Belize

I write from my weathered shack-on-stilts, perched precariously on the water’s edge in Caye Calker, Belize. My shack is tri-hued: red front, purple sides and turquoise steps. Sitting on the porch with a rum drink I have the feeling I’m looking out from a postcard- not quite for real. The few mosquito bites I have on my arms and legs are reminders that I am though, and still tasty after all these years.

The third or fourth rain in the last 24 hours has turned the sky a steel gray, the color you might see on a well-heeled matron’s head. Of course what I love best about this weather is the lightening. If it ever hit me I’m sure I’d feel differently but so far that hasn’t been the case. So, thanks to my mom, I find it a fascinating show at a good price.

On the way here from Mexico our boat was stopped and searched at sea. It’s the first time I’ve seen an AK47 up close. They are ugly. Really ugly. I wouldn’t have known what they were but the guy I was sitting beside in the far stern of the boat pulled out a bottle of 5 year rum and offered me some while we watched the DEO officers go through the hatches, our luggage, and copy our passports. The search took about an hour. During that time the sun set, and several local gringos on board became angry. But, Dave and I were in no hurry. I took a couple of pictures of the coast guard boat chasing us and as they sat along side of us. One guy at the hostel said I could have been shot for such insolence but none of the three officers seem to mind; just another grandma with a camera. (Maybe the name of my next book.)

The highlight of Belize for me was the snorkeling. Imagine being IN a really big aquarium. I haven’t spent much of my life under water so I was amazed. I could have hung out for hours at just one spot watching the amazing variety of fish: all sizes, shapes, colors, and patterns do their thing. I was captivated by several schools of lovely little fish–maybe 3 to 8” in length, gray with yellow stripes and a bit of blue to set them off. They didn’t go anywhere, just hung out, swaying in perfect unison with the undulating water. We encountered turtles, a fairly large sting ray, barracudas, nurse sharks with babies swimming on the tops of their mom, (or maybe they were patients), and many more I can’t name, at least until I get somewhere and buy a book

My personal favorites were the bright red parrot fish that looked as though they were wearing plaid vests, and the moray eel that came out of its den when our guide knocked on the coral shelf in front of his door. That episode was a bit like a scene from a Grimms Fairy Tale. He, the eel, looked green to me and not at all happy that he’d been awakened-of course I don’t know what a happy moray looks like but who is ever is pleased to be called out of your house for nothing? Anyway, about 3 or 4 feet of him slithered slowly in a straight up out from his den while the rest of him stayed hidden. It reminded me of the cobras in the baskets of snake charmers that I’ve seen in movies. He looked us over and just as slowly and deliberately, eased himself backwards. The show was over.

One irritating notable about Caye Calkner is that the Chinese seem to have sunk their teeth firmly into this lovely spot of paradise. They own the stores, some restaurants and even have a Chinatown. They charge way too much in their stores while the Belizeians struggle to make ends meet.

On afternoon Jasmina and I decided to take a walk around the end of the island where the airport is built. When the land became so swampy our feet sank several inches we tried to cut through to the airport. We came upon a house and called out to see if we could get directions. A guy from inside yelled, “You need to go back. There are crocodiles in the swamp.” Oops. We watched for suspect logs along the way but got home safely.

I loved watching kids jump from the public pier into warm water & with nightfall came the aroma of spicy beans cooking in open pots to go with lobster and fish on the barbie. Yum

Merry christmas y Happy New Year

Feliz Navidad!!!



December 15, 2009

Dear Friends and Family,

This year has been chock full of incidents, events, and accomplishments that define life lived at its’ fullest: travel, good & bad decisions, meeting new friends and hanging with old ones, the death of my companion, Sophie, spending time with my daughter, Anna in my hometown in Pennsylvania and in Mexico, and playing on the beach with my four year old grandson Avery, just to mention a few.

Travel is almost never a bad thing except maybe the quick, expensive trip to Japan my granddaughter Cooper and I took in August and deciding to live in Yelapa, a pueblo I started visiting almost 20 years ago. The latter was like deciding to move in with a lover after years of a good relationship based on courteous external behavior when suddenly you are faced with such unpleasantness that you wonder, ‘what the hell was I thinking? I’ll spare you the details.

I went to Oaxaca for El Dia de Muerte in October and after traveling through the Yucatan, Belize, and Guatemala by bus (sometimes Chicken buses) am now in Managua, Nicaragua at Hotel los Felipe, a sweet place with individual rooms surrounded by plants and even a small pool & wifi. I’m listening to Jingle Bell rock play in the house or establishment next door as I write. I’ll be here two days then head south and east to the Caribbean coast.

The city of Managua is a bit daunting. The locals continually tell me that it is not safe, that I need a guide-or at least a taxi to go just about anywhere. I’m not sure about that but it does seem to be the easiest way to get around, plus at 20 cordobas to the dollar it is pretty cheap transportation. My room has a TV, fan, bathroom with fresca shower and a comfortable bed for 12 dollars a night. I took the photo of the volcano I’ve attached from the airplane yesterday.

I liked the rural parts of Guatemala; the people were warm, friendly and fun. I danced with an old man (my age) in front of the evil saint, Maximon, and had many conversations with Mayan women, including Dorly, my Spanish teacher who was 22. The day of the dead experience in Oaxaca is what you make it but in my case it was one of the most moving in my life.

I’m a bit proud that I subdued my claustrophobia long enough to snorkel in Dos Ojos Cenotes (sinkhole) cave in Tulum, Mexico-two caves connected by small passageways so narrow my mask tube scraped on the side of the stalactite. My guide, Ricardo, was so skilled and fun that I forgot to be afraid. Then having the jones for snorkeling I joined some friends to snorkel the reef there and again in Caye Calker in Belize. I used a life jacket because I still haven’t mastered the art of blowing the water from my mask back into the water and tend to panic when it gets into my nose. But, hey, I’m out there. And of course, those of you who read my blog know I’m still alive after my trek up the Volcan Payaca.

I trooped through the Mayan ruins with friends I met along the way. Palenque and Chichen Itza in Mexico then Tikal in Guatemala spread out in the jungle where howler and spider monkeys yelled and frolicked above us. The structures were all as awesome and amazing as one would expect and then some. I marveled at the talented, intelligent folks left behind and-can’t even wrap my head around the life style they must have lived. I sat on a Mayan toilet, a series of rocks over a hole that dropped into a shelf of limestone that eventually led to a small creek or a man-made trough that carried water to the creek. An outhouse!

Looking at the bottomless cenote that royal virgins were thrown into made me wonder how it must be to be raised knowing you will be sacrificed. The winners of the ball games were also sacrificed. That would be an incentive to do less than your best, don’t you think? Dying, as we know from present day martyrs, just isn’t a big deal in many cultures.

In Guatemala I spent a week boning up on my Spanish. Dorly was interesting to talk to and we conversed about many subjects. That is what language is all about, isn’t it, conveying thoughts through words? I have a long way to go to be fluent but each day is better. San Pedro, Guatemala on Lago Atitlan is full of Evangelical Christians. I predict the demise of the Catholic Church here in Central America before too long-not enough rock music to attract the young. But, they’ve had a long run now, haven’t they and they weren’t all that nice in many respects. From what I’ve read and heard from folks, politics and religion do mix here- another scary idea in my mind.

I start 2010 in Costa Rica taking a course in ESL. My game plan is to be able to spend time in villages as a part of the community, instead of a tourist and I can’t think of a better way to do it than teach the children and even their parents if they want. I’m looking forward to spending time in South America and Mongolia plus taking time to get Irish Mongrel Child, the monologue I wrote, on the road.


As I travel I carry thoughts of you all in my heart. I wish you the very best of holidays, strength to endure when it’s necessary, and love to carry you along.

Feliz Navidad y un Buen Ano Nuevo.
Love, Ruby

If you have Skype, (and everyone should) give me a call!

Volcan Pacaya, Guatemala

My friend Jasmina and I talked to several backpackers before signing up for the 2 hour trek to the summit of Volcan Pacaya, the only active volcano near Antigua, Guatemala. Everyone agreed it was a challenge but worth the effort. One woman described the descent in the dark as sliding blindly on her rump through loose ash the size of gravel because it was impossible to get a firm footing. My outdated guidebook warns of robbers lying in wait for climbers rather than describing the climb itself, a non-issue now that armed police are evident on the trailhead.

Since the only shoes I packed are thongs-after all, it is Central America, but even the dumbest tourist knows one doesn’t stomp around on hot, sharp lava rocks in beach shoes- I bought a pair of knock-off-Converse high tops for five bucks at the colorful, local market the day before.

When I purchased my ticket for 50 quetzales, the tour person, Sara, told me that for an extra 150, about 15.00 US dollars, one could ride a horse to the volcano. I have wanted to do some horse riding since I began my trip in October but the occasion hadn’t presented itself. Now was my chance. I agreed to pay the horse owner when we arrived at our drop off site, about an hour and a half bus ride from Antigua.

The next afternoon while we were waiting for the mini-bus to pick us up Sara told me she had been mistaken; that the cost for horseriding was 175q. Normally I wouldn’t have minded the increase but prices are so unpredictable at every turn here I have grown weary and frustrated of the confusion; besides, I had only 150 on me. I told her never mind. I would hike. She called the agency she works for. OK, she assured me. 150.00. We were back on track.


When our driver stopped for gas, he announced that the horse rider-me- would have to pay an extra 25q to ride to the actual volcano,and 25q more to go further, what ever that meant? Completely confused and now pissed, I told him to forget it. I would definitely walk.

A short while later we pulled into a small parking area to meet our guide. Prancing around the bus were several –maybe 6 or 7- caballeros acting like a posse on Gunsmoke. They followed our group, circling around us laughing as we filed out and began our trek.


Having had a chest cold for several days I was not in my best physical shape nor was I in the mood to suffer their jeers. Coughing and perspiring, I slogged along behind the group, most of whom were at least 25 years my junior and on a good day would have left me in the dust. The posse rode beside and behind me; predators waiting for their prey to tire so they could move in for the kill. Taxi miss? You tired? You want ride? Ha Ha Ha, they taunted. Basta! (enough). I shouted. I concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other.(One alligator at a time, I heard my friend, Bob, whisper in my ear.) I questioned my sanity. No doubt about it, I thought. I am nuts. About that time our guide sidled up to me with a deal. For 75q each way I could ride his horse one way or round trip. His son, Freddie, coincidentally, just happened to be right there holding its reins. Back to the original price. I was simply too ill to argue.

As soon as I climbed up onto Lucero, whose saddle and blanket were both in sad need of repair or replacement, the touts dispersed. Freddie led me along the path behind my trekking friends like a kid on a pony. This was not horse riding. I was disappointed but determined to at least enjoy the view until the sun set. At the end of the trail, below the summit, Freddie, asked for his money. I had only 100q. Of course he didn’t have change. Did I mention that no one in Guatemala ever has change? Even when four people travel together and three people have just handed over exact fare, there is never change. I gave him the 100q bill I had.
.
But I'm ahead of myself. After walking up a hill through woods on a narrow muddy path full of jutting roots and rocks for a little over an hour we rounded the side of the mountain. The path at this point was no wider than 3 feet and dropped straight down into wilderness as far as the eye could see.

Suddenly, all sense of life seemed to vanish. What appeared to be thick fog but was smoke or maybe a mixture of the two engulfed us. I could barely see Freddie, much less the single file of folks snaking around the curve of the mountain in front of us. The ground began to look as if it were an undulating ocean whose gray water had been frozen in time. Light from a full moon softened the starkness, causing a Dali-esque surreal gleam over it giving the illusion that it might be soft and fun to run through. On the path, Freddie spotted a fat, nearly dead grub. He picked it up with a stick and insisted it-well, maybe not this one clearly off it’s migration course-would turn into a mariposa-a butterfly. Nevertheless, it's good to see hope in the young.

By the time we reached the base of the summit the sun had disappeared. The only light was the bright full moon directly in front, making a path across the desolate landscape. I dismounted Lucero and joined the others for the ascent. Collectively we clamored-sometimes erect, other times on hands and knees- over shifting, loose, sharp lava rocks ranging from the size of peas to basketballs and larger. Pockets of red-hot lava dotted the landscape. To everyone’s amazement every 50 feet or so we came upon a starving dog curled up, asleep in the dirt. Occasionally one would rouse itself long enough to beg for scraps. How they got there is anyone’s guess.

As we neared the top the hot lava generated enough steam to fog my glasses and in spite of my new shoes my feet were hot. The majority of our group had reached the summit maybe ten minutes before I and a few others did. When the guide realized there was this discrepancy in speed among the group he assigned his daughter to guide us. She was, I’m guessing, maybe ten? He had underestimated her abilities; she clearly did not know where the path was. Consequently we found ourselves on the wrong side of a crevasse, maybe 20 feet long, 2-3 feet wide, spouting red flames just a foot or so below us. Alarmed, the child called, Papa! Papa! Papa!. After she had yelled his name six or seven times he came to our rescue. Grabbing his outstretched hand for support, we jumped individually over the flames to the correct path.

A short distance away, the midnight blue sky, enhanced by the moonlight, glowed bright red. The ground around us was dotted with eerie patches of fire.

Just as we, the stragglers arrived, the rest of our party was leaving. I didn’t even have time to eat my vegetarian Subway sandwich. Groping my way through the treacherous lava in the dar-sandwich in one hand, flashlight in the other, I came upon one of the dogs. I handed it my sandwich. It wolfed down the bread immediately. When it came to the green pepper, tomatoes, onions, cucumbers and jalapenos it looked at me as if it had been deceived. What the hell? Vegetables? But, it ate them. If you are a dog who has acclimated to life where nothing grows, you cannot be picky.

After the rapid descent from the summit, part of it sliding on our rumps as we had been warned, the narrow path became a road wide enough for two lanes of traffic in some parts- plenty wide for easy walking. It occurred to me there had been no need to trek up the vertical, narrow, path through the woods, over stones and jutting roots, along a precipice that dropped off into nowhere. In my opinion the trek up the side of the volcano would have been plenty of extreme survivor action. But that is my opinion. The next day Jasmina, who is 33 I think, said, “The trek to the volcano was invigorating, don’t you think? I need to do more of that kind of stuff.” Like I said, it was just my opinion- no way do I speak for the group. Would I do it again? What am I, nuts?

El Dia de Los Muertes

As I wind up El Dia de Los Muertes holiday in Oaxaca I think that I don’t spend nearly as much time with my departed loved ones as I should. Of course they are in Pennsylvania and I am wandering around, a homeless soul content for the time being to drift.

But, next time I do visit I'll bring my Kirk a hamburger with ketchup and pickles, my mom a shrimp cocktail, a Manhattan or margarita- even a good cuppa joe with lots of cream and sugar. Johnny, my brother who was killed way too young by a drunk, would like a hamburger also and a coke. Grampa gets a big piece of chocolate cake in a bowl with milk poured over it. I’ll sing You Are My Sunshine to my baby, Robin, just as I would have done if I had been allowed to hold him before he flew away. I'm looking forward to a conversion with Grandma Emma who died before I was born but whose untimely death at age 53 came alive for me in mom’s diary. The folks in Foxburg may think I’m worshiping the devil when they see the smoke from the incense needed to beckon the spirits, but then again, they may want to join our party. Oh yes, Sophie who rests in my friend David's garden in Tehachapi will have a fresh bone. I won’t do as much dancing as I did here at XOXO, the village I partied with last night under a full moon. Maybe a little-but not enough to draw attention.

Night before last, here in the Oaxaca cemetery I spoke with a woman sitting quietly beside the grave of her child who she told me had been only three months old when she died. The grave was adorned with flowers and glowed lovingly warm in candlelight. I was grateful I was able to speak enough Spanish to share my understanding of her grief-her dolor.

You see, mothers who have lost children, regardless of age, are never quite whole again, never without pain that hovers, spread thin like an extra layer of skin just beneath the surface of our being, threatening to derail us at any given moment.

So, here in Mexico the dead are honored for a full weekend. Whole families including babies in arms and grandmas’ in wheelchairs wrapped in rebozos, come together to decorate and remember their relatives. Many hold a vigil the entire night because there is much to catch up on. It is quality time.

A poster I saw announced a performance with the words: Viva la Muerte
Maybe it means live the dead or life to the dead, I’m not exactly sure but I know it isn’t a contradiction, it’s a commitment. One worth keeping.

Awake Before Dawn

Boy I hate it when I wake up and it’s still dark out.

Here in my gully grotto it’s just me and the burro on the hill. Heeehaaaa Heeehaaaa. Hawwww. In the daytime he sounds like he’s laughing but the dark puts a sadder spin on his plaintive rebuznos.Well, maybe we’re not the only ones awake. Our opossum is probably cruising the hillside, pushing his Pinocchio nose into crevices & sliding through the bars of bodegas to see if some unsuspecting human forgot to lock down the pet food.

A few days ago, in broad daylight, a gray squirrel chased me off my hammock. Scared the hell out of me. I was laying there reading. Suddenly it flew across me-not 10 feet above my head, from tree trunk to tree trunk. There it hung or what ever it is they do with their sharp little toenails, upside down, yelling at me. Now I have mastered some Spanish derogatory phrases but not a single syllable of squirrel. I could tell by his body language and sheer decibel level though, that he was agitated about something and didn’t intend to back down. Sophie, lying in her crumbly cement/dirt hole and I looked at each other and agreed it was time to go inside for a snack.

Then last week, heading inside through the back door I was surprised by a long slender Vine snake. It was lovely- sort of a burnished gold and slate green combo. They can make themselves stick straight up like a, well, stick.

Laurel and I took some road trips north and south along the coast exploring villages and new developments this winter. There are so many of the latter. Pretty, yes, but I prefer the coastline before it got privatized for the privileged few. One place, El Tecuan, was a ghost town of lovely homes over looking a wide expanse of pristine beach all empty. It was creepy. I could hear the approaching bulldozers and concrete mixers; if not this year soon. Soon.Then, we were driving on 200 South when we encountered a white pick-up with a man standing beside it. He didn’t attempt to stop us, but I slowed down. When I did a blue van behind us ignored the fact that we were almost stopped and sped around. At the exact time, a stampeding herd of steers burst over the embankment onto the road. The van spooked them causing them to change course and head straight for us. I was going to back up but there wasn’t even time for that. It was a treat to see the caballeros and their amazing dogs working up close. They definitely saved the day!

My Anna visited me for her birthday in February. It was way too brief but so sweet. I took her to Yelapa where I am moving next year. It’s a several hundred year old village on the south/west end of the bahia. The only reasonable way to get there is by panga; the alternative being a mostly impassible road through the jungle or on horse back. I’ll move into Casita Jardin on my friend April’s compound, Passion Flower Gardens. Yelapa has a web site because there are many gringos there with palapas for rent or retreat. The draw for me is that it is small, has the river, the ocean, and horses and although now there are ATVs and electricity (fast few years), there is still no room for cars. Margaret will stay parked in Boca ready for frequent road adventures and shopping. Sophie, who as I write, has the runs because she drank too much aqua del rio, (poor Perrita) will appreciate the other folks and few dogs that already live there.This week is the beginning of Semana Santa, Easter Week, here in Mexico. The busiest two weeks of the year. Folks come from all over Mexico to the beaches to party. Small bands, vendors, tents, and pickups full of extended families suddenly abound. Some of them wash in the river and change in the reeds along its edges. It is a reminder for me that little money is needed to enjoy life.

I am going to Zacatecas in a couple of weeks to see/hear Placido Domingo. I’m excited. I’ll stay at Casa Santa Lucia, a refurbished 19th century hotel next to what is said to be one of the oldest and most beautiful cathedrals in Mexico. It’s also one of the oldest and I think the most lucrative silver mining cities and a major site of the revolution. Gary Jennings, writes in his Aztec books about how the enslaved Indians actually lived in the mines. The women gave birth there and then the children, if they lived, became slaves, too. Most didn’t live long. The woman, because they were small and more nimble, carried the silver up the ladders on their backs. Isn’t it true that most man made beauty is so because of somebody’s sorrow.

On that note, I wish you all a wonderful Easter. May the bunny bring you good health, love and joy and the world, peace. -ruby
1 comment
4/7/09
by Ruby

Taste of Morocco

Morocco is my ex-lover; the one with whom I had nothing in common except an overwhelming chemical need to be intimate; the ultimate bad boy whose vibrant unpredictability: alternating charm, admiration and disapproval, threw me off balance and woke up my dormant carnal desires.

Like many muddled relationships, my recent trip there was an impulse. After traipsing through France and Spain for a few weeks, I disembarked the ferry in Tangier a bit travel weary. My guide book warned the cabbies would descend, and they did; but I wasn’t prepared for the shoving match two of them got into while I stood there with my small (but comparatively heavy) roll-away yelling, “HEY. HEY THERE. KNOCK IT OFF!” And, I certainly wasn’t prepared when the winner of the match drove into the medina, an ancient walled city, and dropped me in front of a steep set of concrete steps. “Your hotel is up there,” snatched the bill from my hand, gave me half the change I was owed and sped off before I could demand the proper amount. Welcome to Morocco.

The guide book also warned of touts who vie for travelers’ money, pick pockets, and wily rug salesmen. It reminded us to be respectful of the Muslim customs and to dress with modesty. It described Morocco as ‘like no place else on earth.’ Boy howdy. What it didn’t, well, couldn’t prepare me for was the overwhelming masculinity of the place. Don’t let anybody kid you. That isn’t just smog from environmentally unfriendly vehicles hovering over Casablanca; I submit that it is, in equal measure, a musky layer of testosterone-aromatherapy on a grand scale.

“Where the hell am I is what I was thinking as I bumped my suitcase up the stairs into the dim, labyrinth of the medina to the Riad Tanja, hoping they had a room because I was told it had a bar and a good shower-not givens in this mostly Muslim country with public bath houses. I rang the bell. After a few minutes a pretty young woman wearing jeans answered the door. “Good morning.” She greeted me. And, yes, they had a room.

It was sweet. Wooden shutters opened onto a balcony with a sweeping view of an active market where you could buy anything from stockings to livestock. On a low round table surrounded by colorful leather ottomans was a lovely china plate with individually wrapped cookies, a silver teapot and china cups.
“Would you like tea?” The man who showed me to my room asked.
“No. I’d like a big shot of Irish whiskey. I was just ripped off by the cabbie and am reconsidering my sanity.” But what I said was.
Yes, please, that would be perfect.” And I felt myself relax.

After I sipped the sweet mint tea and was assured that CNN came through on the TV I wandered out: first to the market and then through the medina’s dim, narrow alleyways. Other than the day trippers from Spain the only women I saw were shopping or selling stuff. There were none in the cafes or restaurants. In Tangier, most Moroccan women wear conservative caftans or jellabas and cover their heads. I felt conspicuous, as if I’d been cast into the wrong movie or run aground on the Isle of Macho.

As I eyed a rack of brightly dyed, pointy toed shoes the proprietor asked, “How are you today?” Is this your first time to Tangier?”
“Yes. It’s my first time in Morocco.”
“Welcome to my country.”
“Thank you.
“You vote for Obama or McCain?”
And so it went. When they had determined that I was an American, everyone wanted to know. Obama was hope for the world it seemed and no more so than Africa, the land of his father, where men are men and unquestionably powerful.

More than once I was reminded by Moroccans that their country was America’s friend. A shop keeper held two fingers together. “We are like this, America and Morocco. Friends. You understand?” Really I didn’t. Truthfully I hadn’t read enough history to understand our alliance with this country-a sad truth that sold us both short.

That evening I dined in the formal dining room of the hotel. I had no idea what to expect because couscous was the only word I understood on the menu. Entrée A or B? O.K. B. I ordered a bottle of red wine. A basket of bread and a plate of assorted olives was set in front of me. A few minutes later small bowls of salads with names like: zaalouk, pepper taktouka, and the obvious: carrots, beets, potato, something mushy green which turned out to be cucumber- and so on until there were six. Six salads, bread warm from the oven, olives and wine. I was full when the entrée arrived in a covered earthen bowl. When the waiter lifted the cover off steam fogged my glasses. In front of me simmered a round section of leg about three inches thick and 6 inches in diameter-the bone dead center.

It was my first lesson in Morocco. Pace yourself, eat slowly: appreciate the unexpected, the colors, the crunchy, the mushy, the spicy, the sweet, and the savory; even the steaming when it fogs your vision.

The next morning I woke before most of the city. When I opened the shutters a vendor in a blue shirt across the large vacant lot between the hotel and the market was rinsing and shaking dry large bunches of vibrant green herbs and placing them in a wooden tub for sale. He spotted me and waved. I waved back. That simple gesture made me feel welcome – like I was a part of the day, the city that I had just met, that I had just begun to explore.

Weaving among bins of spices, heady aromas, and traffic-both foot and vehicle, I lost myself in the past and present. I bargained for shoes, small brightly colored leather handbags for my friends, and what I hope is an authentic fossil. I spent a few quiet moments of reflection among the British souls buried in the graveyard of St. Andrews Church, a small, lovely Anglo-Moorish building nestled behind a busy street where women sell cooked eggplant and handicrafts. I rested on the bench in the Grand Socco, a vibrant park surrounded by a traffic circle that is the main entrance to the medina, and emailed my family from the Cyber Café.

In the market a man buying what looked like a slice of fried mush pancake from a street vendor encouraged me to try it. “It is very good, he said, you have some.” OK. I paid my 50dh-about 60 cents and was handed a piece of brown paper with the delicious hot-surprise- fried corn meal mush on top. I scrapped the paper with my finger to get every morsel.

That afternoon I searched in vain for the hamman; the public bathhouse found in every Moroccan city. My guide book said it was in the medina but except for one that reserved a few hours each day for women, and I was too late, I came up empty. Frustrated, I asked a shop owner if he knew of it. Because I am an American in Morocco and it is assumed that I have money, I was directed to the Le Misbah, a five star hotel with a European spa where for big bucks I could be soaked, gromaged, and massaged privately. And, because they were right and traveling takes its toll on the body and constant vigilance of ones stuff on the mind, I succumbed.

After I was sufficiently steamed a young woman began the gromage- a vigorous scrubbing with a green glove reminiscent of the scouring pads we use to scrub stubborn stains from our cooking pots-intended to remove the first layer of epidermis from my body, then finally, and mercifully I might add, I was finally massaged and able to relax.

I followed my indulgence with a glass of red wine and a sandwich in Caid’s bar, a spacious cosmopolitan 30s place complete with a grand piano but, while I was there had a CD of the Eagles’ Hotel California playing. My waiter, a tall handsome young man wearing a white uniform, with a sash, red turban type hat and the Moroccan pointed shoes made me feel I was in one of the movies made in the 30s& 40s when the hotel hosted politicians, mercenaries, secret agents and other cigar smoking WWII dealmakers.

The three days I spent in Tangier only whetted my appetite. I was hungry for a full complex Moroccan meal; one that would indulge my senses, my intellect, and my understanding of this amazing complex country that dates back further than 100,000 years BC; whose nomadic, brave, and resilient Berbers have prevailed against all odds, where ancestors from the Phoenicians, Romans, Carthaginians, Africans, and Arabs (among others) still live.

I decided to head south to Casablanca on the train, with plans to stop at various cities and towns along the way. The first stop would be Asilah, a small beach town an hour or so south of Tangier. I sat with five Moroccans in a small, enclosed 2nd class compartment. The only other woman, who was traveling with her husband, had intricately hennaed hands and feet. We had no common language except for a young man who asked, “You vote for Obama or McCain?” But it didn’t matter; we all smiled and shared our cramped space comfortably.

As the country side sped by the window I marveled that I was on the continent of Africa, venturing alone into unknown experiences, excited like a five year old wondering what surprise Santa had for me, but knowing that because I’m not a child the few weeks ahead would most likely be complex: frustrating, rewarding, complicated, nerve-wracking and fulfilling. I was right. They were all that and then some but it was still just a taste. I will go back to Morocco soon for I am hungry for more. And, I will pace myself.

Hills-So many; So little time.

It used to be that over the hill ( and through the dale ), was the way to grandma's house. Now, I am grandma, and some infer that I am over the hill. Did I miss that metaphorical hill ?

Maybe it was the one the single engine train stopped in the middle of in the Pyrenees Mts on my way into Spain from France last year; or the hill with 80+ rough, stone steps in the Mexican jungle I had to climb to visit my friend, Jacque. It might even have been the hill here in California on route 58 that climbs 4000 feet up from the Mojave desert floor and cuts through the Tehachapi Mountain range into town.

I love hills. I love the excitement of anticipation, of not knowing exactly what lies on the other side, reaching the crest, and the descent. Even the tiniest hill offers a bit of a challenge.

I've read that at age 66 I have an average of 20 years left on this earth. I've chosen to spend them traveling, enjoying every possible hill: the climb, the view from the top, the descent and rolling down the grassy ones with my grandkids. Over the hill indeed.