There's so much more to say about Morocco, but since I got home I've been working on some assignments that are due this week (for which I am grateful). As a result I've been experiencing a certain sort of whiplash—emotional, psychic, intellectual—which reached critical mass during an interview for one of those assignments.
I'd sent an email interview request to Danielle Dimovski, a Canadian barbecue competitor (and champ) whose nom de 'que is Diva Q and when we got on the phone, she said, "Hey, are you the Elizabeth Hilts who wrote 'Getting In Touch With Your Inner Bitch?'" When I admitted I am that same Elizabeth Hilts, she told me she's a fan then asked me why, if I'd written that book, I was doing this piece (for which, again, I am grateful).
This is, of course, a question I ask myself fairly often. I ask this in spite of knowing that having published a book does not magically transform a writer's life, does not translate into financial stability, does not usher one through the automatic door to writing for "the big guys" (Vanity Fair has never called). When that book came out I had no idea how to parlay its existence into a big successful career, and I'm pretty sure I wouldn't know how to do that now.
So I take these assignments (for which, let me just reiterate, I am very grateful) and I do the best I can with them. And every once in a while someone knows my name because they've read one of the books or another article and I have to say, it's weird and it's wonderful and I guess the point is...I'm glad that life offers up these little surprises.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Moroccan Surprise
There are peepers on Rabat. A sound that changes the landscape in the moment of hearing—and recognizing—something familiar.
I Didn't Go To Rick's Cafe
Of course I didn’t sleep on the plane. I never can, in spite of having had a beer with “dinner,” such a nonevent all I remember for certain is a slab of Tilamook cheddar and a stunningly bland chicken cutlet. Oh, I made a good try at it—closing my book, shutting off the light, practicing deep breathing, even placing the complementary sleep mask over my eyes until they started to water at an alarming rate. So no sleep, which I’m regretting now, but at the time there was a gift involved.
The stars over the Atlantic were astonishing. Unsullied by manmade light (as long as I used the book to block out the strobing wing beacons), they sequined the sky. I couldn’t stop looking.
Traveling at well over 500 mph with a steady tailwind, by about 2 a.m. on my body clock the stars gave way to gray dawn and glimpses of the ocean under the clouds. Then a ship—red hulled, I think, the superstructure painted white, a plume of wake—and the first pinks and golds and blue of dawn and then, suddenly, there was the coast.
“Africa,” I said to the Danish doctor sitting beside me. After four days spent at JFK and a sleep tablet-induced nap he was…gratified, I think, to be a little bit closer to home. I watched as the dunes gave way to flatlands patchworked in shades of green.
It looks like nowhere else I’ve ever seen. As we descended I could make out adobe (is that right?) buildings, palm trees, trucks, cars, cows, cactus, people and then the runway. Down the portable staircase on to the tarmac and, during the short wait for the bus that would carry us to the terminal, I watched the wind toss the fronds of a stand of palm trees—they look like elegant pineapples. It’s humid in Casablanca, even when the wind is 7 a.m.-cool.
I won’t bother to describe waiting at the baggage claim—this is one universal hassle. I did get to witness the arrival of some sports team (I think it might have been…no, I have no idea which team it was) and the frenzied papparazi waiting for them as I sat with another member of the group drinking a benign cup of tea in the airport lounge
Because I am a guest, I settled into the back seat of a waiting Mercedes sedan and watched Morocco reveal absolutely nothing but these things:
A tractor on the airport service road towing a flat-bed on which sat seven men dressed in boots, long blue pants, sweatshirts or jackets
A donkey tethered in the shade of a small grove of stunted trees
A young man on a magnificent horse, cantering along the side of the road at the roundabout exit of the airport
Cows grazing just on the other side of the culvert as large trucks hauled payloads along the highway at 100kph—some of the trucks carried cattle; a smaller pickup was loaded with crates of remarkably scrawny live chickens.
Women in djelabas and head scarves walking over bridges that seemed to transit from one area of complete desolation to another.
Broad carpets of bright red poppies waving up and over gentle hillocks alongside some kind of grain and the unmistakable unfurling of corn stalks (way higher than an elephant’s eye on this April day).
Structures that looked like ruins until I realized each unit was topped with a satellite dish. There were also lines of laundry drying and I caught flashes of people (children? men? not women) on the roofs.
We drove through an orderly and gorgeous greenbelt (established in the 1980s by Morocco’s ruling monarch—I’ll have to look up his name because I’ve had no sleep). Then, suddenly, Rabat—the parts of which I saw remind me, somehow of Queens, but this is so NOT Queens.
The bottom line, so far (and I’ve only been here seven hours) is that Morocco is “sudden,” it’s beautiful and I don’t know a thing about it except that I like it pretty well.
More to come after I’ve slept.
The stars over the Atlantic were astonishing. Unsullied by manmade light (as long as I used the book to block out the strobing wing beacons), they sequined the sky. I couldn’t stop looking.
Traveling at well over 500 mph with a steady tailwind, by about 2 a.m. on my body clock the stars gave way to gray dawn and glimpses of the ocean under the clouds. Then a ship—red hulled, I think, the superstructure painted white, a plume of wake—and the first pinks and golds and blue of dawn and then, suddenly, there was the coast.
“Africa,” I said to the Danish doctor sitting beside me. After four days spent at JFK and a sleep tablet-induced nap he was…gratified, I think, to be a little bit closer to home. I watched as the dunes gave way to flatlands patchworked in shades of green.
It looks like nowhere else I’ve ever seen. As we descended I could make out adobe (is that right?) buildings, palm trees, trucks, cars, cows, cactus, people and then the runway. Down the portable staircase on to the tarmac and, during the short wait for the bus that would carry us to the terminal, I watched the wind toss the fronds of a stand of palm trees—they look like elegant pineapples. It’s humid in Casablanca, even when the wind is 7 a.m.-cool.
I won’t bother to describe waiting at the baggage claim—this is one universal hassle. I did get to witness the arrival of some sports team (I think it might have been…no, I have no idea which team it was) and the frenzied papparazi waiting for them as I sat with another member of the group drinking a benign cup of tea in the airport lounge
Because I am a guest, I settled into the back seat of a waiting Mercedes sedan and watched Morocco reveal absolutely nothing but these things:
A tractor on the airport service road towing a flat-bed on which sat seven men dressed in boots, long blue pants, sweatshirts or jackets
A donkey tethered in the shade of a small grove of stunted trees
A young man on a magnificent horse, cantering along the side of the road at the roundabout exit of the airport
Cows grazing just on the other side of the culvert as large trucks hauled payloads along the highway at 100kph—some of the trucks carried cattle; a smaller pickup was loaded with crates of remarkably scrawny live chickens.
Women in djelabas and head scarves walking over bridges that seemed to transit from one area of complete desolation to another.
Broad carpets of bright red poppies waving up and over gentle hillocks alongside some kind of grain and the unmistakable unfurling of corn stalks (way higher than an elephant’s eye on this April day).
Structures that looked like ruins until I realized each unit was topped with a satellite dish. There were also lines of laundry drying and I caught flashes of people (children? men? not women) on the roofs.
We drove through an orderly and gorgeous greenbelt (established in the 1980s by Morocco’s ruling monarch—I’ll have to look up his name because I’ve had no sleep). Then, suddenly, Rabat—the parts of which I saw remind me, somehow of Queens, but this is so NOT Queens.
The bottom line, so far (and I’ve only been here seven hours) is that Morocco is “sudden,” it’s beautiful and I don’t know a thing about it except that I like it pretty well.
More to come after I’ve slept.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Bon Voyage?
I'm preparing for a trip to Morocco. This is, of course, exciting. It is also, for me, somewhat fraught because I have what can only be called "a history" with leaving for unknown places with no control over...well, anything beyond my response to whatever happens.
Is there something meaningful about the fact that all I know for certain about this trip is that I have to be at the airport on Tuesday? My flight number, time of departure and destination is all the information I have; no idea of where I'll be staying, how I'm going to get from the airport to whatever hotel has been chosen for me, what I'll be doing for the four days I'll be in Rabat. All of this feels familiar in the worst possible way—for reasons I've recently been writing about.
The timing is significant because what could be better for a memoirist than having to confront a dynamic that vibrates on an emotional level?
I plan on posting during the trip. Because the writing is, always, the way I work things out.
Is there something meaningful about the fact that all I know for certain about this trip is that I have to be at the airport on Tuesday? My flight number, time of departure and destination is all the information I have; no idea of where I'll be staying, how I'm going to get from the airport to whatever hotel has been chosen for me, what I'll be doing for the four days I'll be in Rabat. All of this feels familiar in the worst possible way—for reasons I've recently been writing about.
The timing is significant because what could be better for a memoirist than having to confront a dynamic that vibrates on an emotional level?
I plan on posting during the trip. Because the writing is, always, the way I work things out.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
A Poll
Here's something I've been wondering: would you all hate it if there were ads on this blog? Would an attempt to "monetize" these random musings of mine offend you, would that cheapen the process?
Because, honestly, I've been thinking about it. But I thought I'd ask. So, let me know:
__ Yes, ads would destroy the purity of this endeavor to blow glass in public
__ No, I wouldn't mind because (a) I could ignore the ads and/or (b) what the heck, why not earn some money from your writing?
__ Really? You think I pay that much attention to your blog?
Thanks.
Because, honestly, I've been thinking about it. But I thought I'd ask. So, let me know:
__ Yes, ads would destroy the purity of this endeavor to blow glass in public
__ No, I wouldn't mind because (a) I could ignore the ads and/or (b) what the heck, why not earn some money from your writing?
__ Really? You think I pay that much attention to your blog?
Thanks.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Lost Hunting
The sign—made of dusky orange oak tag, large enough to catch the eye, sturdy enough to keep its shape in spite of the wind—was attached to the utility pole directly across from the intersection.
“Lost: One gray plastic bin, filled with hunting clothes.”
Not what one expects of a handmade sign displayed in this neighborhood, a residential area in a small Connecticut city 50 miles from Manhattan. The public notices around here are usually about missing pets or tag sales or offerings of firewood. Which is probably why I wondered about the story behind that sign all day.
Did the hunter meet up with his buddies— wait,why do I assume it is a “he?” Didn’t my great aunt Thelma love hunting, wasn’t she considered an ace shot? Have I bought in to the stereotype of hunter/gatherer roles so deeply that even in my imagination, those hunting clothes have been lost by a man? Perhaps. To be given ongoing consideration, but now, back to the hunter. Let us assume he was a man.
Did the hunter meet up with his buddies at the commuter lot around the corner, gathering before dawn to make the drive (north? upstate? further afield?) in one large vehicle, an SUV probably, or one of those pickup trucks with extended cab. They would have stowed the guns first, setting them into the cargo space carefully, practicing an abundance of caution in completing this task. Then they piled in, balancing their styrofoam vats of steaming hot coffee, one of them managing the bag of egg-cheese-meat-on-a-hard-roll sandwiches damp with steam and grease. They would wait just until they were pulling out of the commuter lot before distributing those sandwiches.
“Didn’t you want the sausage, Frank?”
“No, I’m ham.”
“Damn, there’s two sausage, one bacon, no ham.”
"I’ll take the sausage, but don’t tell my wife.”
"What happens in hunting, stays in hunting.”
“Hahahahaha, yeah.”
And the sandwich with the taboo sausage was passed over. In the confusion none of them would have cast a look back, noticed the gray plastic box left at the side of the now-empty parking space. (This is what makes me think the hunter was not a woman. A woman would have looked back. Of course, there’s a new layer of stereotype to consider.) On the damp morning pavement, the specific grayness melting into all the gray surrounding it.
Of course he would realize that his hunting clothes had been left behind when they got to the pulloff on the side of the road, just wide enough for two pickups. “Damn it!”
But why wasn’t he wearing his gear already?
Maybe that gray plastic bin, filled with hunting clothes, was lost during a move. One could imagine that it had been forgotten somehow in the turmoil of his moving out of the home he shared with his wife, on that last Saturday when they put asunder what God had made whole.
Or there’s a more benign explanation—it happened in one of the parking lots that line Route 1, as the purchases from one big box store or another was being loaded into the trunk of the car. He moved the bin (or she did) to make room, stowed the groceries, or new sheets and towels, or pet food; then he got into the car while she rolled the shopping cart to the corral, making her way back to the car through the narrow path between the rows of parking spaces. There was no car in the space before them, so he pulled ahead instead of backing out and the bin remained, obstructing access to the space until the some shopper with the patience (or desperate need to park) came long and moved the bin out of the way.
Perhaps he had put it on the roof of the car while he installed the child seat securely in the back seat then drove off. At some point—on a curve, as he made a turn, at a stop sign—the bin slid off, but he was distracted by a cranky child, or something on the radio, or a pretty young girl driving in the other direction.
There are so many ways to lose things.
“Lost: One gray plastic bin, filled with hunting clothes.”
Not what one expects of a handmade sign displayed in this neighborhood, a residential area in a small Connecticut city 50 miles from Manhattan. The public notices around here are usually about missing pets or tag sales or offerings of firewood. Which is probably why I wondered about the story behind that sign all day.
Did the hunter meet up with his buddies— wait,why do I assume it is a “he?” Didn’t my great aunt Thelma love hunting, wasn’t she considered an ace shot? Have I bought in to the stereotype of hunter/gatherer roles so deeply that even in my imagination, those hunting clothes have been lost by a man? Perhaps. To be given ongoing consideration, but now, back to the hunter. Let us assume he was a man.
Did the hunter meet up with his buddies at the commuter lot around the corner, gathering before dawn to make the drive (north? upstate? further afield?) in one large vehicle, an SUV probably, or one of those pickup trucks with extended cab. They would have stowed the guns first, setting them into the cargo space carefully, practicing an abundance of caution in completing this task. Then they piled in, balancing their styrofoam vats of steaming hot coffee, one of them managing the bag of egg-cheese-meat-on-a-hard-roll sandwiches damp with steam and grease. They would wait just until they were pulling out of the commuter lot before distributing those sandwiches.
“Didn’t you want the sausage, Frank?”
“No, I’m ham.”
“Damn, there’s two sausage, one bacon, no ham.”
"I’ll take the sausage, but don’t tell my wife.”
"What happens in hunting, stays in hunting.”
“Hahahahaha, yeah.”
And the sandwich with the taboo sausage was passed over. In the confusion none of them would have cast a look back, noticed the gray plastic box left at the side of the now-empty parking space. (This is what makes me think the hunter was not a woman. A woman would have looked back. Of course, there’s a new layer of stereotype to consider.) On the damp morning pavement, the specific grayness melting into all the gray surrounding it.
Of course he would realize that his hunting clothes had been left behind when they got to the pulloff on the side of the road, just wide enough for two pickups. “Damn it!”
But why wasn’t he wearing his gear already?
Maybe that gray plastic bin, filled with hunting clothes, was lost during a move. One could imagine that it had been forgotten somehow in the turmoil of his moving out of the home he shared with his wife, on that last Saturday when they put asunder what God had made whole.
Or there’s a more benign explanation—it happened in one of the parking lots that line Route 1, as the purchases from one big box store or another was being loaded into the trunk of the car. He moved the bin (or she did) to make room, stowed the groceries, or new sheets and towels, or pet food; then he got into the car while she rolled the shopping cart to the corral, making her way back to the car through the narrow path between the rows of parking spaces. There was no car in the space before them, so he pulled ahead instead of backing out and the bin remained, obstructing access to the space until the some shopper with the patience (or desperate need to park) came long and moved the bin out of the way.
Perhaps he had put it on the roof of the car while he installed the child seat securely in the back seat then drove off. At some point—on a curve, as he made a turn, at a stop sign—the bin slid off, but he was distracted by a cranky child, or something on the radio, or a pretty young girl driving in the other direction.
There are so many ways to lose things.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Witnessing Life Its Own Self
One of the joys of Facebook is that one sometimes reconnects with a special person from the past. This happened recently and, in addition to the particular pleasure of finding a friend again, I learned about an incredible project.
Richard Howe, artist and photographer—and truly great company in this great adventure of Life Its Own Self—has been working on "New York In Plain Sight," which is described as "a large-scale photographic survey of everyday life on Manhattan's great public commons—its streets and sidewalks."
It is magnificent in scope. It is fascinating. I highly recommend that anyone who loves NY, is interested in "the captured moment," or is simply interested in...well, life check it out.
Here's the link:
http://www.newyorkinplainsight.com/
Enjoy!
Richard Howe, artist and photographer—and truly great company in this great adventure of Life Its Own Self—has been working on "New York In Plain Sight," which is described as "a large-scale photographic survey of everyday life on Manhattan's great public commons—its streets and sidewalks."
It is magnificent in scope. It is fascinating. I highly recommend that anyone who loves NY, is interested in "the captured moment," or is simply interested in...well, life check it out.
Here's the link:
http://www.newyorkinplainsight.com/
Enjoy!
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