“Once upon a time, a little girl was raised by monsters. but angels burned the doorways, and she was all alone.” — Laini Taylor, Daughter of Smoke & Bone
One of my favorite YA books is “Daughter of Smoke & Bone,” a story in which doors are the bridges between this world and the magical realm of Elsewhere.
Nowhere but Morocco would I believe that to be true. Because the doors in Morocco really do promise magic. They are doors with curves and exquisite design. They are rough and humble with ancient dirt, and they burst with vibrant color. They contain secrets but they also open with great potential — behind these doors you can find snake charmers as easily as devout pilgrims in prayer.
One thing I did not expect about Morocco: Kitties everywhere!
That’s because cats hold a special place in Islam, as they are considered to be clean and pure of spirit. Muhammad is said to have loved his cat so much that he would do without his cloak rather than disturb a cat that was sleeping on it.
But Morocco takes that one step further. Their felines own the medinas. They are perched above restaurant terraces. They prowl the dark alleyways of the souks. And they have their pick of fish scraps and soft places to nap. Look up in the souk and you’re sure to see tiny paws on the tent fabric strung up above you — an army of cats making their own route through the crazy and chaotic bazaar.
Yes, I am that tourist — the one who travels to far-flung places to take photos of cats. Shut up.
Wondering why I didn’t take any photos of dogs? Well, they are not so plentiful in Morocco. I’ve seen maybe five dogs total, including these two pups.
I’ve met a lot of travelers, and I read a lot of travel blogs. Half the people I follow on Twitter have something to do with travel, and travel memoirs make up the bulk of my personal library. So how come I’m just now discovering that Portugal is a big, shiny gem?
I HAVE NO IDEA.
Although I’m excited to travel anywhere, I can’t say Portugal was at the top of my must-see list. But I am so thankful I made it here. This country has blown me away with fairytale palaces, magnificent landscapes and an exceptional history of explorers, artists and dreamers. I’m grateful I had the opportunity to make it part of this European road trip
Unfortunately I only have a short time here — I’m headed back to Spain tomorrow — but it was enough to move Portugal to the top of my must-return list.
Here’s the Fortaleza do Guincho, a 17th century fortress that has been turned into a magnificent hotel.
The Moorish Castle. The stairs here helped me burn off the bowl of olives I ate for lunch.
The spectacular view from Hotel Trivoli in Sintra.
Reflection in a tuk tuk mirror during a tour of Sintra. (The tuk tuks were made by Vespa and very chic. They are an ideal way to comfortably cover a lot of ground on Sintra’s winding, hillside roads.)
Refilling my water bottle with some of Portugal’s crisp, delicious agua.
Hillside near Sintra.
Yet another gorgeous castle.
Beautiful buildings dot the hillsides.
An arch going to Pena Palace.
Doorway outside of Pena Palace.
King Neptune looks angry.
Public water fountain on the street.
Cabo de Roca, the westernmost point of continental Europe. The coastline reminded me of California.
“Your George Bush had it right,” said John. His voice was deep and dark as blackstrap molasses.
“Whoa,” I said. “He is not my George Bush.”
John was a stranger. Just someone who offered to sit with me for a soda.
The table between us was flimsy red plastic, bleached pink by the sun. A nearby vendor sold sachets of drinking water. Salespeople squatted near sacks of potatoes. The air trembled from the sound of voices, feet, traffic.
“I mean to say, the George Bush of your country knows how to be a leader.”
“Oh?”
The concrete sidewalks were packed so thick with orange dust, you’d think they were dirt. A constant stream of scooters flowed down the street.
“Yes, George W. Bush knows the quickest way to make people happy and safe is to take away freedom,” John said. “He gives the people no choices.”
“I like having choices.”
“You Americans,” he shook his head. “The problem is that you have too much freedom.”
John tilted his chair, balanced on the two back legs. He lifted a glass bottle to his mouth and took a mighty swig of Coca-Cola. He swallowed audibly, then let out a long, “Ahhhh …”
I laughed. A Ugandan man giving me his take on America’s problems, pausing to take a big gulp from the most American of drinks. It couldn’t have been scripted better.
It was one of those moments that makes traveling worthwhile. The intersection of two human lives. An honest conversation over a plastic table. Looking at my own world from a dramatically different perspective.
John really did make me examine my thoughts about George W. Bush. He made me wonder how someone could come to this conclusion — that removing choice is an efficient way of keeping people happy — and see that as a positive thing. I struggled to understand John’s point of view, and he made an effort to understand mine. It led to a richer, layered and ultimately memorable conversation about what happened in our lives to shape our belief systems.
The other day I watched “The Way,” a movie written and directed by Emilio Estevez, who is also the center of the film. He plays a backpacker who dies on El Camino de Santiago, an 800-kilometer pilgrimage route through France and Spain. His father (Martin Sheen, appropriately) ends up making the trek his son never completed. Along the way he meets an unusual cast of characters. An overweight, jovial Dutchman. An Irish writer in search of a cure for writer’s block. A secretive and brash Canadian. The hikers quickly become friends, because that’s what travel does to people — it’s a unifier. It tosses strangers together and turns them into friends. It pushes the fast-forward button on relationships.
Being wildly out of place makes everyone vulnerable. And that vulnerable spot is exactly where the transitions occur.
Travel breaks down language into the most simple terms. There is no pretense, nothing to hide and nothing to lose. It is popping open a vein and letting the truth spill out because the very next day you could be 3,000 miles away. It is everything the internet is supposed to be and often is not.
It means that a light conversation over a shared soda can transform into the deep, unsettling questions that actually matter: Who are you? What do you believe? What made you that way? Where do you belong? Somehow, some way, a sun-bleached plastic table is found to meet in the space in between.
It’s what I miss most about backpacking, and it makes me yearn to get back on the road. Had John posted these thoughts on Facebook, I wouldn’t hesitate to unfriend him. But in front of me, he was a challenging and interesting composite. I didn’t agree with his views, but I respected them and I took time to try to understand them. I don’t think I do that now with people in my own country, and it’s something I’m working hard to change.
I grew up down the road from Yellow Springs, Ohio. My household was fairly conservative and military, so Yellow Springs was always referred to as That Place.
That Place with the hippies.
That Place with the freaks.
That Place where people write poetry and eat tofu and smoke the pot.
As a kid I went to That Place a few times, mostly field trips and a sixth-grade trip to the nature preserve. Whenever I returned home, my parents examined me for signs of corruption by That Place, the same way they scrutinized my dog for ticks every time she wandered off too far in the woods.
But, of course, my parents couldn’t see what That Place had done to me. They didn’t know my stomach grew tingly and warm each time I reached village limits. They couldn’t see the way Yellow Springs made both my head and my heart expand. Over the years, my strong love for the place only increased the more time I spent there.
I won’t go so far as to say Yellow Springs is perfect. But it was perfect for me. It is a challenging, creative place, and I found my way there during the most impressionable time of my life. I don’t know if I would be the same person today if I hadn’t grown up seeing so many politically-active, socially-progressive, intelligent, artistic and fun people, all living together in 1.9 gorgeous square miles.
Now that I live in California, I make a point of visiting Yellow Springs every time I return to Ohio. I still toy with the idea that I’ll end up with a home in Yellow Springs one day. Or maybe a simple cabin. Or a little artists’ retreat. Something. Anything.
Of course, I always come up with this plan in the summer, when Ohio winters still seem like a romantic notion. The reality of living there with slick streets, snowstorms and bone-freezing weather might not be that great.
That said, if you’re making a trip through Southwest Ohio — at any time of year — I highly recommend stopping by Yellow Springs. It’s by far my favorite place in the Midwest and ranks among my happiest places on earth.
Here are the five best things about it:
1. A bike path that promotes health and helps the environment. The Little Miami Scenic Trail, which runs from Yellow Springs to Xenia, is part of an 80-mile trail network that extends from eastern Cincinnati to Buck Creek State Park near Springfield. That means you can see a lot of Ohio on zero gas!
2. Beautiful local businesses. Yellow Springs makes a point to cultivate beauty in their community, which includes a network of unique shops and artisans you won’t find anywhere else.
3. Art is integrated into a way of life. Buildings are colorful, flowers are plentiful and yarnbombing is a way of life!
Check out some of the yarnbombers here.
4. Places where you can really get away from it all. Nature lovers can get their fix at Glen Helen Nature Reserve and John Bryan State Park. Both places are perfect for walking, wandering, getting lost and getting found.
If you spend too much time in front of a computer, here’s your antidote.
5. A variety of flavors are represented and respected. Where else can you get samosas, lomo saltado and vegan soft serve ice cream — all within one block?
