Save Tibet

When it rains it pours

Today I had an interesting observation. It has rained heavily for the past three days. As I was walking downtown sans an umbrella. Why is it that all the people with umbrellas walk under the awnings, forcing those without to walk in the rain? By a vowel people. If you are using an umbrella you don't need to take up this precious space. Save it for someone who is getting wet.

Excuse me, you have something in your ear.

Living in a city exposes you to many oddities. Some might call them "freaks." After living in a city for some time these "freaks" begin to fade into the background. It isn't until something truly shameful or obscure occurs that you notice them. The "aghast" factor, where you do a double take and then awkwardly stare like some frozen computer. I experienced this very phenomenon on Tuesday. The Market is a great place for this. I passed a large man, dressed in a leather vest, leather pants, and a white t-shirt. His head was shaved and body heavily inked. One could say he stereotypically fulfilled the "biker" label. But this isn't what caught my attention. Oh no, it was the piercing. His right lobe, stretched to a height which dangerously flirted with his nipple caught my attention. Attached to his lobe was not the expected "Native" object, it was a carabiner. Laden with keys it joyfully weighted his earlobe to the functional position. As I stop, staring, I witness the man straddle his hog and put the keys in the ignition without removing them from the carabiner nor his ear. I hope he doesn't catch it on a mirror.

Blogthings when Bored

You Are A Hazelnut Tree

You're a charmer with a killer sense of humor. You are very demanding, but you can also be very understanding. No matter what, you always make a lasting impression - you're quite popular. Passionate, you are an active fighter for social causes and politics. In general, you are moody, honest, a perfectionist, and very sexual.

What's Your Celtic Horoscope?

You Belong in Paris

You enjoy all that life has to offer, and you can appreciate the fine tastes and sites of Paris. You're the perfect person to wander the streets of Paris aimlessly, enjoying architecture and a crepe.

What European City Do You Belong In?

You Are Snow

Magical yet potentially destructive You are well known as fun to play with People anticipate your arrival but then are quickly sick of you You are best known for: your serenity Your dominant state: reflecting

What Type of Weather Are You?

A Blue Shirt Monday

Today was one for the record books. My design studio consists of roughly thirty-five people. Twenty of which are men. Of those twenty, fifteen wore blue shirts and khaki pants (the famous IBM uniform). I find myself at a challenging crossroads. I am new and should tred lightly in my new corporate setting. But the situation is such that all decency is diluted by a plethora of comedic potential. The momentum is unstoppable, the humor predictable and repetitive. What will Tuesday bring...red shirts I hope.

Blonde Tsunami

In one of my last U-district adventures, I was nearly drowned by a sea of blonde lemmings. I found myself walking south from 47th to 45th. The street appearing normal, a demographic of balance. Slowly at first my eye, keen as it is, begins to notice a changing of the tide. At first a small group, three, in matching shirts, products of the same factory. As if a secret conveyor belt were working overtime, waves of feminism begin to crash against the calm of the "Ave". By the time I reach 45th, the seemingly banal waves have grown into a tsunami of catastrophic magnitude. I find myself drownding in a sea of blonde. Incessant chatter crashing all around me. Rush week consumes me, eroding my non-Greek countenance--transforming me into a sex-crazed teen. Violently, images of unfulfilled fantasies whip through my head. The musk of perfumes intoxicating. Perspiration weeps from my brow, my hand clammy to the touch. Just as soon as it came, it passes. I remain, a rock in a sea of normality once again.

Flogging, not your everyday kink

Seattle continues to surprise me. If one just takes the time to open their eyes and ears, there is an amazing amount that she will present to you. Today was another lesson of her allure. I was casually walking down Seneca towards a place for lunch. Two people a man and a woman in business casual attire are having a conversation on the sidewalk. The gentleman's ecstatic gesticulations tease my visual thirst. He continues making a striking motion from above his head behind his body. The woman intently gazes on, studying the subtler movements. As I approach nearer, my ears ring with anticipation, longing to make sense of this affair. Within ear shot I hear the man instruct, "It is this motion here with the elbow that gives you the most reward with self-flogging." The world is an instantaneous blur, an easel of colors which possess neither shape nor order. My brain questions my ears, "Self-flogging?" And then the woman confirms it, "I just haven't been getting the result I am looking for. My flogging technique isn't quite there." The colors quickly collide into focus, a jolting halt reminiscent of youthful carnival rides. As my legs drag my reluctant eyes and straining ears around the corner, my brain is left mute. All that remains is a stupid grin upon my face, and a stomach which yearns to be fed.

A Day of Accomplishment

So today proved to be a successful one. It was a hard day at the office as our team was working to prepare for our boss leaving on vacation for the next month. Things were a little hectic and energized. But the day was beautiful and we accomplished all we needed. But the ultimate success came in the evening. Tonight I successfully passed my National Intercollegiate Soccer Officiating exam. It included a brutal fitness test and a written exam. Now I am legally qualified to officiate collegiate soccer. The UW will never be safe.

Hindsight is 20/20

A post by a friend. Sometimes others just say it better. Click on the title for a link to her website.

Why is it - that when life tries to tell us something, we don't listen... Day to day provides wonderful opportunities and yet it's chance - the 'stupid' coincidences of life that cause us to make irrational decisions we can pretend to feel good about.

Why listen to something that makes no sense? And why does it feel so empowering to follow something that makes no sense? Is it just the desire to want what we can't have? What about learning to be happy for the present moment? Why do we never feel the right feelings at the right time? Or hear the birds until after they've flown away? Why do we always seek to rebel what's right for us? And run from the things we know are good and comfortable and right...

Do you follow your gut?
Do you follow your heart?
Do you follow your brain?

And if you should be so lucky to find they all align at some point, will the opportunity be missed? Is it already too far gone? Has the damage already been done? 'They say' "it's never too late..." but why is it, than when you realize what you want - it appears too late - the circumstances that were in your control are suddenly out of reach.

I have this horrible habit to resist the thing I actually desire.
I seek patience and yet I'm growing impatient with myself.
Everything I pushed away, everything I rebelled, is everything I want.

And everything I thought I wanted is changing.

Rapunzel

Last Friday a group of us completed a giant sand sculpture for the annual Sandfest weekend. Although none of us had ever done this before we were quite pleased with what we were able to accomplish. This 8 foot behemoth was the tallest of all entries, and proved to be an amusing interpretation of the children's classic story.

Plain, WA

An interesting event occurred earlier this summer. I had just spent the day with two of my friends and all their friends rafting the Wenatchee. The day was hot, the water cold, and the waves...well they could have been bigger. Honestly, us Coloradans need serious whitewater to get our adrenaline pumping. None the less a fantastic way to spend the weekend. After the conclusion of the trip and the all too familiar trip back to your car in a rehabilitated school bus, we adjourned to a fantastic beer haus in Leavenworth. After a delectable liquid dinner, we headed out of town, eyes enthusiastically consuming the views. Knowing we are running low on gas we stop at a gas station. But thanks to our current fuel conundrum, No Gas. No Gas at a Gas Station, what is this the 70's. So our choices are twofold. Travel four miles out of our way to the next closest gas station or try and push it twenty miles to the next town en route. Taking the conservative approach, which I verbally objected to, we head to the nearer station. Four miles later we are in Plain, WA. A beautiful little town with no gas. Deciding we are shit out of luck to make it to the other town, we opt to turn around and head back to Leavenworth for fuel. So here we are three woman and myself coasting through the mountainous backcountry of Washington in search of gas. So desperate are we that we pass a car in neutral. We must conserve every drop. Passing a car in neutral is surprisingly rewarding. I highly recommend it. In short, an hour after leaving Leavenworth we return to get gas, nowhere closer to home, but intimately familiar with Plain.

Your Seduction Style: Fantasy Lover

You know that ideal love that each of us dreams of from childhood? That's you! Not because you posess all of the ideal characteristics, but because you are a savvy shape shifter. You have the uncanny ability to detect someone's particular fantasy... and make it you. You inspire each person to be an idealist and passionate, and you make each moment memorable Even a simple coffee date with you can be the most romantic moment of someone's life By giving your date exactly what he or she desires, you quickly become the ideal lover. Your abilities to make dreams come true is so strong, that you are often the love of many people's lives. Your ex's (and even people you have simply met or been friends with) long to be yours. No doubt you are the one others have dreamed of... your biggest challenge is finding *your* dream lover.

What Kind of Seducer Are You?

10 Signs your neighborhood is becoming a ghetto

10. The mounted police patrol your sidewalks.
9. They break up a large arms dealing gang at your bus stop.
8. You felt safer when the arms dealers were there.
7. The singing panhandler goes out of business.
6. A hierarchy of street thugs forms.

5. People shoot up on your front stoop.
4. You have witnessed a violent crime in your courtyard.
3. A loud scream or siren wakes you every night.
2. Spontaneous street parties form on your corner, but with mediocre cars, music, and woman.
1. The mayor chooses your neighborhood for a massive "revitalization."

So You Think You Can Dance - Dave

This is a smashing video of my friend's roommate in undergrad. Many of you from Wash U will remember him. Please do not try these moves, they are reserved for the highly skilled.

Employment Wanted

Honesty should count for something.

Views from Metro #72

Lately I have been making frequent commutes downtown to attend interviews. Below is a list of some of the unusual things I have seen:

A watch which verbalizes the time. You press a button, and your watch mechanically says, "nine forty-seven."

A man in a yellow felt beret reading the "Basic Spanish Dictionary."

Continuing with the yellow theme, a woman in a yellow sweat suit being complemented on her outfit by a woman in a gray sweat suit. Yellow must be this seasons new color.

And yellow again, a man who was kicked off the bus after refusing to pick up his banana peel from the bus floor.

A woman kicked of the bus after repeating a long drawn out, "Oh my f#@*ing God" at least a hundred times in a five minute span. She was chemically altered.

Three Survey

Three Names You Go By:
1. Levi
2. Rippy
3. Rips

Three Things You Are Wearing Right Now:
1. Soviet Naval Belt
2. CK Boxer Briefs
3. Lucky Jeans

Three Things You Want in a Relationship:
1. humor
2. passion
3. trust

Three Things You Want Really Badly: (right now)
1. graduate school
2. land a great job
3. someone to love

Three pets you had/have:
1. Pete-black cat, yellow eyes
2. Meg-black lab
3. Velcro-Siberian Mountain Lion mix

Three things you did last night:
1. called my family
2. worked on my thesis
3. enjoyed a bowl of ice cream, shhh don't tell

Three things you ate today:
1. apple
2. salad
3. Chicken Sandwich

Three people you Last Talked To:
1. Meagan
2. Mom
3. Tinkerbell

Three Things You're doing tomorrow:
1. going to an interview
2. taking a shower
3. getting a haircut

Three things that make you happy:
1. snow
2. friends & family
3. music

Three Things You Despise:
1. indifference
2. selfishness
3. intolerance

Thesis Disclaimer

My life is quickly reaching a point of instability, the dynamism pushing the theoretical threshold. I am preparing to defend my thesis in June. Oh the pain. Entertaining job offers and trying to resolve my first career choice completes this divine comedy. No pressure here. Despite the overly dramatic epic I describe, this volatile stage in my life is equally exciting, scary, and uncertain. I am loving every moment of it. That being said, don't expect to see or hear from me in the next weeks. I must prepare for my academic hibernation.

Congress wants to privatize the net!

Stuck in the Mud

I just returned from the Navajo Nation in Arizona where I conducted my thesis research. Going on a nice lorry ride seemed like an integral component to my research. An afternoon spent with the remaining Anglos on the Reservation bumping along the wash, crashing through the river. The canyon walls radiated the warm southwest red and the air was spingly crisp. What I didn't plan on was getting wet. One would think you could keep your feet dry. Well so much for that. Dave our driver managed to bury the lorry to the frame and wedged the drop stair in the back into the mud. As the odd man out I got to lift it back up. Cold muddy hands--but wait there is more. In order to lift this heavy metal stair back up I step out into the river, placing my feet temptingly on a small spit of sand. I thrust the stair up and another woman latches it in place. The shifting weight throws my balance and dry feet firmly into the river. Wet shoes, wet socks, wet pants. Sometimes you just have to laugh at your predicament.

Real or Not Real?

Reality TV has finally reached a breaking point. For years we have sat idly by as plotless media was beamed at us. But now it has gone too far. The latest show, CBS's Deal or No Deal takes the cake. The show is simple. A contestant stands in the middle, surrounded by an audience. 26 sexy woman carrying shiny metal briefcases arrive. The contestant selects one; briefcase not woman. Each case is filled with an amount of money ranging from $0.01 to $2,000,000. The contestant selects 6 cases to eliminate. Each of the selected cases is opened, revealing an amount of money which is not in the contestant's case. After each round of case eliminations, "the banker" calls from his office and offers to buy the contestant's case, confronting him with the creative option of "Deal or No Deal." This continues until either the contestant sells out or the value of their case is revealed. The show has no substance and manages to eat up an hour of programming time with long pauses between case selections, banker offers, and dramatic lighting and sounds. The sexist nature with scantly clad woman encouraging you to pick them and their money is only slightly degrading. No skill, strategy, or intellect is required of the contestants. In essence it is slightly more exciting than watching a person scratch a lottery ticket. What will they come up with next?

Figure Skating Gala

So now that the Olympics are over I can finally vent. Figure skating--why is it the only thing you can watch. Is this a reflection of some underlying obsession by Americans or does it demonstrate an archaic product that media wants to prove they can shove down our throats and make us like? All I know is that I would have appreciated the opportunity to watch the men's curling team win their first ever medal. Instead I got the figure skating gala, a chance for all the medalist to skate again for all their fans. This is just wrong, why should they be the only sport to get this opportunity. It is called the Olympics, not the world pageant of home-schooled adolescents gliding around in fashionless rags. We should demand more...more equality in presentation from the media. All the athletes deserve to be respected and portrayed in all their glory and shortcomings.

Congratulations Weid

Well some more time has passed and another one of my college buddies has made the next big life step. Congratulation to both Weid and Darcy. I wish you all the best and a wonderful life filled with love. With this move it puts the guys up 2-1 over the Beaumont ladies. Who is next?

Duck Cheney

I find myself reading a fascinating story about our Vice President. Apparently, he accidentally shot a friend. Now the entertaining thing about this is the way the media does everything they can to make this sound more palatable. The media reported that the lawyer was "peppered" or "sprayed" with "bird shot." This clearly makes the incident seem better for...for the man not in intensive care with pellets in his heart. Let's be serious here, the man got shot in the face with a shotgun. He would be missing his face if he hadn't been 30 feet away. Shot in the face while hunting with the Vice President whom did not have a valid duck stamp. Ok, so let's get the headline right.

Vice President Shoots Man in Face While Poaching!

Now isn't that the headline you would expect to see if it were anyone else but the Vice President involved? What happened to ethical reporting and a media with a backbone?

Congratulations Mr. Thaxter

Timing a little off, I just want to extend a congratulations to my friend on his recent marriage. I am glad someone is far enough along in their life to make the commitment. Now if I could only decide which pair of jeans I want to wear. Vi ses.

Smok'n Hair

I witnessed something curious today. A man walking down the street. Fro in full bloom. Now sometimes you will find the pick garnish. But, no not this time. Something much more creative. A single stick of incense adorns this tuft. Oh yes, it is lit--smoky fragrance bump'n down the street behind him. I think this new fashion statement has potential. Not only does it smell nice, but the idea of the stick burning to an end, igniting the fro compels me to follow him for a few blocks more.

Maybe it was the Couscous

I make my way to the airport, time to leave Morocco. I feel sick, my stomach all in knots. Hot and cold streaks, a fever for certain. By the time I return to Rome, my body is engaging in full body shakes, shivers when I am hot. Frequent trips to the lou. I awake, one more hectic day in Rome, some peace in Copenhagen, chaos in Newark, and solace in Denver. It seems my travels are done and I find myself home. Food poisoning, ravaged, I struggle to reclaim my reserves. I am filled with so many wonderful memories.

Eyes of Passion

At lunch I felt the presence of someone staring at me while I wrote. I look up eager to engage the stare, she turns away. Curiously I watch. She is older than I, eyes of passion define her. She radiates--helpless romantic. We hold a gaze--just a moment. She speaks French, how an accent melts me. I utter no words, letting my eyes do the talking. Her's shine so brightly piercing metal like the craftsman of the souq. On we went, eyes engaging in a tantalizing game of passion. We leave the restaurant at nearly the same time. I reach the street, disappearing into the mass of the plaza. No words were uttered, none needed. We were perfectly fulfilled from afar. I will cherish her half-smile and suggestive glances. She is my love of Marakech.

Tannery Tour

After a morning jaunt to Jardin Majorelle I returned to the Medina destined to witness the art of leather making. A world class header shared with some kids in a dead-end street. I am clearly going to have a great day. I take a wrong turn and end up in a familiar, but wrong place. This time a free guide missing a front tooth decides to show me the way. Now he moves through the crowds with unbelievable ease. I struggle to keep up, my best crowd navigating skills shamefully inadequate for the challenge. He waits, and we continue. He pawns me off to a guy at the tannery who shows me around. This new guide show me the tanks of chemicals, Berbers slogging through poisonous liquids. Blood, guts, feces, and fluids converge in the dirt gutters streaming towards some downhill location. Here the leather is treated, prepared, and cut. Within the bordering houses, the leather is sewn into the final product. It takes two months for the leather to go from raw material to final product. The aroma is no worse the Greeley, which I guess says a lot for Greeley. From here I am taken to the rooftop of a rug store where I can see down on both the Berber and Arab taneries. So I settle for a rug, tip my tannery tour guide, and continue towards the hotel. Pleasantly enough I run into my first guide. He asks me what I bought and tells me that I got a great price. Now he asks for a tip of a cigarette. Of course I don't have one, so we settle for a pen. This is good to remember, when traveling always have a smile and a pack of smokes or a case of pens. I find myself eating lunch overlooking the main square. A persistent desert wind cooling the air and flipping the pages faster that I can fill them.

Visual Stimulation

Today was full of firsts. I suspect that here you experience something new every day. This may be true everywhere, but perhaps my senses become dulled when I am familiar with my surroundings. Had I come here prior to Italy I would have been a much less tolerant prick. The first new thing I saw today was my first fight. Unlike the passive Italians that I have witnessed for the past three months who are content to get in each others' grill, but do nothing more--Moroccans exchange blows. After some Arabic profanities, formalities were exchanged and it was on like Donkey Kong. The melee tumbled into a nearby store. The store and street packed, a mob has gathered. The two fighting are under 25, so the blows are fierce and the movement swift. One kid's movement is hindered by his nice leather coat. As he removes this, members of the crowd surge and separate the bought. The crowd divides the two and as soon as it started it is over, no police, just citizens keeping the peace. So I decide to walk on to the new city for the evening. Here I witness my first auto accident in Morocco. It involves two scooters, no surprises here, and one crippled man. The man on two canes somehow finds himself in the middle of the street (logically as this was no place for a healthy person). So the scooters are whizzing down the street, approaching each other. Each decides to pass the slower traffic taking the ambiguous middle lane. As they accelerate and claim the center line, wall-ah the man on two canes appears. Both motorists swerve to avoid him--one choosing right the other left. Blam-o, the crunch of metal, screech of rubber...a head-on encircles the crippled man, still standing, like Moses in a parted Red Sea. Oh the irony, which I can say now as no one was hurt. A spellbinding spectacle which is somehow normal in Morocco.

Black and White Guide

Day three in Morocco and things are going wonderfully--clear blue skies and temperature again in the 70's. Somehow it is surreal to be walking around in a t-shirt in the mid-December. I start the day with my the usual glass of fresh squeezed orange juice and then trudge to the Sabien Tombs. A cemetery for royalty, I find this facility most intriguing. At the tombs I am offered a free guide. A curios black and white cat decides to show me around. Oddly enough the cat seems to know every tomb I want to see. It leads me there, meows about the significance, and off we move to the next one. This is surprisingly familiar to my experiences in Italy. I thank the cat for the information, paying for the service with a small treat. As I exit the tombs I ponder what to do next. Well as I am on a death tour, I hike across the southern medina to the Jewish Cemetery. It is located in one of the oldest ethnic neighborhoods in the world. The Sheik isolated the Jews here because their practices ran contradictory to Islam. Deciding to change gears I head to the souq for some more shopping. One can only spend limited time here as the interactions are draining. Lunch was fair and dinner was at the now famous food cart #1, again greeted as "couscous."

Medina Maze and Ginger Tea

Day two and plenty more to see. After a modest breakfast it was off to Palais al-Bahia. Then to another rich guy's house that is now a museum. I was feeling hungry so I headed for lunch. Now I am not the kind of person that gets lost, as a matter of fact I have a good sense of direction. But in Marrakech it is quite easy to find yourself helplessly turned around. Navigation is complicated for many reasons. None of the streets are straight, and they are quite narrow restricting your range of view. You can only experience about 200 feet either in front of you or behind you. Signage is either non-existant or in Arabic which does little to aid me. Paths constantly terminate in dead ends forcing one to repeatedly double-back. Finally, everything is the same shade of pink. I wandered for a good couple of hours determined to eventually stumble across some form of public space that I could locate on a map. To no avail, hungry and tired, I finally broke down and hired a young boy to show me the way back for the bargain price of $0.50. As I was enjoying my "traditional" meal of Berber Beef and potatoes, I witnessed a woman across the street wailing loudly, as if there is any other way of wailing. A crowd of mostly men quickly formed, obscuring the woman. Scooters stoped, wails continued. Eventually, the woman is helped into a nearby store. When she is returned to the street she is vomiting. A friend helps her clean up. Kind of makes you lose your appetite. After lunch I went to the souqs and did some shopping then back to food cart #1 for dinner. I figure since I did not get food poisoning from eating there last night it is a good choice. The couscous and chicken filled me to the brim. I was welcomed as "couscous" man. After dinner I decide to have a little Italian passegiata. Across the plaza I end up having a glass of mint tea. With the tea comes some sort of gingerbread cake. It is gritty and has a pungent bitter taste, but when combined with the tea the results are amazing. It is filling and the flavor is hot. The combination of the spice and temperature of the liquid is most enjoyable.

Today I Make my Marrakech

After the exhausting travels from the day before, I somehow find myself awaking early and eagerly heading out alone into the unknown. Today I claim my Marrakech. The town crawls like a teeming ant hill--the hustle and bustle of motion. Grinding horns and bells alert you to their presence. Cars, trucks, horse-drawn carriages, bicycles, donkey-drawn wagons, people-drawn wagons, and curious little motor bikes you start with pedals all race by, passing over the hot plaza tiles from shadow to shadow. Museum Marrakech is my first stop. Aimlessly I wander with a general sense of direction before suddenly stumbling upon the museum. Islamic architecture, with its mysterious culture and exquisite detail has always fascinated me. After the museum I head through the souks (marketplace) towards the Palais El Badi. On my way I find every imaginable animal for sale. Lizards, snakes, owls, turtles, monkeys, and some furry rat thing all dangerously wait in a hot musky cage. Chickens are bought live--butchered, plucked, and cleaned for all to see. Fruits and vegetables are neatly stacked on blankets in the street.
Near the palace whooping cranes nest. A majestic animal, it sits atop the old city walls making guttural clicking noises. People smile more here. The place is loud, smelly, and thick with smog. The nearby Atlas mountains cloaked in a cancerous veil contrast the vibrant clay red of Marrakech; radiating a sense of comfort, warmth.
For dinner I return to the square, eager to eat from the carts that role in around sunset. The square bustles with energy, smoking aromas waft from the food carts. Vendors yelling in all tongues eager to lure you to their smorgasbord of delights. Musicians, fortune tellers, story tellers, comedians, acrobats, and snake charmers feel any available space. Twenty men eagerly sit in a circle placing wages on which scorpion in the box will survive the longest. The operator, continually closing the box to shake it with renewed furry.
Food cart #1, that is where I will eat. Chicken kabobs, sausage, potato cakes, and bread with not one but two sauces. All cooked to order, right in front of me. Clearly they are a family which operates this eatery. The father, grill master of course, and the mother whipping up a mad batch of couscous. Her sons practice their Arabic, French, English, Turkish, Spanish, and Italian on the patrons. Who says you need to go to school? Now I watch the mother draw in customer after customer it uttering the only English I think she knows, "couscous?", she confidently beckons as she lifts a teeming scoop from the pot. Now this is important, as I am nearing the end of my first night, I see the mother preparing her famous line. So I mimic, "couscous?" My timing is flawless, her sons erupt in laughter and a genuine smile beams across her face. My joke would not only bond us, but to generate my Moroccan nickname, "couscous?".
Rhythm describes all that is Marrakech. An underlying pulse of repetition, prose, and beat. The architectural forms, cars, noises, movements, floor tiles, and birds all appear to respond to some underlying law of meter.

Final Round

With my ticket in hand I proceed to security rationalizing my new purchase in realizing I can always dispute the charges with my credit card company. The line moves well enough and I am the lucky winner of the full body search. My bags are torn apart in front of me: sans shoes, belt, coat, and dignity. Next up passport control. More problems. I hand the woman my passport and boarding pass. The toad of a woman, roughly resembling Madeline Albright, but in a less dignified manner, croaks at me in Italian. A smile and a simple reply that I don't speak Italian. She croaks back that she doesn't speak English. So now I must get the translation from the other passport control officer. She continues, croaking and holding some blue governmental form with a picture that I am supposed to have. I tell her I do not have one. She inquires, are you sure. I am not Italian, therefore when I reply no it means no, not I am really lazy and if I say no and act uninterested maybe you will go away and I won't have to work. "You must have a blue form." Maybe the school has it, I have never seen that form before in my life. "Where is your blue form." Ok so now I am at my breaking point. I respond in a slow, calculated, enunciated manner. "I don't have a fucking clue." She gives me a stern lecture and tells me I need it next time I leave Italy. Sure I tell her, maybe I should just stay in Morocco. With some time to spare and because I enjoy pain so much I attempt to try and get my tax refund. Now technically you have to show them the goods, which of course are in storage in Rome. But I reason it is Italy and they are pretty laid back. Not so, he stamps two of the forms and refuses to stamp the third one. Then writes on the third one that I was unable to show the goods. Ok, two out of three isn't bad. Next to the money line to get the dough...or not. A plane load of Chinese tourists has just rendered the line helpless. To the gate before the world ends. Once again I am searched before boarding the plane, but alas they let me board. For six hours I was harassed, poked, prodded, ridiculed, and threatened. When that plane finally took off with me in a seat I had bought twice, I quickly fell asleep. I was exhausted, worried, frustrated, and uncertain of what Morocco would present. Ding...this is going to be close...in a split decision the winner is...oh thank god I am not in Italy.

Round Two--Missing Ticket

Sent on my way from round one to two with a salute from the Carabineri I reluctantly join the line for Royal Air Morocc. When I arrive at the counter the polite woman informs me that my ticket is being held at the booth just across the hall. Now my paper ticket was supposed to arrive by mail. Those were the directions of the French email I got. By purchasing the tickets from the French version I saved 225 Euro, go figure. So when my tickets did not arrive at the Rome Center I called the New York office, because I could not locate a Rome office and they speak English...few. They informed me to pick my tickets up at the airport. So at this point I assume there is no problem. However, the inquisition from the Carabineri should have been an indicator of what I was up against. The man across the hall informs me that I have to buy my ticket. Well, I thought I already did. He says that the website does not charge the credit card, simply holds the reservation. He ensures me that in buying my ticket here, I will not be double charged. Fine, a small loss in my translation of French. Then Maximo (typical) tells me that my ticket is back at P. Barberini waiting for me to pick it up. Well that is great, how the hell was I supposed to know that, not to mention the ticket is therefore a two hour round-trip away from the airport. I ask him how I was supposed to know this when neither the confirmation email nor the airline notified me of this. Knowing that arguing will get me nowhere, I ask if he could find a solution. He calls the Rome office to see what he can do. Great there is a Rome office, why wasn't this information on the email! Surprise, Surprise...he can not issue the ticket here at the airport. Why? Because the ticket was mailed to me on "5 (not fifth) of December". Well it is now the 7th, I have checked the mail box multiple times on each day and guess what Maximo, no ticket! 35 minutes of me nicely arguing that the ticket did not arrive and him countering that he can prove that it did, yield me no closer to Morocco and no further from Rome. A solution I plead, I need a solution. You can purchase your ticket again for the same price and when you return go to P. Barberini and get a refund if in fact it was our fault. Terrified yes, I know all about refunds in Italy. Left with little choice, as I have nowhere in Rome to live, hardly any money, and a frail hope that everything will somehow work itself out, I reluctantly buy my seat for a second time. Ding, in an overwhelming slaughter Rome takes the Round...Levi appears to have little fight left in him. Will our desperate hero ever enter the promised land of the "secure" in the airport?

Terroista, Italian for this could take a while

So I finally arrive at the airport after the serendipity on the tram. As I am quite early for my flight (this would be my saving grace) I decide to find a place to sit. Well if you have ever tried to sit in Italy you know how difficult this is. Benches do not exist in this country and if you do find one there is likely a man with a whistle to ensure you don't sit on it (try Monumento Victtorio Emanulle II). So needless to say I am mindlessly ambling around the airport until I can procure a boarding pass and enter the "secure" part. Then out of nowhere a Carabineri points his machine gun at me and barks, "Passport" with a thick Italian accent with just enough entitlement to his voice. Dumbstruck and startled I am sure I fumbled trying to recall which pocket my passport was in. I hand it over while he radios for back-up as if I must possess some super human power that renders me bulletproof. Perhaps he is just unconfident with his shooting skills, a common theory amongst us. Now I have four more machine guns pointed casually at my chest and two at my head from the level above. Casually is the only word to describe how Italians hold guns, but the poses were unmistakably Italian. The conversation is quick and animated, all I can discern is "terroista". So glad to hear I fit some profile, I start looking at my chest half suspecting to see small red dots peppering my chest. Then the Sarge come sashaying across the terminal. He views my passport, mutters something about me being an American and I am free and on my way. Ding, Round one goes to Rome.

Ciao for Now

So I know it has been quite some time since I have updated. But alas the trials of world travel combined with the requirements of the holidays have delayed my writing. So to get things back in order I need to catch up on my travels to Morocco.
Deciding that I had endured enough of the Italian attitude I decided to leave the country for some much needed relaxation. An assignment had just been given to me on the last day of class and I was in no mood to focus on any more school, I mean my quarter was over right? But I have never had so much trouble leaving a country.
I guess it was Rome's way of getting even with me for some unforeseen cultural violation I must have made in the past quarter. Upon boarding the tram to Statzione Trastevere we were greeted with an accordion playing gypsy and his rattle playing gypsy son. The tram did its normal skid--stop routine, but instead filled with a carnival of noise. At the next stop a group of school children boarded, their small bodies rearranged by the jostling tram, music providing comic rhythm, and me eager for the clowns to board. Little did I know that this was the end of balloons and cotton candy.