Morocco

So it’s been a little while since we’ve been to Morocco. I would have written earlier only I’m me, so I didn’t. However since I didn’t want you to miss out on the excitement of hearing me talk about my trip, here it is condensed with photos:

It all began in the late afternoon on a Tuesday or maybe Wednesday or maybe Thursday (who can remember these things). We took the train to the airport extra early, checked in and then proceeded to explode with excitement, occasionally pausing to stuff our livers and intestines and other vital organs back into their rightful spots.

Our first stop was London Stansted. We landed there at 11pm and weren’t flying out till 6am the following morning. Mark thought the best way to pass the time was to buy me a bowl of coffee (seriously look at the size of that thing) and watch to see what happened. I swung off the chandeliers a little.

We boarded our flight without any dramas and landed in Marrakech at 9am-ish local time. Our riad sent a driver to fetch us and some 15 minutes later we were sipping mint tea in the atrium. Sidenote: Mark and I have decided that Moroccan mint tea should be made compulsory at all restaurants everywhere. Please take this news to your respective leaders.

Our first day in Marrakech was spent wandering around the souks, which were a three-minute walk from our riad. The plan was to bargain and make every local sing our praise and tell stories about the foreigners who could negotiate like Bruce Willis in The Fifth Element only with fewer guns and also fewer aliens. Instead we got totally ripped off.

Every conversation began with the vendor establishing where we were from, followed by some vague kangaroo-ish movements (on behalf of the locals) and enthusiastic nodding (from us). “Yes,” the nods said, “Kangaroos!! I know what you’re doing because I’m Australian.” And, of course, after a few pleasant moments of hopping and smiling and nodding and hopping we politely emptied our wallets. It was also widely acknowledged that Australians sound very much like “JACKPOT!” and one very determined man was convinced that as a nation we’re into big yellow pointy slippers. He was wrong though.

We had dinner back at our riad and then took a turn about the main square to see it lit up at night. It was both manic and very cool. Side note: we came very close to adopting about a thousand kittens.

Our second day in Marrakech was spent in a similar way, only we squeezed in a visit to the Saadian Tombs before we got into a transporter and set off for the Atlas Mountains.

We arrived at the Widiane Suites and Spa some three and a half hours later and shuffled along into the reception area -- the bottoms of our jaws skidding across the ground -- where we were treated to a welcome drink of goat’s milk and dates.

As part of a package, Mark and I got to stay at the resort for four nights and received a one-hour Thai massage, boat ride, foot-massage, traditional hammam and canyon trek (each). I could write a book about our time in this part of Morocco. That would probably bore you to tears though, so instead I’m going to put together a list of the things not covered in this blog and fill in the gaps when the inspiration hits me.

1. Mark and the snake charmer 
2. Fantasia 
3. The Miu 
4. Our trek, deadly cacti and the benefits of a matching tracksuit 
5. The hammam 
6. The sewage room 
7. Crossing the road 

Yup. Right. That was our trip to Morocco. We’re hopelessly in love with the place and can’t wait to go back for more.

The Toilet Fiasco

Let me preface this by saying that I am not some sort of raging alcoholic. Actually the rough opposite of what I do with my days involves drinking alcohol and partying. Unless, that is, you consider forcing a frantic and cold-hearted bird-beast with no feelings and a beastly heartless bird body to love me as the height of revelry. In which case you need to get out more (or, if you’re Dumpling, you’re NOT EVER going to get out until you freely feed from my hand and love me).

Right.

So, in short, the story that I’m about to tell you about my weekend bender should be taken as evidence to support – not contradict – my non-partying, non-drinking ways. Were I a seasoned alcoholic, none of the events would have taken place (or at least not in such a terrifying manner).

Here it goes:

As many of these stories tend to, mine started off innocently with Swedish-themed feasting and a couple of homemade cocktails. Unfortunately things unravelled rather quickly and – some memories missing here – I ended up at a little gay club with Simon.

Furthermore, since the events leading up to that moment involved pounding down what turned out to be an entire bottle of gin, I also found my bladder calling for sweet relief. So I politely excused myself from the company of a giant bunny and made my way to the ladies’ bathroom, my body tingling with the thought of the elation I would soon feel.

Then the worst possible thing happened: the door was locked. Locked! Can you imagine? I thrashed the handle in disbelief, and then promptly inspected the walls for possible secret entrances, muttering madly under my breath. Observation: I get a little paranoid when I’m drunk.

I even gave a broom closet a try (beggars can’t be choosers).

When this failed I had an epiphany. Right then, for no logical reason, I became convinced that the female toilet had been locked by the staff on purpose. I was sure of it and the realisation forced me into a kind of panicked desperation. Why would anybody ever do such a thing? I clawed at the door hoping that maybe somehow I’d get through. Then, finally, thought about tearing my pants off.

Luckily good sense prevailed and instead I walked back into the bar, accosted the first stranger I could find, and in drunk, slurring, broken German explained that I needed to pee pretty badly, DESPERATELY actually. The pee baby inside me was ready to storm screaming into this world and anybody attempting to stop it would inevitably have their head kicked in…and by some mix-up, the female toilet was locked. Then, like a savvy woman of the 21st century world who knows what’s what, I concluded with the German version of, “izzz pruuubly locked khhoz I’m dee only woman in heeere.”

As good fortune would have it, the stranger was as delighted by my German as he was moved by my plight, and followed me into the female toilet hallway to help me thrash at all doors in the vicinity.

This didn’t work so, feeling understandably outraged, he thundered over to the bar and with Law & Order conviction demanded that the female toilet door be unlocked. Immediately! Surprisingly this didn’t have the intended effect; the bar guy merely shrugged and, ignoring the theatrics or the dangerous way in which I was looking at his sink, claimed that the toilet was open.

It made no sense. If it was open why couldn’t I get in?

Then my answer walked out and briskly made itself scarce.

Not for one second had I entertained the notion that someone might have been using the coveted female toilet. I hadn’t considered the possibility that while I was thrashing around like a banshee on crack, a frightened German woman was squatting over the toilet bowl paralysed by the thought that I might actually get in.

Under normal circumstances I would have died of embarrassment or at least started digging a shallow grave before encouraging my friends to hit me over the head with a shovel and bury me in it. But since I was rather drunk, I found the woman’s curious behaviour delightfully puzzling.

“Why didn’t she just shout?” I laughed, as if though she was the crazy one. “Did you see the way she shuffled off?”

Yeah. Good stuff.

ummm…The End.

Oh happy days!

Hey everybody look at me I have my life together…kind of. I mean sure there are about a thousand (no, seriously, ABOUT A THOUSAND) things that I should be getting done right now. Not necessarily beginning with getting my local tax number so I can get paid for the teaching job I did in September, but yeah, that too.

But today I started the good, impressive life that is going to set the pace for the rest of my existence. I put washing away and put a load of washing on and actually sat and did my work rather than procrastinating, and let Dumpling out of his cage so he could spread his wings and fly…and shit on the washing I had just done. Funny thing about that – birds like washing lines. Dumpling LOVES our clotheshorse. As soon as he got let out he sat on it cooing. I think he’s in love.

Yesterday I would have been all “that’s not a big deal” and then thrown an iron at him, but today I have it together, so I just scraped the poo off before putting the clothes away.

Totally kidding. I set it on fire.

That’s not entirely true either. I actually got so caught up with work and Yuri-related dinner plans, that I totally forgot about the washing and it still hasn’t made it out of the washing machine. I have high hopes for tomorrow.

But I wasn’t lying about letting Dumpling out, or his love for the clotheshorse.  I think we might be hearing the pitter-patter of little wheels soon (my theory is that if a bird and clotheshorse mate, they produce a model airplane. It’s the only sensible expectation and almost entirely born of scientific reasoning. What I struggle with more is the question of whether the clotheshorse will lay eggs. I guess we’ll see soon enough.)

But yes, no real point to this rant so I’m going to awkwardly shuffle my feet and end it here. I hope you feel sufficiently disappointed.

All about Yuri!

So it seems that all this time that I’ve allowed my mental instability to play on the internet, like the irresponsible parent that I am, I’ve been forgetting one very important person. Not so much forgetting, but just kind of allowing him to have his privacy, as it were.

But as it were, or is…or whatever, this particular person doesn’t much care for privacy and has given me permission – nay, begged me on bended knee, with rose in mouth and bottle of wine in nostril – to put up his private exploits on my blog. And hell, his mental instability plays with mine when we get together so how could I refuse? So here is one of Yuri’s exploits, for there are many:

On a particularly warm October night (because this year was freakishly hot), Yuri found himself in Berlin. Not so much found, as drove there for a trip that had been planned for some time. And being in Berlin and single and sexy and all, he decided that he should go find himself a man; someone to satisfy his penchant for angelic sexiness.

So he did. He found himself an angel. Or, rather, that’s what he’d tell you if you asked, because  – you see  – the guy had curly hair and blue eyes (and things don’t get much more angelic than that). Curly hair AND blue eyes, just ask Yuri.

The angel and Yuri got along quite well and after a few drinks were aggressively making out in the corner. Inconveniently, at about the same time a friend of Yuri’s launched into a crisis, so Yuri – being half man, half heart – ceased making out with the angel to be supportive.

But before he dashed off, he sat the angel on some steps and told him to wait.

The angel was supposed to wait.

But the angel did not wait.

Yuri came back and searched the stairs, then glanced up at the ceiling (just in case. You never know with angels, they’re tricky) and came to the conclusion that his angel probably got bored of sitting on the stairs and went to get more angelically pissed.

WTF angel?!

Now, if this had been a Jane Austen novel Yuri would have penned his disappointment to his understanding and witty sister and all would have been well and witty. But since it’s the 21^st century, Yuri came upon the happy realisation that he had a phone and several fingers (at least ten, but maybe as many as fifteen). So in a very sane and balanced way he called the angel THIRTEEN times and left FOUR voicemail messages.

Angel did not like this. Or maybe he did. Who knows what angels are thinking anyway? The important part is that he never called Yuri back.

In the morning, when the clear light of day hit the call history, Yuri came to the stomach-turning realisation that – oh yes – he had called the angel THIRTEEN times. Therefore, being a rational human being, he decided to call again to apologise (fourteen).

The angel did not pick up and everybody came to the unspoken understanding that he had only ever pseudo existed anyway (in much the same way that McDonald’s only pseudo exists when you smash three meals after a big night out).

Unfortunately Yuri’s pocket had other ideas and mere moments later called the angel of its own accord.

This time the angel picked up (of course he did).

What he heard on the other end wasn’t the heavy breathing usually favoured by stalkers, so much as a whole lot of rustling followed by a whole lot of swearing (the point at which Yuri realised what his pocket had done), followed by the hang-up tone.

It took Yuri a little while to regain his composure, but when he did he decided to turn the whole hopeless situation into a joke, so he wrote: “I’m the hottest stalker you’ve ever had”.

To which the angel responded, “I want to die” (or some such nonsense).

And Yuri promptly wrote back something to the effect of “Should you ever die, please leave me your underwear.” A little stalker joke, if you will.

Silence. The angel didn’t respond…ever again.

Yuri told me this story over a delicious home-cooked dinner. It was the closest I’ve come to expelling food out of my nostrils in quite some time.

And there you have it, a Yuri production – and at least one-fifth of the reason I love Munich the way I do; it has a Yuri.