My Momma

I was not sure I would be able to speak today and I am going to have to ask you to be patient with me, because I have never done this before and no one should be good at this.  But I could not let y’all walk out of here and not know what Lucinda McFetridge was like as a mother. So on behalf of her girls I want to tell you a little bit about her.

She made no secret of the fact that my sister and I were her proudest accomplishments, if not her greatest heartbreaks.  Because those of you with children know that they will break your heart.  And they are supposed to – if you do it right, they feel so much love and confidence and passion for life that they leave you and go out and make their own way.  I know my mother missed my sister and me every day and she lived to hear our voices on the phone and was always standing at the airport with the biggest smile whenever planes arrived.  It made her sad when we left and I know she cried. 

But she was so proud of who Adriane and I had become – and not just our career successes, which she often bragged about, so I have no doubt y’all know more about us than we do!  She was proud because we did get on planes and go. 

At 22 she got on her first big plane trip to Hawaii as a new bride and my dad just told me this week how terrified she was of that.  She never wanted us to feel that way – she wanted us to seize life and tame it to our desires.

And we did. 

My mother gave me that gift and many others – and not just my good looks :).  She taught me to love animals, music, languages and cooking.  Even gravy, which God knows Adriane and I struggled with – even calling her on Thanksgiving in the middle of the night in Indonesia to walk us through how to turn greasy caulk into something edible. (Turns out you can’t!)

She taught me to never walk and smoke.  (back when we all did – smoke that is!) Or wear white before Easter, after Labor Day or at someone else’s wedding.  Or open your own door or change your own tire if there is a man there to do it!  (and there always is – you may have to wait a while in front of a closed door, but one will turn up eventually.  I am still waiting!)   

Most importantly, though, she taught me how to love.  With everything you have.  Not everyone saw that, but if you are someone who has the capacity for that kind of boundless generosity and vulnerability, you need to be careful on whom you bestow it. 

Cats are always a good choice though.  :)

But there are things she never managed to teach me. Primarily how to budget! Or how to cook without Crisco or butter. How to pump gas.

Or how to face the rest of my life without her as my go to when my heart is breaking or my world is feeling small and painful.

But,today should not be about that.  You may have noticed that I am wearing a party dress, with sparkly shoulder pads.  And you may have thought that odd, but my mom helped me plan my 40^th birthday party back a few months ago and she bought me this dress to wear to it.  She loved that she got to be a part of that and I wanted her to get to see me in it and to remind people that this IS a party.

Now we won’t have done it as well as my mom would have, because y’all know she could throw a party.  But we will have too much food and even more alcohol and we need to take this time to celebrate what she meant to each of us.

Tomorrow we can wake up and learn how to go on without her.  But, today, let’s keep her close and rejoice in how we lived with her.

The Great British Summer

So, last time I regaled y’all with latest musings of Countrydropper, I was bemoaning the London weather.  As a matter of fact, my exact words were that there were only two seasons: grey, wet and warm and grey, wet and cold.  Well, I am happy to say that London took my challenge and threw down the gauntlet with a month of heat and sunshine.  In fact, dare I say – we actually had the Great British Summer.  Now, I had heard tell of this mythical phenomena and I had even sampled a taste of it the Summer of 2006- my first such season in the UK- when the World Cup was on, the sun was shining, pubs were spilling over with cold beer and good times.  My ground floor flat had giant glass windows painted shut that simulated a stifling global warming greenhouse effect, so I even went so far as to start pricing air conditioning units.  Yes, those first few months residing in London lured me in, like a first date with champagne and roses, making me believe that this was what I could expect for 3 months out of the year. 

Not so much. A little less romance, a little more one night stand.

Fast forward 7 years and I have yet to have had a single sunburn in England.  I have never again contemplated purchasing any cooling device, I own a single ice tray and my sheets and duvet remain heavy Egyptian cotton.   The only consistent and reliable heat I have experienced is that emitting from my blow-dryer.

But, I survived.  I watched the rain soaked Jubilee celebrations from a pub, I wore a raincoat over my wedding attire to attend a Royal Wedding party and I lived in my jean jacket for two weeks solid while checking out the Olympic action at the big screen festival area in my local park.  In short, I did what every good Londoner did and endured the “summer” in a hazy boozy state.  I no longer believed the weather-casters when they predicted a “BBQ Summer” – particularly after I had yet to go through the single gas canister I bought for my BBQ 4 summers ago.  And, let’s face it, when M&S sells umbrellas marketed under the Great British Summer logo, you know we’ve all given up.

But, lo and behold, this summer has proved us all wrong.  After a particularly crappy and long winter, we have had weeks of consecutive sunshine and heat.  I broke out my flip flops, bought some sun dresses and packed away the tan in a can.  Oh joyous celebration, the Great British Summer exists!

And, yet, the warmer it got, the crankier people became.  I expect Londoners to “moan” (btw, this is a particularly odd word for me.  As a Texan, moaning only happens on TV channels that come on after 9 pm so imagine my surprise at the frequency with which people use that word here in lieu of “to complain.”  Actually, when you think about it, it takes a word that describes something positive and makes it describe something negative.).

But, I digress.

Or, rather do I? Because I think the Brits have a way with misnomers.  For people who invented English, they sure struggle with how to use it.

Let me explain.  As you all know, another thing about weather here is that everyone LOVES to talk about it.   Awkward minute or two in the elevator with a stranger?  Comment on the cloudy drizzle.  Beginning of a conference call while waiting for everyone to join?   Whinge about the washed out weekend.  Horribly invasive medical procedure involving stirrups or coughing?  Mention the endless winter. 

So, clearly you are going to need some good adjectives here, right?  Some really descriptive, almost visceral, words to help convey your thoughts.  I mean, this is at least 60% of your conversation so you are going to need some choice options.

 But, no.   You couldn’t be more off if you tried. 

For example, when it is really Houston-muggy and oppressive, the Brits will say it is “close” – close to what I ask?  Hell?  Well, then yes. 

And, if it is teeth-chatteringly icy with gusts of arctic blasts, it is simply “fresh.”  No, folks, I am here to tell you, it ain’t  “fresh,” it is COLD.  Fresh is how you describe fruit or the smell of clean sheets.  Not hypothermia.

So, here we are, FINALLY getting some heat.  And, guess how everyone is reacting?  With jubilation and glee?  Nope.  Yep, you guessed it – they moan.  And guess what the adjective du jour is? 

Boiling.

Boiling?? Really?  OK, I have a thermostat and you can break this down nice and easy in Celsius– it is 30 degrees and 100 is boiling, so you’re pretty much closer to freezing – by a lot – than boiling. 

So, why the extremes now?  We were fresh and close before but we get boiling when the country finally thaws itself out?  Color  (and, yes that is color without the superfluous “u”) me confused.  Moaning is a bad thing, fresh and close are OK, but boiling is awful?    And, yes, I get that the infrastructure isn’t set up for heat – the tube lines contract and screw up all public transport, the offices have poor or non-existent AC, no one has screens on their windows so flies are everywhere in your home and we’re all hot sweaty messes.

But, I have been wet and droopy or a cold and runny-nosed mess for the last 8 months.   So, I am loving this frequent exposure to Vitamin D. My skin is a little more brown, I’ve staved off the rickets for another year and I finally had a reason to buy Jimmy Choo flip flops. 

But.  I won’t lie.  I was happy to go to Prague for the weekend and stay in the Hilton, where I cranked the AC down as far as it would go and just relished the frigid darkness of a hotel room with black out curtains.  And, I found myself curled up on the couch in front of the fan, watching TV rather than lying out in the garden, only to dig out the tan in a can and apply it once the sun had gone down.  And, I have been known to complain a little about my long sweaty hair sticking to my neck and threatening everyone that I must be going through the Change (menopause for my American friends).

So, maybe I have gone a little more native than I thought.

But, if I ever fully succumb and buy an umbrella that says the “Great British Summer” on it, I think it will be time to pack it in and head to Texas where hot is 115 degrees, tapes and makeup melt when left in your car, and you really can cook an egg on the sidewalk. 

Now, that is boiling.

Fancy Mess

Well, folks, it’s been a while.  Almost 6 months to be exact and I wish I could tell y’all the that the hiatus was due to a glamorous sabbatical world tour extravaganza, a whirlwind romance ending in happily ever after or a lottery win that led to 180 days of being sozzled on pink fizz.

But, no, just took a break to sort out some things in my real life – the one that (nearly!) pays the bills, goes to work, has hangovers and heartache and isn’t always as funny and fabulous as Countrydropper is – but, fear not, with the advent of spring (and, yes, I am aware that it is mid-June.  I live in London, after all.  Home to two seasons – grey, wet and cold and grey, wet and warm.  As it is less cold than warm, it must be spring. It damn sure ain’t summer.)  I am back on the funny wagon.  Or, at least the “I think I am” funny wagon.  But, you must be mildly amused or you wouldn’t have gotten this far!

So, here I sit contemplating my Saturday night plans – a house party.  Now,  for all y’all back home, that may mean something akin to a 90s Moby event replete with glow sticks and bad dancing, but for those of us city dwellers it just means a party at someone’s “house” (AKA flat) as opposed to a pub or bar.  Which really means, bring your own booze and no 11 pm closing time.  My kinda shindig.  But, another aspect of the London House Party is fancy dress. 

What, you Amerixan (see what I did there?  I kept the Texas while still including the America as all my friends know that a Texan is a Texan first, an American second. But, some of y’all didn’t have the good luck to be from God’s Country, so I lump y’all in there, too) folks will be thinking, who wears a cocktail formal to someone’s house?   But, no, fancy dress is code for costume as opposed to black tie, which is code for, well, black tie.

Yes, the Brits love to dress up like every day is Halloween.  Which is ironic as Halloween here is a real let down.  For people who invented irony, the hallmark of Halloween, they certainly don’t get the point on October 31.  No, people seem to think that is has to be something “scary” so you see a bunch of people in costumes with some fake blood and gore added to it. You haven’t seen anything til you have seen a zombie Michael Jackson or a corpse Taylor Swift.  As an aside, my best British Halloween costume ever was during the election year in 2008 when I went as Sarah Palin. Scary and ironic all at once. Result.

So, as there is nothing ironic or clever about Halloween, these fancy dress parties abound.  I, myself, have had not too few, the first being a Bad Taste party, which was one of the best soirees I have had.  Well, until the panic moment when my two terrorist bedecked friends decided to fire their toy guns outside my flat.  Which was next door to the Chilean Embassy and across the street from the Turkish Embassy.  Probably not a good idea to have a balaclava and flak jacketed “IRA” dude exchanging fire with the thobe clad “Muslim” outside my front door.  (And, no, I don’t know why I used the quotation marks for my friend, who actually is Muslim, and yes, I did have to google “Muslim man’s robe” to learn that it was actually called a thobe.) 

But, I digress.

So, tonight’s fancy dress theme is The Great Gatsby.  Now, I have long hair and a curvy figure, so I am already at a disadvantage for the 20s when women were supposed to look like sparkly bejewelled little boys.  Not much I can do about that, so my uber lame costume is an art deco necklace and a black dress.  I am sure I have a feather boa and some black silk gloves in my fancy dress box. 

(Yes, I am 40 years old and I have a toy box. It has a pink silk witch’s hat, a sparkly American flag cowboy hat, devil’s horns, said boa and gloves etc.  One can never be too prepared for an impromptu fancy dress affair.)

I am looking forward to this party, but with some trepidation.  The last fancy dress themed event that I (and many of tonight’s guests) attended was my Fabulous 40s Party in December.  A fantastic event, with bottles of champagne, waiters with amazing hors d’oeuvres and nibbles, the world’s largest cheese plate and the most amazing 1940s themed costumes ever (including a cameo appearance by an 8 month old Winston Churchill, munching on his pacifier/dummy turned cigar).  We danced and drank and celebrated in a magnificent country manor house in Suffolk until the wee hours of the morning.  We had a wonderful brunch the next morning with homemade pancakes, roasted chicken, stuffing, potatoes, mimosas and more wine.

It was the perfect weekend.

And, then…the Kraken was unleashed.

Otherwise known as Norovirus or the winter vomiting bug, it starts off subtly with a “hmm, I feel a bit NQR." (not quite right for the non-Aussies)  Must be having a delayed onset of a hangover…maybe I will just lie down….to a “wow, maybe I am still drunk as that was some serious projectile vomiting, I better chug a big pint of water"….to an, "uh-oh…."

To put it more delicately, my friend Rich said he felt like a tube of toothpaste squeezed out both ends.

So, some of us were still out in the country, some had actually made it home, some were en-route.  But, all of us (bar 3) were struck down at some point in varying degrees of horrific-ness. I was still in the House of Hell (as it came to be known in my mind) along with a few friends and we had to alter travel plans and stay an extra night as one friend (who shall remain nameless!) was unable to leave the safety of indoor plumbing.  Now, you would think that the nice folks who rented the house to us would have let us stay for free given the medical necessity, but, no, the money grubbers insisted on charging my friend for the night.

I take comfort in the fact that the virus can live for up to 14 days on surfaces and that the owners were staying in the house the next weekend for their family Christmas.  Karma is a b*tch.

So, a technicolor end to what had been a glorious weekend and party. I will certainly never forget turning 40.  Nor will my friends I suspect, as every time we have gotten together since that night, the Kraken has come up in conversation like an old war story at a VFW event.  We endured and we survived, but we are all a little marked by the event.

In hindsight, maybe having a fancy dress theme based on a war wasn’t such a great idea. Maybe staying in village that had been home to the strategic military encampment of the US Air Force during World War 2 was tempting fate a bit. And, maybe, just maybe, having a friend who (randomly) dressed as a priest and staying in a former monastery was a bit irreverent.  

I am sure tonight will be different – what could be better than the Roaring 20s?   

I can’t imagine an illustrious ending to a Great Gatsby themed affair.  Nothing fortuitous about that, right?

At least it isn’t the Hamptons.  Or summer.

The Christmas Letter

I hope this letter finds everyone surrounded by love and laughter at this time of year, whether it be with family or friends, at home or on a tropical or snowy holiday or just drunk in a bar somewhere (I know this rings true for not a few of you).   I know many of you have pined (man, am I good at puns or what?) for this letter and don’t understand why I have left it so many years in between letters.  Well, yes, it has been a long time indeed since I sent a Christmas letter and I know exactly when and why the gap – in fact, it’s not been since that ill-fated BMW Incident.  Yes, friends, back in my heyday of youth, oh those 12 years ago, I was pondering my Christmas letter, sitting in my rented apartment, on my Roomstore bargain furniture, staring into the duraflame log, guzzling my beloved Franzia wine-in-a-box, contemplating yet another failed relationship with a feckless man, when I got good and fed up.  (You KNOW you are picturing that sad scene in Bridget Jones with the bottle of red wine and the cigarette, serenading herself to “All By Myself” – you wouldn’t be far off.)

 

Yep, there I was opening the hundredth Christmas card/family photo/brag-a-thon when I had had enough.  I had had enough seeing color-coordinated denim, khaki and chambray (it was the 90s after all), chubby cheeked cherubs, dogs in antlers and santa hats, snowy landscapes, glorious fall foliage blah blah blah.  And, that was just for starters.  Unfold the letters and behold! All the most amazing wondrous and “blessed” events that had transpired (yes, folks, if there is one theme consistent in the Christmas letter, second only to “Oh how great is my life” it is “Oh, how blessed am I.”  Which we all know is really the same thing.)  Now, I love my friends.  And, I want them to be happy. And, yes, I want them to be blessed.  Notwithstanding that we all have a little schadenfreude.  (After all, if we didn’t there wouldn’t be a word for it, right?)  But, I was at a loss – what could I possibly put in MY Christmas letter that would indicate how amazing, wondrous and blessed I was?  And, then it occurred to me!  I had the good fortune to work for Dell at a time when the stock was multiplying at an unprecedented level, making us all rich, rich, rich!  (on paper, which turns out isn’t the same thing. Or so, I know now, thank you student loans for the rest of my life….) So, what did I do?  I bought myself a convertible BMW.  White with tan leather interior.  A five speed, brand new, CD changer in the trunk, heated seats, engine like a tiger piece of German engineering genius.  It was the most amazing, wondrous and blessed thing in my life – so natch I told people in MY Christmas letter.

 

Ok, so maybe I missed the point – maybe my capitalist superficial blessing wasn’t really in the Christmas spirit, but what was I supposed to write?  Hey y’all, glad everyone is joyously married to a gorgeous hot sack of sex, with picture-perfect, well-behaved precocious children, living in a brand new house with a golden retriever, having the most incredible fabulous life EVER!  “Yep, Kristin here, still single since I can’t seem to commit to anyone who is geographically, legally or emotionally available, still renting an apartment due to said commitment issue, still can’t balance a checkbook and oh yeah, I gained 10lbs this year.  Merry Christmas, y’all!”

 

Yeah.  Right.  BMW it was.

 

And, right on cue, all my closest girlfriends made ridiculous fun of me.  Now, these are my closest girlfriends because they made fun of me TO my face.  Goodness knows what everyone else was saying behind my back!  So, scarred for life (or just 12 years as it turns out) I swore off the Christmas letter. 

 

Yet, here I go again, dipping my toe in the pool of “covet thy neighbour” again.  No, I haven’t miraculously married Channing Tatum, given birth to the next Nobel prize winner/Miss USA/Mother Theresa or settled down to the recently inherited manor estate a la Downton Abbey in the English countryside.  Hell, I don’t even own a golden retriever.  (although, no shock here,  I DO have two adorable cats with special needs.  (Yes, only I could adopt a mute cat and a cat with kitty cerebral palsy)).   No, what prompted me to write this Christmas Letter again was a realization that, actually, it has been a pretty good year, all things considered.    And, I do feel blessed.  Or lucky, deserving or random, depending on whether you believe in God, Buddha, karma or chaos theory.  Whatevs.

 

2012 didn’t start out so auspicious.  Flashback to New Year’s Eve – I am on a riverboat with my parents and best friend in New Orleans, watching some very bad 80s dancing to what can only be described as the band the Love Boat fired, chugging gin and tonics and grounded in flat shoes (Louboutins, natch!) thanks to a couple of broken toes incurred after a particularly raucous evening of pre-Christmas partying in London.  Notwithstanding the dancing and music, not a bad night, but nothing too special.  (Although, come to think of it, is New Year’s Eve EVER really any fun?  Can any of y’all actually think of a good one?  Bar my friend Paula, who got married  on NYE (and, thereby in one fell swoop screwed up everybody else’s NYE) I certainly can’t.  Inevitably someone ends up puking well before midnight (and, yes, sadly that has been me once.  Ok, twice.) and then you dash around madly looking for someone hot to end the night on with a midnight kiss, before settling for the short slightly balding guy who tastes of olives.)

 

So, in hindsight, not such a bad start to the year.  And, what a year it was – not for me personally so much, but to be in London.  We had the Queen’s Jubilee, the Olympics, the announcement of the new royal bebe…at times it did feel like a constant party.  And, then, of course, I turned 40, which was a party (and a story) in and of itself.  I got a couple of promotions at work, I went to Greece for a week,  became eligible for British citizenship, went on a very miserable week-long boot camp in Spain, made some new friends.  I didn’t fall in love, I DID gain a bunch of weight, ended up owing a bunch of money in taxes due to an accountant issue,  I still live in a rented flat with my two special cats.  My bike got stolen so I don’t cycle to work anymore.  I wrote more, but not as much as I had hoped.  I didn’t become fluent in any language or compete in a triathalon.  I didn’t cure cancer.

 

But, I loved.  And I laughed.  I experienced death and pain, learned some hard lessons about myself and others.   I tried to be kind and understanding, generous and honourable.  I was grateful, humbled and loved back.

 

So, maybe 2012 wasn’t remarkable, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

Happy Holidays to you and yours – may 2013 be as unremarkably fulfilling for you as 2012 was for me.

Humbling Holidays

Well, folks, it has been a while.  But for those of you who read my last entry you know that I am renewing my commitment to writing.  And, what great timing for y’all, because I am actually preparing to fly off for a girls’ holiday to sunny Crete tomorrow!  Naturally, I am very excited – have downloaded all manner of cheesy vacation music (although, not, oddly, “Bootylicious” by Destiny’s Child as it is not on iTunes.  What is up with that?  You can download the Fat Boys “Wipeout” from 1984 but not a number one hit by one of the greatest all time girl bands? And, yes, I did also download FB’s Wipeout.  I admitted it was cheesy vacation music.  I am not proud)…but I digress.

I also booked a mani/pedi, purchased new glittery sandals, sundresses and books for the trip.  Now, I am a little wary of this trip as it is my first package holiday.  All my British friends will be familiar with this concept and know what this means, but for the Americans, let me explain.  Think of it like a cruise ship that doesn’t go anywhere.  You have an entertainment director person (a la Julie McCoy) whose sole job is to get you to spend more money on “excursions.”  You fly on a chartered plane to a resort with some or all meals included.  Your only purpose is to lie in the sun, by the pool, while buying expensive cocktails.   So far, not much of an adventure, but certainly, what I need after a ridiculously stressful few months.  I only really have one concern on this trip – there are three of us going and we booked a “triple” for the week.  Meaning all in one room, quite possibly (but hopefully not) in one bed and a foldout.  Now I am a kicker.  And, a fidgeter.  And, a frequent roller-over.  As a matter of fact, I am probably more active in my sleep than I am all day. 

Hmmm.  Note to self, must get on that 5K training plan after I get back.

But, the bed situation isn’t actually my concern – probably because I am not the one in danger of being assaulted in mid REM.  No, I have a vague recollection of an “open-plan” style bathroom situation picture on the hotel’s website.  I am refusing to let that image materialize fully in my head.  Because three friends do not need to share that much.  So, let’s just hope that was the honeymoon suite where you don’t mind showering or experiencing any hangover effects smack dab in the middle of your bedroom.  Although, come to think of it, even then, not so much.

So, as I prepare for this trip, I am reminded of my last girls’ holiday, which was over a year ago to Morocco. Now before I go into too much detail, let me preface this with the information that this was a well-planned trip, well-thought out trip.  (not by me, natch.)  A few friends decided that we wanted to go to Morocco so we picked a time in March, when the prices were lower and we would be definitely interested in seeing sunshine, a little less post-Christmas broke, and in need of a break after three long months of sun and fun depravation.  (Also known as Winter in London.)

Now, what I forgot to take into account is that March is also the last month of my company’s fiscal year.  So, the weeks leading up to that point were particularly horrendous, augmented by the fact that I was trying to close a deal in Australia.  From a conference room in London.  At 4 am.  When Australia is open for business and negotiation.

Fast forward to the usual Kristin-prep.  Pack all the wrong things, forget stuff you do need and have absolutely no idea what you are in for.  Turns out, it isn’t so appropriate to wear short strapless sundresses in Morocco in March.  If the frigid desert temps don’t get ya, the ogling and cat-calling men in the Marrakesh bazaar will. Now the first time, I had someone tell me they “love me” or said “oh my god" (insert sick pervy intonation here)  I made the colossal mistake of shouting back.  Yeah, don’t do that.

It was a very Samantha-Sex in the City move that backfired into an Abu Ghraib prison riot.

(Ok, maybe that is a bit of an exaggeration.) But, I digress.

In any event, my poor dress code sense was never more wrong than when we completed our 12 hour drive up the mountains, down the mountains, through the mountains and finally arrived in the desert.   (For those that know me, I am a compulsive motion-sensitive projectile vomiter.  This 12 hours may have been the death of me had our lovely driver found me some fancy Arabic medicine that knocked me out.) 

Again, bad planning on the packing.  This drive was no surprise.  Well, to everyone else anyway.

So, enter my Arabian nights fantasy – riding a camel at sunset, sleeping in a beduin tent under a sky filled with thousands of stars…

It was close. 

There was a camel.  And, me in my cowboy boots (what? You have a better option for foot attire on a dromedary?) riding along on Jimi Hendrix (yes, that was my camel’s name.  I did not make that up.)  until we get to the point where they tell  us we need to hike up the final hill as it is too step for the camels.  Well, steep and shifting sands aren’t so great in cowboy boots either.   So, I decided to quit and wait it out.  Enter sandstorm.  So, now I am panicked, thinking I will be lost in the desert, left to freeze to death in my boot and sundress, so I take my Balinese beach sarong, wrap it around my face to block the sand from my eyes, take off my boots and hoist myself up the last 5 miles.  Ok, maybe not 5.  But, it wasn’t pretty. 

So, we head back down to our campsite, covered in sand and grit.  (Let me tell ya, you have no idea how many creases are on the human body until you get stuck in a sandstorm in the Sahara.)  Now, you would think we would be keen for a hot shower at this point.  But, as the sun has gone down and the frigid desert air has now rendered my Balinese sarong wrap-come-face protector-come scarf absolutely useless, I am not sure I want to add getting wet to this recipe for death.  (Not to mention that the last two “showers” I had used in the country clearly felt that gravity was the only requirement for water pressure.  Now that may be great if you are 2 feet tall, but even as short as I am, I had to make do with an ad-hoc cupping and splashing type of cleansing ritual.  Ain’t no way that is going to help with the gritty sand-filled creases.)

Turns out that was definitely the right decision.   Because another thing I forgot:  tents have no heat.

Luckily, they gave us about 500 yak or goat blankets, so I just hunkered down and collapsed.  And, I slept very well that night.

So, following our Marrakesh bazaar experience and desert excursion, my dear friends had booked us into one of the most amazing hotels on the beach I have ever had the pleasure of visiting.  I would go back to Essaouira just for this hotel – gorgeous gardens everywhere, amazing home grown food and herbs, a giant fireplace for cozy glasses of wine at night and an adults-only pool for daytime sunbathing.  And, a real shower, with water pressure and everything!  It was heaven.  (Of course, come to think of it, as the night before I had been sleeping with goat blankets in a tent, my standards may have been a little relaxed.)

I enjoyed this hotel so much that I didn’t even go to the beach with everyone else.  Just hung out by the pool, reading in the sunshine with a cold glass of wine.  Bliss.   And, while on my own, I decided to book us all in for a hammam at the hotel’s spa.   

Something else I should have researched in advance.  Turns out “hammam” is code for naked time with strangers.

I don’t do naked time.  And I certainly don’t do it with 5 girlfriends, most of whom I have known less than a year.  So, when I tried to politely tell the lady (in broken French) that I was not going to be happy wearing the black plastic shower cap panties only,  I only served to embarrass  the others who just wanted to go along with it all.  So, I put them on.  (BTW, what is up with these spa disposable garments – really, a little dignity please.)  So, I hesitantly tip toe into the hammam, trying as best as I can to cover my assets and making sure to only focus on above the waist eye contact with all my friends. 

Now, the hammam is a steam room and the steam can lend some well-needed coverage.  And, the heat leaves you feeling very relaxed…so fast forward 30 minutes.  I am cloaked in steam, chilled out, we’re all more comfortable with the environment, embracing our feminine form and feeling liberated and dignified.  So, I decide to top up the steam by adding cold water, not an usual thing.  However, as I proudly stroll back to my stone bench, thinking, “look at me embracing the openness, naked time, naked time, I can do this!”, I make the colossal mistake of trying to pop backwards onto the stone bench, hit a particularly hot bit of stone on my asset, yelp in pain and lunge forward.  Normally I would just fall on the ground, but I am covered in sweat.  The room is cloaked in steam.  So, I bounce and skid on my arse across the entire hammam, arms and legs akimbo til I hit the other side.

Exit dignity.

If there is anything I have a more adamant rule about than naked time, it is moving quickly when naked.  Naked people should not run, jump, or, God forbid, bounce and skid.

I am feeling pretty mortified.  I am not sure it can get worse.  Oh, but it does.

I will spare you the lurid details, but let’s just say that the rest of the hammam experience consisted of being scrubbed from head to toe with some black soap (think awkward 3 year old bath-time feeling) followed by what I can only describe as a “boyfriend” massage.  If you have to ask…..let’s just say, cupping motions should not be adopted as a massage technique and certain areas should be off limits to anyone but your doctor.

All in all, I think I was more stressed leaving the hammam than I was at 4 am in that conference room in London.

But, while I do love to tell a good story, I have to say that Morocco ranks up there with my top all-time trips ever.  I got to know some very special ladies better, saw an amazing and beautiful country and was humbled by the kindness of the people we met and cultural and geographic diversity in such a small place.  I took away alot from that trip.

Including just a a little of my own humility, too.

 

Bring on Crete and the open plan bathroom! :)