Fez tanneries

For most of this week, I hung around the city of Fez, the worlds largest living medieval islamic city. It's famous for having the oldest tanneries in the world. A trip to Fez wouldn't be complete without visiting these tanneries.

While wandering through the medina, an undeniable sign that you're getting close to the tanneries is the putrid wafts of pure raunchiness.
I met 3 lovely Korean travelers at my hostel and we decided to visit the tanneries together.

We climbed a spiral staircase to one of the shop terraces to view the men at work. Before stepping onto the rooftop, we're handed a sprig of mint from the shop owner to put under our nose. Before I had a chance to use it, an offensive dead animal smell assaulted my nose and caused me to gag. I held my breath and placed my scarf over my nose and put the mint sprig over that, hoping to drown out the horrendous stench. It didn't work.

The tanneries contain several small cement pools filled with a foul concoction of pigeon shit and cow urine, among other mystery fluids. These pools are either white or vivid shades of red, orange and yellow. They're like giant Easter egg dippers. The men stomp, prod and grind the dead animal skins with their bare feet, making the skins soft and helping the dye to take hold. They do all of this while wearing little Daisy Dukes.

Everything is done by hand, no machines are used. It's quite impressive that they have kept this tradition up for so many years.
Mike Rowe needs to come here to film an episode of "Dirty jobs". These workers are hard core. I don't know how they can do this everyday. This job is not only disgusting, but it's hazardous to their health. These dedicated workers wade around in animal excrement and chemicals all day long. Yea.... that can't be good. Ewwwww. (Ernest goes to camp face)

After you've seen enough, you're invited (or forced) to check out the shop owner's leather products on your way out. They are very persistent. One of the pesky men tried to sell me a foot rest made from a baby goat. I looked at him with sad eyes and exclaimed "that's a baby goat?!" I knew that would deter him. Not even the best salesman could have sold that foot rest to this vegetarian and one time vegan. Plus, as mean as it sounds, I'm not interested in contributing to the income of such mean spirited people.
He gave up shortly after I said that and moved on to my Korean friends.
The sexual harassment from the locals has continued, but I've gotten better at dealing with it. Like a duck, I let it roll off my back. I realize they are uneducated, immature, lascivious, filthy pigs with uncontrollable raging hormones. I'm sure they had a bad childhood.
The comparison of walking alone in Morocco and walking with other travelers is like night and day. The ravenous beasts tear into me when I'm by myself, tormenting me like a grade school bully. They must see me as being weak, like a lone wounded deer. I still shudder when they whisper Moroccan-accented crude sexual remarks in my ear as I pass by. I always have my guard up and I trust no one.
I've grown more accustomed to the nasty nature of the locals with the horns on their heads. The bad attitude is ever present, however, I've found the locals of Fez to be much more lighthearted than in Marrakech. I can almost see a tiny glimmer of kindness in their brown eyes. Almost....
All this disrespect makes me want to sneak into the mosque and play Aretha Franklin's "R-E-S-P-E-C-T" on the loudspeaker. They need to learn that this is 2012 and that's not the way you treat a lady!!
I've begun to give them a taste of their own medicine. Shopkeepers are still giving me daily marriage proposals, so I decided to play their game. If you can't beat em', join them! Passing by one shopkeeper, he says "hello beautiful, what are you looking for?" Without missing a beat, I say "A husband!" His eyes light up and he says, "Really?! Me! I will be your husband!" I chuckle and keep walking. He desperately follows me and says "Come back! I like you! I want to marry you!" There was a strange truthfulness in his tone of voice. Then another shopkeeper chimes in "Me too!"
Oh boy, what did I start? I strut away. I look back and smirk at them. Sorry boys........ in your dreams! Haha.
Time passes quickly as I wander around the old city's 9000 streets. With so many unorganized streets, getting lost is inevitable, even for this exceptionally gifted navigational chica. If you get too lost, you can always ask a local for directions, but be prepared when they hold out their hand for money after they bring you to your desired location. They would never think of doing anything for a tourist for free. Extracting every last penny possible from us is what they live for.
Some common sights you will see while wandering through the medina in Fez:
- A man walking with half a dozen dead chickens tied together, hanging over his shoulder.

-Locals shuffling next to you wearing their djellaba, looking like wizards from Harry Potter.
-Countless leather products on display in shops crammed side by side.

-All natural stores selling perfume, soap and spices, with old men available to explain each mystery powder one by one.
-Dirty, timid stray cats darting in front of you, on a search for their next meal.
-The eerie call to prayer droning over the loud speakers from the mosques, signifying it's time to pray.
-The wide load of a donkey brushing past you as you squeeze up against an exquisite mosaic drinking fountain.

There are over 5000 donkeys in Fez, used for transporting different things throughout the medina. The owners yell out warnings in Moroccan for you to get out of the way.

I know I haven't had too many nice things to say about Morocco and it's clear that it's not my favorite country.
Though I highly doubt I will ever return to Morocco, at least not alone, it was "nice" to experience it once in my life. Having said that, I can't wait to get the heck outta here! Off to Italy! Ciao!

The Indian bus blunder

Right now, I'm on a 4 hour bus ride from Fez to Chefchaeon, Morocco. I almost missed the bus this morning, which reminded me of a funny story that happened to me while I was in India. I will share my "bus mishap" with all of you, if you promise not to call me a dork. It's one of the funniest stories I have from India, although it seemed like I had one everyday while I was in India. I was traveling through Kerala, southern India, where I met a pleasant Brazilian girl. We planned to take the same bus to an Ayurvedic hospital, where we were to be patients for the next 10 days for a full body cleanse. I needed to purge my body of all the noxious environmental pollutants I'd had contact with over the last 2 months. We woke early to catch the 6 am bus and arrived with a few minutes to spare. We find a spot on the dirty, rickety local bus. This was going to be a 6 hour journey and we hadn't eaten breakfast. I told her I would run across the street quick and buy us bananas and water for the trip. I hesitated, knowing it would be cutting it close. "Don't let them leave without me!" I stressed.

India

I sprint across the road with my small backpack. My big backpack was on the bus already. First, I should point out that I'm still traumatized after a train left me in Serbia. After that horrific event, I am much more cautious of any mode of transportation departing with my bag and without me.
I run up to a little stand and order bananas and water. The skinny Indian man looks at me confused. Ok, he doesn't speak English. I rattle off what I need in Hindi and he perks up and goes to get the water. I can feel the precious seconds ticking away. I'm constantly looking back, keeping a keen eye on the bus. I was more paranoid than a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. I look away to grab some rupees out of my backpack. I hand them to the man and he gives me my bananas and water. I stuff the water in my bag and wait for my change. I look back and see the bus starting to pull away. I lurch and a rush of adrenaline sends me frantically flailing across the road after the bus. My backpack is hanging wide open on my arm and flapping around as I run like a maniac. Both my hands are waving wildly in the air above my head, one hand has 2 bananas in it. I looked like some kind of crazed ape. It was a fright. I was screaming, "WAIT, STOP ! STOP !"
There was no way I was letting this bus leave without me. I'm standing in the middle of the road, not allowing the bus to proceed any further unless he runs me over. The bus screeches to a halt, only a few feet from me.

I can also stop an elephant :)

I'm a little upset at this point, because before I got off the bus I told the driver where I was going so he wouldn't leave me.
I stomp up the stairs onto the bus, grumbling under my breath, "geez, I can't believe he was going to leave me". When I get to the top of the stairs, I look up. I notice the bus is a lot fuller than it was only about a minute ago. I scan the faces of the locals. They are looking at me, a little frightened, all with wide eyes, some with open mouths. I don't recognize any of them. I also don't see my Brazilian friend. The wheels in my head turn.
Oh shit, this is the WRONG bus !
I burst out laughing and apologize to everyone. I shamelessly hop off the bus. All that for nothing !
On the street, I bend over and hold my stomach in uncontrollable laughter. I'm laughing so hard, tears are running down my cheeks. I don't know if I've ever laughed this hard in my life. I notice there is roughly 20 local men standing along the road, staring at me. They looked shocked. Between gasps of laughter, I try to explain what I'm laughing for. I point at the stand, then at the bus, they nod their head like, "yea lady, we witnessed the whole thing. You're a nut case." I spin around a few times, still giggling hard. I see my bus sitting in the same spot where I left it.
When I looked down to get the money from my bag, another bus had pulled in front of my bus. In my defense, they looked exactly the same..... AND I was sleep deprived. 
I felt like a complete idiot, but I still found the situation to be utterly hilarious. I'm in India, I really don't think I'll ever see any of these people again. I may forget them, but I'm sure they'll never forget me. They probably went home and told their entire family about the crazy white girl that ran out in front of the bus like a mad women.
I board the correct bus and find my Brazilian friend sitting in our seat, laughing as hard as me. She said, "you should have seen yourself ! I wish I had a picture !"
Despite my extreme embarrassment, I was reluctant to be on the right bus.
During the long bus ride, the scene would play through my head and I would burst into fits of laughter. I'm pretty sure the locals around me thought I was crazy. Oh well, what's a few more!


P.s. While writing this on the bus, I was also laughing hysterically to myself from re-living this story. I got a few odd looks.....

Morocco: second impressions

Having explored the town of Fez for the past 5 days, I decided to venture to the city to Meknes for the day, which is only a 20 minute train ride away.

Meknes

As I hoofed it to the train station, I was feeling exceptionally frazzled from Morocco. Why was I having such a hard time with this country? 'Lack of respect for women' came to mind. Just then, "Hang on Sloopy" started to play on my iPhone that I had set to shuffle. Haaaaang on Rachel, hang on !! Somebody was trying to tell me something....

I approached the ticket counter and the man asked if I'd like first or second class. Normally I would choose second class, not because of the price, but because it provides a better opportunity to mix with the locals.

"First class", I groaned. I had been traveling second class the entire time in Morocco. I needed a break. Feeling weak, I was trying to avoid the noxious locals that drained my valuable energy.

I plunked down in my plush first class assigned seat. Soon after, a young veiled Moroccan girl enters the compartment and sits across from me. The train chugs away from the station and the ticket man comes around and checks my ticket. He rattles off something in French to me. I give him a dumb look. The veiled girl asked if I understood him. I shook my head and said, "not at all". She instructed me on which stop I should get off at. Her English was impeccable. She introduced herself as Amy. She was getting off at the same stop as I was. After a short conversation, we planned to share a taxi to the medina (the main shopping area). During the taxi ride, I see she has a stack of medical books on her lap. She tells me she is a med student and is interning at a hospital in Fez. I tell her I'm a nurse and we immediately bonded. It was obvious that she was very intelligent. I let out a sigh of relief. It was nice to finally speak with someone that had some brains. It had been awhile :)

Amy in Meknes

She questioned me about my plans while in Meknes. I told her I didn't really have any and was open to suggestions. Instead of rattling off all the usual tourist attractions to see, she graciously invites me to join her for lunch at her house.

I accepted, of course.

When I travel to other countries, my main goal, before seeing all the touristy sites, is to mingle with the locals and try my best to understand their culture. Her invitation to lunch made me so happy I could have cried. I didn't want to give up on the Moroccans just yet. I knew there had to be some nice ones out there..... and I had I just met one.
We arrive at her house, which looked quite plain from the outside, and are greeted at the front door by the maid. I thought, 'They have a MAID? They must be rich.'
After Amy kisses cheeks with her, the maid brings her face close to mine and we do the same kiss thing on each cheek. I feel so French, I thought. I pretend like I've done this my whole life. While traveling in foreign countries, I'm constantly pretending like nothing is my first time. This street that I'm walking, I've walked it a thousand times. This odd thing the locals do, I've done it a million times. Its called confidence, my friends, and it will make you a super traveler. In my eyes, having this ability is a prerequisite to travel, especially in Morocco.
After the smooches, Amy gives me a tour of her parents extravagant home. I'm shocked. It's a 4 story palace constructed from marble and beautiful wood. I learn that her dad is an architect and is the designer of this stunning house. I lose track of the number of rooms I see. Each family member has their own kitchen, bathroom and patio. There were so many rooms, many of them were left unused. Now I see why they need a maid ! Think of all the cleaning !
We sat together in the main living area and chit chat for awhile while I admired the surroundings.

One at a time, her brother, mom, and dad come home from work and school and I am introduced to each one separately. I feel very welcomed by them and can sense they are truly good people. Her mom is a teacher and her brother is a senior in high school.
We make our way downstairs and sit down to a large feast that includes a huge platter of 2 roasted chickens, surrounded by sauce and piled high with French fries. It's a typical Moroccan cuisine. I cringe when I remember I forgot to tell her I was vegetarian. Her thoughtful dad felt bad and asked the maid to make more French fries for me, even though there was plenty of veggies, fruit and bread to keep me happy. I dipped my homemade bread in the homemade olive oil. You couldn't get better food at any restaurant.
They ate with their hands. The communal center dish of chicken was ravaged by the family members at all angles. Amy explained that lunch was the biggest meal of the day for Moroccans.
I was happy as a lark being in the company of some very hospitable hosts that made me feel like a 5th family member.
This is exactly what I was craving from Morocco. I wasn't sure how much more wickedness I could handle. I felt like it was making me a hardened traveler.
It's a cruel, cruel world.
I witnessed the everyday happenings and conversations between this warm family. Amy always made sure she interpreted the Moroccan that was spoken, since her parents spoke very little English.
After lunch, her dad chauffeured me and Amy around town in his car. He drove by the major sites around town as Amy gave commentary. Walking to the train station earlier that morning, I had no idea that later that day I would have my own personal local guide in Meknes.
I couldn't have asked for a better guide. Amy was such a sweet girl. We sat in the back of the car, like 2 good friends on an outing with our own personal driver. It was so much fun. If I lived in Morocco, she'd probably be my best friend.
As we wandered through the maze of souks filled with randy local men, Amy always made sure I was no more than a few inches from her. Being with a local Arab women seemed to ward off a lot of the crude remarks from the men. She was my protector, as well as my interpreter. When a local would speak to me in French as we passed, I'd whisper to Amy, "what did he say?" she would say, "he said blonde", or "you are beautiful".
Darn, I wish I could speak French. I could hear all these pleasant things being said to me, and probably a lot more things I DIDN'T want to hear, as well. But it sounds so much more elegant in French. I will say, the locals are much less harsh in Meknes than they are in Marrakech.
We passed a group of 3 locals eating some kind of mystery meat with their hands, one of them looked at me and said something in French with a mouth full of food. He appeared to be angry. I asked Amy for the translation, she said, "he invited you to eat with them." I said, "Really? It looked like he was swearing at me."
We both giggled.

Candy section of the souks

Meknes is known for it's olives

Dates~ YUM-MY!

Traditional Moroccan shoes in the souks

After an absolutely delightful day with Amy, it was getting close to dark, which was my cue to hightail it back to Fez. I always made sure I was safely indoors before dark. The men were bad enough during the daylight. I imagined them turning into ferocious werewolves at night. Amy's dad was insisting I stay for dinner and was already thinking of vegetarian options for me. They wanted me to spend the night and take the train back to Fez the next day. I appreciated the offer, but had to decline. Before I left my hostel, I had told the owner where I was going and that I'd be back before dark. He said he would wait for me and I didn't want him to worry.
Before I caught my train, me and Amy went to a cafe to drink coffee while her dad went to the mosque to pray. I learned a lot from this sweet Muslim doctor. Her father is fairly strict and requires her to be veiled (to wear a scarf on her head). She started wearing it at the age of 8. She must wear it for the rest of her life. Once you start, it's considered very disrespectful to stop wearing it.
She lives in her own apartment in Fez and has a boyfriend (another doctor) that her parents don't know about.
Naughty, naughty :)
I found her to have more of a western attitude than the average Muslim female.
She aspires to be a maxillofacial surgeon. High ambitions from this extremely intelligent girl. I piqued her brain about the issue of women inferiority in Morocco and described my experiences with it. She said it was very prevalent here, especially in older generations, and she had also experienced it. She told me stories of battered women that come into the emergency room after being beaten by their husband. Hearing these stories, I was silently infuriated. Why do the women allow this?! This needs to change ! I knew Amy would never allow this to happen to her. Her plea to the abused women to go to the police was refused. It's just part of the culture.
She plans to live in the US eventually. I told her she would love it and that the men would give her so much more respect.
I said goodbye to my new friend and made it back to Fez shortly after the sun set, and before I turned into a pumpkin :)
I didn't want the day to end. I was touched by the amount of kindness I had received from Amy and her family. She has no idea how much she has changed my opinion of the Moroccan people.
I'm amazed by the number of times I've been invited into the homes of locals around the world and been stuffed full of food, looking for nothing in return.
I feel like the luckiest girl alive.
This world isn't so cruel after all....

SWF in Morocco

First off, I'd like to say that I've contemplated for a few days whether or not I should publish this post.
Also, I'm speaking about men in this blog, and mainly the men of Marrakech.
Ok, here it goes:

Morocco was one of the countries I was really looking forward to seeing. My first impression of Morocco came from the movie "Babel" with Brad Pitt and Cate Blanchett. Cate accidentally gets shot in the chest by a local Moroccan boy while traveling on a tourist bus with Brad. (very good movie, if you haven't seen it) It didn't paint the best picture of Morocco, but it's Hollywood.

Moroccan spices

Before I left on my trip, I wasn't fortunate enough to actually speak with someone who had traveled to Morocco, so I had no warning of what I was getting myself into. I will do you a favor and give you fair warning.

The people of Morocco are some of the most mean spirited people I have ever met. I've never seen such a high concentration of nasty people in one place as I did in Marrakech. If I had to choose one word to describe Marrakech, it would be "evil".

I hate to say such negative things about a country, but in this case, it's much needed. This is a blog about my perceptions around the world and I think my readers would appreciate if I was honest. I'm not going to sugar coat this. A lot of Moroccan men are sexist pigs who treat women inferiorly. I feel so sorry for the Moroccan woman. They seem very nice but any socializing by them is shunned, so sadly I haven't been able to speak to many of them.

I'm not saying all Moroccan men are this way.... just, like, 99.9% of them. These spiteful locals are only artificially nice if they think they will get something from it. They seem to be nice people in the beginning, but their true colors show soon enough. I arrived in Morocco with an optimistic attitude, I had no idea the locals were like this. The accumulation of my sour experiences is twiddling away at my tolerance and has left me feeling jaded. It's not the landscape, it's not the climate, it's the people. The one crucial element that determines if I like a country is the warmth of the locals. Let's just say Moroccans are ice cold.
Their economy depends on tourism, but ironically, they treat their customers with appalling disrespect. I've even heard them say "I hate tourists!".
Their main goal in life is to extract the most money possible out of tourists.
Walking through the souks (the scrambled maze of shops) is like subjecting yourself to a constant state of harassment. For me, it's like being thrown to the wolves. I've seen a side of Morocco that perhaps a lot of tourists will never know exists. I'll tell you why....

The souks in Marrakech

Speaking with other tourists, I discover they have similar stories about the nasty locals, but nothing as extreme as I've experienced.  Their travel experience is COMPLETELY different than mine.


My main point is, I have 4 things going against me:
1. I'm alone
2. I'm female
3. I'm blonde.
4. I'm young

Yea, I don't look like any of them, I get it, but why should I have to be put through all of this?I only met one girl that was traveling alone in Morocco, she was Korean and didn't have these problems to the degree that I had, so I don't have anyone to accurately compare my experience with.

It's rough traveling as a solo female here. I would say it's worse than Egypt.
I'm constantly the victim of sexual harassment. The men, from adolescent boys to old men, will give me catcalls like a horny construction worker. I feel like a dirty prostitute when I walk down the street from all the up and down looks I get along with the inappropriate comments. Let me point out that this happens when I am fully clothed, and the only skin showing is my face.


Some of the worst harassment comes from the shopkeepers as I pass by their shop. The harsh, desperate shopkeepers even resort to physically grabbing my arm like hungry piranhas. My most valuable tool against this haggling: my earphones. With these on, I'm in my own magical musical world. Sunglasses are also very helpful. I'm somehow able to deal with the unforgiving nastiness a bit better when there's a little music flowing through my ears. I simply ignore them, and they give up a little quicker. Unfortunately, one day my ear buds broke. I felt naked without my protective devices used to ward off the hustlers. In the span of about 30 minutes while searching for new ones to buy, these are some of the comments I heard from different men on the streets:
"Very nice (while clapping)"
"Excuse me, come take a look in my shop"
"Are you looking for a husband?"
"Come smell my spices"
"Wow"
"You have nice eyes"
"Which country?"
"Mmmm, I like" (in an Arabic accented bedroom voice)
"Muah"
"ahh, you're beautiful"
"Looking for romance?"
"Why don't you talk?! All you tourists are the same! Fuck you! Bitch!"


These are just the English comments, there are many others in French and Arabic that I'm unable to understand. As you can see, they have no respect for women. Its very tiring.
It's shocking to be talked to like this, especially after coming from countries with such extremely nice people.

In Marrakech, there are men in the main square with monkeys on leashes. It's very sad. I asked one of the monkey owners how much it was to take a picture with his monkey. He said "as you like". I said "ok, I will give you 10 Dirham." he says "ok". After he took my picture, and after his ill-treated monkey bit me on the cheek (Luckily, I haven't started foaming at the mouth yet) he demanded I pay. I gave him the 10 Dirham we agreed upon and he starts yelling "200 Dirham ! You need to give me 200 !" I said "No I don't, we agreed on 10." I walk away and he follows me yelling at me to give him more money. I keep walking. He keeps following. I mean, really, this is uncivilized. Are they TRYING to scare away all the tourists?

This is just one small example of the daily headaches I have to deal with in barbaric Morocco. There is a huge lack of manners here. This occurrence was very mild compared to many other encounters I've had with nasty locals. They have all involved taxi drivers, shopkeepers and guides. I'll refrain from telling those stories, I don't want my mom and sister to worry too much.

Another fact that confuses me about Moroccans is how much they hate having their picture taken. They must not want the world to see their scowling faces. They either cover their face or run and hide. Even if I ask, they say no. (even though I've never said no when they want to take a picture of me). So I either have to pay them or sneak a picture. This is when a good zoom lens comes in handy.

Snuck this one with my zoom lens

This same kind of harassment happens in Italy, but I don't mind so much when it happens there. The Italian demeanor is different. Here, you can just see the evil spiritedness in their brown Moroccan eyes. The more I travel, the better I am at reading people. I can tell the character of someone almost instantaneously, by their facial expressions, gestures, dress.... I believe this strong intuition has kept me safe in my solo travels. Any twinge of bad feeling I get from someone, I'm outta there. I perpetually have this feeling while in Morocco.


On a lighter note, there is a tiny bit of humor present in this grim environment. Their pick-up lines crack me up. My personal favorite is: "Excuse me ! You dropped something !" After I turn around to see what it is, they put their hand over their chest and say "My heart !"
Good one.
Sorry.....not in a million years.


Their #1 pick-up line is: "you have beautiful eyes."
What an original.
Clever, boys.
If I had a quarter for every time I've heard that, I would have enough money to travel around the world 8 times.
The locals also give celebrity names to the tourists. Attempting to get my attention, I've been called "Shakira" and "Barbie". Other tourists have reported being called "Hannah Montana", "Lady Gaga", "Brad Pitt", and "Ali Baba".
Hahaha.
If you do decide to brave the cruel Moroccans at some point, and decide you want to buy something from them in their shops, here are a few tips that will help prevent you from losing a wad of cash when bargaining for your goods:

-wear your least expensive shoes when shopping. The shopkeepers look at your shoes to gauge where to start the price negotiations. They also ask which country you're from to help them determine how wealthy you may be. This is more difficult to lie about with your accent.

- don't let them see your iPhone or expensive camera.

- barter with a smile, even flirt if you have to (sorry, girls only). Though I found it difficult to smile at a Moroccan shopkeeper that has a blatantly obvious artificial kindness.

- if you are young enough, tell them you're a student or a poor backpacker. I never divulged the fact that I'm a nurse.

-sometimes they will ask where you are staying. Even if you're staying at the Ritz Carlton, tell them you're staying in a cheap hostel.

-tell them the item is cheaper at another owner's shop.

- if all else fails, walk away. They will usually give you the price you wanted when they see you're leaving.
(these tips are also transferable to other countries)
It's also probably 10 times easier to bargain if you are male.
I scored a glass Moroccan lamp for dirt cheap with these tactics. It took me 2 days of negotiations but I finally got it for the price I wanted. Let's hope it doesn't break in the mail :(

A Moroccan lamp, not the one I bought

Sorry about the negative post, but this is honestly how Morocco has been for me.
I'm stuck here for another week dealing with the Moroccan's shenanigans and getting swindled out my precious travel dollars. So, I think I'll follow the advice my mom has always instilled in me: Kill them with kindness !

Soon I will be in Thailand, the "Land of smiles". From one extreme to the next !


Smile! This poor donkey has some serious orthodontic issues, but he's still nicer than the local :)

A Turkish Bath in Istanbul

Today I woke up and decided it was time to see what all this Turkish bath hype was all about. I've been seeing dozens of fliers all around Istanbul advertising their services. From what I had gathered, a lot of these hamam's (Turkish baths) were catered toward tourists and were bleached of authenticity. Opting for a more local experience, I searched hard on the Internet. I wanted to find an authentic local hamam.... with no tourists. The touristy Turkish Baths were charging around 50 euros. The local one I found cost 10 euros. Hurray! Kudos to this penny pincher!



After studying a map, I tucked my bikini in my purse and set off on foot. I was looking forward to being pampered after enduring the cold, wet Istanbul weather for the past few days.


With the help of my map and some friendly locals, I finally arrived at Kocamustafapasha Hamami after an hour of walking. I was far from the touristy part of town at this point. This was a good thing.


I'll be honest, on my walk to the hamam, I was feeling a little nervous about the whole thing. I didn't know quite what to expect.


There was a sign above the door and a small hallway leading to an opaque glass door. It seemed like it needed no explanation to the locals because there were no signs on this door.


I opened the door and entered a whole new (WEIRD) world. I'm instantly hit with the smell of cigarette smoke and see several bare breasted Turkish woman lounging around the room. They looked at me like I was the naked one. I quickly shut the door, fearing a man on the street might see one of them naked. I awkwardly waved and said "hi". My eyes dart around for some kind of front desk. There is none. One of the old ladies yells something in Turkish through one of the doorways and a plump woman with dyed red hair comes scurrying out. There was obviously a language barrier, but she did know the word "lady". She ushers me into one of the small changing rooms and gestures for me to remove my clothes.

I change into my swimming suit and exit shortly after, feeling smug in my stylish Victoria Secret bikini. I felt over dressed for the occasion. Everyone else was wearing only their old worn out granny panties.

Next, I'm given a small plastic dish with a bar of soap and directed through another door. The woman yells "lady!" and motions for me to wash myself with the soap and wait for her. As I pass through this second door, I'm hit by a suffocating humidity. I see more naked woman, each sitting next to their own grayish marble sink. Here comes the new girl.....

There were absolutely no tourists inside and these ladies were all definitely Turkish.
This hamam looked like it was at least a few hundred years old. This was exactly what I was looking for. The ladies scrubbed their round bodies lazily as they gazed up at me. They were at least 20 years older than me. There were no signs of embarrassment as they bummed around with their exposed boobs. It's a good thing I'm a nurse and no stranger to nudity. This may be shocking to a gal with an office job.


Every single one of them was overweight, their breasts were like heavy pendulums hanging past their belly buttons. They had rolls where I didn't even know you could have rolls. Suddenly, I felt like a supermodel. It felt like I was walking a runway as I sauntered through the steamy hot room to find an open marble sink. I met their stares with a warm smile. They smiled back. There was a huge contrast between their saggy ta-ta's and my man-made mounds.


The sink had 2 spickets, one hot and one cold. I turned both of them on to create a warm bath for myself. I watched the others and copied them, pretending I knew what I was doing. I lathered up generously, then used the plastic dish to rinse off. The nude lady next to me offered me her shampoo.


There was a heated raised marble platform in the middle of the humid room. I hoisted myself onto it, like I had seen the others do. I yelped from the hotness of the stone and all the ladies in the room laughed at me. It seriously hurt though. I slowly adjusted to the heat and laid contently on my back, looking up at the ancient domed ceiling with cut out stars.


I was perfectly at peace and felt entirely relaxed almost instantly. I pretended I was laying on a beach in Greece. The Turkish chatter around me echoed off the walls as the constant trickle of water from the sinks lulled me to sleep. I stayed in this blissful state for about 20 minutes until I heard the woman say "lady!" I jumped at the sight of her. She was standing next to me. She had jumped on the bandwagon and was wearing only her underwear now. They were large..... and bright red. My eyes moved upwards and I see her rather large droopy boobs hanging out.

She had a scrubber mitt on one of her hands. She came at me with it and and started scrubbing my stomach fiercely. I started giggling and curled into a ball. After I composed myself, I apologized and then got a thorough rub down. Honestly, it was a little painful to have my epidermis rubbed off by this nude stranger. I was flipped over and given a rough exfoliation on my backside. She must have decided my bikini top was getting in the way, because she quickly pulled the bow string and off it came. Ok, I guess, since everyone else is letting it all hang out.


I looked down to see a pile of skin, resembling eraser shavings, laying on the marble table. Eww, that's my dead skin, I thought. I really needed this bath.


I feel a strong slap on my butt as she motions for me to turn over. I obey out of fear. She grabs what looks like a thin pillow case dipped in soap. She filled it with air and squeezed it to produce a bunch of bubbles and spread them over me. I squirmed and laughed as the bubbles tickled my neck. She gave me a full body massage. My body went limp on the hot slab. Ahhhh. I should do this more often.


She instructed me to sit on the table. I sat up and pulled my legs in close to my chest, trying to cover myself. She wrestled my arm from me and started washing it with more soap bubbles. Her boobs bounced against my knees as she scrubbed my arms. I tried not to laugh. After that part was over, she poured buckets of water over me to wash off the suds.


I was then free to lounge around with the old naked Turkish ladies as long as I wanted.
I didn't feel like "hanging" around too much longer. So I got dressed, tipped the woman and waltzed out the door. Walking past the worn out Turkish ladies smoking cigarettes. I felt squeaky clean, refreshed and rejuvenated. My skin fresh and pink.


As I walked back to my hostel, I thought, what a job that woman has! She bathes obese old ladies all day, kinda like I did as an aide. Except her uniform isn't scrubs, it's a pair of big bright red underwear.... and nothing else ;)

P.s. Of course I have no photos from this racy experience. C'mon, this is a family blog!

Pizza boys to testy Turks

Checking out of my hotel in Beirut, Lebanon, I bid farewell to the staff that I'd gotten to know fairly well in the last week. We had our own set of inside jokes and cheeky humor. I was leaving a country full of insanely generous people..... and insanely gorgeous men ;) hehe. Some had ulterior motives, but most had none.

While in Lebanon, I discovered an incredibly delicious Mediterranean dish, called manouche. Cheese, spices, cucumbers, tomatoes and mint leaves on a thin flat bread. Heavenly perfection. Everyday I would stop by the little shop that made these heavenly pies, which was conveniently located 1 block from my hotel. I became an addict. I couldn't let a day pass without satisfying my taste buds with one of these melt-in-your-mouth delicacies. The best part... they only cost $1.

the making of a masterpiece

 As I traipsed down the steep hill to hail a taxi to the airport, I see my "pizza boys" waving frantically at me from the doorway. They all knew me well. We would joke around everyday when I picked up my manouche. I waved goodbye to them and dramatically blew kisses with both hands. I crossed the street for one last conversation. I had already told them I was leaving earlier that day when I had sadly bought the last manouche I would probably ever eat. They asked when I'd be back. I raised my hands and shrugged my shoulders. "Next week!?" they said. "Ok" I jokingly replied. Flirting was just as much a part of this culture as the cedar tree on their flag.

My Pizza boys. I called the one on the left "George" for George Clooney.

Later that night, I found myself in Istanbul. Back in Europe. It felt like Europe, but it also had an undeniable Middle Eastern feel to it. Exiting the airport, I discover Turkey is drastically cooler than Lebanon. And... it was raining. It's funny how the weather plays such a major role in our mood. It seemed like everyone in Turkey was in a bad mood.


I attempted to buy a token for the metro, but the instructions were written entirely in Turkish. I approached a metro worker to help me buy a ticket. He just grunted and ignored me. My backpack on, I twirled around, searching for a friendly face in the crowd. Plan B. Everyone was in a hurry and had their grumpy face on. I whimpered a little as I tried to problem solve. I didn't have the energy for this right now. I felt tears surfacing. I took a deep breath and pulled myself together. I decided to try the mean metro worker again. Approaching him with my best puppy dog eyes, nearly in tears from frustration, I pleaded with him to help me buy a token for the metro. He snarled, then finally caved in and bought the token with the money I had given him.


There was definitely a change in the air once I arrived in Turkey. I was no longer in the friendly Middle East, where everyone was so obligingly happy to help me. (YES, the Middle East is super friendly. Don't believe everything you hear). A smile could get me a long ways there. Here, not so much.


Getting off the metro at a transition hub, I searched for the correct direction to my next train with no success. I succumbed to torture again by approaching another crabby worker for assistance. He also grunted at me and sloppily pointed in a direction, without making any sort of eye contact. I smiled as big as I could at him and said "Gee, the people of Turkey are so friendly!"


I was trying to find my hostel using the GPS on my phone. It was costing me a fortune, but I wasn't interested in talking to any locals tonight, for fear I would get more negative responses. I was already on the verge of tears. My stomach was growling and my teeth were chattering from the bitter cold. Istanbul was downright freezing! Taking a break from the hostel hunt, I found a restaurant that looked to have decent food. I slung my backpack off and slumped into a chair, soaking wet from the rain. Here I sat and pouted.


I miss Jordan, I thought. The people were so nice and the weather was so much warmer than here. I started to feel sorry for myself. I felt poor, which is so ironic because I have plenty of money sitting in a bank back home. But spread out thinly over 9 months with no income makes me a poor girl. I was sick of wearing the same clothes everyday. Back home I have a huge closet full of clothes. I saw girls walking by looking all cute in their fashionable leather boots. I wanted a pair so badly. But as a backpacker, it's not feasible. First off, they're too expensive, secondly, they take up too much room in a backpack. But, but, I want to look cute too!! It's a fact that I could have a lot more possessions from the money I've spent on traveling. However, materialistic things aren't what make me happy. Traveling makes me happy. Plus, belongings encumber. I'm a snail with my home on my back. And I'm a happy snail. But right now this snail was feeling down in the dumps. I let myself sulk for a sufficient amount of time. This was the first time I had felt like this in over 2 months of traveling. I'm entitled to have these emotions. I'm only human. If you think traveling is all unicorns and lollipops, you're wrong. It's tough. Particularly when you're traveling alone. It definitely makes you stronger.


Life goes on, whether I'm on vacation or not.


Sipping my pomegranate juice, one of the Turkish workers came over to me and asked me where I was from, what my name was..... all the usual small talk. He was starting to give me hope in the Turkish people, having been the first friendly one I've met. We chatted for a while and I have to say, he cheered me up. I found it strange when he told me he liked my face (I took it as a compliment). He also told me that he would be my friend, since I didn't know anyone here. I thanked him for the kind offer and laughed to myself.


I picked myself up and brushed myself off. With a renewed spirit, I felt capable of taking on the rain and the testy Turks, at least long enough to find my hostel. So I snailed off into the rain once again...


The next day, it was still raining, so I bought a cute pink see-thru umbrella. I decided to do my sight seeing indoors. I visited the Grand Bazaar, the Blue Mosque and the Basilica Cistern. All very impressive. 

Ceiling of the Blue Mosque

Inside the Blue Mosque

Basilica Cistern

Basilica Cistern

Grand Bazaar

Later that night, I had a skip to my step as I walked through the Blue Mosque square, my pretty pink umbrella acting as my shield as the rain tapped down on it, M.I.A. "paper planes" was playing in my ear buds. I could see the minarets from the Blue Mosque and Hagia Sofia elegantly illuminated against the black sky. It was magical.

I'm not letting a little rain and some crabby Turks get me down today :)


When life gives you lemons, make lemonade. Or in my case, when life gives you rain... find the rainbow!!