The luxuries of a nomad

wandering. 

It was not without great effort that I found myself in the middle of the Sahara desert recently, skirting the Moroccan-Algerian border. The dunes waved under the sunlight and the clear sky was a pastel shade of blue.

One of two camel companions on the trek, who we lent the moniker Jazz, stooped down to pick up the orange peels I tossed on the ground moments before. Roger, camel number two, sauntered over to join in.

The journey had begun two days before with a hectic 12 hours in Marrakesh. Arriving late in the evening, we roamed the dizzying back streets as we located our riad and wandered through the chaos of the Jemaa el Fna, the town square. The Jemaa, famous for beheadings of the past, was now laden with drum circles, snake charmers, henna artists and orange juice vendors, all vying for the attention of potential customers.

Isa poses as Said fixes his shoes. 

The following 12 hours we journeyed over the Atlas Mountains by bus, with frequent stops in ramshackle villages in route to M’Hamid – an arid desert town in the deep south. A half bottle of Dramamine rested in our stomachs.

As I stared at the dunes, Jeremy walked over and patted Jazz on the nose. He replied in protest, which made Jeremy laugh.

A few meters away, our two desert guides, Isa and Said, set up the kitchen tent. They were both nomads of the Berber tribe in their early 20s. They knew the desert well.

“It is our home,” Isa explained.

With camels for transport, living off of the land, with more than a few carried amenities, was seamless.

Every morning they served up coffee and tea, hard-boiled eggs, fruits, bread and jam.

lunch.

Mint tea was made throughout the day and lunch was more fresh food than any two persons could ever eat.

Isa, a name that is an Arabic form of Jesus, told us that in the desert you always make more food than you need because you never know what other nomads you may encounter. The life in the desert is a life shared.

Isa spoke English relatively well, although he had never studied it, he said. He learned simply through conversation. He had met many tourists over the years and it was sense of pride to show them the desert as he saw it.

Our small caravan walked 20 kilometers a day, with both the weather and landscape changing rapidly.

Said, whose birth name means “happy” but often went by the nickname Sawadee, was more reserved and shy. He prayed several times everyday, sang songs of Allah and greeted us in the morning hours with “allahu akbar,” which means God is great.

the dunes. 

He knew a few words in English and although he wore a turban most of the time, when the cloth fell below is mouth, it revealed an infectious smile.

 

Jeremy and Roger. 

As he poured us tea one day, ceremoniously holding the pot a foot in the air above the cup to create bubbles (used to aerate and filter out both leaves and sand), in perfect English he said, “Tea without bubbles is like a nomad without a turban.”

Jeremy and I fell into desert life easily with our new companions. They shared their lives with us and we wished to do the same.

Isa tossed his shoes after the first day, saying they were too small and gave him blisters. He was the same size as me, so I gave him my tennis shoes and put on my Chacos.

He took the gift, nodded and said thank you, and continued to walk barefoot for the remaining two days.

On our final night together, Isa and Said sang Moroccan folks songs while beating on empty water containers; I serenaded them with a Bill Monroe tune. The full moon created a romantic backdrop for our intimate gathering.

the wind picked up on the third day. 

Dinner was walloping once again and we explained the colloquialism “fat and happy,” which Isa reiterated on our final day, adding more English to his lexicon gained from interactions with tourists.

As we parted, Isa said he hoped he had made us comfortable, happy and adequately shared life in the desert with us. We assured him he had.

“Good,” he smiled, adding “I wish to make you fat.”

He waved and walked back into the nomadic life he lives every day. Perhaps one day when Isa is walking, it’ll be in my shoes –I just hope he’s as comfortable as I was walking in his.

Bonne Annee avec mes amis

The best thing about France is Italy. Courmayeur is just 30 minutes from Chamonix and lived up to its reputation.

To ring in 2014, Molly and I decided to trade a proper New Year’s celebration for a weeklong trip to Chamonix with a motley mix of eight ski bums. We were not disappointed.

As the herds of skiers packed their cars and headed back to work, we rolled into town with fresh legs and awoke to some of the choicest snow I’ve ever face-planted in.

Skiers are so graceful.

More than a half dozen ski areas dot the valley of this adorable ski town, which is intricately connected by frequent, free buses. In addition, Switzerland’s Verbier and Italy’s Courmayeur ski resorts are within easy reach.

Had they banned all skiers, it would have been this snowboarder’s perfect, fresh powder dream.

We set up shop in a little chalet on the outskirts of town complete with a sauna and fireplace, and spent our evenings sampling each other’s cooking and nursing our ski-related wounds.

Each day a different pair prepared the meal.

Team Awesome took us south of the border; Molly and I broke da mouth with a Hawaii-inspired meal; Jeb and R. Eric brought the heat with a low country boil; Angela and Dave made magic Italian style; and Mike and Sonya delivered a savory Paddy’s Day delight. (We’re still waiting for Steve’s night.)

By the end of the week we were racing to find creative uses for all the leftovers, and somehow we left with more food than we brought. No toilet was safe and no toilet paper was left behind.

Friendships were forged, memories made, and we even traded one friend for a wily, piss-and-vinegar grandma (not to mention Jeb’s horizons were broadened when he was introduced to Rebecca Black’s “Friday” for the first time).

I don’t know what this year will bring, but if our first day on the slopes in Chamonix is any indication, I’m looking forward to a little slice of heaven.

Staring into the Vallee Blanche from the top of Flegere. 

Through the years

Jeremy and I celebrated our sixth Christmas together this year, which was surprising as we both thought it was five until we glanced into the rearview mirror that is the buddymollys' holiday cards.

What began in Hawaii turned heavenly as it shifted to Bavaria; it was monumental, but never a drag (well ...) and was always served with a healthy dose of love.

Happy holidays from the buddymollys.

2008

2009

2010

2011

2012

2013

The arts have it

It’s been nearly a year since a simple facebook post ignited a surge of creative endeavors.

It read like this: The first five people to comment on this status will receive a homemade gift from me throughout the year. They must repost this status and too make five homemade gifts for the first five people to comment on their status.

It’s pay it forward, art-style.

The five folks who signed up were as unique as they were distantly located – so I needed some extra time to process proper gifts. I was a bit unprepared, so I created the simple above-pictured mixed media painting to air my apprehensions before getting down to business.

The first handmade items completed were for my friend Lauren, a Northern Ireland resident who was about to get married. I made an espresso body scrub to be used on her wedding day. It provided both soft skin and a boost of energy needed for special day exhaustion. I also threw in a homemade candle, red and white to symbolize lovely-dovey stuff.

(As an aside, I tested out the body scrub product before sending it, stupidly at 9 p.m. I was up until nearly 6 a.m. Conclusion: I found the gift to be effective).

My second attempt at art was a painting made for my friend Corki – a serpent for a serpent. 

The third gift soon followed, and I must admit, I had help on this one. For Jaleh, a librarian and fellow book nerd, I commissioned Jeremy’s help in making her an invisible bookshelf, courtesy of instructables.

The fourth gift was a new attempt for me. Finding a strange looking toy at the thrift store, I turned it into a snow globe. It’s weird, so am I, and so is my friend Tom, so it seemed like a good fit. The use of glitter proved troublesome though. It’s been said that glitter is the herpes of craft supplies and five months later, I’m still finding it in places I simply shouldn’t.

For my final art attempt, I collected sticks for a few weeks on my daily walks with Skydog to create a flower vase for my BFF and bona fide earth goddess, Crystal. After she received it, she commented that she’d like to live in house like that someday. It will take a few more walks, but I’ll see if I can make it happen dear friend. Perhaps that will be next year’s art endeavor.

I received a special piece of art from STL’s own Jeff Miller well before I started my projects. And Jeremy, who also signed up to create five homemade gifts, has yet to finish his. But, the year’s not quite over, and sliding in minutes before deadline is par for the course with a house full of journalists.

Deadlines are kind of our thing; art, however, is everyone’s thing.  

Distilling the perfect adventure

Every time I visit Scotland I wish I could stay longer.

Though it’s always cold (the average temperature in the height of summer is just under 60 degrees), Scotland’s gregarious people more than make up for the chill in the air -- and after a few whisky tastings you might not even need your jacket anyway.  

The key to any visit, like adding those critical drops of water to a dram, is finding the right balance.

Building on last year’s five-day, whirlwind man-trip to sample Islay’s finest (and peatiest) whiskies, we decided to shift gears to the lighter, sweeter Speyside spirits of Moray County, which sits about three hours north of Edinburgh.

The Speyside region boasts nearly half of all the whisky distilleries in Scotland, and a majority of those lie within a 20-mile radius of each other.

We had our work cut out for us, but could have done a better job planning.

Scant public transportation and figuring out ways to not drive while intoxicated proved to be formidable obstacles, but could not compete with 4 science brains and 4 of average Trivial Pursuit intelligence.

Though many of the distilleries weren’t open on the weekends (a fact that remained obscured until a few days before we flew out), and one distillery closed for the summer for the first time in its 188-year history just two days before we arrived, we still managed to visit eight distilleries in six days.

(Note: The number of tastings we sampled in the Edinburgh airport while waiting to depart could have bumped that number to 12).

And although the process is almost exactly the same from distillery to distillery, we learned to pick up on the nuances and appreciate the subtle effects each factor, like the shape of still or the barrel’s composition, contributed to making an impression on our taste buds.

Other than that, nothing exciting happened.

We didn’t cross paths with the world's only blue-haired Asian bartender with a Scottish accent; there were no near-death collisions caused by a driver starring at sheep; we never figured out what possessed our car radio; none of the tour guides ever answered JR’s infamous “methanol” question to his satisfaction; and a Chinese man definitely did not fart on one of us (ahem, Michael Kreis) in the passport line.

There’s always next year.

Belgian Blitz

booty.

As part of my mid-30s birthday celebration this weekend, we hopped a train bound for Belgium, the land famous for its delicious beer and out-of-this-world fries. Apparently they have chocolate, too.

As opposed to German beer, which honors the simplicity of making the most out of four ingredients, Belgian beer celebrates various styles from light and fruity to dark and make-you-forget-your name, along with every permutation in-between.

We blazed through Brussels, Bruges and Ghent over a long weekend but never felt like we were rushing. Between the museums, architecture and historic sites, there were plenty of distractions, but, as you can see by Molly’s photo essay below, we maintained our focus.

round one: cafe in Brussels

round two: pouring like a pro

round three: dinner in Bruges

round four: bike ride to Damme

round five: kwak and a Bruges tripel

round six: put your leffe in, put your leffe out

round seven: mussels in beer (and beer) in Bruges

round 8: cold chillin' at the train station

round 9: a day in the life in Ghent

round 10: sidewalk sale

round 11: back in Brussels

round 12: still thirsty

round 13: it's getting darker

round 14: Brussels bar, repeated

round 15: designated "regulars"

round 16: unpack, move in

Another trip to Dresden; So it goes ...

The New Town, in all its hip glory.

I went to Dresden. Again. Last weekend was my 6^th trip in the past four years to the Vonnegut-famed city, including a two-week stint for a German course in February highlighted by a monumental, albeit brief, run in with Bill Murray. 

But I still went. Again. I grabbed my friend Caroline, left Jeremy to hone is hausfrau skills, and went. Again.

Graffiti dances over the New Town

Our time in Europe is coming to an end; and we wrestle with trying something new versus revisiting our favorite places. We have so much earth in Europe we haven’t walked on, new cultures (and food!) to experience. So why visit somewhere you’ve been many times before?

It’s simple. When you revisit a city, your surroundings become more vivid. It’s like watching a movie more than once – your understanding of the plot deepens, you notice secondary nuances.

Likewise, with a city, you begin to learn the culture outside of museums and tourist-packed walkways. The city becomes more familiar and you become more familiar in it - people stop to ask you for directions; glances and friendly smiles from passersby on the backstreets become commonplace.

You are in it. And Dresden in one of favorite places to be “in it.”

A glimpse at the Old Town from the Elbe River.

The city was completely destroyed during World War II, and until the ‘90s, remained in a somewhat state of devastation. Now, it is a rebuilt version of its historic self. The baroque architecture is peppered with new innovative structures creating a unique mix of old and new.

Vonnegut's protector.

The Elbe River separates the New and Old towns. The New Town is actually the eldest, as it endured the least bit of destruction and was rebuilt first. But it appears newer with its gridlocked rows of concrete communist-era buildings, tagged with elaborate works of graffiti. 

The Old Town was built with new materials masked by the rubble of its former self to give that old town feel. The Frauenkirchen, a beautiful church in the center of the Old Town, was rebuilt meticulously using original pieces placed in the exact same spot as it stood in the former structure.

And it works. It all works. The city is inviting. The New Town is hip and fresh, full of artists and hippies, bars and vintage clothing store. The locals of the New Town refer to their side of the river as "the dark side." 

The Old Town is refined with quiet restaurants and quaint shops lining cobble-stoned streets, flushed with churches, monuments of yesteryear, and an impressive castle once belonging to Augustus the Strong. 

Nightlife.

It is without a doubt worth a visit to Dresden if you find yourself in Germany. For me, it may even warrant a move. Because like St. Louis and Honolulu, Dresden feels like home - not just “a” home, but home. 

And sometimes it feels good to just go home.