Scootering In Scuol - Switzerland

After our beautiful stop at Flüela Pass, we pushed on to our first night in Switzerland in the small little village of Scuol. Scuol, pronounced shkwol, is in the mountainous, eastern region of Switzerland.

It is a tiny village full of dairy farmers, river rafters, hikers, and skiers.

This is the view from downtown Scuol. Not bad, huh?

Or there is this view. Everywhere we looked we were surrounded by towering granite peaks. It was breathtaking. As beautiful as Scuol was, we weren't there just to partake of the views. Alexander and Ashlenne had a date with some white water river rafting.

Here they are! Suited up and ready to get wet! Want to raft or hike here too? Click Engadin Adventure to see what they have to offer. (Great company with English speaking guides. They gave Alexander and Ashlenne the ride of their lives!)

My two younger ones, Aidan and Andre, were too small to raft. The river was running too high and they had a weight and height restriction, so I had to find an activity for them to do. The guides directed me over to a company that rented industrial grade scooters that you could ride down the mountain on.

Here are these two! Suited up and ready to ride! But let me back up a bit. Before we got the scooters, I had to rent them from the chairlift operator who spoke absolutely NO English. My German has come a ways from when we moved here, but my vocabulary lacked the word for scooter. The operator and I went around and around in circles in our complete lack of understanding each other until he went and grabbed a scooter and brought it to me and said "You?" To which I said, "Yes! Me! Ich möchte!" As I pointed at it. Scooters rented.

This is the view from the summit of the chairlift looking across the valley to the mountains.

The mountains at this time of year were bursting with wildflowers. A sweet, clover like smell hung in the air as we whizzed past the meadows.

The entire trip down the mountain takes about an hour and a half, but it took us longer because we stopped often for pictures and snacks. Nothing like a Capri Sun and string cheese on the side of a mountain in the Alps among the wildflowers on a day like this.

It was one of those days where you think to yourself, "I will never forget this. I will never forget this place. I will never forget how this place made me feel. I will never forget the mountains, the flowers, the sunshine, or the smile on my children's faces."

Through out these meadows, there were cows grazing. We could here the clanking of their bells ringing out through the trees, making milk for all that yummy Swiss cheese.

Down at the bottom we found little waterfalls made from all that snow melting up at the top. It was a fantastic day. I felt a little bad that Alexander and Ashlenne missed it. But not too bad, they also had a great day.

Photo credit - Engadin Adventure

They had a fantastic time themselves on the river, roaring down the canyon on waves of white, frothy water. Life in Switzerland is good.

Making The Best Of Marrakech - Morocco (Africa, Not Europe!)

Our next stop on the great Western Mediterranean cruise of 2013 was Casablanca, Morocco. We were very excited to go here. After all, it's Africa! Not lions and elephants and safaris, but still, we were on the continent of Africa.

Want to read about where we were before? We were in Barcelona and then Seville.

Our boat docked in Casablanca. We chartered a van to drive us the two hours south to Marrakech so we could shop, eat, and explore. 

Right between those green and pink arrows is a whole lotta desert. Not very exciting. Unless you're a camel or a sheik, I guess.

Right as we got off the boat we were happy and all smiles. We were excited. We had no idea how long of a day lay ahead of us. 

On a happy note, I saw my first stop sign outside of America that actually said STOP in a  language other than English. At least I assume it said stop. It was the right shape and the right color but for all I know it could have said 'free milk' or 'bears ahead.' Yeah, I don't really know any Arabic. 

It was at this point in our trip that things began to head south. We couldn't find the driver and the van who we had prepaid to take us to Marrakech. He had very explicit instructions to meet us at the port gate. No one to be found. Mrs. Point wasn't going to have any of this so she ran down past the port gates with our other travel partner, Mrs. Bulgaria (she really is from Bulgaria). Finally, after two hours we found our driver, Hamid. (No joke. His name really was Hamid.) We all piled in the large van and took off through the crowded streets of Casablanca. 

As we drove, Mrs. Point and Mrs. Bulgaria were very mad that Hamid was nowhere to be found. Mrs. Bulgaria was yelling at him from the back, "Where were you, Hamid?!" in her cute Bulgarian accent. (Actually, she can be pretty scary.) Hamid just smiled and turned up the Arabic music of sitars and women wailing a throaty song. No one was going to bring Hamid down. 

One hour into the drive, the youngest Point family member threw up in the van. One and a half hours into the drive, Mrs. Bulgaria's one year old daughter threw up in the van. And it was the really gross stinky throw up of curdled milk. So there I am, riding in this van in the warm Moroccan desert and sun with crazy music playing and vomit dripping off the windows. I was having so much fun. (In the poor children's defense, the youngest Point was sick and Mrs. Bulgaria's daughter gagged on an apple piece. It all got cleaned up. Well, as good as you can clean up vomit in a moving van in Africa.)

After driving through the desert for what seemed like forever, we started to arrive in Marrakech.

The first thing I noticed was the juxtaposition of the living situation. Wealthy walled off and protected from the poor right next door.

The streets of Marrakech.

This tower is part of the walled section of the medina or the old section of town. A medina is usually walled and contains maze like streets that host vendors.

Within five minutes of our arrival in the shopping area, we were accosted by this gentleman here. Meet Mr. Snake Charmer.

Mr. Snake Charmer saw me and my little boys standing off on the side just watching the snakes. He approached me and said, "You like?" 

I replied, "No, not really."
Mr. Snake Charmer - "Your boys! Your boys! They like!"
Which they did. They are after all, little boys. 

So see if you can follow me through this exchange...
Mr. Snake Charmer - "Take a picture of your boys with the snakes! You come! You do it!"
Me - "No, thank you. I have no money." (Which I didn't. We hadn't even gone to the ATM yet.)
Mr. Snake Charmer - "No! No money! Just come! Take picture!"
I've been around the block with my travels so I knew better. That's what really gets me about this whole situation. I KNEW better. I should have left.
Me - "No. It's okay..." I am walking away. But my little boys are standing by with rapt attention. He starts to put his hat on their heads.
Me - "No. No. No."
Mr. Snake Charmer - "It's okay. No money. It's gift. For you. For you coming to Morocco." And that is where he got me. I didn't want to seem rude and refuse a gift. (Deep down inside, I still knew better.)

Mr. Snake Charmer starts draping snakes all over my boys. "Picture! Picture! Take picture! For you!"

Every time I tried to leave he insisted I take more pictures.

Mr. Snake Charmer even grabbed Matt and shoved a snake in his hands. Finally, I had had enough and told him I was going to leave. Matt had already drifted off and disappeared in a crowd. I gathered Aidan and Andre, who were still being charmed themselves by the snakes, and we started to leave. Mr. Snake Charmer at this point grabbed my arm (very hard, I might add) from behind and yelled, "You pay!"
Me - Totally surprised, "I'm not going to pay." He still is holding my arm.
Mr. Snake Charmer - "You take picture! You pay!"
I scan the crowds for Matt. He is nowhere to be seen. All I can see is the fear in my young son's faces.
Me - "I told you. I have no money. I can't pay!"
At this point he calls over his enforcer. 
Mr. Snake Charmer - "She won't pay!" Mr. Enforcer comes running out of nowhere and grabs my other arm.
Mr. Enforcer - "The rule is if you take picture, you pay!"
Me - "I told him I have no money! I told him that!" Mr. Enforcer then lets go of my arm and grabs my camera which is around my neck and jerks it.
Mr. Enforcer - "Then you must delete pictures!"
Me - "I will delete them! Let me go!" Let me remind you I am in a busy shopping square with people all around. I keep scanning the crowds for my husband or my friends. Nobody.
Mr. Enforcer - "I will watch you delete! Do it!"

At this point, I had had enough. I started to get angry. Like really angry.

I wrenched my arm (very painfully) out of Mr. Snake Charmer's grip. Mr. Enforcer still has my camera strap.

Me - (yelling at the top of my voice) "I told you I had NO MONEY! YOU said it was a gift! You said no money! No money, it's okay!" All the time pointing at Mr. Snake Charmer while getting ready to kick some shins and run.

Mr. Enforcer gets a defeated look on his face and starts yelling at Mr. Snake Charmer in Arabic. He drops my camera and I grab my boys and walk as fast as I can into the crowds. As you can see, I didn't delete any pictures. Ha ha, Mr. Snake Charmer and Mr. Enforcer. 

I find Matt and the first thing out of my mouth is, "You jerk." I went from screaming at some snake charmer men to screaming at my husband. I accused him of abandoning me. I may have been projecting my fear and frustration over the situation on him. But. I vowed not to let the morning's events ruin my whole day. Just part of the day. I rocked an awesome bad mood till lunch.

We got some lunch and I mellowed out a bit. Yes, what happened was unfortunate, but in a way, a little bit my fault. I should have just kept walking. We had some traditional Moroccan tea which is fresh mint tea steeped with mint leaves and sweetened with honey. It was so sweet it actually tasted like hot honey with a little bit of tea. But still good.

Something similar happened to Andre. He was standing by the Point family when they were getting some henna done when one of the henna-weilding ladies grabbed Andre and started decorating his arm all on her own. Mrs. Point informed her she that she didn't ask for it and wasn't going to pay for it. 

I was beginning to see a pattern here. I heard stories from Mr. Point about how vendors would shove toys in the youngest Point's hands and say, "See? He likes it! You buy!" Mr. Point would have to take it out his the child's hands and hand it back. Sometimes they would not take it and he would have to put it down on something and tell them that he was not going to buy it. So, keep your traveler wits about you here.

After a great Moroccan lunch and hot honey tea, we went out to explore. (A funny side note here is that all the Moroccan men that Mr. Point came into contact with kept calling him Ali Baba. We don't know if it was the beard or what, but the name stuck and now we call him that too.)

We wandered around the souks or souqs, depending on your spelling desires. We saw spice markets.

And carts pulled by donkeys and monkeys on leashes. 

The medina was full of tourists. But as touristy as it was, it was also filled with locals doing their daily shopping. Picking up fruits, sweet breads, spices, dried meats, and other various things.

In addition to fruits, breads, spices, and dried meats, you can also pick up spare teeth and denture sets. Yes, it is one stop shopping here.

Ashlenne got some black henna done on her arm.

Here is what it looked like all dry. The darkest spots lasted almost a month. But lighter places started to face in two weeks.

My beautiful sister-in-law, Leslie, got the brown henna. 

It dried and stained her skin this fabulous tangerine shade. Lovely!

Some of the souks were in these tiny, twisting streets. The whole place smelled of leather, dried spices, and a thousand years of history. (Believe it or not, history is kind of stinky. Think a combination of dirt, urine, sweat, and animals.)

We went shopping for rugs. It was all a very stressful experience. Shopping and paying for things is all done with haggling. It's something I don't like. I like to walk into a store, see a price tag, know what I have to pay, and be done with it. I don't like being told, "Oh, best price for you!" I don't like having to refuse to buy something and then walk out then be chased down the street with a new deal when they see you leaving. It's a real pain in the neck. Literally.

My younger brother mastered some haggling and scored himself this wonderful carved cane inlaid with silver. He severely broke his leg when we were kids and all this traveling really wears him down. But at least now, he can be dapper and limp in style.

After the long vomit filled drive, the almost assault by Mr. Snake Charmer, the stressful haggling, I finally really started to enjoy Marrakech. I even bought a beautiful scarf. People have asked me after hearing about our day if I would go back. "In a heartbeat," I answer. Why? Because traveling isn't supposed to be easy. The whole goal of traveling is to see, experience, taste, and do things that are different. Things that take you out of your comfort zone. Things that push the limits of normal for you. Check, check, and check on all those things in Marrakech.

I rode back on the long vomitless drive to Casablanca, tired, but oh so glad I had seen Marrakech.

Until next time.

Stay tuned for my next visit to Morocco. Tangier!!

Birth And Embarrassment

Another birthday. Another child a year older. This time it was my baby, Andre. Andre is no longer a baby, but a running, climbing, learning six year old.

Andre was born six weeks early. Not scary early. But early enough that the hospital called in our pediatrician (and friend) Toby, for the delivery. Everything went off without a hitch. Andre was born healthy and strong. But he was no looker. As his mother, I can say that. Honestly, the doctor warned us before he handed him to us. He was born with a bacterial infection of the skin (the reason he was early) and it made him look like he was broken out in pimples.

No worries though. After a round of antibiotics, it cleared right up. And he got a lot cuter too.

Back to him being born. As I said, our pediatrician was there for the delivery and to resuscitate him if needed (it wasn't needed). Let me say that it is not fun to be naked from the waist down in front of your child's pediatrician. I don't care if he is a doctor. He's not my doctor. During the delivery he was pretty busy getting an isolette set up in case Andre needed to be taken to the NICU (a very scary place that luckily we didn't need). But after Andre was stabilized he was walking freely around the room. I finally had enough and said, "Toby, if you don't stay north of my waist I'm going to go all post-partum on you right here and now." He thought this was funny and stayed up around my shoulders. My doctor however thought this was really funny and then told the whole room, "Hey, once you've seen one, you've seen them all."

I. Was. Mortified.

Matt is laughing. Toby the pediatrician is laughing. My doctor is laughing. The nurses are even chuckling a little bit. If I hadn't been in a compromising al-fresco situation I would have walked out of the room.

Six years later Toby and I laughed about this very situation at Andre's six year check up where he was pronounced perfect in every way. Here is Andre now.

He's got the biggest heart. He always has a kiss and a hug for you. He has the lightest blue eyes I've ever seen. He loves riding bikes, playing cars, swinging out back. He wanted books, Legos and puzzles for his birthday. He cried when I read him the card his Daddy sent him. He dried his eyes and said, "Even though Daddy can't be here this year, he'll be home next." Even at six he has faith that things will get better. He loves his friends. Here he is with his two best friends, Cassy-Wassy and Zackaroni and Cheese.



The night before his birthday when he was already in bed, it hit me that I would never, ever have a five year old again. Never. This was it. This was the last time we would have first day of kindergarten and first bike and all those other exciting things that happen at five. I started to cry. A lot. I couldn't believe it was going so fast. I needed to see him, hold him, kiss him one last time while he was still five. At 11:50 pm, I snuck into his room and crawled in his bed where he was fast asleep. I held him. I stroked his sleepy little head. I kissed his cheeks. I whispered all my hopes and dreams for his future in his perfect little five year old ear. And then I said good-bye to him.

The next morning when he tumbled out of bed I grabbed him and held him and kissed him for the first time as a six year old. I tickled his six year old tummy and nussled his six year old neck. I took a deep breath and sighed with relief. He is getting older and I will never get back those days that are gone. But isn't that what makes them so precious? Because they are so fleeting? That the perfection of childhood and youth are so impermanent?

Today he played soccer. For the first time as a six year old. And I have 364 days of six year old stuff left. It's going to be a good year.

Raw

This year for Christmas my son, Andre, asked for something that was a little different from the usual requests we get from our boys. We've done the Thomas the Tank Engine thing, the Lightning McQueen thing, Chevron Cars, and Star Wars toys. If it's out there and it falls under one of those brands, we've got it. That's why when Andre drew (he doesn't write well yet) his list I was a little surprised that it included the WWF Raw Wrestling Ring complete with realistic-action-punch action figures.

About three weeks before Christmas my kids were perusing the toy ads from all the local stores, circling their favorites, when Andre starting jumping up and down screaming that THIS IS WHAT HE WANTS!! I looked down in disbelief. This? Are you sure? Andre, where did you even see this? My disbelief then turned to disdain. I mean come on, wrestling? Professional wrestling with the masks and makeup and the idle threats of dismemberment? And that giant gold belt? One word. Yuck. (I apologize to any professional wrestlers or wrestler lovers in advance. You will not like this post.)

About two weeks before Christmas I had my kids list their wants in order of importance. The wrestling ring was always number one on Andre's list. I even dropped so low as to suggest if he only got one toy what would he want? The wrestling ring.

As you may have now guessed, I am personally not a fan of professional wrestling. Real wrestling, the kind done in high school where you wear protective head gear and there are real coaches and you can get scholarships for, go for it. But something happens to the sport of wrestling between that level and the professional level. Something not good.

One week before Christmas. We go to visit Santa. Andre sits on Santa's lap and is asked if he has been a good boy. 'Yes', Andre whispers. Then Santa proceeds to ask Andre what he wants for Christmas. 'Wrestling ring', Andre whispers again. Santa shoots me a quizzical look because he can barely understand him. 'A rustling wing?', Santa asks. 'No,' I answer. 'A wrestling ring. For toy wrestling guys to, you know, wrestle in?'. A gleam of understanding passes over Santa's face. 'Ahhh...wrestling ring. Well, Santa will have to make sure there is one under the tree Christmas morning'. That's just great. Thanks, Santa.

After the visit to Santa I realize that there is no way I'm going to get out of this. Why do I hate wrestling so much? I think it's trashy. I think it's cheap. I think it's fake. I think it's a bunch of muscle bound idiots hitting each other with folding chairs while wearing zipper masks. Not my cup of tea. 

I decide to suck it up and head to the store to purchase the great 'rustling wing'. As I walk down the crowded toy aisle I notice there is difference in the kind of children clustered around the wrestling toys rather than the educational aisle. In the educational aisle where there are toy microscopes and telescopes and books about science there are quiet children. Respectful children. These are the kind of children I want. In the wrestling aisle, it's complete chaos. Kids are taking the guys out of the packages and throwing them at each other while laughing hysterically. Parents are looking on, immune to the noise, while studying the backs of the action figures while I hear conversations like this. "This guy can punch with both arms. Johnny would like that more..." "Oh, there is no way I will buy this guy. He got the crap beat out of him at the last match..."  "Let's buy this guy. He looks scarier..."

At this point in the story you are probably thinking I am a snob. Or judgmental  Or that I have no right to decide what people who like professional wrestling are like. But let me ask you this. How many professional wrestlers have masters degrees? How many kids who like professional wrestling grow up to be surgeons? Hmmm? How many? Really. Because I have no idea. If you have this information please pass it on to me.

I pick up the wrestling ring from the shelf. Did I tell you that it has a button that when you press it it says a few choice phrases and real live sounds from the arena? You can practically smell the spandex and greasepaint. I select a few of the least scary and one-arm-punching guys to go with said wrestling ring and I head to the check out. The store is crowded. There are long lines. I feel like everyone has their eyes on me and my cart full of inappropriate wrestling toys. When I reach the cashier I place the toys face down on the conveyor belt. Why? I'm embarrassed. I can feel the man behind me with all his vegetables and books giving me the disapproving eye. Tsk, tsk, tsk he's thinking. I want to turn around. I want to say 'You don't understand! It's not for me! It's for a friend!' I feel like I'm buying cream that says for infectious lice or anal warts. The cashier scans my items. "Somebody likes wrestling!" She smiles at me. "Um, yeah. It's not me." I grab my packages and brisk walk out of the store.

Come Christmas Day it was the highlight of Andre's morning. He played with it all day. Well, mostly all day. That thing was a pain in the butt to put together. Where is Matt when I need him? I definitely think that assembling wrestling toys falls under the Daddy category.

So what does this all mean? Will Andre grow up and feel a need to put people in a headlock? Will he be drawn to wearing only shiny Speedos with knee high boots? And above all, will he have a mullet? I don't know. No one can see the future. But I'll tell you one thing. The second Andre starts scanning pay-per-view telling me that the match of the century is coming on, the wrestling toy is out the door.