Taylor's Travels: A Regular

Regulars have always intrigued me. You know them, the people who frequent restaurants and bars, sitting in the same place and ordering the same thing every time. The servers know their names and ask about their families. “That would be cool,” I think, then reconsider when I imagine the monotony of it all. Same food and same scene would get boring. But when I found myself calling out to Leela of Aftas Café in Taghazout, Morocco, asking for the same chicken, chili, and goat cheese pizza I’d ordered my past six visits, I realized I may have just become a regular, if only for a short while.

Nobody called it Aftas, though; they called it “the Café.” As if there was only one in town. It sat on the beach above the colorful fishing boats, shaded by an oasis of ivy that draped down the stone walls. There was outdoor seating, but I’d usually gather with friends inside, where long cushions lined the cave-like lair. Lonely Planets and board games littered the empty tables. Moroccan cloth covered the walls, but graciously made room for an obligatory Bob Marley poster.

I’d sit with my best local friends, Younes and Tarik, play heated games of Jenga, and speak of the day’s surf. Leela would serve us.

Leela was an adorable young lady from the Sunshine Coast of Australia, and was working for her friend and fellow Aussie, Devvy, who opened the Café a few months back. (I didn’t see Devvy much, as she was always dealing with something; a broken fridge or a repairman who couldn’t come to fix the stove “because its raining”). Leela, poor thing, was clearly torn between being on vacation and working. She would chat you up for five minutes before realizing the next tables coffee was up four minutes ago. Or come around and ask you if it was you who ordered the cake.

“Nope. Wasn’t me.”

She’d give a confused look around the restaurant and say, “Oh well. Whoever it was, they’ll ask for it again.”

But after a mistake she’d be quick to appease you with a gorgeous smile and some brochette on the house. Plus, her Laissez-fair attitude towards service fit with the laid back atmosphere of the Café; like the rest of us, she was in town for a good time. Except when she had to kick out stray dogs and cats, or Taghazout’s resident glue sniffer, who would march dejectedly into the Café to bum a Dirham or a smoke off the patrons. Then she was all business.

Younes lived next door to the Café. He owned a local surf school and tour company and could usually be found at the Café. He spoke perfect English and, from his years working with international clientele, had picked up a worldly vocabulary and sense of humor.

“Jeeze Younes, where are all the girls man?”

“Ah mate, sometimes they come through but most of the time you’re stuck with Pamela Handerson.”

He was a wealth of knowledge of the local area, and had classic stories of creating and maintaining his business. Like when he was getting started and barely knew how to surf himself, so he would drive his clients an hour and a half north to teach them to surf at the one break he was comfortable surfing. Now he goes to any of the of beginner waves within ten minutes of town. In one lesson with a dozen German girls, Younes gave them a healthy shock when, before the pre surf calisthenics, he stuffed a sock full of sand down the crotch of his wetsuit. “Alright, jumping jacks!”

He would order the lasagna, and for dessert the chocolate mousse.

Tarik was fluent in four languages: Arabic, French, English and Norwegian, but spoke mostly with his face. The showman of Taghazout, he’d have anyone within earshot leaning close when he told stories, punctuated with dramatic pauses and cocked eyebrows. I couldn’t get enough of his tales of growing up surfing in Morocco. He told me about sneaking out of his house to surf at five AM, behind his father who was going to morning prayers at the Mosque, Tarik peeking around imagined corners to reenact the scene. Or how, because of a surf wax shortage, he’d collect discarded cheese wrap from his rich friends and melt it onto his board for traction, the deck swollen with lumps of bright red Edam remnants.

If the subject wasn’t surfing, he’d talk about his tenure as a rapper in Norway. While he spoke little about his group, I learned plenty of his brushes with international rap stars: Wyclef is a God. Pharell is a jerk. 50-Cent is short.

His language was littered with phrases he’d picked up from travelers, “What the fuck?” and “Are you crazy?” appearing in nearly every sentence.

“Hey Tarik, were the waves good today?”

“Are you crazy? It was good, man.”

At first I was a little uncomfortable with it, like he was saying I was dumb for not knowing the waves had been good. But I soon learned it was just his special way of saying “yes.”

Tarik also ordered the lasagna, but lived for the coffee and chocolate brulee that Devvy should be famous for.

I spent my last night in Taghazout in the Café. The regular crew was there, among others. Tarik debuted his new rap, an ode to Jenga in the tune of Manu Chau’s King of the Bongo (Mama was the queen of Jenga, Papa was the king of Jenga, I’m the king of Jenga too, what the fuck you gonna do?) Younes concentrated on his lasagna before downing his mousse in less than thirty seconds. Leela booted out the glue sniffer in between not taking orders. And I ate my last piece of pizza. I’ll miss being a regular at the Café. The food was delicious and the atmosphere welcoming, but mostly I’ll miss the characters that kept me coming back, time and time again.

Just Far Enough

Life’s Good When…you’re on the road towards a party most likely to meet your expectations of a great time. Just far enough out of town to be considered a road trip and making new CD’s is a necessity. This past weekend my travel partners and I left town mid-afternoon south for San Louis Obispo (SLO). Our cause was to celebrate a good friends birthday, relieve ourselves from the weekday regimen, and enjoy our short get away to the fullest.

We set out with clouds in the sky and wet roads from a mid-morning rain. To me this meant more exciting driving conditions. Of course because of precious cargo (passengers) I would have to be on my best driving behavior, keeping the 100+ speeds to straight-aways and just long enough for the thrill without the ticket. Although enjoying the cloudy scenery, for my travel partners rain would ruin their intentions to wear dresses and boots for the evenings events. To eager to get to our destination weather worries faded, we stopped for nothing and kept the music up beat.

Taking just under two hours we arrived in SLO around 3:20pm. Expecting to greet the birthday girl, we were welcomed by two strangers I’d never met, the roommates. Happy to be free from the driver seat I chilled out with the comfort of knowing I didn’t have to move from the broken back couch I was sitting in for two hours; cocktails began at 6:30pm, dinner was at 7:30pm.

When five o’clock hit, the living room went from about 15 people to five guys. The assembly line had started: shower, hair dryer, curling iron, make-up etc. Whether it’s one girl or ten an hour and half for getting ready seems to be a popular time frame. Now for guys, it's more like in the movies when the guy walks into the airplane bathroom (lavatory) closes the door, opens it a second later and walks out in a suit. Regardless, the time is worth it.

The preliminary stages of a great night started with cocktails at the Del Mar Bar. Once everyone was unable to drive safely the taxi cabs arrived and shuttled us down town. We arrived and filtered downstairs to a basement like special events room fully decorated and staffed. Here’s where the expectations would be met. Dinner for fifty, open bar, and good company, all compliments of the birthday girl’s parents. Extremely generous is what comes to mind when I think of this family. As the night carried on the staff quickly caught up to our drinking abilities. With every new drink a new conversation would start, vaguely remembering details, but confident in our enjoyment. After speeches and laughs from friends and family we departed at 12:30am from a dinner that began at 7:30pm.

At this point the birthday girl had thrown in the towel and retreated back home. This left about twelve of us out and finishing the night at a small bar dancing. Last call put us on the street, directionless, but happy. With rationality out the window we began walking not really comprehending how far we had to go; about two and half miles.

Once home we all piled on the living room floor, shouted at each other for about ten minutes, and finally passed out almost instantaneously. Dazed and confused, the morning brought groans and pain. Luckily I had consumed just enough water the night before to keep my head from pounding out of control. Keeping the blanket over my head to avoid conversation, I tried sleeping, failed, and inevitably wound up listening to multiple girls “catch up.” Switching from one hip to the other on a thin carpet floor I tried with desperation to sleep off a night overly consumed with fun and alcohol.

As we said our good-byes two things were on our minds: In-N-Out Burger and our beds. We accomplished one within twenty minutes of leaving San Louis Obispo. Eager to get home and rest, we were cruising, doing a safe 75mph and listening to the “chill playlist.” Reclined in shotgun and spread across the back seat my travel partners were out for the count, an hour of silence past slowly. We were close now and all thinking about one request: be cloudy and rainy at home so when we arrive we can melt in our beds guilt free. Our request was granted.

Stephen Conway

Taylor's Travels: Lessons from a Travel Buddy

They say (or at least my mom says) that if you really want to get to know your friends, you should travel with them. You will learn things you loathe and love about them, and it will teach you in a few weeks what a few years of local friendship won’t reveal. I just spent the last three weeks with Trevor Nelson, a relatively new friend from Santa Cruz, and learned heaps of useless and amusing stuff about him. Or so I thought.

1. He eats terribly slowly. I’d be finishing up my couscous and waving the waiter down to order the obligatory post-meal mint tea, only to realize he’d yet to move on from his salad. I couldn’t figure out where I was losing him. During following meals I slowed down and tried to match his pace, quickly learning where he was lagging (or I was speeding)—chewing. Trevor chews his food like he’s searching for a tiny piece of glass in it. I tried it. I took a bite at the same time as him and chewed. Chewed. And chewed. When the consistency of the food made Gerber’s seem like an overcooked rib-eye, I swallowed. Trevor continued for another ten seconds or so.

Another factor, though this is like faulting a headwind for slowing down a car with a flat tire, is his meticulous condiment preparation. While I would stuff my face (M.H.) with fries drenched in ketchup, he would take each one and rotate 3/5 of it in ketchup before indulging.

I was unconsciously trying to be the master of efficiency, maximizing the amount of food consumed in the least amount of time. But Trevor’s leisurely eating style reminded me that we were having a meal, not running an assembly line. If I relaxed and enjoyed the food, atmosphere, and company, the meal would be more enjoyable. Not to mention my digestive track would thank me.

2. While he chews, Trevor tends to stare off into the distance, a look on his face that suggests he is thinking of ways to solve the world’s economy or musing on the meaning of life. It’s likely though, that he’s thinking about socks. I learned of this Lieutenant Dan-like obsession mid-way through the trip, when he first ran out of freshies.

“Dude, do you have any of my socks in your bag?”
“No. Why would your socks be in my bag?”
“I dunno. Maybe I’m tripping, but I thought I’d brought more and I’m out.”

I suggested he wash them, but he gave me a smug look like, “You’ve got a lot to learn, kid,” and went out for a new pair.

One to three days later (depending on the shoe-to-sandal ratio) he would do it again. He’d look at his socks in disgust, maybe attempting the awkward foot-to-nose leg lift to catch a whiff, and declare “Gonna go get socks.”

White, black, checkered, it didn’t matter as long as they were clean and soft. He’d throw the old socks out like a junkie does an empty baggie, with a disregard for the past and anticipation for the next fix. Each time he’d slip into a new pair of fake Nike socks, I became progressively envious. His socks were making him happy. Mine were not. I would struggle into my washed Costco socks, stiff from the residual detergent I’d failed to rinse out, and wonder if Trevor was onto something. Maybe happy feet make for a happy traveler?

3. Trevor is easy, and to me that’s the most important characteristic of a good travel partner. He travels with an open mind and pliable plans, and answers any “This or that?” question with, “Whatever, I’m easy.”

“You want to go to Marrakech or stay in Taghazout?”
“Whatever, I’m easy.”
“You want to eat in or out?”
“Whatever, I’m easy.”

At first it was simply refreshing and made life easier for me, I could call the shots. But after getting this response over and over, I saw the benefit really lay with him. No plan was concrete, everything was possible, and whatever happened he would be cool with it. This attitude is worth more than money or languages while traveling. The millionaire fluent in Arabic might let a Moroccan rain storm ruin his vacation. Trevor would go play in the puddles (then promptly change his socks, of course).

While I like to believe that I share these easy going tendencies, Trevor is clearly easier than me, and showed me how smooth life’s sail could be if I loosened up even more.

Trevor is back in the states now, and I will finish the trip solo. He rubbed off on me, unintentionally teaching me small life lessons during our trip, things that will make the next few months more enjoyable. In fact, as I write this, my feet rest snuggly in a fresh pair of socks that feel like down comforters on my toes.

Taylor's Travels: A Taste of Morocco

From New Album 10/5/08 11:52 PM

Our rented Kia Picanto sounded like a semi-truck down shifting every time we accelerated. We’d knocked off the pipe that connects the engine to the muffler on one of our many off-road surf checks, and were getting disgusted looks from every pedestrian we blared past. You know your car’s in a bad way when you get stares from locals in developing nations.

Trevor and I had opted to drive north for a week or so to escape the tourist saturated surf town of Taghazout, hoping to see a more “pure” Morocco. It appeared that first, however, we would have to fix the car. Dealing with car troubles is a chore anywhere, but the frustration compounds when you throw in language barriers and the fact it wasn’t even our car. I’d have preferred a spinal tap to dealing with this little issue.

After a deafening five-hour drive, our engine drowning out every Mosque’s call to prayer, we found a service station in our destination city, Safi. We were relieved when a Good Samaritan, out of sheer kindness, offered to lead us to a mechanic who could weld the pipe back into place. (In Taghazout or Marrakech, one would have surely demanded a fee for the inconvenience). The mechanic got to work under the car while we idled anxiously in the dirt square, willing him to make haste so we could catch the low-tide at the local point break.

The first few children arrived discreetly and kept their distance, backs to the yellow homes. We waved and said salaam, they giggled and hid behind one another. Slowly, a few more groups appeared, employing the same bashful tactics as the first. We smiled and approached a few of them, and offered our hands. All scattered except one brave boy of about eight-years, who accepted a firm shake of Trevor’s hand. The flood gates had opened. Word had spread around the neighborhood and about fifty kids converged to shake our hands and ask our names, which they struggled to pronounce. We got their names too; Abdel, Hacna, Ahmid, and a couple dozen Mohammads. They spoke to us in excited French and Arabic, and we lectured in English about the importance of avoiding drugs and alcohol and staying in school (although it was 11am on a Monday, so we may have been a bit late on that one).

Before we knew it our car was fixed. We thanked the big bellied mechanic and paid him for parts and labor, all 100 Dirham ($12) worth, and were on our way. The kids ran along side our car, which now purred like a new vacuum cleaner, waving and bidding us bon voyage. We drove towards the surf, which didn’t seem to matter much anymore.

This morning we awoke to victory at sea and little hope for a surf. So, after a petit-dejaneur, we found our way back to the neighborhood to visit with the community we’d bonded with yesterday. We assured the worried mechanic that all was well with the car, then bought out the local shop’s supply of lollipops. We thought the kids had swarmed yesterday. It was chaos. Under the watchful eyes of Muslim moms behind Burkahs and windows, we distributed the candy and a few dozen pens I’d brought from home. They were elated and so were we.

It was difficult to leave, as much physically as emotionally with the scores of wee ones encircling us. We started with car issues, one of the most annoying things on earth in my mind, and left with just what we’d drove north looking for—a taste of Morocco.

Morocco

Board The Earth

Life’s Good When…Your adventurous thrill seeking behavior delivers situations that are often best described as “Gnarly.” For most the idea of swinging fiercely from a chairlift with steady 60+ mph winds is insane much less desirable. Nevertheless, we’re out there searching for and savoring these experiences.

Pulling into the parking lot of Mt. Bachelor earlier this morning, instead of being the first one on the chairlift I found myself contemplating with others, “to board or not to board?” With one chair open, 60+ mph steady winds, and whiteout conditions, my concern was not about the conditions. Rather, how long before every lift closes to high winds and I’m left without a refund!

The choice was simple and a half an hour later I was riding to the top. After a couple runs of gusting winds, white outs, and unpredictable terrain I found myself on the lift next to a stranger. Glancing over at my fellow thrill seeker, I saw a significantly elder man with a frozen solid mustache and a smile. Inching our way closer to departure the chair seemed to rapidly increase momentum sideways as the chair climbed. As the end of the line rose over the horizon we stopped, waiting. Stopping meant one thing in such a scenario, heavy wind gusts. The chair bobbed, dipped, dived and swung violently as we clinched to the chair like magnets. Yelling, “YEEWW” and thinking, “this is awesome” (hooting and hollering seemed appropriate) letting my chairlift companion know that I was psyched about our intense ride. Surprisingly my reaction was followed up with an enthusiastic response, “ what an experience!”

We parted ways as our chair crept past the ice landing (being one of the last chairs up before shutting down.) As I strapped in, turned my music up, got my bearings two things registered: thrill seeking is important, and Life’s Good When… You Experience!

Stephen Conway