An English Driving Experience

Learning to drive in a foreign country can be proven to be a very very difficult task. And when that country has roundabouts (of all shapes and sizes), drives on the wrong side of the road (the left), and has two lane roads which can hardly fit a Smart car, let alone a normal sized vehicle, it can be a very daunting and sometimes pretty scary learning curve.

From the moment I sat down, in what should have been the passenger seat, put my hands on the wheel, and put the car into drive with my left hand, I began to have flash backs of my beginning driving days when I earned the nickname crash. It only took me a week and a half to drive my beloved Izzy right into the bumper of an oversized sedan. I got Izzy back from the body shop and within two weeks got my first, of many, speeding tickets. A few months later was backed into by a friend's '75 white, vintage, solid metal Charger. And a couple months after having another side of Izzy replaced, I was side swiped at a red light. I was the body shop's best customer as I drove around in what was practically a brand new car. That was all in my first year, so needless to say I did not tell my new husband of my past when I assured him I was a very experienced driver and plenty capable of learning to drive in England.

All was well in my first few months of driving on this small island they call the UK. I of course had a couple close calls as I whipped around the roundabouts forgetting to yield to the right, but wouldn't any american driver naturally look to the left? Then, while at work, a foreign exchange Japanese student sprained her wrist and I was volunteered to take her to the ER. I nervously agreed, not admitting I was shitting my pants at the thought of having to drive into there miniature parking garage built for nothing wider than a bicycle. I somehow managed to make it into the tiny parking garage and lucky drove my oversized car straight off an up ramp into a tight little space.

I took the girl in to see a doctor where he patched her up and we were good to go back to work just in time to get some lunch. We walked back to my car and squeezed in through the small gap I left for our doors to open. I put the car into reverse, checked it was clear, and off I went... a total of 10 feet. As I reversed, trying not to turn the car too much to avoid hitting the car next to my right and the cement wall to my left, I somehow rolled right over a huge cement bump on the up ramp. Trying not to panic and desperately trying to reassure the poor Japanese girl with smiles and slow simple english, which she did not understand, all was ok, I put the car into drive and tried to slowly drive over this huge bump. Nothing happened. The car would not budge. I kept gently putting my foot on the gas revving the engine hastily trying to get my car to move as I began to break out into a frenzy as a line of cars had now queued up watching me try to get out of this pickle. I then did what only seemed right and pushed the gas down hard until the car flew forward scarping the underneath of the car making loud screeching noises while lights on my dashboard simultaneously lit up like a freaking christmas tree. And all the while the Japanese girl kept spouting out what seemed to be the only english word she knew, 'uh-oh uh-oh'. I got myself pulled back into the parking space while I stuck my hand out the window desperately waving the cars to please pass me so I could attempt this exit a little more gracefully without the audience. To my horror they would not drive pass me. They all stayed, lined up, staring at me when one kind samaritan shouted out his window I had left a huge chunk of plastic from the underneath of my car in the middle of the way and no one could drive pass. As I still had a broken record Japanese girl saying 'uh-oh uh-oh' in my other ear. Could this get any worse!? Yes. It did. I then had to get out of my car walk and get the huge black plastic wheel protector and try to stuff it in the trunk of my car as all the spectators drove past.

Lunch with Chuck and Cam

What do you do when you get a call that you are going to wine and dine with the future king of England? It was an un-seasonally warm British sunny afternoon in July. I was wandering the grocery store for some lunch when I got an unexpected call from my husband. Very rarely does he call me in the middle of the afternoon from work, so I thought I better answer. Before I could say hello he asked, “What are you doing next week? Fancy having lunch with Charles and Camilla?” It was at that moment that I yelped and almost had to call for clean up on aile 4, grown woman has just peed her pants!

A couple days later I received the classiest and fanciest letter I have ever seen formally inviting little old Yankee me and my marine husband to join The Prince of Wales and Duchess of Cornwall at their stately country home, High Grove, for a formal tour of the gardens followed with lunch and refreshments with the Prince and Duchess. I could not believe I was holding an invitation to rub elbows with royalty! I had only lived in England for two years and I had already clawed my way to the top of the top of all social ladders. I was to wine and dine with a Prince and Duchess, and fingers crossed, run into Will and Kate where I would form a life long unbreakable friendship.

First things first I needed to find the perfect impressionable dress that screamed “New posh BFF”. I went on a mad hunt at every upscale store Poole had to offer (not too surprising I didn’t have much choice). After running from old department store to even older department store I found the most posh brand Poole has, a British designed Ted Baker royal blue dress. It would have to do and it was, after all, their signature blue.

The morning arrived and I can’t remember being more excited! Maybe it is just because I am looking back, but I could quite possibly have been more excited for this Thursday in the middle of July than the morning of my wedding. When we arrived at their country manor we were escorted around the many gardens by one of Charles’s right hand men. He took us through a typical English garden, through the exotic Moroccan garden, and through a beautiful orchard, which supplies the ingredients for the official royal chutneys and jams. We were told of Charles true passion of gardening and which places in the garden where his favorite to stop and ponder after a hard days work of princely duties and meetings with the Queen.

The time came to meet and greet with Prince Charlie. He came over to me and it was love at first sight. I was totally enthralled with every British word that came out of his royal mouth. It was infatuating listening to him draw his a’s out almost like he was making fun of his own countries silly accent.  And when he turned to me and reached for my hand we locked eyes and that was the end. That is when he fell head over heals for an American girl with big brown eyes and a charming southern twang. He couldn’t get enough of me and me of him. He laughed at my jokes, as he tightly help my hand in his and joking with Andy about re colonizing America turning and winking at my smitten face. Charles and I dominated the conversation flirting with each other as if it were my first high school crush. When his PA came to drag him away he held my shoulder, gave me a grin, and said, “It was a pleasure meeting you”. I just about melted. And to make it even better the lady next to me said in an overly jealous tone, “Well, didn’t he take a liking to you?” What can I say? He has a soft spot for an all American girl.

As we waited to speak with Camilla I was dreaming up all the fun times we would soon be having with the royal family. Fantasies of cricket on the lawn at Buckingham palace, sipping Pimms at the last night of the proms, walking arm and arm with Kate helping pick out her wedding china at Harrods, all came to a crashing halt when the Duchess ever so delicately put out her tiny hand out to me and I grabbed it with my huge American man hand giving my best howdy do grip and just about ripping her noble hand right off her little arm. I could tell by her puckered lips that I may not have made the best first impression. At that moment I knew I probably didn’t meet the “new best friend” criteria and I would probably never be able to mingle with this crowd and their wimpy handshakes. After all, they were all just a bit too posh for this American brawd.  

Publix... Where shopping was always a pleasure

Oh how I miss the days of shopping at my always clean, always welcoming grocery store Publix, “where shopping is a pleasure”. I reminisce on the days when I would pull my big American car into the oversized parking space as I strolled to the entrance of my favorite southern grocery chain. I loved to grab my buggy and make my way through the fragrant deli with pumpkin cookies at Halloween, pecan pies at thanksgiving, and a little girl in pigtails eating her free sugar cookie given to her by the smiley baker. I would then stroll over to the deli sub counter and order my freshly sliced pepper turkey sub with submarine sandwich oil on a fresh baked, that morning, French bread baguette. After I had my delicious sub made, which would be devoured for lunch later, I would go up and down every aisle trying to decide what crackers, chips, soda, and ice cream I wanted from the abundance of choice stacked for what seemed like miles on the shelves in front of me. Once I filled my perfect green buggy to the top, I would go to the check out and have my items scanned through by the always friendly checkout girl as the young bag boy would ask “paper or plastic” as he bagged my tasty groceries and put them back in the buggy for me. When I paid and was ready to go the young gentleman would ask if I needed help taking my bags out to the car. This is southern hospitality at its best. And every trip I made to Publix was a pleasure!

Now I shop in the UK. On my day off I got into my car and made my way to the “shop” to do our weekly grocery shopping. As I got to the store in the pouring rain, I pulled into a very, very small and very, very tight parking space. I weaseled my way out of the car and made my way to the pay and display ticket machine to pay for parking. As I went to pay my 1-pound and 50 pence, a huge sign was taped to the front saying “no new coins” (new meaning they have been in circulation for longer than I have lived in the UK). I rummaged through my wallet and what did I have… only new coins. So back to my car I went where I proceeded to go to another store. When I got the next store,a different chain than the other, and paid 1-pound 60 pence of new coins in their machine, I walked into the entrance, turned to grab a buggy, only to find I needed a 1-pound coin to use it! Since all my money went to paying for parking, I was SOL (shit out of luck). There was no way I would be able to carry a weeks worth of groceries in my arms. I was back on the road, wet, irritated and having to drive miles and miles out of my way to the one store I know you do not have to pay to park your car.

When I finally got to yet another grocer, I park my car and stomp to the entrance like a PMS-ing 16 year old girl cursing the UK and longing for the days when “shopping is a pleasure”. As soon as I think I can’t take any more I reach for a shopping cart only to find that even at this store, princess Kate’s favorite grocery shop, a store in the middle of nowhere, with no threat of bums stealing carts, I have to put in a 1-pound coin and pay for a shopping “trolley”! I was on the verge of having a grocery shopping nervous breakdown. Instead, I pulled it together, grabbed a tiny rusting basket, and attempted to cram it with my week’s worth of shopping. Just as I was finishing filling my little basket, already over flowing with eggs, bead, milk and chicken, I reached toward a shelf for an already made pizza, knocked into a nearby garlic bread display, sending pizza and bread flying into the air and falling onto the floor taking half my basket contents with it. On the brink of tears I get down to pick up all the things scattered on the floor when a middle aged woman pushes her cart right up to my bent down body, steps over me, my basket and all the bread I am attempting to pick up, grabs a pizza off the shelf, rolls her eyes at me, takes her cart, and rolls away. All I wanted to do was run after her, steal her buggy and throw her groceries all over the store, at her, and all the unhelpful staff like crazed mad women. But instead I just longed for Publix and good ole southern hospitality, my teenage pimply face gentleman bag boy, and their thanksgiving commercials that touched my heart and brought tears to my eyes.  This Floridian ain’t in the south anymore and she must remember to keep a handful of loose change in her car or she will have to face UK grocery stores, where shopping it is not a pleasure.

The Bimmer

It can be hard to sit in cloudy, foggy England while your husband is away weeks at a time in smouldering hot weather. Images swirl endlessly of him sipping strawberry daiquiris on white sand beaches with turquoise water glistening behind all the swaying palm trees after a hard days work swimming with Flipper and all his friends. The more I think about him in paradise the more bored I get with England, rain and its dark endless days. The more bored I get the more I think I need something to do and this usually never leads to a good thing…

It was November and Andy was in Cyprus "working" and I was at home in not so sunny England selling glossy lipstick and shinny bronzers making the UK more tan and beautiful one person at a time. Andy had been gone for about three weeks and I was getting on with my everyday life driving to and from work, coming home, walking Alfie and then talking on Skype for the remaining hours of the day with my mom and dad. It was during a Skype date with my mom and dad on my dads 61st birthday that the trouble began. 

While on Skype to my mom and my half cut dad, drinking his third birthday manhattan,  I began to tell them how my car had a flat tire. I told them on my way to work a truck pulled up next to me at a stop light, rolled down his window and had his 12 year old son hanging out the window waving his arms at me. I naturally ignored this and pretended they were not waving and pointing at me as my face grew red and flushed with embarrassment as I wondered and worried about why they kept pointing and shouting at me. Then, when the man began honking his horn, I decided I could no longer ignore his obnoxious attention getting and I rolled down my window only to be told my tire was flat. For the rest of my ride to work I was terrified my tire was going to completely fun out of air and my car would go flying off the road, flipping multiple times on the way possibly killing me. I could hardly drive I was panicking so much. I grew even more nervous when I started thinking of how I would fix this problem. I had no idea how to fill up a tire with air, or how much air to fill it with, or even where to do this. Isn't this what dads and husbands are for? 

So after telling my compulsive, buy a new are every 4 months parents,  my car dilemma there was only one solution… to buy a new car…tomorrow!

After hours of talking, looking at cars, finding the perfect one and deciding this was definitely the best thing for my own safety, ti was decided that in the morning I was going to go get my new car. I tried to get in touch with Andy sending him what seemed like a thousand messages to see if he was OK with this new purchase using a pretty big chunk of his, I mean our, savings and more importantly, did he like the car. However, I never got a response so I took this as a yes to buying the car. 

The next morning I got up called my mom to make sure I was doing the right thing and sent Andy a message saying, "I'm on my way to the BMW dealership. YAY! I going to buy a car. Let me know if you don't think I should." I arrived at the dealership with my parents seal of approval and not a single message from my husband telling not to buy that beautiful black BMW. 

I marched into the dealership and stood there looking around, feeling a little anxious, waiting for a salesman to show me my dream car. After a few minutes, when I think they relized I was on my own, one approached me and asked if he could help me. I looked him straight in the eye and said, "Yes, I want the black BMW with a hatchback I saw online." He asked if I knew the model, to which I responded I had no idea. He seemed a little confused but took me around the car lot until we saw the one I wanted. As we looked at it he kept asking me questions like, "How do you like it? Is this the type of thing you wanted?" I fumbled nervously nodding my head yes saying it was perfect for mine and my husband's border collie. The he asked the question I was fearing the most, "Did I want to test drive the car?" Yikes! He wanted me to get in and drive a car that was not yet mine? He obviously didn't know my track record or that I had no idea what I was feeling for, looking for, or hearing for when I test drove this thing. But, as the saying goes, you never buy the car without taking it for a spin. I sucked it up and test drove the car around the block, after making him back it out of the parking space and driving it off the lot first! 

I survived the five minute test drive and said it felt and sounded great, pretending I knew exactly what I was looking and listening for.  As we sat down he started with the questions again asking me if I wanted to call my husband and have him come look at the car before I bought it. I simply said, "No. He is out of the country and doesn't know I am here." The salesman's jaw dropped and his eyes got huge as he said, "OK…. Don't hear that everyday." To which I just smiled and replied, "But will you excuse me while I Skype my Dad in Florida so he can make sure the car looks alight." I think he thought I was some crazy american because he stared at me for a few minutes before he said yes. I stood in the car lot, skyped my parents, got the thumbs up and went back in and signed the papers. 

I felt really excited and good about my purchase, especially after the salesman handed me a big bouquet of flowers saying, "Congratulations on your new car." He then shook my hand, and handed over the keys. I drove that car off the lot like I was the coolest person in school. I drove away thinking I was hot shit as I rode home in my fancy new car. This "Im too cool for school" attitude lasted all the way home. It wasn't until I spoke with my brother in law that his lack of words, ghost white face  and his need to sit down or else he might faint, was a small indication that maybe this isn't a normal spousal thing to do. It was made pretty clear that maybe Andy won't be over joyed with my purchase and use of spending our savings when my sister, Samantha, had to keep reassuring her husband  she was  not going to go buy a car, or a house, or anything for that matter without telling him. Hmmmmmmmmm I began to think I'm not so sure how Andy will take the news of a new car and a very significant dent in our savings… Even if it was perfect to toting our dog around!

(Just for the record we are still married, he does still love me, and I think he has opened his own private saving account :-))

Fanny

While living in England I have learned that just because they speak English doesn’t mean it is the same English I grew up speaking in the good ol’ American south. For instance, when a person asked you for the loo, they are not in search of a boy named Louie, but simply the porcelain throne. While other Brits will not be so polite and bluntly tell us all exactly what they need, the toilet. Could you imagine being at a fancy restaurant, or better yet, a southern belle debutant ball exclaiming, “where’s the toilet”? Then there is fag for cigarette, pram for stroller, trolley for buggy, and lorie for semi truck. They pronounce basil and oregano funny and no one working in the grocery store has never even heard of cilantro, much less what aisle it is on. With all these different words to learn, and many words having totally different meanings, it is almost as if I have had to learn a new language. And as we all know, learning a new language takes time and sometimes the things you say have a completely different meaning.

When I first met Andy’s friends we all went to the local (pub) for a pint (beer). We stood around chatting, me listening not understanding while I laughed on queue with everyone else at something I was not sure was really funny. As conversations go, and one topic leading to another, I chimed in on the parenting topic and said, “If I had behaved like that my Dad would have spanked my fanny!” As soon as the word fanny left my mouth I had ten horrified faces staring at me with wide-open mouths in shock and disbelief as Andy leaned over and whispered in my ear the British meaning of fanny. I quickly learned in England fanny is not a schoolgirl, innocent, nice way to say butt, behind, or ass, but rather a girls “front bum” (in America we simply call it a vagina). Naturally this perverted, vulgar comment is not the first thing you want you boyfriend's friends to hear roll out of your mouth. This is definitely not the way you want your already redneck, tobacco spitting, Honey Boo Boo Child watching country portrayed, especially to the posh, horseback riding, Pimms sipping, proper folk your were just introduced. So if I don’t want bizarre stares and gawking faces, or better yet, child services or the police coming after me, I better refrain from using fanny and just stick to bum! 

The Murdoch totem pole

Dogs are said to be man’s best friend… as in humans. However, I have found this to be completely untrue. Male dogs are best friends with men and men alone! Our border collie, Alfie, is totally and utterly in love with my husband. He lives on the heals of his feet, bats his long puppy eyelashes at him every chance he gets, and dotes and loves on him every morning and every evening, actually every chance he gets. And when it comes to me he treats me like I am the two week old chopped liver we just threw in his bowl.

In Alfie’s eyes I am third in the Murdoch household totem pole. The order in which he sees it is, first, master of the house, king of the castle, God of #9 Fort Cumberland, my husband, Andrew. Next in his hierarchy is the Prince himself, Alfie. And last comes me… peasant, scum, servant, cleaner of dirty paws, Elyse. To Sir Alfred I am that long haired woman creature who keeps lurking and hanging around when the men of the house are trying to have their daily special bonding time. I am that stinky girl who won’t leave his best friend alone. I am that thing in the corner who he worries if he comes too close he might catch my cooties.

All of these feelings were made obvious to me when Andy recently was out of town on another four week “lets shoot guns and play cops and robbers” training course with work. This is when I noticed Alfred’s true feelings toward me. It usually begins when Alfie notices Andy will not be coming home. This typically takes him a few days of searching the house, the yard, and jumping up to look out the window with every rustle of leaves to see if it is his master coming through the gate. When he realizes the king of the house is not returning, he then lets me know that he is now in charge. He stops greeting me at the door to instead stay sprawled out on this throne, my couch, where he barely lifts his head off the pillow when I walk in and instead gives me a look as if to say, “Put some kibbles in my bowl slave, I’m hungry.”

He really didn’t hold back with his feelings toward me the other morning. As I woke up on a beautiful sunny Sunday morning, I stretched and rolled over to be faced with his royal highnesses legs in the air, tongue out, dreaming of chasing sheep while his head rested on his newly claimed $50 tempurpedic pillow. It was when I dared to move and disturb his beauty sleep that he jumped up and hopped over me, landing his front two paws on the floor and his back legs on the edge of the bed, dog butt in my face. He then lifted his tail and farted the absolute loudest, smelliest, and longest dog fart I have ever seen, heard, or smelt! It was this moment that I came to terms with my place on the Sir Alfie totem pole. 

Incase of an emergency call 911

For dinner one night I attempted to use our fancy wedding present cast iron grill pan to make healthy grilled chicken for my on going “today the diet starts” diet I seem to always be on. And as the chicken began to char, smoke, and set off every single fire alarm in my house it brought back flash backs of Thanksgiving 2008….

It started as every other Kaparos Thanksgiving did with Christmas music, marshmallow salad, and too much wine, rum and diet, and Manhattans, basically all the things only expectable on that special Thursday in November. Our house smelled of turkey and cinnamon. The dinning room was laid out ready for everyone to stuff their face. The living room ambience was set with a lit candelabra in the fireplace with beautiful yellow, orange and red silk leaves lacing around the candle sticks as two cinnamon scented twig brooms laid on the edge. The perfect place to wash down the pie and stuffing with more wine as “It’s A Wonderful Life” plays in the background. Our house smelled, looked and sounded like the perfect autumn Thanksgiving night. And it was, as all the years before it, the perfect family and friends Floridian Thanksgiving night.

 As the night came to an end and people found their way home to fall into their well deserved turkey coma, my Mom and I began cleaning the plates our border collie Toby had not already licked clean. We wiped down all the tables and counter tops, put away all the extra chairs and poured out the half drunk wine glasses as we laughed and talked about all the usual gossip. By now it was about midnight and most things had been picked up and cleaned so I left my mom, the night owl, and followed in my dads foot steps, heading upstairs to curl up in bed.

As I was in the middle of washing my face I heard this slightly panicked voice desperately wisper shouting “Elyse. Elyse, Come here… Quick....Quick!” So I dried my face and ran down stairs. As I started to ask, “Mom are you OK” I stopped mid sentence when my eyes saw our beautiful fall candle fireplace display slightly on fire and my mom in front of it looking around for something to help put it out before more silk maple leaves caught on fire. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do and my mom was running through different ways to put out fires. We didn’t have any fire blankets, or any blankets without big crochets holes in them, which if thrown on the fire would cause it to grow bigger, rather than the desired putting it out. As my mom ran around asking me to help and to help her think of something I just ran back in fourth from the kitchen to the living room unsure what to do or say. I was, at this point, of little help.

This is when, as the fire with every quick second grew bigger and bigger, my mom ran to the kitchen and grabbed a big dish from the sink full of dirty turkey day food, filled it with water, and ran into the living room and threw it onto the growing flame.  To my shock and my moms horror, the greasy water made the fire explode in front of our eyes and triple in height taking the cinnamon twig brooms with it as it crawled up the fireplace making the 20 foot ceiling seem all of a sudden very short. It was at about this point when the greasy, oil ridden turkey water, was thrust into the flames setting the fire alarms off that we heard my fathers groggy, sleepy voice, coming thought the kitchen saying, “What the hell is going on?”. It didn’t take but a few more steps for him to enter the living room and that voice turn to a very awake “God damn it! What the hell?”  Before we could answer he turns to me and says, “Elyse, call the fire department, NOW.”

This was my moment to show I am not the ditzy flighty girl many think. This was my moment to show I can be counted on in an emergency and I can help save the day. However, the only thought in my mind was, “What is the number?” I was desperately trying to think if I learned this number in kindergarten when I first learned about safety. And nothing came to mind. It was blank. Nada. Nothing. Did the fire department have a separate number like the police department and if so what on earth was it?  So I ran to the phone book and began flipping through the pages when my Dad shouted, “What the hell are you doing!?” and I responded, “looking up the fire department’s number”.  At this point my mom took over and came running over, grabbed the phone out of my hand as she shouted “911” and my dad rolled his eyes as he ran out the living room French doors to the patio and pulled in the hose and attempted to put out what was now the biggest fire I had ever seen. The only thing I could do was stand and stare with my mouth and eyes wide open in shock. I was gawking as my mother spoke to the fire department and my dad began to put the fire out. Dialing 911 just never crossed my mind.

A few minutes later the fire department came and finished cooling the fire and getting the smoke out of the house. Our house was fine. There was no major damage, thank god for the huge ceilings and granite fireplace. But by the next morning I was already being quizzed and tortured about who to call in an emergency, including a fire! And just in case you are wondering it is 911… hmmmm is it 911 in England??  

You can't have Thanksgiving without Jet-Puffed mini marshmellows

The other week I was in the not so Wal-Mart sized sister store Asda searching aisle to aisle for marshmallows, the key ingredient to the all American summer time snack ‘smores. If you can even believe this, none of the Brits I know have had 'smores. Having been a chubby little camping girl scout I considered this a MAJOR crime)! As I impatiently marched down every single aisle in the entire store I began to have flashbacks of doing this same thing around this time last year…

 It was a week before Thanksgiving and I decided to have a huge Thanksgiving Day dinner at my little English cottage since I wouldn’t be able to make it home for my favorite All- American stuff your face till it hurts holiday. I invited all our friends and family and told them to expect a tasty USA turkey day! Since I had 20 people coming over to experience their first Thanksgiving I had to make sure everything was absolutely perfect with all the traditional dishes and pies. And no Thanksgiving dinner was complete without Jet-Puffed mini marshmallows.

However, when I went to do my big turkey shop I searched the store high and low scouring for any sign of white mini marshmallows. Not only does the UK not carry Kraft Jet- Puffed mini marshmallows, I couldn’t even find no name minis anywhere. The only thing Asda sold were strawberry flavored pink and white big marshmallows. That was it! That was the only option! And this just would not do. This could possibly ruin the perfect first Thanksgiving experience. So to the Internet I went in search of my mini marshmallows.

I eventually found a UK site called ‘American Foods in the UK’ which did not have a single bag of Kraft Jet-Puffed mini marshmallows but claimed to sell the All-American brand "Becky’s American Mini Marshmallows". Now I have never heard of ‘Becky’s’ but I needed those marshmallows so bad I was willing to get any as long as they were mini (and if they were American it could possibly make my Thanksgiving even more authentic).

35 pounds (or 50 dollars) later I was staring at 4 bags of jumbo marshmallows with arabic writing made somewhere in Europe! And to make matters worse Andy walked through the door with my turkey and 3 bags of British mini marshmallows costing a grand total of 3 pounds! Oops  

The Alf

In March Andy and I had a very furry, very cuddly, and very slobbery baby boy named Alfie. He keeps me busy vacuuming up tumble weeds of fur, replacing chewed up valuables, chasing him chasing children, and vacuuming up more tri colored fur balls. But, like all new parents say, I can’t imagine life without my little bundle of joy! This is why, when talking to my sister about their puppy, Molly, I had some major health concerns for my little boy. She told me how Molly was going to the vet every other week and sometimes every week to fix a little problem she was having with some glands, which the doctor thought might be due to her constant swimming. As Samantha is telling me about Molly’s little issue and how if not fixed can lead to extreme discomfort for the pup or even an infection leading to doggy antibiotic, images of Alfie’s nightly swim in Poole harbor kept playing over and over again in my head making me increasingly worried for his health. I told Sam I needed to get off skype ASAP and get my pooch to the vet, but being the amazing sister she is she told me step by step how we can fix the problem at home, save my precious pennies, and make Alfie a happy healthy little man.

            Naturally as soon as I was off skype, having had my tutorial from Samantha on how her fiancé, Ryan, “fixes” Molly’s tiny issue, I went running to Andy proclaiming we must, immediately, before it gets any worse, before Alfie dies of discomfort, squeeze his BUTT!!!” And to my total surprise Andy was not quite as eager as I thought he would be. So I told him all about Molly and how her anal glands become so full (and smelly) that she has to have them emptied every week. I expressed my urgent concern that Andy must do this right away, because after all he is our baby!

            After explaining how it is done and Andy grimacing not believing there was such a thing or Ryan would dare get that personal with his dog, we youtubed it. And sure enough, in cyber space, there waiting, was an extremely graphic video tutorial on how to empty your dog’s anal glands. After quite a lot of convincing (and a little nagging) I persuaded Andy it is very incredibly necessary he get his hand gloved and give Alfie a little massage. And to the backyard we went: lube, gloves, and dog.

It was a very educational Saturday afternoon and I learned Alfie was not like Molly and his glands were A OK and completely empty. However, Alfie now looks at his Dad with a whole different set of loving eyes!

Jump Seat Riding

Our luck was bound to run out soon. From the moment we walked into the Orlando airport and saw a sea of Brits decked out in Mickey ears and I heart Universal Studios t-shirts lining up to go back to London, I knew this wasn’t going to be as easy or as amazingly glamorous as our flight over…

After what seemed like hours of waiting in line we made it to the desk to hear the dreaded “All flights are completely overbooked” to be muttered out of the Virgin girls lips. And with this news we went on a mad dash running from the Virgin desk to the BA desk desperately trying to be squeezed onto a plane back to good ole England. After lugging our six 50 pound bags from the Virgin desk, through the food court, (which was torture because at this point I was starving and could only think about stuffing my face with a Chick- Fil-A number one with Polynesian sauce) and over to the BA check in counter about 6 times to only be confirmed that neither airline had even a single seat available on either of their planes. I was sure there was no way we would get back home tonight, so I left Andy at the desk and sat with my mom, my life’s belongings, forgot about getting back, and instead calmed myself with my much anticipated Chick-Fil-A!

After filling my belly and being able to put my concentration back on how we were to get home, instead of when and what I was going to eat, I joined Andy back at the customer service desk to be updated on our flight situation. As I walked up I saw Andy filling out paper work and was sure this was a good sign! I immediately and excitedly asked, “Did we get seats?” The answer I got was, “Well sort of… We have put in jump seat request forms and if the pilot accepts them than we have jump seats.” Hmmmmm this should be a very very interesting fight!

After the captain agreed to allow us to fly home via jump seats, we ran to our gate waited until all the screaming babies, rowdy kids, and grown adults wearing head to toe Disney paraphernalia boarded the plane. A flight attendant then escorted us onto the plane, but not after they took out ticket and with sympathetic eyes said, “Oh… jumps seats.” She led us up the magical stairs of luxury premium economy when the thought ‘this can’t be too bad’ popped into my head after remembering my experience in the realm of business class, to only be quickly wiped from my train of thought when shown out seats at the top of the stairs. I am not even sure if seats are an accurate description of what we were to be sitting in for the next 9 hours. Tucked away in a little corner at the very top of the stairs in peaceful business class are two tiny blue leather fold down seats. Most people may not even notice these two seats because they blend in with the back of the wall. As I pulled down the connected bench like seat, keeping one hand pressed down on the flimsy bench to ensure it didn’t snap back up, I managed to get myself sat down. This is when I realized I would be sitting at a ninety-degree angle on what felt like a lightly padded piece of small plywood with one of my butt cheeks hanging off the side to make room for my lover.

As the very privileged other passengers curled up into their oversized seats as they sipped on a glass of champagne the flight attendant served them before take off, Andy and I were escorted to other jump seats for our take off. I was taken to the front of the plane while Andy was taken to a fold down seat at the back. As I sat down a flight attendant asked if I had ever ridden in jump seats before, to which I nervously answered, “No.” He then flashed me a smile and said not to worry but there were a few things I needed to know before we took off. Before I could even grasp the thought that I might possibly have to do something, he was rattling off safety procedures for if the plane crashed! He quickly began to go through my long list of possible responsibilities as I tried to remember my first task of pulling the white tape before pushing open the emergency exit or maybe it was push the door then pull the tape. And the second I was able to tune back in he said, “Andy lastly don’t forget your oxygen back while you swiftly exit the passengers.” YIKES! By the time he was done with all these rules, responsibilities, and directions I decided it probably wasn’t the best time to tell him I do not react very well in high tense emergency situations! To the relief of me, and the other passengers, the plane took of as normal and I returned to my assigned jump seat.

By the time dinner was served I was thanking God I demanded we get Chick- Fil- A in the airport. As I watched the dinner tray slowly make its way down the aisle towards our tiny corner seats my mouth was watering at the dinner options they were describing to the lucky paying passengers. I had already decided I was going to have the grilled chicken with steamed green beans and buttery mashed potatoes. However, that scrumptious dinner cart rolled right past us back into the galley and we were handed a lap trey with an assortment of breakfast yogurt and crackers with the reject vegetarian dinner. After picking at my dinner, not sure if I didn’t eat it because it was bad or just too hard to hold a large trey in my lap while sliding off the almost non existent seat, I decided I would try to get some sleep. I took about two hours of wiggling, shifting, and annoying Andy for him to leave our seat and curl up on the floor. There we were for the next 5 hours; me with my legs dangling in the aisle, half my body on the seat, and my head stretched out resting on a side storage compartment while my husband curled into a little ball on the floor behind the black netting of the staff storage closet. 

An Aviation Dream

For the past two years I have been on so many airplanes I might as well have been waving my arms around to show the other passengers how to fasten their seatbelts and safely locate the emergency exits incase of a crash landing. I have gone from Florida to California to Fiji to Australia to Thailand to Western Australia back to Florida then to England, Spain, Morocco, and to and from England and Florida a few more times. And every time I take a trip it is usually the same old drill; buy a ticket, go to the airport, check in, hand over my bags, get felt up at security to insure I am not smuggling in a bottle of water, board the plane, eat some food, watch a movie, and then leave the plane to go through more security. This is about as interesting as it gets. This is until Andy and I flew standby…

It’s all a waiting game when flying standby. Nothing is definite and everything is last minute. Even thinking about it makes me so nervous I am breaking out into a small sweat. So naturally the day before our August flight (and one of the most hectic and busy traveling seasons of the year) to Florida I was a frantic, worrying, on edge, mess. We had been told that all flights to Orlando were over booked and our chances of making it on a flight were not only slim to none, but if we wanted to try to get on an overbooked flight to New York we would have to make a mad dash to Heathrow. All I wanted was to see palm trees swaying while my skin soaked up the hot Florida sunshine and I sipped on a margarita! After hearing this I had little hope that my milky white skin was going to see that sun anytime soon.

We approached the check in counter with uneasy tense smiles and said, “Hi. We are the two on standby for the 11:00 Orlando flight. Are there any seats?”  As she opened her mouth to say, “ Yes actually. There are exactly two seats on the plane. You are both really lucky,” I swear I could hear Zippity Do Da playing in the background. Andy and I just about skipped through security and right up to the gate with the cheesiest biggest similes on our faces as if we had just won some huge grand prize. When we boarded the plane Andy was directed up those mysterious stairs, which I soon found out lead to business class, and I was pointed down the over crowded loud economy aisle filled with little kids who’s dreams of meeting Mickey mouse were about to come true.

After a couple hours of movie watching to drown out the high pitched squeaky voices of over eager kids, my curiosity got the best of me and I snuck up the stairs to see what flying the high life was all about. Oh man are we all missing out! It is spacious, serene, and so quiet you could just about hear the waves of the ocean below. I quickly found Andy’s seat and sat down in the aisle, which is about the width of three economy aisles, ignoring the snooty glares directed at my peasant self. I didn’t mind being the poor economy girl because as soon as my butt hit that floor a beautiful lady in red was handing me a glass of champagne asking what flavor Ben and Jerry’s ice cream I wanted! At that moment I had died and gone to aviation heaven! Sitting on the floor in business class was better than having an entire row to your self in economy. This was so fabulous I didn’t know how I was going to go back to Disney daycare downstairs! But as soon as that thought entered my head the man sitting next to Andy stood up and excused himself from the two-seat row. As I got off the floor to let him by, he told me to take his seat and be with my husband. My jaw dropped as I nervously laughed and said, “That is so nice of you but I can’t take your seat. Thank you so so much though.” He stared me straight in the eyes and said, “You are newlyweds and should be sitting together. Take my seat and tell me what seat you are in.” I couldn’t even believe what I was hearing! I looked from this man to Andy and back at him unsure of what to do or say. All I could do was put on my anxious smile and squeeze out a few nervous giggles. That’s when he said, “Tell me what seat you are in so I am not walking around the plane aimlessly looking for where to sit. I will be back up here at the end of the flight.”

After sitting down in my new oversized seat, as if the flight couldn’t get any better, the flight attendant brought us a bottle of champagne and chocolates on behalf of the staff as a wedding gift and their congratulations! I was in total bliss for the next 5 hours as we flew over the Atlantic and I sipped on champagne, ate fresh fruit, and disturbed the peaceful atmosphere by talking Andy’s ear off! 

Soccer is the Religion of England

From the middle of June until the end of September, basically the entire summer, Andy is out of town working during the week. This means instead of having a boring Sunday of sitting around watching movies I have probably seen a millions times and can recite verbatim, we are making the most of our Sunday making it fabulous Funday!

In the UK football, or as we Americans prefer to call it soccer, is a religion. The entire country goes nuts when England plays and since this year is the World Cup England seems to have turned into a crazy mess of red and white. Football is the topic of conversation, even the Prime Minister googley eyed while talking about their chances of winning and who he thinks will score the most goals. Football is the news, and I mean the only news! It is what shows on TV day and night telling from who the players are talking with, to what the players are eating, to who they are sleeping next to, to what color underwear they will wear on the big day. Then you have the England flag being flown outside every shop, restaurant, and car window in the country. It seems in England the only time the white flag with a big red cross is being flown, is when the football team is out kicking a ball around some big green field. When it was St George’s day, a national England holiday, the flag was not seen anywhere. Actually, I didn’t even know it was an English Holiday until Andy informed me of the patriotic holiday. There were no flags, people dancing in the street wearing their red and white while singing English songs, drinking beer ending the night with sparkling red and white fireworks exploding patriotism in the sky! I suppose I have spent too many years with the 4^th of July! I supposed in England when their football team plays it is their 4^th of July. While the football team prepares to play in South Africa, the entire country seems to go patriotic. Every store has a flag flying out side their door and England cups, napkins, balls, umbrellas, and any other piece of merchandise you can stick the name England on, is ripped off the shelves to be used or to decorate their houses, gardens, bodies, or cars. Even the thrift stores had their displays decorated in red and white with ‘Go England’ signs hung for all to see when they walked by. It was all just very strange… All this for a few guys who get paid millions and millions to put a round ball through some netting. I sure didn’t understand, but I also am not one to miss out on a party… And this country has turned into one massive party!

           

In the sprit of Sunday Funday, along with joining in on the patriotism of the locals, Andy and I, with a few friends, hopped on our bikes and rode down to the beach for a little fun in the sun followed up with some English footy. The big game against Germany started at three in the afternoon, which gave us a good few hours of playing on the beach soaking up the rays. We lazily floated on blow up rafts in the ocean while watching the boys play paddleball on the shore. And when 2:30 rolled around we, along with practically all the other beach goers, rolled up our towels, put away our beach toys, and crowded into the one and only beach bar to boo Germany while sucking down beer and praying England pulled through with a miracle win.

            After about 3 beers and a score of 3 to 1, I couldn’t help but laugh at the atmosphere in the rooms. The people that didn’t storm out of the bar after the third goal by Germany and stayed to watch England go down and be knocked out of the World Cup, wore the most sad and pathetic faces I have ever seen. It was as if England had lost the war and had been stripped of their pride and dignity. It was as if their country had let them down and their lives were collapsing down around them. I think I may have even seen a few grown men cry. As a matter of fact, I actually think the entire country had tears in their eyes. I tried my hardest not to laugh out loud and offend these poor soccer-loving fools, but it was just too funny. It was too much to watch these people get so emotional over 90 minutes of ball kicking. And even more amusing how fast some of those flags were pulled down and that patriotism was tucked away until the next time England plays! I guess I still have a long way to go before I completely understand this foreign culture and am transformed into a true Brit! 

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!?!?!?”