• About Judith A. Ross

Shifting Gears

Shifting Gears

Category Archives: travel

These Skies Are Meant for Dreaming

09 Friday Aug 2013

Posted by judithar321 in friendship, inspiration, marriage, mid-life transition, travel

≈ 6 Comments

Tags

betterafter50.com, clouds, midlife migration, moving house, photography, summer skies

Now that the weather has settled down a bit, we’ve been spending a lot of time out on our deck. During the last heat wave, I read out there in the evenings. The sky was amazing.

PinkClouds 1 PinkClouds2 PinkClouds3

A few days later, the humidity blew out and we were treated to a series of cartoon clouds.

Cartoon1 cartoon2 Cartoon4We are also cooking and eating some terrific meals on this deck. Paul has become expert at baking food on the grill that would normally go in the oven — the eggs on top of this shakshuka, for example.

Shakshuka

Last June, I posted a piece that was sparked by a meal on this deck. In it, I shared our dreams of moving on to a different kind of life in a new place. I had forgotten about that post until a couple of weeks ago when I was contacted by an editor at betterafter50.com. They have reprinted the post under the title, “Should We Sell the House?” 

I think we should sell the house. And though it feels like our progress toward that end has been glacial, it has been steady, and we both enjoy the conversations about ‘what-if’ and ‘where.’

We’ll get there, I’m sure. It’s going to take a lot of work and careful planning. In the meantime, though, our head-in-the-clouds dreaming is, as one of my dinner guests from the June post would say, “luscious.”

Travel Lessons

20 Monday May 2013

Posted by judithar321 in adult children, environment, friendship, health, inspiration, travel

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

baking, cooking, culture, desert, food, Morocco

ruins with sunspots

The last few mornings I have reluctantly pulled myself from a dreamy, pleasant sleep. It’s not so much the dreams that I want to hold onto, but the peaceful, satisfied feelings they leave behind.

a sign

Maybe they are my way of remembering Morocco. For almost two weeks I was blissfully free of my usual, and (fortunately) mostly mundane worries. Day followed day, each unique and memorable in its own way, allowing me to use my brain and senses in ways I rarely do at home.

0-view from above

I started keeping lists of words in the local Berber dialect, along with lists of names. When people told me their name, they often told me what it meant. Karim, the name given my son, for example, means generous.

vocab list

Two different Moroccan cooks showed me that you can make delicious food with just a bowl, one simple knife, the right ingredients, and two strong hands. No measuring cups or fancy appliances required.

couscous

Couscous

daily bread

Daily bread 

By the way, in case you are wondering, I have several photos and videos of these cooks in action, but I can’t share them here. That’s another thing I learned. Putting your image online is considered shameful for Moroccan women — it is interpreted as showing yourself in a way that is not appropriate.

Moroccans grow a lot of their own food and they even know how to farm in the desert.

Young date palms

Young date palms

Desert wheat

Desert wheat

hand-wheat close up

As we were driving over the Atlas Mountains at the beginning of our long journey home, Paul turned to me, and said, “Wherever we decide to go next, I want to have a reason for going there. There has to be something specific we want to see or do.”

I knew exactly what he meant. Travel will never be the same again. We will no longer be content to just visit a country’s museums, stroll along its streets, or loiter in its cafes without some other goal in mind. Whether our objective is to learn a new language, take a cooking class, or understand a specific event, we won’t be satisfied to simply scratch the surface.

If Morocco taught us anything, it’s that finding common ground with people from other lands and cultures, no matter how insurmountable the language barrier may seem, is worth the effort. We will carry Morocco’s people in our hearts always, just as we will forever be grateful to the one who brought us there.

Karime

Beyond the Hijab: Woman to Woman in Morocco

07 Tuesday May 2013

Posted by judithar321 in adult children, friendship, inspiration, politics, travel

≈ 10 Comments

Tags

culture, henna tattoos, hijab, Morocco, Peace Corps, women, Womens Voices for Change

Henna tattoos back

Morocco was never on my travel wish list. New Zealand, Iceland, and Brazil were all possibilities. But a visit to a predominately Muslim, developing country in northern Africa? I hadn’t even considered it. All of that changed, however, when my 26-year-old son Karsten joined the Peace Corps.

The fact that he was assigned to work there not only put Morocco squarely on my radar, it allowed me to transcend the typical tourist experience and literally break bread with ordinary Moroccans—people whose language, dress, and culture are very different from my own.

I’ve been home just a couple of weeks, and I’m still sifting through the many sights, sounds, and tastes of my trip, yet there’s one aspect that stands out—the connection I made with the women I met there.

My first introduction to a Moroccan woman was, oddly enough, during a video chat. My husband and I were conversing with our son shortly after he had arrived in Sefrou for training, when he invited his host mother, Fatima, to join us. At this point, Fatima had already nursed our son through one illness and had given him his Moroccan name, Karim.

In what remained of my high school French, I tried to thank her for taking such good care of “mon fils.” While my French vocabulary failed me, my facial expression and our immediate connection did not. “Avec plaisir,” Fatima replied with a smile that blew through the miles and burst through the screen like a warm breeze.

A year later, Karsten now lives in Tinghir, a city located south of the High Atlas Mountains, where he teaches life skills, like typing and AIDS awareness, to a co-ed group of local teens. During the week my husband and I visited him this past April, he and a Moroccan counterpart organized games and exercises to help his students develop confidence and communication skills.

“There is definitely a feeling of sisterhood among the women here,” he told me one morning as we walked through town.

I felt the truth of that observation almost immediately. On the first full day after we arrived in Tinghir, I found myself sitting upstairs from Karsten’s place in his landlord’s apartment, surrounded by a group of women wearing the traditional hijab (head scarf) and ankle-length skirts or dresses.

Laila, who speaks a little French, was decorating my hands with henna. Rachida, who had her young daughter in tow, spoke to me in English. The rest, friends and relatives of my son’s landlady, chattered away in the local Berber dialect.

Without my son present to translate, I did a lot of nodding and smiling. But Rachida clearly wanted more than just small talk.

“What do you think about the head scarf?” she asked me. (Most of the mature women I encountered in Morocco wore the traditional head scarf and a long dress or skirt — at least out in public —but not everyone does.) I told her that I thought it was fine if a woman chooses to wear it. She nodded her head and said that the “choice” was sometimes dictated by a strict father or husband. I had the feeling that Rachida was talking about herself. She clearly regretted not continuing her education. Once they are married, she told me, “Moroccan women are responsible for everything.” It was a lament I was to hear from other women as well.

I felt the full force of Rachida’s assertion a few days later when my husband, Karsten, three of his male friends, and I drove through a nearby town, passing cafes overflowing with male customers, while the few visible women were on the road, laden with babies, groceries, or bundles of alfalfa they carried home on their backs to feed the family donkey.

On that day, my femaleness, even more than my Western appearance made me self-conscious. I felt truly alien, oppressed by the difference between this place I was visiting and the place I call home.

Yet those differences seemed to dissipate whenever I was with a Moroccan woman; even if my daily outfit of jeans and a long-sleeved T shirt clashed with her long dress and hijab, even if we couldn’t communicate through talk, her friendliness, interest, and generosity fostered a feeling of camaraderie that coursed through our time together.

Where did this feeling of sisterhood come from? Part of it, I’m sure, had to do with the high esteem these women have for my son and the respect he shows them. In fact, one conversation I overheard between Peace Corps volunteers during an earlier leg of our trip was focused on ways they could teach their young male charges to treat girls with more respect.

Moroccans are naturally hospitable, and making strangers feel welcome is an ingrained part of their culture. Family is very important there as well, so having “Karim’s mama and baba” in their home was considered something of an honor. Beyond that—and I don’t know this for sure—I believe that our mutual femaleness in a male-dominated society triggered the sense of sisterhood that Karsten observed, and that I experienced.

For example, one morning, Aisha, Karsten’s landlady, showed me how to make the flat, round loaves of bread that are served with almost every meal. As she demonstrated her muscular kneading technique, rotated loaves of bread in and out of the oven, and cut up vegetables for a tagine—all accomplished with her 2-month old daughter strapped to her back—we also managed to commiserate, in our mutually limited French, about the challenges of nursing a newborn throughout the night.

Surprisingly, this feeling of oneness wasn’t just limited to encounters with adult women. The hugs and kisses I received from the 12-year-old daughter of Karsten’s Tinghir host family made me feel like a revered and much-loved aunt. And then there was our 10-mile trek to Todra Gorge with Karsten’s Leadership Club.

The walk, which wound through the local oasis and up a dusty road to the gorge, took about four hours. While some of the boys reached out to me, I spent most of the hike surrounded by teenage girls who were determined to teach me a few words of Berber. By the time we reached the gorge, I had a vocabulary list. By the end of the day, I had been given cookies and candy, offered the use of a coat and some lip gloss, and had acquired several new Facebook friends.

I was lucky enough to see these girls on two more occasions, when we accompanied Karsten to his classes at the cultural center. I will never forget Hayat, who was both patient and persistent when teaching me how to introduce myself and ask others their name in her native language. And I will cherish my conversations with Kaoutââr, who will soon be leaving for the university to study medicine and whose nose is constantly in her schoolbooks. Nor will I forget the feisty Soukaina or the other Hayat, a tall, lanky athlete in a headscarf who can out-throw, out-catch, and out-run all the boys when participating in my son’s American football club.

Several times during our visit, Karsten mentioned the Peace Corps mission to help “promote better understanding of other people on the part of Americans.” I’d say they are achieving that mission.

The next time I look at a photograph of a Moroccan woman, I won’t see a stranger, I’ll see a friend.

Henna tattoos palms

 This post was also published today on Women’s Voices for Change.

Mid-day at the Oasis*

29 Monday Apr 2013

Posted by judithar321 in adult children, environment, friendship, health, inspiration, travel

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

family, food, gardens, Morocco, oasis

1-featurephoto

My son’s home in Morocco is right on the edge of an oasis. You only have to walk out his front door and turn right to step into an amazing landscape.

Karsten walks through the oasis on a daily basis. On this day, we were going to a friend’s house for lunch. We walked across a streambed, alongside an irrigation trough, and underneath a grapevine. Paul was a bit under the weather, so I had my son to myself that afternoon. After a year of missing him, it was treasured time.

2-acrossoasis 3-Let's go! 4-follow_irrigation 5-undergrapevine

We passed groves of date palms and olive trees.

6-oasis trees

7-olivegrove 8-olive

Like every other meal we were invited to in Morocco, this one included extended family. Our host’s parents, sisters, and nephews all joined us. A shy, but impish 4-year-old giggled as he rolled around on the floor with his djellaba-clad grandfather. After a delicious lunch of cous cous, we went outside and into the family’s walled garden.

wall

The small figs that go into savory dishes, like cous cous, grow here. (Click on the photos for a closer look.)

ekuran

As do dates. In the U.S., dates come separated in a plastic tub. In Morocco, you buy them in boxes and they are still attached to their stems. Until this garden tour, I had no idea what they looked like on the tree. These dates will be ready to pick in a few months.

dates

There were almond and pomegranate trees. The red flowers are pomegranate blossoms.

almondtree

pomegranates

At the end of the day, our host and his father walked us back across the oasis and home.

*I couldn’t resist.

Essaouira Blues

21 Sunday Apr 2013

Posted by judithar321 in adult children, environment, friendship, travel

≈ 12 Comments

Tags

Essaouira, food, Morocco

doorsonside4

It has been a little more than a year since we dropped our son, “Karim,” off at Boston’s Logan Airport where he began his journey to Morocco as a Peace Corps volunteer. While modern technology has kept us well-connected, we yearned to see him in person and experience a slice of his life there.

Our reunion took place in Marrakech, a crazy, bustling place. We walked to the old medina through unmarked streets that were filled with scooters and exhaust-spewing cars — this is a developing country after all. Between the sights, sounds, and smells, and the joy of being with our son again, it was a lot to take in. The camera stayed in Paul’s knapsack.

The next morning, we climbed into our rental car and headed to Essaouira, a beach town. Much less intense than Marrakech, it was a good place to start our journey. Karim has friends there, who are also in the Peace Corps.

The name of the riad where we stayed, Les Matins Bleus, reflected the town’s color scheme.

LesMatinsBleus1 lesMatinsBleus2

blue door arch3

shutters-towel5

bluewyellow5a

Tourists’ jackets also reflected the decor.bluecoats

The blue carried to the waterfront, where Paul took over camera duty and captured the fishing boats.

boats0

1boat 2boat

At the docks you can buy fish directly from the fishermen. Then, back in the medina, stop at the market for vegetables, before taking these purchases to a restaurant where they grill your food to perfection and serve it to you with bread – which also functions as your knife, fork, and spoon.

Eating in Morocco is a communal event: not a lot of cutlery or plates required.

fish1 fish2 fish3

The next leg of our trip took us back towards Marrakech and over the Atlas Mountains to my son’s site in Tinghir, where the real adventure began.treegoats1

goats0

Goats grazing in a tree on the road to Essaouira.

“marhba bikom” — Welcome to Morocco

11 Thursday Apr 2013

Posted by judithar321 in adult children, friendship, inspiration, travel, work

≈ 10 Comments

Tags

Morocco, Peace Corps

upstairs

It’s a long way from Massachusetts to Morocco, and I’m not just talking about flight hours and time zones. The sounds and sights are a world away from my daily life at home.

As I sit in my son’s apartment typing this, I hear him conversing in Arabic with Abderhamane, his landlord. Earlier this morning I awoke to the eerie sound of the call to prayer reverberating throughout Tinghir, the small city where my son lives and works as a Peace Corps volunteer.

In a little while we will be joining Abderhamane and his family for lunch. In fact, my son’s fantasy of doing a lot of cooking with us while we are here may remain just that as we have similar invitations for almost every day of our visit. Friends, neighbors, and parents of students all want to welcome the “mama and baba” of Karim — the name he was given when he arrived here.

I have loads of photographs to share that show many of the colors and textures you have come to expect from Morocco.

cups

rugs-medina

There’s that special shade of blue covering the boats and doorways of Essauoira, a beach town where we spent an amazing two days…

bluedoor-studs

Photo by Paul Syversen

Photo by Paul Syversen

…and that you see every time you look up…

viewfromabove

or down.

pool

Then there’s the food.

Moroccan picnic

Moroccan picnic.

All of that is easy to share through photographs, but what will be more difficult to describe is the feeling of welcome I have had from all the people we’ve met here.

Because my son has lived here for a year and has many friends, we are meeting the real people of Morocco — not just those who make their living from tourism.

Their warmth and generosity is unlike anything I have experienced anywhere else. I hope to share those experiences — which can’t be summed up by photographs — in future posts.

downstairs

Packing Light

31 Sunday Mar 2013

Posted by judithar321 in aging, art, inspiration, meditation, travel

≈ 9 Comments

Tags

American neoclassical sculpture, letting go, Maine, Portland Museum of Art, spring cleaning, Wolfe's Neck Woods State Park

windowviewofatrium

When I’m about to embark on something new, different, and a little daunting, I often  remind myself  to “go with the flow,” stay in the present, and loosen my grip on the controls. I imagine myself diving off a cliff and taking a very long ride down into a warm, welcoming sea.

Putting away my expectations, hopes, and fears and just taking the new adventure one step at a time allows me to release the burdensome stones that tend to accumulate during everyday life.

inside-out-figure

It’s like spring cleaning for the mind. We take a few steps back,

outside-in-sculp-stonefig

put the past aside,

Madonna

woman_birches

and step into the light.

inside-atrium

The photos above were taken at the Portland Museum of Art in Portland, Maine. Walking into this atrium was like stepping into a serenity bath. These figures are locked in their quiet reveries for all time. Standing among them, I felt all the residual heaviness I’d accumulated over the past winter vaporize under their cool gazes.

Stuck as they are, these statues remind us that we can lighten our mental load by letting go of those tightly held ideas that hold us back. Instead of jumping in to make “wise” pronouncements about people and things, we can instead bolster our wisdom by simply holding still and taking the time to listen and observe.

In a few days I’ll be traveling to new places. The landscape, culture, and people will be very different from what I am used to. We won’t even speak the same language. So that I don’t miss anything and take it all in, I’m going to follow my own advice. Mentally, at least, I’m packing light.

BigSky

Wolfe’s Neck Woods State Park, Freeport, Maine

Fighting Boredom with Adventure

31 Thursday Jan 2013

Posted by judithar321 in environment, pets, travel

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

boredom, dog walk, Mount Misery, Sudbury River

tracks

As difficult as this is to admit, our little Karina is not perfect. Not only does she eat sticks, she swallows them! At first this seemed like typical puppy behavior. And as she grew older, her craving for sticks seemed to abate. We thought that she was finally kicking the habit.

But, like many addictions, this one was not easily overcome. Paul did some research and, as we had begun to suspect, this recurring habit is a common symptom of boredom. Yup, our little princess is such a smarty pants that we have to keep her interested. Unlike me, she finds routine tedious rather than comforting. Imagine that!

So this week, we changed up our morning walks. On Tuesday, we went to Mount Misery. Yesterday, we did our usual route, only backwards. So far, so good, nary a stick was chewed.

This morning, we headed to a trail recommended by a fellow dog walker. When we set off, there were thick clouds overhead, and the temperature was closing in on 60 degrees Fahrenheit —January thaw on steroids.

Even though the mild temperature made my environmentalist side cringe, my inner fashionista was thrilled to forgo the down coat and wear my cool, new jacket — a Christmas present from Paul!

The ground was soft, and spongy, the air like velvet — in spite of a gusty wind.

Heading in

further in

The trail took us along the Sudbury River.

River

RiverView2

After a while it started to spit rain, but we kept going. Suddenly, the wind was whipping all around us, and we heard a long, loud, craaaack. The reverberations wrapped themselves around me. Karina bolted back to my side.

Was it thunder? After a few seconds, it became clear that the wind had knocked down what must have been an enormous tree on the other side of the river.

Giant trees swayed all around us, their branches ominously waving. The rain poured down in earnest. We ran back to the car.

Rain

We arrived home a bit wet, but no one was bored — and no sticks were consumed.

Jacket

48 Hours in Portland, Oregon

02 Friday Nov 2012

Posted by judithar321 in friendship, inspiration, travel

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

Bent Brick, hurricane Sandy, Oregon, Portland, Portland farmers' market

We left on the Thursday before hurricane Sandy made its way up the East Coast. We knew it was coming, but nothing was certain. After one, slightly tense discussion, we decided to take our chances and head west.

From the plane

We stayed in a tiny bungalow — 750 square feet, to be exact — that included a sofa bed, TV, kitchen, dining area, and bathroom. The inside was Ikea-made from top to bottom.

We’d rented a car so that Paul could take some side trips to visit his brother, who was in a hospital in nearby Vancouver, Washington.

On our first morning, we awoke to rain that continued throughout our visit. While Paul was with his brother I spent a good deal of time in Powell’s Books and drinking tea.

At this particular cafe, the teacups were dainty, but the music was not. It had an edgy, tough vibe. And yes, that’s my hat on the table. I’m conflicted about hats. I love them, but not the resulting “hat hair.” This particular hat had been sitting on my desk at home, unworn, for months. I’m glad I brought it, it was the perfect shield for Portland’s drizzle.

But enough about hats, Portland is all about the food. Our first breakfast took place in a French bakery near our place. Perhaps not the best croissants in town (more about those later) but they sure were buttery.

Perfectly poached eggs atop grilled tomatoes and pesto with squash and home fries, croissant also included.

The rain prevented me from taking many photos but it let up on Saturday, while we were at the farmer’s market at Portland State University.

“Hot” peppers

The kids at the market had a chance to show off their formidable pumpkin-carving skills.

Some of the farmers also displayed their Halloween spirit, like these friendly “scarecrows.”

By Saturday night, it was clear that given Sandy’s trajectory, our flights back to Boston on Monday would likely be cancelled. Luckily, we were able to reschedule our departure for early the next morning.

But not before we had a fabulous meal with some new friends. Can you believe I met Leslie online, through my friend Heather in Arles? It was a match made in heaven.

Leslie and her husband Scott insisted on taking us out to dinner. We ate at the Bent Brick. Scott convinced us that we’d be doing him a tremendous favor by taking the “whole menu” option. Yes, dear readers, we ate the whole thing.

The food was amazing, the company even more so. It felt like we were reconnecting with two old friends. The conversation covered our careers, our kids, our homes, our dogs, and politics — our mutual desire to live in a country of “we” and not one of “me.”

As Paul said, we could have talked to them all night. We closed down the restaurant. When we said good-bye, Scott handed us a care package for our trip home. It contained the day’s New York Times, the best croissants, and a bag of local hazelnuts from their food co-op.

We went to bed at midnight and got up at 4 am to make our plane.

I want more. We’re going back.

Maine = Vacationland

27 Monday Aug 2012

Posted by judithar321 in art, environment, friendship, inspiration, mid-life transition, travel

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

Acadia National Park, cameras, friends with kids, Little Cranberry Island, Maine, photography, technology

When it comes to technology, I can be a bit shy. And, yes, shy is the right word here. Whenever I get a new piece of equipment, I don’t dive in and immerse myself by either experimenting with all of the buttons, or by cozying up with the manual on the couch for a few hours.

I like to circle, develop a feel, and take my time. Even the unpacking should be a bit ceremonial.

But as I mentioned in a previous post, our camera died. The new one arrived just as we were about to drive up to Maine for a few days. We had been invited to spend some time with friends on Little Cranberry Island, across the water from Acadia National Park.

You travel to the island via the mail boat. And once there, you don’t feel stranded, but life does proceed at a calmer, more sedate pace.

The view from our hosts’ front door is spacious.

And here’s what you see when you walk around the island.

One of the best things about the trip was spending time with our hosts’ 10-year-old son. I love that he is in our lives. And I’m so glad he came along when he did. It has been a privilege to witness his development from baby, to toddler, to a thinking, feeling human being. He is whip smart and funny. 

He’s not shy about technology, oh no. He asked if he could use my camera while we were on the mail boat. His nimble fingers made short work of finding the special effects button.

Photo by Nick Howe

Photo by Nick Howe

Once on the mainland, we took a walk around Jordan Pond inside Acadia National Park.

Photo by Nick Howe

So, dear readers, may your remaining summer days be both slow and sweet, and may their memory keep you warm during the shorter, cooler ones ahead.

As for me, my “shyness” should dissipate soon and I expect I’ll keep busy and warm by poking, prodding, and giving this new camera the third degree.

I hope you’ll stay tuned !

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