Where's Blair?

Doyle and Jaafar heroically joined Annie and me in Morocco to set off on an adventure across the southern part of the country, from Casablanca to Essaouira to Marrakech to the Sahara desert. I was so delighted and grateful for the excellent company and we had so many vibrant experiences that I could ramble on for days. But I’m already several countries behind in this blog, so a listicle is in order.

10. Ramparts at Sunset

Annie, Ryan, and I had arranged a driver to take us from Casablanca to Essaouira on our first full day. He turned out to be the best tourguide we had in Morocco. When he saw us passing around a cheat sheet of Arabic phrases that Maryam had prepared, he laughed, snatched it from, and told us how to say them the Moroccan way, all while mostly keeping his eyes on the road. He told us facts about the country throughout and then gave us excellent local tips for Essaouira. One of his best pieces of advice was to head to the roof of Hotel des les Ramparts, where’d we have a perfect view of sunset and free access to the live music at the bar below. Now united with Jaafar, we toasted and marveled at the fact that we were all together looking back towards America from the other side of the Atlantic.

9. Hiking to the Ruins of a Sultan’s Palace

Our first day in Essaouira, we ventured out of the buzzing fortified old city, medina, and crossed the beach to find the ruins of a sultan’s palace. We walked with our feet in the water until we reached the mouth of dried river, then turned inland. Only the corner lookout towers and a small central structure remain, buried under sand and scrub brush, evoking a mysterious lost world.

8. Shopping at the Source

I’m not really a shopper on vacation. It’s just not usually how I want to spend my time or money. But in Morocco, we were taken to small towns of artisans where we watched young boys throw clay pots then stick them in white hot mud kilns, an old man painting with ink that was invisible until you scorched the paper with a flame, a grandmother patiently cupping our hands show us how to make yarn then expertly integrating our flimsy threads into her masterwork carpet, and all-women co-op smashing argan nuts into oil to make every lotion and cosmetic under the sun. We even got the hang of haggling by the end – or some very skillful negotiators let us think that we did anyway. Special shoutout to Annie who juggled no fewer than 10 different ceramics on the plane ride home …we may have gone a bit overboard….

7. An Old Fashioned Scrub Down

On the last day, before flying out of Casablanca, Annie and I experienced our first hamman, a traditional steamroom situation. I was not prepared for what I was getting into. We were not sure if we should get fully naked or not, so ended up in paper thongs. Two women arrived and marched us into a dark steam room, telling us to lie down on the hot stone benches. That was the last command we understood. Lying in the thick fog, suddenly we were hit by a stream of water, then pushed over onto our backs and slathered with with sandpapery black soap. Then, just like that the two women were gone and we lay there for a while trying to suppress our giggles. Then, we Silence-of-the-Lambs got the hose again! And next they were dragging us up to our feet and giving us orders in Arabic which we pathetically, accidentally kept doing the opposite of, probably. At this point, all four of us were laughing hysterically, the women in charge included, as they pushed and pulled limbs to scrub us down everywhere – and I mean everywhere – with rough oven mitt-like gloves. I suddenly remembered what it was like to be a baby being dipped in a bathtub. Or, no, maybe it was more like when I give Dover and Fennel an aggressive sudzing on the stoop after they’ve rolled in something foul in Rock Creek. Finally, we were rolled up into towels and dropped on chairs in warmroom cackling, unsure of what had just happened. Anyway – wow – it was an experience. No photos please.

6. Tagines, More Tagines, and the Rare Non-Tagine

We ate very well in Morocco. And I don’t just mean well like delicious, I mean well like hearty, largely owing to the fact that almost every lunch and dinner was fragrant, spicy, thick stews cooked and served in colorful tagines.

One of the best meals was one we had the pleasure of cooking ourselves at Amal Cooking School, which primarily serves women and girls looking to gain culinary certifications so they can make a somewhat independent living – the goal is about $350/ month. The institute is outside the ramparts of the old city, situated in a beautiful garden of bright green grass, palms, and pink and yellow flowers. Jaafar and Doyle made a chicken tagine with olives and preserved lemon. Annie and I made a fish tagine, elaborately covered with layers of bright vegetables and colorful spices. We put our tagines on the fire and bellowed away, then had coffee and futzed around in the garden for a while, then raided the herbs to prepare for a traditional tea ceremony, and eventually, hours later, we were allowed to enjoy our creations.

Non-tagine culinary highlights included:

5. Spectacular Riads

Morocco is known for its guesthouses, riads, generally consisting of palatial rooms surrounding a lush open courtyard with a pool or fountain. I love a good hotel and will obsess over finding the best room in the best one for the best price for months before a trip. So, sorting through the embarrassment of riches here was simultaneously my dream and my worst nightmare. I changed our reservations probably at least a dozen times, but in the end I was very happy where we landed.

My favorite spot was Riad Baladin in Essaouira for its boho chic M.C. Esher rooftop, perfect location next to the ramparts, and fantastic host who organized all our transfers and gave great local tips. Plus, they had a very fun card game for our evenings.

In Marrakech, we stayed at Riad Bamileke, which had a fabulous main suite covered in elaborate mosaics and wood carvings in the style of its architectural contemporary, Bahia Palace.

We opted to splurge a bit on our desert adventure which landed us at Dar Hnini in the Draa Oasis, where we had our own villas, complete with deliciously freezing plunge pools, tucked away among hedges of tropical flowers. Then, on arrival in the grand dunes of the Sahara at Erg Chegaga, we slept in in a row of upscale beduoin tents at the aptly named Desert Luxuy Camp.

Back in Marrakech for a final night, we were lead to Riad Julines by a very kind woman who found us wandering lost with all our suitcases in the not-so-touristy part of the medina. We were greeted by the extremely friendly riad kitten, Mish Mish, who hung out with us for the evening until he got distracted and somehow fell in the lovely courtyard pool. Don’t worry, he was back in good form at breakfast, just a little fluffier for his strife.

4. Crossing the Atlas Mountains

Towards the end of our trip, we arranged for a three day tour over the Atlas Mountains and into the Sahara. I knew that the desert would be the highlight of the trip, but I wasn’t expecting the journey across the mountains to be so fascinating.

We crossed through so many diverse landscapes, from epic canyons, to clay cliffs in pine forests, hardpacked grey moonscapes to bright green palms set against a purple table mountain. Around every turn, a new world.

Hands down the highlight of the mountains is the ancient Amazigh village of Ait Benhaddou. A series of interconnected mudbrick kasbahs, built up a steep hillside, dotted with palm trees and a sunset-like spectrum of flowers and separated from the world by an ocassionally flooded riverbed, you may not know it’s name, but I guarantee you’ve seen it.

From Game of Thrones to Gladiator to the Mummy, it seems any time Hollywood wants to evoke a 1,001 Nights dreamscape, they are here, nevermind whether it’s supposed to be the Maghreb or the Levant, Arabia or Persia. Honestly, I was not expecting to be quite as giddy about the movie-production angle of this historic wonder, but we cooed over the guide’s photos of himself and his friends as the Unsullied, Saladin’s army, and Trojan soldiers. Like, you have to admit it would be so fun to get to spend a few days each year dressed up in Hollywood-grade period piece costumes playing pretend with your besties and neighbors. Plus, serving as its own union, the town negotiates group contracts for all the extras and sets to best serve the locals. 

We also learned a lot from our guide about Amazigh culture, (sometimes known as Berbers, though that is just one subset of traditionally nomadic indigenous people). Amazigh means “Free People,” symbolized by the “Free Man” symbol on their flag. In fact, the Amazigh dedicate a full two letters of their alphabet to symbols meaning the free man and the free woman, which speaks to their priorities. Amazigh people converted to Islam long ago, however, according to our guide, it is only in recent years that the government has increased forced assimilation, proscribing traditional face tattoos and requiring all newborns be given Muslim names.

3. Sandboarding by the Light of the Full Moon

I had really been looking forward to seeing the stars in the desert but we ended up there during a full moon. That, however, provided the amazing benefit of a fully illuminated nightscape, allowing us to set out into the dunes and try our luck sandboarding. The sand is much slower than snow, so it only took one run each to realize that the only winning strategy was to just bomb it down the slope. Happily, the sand is also quite soft on the bum!

2. Marrakech Bike Party

Folks, if you are here, you probably know that I love the monthly DC Bike Party. The music, the atmosphere, the exercise, the anarchy. Of course, this is high on my list of things I am sad to miss during my months of traveling. So, imagine my delight when Doyle booked us a bike tour in Marrakech and it turned out to provide that same level of sketchy urban chaos. We dodged tourists and motorbikes in the souk, cruised through the ancient gates of the medina walls, and were briefly swept along in traffic on the wide avenues of the new city. What a hoot!

1. Saharan Sunset

Abdullah, our patient driver on the desert tour was not great at keeping us on schedule but he was great at driving fast, so despite our shopping and dilly-dallying we made it to the desert just an hour before sunset. We quickly hopped on four camels and were led out to the base of a mountain of sand. We hoofed it up, trudging through thick powder, learning that the best spot to walk was right on the tippity top of a ridge for maximum compactness, and finally cresting right as the ruby red sun hit the horizon sending a prism of color across the sea of sand. The scene was majestic and to be all the way out there with three of my most beloved people in the world was absolutely overwhelming. We are just so lucky!

Bonus: Jaafar with Cats

They just can’t get enough of this dude! (Must be the hat.)

My alone time Sicily came to an end when Annie joined me in Palermo. The morning before she arrived, I drove to San Vito lo Capo. The beach town has a gorilla-shaped mountain looming over it which had been beconing me from the window of the Tuna Tower. The town is a few streets of low rectangular buildings with garlands and tea lights strung between. It reminded me of Merida or other pre-Riveria Maya Yucatan towns, set on a white sand beach with sapphire clear waters. I made a note that it would be a good place to spend a few days on a future trip.

After scooping Annie at the airport, we headed to downtown Palermo. This time I was ready for the ZTL – I had pre-registered the car to be allowed to enter and paid ahead for parking near our hotel on a special app. Of course, when we arrived, after spending a full five minutes trying to interpret the arcane signage, I realized that the ZTL is open on Saturdays anyway. Foiled again.

We set out on a crawl across the old city for culinary treats. Creative cocktails behide the apse of the duomo at Ferramenta, Tunisian specialities at La Traviata, and of course, gelato at Paradice. It was Saturday night and the locals were out in full force in the main square. We followed a bread crumb trail of pro-Palestian graffitti cartoons, until they led us to socialist Narnia: a bar, library, art space and mutual aid club in the courtyard of an old palazzo. I tried to excavate vocabulary from my poli-sci class at Universita di Firenze to eavesdrop a little, but couldn’t get up the courage to join a conversation. We fell back out of the wardrobe enchanted and ended the night chatting at a bustling amaro cantina where patrons spilled out onto the street.

In the morning, we had a fresh breakfast at Ecologia Bistro – a welcome break from the hotel-provided spreads of pastries, breads, and more breads, then piled into the Dover-mobile and picked our way of Palermo’s bustle to cross over the rocky mountains towards the southern coast. On arrival in Agrigento, we explored the Valley of Temples, which is not a valley at all but does indeed have many Greek temples. I was most impressed with the scale of the Temple of Zeus. Though it’s all crumbled, the person-sized fluting on the columns give truth to archaeologists’ contention that it was once seven stories tall.

Templed out and exhausted we grabbed some arancine balls. Note that on this half of the island they are called arancine (one arancina) but in Catania, Cefalu, and Taormina, they are arancini/ arancino. I had been specifically admonished not to get it twisted or I might get my risotto ball Soup Nazi denied. A tee-shirt in Palermo referred to this long-running civil war as “Sicilian Gender Problems.” (I can’t believe we didn’t buy that.)

Just before sunset, we arrived at our agritourismo, Mandrova, a working olive oil farm with a complex of gorgeous stone guest houses set in a dry tropical garden. A sweet german shepherd named Lara spearheaded the welcome party. Her eyes were a little abnormally close together and she couldn’t stop chasing her own shadow. We snuck her the leftover arancine. The chef, one half of the couple who owns the farm, knocked my socks with dinner, starring what I can only describe as chicken bacon. Later on, Annie beat me at chess in a cozy stone living room.

The next day, we explored three different beaches looking for a place to swim. Each was far too windy and rough but they provided a diversity of landscapes for short hikes.

Our second agritourismo was high up in mountains away from the coast, a stone farmhouse tucked into a forest improbably made up primarily of pine trees and cacti. We were very taken with the witchy vibes and despite the chill, Annie bravely jumped in the pool with me.

The main thing to do in the high village of Piazza Armerina is visit the ancient Roman Villa. Because of it’s location away from the sea and because it was probably covered by a landslide, the manor is filled with incredibly ornate, perfectly preserved mosaics. The centerpiece is a long hallway showing the owner’s vast exotic animal trading empire. I was devastated by a section showing how they would capture baby tigers by distracting the mother with a mirrored disc. My favorite was the women working out at the gym, called the bikini girls. Notice the ancient game of peg!

Our next stop was Ragusa Ibla, another pile of houses and churches that seem to barely balance on top of a steep cliff. The town was destroyed by an earthquake then completely rebuilt in Renaissance Baroque-stlye. We took a tour of some gilded age buildings, an elite “conversation circle,” a palazzo, and a Sicilian cart workshop, ate a few good meals, and enjoyed the view of the old city from our balcony.

We passed briefly through Noto, another Baroque town, on our way to our final stop in Sicily, Siracusa.

The old city in Siracusa, Ortigia, is an island labyrinth of Greek ruins, Roman monuments, museums, excellent restaurants, and secret swim spots tucked below the ramparts. We spent several hours at a cocktail bar perched over the lit up columns of the temple of Apollo, charmed by the views, tone-poem menu, and a waiter with the magical ability to make me enjoy gin.

Remembering that we should probably eat dinner too, we found a creative French fusion spot towards the end of the island with a similarly enchanting host and then meandered back through the stone streets cheerfully cooing at every street cat. Okay, we were a little litski, but we can credit Oritigia’s atmosphere for at least half of the intoxication. I highly recommend it.

The next evening, we said goodbye to the Dover-mobile, ZTLs, and arancinx and boarded our flight across the Mediterranean to Casablanca.

Soccer, I miss you and I see you everwhere.

I’m halfway through my travels and it’s been a minute since my last post! I am having less time for writing and reflection that I had thought. I’ve had friends and family join me along the way and each night when I get back to wherever I’m sleeping, I’m exhausted. That is a good feeling too. But now, I have a backlog of places to tell you about – so I’d better get into it!

After my time in Greece, I took a short flight to Catania. I’ve already written about my rental car fiasco, so suffice to say I picked up a cute little black Peugeot and instantly assigned it Dover’s personality. That tracked well, it turned out. Like Dover, it was bossy; it would make angry bubble noises at me if I went over the speed limit. And like Dover chasing a squirrel on walk, it would jerk me back into my lane if I drifted, even if I was swerving to dodge Italian drivers.

Anyway, the little buggy did well and it wasn’t long before I arrived in Taormina. When planning this trip I had been on the fence about whether to visit this place, despite it’s reputation as the most beautiful town in Sicily. Why? Because it was the setting for season two of The White Lotus and I assumed that would bring with it throngs of a certain type of tourist whom I would rather avoid.

All things turned out to be true. Taormina was unfortunately crowded during the day when cruise ships docked in Catania and carted up thousands of slow walkers decked out in lemon pattern ponchos. The central street, Corso Umberto, alternates between Greek ruins, heavy Norman churches, Baroque towers, and ornate flower potted balconies, but if you take time to look up, you’ll probably fall under the stampede. I tried to stay off the main drag but all the side alleys are a maze that either bring you back or deadend at a cliff.

And, yes, Taormina did contain some White Lotus larpers. Most notably what appeared to be a bachelorette party consisting of a dozen twenty-something blond girls all parading around with matching light blue umbrellas (presumably provided by the White Lotus hotel, San Domenico Palace) and wearing the exact same khaki pea coat (presumably not provided by the hotel, just groupthink). Mind you this hotel has a price tag of at least $2k per night. That bride has some nerve. I also learned that the Nazis liked that hotel too; they made it their officers’ headquarters during the occupation of Sicily.

But despite all that, Taormina was romantic, mysterious, and, yes, strikingly beautiful. The crown jewel is the Roman theater, notable both for the level of preservation – the columns of the three story stage are in tact – but even more so for the view of the cliffs, sea, and Mount Etna (if you’re lucky, on a clear day) beyond.

I stayed a little ways back off the main street, near the entrance to the old city at Porto Catania in a belle epoch villa converted to a bed and breakfast, Villa Gaia. Taormina hangs perilously off a high cliff over the sea. Down many, many stairs, I found the beach, covered in big round smooth stones that crackle and click when the waves wash out. I explored Isola Bella, a sometimes ithsmus, sometimes island trapped between tidal inlets. The isola was long ago converted into a Gaudi-esque playground by a British noble, tropical gardens peaking through yellow tiled grottos.

Mount Etna finally showed itself on my second morning and I was ready to – hopefully – leave the crowds behind. The drive up the volcano provided my first taste of fall, a yellow leaved patch of trees giving way to a hardened black lava field. Then, much to my dismay, a massive parking lot packed with tour buses. The clouds were starting to roll in, obscuring the peak, so I decided to make my visit quick, opting for what looked like a short hike near the alpine station at the Craters of the Moon. The trek was actually pretty intense and windy so I wrapped things up quickly to get down before the fog blotted out the roads.

I drove through the steep greens of the Madonie Mountains, emerged on the coast, and was greeted by my new foe: the ZTL – Zona Traffica Limitada. Like many places in Europe, Sicily has ancient city centers that are too narrow, crowded, and cute for traffic; only the local cars are allowed in. I had read about this and thought I was prepared. Google maps, however, apparently has no idea, so I found myself in a medieval dead end stuck between a scooter, the corner of house, and a stairway down, needing to Austin Powers/ Mr. Bean, twelve-point turn my way out.

Whatever. I parked the Dover-mobile outside the ZTL, dragged my suitcase over cobblestones and up a narrow, narrow staircase, to be rewarded with a private belfry, just in time for sunset.

Wedged between the sea and a massive, steep rock outcropping, Cefalu is small, charming, and full of excellent food. It’s a challenging hike up to the top of La Rocca, the cliff, which was great because without soccer three times a week, I definitely needed the workout. Up top, a Norman fortress and Hellenistic temples, and phenomenal 360 degree views.

I spent two nights in Cefalu then made my way along the coast towards Alcamo Marina. Along the way, I stopped in Monreale, in the mountains above Palermo, to check out the Byzantine mosaics in the duomo. Now, I’ve seen plenty of cathedrals but I’m glad I went out of my way for this – the entire interior is covered in gold. It was genuinely dazzling.

Alcamo Marina is tiny beach town that honestly has nothing going on this time of year, not even a grocery store, except the reason I was there: an Airbnb I found several years ago and planned this journey around, a place lovingly dubbed the Tuna Tower. Here, I planned to haul up with nothing but some books, my journal, and the view of the sea, like a captive in a fairy tale.

The complex is an old tuna fish processing plant. There’s a main residence, a palazzo-like structure right on the beach with blue trim and ornate, arching details. Then a low, industrial building with no roof. I think it was the courtyard where they processed the fish. Part of it has been converted into a house with a patio on the beach made attractive by light blue trim, pergola, and many pots of plants. The vegetation from the garden stretches throughout the complex, rose bushes and flowered vines here and there.

My room was in the cubic tower on the very top, up three flights of stairs. Massive windows open on the front and back. The wind was constantly howling and the sea echoing loudy in the domed ceiling. I slept with the front window open and woke up many times during the night to always louder waves and the bedroom door rattling in the wind. I kept it open both nights. It was perfect.

Lots of things go wrong when traveling. Wrong turns, objects lost or stolen, misunderstandings that lead to weird food or, worst of all, FOMO. I try to take these mishaps, big and small, as an opportunity to recenter and focus on the good stuff around me. I think traveling provides especially important opportunities to practice this because while the stakes can sometimes be very high – maybe you need to extract yourself from a bad situation – if you can figure it out and move on, another good thing is often right around the corner. When I make a mistake at work or in a relationship, I can spend weeks or months returning to it in my mind, questioning my decisions, shuddering with shame. In travel, I may have regrets about messing something up or missing something cool, but things keep moving and you are forced to stay focused on the present. Moreover, sometimes when you are forced into an unexpected detour, you find something much more interesting that’s not on the regular-degular tourist route.

The Wisdom of the Waterfall

Whenever I need to remind myself to chill the eff out, to let something go and be grateful, I remind myself of the “wisdom of the waterfall.” This mantra comes from a trip in Southeast Asia about fifteen years ago. I was traveling with my family in Laos, when they set off to do some activity from Luang Prabang but I went my own way because I was really intent on biking to a waterfall. I set up the bike ride through the hotel and they told me to meet at a certain time and a driver would pick me up, presumably to take me to the bikes. As I was being ferried out into the countryside, I kept asking when we would get to the bikes and the driver assured me soon, very soon.

After about half an hour, we arrived at the waterfall. I was upset – what about the bike?? Turns out, there had been a language barrier at every step of the way – no one understood that what I really wanted was a bike ride, some exercise in a beautiful place. Dejected, I walked to the waterfall. It took about five minutes of standing there with my arms crossed and a stinky little pout for it to hit me. This waterfall was the literally the most enchanting scene I’d ever seen. And I was about to waste it being a crabby brat. Yuck.

So, that’s the wisdom of the waterfall. And I’ve needed it pretty much every time I’ve traveled, including a few instances on this trip already. Most significantly, when I arrived at the airport in Catania and tried to pick up my rental car but was told I couldn’t because I don’t have an international driver’s license. There was a cost to my pride for being a lawyer who missed something in the fine print (in my defense, it was very fine and several clicks off the main agreement…) but of course the bigger cost was the actual many, many Euros that flew out my bank account for both the prepaid rental and the new one I had to get on the spot instead. WOOF.

But I want to focus on more interesting and more photogenic applications of the wisdom of the waterfall. Specifically, what my mom and I did when faced with enormous, unyielding crowds on the most popular islands in Greece.

Side Quests of Greece

Let’s start with the big one: Santorini. You know it from photos of whitewashed buildings with blue trim and caps tumbling like pearls down a cliffside towards the ocean. Trust me, you’ve seen a picture of it. Which is good, because I don’t have one to share here since it was so crowded we literally could not even get on the island.

Let me back up though, because that statement requires some explanation. Santorini is actually five islands today but some 3,600 years ago it was one island. But it turns out that island was also a really, really massive volcano which blew out its entire center creating an enormous caldera open to the sea in two places. Picture the big island as a slender crescent of moon, but also maybe like PacMan about to swallow the four smaller islands. The result is that two islands that mark the outer edges of the ancient circular island have full shear cliffs hurdling down into the basin, like if you’ve ever looked down into a volcanic crater, on a particularly massive scale.

Those picturesque towns are on the on the top of the cliff and there’s only one way up from where the boats enter inside the caldera: a funicular that takes 36 people up every 15 minutes. Now throw an endless parade of cruise ships ferrying thousands of passengers to the slim strip of land where you wait in line for the cable car and you understand what I mean when I say we couldn’t even get on to the island.

Instead of fighting of the crowds, we opted for a hike on one of the two islands in the middle of the caldera, Nea Kameni and Nisis Palaia Kameni, which have been formed by more recent eruptions, and a sail around the crater. We didn’t have that iconic shot of the town Oia, but hey I can pull that up on the internet whenever and we got a totally different kind of experience away from the crowds.

Mykonos also suffered from the same overcrowding problems as Santorini (which is crazy because it’s October – I can’t imagine what it’s like in August). At least there we were able to get on the island. However, we found that the main town felt like Disney World’s version of Greece – the stores and restaurants were upscale chains and the beach in town was polluted (see again, endless parade of cruise ships). So, ever in search of opportunities to go swimming, we side quested to a quiet beach outside of town and were rewarded with a colorful sunset on the way back.

Rhodes was also very crowded, both in the main town and further south in Lindos, where we visited an impressive acropolis and charming village. The crowds encouraged us to wander off the main paths to floral back streets and to once again seek out a gorgeous swim spot.

On our last day on the boat, we docked on the main land at Nafplion and went pretty far afield by road to visit some very worthwhile ancient sights which felt largely off the well-beaten path.

Finally, I had an afternoon to kill in Athens before my flight to Sicily. It was cold and rainy and I definitely didn’t want to fight to crowds to get to the Acropolis (which I’ve been lucky enough to visit before). I opted instead to view the Parthenon from a distance from the top of Lycabettus hill, enjoy an excellent lunch of spanakopita and a desconstructed gyro at Mpirmpilo, then wander around the National Garden, where the foliage provided shelter from the rain.

Travel provides a special opportunity to practice the wisdom of the waterfall. Things frequently don’t go as planned and pivoting rathering than lingering on what I wanted to or thought should happen is typically quickly rewarded with an unexpected and wonderful alternative. This helps build the skill of just getting over it when something doesn’t go my way and prepares me, hopefully, to flex that muscle when I’m back IRL.

No one knows how to mess up a well-staged photo like a gawking tourist. Blessed be Google Photo’s magic eraser feature (I can see you rolling your eyes, cult of Tim Cook). But in Greece, I found a different creature wandering in front of brilliant scenery. Encouraged by Maryam to collect ’em all, I now present to you, Cats of Greece.

Disclaimer: the street cats in Greece overwhelmingly seemed well-taken care of. Many of them have clipped ears, indicating they’ve been fixed and there were little bowls of food everywhere. I wish strays were so loved and respected everywhere.

I started out my trip boating around Greece with my mom and 170 other mostly Americans, mostly in their 60s and 70s. I have never been on a cruise before and, as I suspected it, is not my preferred way to travel. But my mother is extremely eager to get out there in her early retirement and I am very grateful to be able to tag along. And as the resident young person, I was kind of a hit. Many of the boat people were very invested in whether or not I had found a place to swim each day (I batted 3/7 on that front).

The best islands were, unsurprisingly, the ones I’d never heard of: Amorgos, Patmos, Delos. The supposed heavy hitters, Mykonos and Santorini, were way too crowded to be enjoyable. Santorini was so crowded that we literally could not even get on the island. But the small islands delivered. Here are some highlights:

Patmos

Amorgos

Delos

Hi friends! I’m taking a little break. My organization offers a sabbatical after eight years (a benefit which I may have been lobbying for since … about eight years ago) and I just hit that milestone.

TBH, I am really ready for a break. 

I love my job and feel so lucky to be surrounded by so many brilliant hard working, principled colleagues. Also, burnout comes for us all and it’s gotta be addressed before it burns you all the way down. My last few years have had some real highlights – I’ve got an amazing team and we’ve grown our program and organization into a national force for fighting felony disenfranchisement and promoting access to the ballot for incarcerated folks. But also we’ve hit some low lows – like our battle with Tennessee where the state used every underhanded tactic in the book to avoid making easy changes that would give 400,000+ people a fair shot at restoring their right to vote. They did some real cowardly Art of War larping there.

But you literally did not come here to read about work and I am not here to write about it – that’s like the whole point. Oh but also speaking of burn out – our house lowkey burned down in February. Burned down is not exactly the right phrase; like on a scale of pile of smouldering rubble to toaster fire, I would say it was just smouldering rubble of center. But the process of trying to rebuild it has also been exhausting and – get this – eight months later we still don’t even have the permit to rebuild. Definitely not for lack of trying either. Annie has been an admin hero, pushing our contractors and the city along. Not to mention that she heroically Heisman-trophied both our porky little beagladors out of the house to safety the night of the fire. But yeah, we had just bought that house a year before the fire and I would really like to go home. Literal burn out, people.

Not to mention the f*&$ing fascism!!!!

Okay but this blog isn’t about complaining either. And lots and lots of people have it way worse than me. I want health, safety, and healing for us all. So that’s what this blog and journey is about for me.

I have long had a passion for travel. I am energized by visiting new places, meeting people living in different ways. I am also humbled by living out of a stinky suitcase, making embarrasing linguistic errors, and having my plans constantly and consistently thwarted. Honestly, that really cleanses my anxiety pallete.

So I’m hitting the road for two months. My plans include a boat tour of the Greek Islands, hopping around agriturismos in Italy, a night at a desert camp in Morocco, floating up the Nile, hiking in the Drakensburg Mountains in South Africa, a pre-scheduled mental breakdown on the beach in Oman (don’t worry about it, it’s good for us), and biking into cloud forest in Southern India.

An important part of this for me is breaking out of the attention economy. I also love that traveling makes us focus on the things right in front of us, like not getting on the wrong bus. For me, it also includes a lot of doing nothing, just sitting in places and watching. But that doesn’t work if I just reach for my phone and go on Instagram every time I have one free second. My social media and news addiction is out of control right now, TBH. And it’s a real hellscape out there. And it’s a real dystopian nightmare that these techbro wannabe overlord dorks have cooked up for us where we barely have the attention to focus on or respond to these horrors because we need to keep scrolling until there’s a dog singing Bad Bunny please! I want out … or at least to regain control over my own focus and downtime. (Yes, I know one of those jabroneys owns WordPress – our options are so limited!!!)

So anyway, I’m off the social meeds and am coming to you live from the crappiest, tiniest used tablet very little money can buy because I want it to be so slow and annoying that I am not tempted to use it much – except for doing this.

Other stuff I might write about: my feelings about traveling at all right now. Yes, I want this but I also feel like maybe I should just stay and spend three months helping organize to get the Gestapo off our streets. Or try to get on the next Flotilla. Or just keep doing my job to try to make sure we have a legit election next fall. Or even stay here and help fix my house.

One thing I will be doing with this time, and may write about here, is working on my familial reparations project to support Bowie State University. The work of repair could not feel more urgent, with the musty, necrotic people in power doing everything they can to bury truth and history, while the gangrenous zombie of white supremacy continues to tear us apart.

Or, TBH, I may not write much at all. Maybe I’ll just post pretty pictures. Or maybe I’ll just see you beautiful people in January. Whatever happens, love you lots – send me screenshots of funny memes!