photo friday: fine dining

One of the best things about traveling to foreign countries is partaking of the local cuisine.

What?

I’ve never seen this flavor in the U.S.

Ergo, local.

And yes, if you must know, I do consider potato chips to be cuisine.

photo friday: spicy

I can take or leave shopping.

Unless you’re talking foodstuffs.

In which case what time are we leaving?

Seriously, what time?

You know what? I’ll just go wait in the car until you’re ready to go.

Needless to say when Turner suggested we take an overnight trip to Marrakech, and part of that trip was for the sole purpose of procuring spices, I practically pushed her out of the way and ran toward the door yelling, “SHOTGUN!”

So after enjoying a breakfast on the roofdeck of our riad, Turner and I wound our way through the Marrakech medina, because that’s the only way you can walk through a medina. MOROCCANS HAVE NO CONCEPT OF SYMMETRICAL STREET GRIDS. It’s all one f-ing maze after another, I tell you. Maddening, except that when you’re wandering you might suddenly find yourself in the middle of an open air market surrounded by vendor upon vendor hawking an array of colored spices that would make Rainbow Brite weep with jealousy.

I wanted to buy kilos of everything, even if I didn’t know what they were for. But I thought that might look a little suspicious at customs, so I settled on a small bag of pungent orange powder that Turner dubbed “Fadma’s Mix.” (Fadma being the woman who comes to cook and clean for them twice a week.)

I haven’t used the spice yet since I’ve been back, but I  have a feeling that once I start I won’t be able to stop. I’M LOOKING AT YOU, TRADER JOE’S COUS COUS.

pick up artist

I was warned before I went over.

“People are going to stare at you,” Turner said. “You’re tall and very pale. They’re going to stare at you a lot.”

To be honest, I didn’t really notice people staring at me, but that was probably because I was too busy either A) staring back at them, or 2) staring at some lovely mosaic or architecture, or III) distracted by shiny, colorful objects that seemed to be everywhere, or #) too busy buying pottery to notice.

What I did notice, however, were the pickup lines.

As we squeezed our way through the crowded streets of the different medinas*the lines would sometimes come fast and furious, and other times would be nothing more than a hiss.

Because hissing is sexy! Hissing definitely makes me want to make out with you, lover!

Each day became a game to see if the next pick up line could top one from the day before. They were all just so…so…incredible, in their phrasing, in their individuality, in their mastery of the English language. **

While the quantity of lovely affirmations thrown our way was admirable, there were really only a few gems of quality in the mix.

There was the man who called out plaintively, wistfully, as we trekked back to our car, ready to head out of Marrakech, “Oh! Goodbye my ladies! You are my dream!”

And there was the man who asked slyly, “You want my schwarma?” (He won points for creativity and play on words.)

And let’s not forget the man who discretely chucked a Clementine peel at me. Errm…huh. Wait, maybe he wasn’t trying to pick me up.

There was also the man who asked with a leer, “You want to suck my cock?” which I originally misheard as “You want to smell my cock?”*** (Either way, no thank you.)

But the best line of all that we heard was in Fes, and was short and to the point. The young man looked at Turner, raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders at her querying simply:  “Moroccan husband?”

Turner declined politely.

She didn’t think her American husband would appreciate her saying otherwise.

 

*I swear, you’d think all I did on my trip was wander through the various medinas. It’s only half-true. The other half of the time was sitting on the couch watching Gossip Girl.

**We were told by many people that they’d learned to speak English by watching American movies.

***Either way, I’d like to know which American movie he learned THAT one from.

10 thoughts on how to become an international travel guru

Now that I have leapt over the hurdle of international travel for the first time in 12 years, I think it’s safe to say that I am a World Class Traveler (WCT), and I’d like you to address me as such.

In fact, I think I might change the name of this blog from McPolish to WCT McPolish, just so the magnitude of my accomplishment can be noted daily in your Google Readers and blogrolls.

(Pulls out pen and makes note to self. “For March—continue to be amazing.”)

That in mind, I’d like to share with you some of the profound thoughts I had about travel while on my overnight flight to Paris. You might want to take notes.

1. Air France might be the only civilized airline left. Yes, I will have a glass of your free French white wine, thank you, flight attendant.
2. Reading my travel book on Morocco would be a good idea. I can highlight some of the sights and cities I’d like to see, maybe some of the…. Ooo! Look! I can watch Bridget Jones’ Diary!
3. Why don’t Americans wear paper crowns at Christmas?
4. This wine is pretty tasty for being airline wine.
5. I really like you, second-free-bottle-of-wine-no-questions-asked, just as you are.
6. Zzzzzzz…
7. Holy Jesus, I need some water.
8. OMG, WHERE’S MY PASSPORT? WHERE THE HELL…Oh…whew. Never mind.
9. I love this Pick-Your-Own movie function they’ve got going here.
10. OMG, Sex & the City 2 is the stupidest fucking movie I’ve ever seen.

And that, my friends, is how you do international travel. Feel free to contact me with any other questions you may have, such as “Why shouldn’t I tell the customs agents I’m a journalist?” or “As a lady, how do you use a Turkish toilet without peeing on yourself?” Now that I am so insightful and so, well, world class, in my travel, I look forward to sharing my wise knowledge with you all.

You’re welcome.

how you say delicious?

Dear Morocco,

Now  that we’ve met and spent some time together, I have to tell you something:

I love you.

I love you for many reasons, which are too numerous to name here (and some, as you know, are quite personal [iloveyousomuchcheapeyebrowthreadingandbikiniwaxing]), but there is one thing I wanted to point out specifically.

I love your French influence.

I also love your goat-leather bags, argan oil, and the ability to buy my weight in pottery for the low, low American equivalent of $42, but those are different stories for a different time.

French influence! Right! Because if the French know how to do one thing right, it’s pastries and baguettes.

Okay, that’s two things, actually.

Oh, and cheese and wine.

Three…four…wow, the French are really racking up some points here.

Anyway, thank you for accepting* the French influence into your culture, Morocco. Without it, there would not be the scrumptious boulangerie and patisserie tucked into the outer limits of La Bel Vie grocery store. And without said boulangerie and patisserie, named Paul, there would be no chocolate chip sponge cake with a coin-sized dollop of ganache in the middle, no éclair perfectly proportioned to split with a friend for an rich treat, except come on, let’s be honest, you don’t really want to share that long pastry stuffed with smooth chocolate mousse, no freshly baked whole grain bread to slather with peanut butter and jam in the morning.

And thus, nothing to indulge on while you take a break from learning about a new culture so you can watch the entire first season of Gossip Girl.

And without all of that?

Well, life would just be sad.

And there’s already so much sadness in the world, Morocco. Sadness that not everyone has a Paul near them. Sadness that I cannot eat baguettes all day, every day. Sadness that I don’t have season two of Gossip Girl on DVD, and must wait for Netflix to deliver it to me.

One tear.

So thank you, Morocco, for your French influence. It made my adventure that much tastier.

Love,

McPolish

*Accepted, forced to inculcate because of French protectorate status, whatever.

it’s what’s for dinner

I find, when traveling, it’s always best to try and cross Life or New Years Goals off your list at the same time.

Okay, that’s pretty much a load of bullshit. Half the time when I travel it’s all I can do to figure out what g-d time zone I’m in and what currency I should be using. And considering my recent trip to Morocco was the first time I’ve been out of the country in 12 years, that’s really saying something. Nothing good, of course, but at least it’s something.

Or something.

Surprisingly, I managed to use the correct currency on this trip, though the time zone thing—and time in general—eluded me most of the time I was in Africa, seeing as how I don’t wear a watch, my cell phone wasn’t working, and it seems that Morocco is not really a country that is preoccupied with making sure clocks are readily visible.

But back to my point: I managed to cross off one of my goals for this year, which was to eat one new meat.

(Also, credit for placing this goal on the list in the first place goes to The Swede, because it was actually something on his list that I liked so much that I adopted it to my own list.)

After we’d toured a couple of places outside the Fes medina, we headed a short way through the winding, crowded streets to Café Clock, which I’d been told was THE place for camel burgers. The restaurant was down a dark, narrow alley, which I didn’t think would bode well in the end, but it, in fact, did. The restaurant stretched up, up, up, and we climbed to the top, picking a table on the roofdeck in the shade.

Turner wanted nothing to do with the camel burger except to take pictures of me eating it.

Which is good, because when you accomplish a goal there should always be photographic proof whenever possible.

And you should look happy while doing it too, dammit.

Truth: Camel burgers taste very similar to lamb, IMHO. And This Girl loves her some lamb. And now camel, apparently.

I ate the whole thing.

Though next time, I’d do without the “Taza ketchup” (the jam-looking dollop on top, which was sweet and made of…I have no idea what).

One new meat? Check.

guest post: love child: europe’s gems from mr. steves, part 2

Yesterday McPolish brought you Part 1 of Stephanie’s love for Rick Steves. And what is a Part 1 without a Part 2? So here you are, dear Interwebers, and don’t forget to check out Steph’s musings on her blog. (And if you’re cooking-inclined…or cooking declined, for that matter, check out The Cookbook Club for some tasty eats.)

A recap from Part 1: I love Rick Steves. My husband doesn’t mind too much because of all the treasures we’ve found in Europe thanks to Rick’s books. I will now share with all of you lovely readers our best and most awesome finds, aka the love child.

Amsterdam: Bed and Breakfast Amsterdam (Tulips) is amazing, a great deal, and it’s really a pleasant place to stay. Nothing fancy, but for the price it is more than we expected. Although it is far from the city center, it’s a pleasant walk through Amsterdam’s main park. Be sure to drink lots of the complimentary Bessen Jenever (black currant liqueur). For a ridiculously cheap (but filling) lunch, head to the Atrium University Cafeteria, which is right near the middle of town and a great deal. If you want a cozy spot for a beer or tea, head to Café T’Smalle, which is situated right on one of Amsterdam’s picturesque canals. Sit right at the water, sip your tea, and enjoy the slow relaxed pace of this hidden gem.

Belgium: In Brussels we highly recommend eating as many waffles as you possibly can stomach. It is so touristy, but it is very delicious. For a really chill and fun dinner, head to La Fin de Siecle, which is more of a bar than restaurant. The prices are really reasonable and the food was good. The atmosphere is the best part. In Bruges (you must go to Bruges!) check out L’Estimanet for lunch. Situated next to a park, the décor is so old world cozy you’ll feel like you’re in a European movie. The food is well priced and tastes good and it’s packed with locals, not tourists.

Paris: One thing you may find while in Paris is that at some point you’ll want to throw up your hands and scream and just be away from the crowds and stench and tourist traps. At Chez Georges on the Left Bank you can do just that (but maybe don’t scream). It’s a bar a short way off the well beaten path and you can sit and have a quiet (and ridiculously cheap) glass of rosé and talk to the friendly bartender in broken French as he speaks to you in broken English. No pretense in this place.

York: I loved every city we visited in England, but for some reason the time we spent in York was most memorable. The whole city is a gem. Stay at Number 34 B&B and enjoy a comfortable and friendly night’s sleep. If you really want to save money on lunch, head to church. In a tiny church hall called St. Crux Parish Hall in All Saints Pavement Church, groups from around the region come and serve hot lunches for ridiculously low prices. You’ll end up sitting with locals and most likely hearing some very interesting stories. After lunch in the church you may be thirsty for a pint, head to Blue Bell one of the most authentic British pubs we went to and packed with locals.

Portree, Isle of Skye, Scotland: No matter where else you go when you’re in the U.K., make a trip up to the Isle of Skye in Scotland. It will blow your mind. It is by far one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever visited. The tourism industry is big there, but the tourists are all British or European. We stayed at Ben Tianavaig B&B and everything about it was perfect—the view, the large size of our room, the breakfast, the owners, the location.

Luckily my conspicuous love for Mr. Steves has done no damage to my marriage, and I think it’s in large part due to the amazing adventures my husband and I have had in Europe so far. Next up, Italy, Spain and the Mediterranean coast (date to be determined).

guest post: love story: an unlikely duo, part 1

Today’s post comes from my good friend Stephanie, who originally hails from Louisiana, now lives in Maryland, and is the founder of The Cookbook Club, a club of which I am a member, despite having made only one of the multiple recipes over the last few months. (Steph doesn’t seem to mind, however, that I’m a slacker.) (Thank God!) She’s a double rockstar, not only for agreeing to guest post for me, but for giving me TWO PARTS to her post. Which means you, dear Interwebers, get a bonus read this week. For now, here’s part 1, with part 2 coming tomorrow. Read more of Stephanie’s travel adventures, thoughts on life and LSU football on her blog.

Europe was always a magical continent to me. Despite many pathetic pleas to my parents during my childhood, we never made a family vacation across the pond, which meant the extent of my foreign travel by the time I graduated college was Mexico, Canada, and the Caribbean. Then I married a man from Eastern Europe—and, no, I didn’t marry him just because it was a guarantee that we’d travel (at the very least) to his home country.

We did travel to his home, Ukraine, a year after we were married and it was one of the most incredible traveling experiences I ever had. But that’s not what today’s guest post is about.

Nope, it’s about my unabashed love for Rick Steves.

The next year, armed with my fancy We the People U.S. passport, we decided to travel to the United Kingdom. My husband was presenting at a conference in Newcastle, and so we made it a two-week tour of the British isle. This is when I met and fell in love with Mr. Steves.

I didn’t actually meet him, but I was introduced to his books by a well-traveled friend. I pored over his books for months before the trip—the London edition, United Kingdom, England, Scotland—and, with very little hesitation, booked his recommended bed and breakfasts and even altered our destinations based on his tips.

Photo credit: Ricksteves.com, with some photoshopping by Stephanie.

It was a leap of faith that I was taking. But for some reason, I trusted him. I photocopied his walking tours, I stuffed two of the books in my tiny suitcase (hubby and I only travel with carry-ons) and crossed my fingers that this Rick guy knew what he was doing.

Our trip was phenomenal. Every walking tour we did (in London, York, and Edinburgh) was a lesson in history, culture and random trivia. Every bed and breakfast he recommended was fantastic with really interesting owners. Every restaurant we visited (and subsequently saved tons of money at) had decent British food for reasonable prices. Rick was a hit.

Not surprisingly the next year when we decided to do Amsterdam, Belgium and Paris, I turned to Rick. Not only are his recommendations for lodging, eating, shopping and touring spot on, but he also has invaluable tips about getting around cities and learning essential phrases—dank u wel, alstublieft.

Thanks to Mr. Steves, we discovered some gems in Europe, whether it was the cheapest (and pretty darn good) meal in town, the best place to stay, or the easiest way to travel from point A to B. I will share some of those with you…in part 2. Stay tuned.

guest post: 7 things i love (and hate) about morocco

By the time you read this, I will have (hopefully) arrived in Rabat and have started wreaking havoc on North Africa. (Fingers crossed!)

But since I didn’t want to deprive you of goodfuntimes on McPolish, let me introduce you to the lovely Megan from Best of Fates, who is our first guest poster of the week. I’ve been reading Megan’s blog for some time now, and I’ll be the first to tell you she has some amazing stalking skills when it comes to woodland creatures.  When you’re done reading about her Moroccan adventures here, I highly encourage you to head on over to her site to see what foibles and follies she’s been up to lately.

 

 

Morocco and I have had our ups and downs. Our ins and outs. Our compliments and catcalls. Our bikinis and burqinis.

But when I think back to our time together, I do so with joy and love and sometimes, annoyance.

In honor of our very special relationship, I present 7 things I love (and hate) about Morocco:

1. Camels

Camels are awesome. They’re big and snuggly and have the most gorgeous eyelashes you can imagine. I’ve never met one who spits, and they’re always up for shadow photo shoots.

But… how flexible are your inner thigh muscles? ‘Cause camels are wide.

Real wide.

2. Mosaics

North Africa is filled with gorgeous floor mosaics that are beautifully preserved. There’s something magical about touching and walking across ancient Roman ruins.

But… it’s best if you go see them now. ‘Cause though I love that I’m given the freedom to walk on/touch the ancient colored tiles there’s only so many people who can do so before every site starts resembling a freshman dorm hall bathroom.

A male freshman dorm hall bathroom.

3. Food

Moroccan food is delicious. Couscous, lentils, chicken, homemade bread, melon – all foods taste better in Morocco. Especially anything made in a tajine. I’m drooling just thinking about it. Which is quite unfortunate for my keyboard.

But… see that drink in the above photo? Think it’s milk? It’s not. Rather, it’s milk that isn’t completely a liquid. Known as leban, it haunts my nightmares to this day.

4. Tanneries.

An ancient tradition of dying that is still used in Moroccan cities, tanneries provide vibrant colors and educational tours and is a sudden reminder that you’re in another country..

But… some of those vats contain pigeon poop. And if you’re staying anywhere within a few mile radius of a tannery you’re going to discover that for yourself.

(It smells.)

(Bad.)

5. The Souk

Most dating back thousands of years, each Moroccan souk has its own flavor and specialty. It’s where you’ll go to buy bread and fabric and souvenirs. Half the men you encounter in the souk will persistently try and sell you something and the other half will try to sell you themselves – though don’t get married for less than 1,000 goats. A gal’s gotta have some standards.

But… don’t expect everything sold in a souk to be made in Morocco. Despite the proprietor’s objections, that “Made in China” label is probably a clue.

6. Vistas

The Atlas mountains, the Sahara Desert, the Atlantic Ocean and all the places in between – Morocco has a vast variety of things to see. Some are awe inspiring (like the desert), some are gorgeous (like the coast), some are sketchy (like Tangier) and some are just overrated (like Casablanca).

But… it’s not possible to see them all in one week, or one month, or even a whole summer. That’s why I’ll always look back and regret having never viewed goats climbing trees.

(Yes, Morocco has goats that climb trees.)

(Or so I’ve heard.)

7. Architecture

Everywhere you look in Morocco there are doorways that look like this.

And this. And thousands of other photos I could show you, until eventually you’d stop being impressed and start expecting everything around you to be painstakingly carved or painted or tiled.

But… those expectations are going to be dashed if, like me, Morocco isn’t your home and eventually you’ll have to leave.

Did I forget to tell you about people?

‘Cause they’re amazing

So that’s inexcusable,

Megan

photo friday: taking off

Tonight I’ll board a plane and fly to Paris, board a different plane, and fly to Rabat.

At least, I think that’s what’s going to happen.

It’s kind of hard to tell sometimes, particularly when your plane ticket is in French, and your four years of high school French have long since left your brain, and the closest you come to speaking French on a regular basis these days is ogling Moet et Chandon at the liquor store.

Somewhere, Madame Riley is shaking her head and tut-tutting at me right now.

Je suis désolée, Madame Riley. Je suis très, très désolée.

Anyway, fear not, Interwebers, I’ve got some of my favorite people—who happen to also be bloggers—lined up to steer the helm of McPolish next week (as well as a bonus posting for this month’s Cake Slice Bakers), so you’ll still have a nice distraction to read on your lunch hour.

You’re welcome.

Bon voyage (to myself?), my dear Interwebers. When we meet again I will be full of stories and duty free liquor.