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.

Just Trying to Get There

My back aches as I shift my weight on the pack. With my fist creating a resting post for my tired head, I’m slumped over like a tree branch. I pick up my guidebook for the tenth time and check the transportation guidelines for getting to Waitomo.

I’ve just spent the last five weeks backpacking around Australia and New Zealand, staying mostly at city hostels above local bars. I’m tired of the noise and constant beat of music, especially when my dorm mates come barreling in at 2:30 in the morning. One of the hostels I stayed at was so horrible it makes my stomach queasy just thinking about it. I want to see something different, a place out in the country where there’s fresh air and peaceful surroundings. And with Christmas just around the corner, I definitely don’t want to spend it downtown.

I check my watch. It’s 3:30 pm. The bus should have been here by now. The woman at the Information Centre said it’s supposed to pick up at 3:00. It’s too far of a walk back to the Centre, so I guess I’ll just need to wait.

A young couple sits down on the bench beside me who can’t seem to keep their eyes off each other. Groomed in designer-brand outfitter clothes, they flip through tourist flyers and brochures with big grins on their faces. They must be honeymooners on their first trip together. They cast a glance my way, but after seeing my well-worn backpack and disheveled appearance they quickly go back to reading their flyers.

It’s now 4:00 and no bus. I stand up and squint at the road ahead.

“Excuse me, do you know if the bus is still picking up here?” I ask the canoodling couple.

After seeing a look of confusion on their faces I knew they wouldn’t be any help. 

With a huff I sit back down. My fingers start tapping a beat on my pack, and soon my feet join in. After a while I think I’ve created an original hip-hop beat. That is until I see the couple stare at me with a look of disapproval.

I’m just about to check the time again when the bus finally pulls up along the side of the road. The door slowly shifts open for people to get in. At the steering wheel sits a fat, bell-shaped man with wrinkles sloping down from years of exhaustion.

After I find a seat the driver puts on his headset and announces, “There was an accident on the highway. On behalf of City Bus Lines I’m sorry for the delay.”

He peels off the headset and throws it onto the dash. He wasn’t interested in hearing any complaints. He just wanted to get home and open up a bottle of beer.

The bus ride was three hours, and luckily I was able to sleep through most of it. The landscape is spectacular here, but after half a dozen rides it all starts to look the same - rolling hills, grazing cattle and one-street towns. Lately I just want to get to my destination and crash on the bed. Unfortunately I’ll need to transfer to another bus to get to Waitomo, but it’s only an hour’s ride.

We arrive at another one-street town for my transfer. I grab my pack and drag it onto the sidewalk. My arms are so tired that it’s a strain to lift anything heavy. All the other passengers quickly disperse, getting into cars with people picking them up. According to the schedule the next bus should already be here. I scan the parking lot but don’t see any other buses. There doesn’t seem to be any information booth around, just discount stores and small cafes.

The bus drives away while I stand stranded at the side of the road with my packs. Where is the next bus? Did I miss it from the delay on the last bus? I scour the sidewalk, looking for anyone who might be able to help. After a few attempts, I decide to ask the shopkeepers instead.

“Excuse me, can you tell me if the next bus will be along shortly?”

“Sorry, I don’t know the bus schedule. You don’t have a car with you?”

“No, that’s why I’m taking the bus.” I roll my eyes.

“Try the bakery shop two doors down. The owner might be able to help you there.”

I hike down to the bakery, hoping that someone will have some idea of bus schedules. No such luck. The owner was out for the afternoon, and the rest of the staff didn’t even know that buses stopped in town. I check three other shops, but still no success. 

I walk back out to the sidewalk, trying not to panic about the situation – I’m in the middle of a strange town, and there’s no bus to get me out of here. I stroll down the street looking for any sign of a bus stop or schedule. I walk up and down the street several times, but don’t see any signs posted. 

Gravity is not being kind right now as my pack pulls down onto my tense shoulders. I find the nearest bench and collapse. I feel alone. Everyone else has somewhere to go, a purpose. I bite my lip, staring out onto the street with wide eyes and flushed cheeks. I can feel each muscle in my stomach pull inward as my breath becomes barely noticeable. My hands grip the bench like a nervous cat, making my arms and shoulders feel even more strained.

I drop my head down, trying to ease off some of the tension in my neck. I start doing neck circles, and when I look up I see a man standing in front of me.

“Are you waiting for the bus?” the man inquires.

“Yes! Do you know when it’s coming?”

“That bus over there is leaving in 5 minutes, so you better hurry up or you’ll miss it.”

The man points to the bus parked across the street, which seemed to pop up out of nowhere. I grab my packs and barrel across the street in a panic.

“Thank you so much!” I shout back to the man.

The bus driver was just settling into his seat when he saw me sprint across the street.

“Are you going to Waitomo?” I shout, almost out of breath.

“Yes, you got your ticket?”

“It’s right here!” I wave the ticket frantically over my head as I’m running.

“OK, let’s get your luggage loaded on. You’re lucky you made it. The next bus doesn’t come until tomorrow morning.”

“They didn’t tell me there would be a different bus line picking me up.” I replied defensively.

“I keep tellin’ them to pass that information on, but I guess they forgot again,” the driver said while hauling my pack into the luggage compartment.

I shrug my shoulders and step inside the bus. I look down the long aisle of seats with passengers staring back at me. The only seat left is beside a teenage boy listening to his iPod at full blast. His eyes stay focused on the tiny screen while I settle into my seat, his legs spread apart in that typical boy fashion. I squeeze my small pack into the overhead compartment, then try to maneuver into a somewhat comfortable seated position. This was going to be a long ride. After a few minutes my head slowly droops down, and I drift off into sleep.

My head jerks up as I hear the sound of the driver’s voice.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we are approaching the town of Waitomo. For those of you getting off at the Big Apple bus stop, you can call for your pick-up now. We’ll be there in about 10 minutes.”

Has it already been an hour? I check my watch, and sure enough I’ve slept through almost the entire ride. The boy next to me hasn’t moved from his original position, his iPod still pumping out tunes while he sleeps. 

I suddenly realize what the driver just announced. I thought he was dropping me off at the hostel? Crap, how am I going to get there? I dart up to the front of the bus to ask the driver. He shakes his head, and I slowly return to my seat. My day of mix-ups wasn’t ending.

I’m dropped off at the side of the road, my pack sitting in a heap on the grass. As I look down at my belongings, I quickly realize what I’d done. As the driver starts to pull onto the road, I bang on the doors like a madman.

“Driver, please stop! Please stop!”

The driver looks down at me with confusion, then stops the bus. The door couldn’t open fast enough during my moment of panic. Before the driver could say anything, I race down the aisle to where I was sitting. Flushed with embarrassment, I grab my pack from the overhead compartment and run back toward the door.

“That would’ve been bad. Have a good day miss.”

I slink out of the bus while the other passengers stare at me with bored interest. I collapse onto the grass, wishing the day was over by now. Unfortunately I still had to figure out my way to the hostel, and there didn’t seem to be any other local buses going by. What am I going to do? Well at least I’m a woman, so let’s see if I can attract some attention.

I stick out my thumb to cars passing by, trying my best moves. I’m a newbie to hitchhiking, but maybe it’s not as bad as people say. I smile and try to make a good impression on anyone who may be nervous about picking up a backpacker.

Ten minutes pass and still no takers. I decide to sit down for a rest and admire the countryside. There are rolling hills and forests, a field of cows, an old abandoned barn, and mammoth-sized trees in the distance. Wow, those are the biggest trees I’ve ever seen. They’re like the kind of trees you’d see in fantasy-based movies with goblins and wizards. Actually, I think there was a movie filmed here with some famous director. What was the name of that movie? Oh well, not really my kind of thing anyway.

Just then a truck pulls up beside me. 

An older man sticks his head out the window and asks, “Do you need a ride into town?”

“Yeah, that would be great – thanks!”

I load my packs into the back of his truck and slide into the front passenger seat. He looks at me for a moment, then pulls out onto the road.

“Where’re you headed?” he asks me.

“The Backpackers Lodge. Is it far from here?” I asked, hoping it would be a short ride.

“Not far at all. Just about a 10-minute ride.”

Ten minutes. That’s about all the time I want to spend with this man. He reminds me of a man from another place I stayed at. He’s got that creepy old man look, with pale skin and deep-set wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. I wonder how many other young girls he’s picked up on the side of the road, and how many actually made it to their destination.

“Where’re you from?”

“I’m from Canada” I reply hesitantly.

“Canada….hmmm….we don’t get too many Canadians in these parts.”

After an awkward pause he asks, “What’re you doin’ in Waitomo?”

“Uh, just here to see the caves.”

“Caves, huh? Do you like deep, dark holes in the ground?”

I gulp, feeling like tennis ball just went down my throat.

“Ummm….uh, yeah I guess.”

My face starts to go flush from panic.

“Well that’s good, ‘cause those caves are pretty cold and damp.”

OK, thank god he’s still talking about the caves.

I see the Backpackers Lodge in the distance and take a deep breath of relief. The last ten minutes seemed like an eternity, but finally I made it to the hostel. He barely stops the truck when I jump out. I grab my pack, quickly thanked the old man, and raced towards the hostel. It was now 10:00 pm, and I was nervous about getting my room this late.

The only person still up was a young guy sitting on the couch watching television. He barely moved his eyes as I walked around the common area.

“Excuse me, do you know where the staff are? I need to check into my room.”

With broken English he replied, “Not sure. You don’t have key?”

“No, my bus was late getting here. They didn’t tell me which room I’m in.”

“Uh, they stop working at 8:00. They return at 7:30 next morning.”

Great, that’s just perfect. I finally made it and I have no room. Guess I’ll need to make friends with the couch for the night. I grab my back and pull it over to where the young man is sitting.

After a brief pause the young man adds, “There is spare bed in my room. You want to stay with me?”

Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!

“Ummm, sure. I suppose that would be okay.”

He sticks out his hand to shake mine, and both our eyes lock on one another.

“My name is Peter. What’s yours?”

“I’m Kate. Thanks so much for letting me stay…”

“No problem. Let me show you to my room.”

Peter grabs both my bags with surprising ease and leads me down the hallway. I follow behind him, biting my lip to hide my ear-to-ear grin. He opens the door and we step inside.

That night I forgot all about my day of confusion and mix-ups. 

In the morning I added my name to the bunk boards overhead with a smile on my face.

Hostel of Horrors

I look down at my map again to double check the address. Make a left turn here, and then follow the road to the end of the street. I am halfway down the street when the building starts coming into view. I squint to try to get a better look, but the beads of sweat are starting to drip into my eyes. The afternoon sun is intense, and my clothes are so wet that there’s no separation between my skin and the fabric. My pack is feeling heavier by the minute. It shouldn’t be much longer now.

I finally arrive at the building, but it’s hard to distinguish from all the trees and overgrown plants growing around the property. It doesn’t seem like the picture I saw on the website, but those pictures were so small and fuzzy you couldn’t see much. I walk up the cement stairs to the reception desk, and suddenly a strong wind pushes me into the doorway. Feeling startled, I brush back my hair to try to look more composed. As it turns out, there isn’t anyone inside. I peel off my backpack and set it down beside the worn-out chair. Scanning the room, it looks like nobody has stayed here for a long time. Maybe this is the wrong place? I glance down at the reception desk, trying to find something with a name or address listed on it. I notice a business card attached to a side cabinet with scotch tape that’s gone yellow over time. Sure enough, it’s the same information I have on my form.

I decide to walk around the dimly lit common area, looking around corners for any sign of life. Everything sits very still, as if it is frozen in time. I see a television in the distance, which looks surprisingly new, so I search around for a remote to turn it on.

“Can I help…” a deep voice echoes in the distance.

“Aaahh!!!” I whip around so quickly from shock that I almost knock over the TV.

The large, stocky man is standing motionless in the doorway, his eyes piercing back at me.

“I’m here for the room. I mean…um….this is the Darkwoods Hostel, right?” I asked with a quiver in my voice.

“That’s right. You got a booking here?” the man replied in a deep monotone voice.

“Uh….(say no! say no!)…um…I think so.” 

“What’s your name?” he shot back.

“It’s uh…it’s under Sanders. My name is Kate Sanders.” I said, feeling pressure to cooperate with the man.

“Let’s see…Kate Sanders.” 

The man scans down the dog-eared pages of the registration book. There are scribbles and notes beside guest names. Many of the names have giant Xs through them, which seems odd. Under today’s date, only my name is listed. Am I the only person staying here tonight? Before my thoughts carry me further into panic, the sound of birds cackling brings me back to reality.

“Here it is. Kate Sanders for 3 nights. You owe $24.00 plus a key deposit of $10.00. Hope you have cash, ‘cause we don’t take cards here.”

Interesting, the key deposit is almost half the amount for the 3-night room fee. Maybe they’ve had problems with people losing their keys. Anyway the room is cheap, and I’m sure this place isn’t as bad as it seems. First impressions can sometimes be inaccurate, right?

I hand the cash over to the man, who places it into a tin can underneath the desk. There are wads of other bills in the can, so there must be other guests staying here. Just seems strange he doesn’t have a more modern filing system like other hostels.

The man hands me the room key, then asks, “Do you need help with yer bags, or are y’alright there?”

Uh no, I’m ok. Thanks.”

There is no way I am letting that man near by pack. So I heave it onto my shoulders and head toward the room. According to the key I’m in Room 3. Wonder how many rooms they have here? Walking down the hall there are four doors, but I don’t see a Room #3. I then notice a small hallway leading to another section of the building. It is dark except for a small flickering overhead light bulb. The old linoleum floors creak with every step I take, and I’m feeling nervous now. There’s Room 7, Room 5 and Room 2. Where is Room 3?

Then I notice a small door on the right near the end of the hallway. There doesn’t appear to be a number on the door, but I can tell from a faint outline that one used to be affixed to the door. I guess it had fallen off at some point. I turn my key in the lock, and after a few tries I finally open the door.

The first thing I notice is the dirty, musty smell wafting over me as I walk through the doorway. There is a small bed off to the side, just under the large window. The window is open, so at least some fresh air can get into the room. I sit down on the bed to remove my pack, and immediately feel springs poking up into my legs. Unfortunately the springs do little for cushioning, as the bed is flat from generations of use.

I stand up and immediately pull back the sheets, expecting little critters to come scurrying out. After a few months of backpacking I’ve seen a lot of scary beds in seemingly nice looking places. But no critters come out, and the sheets actually look pretty good. Not believing what I saw, I pulled the fitted sheet off from the right corner and scan the mattress. The mattress was certainly old, but there doesn’t seem to be any evidence of bug matter.

I sit back down on the bed and let out a sigh of relief. In front of me is a large wooden cabinet, which looks like it used to be a wardrobe unit. The doors have been taken off and some of the drawers are missing. Dust and spider webs have now made their home in this cabinet, so I decide to keep all my clothes safely in my backpack with the zippers pulled up.

I just realize that the owner didn’t show me where the bathrooms were located. After locking the door I stroll back down the dark hallway and look for signs of a bathroom. They all seem to be regular rooms, so it must be down another hall. I turn the corner and see a set of stairs leading steeply down into a basement area. It’s dark as well except for cracks of light shining between the wood planks. The stairs are worn and thick from dust, and with each step I hold my breath hoping nothing bad would happen. 

I finally reach the bottom, and to my right is the toilet room. There is a sharp pungent odour from chemical cleaner used to cover up bathroom smells, and barely enough toilet paper for one visit. The next room has a small shower stall, but the paint on the walls is peeling off so bad that the metal underneath is showing. I shudder with the thought of being naked in the stall, and run out the door.

I immediately hit a brick wall. Or so I thought was a brick wall. It was the man from the reception desk, standing firmly with a sneer on his face.

“Running away, are we?”

“No, no, no…I just realized I forgot something upstairs.” I replied with a lump in my throat.

I try to sneak past him, but his body takes up the entire width of the hall. Please let me past, please!!! I look for any possible opening to get by, and then suddenly he grabs my arm. I freeze with fear, and look up into his eyes.

“I don’t want no funny businesses in this place, got it? Or there’ll be consequences.” he snarled.

“Y-y-y-yes…of course. I won’t do a thing, I p-p-p-promise.” 

I’ve never stuttered in my life, but at this moment my jaw can’t stop trembling. Snapshots of the scariest horror movies I had ever seen are flashing through my head. Please let me live! I’ll stay in my room and be quiet, I promise!

The man’s overalls are worn and stained, and the shirt underneath is faded from the sun. His hands are gnarled up from years of hard labour, and they grip my arm so severely I’m afraid it will leave bruises. Several of his fingernails are black and purple, and there’s a scar along the indent of his left thumb.

The man must have noticed my look of desperation, and he slowly steps his left foot back to let me walk past. He watches my every move as I slither by with fear. Every muscle is shaking at this point, and I don’t know how I will make it up the stairs without tripping.

I slice down the dark hallway to my room and quickly shut the door. Pulling back the comforter I bound into bed and try to disappear under the covers. I shut my eyes, trying to recall happy memories that will transport me out of here. My breath is short and fast, and my muscles won’t stop trembling. The image of that scary man won’t get out of my head, and the sound of his voice echoes through me. I’ve never felt so scared in my life. Try to relax, try to relax, I keep repeating. It’s all just a bad dream. My muscles gradually start loosening, and my breath gets a little deeper. The intensity of my thoughts became tiring, and I feel a headache coming on. But after a while I slowly drift off to sleep, curled up tight as a ball.

Three hours later I awake with the sound of hammering just outside my window. Still feeling foggy, I push the covers back to get some air. I then realize where I am, and it wasn’t a dream. My muscles still feel cramped, and it’s difficult to move after hours of clenching.

I slowly peer through the crack in the window to see who is hammering. It looks like a man in his 20s, and he’s scruffy like the scary man. He’s hammering planks of wood together, and appears to be making a box.

My body suddenly surges away from the window and my eyes open wide in panic. Is that what I think it is? Is he making a COFFIN? I go back to the window to look again. The box is long and narrow, with a slightly curved end. The young man is hammering the last plank to the box, which appears to be made out of scraps of wood. After he finishes hammering he drags it over to a metal shed and puts it inside. The inside of the shed is too dark to see if there are more of these boxes, but my guess is this isn’t the first time he’s made something like this. The young man comes out of the shed and glances up to see me staring at him. I shudder, then crouch down below the window. Oh crap, he’s gonna be after me too! I consider hiding under the covers again, but I’ll try to be braver this time.

I try to process what I just saw, wondering if I had mistakenly assumed the worst. The box did look coffin-like, however maybe it wasn’t actually a coffin. But what else could it be, and why aren’t there any other guests around? Maybe I should take a walk around the property to investigate. Wait, are you crazy? You might see the scary man again! Do you really want to risk running into him again?

Although I know logically it would be safer to stay in my room, the curious part of me takes control of the situation. So down the hall I go, wandering through the place until I am outside. By the time I reach the backyard area where the young man was making the coffins, there is no one to be found. These people would be experts at hide and seek, or a murder mystery game. Yikes, don’t think of that right now!!

The backyard is full of junk – old signs, rusted cars, appliances that haven’t worked for years and odd sheets of metal lying around. Obviously no one has made an attempt to clean up the junk, as the plant life is curled up around the junk in an effort to keep growing. Generations of mess have built up over the years, but nobody cares.

I then spot the young man, who is whispering to the scary man by a large tree. Scary man yells something back then stomps off. I find an old washer to hide behind, but his quick footsteps are getting closer. Should I sprint back, hoping he won’t catch me? Or should I crouch down small behind this washer? No time to think, hurry up!

My body starts to sprint out of instinct, like an animal running away from its predator. My feet know exactly where to go, before my mind could process obstacles like stairs and tight corners. I’m almost to my room when I realize I left my sweater by the washer. Crap, that was my favourite sweater! For a second I think about going back, but I don’t want to risk it this time. They might put me in the coffin and store me away forever.

When I return safely to my room, I notice the sun is starting to go down. It will be dark soon, and things will seem even scarier. I haven’t eaten any dinner, but hunger is the last thing on my mind. Surviving three nights in this place without getting kidnapped, mamed or something worse become my priority.

I try to take my mind off this horrible situation by reading one of my novels. Although I seem to be reading, my eyes are simply scanning over the same paragraph a hundred times. I can’t focus on anything but the scary man, the coffin, and the hostile discussion those two men had. What are they planning, and does it (gulp!) involve me? What am I going to do? I don’t have a phone to call anyone, and the closest town is an hour’s walk. The buses don’t run on the weekends either. If I try to escape they could easily catch up with me by car, especially since there’s only one road out of here. I’m stuck here, and there’s nothing I can do.

With that thought in mind, my eyes start welling up with fear, and I wish I were back at home with my family. This wasn’t supposed to happen, I do a lot of research on good, safe places to stay. I was sure this place got a high rating on the hostels website, but it clearly should be shut down. My mind is spinning with confusion, and I can’t take the stress much longer.

I then hear a knock on the door. Oh crap, they’re after me! They’re gonna put me in that coffin! I jump off the bed and try to squeeze my body under the bed frame. Maybe they won’t see me under here…be very, very quiet.

The person knocks again, and then slowly turns the doorknob. I can see their dirty, worn shoes come toward me, so I slide further under the bed frame to hide. The shoes walk to the other side of the bed, then a hand lifts up the comforter. When I see the person’s face, it’s clear it doesn’t belong to the scary man or the young man. It is a gentle, grandmotherly face smiling back at me.

“Are you ok, dear? Did the fellas scare you?” the woman said in a soft tone.

I try to speak, but the words won’t come out. My throat is dry from fear, and the rest of my body can’t move.

“Come out from under the bed, dear. It’s ok, I won’t hurt you. My name is Betty.” The woman re-assured me, and reaches her soft hand out to me.

I hesitate, but feel like I can trust her. I stretch out my arm and place my palm in hers. Instantly I feel safe again, even though my body is still shivering. With the woman’s help, I pull myself out from under the bed. When I am able to stand up I see her gentle face again, and she’s wearing a dress with small pink flowers on it. Her eyes sense my tired, stressed body, and she reaches out her arms to hug me. It feels so comforting that I almost start crying again.

“My poor dear, those fellas take things too far. Every year I tell them….”

“What do you mean, take things too far?” I asked forcefully, wanting desperately to know what was going on.

“My dear, what you see is not what you think.” She tried to re-assure me.

The reaction of my blank, confused face prompts her to ask, “Dear, do you know what day it is today?”

“What day it is? What do you mean?”

“Dear, today is October 31.” She said with a smile.

“So? October 31….” I then realized today is actually Halloween.

“The boys like to fix up the place like a haunted house every year, and Sam dresses up in old clothes.”

Is Sam the scary man? Is that who she is talking about?

“Sam is my husband, who checked you in today. I’m so sorry if he scared you today.”

“He sure did! He grabbed my arm when I was down by the washroom, and wouldn’t let me leave! Why would he do something like that for fun?

“Sam does get carried away with the costume, and I’ve tried talking to him about it many times. I’m so sorry, dear.”

“OK, so I assume the coffins being built in the backyard are for Halloween too?”

“Yes, they decorate them with skeletons from the costume shop in town.”

Suddenly it all starts to make sense, except for one thing.

“What were the men fighting about in the backyard?”

“Every year my son Peter tries to make things a little scarier around here for Halloween. This year he wanted to put real pythons into the coffins to scare people. But Sam wouldn’t let him do it, and Peter got upset at him.”

“What??? What kind of….”

“I know dear, they go too far. But now you know what’s going on, and there’s nothing to fear. Come down to the kitchen and I’ll fix you something to eat.”

She takes my hand and leads me down to the kitchen. Halloween decorations are hanging from the ceiling, and a large bowl of candy is sitting by the door. Feeling relieved, I sit down at the kitchen table while Betty pours some hot beef stew into a bowl. My stomach is growling with hunger, so I’m glad to finally be able to eat. With the first spoonful of stew I notice it has a different flavour. The beef has a chicken taste, and I don’t recognize the vegetables.

“What kind of meat is this? I’ve never tasted it before. And the vegetables are different too.” I asked inquisitively.

“Oh, it’s a recipe I’ve used for years. It’s a special kind of meat you can only get around this part of town. We grow the vegetables ourselves, and mix other goodies into it for a unique taste. Do you like it, dear?”

“Yes, it’s pretty good. Can you give me the recipe?”

“No dear, it’s a secret that we’ve kept for years. Finish up, you want to get every morsel eaten up.”

I am almost finished the stew when I start to get a sick feeling in my stomach. Something wasn’t right about this stew. I stopped eating and put my spoon down.

“What’s wrong dear?”

“Betty, what did you say this meat was again?”

“It’s special meat that you only get…”

“What KIND of meat?”

It’s at that moment I realize what I just ate. I storm out of the kitchen and run directly to the shed. I throw open the shed door and stand there in shock.

***

To this day I still feel the shock from that evening, and cannot eat anything related to beef stew. My friends think I made up the story, but they weren’t there that horrific night at the Darkwoods Hostel.