"Traveling tends to magnify all human emotions." — Peter Hoeg

It may sound like this whole journey has been one adventure after another, but things can get mundane as an untethered knock-about. Each place a new ritual, like bathing from a bucket of hot water brought to my door each morning then finding something that resembles a hot beverage. Some days I discover there is no water today for bath or beverage, so better to just buy that bus ticket and get the hell out of Dodge (there is a whole generation of people who won‘t understand the tail of that sentence…). And thank god, often it is possible to wake to some kind of reliable plumbing and beverage service; Morocco is so civilized that way.
My values change weekly when it comes to hygiene around bathing, food and the sheets where I rest my head at night. Standards that were once absolutes gracefully become more fluid and relative. I say ‘gracefully’ because once you’ve witnessed a lack of grace in your fellow travelers who are unwilling to accept amenities below their current comfort range, it’s much easier to simply shut your mouth and smile. All part of the learning curve.
Days become blurs of new travel friends from countries to visit one day and I’ve learned to introduce myself with the bare facts of my life and how I’ve become homeless.

Let’s visit some of these Seinfeldian moments…..stories about nothing.
Moments like my bus ride from Erfoud to Tinehir, when sitting next to a woman about 10 years younger than me with no common language to connect us. The easiest trick in the book to bridge this gap is through food. I offer roasted and salted fava beans, she declines, I insist and pretty soon we are talking to each other in our native tongues, trying to glean something from the exchange. This one particular day I pull out my lonely planet bible and turn to the Arabic language section and just start butchering words. We laugh, she corrects me, the guttural stop is the hardest part, I try again, the women behind us laugh too, they correct me and offer their homemade fennel biscuits, pretty soon we are 4-5 women in a riotous uproar, talking to each other, sharing in this humble exchange of food, laughter and language. I still can’t remember how to count to 10 in Arabic, and some of my words sound like I’m hawking up post nasal drip, but that’s not the point. This moment, their warmth and generosity will not soon be forgotten. Just before the woman on my right leaves the bus, she digs in her purse and pulls out a small ‘gift‘. Who knows what this stuff is called. It’s a soft soapy/waxy white chunk of perfumy stuff, that will forever remind me of this span of two hours along a stretch of palm studded desert and 5 women who generously shared all that they were and owned in that moment. I may sleep in dingy hotels, and sometimes my hygiene is marginal, but I am wealthy for the little moments the encounters.

The rest of you are efficiently running the world, with intensely productive days while juggling 2-3 other projects, maybe personal or freelancing. I’m trusting you to save us from economic collapse. Sooner or later I will join your ranks but I still have more transportation stories to participate in, like this one.

The desert has summoned me back, this is the same part of Morocco I visited on that 3 day package with the camels. Todra Gorge is a rock climbers paradise, it’s out in the Atlas Mountains and all around are these shear cliffs of rock jutting from the earth at ridiculous angles. After a few days in region it’s time to move on. The hotel is situated at a dead end in the wake of tour buses along with scores of people who have arrived by means of private transportation. There is no ‘public transportation’ although I could summon a cab 20-30 km down the road. The fastest and most interesting way out would be to just ask someone which way they are headed and if they can fit an extra body and suitcase in their car. It’s 10 am and from the window of my hotel room I notice it is too early for the hordes to show up, the road is quiet. While sitting reading, this intuitive gnawing voice shows up telling me to go out there NOW. It makes no sense, there is no one out there--I can see this. The flocks of cars, minivans and buses are a couple hours away. When the internal voice bellows this clearly, I obey. After saying goodbye and exchanging contact info with some folks I got to know the last few days, I’m standing out in the road alone questioning what the hell I’m doing. A Frenchman appears, and then his Moroccan guide. I blindly trust this process and ask where they’re going. They are not going the direction I want to go in, but have to leave the valley on the same road so they insists on taking me 20 K to the bus station. I really wanted to find someone to go to Ourzazate closer to 100 kilometers away and travel by car, rather than go by bus, but feel somewhat committed to accept the offer at this point. We wait for his wife and get in the car. Introductions are made, they’re from Paris and they’ve actually been to the Bay area in California…that’s a coincidence. Yes, California was home for many years, but now it’s New York…they start neighborhood name dropping. He has a great friend in Carroll Gardens and they visit frequently, she prefers Park Slope as she is a writer and knows many writers who live there!!! Wow, okay. The conversation escalates from here. The speed and energy building momentum; skip the polite small talk and we move into what’s real and more intimate. Frederique starts talking about letting go of the past and living only in each moment. Not new material for enlightenment, but I need reminding. Time out. This particular morning before I trust and thrust myself into the hands of the universe, I’m in a bit of a funk. Nothing major, just needing some girlfriend time, around a delicate matter of the heart. Okay, back to the car and conversation. She and I are clicking and I decide to take the risk and open up, to just be real about this little issue. It evolves naturally from the conversation and feels not at all forced. The men in the front seat are noticeably left out of the conversation and a few minutes later pull over to take photos and smoke cigarettes. Achem…nice of them to give us some time, we essentially just kicked them out of the kitchen to go watch football in the other room. Anyway, this whole exchange happens over less than 30 min. I learn many secrets about her personal life. My suitcase is on the seat between us as the trunk is filled with their belongings. When the sharing becomes deeper and more tender, she takes my hand and with moist eyes we allow the extended soulful gaze into the other. There is this reverence for the moment, the awe and appreciation for what we have just created. Somehow in 15 minutes we have built a sanctuary and are now filling it with tender parts of ourselves, our relationships, our human frailties and our sisterhood. When we arrive at the bus station, then men go smoke cigarettes and we sit in the car talking….engaged. She lives in Paris; I will visit. We exchange contact info, repeated hugs and kisses, the men are visibly nonplussed, but somehow I think they get it. As I walk away from the car I am buoyant and feel a foot taller than whatever you see. How did my insides grow that big in 30 minutes? Thank you Frederique for being the beautiful woman you are and for being the surrogate best friend who instinctively knew how to pick me up and brush me off. I’m learning how much acceptance there is in the world for the whole spectrum of what it is to be human.

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