So What Exactly Has Anne Hathaway Done to You?

I recently discovered that everyone apparently hates the Oscar winning actress Anne Hathaway.  Go onto the internet and you will find an outpouring of hate that is astonishing in its venom and volume.  I am bit puzzled by this disproportionate amount of bile being heaped onto a person whom 99 percent of her detractors have probably never met and only know through her interviews, films, and acceptance speeches at awards shows.  So what is the problem? I know, she is very beautiful and knows how to dress herself in an attractive manner.  She is a multi-talented actress and singer.  She seems to be of above average intelligence.  She is positive and polite in interviews.  She does not get caught driving drunk, taking drugs or flashing her lady bits at photographers.  Maybe she just annoys the crap out of people because she is better than they are and they know it and it bugs them.  Ms. Hathaway herself would never say that this is the cause of their ire, but what I see is a classic bullying situation.  It is the mob trying to bring down someone who shines too brightly with talent and still seems to be able to hold it together as a human being.   Think about the most popular people at your average high school. Sure they were probably good looking or good at a particular sport, but they were also kind of jerks.  Think about the stars that are beloved and admired.  They have all had a problem to overcome, a cross to bear, something that made them despite their talent, beauty, and good fortune, a person who was not quite perfect.  Anne Hathaway has the misfortune of seeming perfect.  So go on and spew your hate for a perfectly nice person who has done nothing to deserve but know that this hatred reveals more about the hater than it does its object.  It reveals your ugliness, your stupidity, your lack of self-esteem and your general smallness of being, and no matter how much you hate Anne Hathaway, it won’t make you a better person and it will never make you as good as her.

Last Call for Overlords

The window of opportunity to join our future overlords is closing fast as globalism, technology and our perverted system of governance conspire to create a permanent underclass.

All of us with regular jobs need to strap on helmets, knee and elbow pads and prepare for a jettisoning. Recovery for the middle class is not what the master architects are planning this time.

Our leaders (at the beck and call of the wealthiest Americans, according to the messages being transmitted to my tinfoil hat) are doing their best to ensure the creation of a permanent underclass, POPULATED BY US. You and me. The suckers who have it pretty good right now and therefore can’t be bothered to rouse ourselves from our latte-sodden, technologically cheap-and-convenient slumber.

Half of you just left this page to search cute kitten videos on YouTube.  

If you want to get on top, you’d better grab for that ring now. The American Dream is playing what’s turned out to be a pretty limited engagement.

When you peek behind the whitewash of red-white-and-blue, we aren’t very different from China or Russia. Apparently, whichever “C” you start with (capitalism, communism), it all ends in oligarchy.

Education, the vaunted pathway out of poverty, is being systematically dismantled, along with all basic social services. (Haven’t you heard? Government is a failure.) Eventually, state-supported education will be doled out via voucher to a lucky few lottery winners while the same vouchers reimburse our “betters” for their private school tuition. Dibs on the sci-fi movie.

Not that it matters much anyway, since the available workload is both shrinking (due to technology and outsourcing) and at the same time being devalued. With a few notable exceptions, people with specialized skills and education are undercut when the overlords find cheaper and cheaper hires to gobble up more of their duties.

Minimum wage is the inevitable reality for more and more of us. Given the speed with which things are changing, the current minimum wage battle is one the middle class had better carefully consider. It might not be our take-home pay next year, but it’s quickly becoming the basic calculus on which our worth is figured. Scratch that: Turns out corporate heads are now figuring our worth based on minimum wage in Haiti.

The Industrial Revolution created winners and losers, and it’s unavoidable that the unprecedented formation of a global, techno-economy will do the same. But the results of the shakeout shouldn’t be permanent. We’re the USA! We pool our resources to create equal opportunity. We reward hard work… Oh wait. That takes tax money, and a living wage, and those things are incredibly unpopular with EVERYONE.

Never mind. It’s too late. Enjoy these last few years of relative prosperity. Go back to your kitten videos. 

...and with this grape, I die

(The title is a very apt favorite line from The Tempest.)

Here is a short list of potentially grave mistakes:

• Brushed teeth with tap water first night in Marrakech.
• Enjoyed single grape after dinner at great personal risk. 
• Did not slap henna lady who grabbed my hand within 2 minutes of entering bazaar (more later, promise). 
• Sat in front seat of car thru Atlas mountains (mom just added this to my list).

Tonight we are sleeping in the same bed Jimi Hendrix once did. Not really, but this place (in middle of picturesque Todres Gorge) is hippie heaven and our waiter quoted Hendrix to us at dinner. ("Tomorrow you're goin' up the mountain.") We are indeed hiking with a teenager named Mohammed tomorrow, to see cave dwelling nomads and other interesting stuff, then, Y promises, a free afternoon (hooray because it just so happens that we also have a free bottle of wine!).

Today's entry will focus on just one aspect of our exciting day. After cold bread and jam (and cafe nuss-nuss) for breakfast, we hopped in the car and headed to a "pharmacologie ecologie" - a natural plants and herbs place in Ourzazate. There, Y entrusted us to an oily young man (who I suspect is considered the "handsome one" of the sales guys), named Zachary.

Zachary was mildly capable of converting his French to English. Imagine me, speaking English very slowly with heavy French accent. See? It was the reverse of that. I say this not to disparage his language ability - which outpaces mine considerably - but so that you can understand the language barrier that compounded the cultural one.

We rise very early by the standards here so it is not surprising that at 9:30 am we were the only customers in the shop. It's got a lot of white shelves and row after row of glass jars, large and small, consisting of all manner of things. Some have just bright pigments (colored sand) or colored water. Others have small jars and bottles of product. Still others have herbs. The traditional large woven baskets of loose sachet type materials are also present, as you see in most public markets.

So we two are seated in a mid-sized room lined entirely by a white painted wooden bench. Like a park bench, only less comfortable. It's clear to me that this is a performance usually reserved for much larger groups. Zachary stands before a large butcher block cart of pots, tubes, jars and plastic baggies. Many of these products, we are soon to discover, are quite pleasant. But our presentation does not begin with those. Instead, Zachary unzips a baggie of black cumin seeds and shakes a small handful into a miniature white handkerchief.

He crushes the tightly wrapped bundle of seeds to crush the pods. With no warning, he then presses the bundle tightly to my left nostril and exhorts me to inhale forcefully.

My God. It is not only unpleasant but actually painful.

"Seenuzes!" Zachary smiles excitedly, keeping up his constant patter.

My right nostril is then assaulted in the same manner.

If I had ever toyed with the idea of snorting cocaine, this experience has been enough to guarantee that I will not. The nasal passages are not to be taken lightly. While none of the substance actually entered my being, the harsh odor alone was enough to make my eyes tear up and my nose run.

"Wow! Great!" I smiled encouragingly at mom.

While undergoing the sinus treatment was not particularly pleasant, watching someone else do it was HIGHLY satisfactory. I understand why Zachary would not deprive himself of this small pleasure in what otherwise must be a tedious sort of job.

Once Mom was through suffering, we sat through an absolute barrage on the medicinal value of damn near every herb on offer. Some were lotions, others teas. Some were oils to be massaged into your temples, which Zachary was kind enough to demonstrate at considerable length on my own head. (Mom estimates my general face massage lasted approximately ten minutes. I assumed it only FELT that long.) It was completely embarrassing, in part because Mom's mastery of the camera has improved. But, it was nicer than having my head straddled by a monkey.

After an eternity of having my face gently stroked with musk oil, we learned that Zachary was deeply concerned about our stress, our hot flashes, our menstrual cramps, our digestion and our eczema. He was also not at all shy about homing in on our physical imperfections. I do not think it was just my imagination that he spent an inordinate amount of time lavishing us with praises of the "weight loss tea."

And, can you imagine walking up to the Clinique counter and having the sales lady cluck her tongue and point out the age spots on your forehead? Well, my forehead received a large dose of complimentary lemon oil and some sympathy. And did you know eucalyptus is good for your seenuzes as well as under eye bags?

We also had to endure a brief sales pitch for gypsum (crystal) and how beneficial it can be. So MANY uses! Deoderant! Antiseptique! Let me vouch for the fact that it is excruciating to sit next to your own mother and listen a young man describe "bath gynecologique." Oh yes. Zachary was attempting to educate us about douching. And the complete lack of embarrassment was on his part, not ours.

After this painful interlude, Zachary got out a tube of green "magic lipstick" and joked that the color it turned on you indicated whether you were "frigid," "normal" or "hot." (Imagine those words in quotes in a French accent for full effect.) Oh yes. I am SO NOT MAKING THIS UP.

A dab on my palm showed I was "normal," while my furiously blushing mother was pronounced "experienced." This is the moment Zachary found a special place in my heart and I determined that, yes, absolutely I would buy the mint tea, some eczema treatment for Aaron, and about $50 worth of other assorted herbal cures. Worth every damn penny.

Desert Karaoke

The camels were waiting outside the hotel, on the edge of the dunes.

All eight of them were lying down (their knees bent backward in that freaky camel manner). One of them was collapsed completely, its long neck and giant head laid flat to the ground. Really, this particular camel appeared so lackluster, I actually worried it might be dying. Of course, this turned out to be the one assigned to Mom.

We were told that one of the camels was named Jimi Hendrix and one Hammoud (a local pop star). I choose to believe that I rode Jimi into the desert.

Y helpfully tied our totally unnecessary and expensively purchased scarves around our heads, making us look like Lawrence of Arabia wannabes. Then it was time to hop on. Three adorable young couples from Holland, Canada and Austria would be riding with us.

Mom got to mount her camel first. I was next. They were one hump camels. (The two humpers dwell in neighboring Algeria. We HATE Algeria here in Morocco and have been told many bad stories about its terrible people.) Specially-constructed “saddles” made from what looks suspiciously like the highly-priced “antique” rugs on offer in the shops disguise the hump, and also come equipped with small metal handlebars in front. The kind you might see at an amusement park for small children.

Straddling the hump like it’s a super-sized horse (because I have SO much riding experience), and gripping the handlebars very tightly, you cling on as you are forcefully thrust first forward (as the rear legs rise suddenly to like six feet in the air while the front stays stationary); then backward (as the front legs join the rear).

No one actually fell off during this procedure, although the Belgian girl was so terrified she shrieked throughout. (Her husband didn’t actually shriek, but he wanted to. I could tell.)

Camel mechanics operate thusly: There are four extremely long and heavily jointed legs which do not appear to ever actually work in concert with one another. It’s like each leg sets its own pace and slightly varied direction… and somehow the whole operation manages to move slightly forward. For a while I was certain that my camel’s rear legs were cantering while the part of the beast I could actually SEE was plodding steadily along at a snails pace. “Your camel is skipping!” Mom confirmed.

Riding upon the very first camel in the caravan means one of two things. 1) You’ve lucked out and gotten the best behaved camel of the bunch – the “leader.” Or, 2) Your camel is so rotten that the guide doesn’t trust it to follow along behind as the other camels do, tied loosely together… no, he will personally lead this naughty beast, walking along on foot, the rope lead ever in his grasp.

I believe the second scenario was at work, and began making contingency plans for bad camel behavior. It may have been my paranoia, but it felt truly as though my camel wanted to gallop across the dunes. If he were to suddenly break free and make a dash for it, my plan was to somehow swing my left leg up over the bicycle handlebars and bail out – regardless of the six foot drop. I would leap clear, and then hopefully roll, scrunch into a small ball and wait for the stampede to end.

If my camel were to spit – and it did – I would cover my face at the first sound of phlegm. I’m not sure what I expected the trajectory to be, but it turned out that without so much as glancing to the side, the disgusting glob of camel snot landed neatly at a 90 degree angle from its mouth. Camel lips are fascinating, floppy things and camel teeth are singularly intriguing. They bite in circles – first clockwise, then counter-clockwise, over and over. It’s sort of mesmerizing.

Once I had finished thinking about the various scenarios that could go terribly wrong with MY camel, it occurred to me to start worrying about Mom’s. I don’t mean worrying about Mom’s welfare, because I was certain she would handle herself just fine in a dromedary emergency. Rather, when I felt a soft nudge on my shoulder, I realized that Mom’s camel (directly behind me) was tailgating to a very great extent. What if it (____________________) fill in the blank:

• Nudged me right off the back of Jimi Hendrix?
•  Managed somehow to spit on me or wipe its flubbery camel lips on my hair?
•  Got hungry and decided to bite me?
•  Pissed my camel off creating a showdown with Mom and I helplessly attached to the saddles?

After about an hour of going over various scenarios in my head, we arrived at camp. I could tell we were about to arrive, not because I sighted the rustic rug tents (which were nestled deep between tall dunes, well out of the wind), but because of the impressive amount of droppings in the camel parking lot.

Our camels were eager for us to dismount and so we repeated the “giant heave forward, then backward” maneuver and all stretched our legs by walking up a nearby dune to watch the final moments of a spectacular sunset. Walking up the dune gave me new respect for Jimi Hendrix and his cohorts – particularly the silent guide who walked our caravan the entire hour. The sand was almost impossible to navigate and we ended up exhausted just climbing this one small dune.

After sunset, we retired to our camp to inspect our surroundings. The tents were giant rugs thrown over metal frames, and real beds inside each. A single bulb was just inside each entrance, and it was already growing dark. We sat at a series of card tables set up inside the little alley of tents and were joined by five more guests – two retired French couples and one son. They were the life of the party – especially the mother, whose singing by the bonfire later was wonderful. She had a beautiful voice, a joyful personality and was simply a delight to have in the group… we dubbed her the “Chanteusse
of the Desert.”

A dinner of tagine, and Y came through when he recommended we bring a bottle of chilled white wine along… we were able to share with the French. The young people were well-supplied, particularly the Canadians, who regaled us with really funny stories from their pre-Honeymoon (France and Morocco). Everyone was friendly and amiable, which was a good thing, since we were stuck together for the evening.

After dinner, the three camel men lit a bonfire and began playing drums and strange metal oversized castanets. They tried passing the bongos around and encouraging us all to have an international sing-along, or sort of desert karaoke night. Mom wanted to sing, I could tell. Fortunately, she couldn’t think of any good songs on the fly and we were mercifully outnumbered by other nationalities. (Particularly the enthusiastic French.) We joined in on a grand round of “Frere Jacque,” which everybody on Planet Earth knows, apparently.

And we did a quick, impromptu verse of Johnny Cash’s “Ring of Fire.” The bongos were playing it – I would swear to you. After hearing us actually sing, the Berber guides mercifully stopped harassing us to sing more.

They were great musicians! And who knew - our silent guide from earlier was a complete cut-up. They had us all laughing, and we spent a couple of really fun hours listening to music (if not actively making it) and watching the incredible stars.

Us “old folk” retired earlier than the young couples, and it was fun to listen to them laughing around the fire. The Canadians admitted that they’d been sick on their trip and purchased medicine in a souk. Eventually someone deciphered their pill bottle for them and informed them that they’d been taking meds for camels and sheep… “But we feel
better, so it’s OK!”

Sleep was not difficult for me – though it was so unbelievably silent that I could hear every sigh, snort, wheeze and pillow adjustment any of the 15 guests up and down the tent alley made. We teased the timid Belgians about having the tent next to the latrine – “Hope no one gets confused in the middle of the night!” It was COLD outside, and some
wind would gush through at intervals. I found this refreshing and calming. Mom, who didn’t sleep as well, said it made her feel insecure.

Let’s ponder that for a moment.

You say you voluntarily rode a giant beast into an unforgiving environment, putting yourself at the mercy of three 20 year old men who are more interested in figuring out how to make Bob Marley sound right on the Berber cymbals than in your personal welfare… you paid a great deal of money to spend the night among total strangers from all over Western Europe, strangers who derided your lack of language ability in that subtly smug way that only the French and Belgian have… you left all your belongings divided between a hotel room which may or may not be rented out to someone else in our absence and a car that is who-knows-where with our absentee guide… that is aside from the passport and credit card you have strapped around your middle under your clothes, which you are sleeping in… and hoping the guides were only joking about scorpions and trying to forget about the black beetle you spotted on the sand earlier – the one that was the size of a silver dollar…

… and the lightly flapping tent entrance is making you feel insecure?

We were awakened just before sunrise the next morning – enough time to scramble up a dune to see. Peaceful, beautiful. The camels and guests were eyeing each other with equal dislike, then we mounted up again and trod slowly back to the hotel, a hot shower, and a good breakfast.

So this is love...

We had the great good fortune to gain front row seats to Day Two of a Berber marriage in the very small town of Mezourga, on the edge of the Sahara, on the dunes. In the states, I would honestly just assume that the event was staged for the benefit of tourism… but considering we were two of only four non-Berber people in the vicinity (with hotels full of tourists nearby, completely oblivious), I have to conclude that we really were fortunate to be a small (hopefully unobtrusive – except for that awkward barging in on the bride just minutes before her groom arrived) part of this couple’s happy day… or days, as a Berber marriage lasts three days. 

There were similarities to our Western-style weddings. A fussy-looking photographer carried a camera mounted on a very tall stick. The bride wore white (with her entire head sandwiched inside a bright red square potholder - not even her eyes showing). And the guests were dressed to the hilt, which encompassed everything from dirty jeans to traditional black-with-embroidery Berber robes to stylish and lovely teen girls with their hair exposed.

The biggest common denominator was the happiness and excitement that clearly pervaded the event.

Y had entrusted us to the care of amiable Adair the previous evening before disappearing with the car. (No matter, we knew we would be sleeping in the hotel that night and the dunes the next, and the Hotel Moyahut, where Adair worked and was the only English speaker around, was fabulous.)

Adair insisted on repeatedly introducing himself as “Idiot.” (“Elliot?” “NO! EEEEE-DEEEE-Oh.”) OK then. Honestly, I didn’t figure out what his name was until later, and felt extremely awkward referring to such a friendly, intelligent and helpful person as “Idiot” all afternoon. 

Adair.

Adair escorted us to the village in order to buy head scarves for our impending desert adventure (later that evening). We spent half an hour walking to town from the hotel (there are NO paved roads; NO sidewalks... just sand) through the village’s gardens. We followed this route either because Adair knew we liked gardens or because this is simply the way you walk from Hotel Moyahut to the village without dying of sunstroke. The small, hand-dug irrigation canals were interesting, the walk leafy and green, and the pointing at various vegetation and attaching names was delightful (us English; Adair mostly English and lots of picking herbs for us to taste). It became known as the Tour of the Frogs, as each amphibian was meticulously discovered, exclaimed over (“so large!” “so small!”) and then animatedly forced to jump into the irrigation ditch. (“Ha-hah! He like it!”) One got the distinct image of a much younger Adair spending joyful afternoons as a boy harassing frogs in the gardens.

As we finally arrived at the village (three or four square blocks – but some of the tribe live further out and the area has grown in the last 20 years to include many hotels); and heard a great commotion. “A wedding?” we guessed, having seen something similar from the car a few days earlier. A small swarm of people, men and women, in all manner of dress from fancy traditional to dirty jeans, was trudging very slowly up the street, the women chanting and shaking tambourines.

“Yes! Yes!” said Adair, pointing out a large tent we happened to be walking past, pitched in someone’s small, enclosed backyard. “The tent for the men. The women all together in different house. You want to see Berber wedding?” Adair seemed genuinely surprised when we said yes… we assumed we would peek discreetly from an alley as the procession passed – that would have been fabulous. Instead, Adair led us right past a group of women (who never did anything but smile at us), into a small courtyard, and then poked his head right into a large room filled with women… “This the bride! Come look!” Oh dear.

Notice the goat's party mask?

With lots of smiling, apologetic bowing and murmurs of “shokram” (thank you), we briefly peeked in. We were greeted with more smiles. No one seemed distressed by our presence. I sincerely hope that was the case, but we beat a hasty retreat to a further remove as the groom-parade drew nearer. A sheep in a fancy black leather mask was being dragged along reluctantly at the front of the group.

“This day, they take photo and sacrifice a goat. Then they are marriage.”

Oh. Wow.

I figured the groom-parade would merge with a large group from the bride’s side, and they’d go off to a ceremonial site… maybe that nice new town square? But no, they stayed right there in the street. The chanting never ceased… the group milled around as the bride came out. The groom was all in white (long robe, turban that hid all but his eyes – which were definitely smiling); and a red sash. The bride was in a white robe and red square headdress that hid her entirely. The sides of the robe extended like white bed sheets, and were held out wide on either side by other womenfolk. (“See – they show you how big is the bride,” Adair explained and/or joked.)

A clearly-professional photographer with a camera on a high stick took many formal photos which encompassed roughly 40 people, the bride and groom standing totally apart in the middle of their respective groups.

The bride in traditional dress.

Then a large man with a dagger took center stage and as I tried to keep my face neutral (though even the photographer was looking as grossed out as I felt); killed a sheep in front of everybody. Thankfully, I couldn’t really see the killing because everyone else crowded around, anxious not to miss it. It was silent. The man held up a super bloody hand, the crowd went wild, and the sheep flopped quietly for a minute before being carted off in a waiting wheelbarrow.

“A good killing,” Adair gushed. “He is the good man for this.”

Along with tambourines and chanting, dancing women, the groom’s entourage included an older woman holding a blue circular tray aloft. It was clearly ceremonial, and was now placed at the happy couple’s feet, in the blood of the sacrificed sheep. I'm not sure what it signified, but there was a large bottle of Fanta Orange on the tray. ("May your marriage never lack sugary carbonation?") Pieces of candy (or maybe they were nuts) were tossed in the air, and children scrambled (in the blood, I could not help but notice) to pick them up.

A smiling, happy Adair rubbed his hands together. “Now, they are marriage. Tonight is a BIG party.” And he whisked us down the street to see the communal bread oven, then to the gift shop to buy totally unnecessary and wildly expensive authentic Berber scarves.

“Are you married?” we asked Adair.

“Oh NO! I too young! Maybe five years when I am maybe 30.”

We then invited ourselves to his future wedding, which seemed to delight him. "YES! I call Youssef and tell him when I marriage! You come!" And so we now have legitimate pretext for a return to Mezourga. Inshallah.

PS) I am SO NOT making any of this up.

Rocked the kasbah

Today we are in the region of the Dades and Toudres Gorges and went on a “small, easy” hike. We left at 9:30am and didn’t get back to the hotel until 3pm. Our guide was a 20 year old university student named Mohammed.  He seemed really nice, and he’s handsome, and would jump at any opportunity for a green card. Josie (and Scott) I’m really sorry, but I might have accidentally betrothed you. (Did I mention that he is cute?)

You must understand, Mom and I almost never really know what to expect. Our written itinerary might be a loose guideline for what part of the county we are in, but often when Y conscientiously prepares us for what the coming day will bring… oh, wait. He doesn’t do that.* Even when we pepper him with questions, we still seem to find ourselves thrust into situations with no clear understanding of what is happening, how long it will take, what we are looking at, when our next meal or bathroom stop may be, where we will be sleeping that night, etc. etc. Chalk it up to grand adventure.

THINGS TO LIKE ABOUT YOUSSEF:

#3: Surprises!

So this morning we found ourselves in the care of this nice young man, trotting dutifully along after him, hoping we were wearing appropriate clothing. (We knew we were hiking. We knew it would be “nice, easy, maybe three hours. Easy incline, no need to use your hands.”) We did NOT know we were cheerfully embarking on a death march of epic proportion.

I’m skipping over parts of what we talked about, because you are probably eager for the funny-slash-humiliating bits. I will simply state that in hindsight, vacationing on climbing trips with my father ought to have had the warning bells ringing loudly in both our heads. Oh, how fondly we talked about Dad. All. Day.

It became immediately clear that Mohammed is what you call “sportif.” “Legs of rock,” he said proudly. Mom and I do not have legs of rock. Or lungs prepared for a five hour hike in altitude.

Note that while we were gone from 9:30 to 3:00 pm technically the last hour was not hiking. Rather, it was spent in an isolated upstairs room of a kasbah, viewing hundreds of handmade rugs beneath the watchful gaze of a wizened old lady… that Youssef! Leave it to him to 1) never mention rug shopping; and 2) send us on a death march and then spring this moment of “hospitality” on us when we were exhausted, dripping in sweat and longing for our disgusting whole-bathroom shower experience.

(The bathroom is right inside the “front door” to the room, with only a curtain for privacy. The shower is just a spray hose jutting out of the wall next to the sink. No stall,  no curtain. You just stand there showering yourself all over the toilet and sink. Sort of like in a compact RV I guess. Still, my windows overlook nothing but the Atlas and I slept SO well last night. Who cares about a rotten shower? The never-washed wool blankets are also, strangely, growing on me.)

Despite being hard work, the hike was simply amazing. Mohammed was so kind, so patient and considerate… “only 15 more minutes to the top!” was a refrain he encouragingly repeated for at least two hours.

Mom is one tough woman, though I was grateful she was sucking wind badly because it gave me some desperately-needed rest without losing too much face. I was just being a good daughter, pausing a moment to let dear mama catch up, doubled over trying hard not to retch in front of Mohammed.

According to Mohammed, we were still better than the Dutch, who are “boeff” (miming large pot-belly with his hands) and never make it the top. I suspect the Dutch may be the ONLY nation we can claim supremacy over in this unofficial little Olympics.

We declined the “panoramic view” add-on, which was “just over that peak.” Having been climbing with Dad, our instinct for self-preservation belatedly kicked in. Plus, the view from the saddle was spectacular!  And there and back for a panorama in ADDITION to wherever our actual destination was (still a complete mystery, and still “15 minutes away”), was not appealing.

Fortunately, our true destination was not far at all. Over a rise, and impossible to detect, was a tent and several caves where Berber nomads actually LIVE. Really, truly. I choose to believe this was not just a tourist show simply because the  caves were only marginally more rustic than the kasbahs in the village. Or our hotel, for that matter.

An older woman made us tea, with a beautiful little two-year-old girl (Abeisha) to help her. We enjoyed our tea in the company of five-year-old Youssef, completely entertaining and adorable.

The trip back down was just as long although a different route. We were high up among the peaks and I think I may have blown my one good knee. (The other still hurts from La Plata Peak last summer.) Briefly, we heard the distant song of another Berber woman, across several small valleys, singing to herself as she disappeared over a high ridge.

Before I forget, ten people lived in those caves, and Mohammed told us that little Youssef’s father is 78 years old. (ICK!)

We teased Mohammed that we were making him late for a date with his girlfriend. Little did we know that it was actually ourselves who were late - - for our date with a rug salesman.

Exhausted, the hotel in sight, I remember thinking how close I was to a shower… But no.

“Maybe now you like to see a family and how they live in the kasbah?”

I’m learning (and clearly I’m a slow student) that when your guide (be it Youssef or his designee) adds a “maybe you’d like to?” … it’s a sure warning that very probably you WON’T like to.

In all honesty, I did truly enjoy the experience, even though we may have walked away as fleeced as the camel fur being patiently carded and spun by “auntie.”

Ali charmingly introduced himself and welcomed us warmly into his home. We walked up some steps to the top floor and sat on some rugs. A huge, vertical loom was set up on one side of the room.

Ali spent a great deal of time courteously and thoroughly explaining the process of creating hand-woven Berber rugs. And threw in the fact that some widows and divorcees from the village work on the rugs as a way to support themselves. (Oh, these Marocs are GOOD.)

After extended pleasantries and two cups of hot tea so we would feel especially welcome, the rug parade began. My goodness! Camel wool, sheep’s wool, even cactus thread… all colors and designs were ceremoniously, one at a time, set before us. We saw maybe 25 rugs, each lovingly described in great detail.

Ali went so far as to get out a scary-looking implement with metal claws. He then positioned himself on all fours on the topmost rug. “You have maybe cat? Small child? No problem!” He raked the evil-looking claws dramatically over a fine rug. And the rug withstood the test. “Lifetime guarantee! (NO, I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP.)

Then the real fun began. Mohammed looked kind of sheepish and amused as Ali got down to business. Numbers were written down on a small notepad. Outrageous numbers, which were exclaimed over, then crossed out and rewritten. We were HAGGLING! And doing OK at it, mostly because honestly – we didn’t want a damn rug!

Finally, an impasse was reached. Mom did NOT want a rug and we were leaving.

Oh no we weren’t! Now it was MY turn! Despite the fact that I’d been Lead Negotiator for Team Amreekya, I was not going to be let off the hook.

Throwing Ali a major curve ball, I asked to see cushions instead. Cooly, almost totally unfazed, he ordered the cushion parade to begin. After MUCH negotiating, and I must add, ALL of it done with smiles, obvious enjoyment on Ali’s part, and only minor discomfort on mine, I sealed the deal on two cushions (really great and unique!) for just $X.

I leave the “X” out of consideration for my husband, who is encouraged to assume I negotiated a SUPER deal!

The really delightful part is that I shook hands with and PAID “old auntie.” She’d remained quietly in the corner throughout it all, but only at the end did we realize SHE was actually directing negotiations. Ali was the charming, well-spoken sales guy, but this woman was clearly BOSS.

As they packed my cushion covers tightly for suitcase space, attention once again turned to Mom, and her small blue rug was offered to her for $5 less than our most outrageously low offer. How could we refuse?

Whatever we paid, it was certainly no more than we would have in Marrakech or another big city. So I look at it as $X for the cushions, and $X for the EXPERIENCE.  Really, Aaron. SUPER deal!

PS) Josie, saw Mohammed at dinner tonight. (He looked very fetching in a djallaba.) When he learned you were a lawyer, he backed out of the engagement. His exact words, I kid you not Josie, were “A lawyer? Sounds like trouble. She might know her rights and everything.”

Marrakech, Day 2

Or as I like to call it: "I've been peed on by a monkey."

The first day and a half of this vacation were technically travel. And maybe some time change too, but as I’m not smart enough to puzzle it out I’m simply focusing on the here and now. Who the hell knows what day it is back home, much less what time?!

The plane took off and landed right from the tarmac. In Madrid they shuttle bussed us to it. In Marrakech we walked into the terminal, which felt a lot like beloved Belize to me. The passport clerk was icy. Listing “writer” as a profession was wholly unacceptable and needed clarification. (Remind me next visit to list “bureaucrat” instead.) Also, we simply were NOT going to be admitted into the country without listing the hotel we planned to stay at that very night. The only problem was that neither of us had any idea – that was our guide, Youssef’s job to decide. We tried to explain that we were meeting a guide and the clerk just looked at us disdainfully and said again: “Hotel?”

Oh dear. Gathering my wits, I ventured hopefully, “Hotel Marrakech?” The clerk rolled his eyes but was powerless against my lie.

Incidentally, we passed Hotel Marrakech today on our horse and carriage ride. It’s at least 4.5 stars nicer than our actual hotel. I sort of wish we were staying there, but then we wouldn’t have cute policeman TV. More on that later.

Customs made up for the grumpiness of immigration. We were cheerfully waved past. Probably because a whole flock of wealthy looking Germans with stainless steel luggage were ahead of us. I’d rather have peeked inside their bags than my own too!

As promised, Youssef was standing right at the doorway when we came out. He greeted us warmly and we sat down in the airport lounge-slash-mock-bazaar (complete with live sitar music) for a glass of tea. The first of many I am certain. Mint tea runs through Maroc veins the way cheese runs through mine. It’s brewed green tea steeped over fresh mint leaves. They serve it very hot in very small, highly decorated clear glasses, which already I covet.

I like Youssef. He leads an interesting life, he’s extremely smart, and he seems both easy going and reliable. We are his ONLY two charges, which honestly is a treat. No herd of tour group cohorts for us… and no sweating the small stuff either. Youssef may be making a killing off us (more on our hotel soon) but I still think the situation is excellent from our perspective as well. After haggling an embarrassingly long time over a taxi* we rode to our hotel.

*REASONS TO LIKE YOUSSEF:
#1: No haggling over taxis!

Now I’m not going to bore you with a lot of historical detail. You can find that in Fodors, just like everyone else. But Marrakech is sort of split into two cities. There is the old city within the walls (the Medina) and the French, “new” city. The Medina is charming, crowded, dirty, fascinating, frightening and sort of crumbly. It also smells a bit like horse urine. The French/modern city is indistinguishable from any sophisticated European city (I mean the tourist area). Wide, lovely boulevards – public spaces featuring actual vegetation, high rise hotels of every flavor… row after row of balconies with white curtains and doormen in uniform. Exclusive, wealthy, but sprinkled with Novatels and less fancy places.

Guess which of these areas OUR hotel was in? Yes, the Medina. In fact, the very HEART of the Medina. I can look out my window RIGHT NOW (which has no screen, no lock and is letting in tons of honking, shouting, and diesel fumes along with the cool breeze) and see the snake charmer at the edge of the souk. He’s like a long block away.

After being shown our room*, we were to meet Y back downstairs in 30 minutes.

*THINGS TO LIKE ABOUT YOUSSEF
#2: No haggling over hotel rooms! They’re shitty rooms… but we didn’t have to haggle!

Mom and I were both on our last legs – serious jet lag and lack of sleep kicking in. Our initial room was rather cell-like. No windows, extra high ceiling, two tiny beds with sheets, two very heavy wool blankets in closet (said blankets highly likely to be infested with crabs), one light bulb in sleeping area, one light bulb hanging in bathroom. No chairs, no towels (toilet paper and damp towels were later provided upon request), no place to hang a towel, a scary little step-into-this-cubby shower, and a sink that drained directly onto the floor at your feet. But the “selling point” was that a large glass door in back led to a “terrace” which in turn led to a rickety set of metal steps to the roof of the building, which Y generously also called a “terrace.”  It might have been charming, had there been any chairs. And were it not for two separate piles (LARGE piles) of rotting food. One of moldy bread (“For the birds!”) and one that seemed to include meat scraps and more savory items (“For the cats!”).

After a quick, rather shocked huddle, Mom and I determined that Y must be playing us. Figuring out just precisely how terrible the conditions would be before we objected. After all… we are paying MORE for this tour than most of the large companies charge.

So, after some hushed commentary, which mostly consisted of variations on: “Do you BELIEVE this?” and “We can’t stay here, we simply CAN’T,” we met Y downstairs and laid it on the line. Better to have these difficult discussions early on in our trip – and be vocal about our expectations.

After about 15 minutes of angry-sounding haggling (ahem, that’s US haggling with Y)… we ended up with an ENTIRELY better room. Our sink didn’t leak and we had a balcony facing the front of the hotel (instead of a security-challenged door leading to the charming roof).

To clarify, absolutely everything else about the room is exactly the same.

And what’s even funnier (to me) is that this morning we had to move two rooms down, to a room with only 2 beds. Because that 3^rd mattress on the floor last night was unnecessary and probably cost Y more. Seriously, if this room cost more than $30 a night, I will let a monkey piss on me. (Oh, wait.)

The best parts of this hotel? Real Morrocans are staying here on THEIR vacation. Seriously. A family of 4 had this room last night. Also, this afternoon (to be fair, it was noon exactly – check-out time) a rock-starrish figure came stumbling down the stairs in nothing but very flimsy, authentic looking PJs. Barefoot, disheveled blond hair, sort of stoned-looking… in his 50s I’m guessing. So, aging rock stars and real Marocs. I think we have earned serious street cred already on this trip.

And there have been other plusses. This afternoon I discovered a very fetching police officer working the intersection of death just below our window. He’s quite large for a Maroc (which makes him sort of “average American man” sized) and bears a striking resemblance to Denzel Washington.

I call him “cute policeman TV” and spent a delightful hour this afternoon watching my new favorite show.

The intersection below is one of the most wretched examples of traffic control I have ever personally witnessed. It’s a one way… no, make that THREE one way streets converging, and shortly after they converge, there’s also a strange little switchback that gives access to the (“no cars allowed”) public square. Traffic includes all manner of diesel engine from large city busses (this block appears to be a major transfer point) to beat up VW taxis to scooters (thousands – no, MILLIONS of them), bicycles, and horse carriages. Yes, this square features 20 or more horse-drawn carriages for hire and they plunge RIGHT INTO traffic.

Needless to say, we must cross this intersection EVERY TIME WE LEAVE THE HOTEL. Every single time, we somehow cheat death.

There are no crosswalks here. But if you’re lucky, you position yourself behind a bold young man and use him as your human shield. You shadow his movements EXACTLY. And DON’T look. It makes it easier. Twice now, we’ve managed without the aid of anyone passing by.

My policeman has a very busy job. He’s been out there since at least 3:00pm and it’s 9:00 pm now. He shakes a lot hands. He checks the papers of cars wishing to access the little switchback. Most have a piece of paper and he ushers them through. Those that don’t receive a handsome smile and a firm hand signal for “no fucking way, motherfucker.” There has only been one car-pedestrian accident during the time I was watching the show. It knocked over the metal barrier that the policeman leans lightly on when he’s not tending to police business. His navy blue uniform includes a white hat and gloves. Occasionally, other policemen join him for short periods. Some of these are also very handsome. Others have silly, oversized mustaches. It’s my new favorite show.

Today we ate breakfast at a cheap little café on a side street. (Y’s treat so of course it probably cost 2 pfennigs in pre-WWII Deutschemarks.) However it was delicious. Note to self: 3^rd world countries only recently liberated by the French bake hella good baguette. Bread and cheese and yogurt – Euro style breakfast. And espresso with steamed milk: “café nuss-nuss.” I had three altogether today. After breakfast a quick, fresh-squeezed orange juice from a cart on the square, then a longish walk to a very old palace ruin and another palace that is still lovely. All the colors and architecture I’ve been dreaming of. Last night we saw the major mosque – which is just a block down the street from our hotel. Which, despite being worse than shabby, is RIGHT in the middle of everything.

The twisty, windy streets and amazing street vendors are so exactly as I pictured they would be that had to pinch myself. Spice vendors! Things here smell alternately heinous (diesel, horseshit, monkey piss) and divine (frankincense, myrrh, walks lined with rosemary and verbena).

Americans are NOT in abundance which is a new experience for me, tourist-wise. Lots of French, Spanish, German and many Marocs from outside Marrakech. It’s a school holiday so we’ve seen lots of families and adorable children.

Lunch was on our own. Tajine of chicken, preserved lemon and olives. Note to self: Learn how to preserve lemons (something about curing them in saltwater). We sat for HOURS at a café, eating and drinking more café nuss-nuss. Then back to our room to relax and watch policeman TV (me), write in journal (mom) and learn Arabic (me – Salaam, Amreekyah, Barouk something-something). I plan to practice more.

Dinner across the crazy square of carnies, also known as the Djema al-Fna. What else can you call it? There are thousands of bodies! It’s about the size of Madison’s capitol square (but no capitol building – all open air market leading to twisty souk streets). In fact, it looks a LOT like the protests against Governor Walker at their height (100,000 people?)… if the protests had included snake charmers, fortune tellers and cross-dressed male belly dancers. (There are no female belly dancers here.)

Last night, following our tasty though charmless “welcome dinner” (which, may I point out, was billed as the “special welcome dinner” in our itinerary – was I alone in picturing an entire dinner theater experience, complete with music, costumes and flaming dessert?)… anyway, our tea after dinner was on the third-story terrace of a huge restaurant overlooking the chaos below. What a spectacle!

While we were up there we took note of several nearby restaurants with terraces and headed straight for one tonight. (Dinner on our own.) The food was good (simple pizzas) but the view was incredible as the sky grew dark and the call to prayer sounded. Following dessert, we were torn between wandering the carnival or just going back to our cozy (hah!) little room… let’s just say I am scared of the souk at night and doubly scared when I look at my hand. (That story must wait.)

I did, however, have my heart set on a photo with a monkey. Who wouldn’t, right?

I’d noticed the monkeys the night before, along with the cobras, small dogs and occasional half-diapered old man selling good luck charms. There are probably 50 different blankets spread out around the actual merchant stalls and they’ve all got their schtick. Finding a monkey was going to be a piece of cake.

“I want a really, really small, harmless looking monkey,” I told Mom, who was already scanning the crowd.

Yesterday there was a monkey running around loose, his lead skittering behind him as he raced circles around the dogs, getting them all worked up. I didn’t want THAT one, that’s for sure.

“Oh no,” Mom replied with complete conviction. “You want a big, fat, SLOW monkey. The big ones are mellower.”

By GOD. She was absolutely right.

Just as we feared all the monkeys had been packed up and taken home, a nice young man thrust one right into my face.

“Amazing!” I grinned. “It’s like you can read my mind!”

The (large, calm-looking) monkey climbed aboard (me) after a polite monkey handshake.
Shit.

Y always says “get the price FIRST. I’m going to tell you ONE THING to remember. You negotiate the price of everything FIRST.” Too late, I started negotiating.

“You take as many photo as you like!” The monkey daddy was now really mostly focused on Mom and her ability to operate my camera. “No! No! Her eyes closed! Do another!”
Monkeys can be kind of heavy. But this one was also surprisingly soft and pretty nice. He was sort of leaning back, chewing on the 10D coin I’d tried to hand to his daddy.

If there’s one attitude that sums up all of Marrakech, it’s this. “Hey! You look vaguely uncomfortable with that monkey in your arms! You will be delighted to have two!”

Suddenly, a second monkey was thrust eagerly at me. This one was also not at all shy and immediately climbed up onto my head. Monkey paws were shoving my hair into my eyes. The first monkey daddy is arguing loudly with the second monkey daddy – telling him to get away, I already have a monkey. The second monkey daddy briefly attached his monkey to my mother, who vehemently declined. She was busy learning how to operate the flash feature on my camera and practically wetting herself as the first monkey, still nestled into the crook of my right arm, is literally wetting itself. All over my arm.


This all took less than two minutes and the photos are pretty great.

The second monkey pusher didn’t get paid, although that’s probably not fair, since really it’s the monkey on my head that truly makes the picture.

And getting pissed on dramatically turned negotiations in my favor. I let monkey daddy number one know that technically, he now owed ME money. With the most poise and charm I believe anyone has ever mustered in such a situation, he grandly cleaned my arm with the sleeve of his fleece. (I ended up giving him about 5 times what you’re supposed to… 50D or $5.)

10:30 PM UPDATE: Cute policeman TV STILL on. Now he’s donned a white lab coat over his uniform.

Folly Brings Down Another Cancer Powerhouse

I’d like to declare a new awareness month to call attention to a potentially horrible health crisis: A mysterious illness seems to be infecting nonprofit foundations that raise money for cancer research.

If things continue at this pace, we’ll all be back to relying on the federal government for research funding… and we all know that’s a recipe for progress. (Snicker.) Smart people everywhere are amping up preventive health measures as the “race for the cure” is looking ever more like a grueling marathon.

Lance Armstrong finally being exposed as a cynical liar and cheat – albeit a liar and cheat legitimately missing one testicle – undeniably spells bad news for LiveStrong, his foundation to support cancer research.

Yeah, Nike dropped Lance while continuing to support the foundation. And Lance stepped down as board chair (while retaining an active seat on the board). But how long will that last? Methinks it’s only a matter of time before those yellow bracelets stand for shame rather than hope.

Add LiveStrong’s inevitable demise to Komen Foundation’s bizarre and totally avoidable plunge into the nation’s most polarized political issue. Komen was caught in crossfire it single-handedly created. Their unprovoked attack on Planned Parenthood (which, ahem, serves as a safety net for breast cancer screening for low-income women) was so unfathomably unnecessary. And so tragically mishandled.

Perhaps cancer nonprofits missed some sort of critical inoculation against the folly of misguided leadership?

Generations from now, it’s possible that anthropologists will sift through our landfills only to uncover an entire society’s strange infatuation with pink EVERYTHING, along with millions of yellow wrist artifacts, all bearing the same coy, oblique message.

Warring nation states? Dueling religions? Or the remains of powerful cults with once-noble missions?

Really Dude? Seriously?

     After seeing the pictures that Time Magazine recently published of Vice Presidential candidate Paul Ryan, I have only one thing to say.  Dude, what the hell were you thinking?  I realize that this photo session was a year ago and back then you were just a lowly congressman from the wilds of Wisconsin.  But you were a nominee for Time Magazine’s Person of the Year and an elected representative.  Is this the image you really want to portray?  Pauly Paul and the Funky Fresh Bunch just feelin the vibration?  Right Said Paul too sexy for his hat?  You look like you are just one bad tweet away from sending a picture of your penis to an intern.  The bottom line is you look like a fool and not someone who should be a heartbeat away from the Oval Office.  You can claim that the photos were all the idea of the magazine or the photographer, but you said yes to the concept.  You put that baseball cap on backwards, picked up that dumbbell and flexed for the camera. Why?  It doesn’t look congressional.  It doesn’t look vice-presidential.  Then I figured it out. Maybe, just maybe, you were going for senatorial.  Back when these pictures were taken, everyone knew that Wisconsin’s democratic Senator Herb Kohl was not running for another term.  His job would be up for grabs, and who better to grab it than a relatively young and power hungry republican from southern Wisconsin?  But how to set yourself apart from the republican mob and make yourself a shoe-in for your party’s nomination?  Maybe, just maybe, Mr. Ryan you are a closet fan of our little blog and took the sarcasm of a much earlier post a little too seriously.  I refer to post from December of 2010 about the pictures taken of one Senator Brown (R-Mass.) in his misspent youth.  Yes, perhaps Mr. Ryan was trying to take a page out of the centerfold Senator’s book and let his freak flag fly, but if that was his intent, it was still an epic fail.  He did not go far enough. At least Senator Brown had the balls, at least I assume he does it is hard to tell from the picture, to go full frontal and really put himself out there.   All Congressman Paul Ryan accomplished with this photo shoot was to take some pictures that made him look like a vain, supercilious ass. But then, as they say, the camera never lies.

And I Feel Swine

Dear Friends and Readers, I realize that we who contribute to this blog have neglected our duty for the past year.  We have failed to bring you witty articles about pop culture, health and beauty trends, travel, and fine dining.  We have failed to provide the insightful social commentary and useful tips on apocalypse preparedness on which you had come to rely.  The only excuse I give, in my case, for this gross oversight is my brush with death last fall.  After fighting my way, heroically I might add, back from surgery and infection, I found myself in an appreciative fog unable to be truly snarky and thus unworthy of posting to this blog.  Today, my friends, this changes because over the past couple of weeks a news story has chilled me to my very core.  It is impossible for me to keep silent about the impending disaster that hangs over us all holding our world’s happiness and existence as we know it in a precarious balance.  I refer, of course, to:

 

BACON-OCALYSPE 2013!

Last week it hit the national news and for a moment my heart stopped beating.  Bacon Shortage!  No not that! Please by all that is holy, anything but that.  Why now? We just learned how to put it into ice cream.  Is it just bacon, or will I have to give up my pulled pork, carnitas, and sausage?  Will we be forced to stand in long lines for meager pork rations while privileged government leaders gorge themselves on BLT’s?  Or even worse, forced to eat bacon substitutes like turkey bacon, soy products or in the most desperate situations Soylent Bacon also known as long pig?  I rushed to my local grocery store and snatched up packages of Oscar Mayer and then scoured the internet for some glimmer of hope, a silver lining behind this, the darkest and ugliest of clouds. It turns out that this story originated with the press release from an obscure British trade organization, and although the drought experienced this past summer will affect the pork supply in the coming year, there is not a shortage of pork products looming on the horizon.  No this was just a crass marketing ploy to soften the economic blow of higher pork prices due to the higher cost of feed.  So there will still plenty of pork products available, but the price may be less palatable.   Then again, I always say that pig is proof that god loves us and can you really put a price tag on love?

The Perfect Man?

So, first off, let me just say I adore my hubby. I'm very happy, in love and actually am quite happy to say I still lust after my own hubby after being married to the guy for 10 years.

But then there's Hugh. :)

So if I was one of those kinds of gals that had "the list" - you know the list of guys you'd bang the daylights out of before you die if you ever get the chance and dear hubby would just have to give you a freebie... that list - if I had a list, you bet your sweet patootie Hugh Jackman would be on it.

The guy is obviously talented, and who doesn't like a guy who loves his kids? But his latest stunt is pretty much what sealed the deal.

One might be thinking - WWF, WTF? But yes, the star of stage and screen has lent his talents to Wrestling, and actually caused damage to a professional wrestler.

I would also like to clarify that it's not the violence that gets him on the list, no it's the fact that he's both good and "bad" - you know, just the knowledge that he could kick someones ass for you if you needed him too - yep, list-worthy quality.

So I ask you readers - if you were a "list" kind of person - would Hugh make your list?

Summit versus childbirth...

Well, Dad (the blogger) suggested I write about my 14'er adventure and he's right. It's definitely a blog-worthy experience. He keeps irritatingly referring to it as a "peak" experience.

The big question on the early part of our ascent - when we were still jovial - was whether climbing a 14'er (a Colorado mountain of at least 14,000 feet) would be tougher than childbirth. Well, full disclosure, I had an epidural both times and thoroughly enjoyed the birth experience. (I know that makes me a freak.) Let me highlight here why sumitting La Plata Peak (considered a very easy peak) was infinitely more of a challenge.

1. There are no talus slopes in childbirth.

If you're not sure what a talus slope is, imagine a thousand medium sized, unstable, accursed boulders piled up so high you actually can't see the top. It's surmountable, but only just.

2. You don't usually hate your Dad during childbirth. (Your husband, maybe.)

If you're wierd like me, your Dad might be present during the birth of your child. But you don't viscerally hate your Dad at that moment. No, it's a triumphant, joyous, Lion-King thing. You proclaim "Dad! He's got your chin!" Not, "Exactly how much of your unfortunate genetic makeup did I inherit, you suicidal old fool?"

3. There is enough oxygen for a proper cry during childbirth.

Not so above 13,000 feet. Not enough oxygen to hyperventilate or have a panic attack either. I know. I tried. There's not even enough oxygen to eat your peanut candybar, though it is the only thing you've ingested since your 6am stop at the gas station for a reconstituted egg sandwich eight hours ago.

4. There are no false summits in childbirth.

It may take forever, but generally once the kid is crowning, you've made it to the final stretch. When the doctor says "three good strong pushes," he doesn't mean push hard three times and then whoaaa Nellie! There's another effing hour to go!

5. There is no lightning in childbirth.

Much less giant swords of lightning striking neighboring peaks while you - wretched fool that you are - are scurrying across a broad, 13,000 foot high ridge, nearly the tallest thing around. And when I say scurrying, I don't mean in an orderly, mouselike way. I mean flailing your puny human arms and legs for all you're worth, like a couple of hapless hobbits fleeing Mordor with a goddamn golden ring.

And now, a couple of ways that climbing a 14'er is strikingly similar to giving birth.

• Once you've done it, you enter a strangely exclusive club. You've crossed over. You belong.
• The only membership requirement is that you've done it... no one cares how gracefully (or pathetically).
• You can't entirely describe how difficult an endurance challenge it was when people ask.
• You wouldn't know quite how to tell someone to prepare (although bringing more than 20 ounces of water along is a good start).
• There may be both tears and hysteria.
• A good coach who believes in you is essential.
• Both feats may well end with you in the hospital.
• Only the ignorant dismiss it as a non-accomplishment.