Life's a Stitch

This photo sums it up, we call it our Christmas still life:

KC, L and I went geocaching and added in some pomelo, tangelo and orange picking. The hand squeezed citrus was combined with prosecco for Christmas morning brekkie.

Pictured above are our drinks of choice: Laphroig for M, C and KC, B and L, beer and Budlite Limearita for the younger folk's pooltime, and you all know mine: red wine double fisted with diet coke. All in moderation, of course. We can't say that for the food. Especially the potato chips. I can live without chocolate, anything sweet for that matter, but open a costco sized bag of Kettle Chips and I'm sunk. 

Cousin L, M and I took a watercolour course with Diane Morgan. I look forward to her courses each Christmas we're in the desert. A rose was the subject of the day. I finished my painting today:

 

Our California Christmas benefitted from L's Danish influence. Our little tree, done in Danish style except for the real candles:

To the left you can see our mini nativity that includes teensy sheep and camels that C secretly picked up for me on the trip home from Spain.

L's family in Denmark sent a photo of their special Christmas cookies, entitled MorMor's Christmas in Palm Springs:

 Merry Christmas to all, more of ours to come.

BC, our home, is in a deep freeze. Having lived there more than half my life, I don't think I've seen many stretches where it gets under -7C (19.4F). "Oh muffin!" you East and Midwest family and followers are crying. I can hear you. I can hear you from sunny California. Heh heh (evil laughter).

Yesterday, we were the only family at the pool. I'm sure the locals were labeling us silly Canadian geese for hanging out there in the path of a dust storm. When, as a child, we visited my grandparents in Puerto Rico, the neighbours thought the same when we went to the beach in January, Puerto Rican winter.

We're enjoying our fourth Christmas in the desert, which starts with a visit to Cardenas, the local Hispanic supermarket. Shopping there, the beat of Latin background music had customers and staff dancing down the aisles. I didn't want to leave, experiencing one of those strong "I want my (now deceased) Mommy" moments. She would have been in heaven, so to speak, shopping at Cardenas. Much of the produce is two pounds for $1 and filet mignon was $4.99/lb. I bought ten pounds of pork shoulder to cook Pernil for $1.47/lb. The grocery samples were flan and horchata. There is a fresh chicharron bar and a giant tortilla machine, turning our hundreds per minute, not of my Puerto Rican background, but yummy just the same.

My pernil version marinated for four days and is currently in the oven for four of its seven hours. The beans have been cooking since this morning and the house smells divine. The tree was decorated yesterday, without rushing the season (the basis of my major incident of childhood trauma, when I accidentally set the house afire), and we're ready for company.

Daughter M and husband KC, are here from Calgary, and B, although working this weekend, has joined us. Tonight's Puerto Rican feast will be for KC's local family and tomorrow cousin Lene arrives from Denmark. Let the good times continue…

 

 

Do you know your home's walk score? This number weighed heavily in our search for a place to live. Plug in your address on the Walkscore website. The higher the score, the more walkable your neighbourhood. Our previous house had a score of 25 out of 100. This one is a 92, can't do much better than that, and the bonus is that our street is quite quiet for being located in town. Our vehicle's gas bills have been reduced by 75%, partly due to the walkability, the rest is because living on the border we can duck down to the US for more reasonable fuel prices.

Made our first trek to the library, not a trek at all as it's two blocks down our street. I always feel a move is official upon the granting of a new library card. We've spent lots of time there on the free wifi as we aren't hooking up to to cable until after our construction phase is complete. Bonus: there's even a weekly knitting group. Here's my project, the New Wave Throw, one I started maybe two years ago:

I haven't lived in a house with a full flight of stairs between the main living and bedroom level since my childhood. In our previous home you could go from the master bedroom to the kitchen, dining or living room in six to ten steps. In this house, which seems quite tunnular, my word for a ling, skinny house similar to a double shotgun house of the southern US, it's 6o steps from the kitchen to the bedroom, with a full flight of stairs in the middle. Maybe I should have walk scored the inside of the house. A gold plated problem for sure, I'm not complaining. We'll eventually have a second master bedroom on the ground floor in case we need it in the future. A former coworker of mine, also recently retired, has moved into a three story house, figuring she'll probably lose her memory before the ability to climb stairs. 

An appointment downtown Vancouver was my first foray into the peninsula's public transit. You board a cushy coach, as opposed to a city bus, for the 4o minute ride to Vancouver's Canada Line, followed by a 20 minute train ride, which puts you within a block of Vancouver City Hall. In traffic it would have taken the same amount of time plus the pricey parking.

The only down side, in this year of La Nina, is that sunny "White Rock" seems to have as many rainy days as the rain forest we left. But, as a friend pointed out, it's raining harder in Vancouver. According to statistics we can expect to have at least 25 percent more sun than YVR. C is looking forward to heading south, though, to find some sun to fully recover from his bout with pneumonia. 

 

 

When I managed a family life education, aka "edutainment," program, a popular and highly emotional course was "Moving from the home you have loved." 

Last week we drove by our old place, the house that I lived in for the longest period of any place  in my life, and saw the beginning phases of demolition. Several windows having been removed, leaving sad hollow eyes on the front of the house. It looked so unhappy in the cold and wet. A neighbour questioned our curiosity in seeing it being demolished, saying she would find it too depressing to see the house in which she raised her family being torn down. Our house required too much work to bring it back to life and really is ready for the wrecking ball, having lacked "good bones." I don't find it depressing as our happy times will be sealed there permanently in spirit. The beautiful lot needs an opportunity to host a new growing family to create their own memories. That being said, I didn't like seeing it partially dismantled, experiencing a slow demise.

Our old familiar North Vancouver world is changing. An entire four square block area that housed the grocery store where two of my children had high school jobs, as well as our doctor's office, has been levelled for a townhouse development complete with trendy food store. I drove past our previous house and guess what? It was taken down to its foundation similar to what we are currently doing, but I remember that house as structurally sound. I have to admit, though, that the new house, built upon the foundation of the old one looks very nice.  Mirroring its original lines, it looks like our little house has grown up. 

 
The next day I went down the street where I worked for ten years. You guessed it. The entire complex was gone to make room for another West Coast contemporary development. Hurricane Progress has hit our community. I am not exaggerating when I say every block in our town has been hit by this storm. Most have at least one rebuilt house and others involve the wiping out of entire blocks of homes. Our new town is experiencing similar change, but not to the same extent. And it's probably easier because I don't know what it was like before. It's unsettling to see all your familiar points of reference being replaced in short succession.

But on to the new: we've noticed traffic patterns are more efficient, where we are, and are growing accustomed to the ease of living in a highly walkable community. More on that in the next post.

Back in Spain for a few days, laying low. I picked it up first, Camel Fever we're calling it. AKA Montezuma's revenge. Was it that wonderful salad or shaking hands with the souk vendors, agreeing on a deal? We thought we were being so careful, Ali Baba and I. In the five days in Morocco I went through an entire package of sanitizing wipes. Tap water never crossed my lips. That bug was determined to get us.

No pun intended, the only photo I've gotten in our brief period back in Spain are delicious fartons:

Seriously, as you can see, that is the name of the light and long pastries from Valencia, intended to be dunked in a glass of horchata. The ones we particularly enjoy are stuffed with lemony vanilla custard. 

Goodbye Spain. Tomorrow we leave for the final leg of this adventure, a transatlantic cruise back to North America. 

I'm not too sad as we're sailing home to our new reality with good friends. Not the house we're used to returning to, the one that recently had a temporary power pole installed, as it's being prepped for demolition. We're on our way to temporary quarters while we progress on our own partial demolition and rebuild. A journey of a different kind. 

For the time being I'll be going back to my usual once per week blogging schedule. Stay tuned. 

This was our last day in Marrakech. Half way through our shopping we went back to our riad to drop off our finds passing an open area featuring food items for sale. The chickens were so fresh they were still alive:

An escape attempt:

We decided to have lunch at first restaurant we visited upon our arrival, ordering a sampling of Moroccan salads, fried appetizers and murguez, spicy Moroccan sausage (not as good as we can get in Vancouver). 

Went back through the souks to experience the main square,  Jamaa el Fna, at sunset.

It was a zoo, literally, snake charmers and monkey tamers and a variety of side shows and tons of people. 

There were food booths, five in a row featuring snails:

We made our way  through, past a lantern seller:

… to have our last dinner in Morocco. We ordered a platter of mixed grilled veggies and our most delicious tagine of dried figs and lamb, with a bottle of African wine, a great way to end our whirlwind Moroccan vacation.

This is the educational experience. We should have read up more on the culture of haggling specifically to Morocco. I'm not into that, based on my experience in Mexico, where I'd rather pay a bit more to support a family in a poor economy. It's the social worker in me. I once got too good a deal on a bracelet from hard bargaining and still feel guilty. That's the Catholic school girl in me. 

On our way to the souks, the young man from last night offered to take us to his mother's spice shop where his brother was the herbalist. Right. We were introduced to a professional looking young man in a white coat. Nice conversation ensued, a matter of building trust.

He showed us a number of items and quoted very reasonable prices. Long story short, I handed over the money to the 'mother,' and immediately was told a higher price. Too late, she had my money in hand and the change was far less than I was expecting. Not a good experience. I should have listened to our private guide, Nour, from the first day and shopped for spices in the Jewish Quarter spice souk where the prices are mostly fixed. 

When we left the shop our unofficial guide was still hanging around to collect his share of the profit from the shop owners. Then it dawned on us, we probably paid for C's rudeness from the previous night. Tricky business in the medina.

After researching the place on Trip Advisor we found that it's not an uncommon experience.

Chuck negotiating in the leather souk:

After buying three items of leather we had an interesting conversation with an older craftsman on how life has changed in Marakesh over the years. He was very nice and offered to design me a "banana" shoe for my interestingly shaped foot. We all got a good laugh over what that might look like.

A bookstore in the souk:

The rest of our shopping was exhausting, but not as bad, and I've learned the following from research and experience:

1. When asked is this your first time in Morocco, answer "No." Prices are different for experienced shoppers. 

2. We had repeated experiences of the price going up as we handed over the money. If this happens firmly stick to the agreed upon price.

3. Check your change immediately.

4. Exchange rates are confusing. Do all your negotiating in one currency, preferable dirhams, don't be fooled if the price is quoted in different currency during the negotiations. If you feel confused, there's probably a reason. 

5. Some shop keepers are rude, many are nice. We were looking at an item in a shop and noticed it was made in China. The shop owner was quite peeved when we said we were no longer interested and he insulted us right out of his stall.

6. Don't fall for the "my brother, my mother owns this shop." It's not likely a relative, and you've been taken there so they can receive a kickback that has been added to your price. Plus there's the expected tip from you for having been taken there.

7. Expect the quality excuse to be used when a shop owner thinks your offer is too low. His merchandise is of a higher quality than others. It most likely comes from the same place as the others. Or China.

This is the haggling game specific to Marrakech. Buyer beware, but it wouldn't keep me from going back. It's part of an overall positive and fascinating experience.

 

The Medina has areas dedicated to specific craftsmen. For example, in the leather souk the morning starts with the leather auction, skins brought from the tannery by donkey. 

The craftsmen make the stock distributed to the individual stalls. Besides leather, there is the metal workers souk featuring Moroccan lanterns. 

The spice souk Is located in the Jewish Quarter. 

 There was a woodworking souk, textiles dying, ceramics,  carpets and one for garments. There were women making baskets. I'm sure I'm missing some.

It's all very colourful and crowded. 

 

6:30 a.m. is wakey wakey at camel camp. It was different being on the camper end of things after so many years as camp staff. They wanted us up dark and early for brekkie – bread and coffee or tea – so we could see the sunrise and get back to the minibus for the ten hour journey home.

The staff were quite efficient at rounding up people and beasts. They have lots of experience in the desert. Heard our guide last night say he was born and grew up on the Sahara, part of a nomad family. Now he's working at camp with plug ins for cell phones. 

Remember how yesterday I said we were coping with the long journey because we were so excited to get to the camels? Today there were no camels at the end to entice us. It was a loooong day. 

There was a good break at Ksar Ai't Benhaddou, a Berber castle,followed by a delicious lunch. This was the umpteenth Unesco World Heritage Site we visited, all very impressive. C says pretty soon it will be a Unesco World Heritage World.

 The castle has been used in many films and the townspeople do well as extras. 

 Our guide showed us the adobe bricks used in construction, made of dung, earth and straw. It looks so fragile, like a good rain could wash it away. He said that families spend lots of time doing maintenance.

It seems many families rely upon donkeys to transport goods to market and we saw them in action both in the city and the rural areas. 

 

We arrived back in Marrakech at 7:00 p.m., passing a nice restaurant on our way back to the riad. Looking up the reviews for I Limoni and many said that the Italian alternatives were a nice break from tagine and that their Sahari wine was excellent. Having had one tagine or another each day, as well as no wine, we gave it a try. 

 So off we went, going in the wrong direction. Combine a long exhausting day with being hungry, then throw in persistent locals trying to garner our business as unofficial guides, not that they knew where the restaurant was, but to take us to their "brothers, mothers, relatives'" restaurants. Not really relatives at all, but they see a tipping opportunity from us and a kickback from the other end for guiding us  to their business.This part could have had a bad ending as C was rude to a local young man. They made up in the end, but we think there were repercussions, which I'll write about tomorrow.

We returned to the riad agreeing to a do over using Google Maps. Do overs are wonderful marriage savers in times of stress.

 Five minutes later we were in a pleasant garden like courtyard dining room with high canvas panels as a ceiling. We shared a salad of butter lettuce and apples with honey. I had eggplant Parmesan and C chose a sesame crusted chicken breast with vermouth glaze. The local wine was unexpectedly good.

Tomorrow will be our shopping day and highly educational experience.

 

Have we only been in Morocco for two days? We've done so much in that time. Back to the camel ride. We gallomphed into the sunset in our caravan until we arrived at camp. Actually we were heading out of the sunset but 'into' sounds better.

Look at their soft little two toed feet, not shod like horses. Speaking of camels and horses, we saw both on the menu as burgers in Marrakech restaurants. No way!

Although it only took an hour and a half to get to camp, it was not without incident. You have to be somewhat fit to ride a camel, it's definitely a body stressor. I wouldn't recommend it to anyone with lower back or hip issues.

A woman toward the front of the line, one who appeared maybe not in the best of shape started complaining of back pain. A couple of minutes later she passed out on the camel. It's a long way down to fall, but the guides managed to get her off without injury. She came to, had a little vomit session and felt much better. She was still overheated and carsick from the ten hour trip; throw in some serious back pain and voila, slumped on the hump of a camel on the Sahara. 

She walked the rest of the way as did four people the next morning who refused to mount their single hump steeds. Seriously, one young gentleman couldn't make it for dinner that night due to pain. If you ever ride a camel I have one piece of advice: don't grip with your knees.

I was pleasantly surprised that the camels weren't stinky nor did we experience any spitting dromedaries. They were sweet, placid creatures.

Meanwhile, back at camp, we were shown to our tents which contained four single beds, blankets and a pillow. Another suggestion: bring a sleeping bag liner as there are no sheets. C and I had a tent to ourselves. The bath house was separated, male and female, and contained showers and three stalls each with toilets that flushed twice during our stay. There was also a sandpit for burning toilet paper.

Not exactly glamping, but there were electric lights and a power bar in the dining tent to charge our cameras.

The Berber style camp was nearly full with 28 campers and a half dozen staff. We had a delicious dinner in a central dining tent: sweet and strong Berber tea, harira (a blended lentil soup), flat bread, chicken tagine with lots of carrots and potatoes and tangerines for dessert. Nobody went away hungry. What a change from Spain: no wine, pork ham or Diet Coke for days.

Canpfire followed with the staff performing Berber drumming and songs.

Without any light pollution the sky was filled with stars. The Milky Way was in view and we watched shooting stars over the Sahara. I was glad to have the Night Sky app on my phone, which works via GPS and requires no connection,  to let us identify the constellations overhead. 

We were invited to drag our mattresses onto the desert to sleep under the stars, but we passed, as there were very occasional sprinkles of rain that blew quickly away. 

Tomorrow: the trip back.