Muddling Through Marrakech

Oh, Morocco. Your first trip, first hours, first minutes there can be packed with all sorts of adventure. Check out my first published article "Muddling Through Marrakech" over at Travelmag. Travelmag has a wealth of exciting travel stories from real, independent travelers with great experiences to share.

From the magazine's editor, "Travelmag correspondents travel well beyond the guidebook routes, illuminating little-known corners of the globe and, occasionally, revealing a bit about themselves as well."

This travel writing thing isn't impossible, you just have to start somewhere. Yay!

Café in the Plaza

Trying to channel my inner artist and writer, I searched endlessly for Cuatro Estaciones Café, a café known as a popular meeting place for artists and writers.

After asking hotel guest services, several locals on the street, the girl behind the jewelry shop counter, and the man in the restaurant opposite the plaza, all of whom had no idea what I was talking about, I thought I might never find it.

But lo and behold, the third person we asked at the tourist bureau knew what it was and where to find it. And when I finally saw it, I understood why no one could help me.

It was just a kiosk in the middle of the plaza. A place that locals have probably passed by and frequented a thousand times without ever realizing it had a name.

At first glance, it does not look like the type of place that would draw artists, writers, or anyone that is even remotely interesting. There are pigeons that will be glad to escort you to the window while you order your café con leche, and are even kind enough to return to your seat with you and keep your ankles protected. You can only hope that their friends in the trees above don't decide to drop any surprises in on you.

It seemed highly anticlimactic after all of my searching. But considering that the temperature was reaching new levels of sweltering and we had been ambling through the cobblestone streets of Viejo San Juan for some hours now, we stopped to have a drink anyway.

As I sat in the iron chair under the cool shade of the trees and took a look around, I realized why people come here. They come here to feel the daily life of San Juan. They come here to see the people, the culture, the highs and lows of society, and everything else that passes through the plaza.

They come here to grab a coffee en route to work, or to sit and enjoy one, not in a rush to anywhere at all.

The women across from us sit together on their lunch break discussing el color de su pelo. They are not talking about work, what happened at work, or what work they still have to do; they are taking a real break and hair color is at the forefront of their minds.

The businessman shares a bench with the homeless man and enjoys a laugh at his crazed rants; they almost look like friends. The security director outside of the Departmento de Estado greets the female police officer with a standard kiss on the cheek as she arrives.

In my world, I can hardly imagine any male officer of the law greeting any female officer with a kiss on the cheek, under any circumstances. At least not in public anyway.

Things are different here, I like this world. It is quiet and busy at the same time. The wealthy and the poor share space as though it were natural. Life takes priority over the rigors of work, and things still get done.

As the subtle Spanish music plays, setting the scene perfectly, I really almost feel like I could sit here and paint San Juan. The old doors, the colorful buildings, the cobblestone streets, I can see them all from right here. I get this place.

Channel inner artist and writer: check. It was worth the search for my café in the plaza. 

Tranquility at San Cristóbal

So I'm supposed to be doing this travel writing thing; supposed to be documenting the things I see in the places I go.

But I can't stalk out a story. I can't just show up at a historical site, or restaurant, or cultural location, and start to write.

The story finds me.

It manifests itself anywhere, at any time, and demands to be written. So when I found myself at Castillo de San Cristóbal, one of the forts of San Juan, and a truly recognizable symbol of Puerto Rico, I figured I should probably write something about it. 

I stood there, desperately begging for words to come to me. The blank page just stared back. What could I really say about such a major tourist attraction that no one else has said? I suppose I could mention that there is a discount when purchasing entry for both San Cristóbal and neighboring fort, El Morro. I could say that there is a great introductory video to watch outlining the role of the fort in Puerto Rico's history. I could say that the inescapable fanny-pack toting tourists are here, in case you need a reminder that you are still on the beaten path. 

But none of that would be particularly interesting. 

Is this the predicament travel writers are constantly finding themselves in? I mean, I have long since been ditched by my travel companions and left standing alone on top of this stone looking like some kind of freak with my brochures and notebook, pen in hand, looking around for something to write. 

I really don't have all day to do this. 

So I give up. 

I close my eyes, and my notebook, and realize for the first time how quiet and peaceful it is up here. I can hear the waves splashing up against the stone walls of this fortress. The tourists must be scattered throughout the various tunnels and observation posts, because no one is near me, no voices interrupt my thoughts, no babies are screaming. 

This would really be a fantastic place to get some writing done if I had anything to say. 

I think how strange it is that there were once soldiers standing here looking out on their land, fearful of encroaching troops and poised to fight off an invasion. And now I stand here, looking out on the same land, the cool breeze caressing my face (and staving off a heat stroke) and I couldn't be more at peace.

Funny how time changes things. I am sure as attacks ensued, Spanish troops could not have imagined a day where someone would stand in the plaza de armas and their biggest battle would be against writer's block.

I am sure they never imagined tranquility at San Cristóbal...but it is there.