Moroccan Love

My first night in Morocco I rejoiced in the splendor of having both my parents all to myself. My mom and I arrived from Italy and met my dad at our hotel in Casablanca for the night. All night we talked and showered each other with love. That day and the days to follow we also spent our time becoming aquainted with the man who would drive us through over 10 different cities and villages throughout Morocco, his name was Mr. Hussine. He was a man who truly served us and loved us in every way, and in doing so he added air to my fire of faith.

We only had a short time, but before leaving Casablanca we toured the third largest mosque in the world. The Mosque of Mohammed Houssine II.

It is the largest mosque outside of the Holy Land of Mecca in Saudi Arabia. Surprisingly the mosque took only 6 years to build its total of 13 hectors of marble floors, cedar carved ceilings, and chandeliers made out of Italian Murano glass.

 Being in a Muslim country, I had the opportunity to learn more about Muslim traditions. In Morocco the religious demographics look something like; 80% Sunni and 15% Shi'a - the other 5% being Jews and Christians. Shi'a Muslims were described to me as the more "hardcore" Muslims, like Orthodox Jews, or more strict Christians. Sunni Muslims were described to me as "everyone else." The guide who told me about Sunni and Shi'a may have been a little bias since he himself is Sunni. He described Moroccan Shi'a as the "extremist" Muslims - at least as far as Moroccan culture, and his opinion goes.

Some of the traditions I learned about had to do with daily devotions to God. For example, each limb and head must be washed three times as purification before prayer, and, in case you didn't know, prayer is 5 times a day: at sunrise, lunchtime, late afternoon, sunset, and dinnertime. Muslims, at least the ones who participate in prayer, must be pretty darn clean people if they are washing that often. There are a baths for purification in every mosque I've seen, in case people come from work or school. During prayer, women kneel in in the back behind the men in the mosque. Reason being, everyone is kneeling bent over in prayer, and a bunch of women's butts in the air can be a major distraction for the people behind them. I can understand that. I also like the tradition of covering up in order to keep the body sacred, so that some day only the husband will see what is underneathe. That might even be better than being a virgin till marriage. It makes everything so much more sacred.

After the tour of the mosque, we drove from Casablanca to Rabat where we had the rare pleasure of entering the Royal Palace and admiring the Moroccan mosaics and Moorish architecture. We went to a beautiful building covered in mosaic designs, cedar carved ceilings, and marble floors. It was a mausoleum that contains the tombs of the great Mohammed V and Mohammed Houssine II - former kings of Morocco and saviors of Moroccan culture. All of the streets are named after them, so asking directions isnt so helpful. 

 All the Mohammeds can be confusing too, though its considered a strong and honorable name to have. In order to honor the Prophet Mohammed, many Muslim families follow the tradition of naming their firstborn daughter Fatima, and their firstborn son Mohammed - after the firstborn children of Mohammed the Prophet. If ever I forgot someone's name while in Morocco, Mohammed was a pretty good guess.

Being from an Arabic Christian family, despite my studies, I am not as well read with living in Muslim tradition, and not even Arabic traditions since my family is strictly Lebanese and Syrian American. We do our best to carry on traditions and teachings from the previous generations, but things are so vastly different from country to country in the Middle East. Our language, Levantine Arabic, differs compared to Egyptian, Moroccan, or Saudi Arabic. Nonetheless, we enjoyed saying our "family phrases" among other Arabs who understood what we were saying. A few of my favorites growing up, were the most commonly heard among the Moroccans too. I can't write in Arabic, but phonetically, inshallah (in-sha-luh), meaning "God willing" or allah a'akbar (ull-ah ah-ahk-bahr), meaning "Glory to God." My Arabic accent is noticeably Levantine. Many times when I spoke, the Moroccans would ask me if I am Syrian or Lebanese. When shop keepers would haggle me on the streets, the conversation normally involved confusing them by speaking Arabic and saying 'no' to everything they asked me, or telling them where I'm from in order to get a better price. 

Shop Keeper: hello miss, you come into my shop!

I say nothing.

Shop Keeper: English? English?

I say: 'la'a (luh-uh)' meaning 'no' in Arabic with my Syrian accent.

Shop Keeper asks me in Arabic if I speak Arabic.

I say: 'shwaya', which means "a little"

And then while he continues to guess where I'm from, I keep saying no in Arabic while I walk away and eventually he stops chasing me.

Life is a chase ladies, let me tell ya. Whenever I was interested in whatever the person was selling, I became the chaser. I always made sure to tell the salesperson in Arabic that I am Syrian and Lebanese. Then he says in English "I give you good price" or "friend price", "global price", "Berber price" - and all the other ways of saying the "lowest, cheapest, price." Then the hustle begins - the bargaining hustle.

At most shops we spent a half hour shopping, then bargaining another half hour. Thats when, understanding the unwritten rules of bargaining is important. Like, making the lowest offer, but not an insulting offer, not wasting anyones time by playing too many games, knowing what the item is worth - what it might have cost to be made - and how much one is willing to spend. I think I figured out the tells the sellers make when they respond to the buyers first price. Here is my theory based on experience; when the salsemen snears, it means the buyer went too low and insulted him. When he laughs and pretends hes laughing because its too low of an offer, its actually an on-the-money-offer and the laughing is part of the hustle to raise the buyers price. If the seller says nothing, it means the buyer is spot on and the seller is taking her seriously. And, if the seller makes a nervous laugh, then he's actually bummed out because he may not profit from the price the buyer offered. Thats when I think its time for the buyer to consider whether she still wants it, and whether the seller needs the money more than she needs to have the thrill of bargaining and saving money. Normally the other big rule is for the buyer to never waste anyone's time if she isn't truly interested.

Once my parents and I had that down, we were ready for Fez and Marrakech. Markets galore. Shopping heaven! 

Before arriving in Fez on our drive from Casablanca to Rabat to Fez, we went to a local hub of tents where we ate a Moroccan barbecue lunch. We ordered lamb by the kilo, had chicken tagine, and ate beef kefta kebab. Everything tasted full of flavors of cumin, saffron, paprika, and other rich local spices. We drank traditional Moroccan mint tea and basked in the local Moroccan atmosphere. We ate with our hands and observed the grills and cooking styles. It was fantastic. 

While in Fez, we were told by our driver, Mr. Hussine, and by online tripadvisor reviews, that walking in the Fez medina at night was not advised without a guide - for safety reasons. We kept it simple by going to a belly dancing show which we quickly discovered was very touristic and extremely overpriced. We left early. After taking suggestions from Mr. Hussine, and the hotel concierge, we decided from then on to do things that were more our speed, less touristic and less expensive. After all, my dad speaks Arabic, and we are all fairly well traveled and smart Arabs, theres no need for us to be looked after.

The following day we took a walking tour of the Medina. The Medina of Fez is the old town of the city and is separated by walls. Fez is one of Morocco's four imperial cities, alongside Rabat, Casablanca, and Marrakech. Each of the imperial cities has an old town, like the medina, and a new town. The difference between the two is as dramatic as first world versus second world lifestyles. In the new town there are Mcdonalds, chain hotels, nice restaurants, and paved roads with street lights. In the medina - which is enclosed within the greater city area - there are no cars, only occasional motorbikes, and many mules carrying things to and fro. Its as easy to walk into an ally where a blacksmith is firing away as it would be to get a taxi in new town. The medinas are all a little bit different, and in the case of Rabat and Casablanca, they were rather dirty and small compared to the glorious and exciting medinas of Fez and Marrakech.

In the Fez medina the carts are pushed down the streets carrying lamb skins, and goods to sell, and the pusher yells "Ballak ballak," for people to get out of their way. We walked past carts of lambs skin being taken to the tannery to be made for leather, we peaked in bakeries where bread is made in fire ovens, and we saw into factories where weavers create the classic Berber, and Moroccan rugs by hand. During our tour - aside from seeing the oldest university in the world and beautiful Moroccan archetectures - we basically went shopping. A dream come true for the Adam Family!! Because the shopping was part of the tour, we were presented many unique creations of rugs and leathers and the styles were all explained to us.

At the rug factory we looked at hand-made rugs from the Berbers from antiquity, and from Moroccan weavers. There are native tribes in all of the Middle Eastern countries in Africa - Morocco, Libya, Algeria, Tangier, and Egypt - and most of them are referred to as "Berber." Moroccan Berbers are Moroccan, but they are classified differently - not less than - just regarded as having a different culture and traditions than a Moroccan who is not Berber. They are regarded as simple people who have less, do lots of hard manuel labor, and are more of the live-off-the-land people. Driving through the mountains, one could distinguish a Berber home from another's home because of the made-from-scratch look of the straw and clay walls, versus the smooth architectural designs of other homes.

When my family and I were bargaining with people, we started being called 'Berber cousin' or 'Berber from the High Atlas' meaning that we do a lot of bargaining. The high Atlas is comparable to the top of the Alps, so I imagine those people don't get out too often and don't make too much money - so, they must be super bargainers.

My dad, being the fantastic bargainer that he is, was able to get me a free Moroccan rug to take home for the house I'll some day have. Talk about a gift from God! Way to go dad! The owner, Moustafa, shook our hands and told my dad that he is a Berber from the High Atlas - meaning, he is a hard man to bargain with. At the rug shop we drank mint tea, and a couple different men showed me pictures of their daughters named Yasmín. Everyone kept telling me I have a Moroccan name, the name of a princess. And so they treated me like a princess, and I was very grateful. Moustafa told us, some people come into his shop and spend $60,000, and he shakes there hands and says "goodbye." On the other hand, some people come into his shop and only spend $500, and they hug and kiss and have long cheerful goodbyes. We recieved the latter, and it was so warm and sweet - perfect example of Moroccan love, which we experienced continually throughout our trip. 

Since our tour of Fez was on a Friday, which is a holy day for Muslims - like the Sabbath for Jews or Christians - I felt bad to be keeping our guide Mohammed from his prayer time. When I asked him about it he explained to me that there are 3 kinds of prayer; theres prayer 5 times a day, but work is also prayer, and so is spending time with family. I felt like his prayer assistant after that, since he was working for my family that day. 

Mohammed was a fantastically bubbly warm man, full of life with wrinkles from smiling. He loved telling us about Islam, and laughed watching us shop and bargain in the stores. He also explained to us the safety of Fez, saying that we could stay on the main roads of the Medina at night and be just fine! So we went out that night and ate tajine at a local spot. Tajine is like the Moroccan version of a crock pot. Throw in some seasoning, meat, and veggies, then leave it on the grill all day at a low temperature. The cost difference between a local meal and a tourist meal (even though the food is the same) was as much as $100. A local meal for three of us was only $22, rather than $30 a plate at the tourist spots. Talk about exploitation.

The next day began a long adventure. Our plan was to drive 8.5 hours to Merzouga, on the border of the Sahara desert. From there we would ride camels 1.5 hours and camp in the desert for the night, the way the tribes and nomads do. We drove through the Atlas Mountains on winding roads, through valleys where rivers are in the winter from the melted snow of the mountains. Sometimes, on long car rides and winding roads, I become car sick, so I sat in the front seat. We stopped in small villages like Midelt and Rissani along the way for food and bathroom breaks, which gave us a great opportunity to see different lifestyles and meet people all over Morocco. A couple hours after lunch and driving through winding mountains, I felt worse than carsick had ever made me feel, and I asked Mr Hussine to pull over just as I opened the door to vomit. 

Here comes the adventure, as if this was not an adventure already.

Mr. Hussine pulled our car to the nearest city, called Rashidia so that he could find me anti-nausea medication at a pharmacy. Usually, once I get out of the car and sit for a little while, the sickness goes away. Not this time. I threw up on a palm tree in the road, on the sidewalk, and in between I had to make some bathroom trips to the nearest Turkish toilet (hole in the ground) which was utter torture in my condition, I'm sure you can imagine. Next to the hole in the ground was a spout and bucket to wash it off after whatever mess the user makes.

My mom tried walking me to a nearby hotel. I became sick again on the way and when I looked up gasping, I saw a little man trotting over with some water to pour on my hands. At this point I was staggering in the streets, nearly faint, in what is practically the desert, trying to find a bathroom. We found a hotel and went upstairs, and to my dismay no one worked there and a couple who didn't speak English was sitting in the lobby. It looked like a hotel from a horror film. I said to the couple sitting down, 'please, emergency', and made some motions like I will be sick. When she started to get out of her chair I said in Arabic "yella yella" which means go or hurry up. So this stranger must have seen our faces and understood because she opened the door to her hotel room door and let me use her bathroom. It was just as horrifying inside as outside, and the toilet seat was broken clear off the hinges. What a sweet girl to let a complete sick stranger, who she couldnt communicate with, to use her bathroom. Mom looked so panicked, and it really was sudden, and peculiar, so there was urgency in both of our faces.

My worst nightmare while sick, is now a Turkish toilet.

Dunn dunn dunnn

After I made it back to the cafe where my dad was drinking tea, Mr Hussine had returned from urgently visiting every pharmacy in town to find me something useful. After several pharmacies he found one that was open and showed up with syrup to soothe my stomach. 

Thats when I told them it wasn't car sickness and they needed to take me to a hospital right away.

Glory to God, we were in a town that had its own small hospital. Mr. Hussine drove us while I stuck my head out the window continuing my new ritual. I got really funny mortified looks from people passing in cars and motorcycles, but all I could think about was my butt in Mr Hussine's face while I put half my body out the side of the car.

I went into the hospital and they sat me down. Everyone spoke French and Arabic but no English. Hell no was I sitting down in a waiting room, not unless they wanted a scene. I was in misery. I got a little bossy at this point. 'Tell them I need a bed and a toilet right away,' I said to Mr Hussine. So they took me to a room and laid me down on a brown plastic bed. I was moaning and after another episode of sickness I foggily looked over to see a man in plain clothes holding my right hand. I said thank you. Who is this? Is this the doctor? All of the interns were dressed in street clothes with an opened white doctors coat on top, so I had no idea what the doctor would look like. Would she be wearing Adidas or Nike? My parents told me the man holding my hand trying to soothe me was just the guy whose mom was in the bed next to mine. He felt bad for me because I was so miserable, so he held my hand. I started balling like a baby thanking him and praying in Arabic. It really was so touching that so many strangers were trying to take care of me in little ways. I felt so grateful.

One of the interns stuck me with an IV and some medicine, which was probably the most painful and bloody IV ever. At this point I was crying and breathing so heavily that I was making noises in pain. After a few seconds my pain noises and deep breathing turned into gasps of laughter. I suddenly felt like God was tickling me and everything that was happening - between the Adidas doctor, using a strangers bathroom, and all of the looks I got vomitting all over the town of Rashidia - I started laughing uncontrollably. The intern (who is taking all this time to still put the IV in me) began to laugh at my insanity too. Then my mom joined in with her loud laugh, and eventually my dad started to chuckle at how ridiculous it all was. The intern finished with the IV and gave me a thumbs up, I burst out laughing with tears streaming down my face, and gave him a thumbs up right back. In between laughing there was a lot of crying and praying, until finally I had released so much energy that I began to doze in and out of sleep.

 Its always best when energy is released through laughter.

So then I laid there in between episodes of sickness, nearly falling asleep on a few occasions until my dad rubbed my forehead or my mom whispered to him really loudly. Or my parents took goofy pictures around me! Hah! It was so perfect to have my parents with me for this. I was taken care of. No taxi to the hospital, no conerns for how I would get anywhere or get medicine I needed. My mom, dad, and Mr Hussine were doing all they could. Even breaking into the doctors room to clean out my bucket of vomit. Mr. Hussine really went above and beyond for me, and we created a strong heartfelt connection from there on out.

I had countless experiences of people taking care of me, holding my hand or giving me water. Everyone I came across was so warm and perfect. God's will is perfect in every way, always looking after me.

After the IV treatment, and the medicines, the whole Moroccan Flu ordeal cost 40Durham - $5.

Mr. Hussine was an angel, by getting me whatever I needed and saying I'm like his daughter. He took care of everything from my vomit, to my medicine, to having the car windows down, and my pillow fluffed.

Even though I was still pretty sick, eventually we were able to drive an hour more to a city called Erfoud. We stayed there for the night in lou of our desert tent - which was a disappointment to me, even though it was for the best.

The next day I felt terrible. I was utterly dehydrated, starving but not hungry, and it was the day we would ride camels in the desert. The hot desert. I was even more grateful for our detour the night before. The beautiful Sahara was right out our doorstep.

Even though I felt sick, traveling in the desert on camels wasn't an adventure that I wanted to take from my parents. So I fooled myself into being just fine, and it worked for a while.

Since I convinced myself and everyone else that I was 100% better, the goal was to have as much fun as possible and hold it all in until after the camel ride.

It was a blast to drive from Erfoud through the desert to Merzouga, listening to Arabic music and getting excited for our adventure. The sand dunes looked exactly like the movies - mountains and mountains of dust blowing in the wind, a combination of tan colors, feeling like pillows in between my toes. Looking in the distance, it was impossible to tell how far something was, like being on the ocean.

 We where groups of camels were communing for the day, and put on our turbins. My dad was in white like Lawrence of Arabia, and my mom and I were in different blues. We road our camels laughing nonstop and taking pictures the whole way. It was fantastic. We've never felt so close to our Arab ancestors! Haha I felt such joy listening to the joy of my parents - nothing else mattered.

I thanked my camel, whose name I couldn't say so I called him Mr. Camel. I told him it was an honor to have the ride and that he was a good partner. 

Once we returned my parents went to have lunch at a restaurant. I walked in laid on a bench and passed out from heat exhaustion. The rest of the day was perfect, but after the previous night it was difficult to get through. 

After lunch we drove 6 hours to our next destination, for an overnight in Skoura, and a visit to Ouarzazate the next day. After a restful night I was feeling 100% - for real. Ouarzazate was an interesting city to look around. It is the Hollywood of Morocco where movies like Jule of the Nile, Prince of Persia, Sahara, and even Game of Thrones have been filmed. It sits right at the base of the High Atlas Mountains, the Alps of Morocco with snow on top and all. Ben Kingsley was working on one of the sets for the making of the movie King Tut while we were there, but unfortunately we had no luck in spotting him.

After walking around and touring some movie sets, we drove 4 hours twisting and turning through the Atlas Mountains towards Marrakech. On the drive were some of the most amazing sights. We stopped in several places along the way - at the aloe market, the rose market, the bbq for lunch, the Berber house, and so on. There were breathtaking views, and driving along the edge of cliffs with 100ft drops while Mr Hussine pointed to some of the sights, made it all the more exciting. He said, "I can drive these cliffs with my eyes closed!" While my mom said, "please don't."

We arrived in Marrakech that evening. As far as my experience went, things have changed a lot in Morocco in the last two years, but the true, loving, genuine, honest, and trustworthy nature of most Moroccans is still the biggest takeaway. In 2011 when I returned from my weekend in Marrakech and the Atlas Mountains, I was completely anamored with the hominess of good Moroccan people, but I also learned a lot from the street hustle of Marrakech. Things like bargaining, and safety tips were necessary, as well as a lot of fact-checking as far as whats real and true compared to what shop keepers wanted me to believe. It was not so trustworthy, and I did not feel safe alone at night. That was 2011. Since then, driving along the main roads in Marrakech was more like driving along the main stretch in Orlando, Florida. Palm trees neatly lining the street, and lights every where. There were shopping malls, casinos, lots of hotel chains, and restaurants. When I stayed in Marrakech before I didn't leave the Medina. Other than a day trip to the Atlas Mountains, Ourika Valley, and Ouzoud Falls, all I knew was the old town. And the old town, like in Fez, consists of streets lined with shops, and clay walls making many mazes inside. No cars allowed, only donkeys, horses, bicycles and motorbikes. In the Fez medina there were hardly any street lights, but there were two main roads paralell to one another with a maze of side paths all around. In Marrakech, the medina has a main square. All around the sides of the square - which is as big as half of a football field - are restaurants looking down from terraces at the busy life of Marrakech. The day and night hustle. My parents and I walked through at night on our first opportunity. The entrance of the Medina involved walking passed the Koutoubia Mosque and approaching, cautiously, the loud drums of the different Moroccan tribes huddled together playing music. After 20 minutes we realized that my experience of it being busy and unsafe two years ago, was not the case any more. Even shop keepers offer honest information about their own products - this is real, that is fake, these are from China, and those are hand made in Morocco. Tourists walked around in shorts and spaghetti strapped shirts. The last time I was in Morocco, I was advised to dress conservatively, and at night I was hissed at by old Muslim women. It appears that, the women who hissed two years ago, are no longer around. It was safe, and loads of fun! It was like a carnival every night, and a festival every day. In the square, we saw tents of barbecue and fish clustered together in the center. Every shop and restaurant or tent would compete for our attention, but not die hard, no one got in my face, or each others' faces. It was sort of like the shop keepers' unwritten rule is, if you got there first, then you win, if they move onto me, thats their choice and I win. As if they have a Divine right to have what comes to them by God's will. A few boys came up to us and said in broken English "come eat, we guarentee no diahrrea." The boy meant it, but he laughed anyway, and we all laughed too and walked away. Great advertisement, since we were advised by locals to stay away from the food markets in the square. I don't want another debacle like the desert crisis of '14. 

We walked around, bought rose insense and frankincense - but no snake charmers. My dad was hell bent on finding a snake charmer. I told him they are out during the day because of the music at night from the many tribes banging away. The charmers play their own music, special for the snakes, banging music probably wasn't good for them.

So the next day - and even the day after that because my mom and I wanted to do it again - we held snakes and gave them love and kisses. I used to be afraid of snakes, but when my mom said "okay lay him on me," I thought, wow, fear really is unnecessary. So I played with the snake, then my dad played with a snake, and we were all a snake loving family.

 The next day we went back to the square, and this time we all did it again. I had no facing my fears mentality - because there were no fears. In fact, the charmers decided, it would be cool to wrap a cobra around me and take pictures while they charmed him into not wanting to bite me with his poisonous teeth. And actually, it was wicked cool! The Cobra's head was directly in front of mine, close enough for me to kiss the back, while the charmer did his trick. The charmer made eye contact with the snake the whole time, and in order to regain the snakes focus when he started to drift, the charmer jumped forward and the snake hissed in his face as if he was about to bite. That was a little scary when it happendd while the snake was wrapped around me, but only because it was sudden and unnexpected, like someone slamming a door. I talked to him and said, thank you Mr. Cobra for being so nice, I'll never hurt you as long as we're friends. And it was all good! 

Then I played with monkies, one of whom was really sweet to me and kept hugging me. After I yelled at the carrier to not tug on the chain around the monkey's neck - the monkey gave me a kiss! 

Then henna.

Since Marrakech is the city of night life, we went out later to the new town for shisha before going to a horse show. At the horse show were tribes representing their music and dances, a belly dancer, and horse riders that do stunts. There was a mix of Moroccans and tourists at the show and it was an impressive performance, with riders jumping on and off their horses in motion, doing stunts and flips. At one point a performer asked me to climb the wall of the stadium to pet his horse and take a quick picture. As the Japanese say, "photo! Photo!" 

At the end of it all, we had many tearful goodbyes leaving Morocco. After all that we had been through together for 10 days, Mr Hussine drove my parents and I to the airport for our sad partings. When it was time to say good bye to Mr. Hussine, he hugged us and began to cry. Our connection was so powerful. He told me that when I am ready to come back to Morocco, I will stay with him and his family in Marrakech. When I said 'really thats so sweet' he said, "yes, 6 months." So, just as Mr Hussine has a home in my heart, I have a home in his and at his home home too. After he left quickly to compose himself, he came back to the gate smiling his big smile and waving frantically while we went through security. I love that man. He is a good man.

After that, it was time for the sad good bye with my mom before my dad and I continued on to Malta and she returned home. The three months I've spent traveling up until now have been a complete gift, and full of miracles. The month I spent with my mom is something I'll always cherish. - Here's to my partner in crime, and life, my undying, unwavering, ageless beauty of a mother who keeps me level, and makes me strong, faithful and fearless. Thank God for His perfect miracles. Saha!

Saha Morocco! See you in another two years! Inshallah

Giving and Receiving in Life and Travel

“Why worry? What is meant for you is always meant to find you.” – Indian poet-saint Lalleshwari

One of the challenges of getting started on a grand adventure, or feeling ‘settled’ or ‘comfortable’ in every day life, is money, and worry.

Everyone I know always has something to say about money. I need it, I want it, I don’t have it, I spend it, it was given to me, etc. Everyone has some kind of feeling about the precious dollar bill.

Although I have always had what I needed, and then some, I have always worried about money. Having enough, making enough, not making any so making sure that I save enough.

Enough for…? Well, to make my wildest dreams come true of course! For my babies that I don’t have, my house that I don’t currently want, my furthering education that I haven’t yet decided on, and the big move that I know I will some day make.

A finite truth, in this life, is that money is freedom. A common misconception, in my opinion, is that money is power. Debate that as you wish, but one thing for sure is that nothing has power in one’s life unless one gives it the power. And what that means, is that when a person gives power to their fears or worries, it becomes the rule of their life. It’s true for anything or anyone in life. For a long time, my holding, saving, and carefully spending, was my way of giving money the power. I hoarded it for myself to rid myself of negative feelings that came from the possibility of lack. Money had the power to make me worry, fear, and sometimes to miss out on what I wanted. When I gave gifts I felt immense join, but always accompanied by worry for the shortage that might come afterwards.

But there never was a shortage. The more I gave of my time, and my money, the more I received those things from others tenfold. The more I said I would have no money, the truer it became. The more I lived as if there wouldn’t be a shortage, the more plentifully I received in the exact way that I wanted or needed.

The less I worried and feared, the less I would encounter things that I had previously worried and feared about.

The trick has become thus; trust in the Universe - trust in the Lord, trust in God – and the supply of the Divine will be endless. God is a bottomless pit of goodness, rightness, wealth, health, and happiness and He/She gives it out freely. All I have to do is ask. In fact, all I have to do is say what I want to be true and give love and gratitude to the world around me while expecting nothing in return. “Fake it till you make it.” (Pretend to be healthy, full of love, happy, abundant, and eventually your life will be made into that. It is tricking the ego into not worrying or fearing by convincing deepest desires – the ego – that it is satisfied. And so satisfaction will be thus.) At least, that’s the method I’ve been trying, and so far, God’s supply has never been short for my Path of Life’s demand. “Knock and the door shall be opened unto ye. Seek and ye shall find” – Bible, Matthew 7:7.

But, “When you knock, [make sure to] ask to see God… not any of the self-appointed intermediaries.” – Henry David Thoreau

The Bible says, “Whatsoever a man soweth that shall he also reap” – Bible, Galatians 6:7. Meaning, whatever one says, or does in this life will return to them. (Karma.)

The message, when it comes to worry and fear, is to live as if it doesn’t exist. Concern for worries or fears attracts or brings on more worry or fears. Instead, I try to take all the power away from it. My concern has always been money, and so to get rid of that concern, I must live as if I am rich! Giving to people left and right, buying what my heart says is needed or desired (with goodness and cheerfulness), and trusting in God to provide me with what is right and good in His time and according to His Perfect Goodness. Then I will be rich, always having what I need or want because, through the Grace of God, there is no alternative other than happiness and abundance. With no worry or fear, that’s what ya get.

In the Orthodox Christian Church we pray at a funeral or memorial for the reposed to live in a place where there is no “pain, sorrow, or suffering.” In this life, none of those things can exist if I give the power to God and not fear or worry. Evil is the word for fear, negativity, and worry. There’s no evil, if I don’t give those things the power over my feelings, my behavior, or my beliefs. Instead I have begun to try hard to hand over all of the power to the Will of God, and the Divine Plan. You cannot serve God (Perfect Goodness) and evil (worry/fear) at the same time. “Ye cannot serve two masters.” - Matthew 6:24

And so, I have begun to throw all caution to the wind. My life is blossoming with love, and fullness. I pray for God to open the way for great abundance, health, and happiness, and give me what is good and right that belongs to me according to His Will. Sometimes I pray for peace and patience, and for God to give me a sign that will help me relieve negative energy so that I can be filled with light.

The funny thing is, that it works. Prayer works, and not because I feel light and pretty afterwards. God literally gives answers that are tangible and solution based – that give me the exact sign or message I need at the exact right time to bring me what is perfectly good and right. Its not really what I think of or what I want, but it is always good and always what God demands I need.

“All things whatsoever ye ask in prayer, believing, ye shall receive” – Matthew 21:22

“I tell you, you can pray for anything, and if you believe that you've received it, it will be yours.” - Matthew 11:24

In order to go on my around-the-world adventure, I had to completely release my hold on money. After all, I am going to spend all that I have, and probably more than I currently have, with no intention to work for money along the way.  I’ll volunteer in exchange for housing and food, but I haven’t considered working for money. I want to give of myself as much as I can, and having a job doesn’t feel like Divine Will, it feels like work for money. Its possible that having a job would be Divine Will but I am not seeking one. The right income will find me at the right time.

When I began my trip and people asked me why I would do it, one of their concerns was the money I would be spending. “Don’t you want to spend it on a house? Or save it for your wedding? Or your children?” As I said before, these were reasons I had always saved and attempted at frugality for. And isn't it selfish not to save for my children and their future? But, for some Divine reason, whenever someone asked me these questions, my automatic response was, ‘why worry? I have plenty of time to make it all back.’ Now if someone were to ask I would say the same thing, but I wouldn’t wonder at all why that was my automatic response. Worry is irrelevant. God will supply.

And, “There is a supply for every demand.” – Florence Scovel Shinn

In order to start my journey I had to release my hold on whatever was in my bank account. Seeing the number get bigger over years of odd jobs always made me happy. But now, seeing the number get smaller makes me feel like I haven’t wasted anything, I feel fulfilled and open to the Divine Plan. I haven’t hoarded any goodness. I’m sharing it with the world – and I believe that money is just as much a representation of the flow of goodness as tangible acts of kindness. Keeping, saving, hoarding, or not distributing money in some way feels vain or selfish now. Even saving for my (not yet existing) children feels that way. Of course they will have the right amount at the right time. I’m not the one who makes or breaks their future and neither is money. How can God supply if I don't always trust That He/She will?

But I’m finding also that, just as willingness to spend and keep the circulation of money and goodness flowing in the world can benefit my soul, so can receiving. I am a really bad receiver. I can't take a compliment, and I almost instantly refuse any and all spontaneous gifts offered to me. 'No, no, you keep it.' Or 'Let's split it.' Instead of, 'thank you, that's really sweet.'

“Never turn down a free meal.” – Nasser

A friend I made in Norway gave me the wise advice to never turn down a free meal, and I am taking it one step further. Just as I am meant to give, I am also meant to receive. Even when a poor man gives, I must imagine him prosperous and receiving tenfold, and that is how I can receive with gratitude and humility. Refusing a gift, for whatever negative reason (which it always is) blocks the Divine flow of goodness and leaves the person lacking even more than the gift they originally refused to recieve. Turning down a gift may be the same as ignoring God’s Will outright. How insulting! I think that, maybe, we are meant to receive because we are meant to be grateful, and how can one be grateful if one never accepts anything they are meant to receive? A humble and grateful heart will always receive as much as he/she gives – and so the pattern continues.

Traveling has opened my life to the cycle of giving and receiving – and in doing so I give up my hold on my life and my money. I try to surrender to the Lord, as one might say. And the only thing that I can absolutely expect without a doubt, is that whatever comes to pass will be good and right for me.

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An interesting anecdote occurred in my life after I had finished writing this blog entry. My mom and I arrived in Milan via train from Venice. After exiting the train station we walked to the taxi stand because we didn’t want to walk with our luggage in the rain. While in line, a man who was hard of hearing, was begging for money with a sad little dog that he kept in his carriage. I gave him some of my change thinking I need to give more and not hold onto goodness. A few minutes later I asked if I could pet the dog and he said a lot of things in Italian from which I gathered was something like “you have to pay me 2 Euro to pet me dog.” The gall on this guy, I thought. Annoyed with the man, at charging to pet his sad dog, and because I already paid him, I decided to just fain ignorance saying “I don’t speak Italian, I don’t understand” and move on. Shortly down the line (it was a rather long taxi line) I saw a woman in raggedy clothes begging for money. I thought, I already gave all my change to that guy and he turned out to give me a bad feeling... But I have to have faith that God provides. I have a few Euros, and why would I hold onto it if I know God will provide? So I gave the lady a Euro. To my delight and surprise she was extraordinarily grateful. She lit up like a Christmas tree, thanking me profusely. All I could say was, dios te bendiga in Spanish, which means “God bless you.” As I turned away to rejoin my mom, I thought: she was so grateful, I should go back and give her 20 Euro. I wonder what effect that has on someone begging, to receive 20 Euro. Will she beg more thinking “oh this works” or will she see that it is a sign from God? Nonetheless we were rushed into a taxi a moment later and because I didn’t get to give the woman more money I said a prayer under my breath, ‘God I trust that you will provide what is good and right in abundance for that woman and for me to continue to share Your goodness.’

A few hours later, my mom and I went to a quaint local restaurant a short walk from our hotel. The food was divine and the waitress - who laughed, was patient, and enjoyed our complex language barrier interaction - was full of light. But that’s not part of my anecdote. Towards the end of dinner, a woman walked by our table, bent over and picked up a 20 Euro bill and asked if it was mine. I thought right away that it was, because my pocket was unzipped and had a 20 in it. So I took it. But when I counted the total I realized it was extra, and immediately (for some Divine reason) the image of the woman at the train station popped into my head and I felt her immense sense of gratitude. Foolishly ignoring the sign from God, I thought maybe that the waitress dropped a 20 from the check she just walked by with. I said to my mom, ‘It may be a gift from God, or maybe the waitress dropped it. I will know which it is based on whether the waitress takes it or not.’ The waitress said it wasn’t hers. I realized after some more reflection, that I had written this blog earlier in the day about giving and receiving. And even so, I didn’t claim what God gave me as my own, I tried to re-gift it to the waitress rather than be grateful for it. God was teaching me a lesson. He was thanking me for continuing to have faith after the man with the dog nearly made me doubt, and he was teaching me to recieve as graciously as I was willing to give. I immediately said a prayer, “God thank you for your abundance and for teaching me humility and gratitude. I will claim what belongs to me according to Your Will and trust that you will continue to grant me health, happiness and abundance in Your time and according to what is right in Your Perfect Goodness.”

And that was the end.

Saluti de Italia

Italy is more of a shopping haven, and an art history utopia than anything else. Since I am a big fan of both, it is probably one of the best places to vacation. Not for sports fanatics, unless you're checking out the Italian Alps, but definitely for chefs, fashionistas, and art nerds. I am the latter.

Venice

The roads, or rather, the waterways of Venice complete the absolute stigmatic movie version of what I imagined the city to be. I took water busses from place to place through the Venezian Laguna and the Grand Canal. I watched gondolas fill canals, the width of a mini-coupe, and I breathed in the highly sophisticated street music. Literally, street musicians playing classical music wearing tuxedos and bow ties. 

For the first time since I began my travels, I shopped plentifully for gifts and spent hours looking in shops at the highly advanced Murano glass, and masquerade stores.

On the island of Murano, one could roam the wide streets and canals with ease. Since it is not a part of the main tourist island - where the Galleria alla Academia, Piazza de San Marco, or the Rialto bridge are - there was no rush or congestion. But there were shops, full of locally blown glass that has been part of a tradition dating back to the 1700s. Murano is the pioneer for glass blowing and mails their art all over the world. I saw beautiful glass flower chandeliers, glass statues of peacocks and horses, glass clocks and tea sets - all with advanced decorative art and colors burned into the design. I even had the opportunity to watch glass blowers do their work as they gave me a quick educational breakdown.

And now I'll break it down for you, in case you're interested.

To become a Murano glass artist, one must train under a Master glass blower for 15 to 20 years. There are only 20ish masters in the world and they all work on the island of Murano. There are certainly more than that who are trained in the techniques, but they wouldn't be Murano Glass Masters. There are also plenty of apprentices who bowed out and never became Masters. But still having trained for 10 years or so before getting the master status, whose to say they aren't masters in their own right?

I came across one of the dropouts when I was near the Santa Maria Gloriosa de Frari Basilika (the Frari for short). He trained over 30 years ago as an apprentice in Murano glass blowing. Now, he and his wife own a small shop where he creates his very own Murano designs right in the shop. I was mesmerized for a little while, looking at all the long colorful sticks of glass that would later become birds, trees, earings, horses, and more.

The only thing about Murano glass that I found to be quite the turnoff, was that there is tons of waste from the artistic creations every day. And no recycling. This is art after all, who will use a piece of junk to remelt it and create somethigg new? Apparently no one. Not even to donate somewhere for the city to make drinking bottles. Nothing. Because it is a world renowned mass producing industry, I was more than a little disappointed to learn about the harm it is doing to the environment.

So we move on.

One of my favorite parts of Venice (other than the window shopping and leather browsing) was the Frari Basilika. I had studied Titian (Tiziano) in a couple different art history classes, and so standing in the splendor of the Frari I was in the presence of the tomb of Titian and over the altar was his masterpiece of the Assumption of the Virgin Mary. Since my mom had been to Venice before, I was excited to guide her through the streets to a place she hadn't seen. I was even more excited to see her look full of awe and curiosity when we entered.

Venice was beautiful, and definitely unique. However, after the first day I felt somewhat exhausted by it all. The transportation by boat is far overpriced for a leisurely gondola ride, or a private water taxi, and the water bus system can take a really long time. So being on the water so much in the slow paced water busses - when I am already worn out from long days of walking and site seeing - it really just put me to sleep. I'm like a baby in my crib rocking back and forth. I felt very blessed to experience for myself the history and man-made beauty of the Laguna Venezia. I enjoyed navigating through the mazes of the city coming across piazza after piazza and plaza after plaza, and finding statues and monuments thousand of years old. I loved listening to Umberto Tizzo every morning on the radio playing in the lobby of our hotel, and I really liked that the place we were staying was on a totally separate island from the main island of Venice. However beautiful and fascinating it was, I felt just as grateful to move on to Milan for something different that my mom and I had both never experienced.

Milan

The capital of the northwest of Italy, is surprisingly not much to be desired. It may be the fashion capital, but only for reaaaaally wealthy people. My mom and I walked up and down the fashion district streets on our first day. The most fantastic part about it was the elevorate window decorations and displays. Some brands had mosaics in the windows, some had beautiful lanterns and chandeliers hanging, and a surprising amount of them currently have some kind of forrest design with trees. Some of it though, was a little appalling to me. In windows of countless high class Italian brands were leather for babies for thousands of dollars, leather pants for maternity, toddler manequins in tuxedos and minks. I wonder if for the maternity pants they would have to buy a new outfit for every trimester. How is a pregnant woman going to wear skinny-leather pants? And how is a baby going to not ruin a fur white dress?

It felt like such a waste. But it was a waste that was at the bud if the jokes my mom and I made for the rest of the day.

Aside from the phenomenal archetecture of the Duomo, and the amazing art created by names like Da Vinci, Titian, Crespo, Tiepolo, Bellini, Polo, and Caravaggio, my mom and I had the most amazing and intimate experience at a local restaurant. A place not very touristic, and with hardly any English speakers, my mom and I enjoyed a delicious homemade meal. The waitress, who i menioned in my previous blog entry, was so patient and full of light that I left her a note in Italian telling her just that. My mom and I enjoyed the experience so much that we returned to the restaurant the next night. The waitress, Maria, was not there. As it turned out though, her mother Teresa, and her uncle Antonio are the owners. Teresa and I had an interesting conversation in Italian and Spanish about the history of her restaurant and she told me that everyone who worked there was family! I told her how much I loved Maria the night before, and Teresa asked me if I was the one who wrote the note. Hold the phone, Maria was so equally-as-pumped about our positive interaction that she went home and told her mom about it? How amazing is that! I told Teresa how I hoped God would bless her family and her business because they are all so full of love. 

During the meal my mom and I had admired the Teateo alla Scala opera certificates that hung all over the restaurant. (Teatro alla Scala is a world renowned house of classical opera, and we couldnt get tickets because it is currently closed and only showing on Sundays.) Teresa must have overheard us admiring them, because when we paid and went to thank her before leaving, she insisted on giving me a certificate! She hugged and kissed us (something not usually done with tourists) and sent us on our way with a gift! How amazing! I really never cared about going there for the food, it just felt so warm and homie at the Da Cecco Ristorante Pizzeria.

The warmth of people is enough to make a fire.

The next day, mom and I created our own day trip to Lake Como. Where we got to ride the steepest funicular in Europe and hike a little in the Italian Alps.

It was a fantastic day full of views, and exploring. Unfortunately, we were unable to find George Clooney at his Bellaggio home on Lake Como. But we did see this

 

On our last day, after a few hours of additional Italian Renaissance art at the Pinoteca de San Ambrogia and the Pintocea de Brera, we were on our way to Rome! San Ambrogia had auch beautiful stained glass and a marble staircase with a mosaic wall that you can see below. And who can resist some Caravaggio and Crespo to end a visit? Well maybe my mom, but I couldnt. 

So now, we end in Rome and I will make some quick summaries from there. Italy, more or less, was full of friendly hospitality, however we encountered a lot of tourist haters as well. Particularly in Rome. I don't blame them, since Rome is so overpopulated and crowded with tourism, its probably easy to look at someone visiting as someone taking advantage of a culture. In Saint Peter's Basillica 25,000 tourists pass through Vatican City and the Basilica every day. Don't even bother trying to get a bite to eat over there because, as I've learned, where there are tourists there are exploitations of tourists - high prices, and fake authenticity (meaning, you get a veiled view of the culture the exploiters think you should see, or will make them more money). 

The first night we walked around eating gelato and Roman pizza. We passed the Trevi fountain, which was surrounded by tourists in mourning because the fountain is currently covered in scaffolding. All around were women crying saying things like, "I traveled around the world to come see this." Probably should have checked the internet, ay? Just like mom and I didn't think to reserve our tickets 2 months in advance to see da Vinci's "Last Supper" in Milan, so we missed out. 

This time, I didn't make the same mistake of doing things last minute. So, the first thing I did was go to the Santa Maria della Vittoria church to see Bernini's sculpture of The Ecstasy of Saint Theresa. It is one of my favorite sculptures because it is so authentic by being faithful, beautiful, and a little risque at the same time. Saint Theresa is being pierced by a happy little angel. The story that Bernini depicts is found written by saint Theresa in once of her journals of a vision she had.

Beside me, on the left, appeared an angel in bodily form.... He was not tall but short, and very beautiful; and his face was so aflame that he appeared to be one of the highest rank of angels, who seem to be all on fire.... In his hands I saw a great golden spear, and at the iron tip there appeared to be a point of fire. This he plunged into my heart several times so that it penetrated to my entrails. When he pulled it out I felt that he took them with it, and left me utterly consumed by the great love of God. The pain wasso severe that it made me utter several moans. The sweetness caused by this intense pain is so extreme that one cannot possibly wish it to cease, nor is one's soul content with anything but God. This is not a physical but a spiritual pain, though the body has some share in it—even a considerable share.

After Santa Maria della Vittoria, I went to San Luigi dei Francesca where 4 of Caravaggio's best known masterpieces are kept on permanent display. The church, like all 400 churchs in Rome, was art in and of itself. Beautiful.

Amazing as these were. The best part of Rome, aside from seeing La Traviata Opera, was our tour of Saint Peter's Basilica, and a cooking class that we left Rome for.

The Vatican, having been crowded and congested, was still such a gift to see. All over Rome and Vatican City I saw fountains and sculptures by Bernini, Barberini, and Michelangelo. Inside I saw frescos and oil paintings by Rafael, Michelangelo, Botichelli, Da Vinci, Giotto, Caravaggio, Bellini, Titian and many more. Enough beautiful, perfect, and gifted art pieces to make my eyes pop and water. A truly blessed feeling to be in the presence of magnificent brilliance and talent.

I even snapped a "selfie" in order to stealthily capture the famous "Gensis" fresco that covers the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. 

A "fresco" is a particularly difficult type of painting to do because it is plaster. Michelangelo took 4 years of his life to paint something he initially refused to do by insisting he was only a sculptor. For 4 years, he made square foot by square foot of the painting, permanently twisting his back and causing problems with his hands. To make a fresco, one must create a small wet section of the plaster, add color, and let dry. Once it is dry nothing can be changed, it is then part of the building wall. It must be a perfect design and perfectly executed.

It was breathtaking.

Walking into St Peter's Basilica was equally breathtaking. In the center over the alter is a 10 story tall bronze gazebo sculpture made by Bernini from the bronze roof shingles that used to be on the Pantheon. Romans were pretty upset with that Pope.

I don't have a picture, but its once of those things, like all of the art I saw, that cannot be justified through a lens other than the eyes. Inside the Basilica were small chapels to the sides of the center walkway where I was blessed to venerate San Papa Giovanni Paolo II (Saint Pope John Paul II) and San Papa Giovanni XXIII (Saint Pope John XXIII)'s bodies. They are on display in a tomb. I chose not to venerate the remains of Saint Peter in the burial area below the church, mainly because I was quite exhausted, but also because I don't need to stare a dead body in the face in order to venerate the life that it was once filled with.

This was our second to last day in Rome, and it was a quite long day of walking.

On our very last day we went to a village in Manzzano. Population: 50.

There we participated in a cooking class alongside a fantastic Argentine couple (Marta & Enrique). The bubbly local Italian woman who taught the class, Monica, struggled with her Spanish, and my mom was the only one who didn't speak any Spanish. Nonetheless, we all were able to communicate and my mom was able to understand most of the conversation. 

During the class we learned how to make traditional meat bruschetta, village pizza, different pastas and raviolis, and tiramisu.

It was a perfect ending to my time with my mom and in Italy.

Now, I admit I rushed through this blog a little bit towards the end. Reason being, I am now in Morocco with both of my parents traveling the country and taking in all of the new and interesting things. Everything is a hundred miles a minute and Italy feels like 600 years ago (but really 3 days ago, and that was a bad Renaissance joke since everything in Italy is from the 1400-1600s).

I am loving it and feeling so blessed and grateful to have this adventure and to be with my parents. There will be sooo much more to come so stayed tuned! 

Thanks for reading

cheers