The ride back to Marrakech went quickly, mostly due to the fact that I was fully immersed in The Help, a novel based on the lives of black women working for white families in Jackson, Mississippi during the 1960′s. I highly recommend this book to anyone who is interested in learning more about the Civil Rights era in the United States (and to those who think they don’t need to learn more about it, for that matter). An interesting reaction to this book in an international spotlight: When I was giving a brief synopsis to some fellow travelers at a hostel in Essaouira, a Swiss woman broke in (having missed the beginning of my explanation) and asked if the book took place in South Africa. When I said no, it was based in the United States, she was genuinely surprised. And then I was surprised (and saddened) that my country’s painful history elicited such a reaction.

As I mentioned earlier, I changed my train time to Marrakech. The officials at the Meknes station did not have a problem with this, nor did the first steward on board who checked my ticket. About five hours into the ride, however, a second steward came by to check tickets again. He most definitely had a problem with it. He spoke little English and I spoke no French so we were not exactly meeting in the middle. He sternly told me to either pay for the ticket (again) or pay double in Marrakech. When I refused to pay, he asked for my ID and confiscated both that and my ticket. I was just glad I handed over an old student ID and not my passport. Somehow I still managed to enjoy the ending to my book but I was really stressing about paying double for a ticket I had already purchased. We pulled into the Marrakech station after dark and I couldn’t help but imagine the train steward waiting at my car’s exit with police ready to detain me for being uncooperative or something…I really should avoid thinking about dramatic, Hollywood-esque scenerios in moments like this. Despite my nervousness, I disembarked without so much as a nod from the employees. I cautiously made my way down the platform towards the station and there in the distance I saw the disgruntled steward making his way towards me. I greeted him with a hesitant bonjour. He looked at me suprised and said, “You speak French?” I said no, explaining that I’ve only picked up a few words along the way while in Morocco. He then handed me my ID and ticket, saying that the staff in the station are allowing me to use the invalid ticket “this time only” but next time I will have to pay the fine. I was of course very grateful and relieved to hear this but I couldn’t help but smile to myself at this explanation, as if I had a lot of illegal Moroccan train-hopping plans in the future.

From there, the rest of my night just got better. I met another solo female traveler, Sandy, at the bus stop and we ended up sharing a room at the same place I stayed with Alyssa and Andy a week ago. We had a different room, though, and it was quite an upgrade! We each had a double bed (Alyssa and I shared one last week), there was an attached bathroom with hot water and I even found a space heater tucked away in the corner. It was also decorated with beautiful tapestries and decorative metal lampshades. All of this came with a higher price tag, of course, but I had some extra dirham that I knew would be of little use to me in about 12 hours so I didn’t mind. My new friend and I then headed to the main square for dinner, where we discovered that we were both social workers. The next day we also realized we had checked out the same Lonely Planet guide book (same edition, cover and all) from our respective libraries.

I think many travelers will agree with me that there’s a breaking point during a trip where rules like staying on budget, remaining preoccupied with seeing all the important highlights of a city and eating only local foods just goes out the window. Even though it was only about two weeks of travel, that dinner was it for me. I was tired but happy to be back in familiar Marrakech with a new travel companion. I felt no reservation plopping down on a plastic seat in a touristy restaurant overlooking the square. In addition to ordering the “traditional Moroccan soup” (which, by the way, tasted like SpaghettiO’s), I had a side of fries and Orange Fanta from a can. I was happy to wrap up my time in Morocco. I slept soundly in my spacious bed that night and woke up early to shower, pack and eat one last delicious warm crepe and honey with Sandy before heading to the airport.

I’m now in Madrid, waiting for my flight back to the States tomorrow morning. After a rather sleep-deprived evening due to loud roommates, I have come to the conclusion that anything more than an 4-bed dorm is now off-limits for my future travels. As a 26-year old woman who’s done her fair share of hostelling around the world, I can say that I will not miss the bunk beds and the late night rude awakenings to party-goers. I feel old for saying it but I don’t care: some of these youth do not know the meaning of hostel ettiquete! Note to the greenhorns: slamming your metal locker door into my metal headboard while I am (was) sleeping is not winning you any points.

Despite this final, unfortunate sleeping arrangement, I’ve thoroughly enjoyed this trip. I wish I had more days with Alyssa but she will be home before we know it (promise!). It has also been a solid confirmation of how liberating and empowering independent traveling is for women. Not once did I feel unsafe or without control of a situation. Like others have encouraged before me, I cannot stress enough how important it is to experience this at least once. Women, don’t listen to what people say about the dangers out there. You are certainly more than capable of independent travel so shake off those who say otherwise, pack your bags and go!

Afterwords I took a final stroll along the beach, where I used the “f” word for the first time while traveling. I felt a little hesistant to use it but as a solo female traveler I felt like I had no other choice. A young man fell into stride with me and after a few minutes, when it was obvious when I wasn’t going to shake him with my usual tactics, I resorted to using the word: “You know,” I said, “my fiancee would be very jealous if he knew I was talking to you.” Doubtful that this blatant lie would actually work, I was astonished to watch him peel off faster than he had approached! It was like I had discovered a secret word that enabled some sort of forcefield around me. I was untouchable. Just to check its efficacy in a new city, I used this “f” word on another young gentleman who took a liking to me today as I wandered through the fruit and spices market in Meknes. As soon as I uttered the word, he nodded and fell back, wishing me a good day. Brilliant.

Yesterday morning I left Essaouira for Marrakech, where I was catching a train up to Meknes (one of the three imperial cities of Morocco, located near the Middle Atlas mountains). The bus broke down halfway to Marrakech so we had to swap buses, making us about an hour late. I still had about an hour before my train departed for Marrakech, so I decided to brave the public transportation to visit the famous Koutoubia Mosque. I had a lot of locals helping me along the way and I made it there and back on the bus with 10 minutes to spare! The one take-away from this quick excursion is that I could use some basic French lessons to get around the next time I’m in a French-speaking country. C’est la vie.

The train ride to Meknes (about 7 hours) went smoothly until a bunch of screaming children got on my car about halfway through the ride. Then about two hours from Meknes I was awakened by two train stewards who were urgently speaking in French to me. When it was obvious I wasn’t understanding their instructions, they said “change, change” over and over. My heart fell because I thought they were telling me that I had to transfer trains at the next stop and it was already very late. Instead, they told me to gather my things and explained that since I was “alone” I was being moved to first class – what luck! The difference between first and second class was quite remarkable…I hope to stumble upon the same fortune on my return trip.

Today I have been exploring Meknes slowly. Every time  I try to follow Lonely Planet’s walking tour through the souks (markets) and around the medina (the walls of the old city) I get lost. Perhaps it is time to venture out again and continue on my way. At least I have the “f” card in my back pocket now.

Today we ventured into the souks (shops specializing in goods ranging from textiles and herbs to metal work and leather products) to find out what deals were to be made. Before delving too far into the labyrinth of goods and the vendors eager to give us the “good price” of the day, we stopped for breakfast at a little nook of a restaurant. I had a warm flatbread (much like the roti I had in Malaysia) drizzled with honey and folded in three – it was delicious! We each had fresh squeezed orange juice as well, which was incredibly refreshing. My bill totaled 10 Dirham, about $1.20. Our shopping adventures took us to a leather shop for wallets and a fabric dying area where I found what I was hoping to find: beautiful wool yarn. I’m not sure how I will make it home with everything; I may just have to check an extra bag or mail a few things home.

This afternoon we toured tombs and a palace. Much of the artwork and architecture is very similar to that of La Alhambra in Granada. Tomorrow we are heading to a port town on the Atlantic coast. More to come!

What’s that? You want the truth? I suppose after two years of our on and off again relationship, that is what you deserve. I mean, you were my first sublet in the city. You offered me my first part-time job when I needed money and my first one-bedroom apartment when I needed a place to stay. Sure the hot and cold faucets are reversed and one of my doors is mounted upside down but I think these details are kind of endearing.

What I’m saying is I think you have a lot to offer. I’m just ready to see different neighborhoods. I want a yard in the back and trees lining my street out front. I want a kitchen large enough to maneuver in without having to turn sideways to reach the sink. I want a porch and windows opening to more than one cardinal direction. I want to control my own heat. I want even floors, an attic, a basement. Quite frankly, I’m tired of the blaring horns of firetrucks, ambulances and police cars up and down Woodward and I’m done with the glow of the golden arches illuminating my bedroom at all hours of the night.

That said, there’s a lot I’m going to miss. In Midtown I never had to go far for amazing vegan ice cream, a delicious bubble tea or that irresistible sea salt chocolate chip cookie. Your savory pizza, brews and rooftop seating are the envy of other neighborhoods and your restaurants with their lentil burgers, sweet potato fries and mac-n-cheese will not cease to entice both the locals and visitors alike. Please don’t take it personally…apartment living just isn’t for me. You’ll be fine. You will make many young professionals, Wayne State and CCS students very happy. Don’t worry,  I’m not going far and I’ll be back often to visit (I mean, I can’t go all winter without tuning up my bike). Oh, and one more thing – this doesn’t change my soccer allegiance one bit.

I’ve already shared my views about Detroit’s bus system; while I’ve recently-dare I say, upgraded?-to my lovely, five-speed road bike with red handlebars, starting off car-free in Detroit would have been extremely difficult without Detroit’s Department of Transportation. Maybe it’s because the memories of waiting for 20 plus minutes in minus 10 degree weather has long faded but I do think the buses fill a definite need in the city. That said, there is also a need for more buses on some of the heavier utilized routes, like the Woodward (and one piece of advice if you were ever to ride buses here: Detroiters refer to buses by street name rather than number…it took me a long time to pick up on this, as I am much better with numbers and constantly referred to my bus of choice as the “53″ rather than the “Woodward”). Like a fellow rider once joked: “You got a can opener?” as we boarded a packed bus one afternoon, riders are indeed crammed like sardines at rush hour; it’s during those crammed 4:00pm rides down Woodward, as the bus driver darts in and out of traffic, is the need for a light rail down this main drag most evident.

But those days are now behind me. I’m happy to report that I’ve been bus-free for well over two weeks now and couldn’t be happier. Sure, I have my criticisms about sub-par road conditions and unaware drivers, but in general I’ve enjoyed beginning to explore Detroit by bike. I also can’t help but think that there is so much potential for Detroit to become a biker-friendly city. As a colleague recently pointed out, if there’s one upside to the loss of population here, it’s the amount of under-utilized roads that can serve as unintentional bike lanes.

Now that I’ve acquired a bike and a job, it’s time for the next challenge: figuring out a way to lure Zipcar into the city.

The best part of the entire ordeal, however, was my oversight in one small detail: electricity. After several calls to DTE Energy and one missed appointment with the technician, I am now scheduled to have service on Friday. As in three days. Last night, as I lit my candles and rummaged around for my shiny new flashlight, I realized that my dear friend and past roomie Alyssa Marks lives without electricity every single day (along with how many other people in the world?), as she is currently serving as a Peace Corps Volunteer in Mali. How fitting that today is also her birthday.

So tonight, Alyssa, I light my candles in celebration of you. Happy birthday love.

Historic Eastern Market

Last weekend I returned to Eastern Market for the first time in almost two years. Since my previous trips were during the spring and summer growing seasons, I have to admit my surprise (and delight) at the hustle and bustle I discovered there, even in the depths of Michigan’s dreary winter months. After digging around on Eastern Market’s website today, I discovered a few cool facts about my favorite Saturday morning destination in Detroit: Eastern Market was established in 1891 (thus celebrating 120 years of operation this year!) and in 1977, it was designated a historic area by the State of Michigan Historical Commission.

In the excitement of my return to Eastern Market, I was overtaken by the huge selection of variety and failed to ensure all of the produce I purchased was in fact locally grown (oops!). I know that my onions, sweet potatoes, and carrots came from Michigan farms, but I have a sneaking suspicion that my gigantic rutabaga was an out-of-stater. Despite this possible oversight, I stayed clear of any stand offering a bounty of tropical fruits, as these were obvious imports from lands far, far away.

Despite its questionable origin, my most prized possession upon leaving Eastern Market that morning was my mysterious rutabaga, for I had never before tasted this root vegetable, let alone prepare one. My interest in cooking and eating rutabaga stems from The Real Time Farms Blog post offering cooking ideas for this veggie. Curiosity got the best of me and I tried two of the three suggested recipes-mashed and roasted. A few days later, with half a rutabaga still hanging out in the fridge, I decided to get creative and make some fries. I thinly sliced the remaining rutabaga, along with a sweet potato, mixed them up, and divided them into two groups. I coated each group with olive oil, then tossed the first group in a mixture of salt, pepper, and curry powder. The second group got a coating of pre-mixed bread crumbs. For lack of a deep fryer (and a desire for a healthier fry) I baked the fries in the oven at 400 degrees for 25-30 minutes, until they were crispy and cooked through.

Here’s a shot of my rutabaga and sweet potato fries:

Baked sweet potato and rutabaga fries (curry fries on left, bread crumb coated fries on right)

The results? In general, the sweet potato fries tasted better and had a nicer texture than the rutabaga fries, which weren’t soft enough on the inside for my liking. I thoroughly enjoyed the curry fries but didn’t care much for the bread crumb ones. I also experimented with sour cream and barbecue as dipping sauces, which definitely added some flavor. I think slicing the rutabagas a little thinner next time and baking them slightly longer than the sweet potato fries would yield better results. The curry sweet potato fries are a definite win and I’ll be making them again soon.

This week I was tired of scrambling for quarters at the bottom of my purse, so I walked over to the new Rosa Parks Transit Center and purchased a weekly pass for $14.40. Considering I already used it three times today, I think it will prove to be a good investment (as a regular bus fare would run me $1.50). This new transit center is great; there are 13 docks with electronic signs listing the upcoming bus departures and times, as well as the current time and any important travel advisories. This is also the downtown drop-off point for the Megabus and SMART buses, which are shuttles that run to and from the suburbs. In addition to the arrival and departure docks, the Rosa Parks Transit Center also consists of an indoor complex with a ticket window, bus schedule brochures, and a waiting area.

The majority of my bus rides thus far have gone by without a hitch. Well, there was that one time last week when the 53 heading north on Woodward stopped abruptly about three blocks from my destination. After five minutes or so, passengers (me included) began to stir impatiently. After a lethargic game of telephone ended where I was sitting in the rear, everyone already knew that the bus had broken down. Unconvinced by the driver’s reassurance that the mechanic “would be here in a minute,” I disembarked and walked the rest of the way to work. I’d say I got $1.25 out of my $1.50 bus fare that day.

Then there was the time a few months ago when I needed to get back downtown from Café con Leche in Southwest Detroit. Detroit’s Department of Transportation website gave me a bus route and pick-up location at a nearby intersection, which I thought would be easy enough to figure out. When I got to the cross streets as directed, however, I realized that the bus signs were not marked with route numbers; I had a total of eight signs to chose from! As I narrowed it down to two possible stops (after using my questionable sense of direction and gauging the cardinal points by the positioning of the sun in a dreary, overcast November sky) I realized that Detroit’s public transportation system had some work to do. Then, to top it off, my bus pulls up, unmarked. Yep, there was no indication that the bus at the curb was in fact the eastbound 27, until such information was confirmed by the bus driver.

Like I said, there is work to be done.

Both authors, through very different writing styles, approach similar food themes like eating fresh, local, organic produce while challenging the industrial food system, animal feedlots, and high fructose corn syrup. Animal, Vegetable, Miracle is an enchanting account of one family’s attempt to live intentionally as locavores for one year, consuming foods they’ve grown themselves or purchased locally within a 100-mile radius. Why? Because of their desire to reduce the amount of fossil fuels they “use” when purchasing produce out of season, which must be shipped from places like California or beyond. Their approach is extreme: they relocate to a family farm in Virginia, grow their own produce, raise their own poultry, and make their own bread. While I certainly don’t have the time, money, or resources to attempt such a lifestyle, I am inspired to incorporate aspects of their year-long experiment into my own life.

Perhaps beginning a locavore project in Michigan during the month of February isn’t the best idea (in Cherokee, “February” translates to “hungry month”) for obvious reasons. According to a Michigan Farm Fresh Produce Availability Calendar, my local food options are apples, mushrooms, onions, and potatoes. Supplementing this produce with other local foods, my diet could also include cheese, greenhouse-grown plants, herbs, honey, jams, jellies, and maple syrup. Hm. This may prove to be hungry month indeed.

And how far should I take the project? Do I also want to consume not just locally-produced foods, but also organic? What about my oatmeal, flour, butter, eggs, and other staples I readily use? Should I ensure that my spices, coffee, and tea (though not produced locally) are Fair Trade, shade-grown, organic, etc? I say yes…then reality hits. I am definitely not in a financial situation to embark on such a time- and money-consuming endeavor. But maybe I could find ways to begin, and become a more active consumer of local produce by thinking twice before grabbing a bunch of bananas that were shipped up to the frozen North from somewhere in the hot South. I mean, they don’t even taste all that delicious to me anyways, after eating fresh ones by the bunch in Thailand for a year.

I think the key to this locavore project, if I decide to give it a go, is flexibility and a healthy dose of perspective. It may not be realistic to eat only locally-grown foods right now but it is quite feasible to fill my cart with bags of Michigan-grown apples instead of pineapples, buy fresh-baked bread at Avalon, and find a local farmer who sells organic, free-range eggs. The healthy dose of perspective will be useful to make sure I am not isolating myself from family and friends who may not buy into this whole locavore mindset. I think there is a fine line between having principles about personal eating habits and having those principles affect relationships with the loved ones in my life. What I do not want from this project is the risk of seeming judgmental or dogmatic in my approach to eating locally.

So no, I will not be turning down delicious home-cooked meals any time soon, even if they include avocados from Mexico.

I was first introduced to trains when I was studying abroad in Spain and since then I’ve been a rail enthusiast. It all started with an overnight train from Madrid to Paris. Pulling into the Gare du Nord in the early morning hours—bleary-eyed and achy from a second-class good night sleep—I was hooked. Since then I’ve relied on trains to tour Scandinavia, reach postcard-worthy beaches along Thailand’s peninsula, and cross the great geographical expanse of the United States between Los Angeles and Milwaukee. For me there is no better way to see countryside, enter a metropolis, or most accurately experience the local vibe of a region. Trains also afford a more comfortable ride than buses with bigger seats, ample space for luggage, and a snack car! One trade-off? Time. As it turns out, riding from Milwaukee to Detroit by train or bus should be about the same time, and in practice, I have found that the Megabus more often makes its arrival times than the train. Another trade-off to a more comfortable ride is cost. However, when demand for the Megabus is high, prices for the train and bus are about equal.

As you may imagine, I was thoroughly disheartened at the loss of federal funding for a new train route in Wisconsin between Milwaukee and Madison. This line was a step towards an eventual link between Chicago and Minneapolis, and a step in the right direction to provide Midwesterners with more public transportation options. Opponents of the federal rail funds argued that it was a bad deal for taxpayers, that it wouldn’t be sustainable, and that the current Badger Bus already provides such a public transportation service. Now I’m not above riding buses; anyone who knows me also knows I’ve spent my fair share of time on buses (and after traveling Southeast Asia primarily by bus, a seven and a half hour trip between Milwaukee and Detroit, with a comfortable layover, is a breeze—trust me). But given the option, I will always opt for the train. I don’t think there is anything wrong with providing public transportation-goers with options. In fact, I think it is a state’s responsibility to provide its citizens with a variety of choice when it comes to transportation. The Midwest is a long way from an environment in which living car-light or car-free is a viable option, but beginning to build up the railways infrastructure is a necessary step in creating such an environment.

Yesterday’s train ride east across Southern Michigan was beautiful. For the first five and a half hours at least. It had been snowing steadily since I boarded in Chicago and there was a light dusting across the landscape. It wasn’t until a combination of inspections, traffic interferences, and poor weather conditions, putting us nearly two hours behind our scheduled arrival, did I consider re-evaluating my love affair with trains.

So will I be booking my next trip by train? You bet.