Mina; From Marrakech to Marina

There's something very special about a conversation with a stranger. The initial anonymity that flows effortlessly between two people who know nothing of the other's past. 
Initially, there is no past. Only the here and now.
All of each other's dark secrets, poor choices, past trials and tribulations and yesterday's experiences can remain neatly wrapped; perfectly hidden and unopened. It's a clean slate.
Each person has control over what they divulge and how they divulge it.  
I like that part. For a while, it's safe. 
But, I also like the other part; the part that  grows, evolves, opens up like a tight bud anticipating the transformation to a sweet, fragrant blossom. Sometimes, you can control the pace, the process, the self-exposure, the unfolding.  But other times, it's as if that stranger unexpectedly taps into a piece of you that is so raw, so spontaneous, so heart-driven, that you don't even realize you're divulging personal information. Suddenly, before you know it, the stranger chips away at everything that you thought you could hide, and all that is left standing there are two friends laughing together...



Marrakech is undoubtedly not for everyone. This is a city with edge. It is contradictory and not easily fathomed, but for most people who visit, that is all part of its elusive charm. From the exotic market stalls of the medina to the westernised glamour of the Ville Nouvelle, Marrakech is a riot of contradictions and extremes – at once African and Arab, eastern and western, frontier town and modern city, religious and secular, elegant and rough-around-the-edges. At times daunting, occasionally maddening, always exhilarating, Marrakech is all about getting lost, letting go and opening up to whatever experience or encounter comes your way. 

Markets of Marrakech

After reading about Mina's homeland of Morocco, I can't help but think of the famous line spoken by Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz: "Toto, I have a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore."  And she's not. In fact, she a long way from Marrakech, Morocco, along way from familiarity, along way from her family and yet, her disposition is friendly, hopeful and positive. There's a trustful ease about her as she speaks with me. She's forthcoming, though   we've only known each other a short while.

I see Mina as a yummy, delightful stew; a hearty mixture of strength and innocence, with a hefty serving of joy, wisdom and fortitude mixed in.  I do not know everything about her, nor do I profess to walk in her shoes. However, if I can pay tribute to this hard-working dreamer, who was once a stranger and now a friend, so be it.

Mina

There are two things that stand out about Mina, and if you were to ever meet her, I'm sure you would agree.  One is her infectious laugh that flows out freely, and often, like a sweet-tempered melody that you want to play over and over again.  And the second are her eyes; set deep into her smooth, olive-toned face, they are the shape of perfect almonds and the color of darkly roasted coffee beans. They're intense. When she looks into your eyes, you instantly know you are looking into the eyes of a soul much older than her 32 years. 

I was drawn to Mina instantly and our friendship is a testament to the fact that differences in culture, lifestyle, backgrounds and language are never barriers.


tpg: Do you know that many Americans have no clue where Morocco is?

Mina: (laughing) Yes, I know. This is true. Yes, many say, "Is that in Latin America? Africa?" I say,  No. No. Not Africa and they are very surprised!

tpg: After you tell them of your homeland, Morocco, are there other reactions?

Mina: Many think we all live in tents in the desert with no vehicles, no electricity, no water. I tell them, "No! No! We have all these things!"

tpg:  So then, do you see Americans as ignorant?

Mina: No, the people who know Morocco, mostly know Casablanca.  It's very famous and very expensive. I have only visited Casablanca one time. It's a very, very old city. 

Casablanca

Casablanca

tpg: Were there other reactions or responses when you first arrived? 
What has it been, five years ago?

Mina:  Yes. Five years. People had strange faces when I told them I was from Morocco. They kind of stand back and seem a little uncomfortable. Like, maybe they think "terrorist" or something. (laughing).

tpg: Did that anger you? It would me.

Mina: No. I just explain to them who I am and my family and they are nice after that.

tpg:  How about your family? You are married and have four boys? WoW! 
How do you do it?

Mina: I don't know! It's a lot of work.  My boys are all so different. One is very calm, quiet and does anything I ask of him like clean the table and help me. My middle son is very different. He wants to play basketball and doesn't want to study.  I want him to study. My baby takes a lot of our attention. My husband and I want our children to study and make the best in their education.  I worry about them if they don't do good in school.

tpg: Tell me about your husband. How did the two of you meet?

Mina: (smiling and coy) Hassan is a very good man and a good father. I met him at a friend's house. I liked him because he was the only man who doesn't look at my body when he first met me. He just looked at my eyes while we talked.

tpg: Is that unusual in Morocco?

Mina: Yes. It is always that way. A woman walks down the street and all the men look at her from her feet to her head and back down to her feet again. Some women like it. They feel ugly if men don't do that, but not me.  It is why I liked Hassan. He wasn't like that.

tpg: Has that happened to you here? Men checking you out?

Mina: No. I feel safe here. I can walk or take the bus by myself and no one bothers me. 
It's very different. 

tpg: Are you happy here?  Do you miss Morocco?

Mina: I am happy here because we want a better life for our children. But it is hard because my English isn't good, so it's hard to find jobs that pay well. I work cleaning houses in the day time and Hassan works at night at a place that cares for older persons. 
I miss my family, especially my mother. I have 4 brothers and 4 sisters still in Morocco.

tpg: NINE CHILDREN in your family? Your poor mom!

Mina: (laughing)  I know but it's not unusual there to have a big family.

tpg: Are you and Hassan planning on having more children?

Mina: No! We are not as traditional. This is why we leave. We have different ideas than our families.  We are, how do you say, the ones that are different in both of our families.

tpg: Some people say you are the "black sheep" of your families. I don't really like that term but if you and I were to have one thing in common, it would certainly be that!


...And so our conversation continued for more than 40 minutes in much of the same way:
Strangers morphing to acquaintances to ultimately friends.  Black sheep laughing at the world, pausing to appreciate the world, pausing to appreciate one another. 

She told me about the difficult economic times currently in her country. Europeans are coming in and buying up all the old mosques, historical buildings and opening high-class hotels, spas, restaurants. The result? Everything sky-rockets and the Moroccans can no longer afford to buy property in their own country. They work for the Europeans for close to nothing, struggling to feed their families. She speaks of her dreams: to see her sons go to college, to be able to buy a house, to visit her mother again...
We sip tea together. The quiet between us is comfortable as time slips away. 


In ways, this interview was simplistic; an immigrant, wife, mother. Simple dreams, the same as you and I. But in a way, the complexity of Mina's past, present and what lies ahead, can only be partially understood in one sitting. And she didn't share it. I knew she was withholding parts of past experiences and struggles; perfectly hidden, neatly wrapped. 

I'd like to attempt a closer understanding. I have such an interest in people and their lives. 

Mina: You know what is my favorite song? Here Comes the Sun by The Beatles.

tpg: I love that song too!

Mina: It makes me feel happy. It gives me so much hope.

~tpg

Julio, I See You

If you're anything like The Cousin, you're an observer of life. You walk through the world like a hushed shadow, but your eyes are in a constant state of panoramic.  It's a comfortable way of being for her. It feels like an old, soft, washed-out pair of denims; the ones you want to wear every day, even if they haven't been laundered in a while...
Stop. Take notice. Process. Ponder. And for god's sake, perform these tasks in silence because when you're out in the world, the world is much too noisy.

I never was that kind of kid. I couldn't adhere to such characteristics in adolescence nor adulthood either. Speak first. Shove entire size 8 shoe into mouth after.

But as I enter what society has termed "middle age," I'm morphing a bit... Stop. Take notice. Process. Ponder. Listen. Bite tongue. Learn something.

When I look around at humans, I readily see both kinds: the observers and the engagers.
I want to be more like The Cousin. I've encountered so many people, whose names will go unmentioned, that tend to feel they have a lesson to teach us all. It's a common occurance. Have you ever been sharing something of your life; perhaps a situation, an opinion, a dream, and I'll be damned if "the engager" fires back with an answer (THEIR answer) which usually has everything to do with THEIR experience, THEIR opinions and THEIR advice. They seem to know that you'll be better off listening to THEM. It's as if, while you are speaking, you can almost see their response-words excitedly dancing on the tip of their moist little tongue, which is poking out of their half-opened mouth.  THEY ARE NOT LISTENING TO YOU! They're preparing, editing, revising their script for THEIR next reading, which translates to a lecture.

If you're not born with the gift of listening and observing, you have work to do. One of the reasons I'm interested in interviewing people, is I want to improve my listening skills. I want to cross over to the observer side of life. I want to follow in The Cousin's footsteps.

There's a man who sits on the brick ledge in front of the downtown post office. It's difficult to determine his age and ethnicity. People who live on the streets appear older than they actually are. Weather, I suppose. Weather and worry.
He's sun-drenched from years on the street. His face is leather brown, his hands boney and curled.
He's quiet. He doesn't have a sign with words like ANYTHING WILL HELP or GOD BLESS YOU. He's always hunched over in his layers of jackets, the color of Army fatigues. When he does look up, his eyes cut through me like the point of a serrated knife. Sometimes, I observe him from across the street. I notice people walk right by him. Most do not give eye contact.
They look right through him.
He's faceless to them.

They look down or pretend to be on their IPhones or turn their heads the other way.  It must feel more comfortable for them to remain in their own world; a world where hungry, homeless, drunk people do not exist. When I have a $5, I give him a $5. When I have a single, I give him a $1.
He always says, "Thank you." That's it.
I like that.

I know that my small amounts of money won't get him off the streets. I also know the streets might be exactly where he wants to be; as comfortable for him as the soft, old jeans I spoke of earlier. I know he may spend his money on booze or something else that makes some people hesitate to give anything. He's quiet. That's my draw to him. Something inside of him is shy, distant, discreet.  What was he like as a child? Did he start out lively, talkative, sure of himself, only to be hushed, crushed by someone or a chain of events?  If I gave him $20 bucks, if I knew his name, if I offered him a hot meal and a shower...It would all be a band-aid and yet, he sits in my neighborhood, hunched over and silent.

That nudges me to inquire about his story because he has one.  They/we/you/me...we all have one.

I pretend his name is Julio. I imagine he was once a vibrant child who loved to play with trucks. I wonder if he had dreams of being a football player or a musician.
I ask myself, is he a father, and if so, where are his kids? Did he abandon them? Do they hate him? Or are they looking for him but he cannot bring himself to re-appear in their lives, not in the state he's in. Was Julio in Viet Nam? Desert Storm? Did the sound of exploding bombs and the sight of death snatch his sanity?
Why do I give a shit? Why this unexplainable fascination of mine?
I actually don't know. Not really. Maybe it's because no one tells his story. You tell yours. I tell mine. We tell our stories everyday. We share our daily lives through social media, by phone, at cocktail parties, on long walks with friends.  How easily we forget that we are constantly sharing our daily lives, our "memoirs" if you will, with others and from that sharing, we get recognition, validation and even pleasure from the interactions with others...
Engage. Observe. Share. Listen.

I have this fantasy about asking him to sit with me at a small outdoor cafe next to the post office. Have a lunch together. Tell him the truth; that I want to ask him questions about his life in order to better understand my own. I would ask him what he would charge for his time. I would ask him his name, so I wouldn't have to refer to him as Julio.
That's where I'm at. I almost did it Tuesday. Then I chickened out. Today I have free time, but there's laundry to do, and there's always tomorrow.  Right? You see, these are the hiccups that stand in my way. If you told me this exact fantasy, I would whole-heartedly encourage you with a zealous GO FOR IT! I would tell you there's nothing to fear but fear itself and all that bullshit and I would be behind you 110%!  Yet, here I sit in my own angst puddle of uneasiness and self-doubt, while thousands of folks' stories go untold...

~tpg

I'll Say It All Here

I didn't really want to meet him for lunch. If he had something in mind other than an acquaintance and this interview, I wanted no part of it. I told him, through a text, that it was my treat if he'd meet with me.
The thought of meeting him, left me with hours of "build-up." Anxiety.  Incompetencey. Amateur writer attempts another interview.  My third, I suppose, if you count the one with The Cousin. And then, of course there's the thought, 'Does he just want sex?' 
In the day, the cute young girls were attracted to me. In the last few years, it's the men over 65.  
What are ya gonna do? It a slap of reality that I will most likely go to my grave not accepting. But I wore my Lucky Brand jeans anyway!  No, not because HE was going to get lucky, But because I was hoping to get lucky with my questions, lucky with opportunity, lucky to say it all here with a look at life through his eyes.
We were to meet at 1:00 p.m. I arrived at 12:45 p.m. and purposely chose a table in the sun. 
I felt way more confident with my sunglasses on.



HY:  You're early.

tpg:  For a change. Thanks for meeting me.

HY: What shall we have? Pellegrino? Large? Waiter. Please. 2 large Pellegrinos and what are today's specials?

His wrinkled shirt, which was tucked into jeans, was a neon lime green. I thought of 
over photo-shopped mint leaves.  He wore a baseball cap which smelled of stale cigars when the breeze hit it.
The waiter rambled off the Specials of the Day; first the appetizer, then the salad, then the entrée and finally, the dessert.  It's so fast, I couldn't recall one thing.

HY: Very good. Very good. Now, may I ask you a question?
(waiter nods)
How long does that take you? Every day, do you have to wake up and memorize the daily specials every day because they change, don't they?
(waiter holds a perplexed yet polite expression)

HY: So what shall we eat? (looking at the menu) I like the apple and pecan salad. What was the special? Halibut? Filet Mignon?

tpg: (panicking because I had offered to pay in exchange for his time.) The appetizer of squash blossoms stuffed with goat cheese (thinking it might the fucking cheapest special) sounds yummy.

HY: And salad? It's a nice day, eh?

tpg: Umm... Yes.
(waiter returns)

HY: We'll have the squash appetizer, pecan apple salad, Cobb salad and filet mignon, medium rare, salt and pepper only.

tpg: You're fast-moving. Do you ever slow down?

HY: Daytime. I sleep during the day and I paint all night. My neighbors think I'm crazy. They see my lights on all night and they think, "What's the crazy Japanese man doing now?" I don't care because I don't really talk to them. I don't really talk to people.

tpg: Yet, you're are here, talking to me.

HY: That's different.

tpg: Tell me about your art.

HY: My art. I studied art in Paris. Many, many years ago. My family, we are all characters and we all like to try new things. I only worked with oil on canvas in the beginning, then I changed to sculpture and pop art. I like color.

tpg: I looked at your work on-line and can honestly say I love the pieces of ink and paint on hand-made rice paper. I also love your laser project in Afghanistan.

HY: That was an experience.  I was approached to possibly re-build the statues but I didn't feel reproducing those ancient statues would be right. They're destroyed. Dynamited. There's only ghosts left. I wanted to bring awareness to this massive destruction of the 3 Buddhas of Bamiwam (Bamiyan) by the Taliban, while at the same time, use solar powered lasers to offer electricity, a few hours a day, to the people of the Bamiyan Valley who had none.

tpg: Wow! Was the project completed?

HY: (Laughing)  We completed it, but governments are corrupt. All of them. We couldn't come to an agreement on money, even after I had hosted fundraisers in Los Angeles. We are all sheep, you know.
(Food arrives)

tpg: Sheep? What do you mean?

HY: We are all sheep and all governments are the herders. It's intentional and it's always been that way since the beginning of time. You, me...We're not going to change it. Do you give money to bums?
I never do.

tpg: Yes, I do, but I prefer not to call them 'bums'. There's 2 in particular that I give some small amounts of cash to on a regular basis. One is a Vietnam vet. He stands in front of Home Depot in Seaside.

HY: There's always been poor. So much poverty. Never can we change that.

tpg: I agree, but it makes me feel good to give a little. Perhaps, it's self-serving.

HY: I did an 8-month project on Los Angeles Avenue years back. I lived on the street and hid a small camera in my clothes. I took black and white pictures of the bums, all the while, the mafia and drug lords would be in the fields and parking lots, watching. Waiting. I'd watch the bums spend every penny they got on drugs and alcohol.
I prefer people who work. I'd rather give to the men standing outside of Home Depot, the Latinos, who want to work. That's where I met my assistant 28 years ago. (He's eating and talking at the same time; half fork, half fingers.)

tpg: You met your assistant on the street?

HY: Yeah, twenty-eight years ago. (He pats his fist on his heart.) I trust him. When times are good, I pay him well. When times are not so good, he works for me for nothing.

tpg:  I dream of such a project like what you did; capturing life through photographs, gaining an understanding of the human condition. Where are these images?

HY: (laughing) We had an opening at a gallery in Los Angeles. Low turn-out. I think they're in one of my storage units in LA.

tpg: Do you have any children?

HY: Yes. Two daughters. You know we will all die with at least one regret and that will be mine.

tpg: What do you mean?

HY: I divorced their mother when they were very young because I wanted to travel the world, do my art, make money and I never saw my daughters or my wife. I was the father that never went to school plays or functions. The absent guy. My daughters never had the opportunity to know me. They hated me for a long time.
But now is Chapter 2.

tpg: Chapter 2?

HY: Yes. I have a second chance. I have apologized to them and have a pretty good relationship with them now. (laughing)  That is, when I can see them!  They are so busy, I have to make an appointment one year in advance!

tpg: Your art is very eclectic; oil on canvas, pop art, photography, ceramic cartoonish sculptures, posters, lasers. What are you working on now?

HY: I'm working on more canvases of ink on rice paper. You should see my living room! My living room is about 900 sq feet and it's a mess!! It's where I work.

tpg: What inspires you?

HY:  People. Yeah, I like to capture people and the actions of people.

tpg: I was blown away by your world-wide notoriety.  You must have the opportunity to meet many people because of your work.

HY: I hate people. Well, those people. The art world is like governments; crooked, greedy and pretentious.  They want me to sell at Christie's and to their private buyers and I won't. Most artists despise me. They think I'm stupid; a crazy recluse. I don't care. I value the apple tree that I've grown from a tiny seed more than any piece of art; theirs or mine.

tpg: Are you? A crazy recluse?

HY: (laughing) I'm here with you, aren't I?

HY: Check! (calling to our waiter) I'm going to meet a friend of mine in King City to look at a vineyard he purchased but hasn't seen yet.

tpg: Your friend bought a vineyard without seeing it?

HY: Yeah.  I've never been to King City. Have you?

tpg: (laughing) Ahh...yes. It's nothing to write home about!  Oh! And thanks so much for lunch! 

HY:  See you soon.


~tpg

The Metamorphoses of a Blog

If you live in Monterey, then you know that summer begins in September. Tourists pile in by the thousands, beginning Memorial Day weekend and continue pouring in through Labor Day.  They wear shorts, tank tops, sunglasses. They're equipped with beach umbrellas, coolers, rubber floaties.
And to their surprise, they freeze their asses off because it's foggy as all hell May-August.

I can't get enough of this delicious sunshine. I can describe it much like Goldilocks described the 3 bowls of porridge she tasted at the bears' kitchen table..."This one is much too hot... This one is much too cold... But this one (Monterey) is just right."  And it is. It's been a delightful 78-82 degrees for a couple of weeks and holding steady.

And I'm holding steady too. Holding steady to the unflappable truth that the only thing in life we can be certain of is change. I'm holding steady to dreams and personal ambitions as well, be they small, be they simple. I have a handful, as I'm sure all of you do. Mine tend to hover in the writing/photography, art and publishing realm. They're the kind of dreams, though, that have vivid, detailed beginnings; ones you easily recall upon waking, but whose endings fizzle away into incompletion with no recollection.   
I dream of a poem being published in The Sun Magazine or my screenplay being read by someone who matters.  I daydream about my blog picking up a big corporate sponsor or two and actually earning bank for my writing. And yes, I dream about having "follow-through". I can't begin to imagine what that feels like. I've started 6 or more short stories, 3 children's books, a box full of interviews, a folder of photographs, stacks upon stacks of poetry. I've hoarded about 50 skateboards, that my dear mother-in-law picked up for me at yard sales for 2 bucks each, because I will in fact do artwork on them again one day. I'm the girl with the ideas.  I'm the girl who could come up with a hundred business plans, but YOU, not me, will have to see the project through to the end.

I'm holding steady to the idea that I can move forward on some of these projects and if I don't? Well, if they all just spill out of my soul and into boxes, folders and computer hard drives, then at least I can say that the spilling brought me quiet satisfaction and released a part of me that needed to be un-caged at that moment. I'm particularly interested in interviews. I have this deeply rooted desire to ask and listen, ask and listen. I would like to interview individuals, one each week, for this blog. Simple people. Complex people. Misfits. Trend-setters. Whatever. The desire stems from a firm belief, that is wedged, etched, carved in my core; that individual lives, individual stories are worth hearing and are what truly matters.

Oh yes, I can spew about the economy, war versus peace, women's issues, lgbtq rights, animal abuse, poverty...but really, at the end of the day, it's an individual's experience that is worth remembering.  Think of your own lives. Can we really recall points, figures, images as much as we  can recall a conversation that moved us?

I have a hobby: I like to watch. ;) I can sit for hours on a park bench, at a bus station, in a coffeehouse and just watch people.  My dream is to interview them, not just watch them. Kind of win their trust, open them up a bit with sincerity and charm, and then ask some interesting and important questions. Then, listen.  Just listen to them, which is a skill in and of itself and sometimes challenging. I'd like to sit back and let them spill because most people like to spill. That spillage is the story, the significant piece of non-fiction that we can all relate to.  Listening to individuals connects us as humans and frankly, we all need to feel connected.

There's a man, a black man with soft eyes and weathered skin. He always wears a red and charcoal flannel shirt and jeans, sometimes a baseball cap that's frayed around the edges. He usually can be spotted in front of the Starbucks in Seaside or at the bike trail where they hand out free meals each evening. His large cardboard sign reads, "VIETNAM VET. ANYTHING HELPS. GOD BLESS YOU."  This man interests me. He intrigues me and his story is my story and your story.  I feel as if I want to look into him, not simply at him from afar. Why, you ask? Because this man's experiences are part of a bigger tapestry whose threads stitch together the very fabric of our existence. Not just his!  You see from afar, we can think, "Oh, I hope he's ok." or "I wonder if I have a buck to give him." or some might think, "He's probably not really a vet. What a gimmick."  But to actually speak with him for 15 minutes, ask him his name, his opinions on various subjects, where he grew up and so on, might offer up an understanding and bring some enlightenment in the form of not just kindness but authentic connection.

It's perhaps the difference between looking out on a field of brown-skinned farmworkers and thinking, "Wow, that's difficult, back-breaking work" and sitting one-on-one with one of the workers, over coffee perhaps, and asking her about her life. It's the difference between noticing a store owner behind a counter and asking him how he's doing today. Sometimes, that's all it takes to spark a connection that brings people together. There in lies the understanding.
There in lies the element of being human.
This is my dream for my own personal growth and for this blog. Because by sharing those interactions/interviews with y'all, an even larger group of strangers unite in the commonality of being human. I've touched on this subject before, but never truly dissected it. I could, at best, compare it with dipping my toes in the ocean but never diving into the wave. I wanna dive into that wave now, head first! Could be frightening. Could hit hard on the ocean floor. Could tumble and crash against the rocks. It's a risk that I'm willing to take. I'm also listening to one of my best friends, who I can always count on to be straight-up with me. She told me, in so many words, that the blogs are getting a bit repetitive and that I had the ability to expand my writing, to venture out more. Her words, along with my personal desires and unfinished projects, have brought me to this moment.

Oh, don't panic! I will still be writing about the escapades of Sweet Pea and The Cousin! But there's small changes in the air for them too.  The Cousin is about to have her world rocked, big time, with the arrival of a new sibling on September 30! (Hopefully, the child will be born with a safety helmet on.) And Sweet Pea's mom will soon be in transition and between jobs, so she will be home with Sweet Pea more...Where does that leave the nanny?  Well, we met last night to discuss it and I basically said, "You're keeping me! End of story."  But life does bring change and that we can depend on. I roll pretty well with change. Hell, I intentionally change my hairstyle and color every other month. It's awesome when I want to remain anonymous in a crowded room.  So, beginning October, I begin my journey with them in new and changing ways. I'll still be bringing you the lowdown, just other things as well to kind of mix it up. Things like observations and hopefully, interviews.  But those little girls, who have melted my heart, and yours, like butter in mama's skillet, will certainly be hanging around too.
Perhaps, my first interview will be with The Cousin. Now that would prove insightful!

And readership, I'd love your feedback as my blog metamorphoses into new shapes, new conversations and explores unchartered waters.  

To be continued...

~tpg

"We be stylin"

"I love to get her to this manic state."

"Baa Bee, that's the funniest joke I've heard in a long time."

"I'll be back!"