Where's the Good Craic?

After a month of working longer hours than I had originally bargained for, I found myself both mentally and physically drained. I was disappointed in the direction I was headed and more or less was stuck in a rut. So, I sought refuge in the one thing I knew would always be there; music. I took some time out of my busy work schedule in the hopes of slowing things down a notch or two and drove to Waterford City for a show that would change everything.

Damien Dempsey is a man described by many words. This soul bearing, heart breaking, sweat loving, intimidating bear of a man snapped me out of whatever it was I was lost in and brought me back to the land of the living. Damien entered the stage with valour; chin stretched to the sky, guitar held like a shield infront of his body, and with a blanket of confidence wrapped securely around his shoulders. He not only believed in himself, but in what he was preaching as well. With beads of sweat breaking across his face and a thick vein pulsating in his neck, Damien began his ode to the blue collars of Co. Waterford.

From the heart of a Dublin raised artist, lyrics like "Time, it goes by so fast. Living every day like it was my last," and "Go west, don't go east. A famine or a feast, we're treated better there" shoot straight and true. He sang with as much conviction and honesty as music was meant to have. Damien loyalists belted out each verse, swayed from side to side, and became comrads in the search for something good.

Music is about raw emotion and truth. It breaks us down to our core, stripping away all the nonsense we ourselves create. It has the power to save lives, to redirect misguided souls to the path of righteousness, and to instill hope when the last straw has long since been thrown out to the dogs. Being apart of that night unhinged a few locked doors for me. I had forgotten how to believe in the simplicity of things. I had forgotten how easy it is to be the person and live the life I knew I deserved. I had forgotten the power of music and how one verse, one hook can stick with you through that rough patch, how even the softest tune can carry you from complete solitude to that room within yourself filled with everything you've been too scared to let go. And that night, well I went home humming a tune I couldn't quite put my finger on while worrying about nothing in particular.

Ireland vs. Norway

The smell of grease wafts from vendors while a thick line of fans weave between stray popcorn kernels and half empty pop cans. As we settle in our seats the tension wraps itself around us like a rubber band. Tearing our eyes from the field before us, we scan the crowd. Children wrapped in woven emerald scarves squirm in their seats like wriggling worms, inching towards the field. In groups they chant and holler, sing and sway.

The crowd cries out as the players run onto the field. With one short whistle the game is brought to life and hope for a victory is on the tip of every tongue. As green and blue jerseys interlace like tangled ribbon, the cheers from the stands morph into a single rythmic breath. The players themselves plead for a glimpse of the hope that snakes through the stadium. They gasp for air as they fight through the sweat that trickles in beaded trails down their fatigued bodies. Their strength lulls and they succumb to defeat.

In the end the face of the Irish fans does not waver. Still the children cling to their potato chips as they applaud the effort, still loyal to those heros who lie broken on the green. As night sweeps the last remains of day aside, parents tuck their young ones into bed, planting lasting kisses on each cheek. The will to sleep remains absent as the children, still buzzing from the night's festivities lie open eyed and marvel at the the idea of it all as just a game.

Dare to Au Pair in Ireland

Like all good things do, my gallivanting came to a halt once I left Morocco. I spent the next week sweating bullets while I waited to meet the people who were crazy enough to take me into their home. When the day finally came for me to make the trip from England to Ireland, I was relieved to find that the host family I found on the Internet weren't planning on kidnapping me and throwing my remains into the harbour. Turns out that James and Sarah were just two people trying to make sense of a life with kids. I just wish I knew then what I know now...no world with chaotic children will ever be booger, puke, or poop free!

As described on the family's ad, there were two very well behaved children. One 3-month old princess named Julia, and then a strapping 4 year old boy named Pearse. The baby slept 8 hours every night, never cried, and was as easy going and mellow as they come. Pearse was enrolled in montessori and loved to play outside, paint, and do jigsaw puzzles. He was well mannered and an all around happy child... One of the most important lessons I learned from replying to an ad on the internet was that it's easy to lie to a computer screen.

Pearse was loud, rambunctious, and completely out of control. He ran the ship his own way, kicking and screaming his way into things. And good lord, getting this boy to eat something other than processed ham and scrambled eggs was like asking Jesus Christ to suddenly descend from the heavens and rid humanity of all evil. Julia on the other hand was just as adorable as described, but a lot less prone to the above mentioned sleep pattern.

The first week with the family was no cake walk. Rather than coast into the fast lane, I was thrown head first into the lion's den. Sarah fell ill to a breast infection not two days after I joined the family, an illness that kept her bedridden for the majority of my work term. But it wasn't just this mysterious ailment that demonstrated its presence in the household. A series of flus, food poisoning, and colds were in constant circulation, leaving myself as the only unscathed survivor.

One afternoon, Sarah ran out to do some errands. I took Julia upstairs to change her clothes and came bolting down the stairs when I heard Pearse's horrific screams from below. With Julia half naked in one arm, I skipped the last stair and slid to a halt infront of Mr. Trouble Maker. As hard as I tried I could not contain the giggles that the scene before me had stirred. After having grown tired of waiting for me in the bathroom to help him clean up, Pearse got up off the "throne", waddled with his pants around his ankles to the stairwell, and wedged his knee between two of the banisters. One cup of butter and twenty minutes later the Little Rascal was free.

The next 2 months continued on the same note. The days consisted of 12 hours of dirty nappies that needed changing, dinners that needed cooking, clothes that needed washing and ironing, and children that needed entertaining. I walked around constantly smelling like a tube of vaseline, rotten dairy products, and my personal favorite, moldy breast milk. I chased and was chased, I yelled and was yelled at, gave hugs and was given them. No matter how each day went, I collapsed onto my bed every night thinking life can't get any harder. I wanted to quit it all right then and there. But then I got to thinking, what if tomorrow's a good day? What if Pearse helps me bake cookies and doesn't drop the dough on the floor? What if, for once, Julia's teething mouth gives us all a break and lets that gummy smile spread across her face?

Au pairing wasn't my first choice of employment. I didn't know how uncomfortable and awkward joining a family's life could be. I didn't know there were such things as European Union Au Pair Laws, which states the maximum hours an au pair should work each week; 45. I was working 60+. I didn't know the inner strength one must have to administer patience with a child. I didn't know how to stand up for myself when I was being overworked. There was a lot I didn't know when I signed up for this experience.

But what I did take from all the harships and rough times is strength. I learned to perservere and strive for something. I learned not to give up just because things weren't going my way. I struggled and complained, bitched and moaned, and then stuck with it because that's what my gut was telling me to do. Those two months broke me down, piece by piece, and here I am, still standing.

Magic Bus

The sun is hot against my exposed skin and I shift uncomfortably, trying to peel my sweating legs from the burning leather beneath them. By this point I've forgotten the need for shoes and drive barefoot through the barren country roads, dust trailing behind me like a waving tail. The steady chugging of the car's engine thrums a pleasant beat through my chest and I tap the steering wheel insync with each gurgle. To counter the rays of sun that pour in through the windows, I've opened the sun roof, the sudden burst of air tossing my hair up in a tussled mess while following the steady current of the wind. I close my eyes for an instant, breathing in a labyrinth of smells; the thick weight of a dirt road, the pinch of sweet grass, cattle grazing in the field, and the pine needles from rows and rows of shelter belts. Each scent rolls over the next, swirling together, bringing me home...

Reminiscing about the casual roadtrips I took in the summer after graduation is what saved my sanity, and everyone else for that matter the night I rode the Magic Bus through the rainy desolate backroads of Morocco. We all know how wonderfully disappointing public transport can be. It wasn't until I became a passenger on the 4 o'clock Moroccan bus ride from hell that I truly appreciated my rusting, multi colored '92 Mazda Protege, flat tires and all, that patiently awaited my return home.

After waiting inside an over crowded bus station for nearly 2 hours, the Magic Bus appeared. Its passengers flocked to its doors, men and women stuffing its undercarriage with box after box of cherished goods, leaving not so much as a single centimetre of unclaimed space. Mark, Gary, and I watched the spectacle unfold before us as we took our places at the back of the bus. It wasn't 20 minutes into our 13 hour journey that we rumbled to a stop and were notified of "engine" troubles. From that point on we continued to stop every hour on the hour to temporarily fix the overheated engine (with materials I can only imagine being roll after roll of duct tape) that wanted nothing more than to simply roll over and die.

On hour 6, still with plently of miles to go, our already timid nerves had been jostled further. By planning this bus route we had failed to take into account unforgiving weather conditions as well as any unforseen mechanical problems. If the bus by some miracle followed its original schedule, we had an hour to catch our plane back to London. We were running a little late. One thing I did learn on that sleepless night through the Atlas Mountains is that Moroccan men don't mess around. Sure, they'll make frequent pit stops for tagine, omlettes, and soup. Sure, they'll even refuel with a cup or two of mint tea. But they will never leave you disappointed. With some stroke of luck (and a well thought out plan), we managed to cut several hours off of our original time.

Just as gold and orange ribbons began to stretch across the length of the horizon, a beaten sign post reassured me. We were 5km from Fez with plenty of time left to catch our plane. Just as I took in a breath, calming my nerves, they were literally shaken alive when the bus began to rock side to side, bellowing a cloud of dust and smoke from its side. Once again we are companions of the roadside, this time for a flat tire. But, like I mentioned before, Moroccan men don't disappoint. Before I knew it I was squeezed like a lemon into a taxi with Gary, Mark, and half of the passengers from the bus. The driver took one glance at the 3 foreigners in the back as he scratched his enormous pot belly and popped a newly lit cigarette into his mouth before pulling onto the highway. From afar a stranger in passing would only see our cattle car as a jungle of entangled limbs, baggage, and the occasional chicken. But to the 3 sleep deprived, agitated, and just overall pissed off foreigners wedged between a calydascope of color, well we were just hell bent on not dying of laughter.

Tour de Morocco

My last day in the Dades Valley was spent galavanting through it...on a bike. To complete the 30km bike ride, it took me nearly 6 hours. I wouldn't go bragging that time to say, Lance Armstrong, but I'm sure it'd make my mom proud, nonetheless.

Mark, Gary (an English traveler we picked up in Marrakesh), and I began the ride with ease. We had a local taxi carry us and the bikes to the furthest point from Bumalne du Dades, at the top of a very steep hill. I found the initial leg of the ride to be quite comfortable as we coasted down into the valley, every kilometre whizzing past quicker than the first. As we began transition from easy cruising to a steady rise, the protests from my neglected calf and thigh muscles became thunderous bellows that echoed within the valley walls. By this point I was sweating so profusely that my clothes clung to my sticky body, my legs had now become a jelly-like substance, and I was dead last in our three man Tour de Morocco. And to top it off, we were only at kilometre 8 of the 30.

But as the old adage goes, "All for one and one for all!" Mark and Gary never once left me in the dust. Sure they stopped every so often to have a good laugh, but they never abandoned me. We pedalled on through the Gorge, admiring the red walls that rose on each of our sides, and the tiny streams that formed little pockets of life. We kept to the narrow gravel road that followed the winding path of waterfalls and rivers until we were made to cross the bridges that ran from bank to bank, and when lost, took our shoes off and waded through the rapids. After every hill mounted we congratulated ourselves with a moment to breathe in the new world that none of us could believe we were seeing. The mountains in the horizon, and even the ones that grew tall alongside us took on various textures, shifting from hard and jagged to rolling hills as we continued on through the valley.

As for the last 5 kilometers of our ride, well it wasn't any walk in the park. The rain began to fall in a slow pitter-patter rhythm until it gradually picked up speed, transforming into what I like to call, the best shower I ever had in Morocco. Seeking shelter wasn't an option for the Three Amigos; a bus that was to take us from Boumalne du Dades to Fez was due to pick us up in an hour and we were still miles from our hotel. So we kicked it up a notch (my body still hasn't forgiven me). There were dips and curves, twists and bends, and for some unexplainable reason, we seemed to always be head down with our teeth clenched as we battled another hill. By the time we skidded into town, we were water logged and our backs were covered in a thick layer of red mud that the bike tires had managed to spit up at us. With only 20 minutes to gather our bags, return the bikes, and hop on the bus, we were Code Red. So we delegated tasks. Mark was to get the moola, Gary the bags, and I, I was the lucky girl who got to return the bikes to the local guide's office. Just as I stepped into the shop, the keeper motioned me closer, resting an uncomfortable hand on my shoulder. You've got to be kidding me, I thought to myself. The guide was easily in his 50's, most likely balding since his early teens, and his teeth, good Lord his teeth, well the ones that still hung loosely from the gums were an unsightly black color and looked as if someone had pulled them all out and then jammed them back in completely ass backwards. Now I don't think I need to even start to describe this man's smell. Before I thought it could get any worse, out came the horribly translated marriage proposal. That was my que. I released myself from the man's creepy grip and high tailed it out of the shop and back onto the bustling street. There I found Mark awkwardly shoving Moroccan Durhams into his wallet while attempting to unload the various packs that Gary had strapped around his body. We had 5 minutes.

Once we finally made it to the bus station, we were told that the rain had flooded a few of the roads that the bus was scheduled to take and would have to wait until the weather subsided. Two hours later the Magic Bus pulled into the station and we boarded the coach, thinking our worries were long gone, not realizing what was yet to come.

F is for Freedom

What does freedom mean to you? Is it knowing your horizon is endless and with that so are your dreams? Or does your freedom have limits; known boundaries that can be measured and weighed, cut and devised into halves and thirds? However you determine this righteously owned liberty, consider the matter in which you excersize it. Do you take it for granted? The worst part is that for most North Americans, the question of freedom is not a question at all. We imprison racist extremists, terrorists, and criminals because it's the right thing to do. We provide equal rights to gays and lesbians and legalize same sex marriages because it's the right thing to do. We provide adequate means to an education to all people equally because it's the right thing to do. But what does it all mean when we don't appreciate it?

While in Boumalne du Dades, I met my new favorite person. His name was Johnathan (just a nick name) and he was a breath of fresh air. He was gay and living in an Islamic country, doing everything but struggling under the weight of the bricks his peers stacked on top of him. He was passionate in his pursuit for happiness and his thirst for knowledge overwhelmed me. Johnathan was fluent in Arabic, Berber, French, Spanish, English, and Italian. The people of his village were divided between those that shouted words of hate and those that embraced his outlandish lifestyle. Tourists flocked to his side, attracted by his charismatic and out going persona. And not once did I see him buckle under the pressure.

Johnathan had more potential to be great than anyone I had ever met in a classroom. He studied as hard as he partied, welcomed as much as he thanked, and let me take a glance at the "difficult" life I thought I had. Even when he spoke of the family he was no longer welcome to be apart of, I could see the fire deep within the pool of his chestnut eyes burning thick with hope. Then it came time for me to ask why he still lived in this village that could no longer contain his promising future. Patiently, he explained in a tone reserved for the rehearsal of this speech. For a Moroccan citizen to leave his country, he must have a valid European visa, $20,000 to his name, and somewhere to go. I was shocked at the hoops this young man would have to dive through in order to put a stamp in his passport. But his voice did not pour vinegar into an open wound. He just smiled, shrugged, and told me that one day he would get there. He knew, as I never will, the truth behind this type of perserverance. Unlike myself he had not been given the rights to his education, but paid for it through the currency of hard work. I left University after a year of relentless struggling; I left knowing that there were things in this world, valuable things, that I could never learn in a classroom. I was right.

That night, as I lay awake in bed, tossing and turning against the will to do nothing, Johnathan kindly welcomed another stranger into his life for a cup of tea and a sneak peak at what aspiring to be something great really looks like.

Lookin' Up: A Moroccan Night Sky

Not without you. My woes hang like decrepit limbs, strung out on a line so thin like silk. I lie poised with a beauty man struggles to find, in blatant view and neglect. Joined by the thrum of 10,000 spinning stars we stretch our web to exhaust the light. To craddle the ones you left out of sight. Casting silver threads of beaded life, changing tides and guiding lost souls still parched from your rein, I struggle.

But you, you sleep while I blanket the night. I slide you into the bed I made of hope and kiss the hand of a love too weak. Sweet dreams I cast, still staring past with empty eyes.

Yet the sea bears what the heart wills it to hide and there, beneath the luminous sheet of flickering stars, I see the poignant truth to these spilling tides. There lies the refelction of a wound so deep the swell was swallowed. So once more my lips brush the sweeping lash you still hold closed, and I watch as you fall away to the will of sleep. For a life in your shadow, stealing kisses from the sun is not enough when each day you rise with beams of golden honey, ignorant and alive.

Forget the Teller, Give me the Fortune

1.You are waiting for some news.

2.You are going to make a big change in your life.
3.You are very tired.

These were the three truths so prominent in my life at the time of their unveiling that when Mohammed, a Moroccan Berber/stone age fortune teller, scurried them out from under my shield of ignorance, I couldn't muster the words for a reply. The third prediction was one not easily ignored. Giant black crop circles had managed to set up permanent camp just below each eye and any desirable feature I possibly had now sagged with exhaustion in a droopy grimace. Two months of non-stop train hopping had taken the wind out of my sails, stripped the fuel from my tank, and hindered all performance. So ya, I was a little tired.

Number one one the list of insightful prophecies could pertain to any number of things, really. Every day I would scan through piles of emails, looking for the slightest reason to end these ridiculous escapades and head home. Although I loved the crisp, cool breath that freedom poured into my lungs in one resuscitating blow, I couldn't shake the resentment that clawed beneath my skin. I missed my father's long and insightful talks, his words strewn with Confucian remarks. Or the way my mother could craddle me in her arms by just looking at me. It wasn't until I'd left Mohammed's shop in the main square and wandered back to my hotel that I found the greatest treasure waiting for me. There in my inbox was news from my brother; he was coming to see me.

The second prediction Mohammed made is one I still can't put my finger on. Every day thus far has been loaded to the brim with illustrious choices and changes. From leaving home 2 months earlier as scared and unsure as I've ever been, to falling in love with a lifestyle so surreal, I couldn't see how the next few weeks of my journey could possibly be anything less than outrageous. And I hoped, for not only my self, but my sanity as well, that I would confront these future changes with an open heart and jump head first into the lion's den.

Don't Drink the Water

There they stand in files, pleated against the length of their clay dwellings.
Mothers cradle their young, who clutch the breast of life, waiting.
How long has it been since we've seen a reason or felt a truth?
How long has it been?
Day by day they crouch outside their homes, sieving heaps of crimson sand through callosed hands. Their fingertips numb to the steady rythm, and yet their nail beds throb after having bled a steady trickle of hope.
The well is dry and cracked and still they wait.
Still enough for the wind to catch their draped wishes in a swift breeze.
The work is hard, the tea is sweet, and they, they sweat for a faith that promises something in return.

The Atlas Mountains

Bouquets of color scramble wildly over each sculpted curve, every chiselled peak. Lush emerald blades strike upwards like rigid soldiers. Along their worn line that separates the broken hills from the lost valleys are buckets of bleeding reds shrivelled to a halt by an overgrowth of budding life. As you daunt past the mark Hope made with delight, life ceases to flourish in a pile of arid dust. But don't be made weary of the blanketing shepards. Like mourning widows hacked clean from their beloved mates, the hills cry for one another. Beneath each peak, settled along each base thrives the brush that sweeps, the stream that courses through the veins of the hollowed hills, the slow burn of a dying ember. Yet all those wandering eyes breathe in is the scar tissue that erodes each pinnacle.