The New York Times has a good story today about Oaxaca cleaning itself up in the wake of months-long protests. It includes a sad picture of the now-defaced Santo Domingo church. Here's how it looked to us back in April. We thought it was one of the most beautiful spots in the city.
Merry Christmas, indeed.
After months of waiting, we finally went to see Pedro Almodóvar's new film, "Volver" (To Return), yesterday. It was a little gift in itself.
Our friend Quentin joined us, and we all came away pleased. Well worth the wait, I'd say.
On Christmas Eve, Amy and I went to see "The Good Shepherd," and later that night after a delicious dinner at Andina (where we dreamed about our next big trip: Peru) we watched "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" at home. After those two, she said I owed her at least one chick flick.
I wouldn't call "Volver" a chick flick, but more on that later...
First, although "Shepherd' and "Cuckoo's" are great, both limit women to very constricted roles. The women in "Shepherd" are generally eye candy, and bad things happen to them or those around them when they are anything more than that. In "Cuckoo's," the terrific Nurse Ratched is the ultimate symbol of The Man, which is the very thing McMurphy is fighting against, which makes her the biggest bitch in the world.
In Almodóvar's "Volver," by contrast, women rule the day. And the night. And everything in between, from births (there's a helluva twist there I cannot give away) to deaths (as the movie opens, women are meticulously tending graves). And they don't have to be either the epitome of evil or the objects of desire. Here, it's the men who are reduced to bit players, often being - in the words of Penélope Cruz's Raimunda - a "pest."
It's great on so many levels: For defying stereotypes. For the complexity - the word Quentin used afterward - that's inherent in not only this movie, but also seemingly all Almodóvar's works. And just for the sheer beauty of what he sees and how he communicates it. From the colors to the composition to the themes to the dialogue.
In the end, Raimunda is strong and funny and beautiful. But she's also fragile and serious and a mess. In other words, she's real.
It says something about our culture that too few American directors offer up such portrayals with any regularity. It says all the more that, in this case, the person doing so is a Spanish director who happens to be gay. But because it's a foreign film, most of this country will never see it.
But it's no chick flick. It's just one great movie.
p.s.: For anyone who's sick of my ramblings about Almodóvar, take heart. This should be my last post on the subject for a while. His next movie, tentatively called "El Piel Que Habito" (The Skin I Live In) probably won't be done for at least a year.
We saw the last two new-to-us offerings in the Viva Pedro film festival last weekend. One was "Law of Desire," which came out in 1987, when I was 10. IMDB describes it as follows:
"Pablo and Tina have complicated sexual lives. Pablo writes and directs plays and films; he's gay and deeply in love with Juan, a young man who won't reply to Pablo's affection or letters. Pablo's sibling Tina is a transsexual, angry at men, raising Ada, and trying to make it as an actress. Pablo takes up with Antonio, a youth who becomes jealous of Pablo's love for Juan. Antonio seeks out Juan, and violence leads to Pablo's grief and a temporary loss of memory. When memory returns, he learns that Antonio has taken up with Tina. In horror, he hurries to Tina's rescue and must face Antonio and his desire."
"Ex-bullfighter who is getting turned on by killing, lady lawyer with same problem and young man driven insane by over-religious upbringing - these are the main characters in this stylish black comedy about dark sides of human nature."Dark? Try black. And morbid. Think of a kinky Romeo and Juliet. But it makes you think about the things that make us happy in life, what they mean to us and the lengths we'll go to for them. For this couple, it happens to be killing. And so they pursue it to what for them is somehow a logical end. Or, as Neil Young put it in "My, My, Hey, Hey," "It's better to burn out than to fade away."
Some things translate in any language, such as this Japanese television commercial on the Mac vs. PC campaign.
This one's for the folks back home:
A group called the Portland Cacophony Society holds what's known as Santacon each year in town. This year, there are two Santacons. One was held Dec. 9, which I missed (see the YouTube video here):
The other will be Dec. 23, and I hope to at least witness it. Similar events are held elsewhere in the nation and the world, including this one in what looks to be San Francisco. It's like the running of the bulls in Pamplona, but instead of raging animals you have rampaging Santas.
To quote the Cacophony Society's instructions: "You know the drill by now. Wear a Santa suit. Dress warm, bring CASH for drinks and tips. Bring santa-goodies and wrapped gifts to give to kids. Bring adult goodies to share with other Santi. Santa rides the MAX."
More specifically, here is what they call proper Santa etiquette. My favorite part is the suggested response to questions from the public or the police:
Who's in charge? Santa.
Who are you with? Santa.
What organization are you with? Santa.
Who organized this? Santa.
Who's that woman? Santa.
Who's that guy? Santa.
How did you get here? A sleigh and eight tiny reindeer.
All in all, this is one of those wonderful little oddities that make Portland such a great city. In my book, it even ranks ahead of the public pillow fights downtown in Pioneer Courthouse Square:
A windstorm howled through last night, with gusts hitting 114 mph in the Coast Range, 97 on the coast itself, 80 in the valley and 63 here in little old Vancouver USA. For the better part of the evening Wiley wandered around with a confused look on his face as our 99-year-old house creaked and groaned.
And while hundreds of thousands of people in the Portland area and apparently 1 million in western Washington are without power this morning, here I sit, all electrified and online. All's fine here, minus some tree branches down around the neighborhood, best I can tell.
That said, I didn't sleep too terribly well. Until, of course, it was about time to get up this morning. And then, when the radio alarm clock went off at 6:30, a commercial for Mattress World blasted in my ear. Their jingle's catchphrase: "Sleep like a baby."
Jerks.
I so liked how our Morocco slide show turned out that I've gone back and created one for our Mexico trip, too. It can be found here, now, and permanently under "Mexico: 04.06" on the Escapes and Escapades section on the right-hand rail.
In the thick of winter, maybe these pictures of sunny Mexico will brighten otherwise dreary days.
Enjoy.
I caught a double dip of Pedro Almodóvar yesterday.
Gotta love little indie theaters. What better way to spend a cold, drizzly Sunday afternoon while your wife is at a women-only holiday ornament party. (Not that any man would ever want to go to what - as Amy and her friends have described the event over the years - is such a hen party.)
So for less than 10 bucks, I got to see two great, hard-to-find movies, had some popcorn, a Dr Pepper and a pack of Twizzlers.
First, was the Oscar-nominated "Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown," from 1988.
The synopsis, from IMDB: "A woman's lover leaves her, and she tries to contact him to find out why he's left. She confronts his wife and son, who are as clueless as she. Meanwhile her girlfriend is afraid the police are looking for her because of her boyfriend's criminal activities. They talk to a female lawyer, who turns out to be the lover's new lover, and everyone's path keeps crossing each other's in a very complicated and confusing manner."
It's one of his better comedies, with some absurd but hilarious events - like everyone, including two cops investigating a potential airline hijacking, drinking barbiturate-spiked gazpacho and passing out, allowing the final scene to unfold.
Almodóvar is known for making movies with strong women characters (be they actual women or drag queens). So this, perhaps the best bit of dialog, got at one of his recurrent themes:
Ana, as her boyfriend races around the city with a mad woman on the back of his Harley, says: "I'm fed up. I'm gonna get myself some quick cash, buy myself his bike and split. With a bike, who needs a man?"
To which Pepa, our protagonist, responds: "Learning mechanics is easier than learning male psychology. You can figure out a bike, but you can never figure out a man."
Although Amy might agree, I tend to look at it from the other perspective. Either way, the point is clear. There are some things men and women will just never understand about each other. (For example, the desire to go to hen parties.)
After "Women on the Verge," I had a 15-minute intermission before the next one started. I'd seen "All About My Mother" before, but this Oscar-winner from 1999 is worth a second - or third - viewing.
The plot synopsis, again from IMDB: "A single mother in Madrid sees her only son die on his 17th birthday as he runs to seek an actress's autograph. She goes to Barcelona to find the lad's father, a transvestite named Lola who does not know he has a child. First she finds her friend, Agrado, also a transvestite; through him she meets Rosa, a young nun bound for El Salvador, and by happenstance, becomes the personal assistant of Huma Rojo, the actress her son admired. She helps Huma manage Nina, the co-star and Huma's lover, and she becomes Rosa's caretaker during a dicey pregnancy. With echoes of Lorca, 'All About Eve,' and 'Streetcar Named Desire,' the mothers (and fathers and actors) live out grief, love, and friendship."
Certainly, not the sort of film I'd imagine got much screen time back in my hometown. And while the transvestites might make a few folks I know a little squeamish, that's part of the power of so much of Almodóvar's work. He's ever provocative, challenging everything from sexual politics to gender roles to the Catholic Church and then some. But beyond that, and beyond the stunningly good and unconventional storytelling and the powerful, vibrant visuals, he's one of today's greatest filmmakers because he expands the audience's view of society. He takes characters who are marginalized in daily life and thrusts them into the spotlight, defying expectations, and making it impossible not to identify and empathize with them.
Next weekend, I'm going back for two others I haven't seen: "Law of Desire" and "Matador."
I would like to blame an enduring tryptophan hangover for the long gap since the last post. But in truth, we've just been busy and finding our ways into the rhythms of another long Northwest winter.
We had a great Prince family visit for Thanksgiving. I felt one of those odd little grown-up moments when I found myself, rather than my parents, carving the turkey for a change.
Amy's settling into her new job, which while not yet fully up and running already has her coming home each night saying something like, "Guess what I got to do today? Hang out in a giant room full of cheese!" I've been doing lots of new things at work, with more changes to come. All good, although there have been days when I walk into the office and think, "OK, what is it I'm supposed to be doing today -- copy-editing, reporting, online, line-editing?" Can't complain, though. Variety is a very good thing. And, above all, working more day shifts allows me more time at home with Amy in the evenings, like normal married people.
On that note, I cannot believe I've found myself watching "America's Next Top Model" with Amy on Wednesday nights. I try to resist. But it's been too tempting not to make fun of the people involved and the overly dramatic dismissals at the end of each show. I mean, someone named CariDee won. CariDee. One word. Capital D. Thank god she overcame a battle with psoriasis to take this prized title.
I take this as yet another sign that "Lost" needs to come back soon. (Side note: Why does ABC's page for the show still have Mr. Eko as one of the revolving three faces that appear when you load the page? They killed him off weeks ago.)
Looking forward to wrapping up '06 with a flurry of activity. A great Pedro Almodovar film festival opens this weekend in town at Cinema 21. Of the eight films, three will be new to me -- "Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown," "Matador," and "Law of Desire." They haven't been released on DVD in the states yet, and the whole festival is a run-up to the Dec. 22 release of "Volver." We talked our friends the Robinwoods into seeing Almodovar's "Tie me up, tie me down" awhile back. The whole Stockholm syndrome part of that one might have scared them away from more. I'll admit, it was weird.
Beyond that, we've got the McFalls coming in a few weeks, right after Christmas. It will be lots of fun to do another holiday here with family -- and our little niece Lily will be here, too, fully enjoying our stairs, I hope. And I suspect we'll be watching a few bowl games -- with the Pokes and Sooners playing in the Independence and Fiesta bowls, respectively, during the visit.
With all this blogging about movies and television and sports, I fear I'm sounding like a media whore. Oh well, it's cold outside. It's warm on the couch. And we have three more episodes of "Weeds" to watch on DVD before resuming our own little Hitchcock film festival via Netflix.
Plus, we've found a lead on another great trip: Peru. This one may have to wait until late '07 or more likely into '08. But I'm already excited by the mere prospect of another two-week guided backpacking adventure with someone who knows the country and can give us local insights. Sunset at Machu Picchu sounds just about perfect, I think.
We're nearly through re-doing one more room. This is the smallest of the three spaces in the basement, and when we first walked through the house the previous owners had a pot-growing operation in it. Grow lights and a watering system, even. Plus, as Christine can document in pictures (sadly, we never brought ourselves to do so), there was graffiti everywhere.
One, for example, said, that the daughter of the house "was fucking Nick here." Others were racist. It all made me never want to have teenagers.
Although some have suggested continuing the pot farm could have helped pay the mortgage, we decided against that. Instead, it initially became the world's largest walk-in closet for all the crap that didn't go elsewhere. Now, nearly three years later, we're converting it into a multi-use room.
First, storage area -- but with nice shelves to organize stuff rather than piling it up in the floor. Second, work space -- we'll get a little desk/workbench down there eventually. Third, guest room -- at some point we'll move a bed down there. For now, our air mattress will have to suffice when my family visits for Thanksgiving. Chelsea and Sarah, I promise, you'll love it.
As always seems to happen, a couple of things went wrong in the project.
While removing the baseboard heater, I managed to hit a live wire on the metal frame (yes, I was an idiot and left the power on), which created a beautiful shower of sparks and nearly set my pants on fire. Note to self: when frustrated while attempting to remove something, walk away rather than jerk it off the wall.
Also, I was rewiring the switches and plugs Friday morning when I knocked out power to half the house. I tried everything I could think of but had no luck restoring the juice. Many curse words, a consultation with a friend, a call to our electrician and $200 later, a blown circuit breaker and a direct short in the system were repaired.
Now, after Amy got us started on wall repairs and paint, I've done the trim work, a little more electrical and assembled the new shelves. We've done everything but hang the curtains and do whatever we'll do to the floor.
Sorry, no picture. It's not a big enough room to get all in one shot.
Next up, the kitchen. We're in the design phase now. That, however, won't be a homer job. Thankfully.
Wow.
Last week, Amy and I dressed up as Britney and K-Fed for Halloween. This week, Britney files for divorce.
We must use this awesome power for the forces of good. Any suggestions who we crush next?
Please, no matter your political leanings, don't suggest the Republican Party. As I sit here watching MSNBC in the wee hours it's clear the GOP has already crushed itself.
First, the trick:
P.C. McPrince died Monday, Oct. 30, 2006, from complications of a virus after a weekend of failed life-extending measures. He was about 3 years old.
The Hewlett-Packard laptop served us nobly, surfing the Interweb, bringing us into the blogosphere and ably handling many a vacation photo - though grumbling over multitasking while working with large image files.
Survivors include his father, Seth; mother, Amy; brother, Wiley; and a son, Mac, who was born shortly after his death.
Remembrances to charity. Arrangements by Apple.
----
Now, the treat:
Had our second-annual Halloween carving/costume party Sunday night with our westside gang and extended family.
We had a cowgirl and a Leatherman, a couple of pirates, a stagehand, a wee princess and a tiny Jack-o-lantern, and a Britney and a K-Fed. Guess which one we were?
This morning I spied a squirrel zipping from limb to limb in one of our two redbuds in the front yard. The commotion jostled a few golden yellow leaves loose, sending them drifting gently to the ground. Although seemingly nothing special, it made me pause and smile because of the change it symbolized.
Amy and I planted those about a year and a half ago where nothing was before. We specifically picked redbuds because they are Oklahoma's state tree. They went into the ground as spindly tangles of branches staked up to protect against the wind, clearly with potential to thrive, but still too weak to support anything.
A year and a half after planting those redbuds, and nearly three years after moving in, we feel real roots growing here. We have good friends throughout the neighborhood, the sort of people with whom we celebrate births, mourn deaths and travel around the world. We go to our favorite restaurants around the corner, end up befriending the owners and maybe even influencing the menus. There's a sense of community taking hold, and it feels good to be part of it.
Our jobs are changing for the better. Much better, in Amy's case - but that's her news to share in due time. Family is coming here for at least one, hopefully two, holidays. It'll be our first time to host a McPrince Thanksgiving or Christmas. I can already imagine the joy of seeing our giant dining table covered with a lovingly prepared meal and surrounded by family and friends.
Somehow, we've turned the once-trashed shell of our house into a warm, vibrant, inviting home. Our late friend Richard once said, rightly so, that the neighborhood "still had a little West Virginia in it." Now that same neighborhood has a little momentum in it instead.
And this year, those trees out front - trees that'll stand long after we're gone - are sturdy enough to support a squirrel. Maybe next year, it'll be a nest.
We spent the weekend camping and crabbing (or at least trying) with Jake and Tiff and Dan and Karin at the Oregon Coast.
We had outstanding weather for any month at the coast, much less almost into November. Highs in the 60s and 70s, not a drop of rain and hardly any wind. Felt almost like summer again - perfect for first-time coast campers. Jake said one of us must be good luck for such fine weather.
Spent Saturday afternoon hanging out around camp, taking a long walk with the group down Nehalem Bay to watch the sun extinguish itself in the Pacific, and then cooking - mushrooms, corn, veggies, steak and potatoes - on the campfire and visiting over drinks.
Up early Sunday morning thanks to Tiff's wake-up call: the dialog track of Robin Williams' "Good morning, Vietnam!" from a CD player pressed against the tent at 7 a.m. (Thankfully, she decided the 5:30 a.m. start would have been too traumatic.) In the boat around 8 and dropping our first rings minutes later.
A few hours later, Jake joked that one of us must be bad luck for crabbing. Turns out it's a bad season for crabbing in that area. We caught nothing big enough to keep. But we watched the sun come up over the Coast Range, dinked around in a boat for a few hours and learned how to crab for next year.
We'll be back, and we'll catch our breakfast rather than relying on some clams and half a "sympathy crab" from the shop owner back on shore. But even if we didn't catch it ourselves this year, it's tough to beat eating a fresh crab sandwich while sitting 15 feet from the water on a sunny morning on the Oregon Coast with friends.
The New York Times has an appropriately headlined travel piece up, Under Morocco's Spell. The story is longish, but check out the audio slide show if you're just after the essence.
The story is based in the High Atlas mountains, which we crossed during our drive north from the Sahara into Marrakesh. Stunning doesn't begin to describe the vistas.
At the end of the slide show the reporter says:
"We live in complicated times and you read the paper and get a sense of a very dangerous and threatening world. And then you travel abroad and you meet people who defy all expectations and any over-simplifications that you might develop sitting at home by yourself in America."Not to sound too preachy about it, but that's exactly the sentiment that sticks with me from our travels this year.
As you can see, we've redesigned the site. Here's hoping it's better organized and easier to follow. I was sick of the old, original look. Plus, I just like how the photos pop off the new black backdrop.
Beyond the changes in color and typography (both straight from a Blogger template), new features include:
We've been back for around two weeks now, and Morocco is still as fresh in my mind as the smell of just-squeezed orange juice served in the sprawling main square of Marrakesh.
I can't get the country - that city, specifically - out of my head.
I was sitting at work last Friday, about 4 o'clock Portland time, watching the rims fill up and knowing a long night was ahead of me. My mind drifted back to Jemaa el Fna, where it was 11 o'clock.
I imagined Amy and I, sitting at the cafe we'd visited days ago, perched on a raised patio overlooking that giant square, sharing a bottle of wine we'd managed to scare up from a friend with connections. Ordering on paper because the waiter speaks French and we know nothing beyond "Oui." Watching the blur of humanity drift back and forth in every direction at once. Listening to the buzz of thousands of voices, picking up bits of conversations left and right in the late-night, fast-breaking revelry of Ramadan. Arabic here. Berber and French there. Some Spanish and German in that direction. Tidbits of Dutch behind us. And, at our little table for two, laughing as we realize we are inadvertently bouncing from English to Spanish to the little bit of Arabic we know.
Then later, warmed by each other and the wine as the desert air cools, we stroll through the square itself, people-watching up close. So close you brush shoulders, smell new aftershaves and catch flashes of eye color deep in the throng. Surrounded by people in every direction, alive and full of life, as midnight nears. The snake charmers and fortune tellers, just waiting to spin their magic, it seems, directly into your soul. The restaurant barkers, the call of their voices no match for the aroma of their food, but both working to lure you to their table for another in an endless menu of dishes whose spices are sure to dance on your unfamiliar tongue. The musicians, their rhythms rolling out of the drums and pinging off the banjo strings, washing across the onlookers and working into our ears, flipping some switch in our brains and involuntarily setting some part, any part, of our bodies into motion -- hips swinging here, a head nodding there, maybe just a toe tap, tap, tapping halfway around the world from all you knew before.
Now, back here, I find myself reading all sorts of pieces about the place I just visited. Stuff I'm sure must have run all the time before, but stuff I never noticed.
Maybe it's my little attempt to keep a piece of the Moroccan spirit present in me today rather than tucked away as a memory to be recalled in some distant tomorrow.
Here's a great quote from one such piece, a profile of Spanish expatriate novelist Juan Goytisolo, from The New York Times Magazine:
"People ask, 'Why do you live in Marrakesh?'" Goytisolo told me with a chuckle. "I ask them, 'Have you seen it?'" In Jemaa el Fna, Goytisolo explained, he finds all the heterogeneity that is in danger of disappearing from Western cities. "In the '70s, when I was very poor, I was offered a permanent teaching post in Edmonton. I realized I would rather starve in Marrakesh than be a millionaire in Alberta."So as all the pressures, the demands of work, the stresses of life try to creep back into my brain, here's hoping that Moroccan mojo helps fend them off and keeps me balanced in ways I wasn't before the trip.
Well, damnit.
I can't get the slideshow to embed in a posting. Worse still, for some reason Blogger's not letting me delete the two bogus attempts to embed it.
So for now, you'll have to go view it on the Flickr site where I built it:
Morocco '06 slideshow
(Thanks to Quentin for the great tip on batch-processing the photos to resize them for the Web. Saved a ton of time.)
To repeat, here's some notes for your guided tour:
The 150 pictures - we edited down from 700-plus, I swear! - run in this sequence:
1. Casablanca
Scenes from Hassan II Mosque
2. Rabat
Begins with a bureaucratic-looking building
3. Children from around the country
Awwwww...
4. Chefchaouen
Begins with landscape shot of this town, famed for its blue-washed walls, in the mountains
5. Volubilis, Meknes and Fez
Begins with the ruins of Volubilis, then on to the gate and market of Meknes and then to the skyline view of the overwhelming, ancient and mosaic-filled Fez
6. On the road
If only I could pair this up with a good travelin' song
7. Sahara and the south
Starts with Amy at an oasis, followed by me playing in the world's largest sandbox
8. Marrakesh
The sign makes clear you've arrived at our favorite city
9. Essaouria and Casablanca
The gulls at the coast swarm Essaouria's "Castles Made of Sand," then it's back the Casablanca for one last night before flying home.
You can set the display time between 1 and 10 seconds, to take as long (our family) or as little (everyone else) as you'd like with each image.
Enjoy.
After visiting the Hassan II Mosque, we drove about an hour north to Rabat. With around 1 million people, it's considerably smaller than Casablanca. And being the nation's capital, the city has a certain bureaucratic feel to broad swaths of its newer streets and architecture.
Here was our introduction to something we'd see across Morocco: Ville nouvelle versus medina. Or, more simply, new city versus old city. Each town's original core - the medina - is like a city unto itself, often nestled behind the walls that centuries ago offered protection. Crossing those walls, we learned, was like stepping into a different world.
The streets inside the old cities are narrower, more congested, but not with cars. Instead, people are everywhere on foot and on bike. Horses, donkeys and people haul all sizes of two-wheeled carts. Everything seems to be in a constant state of motion. There's no block-by-block grid. And the buildings, if not actually tying on to the ones adjacent to it, look as though they could slouch against one another for support if too exhausted to stand fully erect after centuries of use.
Although nondescript from the street, the buildings were generally astonishing on the interior, as we observed at our lunch stop, the Center for Cross-Cultural Learning. Our guide compared it, in a sense, to the princple of the veil many Arab women wear. The outside world sees little of the wonders within.
After filling our stomachs and resting a bit, we heard a presentation on Islam that gave us a good base of knowledge for the rest of the trip. We were fading fast after so much travel and so little sleep. So soon the group headed to the first hotel, got cleaned up for dinner and got to sleep.
We hit the ground running, heading from the airport directly to the Hassan II Mosque, whose 689-foot minaret is the world's tallest.
The site is considered the apex of North African Islamic architecture.
Overlooking the Atlantic Ocean and named for the former king, the site was built between 1986-1993 with money raised by public subscription.
It made for a stunning introduction to the Muslim world, spinning into a discussion of the principles of Islam and the importance of mosques in the layout of cities.
From Seth's notebook:
The sun has just risen before us - filling the cabin with a pink-to-orange-to-red glow at 30,000 feet - minutes before we're to land in Morocco.
What a welcome to Africa. And what a way to shake off the groginess from 24 hours of travel. We left our doorstep at 3:40 a.m. Saturday, lifted off the ground at PDX at 6:10 and now are about to touch down in Casablanca around 7 a.m. the next day. It's sure to be a whole new world to us.
I've been reading the 9/11 issue of The New Yorker on and off during the trans-Atlantic flight. We've heard a lot of subtle and not-so-subtle concerns from people about this vacation. And the international terminal of JFK might well have been the most diverse place this Oklahoma kid's been until, well, a few more minutes from now. I've started into a timely article by George Packer, who is also from Oklahoma if I remember right. It includes this passage to bear in mind as we start this trip:
"Islamism has taken on the frightening and faceless aspect of the masked jihadi, the full-length veil, the religious militia, the blurred figure in a security video, the messianic head of state, the anti-American mob. At Islam's core, in the countries of the Middle East from Egypt to Iran, tajdid and islah (revivial and reform) have helped push societies toward extremes of fervor, repression and violence.Judging from what I've seen so far -- from the adorable boy wearing a "soccer champ" shirt sitting with his mother and grandmother, both with heads covered and wearing full-length jalabas, or the woman in the flowing sunny yellow robes and head scarf complete with the Georgia Tech logo - I have to agree.
But on the periphery, from Senegal to Indonesia - where the vast majority of Muslims live - Islamic reform comes in more varieties than most Westerners imagine. At the edges, the influence of American policy and the Israeli-Palestinian siege is less overwhelming; and it is easier to see that the real drama in Islam is the essential dilemma addressed by (Mahmoud Muhammed) Taha [whom the article is about]: how to revive ancient sacred texts in a way that allows one to live in a modern world."
MOUDEN ABDESLAM
ABDELMOUGHIG AKDI
OMARWe're back. We're tired. And we're so happy we went.
We'll write about the trip and post more pictures in the days and weeks to come. For now, however, here are some of our favorite pictures from the two-week trip.
Sunset in the Sahara
Giddyup.
Befriending the blue men guides.
Cooking on Marrakech's main square.
Rugs in Marrakech.
Tanning Fes' hides.
Cooking in the souqs of Fes.
Fes mosaic in detail.
One of Fes' main gates.
The markets - olive, anyone? - of Meknes.
Essaouria, which inspired Jimi Hendrix's "Castles Made of Sand."
Ordering lunch at a roadside cafe.
On the way to class.
The streets of Chefchaouen.
More from Chefchaouen.
Abdul's mom says goodbye from the family home in Chefchaouen.
Where do you insert the pump?
Forget Paris. We'll always have Casablanca.day 2 in marrakech began with a tour of the souq - the maze-like market in the sprawling medina
saw everything from metalwork to ceramics to carpets to all varieties of animals - from beasts of burden hauling massive loads of goods to critters or parts of them bound for a plate somewhere for dinner in town tonight
plus we got to meet many friends of abduls
then broke off from the group for a nice lunch and people watching in the giant main square
then amy and i went to a private hammam -- a spa-like place where we had two-plus hours of steamrooms, scrubbings and massages
ahhhhh
we feel like jello
now we are hanging out at the riad before dinner
tomorroiw we drive to the coast and essouria
we are now in marrakech
arrived here after a few days in the sahara, where we battled through some food poisoning but now we are well
had a beautiful drive through the high atlas mountains
whew
they take those curves fast
staying at another beautiful riad, a bed and breakfast type place tucked away in the bustling medina
tomorrow we are off for some more shopping in this city that has the largest market in all of africa
seth got his drum
also got a clean shave with a straight edge razor for 2.50 usd
watched drumming, snake charmers and monkeys in the square
on wednesday we head to the coast for a day on the beach
still having a great time as we near the end of the trip
cannot wait to share photos and stories
take care
The keyboards here are nuts. Because of that - and the fact we would rather go see more of Chefchaouen than the interior of one of its cybercafes, we am giving up hope of long-form blogging during this trip.
We are both keeping detailed journals, however, and will post from those upon returning.
The trip so far is better than we ever imagined. And we have great pictures, too.
The food has been amazing such as the lamb we had today where we watched the butcher cut it up. We are having lots of fun and feel safe. Our guides are great.
That is all from here for now. We are off to dinner.
In order to pack light, I have now made three trips to Target, two trips to Columbia, two trips to REI, two trips to GI Joes, a trip to Walgreens and a trip to Safeway.
I've searched the pharmacy shelves and shoes stores for just the right medicine, shoes, and dozens of other American staples.
The absurdity of all of my shopping hit me as I spent time sighing in the aisles. I was looking for a gift to take to Abdul's parents, who will host us for a dinner in his hometown in Morocco. The typical hostess gift -- a bottle of wine, flowers, a candle -- seemed inappropriate or downright impractical.
So, I called Abdul's wife, Jenna, and asked her for a suggestion. She paused for a second, thinking.
"Socks," she said. "Something nice and warm. It's about to get cold there, and they have cement floors. Oh, and some nice smelling soap. They only sell two kinds of soap there, and one's this paste, it's yuck."
Socks and soaps. She went on to tell me that any gently-used piece of clothing would be nice to hand off to Abdul's sister.
Socks, soaps and old sweaters.
I suspect that if I showed up at an American's house with such practical gifts, I'd either make a great story for the hostess' next cocktail party, or I'd be made to feel sheepish as the socks sat on a bar next to Pinot Noir and brie. I can just imagine myself saying, "I just thought this sweater would fit you, and I'm kinda tired of it after three winters."
I expect I would be treated wonderfully with gift or no gift in the home of Abdul's parents. It's amazing, though, that socks and soaps could foster such a beautiful relationship with otherwise strangers.
I cannot wait to share a meal with them. Bowls full of food, glasses steaming with tea and baskets full of bread. And the socks and soap.
-Amy
At work, as today's fifth anniversary of the 9/11 attacks has drawn near, we've had plenty of stories about what's changed, what hasn't and what it all means.
Maybe I'm not engaged enough. Maybe I have war-on-terror exhaustion. Maybe being in Oklahoma at the time of the Murrah bombing makes 9/11 feel a little like someone else's tragedy. Maybe I hit the five-year benchmark for the OKC tragedy and realized it was just like the fourth anniversary and the sixth anniversary.
I'm not sure, but at some point, the coverage all blurs into a giant gray mass. And for me, that point had hit Saturday night as I grabbed a seat on the MAX after wrapping up another shift. I'd absorbed all I could on the subject.
Then, in the sliver of space between the wall and the seat in front of me, I saw this slip of paper:
A fitting thought for today, no?
This being Portland, it is probably someone's public art project. But however that note got there, and whatever led me to pick that seat, on that train, and to look down in that space and see it at that time, well, I'll take it.
Because, in a way, that sentiment slices through the talking heads, the politics, the madness of it all like little else. In this crazed world, we have to savor those little moments of clarity and beauty whenever and wherever they arise, be it in Oklahoma, Portland, or, next week, Morocco.
Being an editor, though, I'd suggest the present tense:
Our friends Juliana and Claire run a great new coffee/crepe shop around the corner. And at this shop, which is called Mon Ami, they have Portland's most outstanding coffee, Stumptown. And I mean "coffee" in the same way we Southerners say "Coke" when we want a Dr Pepper.
I don't drink coffee. I drink chai, which is a tea. And no matter what my friend Ellen in Denver says, it does not taste like feet. And I prefer not to think about what basis of knowledge she'd have for such a statement.
Anyhow, a local filmmaker has been at Mon Ami lately, starting work on his next documentary, which is about coffee and has the working title "Burnt Chocolate Water." Well, Amy was writing about him recently, and I went down on a Saturday morning after her interviews finished to meet her for breakfast and hangout for a bit at the neighborhood shop.
The guy was still filming and I ended up being interviewed. He now has a working trailer up for the project, and it turns out my dumb ass ended up making the cut. Next stop: Oscars.
Check it, and a link to Amy's article, out here.
I knew this was going to be one long haul, but I hadn't run the numbers until today. From doorstep to doorstep, we're scheduled to travel 14,041.5 miles by plane and car. That's like traveling from Portland to Oklahoma City and back nearly five times. Minus a brief camel excursion, all our travel in Morocco will be via auto. And thankfully, we won't be doing any of the driving.
I've also updated the itinerary map with more specific day-by-day information so relatives, if they're so inclined, can easily pinpoint just where we'll be and when we'll be there.
For curious family and friends:
The where and when behind the "How-can-we-not?" trip.
It's Friday. Everyone's edgy. Enough's enough.
Just like Stephen Colbert, put all that irritates you on notice.
My list:
1. War on terror
2. The WB network
3. Brussel sprouts
4. Rhett Bomar
5. Workplace gossip
6. Jerky neighbors
7. Bruce Sussman's hair
8. End of summer
A definition, with apologies to Webster's, as applied to this week's news out of Norman:
A how-to on throwing it away.We had a little earthquake last night. Another of those moments when I'm reminded we aren't living in the Midwest anymore.
At 1:39 a.m., I was just about to go to bed after working the late shift at work. The Colbert Report replay was on and I was laughing about something. Then I thought, wait a minute, I'm not laughing hard enough for the cabinet door to be quivering. But then I noticed the bed seemed to be rattling ever so slightly, too. I looked around and listened to see whether a big truck might be rumbling down Columbia Street or something. There wasn't. And then it was over.
I didn't think anything of it and went on to bed.
Got up this morning and checked the Web like usual. An e-mail on my work account said something about a quake. Turns out it was centered about 15 miles north of our house. The USGS is calling it a 3.8, which is minor. No reports of damage or injuries.
Slate has a good piece up today that reminded me of childhood: Requiem for a rookie card.
"If I had to guess, I'd say that I spent a couple thousand bucks and a couple thousand hours compiling my baseball card collection," Dave Jamieson writes. "Now, it appears to have a street value of approximately zero dollars. What happened?"
Well, shit. There went the McPrince children college fund.
Still, all those cards in my parents' attic are mine. And the memories I associate with them are worth more to me than whatever a Robin Ventura rookie might have brought in.
Maybe it's one of the flaws of our out-of-control capitalistic society. When everything (even, say, cheap cardboard images of men playing a game that are mass-produced for children's enjoyment) has a price tag slapped on it, at some point, you have to ask what things are really worth. The value of baseball cards, at their core at least, was the thrill of opening the pack, hunting down your favorite players' cards and trading them with buddies.
Like so many things, it was fun while it lasted. And damn the corporate schmucks who overinflated the card-producing industry like batting averages balloon against expansion-year pitching.
I begrudingly take this, and the fact that I find myself writing a post on the subject, as further evidence of one undeniable fact: I'm getting old.
Sigh.
Perhaps Mom's ears are going.
She and my little sister, Chelsea, are visiting for a few days. Last night we wanted to take them out for a nice dinner. We were headed down to Northeast, around 28th, thinking about Navarre.
While driving, I say, "I haven't been there before, but I think it's a tapas bar."
Mom, from the backseat, replies: "A topless bar?"
And to think that she says Dad's the one going deaf.
There's a review up at OregonLive (can't get a direct link to the story working), which raves about the 2-hour-35-minute set I was lucky enough to see last night. Here's the heart of it:
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