My Jammies Journey

Thank you to all that follow me I as wander the world. Remember last year when I told in detail the sad tale of our missing luggage as we headed to a cruise? I had a multi-part story titled “My Pajamas Need a Passport”. In case you’ve been wondering, my pajamas have been wandering... again.

Husband, Doug, and I made it home from Uganda and Morocco on a Friday. Doug took Big Red (my suitcase) to the carwash on Saturday for a bath and I repacked it Sunday for a 6:20pm flight from Tulsa to Gulfport, Mississippi. I was looking forward to Travel South, a conference for travel buyers to meet with travel suppliers in a professional setting. I had appointments with 70 travel businesses plus a number of industry related activities. It’s fun, overwhelming, interesting and challenging… especially when your pajamas are a no show.

Back to that Tulsa flight. Our boarding time came and went, and we knew our flight was being delayed. My connecting flight was at 8:00pm in Dallas, so I had a tiny bit of wiggle room. That was, until American Airlines delayed twice more and now I wouldn’t reach Dallas to make my connection. And… there wasn’t another flight to Gulfport until 1:00pm… the next day. This is the moment everyone gets anxious.

Business travelers, like me, are scrambling to figure out how to make work and meetings. Spring Breakers are trying to figure out how to get home or to their vacation spot without losing any more time. I wait my turn in line to get Plan B. AA can get me to Dallas, and since it is a mechanical issue, they will put me up in a hotel and I can get to Mississippi Monday afternoon. But I have no pajamas... or anything. The professional traveler in me hates to admit, that I didn’t pack a carry-on bag for just such emergencies, because it’s just supposed to be a short couple of flights. Sigh.

I ask the agent if there was a chance to have my bag retagged to Dallas, so I could get it for the overnight. She made some calls to where ever bags lay and wait and said it was done. It wasn’t.

When I finally made it to Texas, Big Red was nowhere to be seen. After a few laps around that airport, and a demand audience with a supervisor, I was shuffled off to enjoy three hours in a hotel, without pajamas, before needing to be back to the airport to catch my United flight to Gulfport.

Dallas to Fort Worth, Fort Worth to Gulfport, finally. My luggage is nowhere to be seen. American Airlines blames United, United blames American. Sigh. I fill out the required paperwork, and head off to the conference wearing the T-shirt, jeans and tennis shoes I wore to church Sunday morning. I’ve missed 16 of my 70 appointments. I ask at the front desk if they have an amenities kit that I might have as I have a business dinner at a nice restaurant Monday evening. Housekeeping delivers a laundry bag with 19, yes, 19 things to bathe with. No toothbrush, no q-tip, but bars of soap and body washes. Sigh.

The story does end with my pajamas showing up late Monday evening. If they could only talk, they could tell me where they had been, as the airlines didn’t know. But I learned a lesson. I may wear my PJs to the airport next time.

The Art of Food

We have returned from Morocco, but I’m still reflecting on the many memories. One thing I certainly will associate with Morocco is Berber Whiskey. We drank it at every meal, it was offered when we entered places of business and hotel lobbies. It was available along the side of the road, and everyone drank Berber Whiskey. Tea, I’m talking about hot tea. But it is so much more than a dunked bag, it is a tradition and an art.

The Berbers are indigenous people of Northern Africa which includes Morocco. Kings, wars, and the quest for power and properties down through the years have resulted in culture jumble in these modern times. French and Arabic languages are woven into the fabric of Jewish and Muslim people.  The result is colorful and rich. But there is a constant, and that is tea and food.

We were students at the Lotus Chef Cooking School in Marrakech.  As we took our seats in the garden, our lovely hostess began to set the pace for the morning’s class… slow. We started with our “whiskey.” The tea-man brought out his giant tea kettle of water and placed it on the small, round, metal charcoal stove. He was seated on a floor cushion in his traditional costume. As the water began to boil, he prepared the tiny tea glasses which reminded me of slender jelly glasses. As a hot tea drinker myself, I was ready to grab a mug and dunk a bag when I saw the steam curl from the spout.

But no, this was just to heat the pot; fresh water was added and reheated to a boil. Then the hand-selected mint leaves were dropped in the kettle along with several chunks of sugar off a block. The tea-man poured an artistic arc of tea into the small glass. He then poured it back into the pot. This was repeated, until the tea was deemed steeped and ready. But not yet, as the tea had to be poured from amazing heights to mix the sugar.   It was almost a bit difficult to sit patiently and listen as everything was explained in beautiful detail. It starts with the tea, a slow ceremony for enjoyment. 

The tea is never stirred, as that gives the impression of being hurried and it breaks the tea leaves. The high pouring creates foam on each glass plus helps with the cooling. The process is quite impressive.

As we sipped our tiny teas, our hostess explained the art of the table. I loved her statement “Food can be nice when you have it, but it can be nicer when you share it.” Moroccans share, usually a large portion, in the table center. No silverware is needed as the flat bread is the fork. Lunch is the largest meal. Guests are served an abundance of food using the best utensils and linens. Our hostess gave credit to their long life span because of social skills with family and friends. Being social over food can recharge tired bodies. She said that in entertaining guests it is not polite to ask what the nature of the visit is or how long they plan to stay until after three days. 

Herbs and spices were discussed and passed around to sniff. We have dozens of pictures of these colorful peaks from the spice market that you can see on our Facebook page (facebook.com/G2GwithPB). It’s hard to think there could be that much demand. Ginger, cinnamon, cumin and “red gold” saffron. She was clear that most women grind their herbs fresh with a mortar and pestle. When asked about using a food processer, she smiled and replied, “No, sit down. Drink tea and make your music.” Her little brass bowl and wooden utensil chimed in agreement to her statement.

 I hope you will take the time to drink some tea and make some music.

Takin’ a Taxi

If you want to discover an area, travel by road. Criss-crossing a country in an airplane and hopping airports is certainly faster, but there is something kind of great about the observations

made through a windshield.

Doug and I had a plane to catch in Entebbe, Uganda for the second half of our 2018 adventure. We left our tiny town near Kamura, Uganda (south of Gulu) by taxi for a five hour drive to overnight before our flight. Five hours, you read that correctly. We had the same driver, same taxi for the trip out, but I was pretzeled in the back seat with the items we were delivering for the hospital that we were going to volunteer. I can’t really comment on the scenery except the side of some suitcases. I was promoted to front seat for the return and the journey began. Driver Eric did his best with some broken English to answer my questions, and I had a lot of them.

Most of my queries , I just had to wonder.  He asked if I wanted the air conditioner on, and I guess “yes” was hard to understand because we did the drive with the windows down. This part of Africa drives on the left with the steering wheel on the right. It had taken me all week to not go to the wrong side of the Restoration Gateway van to climb in. I had hopes of AC when Eric rolled up his window, but I discovered every smoking diesel bus or truck we passed, he got that window up and then it was down. Gasoline costs about $7 a liter, so I can’t really blame him.

The dirt there is like western Oklahoma, red clay and dusty. I watched folks in their daily lives. Whenever I saw a small crowd, I knew there would be people filling plastic cans with water. School children in tattered uniforms walked along the side of the highway headed home. I wondered what American parents would say if their little student walked alone down a busy blacktop. We passed through some small towns, women selling bread, jack fruit and eggs. Motorcycles buzzed by with entire families on board. I saw four adult men on a small cycle and then I couldn’t be surprised when I saw four big kids on a bike.

Traffic was a tangle as we reached the bigger city of Entebbe. Horns honking everywhere, motorcycles passing vehicles on both sides, cattle in the road...it seemed to be a huge game of chicken. I noticed many of the public mini-buses had sacred sayings on the back window such as “Jesus is Lord,” and “God Saves”. Trust me, that crazy taxi ride, I think I got saved three times. Six and a half hours later, we were there.

Fast forward to our next taxi ride which was after we landed in Casablanca. We are joining a group tour to check out Morocco. (You are asking yourself, “Does she really go on group tours when she’s not on a group tour?” Yep.) So we negotiated a price with our French speaking, Moroccan driver. I guess I’m going to drive, because we are back to right lane driving and left side steering and I can’t find my spot in the cab. We left for Rabat where the tour starts. We aren’t on the road five minutes and he pulls over and reaches into the glove box. Doug and I shoot each other a look, as he flings open his door mumbling something that sounded like “one minute”. Fifteen long minutes later he returns with a paper. (We didn’t ask.)

I notice his amber ornament that looks like the Koran on his rear view mirror. About this time Doug starts reading me the daily devotion our brother-in-law Mike sends us. All the while the driver’s playlist is pumping out The Beatles singing “Mother Mary comes to me.....Let it Be” Somehow it made me grin. Then the playlist cranked out Dolly Parton and Celine Dion. But my favorite moment was when Mr. Driver held up his fist, concert style, on “We are the World”. As it turned out, he was very expressive with his hands. I thought the Italians had top marks with hand gestures, but he displayed his dissatisfaction with other drivers with such complex moves, I wasn’t sure if he was cussing them out or giving them coaching directions to steal third base.

After a couple of phone calls and more stops to ask for directions, he finally found our hotel. He stopped in the intersection for us to get out. I was ready. 

Maybe next time we should look up Uber.