A Moving Account
You want to know what to expect when you arrive in Marrakech. Based upon my experience, it will go something like this:
You will have made a reservation at a “riad” inside the Marrakech medina. The riad will send you an email with its address. Because you are highly skilled with Google Maps, the world’s greatest invention, you will have no trouble finding the riad.
Continue reading “Finding a Riad in Morocco”Denise said she wanted to go to Morocco, and I should learn about the country. I immediately fixed myself an Old Fashioned and listened to Marrakesh Express. In case you are younger than dirt, that is a song recorded by a band called Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young. I bet your grandfather has some of their records.
Continue reading “Rockin’ With a Moroccan”I write today mainly to put a stop to the incessant cards and letters asking why it has been so long since my last essay. This, I have thought, must be what it has been like for Kevin Costner and the producers of Yellowstone.
Continue reading “Meeting Neighbors in Spain”Have you ever noticed that land-based sports seem ridiculous when played in a swimming pool? Dance is beautiful. Synchronized swimming is bizarre. Polo is exciting. Water polo is unwatchable. Competitive swimming is just racing made slower by holding the contest in water.
Continue reading “Water Sports in Spain”Salamanca is an UNESCO World Heritage City. Apparently that’s because it is an old city, with a lot of neat old stuff.
Continue reading “Surveying Salamanca”In 1975 I was at the University of Iowa. Not long after moving into the freshman dorm, I learned that some New Jersey rocker would be playing at Hancher Auditorium, which was a lovely fine arts theater – the kind of place you might go to for a piano recital – nestled on the Iowa River.
Continue reading “Sashaying in Salamanca”I spent my high school freshman year at St. Albert Catholic School in Council Bluffs, Iowa. The boys there had to wear slacks, a dress shirt, and a tie. Girls wore Exorcist-green below-the-knee plaid skirts designed by a blind Scotsman.
Continue reading “Getting “Padeled” in Spain”I know what you are thinking. You think “Getting Grass in Spain” will be about marijuana. Well, it isn’t. However, since your thoughts have wandered in that direction, I will tell you about the time I visited a cannabis club in Alicante.
Continue reading “Getting Grass in Spain”My goal, when starting this blog, was to offer an American’s perspective of Europe. Sort of like Alexis de Tocqueville, but in reverse, and more sarcastic. However, I have been in Spain nearly five years, and one can live in a foreign country only so long before the land stops being foreign. An outsider’s perspective becomes elusive.
Continue reading “An Expat Rediscovers America”Manhattan challenges cheap bastards in the same way a friendly Rottweiler might challenge a feisty Chihuahua. Which is to say, we cheap bastards pose no risk to Manhattan, which allows the borough to toy with us.
Continue reading “A Cheap Bastard Goes to Manhattan”