I walk down a cobbled street when I notice a beautiful woman winking at me. She smiles and beckons me over. Another woman, more beautiful than the last, is also enamored with me, she too winks and smiles. I should probably mention that they are both standing in storefront windows and wearing only their underwear. Being from the Midwest, I give a short, embarrassed wave and look anywhere but at her body because that’s how we roll.

Welcome to a small part of Amsterdam and watch out for the vomit ahead. It looks like banana vomit, which makes sense, across the street, is a bar called The Banana Bar where 45 euros buys you 1 hour of drinks served by naked women. You can, if the fetish is within you, pay extra to have a banana served in any way you’d like.

Prostitution is legal in Amsterdam. Each woman is her own small business. She rents the storefront and is probably a member of the Red Thread Union. She pays taxes and is heavily monitored by the government and health officials. Even with the seemingly legitimate feel of prostitution one still thinks, “Surely, there’s something else these women could be doing.” But the simple truth is that there is money in sex. A good prostitute can earn 500 euros a night, which is about 10 clients. If we assume a 5 day work week, that’s 130,000 euros ($208,000) per year. The down side is…well, you’re a whore. The other downside is the guys shelling money out aren’t Robert Redford in An Indecent Proposal, but shaven-headed drunken English hooligans that probably just vomited up a banana.

Amsterdam is so much more than the Red Light District for which it is so well known. It is probably one of the most beautiful European cities that I have visited. It is quiet cafés along tree lined canals. It is friendly, approachable people and a laid back atmosphere. There are 100,000 Dutch Elm and Lime trees, 1,200 small bridges that cross 100 canals. It is winding streets, bicycles and electric trams.

Late in the evening I stood on a bridge admiring the view and catching the breeze that makes its way down the canal. I commented to Dutchman near me about the marked different between the majority of Amsterdam and the Red Light District. He had to think about it for a moment- the Red Light District seems to be almost an afterthought for him. “The drunk hooligans come for 2 weeks and never stray from a three block radius, they never see the real Amsterdam and that’s fine with us.”

I sit at the cafe enjoying a late night espresso and watch the bikes go by. The caffeine is a bad idea at 10 in the evening but even after many miles of walking aimlessly through the city I have no interest in sleeping, that's the life of the flaneur. Let the drunken tourists have the their three blocks, I'll take this particular corner at this particular time.

I loaded up my Rick Steve’s backpack (a sure sign you are traveller and not a tourist) and walked from my apartment in the center of Paris to the metro at Hotel de Ville. As I trudged down Veille du Temple with my walking stick, safari hat and snakebite kit dangling from my belt, I ponder my next adventure. I’m off to Africa. I feel like an adventurer, but a stylish adventurer as I was also carrying my man-bag loaded down with treats. I take a small break after a block, it’s important to not overdo it on your first day. Swigging from my water bottle, I swallow a salt tablet and I look out over the terrain. As I mop my brow with my new bandana, I hear my wife Kelly yell from the window. “Did you take all the toilet paper?" I quickly gather my things and stagger down the street. Kelly is fleet of foot and I won’t be stopped, not this early in my journey.

“Africa!” I say out-loud to know one in particular. The local tribesmen of the 4th arrondisement stare at me as if to ask “Where is that dapper fellow with the practical backpack, excellent man-bag and perfectly coiffed hair off to? “ They seem to snicker with respect. “I’m off to AFRICA suckas!” I respond with my slight wobble from an over-packed bag and a lower back that’s already beginning to ache. Rue de Rivoli is just another block away and then to the metro station. Discouragement begins to descend upon me, as it must have for Dr Livingston. “I will keep my spirits up.” I say aloud to some German tourists who have that ‘what might have been’ look that they always get when they visit Paris.

”A new continent!” I say to bolster my sagging spirit. “ The dark continent. Dark because…well…because there are a lot of dark people there or because it is shady or something.” My thoughts are interrupted by the pang of hunger, the candy bar I ate a few minutes ago isn’t going to cut it. There is a fruit stand at the next block where I can replenish my supplies and perhaps throw out some of these candy wrappers. Finally, after 10 minutes, I have made it to the metro station. My back is drench in the sweat of a good, honest trek. A well-deserved rest can be had on the train, unless one of those old ladies try to steal my seat.

I take a breather before I descend into the Hotel de Ville metro station- the next leg of my journey. I sip some water slowly and wipe my mouth with the back of my sleeve. I swallow another a salt tablet even though my wedding band seems unusually tight and the laces of my sneakers are straining. The sun is beating down on me- it must be at least 50 degrees Fahrenheit but it easily feels like 60 . I eat some jerky; the salt will do me good. Wiping the grit and chocolate that has accumulated on my face and neck from the hike, I reflect on the 10 minute journey thus far, the changes I have seen in myself and the people that I have met. I smile at the thought of that nomadic tribe of people that sit on the corners with “J’ai Faim.” written on cardboard. It seems to me that if they were really “famous” they wouldn’t need money from me but I try not to judge. I note all of this in my Moleskin notebook. It occurs to me that other than the “famous” people I haven’t really been paying attention to anyone else, but I did catch my own reflection in the Melchior window so I wrote a quick Haiku to myself, which I wont share here. Let’s just say it was good, real good.

I descend down the Metro steps. Longing for the comfort of the two old women that are always sitting there with their belongings, piles of day old bread and their “I am famous” signs. "Aren't we all" I say to myself, shaking my head and smiling as though my observation actually meant something.

I keep referring to our trip as a trip to Marrakech, but in fact, we only were in Marrakech because of the airport the remainder our time was spent making our way to the desert and back. We were picked up by a 25 year old Berber named Hassan in a Toyota 4x4and we drove and drove and drove. 18 hours in 2 days to the Sahara desert. It was incredible. We went through the high Atlas Mountains, Tizi-n-Tichka, through Ouartzazate, El Kelaa M’Gouna, Gorges of the Dades Tinerhir, Gorges du Tondra, Erfound, Rissani and finally off-road to the edge of the Sahara. We got out of the 4x4 and on to the 8x8. It’s a Berber joke that was repeated by every Berber we met. The 8x8 is a camel. One would think that if you were about to get on a 1,500 lbs of exotic pot-roast you would be given a little instruction- not so. The information our guide gave was less than helpful for instance, I don’t know how to tell a camel to ‘stop’ but I do know that Celine Dion is a musical genius. Is it ok to shrill like an African woman or will that cause the camels to stampede? Do camels stampede? I don’t know- what I do know is that Celine Dion is a musical genius- that’s what I have learned in the Sahara.

The desert and the dunes are breathtaking and yet when the camel in front of you craps you are drawn to it like a magnet. The camel is a large beast, six feet high, ten feet long and yet their poop are the size of marbles and the marbles roll down the dunes gathering at the valleys where they are met by thousands of other little marbles. Beautiful dunes, covered in countless shadows cast by the small ripples in the golden sand surround me. Bright blue skies, light wind, a lone Berber walks into the desert miles away and yet I’m drawn to the marbles. I blame MTV for my fascination with watching crap go downhill.

Everywhere I go I am met by New Zealanders. They are everywhere- like a pandemic. In the Sahara Desert, under a Berber tent I shared a meal with, yes, you guessed it, a New Zealand couple. They introduce themselves but I immediately forget their names as I am thinking only of myself and suspiciously eyeing the butter that sits on the table. Who eats butter in the desert? Is dairy safe in 100-degree temperatures? I would ask our guide but I’m not interested in knowing that Celine Dion was nicknamed “Vampire Queen” in highschool. The Kiwis are an older couple- hardy. They don’t sleep in the Berber tent they’ve reserved but under the stars, I like them immediately. I name drop my New Zealand writer friend and the title of his award-winning book. They’ve never heard of him or the book. It occurs to me I’ve never actually seen this book he claims to have written. New Zealanders are like butter in the desert- refreshing? Sure. Delightful? You bet. Suspect? Definitely.

The 14 tents set up in a figure 8 define the living area. The entrances to the tents are on the inside of the courtyard. The courtyard itself is covered in rugs, a low table is in front of each side along with a mattress to sit on or sleep under the stars. We reserved one of the larger tents for the 5 of us. A young Greek couple wandered into the compound and asked the Berbers if they could send the night. For a little cash they were given one of the outdoor mattresses. At one point the Greek guy walked into our tent to have a look around. “Something we can help you with?” We query. While we might all be pretending to be communal nomads for the night we will kill you if you try to steal our sleeping space. “You have a lot of room in that tent.” The Greek says and waits for us to respond to his non-question question. “Very observant, Zorba- there are five of us- now back the fig away.” They guys girlfriend made some disparaging remark about Americans and she smirks at us through supper. Later that evening she kept the compound awake with her vomiting- beware of butter in the desert and my evil-eye, I’m not kidding.

Good morning and welcome to Morocco.

I have been really bad at posting these last few weeks and I am sorry about that. The combination of family in town, trying to write and my daily required nap has left me with no time. I'm off to the desert to think about my life and try to convince to Berbers to accept me as one of their own so I won't be able to post until next week. I bought a large floppy desert hat, #50 sun-block, a suitcase full of snacks and a copy of "Camel Riding for Dummies"- I'm ready. Have a lovely week.

This morning I was reminded that I’m going to Marrakech on Sunday for the week. I wont be able to blog. I had completely forgotten about this trip. I might have been blocking it out, but it certainly explains all the terrible desert songs in my head- sorry in advance if these tubes haunt the remainder of your day. Originally the plan was to spend some time in Marrakech and then go to the beach but the plans got all fouled up and we are now crossing the Atlas Mountains in a 4x4 and somehow ending up in the Sahara Desert on camels and sleeping in tents.

Wouldn’t you know we’re riding on the Marrakech express
Wouldn’t you know we’re riding on the Marrakech express
It’s taking me to Marrakech
All aboard the train
All aboard the train

The Moroccan company that offers this trip has a long list of items we are to bring- from the unsettling (toilette paper) to the bizarre (jogging suit). Of course, the first order of business in planning a trip is to buy a dashing new hat to protect my porcelain skin from the ravages of the sun.

I’ve been through the desert on a horse with no name,
It felt good to get out of the rain
In the desert you can’t remember your name
‘cause there aint no one for to give you no pain

I have no preconceived notions about Marrakech or the route we are taking. We will be traveling over the Atlas Mountains, through the Valley of Dades, toward Tingher to Rossani, which is the start of the desert. From Rossani we will be traveling by camel through the desert and sleeping in Berber tents, presumably with their permission.

Midnight at the oasis
Sing your camel to bed
Shadows painting our faces
Traces romance in our heads


I read the description of our trek from the Moroccan company one more time- hoping it makes more sense than it did the previous reading. “In the SOUTH, it’s to learn, to meet itself one even and to keep for ever in the memory an idea of eternity.”
It doesn't. I suspect they used babel fish when preparing their english brochures.

Our first day is spent in Marrakech in an “air-conditioned room with a swimming pool*” The "*" could mean anything as there is no key to what we can expect to find. It could be * Shark infested or *It will be you job to oil the very large Turkish men on vacation.

Day 2: We cross the Atlas Mountains, according to the guide it will be “covered with snow by the collar of the TIZI NOT TICHKA, the highest collar of the realm offering magnificent resembling landscapes magnificent very colored patchworks.”

Day 3 is a little sketchy. We are driven 7 km into the desert and “acquainted with your dromedaries’ (I’ll save you the trouble; a dromedary is a camel.) We will “attend the sunset of the dunes and pursue your ballad until the environment of dunes.” We will continue to “cross the night in the oasis under the Berber tents in full desert.”

This goes on for a week. Does this sound to anyone else like we might be making a pornographic movie? Perhaps it is the nerves and excitement of a new journey but I can’t help but think I’m being lead into a poorly laid trap- a lamb to the slaughter.

It occurs to me that I hadn’t told you that I would be gone for a while. It was as though a housemate went away but never said where they were going or when they’d be back. Kelly and I decided to go to Aix-en-Provence for along weekend. Of course, had you become my Facebook friend you would have known this, but you opted to snub me.
We are on the train back- lovely first class seats with plenty of room. It’s a three-hour ride so I should have plenty of time to discuss our trip.

We arrived in Aix Friday evening. I had no perceived notions about the city; there was no planning or researching done. I thought it might be similar to Antibes, a city in southern France that I had been to a few time before- it was not.

Friday night we walked the streets of Aix in the rain, it was cold and quiet. There was no one out- the streets were deserted. If you’ve ever visited a beach community during the off-season you’ll know what I’m talking about. It feels lonely, depressing and the miniature golf parks are all closed. The chipped paint on the abandoned rides and ticket booths reveal the true age of a tired town. That’s what Aix felt like Friday night, it was depressing. Kelly and I walked back to our hotel and wondered if we hadn’t made a terrible mistake.

Saturday the sun shone and life was fine again. We loaded up on café crèmes and excellent croissants and fantasized about living here. We followed Cezanne’s life through the streets finishing with a walk to his studio and a view of Mont Sainte-Victoire, which he painted 39 times. There were no markers for Emile Zola and I wished that I had researched his life a bit more. The food and craft markets were in full swing and I watched a Japanese woman photograph a large loaf of bread much to the amusement of the baker. The rains came later in the evening and we hid in our hotel having learned our lesson.

On Sunday, the only placed closed was the British bookstore. All the museums were open which was great. Again it was a day of walking and pondering whether we wanted to stay here beginning next year. The sale of out house is still up in the air but in the next few weeks we will know if it’s time to go back to the states. It didn’t seem that we would be saving any money by moving to Aix as compared to staying in Paris. Here’s the real problem. After Paris, where do you go? Paris is the pinnacle- it’s the top. It is the “Citizen Cane” of cities- what could Orson Wells have possibly done after that (other than the wine commercials)? We have basically screwed ourselves for any other city.

K and I leave tonight for Paris. We are all packed up, we have someone staying at our house and she has been approved by Ponette the tri-colored cat from Hell, which, as most cat owners know, is quite an accomplishment. Ponette did vomit by my airplane snacks- so she isn't 100% comfortable with the trip but it wasn't on the snacks so she isn't totally against it. My new black macbook, Sexual Chocolate, has been charged up and is awaiting furious and inspired typing with a cafe creme. A very sharp man bag has been procured from my artist buddy down the street.

There are two reasons for the trip, the first is to go to Paris again, no explanation really required with this reason. The other is to see if we really want to live there for a year, leave our family and friends, give up our jobs (more importantly our paychecks) and pursue our own desires for one year. I want to write and K- wants to get her masters degree. To that end K- will be sitting in on classes at the American University in Paris Monday and Tuesday and I will pretend to write but more likely wonder around aimlessly. No matter what we decide it will be a great trip.

I will, of course, blog but if this is the last entry it probably means I was unable to get an Internet connection, although I think it will be fine.