good teachers never die badly

it seems like i've met many more people in crete than in reality i have. the last group to go through our language school had a few leftovers; people who were slow to find jobs or who decided to stick around for one reason or another. there was Russ who looked a little bit like tom cruise and was really into pop/punk rock. he's headed off to poland, jobless and hopefull. there was Christiana who looked 26 but was realy 31, had an obsession with the middle east and spoke the two coolest languages on earth, arabic and french. she's off to tunisia, nervous and alone. through them i learned about Mike; 55 and welsh. he plans on going to tibet to help monks learn english. i learned about the man who stayed in our new room and about how he used so much insect repellant that you could smell it down the hall. and still can. i learned about the swiss lady who was fond of bringing home random greek men and treating the entire apartment building, brilliantly designed with paper-thin walls, to an all-night auditorily stimulating performance. and i learned about paula who fell in love with a greek sheep stealer and ran off with him to the mountains, pilfering and plundering and drinking to her love's content. no lie.

but thus far life in crete has been simplistically beautiful. there's the old harbor, lined with cafes and restaurants and tightly wound streets, sprinkled here and there with hidden churches and mosques and quaint bars. the lighthouse at night lends it's glow to the lights and lanterns of the promenade and the myriad reflections of such on the harbor water. dogs and cats run free, in and out of table and chair legs, passing legs and fish stalls with their collection of sea creatures, dead-eyed, headless or hung on a line to dry, tentacles splayed out. cars don't like to stop and shop owners don't like to smile (unless upon a familair face). and if, as it might, this busyness overwhelms you, just west of town is a deserted beach where you can stroll and visit the occasional lazy greek men who lie in the dunes naked and aren't afraid to say hi. so as you can see, life is at least interesting. soon busy, but always interesting. teachers don't have it badly here. five days and running...

how ghosts are born (and become companions)

i have been inspired by recent events to once again take up the pen. that proverbial one that lives in my room and seems to not be able to leave me alone. my hope is that the few of you stuck in office cubicles with nothing better to do are still checking on my tidbits here, mostly because you have nothing better to do. but that's alright. i'm still honored. and i know i promised a great story last time, over a month ago i suppose, but my long absence has inspired in me a great sense of the romantic which made me reluctant to return. i imagined all of you out there, the thousands of dedicated readers and vicarious livers, who diligently checked my humble post here with hopes of reading the promised "most amazing" story and being amazed. and over time (one month is a long time for the atention span of kids such as us) you all checked less and less frequently (with above noted exceptions) until one day you gave up. and soon after you may have even forgotten that you had done so. but, you never heard that last, great story. and it haunts you. as it will forever. and you've each, in your minds, decided on how this legendary story goes. and it is great. for all of you. and some day you'll be talking to your great grandchildren and they'll ask for a story and you'll each say something such as,

"i knew a story teller once. i came to him for hope and happines. and one day he promised me the most amazing story, one i would never forget; one that i would dream about and tell to all my children and grandchildren. but that story never came. i kept coming back, expecting it, longing for it. but he was gone. and his stories with him. but that story has haunted me. and so to appease that spectre i created my own story. and it is dear to me. so listen and love. it's kept me company all these years so hope it can do the same for you."

something like that. i don't really expect much. so i'm not sure if i hope you're all coming back, expecting that story, or if i hope you've all forgotten me but not that story. ok, in reality i'm sure none of you really care at all. regardless, i'm back to share. and after all the hype i've just invented i apologize in advance of when it doesn't live up.

i was with a family in a little spanish town and they were fond of going to bed early. i am not. nor have i ever been. so one night i decided to go for a walk. we were in this great little hotel that was situated near a city square. the type only open to pedestrian traffic. it was amazing. it was raining and so i was looking for a place to get out of the wet. well, i walked past this english pub that was totally empty save the bartender and his country music. yes. now, when i say country music i don't mean the crap they play on the radio these days. pop wearing a cowboy hat or ignorant, "let's deride anything we don't understand and call it patriotism," jingles. this was the good stuff. the old stff with substance and a disticnt style and culture. so i went inside. the tables all had candles on them and the whole place had a lonely, inviting feel to it; a warm light in the darkness. i went up to the bar and attempted to ask how the bartender was in spanish and he looked at me and said, "huh?" so i tried english and he replied with, "do you want something?" in perfect british english. so i asked for a guiness but he didn't have any. so i took what he did and sat at the bar. so we start talking. he's from the uk. he spent the 60's and 70's in amsterdam (he's seen some shit). i told him i always thought it would be amazing to live in the english countryside in a little cottage in a villiage with nothing but a pub. and he told me he always thought it would be amazing to live in the south (our south, i.e. kentucky) where he could have a huge white house with an equally huge porch where he could sit at night and play music with his family; banjos, guitars, wahsboards and jugs. the works. funny thing, i'm from kentucky. he says he never would have guessed (he even asked me how long i'd lived in the uk because my american accent was very slight. probably the best compliment i've ever received. at least by a british bartender.) then we start talking about music. and the night slips by. as does the beer. (the owner has a free pass to everything in stock mind you) but we're content. talking about life and passions and love and all the most bohemian things you can think of. at some point so really trendy europeans come in and he starts talking trash about them to me. a couple comes in a throws darts and he tells me about how he hates having candles out because drunk people like to play with fire. and his wife is crippled and he's barely scraping by with his pub and the water leaks and the electricity is out but he loves his pub and he loves his life and it all runs together in my head. but i laugh. and so does he. and we don't even know each other's name. it was a rare moment when for a brief second, out of the lonely dark, perfect strangers become best friends.

and then i left. i had been there for over three hours talking to this guy and had spent more than intended. i just couldn't tear myself away. but it was too perfect to with more drink. so we shook hands and i plunged back out into the night. and to bed. that was one of the most amazing experiences of my life. it makes me think of all the warm places i've ever been and all the amazing people i've known. and it made me miss my friends. and home. and all the warm places out there waiting to be discovered and all the amazing people waiting to be known. so this story has become my place of refuge. my warm, bright spot in the darkness. and it didn't invlove mountains or desert or wilderness or danger; just a person. and you know, that's what life is about. that's what needs to be held on to and cherished and told to great grandchildren from rocking chairs (and big front porches on summer nights.) what companions people can make. and should. i'll certainly let them haunt me.

no matter how i try

well, i'm back from the wilds, at home and warm. africa did not claim me in the end though i begged it to. too bad i didn't upset enough people. i would often lay at night, waiting for the door to be kicked in, leaving the lock undone. but to no avail. i'm back. but all in all, it's not that bad. i got to be home for christmas and see a lot of people i had been missing. though there are a few i still miss. and still need to see. your day is coming. keep waiting, i'll be right on time. so as i try to get over my malaria i'll relate two more stories for any who are still interested. i like them. they keep me warm at night.

the entire time i lived in fes, i told myself i would one day climb the mountain that lives behind the city and that taunted me as i stood naked in my window drying out of the shower. so one day i set off. took a taxi to the edge of town, bought some water and a pastery and started walking. and i walked. and walked. and sat down. and walked. i met some kids behind the city wall who showed me a place to stand where you could lean out over a huge hill and the wind sweeping up from the valley below was so strong it held you up. and so we screamed at each other over the wind just to have some fun; me at the skinny, poor kids and them at the crazy tourist with wild hair, a backpack and a pastry. so i walked for hours. i walked all day. and after those kids on the hill just under the watchful wall, i saw no one. and for hours i walked alone, over hills and through orchards. and still i seemed no closer to the mountain. finally i found a dirt road and decided it would be eaiser to follow than the freshly plowed feilds. and so i walked on it for a ways until finally i met some kids going the opposite way, back to the city. and they had a turtle. well, they asked where i was going and i said the top of the mountain and they told me not to go up there. "you'll die," they said. "al-quida is up there. they will kill you." so i laughed it off and started to keep walking but they grabbed me and said, "no. we will not let you die." so at that point i thought i might listen to them. plus they had a turtle. so these guys offered to walk me back to the city. they let me hold their turtle and i gave them my pastery. they asked me all sorts of interesting questions: fc barcelona or real madrid, beckham or ronaldino, israel or palistine. as we walked through hidden valleys and heaps of trash and it was getting dark and i realized these poor kids could easily mug or kill such an idiot as me, i thought about that last question. and even if i were the holiest of jews and was wearing my funny little hat with aminiature copy of the torah next to my heart i think i would still have answered palestine. that bought me some high fives and i got to hold the turtle again. finally we got back to the city and the kids asked for money and i laughed at them and said no. and got in a cab and went home. away from al-quida, away from that mountain, away from that neat turtle. it wasn't until a week later that i found out al-quida also opperates out of a building that i had walked by almost every week. how close i was to knocking on their door. "lose me," i would beg.

my second story comes from the great country of spain. it invloves a fat british man, an empty pub, old country music and lots of candles. and beer. but unfortunatly i have to leave. off to pick roger and jarrod up to go on another trip. out west. i'm not sure where really but it's becoming something of a tradition. five guys pile into one van and drive for a week util they feel sufficiently wandered out. but i'll be back soon. and i'll tell you my story. it's my favorite so i hope you're excited about it. and it involves coming home, quite the opposite of being lost. one to make you all fuzzy inside. just like a bedtime song. let that be enough.

oh what i'd kill for a heater

yes it's been a while. but believe it or not, i've been busy. i've actually been working all day long for the past couple weeks. uncharacteristicly, i put off a lot of work until the very last second. so i've been adding a french and german narration to this brilliant video i've created. of course, being fluent in both languages not to mention the dozen or so others i've picked up, this was no problem. right. busy for th last two weeks. but now i am finished and have moved to the mountains for the time being. it's cold. i sleep under four blankets and in my clothes (which i've worn for three days straight now cause we have no water and i'm not bathing outside in the gutter). i have a new friend. his name is trey, he plays guitar and although he only weighs about 180 pounds and is pretty tidy, i'm sure he'd go to formal with carolyn if she asked. but before moving up to the mountains with the children and clean air, trey stayed with me for a while in fes. we were sitting around one day, waiting to go to dinner at someone's house, when the doorbell rings. i hate my doorbell. it's really loud and it usually turns out to be someone looking for the acupuncturist on the floor below and not me at all. so i go and open the door and there stand two young girls. they couldn't have been more than 16. well, they start off in french and so i ask trey (who speaks french) what the hell is going on. and he says she's askig for a glass of water and a japanese guy. weird. so i go get her the water but unfortunatly don't have any japanese guys so she thanks us and leaves. trey looks at me and says "she asked if we wanted to take a nap." yeah. this girl and her friend wanted to spend the night. i've never really been solicited for sex before, especially by door-to-door hookers, so i was sort of shocked. i mean, one girl had her head covered and was still wearing her little mermaid backpack from school. do their parents know what they're up to? is this a popular hobby for their friends? and where does the japanese guy come in? but apparently this is pretty common over here. which is really sad, despite how funny the situation was. so next time someone rings your doorbell and asks for some mountain dew and a latino man, know something's not right. unless you happen to be in africa. then don't worry, it's just another day.

destroyed by naivety

so my last entry was pretty long. i fear it's detered some from reading it. either that or i've just been forgotten, swept into the past and given up for lost. anyway, the comments at least have been slacking. this is a two-way relationship people. and right now i'm giving a lot more than i'm recieving. see there, i've even set up a nice and easy gay joke for you. i actually swapped numbers with a moroccan guy the other day who is definatly gay. he sang for me and liked to hold my arm as we walked. i think i'll go visit him this week and take him shopping with me. it's down to gift-buying time here. well, i mainly wanted to tell you all about how easily i'm taken advantage of (see, another one. i'm expecting some good stuff here.) so anyway, i'll keep this one short. i was out walking today, looking for a pirated copy of the new harry potter movie and some bannanas when this guy walks up to me and says he recognizes me from the hotel. well, not wanting to embarass him since he seems to be so happy about seeing me, i just play along. "oh yeah, i love my room. it's been great. such a nice hotel." and he tells me that the manager is a hard-nosed jew and that he's soon quitting his job. well, we walk around for a while and he's pointing things out to me, just like a tour guide. he actually shows me this really cool morning market i didn't know existed where they sell fruit and birds and flowers and beer. yeah, beer in a muslim country. it's true. "for when i want to relax" he says. he also shows me a bookstore that actually sells english books. another place whose existence i was unaware of. so, after about half an hour of this and after seeing the "largest mosque in the world" (bullcrap) he says something about a gift for his son who has just turned four. he'd like to buy him a picture book. and i'm not really sure if he means he'd like to buy one or if he'd like me to buy one. it becomes pretty clear when he drags me back to the bookstore and picks out a nice, thick picture book and says this would be a great gift for me to buy. well, i can't very well back out now. after all, he did just show me the largest mosque in the world. and so i give him almost all i have on me, 50 dirhams (about six dollars) and even though this doesn't cover the entire cost he assures me he can pay the rest. so i'm feeling very good about myself, thinking of the joy on this poor child's face who lives in the mountains and may never have seen such a beautiful book, when my friend (mustafa was his name, so he told me) puts the book back down and leaves. doesn't even pretend to buy it. doesn't even pull the wal-mart trick and take it back the next day. no way, he goes straight off with my money, laughing the whole time. probably back to the beer market. what a fool i am. oh well, let God judge i suppose. i won't be the one burning in eternal fire for so shamelessly decieving a hapless american. man i'm an idiot. i just need to go back to the camels and desert people where no one knows what money is and where no one speaks english well enough to decieve me.

the random events that are my life

alright, so i've been out of the wilderness now for a couple of weeks and unfortunatly fes doesn't offer much in the way of spectacular landscapes and stars and camels and funny old men in neat houses. so you'll have to content yourselves reading about some of the less impressive, but more random, events of my life. i have three for you. may they be progressivly funnier and more random and bring cheer to your otherwise cubicled lives.

you might say that my supervisor and i have clashing personalities. really, they're more like bitter arch enemies; those pairs in nature like the lion and water buffalo who are born to fight each other until one dies. he is extremely controlling, completely inflexable, and has lived long enough to have gained perfect wisdom in all areas of life. so naturally, everything should be done his way. for example, he asks that i wash my bedsheets at least ocnce a week and even asks about it when he comes over, "so, have you done laundry lately?" when i was about to leave for my trip to The desert he says, "now, i don't want you taking my camera and getting sand all over it but you can take your camera if you'd like." well thank you, kind, merciful sir for giving me permission to take my own camera somewhere. what would i do without you asking me to make a log of every hour of the day and what i plan on doing with it? you can tell i'm slightly bitter. so he comes over the other day and asks to see the storyboard i had been working on. i show him what i have (it's more like a general outline of what i wnat to do with the video with some stcik figures and such) and he throws a fit. he says this is not what he asked for, he needs a complete, shot by shot layout of the entire production. and i say it's really hard for me to work that way. i'd rather go get some footage, see what it looks like and then produce the video from there. you know, a more organic aproach; let it take a life of its own. well, we'd been at odds for quite a while now with me openly contradicting things he's suggested and arguing in defense over the slighest disagreement in the wording of my script. he sits me down and looks at me and says "i can tell you have some issues in your life. you have a problem with authority. and i can tell you don't like me so let's just have out with it." haha. i have issues? i have issues? what about you, mister "please make out a will before your trip" ? so we sit there for about three hours arguing over life philosophies and the amount of control you should have over people's lives. and finally he says, "i'm old, i'm more set in my ways and this is my show so we'll do things my way." we haven't gotten anywhere. so i give up. but we're not finished. he says he thinks he can get to the root of my problems if i'm willing to let him help me. and so i'm interested in what he thinks is really wrong with me so i say sure. haha, he has me sit back on the couch and starts asking about my childhood and my relationship with my parents. i barely keep myself from laughing but i indulge him and now he thinks, "we've made some progress." he probably thinks of me as a troubled youth with a dark past, always conflicting with those in charge of me and being generally hard to get along with. i think he's been trying to catch a peek of prison tatoos under my shirt and looking up my permanent record online for juvenile offences like vandalism and attempted arson of my father's house. i almost told him about last year's songfest but then thought better of it.

incedent number two: people often yell at me in the street, usually in french, but rarely do they ever attempt to save my obviously condemned-to-hell white soul. so this chain-smoking, younger guy stops me the other day. i tell him i don't speak french and only a little arabic but he is determined. i'll spare you the boring details (we stood there for a good twenty minutes) and i didn't understand most of what he said. but this is the gist of it: i am obviously american since i don't speak french. but besides that, being white means i have a cross painted on my chest and lots of people around here don't like christians, especially american ones. god often tells them to kill people like me. i am marked for death. he pointed to his forehead and made a bull's eye. then he showed me various scars on his arms and face (probably from where he cut himself in a drug induced trance) and makes slashing motions across his throat. but he can help me; he wants to help me. if only i will turn to god, when i die at least i'll end up in heaven. he stabs my stomach a few times, points to the ground and then up to the sky. become a muslim and i'll go to heaven when i'm killed by osama ben laden. then he says "say this," and tries to have me recite the muslim confession. so finally i tell him no and start to walk away. but he grabs my arm and shows me a casset tape he is holding. it's the muslim equivelent of gospel music. it has a picture of a fat, bearded imam with sun glasses on, super-imposed on a picture of mecca. he tells me this guy can help. pray to god. be saved. finally i just walk away and he keeps yelling "say it!" and i keep yelling "god-willing!" (the cultural equivalent of saying, "no way." or, "only if god possess my body and forces me to.") yes, he tried, but when ole osama comes for me i'm afraid my soul is bound for hell. tough luck.

imagine my suprise when this text shows up on my phone (all spelling and grammatical errors are accurate to the message) "Hey boo i have a bottele johny walker wiskey if u want we drinkin in your home its not probleme or.?" i laughed for a good five minutes before i could compose myself to write back. so i ask "who is this?" and the reply, "In your house .Me and you" it's like some really crappy rap song. where did this guy learn english?maybe he's got me confused with his american girlfriend. so i write back, in french, "what's your name?" and if it isn't my friend, the fake khalid, mr. "he called me john," the guy i accidentally called and spent the evening with a few weeks ago. and for a while i contemplate having him over and having a drink with him. what could be funnier than watching a preppy young moroccan guy get drunk in your apartment? one who barely speaks english and, with a few in him, might suggest that we, "go halla at shorty and get our freak on." but no, even with the words of dh in the back of my mind, don't be afraid to do things no one else would, i think better of it and tell him we'll have to find somewhere else to enjoy johny walker. this boo just can't have pimps and playas all up in his crib. unfortunatly he never calls me back and i spend the evening watching a meril streep, robert redford movie and looking through my french dictionary and the french grammer book dwayne gave me. almost up to johny's standards, but not quite pimp'n it. well, he did learn his english from the backstreet boys. god bless america.

one more night

one of the most comical things i have ever wittnessed: an american girl smashed in between a near-tears Catelonian boy, his face burried in her neck and strange Catelonian curses popping out between bumps in the road, and a similarly attatched French girl, also near tears and also holding on for her life while the Brazilian driver steers as close to the edge of the road, and the respective cliff, as he can and flies around the corners in the highest gear possible, laughing all the while and reminding me of a cowboy having a good go at the rodeo. me; my head (and most of my upper torso) is out the window trying to get a better view of the valley below. the valley a few hundred feet below. and it's not hard, let me tell you, the "road" being barely wide enough for the truck. we stopped at one point because andreu had to pee. but when he got out, he said it wouldn't work because he was too nervous. oh, but it was beautiful. the mountais we were heading for had a bit of snow on the peaks and the valley villiages we were flying above were green and filled with palm trees. it took us almost four hours to get to where we were staying four hours of cliff-hugging dirt roads no wider than the trucck. i'm not sure what we would have done if we would have needed to pass someone.

the villiage in which we spent the night was possibly the most beautiul place on earth. this little valley with a stream running through it, everything was green except for the trees which were just turning bright orange. there were little stone fences all over the place with men working in the feilds and women doing wash in the stream. the valley came to a point at the foot of a huge, snow-capped mountain built out of red rock. there was one winding path up the middle of it all, just wide enough for the occasional donkey. it reminded my of a Hobbit villiage. so yes, it felt like home.

we stayed the night in this amazing old house with a wrinkled old man who laughed alot and wore a blue jellaba (sort of like a traveling cloak. they look like something a jedi would wear. naturally i've purchased my own. oh, and what a nerd i am having now used both star wars and lord of the rings to reference real-life.) his house had low ceilings, wooden rafters, and looked as if it were just carved out of a large rock. the stairs were winding and steep and the rooms were lit by candle and lantern (there being no electricity) with the floors covered in great rugs and pillows. we slept right above the donkey, ate above the sheep and stepped over the chikens and their chicks everywhere we walked. the middle was open to the sky. at night the stars once again put on a brilliant show, there being no ground-light to interfere, and they twinkled; i mean they litteraly almost blinked in and out of existence. i stood there alone in the middle of the night, staring up through the courtyard for quiet a while, completely transfixed. i was alone in the universe. just the stars and i.

the next day we hiked up the valley to the foot of the great mountain. it (the valley) came to a sharp end between the lesser mountains, but there were a small, green, almost terraced pastures zig-zagging further up the slopes where herds of sheep were out for the day. on the left was a small watterfall that fed the stream running into the valley below. and sweeping doown at us from the snow and rocks was an amazingly strong wind. so i climbed up a small side of the mountain and down into one of the green pastures where the wind was at it's strongest and just stood there. here and there a random goat would stroll by, and maybe a donkey or two. but mostly, it was me and the wind. and that mountain. i could have died there. in fact, if i do die before finding a more beautiful slice of earth, bury me there. bury me with the wind and rocks and snow and grass and goats. and again and always, the silence. whether in the desert or on top of a mountain the silence is what really stands out. no humming electricity. no passing cars. no screaming people. nothing but the wind.

coming back down i stuck my head in the waterfall an almost froze to death. but it was refreshing. i was so sad to leave that valley and that laughing old man. but it was entertaining watching andreu and sophie almost wet themselves with fear and imagining that somehow holding onto helen would save them from death if we were to jump the cliff. but i rode the whole way back with my head in the wind, wishing i could fly. and if i could, i'd fly right back to that little valley. away from all this mess and fuss that is "real" life; back to where i can see God. back to where i don't need to see Him because i can feel Him, in everything. but especially in the wind. and the ever-profound silence. oh how i love that silence.