How to Hold a Baby

Last night I officially became Aunty E! My brother Nicholas and his wife Vanessa’s little boy Hayden arrived at 8:16 weighing 8 pounds 3 ounces. He looks like the perfect chubby baby with blue squinty eyes and all 10 fingers and toes! When I saw the pictures of Hayden Andrew I couldn’t wait to be home in August to hold the newest member of the family. But as soon as I envisioned myself being handed Hayden, I had a flashback of the last time someone tried to hand me a newborn…

Last August close friends of Andy's had a beautiful baby boy. Now I must say, I have never been much of an infant lover. They are just so small and fragile and at the rate that I tend to break delicate things, babies make me incredibly nervous! I have this fear of my monster man hands breaking their teeny tiny body, especially since I am about as gentle as the Incredible Hulk. However, after a few weeks of the delivery of their son, Andy and I made a visit to meet the little guy. The entire car ride over I was just praying I wouldn’t have to hold him. I wouldn’t have the slightest idea what to do with him or how to hold him or what to say to him, if even talk to him at all since he can't answer back. On top of this it was the first time I was meeting the parents who are good friends of Andy.

When we got to their house the baby was immediately given to Andy to hold. About 30 minutes went by and I was thanking God! I assumed I was in the clear from baby holding duty, as I just sat on the couch and admired his pretty little face from afar. Right at this moment I hear, “Andy, don’t hog him, give Elyse a turn to hold him!” Andy shot me a terrified look which basically said, “Hmmm I am not sure if this is a good idea” while I began panicking. I didn’t even know how to pick him up and take him from Andy. I was sure I would probably drop him on the floor and I am pretty sure the same thought was going through Andy’s head because he got up and placed the little guy right in my arms as I continued to stay sitting on the couch.

Everything seemed to be going ok. The baby continued sleeping not making a noise or moving an inch and I was beginning to think this wasn’t so bad after all. That is until, after a few minutes of holding him, he seemed to get extremely hot. In my head I was really beginning to panic, wondering if this was normal for a baby to be so hot. I mean it was burning. My arm was beginning to sweat from the heat it was letting off. I couldn’t help but think the thing was over heating! I mean, can a baby over heat?? I had no idea and it definitely seemed to be! The panic must have shown on my face because Andy’s friend got up to relieve me of baby holding. That is when I made the catastrophic infant mistake... As I put my hands under his tiny little arms and lifted him to his Dad, the entire room shouted in unison, ”Hold his head!!!” What??? How?? And where was the head going to go? Was it going to pop off and roll across the floor?? I had no idea what to do. I definitely wasn’t going to grab him by the head and hand him over, with his little head clamped in my shovel hands as the rest of his tiny body dangled, so as quickly as I could, I passed him over to his parents praying the head didn’t go flying off!

On the way home I asked Andy what all this holding the head stuff meant. He explained the neck wasn’t strong enough to hold the head up on its own. Who knew! All I can say is I think I will be opting to just pet my new little nephew!  

A Breast Baring Beach

I have heard time and time again there is nothing like a hot summer day in the UK. When you are gritting your teeth trying your best to make it through that horribly wet, dark, freezing winter, there always seems to be someone whispering in your ear, “Just you wait for that hot English summer day! On a sunny day it’s the most beautiful country in the world!” And believe it or not, these past couple weeks I am beginning to believe what I thought were only myths, might actually be true. Every day for the past 14 days it has been red hot and without a cloud in the sky. In England, when the weather is this great the birds seem to be singing a brighter song, the people are skipping about licking ice cream cones, even the dogs have a little extra bounce in their step, and I seem to walk around with a blue bird on my shoulder! It is as if the entire country takes a break from life and soaks up the warm sunshine. And being the Floridian I am, I threw on my bathing suit, or swim costume as it is called here, and went running for the great Atlantic!

When I got to the beach I was shocked at how much it resembled the beaches in Florida! Every inch of white sand was taken up by sunbathers young and old stretched out on their beach towels desperately trying to turn that pasty white skin to a beautiful golden brown. Kids were splashing in the water while teenagers were further out trying their best to stay afloat while learning to kite surf. I couldn’t wait to join the massive crowd!  But as I walked closer to the beach I quickly began to think to myself, “Toto we aren’t in Kansa anymore!” I suddenly remembered I was now living in Europe, where these free thinking body lovers like to let it all hangout! My eyeballs kept trying to dodge the many grandmas with their breasts sagging in the open air showing the world what happens when gravity starts to kick in! Every time I tried to look away there was another set of wrinkling boobs staring me in the face! My inner 80 year old could not believe these older women would expose themselves in this nature, My 80 year old was dying to shout out to them to put some clothes on and cover those puppies up! It was just not a pretty sight. I couldn't help just standing staring with my mouth hanging wide open! This was utterly shocking to my conservative ways! I wasn’t sure how to react to this nudity! Then, I thought of a topless, southern, redneck, American beach and instead became quite thankful for the breast bearing British granny’s, because lord knows if it was legal to bare it all in the U.S., the UK grandmas wouldn’t seem so cringe worthy after all! 

Leaving Exotic Morocco

Very early on the last morning of our very exotic vaycay, as the sound of prayer called through the ancient walls, the rumbling call of my stomach was waking me up and telling me to make a run for the bathroom! And at 4:30 in the morning, as Andy packed for our 7:50 flight, I basically began to die on the bathroom floor. All I could think was, “Oh my God I don’t want to stay in Morocco! I MUST pick myself up!” As Andy checked out of the hotel I crawled to my suitcase and slowly threw on a dress, trying not to move too suddenly or my head would be back to being submerged down the toilet!

By the grace of God I got myself dressed and made my way down the stairs where the cab we ordered the night before would be waiting for us. I knew all I had to do was control that nauseated feeling and try not to think too much about needing a bathroom because I unfortunately did not have my adult diaper on! When we made it outside the hotel, in true Moroccan style, the cab was a no show and we had to take one more walk down the unforgettably smelly streets. I didn’t know how I was going to do it. My face was turning greener with every step we took and it was only a matter of time until all my bodily functions gave up on me! Right as I was about to give up and let it all go, my fabulous husband flagged down a cab, put me in, rolled down my window, as he pitied me all the way to the airport. And somehow I made it.

Andy pretty much dragged me out of the cab, through the airport entrance, and plopped me on the floor on top of our luggage as we waited in the line to check into our flight. Right as I thought I was in the clear and my wave of Moroccan fever was beginning to pass, my stomach lurched sending me running through the airport to the nearest trashcan. I made it to the clear plastic trash bag just in time to hurl up the remaining couscous still stuck inside me. I could feel all the eyes staring at me thanking God it wasn’t them. Thanking God they did not have the African bug! And while my head was in the trash and my body was trying to dispose of this third world stomach flu, a French lady stopped next me, said something in French and handed me her dirty tissue and half drunk bottle of water. I would like to think this was a kind gesture and not a woman handing me her trash to throw away since the can was currently occupied but who really knows… It was Morocco after all! 

The Mountains of Marrakech

To escape the dirty madness of Marrakech, Andy and I opted to go on a day trip to a village in the mountains to see a few waterfalls. We found an advertisement for the trip outside a rundown building about a block from the square. We reluctantly walked in and followed arrows painted on the once white walls, up the stairs, to a small office where two women sat waiting to fool innocent tourists. She told us a tour was leaving the next morning at 9am and would be back in Marrakech at 4 in the afternoon. It would take us on a short journey to a small local picturesque village in the mountains with multiple waterfalls overlooking the tiny town. We looked at one another with that, “Is this too good to be true” look as Andy handed over the 400 Moroccan Dirham to the scamming lady.

The next morning when Andy and I woke we got dressed in shorts, tee shirts and flip flops,  then walked to meet the tour bus. When we arrived at the meeting place a 12-seater junk mobile was waiting for us. It probably would have been safer to stick a few lawn chairs in the back of a semi-truck and go bolting down I-95 during rush hour traffic, but we kept a smile on our face looking forward to seeing the “stunning breathtaking waterfalls” of Marrakech. And in true Moroccan fashion the 1 ½ hour trip took 3 hours as the driver stopped off at all his friends' roadside markets selling the same crap being sold on every street in the city! If there was a random vendor on the side of the road we stopped because it was his “best friend”. Then we arrived at the, oh so not, picturesque village.

As we all got out of the dirty gasoline fume filled van, we were faced with the derelict shabby little town selling more clay pots, cheap sequin slippers, and rundown restaurants with food I wouldn’t even feed my dog! But before I could wrap my head around this rural mess, a young man was running up to our group claiming to be our guide to the waterfalls. Not wanting to be scammed out of more money, Andy and I said we would just follow the trail and see the falls on our own until the guide said, “Not good idea. Come with me then decide if you want to pay at end” Ahhhhhhhh fine! So we went with the rest of the group.

I was soon counting my lucky stars we decided to go with the tour guide when he began to lead us on a path filled with jagged wet rocks with the incline increasing every few feet! As the rocks got bigger and wetter, we were guided to cross extremely rickety man-made log bridges bound to collapse into a quickly flowing stream, all while wearing flimsy flip flops! If it weren’t for Andy catching me and the tour guide literally lifting me up over a rock, too big for me to climb, I would probably still be floating down that stream in the Moroccan mountains. When we finally got to the waterfall and I was sure this disastrous flip flop rock climbing hell was over, the tour guide told us we had a hour and half to go and the hardest part would be over soon… right after we climbed a wooden ladder (which was just leaning on an 8ft wall of rock and probably made by the rickety bridge maker)! I immediately whipped my head around to Andy and gave him the glare of death!! He knew right then he was best to steer clear of me for the rest of the hike…. If only the poor tour guide knew the same! Lets just say as I slipped and fell down the mountain we just climbed, I gave the tour guide quite an earful! And even with the little English he knew, he learned quickly this was not my cup of tea!!! 

Livin' Like a Local

You are not really on vacation until you live like the locals. Every time I travel somewhere new I want to go places the locals go, and eat what the locals eat, and shop where the locals shop until I feel like I have really experienced their culture. It was no different when we were in good old Morocco.

After seeing the hustle bustle of the square, I felt it was time to get out and see where the locals went for a night out. Now, I am not sure what was going through my head since 1. Women are not exactly free to do as they please, 2. I was in the dirtiest place on earth, and 3. My book warned that behind the religious facade drugs were quite prevalent. But being the ditz I am, I was ready to experience the REAL Marrakech! This is when Andy and I made the catastrophic mistake of asking the hotel owner, born and raised in Marrakech, where we could go to smoke the sheesha or hookah with the locals. He knew just the place… He said it was the same one he has been going to for years! This is exactly what I was after. A place where there wasn’t a tourist in sight! And did we get just that!

After a beautiful, tourist packed, candle lit dinner on a roof top terrace in new town Marrakech, Andy and I were ready for that hookah! We left the restaurant and Andy began leading the way to this local joint. 20 minutes later, after walking down sketchy streets, which seemed to get darker and creepier the further we went, Andy decided if it didn’t pop up in the next block we would start heading back. I was ready to turn around 15 minutes ago when I began to see more and more creepy men standing on the street corners and all I could hear in my head was the sound of my parents voices saying, “Elyse, you need to be more aware of your surroundings! You are going to end up somewhere you shouldn’t! People will take advantage of you! Stay some place safe or you will get hurt!!” And right as I was really starting to freak myself out, we were suddenly facing the little run down local’s café.

Walking in I could feel about 100 men’s eyes all staring at me and judging my scandalous provocative choice of dress because, heaven forbid,I showed a little elbows and cleavage! But even with these glares and even though I was the only woman in the entire place, I just couldn’t stop laughing and being super excited to have a real Moroccan sheesha experience! When we got to the counter to order, the looks from the staff didn’t get much better than those of the customers. We ordered our grape flavored hookah, sat down at an open table, and anxiously waited. They brought us the enormous sheesha and set it on the floor in between the two of us. Andy took the first hit then passed it to me. As soon as I put the pipe up to my mouth and inhaled, I knew this was no normal flavored tobacco. My head started spinning, my eyes got droopy, and the giggles started pouring out of my mouth! There was no other explanation…This had to be wacky tobacky! Laughing and swaying I passed the pipe back to Andy and said, “Is this making you feel funny? I feel really funny! I think there in something in our hookah!” To which he laughs and responds, “Yeah. My head is a bit fuzzy!” And not being the brightest crayon in the box, I took that pipe right back and inhaled again saying, “ I think we have been drugged!” I then tried my hardest to be smooth and blow smoke rings as the room spun around me. We did this for about a whopping 5 minutes, while all the locals curiously stared at us, until my face abruptly when bright white and I broke out into a cold sweat. Uh-Oh!! Right as I thought I might Ralph right then and there all over the table, I instead managed to get out, “I need a bathroom! Now!!” I somehow got myself up the stairs and into what they called a bathroom, I didn’t think it deserved such a dignified title, and was very very sick! After my moment passed and I was feeling little bit better, Andy had to just about carry my butt out of the hookah bar, still high on god knows what, as we decided it was probably best to leave the rest of the burning sheesha for the locals and get back to the hotel. Needless to say the rest of the trip we stuck with the tourist activities and, more importantly, the tourist sheesha bars! 

A Hammam For Two Please!

The best advice I could give to Moroccan travelers is while in Morocco live like a rich Moroccan! After a few days of trekking through the streets of Baghdad, I mean Marrakech, we (by we I especially mean me) needed a break from the chaotic mess surrounding us and what better way to do this than with a little bit of pampering. After a stressful day in the market souks, the owner of our hotel recommended we have a traditional Moroccan day at a fancy spa. My eyes immediately lit up and I just about screamed, “Yes!! Yes!! Call and book us in for tomorrow!” That night I researched about as much as I could in my little travel book about a traditional Moroccan massage. According to the book, it was tradition for the women to be completely naked and men to keep on only their underwear, as they have their bodies rubbed down with aragan oil and Rhassoul clay. I had no idea what to expect, since I had no idea what these two things were, but I couldn’t wait!! I was ready to strip down to my birthday suit to be massaged and relaxed!!

On the way to the spa, which the hotel owners raved about and even our book said was one of the best in Marrakech, I was sure we were given wrong directions. It seemed we had somehow found an area that smelled even worse than the square and every other building looking like an image you see on CNN war coverage. It just didn’t seem the type of place one should walk without a weapon, much less the type of place a spa would be. But there amongst the rubble was the little slice of heaven, Bain de Marrakech. We walked into this room richly decorated in huge tan plush couches with rays of light sparkling around the room from the copper plated lanterns mounted on the walls, as we were greeted by a women who should be on the cover of next years Sports Illustrated Swimsuit edition! I just couldn’t contain myself! I ran up to the reception desk and said, “ Mr. and Mrs. Murdoch for the traditional Moroccan Hamas at 1 please!!” The beautiful women just stared at me as if I was crazy. I looked over at my husband Andy, who was giggling and also looking at me as if I was a complete nut case, and said, “It is for 1 p.m. right?” To which the lady responded, “Yes. Please have a seat and someone will be right with you.” As we sat down I looked at Andy and said, “What was all that about!?! That lady looked at me like I was on crack!!” To which he responded with a huge grin across his face, “You said Hamas!!” Still confused I said, “And your point is…. that is what we are having, a traditional Moroccan Hamas!” He laughed and said, “No it is called a Hammam. Hamas is a Muslim terrorist group!!” Oops! Maybe I should pay a little bit more attention to my pronunciation, especially when visiting a Muslim country!

Now, this was my very first time ever getting a massage, or even being at a spa, so everything was new to me and even more so since we were getting a Hammam, which I wasn’t entirely sure what it entailed, except getting naked. When a woman came and got Andy and me, she showed Andy to the men’s changing room, and then me to the women’s. I was questioning if I got naked right away or if that would happen later. When she showed me in the room and to my locker I figured it was now time to strip on down and cover up with the luscious white robe she gave me. But just to make sure it was naked time I asked if I was to get completely nude. She looked at me, nodded, giggled, and showed me the motions of taking off my top. Since she couldn’t speak English, I motioned a gesture asking if I should keep my bottoms on or off. She kept laughing at me and showing me to keep the bottoms on (by pointing to her bottoms and shaking her head yes and then touching her top shaking her head no). Safe to say I was to just go topless. Fine by me! As I was changing I heard a few women, talking in god knows what language, laughing from outside the room. Then I saw one of them pop their head into the changing room and look at me, only then to hear hear more laughter! I slipped my robe on over my topless body to meet the women out in the hall and find out where to go next and if they were laughing at me. They motioned for me to follow them, all three showing me the way while still giggling under their breath, as they led me out to Andy and 5 other couples laying around a pool, NOT topless. I was so confused!! I went up to Andy and whispered, “ I don’t have a top on. They told me to take it off and then showed me out here. Should I go put it on??” Andy laughed and said, “Yes go put it on! You can’t sit out here topless!!!!” Like I knew!! I was ready to bare it all!!

After dressing myself more appropriately for a public pool, a lady came and took Andy and me off for our Hammam. At this point I really didn’t know what to expect, since I had already tried to go naked at the pool and called the massage a terrorist group. She led us through a door and into a small private hallway, which had a small almost pitch black and very hot sauna like room with two long benches on each wall. She motioned for us to take off our robes and sit down on the benches. As I took my robe off and took a step into the room, I was jerked back by the women grabbing my bathing suit top and ripping it off my body…. So now I was supposed to be topless?!? Then I went into the room, more confused than ever, when the women came in, poured a bucket of water over the two of us, and told us to lie down. I looked over at Andy and could tell we were both thinking this is amazing, but not sure what to expect next. Then about 10 minutes later two ladies came in and rubbed what had to be the arragan oils all over our body and hair. It was a thick blackish colored oil scented with mint and a few other spices I couldn’t quite put my finger on. It was invigorating! As I breathed it in, it completely cleared my nose as if I had Vick’s Vapor Rub on my body. They left the room leaving the two of us to relax with oil covering and dripping off our already sweaty bodies. They came back 10 minutes later and poured water all over of us, rinsing off the oils, followed by an entire body exfoliation. However, my exfoliation process quickly became a bit more like the traditional Moroccan experience I read about. As I was on my stomach, just about asleep from this coarse glove circling around my back, a hand takes my bathing suit bottom, yanks it off my butt, then tosses it on the floor next to my bench, and continues on with the exfoliation! I don’t think my butt has been this soft since the day I was born. She then tells me to flip over while she continued to exfoliate the rest of my bare body… All of it! For a nation that is quite modest they sure know how to let loose on a massage! After the exfoliation they put the red Rhassoul clay from head to toe and 10 minutes later rinsed it off. After being rinsed of the clay, I took a shower and finished to the women greeting me with open towels as they began to dry me off. All I kept saying is, “Ooooo! Oh, thank you! Thank you,” unsure of what else you are supposed to say when you have your arms and legs spread as someone is patting you dry. After the pat down, we were escorted into another relaxing room with lounge beds and hot mint tea waiting for us! Once we finished our tea it was off to our hour long, full body, couples massage! I was sure this is what it must feel like to have been Cleopatra!

The Moroccan Treasure Hunt

After 5 interesting days exploring Marrakech and its surroundings, Andy and I came to the conclusion that visiting Morocco is like being on a huge treasure hunt; you have to search through the endless filth, ward off the creepy locals, and dodge the cobras to find the gorgeous hidden treasures!

And the first treasure we came across was our hotel, The Riad Sabba. When those huge wooden doors opened, it was like walking into nirvana! It was clean, smelled of roses and mint tea, decorated with traditional Moroccan lamps, and the only sound came from the water trickling down the fountain in the center of the house. This place was stunning. It had only 4 rooms, we were the only ones staying there until our last night. Breakfast was served every morning on the roof top terrace over looking the tops of the ancient rose colored city, and when the owner found out it was our honeymoon he brought 36 red roses to our room and decorated the center fountain with rose petals! Now this is exactly what I thought Morocco would be like.

Then we made the decision to step back outside into the crazy local’s territory and find the huge square where the storytellers danced, snake charmers sat, fire-eaters roamed, and the winding paths to the market souks began! I was sure that it was going to open up into this fantastic square and be like something from the movies. I thought maybe we were staying in the bad area of town and just had to get through it to make it to the fabulous mosaic architecture and bustling markets selling fancy Moroccan memorabilia. I couldn’t have been anymore wrong. If anything, we were staying in the nice end of the old city! The closer we got to the square the more annoying the people on the side of the street got. They would grab our arms trying to sell us some crap for a “good deal” because “it quality”! Then the smells began to get worse. They were never pleasant to begin with, but the closer we got to the center of the old city the stronger the smells got and when you didn’t think it could possibly get worse, it did! I still to this day have no idea where on earth this stench was coming from or what could possibly produce it, but I have a sneaky feeling it was a mix of the locals and the many creatures from moneys to donkeys roaming the tiny streets!

When we got to the square it was nothing like I had pictured in my mind. In all honesty, I had pictured a place that could have come out of Universal Studios or Disney World and instead was faced with this huge open space packed with people trying to scam you into giving them money for something you were not even aware you wanted! As we pushed our way through the crowd looking for one of the sites I had read about in my travel book, a local man snuck up behind Andy and me and threw this HUGE poisonous water snake around Andy’s neck! I jumped about 4 feet in the air and let out a scream as Andy was being pulled away shouting at the man, “Get this thing off my neck!” And right as I began to chase after him, this women, covered from head to toe so I can only see her eyes, has me by the hand pulling me in the opposite direction drawing henna tattoos on my hand demanding I give her 10 pounds! As I am arguing with her telling her I didn’t ask to be drawn on and explaining to her she just attacked me with her henna pen without my permission and for that I would not pay, I see Andy a few feet away having the exact same argument with the snake man! These people were unreal!

To take a break from this hectic, nothing like Disney square, we headed into the enormous market maze of the souks. Well it wasn’t any less hectic, if anything more so. There were people coming at you in all directions trying to get you to buy their pastries (coved in flies), scarves, shoes, leather bags, mirrors, lanterns, nick knacks, spices, and any other junk they could annoy you enough into buying, all the while you are desperately trying to avoid the scooters and mopeds speeding down the already overly crowed path. Then a determined carpet seller spotted Andy and me and drug us into his shop. From the get go Andy was saying, “No thanks we don’t want a rug” and “We are not going to buy a rug” but the persistent, and I think a little drunk, man was determined to show us every kind of style rug he had, as he served us sweet mint tea. Now I read in my book not to accept tea from any seller unless you are going to buy his products, so at this point I am getting really nervous and fearing he is going to force us into buying one of these hideous, probably flea infested (tip from the street smarts section of the travel guide) rugs. And right when I thought my nerves were at their wits end, he tells Andy and me to follow him, as he pulls a hanging rug aside to show a narrow dark staircase, to see how the rugs are made. Before I could object and run from the shop crying, Andy is walking up the stairs! I couldn’t believe we were following this man! This is exactly the kind of thing my mother has been warning me about my entire life. This is the exact kind of thing that could end in a Hollywood blockbuster like Taken! Here we were following this man up into a dark room, in the middle of this mayhem, where he was going to kill Andy and sell me on the black market! But once we made it to the top I saw he really was just showing us how the rugs are made. And in the corner of this outrageously hot room was a young woman working as fast as she could to get another one of these awful rugs made!

After this adventure filled day we thought it was a good idea to go to the restaurant the owner of the hotel recommended. It was in an area called the Kasbah and was about a 10 minute walk away from the hectic square. When we got to the restaurant, called The Kozy Bar, it wasn’t that much different from all the other areas we had visited that afternoon. But as soon as we walked in it was like stepping into a romantic novel. The center of the restaurant was open to the outside air going up three stories and tiny rays of light dancing on the walls from the hundred intricate Moroccan lanterns hanging. The third story was a candle lit roof terrace with hug white pillow seats and packed tourist drinking bottles of wine while looking out on the frantic street. It was so blissful and romantic that it was like having dinner in Arabian heaven! We stayed here for a few hours just eating and drinking and talking about how Marrakech really wasn’t that bad. I mean how could you dislike a place when you were sitting somewhere like this??

But the meal eventually came to an end and when we walked outside back onto the dirty rundown streets, Andy looked over at a building in ruins and said, “This probably isn’t the most romantic thing to say on a honeymoon, but walking around these streets is exactly like walking around in Iraq”. So I would say that last sentence pretty much sums up Morocco (except for those few little treasures)!

The Honeymoon

Our wedding was the most amazing day of my entire life. The sun came out to play, the people were laughing, and everyone was dancing! It was a day full of fun!! It was all and all a magnificent day! After such a perfect wedding, and I really mean absolutely perfect, there was bound to be a hic-up somewhere…

A couple days after our wedding Andy surprised me with a trip to Marrakech, which I had no idea where it was until I googled it, for our honeymoon! I was ecstatic, of course even more ecstatic when I googled it and found out Marrakech is in Morocco and even more excited when I saw the ancient city is packed full of beautiful belly dancers, endless hookahs, snake charmers, fire eaters, and magic carpet rides!!! AHHHH this was going to be the best honeymoon ever!!! For 5 days I was going to be Princess Jasmine and Andy my Aladdin while we strolled around the ancient streets having magical Arabian nights under the stars!! I was so thrilled I could hardly contain myself! I immediately started packing all my Moroccan inspired tops, short shorts, and flirty summer dresses, because after all, it is my honeymoon! I didn’t know anyone who had ever been to Morocco, and especially not on their honeymoon! I was so sure this trip was going to blow those Sandals, lie by the beach and drink daiquiris honeymoons, out of the water! I was going to a place with thousands of years of history, that is bright and colorful, and even Disney felt inclined to make it into a romantic movie!

When we got to Gatwick I ran to the airport bookstore and bought a copy of Marrakech, Morocco’s Travel Guide. As soon as we got onto the plane that book was wide open with my nose stuck right in the middle of it. The entire 3 hours on the plane I kept oooooohhhhhhing and ahhhhhhhhing to Andy about all the different places we had to go see! I was so excited I could have peed my pants right there and then! I was so sure this vacation was going to be the best vacation I had ever taken! After all I was going to be in an Arabian desert soaking up the hot sun walking around within ancient city walls! The entire flight I was moving all around and giggling like a little kid with a sugar high! I couldn’t believe I was going to be in Africa in Morocco! Then I got to the street smarts at the back of my Morocco travel guide… where it began to inform me women should not show their shoulders (well there goes 80% of my tops), or wear shorts (didn’t pack anything but shorts and short shorts at that!). It then went on to warn us not to trust any locals and to eat with your hands when  at all possible because the silverware is unsanitary! Thank God I had my antibacterial gel!! I thought we were off to Marrakech not Afghanistan! But I was determined to not let this get me down! It was going to be FANTASTIC! And then we stepped out of the airport…

When we walked outside about 20 Moroccan men came running when they saw white western fresh meat come through the airport doors and tried desperately to get us to crawl into their hunk of wadded up tin they called a cab for some ungodly price! This is when I got my first inkling that maybe Morocco wasn’t going to be as romantic as I originally thought! Once we haggled, fought, and got the cost of the trip down to a point that wasn’t completely ripping us off, we got into the gas fume infested taxi. The cab driver then turned the car on, put the car into reverse, ran right into the car in back of it, then put the car into drive, ran into the car in front, and away we went! At this point I was frantically looking for my seatbelt in this 1983 piece of crap, when the driver, as he zipped frantically down the road, turned around and yelled, “NO NO! No seatbelts here!!”  Well I soon learned safety and cleanliness wasn’t really on Marrakech’s priority list!

As he manically drove into the old city walls down roads the size of sidewalks, with people literally dodging our cab, we finally came to a stop in this little square where barefoot kids ran around in the dusty, filthy streets and the women glared at my “provocative” sense of style with disgust. Where on earth were we??? Where was our beautiful hotel Andy showed me on the internet?? Where were the Princess Jasmine and Aladdin look a likes?? And beautiful magic carpets??? All I could see were old dirty sand red walls, dirty water and trash in the street, and a man who looked a thousand years old selling cigarettes on the corner!!! Yikes!! This was no Disney movie! I would be lying if I didn’t say I was a little nervous! Andy then turned around to the driver and said, “Where are we and where is out hotel??” in which he responded by simply pointing down one of the narrow paths that extended from the little square deep into this maze of red walls. Then a man came running toward us telling us to take the street and follow him! Now if I were alone, at this exact point, I would have burst into tears, jumped back into the cab, and demanded the driver to take me back to the airport. But since I was with Mr. Marine we followed the man to a huge beautiful brown wood engraved door that he claimed was our hotel. All I could think was, “What on earth was I in for and Where on earth has this boy taken me!?!?!?”