Love Locks

The shiny red and white glass beads were spread out neatly on the table with a hot glue gun sitting beside them. Julia had placed the beads on the table in order of their placement on the gold lock, leaving just enough space in the middle to delicately write their names in the middle. It took her weeks to find just the right beads, and she was determined to re-create the love she felt into a creative design. Her friends had waited at least three months before they placed their locks on the Hohenzollern bridge over the Rhine river, but Julia couldn’t wait any longer. She knew that Damien was the one she wanted to be with forever.

Julia bit her bottom lip and held the first red bead between her fingers as a hint of glue dropped onto the back of the bead. She carefully placed the bead in the right corner of the lock, and smiled at the beautiful result. With each bead it became easier, and soon there were alternating red & white beads all around the border. Feeling daring, Julia also added white beads on the sides and bottom of the lock until the only space left was the middle area where she’d write their initials.

As the hot glue dried the sparkling beads, Julia took her red marker and slowly outlined their initials, adding a few swirls underneath for extra glamour. Her face glowed with joy as she admired all her hard work. She quickly packed up all her craft supplies just in case her little sister suddenly charged into the room. No one had any idea she was creating a lovelock, not even Damien. Her secret plan was to meet Damien on the bridge at 6:00pm, and then they would go have dinner along the canal at their favourite restaurant. Her heart was beating fast at the thought of surprising Damien with her artistic masterpiece, and showing him how much she loves him. They’ve been going together for six whole weeks now, and Julia was certain he felt the same way she did.

Julia sorted through all her dresses and finally decided on the dress she wore on their first date. It would make the evening even more romantic! She then picked out the perfect necklace, perfect earrings, perfect hair clip, and finally the perfect shoes. Julia tucked the lovelock into the inside pocket of her black purse, making sure that Damien wouldn’t be able to see it before her big surprise.

As Julia strolled along the bridge the bright sun glowed onto the Dom Cathedral in the distance. There were crowds of cyclists and people walking along the bridge tonight, and Julia looked for the exact spot she picked out to place the lock. She didn’t want it lost amongst all the other hundreds of locks piled on some parts of the fence – she wanted the lock all on its own so it would stand out. Ultimately she wanted other people to clearly see her work of art, since she was planning to apply to Cologne University next year in their fine arts program.

It was 5:53pm, and soon Damien would be there. Her fingers and toes were starting to tingle, and she could hardly wait for him to get here. After admiring the view from the bridge for a few moments, Julia turned around.

She had to blink a few times to make sure she was seeing things clearly. Maybe she was in a dream? She looked again, and her mouth dropped open and shoulders slumped forward. Damien’s back was facing her, but she recognized his black leather jacket and faded jeans. Julia thought, this can’t be happening. We are meant for each other. What is he doing?!?!

Damien was standing next to a girl she didn’t even recognize. They were holding a lock together as they both attached it to the wire fence. After the lock was bolted they took the key and turned around to face the river. Damien flung the key over the edge of the bridge, and it floated in the air for a while before landing in the swift current. As his eyes re-focused on the bridge he suddenly noticed Julia. She was standing with her legs planted firmly on the ground, and hands gripping her hips so hard they almost formed bruises.

Damien felt the piercing of her glaring eyes as he tried desperately to form a smile and guard his new girlfriend from the impending threat. He then swiftly guided her to the other side of the bridge, holding her hand while he glanced back at Julia a couple times. Julia kept staring at the two of them, trying to think of creative ways to throw Damien off the bridge with his new girlfriend.

When Damien and the girl became just a distant blur, Julia turned back around to face the river. Tears welled up in her eyes, and her leg muscles still trembled from shock. She looked at the lock in her moist hands and contemplated whether to hurl it into the water. But it looked too beautiful to just throw away, so she just held onto the lock like it was a sad, pathetic gift. Her head dropped down with exhaustion as the tears spilled down her cheeks like tiny rivers. She couldn’t bear to see anyone, or even tell her friends about this humiliating experience.

After what seemed like an eternity, she suddenly felt a tap on her right arm. She looked up with her waterlogged eyes and puffed lips to see a boy standing beside her.

“Sorry to bother you, but are you ok?” he asked tentatively, squinting to see her face behind all the tears.

Julia dazed back at him, and then wiped her face after realizing how awful she must look right now.

“I noticed this lock on the ground and wondered if it was yours,” he added.

Julia looked down in confusion, not remembering when the lock slipped from her hands.

“Uh yeah, that’s mine, I guess,” she replied.

“It’s really nice. Did you make it?”

“Yes, I made it,” Julia said with a frown. She looked back at the boy for a few moments and then added, “You really like it?”

“Well yeah, it looks like you went to a lot of work. Must be some lucky guy,”

Julia’s face immediately turned back to a stone-cold expression, recalling the moment she saw Damien with that other girl.

“That lucky guy is a jerk. I think I’ll just throw it over…”

“No! Wait just a second, you should save this,” he called out while trying to grab the lock from Julia’s hand.

“But why? I made the lock with our initials on it. Where am I going to find another great guy with the intial “D”?” she said defiantly.

“Well, you see it might be easier than you think. There could be someone…”

“No, I’m really not interested right now. But thanks anyway,”

The boy smiled back at Julia trying to cheer her up, even though he didn’t fully understand the whole story. As Julia stood staring out at the river in heartbreak, the boy gently put his arm around her. He then wiped away her tears and smoothed out her frizzy, windblown hair.

As they walked back across the bridge toward the canal-side restaurants, Julia slowly opened up to the boy’s kindness and generosity. They found a small café to get a bite to eat, and the horrible events on the bridge gradually melted away. The evening was turning out to be not so bad after all.

After placing their order Julia looked at the boy with interest and asked, “What’s your name?”

“David.”

 

 

A Spanish Night

Her gown flowed all around her as she approached the young man. Her jet-black hair was sleeked back in a tight round bun, and matched the black and white floral pattern on her dress. As she slowly inched towards him her piercing eyes caused him to swell out his chest and smooth back his long hair to show off his vigorous appetite that evening.

She teased him with a circling flick of her wrist, fingers acting as miniature spears. Her hands joined together and clapped to the beat of the drum in slow, controlled movements. When her hands couldn’t contain the intense energy, her arms suddenly lifted up above her head like a cat getting ready to pounce on its prey. Her feet then joined in, forcing energy into the floor with each step. The ruffles on her dress vibrated in response, and could barely keep up with the series of staccato movements.

The young man then mirrored her energetic movements with his own sequence of heel stomps and toe taps while keeping his gaze directly on her beautiful face. He spun in circles and pranced around the stage like a proud lion capturing its female companion. After demonstrating his masterful footwork he finished with a sudden stop, frozen in action.

With only a finger’s width between them, they stared into each other’s eyes. Their lithe bodies stretched up high, ready to indulge each other’s desires. But on her next inhale she turned and sprinted off the stage, her ruffles trembling behind her. For a moment he appeared disheartened, but then he regained his enthusiasm and pranced off the stage like a young boy.

Artistic Pursuits

Kate stood quietly on a bridge overlooking the Rhône River, breathing in the fresh, cool air that blew past her, causing her hair to tangle in knots and fly into her face. The boats glided slowly down the river and left a ripple in their tracks. Kate rested her chin on her hand as she admired the beautiful scenery surrounding her, wanting to remember every detail after she leaves the city.

Although Lyon is the second largest city to Paris, it really doesn’t seem like a city. There isn’t the rush of traffic and sprawled out tourist sites like in the big cities. Lyon fits compactly between two rivers, the Rhône and Saône, and is decorated with medieval and Renaissance architecture built along charming cobbled streets.

Kate inhaled one more time and then pulled out her well creased, marked up city map. It had become like a friend these past few days guiding her around the city, along with the compass an old boyfriend gave her to help with directions. As Kate looked at the map she smiled and recalled her first day in Lyon.

With her 10 lb. backpack pressing down onto her aching shoulders she smiled at the hotel staff behind the large reception desk, hoping her friendly looks would help warm up the conversation. The man looked up from his reading glasses and immediately noticed her large pack. He glanced back down at his newspaper and flipped the page. She tried desperately to remember the few words she learned in Morocco and vocabulary lessons from high school French class.

“Bonjour!” Kate replied with a smile.

“Bonjour mademoiselle,” he said with no hint of interest.

While Kate was trying to recall more French words the man added, “Peux je vous aider?”

“Pardon?” Kate asked, her eyebrows revealing her lack of comprehension.

The man looked up from his newspaper with his lips pursed tightly.

“Anglais?” he said while glaring at her.

“Oui, pardon-moi…”

“Can I help you mademoiselle?” he repeated, emphasizing every word.

“Yes, oui, I have a booking for four nights. My name is Kate Sanders.”

“Let me see…Sanders…ah oui. Chambre numéro vingt-deux.”

The man grabbed the large room key hanging up on a rack behind him and set it down on the desk. Kate was about to pick it up when he slammed his hand onto the key.

“Do you have a city map?” he asked.

“Uh, no. Perhaps I can…”

“I will show you the sights in Lyon.”

He immediately peeled off the top sheet from a pad of tourist maps covering his desk. With his red marker he started making lines along streets and circling various monuments and tourist attractions like a prison inmate would plan an escape route out of the city. He talked at such a rapid pace that Kate leaned in and tried to grasp what he was saying. Most of it sounded like a blur, however she did recognize the words “Musée”, “Basilique” and Opéra”. After he finished his long speech and covered the map with his scribbles, he handed it to her with the key.

“Chambre vingt-deux. Go up the stairs, turn left, down the hall, then right. Last door at end of hall,” he replied, and resumed reading his newspaper.

Kate stared at him for a few seconds, trying to remember all the information he just told her.

“Merci,” she said faintly, already feeling overwhelmed about being in a new city and coping with the language.

Kate was getting a little chilly on the bridge so she pulled on her favourite sweater overtop her faded blue t-shirt. She had visited almost all of the sites the hotel man suggested to her including the Musée Lumière Invention du Cinéma, Musée des Tissus et des Arts Décoratifs, Opéra House, and the old cobbled streets of Vieux Lyon. She even climbed up the steep hill to the Basilique Notre Dame de Fourvière, and the magnificent view of the city had made her forget the throbbing in her quad muscles.

Today was Kate’s last day in Lyon, and she wanted to visit the local contemporary art gallery. Her guidebook suggested going to Musée d’Art Contemporain in the north end of the city, situated next to Parc de la Tête d’Or. Art and nature, she couldn’t think of a better way to spend the day. So she walked toward Gare de Perrache station while mapping out the tram route on the map.

The journey required both a tram and bus ride to get there, but it was a pleasant way to view the city. She had packed a few snacks for the day, including a freshly baked roll wrapped up in a napkin. Over the last eight months of travel Kate became very resourceful in finding cheap, healthy food, like sneaking a few extra hotel breakfast items for snacking on later. And with the lack of interest from hotel staff, it made this task quite easy.

The weather warmed up significantly during her ride, so she peeled off her sweater and wrapped it around her waist. She slid her handbag onto her shoulder and skipped up the steps to the art gallery. The building stood tall and grand, giving her hope that the artwork inside would match its exterior image. With her rehearsed question in mind, Kate approached the woman working at the admissions desk.

“Pardon-moi, je voudrais un billet s’il vous plâit.”

“Oui mademoiselle. Baissez s’il vous plâit votre sac à la chambre de manteau.”

Kate stood there feeling embarrassed that she didn’t understand what the woman just said. She tried repeating it to herself, although it seemed like a jumble of words. The woman simply stared at her, waiting for a response.

“Uh, pardon-moi, je ne parle pas…”

“You speak English?”

“Oui.”

“OK, here is your ticket. Bag must be left at coatroom at bottom of stairs. Merci,” the woman said, eyeing the next people in line.

Kate smiled back at her and proceeded toward the entrance. After following the woman’s instructions to drop off her bag, she could finally go see the exhibits. It had been a long week of looking at historical monuments, so Kate was more than ready to appreciate the city’s more modern works of art. She bounded up the stairs and walked through the door into the first exhibit.

There appeared to be objects hanging from the walls, but she had to walk closer to see what they were. As she approached the exhibit Kate’s face looked like she had just seen aliens get off a space ship. On the wall were odd pieces of metal and plastic, pictures of blurry faces and body parts, a few rusted garden tools, and wires tangled all around. The piece also had coloured light bulbs loosely hanging off the bits of metal, and bizarre messages displayed on fuzzy TV screens. The piece looked like someone had gathered up the week’s garbage and hung it on the wall.

Kate looked around at the other people milling about the gallery, and they all walked past each display without too much contemplation. Their faces were a mild version of Kate’s immediate reaction when she stepped inside. Wondering if there was some deep meaning she was missing in this artist’s work, Kate continued strolling and observing each piece carefully. She scanned over the entire piece, and then tried to decipher each of the elements and what they could possibly be about.

After about five minutes her mind had become so confused over what she saw that it had tuned out the artwork and started daydreaming about other things. What should I do after the gallery? What time does the train leave tomorrow? Do I have all my stuff packed up?

Kate suddenly stopped, realizing she hadn’t looked at the art like she planned to. She took one more spin around, to at least justify the admission fee, and walked out of the exhibit in a huff. Maybe the other exhibit will be better. This is probably just their avant-garde, experimental section to showcase upcoming talent. Although the more she thought about it, the more she wondered why this artist would be considered for a city gallery like this.

The next exhibit was on the gallery’s second floor, and as Kate climbed up the stairs she tried to free her mind of the strange 3-D art she just saw. She tried to re-assure herself that the next exhibit would be more interesting. She opened the heavy wooden door and stepped inside.

Large colourful pictures covered each of the walls, which appeared to be nature photos. Feeling slightly relieved, Kate turned to her left and looked at the first photo. It had a tree branch and a bird that was slightly out of focus. She shifted her eyes to the next photo, which had the same scenery except it was so blurry it was difficult to decipher the images. The next photo was the same as the first, which caused Kate to do a double take on what she saw originally. The entire room, in fact, had repeated images of out-of-focus nature photos.

As she walked around the gallery her pace became swift, and rather than walking straight along the walls she curved her path and rounded the corners. She picked up a copy of the artist’s statement, read through it briefly and tossed it back into the plastic holder. Stomping down the two flights of stairs, Kate wasted no time in getting her bag back from the coatroom and leaving the gallery. She slumped down onto the park bench and winced at her bad decision to come here. She looked at her watch. It was now 1:45pm. She had spent only twenty minutes in the gallery – a place where she thought she’d spend the entire afternoon.

Fifteen minutes later Kate stood up and walked across the street to the park. As she breathed in the fresh air, listened to the birds sing, and watched families enjoying bike rides and playing in the grass, it reminded her how much she enjoys the outdoors. Spending so much time lately in big cities looking at historical buildings caused her to forget how good it feels to be surrounded by grass, trees, rivers and wildlife.

Feeling refreshed, Kate boarded the next tram to the downtown core. Her stomach was starting to grumble so she knew it must be time for dinner. It was a quick ride down to Bellecour station where she got off to look for a take-away dinner. As she started walking down Rue Victor Hugo she noticed a sign for a local artist’s exhibit. The bright pink sign caught her attention, and the gallery was just a block away. Feeling hopeful again, she strolled past the patisserie, gelato stand and bookshop to where the gallery was located.

Kate walked through the gate doors into the gallery and her face immediately lit up. Colourful abstract paintings filled the walls, and unique sculpture pieces were displayed on a grassy outdoors area. Her breath shortened with excitement as she gazed at each painting and sculpture with awe. This is the art that inspires me – art that makes the world a more colourful, joyful place, especially in urban areas.

“Bonjour mademoiselle,” the young woman greeted Kate with a warm smile.

“Bonjour! J’aime votre art.” Kate replied with enthusiasm, trying hard to seem like a French speaking person.

"Merci beaucoup…you speak Anglais?” she inquired.

“Oui,” Kate replied, lowering her head in embarrassment.

“Where are you from?” she asked.

“I’m from Canada.”

“Canada? I love Canada! I studied art in Montreal a few years ago, and then travelled across the country with a friend. We loved the landscape and kind people there. I hope to go back to Canada someday.”

“Really? But it’s so beautiful here!”

“Oui, but Canada is so…how do you say, diverse?”

“Hmmm…you mean multicultural?”

“Oui, oui! Multicultural. We felt very welcome by the Canadian people.”

Kate’s face blushed with pride, and the conversation that followed flowed with ease and enthusiasm. They shared their love of abstract art, nature and world travel while enjoying fresh croissants and a café. Although their meeting was brief, and e-mail exchanges would continue for another few months, Kate would always remember Lyon as the city where she decided to become an artist.

 

 

Life in a Riad

“Excusez-moi, thé à la menthe s’il vous plait,” the middle-aged French woman ordered while adjusting herself in the chair.

“Oui Madame.”

Aliana slipped through the grand stone-carved doorway into the back kitchen to prepare mint leaves for Madame Monjée’s tea. It was 8:00am, which meant the patisserie driver should be there soon to drop off the croissants, baguettes and sweet pastries. As one of their premium guests at Riad Belle, Madame Monjée had very specific requests for her petit déjeuner, however the large tips more than made up for her high demands. Aliana felt grateful for her job at the Riad, and especially to the owner, Ms. Lacroix, for giving her the opportunity to work at such a beautiful hotel.

By the time Aliana was ten years old she knew that she would need to work hard to create a better life than what her parents had endured. Life in the Medina was rough and grueling, but her father still thought it was better than the conditions in their old neighbourhood in the country. Several people told her father that there were good opportunities in Morocco, especially for families. With tourism continuing to rise, it wouldn’t be too hard to find work for him and his wife.

After many long days travelling to Morocco, Aliana’s family settled in Marrakech. It was a modest space within a large stone building in the Medina, but it was one they could call their own. Her mother found a job assisting a local tailor, while her father worked as a labourer for a construction company. He tried to get less physically demanding work at a hotel or café, but the managers demanded that all employees be fluent in French. Aliana’s father tried to learn this new language, but after working 12-15 hour days at the construction site he was just too exhausted.

Aliana stared down at the mint leaves starting to soften in the silver teapot. She placed a small glass cup on the tray with a bowl of sugar cubes and satin napkin. She was just about to bring the tray out to Madame Monjée when the doorbell rang. She set the tray back down and went to answer the door.

The large wooden door had a commanding presence, and she often felt like she was opening the door to a castle. It was stiff and heavy to open, but she enjoyed being the first person to welcome people into this beautiful Riad.

“Bonjour Aliana. Dix croissants chocolates, huit baguettes et vingt gateaux marocains,” the driver said.

“Merci Abdull. C’est combien?”

“60 Dirham, s’il vous plâit.”

Aliana pulled the money from her robe pocket and handed it to him.

“Merci beaucoup, au revoir!”

Abdull handed the bag of pastries to Aliana and quickly left to continue his morning deliveries. She closed the door and brought the bag into the kitchen to prepare the rest of Madame Monjée’s petit déjeuner.

“Thé à la menthe s’il vous plâit!” Madame Monjée demanded, and tapped her long painted fingernails on the metal frame of the chair.

“Oui madame. Pardon-moi,” Aliana replied as she brought out the tray and set it on the table beside the Madame.

Although the Madame didn’t turn her head to greet her, she knew from the slight smile on her face that she appreciated it. Aliana returned to the kitchen and started cutting the baguette in even slices and arranged them in a circular pattern on a plate. The chocolate croissant sat on its own plate with a drizzle of chocolate sauce swirled around the edges for added artistic flair.

Recently, Ms. Lacroix gave Aliana a few lessons in French cuisine, which she eagerly learned. Using her new culinary skills, Aliana prepared a few dinners for guests at the Riad. She often dreamed of becoming a chef at a French café in Paris, where she would serve the most savoury and sweet dishes to elegant European customers. But for now she did important work at the Riad such as breakfast and dinner preparations, room cleaning, laundry and helping out Ms. Lacroix with any additional duties.

Aliana brought out a tray of baguettes, butter, jams, cheeses, boiled eggs, and the chocolate croissant and set each dish out carefully beside Madame Monjée’s mint tea. When each of the dishes was arranged on the table it looked like a delicious medley of colours and textures, which Aliana took great pride in. It was almost too beautiful to eat, but while she was admiring her artistic creation Madame Monjée smeared the croissant through the chocolate sauce and took a big bite out of it. Her swirls were now smudged streaks on the plate.

Madame Monjée noticed Aliana gazing at the plate and asked with a full mouth, “Quelle est le problème?”

“Pardon-moi. Bon appetit Madame Monjée.”

It took the Madame just two more bites to finish off the croissant before she moved on to the baguette slices.

With a flushed face, Aliana quickly resumed her duties in the kitchen, and then began the room cleaning. She had about two hours before the new guests started arriving, so she needed to get started. But before she did, she made sure to tear off new petals from the stock of flowers and scatter them in the centerpiece fountain. They lay in the pool of water so peacefully that it made any hectic day feel more serene.

Aliana walked up the steep, narrow staircase to the upper level rooms. The blue and white-checkered mosaic pattern was starting to wear from years of use, but it still looked shiny when the sun beamed in through the open roof. Rooms 2, 3 and 5 needed to be cleaned from last night’s guests, so she started on Room 2 at the far end.

She stripped the sheets off the 4-poster bed and replaced them with crisp clean ones, and then carefully arranged the decorative pillows and duvet on top. She then cleaned the mosaic tables, ceramic pots and vases, stone carved lamps and large antique wardrobe unit. The ensuite bath just needed to be wiped clean, and fresh towels, soaps and potpourri set out for the new guests.

After finishing all the rooms Aliana looked around to inspect her work. She always enjoyed gazing at the intricate stone-carved borders or painted geometric pattern on the ceiling. The metal and stained glass overhead lights were her favourite, especially when the light peaked through the tiny holes to show off its vibrant colours. After working at the Riad for five years she still feels like she lives and works in a royal palace.

Aliana locked up all the rooms and looked down over the iron grid railing to the main floor below. The sun lit up the floral patterned mosaic floor, and made the water sparkle as it cascaded in the fountain. Just then the main door creaked open, which meant that Ms. Lacroix just arrived. She looked up and saw Aliana peering over the edge and smiled.

“Bonjour Aliana!” she called while removing her Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses. Her voice echoed all the way up to the second floor.

“Bonjour Ms. Lacroix!”

Madame Monjée was finishing off the last piece of baguette bread and decided that she’d like more.

“Plus de baguettes, s’il vous plâit,” she called up to Aliana.

Since Madame Monjée checked into the Riad, Aliana has had to increase the daily order of baguettes to keep up with her demand.

“Oui, Madame. Un moment.”

Aliana rushed down the steps to cut more slices of bread for the Madame. After a few minutes she brought out another plate and replaced it with the empty one sitting at her table. Madame Monjée quickly stuffed the spongy bread into her mouth and took a big gulp of mint tea to wash it down.

“Aliana, entrez my office s’il vous plâit,” Ms. Lacroix called, who had a habit of mixing English and French together in the same sentence.

Aliana was still trying to master English, but since there was a serious tone in her voice, it made her anxious that something was wrong. Did she not perform her duties well? She tried to hold in her nervousness as she walked into Ms. Lacroix’s office and stood in front of her desk.

“Aliana, vous avez working at Riad Belle for cinq ans maintenant.”

“Oui, Ms. Lacroix.

“You have been an excellent worker here, mais j’ai une autre occasion you may be interested in.”

“Quelle occasion?” she replied with wide eyes.

“Mon frère owns un café à Paris, and he needs some help préparant des repas. The job involves la preparation de sauces, des potages, et quelques plats de pâtisserie. Mon frere can teach you all the skills needed. But since you have done excellent work ici, je ne vois aucun problème in you handling this new job. Of course we would provide un appartement pour vous to stay in, until you have enough money to manage the rent. Are you interested?”

Aliana felt like she could faint, with her eyes transfixed on Ms. Lacroix.

“Aliana?” Ms. Lacroix asked again.

“Oui, Ms. Lacroix. Merci pour l’occasion, mais ma famille….

“Je comprends. Je voudrais offrir votre current position à un de vos membres familiaux. Cette aide la situation?”

“Oui, Ms. Lacroix, oui! Merci, merci!”

“Marveilleux. Mon frère would like you to start in deux semaines. C’est possible?”

Two weeks! Aliana replied with a resounding “Oui!”, and walked out of her office in a daze. She smiled ear-to-ear, and continued her duties with heightened enthusiasm. In two weeks her life would be completely different.

All of a sudden the doorbell rang, and Aliana sprinted to answer it. A young woman stood in the doorway with an enormous backpack, her hair pulled back in a ponytail and a tired but eager smile on her face.

“Uh, bon-jour. My name is Kate Sanders. I booked a room for three nights here. Uh, pardon-moi, parlez-vous anglais?”

Aliana smiled back at the young woman and thought, clearly this girl needs some French lessons. But as with all guests who stay at Riad Belle, Aliana greeted her with a warm welcome and showed the young woman to her room. Kate’s look of wonderment as she gazed up at the beautiful architecture reminded Aliana of her first experience at the Riad. In two weeks she’ll have that same sense of excitement and first-time experience once again as she begins her new life in Paris. Her father would be very proud.

The Kindness of Strangers

Maps were pointless in a city like this. Although the guidebook Kate purchased showed a rough layout of the neighbourhood, the city’s disregard for posted street signs forced tourists to rely on landmarks, memory skills, and the kindness of strangers. But Kate felt she could handle the complex maze of streets all on her own, as she had travelled to more obscure places than Marrakech.

After leaving the safety of the charming Riad she was staying at, Kate looked both ways down the narrow alleyway and chose to go left. This was the route suggested to her by the hotel staff, so for now she should probably take their advice until she got to know her way around. The roadway was more of a stony path than an actual street, and she had to watch for broken sidewalk blocks and potholes along the way. Vendors along both sides of the path called out to her with endless “Bonjour!” greetings, and were quick to notice which merchandise she kept her gaze on. She figured out that if she looked at an item for more than three seconds, they naturally assumed she wanted to buy it and the rest of the shop with it. After a while Kate just stared at the path ahead, trying to ignore all the catcalls from persistent shop owners.

The dusty, dirty walk seemed never to end, but finally Kate reached the main market square. She had heard that the food stalls in the middle of the square were the best places to get a cheap meal. After paying for an expensive room at the Riad, she definitely wanted to keep the rest of her expenses to a minimum.

The square was clearly the main event in Marrakech, and both locals and eager tourists were quickly filling up the vast open space. It was difficult to walk against the grain of pedestrian traffic, especially when scooters and donkeys with heavily loaded carts were demanding right of way. There was a billow of smoke rising from the middle of the square, so Kate knew that the food stalls were close by. As she approached the stalls she instantly became a target for more catcalls.

“Bonjour Mademoiselle! Couscous au poulet! Couscous au légumes! Brochettes de poulet ou viande!”

“Mademoiselle! S’il vous plâit, regardez notre menu! Couscous! Tajines! Brochettes!”

“Bonsoir Mademoiselle! Bonsoir!”

Kate could barely walk in a straight line from all the menus being thrust into her face. Each stall worker claimed they had the best food at the market. If she slowed down her pace the workers became even more vigorous in their attempts to lure her into their booth. They used an over-abundance of wit, charm, and pleading in their well-rehearsed sales pitches. As this was Kate’s first dinner in Morocco she wanted it to be a unique experience, but after walking up and down the aisles it became apparent that every booth had the same type of menu items and prices. So now it came down to the personality of the staff, and if other locals and tourists were also sitting at the booth. Kate returned to the first aisle she originally walked down, and this time the staff used all their charming ways to catch her attention.

“Bonjour Mademoiselle! Let me show you our tasty dishes! Please, have a seat at our table!”

“Bonsoir Mademoiselle! We have best Tajines in Marrakech! Do you prefer chicken or meat or vegetable? We also have couscous and salads! Mademoiselle please look at our menu!”

“Bonsoir Mademoiselle! How are you? Please let us have the pleasure to serve you this evening.”

Bingo. Kate was sold, and the courteous gentleman guided her to a seat in their dining area. But after being so polite and well mannered while she took her seat, the man immediately started shouting orders to the rest of the staff. They have a customer! The staff darted between her table and the grill area as if they were competing in a race, and quickly set down paper placemats and cutlery. Suddenly a menu appeared in front of Kate’s face, and she had exactly ten seconds to place her order while the waiter stood there tapping his fingers on the chair next to her.

Kate wasn’t familiar with the names of Moroccan food, and many of the items were listed in French, which she regrettably hadn’t practiced since high school. Her eyes quickly scanned all the items, but she couldn’t decide quickly enough for the impatient waiter.

“Mademoiselle, your order please?” the waiter said in a huff.

“Uh…I’m just deciding…ummm…” Kate nervously replied.

“Tajine is excellent, or perhaps couscous? Meat or chicken?”

“Uh, what type of meat is in this dish?” Kate asked while pointing to one of the menu choices.

“Meat.”

Kate looked up at the man, waiting for him to explain further what he meant by ‘meat’. But he just stood there with a notepad in his hand, staring blankly back at her. After a few awkward seconds Kate looked back down at the menu and just picked an item. There was no point in creating a debate about their anonymous meat products.

“I’d like to order the couscous with chicken and vegetables please.”

“Merci!” the waiter immediately swiped the menu out of Kate’s hands and returned to the grill area.

“Couscous avec poulet et légumes!” he shouted at the staff.

A few seconds later a small dish of olives, grilled vegetables and basket of bread showed up at her table. There was enough bread to serve an entire family, and she assumed it’s probably their custom to provide these complimentary items to guests before their meal. Kate had built up a hearty appetite after a long day on the train, so she gobbled up the olives, veggies and a few pieces of bread in a matter of minutes.

Soon afterwards the waiter set down on the table a heaping plate of couscous and veggies. The couscous formed a pyramid-like structure, and had carrots, squash, cucumber, chickpeas and raisins cascading along the sides of it. The chicken was buried underneath like a treasure in the sand. The dish was much bigger than Kate had imagined, but she felt obligated to eat most of it to avoid any possible confrontation with the staff. While she ate the large meal a silver pot of mint tea and glass cup were set down beside her. The waiter held the pot up very high while the tea streamed down into the small glass. She thought, this must be taught in the Moroccan school of cuisine, and how do they have such good aim?

Kate managed to finish the entire couscous dinner and all of the small appetizer dishes. Her stomach ached from all the food she consumed so quickly, but at least the mint tea helped with the digestion. It was starting to get late in the evening, and Kate wanted to walk around the square still and look at the street performers, so she signaled the waiter to bring the bill.

The waiter wrote the prices on a scrap piece of paper with the total listed at the bottom. Kate’s eyes bulged after seeing the total. This can’t be right – 225 Dirham? After doing a quick conversion to Canadian Dollars, that would be about $35.00!

“Excuse me waiter, can I please see the menu again?”

The waiter grabbed one of the menus sitting at another table and gave it to Kate. After calculating each of the items she ordered, it came to half of his total.

“Excuse me, this can’t be right. I added it up, and according to what I ordered it comes to ----“.

“Mademoiselle, you had this and this and this. The total is this amount,” the waiter replied defensively while pointing to each of the prices written on the paper.

The waiter spoke so rapidly that Kate could barely decipher what he was saying, and the music blaring from the square made it even more difficult. She could not reason with him, and since she ate all the food, she was stuck paying the exorbitant amount. This left her with just a few coins, which would be used up later to buy bottled water. Kate grabbed her bag and stomped out of the booth, nearly tripping over the other chairs on her way out.

The beating drums and singing from street performers in the square helped ease off Kate’s tension, and she tried peering over the shoulders in the crowd to see the performances. There were so many different performers to watch that it was like being at the fair back home. As she strolled through the square she saw acrobats, snake charmers, henna artists, people preaching to the crowd with bottles of natural medicines piled in front of them, women and children selling sweet pastries, and men with colourful outfits wandering amongst the crowd. With the bright lights, African-style music and aroma from the food stalls, it was a feast for the senses. Kate was eager to take a few photos to show her friends back home, so she pulled out her digital camera and started fidgeting with the dials.

A man immediately marched over to Kate and held out a drum in front of her.

“Tip! Tip!” the man demanded.

“Excuse me?” she asked.

The man had no patience for her confusion.

“Tip! Tip!” he shouted as he shook the drum in front of her.

“What for? I haven’t done anything!” she shouted back.

“You take photo! Tip!”

The man’s eyes became wide and piercing, and he beat his drum even harder to prove his point.

“But…” Kate started to say, but then surrendered and threw in a couple coins.

“You give more! More Tip!”

Kate was astounded at the nerve of this man, and quickly left the scene to avoid further confrontation. She was not going to let this man take the remaining change she had, especially after her expensive dinner.

The allure of the market square was quickly losing its appeal for Kate, and she started heading back to the Riad. However in the distance she saw a narrow alleyway with shops selling Moroccan-style decorations and other interesting merchandise. She was immediately intrigued and walked over to take a better look.

Shop booths were wedged in side by side crammed with merchandise. There were large brass overhead lights, decorative clay pots for Tajine stews, silk and cashmere scarves, brightly patterned footstools and pillow covers, Muslim-style clothing, colourful serving dishes and lots of woven baskets and bags. There were so many interesting items that Kate’s attention constantly shifted from one booth to the next, trying to see everything on display. Shop vendors competed for people’s attention as they strolled through the alleyway, shouting greetings and pointing to their merchandise.

The labyrinth of alleyways was amusing at first, but after a while Kate just wanted to head back to the Riad. When she arrived at a central area she looked down each of the spoked alleyways to judge which one could get her back to the market square. But after a few attempts she kept arriving back at the same spot. She checked the map in her guidebook, but that was hopeless with its lack of detail and unmarked street names. It seemed the more she tried to get out, the more lost she became. All the shops started to look the same down the narrow winding streets.

Kate’s pace started to slow down, and she looked all around her to see which way to go next. The shopkeepers were staring back at Kate, calling out for her to come inside their booth to look at all their wonderful things.

“Bonsoir! Please come inside, we have many things to choose----“

“Bonjour mademoiselle! Take a look at our beautiful lamps! We have small ones and large ones to suit-----“

“Hello! Please see all our fine fabrics! Do you like silk or cashmere? We have just the right----“

“Bonjour!”

“Bonsoir!”

Kate’s face became flush and tears started welling up in her eyes. As she walked along everything started spinning with bright colours flashing by, and people’s voices echoed all around her. She stumbled over to a corner and covered her face with her hands, almost dropping her guidebook on the ground. With her body slumped forward, the only thing she could see were people’s feet plodding along the pathway, barely noticing Kate as they brushed by.

After a few minutes Kate’s head suddenly popped up. Her eyes were filled with determination, and she brushed back her hair and wiped the tears away from her cheeks. She smiled to herself and walked back out onto the path. At the first sign of a friendly face she began her mission.

“Pardon-moi, which way to the market square, s’il vous plâit?” Kate asked the young man, smiling with each word she said.

The man pointed his finger to the right, and squiggled it around in an effort to illustrate all the twists and turns along the way.

“Merci!” Kate said with enthusiasm as she walked away.

“But mademoiselle, before you go please look----“

“Non merci!” she blurted out before he could finish his sales pitch.

Kate tried her best to remember all the directions the young man gave her, but at several points there were other alleys that split off from the main path, making it difficult to know which one to take. But before she went any further, she asked another person for directions.

It took her about fifteen minutes and five people later until she finally arrived back in the market square. Her face glowed with happiness and she raised her arms up to the sky. She took a deep breath and continued on her way with extra vigor. She was about halfway across the square when she noticed a young man thumbing through his guidebook looking confused. He looked up for a moment and saw Kate coming towards him.

“Uh, Pardon-moi, parlez-vous anglais?”

“Yes, I do! Can I help you?”

“Oh, thank god. I’m trying to find a nice café. Do you know any place that’s good? All I could find were the food booths over there.”

“Yeah, I would definitely go somewhere else. If you like, I could join you and we could find a place together.”

“That would be great. I just got into Marrakech this afternoon and would really appreciate the company.”

“My pleasure.” Kate replied with renewed confidence.

As they walked through the busy square together, Kate just smiled at all the craziness happening around her. Rather than be consumed by the intensity she simply let it drift and flow past. But the kindness of strangers stayed with her the rest of the evening.

The Cookie Quest

The boy reached up to the cookie jar, trying desperately to keep balanced on his toes while his fingers skimmed the rim of the jar. As he divulged in more than his fair share the day prior, it would be more difficult this morning to scoop out a few in a hurry.

His mother was busy pinning the week’s laundry on the clothesline outside, so he had enough time to get at least one or two before she came back in. He just needed to make sure that every crumb from the corners of his mouth was wiped clean, or he would ruin his chances of getting official snack time later that afternoon.

His left toes were bearing the brunt of his 60-pound frame as his right foot was carefully placed on a drawer handle for extra leverage. As the handle was beginning to loosen from the wood drawer, he had to be very careful not to break it off, or else he would have to figure out a plan to prove his innocence in the mishap.

Of course it wasn’t his fault that his stomach was efficient in digesting breakfast and created just enough space for a mid-morning snack. And by helping himself to the cookie jar he was also allowing his mother to continue her household duties without interruption.

His left middle toes could barely stand the pain much longer. Each time the tips of his fingers felt the corner of a cookie it slipped further down into the jar. It was as if the cookies knew he was being a sneak, and were purposely keeping just out of reach from his tiny hands.

After a few minutes the boy rested back down on two feet and peeked out the back door. There were only a few towels left for his mother to pin up, so he had to swiftly create a new plan. He looked around the kitchen for a tool to assist him in his cookie capture. Unfortunately his mother was the type of person who cleaned up every plate and every kitchen utensil, and tucked them all safely away from child’s harm. This definitely hindered his chances of a mid-morning snack that up until now had become part of his daily routine.

Suddenly he spotted out of the corner of his eye a kitchen utensil sitting on the stovetop. It was something so perfect that he thought perhaps his parents also used it for the same purpose. The spoon-like utensil had teeth all around the sides of it, making it perfect for grasping, and preventing any spillage on the way out. He then remembered that his mother used this utensil when serving spaghetti to the family.

He held the utensil with a firm grip and began fishing for the perfect catch. He had to be careful not to break any cookies or else his mother would surely know something was up. After a few scoops he lifted the utensil back out, and voilà! There were no less than three cookies carefully balanced on the spoked spoon, and like a pro he slowly lowered the spoon towards him without even the slightest waver.

But suddenly, without any warning, a shadow appeared beside him. A presence so powerful that cold chills pervaded his entire being, causing the hairs on his arms to stand at attention. Without looking he knew right away who it was. What was he doing in the kitchen this time of day? As he slowly lifted his eyes up to the shadow, the prize he had worked so hard for crashed down onto the wood floor and crumbled into a thousand pieces. He was left standing there with just the spoon to defend himself.

“What are you up to, son?”

The boy opened his mouth, but his vocal chords immediately went on strike. Only a puff of air escaped from his gaping mouth. Noticing the jar of cookies on the kitchen counter, the boy’s father reached inside and grabbed a handful.

“These cookies are my favourite. Let’s have a quick snack before your mother comes back inside.”

As his father lowered his open hand to him with three whole cookies, the boy realized at that moment just how lucky he was to have a fellow accomplice in his quest for mid-morning cookie snacks. Hmm…what other schemes could he lure his father into? A grin lengthened across his tiny face as he used his imagination while munching on the deliciously scrumptious, mouth-watering chocolate chip cookies.

Book Lover's Paradise

It’s something I’ve kept secret for some time now. Not many people would get excited, or even care, but for me it brings sweetness, a kindness that cannot be felt anywhere else. Each time I enter the store the clerk smiles, then continues reading the day’s paper behind the counter. Although we’ve barely spoken a word to each other, we communicate through brief gestures and perusing each other’s books.

I predict the number of steps it takes to reach my favourite section. As I zigzag through the aisles the faint dusty smell tickles the inside of my nose. Months ago the dust used to make me to sneeze, but my senses have learned to adjust.

I finally reach the row of books that stand proudly side-by-side. Some have enjoyed many generations of hands carefully turning each page, with eyes desiring the next word. Others have just a few select admirers, but still rank among the best in the world.

I slide my fingertips along the spines of these distinguished works of art, feeling each thread of cloth and bump of leather as it indulges my senses. I step closer to the shelf, close my eyes and breathe in the history, trying to dream my way into their worlds.

Suitcase Adventures

I remember the first time I travelled alone, not knowing what I’d see at the other end of the voyage. Initially I was full of excitement, but as the ship pulled into dock I froze with uncertainty. All the pre-trip planning could not prepare me for talking with locals, navigating the city streets or eating foreign delicacies. I couldn’t go back, it took too long to get there. I would have to be at ease with the unfamiliar, gradually loosening my grip on safety and diving into new cultures alone. Over time my body became accustomed to each city’s temperament and the jostle of strangeness surrounding me. Café owners around the world became passing companions, embracing me with their stories and friendly advice.

Sitting on outdoor patios I imagined people’s lives as they floated by. At first I desperately craved to fit in, foolishly mimicking accents and dressing in local garb. Looking the part, however, was just a thin veil covering my true self. I needed to be proud of my heritage, otherwise I would get pulled in all directions from outsiders. Over time I opened up to the newness of everything, discovering pleasure in unusual sights, smells and tastes. Sometimes I closed my eyes in the middle of busy markets and let the chaos of the moment whisk around me as I stood silently like a tree clinging to its roots during a tornado.

My suitcase has chaperoned me to many places around the world. It’s been bumped and scraped and handled by thousands of people loading it onto the latest mode of transport. I still prefer the gentleness of ships gliding through the ocean water. It allows me time to imagine the new country I’ll be visiting while feeling the cool winds blow around me.

I travelled for three decades, and while friends were busy getting married, moving into large homes, and expanding their families with bundles of children, I spent time strolling through small exotic villages meeting new people who generously brought me into their lives with open arms. It was these moments that confirmed my decision to be a world traveller and writer.

 My suitcase now sits alone in my spare room, emptied of all its contents and aromas from foreign lands. Its colourful exterior is the only indication that it has travelled far and wide. Many people have asked me to divulge stories of my travels, but I’ve always felt that to truly understand a place one must feel the culture on all different levels, even if it means standing in a busy market with your eyes closed and suitcase in hand.