Foie Gras, French Celebrities, 5000 theatre posters

This has been a summer full of incredibly varied experiences. I hoped on the train from nuclear reactors and caves in Geneva to travel to Provence where Galen's French family lives. His mom was an exchange student with the mother Marie Chantal and lived on a farm not far from where I am now. When Galen was in high school he lived in Lausanne for a year with Marie Chantal who is as close to him as an aunt.

We rolled up on our bicycles, packed for our tour and were greeted at the house by kisses and hugs. Three kisses from the Swiss, two from the French. The house matched the Mediterranean colors apparent everywhere, the shades were periwinkle to match the grey green leaves of the olive trees and the warm beige stones. The house seemed huge, large enough to fit the entourage that is staying here. Three French actresses who are performing in Avignon as part of the biggest theater festival in the world stroll around in their pajamas, hair down and make up removed. The daughter of one of the actresses is here with her four children including Kiera a little girl who loves to give stones as gifts, Keiren who loves his new sword and drawing Jedi knights, Keliana who wants to be a math teacher and Alana who dreamt about the same boy for 30 days in a row even though she detests him.

French is thrown around fast and furious but this is the most interesting kind of immersion. I learn the language as fast as I can so I can understand Serges' stories about the history of the towns we see, and the actresses' inside views on the festival. Of course I'm barely understanding enough to help with the dishes, my new favorite activity since it's something that at least makes sense to me in English. Galen's new name is mon petite babelfish since he translates for me whenever the topic of the conversation sounds too interesting to miss. For the most part I just listen and learn and everyone is exceptionally understanding about my inability to pronounce the French r, and my tendency to indicate the past tense by waving my hand behind my shoulder as if to say yesterday.
I also continually throw in pronouns and conjunctions from Spanish that may or not be intelligible but my good attitude about my own ineptitude seems to keep everyone from mocking me.

We traveled to the festival to meet the actresses after their show was over and rushed through the streets to a restaurant. I can barely keep up with the Parisians as I'm entranced by the posters plastering the beautiful old walls of the city. There are over 500 plays in the festival and attempts to grab the attention to fill an audience results in a city filled with posters and flyers. I joke that in Vegas they hand out stripper cards as aggressively as Marie Chantal is handing out cards for the women's play. I think I like France better.
The restaurant that we arrive at is everything Paris Las Vegas would like to be but just can't match with its stones and plants aged by paint instead of time. We walk into a brightly-lit patio, filled with trees, lights and waiters running from table to table. The lights are especially bright because they are filming a famous actress for TV as well as a man on an old bicycle who is weaving among the tables.
I have a hard time taking my eyes off the spectacle to read the very expensive and fancy three course French meal. The men order an entree and main dish. All the women get a main dish and dessert. Galen and I laugh since he earlier proposed that women use chocolate as a replacement for fulfillment in relationships.

We stare at each other wide eyed across the table. I'm confused by the menu, slightly embarrassed for ordering something only offered at lunch time, blown away by the price that would have fed me for a week in Morocco and wondering just how I ended up at a table filled with beautiful French actresses. Three more women join us. One has bright red curls, tied dramatically into a bun when she sits down. Her giant diamond ring flashes in the movie lights as she reaches for bread and wine. Another women sits down and Marie Chantal whispers in French that she is a very famous French singer well known in the 60s. They kiss our cheeks, I sheepishly say Enchante and laugh at how many beautiful women just kissed Galen who knows enough French to flirt with them.

The woman who we saw being filmed when we walk in comes over to say hello. I find out later from my babel fish that there is tension between the actresses because her show in Avignon is selling out even though she used to be less respected in Paris.
The loquacious red head tells Galen across the table that she is quite timid and even though I don't understand her French well I certainly don't agree. I'm the silent one, soaking it all in, giving Galen oh my god how did I get here looks.
I'm glad that at least I brought the Patagucci dress that my mom mom helped me fix up before we left and not my chaco sandals.
The food is amazing, the zucchini perhaps the best Ive ever tasted. Serge, Galen's French father, insists that we drink more wine as it is good for bringing people together. I don't drink in the states and drink the glass very slowly to avoid a obligatory refill that I know will make me even less capable of understanding what is going on.
Galen and I decide that the dinner, the experience, the lights, the cameras, the celebrities were worth our 90 dollar dinner without question.

The next day we travel to Avignon again and marvel at street theatre as we walk to the show of the three women. Singers and dancers surrounded by attentive crowds fill every little corner and makeshift stage in the town. Costumed performers wander the streets trying to convince the passers by to pass their evenings inside their theater.

The play we watch is about three women aging and is a series of short sketches. I resign myself to linguistic confusion and focus on the humor. The humor is very physical. In the play the women are 45, 50 and 60 but in real life they are 52, 55 and 65. They are still running around in military get ups, face masks, walkers and strollers singing and dancing with such life and energy that Galen and I can hardly believe their real ages. The women who were so calm at breakfast, talking to me slowly and simply with great patience are now performing at a mile a minute, 15 different characters each by the time the show is over. After the play we head to the Palace and descend to the basement of a fancy restaurant behind it into a large cellar area.
One of the three ladies has a father who is a famous French poet and playwrite. An Englishman informs me that her father just won the French equivalent of the Tony and that his works are so magnificent that he was inspired to move to Paris to act. I sheepishly explain that although Ive been living with her for four days did not understand that until he arrived to explain it in English.
She is singing songs composed with the lyrics of her fathers play. Although the words are hard for me her expressions, her comic timing, her rhythm emotion and voice are amazing. It hardly matters that I'm missing a few of the jokes because I can tell she has true talent. The pianist that accompanies her sings as well. I tell the pianist later that although I can't understand the words I could understand the music and that it was beautiful. Only later does someone inform me that she was the composer of all of the songs.

This reminds Galen of our experience earlier that day in an art gallery. He helped me translate the descriptions on the wall about how the artist cannot know exactly what their art holds and that it is up to the observer to add interpretation to the art. He starts talking to a woman about how much life is in the sketches and they banter about the art. I listen attentively and can tell just by the expression on his face when she tells him that she is the artist. She pulls out rolls of sketches and I think she is trying to sell one to Galen as I can understand that he is saying we are on bikes and cannot carry them even though they are beautiful. We leave and he is silent, thoughtful, like I haven't seen him before. I feel badly for interrupting my babelfish to see what was said. She has offered him a free picture because when she was young she had no money for art and loves it when the young are interested. She decided to become an artist because she had no money for art and had to create it herself.
I tell Galen that he is certainly cabable of carrying some art back to our house here and that it is a silly reason to refuse a genuine offer. We turn around, pick out a sketch of a womens back and carefully carry it home on our bikes.
Every day here is filled with jewels of experiences, with good friends, with laughter, with fresh produce from Provence and huge family meals. As everyone keeps saying, we have lots of time. It's vacation.

Taxis, Buses and Trains

Traveling in Morocco is an essential piece of the Moroccan experience. While we saw tourists on the beaches, in the restaurants and at the mosques I was always the only blonde on the bus.
Our journey to Tafraoute was particularly challenging requiring multiple taxis and trains that all required unnecessary amounts of haggling. Moroccans assume blondes are stupid and ready to be taken advantage of unless proven otherwise. In many ways this was true since I was only armed with my lonely planet that had prices printed before gas skyrocketed.
When trying to find a taxi or bus to Tafraoute we could hardly trust a word anyone was saying. Two men approached us in Asni first claiming to want only tea and then to be friends and help us find a ride. They insisted that there was a bus arriving shortly to Marrakesh and we decided to wait for it at a table with them. They used this opportunity, that they had probably created by inventing a bus, and tried to trade silver jewelry for American goods. After sitting around bartering ski team stickers for small jewelry boxes a man approached and in Arabic told them men that a car was headed for Tarodannt, the town we were really trying to reach. The price was higher than we'd anticipated but they insisted after a heated argument with the taxi driver that we were getting a good deal. We were just glad that they were doing the haggling for us. As our taxi drove away a man desperately tried to sell us a box that was also a bracelet. He was scary desperate, running along our open door, insisting that we buy his goods as he lowered his prices by hundreds of percent without the slightest interest on our part. We wondered what life event prompted his desperate clearance sale of his silver inventory. We urged the taxi driver to keep going since he was waiting to see if we were going to finish the deal.

The road wound out up and around mountains on a narrow one lane road. The cars were infrequent enough that everyone drove as if no one was ever coming in the other direction. Occasionally we'd pick up someone on the side of the road who would give the driver a few dirhams for a quick ride. They always squished into the front leaving us the entire back seat to ourselves.
Around one corner a yellow truck forced our driver to swerve onto the shoulder. There were no barricades preventing us from falling down the bank to the river hundreds of feet below. Without barricades I got a clear view of our tire only inches from the edge spinning us at 40 mph around the corner on loose gravel. I turned to Laura terrified. She did not want a description of how close we were to death but I was too shaken to remain quiet. "Laura, that is the most close to death I've been on this entire trip."
I compare it to climbing Toubkal, walking down dark alleys, trusting random Moroccans and it is no contest. I reflect on reading about the tourists who died on this road in 2005 an the lonely planet description of the road as "the most perilous in Morocco." I try to think of a time in my life that I have ever felt that close to death and I still can't come up with anything. I question my sanity for getting into the car but think that getting out in the middle of the mountains is not the appropriate solution. The decision has been made and before long we see the valley and begin the descent to flat desert.

We leave the taxi, find a bus, and take another taxi to Tiznit where we spend the night, too tired to push on to Tafraoute. The next day we take an old stationwagon over the mountains. It can only go around 25 mph uphill but we don't mind as it seems preferable to falling to our death as we speed around corners.

When trying to leave Tafraroute we inquire at our hotel about buses since we know it will be much cheaper than taxis and more comfortable than being mushed into the backseat four across. The hotel concierge(yes our hotel was that awesome) tells us that the bus leaves at 6. When we try to buy tickets the man insists that his company is the only one going to where we want and it leaves at 5. We decline buying tickets even though he tells us it might fill up(fat chance) and ask our concierge again. He's sure that it leaves at six and tells us that the green bus we refused to buy tickets for goes the wrong way. We we return to the correct bus and ask where it is going they say that we must take a taxi because there is no bus. We are confused and insist that we want to take the bus. When they tell us more conflicting information about the buses destination I hop on board and ask a few passengers where the bus is going. Satisfied that it is indeed going to Agadir I hop off and again ask to buy a ticket. They tell me it's going to Rabat, the capital which is hours away and has no bus service to Tafroute. Even if it did the bus would go through Agadir so I'm confused. We leave the men who are trying to get us in a taxi and decide that maybe buying the tickets at the bus ticket window will solve our problem. We are convinced that they are just trying to sell us tickets and the bus is really going where we want it to. At the ticket window the man tells us the bus goes to Marrakesh and that we must take a taxi. I know that the only way to get to Marrakesh is through Agadir or crossing mountains and desert with a 4 wheel drive vehicle. I ask them to point on my map the route and they invent a road that doesn't exist that bypasses Agadir. I'm horribly frustrated with my French at this point as I try and fail to explain that they are making up fake roads and the bus clearly goes to Agadir. I end up shouting in English, "I want to go wherever the bus is going!" A nice girl tells us we can buy tickets on the bus and we hop on, almost missing it after spending 20 minutes trying to convince them to sell us tickets. We decide that the man at the ticket window must get money from the taxi drivers for telling tourists that they can't take the bus.
The bus winds through pretty hills and villages up a mountain pass. We stop for snacks at the top of a huge hill and as we start rolling again a man comes around with plastic sacks. We recall Jane's stories about puking Moroccans and wonder what is about to happen as over half of the people accept bags. We decline and I hope that I'm not jinxing my stomach. In any case we don't eat our drinkable avocado yogurt despite being quite excited at buying food at the rest stop.
Only a few turns later we hear the first retching noises and turn to each other in amazement. The man in front of us looks back at our shocked faces and laughs. Next the kid behind Laura starts puking and I grab my bag off the floor and put my feet on the footrest afraid that he might not have made it all in the bag.
Later we speculate that Moroccans puke so frequently because taking cars is so unusual for them.
Our next few trips involved a lot more arguing as taxi drivers swarmed the blonde to rip me off. Eventually we arrive in Tahazout at 11:00 pm and a man whisks us off the street to stay in his house for a few days of relaxation by the calm cool seaside. We needed it!

God-Made Caves and Man-Made Caves

Spending a day almost entirely underground was a welcome relief for my maltreated skin that's been protecting me on all day outdoor adventures involving water, wind, sweat and sand. (Don't worry mom, I reapply, and have an empty sunblock to prove it.)

Jordan, Jamie and I drove to L'Orrebbe limestone caves created by the largest underground river in central Europe. I'd considered cycling the 73 K there because I was so interested in the caves but after ascending an 8 mile, 8% grade hill on the way there I was glad for the car and happily spent some money on gas( 7 dollars a gallon here, but about the same price per mile due to smaller cars.)

The cave was magnificent. The limestone structures that had taken thousands of years to form resembled ox bowed rivers, glacier flows, the Nile Delta, jellyfish and more. The patterns in nature repeat in all sizes underground in limestone.

Jordan is an avowed atheist working on his Ph.D in physics and he remarked in a mocking tone "Doesn't the beauty just make you believe God exists?"
We debated if the beautiful structures and our ability to appreciate them had perfectly reasonable scientific explanations like seeping groundwater that flows in the same patterns whether it is carrying dirt from a river, forming ice cycles on a roof, or limestone underground.

We didn't resolve the issue of the creation of the cave but we were all awestruck by its beauty.

After the cave that water or God created we visited CERN, arguably the most important scientific project in the world. The particle accelerator is housed in a tunnel 27 miles long hundreds of feet below the ground. The particle detector is housed in a huge man-made cavern underneath the corn fields of Saint Genis Pouilley.
Jordan used his card swipe to grant us access to the building where we put on helmets for our spelunking adventure to the depths of the experiment. As we passed his card through the turnstile three times he joked that his boss would ask him tomorrow why he entered three times in two minutes.
He asked us if we'd prefer the stairs or elevator. I usually choose stairs but he herded us into a huge industrial lift and when the door opened only seconds later and I looked up at 20 flights of stairs I realized he was only kidding.
The cavern was filled with hundreds of computers, huge rooms with people working just as if they were in an office on the surface. After pretending to scan our eyes in a retina detecting machine that wouldn't be in use until the experiment was turned on we entered the giant cavern where the detector was housed. The red, blues, yellows and silvers of the huge cylindrical detector were as amazing as the cave we'd seen earlier that day. These were clearly man-made in the pursuit of knowledge of the first few seconds after the big bang. Jordan explained his work and pointed to the parts he had helped wire. When the experiment is ready to turn on in the next year they will be searching for the Higgs particle in an attempt to simplify the mathematics necessary to create a universal equation that can explain all forces of nature. Jordan hopes to prove the existence of a new force.

We pass a Styrofoam sign labeled "on switch" next to a emergency shut off in case of a "black hole." At least the scientists have a sense of humor about the controversy created by a layman's fear that a black hole created by colliding particles would suck in the earth.

Experiencing the project as it was on the verge of turning on and possibly expanding our knowledge of the universe was an amazing opportunity worth the entire trip to Geneva. We giddily walked past the "no visitor" signs feeling very fortunate that we knew someone working on the project. There were certainly no tourist shops in sight.

My Tour de France

Last summer I watched almost the entire Tour de France, breaking personal records for hours spent in front of the television. This summer I'm on my own Tour de France and spending more time on the bike than I did in front of the television. Although the seat is a little less comfortable than my mom's couch, France is better in person.

On my first adventure I cycled between Saint-Genis Pouilley, France where my friend lives and Lausanne, Switzerland. The Swiss have amazing cycling maps with national and regional routes included elevation information and points of interest along the way. They have bike paths and lanes all over the country with signs at every turn that are color coded and numbered to correspond to the free cycling map. Paying for a guided tour of Switzerland is almost unnecessary, at least for cheapskates like me who don't mind sleeping in other people's filth in random hotels and carrying my own stuff.

The bike ride to Lausanne along Lac Leman(Lake Geneva) passed peach farms, wheat fields, castles, huge houses, sunflower farms, and quaint cobblestoned streets.

While exploring one of the towns along the way I heard a Swiss man playing songs I recognized on the guitar. He was playing "Nothing Else Matters" my favorite song my Metallica that I saw live in concert a few years ago and at one point attempted to play on the guitar. In butchered French I tried to express this to him, he seemed to understand and we had a fun conversation about music. We both knew the same band names and even though he knew about as much English as I knew French he did know the names of songs in English and had a lot of tabs with him. He alternated back and forth between playing French songs and singing them well and English songs and singing them with a great voice and a silly accent.
In high school I played the guitar for long enough to learn most of the chords and by watching his hands and the tabs I could figure out which part of the French song he was singing and practiced pronunciation by following along. If only language learning in school was as much fun as having a Swiss man sing to me in a park overlooking Lac Leman I think everyone would be at least trilingual. Although my voice is certainly not one of my highlights I decided that since I actually knew the songs and how to pronounce the words I would sing for this stranger and swallow my typical embarrassment. I was particularly amused while helping him with an Elvis Presley love song because he did not know what the words meant or that singing it with a girl in a park might be construed as romantic.

After my long lunch stop I continued to Lausanne and decided to take the train home so I could make it before dark. I didn't know if I had another 70 K in my legs and had really wanted to see the cathedral that Jamie had told me about so I hadn't turned around earlier. The trains had special bike rooms marked on the side of the train. I couldn't believe how easy cycling was. The only downside to the day was that my ticket home was 25 dollars and for my bike was 15. In Morocco one could get across the country for 40 dollars, not just home from a bike ride!

The next day I headed out on a route I found on http://www.bikely.com/ which is a really cool googlemaps supported website where people share routes all over the world. I searched for the cities I wanted to visit and found an amazing 75 mile route around the Jura mountains. I stopped at an old fort over looking the river gorge by Bellegarde and found maps galore of the region with every waterfall, church and information center carefully marked.
I followed the route around the back of the Jura passing pastures of cows, enjoying the sound of the cowbells. Before beginning the assent of the Jura to cross back over to the side where Jamie lived I stopped in the alpine village of Mijoux and ate the best apple tart of my life. I think the scenery, the long road behind me and the quaint French passterserie could have made anything seem good but the tarte was gorgeous and crisp and flaky and sweet and a bit sour and life was amazing.
I summited the Col de la Facucille at 1323 m and happily put on the coat I'd been carrying around all day for the 11 K decent at 8% grade. The views of Lac Leman and the alps were worth all of the climbing. There is nothing like a reward like apple tarts and world class panoramas to inspire me to pedal farther.

Bastille Day: French Fireworks outshine Uncle Sam's

Although I have pages in my journal about Morocco that were scrawled on random buses and in airport terminals those stories might have to wait for a later date.

I left a country filled with inexpensive hand crafted souvenirs and entered an airport filled with advertisements for extremely expensive watches modeled by very attractive and rich people.
Switzerland is sparkling clean. The roads are in mint condition, the buildings beautiful and the bathrooms scrubbed down, free and fully stocked with toilet paper.
It's been great staying at Jamie's apartment because I can cook for myself and do some dishes. I know I've been eating out too much that the calm meditation of cleaning was welcome. Jamie's husband Jordan has been commenting that he wishes all woman wanted to cook and clean so desperately.

My first day we went to a American couples house for dinner who worked with Jordan at the particle accelerator at CERN.
I learned that there is a 27 kilometer ring under the ground here about 80 feet down. They use giant magnets to accelerate particles at almost the speed of light and draw conclusions about the nature of the universe by observing what happens to them when they collide with such high energy. The vast underground caverns are so big that the arc de triumph would fit inside them. Scientists from over 100 countries work at the experiment that is groundbreaking in so many ways. The 27 K tube is in position accurate to 1 cm. Other pieces of the accelerator are placed by hand to an accuracy of less than a hairs width. The magnets create a field stronger than that of the earth. The equipment is so sensitive in places that dropping a pin would break it and it felt the earthquake that caused the Tsunami in Indonesia. The materials to build the superconductors have been collected from around the globe including the brass from old soviet weapons retired after the cold war.
Jordan is trying to procure special guest passes for us but since the experiment is starting to get going it might be tough to get special privileges. The underground tunnel is big enough to ride a bike in but he promised that he wasn't important enough to grant me the privilege of riding in the giant tunnel.

They laughed about a crazy local man who was suing because he feared that a high impact collision of subatomic particles might create a black hole and suck the world in, Geneva first. This is much less likely(10 to the negative 50 power) than winning a jackpot in Vegas but the publicity has created more attention for the scientists.

After dinner we walked to a lake and watched fireworks. They started the show with the 20th century fox theme song and included more American favorites such as Indiana Jones and the Pink Panther songs. The fireworks were amazing and definitely made up for being on the side of Toubkal for my countries independence day.

Today after trying 7 ATM machines I decided that no banks in France would take my card. They also wouldn't exchange my money from Morocco and so I rode my bike across the boarder and at least convinced the Swiss to change my money. I now have 82 dollars(minus 20 for groceries) and called my bank to tell them about my predicament. They informed me that for no apparent reason it was not possible to withdraw money from the ATM. They asked if I'd tried more than one and I responded that I'd actually ridden my bike to another country to withdraw money since I didn't even have small change for bus fare at the time. Then they asked me "do you have another bank?" Maybe I will soon! They really just said, sorry there is no way to get money until you return. Luckily I'm well fed and housed at Jamie's and I convinced them to take off the overdraft fees for cash advances from my Visa. Because I lost my ATM card shortly before coming here I looked up the pin for my visa that I never use. Thank god otherwise I'd be trying to live for three weeks on 82 dollars in a country where gas is 7 dollars a gallon and a cup of coffee is 4.

Luckily I did have a great day after a morning of bank nonsense. The best part was stumbling upon a Jardin de Maths. The garden was a huge exhibit about math in nature including an entire greenhouse dedicated to Fibonacci numbers and phylotaxi. Since I'd read books on the subject in English the French made some sense. It helped that the math was a universal language and that just looking at the formulas was enough for me to understand. The math made the French more clear, not the other way around.
I wished I could take my students somewhere so fabulous and thought about how I might make a mini math garden in my classroom next year.

Heat Exhaustion or just Seat Exhaustion

I drank 8 liters of water yesterday and only saw one cup of urine. It was definitely a hard day.
Laura decided to run and I took the tour guides suggestion of a long mountain bike ride which he had originally said was 60 k.
Laura and I assumed that kilometers on mountain bikes were equivalent but after factoring in the 20 K hill; the 110 degree heat; trying to find bottled water in a sparsley populated desert; asking directions from people who spoke french worse than i do; pedaling an old bike without clip pedals; and spending half an hour pumping up a flat on hot black asphalt with no shade I think the conversion wasnùt equivalent:

Not to mention that the ride was actually a metric century:

I began the day early and enjoyed breakfast in the shade of the enourmous rocks that were re,inicent of j tree, one of my favorite places to climb. I had two yogurts, two bananas and orange juice.

I then spent at least an hour pedaling uphill with three literes of water on my back and an extremly heavy bike. I figured it was good training for the week im planning to spend cycling in France with a bike racer.
At the top of the hill I was happy to see that someone had spraypainted the arabic road sign with western alphabet and i was able to use my map to find my way to the first oasis:
I knew it would be a hard day as i was on top of a dry mountain and assumed that there was no way I could find an oasis without descending a huge hill: I was right and as i went down the hill I did some calculations to see if I had enough water to make it back up as Iùd gone 30K without seeing anywhere with water.

As i decended into a canyon green plants with purple flowers appeared signallying a drastic change in landscape. I entered into a lush green oasis with shady palms, people smimming in the river and little houses. One house had a coco cola sign and I tried in vain to buy water there. I asked some villagers in French if there was a store with water and they brought me some in a cup from the stream. I explained that I wanted to buy bottled water and they appeared with a bottle and filled it up from the cup. I panomimed sickness and they showed me the hole where the water had come from. The spring looked safe, I could see the source and I decided to take the bottle in my camel back figuring that Id rather get sick later than pass out from dehydradion. I little ways further down the road I passed a stand selling fresh squeezed orange juice and tajines and stopped a moment. They spoke better French and told me I could buy water 15 K down the road. I realized i was already one giant hill and many miles from home but the landscape was changing so dramatically and every bend in the road revealed a new village, canyon or surprise that I didnt want to turn around. I resolved to turn back at Soua Hassad Issni if I couldnt refill again there and made note that the oasis had some bottled water piled in the floor of their shop.
On the way to the Soug I was slowed down behind a woman fully cloaked in black herding goats down the road. I tried excusi moi with the goats but apparently they didnt speak French. I wondered if she thought I was a heathen dressed in spandex and was glad when she smiled at me. Sattalite dishes looked like strange additions to their mud and brick abodes but I figured they had been exposed to worse on TV.

I found the town of Souq and and while waiting in a small store for water saw that they sold salted nuts. The little boy waiting for his father to finish looked at my red face, blonde hair, spandex and the tube extending from my mouth to my camel back and grabed his fathers hand in fear.
The shopkeeper did not know the French for almond or at least couldnt understand my interpretation of it so I ran the man down grabbed his bag and pointed to the nuts and asked for the arabic word. The salt was worth the effort.

I felt well stocked and ready to continue the journey. On a long barren strech of desert I stoped to take a picture of the mountains that had been folded into waves when a truck filled with bottled water, coke and fanta stoped to ask if I was okay. I was glad I did not have to beg him to upwrap his shipment for me.

On the turnoff to the town that marked the halfway point on the grand loop I saw a sign saying Tafroute 49 K and realized that I was at the point of no return. I was going to ride a metric century today or face the alternative of staying in an inhospitable desert.

I felt confidant that I had enough water to go back the way I came because I knew I could buy more and hoped that the next town on the map 25K down the road would have some because if it didnt id be forced to turn around and extend the trip. As I pedaled across the dry stream beds through a canyon I was alone and began to realize that no one was out here to rescue me. The strength of my legs and my mental toughness was all I had to keep me safe. I reminded myself of sufferfest in Las Vegas where Id ridden 113 miles in extreme heat and told myself I could do it. I rested under a tree, ate some cookies and felt strong.
As I rested by the tree I hoped in vain that someone would pass by as the sign in front of me was only written in arabic and a wrong turn would be hugely demoraling and potentially dangerous.

I faced another turn in the road and hoped that the kerin was placed by someone heading in the same direction that I was going. If I could not find my way around the loop and had to backtrack I was faced with over 100 K of riding.

I chose correctely and was overjoyed when an hour later I saw a man working outside and asked him the way to the next town on my map. Athough I still had water from the six liters Id had so far I bought another large bottle and rested in his store and ate more nuts. He told me that it was 40K to Tafroute and 3 hours by bike. I wondered how I would pay for the long downhill into the oasis. I decided to buy yogurt, another water cookies and juice. They were facinqted by the camel pack and I explained to the one who guided in the sahara that we called it a camel bag in french. I still had my wits about me well enough to remeber some vocabulary. I was surprised that no one seemed surprised at my journey. When he said I had three hours to go I thought he might be concerned. So far everyone had thought I could do it. I knew I could.

I paid for my long desent into the oasis with an unrelenting gradual hill in full sun through creekbeds. I made mini goals for myself and decided to rest when I saw shade. I was so tired I redefined shade as a prickly bush and pulled over and sat on the dirt to rest. I knew I was wearing out because I ignored the flies aroud my face and did not at all care what happened to the pretty white on my bike shorts.
I forced myself up knowing that I couldnt just sit all day and dehydrate on the side of the road.
I almost started crying when I saw the thorn in my tire. I cursed myself for not checking the flat repair kit because I knew better than trusting Morrocans for things like that. I pulled out a tube covered in patches and hoped that I wouldnt have to learn how to use a patch kit on the road alone at 113 degrees.

I wondered how long I would have to wait until a car passed that I could pay to drag me home.1000 pumps later I was still on the side of the road thinking that Id pay good money for a CO2 cartridge and wondering just how many pumps it takes a tiny awful handpump to fill up a mountain bike tire. When my PSI was probably around 40 I decided that my legs were stronger than my forearms and that maybe Id make it back the next 30K with a mushy front tire. Just as I got the wheel back on and figured out how to use mountain bike brakes a van loaded down with people passed with a wave probably thinking, incorrectly, that I knew what I was doing.

Moving again felt good and I felt somewhat accomplished for fixing the bike. I thanked God for sending some cloud cover and Sam for his very thourough tire changing lesson Id recieved years ago.

I made another goal. When I made it to the top of the first large hill and could see tafroute in the distance I would eat the cliff bar Id carried with me from Seattle and was saving for emergencies. I couldnt think of a time when a cliff bar would taste better. As I ate it looking over the valley I was very pleased that the next 22K were downhill. Of course downhill after 8 hours on the bike with a front tire with little pressure wasnt as easy as id hoped. After the longest decent of my life I returned home and chastised the bike shop for suggesting that ride. If I hadnt done sufferfest in Vegas Im not sure I would have made it. He didnt seem impressed until I told him it took 11 hours and 8 literes of water. His friend piped in, people dont ride that whole way; they drive to the top of the 22K hill and finish there as well. Good to know.

Laura of course was about to send a 4WD vehical after me and promtly took me to dinner. My endorphin high faded as we ate and walking home was a struggle.
I wont get into details but Id never felt the need to use so much antibiotic cream on my skin, or what was left of it after 9 hours in the saddle and 11 of chamois time.
I went to bed shortly before the sun set thinking that literally all that Id done all day was eat and ride bikes.

Seduced by Marrakech

Laura and I arrived at dusk to Marrakech, pleased that the heat we'd been hearing about every time we mentioned we were going, had subsided. We felt like we were back in Peru as a throng of taxi drivers approached us. "Speak English?" "Taxi?" they asked to polite replies of non-merci. We marveled that my knee was well enough and our bags light enough to walk to the main square. Laura, not sure which way it was to the main square, pointed in a random direction and said "the main square is that way right?"
After they corrected her we walked off in the correct direction and enjoyed a nice stroll of a mile or two along a fountain lined street to the medina.

All it takes in Marrakesh is a momentary look of confusion and the locals point one towards the main square, Femna de Ja(sp?) where much of the spectacle takes place. As we neared the square we could see the bright lights of the food stalls, hear the drums beating and the crowds of people. Our aqquantainces were correct when they told us that we mustn't miss Marrakech as there is no where else like it.
Although we were dazzled by the lights of the square we were hungry and carrying our bags and decided that finding the hotel first was boring but practical. As Laura pulled out the guidebook to find our hotel a local man saw his chance and led us down a winding narrow alley then hung around until we were annoyed enough to give him 10 dirhams.
The alley is so narrow that Laura and I press our stomachs to the wall at the sound of approaching motorcycles. Although cars are not allowed in the Medina it is filled with motorcycles obeying no clear rules. I'm used to looking right and left before I cross a street, but now I must look and listen all around before walking anywhere as they are not confined to any certain part of the squares.
We climbed three flights of stairs to a rooftop restaurant and marveled at the spectacle of the square. We watched mule drawn carts carry away buckets of orange rinds from stall after stall of people selling fresh squeezed juice.

After chicken tajine and local watermelons we made a circuit around the main square. Laura stopped for a moment to look at a woman selling henna and gave her enough reason to grab her hand and insist on giving her a "gift." A flower rapidly appeared on her hand and I took pictures, and thought that Laura was not asserting herself very well since we'd decided we wanted to get Henna at the end of the trip. We didn't want to be branded tourists right from the get go but thought it would be cool to have in another country.

Unfortunetely the lady saw me and decided to give me a gift as well. I insisted that I didn't want a gift but she grabbed my hand with such force that I would have had to use quite a bit of strength to get free. Since it was only 10 D that Laura had paid for her gift I let myself be seduced by the lady and now have a faint flower on my hand, likely made with diluted henna. She told me it would give me "good sex." I couldn't believe she'd said that.
Next a young Morrocan man asked us where we were from and convinced us to drink tea with him that was supposed to help the stomach. We accepted his offer figuring that my stomach had been quite upset and that we could practice more French.
Eventually he became insistent that we drink beer with him and we made our escape back to the hotel so that we'd be ready for a 6 am run. I haven't run that far since I had knee surgery and had the great pleasure of finding a man's bathroom at a bus stop mid-run because I've been having stomach issues. I felt very tenacious for even attempting to run so far with Laura despite sexual harrassment and stomach issues.

After our run we made our way to the Royal Palace and tagged along behind a French tour group. We discussed how much we would have to study French before we could respond with anything other than "un peue" (a little) when asked "parlez vous francais?" I can't even spell in French clearly. Almost nothing made sense in the French tour but Laura happened to hear Spanish coming from another group so we decided to switch.
Luckily the Spanish made sense and we realized how much farther we'd gone in that language.
The Morrocan leading the tour could tell we spoke English just like everyone else and inquired if we understood. It was nice to honestly say yes and feel like I wasn't wimping out by trying to only speak English.

On our way out a shopkeeper stopped us and told us his brother was from Seattle, where I live now.I wouldn't have been surprised if I had told him I was from Seattle but since I hadn't I thought it was quite a coincidence. He pulled us into his spice shop, showed us Saffron. In the United States, while shopping for spices for Morrocan Stew recipe I found on runners world I noticed that Saffron was 5000 dollars per pound. Here is is only 700 dollars per pound so we decided to buy 6 grams. He then offered us tea and we accepted not knowing what were were getting ourselves into.
He procededed to rub perfumes on our hands, lotions on our skin, massaged our foreheads with orange oil and showed us traditional Morrocan soaps. In the end we ended up with 6 or 7 Morrocan bathroom products and a bag of saffron and absolutely shocked we'd spent 45 dollars on bathroom supplies. Perhaps some of my readers can look forward to some Moroccan soap or rose scented lotion.

He pointed the way to the Morrocan art Museum where we attempted to read the French. A kind guide let us behind the roped off area in a deserted room and showed us that the walls were painted with saffron. We tried to ask him how much it cost to cover the walls in saffron but he didn't seem to understand. I'm motivated every day to improve my French by new questions and new needs.
Now I'm going back to the souqs, the market, filled with carpets, shining silver, walls of leather shoes, purses, rainbow pottery and more.
Then we are off to climb Toubkal, the highest mountain in North Africa and Mountain bike in the Amlen valley. I won't likely have interent for quite a few days. I have more posts in my journal, and more pictures on my camera but they might have to wait until internet is faster and cheaper.

Rabat

Life has been busy busy, not necessarily with what one might expect.

Jane got sick at the international music festival which i wrote about in my journal on the train but haven't posted yet. I spend a day in her friends gorgeous apartment in Casablanca making her fruit smoothies and taking care of her. We dragged ourselves on the train to Rabat and today she went to the doctor while I babysat. This consisted of watching spongebob and marveling at the ridiculously small waists of barbie dollars as I pretended to be one.

Today Laura arrived and I met her at the airport with personalized taxi service.

we decided to rough it a bit more and turned down Khalid's offer to drive us downtown and took the bus. It cost 4 dirhams instead of 250 which was nice. 7 D = 1 dollar by the way. We found the medina, bought cherries on the street on the way there and after a very pitiful attempt to wash them decided that they were probably fine.(sorry mom)

We bartered a bit, drank tea in a tiny room filled with moroccan treasure and traded English lessons for French lessons. Our french isn't great but it getting better.
I bought some cool Moroccan leather shoes for 10 dollars and will probably buy some more before I go since they are so cool.

It's late now, Jane is hanging out with her boyfriend, Laura is asleep and I'm trying to navigate the complicated world of swiss rail passes while talking to Jamie on instant messenger.
We are loving Morocco so far and excited to travel to Marakesh the main tourist destination. Unfortunately it's 50 degrees there, and I mean Celsius. 122 for those of those still thinking in Fahrenheit. We really want to ride camels but just aren't sure if it's a great idea to see the desert at these temperatures.

Hopefully there will be more later, when I'm not so tired, worn out and uncreative in writing.