Photos!

I've uploaded yet more photos. I know, I know, please try to restrain yourselves. I uploaded an album of photos from Morocco, and I've updated my album from Spain since I made another brief trip through after coming back from Morocco.

The links, as always, can be found on the right hand side of the blog.

I'll upload more photos from France soon as well, as I'm nearly finished with my stay in Paris.

Dental Adventures

Morocco didn't seem like a great place to have dental problems. I was eating breakfast in Rabat, some bread and cheese and a yogurt drink, when one tooth started hurting intensely. It felt like a needle had been stealthy inserted below the gum line, and then jabbed into the base of my tooth. Or alternately, like flavor molecules were turned into thorn clusters that attacked in the crevices of my teeth and gums.

I wasn't surprised since I'd been having issues with this tooth, or the inflamed gums around it to be more specific, for awhile. I'd had it cleaned out in Beijing and Bangkok and things had been good for awhile.

It's not a fun part of travel, but shit goes wrong with bodies and it's gotta be dealt with, at least after you ignore it for as long as possible.

The pain in my tooth was so intense that morning in Morocco that I couldn't ignore it any more. Lunch, the Big Tasty from McDonald's, didn't cause as much pain when the juices and chemicals and mush attacked my tooth, but it was still bad. And for the record, I was only eating McDonald's because it was Ramadan and there weren't a whole lot of choices for eating. The flavor powder from the chips I tried eating was infinitely worse, like eating acid.

I cut my visit to Africa short by a couple days and got the train up to Tanger where I had planned on staying for the night but decided to get straight on the boat back to Spain once I was en route.

After a long wait for the bus to Malaga, a miserable night on a hostel couch, an abortive attempt to hitchhike to Madrid, I finally got into the capital late at night. My tooth wasn't hurting so much when I drank water, but I determined to get it dealt with. In the meantime I avoided eating until I was absolutely starving and chewed only on my right side, something I had done for quite a long time when I was having problems earlier on the trip. Then I got self-conscious about having a really strong jaw on only one side and looking weird, so I balanced it out when the lack of pain allowed it.

The next day I got a free x-ray and prescription for amoxicilin at one clinic, but no cleaning since the regular dentist was on vacation. It made me feel better, but not good enough. The next day I went into another clinic. The dentist there wound up mercifully anesthetizing me before she scraped the hell out of the tooth below the swollen gums and then surprisingly pulled out a pair of short pointed scissors and cut off a shitload of the offending tissue.

I wasn't so sure that was such a good idea, but I'm not the dentist. The shape of the gums looked normal, but that's not to say it would feel or function normally. I figured I'd be bleeding for days, but it sealed up quickly.

Four days later, so far so good. I just wish I got to keep some chunks of gum as a souvenir like I got to keep my cracked and shattered wisdom teeth when they came out.

And if shit does wind up going wrong, well, I'll be stuck on a ship for a week, half the world away from the dentist that is responsible, and then in America with no insurance or money. No big deal.

Life's Tough

Marrakech in August is hot as hell, so I'm glad I decided to spend the extra six bucks to stay in the hostel with the swimming pool.

I didn't do a whole lot. I read no history of the city, I had no guidebook to inform me of any sights. I went on two excursions to check out suits only to discover I was slightly to exorbitantly overquoted for low quality shit, despite the salesmen's unsupported claims of "good quality".

I did find some good deals at the huge supermarket outside the walls in the new city, but even though I was prepared to purchase and don a suit from a supermarket, I couldn't find anything that fit right.

The upside of the supermarket visit was that I found one of the few places that sold booze during Ramadan. One of the few places that sold booze period, as far as I could tell. You have to register your passport info to enter the liquor section.

I lounged by the pool in the mornings and napped when I felt like it. I picked up a copy of American Rust that was sitting on a table in the reception area. It's not the best book I've gotten into, but it keeps one entertained. Life's tough sometimes.

I justified my laziness by telling myself that I had an unorthodox mission in my pursuit of a suit. I've since given up that mission with the intention of having my good suit from home shipped over to London. Beats paying for a piece of shit and then dragging it across three countries.

Plus, I thought I deserved to chill out for awhile since I haven't been doing that enough over the last 11 months. I had planned on sitting around and reading and relaxing in cafes anyway, so things were going according to plan, only the cafes I saw were mostly closed or really expensive or not relaxing, and thus were replaced with the pool deck.

I did meet a Sri Lankan guy from London who was all ready for exploring: shorts, hiking boots, a day pack, sunscreen not completely rubbed in, and a plan for things to see that day. The sight of him made me feel a bit guilty about doing essentially nothing, but after all, I did have a plan to stick to.

First Steps in Africa

It was a long day of travel from Sevilla, where I spent one night to see a friend. Fortunately, all my connections went smoothly. A city bus brought me to el Prado de San Sebastian bus station, and I got on a bus to Tarifa twenty minutes later. In Tarifa, I walked through town, blown over by gusts of wind which attracted all the kite surfers, which in turn supported the hundreds of surf shops and schools along the boulevard, and got a ticket on the 1PM ferry.

Morocco's port city Tanger was nicer than I thought. I expected a dirty rambling city built on hustled money and sucker tourists. Just the cynic in me, I guess.

It was a bit dirty and a bit hustled, but a bit charming as well. Me and two Swedes wandered around the medina and the souks. I had to drag my luggage around, making me sweat even more in the heat. There were no lockers at the train station where I had booked an overnight train to Marrakech.

In fact, I hadn't showered since the day before in Sevilla, and my general feeling of hygiene was even worse due to the long stretch of traveling.

I found a barber near the main mosque and got shaved clean for $1.50, then we asked our way to a hammam, having to pay off a little kid one shop owner sent to lead us, and another guide who latched onto us and did the talking.

The bathhouse was full, apparently, but we still got to shower for another $1.50, no doubt a tourist extortion, but standing in the stalls with exposed rusty pipes felt like heaven after dragging around my guitar and pack through the heat and the sun, the souks crammed with people selling everything from cigarettes to steel lamps to spices to sides of lamb.

It's the middle of Ramadan too. Needless to say, it's not easy to find a beer, and not so easy to find a restaurant except for a handful of places that overcharge foreign infidels like myself and my two Swedish friends. We had a couple small meals, one in an outdoor cafe that's been around for 200 years, one in a small shady alley where the small shady man insisted he had no menu and quoted us prices that were much larger than the small portions.

Such is the fate of a tourist.

But for everyone that squeezed a few extra dirhams out of us, there were an equal number of people who were genuinely kind. Two young men stopped to chat with us and were interested in my guitar. They gave us advice and asked for nothing in return and were happy to practice their English. The two taxi drivers were happy to give us the rundown of the area in Spanish after we negotiated the fare, and the man who was getting a shave in the barber shop before me insisted on showing off his 59 year-old strength in a powerful handshake, and grinning with the few teeth he had. "American? Welcome!"

I did seem to get many warm responses from the many people who asked where we were from. The Swedes basically just confused most of the people when they explained where they were from, but everyone who heard I was American was enthusiastic.

Good to know we still have some rapport somewhere, even if you have to squeeze through sweltering alleys to find it.

Trains, a Suit, and Africa

I'm considering changing my plans again. Instead of going directly north to France again, and doing another work exchange for a week or two like I'm doing now, Morocco is on my mind.

The idea came into my head the other day when I was saying goodbye to a couple that live in Morocco. It wasn't a very profound spark. It was more like, "Hey, they live in Morocco. I could go to Morocco."

I'm getting pretty lazy concerning hitchhiking, but fortunately Moroccan trains are cheap. Riding trains is one of the three reasons pulling me toward Morocco. I'd really like to take the overnight train from Tanger to Marrakech, spend a couple days, then take day trains halfway back up north, then east to Oujda, stay a couple days, then back to Tanger and Spain. Maybe I could even swing through Gibraltar for the hell of it. That way I can see where John and Yoko were married and check out the overseas territory that Spain is all bent up about since England won't give it back.

The other two reasons are a suit, and Africa. I've never been to Africa before, I'm a bit ashamed to say. I think it's about time I step foot on an unvisited continent, something I haven't done for five years.

Plus I have what appears to be an unfounded suspicion I can get a suit tailored for relatively cheap in Morocco. This fancy-schmancy cruise I'm taking apparently has formal dress codes for dinner. I'm already going to be the odd one out for being under 50; I don't want to be the only one dressed in duct taped flip flops and ratty t-shirts.

Nothing I've found online concerning tailored suits in Morocco is promising though. Maybe I'll just head to Morocco and ride trains and frustrate myself in futile searches for sartorial satisfaction while moonlighting in cafes filled with hookah smoke and belly-dancers. Christ, you know it ain't easy.

It's a roll of the dice right now. I don't want to spend too much cash since I don't want to be dead broke when I get home. However, if I can find a cabinmate to share the cost of the cruise with me (since I've singlehandedly paid for a twin room) then I'll be saving $800 bucks which I can guiltlessly blow in Africa.

Life's hard when you don't know if you're going to relax in southern France or travel around Morocco. Let me thank you in advance for your sympathy.