on the road again

It’s obviously been a long time since my last update. I’ll cut to the chase: it’s moving time again.

What a ride it has been to be back in Boston the last few years. Still, it’s not my kind of ride, and so I’m once again calling it quits. Join me as I make my way across the country in my trusty (so far!) diesel Jetta, soon to roll into beautiful Portland, Oregon. After a last-minute impromptu drive up to Montreal, then to New York, and back to Boston, I had about three days to finish packing and get the car loaded for the long trip. But who packs ahead of time anyway? I was certain I’d be fine. The reality turned out dirtier, sweatier, and much less straightforward.

Wednesday morning I crammed what remaining pots, pans, and plants would fit into the car. After a teary-eyed embrace with Sarah, I made a stop at my favorite bakery and was sent off with a hug and a big bag of pastries and breads. I picked up my sister come co-driver at Hartford’s airport, and we bee-lined it for western Pennsylvania, our first stop. Shiri, unable to drive my car’s standard transmission, made herself useful by researching our varied stops along the way using my handy well-connected computer. We slept in Johnstown, about an hour short of Fallingwater (the famous Frank Lloyd Wright house built over a river that I had meant to visit since 2001). Our clean Holiday Inn Express was right beside a KFC branch (mmm…), a beer store (which, thanks to PA law, sold only cases and kegs), and a depressing bar (which filled the beer shop’s gap by selling six-packs and singles of crappy domestic beer).

As we finished our long first day, two things became apparent despite our extensive ongoing research: a general lack of good and local non-chain food along the way (or at least no readily-available information on such eateries), and a severe dearth of biodiesel (along our route I wound up finding two stations that sold a paltry 20% blend of biodiesel, whereas around Boston there were several selling 100% renewable fuel, and in Portland there are predictably many more).

lightning round, nagar style (2/2)

Wednesday evening we drove to Novi Sad for part business dinner for Vlad, and part fun dinner out for us and his girlfriend, Jelena. Though it was technically a day early, we drank Beaujolais Nouveau along with a local equivalent: Portugizer. Both were equally drinkable, though nothing exciting, as is to be expected. After a long, drawn out dinner with few exceptional dishes, we drove to our cute bed and breakfast, a farmstead of sorts, called Salaš 137. Their main attraction at the Salaš is horseback riding and golf. As we arrived quite late, we went straight to our rooms: swelteringly hot thanks to the warm weather and wood-fired stove in each room, but really quite charming. The morning was another lazy one.

The reception lady asked if we’d like to ride horses, I was the sole taker: why not? After waiting around the horse track for the trainer for what seemed like forever, a man finally walked up with a horse. I should follow him, he indicated through pantomime and broken English. We went to the horse run behind the stables, not the horse track where others were riding. Fine, no problem by me, I wouldn’t have to look like a silly novice in front of strangers. I got on the horse, which is about when I realized the trainer must have been told I was a complete moron. He told me to hold on, and took the reins himself and walked the horse around the run a couple of times. We chatted about his fear of flying, and places he liked visiting in Europe. I asked him the name of the horse, Bellissima, and was about to ask if I could take the reins myself and show Bellissima what a real cowboy from the wild west can do. I never got the chance: as I began to speak, not five minutes into my horse ride for toddlers, the man told me to dismount and go back to the reception desk to pay for my ride. Wow—pay for what, I wondered… The reception lady was surprised to see me so soon, and asked if I’d seen the trainer. I told her about my ride, and she looked as mortified as I felt like a special needs child. Good times.

We high-tailed it back to Belgrade; we had tickets for the evening’s game between the two local basketball clubs: Partizan vs. Red Star. The two have a serious rivalry, and I wanted my family to experience sports enthusiasm at its height. We first ate dinner at Zaplet, and were waiting to leave for the game when I noticed on the downstairs TV that a game was on. Our game. Almost halftime. I have not been a model of punctuality in Serbia, and this evening was no exception. We quickly took a cab to the stadium. Only, the language barrier brought us to the wrong Partizan arena. I showed the driver the physical tickets, and we were again on our way. The driver asked if we’d been to a game, wanted to make sure we knew the dangers. Way to heighten the suspense… The suspense and anxiety were largely for naught: the Serbian church patriarch died days prior, and the funeral was the day of the game. Not only that, but fearing the worst of the fans, the game’s attendance was limited. Though our team lost, it was a good game. We sat between two friends who obviously rooted for opposite teams, at one point nearly ending up in the middle of a fight. Good times.

And that was that. They left as quickly as they came, and were enchanted by the country and its people: they already want to return. This place has that effect on people. In their place, they left goodies Vlad and I had ordered for the kitchen, including some of Taza Chocolates finest specimens (thanks go to my friend Alex for getting together the order on short notice—if you haven’t tried their stuff, you should: I’m willing to bet that it will pose a hefty and worthwhile challenge to your concept of chocolate). They left behind books, knives, and lots of love. A special thanks to all who made the week such a great time, most of whom will probably never read this.

onward bound!

I’m falling seriously behind on blogging, and heard of some anticipation today. That’s flattering, really: I’m glad some of you out there are getting a kick out of this—I welcome and savor comments and personal notes, so be in touch!

I had been meaning to write my last couple of Beirut posts during the twelve hours of travel time I’d have on my way to Belgrade. Obviously that never happened, so the nutshell long version (to be accompanied shortly by photos): four of us (EB, her friend Sammy, visiting from Egypt, Smuggler, and I) piled into EB’s new car for a road trip. We had each looked at maps and guides and come to similar conclusions. There were three main agendas: hike through some nature, visit a winery, and eat dinner before sundown (I fast for Yom Kippur, and it began the evening of our road trip).

We arrived at a small town by a nature reserve feeling rather famished. The ladies ransacked the packaged goods section at a small grocery, and while EB wasn’t looking, I ran off in search of fresh food. Noon was early for lunch, and quick food was surprisingly hard to find given the bustle of people. I avoided the sickly looking schawarma that looked suspiciously dated, and happened upon a man grilling chickens over charcoal. Some puffy bread from next door in-hand, I ran (literally) back to the car to avoid a confrontation over schedules and delays.

We had trouble finding the site, and stopped to ask directions from a man on the street. He turned to his friend, who had just parked his car, when he heard the American accents. So this delightfully cheerful chap greeted us in the most unexpected Australian accent. Not only that, but he got back in the car, and happily led us the fifteen minutes to the site, parting ways as he told us to follow a mysterious dirt road for ten more minutes.

Guidebook moment: it turns out there’s a nearby town in Lebanon that exported many of its finest citizens to Australia during the civil war. Many have since made their way back, and begun importing Australian foodstuffs.

We ate lunch out of the car’s rear under hot sunshine before departing on a two hour hike through beautiful terrain varied with chaparral and cedar woods. I must have tasted a dozen of the wild yellow plums I found occasionally in the dirt before finding one whose sour and bitter notes did not contort my face.

The drive onward to the Bekaa valley for wine tasting and dinner was long and arduous. When planning trips involving mountains and valleys in developing countries, it certainly pays to consider the elevation changes. We went from 1500m down to sea level, only to climb a rocky peak to its peak of 3000m before descending into predominantly Hezbollah territory (Nasrallah is a man of god, and loves his people, the billboards declare). The estimated one hour trip? More than three, it turned out. The winery was surely closed (boo hoo), and the sun was descending ever faster, but we made it to our feeding spot in time for my pre-fasting food fest.

Smuggler parted the sea of pedestrians as we walked to the river-side casino restaurant (Mehanna, in case you’re ever in the area). They were surprisingly accommodating, allowing Smuggler to sit with us (outdoor seating, but still amazing for this dog-fearing country), and even bringing a dish ashtray of water for him. The mezes we tucked into were outstanding, and we hurried out to wait in awful lung-wrecking traffic for the ride back to Beirut.

As I began my fast-culminating meal of leftovers the next night, I noticed a noise coming from the washing machine that EB had just started. It’s moments like these that remind you to hate on America’s litigious society for imposing door locks on washers, for EB had spied her IPod tumbling from behind the glass door. The MacGyver in me came out as I got the door open and quickly set upon fixing the problem. Lacking the proper tools, I used my semi-disposable paring knife to pry open the dripping music box. Into a warm oven went the disassembled machine, and to the airport went I, stomach beginning to churn.

The 3:10am flight was fine, though I’d spent some time chasing my tail in the airport, thinking I had lost stuff that was with me all along. I carried 20kg on my shoulders since my suitcase was overweight and the flight agent was strict (of course I was surreptitiously over the limit on my carry-ons). As my digestive functions were quickly deteriorating, I found myself chilled, achy, and unable to get any real sleep. The airport lounge (thank you, Diner’s Club) in Prague, where I stopped for five hours, allowed me a hot shower, snacks, and internet connectivity, but I was too out of it to take advantage. So I made way for Belgrade, seeing bathrooms in the light that had coined the term “pit stop.”

And here I was, thinking that I would actually be writing about my first few days in Belgrade. When I was younger and creative writing assignments were due I would have killed for this sort of verbal dysentery. I do apologize for the lack of editing, though one must realize this ailment is messy.

new york shenaniganos

After a morning of frantic last-minutes parking my car, buying bourbon for gifts, and saying goodbye, I was short on time. I splurged for a taxi ride to the bus depot, and got to the gate within five minutes of my New York-bound bus departure.

The ride was productive and, though we got caught in traffic, was tardy by only fifteen minutes. EB shortly thereafter arrived to pick me, and what I saw was horrific.

Her huge truck was nearly exploding with her chaotically over packed bags. Whitney was riding in back among the puppy and the suitcases. It was a disaster. We spent the next few minutes repacking

and redistributing items that hadn’t fit in EB’s original packing extravaganza. It was truly a sight to see. Quickly, we crammed everything and everyone back into the Ford Expedition, this time with two additional passengers: Logan (a friend of theirs) and myself. I may have been the

only one able to fasten his seatbelt; I don’t know what EB was thinking.

Jane (the third and youngest Harper sister) heroically gathered our dinner from Shake Shack while we zigzagged uptown and Warren (their dad) laid in the street saving us a parking spot. As we shoveled in the sustenance all sorts of characters couldn’t resist lauding Smuggler: one batty woman went so far as to start munching on his fluffy ears.

Our goodbyes behind us, EB, Smuggler, and I hurried up to wait in traffic to the airport. Once there we were the TSA’s nightmare: a heavily-

loaded SUV parked for 25 minutes. Sure, we were unloading it for part of that time, but the security guy became skittish after we were through unloading and the truck remained parked as EB and I tended to the dog and the baggage. Threatened with a ticket, I first faked, and after playing all my bluffs finally actually moved the car, returning it to its rental home. By this time the security guard had down our plate number, and given his furious scribbling, must have had a good sketch of me too: “if you see something, say something.”

After some more last-minute repacking, dog-feeding, and excess baggage-paying, our bags were gone through security, with only 45 minutes left before our flight departed. We were stopped just short of boarding for our excessive carry-ons. EB handled it like a pro, declaring we were in business class, at which point they unrolled red carpet down the jet bridge for us. We were without a doubt the riffraff of business class, with dog bowls strapped to the outside of my oversized backpack, and a heavy Trader Joe’s bag full of dog toys. Through the commotion my corkscrew must have been overlooked by security—it would be nice not to have to buy a new one. All aboard and situated, we reclined our seats and promptly fell asleep.

Summer’s end, two years later

Let me begin by addressing the obvious: it’s been a very, very long time since I’ve last written. The theme being the travels of an unemployed cook, I felt it dishonest to write while I was actually working—well, that’s the easier to mutter version anyway. Back in the US, I had so much to catch up with that I just couldn’t/didn’t make the time. I’m sure I failed to cover some important aspects of my return to the states two years ago, and hope that we can all move on.

My recent time off has been fantastic. I’ve had a chance to try getting a life, to visit friends, and to get some thoughts in order. Thanks in no small part to Sarah’s help, we somehow managed to can and preserve over 100 pounds of Massachusetts’s finest fruit in advance of my departure, even with the fiasco of moving into a new place on September 1.

Which brings me to the main event: Though I remain unemployed (by choice, lest you worry), and my finances are still somewhat a mess after the latest market crash, I’ve gone boldly where no Jew in my family has gone before: Beirut, Lebanon. Serendipity hit twice this time, in rapid succession. My friend Pedja, hearing of my (temporarily) aimless attitude suggested I meet his friend, Vladimir: perhaps I could work out something with him whereby I’d fly to work in Belgrade, Serbia, for a few months, he suggested. Never one to dismiss ideas out of turn, I listened, and when I met Vladimir, the ideas became a plausible way to spend my Autumn. Fast forward to Autumn, and I have been sold on the idea of a workcation in Eastern Europe.

Meanwhile, EB, planning a move to Beirut, called and asked if I’d join and help her in the move (those of you familiar with the first part of this blog may be sensing a theme). Opportunity, again! How could I possibly resist a free flight to a country (countries, really) I’d otherwise never have the opportunity to visit? My family, of course, balked at the idea. Not an hour after casually mentioning the possibility to my cousin by phone, my parents had respectively called me to voice their concerns (and by voice their concerns, I mean yelling and fear mongering—sorry Mom and Dad, but it was). I don’t mean to paint them in a bad light: I’m their son, and they are genuinely afraid of losing me out here. I let them cool off before I calmly explained my rational take on the situation, reminded them that I’m now thirty, and of course vowed I’d be careful.

And so I booked my travel (making sure to book a return in time for Sarah’s blockbuster birthday party on the first day of winter), and the adventure is now upon us.

(Those of you out of the loop, I am already in Beirut. It’s great, and I have stories to tell. I will post them, along with photos, shortly: look for these in the days to come.)

chers francophones

Chers tous mes amis français (ou francophones). D’abord, je suis désole de prendre si beaucoup de temps à vous écrire quelques choses. J’était avec ma famille toujours—j’était leur guide et traducteur. Alors, en addition d’avoir la (bonne) stresse d’être avec eux toujours, c’était moi qui avait les responsabilités de chercher les restaurants (naturellement), naviguer tous les petits chemins (pour voir un peu plus de la campagne et pour éviter les grands péages), et trouver des hôtels agréables. Evidemment, on n’avais pas de chance à faire des petites siestes, mais on à manger (sauf un ou deux repos) très très bien.

Je suis arrivé à Barcelone en retard (chacun de mes trois trains sont devenus plus en retard), et très fatigué d’avoir trainer mes 60kg de  bagages partout les gares qui je suis visité. Il restaient quelques petits morceaux de jambon et de chèvre, de melon et des fraises du frère de Papi. Ma sœur à commenté qu’ils étaient les meilleurs fraises qu’elle a déjà gouté. Normalement, il ne restaient plus de fraises.

On a mangé en plusieurs bons restaurants, et assez des bars de tapas (pintxos, comment ils s’appellent au pays Basque). Normalement, les meilleurs repos étaient aux restaurants plus simples et moins chers, mais il y avaient quelques hauts restaurants qui étaient aussi hyper bons que chers. En tout cas, les Basques ont de la vachement bonne cuisine. De plus, il est une région super belle : des belles plages, des bois, des jolies villes isolées. Est-ce que j’ai mentionné qu’on a mangé bien ? Quand quelqu’un est prêt à voyager là-bas, je serai très content de donner des noms et adresses des restaurants, etcetera. Dans les prochaines jours et semaines, je vais écrire quelques critiques dans mon blog.

Israël est vachement chaud, 35-40°, mais même très humide, alors, je deviens moelleux immédiatement quand je vais à l’extérieur. Je me suis bien amusé, et demain une copine va me rencontrer avant qu’on départ en Jordanie à plonger sur mer et explorer un peu. Et bien sûr que je mange (et mangerai) très bien. Ma famille a gouté et a aimé les fromages et viandes de Crozefond—particulièrement la pâté de ragondin (merci Vincent !).

Bon, il y a plusieurs des photos dans mon album et je vous invite a continuer de lire mon blog en anglais (vous savez qu’il faut pratiquer !), parce qu’il serais trop difficile de traduire tout en anglais… Vous me manquez trop. J’espère à vous visiter très bientôt. Passez mes saluts à Mami et Papi, les enfants, Vicky et Spot, et tous les autres qui je manque. Pensez de moi de temps en temps, comme je pense de vous, et m’envoyer des nouvelles quand vous avez des fois.

the big apple

A few (too many, as usual) words on New York, while the memory is still fresh stale in my mind. The week passed like a summer thunderstorm. As it approached, I was a bit apprehensive of being back in the city, perhaps nervous that I’d feel out of place, maybe just worried about how the reunions would go. I love thunderstorms, especially with empty hands and pockets, getting drenched with abandon. I got to see nearly everyone I have been close to in the city, and the mood had hardly changed. Sure, there are those who have drifted away, some seemingly for good. But I was truly thrilled with the way the whole trip went.

I got to meet my new roommates and sublettors, as I found them online while in Morocco, and never got to meet anyone beyond a few emails. Despite the fact that one’s a vegan, another a vegetarian, and a third will only go as far as fish, they’re really a great group of people, and I’m glad I have cool people taking care of the place while I’m gone. The two in my room even went to the hours-long task of scrubbing down the kitchen and getting rid of the remains of myriad poisoned mouse bodies.

I love the city. Of course, I had no real responsibilities, no work, and no hardcore deadlines (the fee to change my flight date was somehow just $50), so a good time was to be expected. My friends who cook poked me, reminding me how hard it will be to come back to civilization and settle down. Another friend gave me a too-honest opinion of my blog (boring), which will hopefully keep me on my toes, and at least start categorizing posts as boring vs. exciting, etc…

I ate (this part is important) at Spicy+Tasty (Szechuan out in Flushing), Han Bat (Korean in k-town), Trestle (Swiss guy who’s doing really fun food in Chelsea), Resto (twice—Belgian beer/resto in Murray Hill), and in an unnamed Peruvian restaurant in Elmhurst (my part of queens), among others. All of the mentioned meals were awesome, and there are pictures in my album. The best meals, of course, were home cooked between Jasper, Kat, and I, dripping with sweat all the while, since both days we cooked were ridiculously hot/humid. Highlights included a pig head/foot terrine I made, Kat's strawberry tart-turned strawberries and cream, and pig skin tacos.

Moma had some awesome stuff going on, and I’m glad I made it before the exhibits closed (Comic Abstraction closed the next day). I paid full admission for 45 minutes to run through the museum before it closed, and I found it worth every penny. The Comic exhibit was a fun surprise I wasn’t expecting—I was supposedly here to just to see Richard Serra's mind-fing-blowing sculptures. Scurrying from floor to floor, the goofy smile on my face remained.

My visit was none too short or long. I made the best of it, and after an afternoon at Moma and catching up over a beer, I was back as my sweaty self, running to make it to the airport on time for my flight to France.

a bum in munich

Most of my time in Munich was spent wandering around, opting again to live the local unemployed life rather than the usual guidebook recommendations. Outfitted with Andy’s bike (too big even for him, a few inches taller than me), I made use of the city’s myriad bicycle lanes. I must have been a sight, peddling furiously and coasting in thirty-second intervals, unable to peddle while seated. In fact, coming to a stop meant either finding a lamppost to lean on or hopping off the seat while maneuvering the bike to an angle so that I didn’t damage that fun area where my legs come together. Still, it beat walking.

The English Garden (a park bigger than New York’s Central Park) was great: full of sunbathers even on a weekday afternoon, dotted with biergartens where, besides a pint of hefeweizen, the smallest pour you could get is a liter (the 17 year-olds at an adjacent table were outdrinking me with theirs). There’s even a section of river running where with an artificial wave for surfing practice. Then there are all of the community gardens throughout Germany—I love them. Not only are they much larger than the dinky plots I’m familiar with on the east coast of the US, but most are accessorized with glorified shacks, a grill, and beers kept cold in a fridge. In case you opt out of the fridge option, there’s usually a biergarten within a few hundred meters. My favorite more-or-less natural beauty site, though, was that of the Nymphenburg castle (more of a palace, really). The surrounding hundreds of acres of gardens were nothing short of enchanting. I was only able to peer through the locked fence of the botanical garden; actually visiting it may have made me cry. As if mocking our highly urbanized way of life in the big cities back home, there were a few apartments just beside the botanical garden—of course they had their personal ‘secret’ garden plots hidden behind a wooden fence. I strolled about the area, cursing to myself in awe, asking out loud whom I’d have to kill to live out here.

Beer and food were obvious priorities—Andy and I went through lots of pints at his place (I didn’t take notes, but it was hard to go wrong with anything). I made it a point to cook at least a couple of times. Germans love white asparagus (spargel), and it’s reflected in their spring markets. One night we just grilled (salad on the side, thank you), and another night I went a little further, with four different salads, a roasted organic chicken (€10/kg!?!), and fresh hollandaise to accompany a pile of white asparagus I prepared. All in Yanni and _GermanAndi’s beautiful house, in a great kitchen, on the patio of their fragrant garden.

I managed to squeeze in a daytrip to Salzburg, where I finally let loose the tourist in me—visiting museums, riding funiculars, and even snapping a picture of baby Mozart in a cradle in his mummified house (it was too cheesy to skip). The views from the old fortress were amazing. Here, on a fortune based on salt (a basis, in turn, for the town’s name), an empire would withstand Roman conquest in large part due to its strategic perch on a steep hill overlooking town. I even managed to enjoy a great meal at an otherwise touristy-looking restaurant by the funicular. On my way back to the station, I bought a beer to drink on the train ride back to Munich (more for the novelty of it than anything else), but was really just too stuffed from lunch—so much for novelties.

My last act in Munich was to be a fancy meal out. I asked my newly acquired German friends, and after much deliberation, the conclusion was that I should head for Tantris. So I peddled coasted peddled coasted my way to the restaurant, anticipating my first truly fancy meal since I was in Morocco (at ten times the price, of course). I don’t even have to admit (those who know me probably know this regardless) that I was very afraid of a letdown. I ate a brilliant seven course lunch, forcing myself to think in dollars rather than euros so as not to jolt the food back out of my belly. I subsequently beached myself on a grassy patch amongst the hordes at the English Garden. There I pondered the meaning of life before heading home to pack and mentally prepare for the transition to speaking yet another (not so) foreign language.

parting days

I'm having second thoughts about this. As you may have figured out, I am nearly two weeks behind in posting. In Morocco, that was not usually such a big deal. Now, however, I am in Germany, writing  about my last days in Morocco, and it's not going so well. Maybe it’s because I’m in a lush Central Park-like setting, sitting in a biergarten by a lake, sipping a hefeweizen. Either way, I have been trying to write this post for days now, and I just haven’t been able to focus on it, so I'm over it (as we used to say back in college, at apartment M2).

My last week in Fes was a highly accelerated one. Writing this post from Europe certainly can’t do it justice. Beginning before our trip to Taza, with Will leaving, it seemed like a chain reaction had formed: EB’s mom left three days later, I finally settled on a ticket to France, and Whitney was talking about leaving in two weeks. Reality had at least begun to make itself known, though even now I flagrantly continue to blow it off. Still, the plan was set: visit Zoe in Geneva for a couple of days after a night in Lyon, then off to Munich to visit Andy, and then to Israel for a bit to tool around with, among others, my cousin Shai.

EB and Whit were planning an excursion to Sefrou, a town I had visited while being hijacked by my wannabe father, Youssef_b. Given that I didn’t really see much the first time around, I opted to join in on the fun. A bit of wrangling was required, but it wasn’t too much trouble for Mo to find us a taxi. We had an entirely enjoyable day, visiting the waterfall again, laughing intensely to inside jokes, and singing Lionel Richie and Disney tunes (I’ve been warned not to publicly admit to or talk about having watched the specific movie(s)).

We had one last calm shindig at our place with a bunch of students from the American school. The goal was to drink the last of the alcohol left from St. Patty’s day. The results were lame rather meager—at the end of the night there were still plenty of beers left, and close to a liter of hard alcohol. Still, it was probably all for the best to have a tame get-together—there was plenty of packing to do.

On my last full day, I was charged with preparing dinner, which would have been fine, save for all the last-minute errands remaining for the day. I made a last purchase of honey and packed up the home-made orange flower water Mo had acquired for me. I packed a box and shipped what I could to the States, and am still hoping the honey and water will not end up in some customs officer’s pantry. Were I offered a special Moroccan price I would have easily shipped more, especially since I wound up with even more heavy items to lug back with me (Argan oil, Mehia, honey).

Meanwhile, back at home, there was dinner to make. The Bolognese-like sauce had been cooking for the better part of the day, but I still needed to break in the pasta machine I had purchased, not wanting to think of it as a completely pointless purchase. And so dinner was a success, my bags were packed, I had the train schedule, and most of the tears had dried.

train ride from hell

Morning in Asilah was beautiful. We arranged the taxi the night before, so we woke up early to take advantage of the town's sights--snapping pictures of the famous murals and doting on all the cats Morocco is famous for (in my mind, anyway). We bought a few paintings we had been eyeing the previous night—fumbling, rushing to get the canvases off their frames, worrying about damaging the rather-dry paint. Our taxi driver hunted us down, an easy feat in this tiny medina, silent as it is early in the morning. We finally rolled up the paintings and skedaddled. Lots of tranquillos (they speak more Spanish than French in these parts) were thrown about, urging me to take my time, to chill out—maybe if I’d had a puff of what he was on…

The driver was of course a bit dérangé (I love this French word for angry; deranged is so much more colorful than angry) when I told him of my plans to get off in Rabat. He argued I should pay him extra, that it was out of the way (it’s right on the way), I argued tranquillo—there are always bigger fish to fry.

After stopping at the police station to get the proper authorization to drive us to Casa, we were on our way, doing a cool 80kph (50mph) the whole way—annoying when you base your math on faster, saner speeds. Still, we had budgeted plenty of time, so tranquillos we remained. At least until I motioned to my next detour—I had originally planned a short stop at some “exotic” gardens along the way, but we were clearly short of time for that now; instead, I was just hoping for something more scenic than the main route. The driver pretty much freaked out, worrying the police would nab him for deviating from his route, whining about extra time spent on country roads and driving through towns. My mom joined him, questioning whether they’d make their flight. I could not blame him, but still, tranquillo he was once we got back onto a speedier road.

Like in Europe, every region of Morocco has its particular indigenous foods you can buy from peasant peddlers on the roadside: I’ve seen peas, favas, cheese, honey, and argan oil. Today was something new: balls of dirt. I was intrigued when our driver raved about them, but he could not come up with any words outside of his native Arabic: turfa. We stopped and talked to one of the peddlers, rinsing off a dirt ball to reveal an irregular cream-colored core. He took a bite out of it, proclaimed it worthy. I finally understood the gesture he kept making—he was miming eggs, as in cracking them into a bowl. Everything clicked for me: we had stumbled upon indigenous Moroccan truffles. I never think to associate Arabic with romance languages, but sometimes a truffe becomes a turfa. They were mild and bland, but ripe enough. Besides, the novelty killed me: I bought a kilo for $5.

Too many tranquillos later, I was dropped off at a train station near Rabat, to have just missed a train. They were sold out of first class (reserved seats) tickets for the next train, so I slummed it and bought a second-class ticket I would never need. I sat around waiting for the next train, which ran an hour late, and was packed chock-full thanks to the holiday weekend (the Prophet Mohammed’s birth). So packed, in fact, I couldn’t even get onto the train. I sprinted the 200 yards to the opposite end of the train, seeing less people crowded around the doors. Panicking as the conductor started to give the all-set signal, I seized upon a favorite adage: there is always room for one more. And there was, except for that I was holding on for dear life until two stations and 45 minutes later, when I finally got inside the door…

I had already earned the respect of the guys whose rear ends I had become familiar with—we were fast friends. I made it home five sweaty hours later, looking forward to a poker game. The train ride had my cards in a funk, though: I lost all 100 dirhams ($12). I’d later hear from the family that the driver was even more obnoxiously tranquilloing them after I left and, in a final gesture of helpfulness, squeezed the roll of paintings hard enough to cause damage. Tranquillo, he insisted to Shiri.

leaving, on a jet plane

Saying goodbye, to New York, to my apartment, to the close friends I’ve made over the past year, was the hardest part. Dealing with the delays and the weather in Chicago was easy. It always seems so easy to jet set. Aside from the logistics of finding sublettors and trying to do way too much with my last days (including a food-laden two day trip up to Montreal and back, and a day trip (yes, just a day) up to Boston and back to visit Formaggio Kitchen, Chinatown, Christina’s, Bukowski, and of course Craigie Street Bistrot (all in a day?!!!). I was imaginably frazzled and worn down by the end, and the 9am departure out of LaGuardia was anything but painless. Shannon accompanied me to the airport after I spent the morning packing away the rest of my belongings. I was frazzled (so much so that I left my beautiful cheese and ham purchases in the fridge), and we were both rather heartbroken. And so I took off.

Chicago was a bit of a disappointment. I had hoped to eat at a few places during my several-hour layover. Frontera Grill was on my to-do list, as was Lula Café and a visit to my friend BK’s sushi bar at the Fairmont. Instead, I spent a couple of hours booking Madrid restaurants and so only had an opportunity for a bite at Lula, as that’s all the timing ended up allowing. Back at the airport I had just enough time to squeeze in a shower before being the second-to-last guy on the plane. Not such a bad thing, as I was able to spot a row of 3 empty seats about halfway down the plane. With the least of hesitation I was in that middle seat, staking out the row. About ten minutes later the engines were revving and I had already popped my Ambien and laid down to sleep for the night.