Seven Cities in 3 Weeks

As I washed off the grime of Morocco in a relatively comfortable hostel in Algeciras, Spain, I had to reflect: Morocco may be the first place that I can't say I regret I'm leaving.

The guidebooks use words like "magical" "exotic" and "varied landscape" to describe the country. I guess I'd describe it differently.

Moroccans are the simplest people I've ever met. I suppose that is a direct result of being poor. The buildings are all built the same, of dirt, pink or white, with square windows.

Ait Ben Haddou Kasbah

Ben was surrounded once by 5 young boys introducing themselves. "What are your names?" "Hamza" "Hamza" "Mohammed" Mohammed" and the last one was I think "Hamza." The girls will likely be named Fatima or Rashida.

All over the country.

I ordered cheese spaghetti thinking it would be spaghetti in tomato sauce with cheese grated on top--not dry noodles with a chunk of cheese in the middle.

Their food is couscous on Fridays, tagine, harira, or pastilla—nothing else. Breakfast is always the same. Bread and jam or butter and juice. Sometimes with thick pea soup and coffee. Their clothes, though the patterns are infinitely varied, colorful, and beautiful, all have the same cut. Little buttons down the front, hooded, wide and shapeless.

All over the country.

Homosexuality is worthy of stoning. Women are openly second class citizens. 99 percent are Muslim. To be a different religion could be condemned by beheading. To proselyte is strictly prohibited. Diversity? Not allowed.

All over the country.

Salesmen are aggressive. They call out what they have in their store despite the fact that the wares are exactly the same everywhere. They stand alerted: cast an interested eye at a dress and they will be immediately next to you, bargaining the price, forcing you to try it on. There are no dressing rooms. No mirrors. And items are crammed within the shops so you can't even see what's available to buy.

The grocery stores are dismally lit. Even with shelves stacked with food it's possible to search the entire store and leave empty-handed. The olives, green especially, are excellent. Drinks are not kept in the fridge. Sometimes you can't walk in and you have to point at what you want while the shopkeeper fetches it for you.

All over the country.

The food stalls swarm with flies. Sweat drips down your back and the sides of your face even when you're inside your hotel or sitting in a bus with the windows down. Air conditioning is rare. There are roaches in every apartment and every hotel. The rooms are rarely cleaned very well. Showers may or may not be heated. Toilets may or may not flush. Toilet paper may or may not be available.

All over the country.

The landscape is varied, yes, but really in only two ways. In the south it is brown, dry, barren. The mountains are immense. In the north there is green. There are a variety of trees besides palm.

Our friends Ben and Sally joined us in Marrakesh after our camel trek. Here are some pictures of said trek. The best part of the trip were the Taiwan people we were with, they were uncontrollably funny. Definitely makes us want to visit Taiwan now.

In Rabat we got to attend Church. It was really nice. It's just a couple of American families, but they arranged to meet us and take us home and there was a meal after church. With westernized food! They were full of stories about living around the world and it was fun to be around cute little kids. They all had shocks of blonde hair.

I had a really lovely birthday. Jacob got up early under the pretense of going to the gym and brought back cake, gifts, cards, and flowers and a sweet letter and set it up very artistically on the table in our room. Ben and Sally gave me a cute card with a travel theme. We went to the beach where there were waves. Jacob loves waves. Ben doesn't. He got carried away at sea and had to be rescued by a Moroccan boy with a surfboard. I like waves, especially when the sand to stand on is smooth and water doesn't get in my ears.

We were fooled into thinking there was a Thai restaurant in Rabat. The taxi driver grandiosely motioned after a long drive to a closed Chinese restaurant. "They're the same, no?" He asked. "Chinese, Thai…" We wandered a while looking for somewhere to eat. Someone gave us lengthy directions to a place. Just before we began walking, Jacob asked, "C'est ouvert, non?" "No, it's not open" the man cheerfully replied. It's as though the people here don't have common sense to know we wouldn't want to go to a closed restaurant.

We found a nice Moroccan one that brought us free food just because we had to wait 30 minutes for our ordered dishes to arrive. But if you've ever lived in a place eating the same thing every day for 45 days…with only pizza for variety…you start dreaming of food. Thai and Indian curry. Coconut soup. Olive Garden breadsticks and salad. Water out of the tap. Chips and salsa. Enchiladas. Cold fresh juice…McDonalds.

Okay not McDonalds. We were all 4 of us hit with fantastic food poisoning due to McDonalds. Ben, Sally, and I got ill stomachs from the Marrakesh train station. Jacob, having survived, decided to tempt fate and have a Big Mac at the McDonalds in Fez (which incidentally had live music and dancing). We all ended up swearing not to touch McDonalds for years. I've never gotten so sick from food, even the food that I had to adjust to when first arriving in Morocco.

Marrakesh was unendurably rude. When we were in the souks (the outdoor markets) just walking around, I was told to "Go away," by a salesman in a shop, Sally was half choked with a scarf and threatened with a tight wristhold by a young boy, Ben was cussed out by an orange juice salesman, and I guess nobody messed with Jacob because he's too big. He did have to arm wrestle with someone, though. Sometimes tourism ruins cities, I think.

There were snake charmers, monkeys, storytellers, dancers, and musicians—it all felt just a little contrived to me. The place was nuts. Through the narrow alleyways of the souk motorcycles came constantly roaring by. Even a car tried to get through.

Our riad was an oasis in the desert though. Beautiful, clean, friendly, and interneted.

The most aggressive salespeople by far in Marrakesh are the women who draw henna tattoos. They're scary as well because they'll grab your hand, hiss, "a gift for you," and make to start drawing a tat on your hand despite protests. Jacob started carrying around a pen in his pocket to do the same to them if they started drawing on Sally and I's hands.

Fancy jardin in Marrakesh

I became rather deadened to the sight of beggars in Marrakesh. Foolishly, we decided to buy some ice cream for some of the Moroccan beggar children. We were swarmed then. An old lady stole the one Jacob had bought for a little boy. The little girl I bought one for rudely refused to share with anyone else, shouting "No!" when I suggested to let another girl have a bite and didn't say thank you. They turned down other offers for ice cream, only wanted money. They impudently emptied Ben's offering of his cone on the ground. They were picky, rude beggars, and they were out to take advantage of tourists. I vowed not to donate to their cause again.

In Fez, as soon as we exited the train station, we were accosted by taxi drivers. One man convinced us to follow him to his hotel (we didn't have one reserved). The taxi drivers began shouting him out. And you can watch it because I recorded it!

After we left Ouarzazate, I have seen shouting fights everywhere we've gone in Morocco, every single day. I'm not sure what to attribute it to. I think it's Ramadan. They fast all day, can't drink in the heat, can't smoke to relax, and they get edgy. But Arabic always sounds angry to me anyway.

As we followed the aggressive man through the streets of Fez, we were doubtful as to whether we should follow him. Our doubts were confirmed as a man we passed pointed to our hotel man and said, "He is a false guide and a robber." We decided to ditch him. He'd compared Sally and I to Ethiopian women because we were too cheap to pay for a taxi. He also said that because we were women we would get confused in the heat, whereas the men could handle it. I sassed him a little bit for saying that. I honestly get sick of the openness of men's opinion of women here. "Of course, it's fair for them to be beaten if they don't obey" "Women are like this or like that" blah blah blah. As though women are possessions, objects, or servants. I don't think Moroccan men know anything about women.

A man offered 2000 camels for Sally and I. Jacob said later that we should have told him we had been appraised for much, much higher. 3500 in fact, and it was insulting to be offered so low.

The last night before Ben and Sally left on their way to Taiwan, Sally and I took a taxi to the top of the hill for a view of Fez. It was very pretty. A policeman approached us and said we ought to be leaving. It was almost the start of the evening meal. The one that breaks the day-long fast during Ramadan. He walked us around, looking for a taxi. All of the taxis rejected us. "Don't you know what time it is?" pointing to their watches. "Time for dinner." We waited as the policeman went to eat his dinner. When he was done he would keep helping us look for a taxi. But for now the streets were deserted.

The security guards of the 5 star hotel we were waiting at motioned us over. They offered us their harira, Moroccan style soup, and sweet dessert. It was very yummy. We just sat around at their makeshift table. I found myself speaking French with many of them. What? No, I didn't speak much, but miraculously, I understood a whole lot. I even joked around a little bit with the taxi driver when we finally caught one home. My confidence in my ability to speak French shot up. Jacob's always around and takes over of course, but it wasn't nearly so hard to communicate what I wanted as I might have supposed.

Tangers (pronounced Tan zjey) was supposed to be the most aggressive and nasty experience. But I found the city quite beautiful, especially for Morocco. White buildings up on the hill overlooking the Strait of Gibraltar. People for the most part left us alone.

The nasty experience by far was our hostel. "Hotel Holland" called Pension Hollanda in the guidebook. Our first honest taxi driver took us there but we thought it was the wrong place and wouldn't take our money. The second time around we were convinced this was it. It was late and we didn't want to spend too much time looking. It had been a long train ride, involving (big surprise) a shouting match between a couple in our compartment of our train and the people next door, for slamming the seats against the wall. The father, who had so genteelly offered us dates and crackers just moments before, was shaking with rage and left the train, motioning the people next to us to come and fight. Not sure how it got resolved, but the people stopped slamming their seats.

This was the first time we've tried a Lonely Planet recommendation and it rivaled the prize for the worst place we've ever stayed. Hairs in the sheets, musty air that gave Jacob a cough, clammy surroundings, and worst of all, a swarm of mosquitoes. We woke up at around 4 am after the constant buzzing in our ears. Jacob swung the long pillow across the wall, killing a dozen and smearing the blood all over. We changed rooms. The hotel owner pointed at the wall of the new room. "See? Only two mosquitoes."

Customer service is a whole new idea here. I'm not going to say it doesn't exist. I'm just going to say it's a whole new ball game.

I awoke in our new, slightly cleaner, less musty, 2 mosquitoed room to Jacob leaping out of the bed shouting "Hey!" He ran out of the room. I got up and followed. Breathless, Jacob told the hotel owner who appeared around the corner, "A man just entered our room!" The hotel owner told him he had imagined it. "No," Jacob insisted," He was wearing a blue shirt!" The hotel owner went downstairs and returned shortly. "He was looking for the bathroom," he told us.

Yeah, right. There was a room across the way with huge lettered "W.C." on the door. Jacob said he had awoken with the door handle turning verrrry slowly and then the man had come fully into our room. By the time Jacob had chased after him, he had completely disappeared. So: our room was getting broken into.

Lonely Planet described the pension this way: "Tucked away in a quiet street a short walk from Place de Franc, this friendly pension has sparkling clean whitewashed rooms" smeared with the blood of 126 mosquitoes. Okay.

We were told about a Thai restaurant called Kiotori. After a lot of searching, we found it. It was actually Japanese, but heck, it wasn't Moroccan, and sushi and miso soup was like heaven.

We went to the medina in Tangers. I wanted a Moroccan dress which can be quite beautiful. But shopping is sooo frustrating here. It's only slightly alleviated with the presence of Jacob.

One, the storekeeper tries to force you into his shop with an aggressive sales pitch.

Two, once you're in, he follows you around and points out items in the store which you can obviously see yourself. Like, "Look, Moroccan tee shirt." And the following tricks do not work to try to get them to leave you alone (trust me, I tried): "Thanks, but I'm good." "I have eyes to see that. I know what that is." Shushing them. Waving the hand to shoe them away. Ignoring them. Refusing to look after many "Regarde!"' shouts. Telling them "That looks nice on you" when they hold up a dress. Literally running away from them down the aisle. No, nothing can stop them. God forgive them, for they know not what they do.

Three, he doesn't ask you what you're looking for or do anything actually helpful except breathe down your neck when you're just looking, for the love of Pete.

Fourth, there are no prices posted so you have to barter. And the shopkeepers can get angry with you when you're bartering if you undignify them with too low of a price. And as I mentioned before, I try to limit my contact with the storekeepers as much as possible. Having to barter means speaking with them.

Fifth, there are no dressing rooms, no mirrors, and rarely female shopkeepers. Just grubby men who are trying to make recommendations to you of things you don't even want.

And sixth, the final deal breaker for me, it is one size fits all. I don't like loose fitting clothing. And Westerners can't really pull off Moroccan clothing, you'd spot the posers a mile away.

Tangers at sunset on the ferry

Well, to be honest Algeciras, the port city of Spain, is almost exactly like Morocco. There are still men walking around in long dresses speaking Arabic, and we're staying in a riad-looking hostel named Fez with archways, an open ceiling, and plants in the center of the room, with fancy tiling. Very Moroccan. The hostel owner's name is Mohammed.

But by golly, it just feels cleaner, and so I'm breathing a little easier.

We've got an apartment in Coin, Spain. It's a small town of 20,000 people. It sounds relaxing. At the bus station when I saw a bag of Tex Mex Doritos tears almost came to my eyes. It was just so beautiful.

And as I walked a spacious grocery store and caught sight of frozen vegetables, I really did almost shed tears. The stuff you take for granted.

Some reasons I love Jacob...Happy Birthday Honey!

The way...

1. He sings everything in 4ths and 5ths, like a true bass

2. He fearlessly kills bugs while I cower in terror

3. He will randomly get up from the computer and start doing exercises

4. He cooks, cleans, and does the shopping! :)

5. He is so easy going and is okay with pretty much whatever I feel like doing

6. He is so smart in a very down-to-earth, practical way

7. He is such a believable tease

8. He lives his life full of faith: in himself, in others, and in God

9. He knows me so well. Although sometimes I wish he couldn't read my every facial expression!

10. He can make anything and everything fun.

We slept a lot of the day on Jacob's birthday, had a little party just him and me. He got a basketball, a Moroccan exfoliator with lotion (made sure to get the men's version) and world Monopoly.
I went shopping the night before with the 3 sisters who live upstairs in the markets and did not bring my French dictionary. Whoops. It was hard work shopping in the markets with my 10 phrases in French. The stores here are just objects of all genres that could have been popular about 30 years ago crammed in piles on shelves. If you see a jewel, you're lucky.
We brought a cake and celebrated with our Moroccan family by playing Monopoly on their terrace/roof. None of them ever wanted to buy a property when they landed on it, and Jacob and I as a team couldn't land on anything, so the game eventually fizzled out.

28 years ago today!!!

I had a startling revelation the other day.

Jacob asked me my greatest female role model the other day. Naturally my mom came to my mind. Then my grandmas. Then my mother-in-law.

"Who else?" he wanted to know. I couldn't think of anyone. There are other women I admire, of course, but role models is a special term. I asked Jacob the same question.

Jacob's answers were similar.

But ask for male role models, and though our fathers would be mentioned as well, there are so many other male role models to pick from. The US presidents have all been men. In the Church, the prophets are always men. Yes, we have Relief Society presidents, but they change constantly, while you really get to know the twelve apostles.

Athletic role models are usually men. You don't want to model your life after most of the famous actresses (or actors, for that matter). Most famous business people, members of the military, scientists, politicians are men. Even literary figures and composers seem to be dominated by men.

I guess what I'm trying to say, is that I'm blown away by the impact you have by being a mother. Our perceptions of womanhood are so greatly influenced by our mothers, because there aren't nearly the other role models elsewhere like there are for men. Even the scriptures are mostly populated by men, heck, even Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ are male. And the most famous woman in the scriptures (after Mary, maybe) was the one who listened to Satan and illegally ate the fruit, after all.


In our church, we often talk about how the priesthood is for men and motherhood is its counterpart. I used to think that seemed a little uneven, when men are fathers, as well. I'm seeing the power of motherhood in a whole different light, after Jacob asked me this question. It is really an underestimated role. I don't know, what do you guys think? Do you feel like there is a dearth of female role models? Please comment on who your role models are, male or female.

Awkwardness

Jacob and I are having a slightly different experience here in Morocco.

Jacob is positive this was the right place to come. The people define Jacob’s experience while traveling. Unfortunately, sometimes I love buildings more than people. I’m more likely to get excited about a great piece of architecture than a friendly stranger.

But while I am enjoying my stay here in Morocco, several of my experiences here have been growing experiences, one might say. Slightly uncomfortable, sometimes quite uncomfortable. Some of these apply to Jacob, but most of them don't because he is fluent in French.

The Language

I don’t speak French, and if you don’t know their language and they don’t know English—a very pronounced situation here in Morocco—it’s difficult to make friends or even to go shopping. I’ve got a French dictionary and I’m learning some words, but I can’t communicate with anyone but Jacob. He translates for us back and forth, and he enjoys that because he can tell people wrong things as a joke that I said and vice versa.

The Heat

It is so hot people don’t go out during the day. Fortunately we enjoy being in our apartment, and the people above us cook for us, so there’s no need to go out and venture around when the sun beats down. I used to think the people here were crazy for dressing in long sleeves and skirts and headscarves, until I got a nice rosy sunburn. Now I see the way they dress makes sense.

The Dryness

While humidity bestows allergies and makes heat feel exacerbated, dry heat is sluggish and makes it so that even when you drink a bottle of water you don’t have to go to the bathroom because it’s like your body’s thirst can’t be quenched.

The Internet

Here the internet is very fickle.

We walk around trying to get the right angle, spot, time of day to connect. Which is unfortunate when it does not because, here in Ouarzazate,

The City

There is not a whole lot to do. It’s a relatively small town. It doesn’t have a library. I’ve never been to a city without a library before. Literacy in Morocco, especially among women, is rather low and I can see why. They have something they call the library, but it’s more like a notebook and paper store. At least I was able to get a French dictionary from there.

The People

The people have been very kind, but it is easier to be a man and let someone be friendly to you. When you are female, you can only let other women be friendly, because you don’t want to talk to strange men on the streets. So Jacob gets to meet and speak with many more people than I. This is a Muslim country, so there are a lot more men on the streets in general anyway.

This guy asked for a photo and Jacob's autograph. Note the bottles in the background. If you don't ask for fois boissons you're as likely to buy a warm bottle of pop as a cold one.

Food Preparation

Welcome to Africa. For me this equates Montezuma's revenge. When we walk around the streets and look at produce or restaurants, the food doesn’t look all that appetizing. There are always flies buzzing around it, and it’s kind of wilted in the heat, and it just kind of sits out there all day. And everybody just uses their bare hands to cook and serve the food, and I haven’t seen any soap at any of these places…the food we are served from the women upstairs is a literal feast, however. Fatima is an excellent cook, and she hopes to open her own restaurant soon, so it is a privilege to get to test her recipes.

Moroccan couscous, my favorite

Typical Moroccan salads

Hammam

This was one of the weirdest experiences of my life. Turea, one of the sisters who lives above us, invited me to go to the hammam. I didn’t know what it would be like, and on the way there, I couldn’t really ask her because of the language barrier. I was wearing my swimming suit and figured it would be ok to keep it on in the hammam. Nope. When you go inside there’s topless Berber ladies walking around. It was a shock, let me tell you, considering how modest they’re usually dressed. Ok, I thought, maybe they’re just getting dressed. No, I’m expected to take my top off too. I didn’t at first. European ladies go topless sunbathing all the time, and I hear Japanese baths you are completely naked. So maybe only Americans would find this uncomfortable, I don’t know, but the next thing I know my new friend Turea is just wearing a pair of underwear and encouraging me to do the same.

Eventually I caved it because I was looking way too self conscious. Turea had thoughtfully brought all the materials I would need. We each had our own little mat to sit on the floor. The hammam wasn’t particularly clean. It was made of cement and there were windows on the top of the building to let in the sunlight. It was very hot.

These are the materials you need for a hammam visit:

A mat or a stool to sit on because you don’t want to sit on the floor with soap suds and skin peelings from someone else’s experience

Two large buckets, one for warm water and one for cold. You fill them up along the faucets in the rooms.

Brown olive oil soap wrapped in newspaper. You use this before you exfoliate.

A rough mitt-like apparatus in which you scrape and scrape at your skin until it rolls up into little folds. You do this all over yourself

A partner or friend to help you get your back and to rinse off.

Your own shampoo and soap, to give yourself a scrubbing after you’ve done everything else.

Turea and I kept moving back and forth between the hot, steamy room and the less hot room. She filled up the buckets and would direct me to find a spot on the floor.

The experience lasted a couple of hours. Turea and I didn’t talk much, and I was trying not to look at anyone but that was hard because it was very full in there with mostly-naked women of all ages, including little girls, scraping at their skin and rinsing off the residue with their bowl of water to head towards the drain in the floor. I quite liked the exfoliating, actually. As I finished before Turea, she had me go home with the neighbors, one of whom spoke English. I asked if the women bathed in their homes, or only went to the hammam.

“Oh, women bathe at home as well, but it is a great tradition to go to the hammam,” she replied. “We love going and bathing with our people.” I guess it's common to go about once a week.

So it was an honor to get to go bathe with the Berber/Arabic women. And I do have to say there seems to be a sort of silent unity among the Muslim women. It could be my imagination, but there seems to be less cattiness like you can find among groups of western girls, and more of a sense of universal sisterhood. Anyways, I arrived home with a story to tell my husband, and I survived that particular rite of initiation into Moroccan culture.

Here is a video on the night of Throne Day.

Couscous ball rolling competition...

Here we are making couscous balls. You have to mush the veggies in with the cous cous to make it stick. You just make it bounce, then down the pipe.

First Taste of Africa

Now I want to fly every time at 5 am...it is one of the most beautiful sights in the world to fly through the sky at sunrise...





"Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry and narrow mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts." ~Mark Twain

I've already experienced a lot of changed preconceptions of what Africa would be like. One was that Ouarzazate is called the Hollywood of Morocco, and so I thought it would be a little more developed... and it's not. Another is that a man laughed for fully two minutes when we said we were staying here for a month. "What will you do here?" he asked. Apparently it's unusual for someone to come here to live.

Another is that I feared it could be dangerous here, more dangerous than most places. Ouarzazate is the safest place we have yet to visit. Everyone here is so pleasant, friendly, and helpful, and we can't even imagine the police doing anything here or what they would be trying to break up. Arabic as a language sounds scary because it is so glottal. They say "Merha/BA!" for hello.

It is so dry and hot here that I feel like my nose is going to shrivel up off of my face. At least that means no allergies, which I suffered from occasionally in Berlin. It's so hot, in fact, that most people stay in during the day and you can go get your hair cut at 11 pm.

The equipment at Jacob's gym is functionable, just not new. I was just relieved they had a gym. It's my job to find where we're going to stay, and that means finding a place with good internet and a gym nearby.

The long bus ride. So hot and uncomfortable.

The only two colors. Brown and green.

Jacob found a basketball hoop at a rec center
A sea of taxis

No idea what this building is. All buildings in this city are pinkish.

The Moroccan King, who is married to a computer engineer

Enjoying dinner. Our apartment owners make us dinner for 100 dh per meal, and it is delicious and exotic. Something to look forward to each day. This is their home

I like this outfit! I think the way the Moroccan women dress is so cute. I'm going to have to get some dresses here, though I don't know where I'll wear them after here...The sisters who live upstairs promised to go with me to bargain for clothes. If only I spoke French!

I thought like Jacob looked like King of the Forest here

Stranded in the desert next to a broken bus...kind of a fun experience actually

Jacob talking to his new friend, Mohammed
Our view from our front door.

A vegetarian tagine. Tagines are the most common dish, with cooked olives and vegetables, a kind of stew

The mosque. The call to prayer is so funny here. It sounds like gruff speaking. In Turkey and Israel it was a haunting melody; here it's kind of scary.

It's been fun to get to talk to Muslim women via Jacob here. They are much more liberal than in Turkey, which surprises me! The women can wear what they want, and Rashida said she'd divorce her husband if he tried to marry again (Muslim men can marry 4 women). I like Morocco! Jacob does too...in fact he said he thought people here were nicer than the islands overall. Whoa, never thought I'd hear that!

Waiting for the airplane... I heart food

Why would anyone choose to make a flight at 5 am? That means you have to be there at 3 am, and if you use public transportation, which is unpredictable at night...we were here at 11:30 pm. So. Posting some pictures seems a good way to pass the time...

One thing I will remember the most about Berlin was the food. I decided that Jacob and I should splurge because who knows when we'll have another chance to eat such a variety of exotic cultures' food? Certainly not in Morocco. Since we've been in Berlin we have eaten

Thai everything, Vietnamese glass noodle salad at popular Monsieur Vuong'sChinese won ton soup, Japanese sushi rolls, Lebanese falafel, Russian meat-filled pastriesTurkish/Kurdish doeners and lentil soup, German bakery items and currywurst, Sudanese peanut sauce durum Ethiopian crepes which were strong tasting and to be eaten with fingers, Eritean spinach and cheese wraps (I'd definitely get this again)
Indonesian mango milk, Indian curry, Malaysian stuffed rolls, French ratatouille (gourmet to me only means less food for more money)

Tibetan/Nepalese momos (my favorite)

Andalusian tapas and-- no this was not a coincidence that this was so culture-varied. Jacob patiently allowed me to drag him to all these places, when he would have been equally content, more so, to eat Thai food every day for his entire life.

This is not our table, but a piece of modern art hanging on the wall.

That is the vast difference between Jacob and I's food preferences. When Jacob finds something he likes, he latches onto it. He orders the same thing every time at each Thai restaurant: Tom kha gai. He eats a doener every day and drinks his protein powder every day and consumes three bananas every day and is absolutely and thoroughly consistent with his food likes and dislikes. He has a huge sweet tooth and likes getting snacks like gummy bears out of the vending machines, and no dish is complete without some quantity of meat, according to him.

My style, on the other hand, is that I will order something on a menu that sounds less delicious to me if I have never tried it before. It is as if I am trying to squeeze all of the world's tastes into a short time frame (my life). In dinner group I never cooked the same thing twice, risking a new recipe every time. Unlike Jacob I have never been a vending machine shopper. Instead of sweets I chew gum, addictively. I also have a weakness for salty foods like pickles and chips. I avoid meat when possible, preferring fish and lentils for protein.

To mix our two styles together definitely requires some compromise. Yet we still manage to share food together all of the time! We do share a love of Thai food. Ironically, however, when it comes to cooking I feel I must follow the recipe to the dot, whereas Jacob never uses a cookbook and just throws stuff together! I don't know how, but it just works. We complement each other.

Just when we thought Berlin would be the only place we didn't get invited to dinner...we met Sarah's friend Christina, center of the photo... the LDS ward in Tiergarten was very nice, just very transient.

One of these is not like the other...

In front of the Babylonian Ishtar Gate from the times of Nebuchenezzar...how do you spell that

From Pergamon, Turkey

Berlin wallRiver Spree in Museuminsel

Last look on Berlin...only Vienna compares to you.

There is more on Morocco, but ...my computer died, I can't log into my email, and Jacob's computer is really slow. So until next time...hope you all had a good Pioneer Day! (Mentioning the holidays on the blog helps me feel like I have participated a little on the other side of the pond)