Fiddler on the Souq: A Moroccan Travelogue

Shalom all, and warmest greetings from the tanned, tattoed, couscoused, tagined, cameled, and most importantly luxuriously hammamed Karima /  كريمة - the Berber name bestowed on me.

 Permit me to start with a little description of the Riad - the Moroccan townhouse, opulently decorated with distinctive local lamps, tiling, bathing pool - right down to the heavy wooden double doors leading to each of the 4 bedrooms. This Riad - the Villa El Arsa (what a name) was an accidental upgrade: a turn of good fortune when Susie, the owner whom I had been in contact with directly regarding the original booking of the Riad Dar Tah Tah, asked me would I consider being moved to her other Riad, El Arsa, with its larger spaces, pool, huge rooftop terrace, bigger room with incredible bathroom / bathtub - for no extra cost.  Not much time needed to consider that offer. Arriving separately, I booked a taxi service through the Riad for us to be collected and delivered to the accommodation.  The winding little streets did not allow access for cars, so at the closest possible point on the cusp of the Mellah, the old Jewish quarter, we were dropped off and met by a staff member Hussein who ushered us through the manic tiny streets, chock with locals many dressed oddly enough like the Jedi, bicycles flying past at terrific speeds and noisy polluting mopeds whizzing past, a chorus of squeaky moped horns bipping and honking as they traversed the narrow packed alleys leaving in their wake, a whorl of dust and fumes.  

10 minutes of following behind Hussein who wheeled my case, always sticking to the right side of the pathless streets, as he pointed out tunnels and shops, twists and murals on walls to remember the route, we arrived at a beautiful dark wood door, engraved with swirly patterns and a heavy brass knocker.  Stepping in through the low door, the space opened up from the narrow streets to a bright cool clean space, laden with flowers, plants, trinkets, tiles and a thousand other details too many to absorb.  Hussein led me into the central square of the building underneath the awning of a white cloth roof, high atop the second floor, where he offered me a seat at the big glass table while he went to the kitchen to make a pot of mint tea.  The first of countless to come.  

There are more details that I can possibly put down. The explorations of the local area on day one are enough to fill the average Rushdie size novel.  It's one of those places where a blind man could be mistaken for an expert photographer: all that is required in this colourful, dusty, busy, pungent place is the ability to point the lens and press the button.  I have over 800 photos from the 7 days and I could take 800 more given the chance.  

I will, however, give you some highlights: out of our seven days there, we had initially decided to do a day-trek up the Atlas mountains at some point during the week.  However, we decided to extend this trip to a 2 day trip to the Zagora Desert, staying overnight in the desert.  This involved approx. 8 hours driving through the Atlas mountains, stopping at some gorgeous locations and sometimes just at the side of the road to admire some stunning valley or distant village.  The scenery ranged from barren rocky chocolate coloured mountains and valleys to lush green irrigated pastures with dotted with little distant orange coloured houses spread between the legs of huge tree speckled mountains.  The snow tipped Atlas always watchful on the horizon.  One very interesting and beautiful place we stopped at was the ancient kasbah of Ait Ben Haddou.  Ever seen The Jewel of the Nile (Michael Douglas film)? Well, it was set there. As were parts of Gladiator, Lawrence of Arabia, Jesus of Nazareth and many others.  We were set loose to wander up the narrow steps with a tour guide.  It was a pity we were the only English speakers on an otherwise Spanish tour - all was explained initially in Spanish, followed by a briefer explanation in English, at which point, the Spanish would start to talk loudly amongst themselves. Rude bunch.  Some interesting factoids: there was a vibrant Jewish community at work in Ben Haddou which was a prominent trading point in Northern Africa.  Evidence of the Jewish history to be found in the crumbling ruins of the old Synagogue, and in the distance, the Jewish cemetery can be found.  Despite the crumbling of many of the buildings, seemingly there are a number of families that still inhabit the old kasbah. We had our lunch in a restaurant on the edge of the ancient place: my options limited (as they were in every restaurant bar one) to vegetable tagine or vegetable couscous. Both delicious, mind.  I went for the couscous, as Jamal the bus driver had told us of how the couscous is made in that particular part of Morocco and that it is the finest you will ever taste.  He was right. It was the perfect consistency, not a hint of sogginess which I had taken for granted nearly as a feature of couscous.  And a pile of steaming vegetables - squash, onions, carrots, tomatoes perched in a tagine shape on top.  I forgot to mention the salade moroccaine - I'm salivating thinking about it.  A big bowl of chopped tomatoes, cucumbers and onions with loads of corriander and some very light salty dressing. It was so delicious and simple.  I think the fruits and vegetables are just so organic and local over there, that food just tastes better, cleaner.  

The desert was nice.  It was not a very impressive desert, but I have a spectacular Middle-Eastern comparator so I'm hard to impress on the desert front!  We took an hour long camel trek to reach camp.  The sun was setting as we mounted the placid fluffy beasts.  It was dark by the time we had plodded our way to the campsite.  It was all very touristy really, the tents not authentic, the crowd a very loud bunch of Spanish speakers with no concept of volume control.  And one slightly mad older Spanish lady, who despite repeated "no habla espagnol", she still kept on jabbering away to me, who resigned myself to nodding and smiling and the occasional shrug of the shoulders.  We had a bit of fun later that night when the local desert dwelling Berber came out to give a wee recital around the camp fire, playing their drums and singing their songs.  We stayed paddy last of course, and had a go on the drums myself (being an old hand at the djembe) we did a bit of a jam, a duo of us playing while two of them sang.  A freezing night lying flat on my back, not moving for fear of touching a cold spot on the "mattress", I was damn glad to wake up to the rising sun and the promise of daytime heat.  

Other highlights are on the cuisine front.  I've already mentioned the couscous, the salade moroccaine and finally came the third staple dish for me: the humble tagine.  We were lucky enough to have a home cooked tagine, complete with cooking lesson as I peered over the chef's shoulder as he added spice after spice after vegetable. It was Jamal the bus driver's cousin Sidi Muhammed actually doing the cooking.  We got quite friendly with Jamal during the two day tour and he asked us to meet him for tea the day after we arrived back in Marrakech.  I accepted his kind offer, deliberately ignoring Mildred elbowing a "is this wise" jab!  So, while we had expected to have a tea in the city, instead he had driven into the centre in order to drive us back out to his apartment.  With him, he had brought his cousin Sidi Muhammad - another tour operator, but of the 4x4 off-road jeep variety.  So the Moroccan hospitality was lavished upon us in their humble surrounds.  A modern apartment on the outskirts of the city.  We were given lots of tea, and offered a home cooked lunch.  Photo albums of tours they had given, and a dvd of Sidi Muhammed's 6 day trek through Morocco was shown.  Then the cooking began.  We helped a bit by shelling fresh peas, then smoked on a mint sheesha then an apple sheesha while eyeing the ingredients that were being put into the earthenware tagine pots. More mint tea followed after a hearty lunch, and in the late afternoon, we were driven back into town, with promises to keep in touch, and a scarf souvenir each from our lovely hosts.  

You might be curious to hear a little about Marrakech's Jewish past and present - or not! if so, skip this paragraph!  I already mentioned that we were staying near The Mellah - the old Jewish quarter: an area segregated once upon a time to keep the Jews, a central source of trade and revenue, safe.  Once upon a time, this was a bustling vibrant community: but most have now departed for Israel after WWII and a mere 180 Jews have remained. Nowadays, The Mellah is a crumbling area, distinctive from the rest of Marrakech by its old balconies and Stars of David to be spotted on some of the architecture.  A young lad who insisted on acting as guide, pointed out the door knockers which were shaped as a hand, many of them oxidised a gorgeous shade of green. Each finger, he explained, was to symbolise one of the five books of Torah.  We eventually found our way to the tiny Synagogue, hidden down a narrow lane way.  Perhaps I should not have been surprised that it was kept under guard, and that we were questioned as to firstly whether we were Jewish, and secondly since we were not, what was our business here.  Looking like pale faced tourists, he accepted that we were and let us in to have a look around the very very blue courtyard where sun protectors hung down from the balconies, striped white and sky blue.  Next we were let in through ornate golden doors into the Synagogue, where we were watched closely while we wandered around and snapped a few pictures. We also stuck our heads into the Jewish cemetery located nearby.  A vast field with gravestones ranging from ancient nubs to magnificent shining four posted structures ornately carved in that gorgeous Moroccan style - and Stars of David too of course.  

I've saved the best bit for last, I think. The Hamman. Oh the hammam. The Hammam to end all hammams. Les Bains de Marrakech (www.lesbainsdemarrakech - did you also read lesbians de marrakech at first glance?)  So, the epitome of luxury, relaxation, pleasure....  Picture this: you enter through ornate dark wood typically Moroccan style double doors, resplendent with brass fittings.  Drooping greenery hangs down and brushes the tip of your head as you pass through.  A red carpet leads up a dimly candle lit corridor, muslin curtains of deep purples and reds shadow the passage.  Through another set of glass double doors and immediately you are immersed in the scent of sweet incense burning.  Smiling girls address you in French and usher you to the changing rooms, where are you provided with a locker containing a fluffy white towel robe and white sandals.  Into the bikini, wrapped in the robe, upon exiting the changing room, they are waiting to usher you to phase one: the relaxation room.  Lounging soft couches with big pillows in a soft lit room await you.  You are invited to lie down and relax.  There is music playing oh-so-softly in the background.  A new-age sort of nature sounding music.  A few minutes later, a smiling girl appears with a silver tray with glasses of mint tea for your refreshment.  Sipping the sweet drink, you relax into a meditative doze.  For perhaps 10 minutes we were left to unwind from the mania that is Marrakech in this haven of tranquillity.  The next phase comes when you are led to the next destination - the hammam itself.  A cavernous room with a rounded sloped ceiling (it brought to mind a miniature Dobbins before the renovation), it is hot hot hot and steamy.  The robe and bikini top are left outside and you are invited to lie down upon a plastic covered bed by the walls after standing under a hot shower to get wet all over first.  The door is closed and you lie in a very low lit cavern, inhaling the eucalyptus scented steam filling the air.  You feel your pores open and you breathe deep feeling cleaner and more refreshed than you have in a long time.  After some time, the girl re-appears and so begins the black soap stage: from head to toe, turning you over to complete this task, you are lathered in the traditional black soap and left once again to sweat in the dim steaminess.  When she returns some 10 minutes later, you are invited to step under the shower head to rinse off the soap.  While you are doing this, the soap is rinsed off the bed.  Instructed to lie down on your back, she puts on her loofah mitt, and so begins the hammam scrub.  In large circles across your shoulder blades, back, legs and even feet (I jerked and laughed), then turning over the upside is carefully scrubbed from neck to toe.  Next you are asked to sit up and the sides of the neck and arms are loofah-ed.  I was shocked to see the layers of skin that roll off!  One final shower follows, this time being poured handfuls of sweet smelling liquid soap.  For a few more minutes, you are left to a final lie down, enjoying the steamy heat, before being invited back outside to the real world.  Standing outside the hammam, the girl stood there with a bowl of oil in her hands. "Qu'est que c'est?" I enquired. "l'huile d'argan" she smiled back.  Now argan oil is not a cheap commodity - a little background on it: the argan tree grows only in North West Morocco and is renowned for its skin enhancing qualities as well as its cooking variety of oils which are absolutely delicious. So this lovely lady proceeds to lather me head to toe with scoops of this expensive product. The robe is put back on and back out to yet another room of these pillowed couches. A sweet smiling face brings out the a little plastic bag containing the washed loofah to keep, yet more mint tea, a bottle of mineral water and a plate of delicate Moroccan pastries. 

And all of this for the laughable price of 150MAD - approx. €14.  All these days later, I am still as soft as a kitten and still purring from the experience. 

There was lots more, too much to include, including an accidental engagement to an adorable waiter (I was joking when I said yes, then he ran off and came back with a ring!!), the fun of haggling with the traders in the souks, the completely unnecessary pouf I bought and don't quite know what to do with, and lots more besides. 

FIN

No One Writes To The Colonel

This is an entry I put in for a travel competition. Limited to a certain amount of characters, it did not suit my natural tendency for explication of tiny salient details.


The waking sun shimmered on the horizon and coloured the endless plains of sand pinkish yellow. I yawned sleepily, vaguely aware of the smell of bread crisping on that battered metal mesh over an open fire. No dressing was necessary: climbing out of the sleeping bag and putting my riding boots back on was all there was. I didn't think I could get used to it so easily, but the rustic outdoor desert dwelling habits sank in as easily as getting back into the saddle. 

The day began with a simple breakfast of toasted bread dipped in hummus and little glasses of sweet tea out of a hulking kettle licked black by flames. Sitting on rocks or crossed legged in the sand, bread in hand and tea close by, the chatter that ended late at sunset started to rouse with the rising sun: its brightening rays transforming the colours of the desert, lighting in pink, orange, yellow and gold, our path through the valleys and dunes.


It wouldn't matter if I were Gabriel García Márquez writing an exquisite two paragraphs (forgive the seeming comparison, it is not. He is the latest novelist I have fallen into enchantment with); the test is actually of social media savviness, requiring your voting public, that is, how many friends you have on Facebook or names in your email address book, or indeed Twits following you. It's not the first social media competition disguised as a writing competition. It's just a little disheartening for the writer who puts in the effort when upon reflection, the person who spells holidays with a 'z' is as liking to win a "writing competition" as G.G. Márquez.


Pfff. First world problems, eh!

Missing the mundane

It's strange that I still open my email every day with a little molecule of the old grey matter pushing expectant for a casual hello from this boy I once knew, a sweet chap, wild and unpredictable in a curiously demure way. But it's been ages now since he waved a white flag and ducked into the trenches behind his granite wall. I wonder what he's doing.  I think of him fixing the bannisters or giving the garden a final once-over before the winter suspends it in yearly petrification. It's those little things I miss the most: his mundane always enraptured me. Take the rest of the world: bombarded all too frequently by the plastered smiles depicting mock ecstatic shock at their supposedly outrageous lives. Photos of groups all laughing or pulling faces.  Always with the manic happiness.  I don't buy it for a second.  Even the world "friend" means nothing anymore.  But He - He wrote about buying a new squash racquet. About the wrong shelves that were delivered - twice. About the trailer he replaced. About ordering too much mulch - what to do with the surplus?  It was all so real, so grounded, so completely alluring.  

The lure of the exotic pulls people to twist their tales into bold events, smattering their one liners with 'ha ha's' of guffawed laughter, fingers pointed to show cameras their shocking behaviour, everything supposedly new and unique. And for what? To get attention; to paint a self portrait for the world to see how happy they are; what extraordinary lives they lead. The lure of the exotic is in the mundane. Heaney knows this: his quiet subject matter, a woman with floury hands or a grumbling iron monger, can echo for years with gut wrenching nostalgic reverberations.  He knows the real secrets of the extraordinary lie in the ordinary.  In the quiet irritation of a conscientious home owner who cannot find the right colour for the bannister, and resignedly covers his colourful attempts with neutral white. Like the rest of the walls. The inner workings of reality, not the weary bullshit of the public faced. A feigned moment of glory broadcasting to the whole wide world. 

It turns out He was strolling up the gentle black-brown curves of Dame Etna. The casual hello came: the old grey matter's psychic reach is not obsolete yet. 

This is IT

I had a lot of time on my hands today so I started typing on my phone... the length ought to tell you something about quite how much time I did have and might also indicate the risk category I fall into for arthritis of the thumb.  It's just a ditty about my week I wrote for my own amusement. 

In addition to my new job with Danmarks Post (yes, I'm a postwoman in a cool uniform now), I am currently employed by a temping agency who have assigned me to a conference hosting job. This began on Sunday at 08:00 and continued through until today -my last day, these other days starting at 07:00. Thank goodness for the superb public transport, which takes me precisely 4 minutes to walk from my house to the metro platform and 22 minutes to the metro stop outside The Bella Center conference location. I have witnessed many sunrises the past 2 weeks and have reached the point where I am arriving too early for the occasion. A sure sign of winter approaching in case the cooling temperatures and falling rainbow of leaves didn't convince.

Training for the job was a simple affair. It being an IT–conference (a very prestigious one at that, with tickets for the 7,000 attendees ranging from €1,500-€2,000) the technology is pretty advanced. On "my" desk, as on all other Registration desks, are no less than 4 computers for the self-registration process. I've lost count of how many attendees paused at the monitor and exclaimed "How do you work one of these?" before laughing at their apparent originality. Being the polite hostess, of course I politely engaged in a hopefully-not-too-obviously-rehearsed titter of giggles.

That was Sunday in a nutshell. It was not a busy day, on the contrary, the actual conference events didn't start until Tuesday so it was a small occasional trickle of people to deal with only. Given that there are about 20 manned Registration desks, at the sight of an unregistered attendee entering the large hall, faces lit up in the hope of attracting the generally overweight, stereotypical pasty computer nerd, who tended to look slightly surprised at the wall of neatly attired women vying for their attention with our professional 'come hither' smiles. Little else work-wise happened, but of course on the more interesting social end, you'll always find interesting people in new workplaces. Plenty to be found here and with the large gaps of empty time to fill, needless to say, we all formed groups with the sole purpose of entertaining each other to kill time. Much fun of course.

Monday morning, 07:00 began another day of registering. Busier but only in spurts when bus loads of attendees arrived. Lots of lulls and this went on until closing time at 20:00.

Tuesday began on Registration, large crowds now piling in, the taped off snake queue finally losing its status as an obstruction. For perhaps 2 hours solid, there were 2 people at any one time registering at each of the desks. Printers working working working to get the badges to the eager faced conference nerds. After the rush, all died down again as the nerds assumed positions in the various rooms, halls and areas.  I don't mean to be cruel calling them nerds, but if you only saw (most of) them, I know there would be enthusiastic nods of agreement. The other breed prevalent here I shall call Managerial Knobs. I'm basing this category on two over heard conversations with the slick distinguished and slightly oily looking suit types. The first conversation I heard was between two of these who clearly had just met here and were engaging in an virility contest:
MK1 "So how many kids do you have?"
MK2 "I have 2, how about you?"
MK1 *oozing smarm now*  "2 yeah? I have 6 of them"

The second example was at the welcome drinks when a group of MKs were chatting business. A regular nerd walked by them, but got stopped by one of the louder MKs who slapped him on the shoulder and exclaimed loudly for his new MK friends to hear, "John, put a smile on your face. I'm paying for you so enjoy yourself and look happy, haw haw haw!" John went from pasty to puce faster than the the processors his company sold and skedaddled pronto. Turning back to his MK buddies, he said in an off-handed manner, "Yes, he's just another of our IT technicians. Now, where were we?" 

There were a lot of regular nice people in the mix too of course - it's just hard to miss the sore thumbs sometimes. 

So after my brief stint on Registration that morning, the rest of the day was assigned to being a guide in the main hall: now this job borders on cruelty. Basically it involves standing in one spot for hours on end in case somebody wants to know where a particular room is, event is being held or toilets are located. It's boring and painful. Some of this time was spent overhearing the conversations I mentioned above, the rest I was miles and miles away in a nice daydream filled with armchairs and foot massages.

Back on registration desk this morning. The conference finished at 16:30 today so it was always unlikely that anyone would register at this stage. One, as it happened, did register. On the first 2 days, the free bottle (a stainless steel jobbie from Dell) hadn't arrived so vouchers to be redeemed were handed out. There were stacks of these bottles behind us today so swapping bottles for vouchers promised to be the most exciting event of the day and indeed it was! There were 10 of us at one point on Registration for this task, would you believe. Presumably it makes for good optics to have us smiling white shirted staff perched there when our heads are not buried in phones composing stories. 

There promised to be little more work to be done for those poor souls working on the floor as 'guides' in the main rooms. I can only sympathise with the agonies of many hours standing stationary or almost stationary. I had the strangest physical reactions to Tuesday's 9 hour standing shift in the Atrium: in order to relieve the expected stiffness that creeps into the joints, from time to time I would lift up one foot and stretch by pointing my toes. As I did this, joints started cracking in the middle of my foot, followed by a loud crack of my ankle joint. This happened on both feet, and as the day drew slowly out, the intensity and volume of the joint popping magnified. But this wasn't all: not long after the feet and ankle popping took off, the knees decided to join in the symphony. By 19:45 just as things were winding down for the now tipsy nerd fest, taking a step unleashed a rhythmical clattering of internal joint popping. Very strange, but it killed the boredom somewhat playing with bodily joint popping rhythms.   

That's it from this temp. 

Pop on.  

FIN

Un Journal de Paris

 Trip to Paris: August 2011

Jardin du Luxembourg, Paris

Day 1: arrived late in the evening.  The trip itself was to be a surprise for the gang who were over there: I had told them that I could not come so it was just Tara they thought was coming for the short week. We took the directions that Julie the host had given, taking the little airport train to the main metro line.  At that point, I sent Tara out to the platform where Julie was waiting, and from behind a ticket machine I watched as they hugged greeting each other, grinning away to the bemusement of strangers passing by.  When they were deep in conversation about the travels, I approached from behind and muttered towards Julie "This isn't Nørreport..." She swung her head in my direction, stared for half a second in confusion before breaking out in a huge grin, French exclamations and a big hug!  We chattered and giggled intermittently, then boarded the train heading to the city.  Half an hour later, we emerged from the underground weaving journey into the 5e arrondissement and to her door within minutes from there. And what a door it was!  A gorgeous old horse entrance leading into a cobbled courtyard where her house was tucked away discretely behind larger apartments.  In the courtyard the gang were lounging about, on benches and chairs, the table set with baguettes still in their bakery pockets, a selection of cheeses, wine and salads ready for a late supper.  After the hugs, greetings and chatter we settled down to a simple but stunning supper.  Plans were set for the next day to visit Pere La Chaisse and we went to our rooms to rest for the next day.

Pere Lachaise

Day 2: the weather was stunning. Even in early morning, the heat of the day was building.  Breakfast was to be a lengthy affair: firstly with a trip to the local bakery to pick up the bread and croissants. Cups of coffee, grapefruit juice, cheeses, marmalades were on offer and we ate well, predicting a long day out strolling the streets and graveyard.  It was early afternoon when we were all ready to set off to say our hellos to the dead in Pere La Chaisse.  Not my first trip there, but the first for some of the others, so the usual tombs were visited: Balzac, Chopin, Merleau-Ponty, Jim Morrisson to name but a few.  It was not as green as I remembered, perhaps the grassy squares in Nørrebro's cemetery filling in gaps in memory.  We spent several hours wandering about, sometimes aimlessly, just enjoying the art work of statues and tombs against the green leafy filtered light in the heat of the day.  Coffee and late lunch was the next plan to be fulfilled so we wandered around to a cafe / bar called Chat Noir in the same arrondissement - a colourful mixed area, a very different feel to the 5e arrondissement which being a mere 10 minute walk to Notre Dame is quite an exclusive area.  We sat indoors and ordered coffees and ate the sandwiches we brought with us - cheese and the baguettes bought that morning with a jar of kosher vegan pesto - not that we had any Jews among us - rather it was a random purchase, and one I would make again!  Tasted excellent.  Coffees were followed by a cold French beer.  And before we knew it, 5o'clock came around and it was happy hour, so we ordered €2 crisp white wines and sat outside in the baking heat sipping.  We eventually made our way back home and prepared a delicious dinner of couscous, stewed vegetables, hot sauce and melon salad. With this we drank more wine and stayed out late in the garden until it was time to retire again. 

Midnight in Paris

Day 3: The usual long lazy breakfast of still-warm-from-the-bakery bread, cheeses, marmalades and croissants, coffee and teas, sunshine in the garden.  The only set plan for the day was to go to the Louvre for which we had free entrance as Julie's friend was working on Friday evening and could get all of us in.  Since the others had been there for several days before we arrived, Julie took this morning / afternoon to walk Tara and I around the 5e arrondissement, showing us the old Roman arena behind her house, the Luxembourg jardin, and the corner which Woody Allen has put on the map with Midnight in Paris.  We picked up fresh bread on the way back for the late lunch were were to have since dinner time would be occupied with the Louvre visit.  At 6pm we met outside the Louvre, having strolled there from Julie's, ambling by the Seine pausing by many of the vendors selling books and trinkets, past Notre Dame over the island and to the square outside the Louvre where we stopped for coffee having arrived a bit early.  All gathered there at the designated time and our guide arrived minutes later, whisking us through some staff entrance, skipping all the queues in the giant pyramid topped centre.  Since people wished to see different artists and exhibitions, I took off on my own, heading to the Dutch section, the Scandinavian section, Egypt, Greece and Iran and planned the tour based on these locations.  So for three hours we all pottered around soaking up the grandeur and loveliness.  We met outside at 9pm just as the sun was setting.  There was a fareground in the gardens so with our museum weary feet, we drifted that direction, bottles of wine purchased nearby in hand, and sat between the ferris wheel and the fountain, chewing on sandwiches and swigging gulps of red.  We stayed until we could stay no longer and were shooed out by caretakers.  We drifted along the Seine for an hour or so, stopping eventually at a cluttered little bar where they sold €3 beer - no name, just 'beer'! It was quite nice despite its generic identity.  As the early hours of the morning crept in, we took our tipsy selves home. 

Day 4: there was nothing at all planned for Saturday.  Some talked of visiting the Eiffel Tower and other touristy things, but I've done all that tourist business on previous trips, so I declined, instead settling into a late morning sitting in the garden with a book, then doing the grocery shopping with Julie in the afternoon.  For the evening, I had plans to go see Midnight in Paris in the cinema that is featured in the film.  About a 20 minute stroll from the house.  It's been playing in the cinemas in Paris for many months now, but still the theatre was jam packed.  Lovely film, lovely experience, made even more lovely by being right in the centre of the film location.  Arrived home to find the gang splayed out in the garden, awaiting the arrival of the final members so they could begin to make the crepes and drink the cidre that Julie had bought from a tiny farm in Brittany near where her family has their second home.  It was every bit as delicious as she claimed - sweet, bubbly and refreshing.  I could have drank a gallon of the stuff!  After crepes and cidre, we took our full bellies out for a late night stroll, stopping on those Midnight in Paris steps again.  

Day 5: final day.  There is a fresh fruit, vegetable, flea market half an hour away across the river on weekends so four of us got up early enough to visit and buy vegetables.  The weather had turned; this day it was grey and drizzled intermittently, but pleasant in its own way.  If you've seen Midnight in Paris you'll understand!  We ambled around the market for an hour or so, then stopped at a grotty looking cafe for coffee.  We had skipped breakfast, knowing we could find some interesting foodstuffs at the market.  And we did.  I chose an Algerian delicatessen and ordered a sort of soft layered savoury pastry, filled with tomato and onion, then a sort of corn biscuit sandwich filled with pressed dates.  The others choose sandwiches and other odd pastry things from the various tiny shops dotted along the streets.  We headed home with some fresh fruit and vegetables.  We got home, packed and then headed out for one final Parisian coffee shop experience.  Up to a small cluttered square in the far reaches of the 5e arrondissement where we were genuinely shocked by the prices for the first time since arrival.  Truly a tourist trap, they were charging between €8 - €9.50 for a simple pastry, and that did not include coffee.  We eventually chose a small bakery on a corner which had some chairs outside and had some reasonably priced coffees and delicious pastries.  

All too soon it was time to say our goodbyes and head back underground along the weaving rails to Orly.  

Copenhagen postcard sent to Paris, Aug. 1935

At midnight the flight touched ground in torrential rain Denmark.  As the aircraft pulled up on the tarmac, an apologetic sounding pilot informed us that there was no sheltered exit walkway from the plane to the terminal available, and to make matters wetter, the entrance we pulled up by was undergoing repairs, so we would have to make a dash to the next one further away.  Needless to say I was saturated to the skin by the time I got indoors again.  You really do get what you pay for with budget airlines. 

C'est tout.

time is the fire in which we burn

Distortion

In the distance through the sweet night air, hummed and throbbed the pulse and hazy chorus of music and ambiance. Distortion had arrived and it brought people to the streets like ants milling out for a spill of picnic honey. Being a lover of the older rock and roll, the music held little appeal, but the non stop chatter about Distortion this and Distortion that peaked my curiosity enough to venture out to the city centre on Wednesday night.  The warm sun of the day settled behind the buildings and a balmy night of background music filled every sense with the true vibrance that only small cities like Copenhagen can capture.  Like a jar filled with sparkling fireflies; such was the beautiful feeling of a glistening night in this cosy city.  People filled every street corner, and bikes cluttered the patches of cobbled squares.  In every hand a drink, the other gesturing as the voices rose above the music and joyful expressiveness poured out of every beaming soul.  The music didn't seem to matter: if there was a blast of it nearby, bodies rocked and swayed to the bouncing rhythms, occasionally crescendoing into full throttle dance.  As the night played on, men casually peed in the streets, the flow of nature's call not interrupting the flow of conversation.  In any other context this might seem strange; but there is a casual easiness to this place, a looser sense of being human that pervades even that most natural but secretive functions.  Progress from one street to the next was slow. A thousand people drifting this way and that eased the pace to a meandering amble.  The quaint cobbled streets became sticky and beer cans rattled as unseeing feet knocked them.  Meanwhile the can collectors wandered around, eyeing the loot, and saved us from what I imagined would be wading ankle deep through a sea of empty green cans.

As the ground became stickier, the music now fading, my eyes became heavier: it was enough excitement for one day.  I took my leave at midnight, happy that I had experienced the street party that is Distortion.