Arabian Knights

If French Montana was walking down the street in Marrakesh I would pay him no attention. Not because he's unattractive but because he would blend in. Most of the men we've interacted with in Morroco, remind me of a tall, short, skinny, pudgy or middle aged version of him. 

Additionally, the men in Morroco have been very kind and helpful, but consistently aggressive. Whether they're trying to negotiate business deals or pour mint tea; They have no chill. 

Pouring tea with flair 

For the entire 8 days we toured this captivating country the men basically spit Drake lyrics at us... 

You too fine to be laying down in bed alone 

I can teach you how to speak my language 

Rosetta Stone  

Coming from the United States, where whiteness is "rightness", I must say that it feels extremely nice to be lauded for your beauty as a black person.

Even the manager of one of the hotels we stayed at said we'd easily fetch a one hundred camel dowry. This compliment seems pretty impressive when you don't have anything to compare that unit of measurement to. Are 100 camels better than say, 100 instagram likes? 100 free Uber rides? 101 Dalmatians? For me though, the most impressive part of our trip was our 3 day excursion into the desert.

On the first day we wove our way through the Atlas Mountains and our driver was wildin'. He was dressed like Bruno Mars in a fitted navy blue suit and fedora, but facially he could still pass for French Montana's older brother. He kept passing cars on the two lane mountain roads while speeding around hairpin turns. 

The Atlas Mountains

I wanted to say, "Excuse me, Mr. Bruno Montana? Sir, we are on the side of a mutha fucking mountain," but instead I just put my seat belt on, closed my eyes and prayed for our safe deliverance.  

Ait Ben-Haddou 

We do a guided tour of Ait Ben-Haddou, where Lawrence of Arabia & Game of Thrones were filmed, have a group dinner & spend the night in a hotel. The second day we walk through a Berber village. The villagers farm figs and grapes and show us how they dye camel and sheep fur with cumin, saffron and indigo to weave handwoven carpets. They also except plastic money (their words not mine) and ship FedEx if you're interested.

Watching carpet weaving

That afternoon our tour group arrives at the Sahara Desert. We file into a building at the edge of massive sand dunes and a man dressed in a traditional Berber tunic brings out Morrocan tea for everyone. I ask the tea guy, Karim*, some vital questions.

The view of the Sahara Desert from the camp

Whats for dinner? (At this point I'm really craving a juicy 5 guys cheeseburger, as I had been eating shish kabobs & tajines for the last 4 days. Karim said it was going to be Chicken Tajine and bread)

Where are we gonna pee? (He informs us that the camp has an outhouse with a squat toilet and no running water)

Do ya'll have wifi in the desert? (There would be no wifi and no water either so he tells us to bring our own bottled water)

We were going to be roughing it.

As we're preparing to get on our camels Karim brings my paperwork over and asks if I have whatsapp.

Outer me was like, "Oh he probably just wants to practice English."

Inner me was like

I'm pretty naive though so I give him my whatsapp anyway, hop on my camel and keep it moving with the rest of the group.

Now I don't want to tell you how to live your life, but if you have never ridden a camel for an hour and a half through the desert, it is not a necessary life goal to achieve.

Right before I lost my scarf

Riding a camel hurts ya'll. Your neck, your back, your poonani and your crack. The entire ride I felt like a Republican with unlocked car doors at a stoplight next to a car full of minorities: Uncomfortable.

I couldn't help but wonder, how did Jafar find the Cave of Wonders? If I had gotten separated from the group & lost in the desert, there was a good chance I would literally become a line from the Bible a Beyoncé song; From ashes to ashes, dust to this chick.

After snapping multiple selfies and losing my scarf in middle of the desert from atop my camel, we finally stop to watch the sunset.

The view was stunning. We could see the border of Algeria to the east, over the peaks of the untouched sand dunes.

The only working out I've done lately has been working out my issues, so I'm catching my breath after trudging through the sand when I get a phone call from a 212 number.

I don't answer it because Verizon charges $2.99/minute for international phone calls. Instead, I grit my teeth & pay 50 cents to reply by text.

Then I realize it's not a 212 number from New York, but that 212 is the country code for Morocco.

It's Karim, the tea guy.

We get to the camp, sit down to dinner and Karim shows up in full Berber regalia. In addition to his bright blue tunic, intricately woven with golden fibers, he is donning a turban the size of a Thanksgiving turkey serving platter. Its made with 2 brightly colored scarves instead of just one like the other desert guides. Either he is kind of a big deal or he is seriously peacocking.

Karim not pictured 

After dinner the desert guides build a bonfire, and start playing and singing traditional Morrocan music. When Karim isn't whispering about me to his coworker, who looks like French Montana's first cousin, he stares at me while he plays the cymbals like I'm the last sip of water in the desert.

Desert bonfire 

Meg and I are exhausted. We've already been up for over 12 hours and tomorrow morning everyone is supposed to watch the sunrise. he desert guides say it's not good to go to sleep on a full stomach and urge the group to climb one more dune to see the next city over by moonlight.

But this is no regular dune. It is the Starbucks venti of all dunes. It's legit 900 meters to the top. We start the uphill trek and I'm in front but want to tap out early. People keep passing me until I'm at the very end of the group and then Karim magically appears.

He says, "Take my hand, I will help you."

I really don't want to because I can tell he likes me and I don't want to lead him on, but I am seriously struggling to keep up. I reluctantly take his hand.

Eventually we catch up to a group of Chinese tourists that are resting from the climb. We stop just before we reach them and Karim says

Lets just sit.

I want to keep going but I'm tired as hell. The Chinese people are only about 15ft away, close enough to hear my screams if anything goes down. *Whispers* but in all honesty I don't know if they'd help me. 

I swear this dude whips out a carpet from Allah knows where and smooths it out over the sand.

It was almost like he had planned this whole thing.

Did you get the messages I sent you?

I lie and say no.

Normally I'm the concierge and don't come out to camp, but I couldn't stop thinking about you. I came to get to know you.

You really didn't have to do that Karim.

I walked 1.5 hrs through the desert just to see you and talk face to face.

I wonder if he found my scarf? I thought to myself.

Karim keeps going on and on about how he never got married because he's been waiting his whole life for a black woman. I kinda want to remind him that he was born and raised in Africa. Every woman he grew up with is black, but instead I ask,

How old are you?

31. Every year I wait for a black woman to come to the desert camp. Last year a black man came so I was still disappointed. You're the first.

I do like to think of myself as a trailblazer.

He moves his hand close to my face and says, Here in Morroco we call your hair Rasta hair.

That's interesting. I back my face away from his hand. In America we call it Yaki 1b/350.

He asks if he can touch it. Immediately I think of The Lonely Island's, Jizz in my Pants song and say no.

Then he starts talking about us getting married. I can move to Morroco or he can move to NY. (He saw that's where I was born on my passport). He comes from a family of 10 children, well 9 now, because his sister just got married. He wants to know how many kids I want to have.

Now Karim isn't an ugly dude. He doesn't even look like an immediate member of French Montana's family. If the circumstances were different (ie. I was desperate and ignorant to the fact that many men prey on foreign women vacationing in their country in hopes to get a green card) I might have given him a chance. But my life isn't a Disney movie. I can't instantly fall in love with a stranger and move to a foreign country. I am not Pocahontas.

Me as Pocahontas

Am I?

I gently tell Karim, I don't like you in that way. I don't really like anyone.

That's not normal. The purpose of life is to find a mate, love each other and make each other happy. Happy wife, happy life

Why do you like black women anyway?

He shrugs. I don't know why. Allah made my heart that way. But I can also tell that Allah made you a good person.

I get teary eyed but do my best to hold it together. A little over a year ago I was in a long term relationship with someone whom I wanted to tell me all the things Karim was telling me right now. But he never did.

It's so dark outside that we can't see each other's faces. The only light is from the moon and the stars and I have to admit it is a beautiful night. I hear a desert beetle scuttle by and I tense up.

Karim scoots closer to me on the magic carpet and breaks the silence, "I only have one heart and I want to give it to you."

That line right there almost got me ya'll. 

But my mama ain't raise no fool.

Karim may be a lot of things, none of which I'm familiar with because we just met 4 hours ago, but in this moment he has transformed from Aladdin into Prince Ali baba and he's showing me a whole new world of compliments. It's like Drake is serenading me by moonlight, kicking game like judo.

How many days will it take you to forget me?, He whispers. I will always keep thinking of you.

How many more women will you say this to this week, I think. But I jokingly reply, I will never forget this night.

Then I tell him I'm tired and want to go back to the camp and he says ok but suggests we hold hands.

I bury my hands in my coat pockets and while we're walking down the sand dune Karim tells me to never give my heart to someone who won't give their's back.

Maybe French Montana's 3rd cousin, twice removed isn't as naive as I thought he was.

As we reach the camp, I politely tell Karim good night and duck into my tent. Meg is inside preparing for bed and asks where I've been.

I tell her the whole story as I pull on my sweat pants and fuzzy socks.

"Wow that is creepy and intense," she says. "But now you can never date a guy who won't cross a desert for you."

One of the desert guides who took photos for me

*names have been changed 

Super Bowl House of Horror

For those of you who don’t care about football or the Super Bowl go to number 1. For those of you who are preparing to watch the Baltimore Ravens take on the San Francisco 49er’s in Super Bowl XLVII this upcoming Sunday night, go to number 2.

       1.     You are so un-American. Go to number 2

                            

       2.     This is the true story... of a bunch strangers and a couple of friends... who signed up to live in a house...  work together and have their lives change ... who found out what happens... when people stop being polite... and start getting real...

Last year I had the pleasure of working at Super Bowl 46 in Indianapolis, IN. (I hate roman numerals and I’m guessing the NFL uses them because they think it looks cool on NFL merchandise.) Indy is only about 3 hours away from the only Mid-western city worth living in, Chicago, so most of my promotional industry friends took the short drive down to be apart of history. And that they were!

For an entire week before the big game you can participate in various events in a makeshift town called  Super Bowl Village and another one called the NFL Experience. You can see how far you can throw a football for a prize (most likely a Super Bowl koozie or a bag of Doritos (NFL Sponsor), you can stick your head in one of those cardboard cut outs of your favorite player from your favorite NFL team or even go zip lining over the entire city. A lot of people fly across the country and spend thousands of dollars renting hotels, cars and hookers just to watch a 3 hour game of football with other boozed up fans on a cold Sunday night.

I should mention working the Super Bowl is a great opportunity to meet people from all over the nation, hang out with people you already know in a new town and possibly meet some celebrities or professional athletes. My fingers were crossed the entire time, but no dice on meeting anyone that could pay off my student loans because they were drunk, rich and I showed them some nip.

However one experience that will stay with me forever is paying $1500 to rent out a house for 10 days and the craziness that ensued afterwards. I know $1500 sounds like a lot of money for the rental but believe me it was not. Most people who lived in Indy were taking advantage of the lack of hotel rooms and charging $1500 a night!

               
View Larger Map

Enter the Super Bowl House of Horrors. This house had 3 bedrooms, one bathroom and a thick animal/marijuana smell upon arrival. My two friends and I took it upon ourselves to thoroughly clean the place up and air it out before the other guests arrived. Some of the people in the house were friends, some were recommended by friends and some I had never met. We were to split the rent based on how many people stayed each night. The smallest amount of people we had at one time was 2, the largest amount, 18.

I slept in the master bedroom on a king-sized bed with 2 of my friends while 3 more people slept on the floor in sleeping bags. At one point we had various people in the other 2 bedrooms, 7 people in the living room, one on the couch, the rest taking up any space they could find on the floor. There were people on an air mattress in the kitchen, hanging from chandeliers, sleeping in the bathtub and there may have even been a baby sleeping in the stove. You get the picture. If not, it looked something like this:

Honestly everything went well for the first 3 nights. We took turns using the bathroom, cooking dinner, watching TV and then one by one we'd go to sleep. Then on the 4th night some of the roommates decided to go to a bar and that’s when all hell broke loose. My friend and I called this episode, D-day, D standing for drunk. 

Everyone in the house was jolted awake at 3 in the morning when housemate Tammy came home drunk and fighting with 2 housemates. I heard yelling, someone talking about calling Pookie and then scuffling. One guy got up and broke up the cat fight. Apparently once everything had settled down, Tammy decided to vacate the house in the middle of the night leaving the front door unlocked with everyone sleeping inside. She never texted, emailed or called to tell me if she was coming back, or when she was going to pay her rent. Not only did I have to track her down and stalk her at work to get the rest of our money but this inconsiderate slut bucket had put other people’s lives in danger to boot.

Then early one morning after D-day, one of the housemates was taking out the trash and caught housemate Allison throwing her belongings out of her bedroom window and fleeing to her car. We had to track that bitch down for the rest of her money and I only ended up getting a portion of it because I couldn’t leave work to harass her for the rest of it.

The last straw was when Lindsey Jo, a self entitled broad in need of a trip to the hair salon, told me she didn’t think she should have to pay as much as she was being charged because she slept on the floor and not in a bed. Whore please, you knew the deal before you even got to the house. Not only did we have a verbal contract, we had a written one too. She avoided me and some of the other housemates like the plague and literally ran through the streets of downtown Indianapolis trying to skip town after I caught her at work! I hate to say it but I would expect this sort of thing from low down dirty shameful ratchet folk, not from supposedly well-raised middle class white bitches*.

When I think of all the BS I had to put up with I wish I had stayed home and watched the hilarious commercials and the horrible half time show that I wait for all year long. This year I will do just that, but in salute to those low class hussies that skipped out on us, I’m dedicating these Super Bowl delicacies in their honor.

For Allison who tried to dip out on us in the wee hours of the morning through a bedroom window – Avocado Ranch Dip. This creamy concoction can be eaten with chips, chicken wings or southwestern egg rolls.

For Tammy who bragged about how she's so high class and how much money her daddy gives her for an allowance at 27 years old – White Trash Chex Mix. I should have known something was up with this girl when she read us hate mail her best friend had sent her. Then she tried to put her pale, lumpy T and A in my guy friend's face. Don’t nobody want to see that.

It was a toss up for this last recipe. I thought about a cheesy seven layer dip since Lindsey Jo is from Wisconsin (cheese head) and has a whole bunch of mess going on below that greasy top layer. But in the end, for the two-faced, flat-chested, cowboy boot wearing, hillbilly bimbo who had me running after her through the streets of Indianapolis – Rum Runner Punch, an alcoholic delight that all of your Super Bowl guests can enjoy!

Let me know what you end up doing/cooking/eating for Super Bowl 47 this year! I would love to see some photos and get some recipes from you all. Hopefully your experience will be a lot more savory than mine was last year!

*As a disclaimer for my SuperBowl House of Horrors post I want my readers to know I'm not racist. I wrote "supposedly well-raised middle class white bitches" and someone said I sound racist and that "People think it's ok to be racist with white people. Well It's not!" That's right, it isn't right to be racist to anyone and that was not my intention. I hope I have not offended anyone. I meant that these girls who called me trash from the wrong side of the tracks went out of their way to disrespect me. I never would have expected that from people who claimed they came from rich families and had the best opportunities in life. It really doesn't matter that they happen to be white. 

Part II - Deux Degrees of Separation

When we left off with Part I of Deux  Degrees of Separation, Phil had just texted me photos of himself looking crazy as ever and proud of it too. Let me tell you, his weird phone call followed by the unbelievably unsexy photos left me feeling a mix of emotions and plagued with some questions.

1. Disbelief

- This guy can not be serious. Did he really think I would find these pics attractive? Out of all the photos in the world that he probably could have sent he chose these?

2. Fear

- How did he get my number because I sure as hell didn’t give it to him. Did he get it from Facebook? (Checked Facebook and my number is not listed on there). Is it written on a bathroom stall of club in downtown Chicago? (Unlikely since I don’t frequent those places or hang out with people that do).

3. Anger

- Who the FUCK gave this guy my number?!

4. Relief

- At least I didn’t get any dick photos. Those are the worse.

For about a week straight Phil would call and text me like mad.  It was surely my fault for even entertaining him on that first phone call to begin with. I knew not to answer his number and I could block his text messages (avoiding possible dick texts) but then he started to call from other people’s numbers. As I mentioned in Part I, I always answer a call, even from numbers I don’t know because it could be a gig. Imagine my surprise/disgust/annoyance when it would be Phil. Eventually I took the chance that if it was a gig that really wanted me, they would leave a message or send an email. Otherwise they wouldn’t’ get a return call.

I guess I was dealing with a master of phone tag because Phil graduated from random phone numbers to the dreaded UNKNOWN phone number. If you didn’t know before, just know from my experience that whoever it is on the other end of an unknown phone call, it’s probably someone you don’t want to talk to.  Most likely it’s a bill collector, the IRS or a company offering you a free cruise if you just sit and listen to their hour-long timeshare presentation. However there is the small chance that it could be an emergency or even the Publisher’s Clearing House calling to tell you that you’ve won a hefty sum of money. I mean they don’t just make those commercials up. They are real! So you HAVE to pick up the phone just in case, and oh shit. It’s Phil again.

I consider myself a nice person and I didn’t want to lead this guy on but some people just don’t get it even after you’ve avoided talking to them for weeks. Lil suggested that I tell him I was seeing someone (which is the truth) and that it would be disrespectful for me to continue talking to him. Phil took this bit of information surprisingly well. He told me, “You’re a 4 star lady, of course you have a man. Why wouldn’t you? I get it but we could still harmlessly meet up for coffee.” 

No. Thanks.

I don’t know what it is, but if you tell a guy you have a boyfriend, it only makes them want you more. 

I’m not being conceited, it's a proven a law of the universe. Pretty girls know what I’m talking about.

Eventually the phone calls did cease and I was a better person for it too.  I could answer my phone without fear of having to chat with the phone stalker Phil had become over the previous weeks.

Well imagine my surprise when I get up one morning and see a Google Chat message from Lil saying to CALL HER IMMEDIATELY. The previous night I had asked her to go with me to a fashion show I was invited to by a mutual friend (proof right there that I’m a warehouse event party kind a girl, not a downtown Chicago club scene type of girl). She couldn’t go because she had a date. Lil has never been one to kiss-n-tell, so she just gave me some superficial details.

She met this guy while she was coming out of the supermarket the other day. He seemed really excited to see her at first and approached her like an old friend.

“Hey! How are you?!” Supermarket guy said happily.

“Umm, fine?” Lil said.

They went out for coffee and he told her all about where he was from, what he did for a living and that he lived in the same neighborhood.  Lil said after she got home that evening something just seemed off about the whole encounter. And then he started repeatedly text messaging and calling her for the next week.  Lil isn’t into clingy guys (who is?) so the whole thing rubbed her the wrong way.

Then something Supermarket guy had said during their outing sparked her memory. She picked up her phone and thumbed through the text messages that I had sent her a month prior. There it was, Phil’s unattractive photos, looking gangly and wild haired as ever. He had even mentioned being Creole on their date!

It’s winter in Chicago, so when they met for the first time in person, he had on a heavy coat and a hat that covered up that crazy hair of his. He wasn’t the man of her dreams looks wise, but he was nice and chatty, so why not get a drink together? After all if someone offers, most likely they’re paying ^_~

In the end, Lil decided that they wouldn’t meet up again. He was way too clingy, texting and calling her all the damn time. The weird thing is that he never once mentioned that he knew her, or at least thought he knew her. He never said, hey I have a picture of you in my phone that you sent me a month ago from a different phone number when you called yourself TK. Why aren’t you calling yourself that anymore? How many phone numbers do you have?

Maybe its normal to have multiple phone numbers since he called me from at least 3 different area codes. Maybe he was that hard up for love and/or companionship that he didn’t bother to ask questions or maybe he just didn’t care. Again not trying to sound like, “one of those girls we all hate” but all of my friends are Pretty good looking. I don’t hang out with ugly bitches so it goes without saying that Lil is a looker. He had hit the hot girl jackpot! Moral of the story is: return to using a landline and make sure the number is an unlisted one.