Memorable Travel: Morocco

Stuck in the middle of the Sahara Desert with no presence of human existence in sight besides the bare tent community nestled between sand dunes, and suffering from severe stomach pains, I lived to see past the most memorable place of my life.

Last year while studying abroad in Spain I chose to take a group trip to Morocco for Spring Break. This was a unique opportunity that I did not want to pass up despite the numerous warnings I received from multiple sources before departing for the trip. I thought I could handle it. The awful stomach ails that were almost guaranteed to find me, were nothing. The feeling of alienation in an Islamic nation as a young American woman dressed in pants and a T-shirt among a sea of staring men and a few Moroccan women with only their faces revealed in public, was no big deal. Well, this may be an exaggeration but amid the mainly temporary uncomfortable moments, I found a beautiful country and place I would never forget.

After spending a few days touring the city of Marrakech, my group of over 60 students and international study abroad program leaders loaded two buses that journeyed through green rolling hills, past snowcapped mountains, along rushing streams and eventually landed in the Sahara Desert. Our final destination contained two makeshift toilets (mind you over half of us were sick during this part of the trip), and a giant rectangle of interconnected stick and burlap tents plopped in a sandy abyss.

After about an hour of running around in the sand dunes like little kids we were called to the giant white plastic tent where we would have our meals for the next two days. Dinner consisted of couscous and a mysterious looking green chicken-like substance with olives. As the sun escaped into the night and the temperatures dropped a large group of us sat on the sand mound overlooking our little village. Three of the students brought out their guitar, banjo, and harmonica. They serenaded the rest of the group until our eyes drooped. We retreated to our tents where each of us was granted a thin mattress-like rectangle covered with prickly wool blankets to keep out the chill of the night.

I’m not sure how many hours passed before I was awoken by a combination of two things, my body shivering from the extreme drop in temperature during the night and my stomach turning inside out. I laid there trying to wish the cold and ache away, but it was no use. I fumbled to find the opening in the tent and was pleasantly surprised to see the brightest night sky I had ever seen with the stars illuminating the path to the designated “bathroom” which lay approximately 50 feet away.

I returned to my tent and prayed for the awful feeling to leave my body. How could I be sick I thought? I ate the special yogurt and took the recommended pills two weeks before even leaving Spain. I had not even touched the water in Morocco that I was warned against, and used strictly bottled water for everything from brushing my teeth to drinking. Before I knew it I was awoken once again, this time it was from one of the program leaders who was arousing us to watch the sun rise from atop the sand dune. I went to get up and the pain in my stomach went from very uncomfortable to sharp stabbing sensations. I did not want to miss this once in a lifetime chance to see the sun rise in the middle of the vast Sahara Desert so I forced myself up the sand dune. In a matter of minutes the sun peaked up beyond the mounds of sand and slowly rose in the sky. All the shivering students stood hovered together in complete silence gazing at the magical sight. My pain seemed to subside for a moment as I witnessed one of the most tranquil and beautiful experiences of my life.

After taking a variety of pills given to me by my program director I went back and lied down for the better part of the morning unable to stand from the twinge in my stomach. I missed the camel ride to the nearby village which the rest of my group took that day and did not eat for two days. Between the miserable stomach pain that lasted most of the three days in the desert, the shivering cold nights, and hot as Hell days you may not understand why this is my most memorable experience. It must have been the indescribable pure and natural feeling of watching the sun rise and seeing the brightest stars on earth light up the night protected from smog in the harsh yet beautiful desert.

On The Edge

At 9:00 A.M., I certainly wasn't in the best of moods.

We had been driving for at least two hours now, which meant, if you do the math, I had been up since roughly 6:00. As if that weren't enough, the absence of Dunkin Donuts and Starbucks in Australia combined with sitting stationary in a cramped Toyota on the side where the steering wheel should have been, well, I was pretty delusional.

My father had insisted that we visit Byron Bay, a beachside town in the state of New South Wales in Australia, before I was due to head back to the U.S.

"You're going to love it," he had said as we approached the town center, to which I had nothing to reply besides a loud yawn. He shook his head at my general lack of enthusiasm, but you can't blame a girl who lives for waking up post noon on the weekends.

I wasn't impressed at first sight, it looked like nothing more than a campground by a pond. There's plenty of those in Massachusetts. But as we continued on the bumpy dirt road, the scene began to change and my eyes widened with wonder. It was like going into Narnia, one minute you're in a boring wardrobe and suddenly you find yourself in a breathtaking place. Ok, maybe there's nothing mystical about Byron Bay but it was truly like nothing I had ever seen.

We drove up a massive, winding cliff in my dad's beat up Toyota that seemed to go on into eternity. After what seemed like forever, we were finally able to park and explore. Here we were, the most easterly point of the Australian mainland.

At the peak of this cliff, there was a white, weathered looking lighthouse. All around was vibrant green, an endless abundance of plant life that sloped down the sides of the cliff and intertwined with the small wooden paths created for tourists. On one side of the cliff was what appeared to be a town not too far across the water, and behind it, endless grayish-purple mountains partly obscured by wispy clouds. On the other side, though, was so many brilliant sights my eyes could not seem to absorb it all at once. Mountain goats were making their way up and down the cliff, stopping along the way to munch on grass and gaze at bystanders. The water was a dazzling shade of blue, a dark turquoise not unlike the waters of Capri in Italy. The waves crashed against the dark rocks scattered around the edges of the cliff.

"Look!" my dad pointed out, "Whales!"

There they were, about six of them, dark masses swimming beneath the sparkling surface. I had never seen a whale before. Scrambling to adjust my camera's zoom, I snapped several photos of the gigantic sea creatures.

The rickety wooden path encircled Byron Bay, we walked and walked, stopping now and then to watch scuba divers emerge from the water, looking at the surfers burst into the waves, although I watched that particular sight a little too long for my dad's liking.

As we continued, my dad explained that Byron Bay was part of the erosion caldera of an ancient volcano. It wasn't brilliantly sunny, but the weather was perfect. It was warm without the faintest trace of humidity. Cool breezes occasionally danced across my face. We stopped to get an ice cream, I got strawberry, my dad chocolate.

Our final stop was at a dark wooden sign placed right before a steep drop to the ocean that said "You have reached the most easterly point." Wow, I was standing on the edge of Australia, literally. I looked out into the vast distance and there was nothing but blue, nothing but water and more water. Not even a boat in sight. Far away, there were dark pockets of rainclouds thrown into the whitish hue of the sky. It felt more like standing on the edge of the world. For one blissful moment there was nothing that existed besides me and the ocean, going off into the unknown.

Photo c/o of Google.

Memorable Travel: Paris, France

My first impressions of Paris were lackluster to say the least. As the bus pulled out of Charles de Gaulle at quarter to seven in the morning, after an overnight flight from Boston, I was disappointed. We passed factories and corporate headquarters, most of whose names I recognized. The landscape could have been the drive into Logan back in Boston.

“Don’t worry,” my classmate Julian reassured us, “This isn’t really France. Just wait.”

Some twenty minutes later, we breathed a collective sigh of relief. The bus pulled off the highway and began winding through real French towns. We oohed and ahed as we passed beautiful houses on tree lined streets, boulangeries and shops, all closed on Sundays.

“I told you so,” Julian smiled as twenty-five high school juniors and seniors pressed their noses up to the bus windows.

We drove through the outskirts of Paris till we came to a winding road up to the fortress-like wall of St. Germain-en-Laye, with Chateau-Neuf at the top. The bus dropped us off at the rotary, where every so often, a car drove through and its passengers gawked at us. We were amazed that we didn’t cause an accident.

My host family was among the last to arrive, greeting me with handshakes and forgoing the awkward air kisses. They told me that they would only speak to me in French, as we drove down winding one-way streets, finally driving up onto the curb and parking, a French practice that I never quite got used to. They pointed out their flat, the top story of a five-story building. We loaded the seven of us and my luggage into a small rickety elevator that opened right into their apartment. It was small, simple, and French, with bookcases everywhere, lining every wall, even in the bathroom.

While the rest of the family fixed lunch, my host mother took me on a walking tour of the neighborhood. Exhausted and jet-lagged, I tried to soak it all in as I trudged after her. The shopping center was closed, and there wasn’t a person or car in sight - it would be different tomorrow, she told me, I would see on the way to school. Our last stop was a boulangerie; I would soon learn that you’ve never had bread until you’ve had fresh French bread. She ordered as I gazed around, practicing my French by reading each and every sign. When she stepped aside to pay, the cashier motioned for me to place my order. I shook my head and stepped to the side. “American,” my host mother explained. The man and the people behind us in line chuckled.

Lunch was an ordeal. They brought out course after course - steak, green beans, cheese, salad, desert, and bread - lots of bread. I didn’t have the heart to tell them that serving me wine while I was jet-lagged and sleep-deprived was probably not the best idea.

In the afternoon, we drove to Versailles, where we toured the gardens and buildings - the palace itself I would visit later in the week. I moved robotically, trekking for what must have been miles around the grounds. The beauty and the novelty of my first trip overseas were nearly lost on me as I longed for sleep.

My French had flowed beautifully, like I’d never heard it before, with the wine, but I learned that in general, the quality of my French was inversely proportional to how tired I was. As the day dragged on, the expanse of my vocabulary was reduced to “oui”, “non”, and “merci beaucoup”. I fell into bed that night, with the Eiffel Tower twinkling outside my window, and promises of Paris in the morning.

Memorable Travel: Crete, Greece

There were 16 of us sleeping in my great grandfather's village house in the mountains. It was surrounded by olive trees, animals, and the constant screeching, strangely relaxing sound of the cicadas in the distance. And it was 116 degrees outside. And the well dried up...

The next day after our family field trip to the beach we had two choices in terms of de-sanding and de-salting. Choice one: bathe in the stream at the bottom of the mountain. Choice two: don't. So it was unanimous. All sixteen of us got out out of the cars and walked over to the banks of one of the most crystal clear streams I've ever seen, towels and shampoo in hand.

My uncles found a piece of PVC pipe, remnants from the flood that had ripped through the village months earlier. They stuck it into a high point in between two rocks in the stream and created a make-shift shower head for everyone to sit under. My hair has never been as shiny as it was then. So there we were, eight kids, eight adults, all in bathing suits, sitting in the stream with our heads tilted back under the PVC fountain, rinsing out the shampoo and getting the sand off our Mediterranean sun-tanned skin.

For villagers passing by, it was a sight to see.

For us, it was an experience we'll never forget.

My Uncle John decided to pretend he had a genie that he was able to communicate with that would grant wishes and sometimes do chores for him. This communication had been going on all week, but now he was ready for the prank to end all others. With his thick Greek accent, the summoning of the genie sounded like, "My zenie, my zenie, my zenie, come wash my shoes!"

But that day in the stream, with no shoes in sight, my uncle had other plans in mind. The next thing we knew, after we'd all finished "showering," we looked down the stream to see him sitting on what seemed like a rock. Then the usual, "my zenie, my zenie, my zenie," (in Greek there's no "j" sound) came out of his mouth, followed by, "watermelon, watermelon," and he started chanting something we couldn't understand.

The next thing we knew he was falling backwards in the stream and a gigantic watermelon popped out of the water from under his feet. And at the time, we were too young and too dumbfounded to even think about how it got there and whether the "zenie" was real or not.

So there we sat, bodies cleaned in the bubbling stream, hair glistening in the setting sunlight, and juice from the zenie's watermelon dripping down our chins. We didn't care how it got there, but we were certainly happy it did.

Picture of Elafonisi, the beach we were returning from: http://paleohora-holidays.gr