in part to psychically bolster some kind of support from the other onlookers. All the youth seemed just as touched as I, but they dared not say a word. The older people looked on towards the sea, stoic and stern, some holding their loved ones, some holding crucifixes. They had a look of knowing of their faces, much like the fisherman, but less homage and more placid. They, too, know this sea. Much like the fisherman.

It is more that the residents understand, however. Here in nirvana, as only a traveler, one forgets what it is to belong to a paradise. Not just holiday here, and partake of the wares of traveling salesman, or sample the fish from the men who board those ships, but to live here, to exist here along side the sea. She is an overwhelming force, of beauty and sheer savagery, and with all paradises, her beauty is only matched by her brutality.

Beauty takes as much from you as she gives to you.

That is what I saw on the looks of the people who stared into the sea as the helpers tried in vain to find the lost child. I saw this in their faces because they have seen this before, and they knew…

The child was never found, the student. The search was abandoned, and last I heard, arrangements were being made to have a service by the sea.

la vida

I pray you can forgive me. I have neglected you. It was not my intention, as doing harm seldom is. I have been so busy these past couple of days that I just realized that I haven’t been blogging on you. I do apologize.

This morning I found out I have a test tomorrow on future and conditional conjugation, as well as pronoun usage. I had to run to the groceria to pick up some fresh pulpo to make my paella for my roommates this evening. As well, I went to a spinning class at a gym around the corner from Mercadona (my new absolutely favorite supermarket-Fairway has nothing on you!) I figured I’m pretty comfortable and all being corpulent, however, I don’t want to overdo it, and the wine I purchased from Paulo, the nice man at the supermarket is a sweeter version of tempranillo, and goes good with desserts, too, believe it or not.

Aga, my youngest, Polish roommate is back on good terms with her boyfriend. They were skyping this afternoon as we all sat around the flat in our underwear studying and listening to Nelly Furtado (whose Spanish album is pretty awesome). She stared into the computer as if her next breath came from the screen. If there had been an earthquake and we had to evacuate, she would have died, sitting there on her laptop, and she would have died happy.

I saw him on the screen. He’s a cute kid. They make puppy faces at eachother and have Polish nicknames that I cannot pronounce (one new language at a time). She told me this evening as we were chopping onions for paella that she saw a nice guy from her class on the beach and he wanted to come to dinner but she didn’t invite him, she was afraid Arthur (boyfriend) wouldn’t approve, even though she wouldn’t even think of doing something. Part of me wanted to rant and rave, but I didn’t, because I knew where she was coming from. When you love someone that much, you cant even imagine touching another man. You don’t even dream of anyone else. And if you do, you wake up and apologize. I was extra proud of us, as we had this conversation in Spanish.

Frederique, my other Dutch roommate, sauntered into the flat after boxing class while we were cutting up onions. She’s having problems fending off all the beach bound Spaniards, as she is 5’8, blond, slim, young, and beautiful. Her voice is deep and sexy; her English has a serious, almost German drawl, and smiles like a young girl eating ice cream. I imagine she is hard to resist for most men. She came in to tell us that she was going to be late for dinner, as she was meeting some Spanish girls at Bar Centro for conversation. It’s a class that we attend sometimes now. Girls from Malaga show up because they want to learn English and speak it, we show up because we want to learn Spanish and speak it. It’s fun, actually. Last week we met some fun girls who went out with us to a disco called “ANDEN”. Spanish people will dance until at least 5 in the morning.

I rushed out to the beach while the paella was cooking (it takes a while) to catch the sun dropping. It doesn’t actually set until around 10:30, but around 9:45, it drops a bit. Its balmy extension settles down and prepares for twilight, like a graceful body ready for aging. I paused there for a moment with my camera, trying to get some nice pics, like I normally try to do, but always end up doing something else-last week I ran into Janina, one of the girls who works at Malaga Si, who is pretty, tall, and sweet and whose laugh makes me feel like I’m eating comfort food. Yesterday when I was walking on the sand trying to find the perfect picture (I needed a break from all the conjugation) I was stopped by two boys I met on the beach during my first week here. They grew up in Bulgaria, but look straight up like they came from the jungles of Nicaragua. They are about 14, 15, and bound about on the beach, sometimes on skateboards, at others on bikes. They throw sand at each other and ask me for Euros to buy ice cream. They remind me of my students back home and I am sure are well aware of the fact that I am completely in love with them. Now, as opposed to our initial meetings, when we see each other, we quip each other in Spanish.

I missed my pictures today as well; I stopped by the beach and saw my friend the weed man. I patronized his wares and sat by a palm tree listening to some young men talk about the chicas.

“Ola, chicas.”

“Que t’al, chicas.”

“Mira, chica, que guapa.”

It seems everywhere the boys here love the chicas. I suppose that is what life is like all over.

It is what it is. Esto es.

Life. That is why I have been so busy not blogging. I forgot, because of my intention with the blog, to stop observing and live. This evening, after visiting my old friend ocean and coming back to my flat, and watching Aga coo and giggle into a computer screen, I was confounded by the fervid truth that life is current, and all consuming, and wonderful. We live it most when we don’t try to compartmentalize a moment into a giant magic supernova and just let it unfold, like tide, ebbing and flowing around us.

Life is what happens, when we are busy making other plans-John Lennon.

That is what is happening now, and I suppose always has been, but now that I have found a niche here, a routine, almost, it seems effortless. And wonderful.

Life. It goes on. Thank God. And it is beautiful.

por el cine

On Sunday, my roommates and I went to the cinema because we felt like our Spanish was good enough, after a certain amount of time here, to be like the rest of the people in Spain and do what people do.

There is a cool cheap oldies cinema on the other side of town that plays movies for almost nothing. It reminded me of the old cinema on 42^nd street that played $2 movies back when I was in high school. I write, “Back when I was in high school” because it occurred to me this morning that my roommate was morn when I entered high school. I am old.

We went into the theater and saw Volver, a great movie starring Penelope Cruz, who is now married to Javier Vardem and is Spanish royalty. As soon as the movie got started, I realized that I have no idea what the hell was going on in the film. Not because it was a bad film-on the contrary it was wonderful. But my Spanish is still so bad I could really only understand when Penelope wanted to use the bathroom and when an extra asked her what time it was. I was completely lost.

My roommates shared my sentiment, so we decided to rent and American movie with subtitles. Frederique, my Dutch roommate picked out The Perfect Man, a movie starring Hillary Duff and Heather Locklear, and Big from Sex and the City.

This was much easier. We were able to read the subtitles, and felt much more confident in understanding what was going on.

The only thing was, this was the worst movie I have ever seen in my life. Hillary Duff is an absolutely awful actress. I had no idea she as so bad. The movies was an exercise in torture. I feel like Guantanamo Bay has nothing on this bitch. Why is it that she allowed to make films? I had no idea such things were going on in America.

The movie was about a girl who wanted her single mom to meet “the perfect man”-of course, as my roommates would say, it was a very American film. It starts out genial; there is a minimal amount of drama, and then alls well that ends well. I couldn’t wait for the end. If it weren’t for the constant reading of the subtitles, I probably would have stabbed myself in the eyes.

The funny thing is, I had to come all the way to Spain to find this out. I would have never seen this film under any other circumstance, and I actually thought, “hey-it cant be that bad.” It was.

Heather Locklear has had WAY too much work done as well. I don’t know why, but she looks like some kind of wolverine. Now I sound so American, because I sound like a movie critic.

My roommates tell me that that is extremely American as well-judging things in a negative light. I must say they are right. I realized, being here, that I am much more negative than I need to be. Maybe they’re right. Maybe that is an American trait.

What can I say; at least I’m not French.

Tomorrow we’re going to rent a Brittany Murphy movie. I figure. I figure we’ll keep the bad movie theme going.

por la playa

This weekend I went to Terramolinos, a sleepy beach coastal town about 30 kilometers from Malaga. I am noticing that the Meditteranean looks different wherever you go.

The beach at this place was stunning. Not to say that the beach at Malaga isn’t-it is absolutely gorgeous-but this place, it was new, it was sleepy, seductive, and calm. I sat on the beach with my flat mates and sunbathed naked. I had tapas at a restaurant so close to the water that the spray danced at our feet as we ate. The water was a deep European blue, the Iberian version of the tropics.

As I walked along the boardwalk and watched the people going about their business (I like to people watch in Europe) I thought to myself, “ I could do this, I could live here.” As soon as I thought it I felt a pang of guilt in my stomach, as if I were betraying my New York. But it wasn’t that at all. Living in one city your whole life you feel that there is nothing else for you anywhere, but now, being here, experiencing all this place has to offer, I feel like my world is getting bigger, and consequently, almost obligatorily, my world back home is getting smaller.

I don’t know why the beach has always called to me. The water here beckons so sweetly, as if it knows you, and wants to know more. Terramolinos has the allure of a place that people who have been hurt would regard as sanctuary, those with broken hearts would deem therapy, and those with broken lives would look to as renovation. Spain’s south coast with all its sand and sea and naked women and guitar players serenading passers by for spare Euros is not at all cliché, or superficial-it’s deep, unending, dirty even. Real. Visceral. Seductive. Erotic.

I watched my flat mates absorb our surroundings in the same way; the looks of partial awe and enticement visible in their young supple faces. I watched my roommate, Agnuiska, especially. She is young and pretty and she is from Poland and there is a boyfriend back home whom she loves more than the waking world. She glows when she speaks of him, so much so that I can tell the moments when she thinks of him, as the same light emanates through her pellucid, blue eyes.

They fought yesterday morning, the same fight that most young lovers have at this point in life, when the love is new and real, when it is no longer high school flirting or sex in a car that you borrowed on a Friday night. It burns with the intensity of that original love, that they will always compare her future loves to. The first responsible love, replete with birth control pills and sleep over’s that parents know about. The love that makes you a grown up.

I watched this little woman child stare out at the water with an esoteric intensity, as if she were sending something across that water, to someone, just one, in particular. Here, in Terramolinos, the sea is celestial, and obliging.

I smiled to myself, and walked on ahead, leaving her to her moment, and I collected the smooth, pretty stones I saw on the coastline.

It seems that somewhere, always, there is someone nursing a broken heart. At that moment, I was glad it wasn’t me. But I paused, brought myself closer to the shore, and looked out at the horizon, at my old friend, carrying the message on her deep cerulean flourish of foam and surf, and I remember, and wonder to myself, if the lover on the other side ever really gets the message.

spanish food

I am fat. I have gained at least 10 lbs since landing in Spain. I don’t know if the airline will let me fly in one seat when I go back.

I spend my time in this wonderful city eating and sleeping on the beach. Today, for example, for breakfast, I had a fresh baked croissant that dripped of melted cheese and a café con leche. Then for lunch, I had tapas, gambas y calamaritos with a glass of the world’s greatest tempranillo. For dinner, I had paella that dripped with crawfish so big, it made me choke. It was wonderful.

Also, I am realizing that the Spanish don’t really believe in vegetables.

For example, 2 days ago I went to dinner with my roommate, a beautiful young Polish girl who is absolutely my favorite, and I ordered some dish that I didn’t know. Turns out, the dish was deep fried pork wrapped in bacon, served with a side of steak. For the vegetables, I got fried bread loaded with butter. It was so good I almost cried. My heart coughed.

Because of all this, none of my clothes fit. They don’t altogether tear when I put them on, but I do look really Dominican in them now.

I eat caviar like elephants eat peanuts. I liken myself to an elephant now.

The other day I walked by a matador den and the bulls thought I was a cow. It didn’t help that as I walked by I was eating ice cream.

The food here is like a drug. You can literally get addicted, and your body metaphorically can represent your bank account and dignity. You start using a little, then a lot, then all day, then at night it beckons you and one day you look in the mirror and you don’t recognize yourself.

El Palo, where I am staying, is a beach town. Fishermen line the sand catching fresh prizes to be deep-fried or pan seared for your enjoyment. The paella is like some kind of pornographic mélange of happiness with rice.

In Spain, you typically have 4 meals: desayuno, almuerzo, comida, y cenar. Breakfast, brunch, lunch, and dinner. Not to mention, helado, ice cream. And you must have the ice cream! It is sumptuous. Tarron (my favorite flavor) is like chocolate and pralines and cream together. None of this should be legal, it is so good.

There are calamaritos; little calamaries who still have eyes when they are deep-fried. They are so cute. They look at me with their big sea eyes and plead, “please don’t eat us, fat black woman!?” they remind me of the sheep on the Simpsons episode when Lisa decided to become a vegetarian. They are adorable. And delicious.
Caviar grows on trees here. Fish are literally in the street selling their egg babies the way Mexicans are at home selling everything. A fish flopped up to me yesterday with a handful of her egg babies and told me, “Look, just take them, please. I’ve got to get back to the water and make more.”

They were delicious. I put caviar on everything now. When I was in New York I used hummus to dress my turkey and cheese sandwiches. Now I use caviar. Sometimes, I put it in my orange juice for breakfast. In a grind, I find I can get through the day if I just dab a little behind my ears.

My body is feeling the effects of such an incredible and wonderful and ridiculous diet. I jiggle now. And I don’t mean 2-in-a-room-wiggle-it-just-a-little-bit-jiggle, I mean full on, I walk and as my foot hits the pavement, there are reverberations felt by my meaty backside and my ample cheechos that have taken up residence next to my ribcage. My breasts have even gotten bigger.

To work off this newfound weight, I have a great pastime- sitting on the beach. I eat, go to class, and then bake in the sun. Sometimes I will dip in the Mediterranean, then go sit back on the sand (topless-it’s totally cool out here. There are droves of naked FAMILIES). Then I eat some more and go back in the water. Sometimes I like to switch it up- I will eat in the water or on the sand. It’s all very confusing sometimes.

I am as black as the night sky. My skin looks like that of a woman trapped in a dessert without clothes. I notice I am getting much darker than when I came, because my new Danish roommate (she is the whitest woman in the world) keeps staring at me, and touching my skin every chance she gets. The Polish children at school stand close to me sometimes, because I think that they think I am the sun. I am that black. I literally give off heat.

I sat with myself in the mirror tonight and gave myself the naked once over. Yes. I am definitely fat. My booty is much more ample, my pouch more pronounced, my breasts more dense and heavy, my thighs more roomy and soft. And my skin looks as if I were just dipped in boscoe. I like it a little. I look like a full-grown woman. And I feel good. I like to sleep on the beach, fingers smelling of ripe, newly eaten shrimp wrapped in the freshest tasting bacon, with a glass of tempranillo at my side, my book splayed across my naked chest. Much more fun than running 5k everyday.

I know I’m big. But I don’t care, at least for the moment. I am happy. I am comfortable with how I look, and what I am doing here, and who I am, and most importantly, who I am becoming. I haven’t been this happy in a long time.

Enough typing. I’m gonna go get me some ice cream.

gibraltar by monkey

Ok, i have no fucking idea how to upload a video, so i uploaded it on youtube.

this is hilarious. there is no way i can write about this. you must just see it.

vale

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u9xOceDtKvQ

si

past tense

In the Spanish language, there are tenses for everything. When learning the language, us laymen are introduced to 2 new tenses: preterito indefinido y imperfecto.

The verbs change in past tense. It’s hard to recognize, when you hear them, what they even really are, unless you are familiar with the tense.

In English, we have tenses as well, but English, being the slutted out, bastardized language it is, we don’t really use all of the tenses properly, unless you teach grammar, and then, if you teach public school in New York City, none of that shit like grammar or really speaking a language properly matters too much anyway. It’s very different to acquiesce these tenses if you aren’t used to them. It’s hard to hear them when someone is speaking. It’s complex to understand when they are put before you on paper, on an assignment… so on.

The subject of past tense is daunting, because it is new, but it is old. It is a more complex way to speak about the past. In English, the past is always the past. You look around the corner and there it is, staring you in the face, reminding you of all your past failures, and past lessons you should have learned from, but didn’t. In English, you are afraid that you will be doomed to repeat your past.

In Spanish, the past is current. It’s all the more difficult, because it doesn’t exist-you have to make it, out of whatever insight you still have in your arsenal. It happens every second you are here, alive and willing to build upon the life you have been given, and the opportunities that God has afforded you. You never thought you could do this. You have always been scared, but now…

You have never had this past before, and this tense (tenses) scare you, because you have nothing to relate it to, but that can be good, because new means you haven’t messed it up yet.

Past tense is hard. There are rules you have to remember, and words you shouldn’t say. There are exceptions to rules and obligations to the tense you must heed if you want anyone to really understand you. It’s difficult, but not impossible. Difficult to float back between the 2 and understand when there is a time to use one, and then the other. Difficult to remember that if you mean 1 and use the other, your words will be lost, and you could suffer the consequences.

I marvel at the subject of the past; and the category of the tenses: imprefectivo and indefinido.

Indefinido is used when you tell facts, when the truth is needed to describe the past, when there is no room for conjecture or politics, just facts, like:

You were born. You lived. You died.

The two of you were together. It fell apart. You parted.

I find it ironic that this cold and withholding rule for the past would be called indefinido. This is the most outright view of the past that anyone can have. This is the view that makes you lie awake in bed sometimes and realize that you messed up. There is no sugar coating it, it is there in black and white, and all you can do let it go and move on.

Which brings you to the imperfect.

You use imperfectivo to express a feeling you had, something connected with time that hasn’t finished. This is the tense that links you to the past, that doesn’t let you go. These are the words you use when you speak of something that isn’t done. It is the past that is the present. It is the before that brings you to the now, and leads you into the hereafter, and makes you wonder what you are here after. I love that it’s called imperfect. I suppose that’s subjective, but who am I but just a laymen with an imperfect past, studying a language…

Africa in 2nd person

Your school is sending you on a tour of Morocco. You have paid $230.00 (185 euro). You are very excited because you have never been there. You think it is a dream, because the trip is all inclusive and you cant wait to step foot in Africa. You think of what you will do and see, and try to temper your personality so you don’t get arrested and sent to an Arab prison to be circumcised.

You wake up early on Friday and attend Spanish class with ants in your pants, even though you didn’t sleep the previous night because the Spanish people in the town wanted to pay homage to some virgin named Carmen. You find it ironic that the celebration would start at 3 am if she were a virgin, as most goings on at 3 in the morning usually has to do with what virgins don’t do. You think for a moment that the best way to celebrate virginity is to lose it.

It’s 3pm. You go to the bar where the bus will take you to the barge to Morocco (yes, the bar). You drink a beer with a nice Spanish guy whose name you don’t know because he has no teeth and pronouncing his name properly requires some. Your Heineken is only $2. The bus comes and you realize you are the only person from your school going to Africa. You don’t care because you want to go so bad you can taste it, and no one is going to discourage you against it, especially not the overweight Swiss woman and her half retarded fat daughter who have gotten on the bus and sit in front of you and have gas from the 6 pounds of chocolate and cheese that they have ingested right before they were raised onto the bus via crane. You try to nap, but you cant, because you are beside yourself with anticipation and the beer you just drank is really strong as alcohol here by volume is more potent than in America (note to self, move to Europe).

The bus takes you along the Spanish coast, a little bit past Cadiz, which is the southern point of Spain, close to Gibraltar where the boat will meet you. You watch the mountains all but unfold in the distance. The rolling hills flit for you from outside your window. You watch the ocean get smaller as the highway continues into a valley, but you do not fret because you know you will see it again, but next time you will be staring at it from the other side, from the African side. You wonder if your ancestors are watching you, and if they are proud…

You get off the bus with about 50 other people from different language schools around Malaga. You are a bit frightened, because you realize you know none of these people and they are all white and you feel like you are back in 8^th grade again. Then you see a black girl, but she is the kind of black girl who would never talk to you because she is too busy trying to be white and you listen to her while she says things like, “ya, totally” and “like Oh My God” and you realize you are in 8^th grade again, staring at a fatter version of yourself.

You give the guide your passport. There is a pang of apprehension that hits you in the base of your spine because you don’t like parting with your passport. You appease yourself by saying that if anything happens, you will be beat the living shit out of the man who just took your passport, as he is about 52 years old and walks with a slight limp. This makes you feel better.

There are many women on this trip, and young white girls who wear nothing and you are frightened that all of you are going to be kidnapped and sold to a harem for 30 camels, and then you try to remove that thought from your vast arsenal of depraved thoughts (as there is no more room in there) because you don’t want any bad thoughts about Africa to soil your journey. Besides, you surmise because you are going to Africa and there will be black men there, no one is going to want you anyway. Only the white girls must worry.

The ship is very spacious and much more beautiful than you thought. It looks like the boat you spent your prom on, but now you can enjoy it because you aren’t so high you want to eat your shoes like the night of your prom. You walk over to the window to see the boat disembark and realize that all the men and women are not sitting together, even the married couples. This gives you pause, because you and a couple of other foreigners are sitting on the men side. Some of the men are cute so instead of heeding your pause you sit down. Being around men makes you feel endangered and safe and invigorated at the same time, and you realize that you may be a bit of a tart.

You ask your guide in Spanish if there is food on the boat because you are hungry and lately you have been feeling confident in your Spanish. He answers you in a long drawn out, arduous way that you don’t understand and realize you have a lot left to learn. You follow the crowd of people who are hungry like you to a deck on the ship that serves sandwiches. You order your sandwich in Spanish (bocadillo) because you aren’t a quitter and the lady answers you quickly, but intelligibly and you feel good about the language again. You take your bocadillo y papitas y bebida back to your silla para comer tu almuerzo. The sandwich is nasty but you don’t care because the whole time you are enamored with the panoramic view of the Mediterranean that has you thinking of the dark ages, and you realize these are the same seas the Moors crossed in boats no bigger than cars, and you imagine how strong and brave they were, and how lucky the Spanish were to call them descendants.

The ship rocks, sways to a music that is lulled secretly by this water that scares you a little, because it is so old, so sacred, so knowing. The boat shakes, complying with the symphonic bellow that serenades it closer and closer to the coast of the beginning of all things. As a dance partner yields to its lead. You watch the border appear, at first nebulous amidst the crowded shoreline and then distinct, famous, as if it were waiting for you all along and you wonder how anyone can live without Africa.

The boat embarks; the women grab their children and luggage and line up at the door. You are still looking out the window, until you notice the tall, café ole man in the tight Portugal football jersey in the reflection of the window, get up and stretch. You turn to see him, arms intense in flexion above his head, jersey lifted slightly by the action, stomach exposed to reveal the swirls of tough hair leading upward to a firm ample chest, and downward to a firm, ample….You realize you are staring, he does too, but he doesn’t stop. He just looks back at you, and you look away. Maybe you aren’t a tart. Perhaps a strumpet. He puts his arms down and leans over to the seat next to him. You don’t see what he does next as you are shamed so you grab your bag and beeline for the exit in the hopes never to see Portugal jersey again, except maybe, in your nightly fantasies (note to self, buy more AA batteries).

You are in the port of Morocco and you follow the tour guide to a bus. During the walk you are accosted by women selling trinkets and men selling bracelets who tell you how pretty you are and how much you need to buy their wares. You are a New Yorker so no one can pull that shit on you….or so you think.

You get on the bus and get to the border and your passport is given back to you by the guide. You smile and thank him and are relieved that you don’t have to beat an old man with a sneaker like you thought you might have to in the beginning of the excursion.

You sit on another bus, this one is less comfortable and the fat Swiss have been replaced by UBER blond Danes, who are very happy to be here and are so blond they look like electrolysis. You wonder for a minute how it is that they tan so well.

A police officer named Tariq who is gorgeous and dour gets on the bus and you are instructed again to take out your passport. You don’t mind showing Tariq your passport because he looks like a taller version of that actor from the Kite Runner and his body is tanned and buffed and his shirt is a little tight, so you cross your legs and lick your lips and arch your back and smile when he comes to your seat and say to him “S’alaam Alekum” and he replies “W’alakum S’alaam” and then you know you are a tart. You wonder if being traded to a man who looked like Tariq for 30 camels would really be that bad.

Tariq gets off the bus and you are sad. He then tells the guide in his most serious (and sexy) broken Spanish that under no circumstances are pictures or cameras allowed at this part of the border. You shutter a little, and say, “ooh” softly because you’re a little afraid of what Tariq would do. Then you remember that episode of “Locked Up Abroad” and think about how much you enjoy having a clitoris and close your mouth and look down until you cross the border.

You are in Morocco on the other side of the large, ominous Iron Gate that separates Spanish Africa from Arab Africa. You still can’t take pictures. Your tour guide has a friend, another guide who will be responsible for taking you around the different cities of Tangiers, Marrakesh and some other city that sounds like chiti chiti bang bang. The guide says his name but no one can pronounce it because the first part is Abdul and then the rest sounds like he is clearing his throat to cough so he tells everyone to call him Michael Douglas. The group laughs because that’s what stupid American and European foreigners do, because anytime someone is self-deprecating, (especially Americans) it is always thought that they are harmless, and how do you not trust a harmless clown? All would later learn how stupid that assumption is.

Michael Douglas informs the bus group that pictures aren’t allowed, again. Some of us don’t listen, and Tariq gets back on the bus. For a moment, you want to take out your camera and get arrested. My brain sends a message of urgency to your nether region, and your hands stay where they are instead of reaching in your bag for the camera.

Michael Douglas makes nice and tells jokes. The bus is on its way to the hotel. He explains that Morocco has 4 “jewel” cities that comprise the holy crown, Marrakesh Pez, and two others you cannot pronounce. He says that the king of Morocco is a wonderful man that apparently everyone loves and regards as great. But you know too much about like in the far eastern world to know that this isn’t true.

Besides, no king is truly all-beloved in life, even the good ones.

You arrive at the hotel that is right off of the freeway. You are hungry, and thankful that the trip went off with no major injuries. When the bus parks, you notice that there are no cars in the parking lot. The young Danes and young German girls get off first. They wear almost no clothes and cant be more that 20. They smoke cigarettes and laugh because they want to bring attention to themselves. You notice 20 minutes later that there are 5 more cars in the parking lot, filled with men. Michael Douglas gets out and says something to one of them. You notice that Arabic is an aggressive language, and you can tell right away from the gist of the conversation, that the group was not to be fucked with, and are the property of Michael Douglas. This makes you feel safe, only for a while.

You are brought to a dining hall after you finish getting your room (which you share with Marta from Bulgaria and Alex from Switzerland. Alex is so sweet she reminds you of your inherent desire to become a mother). The dining hall resembles a cheap remake of the Casbah Hotel from some fucked up exhibit in Las Vegas. You sit down and smile because you don’t want to be construed as an ABW. The waiter informs the part that although you paid for an all-inclusive stay, the water in Morocco is bad so you must pay for everything you drink. You think, wow. You order water and pay $3 (2 Euros) for it. It tastes like sulfur. You say nothing. The waiter comes out with a large bowl and ladles into your bowl something that looks like pumpkin soup but tastes like water. You imagine 3 days ago it must have tasted good. You look at the others dining with you and realize it’s not just you. You ask for salt and the waiter spews curses in Arabic before saying in Spanish, “right away!”. There are two women waiters who work freely, and are not covered. You watch as they prepare a beautiful buffet, complete with rice, couscous, eggs, and other things that you would love to eat. Just as your mouth begins to visibly water, the waiter who cursed you and charged you for water brings out plates of stale French fries and noodles boiled sometime in the 19^th century. You try not to smell the fragrant aroma wafting over to you from the buffet, taunting you slowly; as you are sure commercials for babies in diapers taunt R Kelly. You watch as the men who are staying in the hotel (the only women to be found are the two waitresses and the other naked Europeans on your tour bus) walk up to the sumptuous buffet and partake in its abundances. You ask for another water to wash down French fries that taste like Metamucil.

Dinner has ended, not because people were done, but because the waiters have come and snatched away everyone plates. You are given some kind of fruit for desert and a hot tea that is specifically brewed to give you diabetes. You miss Spain. You try to force that thought out of your head because you are in Africa and you don’t mean to be disrespectful to the place you love so much yet know almost nothing about.

You retreat out to the garden, where the bus let you off, and you see that there are about 4 more carfuls of men, looming in the dust. The scene looks like the ending of I Am Legend, when the rabid people were trying to break into Will Smith’s sealed lab. You are reminded what a commodity it is to be a white woman. Michael Douglas comes out of the hotel and tells everyone that they should all go to sleep, as there is a long day ahead tomorrow.

Go up to the room. Sleep. There is nothing else to do because the car fulls of men are not there for you, and even if they were, you are property of Michael Douglas this weekend, whatever the fuck that means. You should sleep anyway, you are tired, and the only English Channel on the TV is playing that stupid horror movie Black Christmas. Half naked teenagers get hacked to death by some inbred psycho in a Santa hat. You wonder how Blacks had anything to do with it.

The next morning. The call from the front desk comes to the room around 7:30 am telling you to get up and come down to eat breakfast. You are tired, but rested because the bed in the strange hotel is very comfortable. You woke in the early dawn briefly, listening to the Imam call the people to prayer. Africa is endeared to you again.

You and Alex and Marta go down to breakfast, laughing about the stupid film on Arab television. Alex has a beautiful smile. She is 19 and loves school and talks about her dad as if he were a superhero. She reminds you a little of you, if only things would have been different. You think briefly about how important it is to choose a sufficient mate for making children, as all children should think of their fathers like this, for at least a little while, even if it ends up becoming like how it was with you…

Breakfast is better than the disastrous dinner. There are crepes and yogurt and kool aid so sweet you believe they imported it from the projects back home. You pay for some water you share with Alex to dilute the kool aid. She eats and is happy, and you look at her smile and think that nothing could ever be wrong in the whole world. When you get home, you wonder how long before God sends you someone so you can breed. The bus is packed, it seems, more than yesterday, and you just realize it’s because those corpulent Swiss bitches just ate breakfasts (yes. More than one.) and now the bus has less room. You opt to sit in the back, as do the Danes, and realize as the trip gets underway that you really don’t like people sometimes.

The Flag of Morocco is bright red, with a green Star of David in the center. The flag is everywhere in the country. You see it waving as you stare out into the dessert from inside a crowded foreign bus. You are in the back, so you are sitting right under the speaker, which is awful, because Michael Douglas is a basso profundo. He also likes the sound of his voice and explains everything in English and Spanish. You are grateful because your Spanish is not great, but sad because he is mutilating English. You realize this is how your Latin friends feel when you try to speak to them in Spanish. The bus stops in Marrakesh, and you get off, in front of a cambio, to exchange your Euros for dirhams, the official currency of Arabic Africa. As soon as you get off the bus you want to walk barefoot on the ground to feel Africa against your skin. You want to kiss the ground and put your whole body against it. The sun is warm and you want to lie on the pavement and and let it bronze you here as you have invited to on the other continents. You look around at the men at the teahouses staring at you in complete disapproval. You grab your sarong and wrap it around your shorts. You feel better, and the disapproval looks are shifted to the half naked young. You watch the Swiss women eat something out of their purses. You let out an audible “ewww”.

The group is on line at cambio so you saunter in the middle of the square and take pictures. There are 4 Arab women sitting under a tree by the post office, you take their picture. They curse you in Arabic. You realize that Arabic is the perfect language for cursing. Everything you say in it sounds bad. You walk up the street, back to the cambio and you see a cop talking to a guard by the post office. He is dark like you, he looks Somali an. He is gorgeous and you smile at him even though you know men aren’t used to forward women in this part of the world. He smiles back and asks you how you are in a deep French droll. You answer in your best 8^th grade French and are now fully aware of the palpable wetness that has collected in the crease of your jean shorts. You are afraid because you are in Arabic Africa and you know it is illegal for women to get wet in this country. You walk quickly, hoping the wind will dry you up. You see the Swiss women standing outside; one has bent over to pick up dropped change. Mission accomplished.

You hand the man behind the counter 30 Euros and you receive 300 dirhams, all with the king’s face on it. You laugh and think he is more like a dictator than a king. Michael Douglas bellows to the group to get in line. Everyone gathers around him and he tells us a story about the original settlers in this part of Morocco and explains that before 1948 there were Jews, Catholics, and Muslims, living together in this “medina”. After, the Jews moved to Israel, the Catholics made their way back to Spain, and the Muslims have stayed. He pointed to a church in our background and told us that it was very old, even though we couldn’t go see it, because we were “late”. Whatever the fuck that entails.

The group walks through a market, replete with fish and dates, and men putting out vegetables to be sold for that day. Michael Douglas explains that this is common because the people of Marrakesh like to do their shopping for food from day to day. There is time for all this, because most of the women do not work. The walk in the market is brief but lively; you pass a vivieron where the chickens are screaming and a fish bucket where the fresh catch is still seizing. The smell reminds you of Santa Cruz, the town down the road from Grandma’s house. You love the market and you smile at the men who sell their wares, whether they think you are an infidel or not. The houses are all connected. The medina looks like one long cave with no roof. As you navigate down the hall you see doors, some opened, some closed. Michael Douglass stops the group when all are outside again and stands in front of a palace. He tells the group not to take pictures until he is finished explaining. There are police officers behind you, so you do what you are told. As he talks you sit down, because by now in the tour you realize he is long winded and LOVES to the sound of his voice, so you know whatever speech he is giving is going to take much longer than it should. You look across the street from the beautiful sprawling palace, past the many flags waving, and see men sitting outside another teahouse. Again there are no women. You wonder where they are, and think to yourself that because it is Saturday they must be taking care of the children. Just as this thought manifests in your brain you look up and see a woman walking behind her husband. She has been beaten to the point where both her eyes are almost swollen shut. You think for a moment, “wow, she doesn’t listen.” You laugh to yourself, and realize the joke is only funny at home, when the realization of such brutality is only close by way of CNN or Lifetime television for women movies of the week. You catch eyes with the women. She looks at you for a millisecond and then her eyes attach themselves to the ground and she walks away, 3 steps behind her husband. You are angry for a moment, with her because she wont fight back, but then you think fighting back is pointless here because the consequence would be worse. You surmise that life may be more precious here for a woman than any other place in the world, because here, by law, your husband is allowed to take it away.

Michael Douglas comes up and asks if you are all right. He tells you that you are his soul sister and he is happy you are on the tour. You don’t have the heart to tell him that you’re not.

Next market place. A woman demonstrates how Arab women wrap themselves for their weddings and adorn their bodies with different scarves. Michael Douglas grabs 3 scantily clad German girls and tells them that they will demonstrate. They don’t object. They laugh. By this time, it is easy to see that the group is definitely being followed by 2 policemen. Neither of them is very attractive. You miss Tariq, and the Moreno who made your shorts wet outside the cambio. You realize it is very warm and you wonder how these women can keep all these clothes on in this heat, when all you want to do is run around in some poom poom shorts and a bikini top all through this medina. You thank God you don’t live in Arab Africa, as you would have surely been killed years ago.

The vendors here speak much Arabic, some French, even less Spanish and almost no English. It is strangely refreshing to be around people who speak no English whose last names don’t end with “ez” or some vowel. The think back to the bodegas around your apartment in NY and now the planet to you seems smaller, less daunting. Then the police pass by the tour group and even Michael Douglas is quiet, and you remember that there are still large, dangerous places in the world.

Michael Douglas takes the group to an obscure mosque that no one is allowed to go inside and explains Ramadan, the fasting, and the eid, the celebration to the group, who by now, are a little edgy and irritated because all he does is talk and we are not allowed to stop anywhere they want. He tells the group because (and I quote) “please for Africa is so dangerous and I would not want you to be hurt so you must just stay with me and I take you I make it ok.” Whatever the fuck that entails.

You realize later how brilliant and diabolical this man is.

The group visits another mosque. This one is run by his friend. The friend opens the door and comes outside with no shoes on. The friend is very attractive, his arms are built, and his facial hair is thick and dark. His lips are ample and he smiles at Michael Douglas, exposing a mouth full of white teeth uncommon in this region of the world. He is not tall but when he walks by you, you realize he is a good height. You face him and greet him and he smiles and looks you up and down slowly. You breathe in his sent as he passes by and realize you are turning into a horny old woman. The group is allowed to take pictures around the mosque but again must not enter unless part of the Muslim faith. No such luck. As an aside, we never brought to a mosque we can enter. We are never brought into any holy place we can enter, or museum we can enter…any place we can enter, until….

Michael Douglas tells the group, sensing their irritation that soon we will be going to a bar where we can take a bathroom break. All are relieved, as the group has been purchasing water all morning to keep from dehydrating. The group goes up into a side shop, with Michael Douglas leading the way, and we are allowed to use the bathroom in a facility that is draped in carpets. Michael Douglas instructs the groups that if they don’t have to use the bathroom they can go sit in the large room next to the bathroom. The group sits. The group is introduced to a man named Mohammed, who tells stories of the young women in Morocco and how they support themselves when their husbands die. They make carpets. Mohammed and his friends, who greet Michael Douglas like he is a conquering king begin to regale the group of such tails like the tale of little Fatima whose whole family was killed in a war outside her village and she and her sister learned to weave carpets to stay alive (I am not making this up). Apparently weaving carpets keeps children alive.

The second story had something to do with a young boy whose mother taught him how to weave carpets because she was afraid he would become a martyr so she wanted to keep him home.

Most carpets and blankets were weaved to tell a story. Some of the stories were beautiful, like the sun and moon story. The blanket is weaved with pictures of the sun on one side and then of the moon on the other. This blanket is a traditional African wedding cloth, and to be put on the wedding bed, signifying the joining of man (sun) and woman (moon).

As Mohammed is saying all of this, his boys in the back are spreading out carpets and blankets. Then the language lesson begins. Mohammed tells the group if they see something they like, they are to answer “daahja” meaning maybe in Arabic. If they don’t like anything, they are to answer, “la” which is no in Arabic. You are so tired that you don’t even remember la. You just keep saying no.

Some people answer “daahja” because some of the blankets are so pretty. When the sun/moon blanket is brought out you say, “yes” because you think of your brother and how beautiful the blanket would look on his marital bed with his pretty young wife. A tall Arab man with no shoes places the blanket next to you. After all the blankets are sent out, you are led to a room where the Arab man promises to give you good price because you are student and number 1 soul sister.

There is much bartering. You buy the blanket for your brother.

You are tired, and Michael Douglas leads you down some stairs and tells you that the exit is outside. There is a shop before the exit with purses and scarves and spices and trinkets that you and the rest of the bus tour find irresistible. This is natural, as your money has been burning a hole in your pocket all day, and Michael Douglas has walked you around all tar nation and all you want to do is buy some souvenirs and this whole time Michael Douglas wouldn’t let you stop anywhere and get anything. Until now. At this place. Where everybody knows his name.

You see a purse that would be perfect for your cousin because her birthday is coming up. A man is a long dress comes up to you and you ask him how much the purse is. He tells you that it is $200 Euros. You almost shit yourself. Then you ask him how much the knife in the case is. He tells you that are $350 Euros. Then he tells you because he likes you he will give you a discount. You want the purse for your cousin, so you barter with him. He tells you the price will be____ and you give him the cash. He brings you to a corner and says, “wait here, give me the $” and takes your $ and your purse. You ask him why he is taking both, and he says because if they see him talking to you they will send him away and hurt his children. You have no idea what he is talking about so you let go.

He comes back with the purse wrapped up and he tells you please don’t tell anyone how much the purse is. He follows you for 4 minutes and asks if you want to buy something else. By this time you don’t because you feel like you have been robbed. Alex comes up to you and asks you how much the purse was. The man comes up to you again and says to tell her that the purse was only $30 Euros. If you say anything else, the owner will send him away and kill his children and you will be responsible for the death of his family. He puts his hands over his mouth and then says, “Please, I don’t want to let them kill my family.” Now you are just disgusted. You leave. As you are waiting outside, you realize the bus group has walked ahead without you. You sit down outside the store and wait for Michael Douglass. One of the Arab men calls you Mama Africa and asks you where you are from. You say NY. They have a cousin studying in NY and they love it very much. They have always wanted to go. They love Black women. They love especially Black women from NY. The one sitting next to him who has been quiet this whole time, says, “Brooklyn” and all the others agree as if that were a sentence. You smile. They tell you how pretty you are and how much they love Brooklyn. Michael Douglass comes out cursing again and they are all quieted almost immediately. You realized that you have just been robbed but you are too tired and hungry to say anything, and besides, there is no one to complain to because you don’t want to be responsible for the death of some non-existent children. You are happy with your purchases anyway, even if you have no more cash.

Michael Douglas brings you to a lunch hall, and you are afraid so you put your wallet in your bra. You sit and eat a lunch of soup water and 4-day-old bread with a shishcabob of 2 pieces of meat (all inclusive). You must pay for the water you need to drink in the oppressive heat. You sit next to a Russian woman who is very nice to you and looks like Miranda from Sex and the City. Her mother is a carpet retailer and she has purchased 5 carpets for an unimaginable price. You chat with her for a painful 8 minutes because her English is horrible but way better than your Russian. Lunch makes you want to kill yourself. You see Alex across the table and she laughs as she is thinking the same thing.

You want to explore the room you are dining in. You walk up the steps and look through other rooms. They are ornately decorated, with shimmering table clothes and chairs adorned with ribbon. The colors are rich golds and deep purples. There are voices coming from the adjoining room. You sneak around the corner in your most silent investigative prowl to see Michael Douglas shaking hands and exchanging an envelope with the shop owner who just robbed all the tourists minutes before. He doesn’t see you until the last moment and calls you sweetly, “my soul sister, come let me take picture with you”. You sit next to him and take a picture, and you feel like the little girl who has walked in on her parents engaging in nefarious things and you have caught them, and this would be the picture that you look at that signifies the end of your innocence.

You get back in the bus. Marrakesh was beautiful and expensive, and corrupt, and you feel stupid. But you don’t regret coming.

The bus goes on down the coast and stops at a small port outside the city of Tangier. The bus is parked on a mountain, as the terrain of North Africa is incredibly mountainous and you are standing over a divine site. To your right, a small Arabic designed villa sits atop a grassy hill, somewhat far back from the lush bluffs that drop sharply into a raging coastline. From the coast scant rocks gather, immobile, and form crests; repose for fitful waves that slap bright sand hard enough to cause wind blown cyclones, whose brief passionate lives are played out in the space of a stanza. They jump and ebb and die and are born again at the tumultuous meeting of sea and earth, the only witness a solitary outpost, an abandoned villa, alone atop a bluff. The circle continues, even when the water is calm. This point, this spot, this meeting place is where the Atlantic and Mediterranean touch, encounter, share, blend, tussle, and divide again. The circle must always continue as the sand must always dance, and as these two lovers will always consummate.

You go inside to get ice cream and the boy behind the counter sees you coming and says something to his friends in Arabic that cause them to laugh. You ask what is so funny but they tell you that they say you are a beautiful woman. You buy an ice cream for 25-what you are not sure so you ask. More laughing. The boy explains that is dirham. More laughing. You give them the money and thank them and call them douche bags.

Michael Douglas must get us back on the bus.

Tangier is a city much dirtier and livelier than the one you just left. From the moment you get off the bus everyone you meet tries to sell you something. You are tickled to learn that they all have American names.

Bob wants you to buy a bracelet.

Mickey Mouse wants to sell you a picture frame.

Hollywood needs you to buy his colored beads.

Operation Freedom is trying to sell you some rings.

Michael Douglas takes the group to a small inlet just outside of the city to use the bathroom again. You wont go, as you are afraid for your wallet and the countless children that may be killed if you do. There is a man outside giving camel rides. You look around to see almost all of the young girls riding camels. They look to be enjoying themselves. The old man is happy as well, for he is charging $1 euro a ride. Everyone seems to be smiling except the camels. Your heart goes out to them and you walk up to one and pet him. He lets you. He rubs himself against you and you figure, hey, this will tide you over for another couple of months. You don’t realize how good your sugar is, as he believes you are his mate for life. The camel begins to follow you around the promenade. You stop and pet it some more, and now apparently he really likes you and wants to lock it down because he begins to nibble at you with large camel lips and for a moment you know what Beyonce must go through every night, and so you smile and pet him some more. Camels really smell. You walk away, but the camel doesn’t want to let the love of a good woman go so he makes a noise and bites the back of your bra and whirls you around to the other side of his trunk. The owner pries his mouth from your body and apologizes as he leads the camel away. You ask the camel to call you. You know he won’t. Bastard.

Towards the end of the bathroom break, the man giving the rides asks you if you want to ride your ex boyfriend. You explain that you have no $$ but he says you can go for free. Maybe the camel really does love you.

You get on the camel. You ride the camel. It’s nice.

The bus is hot and you get on and thank God you aren’t the seat that must hold one of those fat Swiss bitches and write a small note to yourself to go running when you get back to Spain as you have been eating like a stuck pig lately and don’t want to end up looking like one of the bloated Van Trapp family you see beached before you in a bus seat.

The bus pulls up to a market in Tangier. The police who were following us before are no longer subtle; when the bus doors open they are waiting, and even help us depart from the bus.

Michael Douglas greets the group and tells all there will be tiempo libre (free time) for the next hour. You surmise he must go meet with the cops and pay them off. You are relieved to get rid of him and you look around this city that looks completely untouched by tourism, gentrification, or any kind of department of sanitation. It’s still warm, and the sand kicked up by the bustling people competes with scalding oxygen for space in your lungs. You cough a lot, but you are excited because the asphyxiation in your body makes you feel alive. A French man comes up to you and asks you if you want to have a drink with him. He attractive, but older, and you really aren’t trying to relive the last chapters of Eat Pray Love so you decline. In a shop you happen upon, the knife you saw at the carpet place is sitting in the window. You go in and talk to a man and buy the knife for a minute fraction of the price from the rape place. You feel a little better.

There is a leather wares store up the block in front of a group of apartments and a garden where Arab boys play soccer and listen to Muslim rap. Their angst is wholly familiar, brazen with a pubescent swagger and a youthful glow that make their soft, dark, emaciated bodies beautiful, but the bravado is tempered with an awareness of women, a curiosity that almost translates into respect, because to them women are so unknown, because in this land women are kept so separated. They are different from American ghetto youth in that aspect, but beguiling all the same.

Into the shop to purchase more wares. Now you felt really American. You surmise from the proximity and the constant soccer traffic in and out of the store that your purchases will support the family of the soccer players. Either that or terrorism.

There is an African who vies for your attention as you walk through other shops. He stops you after many attempts and gives you a flower. He says it’s an African violet. You have been gamed too much today to believe him, but the flower is purple, and you remember that it pisses God off if you walk by the color purple and don’t acknowledge its beauty. You talk with the African man, and walk with him a little. You practice your French, he practices his English. His smile is bright because his teeth are perfect and his skin is extra dark and smooth. His eyes are the color of his skin and they look deep into you and make you feel revealed and wanted. He is tall, and smells like coffee. He is clean-shaven but the hair on his head is unkempt. He touches your hair and now your shorts are soaked and your heart is hurting. There is no other place in this world you want to be and you thank God for Africa. His name is David, but his African name is hard to pronounce so you don’t dare try because insulting this man will be the end of you. He invites you to drink tea with him and you say yes. You sit down only to have 2 of the Danish girls come over to you and tell you that Michael Douglas is looking for you and you are late getting back on the bus. The original tour guide spots you and says in Spanish he has been going crazy looking for you. You feel like Juliet in the scene in the movie when she first meets Romeo and they are standing by the fish tank, and the handmaiden pulls her away. You get up from the table and David smiles. He gets up too and tries to walk with you back to the bus. The tour guide says something to him in Arabic and walks away behind you. You look back. David is still standing there, smiling. Looking, still and stoic and perfect.

You get back to the bus and feel like if Michael Douglas says shit to you that you are going to punch him in his face. He senses your consternation and the bus ride back to the hotel is a tense silent one. As the group pulls up to the parking lot, Michael Douglas tells the group that he will not be joining the excursion tomorrow (he already had all our $) and he had a great time. He has a special message for you and says he loves you even though you are late. He wants you to be 4^th wife and the bus laughs. You laugh too, because you are thinking about David.

Dinner is the same soup water and day old bread. You buy 3 cokes because you can and those are the only things that are good. Dessert is a bastardized version of flan. You sit with Alex and Marta and exchange stories about the day. You all laugh and stare at the dessert and all agree to buy more coke. Your skin will show the effects of such excess later, but for now, you don’t care. The three of you make a pact with the Russian lady from before who has joined you that if you see Michael Douglas again you will beat his monkey ass. You don’t even want to watch a movie with him in it anymore.

The plates are snatched away, which means it’s bedtime. You go outside in front of the hotel and have tea with the ladies because alcohol is illegal here. You meet Sasha, a German boy who studies international politics and who is the most charming and hilarious person in the world. You laugh with him while he smokes European cigarettes. The other girls find him hilarious. You find him brilliant. Time passes quickly but you don’t mind because the conversation is good, but you are a woman sitting outside with a man and it’s late, so the hotel lights flash and the waiter comes outside after cursing in Arabic and tells all of you to go to bed.

Sunday morning. Wake up call came at 6:15. Alex answered the phone with a “what the fuck!!!” sounding hello. Everyone must be downstairs at 7am.

Downstairs. The group is greeted by the same breakfast as yesterday (and literally, it is the same, the yogurt packs had the same missing yogurts, the crepes were laid out in the same positions on the plate). The only difference was that the kool aid had been added to, as there was a large block of congealed kool aid powder at the bottom of the pitcher.

All-inclusive.

You ask for 2 waters. The angry cursing waiter brings them. You split them with Alex and Marta. At the end of breakfast you are asked to pay for them. You roll your eyes. The waiter curses again in Arabic. Now you can’t take it, and you curse back at him like a wild rabid wolverine. Everyone stops and looks. The tour guide says everything is fine. You don’t pay. You get your stuff from the room and get on the bus. Sometimes it’s good to be an ABW.

The bus ride is much longer this time because it’s destination is the city of Chef-chaeoen. Chiti chiti bang bang. It’s further south into Africa, and further inland as well. You can no longer see the coast. Instead, you are confined by tall, shrubbed mountains, with sparse towns standing affixed on every 3^rd or 4^th one. The most frequent site is the rippling flag. The mountains are beautiful and arid, and houses are constructed of white cement that creates enough dust that when mixed with the dry winds of those mountains, form chalky clouds that envelop their proximity. They were all but desolate, save errant sheep or grazing cow in their proximity. You have time to sleep on the bus.

You awaken to the sound of the original tour guide telling you that it is time to go meet the new tour guide. You are cynical, but enamored, as the city that lay before you through the window of a cramped smelly bus is beautiful, like a dirt-poor version of Babylon. This is Chef-chaeoen. A sleepy mountainside town that is guarded by a large mosque at the center of the mountain, peering, observing, castigating, calling its children to prayer.

The tour guide is churlish but fair, and tells the group that he wont take them any place they don’t want to go. He walks the group through the center of the square and explains why the Imam calls the prayers. He takes the group to the base of the mosque to meet the Imam, although none are allowed inside. The tour goes through the medina again, and the group wonders what the fuck everyone is doing here, as the town seems obscure and small. Although the mosque is beautiful, no one is allowed inside, so how long can this tour be? While walking in the medina, a man comes out from a painted blue door and yells, “fuck you Israel. Fuck you America”. You laugh at the fuck you man, even though the group is a little tense. You remember you still have the knife you bought in your purse.

The guide walks quickly up a hillside, to El-Banin, the bath place. A waterfall where the town gathers to wash clothes, get water, where children play, and from the looks of it, where God sips when He is thirsty. The groups walks up the hillside in awe, listening the waterfall at first in tiny droplets and then steady as a healthy roar a top a fulvous, ripe mountain.

El Banin. Babylon. Mecca.

Tiempo libre is a little more relaxed this time and the tour group is more at ease since Michael Douglas and his band of Euro-snatching shitheads are long gone. The half naked German girls even felt so confident that they took their shirts off to reveal simply a bikini top and shorts.

You buy earrings. There are beautiful blue ones in a store run by a man whose daughter sits on the counter and smiles at you. You buy them for your friend Lisa because she loves the color blue.

A man named Rashid comes out from behind a counter and kisses you and says how much he loves America. You buy another pair.

The bus driver is sitting at the teahouse with a dread. He is tall and mulatto looking with long dreads and horrible teeth. He calls you over and you smile and talk to him about Jamaica. He is an African, born and raised in Morocco, and loves Bob Marley. He invites you for tea, and you sit (finally) and drink with him and the bus driver. There is an exacerbated tension in the teahouse, because you are the only woman, so you and dread and bus driver go outside and drink.
You tell him about your weekend. He laughs. This is typical. This is how these towns make their money. There are at least 15 Michael Douglas’s in each town along the border. He says that he can take you around; he wants you to come with him. He says he knows you wont believe him, because of all you have been through this weekend, but he says he is sincere. For some strange reason, you think about the camel. You smile back at him anyway, and sip your sweet tea. He sings your wedding song to you, and you wonder if God is toying with you this weekend. You flirt back and tell him that you can trade, he can take you around this city and you will take him around Jamaica. He laughs. You even get a smile from the bus driver, who checks his watch and says you have 15 minutes. You want to get more pictures of El Banin. You shake the dread’s hand, and replies, “Jah bless”. You feel good.

You walk back into the square and see 2 boys who were swimming at El Banin. They look to be selling henna. You don’t want henna but you think the boys are adorable. They know they have you, so they smile bigger and sing, “la, la, la, la, Africa, Africa. You, you you, Africa. You buy henna. La, la, la, you buy. We love you you, you”.

They sing over and over again, and listening to them inspires you to write the blog in 2^nd person. The boys call you “you”.

You give them most of the dirham you have left and they try to hand you the henna pack. You refuse it. The younger one has bright eyes and a laugh that sounds like he smokes. The older one is serious, brooding and strikingly handsome, though you can tell from his eyes, sad. Perhaps he has reached the age in this country where he can no longer afford to be whimsical and child like. Since he is selling henna in the middle of the square, you surmise that is probably the case. This shouldn’t be the case, so you give him the chocolate you have in your purse. The younger one looks longingly at the chocolate. The older one looks at him, and then at me, and has a bout of decency and shares with the young boy. You sit under a tree and they exchange jeers in Arabic. They jump up after they finish and don’t even say goodbye. They must sell the henna. You are hurt, but it’s all right because you feel it was still money well spent.

A little while later as you walk up the mountain the boys beckon.

“You! Havfda, havfda- you!!”

You are surprised and you have no idea what they are saying but you walk to them anyway. They laugh when you come up to them and the younger one touches your hair. The older boy slaps him hard and curses at him in Arabic. He grabs the young one and pulls him to the fountain. He reprimands him and sits him down, staring at him with those intense, doleful eyes. They are quiet for a moment. There is a silence between them dense with trust, and almost indispensable co dependence. It becomes glaringly obvious at this point that they are brothers.

The older on stays seated by the fountain, the younger, as if psychically programmed, comes up and leads you to where they are sitting.

“You”.

There is business going on all about you, the air is still thick, heavy with sand and bargain.

There at the fountain there is quiet. Equanimity shared among family and outsider.

The older one takes a plastic package out of his pocket and the younger one smiles a youthful toothless grin, reminiscent of 2^nd grade school pictures and Sasha Obama.

“Hafvda.”

The contents of the plastic bag are shared among three. Dates. The most delicious you have ever eaten. They share their sweets with you, as you have with them. You are grateful and think for a moment that perhaps it wouldn’t be as bad as you always thought if God gave you boy children.

The hafvda is finished. The older boy grabs the henna and gets up.

“You”.

He walks on, stoic and stern, the younger one following behind him, who turns, smiles at you again, kicks the ground a little, crammed with electrical infant energy, then turns to his brother’s side holding a henna box.

You observe the bus driver get up. You follow, getting back on the bus that is parked in front of a hotel with a pool and a doorman.

All-inclusive.

At least the bad food is over. You think about the dates and you are satisfied. You believe it is the best meal you have eaten in a long time.

On the bus ride back to the barge you sleep, restfully. So much so that you don’t mind the fat farting Swiss bitches in front of you.

The border looks different now, the fear and static of crossing it that you had Friday is gone, but the feeling is replaced by a relief and a small sense of rage as you look out the window to see if you spot Michael Douglas, for you know if you do, you are going to hurl your sneakers at him. You don’t see him. You don’t see Tariq either. The bus driver gets off to open the undercarriage. The border police check your bus. He gets back on and drives to the boat and you listen to him tell the original tour guide in Spanish about why the police checked the undercarriage so thoroughly. That morning 2 men were caught in a bus trying to cross the border illegally. You remember the loaded gun that Tariq carried at his side (you remember almost everything about his frame) and you wonder what price those men paid for their attempted escape.

The port is even smaller to you in your hindsight. The women who try to sell you trinkets do not intimidate you now. You realize that the babble they spoke when you first landed was not babble at all, they were telling you that they take dirham, because now you know what they are. The boat has customs, and you go through with no trouble, even though it is more trouble than when you entered Africa.
You are leaving Africa. You don’t want to, but you are.

You want to take it with you, and leave a part of you behind for it to remember you by. You think about the two boys and whisper a prayer of protection for them and realize you have left a piece of you behind, and you have a piece of Africa with you. You are glad you didn’t take a picture of them because the memory will be no one else’s but yours.

There are other souvenirs enough for the trip.
You sit on the boat and you are happy because now you sit next to Sasha so you know you will laugh the whole way home. He makes it so the last moments on Africa’s soil are warm funny ones. He makes it so that the whole trip was engaging. He makes the memory of Michael Douglas fade and the impression of the perfect boys in the market more palpable. These are your souvenirs. Among others. And this makes you happy.

The bracelet on your wrist is the one you have just purchased in the market and you finger it gently while you watch the shrinking shoreline from the boat’s window. You can’t wait for someone to ask you where you got it from so you can tell them you got it in Africa.