the one star

My good buddy Paul Solomon had just made the wise decision to part ways with our then employer and planned a visit to my London abode in celebration.

Most of my London visitors followed a similar pattern, and Paul was no exception.  They'd come to London, sightsee while I worked for a few days, before jetting off with me for a long weekend somewhere.

We jumped on the train after work on a Friday afternoon and were in Paris by 6 or so.

Arriving at the hotel I liked, a nice little family run Rick Steves' place in the Marais, we bellied up to the desk.  The clerk said he had no reservation in my name.  Now, I know I'd sent a fax, but really had no idea if I'd received a confirmation.  I swore there was one, but who really knows.  He was nice enough, saying we could stay at their sister hotel ... if we hopped on the Metro for a few stops.

We said, "Thanks but surely we could find something in the neighborhood".

From the Bastille up the Rue Saint Antione and back we stopped in every place we saw.  First on the main drag and then on the side streets.  There were a plenty of places, but they were all full.  Finally about to go back and grovel for the sister hotel room, we decided to try our luck at the one place we'd been avoiding.

Just a door with a small barely lit sign over it, brandishing some nondescript name and one lone black star.

We walked up the long flight of stairs and were stoked to learn they had a room.  However, the clerk was going to make us take a look first.  Not a good omen.  We went up another flight and headed to the last room down the hall.  He opened the door and I'm fairly certain we busted out laughing.

On the way back downstairs he showed us the hallway bathroom and the pay shower (which you needed to get a key from the desk to use).  I thought to myself, "you should be paying me to shower in there!"

Not wanting to spend the rest of the evening running around looking for a room, we decided to take it.  Going back up to drop off our bags after paying we literally started taking pictures.  The floor was so slanted the you could see right through into the hall via the space between it and the door.  There was one bed, and I emphatically called "FLOOR".  This was not necessarily in being nice to Paul, but because I thought the thick shag carpeting looked safer than the sketchy bed.

Having later lived in Africa for two+ years, I can say no hotel there grossed me out half this bad.

We arrived back after a healthy evening of Parisian rabble-rousing (I believe we were denied entry into a taxi) only to find the place stunk like rotten eggs.  We slept with the window open on that coldish November evening.  I came back from the shower after a morning run laughing historically, as I'd dropped the soap and there was no way in hell I was going after it on that floor.

The funny thing is, this place totally worked.

We left early, stayed out late, and did Paris up very well.  When your room is that bad you'll use any excuse form going back (at least while sober).

Going on 12 years, Paul and I still talk about this place fondly.

[Paul Solomon was approached to corroborate this blog post.  He wanted to underscore both the putrid smell upon returning the first evening as well as the general grossness of the shower the next morning.  His attorney/lovely wife have advised him against further comment].

death by 1000 cuts

I'm not really sure how Stephanie and I settled on Morocco as a honeymoon destination.

Our only real requirements were some place neither of us had been to with decent weather in late November.  Monsoon season in the Pacific and the pain of getting to someplace like Bali made it unappealing, and neither or us was too hot on South America.  We also wanted to be far away and with limited contact.

Morocco really fit the bill.  We left the day after the wedding, via Madrid, arriving in Tangier.

We had 17 days and the idea was to travel Morocco north to south.  From the taxi ride in to town, I knew I'd like Tangier.  It had that perfect juxtaposition of modernity and tradition ... headscarves and bluejeans, calls to prayer and pop music blasted from cell phones, and incredible old city with rusty satellite dishes littering the skyline.  Old meet new.

I tell people now, we spent three days in Tangier and were rarely if ever not lost.  I've never seen a city that was such a literal maze, forget street signs there were not even landmarks.  I think it took us two days to get find our hotel without paying a kid.  We were lost, the good kind of lost, in an interesting city just past the reaches of the cruise ship day trippers.

Somehow I'd forgotten a razor.

It occurred to me I could stop by one of the countless barber shops and get an old fashioned shave, they had signs up advertising the service in window paint.  After sloshing through the blood stained floor of the meat market, a missed but ominous sign, we dropped in on a local barber.

I chewed the fat with the 20-something barbers in French for a few minutes before I sat down in the chair  and Stephanie buried her face in a magazine.

What I assumed would be an actual straight razor (and was going to demand had been properly cleaned), was to my surprise just a holder for two disposable blades.  To me, they looked like what you'd buy at a Home Depot for household or construction use.  My man pulled the blades out of their paper packaging and slapped them in.

On-y-va.

I had a little of the hot towel treatment, and a lot of cool cream, before he started.  It was pretty uncomfortable, normal for not having a shave in a few days.  Not too long in I knew I was getting nicked but didn't think too much of it.  It hurt but he didn't hit a jugular or anything.  He went on and on, eventually grabbing a towel or something wipe me off.  Just when I thought I was in the clear, I noticed him grabbing a bottle of greenish liquid which he proceeded to slap on my face.

I was officially on fire.

Not wanting to look like a total wuss but pretty much writhing in pain, I paid up and we quickly fled.  In the light of the street, Stephanie laughed that I was bleeding pretty good.  I found a darkened window to look myself over in and sure enough I had a dozen or so little but productive bleeders.

Of course we had to walk up a massive hill, and then in circles for half an hour trying to figure out the way to the riad we were staying at.  Upon arrival, I was finally able to wash the alcohol off and tend to my small but painful wounds.

Stephanie and I still joke about us meandering through the medina while I bled from a million tiny cuts.