Everything in Rome is old and crumbly….and under construction. The city we live in is having a major boom of building high rises, so we’re familiar with the annoyance of those 20 story cranes and construction fences closing off blocks of sidewalk. Rome is no different….except they aren’t building new from what I can tell—they are simply restoring the old and crumbly to make it more stable…and keep it looking old and crumbly!
An awesome concept really, for someone living in a country that is only a few hundred years old, it’s amazing to be able to walk around and see people casually eating lunch among the columns that once held up buildings in 45 AD…
Ed. side note: There is so much old and crumbly stuff in this city, they have too much of it and don’t know what to do with it. “Oh, this hand-carved column of marble, 2000 years old and previously part of a key piece of a building in the Forum, which after we excavated it was in the pathway of these ruins? Let’s just move and pile it out of the way, over here on the side of the path.” And then a middle-aged German man can use it as a stool and rest from the heat.
In America, historic preservation societies freak out over remodeling a 100-year old house. In Rome, a stool.
The European leg of our adventure was one where we left quite a bit of flexibility. We were staying in 5 cities for 3 to 5 days each, renting Airbnb apartments instead of hotels, and booking very little regarding tours or really making plans in the least. In theory, this sounded great. We arrived in Rome on a Sunday night with the knowledge that someone was picking us up at the airport to take us to our apartment, we had the wifi password once we got there, and we didn’t have to move again until Friday morning; the city was our oyster…
Only with great freedom there is still some responsibility…namely, figuring out how the hell to see all the old crumbly things dotting this city instead of aimlessly wandering in the sticky Roman sun in search of an English sign. Guess which option we actually went with?
The first evening in the city was divine…we dropped our bags and walked a few blocks along the cobblestones until we ended up in a bustling square. The restaurants had taken over what appeared to be a road with rows of bistro tables. Students perched high up on the statues to drink bottles of beer and chain smoke as they watched the tourist get hustled with light up trinkets and roses for one Euro. We had our first divine taste of real gelato and joined them on the base of the statue. Rome was perfect already, we could spend a few days here for sure…
Reality dawned quickly with the realization we were a building away from a major road and Monday morning traffic is much louder when the commuters use motorbikes instead of a mid-sized sedan. Determined not to waste a minute, we lathered on sunscreen and packed our cameras and water bottles and set out on an assumed 15 minute walk to the Colosseum. I had read advice to buy tickets at the Forum and not the Colosseum as it allowed entry into both and avoided the lines of tourists, because clearly we were smarter than those fools and much more local-we ate gelato in the square last night, after all!
An hour later in the scalding Roman heat, we were rethinking our entire approach to Europe. Imagine our surprise when there was not any signs in English telling us how to get in (or even where an entrance may be), and my surprise on top of that for completing failing to realize the Forum, the old city center and area of law, libraries, markets, sports, etc, for ancient Rome, was in fact HUGE! We wove our way in and out of the annoying group tours following the leader holding up a colorful umbrella until we eventually found the tiny ticket booth. As we scurried inside to seek a little shade, we vowed to rethink this entire approach and do some leg work before we left the air conditioned house and wifi with Google!
My family is Irish. This has lead to a lot of strange culture clashes between my husband and I, but I believe the most prevalent one is my mother’s ability to incorporate potatoes into every meal….and occasionally 2 or 3 versions of potatoes! One night, we were at my parent’s house for an impromptu dinner and my mom was doctoring up a frozen pizza with leftovers….heaven to an Irish kid because leftovers are fought for daily in our world, a little strange to my All-American husband who believes pizza comes with pepperoni and occasionally the addition of sausage if you’re feeling fancy.
My mother added some extra onions, some peppers, a bit of chicken, and the pièce de résistance: sliced, boiled potatoes.
He was shocked. Appalled even. And my mother turned to him with a smug smile and informed him that the pizza she ordered while in Italy had potatoes on it, so she was being authentic.
He was skeptical for years. To be honest so was I. It seemed like a ploy to get one more serving of her childhood staple however she could. And then we were served our dinner on the Italian airline en route to Rome. It was the usual suspects: pasta, bread, cheese…and a salad topped with heaps of boiled potatoes.
Driving in this country is quite a sight to witness. I’m writing this hours before we arrive in Rome, so I’m sure I’ll start to feel this road style is normal by next week, but for now I’m in shock. The road between Casablanca and Marrakech is fairly common. Dual carriage way, some tolls, a couple lanes for ease of passing. But as you arrive to either city, the real fun begins.
Traffic slows so you can take time to observe the surroundings. Taxis dominate the lanes and few of those cars hold less than 7 adults piled in. Motorbikes weave around the lanes in all directions and honk if you have the audacity to try to pass them! The motorbike also seems to be the “family car,” with dad driving, mom behind and the younger child wedged between the two. The older child, probably only 8 from what we saw, sits behind mom facing backwards and holding on to the underside of the seat for dear life. And then they pass you on the shoulder and honk…
Motor vehicles aren’t all that takes up the road. Even in the city center, the donkey pulled carts jar for space on the roundabouts. They a loaded up with goods and produce for the markets, or maybe heading back home with their shop for the week done.
Lanes are clearly optional in Morocco. Even sides of the road become a suggestion as you wind closer to the medina. Pedestrians are reckless–they don’t care that you’re a SUV with a green light coming at them at 40mph, they go when they want, were they want, and yell at any car, bike, or animal that doesn’t weave out of their way.
As you head into the Atlas Mountains, the road only get smaller and windier. The driving is exactly the same–motorbikes are king, lanes are optional, speed is the goal. I think the country is finally realizing the people won’t change and trying to upgrade the mountain pass to accommodate the reckless travel…but that progress has made the mildly tolerable roads in part into diverted dirt roads that stop the traffic for an hour at a time to blast rock from the side of the cliff and make a wider path. Luckily, the curves are lined with little shops to browse colorful pottery and jewelry–and I love any excuse to shop!
The real fun, however, came as we bounced our way out of the Saharan dunes. The car (which had 3 men lying beneath it not an hour before fixing some undisclosed problem I told myself was just a flat…) struggled to make it up a small sand hill. The wheels spun a few time and then the engine cut out. Our driver and guide have each other a side eye and rapidly spoke in Arabic. The the driver stuck his head out the window, stuttered the engine to a start again and slammed us into gear. Par for the course on a desert day? Apparently.
We love to buy art and trinkets for our house while we travel. It’s so much more interesting to look at memories of our adventures then something we picked up during college to fill an empty wall. We knew this long trip would mean shipping some things home along the way to continue this tradition and still contain our travel to the few backpacks we had. What I didn’t anticipate was that once we added a shipping line item to our Excel budget page, my husband would grab hold of the need to buy a carpet and refuse to hear reason otherwise. [ed. note: Yes. A carpet. I wanted one. Hmph.]
I have nothing against a beautiful, hand woven rug. And if you’re going to buy one, why not get it from the village it was woven in, right? My pause on this plan is the rug itself. We don’t own any. Not even a door mat. Our condo is 1,200-ish square feet of wide planked hard wood that is cold as hell on those icy January mornings that even the South is subject to on occasion. But my husband despises rugs. Any I owned prior to our marriage are tucked away in a storage unit awaiting I’m not quite sure what at this point… But He was convinced that a rug was a must buy in North Africa and once He’s on a mission, there’s no stopping it!
We arrived at the Berber village with the carpet co-op at lunch time, so all the women had gone home. The president of the co-op kindly opened the doors to us and showed us how they treated and spun the wool, then wove it into the designs. Each carpet took between 3 months and a year to complete and had a story told within the bold patterns and intricate designs.
As we walked into the showroom, the owner was pulling rug after rug off the stacks and fanning each out for us to touch and see. The carpets which were a patchwork of sheep and camel hair were my favorite, although reflecting back on this I think the camel hair would be rough to walk across and have me resorting back to wearing my ugly slippers as I always do, protecting me from the cold floor!
The language barrier was quite intense here and it took a lot of time and back and forth before we were able to have him tell us some numbers….and then the dream came crashing down. The carpet was 10 times what we expected to pay–before international shipping!! We huddled together and weighed the options…really there was only one. We left empty handed…and as the car wound on the road out of town, we watched the 3 tour buses roll in and park. I think we were almost swindled at a tourist trap!
While the disappointment settled in and we started plotting trying our luck bargaining in the Marrakesh market that night, I think our guide caught on to our plans and he offered to take us to one more spot in town. Fixed prices were the magic word here as neither of us had the time or patience for haggling an hour or more after the 9 hour desert drive. We roamed the 3 floor local shop in peace and when we were ready to see the rugs, they were patient and listened to our feedback—only showing the styles and colors we preferred and keeping every offering below the price point we had in mind.
When we finally get home in December, we’ll have Aladdin’s magic carpet awaiting us to be one of our Christmas presents!
For those astronomy buffs out there, there is a saying there are more stars in the sky than grains of sand on earth.
Whoever said that has never been in the Sahara when it’s windy. The sand. Oh the sand.
The first night in the desert, we almost believed the saying. Once the lanterns were quenched and the bonfire died down, the world was pitch black and clear enough to follow the Milky Way all across the sky. We lay on the swinging mattress behind a dune and tried to remember more constellations than the Dippers and Orion. As city dwellers back in the real world, we could drive 3 hours in any direction and still not find a sky this bright. It was stunning and overwhelming all at once.
(Taking picture of stars is really hard….especially for someone who only graduated from a 4 week Intro to Camera class….so instead, here are the pretty lanterns…unlit…)
The next day, however, we experienced the Saharan wind. Early in the day, it was a welcome respite from the heat. We lounged in our shaded hut after the camel ride to eat, drink, and rest in a cooler area of the dunes than our main camp. Quickly around 1 pm the wind kicked in and blew swirls of sand across our faces. We wrapped ourselves up and waited for our Berber guides to come rescue us from this terrifying sand storm…only they didn’t come. As we cowered and coughed, we heard them still talking and laughing as before. Apparently, this too was normal, everyday life in the Sahara. So when in Rome and all that, we fashioned head scarves and turned our backs towards the wind and played a round of dominos as the sand applied our Jersey shore level spray tan…no one at home would recognize us with this golden glow!
For two kids who met living in Kentucky, our joint horse riding ability was next to zero. This fact occurred to me suddenly as our Berber guide coaxed the giant, lumpy beasts and checked the saddles made of plywood, ropes, and blankets. I peered around the other side of my ticket to the lunch camp an hour’s ride across the dunes and wondered if maybe I wasn’t that hungry after all.
There were not stirrups, no reins, and my new friend kept side eyeing me while curling his upper lip. I stumbled backwards, I was not about to add camel spit to my collection of desert grime–there is only so much a bucket and a bowl can really substitute for a shower!
The camels were lowered to a sit and thankfully the Berber had my husband climb aboard first and as soon as He sat, the camel shot up into the air and my already giant 6’4″ husband was towering 4 feet above me and looking at me with his phrase of the desert “WTF…”
As we moseyed along the dunes, my camel began to show his ornery side. He didn’t like to go up the dunes and he REALLY didn’t like to go down the dunes. The Berber coaxed and clucked and occasionally yanked him into submission and I simply held on for dear life!
Luckily, there was a car to take us home from lunch….
Let’s talk about Mr. Yum Yum. When we were in Antarctica, we had the opportunity to camp on the continent. This was too cool of an experience to pass up, so I pushed away my diva tendencies for a night and went for it. (He was a life long Boy Scout and all around bad decision maker in the name of cool experiences, so he would have gladly camped nightly if the ship let him!) To my relief, we were told there would be a bathroom on shore. I didn’t question how or what, I just happily drank my dinner wine for warmth and courage and bundled into ever SmartWool layer I could wear and still walk and took the little ride on the dingy to the camp area
…And then we were introduced to Mr. Yum Yum.
I don’t know what I expected for a toilet on the great white continent. I shouldn’t have believed there would be one at all. But there was…ish. The guides had dug up some snow and built a throne facing out into the Antarctic Ocean. And inside that throne was a bucket with a seat (and a lid, very important to keep the lid down so the seat didn’t freeze or we would have a very awkward recreation of the flag pole scene from “A Christmas Story”), a bag of toilet paper and hand sanitizer. And this went by the affectionate name of Mr. Yum Yum…I’ll leave you to figure out why on your own.
How does this Antarctic tale relate to our current Moroccan desert adventure, you might ask? Well, when we booked the 2 night desert camping, I was delighted to hear we had a private tent with a bed, a toilet, a shower, and electricity (what can I say, my previous version of “roughing it” was a Holiday Inn Express…). We figured out the electricity come from solar panels, but hadn’t paused to consider how running water would factor in for our bathroom. As we walked into our tent, it all made sense–behind a beautifully carved and painted screen sat our own personal Mr. Yum Yum!
Climbing sand dunes is hard. No, I’m not talking about crossing the boardwalk in Hilton Head to get to the beach, but the actual Sahara sand dunes that go on for 4 miles in any direction from our camp. The desert is simply beautiful, with clear sun rises and sunsets an artist would kill to paint. Unfortunately, these views were dotted with sand dunes as far as the eye could see, so in order to witness it in the full effect, you had to climb up the highest dune around. And in order to climb up the highest dune, a full 75+ meters high, you first had to climb every other just slightly smaller dune in your path. Up and down and up and down. Heading towards the sun set of course, so the reality is you are hiking in the desert directly facing the blazing Saharan sun.
The Berber guides know this is hard, so the offer a treat to lure you out there. Just before the highest climb, they set up a little lounge and serve cocktails. There you sit and you rest and you sip a cold beer and think, oh this isn’t so bad after all and ready yourself to enjoy the majestic setting sun from the carpet and cushions you are currently perched upon…
Only then do they point upwards and say “ok, we go?” And while you curse them and your spouse and yourself for this hair-brained life plan, that stupid little voice in you pops up and reminds you that you’ve already made it all the way out here so you might as well go just a little bit farther to see it right. But that little more is all the way uphill. And you’re still a little jet-lagged. And let’s face it, you work a desk job so you’re totally not in shape to be hiking in baby power fine sand that sinks a foot for every step you take.
Finally the Berber man takes pity on you and unwinds his turban to throw you a lifeline and yank you up the slope. As you huff and puff and he runs ahead with a smile and a song (because of course he sings as he runs through the desert sun, right?!), he turns back to your husband and demands he take a picture…
Maybe by the second year of marriage He will learn what my death stare means and put down the damn camera….
favorite wanderers 