On Day 31, we stopped in a lot of cities on the way to Fes.  After leaving Casablanca, we headed to Rabat where Hassan Tower stands (from the 12th century).  We also stopped into one of the most beautiful areas in Rabat…all enclosed behind a fortress wall.  I stumbled upon a spot overlooking the sea where this young boy followed me to the wall, begging me for some food while he watched me take photos. 

He was so sweet and so hungry.  I gave him 10 dirham.  Before I could give him more, he started jumping up and down, so happy that I gave him some money, that before I could pull out some more change, he ran off to buy some food. 

He was just so sweet talking to me in Arabic, trying to point to things and tell me about the sea.  It just breaks my heart to see a child so hungry, trying to earn just a coin or two just to buy something to eat.  What was even more heartbreaking was that it was apparent that he had a disability.  You always have to ask where the parents are…and wonder if maybe he was just an orphan.

Maybe next time, if I see him again, I’ll find out if he’s an orphan or not.  If he is, you better believe he’ll be coming home with me. 

But without ado…here are the photos from Rabat.

I’m going to attempt to do something new.  Every Friday I’m going to post up my top 5 loves of the week.  Could be anything…from this, that or hockey.  Here are my top 5 loves for this week.

1.  FABFATALE.COM.  My favorite blog I love to stalk (The Looks For Less) has released a sister site called Fab Fatale (where I borrowed her Friday Fab 5 idea).  Like always…the site is always very colorful and it’s filled with very important information.  Unlike The Looks for Less, Fab Fatale is not just a fashion site.  It’s everything from cooking to do-it-yourself projects (DIY). 

I really like how she’s introduced me to more beautiful sites where I can learn a whole lot more about the things I love to do from other bloggers out there.  It’s also inspiring to pick up a few ideas for your own home, life and the people around you.  Check out the site.  Her ‘white’ post has been sparking more ideas for my office.

2.  Missoni For Target.  After that big mess back in September when Target.com went down shortly after the Missoni for Target collection was released and then the collection wildly showing up on Ebay for 2x+ the cost shortly thereafter…I decided to wait a bit.  I didn’t want to go batty like everyone else did (okay…I was mad there was nothing left).  So I waited until Target.com came back up to take a look at the inventory.

There were a few scraps here and there.  But the one thing I was looking for just so happened to be one of the only things that was still available.  I didn’t want to purchase the ottoman I saw in House Beautiful right then and there, because it would arrive while I was out of the country.  I said to myself, “If it’s still available when I get back, I’m going to order it because it was just meant to be.”

Luckily, I came back and the only thing I wanted from the Missoni for Target collection was still available.  I got it for $102 after taxes (I got $5 off from one of the corporate programs I’m a member of…shipping was FREE).  It arrived just 5 business days later.  I opened it up, put it in my office and it looks BEAUTIFUL.  It’s more beautiful than the picture. 

The cat has claimed it as HERS, because she believes the second bedroom (aka my office) is her room.  She looks like royalty sitting up on top of this ottoman. 

I loved it so much, I plan on buying the blue version for my bedroom.  It was well worth the wait and the investment.  The piece makes me really happy.  I’m so glad I was able to get the only thing I had been lusting after from the collection.

I decided that I’m going to buy the pieces I love for my home and ship it to Morocco when it comes time to move.  It’s cheaper to ship it to Morocco (by boat) than to buy all new furniture there.  My future husband would have to shop without me, because they like to mark up the price to no end when they see an American!  [I mean, how do you explain to your husband you spent $7,000 USD on a desk?]

3. The Alchemist. I’m re-reading “The Alchemist” by Paulo Coelho.  The book was very inspiring for me back in 2007, but re-reading it now, it has a different meaning to me.  It’s a way for me to look back on everything that’s happened over the last four years and to see where I am now in my life. 

In a way, it’s like saying…your personal legend is entering its new phase.  It just reassures me that I’m making the right decision by following my heart.

4.  Christmas Shopping.  So…I started Christmas shopping already.  This is my last Christmas.  I’ve already invited my brother to come out to NYC this Christmas because it may be one of the last times we’ll see each other in a long time.  My brother is very supportive of my Moroccan decision.  Hell, all my friends that have known me for years are very happy because as my best friend Sabrina says…she’s never heard me talk about someone like this before.  She’s so happy that I’ve finally found someone this special.

Knowing all of this…my brother realizes that if this is going to be our last Christmas together before I adopt a new religion and culture, we should go out in style.

I’ve already started buying gifts for friends.  Today’s Buried Bauble was a perfect gift for my young friend and colleague.  She’ll love it because she loves this kind of stuff.  The DIY vanilla extract has me shopping for various bottles and jars at Sur La Table and Crate & Barrel. 

I may be buying some decorative jars and canning some of my corn relish to give out as gifts this year.  It’s one of the summer staples that I love to eat all year long (Food & Wine has the best recipe by far).  It’s also great to use in making cornbread.  [For those who decide to make the corn relish, don’t use sugar.  I use honey as a substitute.  It tastes so much better and it’s also healthier for you.]

I still have no clue what to get my brother beyond a $500 Target gift card (he just bought a new house recently and could use some home items in his new place).  I’m hoping I figure out what else to get him before Christmas. 

As far as decorating…this is going to be my first and last Christmas tree.  I plan on going all white and using silver and blue ornaments.  Afterwards, I’ll donate the ornaments to some friend or charity.  Hopefully, they’ll be able to put it to use.

Speaking of charity…the Toys for Tots kids are getting Rockstar Mickey for Christmas.  Blame Constantine Maroulis for that one!

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aDOfaZmiobc&feature=related] [Review from Mom on this next video:  We got our Rock Star Mickey 4 days after it hit the stores for my sons 3rd birthday. It was only $49 at Toys R Us as a promo for the first 2 weeks. Now it costs $55. He is obsessed with the toy. When we go to Toys R Us or Target, he still wants to watch the display demo over and over even though he owns one now. He has so much fun dancing with it, does the splits in the middle of the store and gets lots of attention from on looking shoppers. We weren’t sure if my son would still play with Rock Star Mickey once we brought it home but he plays with for hours on end by himself. Its actually helps my toddler exercise! So I give this toy props for occupying my son. It plays 2 songs and has a ‘rock star training’ mode where it explains the dance moves. I give this toy a 5 star rating. Good quality, entertainment, construction, and robotics. Rock Star Mickey is a kind of loud, and there is no volume control. By the way, Mickey does not play the guitar with his nose. It says he does on the box, but he really just lifts the guitar in the air. I wish it had more songs and dance moves like Dance Star Mickey, but he is also $20 less than Dance Star Mickey was, so it’s worth it.]

While I was in Morocco, Driss and I had a lot of time together traveling from one spot in Morocco to the next.  There was something that was mentioned.  I can’t quite remember if it was Driss or a tour guide who said it to me (pretty sure it was Driss), but he said that I should look at the path in my life.  Look back at it and see the journey.  Look to see that God (Allah) is leading you somewhere.  You can see the map.

When he said that I started to think about the last decade.  It’s been a crazy, strange, wild and amazing ride.  I’ve thought about the heartaches.  I’ve thought about the pain.  I’ve thought about the loss.  I’ve thought about the changing points.  I’ve thought about the success.  I’ve thought about my failures.  I realized…it was just one big map to understanding where I was standing in that very moment.

I was standing in a bookstore in Marrakech a few weeks ago.  My guide was ordering the Qur’an for me in English.  While we were waiting for the bookseller to go through his stock to find the book, I started to watch the other Muslim Arabs around me.  I had my back glued to the glass bookcase, trying to stay out of everyone’s way in the small space while my guide negotiated for the English Qur’an. 

I watched as the book transactions took place from one person to the next.  My mind started to drift back to the sand dunes of the Sahara, thinking about Hamid…and for some odd reason I thought of “The Alchemist” by Paulo Coelho.  It was one of the first books I read after my grandfather died in 2007 when my entire world started to change. 

I kept thinking how my trip had become so much like the pages out of the book of “The Alchemist” when just two short seconds later I see the bookseller bring out a copy of “The Alchemist” in Arabic and sell it to a lady in front of me.  Odd, right?  But it was strangely synchronistic.

I told Winter Adams yesterday that she should pick up a copy of “The Alchemist.”  I don’t know, I feel like I need to fill her with so much information before I leave…before the season ends and I move forward in life. 

I picked up my own copy while I was texting her and it opened up to a part in the book that ended up feeling like it was the exact point in my life that my own personal legend was happening. 

“Fatima arrived and filled her vessel with water.  “I came to tell you just one thing,” the boy said.  “I want you to be my wife.  I love you.”  The girl dropped the container, and the water spilled.  “I’m going to wait here for you every day.  I have crossed the desert in search of a treasure that is somewhere near the Pyramids, and for me, the war seemed a curse.  But now it’s a blessing, because it brought me to you.”

To me, that’s a very odd passage to come across randomly.  Why?  The irony here…the nomad gave me the nickname ‘Fatima.’  While I was in the bookstore, I kept thinking that the boy in “The Alchemist” reminded me of Hamid.  He used to be a sheepherder, just like the boy.  He used to sit there for years watching his flock, before he decided to step away from that life and settle into one town, have one job.  But the desert…you can’t take that away from his soul.

Paulo Coelho was able to accurately describe the life of the nomad in “The Alchemist.”  Would you believe that most nomads end up going to a big city or a new place just to find their own path in life?  Josef went to Majorca, Spain (but then came back to the desert).  There are other nomads that tell me of their brothers that went to Australia or France or Seattle, Washington.  Those guys…they left because they met a tourist out in the desert and fell in love.  They followed her to her home country.

Berber tradition dictates that he has to follow the girl to her home country.  Trust me, there are many stories about nomads that follow that girl they had fallen so madly in love with.

As I look back at these past few years, I can see God’s map of my life.  I can see all of the dots connecting in amazing ways.  Being a writer and traveling the world, talking about the people I meet, and the stories they tell me…that was my own personal legend.  I got my feet wet with that path thanks to the NHL.  I was able to tell the stories of hockey players and the NHL over the years.  I was able to travel all over the world thanks to the NHL.  In a way, the NHL helped me get my life started in the right direction.  It’s like Santiago (Coelho’s character).  He had to at first start at the bottom and work his way up to finding the next step on his path in life. 

Every single time I drink tea from a little glass, I think of Santiago in “The Alchemist.”  I think about how this novel invention of drinking tea from a glass changed the way tea is enjoyed in Arabic countries.  I enjoyed it so much, I not only bought tea and a silver tea kettle, but I also had a set of Moroccan tea glasses gifted to me by the shop owner.  I have tea all of the time now in those little glasses.  That’s a habit I picked up in Morocco that I enjoy more than anything.

In the book, taking two ideas and creating a new one that could benefit all…that is how a new path was discovered for Santiago. 

Before my grandfather died, he said to me that it was only after I got on my path in life that love, marriage and a family would come my way.  The only way I could have those things were if I was on that path.  If I wasn’t on my path, none of those things would come my way.  That was back in 2007.  A month or two later, “The Alchemist” fell into my hands…almost explaining what my grandfather had told me to do. 

My grandfather had never read that book. 

Katrina Cady always mentions that when she visits me she sneezes…like a ghost is in my building.  We’ve pinpointed that it’s probably my grandfather.  It’s funny that while I was away, my friend told me that every time she came by, the photo collage of my grandfather kept falling down from the wall and she couldn’t figure out why.  She kept putting it back up, and it kept falling back down.

When I got home, I couldn’t understand why the frame was down, so I put it back up.  It’s not fallen down since I put it back up.  I think maybe it was just my grandfather’s way of trying to tell my friend that he was there each time she came by the apartment. 

I sometimes catch the cat looking up at something, or standing there talking to someone.  When I ask her what she’s looking at or who she’s talking to, she stops, looks at me and then looks the other way…like she doesn’t know what I’m talking about.  But I know who she’s talking to.

My psychologist once said to me that she believed that I refused to marry because my grandfather said he would be the one to walk me down the aisle.  It was my refusal to marry that perhaps meant that it would prolong his life.  Maybe I saw a sort of finality to our time together if he walked me down the aisle. 

I think there’s more to it.  Before he died, his last words to me were the words that changed my life completely.  I wouldn’t have become a writer if he hadn’t told me to become the person I dreamed of being.  He gave me the secrets to life and how to have an amazing life, just one month before he died.  To me, that was the greatest treasure he could have ever given to me.  It’s worth more than money, houses, stocks, jewels, real estate, cars, or anything he could have left for me in his Will. 

It’s the things left in the Will for me that ended up getting me ousted out of the family…that whole ‘why is Michelle so special…she’s not special at all’ that you hear coming from my aunt’s mouth.  That stuff left on paper…that’s the stuff you see in probate court.  The stuff worth millions more…that’s the stuff whispered into the ear of a young woman trying to find her way in this lifetime…trying to find her way out of a very dark place in her life.  He was trying to throw me a flashlight and help me find my own way out of that pit of sorrow.

There’s a contingency in my grandfather’s Will.  In order to access the funds, we have to live the dream.  We have to make the dream become a reality in order to access anymore money from the Will.  But to me, that money means nothing.  What is worth more to me is the life I’ve found.

For those who have read “The Alchemist” I can only say that the book is very real.  Living your dreams can be very real.  It takes courage to find your path in life.  It takes faith that God will lead you in the right direction.  It takes having an open mind and being open to possibilities that will direct you along that road.

When I announced back in July that this would be my final season writing about hockey, I mentioned that it seemed like everything was finally coming full circle at last.  Outside of hockey, I’m being told in a foreign land…look at the map of your life and see how it has led you to this exact point in your life.

I started re-reading “The Alchemist” last night.  The author’s note in the beginning noted that his publisher said, “reading The Alchemist was like getting up at dawn and seeing the sun rise while the rest of the world still slept.”

Ever since I met Hamid, I wake up at the Moroccan sunrise and can see the sun rising over Algeria in the distance.  I can feel the sun’s rays on my skin, the sun blinding my eyes while they are still closed.  It becomes so bright that I have to open them to see that it’s after 1AM in New York City and it’s still dark outside.

You never forget the sunrise in the Sahara Desert.  You also don’t miss a special moment where a nomad takes your hand and shows you a second sunrise over the dunes.  THAT is something you never forget.  Two sunrises in one morning.

For some strange reason, reading “The Alchemist” again is like bringing everything full circle.  It’s looking back and seeing how everything began right as my grandfather died.  I started an incredible journey in life that so many people are jealous of.  There are many that say I don’t deserve it.  They deserve that spot.  They deserve that life. 

No…you don’t deserve my life.  You deserve YOUR LIFE.  You deserve to take the lessons from my life, the experiences I’ve shared and let it inspire you to reach for your own dreams.  It’s designed to show you that we all have our own paths in life.  The only way you can make your dreams come true is if you get on your path in life.  You have to open your mind and your life up to the infinite number of possibilities that can be shown to you.  You have experiences yet to unfold…and they belong to NO ONE, but YOU.  You can’t have someone else’s life.  That’s their own personal legend.  But you can have a life just as remarkable as theirs…so long as you are on your own path in life.

We may never know where the road is leading us, but we know it’s leading us somewhere.  Coelho talked about how people that are on their path in life…those living their own personal legend…they experience great suffering.  They sometimes suffer more than other people. 

He says, “The secret of life, though, is to fall seven times and to get up eight times…Because, once we have overcome the defeats-and we always do-we are filled by a great sense of euphoria and confidence.  In the silence of our hearts, we know that we are proving ourselves worthy of the miracle of life.  Each day, each hour, is part of the good fight.”

I always think of how if that rockstar hadn’t broken my heart, I never would have gone to New York.  I never would have found new friends.  I never would have found hockey or a new meaning in my life. 

I also think about the cancer and how becoming so weak, made my spirit stronger.  It taught me how to live.

I think about Kevin and how his death didn’t destroy my life.  Letting go helped me to discover a new soulmate.  It helped me to love again.

I think about how coming to New York helped me to find God (of all places).  I found what I was looking for here.

I lost the greatest man in my life…he taught me how I could have the most amazing life possible.  He gave me a dream in his death…a dream meant to come true.  I learned through the loss of my grandfather, that I was not only destined for great things…but I had a choice in living in darkness, or living in a world that is too good to be true.  I found my own personal legend.

I lost my best friend when she betrayed me…and I also lost a mother.  But what God showed me was that what happened, no matter how evil, she did out of love so that I could become an even better person.  The act was designed a long time ago to push me on my path in life.  It would help shape what I was about to do in this world…to do good, while she took on the evil.  I have to remember that she did it out of love so that her daughter could do good in this world.

There are things that are unexplainable, but Carl Jung said a long time ago that science and math may not be able to explain these things, but they do exist.  Synchronicity of the universe exists.

If you haven’t read “The Alchemist,” pick it up, read it and learn from it.  If I could tell you that the things he talks about is 100% true, would you change your entire life?  I believed in what he wrote, and watched my life change for the better.  I watched something amazing happen.  I realized that I am more in control of my own universe than most people believe they are.  You can have a shitty life, or you can have an amazing life.  That choice is really up to you.  You control your own universe.

As I look back at these past few years, with everything in my universe coming full circle, I can see a new path forming.  There are people that don’t believe in those paths that tell you that they think you’re crazy.  You shouldn’t do it.  They have a bad feeling about it.  Those are all people that never lived the dream.  They don’t see the sun rising in the horizon at dawn while others are sleeping.  They don’t see two sunrises in the morning, because someone showed them that it was possible.

They don’t know what it’s like to be on their own path in life.  For me, I know the next path sounds crazy…but it’s just about as crazy as the one I took back in 2004 when I moved to New York City.  I gave two weeks notice, packed up my things and left.  I didn’t even have a place to live lined up.  Everything just fell into place so quickly and I knew I had made the right choice.

It’s a lot like now.  I’ve been waiting for any sign to say…this is a mistake.  The only mistake I feel like I made…was getting on that plane in Casablanca to come back home.  That is the ONLY mistake I feel like I made.  It’s a mistake I regret and am trying to rectify.

There are days I feel like I’m going to go insane because I can’t get a hold of the nomad.  He doesn’t have a cell phone, email or a mailing address.  I have to literally wait two weeks for the tour company to find him in the desert to let him know when I’ll be back in Morocco.  Then I have to wait until April to see him again.  The whole time I keep praying that he doesn’t fall in love with someone else.  Trust me, it’s driving me insane. 

I just have to keep telling myself to put him out of my mind.  Write the story, send it to the publishers.  Write the story, send it to the publishers.  Then when it’s all done, it will be time to go back.

Who knows…I may go back in April and realize…he’s not the one for me.  Maybe the door will close on Morocco.  Maybe I’ll fall for some guy here.  There are six months between now and then and God can make anything happen during that time.  But for whatever reason…everything points to me leaving the US and not for the reasons you think.

It’s just time to start that journey I told my grandfather I wanted to take back in May 2007.  I wanted to travel the world and write the stories of the people I meet.  My grandfather told me, “Then do that.”  It’s just time to live that dream.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ktRsl2hAPhY]

And there are voices
that want to be heard.
So much to mention
but you can’t find the words.
The scent of magic,
the beauty that’s been
when love was wilder than the wind.

Listen to your heart
when he’s calling for you.
Listen to your heart
there’s nothing else you can do.
I don’t know where you’re going
and I don’t know why,
but listen to your heart
before you tell him goodbye.

Today is my first official day back in the US of A.  My body may be here, but my heart and soul are in the deserts of Morocco. 

On Friday, Driss said to me “Follow your heart.”  He was talking about Hamid.  I wasn’t for sure if maybe the Sahara was playing tricks on me.  I didn’t know if this was real or not, but the way I described what I felt each time Hamid touched my hand, I could see Driss’ face change into a calming smile.  I asked him, “Is this love?” 

He looked right at me, while driving down the highway from Marrakech to Casablanca and said, “Yes, this is love.” 

I thought about those things after I handed my boarding pass to the ticket agent.  I kept looking back at the ticket agent’s desk as I stood in the hallway awaiting the doors to open to the plane.  I was thinking of turning around and heading straight back up the ramp and telling them to take my suitcases off the plane because I’m staying in Morocco.  I could call Driss, tell him to pick me up at the airport and take me to the desert to be with Hamid.

That’s what my heart was telling me to do.  With each step I took towards the plane’s door, I could feel the weight of Morocco tugging me at my feet, begging me to not leave.  “STAY.  DON’T LEAVE,” it kept saying to me.  I kept looking back at the doorway and thinking…I could stay forever. 

But then what about Surita?  She’s been without me for three weeks.  I need to at least go home and get her ready to come to Morocco too.  It was thinking of her that I put my head down and stopped looking back at the doorway leading back into the airport.  I boarded the plane.

I sat down and felt the pleas from Hamid to not leave.  Driss’ words of ‘follow your heart’ kept ringing in my head as “Listen To Your Heart” started playing in my head.  “Listen to your heart before you tell him goodbye.” 

I almost stood up and got off that plane.  But as I reached for the belt buckle to get up and get off that plane, I settled back in and said…no.  Wait six months and come back…just like you and Driss planned.  Wait six months.  What will happen with the heart during those six months will determine everything.  Spend those six months getting the book out to the publishers and then follow your heart back to Morocco.

You see…I fell in love with more than just a nomad.  I fell in love with Morocco and its people…and I think Morocco and its people fell in love with me too.

I look at Morocco and think about the things I could do to help the people there.  I think about how close I am to God when I am there.  I think about LOVE and how it’s everywhere.  There are only 2 things that matter in Morocco: GOD and LOVE. 

Money is unimportant.  Success is unimportant.  Fame is unimportant.

Coming back to the first world countries, I can’t help but feel like my priorities have shifted.  LOVE IS EVERYTHING. 

They say that only the poor marry for love.  But I say that a rich man is poor if he doesn’t have love.  How can you have everything but love and still be happy?  Happiness comes from love not material things.

I look at all of this technology and think…I’m okay without having the latest phone or computer.  Who cares about the latest trends in fashion?  I don’t need those things anymore.  I just need God and love.

These past few years, I have been waiting on a dream to become a reality.  I’ve been waiting a long time for that dream to become real.  But in the desert, I learned that there can be something better than the dream.  It’s called fate and destiny.  The Muslims believe wholeheartedly in fate and destiny.  When one man told me about fate and destiny, he actually cried when he talked about it. 

For some people, fate and destiny can deal a nasty hand, but it can also deal a wonderful hand.  It’s because of fate and destiny, you work hard to be in Allah’s (God’s) eye.  It’s not too different in doing good works to have good karma coming back to you. 

Coming back to the States, I can’t help but feel I’m still in the desert.  I miss it.  I’m sad to be away from it…to be away from Driss and Hamid…

Driss said to me on our last day together that it hasn’t been six months, a month, a week, a day or even a minute since I’ve been away, but he missed me already.  I couldn’t help but feel the same way.  I’m glad we got to spend our last day together having lunch and sitting out near the Hassan II Mosque by the ocean, having a cup of coffee/tea at a coffee house preparing for my next visit in six months.

Yes, you read that right…I’m going back to Morocco in six months.  I’m booking my next trip for right after the season ends.  It may happen right at the start of the playoffs, but it’s the final games that mean everything, right?  This is also my time to explore my new world post-hockey writing career.  It seems to be taking over the present world at a much faster rate than expected, but in my experience, that happens when I’m making the right decision.  In other words, my heart is leading me back to Morocco.

I feel sad today, because I feel like I belong there.  My hopes of redecorating my home and buying a new place after my return from vacation kind of became unimportant.  My mind is now thinking about that weird feeling I’ve had for the last 10 years…that I’ll end up moving to Morocco.

It’s hard to explain to someone who’s never been to Morocco why I would make the decision to move there.  The only thing is…I have to marry someone in order to move there.  It’s not a visa issue, because ex-pats are always welcome in countries around the world.  This is more of a cultural issue.

If I were to marry Hamid, the chances of being in public with my face covered is very high.  The chances that I have to be escorted by a male when I visit the markets are also very high.  I’m okay with that.

Why would I be okay with something that most women would call oppressive?  Because in the markets and medinas of Morocco, I have to have someone with me at all times.  With my face revealed, men come by and say things to me.  In Fes, the tour guide had to shew men away from me.  When you have 15 guys following asking the guide if I’m his sister, because they’d like to date me…you know that if I was alone, there would be a problem. 

I was left alone for five minutes with a businessman, he ended up kissing me twice and fondling my breast twice.  This was not acceptable by any means.  Yes, he did get in trouble for it. 

I think Driss and my tour guide were madder than I was that this guy tried to take advantage of me.  After that, I noticed that Driss didn’t want to leave me alone without a tour guide nearby that he knew.  I could see him watching every single time he had to step away from me…even if he told me to just stand next to the car.  The second he left me, someone would approach.  It happened every single time.

It’s one thing to tell a woman she’s beautiful in the marketplace, quite another when they ask me if I’m married the second Driss walks away from me. 

Driss explained to me later that the reason for all of the attention is because the men can sense something special about me.  I could be standing next to another beautiful woman, but the woman next to me wouldn’t be attracting all of the attention.  The reason why…all lies in that ‘something special about me.’

When I walk into the room, the men can all feel it.  Everyone looks up when I walk into the room.  Even Driss sensed it each time.  I couldn’t figure out why he was always shuttling me off into a room to eat my meals alone where no one could see me until that last day.  It was that ‘something special’ factor.  

Technically, if I were to marry a Muslim Arab…I would have to cover my face and be escorted in public by a man for my own safety, just based on what’s happened so far.  It’s not oppression if I’m okay with it.  In Morocco, men don’t just look at the beauty of a woman from the outside, they look at the soul.  The soul is more important than what’s on the outside.  When they meet a special soul, that one soul is like finding riches beyond comparison.  It’s finding a rare diamond amongst a bunch of pearls.

Do you know how long I’ve been looking for someone that sees me for who I really am and not just the shell of me?  I’ve had guys interested in me because of my money and what kind of life they could have with our incomes combined (usually, I make more money than he does).  Other guys like the life I have as “Michelle Kenneth” from the party invites to the success of my work.  They like that persona and what it can do for their life and career. 

They see the shell and not the soul hidden underneath.  In Morocco, the soul is all they see.  They don’t care about the shell.  The shell is not important at all.  The soul is the most important thing.

I needed someone and someplace that would see that in me.  That’s all they see in me in Morocco.  I’ve waited a very long time for that. 

Brahma Kumaris is a lot like the Muslim faith.  It’s about God and Love.  I have been concerned over the last few years that I would only find men that cared about that shell…and not what was in my soul.  I was starting to believe that marrying for love was not real.  Marrying for money was more important.  I didn’t like it one bit.  I wanted love.  I was really looking for a soulmate, and I didn’t find him in the US.  I found him (and many others) in Morocco.  It’s a place where souls intertwine with each other.

I can say that I have a very strong connection to both Hamid and Driss.  Driss is now like a brother to me.  Hamid…I just connected with in a way that leads to the kind of love that keeps you married for the rest of your life.  We were both on the same page about that.  You marry for life. 

I told Driss that I knew if I slept with Hamid, I’d never be able to see him again.  So I didn’t sleep with him because I wanted to see him again.  That means that what happened that night…it wasn’t bad, because it became a story about love.

I’m back in New York now thinking about how so much of what America believes in means nothing when you take out love and God.  I just want to be near love and near God.  I’ll take my money and plant it elsewhere…plant it within the people of Morocco.  I want to write their stories and give them opportunities for a better life.  I want to invest in them. 

I want to invest in them like I knew it was wise to invest in gold back in 2005.  I invested in it just in case the dollar became crap.  The dollar became crap and I profited by 300x in the investment.  That’s what I see in Morocco.  I see huge potential in the country…potential not even discovered yet.  I can hear the mountains whispering of its potential, mines yet to be discovered, energy sources waiting to be tapped into.  I see job creation for many.  I see water flowing in even the poorest of homes.  I see children getting an education and having a school bus pick them up and take them home every single day so they don’t have to walk an hour to and from school every day. 

I see potential in Morocco. 

Don’t be surprised if I tell you in 6 months that I’m becoming Muslim and marrying a Muslim Arab nomad.  Really…don’t be surprised at all.  It’s just where the universe has ultimately led me…and I won’t regret one single moment of that decision, because I would be listening to my heart for once in this lifetime.

Here are a few of the photos from the Hassan II Mosque in Casablanca.  It is the third largest mosque in the world.

[I’m skipping ahead a couple of days, because my friends want to read this story…and I’ve already written it…so here ya go, ladies.  I’ll return to the previous days soon.]

As I sit in some random suite in Xaluca Dades in Boumalene, I keep thinking about the most magical night I have ever had in my life. But before I tell you the details of one of the most romantic nights I’ve ever had in my life, I have to tell you about the day.

Driss, my driver, took me to a castle that was only 300 years old. It was the first castle built for the current Moroccan dynasty. The entire place is under renovation. It’s basically a ruin. The only thing left in good form is the harem. Nowhere else in the castle has anything survived the test of time. Only the harem still has its original mosaics in perfect form. Everywhere else in the castle…it’s completely ruined by time.

Afterwards, we headed to the local market in the next town. He showed me the vegetable, dates, animal and regular wares stalls. It’s just one large market that sells everything you could possibly need.

Since I’m still sick, Driss stopped in front of an herb shop and pointed out a bag of herbs. He told me that there were so many different types of flowers and plants in this mixture that it could heal almost everything when you drink it in tea form. Considering my throat has been very scratchy the past few days, he recommended that I buy this tea and drink it to help relieve my throat.

He then took me to the market where the donkeys were kept. I stopped and petted one of them ad then went around to take a few photos. We then headed over to see the different sheep and the cows.

A few minutes after we had finished looking at the sheep, a donkey came running right up to me with a kid on it. As soon as it got to me, it stopped right in front of me. It was that same donkey I petted 15-20 minutes earlier. It was like he had a smile on his face. The kid re-directed the donkey away from me and we went on our separate ways. I couldn’t help but feel amazed that the one act of kindness I showed that donkey earlier had him find me in the market again…as if to say hello again. You can’t tell me that animals are not smart.

Driss had also stopped at a fossil factory so that I could learn all about how the Moroccan desert was filled with fossils over 2 million years old. In Morocco they mine the fossils from the ground. They then polish it and turn the fossils into furniture or marble floors (depending on what formation it fossilized into…like marble or limestone). They even create sculptures and everyday household items. It’s rather beautiful.

In the afternoon, we stopped to eat at a cafe. We had a chicken tagine that was so tasty and spicy. It hit the spot.

While we sat drinking tea infused with mint, we awaited my next driver who would drive me in a 4×4 to the sand dunes of the Sahara. When Josef arrived, I was surprised by how beautiful and handsome he was. But then again, this is Morocco. Many of the men here are just beautiful.

Josef drove me across the Sahara where there are no roads. The car swerved from one side to the other, almost as if we were on an amusement park ride.

We talked about his life as a nomad and how he loved the desert. The desert was his home. He had traveled to Majorca, Spain a few years prior to stay for a month, just to see if he would like someplace else besides the desert. But after spending some time away from his homeland, he realized that he missed the desert, so he went back because the desert was where he belonged.

When we arrived at the Berber tents, Josef escorted me in to meet my guide for the night who would end up staying with me the entire night in the desert. His name was Hamid.

I drank a cup of mint tea as we chatted. He gave me the lowdown on what to expect for the evening.

After finishing my tea, we headed to the camel, Jimi Hendrix, who would take me to the top of the dunes to watch the sunset over the Sahara. I was petrified of Jimi. The camel driver and Hamid tried to encourage me to get onto the camel with little instruction on how one mounts a camel.

After they poked a little fun and I had finally swung my short leg over Jimi’s hump, he stood up and let’s just say it was a WHOA moment. It took about five minutes before I could adjust to riding a camel. It was like riding a horse…except for the whole camel standing up or laying down bit. You just pray it doesn’t throw you across the desert when he gets up or sits down.

When we finally reached a good spot, Jimi sat down and I tried to climb off of him without falling face first into the sand. Luckily, I was able to succeed without embarrassing the hell out of myself. The camel driver then helped me get to the top of the sand dune and we sat down and watched the sunset together. We talked about his life as a nomad, and I told him about the life of New York City.

After the sunset, I got back on Jimi and we headed down to my tent. I was the only tourist staying the night in the Berber tents. It was fully deluxe all the way down to the running bathroom and shower in my room.

I had a porter, a cook and Hamid for the evening. We started off the evening sitting around a small fire as the stars began to light up the sky. I learned a little Berber and Arabic sitting around the fire, awaiting the cook to arrive. Hamid told me that he was going to give me a new nickname. He said that my desert name was now Fatima. I asked him what it meant and he said, “It’s like a person who has big dreams and makes them come true.”

It was a sweet desert name he had given to me.

When the cook finally arrived we sat around the fire a little longer before I decided I was ready to eat. I sat down at the dinner table and they served a tagine with beef and prunes, another tagine with lamb chops, and couscous with chicken and vegetables. It was a lot of food. A LOT! After dinner, they brought out a plate of fruit with the biggest red grapes I’ve ever seen.

While the staff ate their dinner in the kitchen and cleaned up my plates, I went and laid down on the divan and stared up at the stars. Hamid came out and suggested that we go out into the dunes and watch the stars.

After the rest of the staff left and headed home, Hamid grabbed a blanket and we headed out to the dunes. He helped me up to the top of the dunes, because it’s not so easy when your feet sinks into the sand the closer you get to the top of the ridge.

We walked into the desert for a little bit before he found a spot at the top of a dune and laid out the blanket. I took off my shoes and sat down on the blanket. We then spent the next few hours watching the stars and talking.

As the wind started to pick up and it got to be a little colder, we headed down into the bottom of the dune.

As we sat there, I realized…this is one of the most romantic moments I’ve ever had in my life. I’m in the middle of the Sahara desert, sitting on a blanket, watching the stars, seeing comets in the distance and shooting stars quickly lighting up the sky. There’s a beautiful man next to me that is just as spiritual as I am, the same age as me, and just so in tune to the peace around us and the beauty of the moment.

I almost reached over and kissed him…this nomad…a man of the desert. But the modesty in me (as well as reminding myself that I am in a country where modesty is important) stopped myself from doing something that could be seen as inappropriate…a woman reaching out to a Muslim Arabic man and kissing him under the stars in the middle of the Sahara desert. Could I stop at just one kiss? I didn’t think I would.

I asked Hamid what time he thought it was. He told me that it was maybe 1AM. We had to be awake at 5AM for the sunrise, so I suggested we head back to the berber tent to sleep. He gathered up the blanket and we started heading towards the tents.

He took my hand and helped me up to the crest of the dune, but didn’t let go of my hand as we walked down into the next dune. As we got closer to the bottom, I started to pick up speed and then realized that we were all of a sudden running through the Sahara holding hands, smiling and laughing with the brilliant moon lighting our way and the stars twinkling above our heads. Could this moment be any more magical?

I headed into my tent to sleep the few hours before sunrise, while Hamid slept outside my room on the divan.

He woke me a few hours later as the sun started to peak through the sky. I cleaned up a little and we headed back to the sand dunes to await the sunrise.

This is Hamid’s life. Every morning he watches the sunrise. Every evening he watches the sunset. At night he watches the stars changing color before his very eyes. This is how he has spent every day of his life…surrounded by the Sahara desert.

After the sun rose, he gathered up the blanket again and said, “Let’s go back down into the dunes.” He took me back down into the dune so that I could see the sunrise twice that morning. First, from the distance and then again over the top of the crest.

After the second sunrise, it was still 5 in the morning. We had nothing else better to do than to head back to the tent.

The night before, he had told me that he was a Berber medicine man. He had told me all about nomad medicine. Basically, nomads rarely if ever get sick. They don’t even know what cancer is. No one has ever had it. Sometimes people get a little sick, but they know what plants to use for medicine. He is also well versed in accu-pressure.

He told me how many people with rheumatism and arthritis come to the Sahara to lay down in the sand, fully covered in it. The hot sand has healing properties. After they lay in the sand for a few hours for 3-6 days, they leave completely healed. That is the mystery of the healing properties of the Sahara.

Since I was still coughing from the cigarette smoke from Paris, Hamid wanted to treat it with some of his Berber medicine knowledge. He took out some olive oil with Argan oil and massaged it into my neck. He massaged my entire neck. When he reached the back of my neck he told me that I was running a fever.

He continued to massage the oil in and then after he was done, he took my scarf and made a turban with it and wrapped it around my neck so it could keep my neck warm.

As we awaited the cook and porter to come in to make breakfast for me, Hamid took my foot and started to massage it, applying accu-pressure to all of the points on both of my feet. Then it progressed on to a full body massage.

I realized as he touched the bare skin on my arms that this was his way of touching me (something that would be considered forbidden)…and I was letting him. I laid there thinking…I think I could live in the desert. I then realized with every touch, I was falling in love with this man.

He didn’t push himself onto me. He was very respectful of that. But as a Muslim Arab, for him to be seen touching me like he was…he would have been in a lot of trouble. What was happening was very private and moving into a direction that could lead to more. I was leaving the camp in a few hours and part of me thought…if you let this happen, you could walk away with a baby. Isn’t that what you want?

I laid there thinking about it as he reached out and ran his fingers through my hair, massaging my scalp. But as Allah would have it, the porter arrived and we had to stop.

Later, as I sat there eating my breakfast, I watched Hamid. I could see him getting sad, because the second I finished eating, Josef would take me back into town to meet Driss and we would head on to our next destination. I then realized that I wasn’t the only person feeling something…he had fallen in love too and these were our last moments together.

The porter asked me when I would come back to see them again. Hamid had told me that I should come back again and he would take me into the desert for six days. In all honesty, I’ve been seriously thinking about it. I’ve also been seriously thinking about going back to the desert and never going back home.

It’s funny what the Sahara can do to you. It can bring two very different people together…an American city girl and a Muslim Arab nomad…and give them a few hours together and have them fall in love.

I told Driss about this. He had asked me a few days ago if I would consider marrying an Arab/Moroccan. After my night in the desert, I think I would. When I told Driss I think I may have fallen in love, he got a huge smile on his face because one night in the desert was all God needed for this moment.

While Driss drove me to the mountains, I kept thinking about how just last night, I was running through the sand dunes with the moon shining above, the stars winking down upon the desert, holding the hand of a nomad.

It’s the stuff that would throw Casablanca (the movie) out of the water. It’s that book that waits to be written…it’s that moment I was looking for when I booked my trip to Morocco back in January. I knew something would happen that would change everything.

Looking at you has been paradise to my eyes today. ~ Hassan (tour guide at Volubilis)

As I write this, I begin Day 5 of my trek around this beautiful desert country called Morocco. While I go back to talk about the places I’ve seen and people I’ve met, I’ll show you the world that the Moroccans have shown to me.

This day begins in Casablanca.

For those who have romantic notions of the city of Casablanca because of the movie starring Humphrey Bogart…wipe this clean of your memories. That is not Casablanca anymore.

Instead Casablanca has turned into a more commercial district. Companies like Samsung, LG, and Citi have popped up with skyscrapers across the desert landscape. The port city has become a booming city filled with so many people that you start to feel like you’re in a third world Times Square on its busiest day of the year. Except…these aren’t tourists. These are the people of Morocco running to and fro with little to no concept of street boundaries.

People walk or bike along the main roadways (think major metropolitan freeways) along with motorcyclists, taxis and cars. There are no lanes…just a bunch of cars all heading in one direction or another…all stacked bumper to bumper. If you survive this shock factor of how you haven’t gotten in an accident just getting from the airport to the hotel, then you’re doing okay…FOR NOW.

The hotel, Royal Mansour (a Le Meridien hotel), is a hotel you may remember from the movie Sex & The City 2. The lounge was featured in the movie.

Sitting in this beautiful lounge filled with Moroccan and international businessmen gives you a sense of importance. You are in a beautiful, very rich place.

While Royal Mansour may not like what I have to say about my accommodations, next time around they’ll get a real review since I will be staying there again in a week. The room I stayed in at the time had a mildew smell to it and the hot water was turned off for some reason (i.e. you turn the hot water nozzle and no water…just the cold side came out with water). I didn’t report it at first because I thought this was Morocco…maybe they didn’t do hot showers. My driver, Driss, told me I should have called the reception to report it because I should have hot water in all of my hotel rooms…so now I know.

The next morning we headed to the Hassan II Mosque. It is the third largest mosque in the world. It is so elaborate. It was designed by craftsman and artisans by hand. In Morocco, you will not find their world designed, decorated and made by machines. They take pride in their skills. Every single thing is made by hand…including the inside and outside of the most elaborate buildings you have ever laid eyes upon…and it is all perfect in every single way.

The one photo I captured at the mosque that I’m very proud of was the moment I captured a Muslim woman in pink walking across the courtyard. I’m not supposed to photograph women in an Arabic country, especially a Muslim woman…that is…unless she’s a widow and has given me permission or her face is completely covered.

In this case, right as I snapped the photo, the wind had picked up from the Atlantic Ocean and her pink shawl fell across her face. It was a brief second and I caught it, making this photo completely acceptable to share with the world.

After we left Casablanca, we headed to Meknes where we stopped to visit a couple of mausoleums and a kasbah. We had stopped to see the Royal Palace in Rabat, but there was something going on at the palace. The guard told me in broken FrEnglish (French/English) that they had reached their limit for the day. I couldn’t visit the royal palace. My driver remarked that the city seemed to have increased security everywhere we went so something must have been going on.

In the late afternoon we headed to Volubilis, the ancient ruins of the Romans. This is where I met Hassan. He’s a tall, older man with a blackened smile. His passion all lie in the ruins of a great Roman city in Morocco. His energy and excitement as he explained his everyday paradise was incredible. He knew every spot where you could take an amazing photo.

As the sun set to the West of the ruins, I was able to catch the first sunset of many in Morocco. You can’t help but look in awe at the sunsets in Morocco. Even watching Driss watch the sunsets…you know you can’t get enough of the splendor and beauty of every Moroccan sunset.

It was Hassan who told me at the end of the tour that he wanted to show me my house. I said, “What house?” He showed me the House of Venus. It was so called that because of the mosaics of Venus found there centuries later.

As Hassan led me to the gates of Volubilis to meet back up with Driss, he said to me that every day he gets to look at this paradise that is Volubilis. It is his paradise, but today, he said “Looking at you has been paradise to my eyes today.”

To this day…that is one of the most beautiful things any man has ever said to me. I would find that most of the men I would encounter on this trip have just as many poetic words. In a way, for me, it makes me feel like I’m falling in love with the country of Morocco.

More on this on Day 32 when I tell you about the carpet seller who invited me into his home to talk to me about spiritual things, love and berber carpets. I’ll also tell you about my tour guide through the medina of Fes.

I will only say that if I came to Morocco to find a husband, I’d have my pick of the lot. There are so many beautiful men here, with such passion in their hearts. They look at the beauty of the soul within, the smile across the face and the passion within a woman’s heart. The eyes are the gateway to the soul, and here…the Arabic men have told me some of the most beautiful things I’ve ever heard uttered in my ear.

They actually make me feel more beautiful than I’ve ever felt in my entire life. I’ll explain more when I tell you about Day 32 as I go through the Arabic medina…which ironically is not in the tour guide books as recommended for tourists. But if you have a native Moroccan man escorting you throughout the medina, you’re fine. I’ll tell you how the Muslim/Arabic men responded to me being within the walls of their medina.

And what I tell you about how I’ve spent my entire time with men and not women…this one will shock you.

I will also say that I’ve had so many conversations about the way of the Muslim/Arabic people and I have to say that there is so much spirituality, love and kindness in their hearts that they are some of the kindest people I’ve ever met. For the loyal readers here, a lot of you know how I freak out when a man makes his intentions known to me…you should be asking why I’m not getting freaked out here with so many men approaching me that the guides have to shew them away. Why am I not scared? Why do I feel completely safe?

That will be for the Day 32 story.

This day is all about the beautiful church that is the Sacre Coeur.

I checked out of my hotel early to head the few blocks to the most beautiful church in Paris. The odd thing was that since I was heading to Morocco in the afternoon, I went ahead and slipped on the wedding bands onto my ring finger. I walked out and headed to Sacre Coeur, only to find that my entire walk there was WEDDING CENTRAL.

Universe, are you trying to tell me something? [For those reading the European adventures…follow the universe’s breadcrumbs.]

The entire walk up to the Sacred Heart (what Sacre Coeur is in English) was filled with wedding shop after wedding shop. From the wedding gowns to the bridesmaid dresses to the groom’s tuxedo to the flowers, cakes, shoes, lingerie and wedding gifts…it’s all there. You are bound to find what you’re looking for in this 1/2 mile of RUE de LA MARIAGE!

That’s not the name, but it should be.

It kind of freaked me out in a weird way, because I’m supposed to pretend like I’m married to someone back in the States while I’m in Morocco. I slip the rings on and instantly, you see a change in the attitude of French men. You see the, “Oh, Bon…” and then they’re like ooppsss…didn’t realize you were married. LOL.

It was rather funny to say the least, but at the same time, I kind of missed all of these beautiful French men approaching me just to say “Bon Jour, Madame,” in that sexy tone. Trust me, it’s very flattering.

When I finally reached the Sacre Coeur, I was accosted by some men trying to put a bracelet on my wrist. They practically block your way up the walkway to the Sacre Coeur just to tie one on. I almost punched one of them for trying to touch me.

They’ll even try to chase you up the steps, just to get one of these bracelets on you. I assume it’s their way of making you pay for something you didn’t want to begin with.

Right after I passed them, an artist came up to me and asked me if he could draw me. I said, “No.” He then started begging which meant I turned a deaf ear on him. He’s no different than those bracelet guys.

After getting through that labyrinth of petty peddlers, I saw her in her absolute majesty. She was so beautiful.

I tried to find a way to go up the steps without being accosted by more of these scam artists and found the more scenic route. This route allowed me to photograph the beautiful gardens to the left of the climb. It was free of most tourists (who try to take the direct path up…which is actually the bigger workout).

I found that in Paris, I manage to always pick up a few stray tourists wanting to be better photographers. A couple saw me photographing Sacre Coeur with the flowers in front of it and then realized that they wanted similar photos.

I don’t mind picking up stray tourists that want photos like this. It actually makes me happy that they are seeing the world through my eyes…finding the beauty in the moment. Trust me, if I find more experienced photographers, I like to hang around, shoot photos, and listen to them, especially when they talk about lighting. Lighting is very important.

Then again, I almost want to tell them, eh…if the photo doesn’t work out you can use a program to fix the photo. If it wasn’t for photo editing…I’d have so much extra crap in photos that I don’t want. All I want is the moment I saw in that photo, not the stuff surrounding it.

As I made my way up to the top of the hill, I came across a harpist that was playing a lot of oldies I grew up with…I’m talking childhood songs that I used to sing that came from my favorite black and white movies. It was nice to sit down and photograph him with the city of Paris behind him. It reminded me a lot of the little trio I saw outside of Prague Castle a few years ago.

Afterwards, I headed on up to the church to photograph the architecture outside. To this day, I still have not gone into the church. I don’t know. Me and churches don’t always get along too well…unless it’s in Prague. I can feel God there. But in other places, I’m not amazed.

In order for Sacre Coeur to remain sacred in my heart, I like to see her from the outside. That’s where her beauty is. I’m afraid to go in and see that she’s not as beautiful inside as she is on the outside. Based on how quickly tourists file in and out of her…kind of tells me there’s not much to see on the inside.

As I headed back out of the church yard, I heard a violinst playing “My Heart Will Go On.”  Now, I never cry to that song.  But for some reason, the way the violinist was playing it, I got really choked up and started to cry.  It reminded me of Kevin and one of those “God, I wish he was here” moments.

I pulled myself together and started to make my way to the stairs when that artist from earlier saw me again and begged me to let him draw me.  I realized he was just looking for a test subject, not money.  He had seen that I was fighting back the tears and commented about how beautiful my eyes were.  Would I let him draw me?

Yeah…no time…gotta get to Morocco!

Oh, and I should mention that suitcase #2 that I bought in Courbevoise…broke down. Or shall I say…it came apart. I’m not kidding! It didn’t survive the cobblestones in Paris!

It is now staying together thanks to my ONE rubber band. I knew I should have packed two of them!

When I say it’s broken down, it means that the wheels are broken or coming off. When I bought this one, it came with nine wheels. I am using only four now. I have a total of six wheels left, because I lost 3 somewhere between Gare de l’Est and the hotel. When I get back to the States, the hunt is on for a qualitative suitcase where the wheels can withstand the terrors of my travels.

Since I’m still on Day 30, and I actually arrived in Morocco on Day 30, I will only share this…

First night was in Casablanca. Guess what hotel I stayed in? The Royal Mansour Le Meridien. It won’t sound familiar to you, but the lobby was featured in Sex and the City 2. It’s where they try the tea when they first arrive, and the football players come parading through. That lobby is in this hotel.

I was quite surprised when I was sitting there. I felt like I was in the movie, when my driver informed me that this was in SATC2. Sweet, right?

I’ll tell you more on Day 31, because that’s when the Moroccan adventure truly begins. 😉

　

If you really want to know what I did on Day 26 and be honest about it…I was in Paris. Actually, I was in a town right outside of Paris (i.e. just over the bridge) called Courbevoise. It’s a nice little place filled with a lot of families.

The diabolical mess of flying in right as all of the trains and buses were ending from Charles De Gaulle airport meant I had to find alternative means to get to Courbevoise…like take 3 buses to get there from CDG.

I got into Paris around 11PM, I got to the hotel around 4AM. No joke.

I started to follow the lead of the Parisians out on a Friday night…don’t pay to use the bus. They snuck me onto the back of the night bus, helped me get my suitcases on and away we went. I got to see Moulin Rouge and L’Arche de Triomphe at night. Very pretty, but no photos because…ahem…too tired and the camera was packed away…and I was on a bus.

I slept in until 11AM after I crashed in the hotel. But when I awoke, I realized that the cigarette smoke had finally gotten to me and I was sick.

My suitcase did not survive Paris the second time around, so I pulled myself out of bed to buy a new one and find a local grocery store. The hotel I was staying in was apartment style, so I had my own kitchen.

I ended up staying in the entire day, nursing myself back to health.

It wasn’t until I headed to Zurich/Zug the next day that my respiratory system started to heal up (I think I can attribute this to the nice mountain air).

I checked into my closet size room (which, by the way, was the most expensive hotel I had to book in my European vacation tour of duty…and it was the smallest room of them all). I got in around 3PM and ended up staying in bed the rest of the day, just to get over the stupid smoke in my lungs. Did I mention I was allergic to cigarettes? Merci, Paris.

The next day, I found my way to Bossard Arena, home of EV Zug. The Rangers skate was canceled (little did I know), so I ended up watching Zug practice that morning.

Here, I learned a little lesson thanks to Coach DeBoer. Never watch the other team’s pre-game skate/practice. You think you’re going to get a good idea of what you’re about to face…and then the game comes and they serve your derrieres right up to you by kicking your ass all over the ice.

Well, that’s exactly what EV Zug did to the New York Rangers. 8-4 was the score, kiddies. Zug scored seven goals on Martin Biron, the eighth was an empty-netter. The atmosphere of the fans at Bossard Arena was AMAZING! It was like nothing I had ever experienced before.

If Canadian fans think there is nothing like being in a Canadian arena to watch a hockey game…go see some Swiss hockey. The Swiss have the Canadians beat. Even the Rangers were talking about never seeing anything like it back in North America. It is that intense.

Trust me, oh Canadians, the Swiss really have you beat.

If you’ve ever been to a football (European soccer) game with flags flying, fans chanting, drums beating, etc. Then you know how European fans are supporting their home team. Put those football fans into a SOLD OUT hockey arena…and there you go. It would be almost similar to the Nordiques Nation invading your arena x3.

It’s that intense.

All I can say is that I’m now a fan of EV Zug after that amazing display. They are fierce out there on the ice. They are really that good.

If you want my opinion of Zug…you’re not really going to get it. I feel duped because I never found those places from the pictures they sent to me. Nothing looked like the photos.

I was also very confused with the whole North/South thing in Zug. They would show me on the map where I was, ok…we were to the north. But then if I wanted to see anything, I had to go south, according to the map. But when you take the train…it goes north to that exact spot.

Trust me, I felt like everything got flipped around. It was so backward and I was confused. I had ZERO sense of direction in Zug. They really confused me with their map.

The only thing I can say if you are visiting Switzerland…make sure you have plenty of money. That place is uber expensive. Take the exorbitant prices of Times Square and multiply it by 2-3 times more. You’ve got Switzerland.

A plain cheeseburger at McDonalds cost 2.50 CHF = $2.88. In the US…a plain cheeseburger costs $1. If you want a SMALL meal (not large or super sized), that will cost you 15 CHF = $17.25. Wow, right? I’m afraid to know what a large or super sized meal would cost.

I will say that the one thing I really loved about Switzerland…everyone walks or bikes. Zug is such a small town that many people walk or bike around. There are ample sidewalks and bike paths on streets that allow people to use these two modes of transportation.

Everywhere you go there are bikes upon bikes upon bikes. They’re practically stacked on top of each other at the train station.

I guess that’s why the air is so much cleaner there…low car emissions.

Throughout most of Switzerland you’ll find a lot of farming communities and then a lot of industry going up left and right. It’s a rather strange thing to see, especially for city folk. Farmland is usually out in the middle of nowhere…not close to the cities. What’s interesting about Switzerland is that they are practically built into each other. Industry and farming co-habitate harmoniously throughout the country. It’s just a very odd sight to see, but it works.

Up next…Paris again. This time, I get to spend some time with an old favorite.

So Tuesday I headed down to Paris from England.  First issue?  While the Brits have stamped my passport as leaving their country…where’s my damn France stamp?  [It’s Thursday as I write this…and all the US government knows is I apparently boarded a plane to the Czech Republic without my passport going through the readers in either France or the Czech Republic…I am currently flying under the radar in both countries.  Not my intent at all because I wanted my France and Czech Republic stamps.  I almost sought out customs to ask them to just run my passport through so US government had a tracker on me and so I could get my stamp!]

At any rate, I was so happy to finally leave London and go to Paris.  The city was so much better the second time around.  The last time I had been to La cite de l’amour was back when I was 16 years old…almost 20 years ago.  A trip to France was long overdue.  I’m so glad I booked my trip to Paris.

I ended up staying in the Latin Quarter.  I wanted to do a few Hemingway stops (because I just finished “The Paris Wife” which is a fictional story about Hemingway and his first wife) and photograph La Notre Dame. 

When I arrived at my hotel, I dropped off my bags because it was way too early to check-in.  The guy at reception was practically falling all over me.  I must be releasing some male magnet hormone or something that I’m ready to get married… [Trust me, I’ve had more men falling over me since yesterday than I’ve had in the last 10 years.]

I decided to visit Le Pantheon first which was several blocks from the hotel.  I stumbled upon this little square a block away just filled with Parisiens, cafes and restaurants.  I saw a sign for a Creperie…and guess where I had my first meal in Paris? 

It was HEAVENLY.  It was sooo good.  After five bites, that was it.  Tummy was completely satisfied with the crepes and the coffee.  So happy…

It was a blessing to have such amazing food after trying not to vomit up everything since Saturday!  I should have really starved myself instead of forcing myself to eat.  The body would have been so much happier. 

After brunch I headed out with my camera, travel guide and map of Paris. 

I saw churches galore.  I saw the Pantheon…and then I headed down Rue de Ste. Michel and voila…hello Latin Quarter bookstores.  I found a copy of “The Little Prince” in French (“Le Petit Prince”) and another young adult book to read in French.

The next bookstore was selling Moliere books for 20 Euro cents.  That’s what?  50 cents in American money?  I was so all over that.  I think I bought 2 copies of Moliere’s works. 

I tried to find postcards that captured Paris in a way that I wanted to see Paris hanging in my kitchen.  No luck whatsoever.

So I ended up heading directly to the Notre Dame Cathedral. 

I sat down and watched all of the tourists.  I kept thinking about the photo I had of my grandfather in my kitchen.  He’s standing in front of the Notre Dame in his beret.  It’s one of my favorite photos of him.  In a way, I could still feel him there.  (God, how I miss him.)

I sat there for about an hour just taking random photos of the cathedral and the gargoyles, waiting to check into my hotel.  It took me a while to realize that my BlackBerry was on London time and not Paris time.  Oops…could have checked in an hour before!

I headed back to the Hotel St. Christophe.  I’m only mentioning them here because they were a friggin godsend after that horrible London hotel. 

The reception decided to give me a room on the ground floor (the only one).  It was so nice because that meant I didn’t have to drag my extremely heavy suitcases anymore. 

The first thing I checked to see…if the outlets worked, because I was highly pissed that the last hotel’s outlets did not work in any of the rooms…only in the lobby bar area (and there were only 3). 

At any rate, after I sat down and ate some of the lunch I had bought at one of the supermarches in the square (heavenly, by the way), I stayed at the hotel until it got close to sunset because I wanted to photograph the Ste. Chapelle at sunset.  They say that’s the best time.

Well, they closed early or something…I don’t know, but I didn’t get that photo.  Security at the government building let me take photos from their parking lot. 

I went back to the Notre Dame to take photos of the Rose windows and…that didn’t happen.  Apparently they were doing some kind of religious ritual ceremony thingy…I don’t know…it’s a functioning church still.  I’d sit down and watch but I didn’t feel God there, so there was no point.  [Yes, I’m brutally honest like that.]

So I headed out to take pictures of the archways (inside the gates).  Security was standing there with me watching me take photos, shewing away other tourists.  I turned around and realized they were closing up the church, so I snapped a few more and then they let me out.  One of the guards remarked that they didn’t want to bother me because they could see what the photos looked like on my screen.  It was like I was entranced in what I was doing and doing something beautiful.  They didn’t want to interrupt me.

Leave it to the French to understand beauty, right?

I took a few more shots around the cathedral and then went to seek out Shakespeare & Co.  It’s a famous bookstore that was frequented by Ernest Hemingway, James Joyce and many other famous writers.  Hemingway was the most popular of the customers.

It took me a while to find the bookstore.  When I finally did, I fell in love with it…but hated the prices.  Talk about the Saks Fifth Avenue of bookstores.  It was extreme markup city.  It would have been nice to pick up a Hemingway book…but not for 16-20 Euros.  You’ve got to be joking!

I finally found their clearance rack and took away a Charles Dickens book for 6 Euros.  I got it because the inscription on the front page told the reader to go to page 272 to remember a special moment in their lives together…it was about kite flying.  How charming is that?

The thing that I loved most about the bookstore?  When you first walk in they have personal photos of Hemingway up on the wall at the entrance.  I especially loved the ones with his first son when he was still a toddler (they nicknamed him Bumby). 

Hemingway committed suicide a good 35 years later.  But those beginning years of his brilliance as a writer…they all took place there in Paris in the Latin Quarter.

As I was leaving the bookstore, I heard the owner calling for someone. I didn’t realize who they were calling for until I saw a black dog come flying out of the park across the way.  She had three pearl necklaces around her neck.  She came running past me in a hurry because she knew she was being called.  Trust me, I was amazed. 

I headed to the park the dog had just came out of to find three British boys no older than 5 years old, running around this central area surrounding a very strange statue.  I took some photos of the statue.  A couple of photographers actually followed me around while I was snapping photos, because they noticed that I was noticing something about the sculpture…I was noticing two people in an embrace and I was taking photos of each of them.  They just followed me around, taking the same exact photo.

After I finished, I went and sat down to rest and just watched the 3 British boys running themselves ragged around the statue…up and down the steps.

The youngest (who was probably 2) decided to sit down in the patch of yellow flowers next to me.  I swear to God it was the sweetest moment ever.  His parents were nearby and it would have been rude of me to snap a photo of their son like that.  You never know with people…but his mom saw the photographic moment and got her camera at the ready and started taking shots.

Next thing you see, the other two boys wanted the same attention so they sat down in the flowers too.

Want to know what I said to myself in that moment?  This is why this season is your final season covering hockey.  You want to be that mom snapping that photo of your boys.  Yeah, the secret is kind of out.  That’s the reason why this is my final season.  I’m 35 and I have to focus on getting married and having a family.  I can’t do that covering hockey, especially if I get pregnant in the next year or two.  My body has a hard enough time already.  Throw in a pregnancy and I can’t guarantee I wouldn’t be bedridden (after all, this 3 week vacation is killing my body already…I’m trying not to take pain killers). 

At any rate, the guard came over a few minutes later to announce they were closing the park.  It wasn’t dark enough to take the photo I was waiting to take, so I headed out to the Seine and sat along the Seine, watching the sunset in Paris.  Yeah…it was beautiful.

As it got darker, the lights to the cathedral turned on and I got to take a photo of the cathedral in green lights and then in white lights.  After I got the desired effect, I got up and made the walk back to the hotel and just crashed on the bed.

I stayed up until midnight trying to find a new hotel in Zug.  No luck whatsoever.  Guess we’ll work on that one later on…

I also spent the evening watching French television.  I am kind of in the middle of speaking FrEnglish right now.  Half French/Half English.  Why?  Because that’s how the French were talking to me!

I have to say I love the French people soooo much.  They’re all so kind.  If they know you’re American, they immediately stop speaking French, even if they know you can.  I think it may be because I’m out of practice and I don’t have the accent down.  I’m probably butchering the language.  Who knows?  LOL.

While I was in Paris for the first of four stops, I kept thinking that I really could spend the rest of my life in this city.  There’s so much to do, so many things to try and experience.  So many things to taste.  It’s just an amazing, free-spirited and peaceful atmosphere. 

For some strange reason, Paris gets me.

At any rate…Day 23…Prague bound to meet up with the New York Rangers.

I’ve been getting a lot of emails from the States from everyone that read or heard about the racist crap I had to go through in London. For the record, it didn’t happen in just Bath.

One thing that I have a hard time tolerating are people that are intolerant of others just because they are from a different race or culture…or they’re not 100% white.

Right after I had posted up the last entry, a couple of women sat down at the table next to me. One of the hotel staff workers came to their table to ask if they wanted anything to drink. The ladies had this horrified look on their face and said, “No, we’re just waiting for the manager so that we can book our Christmas dinners.”

He then left and went back into the next room. Then I heard it. The two old bats decided to talk about his race and how disgusted they were that he even came over to their table (they sat down in a bar…someone came over to serve them…I don’t understand how it was inappropriate). The one woman facing me was doing all of the talking. I kept looking at her in complete disgust rolling my eyes, getting ready to yell at her, “He’s feckin human you stupid twats.”

I have to say that the ONLY people that were nice to me in London were the ones that were not BRITISH…or were of a different race, color or culture. There was not one single white British person that was kind to me. So I will say this…London is filled with a bunch of racist assholes.

I’m so glad I never moved to London.

In all honesty, what I really would have told those two ladies…it is highly inappropriate to talk like that. The fact that a young woman half their age would have to tell them that they were being highly inappropriate is no different than me telling a guy how inappropriate it is for him to follow me a block at 11:45PM to talk to me. He’s two seconds away from being maced.

Extremes of each other? Yes, but the fact remains…someone is about to be (or was) victimized because how you look is being pointed out just to target you.

Now, if you’re still confused about the guy at 11:45PM, I’ll fill in the rest of the details…I live in a rather upscale community. I was walking the two blocks from the train station to my apartment. This guy was across the street, on his phone, walking in the opposite direction. Next thing I know, he’s following me and then comes right up next to me and puts his umbrella over my head (mind you, I have my own umbrella in my hand).

He then started talking about, ‘oh, you’re such a pretty lady….blah blah blah.’ I just looked at him in complete shock and disgust. Seriously…it’s 11:45PM and you are trying to get fresh with a woman in an upscale neighborhood? I stepped away from him and told him how highly inappropriate his conduct was. His response, “I don’t understand.”

If you’re that stupid…will you still be stupid after I mace you?

Every man in the universe knows not to approach a woman like that unless you plan on harming her. Don’t be shocked if she a) maces you or b) (in my case) beat the living shit out of you to the point she breaks your bones. Blame college for all of those rape aggression defense courses they made me take after I was sexually assaulted. Never mess with a woman who would rather kill you than allow you to victimize her. Seriously.

Now that I’ve scared off every guy I know…

Back to London. After the two twats realized they were annoying the hell out of me with their racist talk, they stopped and went back to planning their Christmas dinners.

I decided to make best of what was left of the day and take those London photos I needed to take along the River Thames.

I tuned out the Brits and just enjoyed the day along the Thames.

When I came out of the Westminster underground station, I came out and saw the great London Eye. It was so big and majestic! I was taking photos when an Indian man stopped me and asked me if I would take a picture of him with the London Eye in the background. I said sure.

He explained he was traveling by himself and just needed someone to help him with the picture. I understand…that’s why Henrik the Duck and Marty the Duck travel with me around the world. I take the photos of them since it’s hard to take the photo of myself with monuments in the background. I could ask someone to take the photo of me, but as my friend says…I’m a bit of a snob when it comes to this stuff. I want my photo to look a certain way, with certain moments captured. As she says, I only know what moment I’m looking for through the lens. A stranger wouldn’t understand what I’m trying to capture if I handed them my camera and asked them to take the photo of me.

I took the photo of the guy and handed his camera back to him. He looked at the photo and all he could say was “Wow.” It was apparently a great photo. He thanked me and I turned around to witness Big Ben in his magnificence.

All I can say is Big Ben is one of the most beautiful monuments in London. He’s so majestic and beautiful. There’s so much amazing detail that makes Big Ben one of the most famous clocks in the world.

I walked over onto the bridge so I could capture Westminster and Big Ben in one shot. That’s when the Indian guy found me again and asked if I would take a picture of him in front of Westminster. I said sure. He then asked me if I was an art student. I said no, I wasn’t. He was shocked at this. He then said, “I’m sorry. I thought you were, because the photo was so good.”

I should be flattered he thought me so young, right?

I took the photo of him with Westminster and Big Ben. He protested that there’s no way I could get Big Ben in. I told him I could. When I handed him back his camera, he just looked at the photo in shock saying, “These are so good. These are the best photos of my trip so far.”

I decided to do that man a favor. I took the photo exactly the way I would want my memory of being in a foreign country to last…with the actual monument in the photo behind me just as clear as I am in the photo…and not cut off.

From 2PM until 6PM, I walked from Westminster all the way down to Tower Bridge. I stopped at the Tower of London to eat fish and chips. I sat out on the big pedestrian block, with the Tower of London in front of me. I ended up feeding my dinner to the pigeons. It reminded me a little of Mary Poppins. Remember how he would pay to feed the birds? I felt like I needed to have that exact experience in London too…so I fed my chips to the pigeons.

Afterwards, I finished my walk towards Tower Bridge, snapping photos all along the way. Although, I forgot my memory card in my laptop.  I was completely limited in what I could take. I made sure whatever I caught…it was good enough to keep and not sift through later.

After Tower Bridge, I headed over to my Jack the Ripper Tour. I knew much of the story, but to see the sites as told by a guy that is considered a professional, has done many a documentary on the subject matter, even has a book out there…it was fascinating…and then one of the guys fainted and had a mini-seizure.

The murder photo we had just looked at before he had the spell? The worst and legendary killing by the Ripper. You may have seen the photo…the one where the body could only be identified by the hair and eyes? Actually, I bet if you Google it…that photo will come up.

The tour guide told us…don’t look at the photo unless you can stomach it. Well, apparently he couldn’t and it took him a few minutes and then that great 6’4″ guy came tumbling down face first into the pavement.

I was on the other side of the group. I saw his leg start to twitch and you know what I’m thinking? Why does feckin hockey have to be a pre-cursor to my entire trip? [Note: Wayne Simmonds banana incident=racism bit; Mike Danton saving player who went into seizure on the ice by keeping him from swallowing his own tongue=guy on Ripper tour.]

Now I’m waiting for a homosexual comment or something to be said in my presence…

I will mention that I was the only American on this tour. The only people that were nice to me were the two French women. The rest were all Brits…and I swear that most of those girls were complete bitches to me. Why? I minded myself. The tour guide only pointed me out a few times because he needed to talk about serial killers in the States.

I have no idea why the Brit girls were such bitches. The guys were okay. They kind of took on the more protective role with the ladies since we were all on a scary tour. But the chicks…not sure if it’s an American thing or because I’m the only non-white in the group (as the Brits have pointed out to me so many times).

All I’m going to say was that the tour itself was very informative and interesting. It only cost 12 pounds. So not a bad tour to take for a low price. They even take you down Brick Lane where there’s one curry place after another. I wish I could have found my way back there for some curry…but an American woman on her own through these neighborhoods at night…not smart, so I headed back to the hotel.

So that concludes London. I have had so many people apologize to me for the behavior shown to me during my time in England. Considering it’s home of the 2012 Olympics…yeah…this does not shed England in a positive light. I have friends back in the States now asking me, “You’re not white?”

Apparently I’m not according to the white Brits. Compounded by the American factor…yeah, I totally hate London. I have to go back there on 10/15 for my flight on 10/16. That will be the last time I am ever in England. Although, my brother and I have been talking about heading to Scotland to visit our ancestral roots, I’m reminded of the stories my grandfather used to tell me about why our family headed to America…it was because we would have been wiped out. In order for the royal lineage to continue, they changed their names and moved to America.

The name changed all the way in London before they even boarded that ship to America. They had been hunted down through Europe for many years before they made the trip to America and everything changed. Now the stories are only passed down to the children.

I am the first person to return to the United Kingdom since my ancestors were ousted out of Scotland…all because they were kings.

All I can think about is that we are still persecuted even to this day…and they don’t even know who I am. Instead, they point out that I’m not white. My face may look white, but it’s apparent I’m not white. That’s the new oppression of England.

I do want to apologize to some of my followers from the UK. Not everyone is like this, I know. I’ve had many of my followers apologize that their fellow countrymen have treated me so poorly. Thank you. It is much appreciated. Like I said, not everyone is like that. But it is a problem when every white British person I encountered treated me like shit. I can count only two people that were nice to me. Only two. That should say something about your fellow countrymen. They’re worse than New Yorkers.

Next stop…PARIS.

Odd how this whole trip to England has been. First, the fog and rain meant that almost all of the trains were either delayed or canceled going to Newark Airport. When I finally got to Newark, the Air Train wasn’t working and I had to carry my suitcases down a stairwell to catch a bus to the terminal. Thank God one of the workers found me dragging my 36 pound suitcase down the stairwell.

Everything just wasn’t starting off well at all.  [And yes, I had a feeling the universe was trying to tell me something about London.]

It took two hours to get from the airport to the hotel. It took me forever to drag my suitcases from the train station to the hotel. I was so tired by the time I got to the hotel.

I tried to check-in early so I could refresh a little before heading out to see a show. Answer to that was NO. So I left for the show without even brushing my teeth!

I popped in some gum and asked the usher if I could sit in a row away from everyone else. He said it was fine since it wasn’t a sold out show.

What did I see? I saw “We Will Rock You.” It’s a musical of Queen songs written by Brian May (of Queen) and Ben Elton.

I don’t know if it was the lack of sleep or what, but I started bawling when they did “We Will Rock You.” And then I cried again during “We are the Champions.” And then I really bawled like crazy during “Bohemian Rhapsody.”

I could blame it on the lack of sleep or how I’m 35 years old and my hormones are now starting to go uber weird on me or it’s because I kept thinking of Freddie Mercury and how he should have been here to see this musical. I think it may have been the latter more than anything else.

Freddie Mercury died of bronchopneumonia (from AIDS) just one day after he announced that he had the disease.

Man…rockstars just get to me. I don’t know what it is about them that really make me start crying. I don’t know…I don’t know.

At any rate…that’s all I did on Saturday. I won’t even go into the fiasco of this hotel. I’ll leave that with Hotels.com. I have to charge my laptop and Blackberry in the lounge. The question would be WHY CAN’T I DO IT IN MY ROOM? Well, I would if the damn electrical outlets worked. Don’t even get me started on the…I had to take a bath in a hotel bathtub. To me, that is the grossest thing EVER.

So can’t wait to go to France now.

On Sunday, I headed to Stonehenge and Bath. Stonehenge was interesting and boring all at the same time. The only thing that caught my attention were the flocks of black birds that hang around the Stonehenge. They fly around in huge flocks around the entire Stonehenge area. I’ve only seen that happen when graveyards and death were around. Oh wait, apparently that’s what the Stonehenge is. Well, according to the latest research, that’s what it is. It’s involved in death rites.

I found it interesting that Druids do practice there (which I don’t know how they can if they can’t get anywhere close to the Stonehenge), but the Druids building the Stonehenge…that’s a MYTH. Learn something new every day.

After Stonehenge, we headed to Bath. I’m really glad I booked this tour because London is boring. You see one city, you’ve seen them all. In Bath, home of the Roman Baths in England, we got to see some incredible Georgian architecture. It was very pretty, but too much shopping. In other words, when I see Banana Republic and Gap…you know I’m not interested in shopping.

I did buy a leather journal where the guy embossed my name on it for me. While he was embossing my name, we got to talking. Ends up, he played hockey when he was a kid. He told me how much crap he used to get when he played, because everyone is so into football in England (that’s soccer in American). So he ended up quitting, but he loved the fact that there was a bona fide hockey columnist buying one of his leather journals.

Odd in the universe’s way.

Now, I’ve been tweeting about what happened at the famous Pump Room Restaurant in Bath today. I was eating my potato and leek soup, sandwich and chips (chips=french fries; crisps=potato chips in the English language). I was enjoying the fact that my stomach wasn’t protesting the food…that is, until two large groups of women were seated in the sections around me.

They kept looking at me and I couldn’t figure out why. I was just enjoying myself in this lovely restaurant, listening to the man playing the piano. Even the mineral water that has ‘healing properties’ was really good (when spiked with strawberries). Then I heard it.

I heard a woman at the next table talking about how my face looked white but it’s apparent that I’m not white. I turned around in mid-meal and asked for the check. I had lost all appetite.

The waitress thought I didn’t like the food. I told her the food was fine. She gave me my check and I gave her 20 pounds. I gathered my things because I decided I wasn’t going to wait for my change. I got up and as I was walking towards the door, I heard her talking to the maitre’d about my strange reaction. She had this odd look on her face like she didn’t understand what had just happened. I walked by and she tried to give me back my change. I said, “No, keep it.”

Both she and the maitre’d were like, “Wow, that’s so nice of you.”

I just wanted to get the hell out of there. It was after that woman pointed out I wasn’t white that I looked around me and noticed that I was the only non-white person in that entire restaurant. It wasn’t the staff that was the problem…it was the customers.

Really? I don’t think about skin color, so to hear a person talking about race and how I’m not WHITE in a restaurant that apparently has NO ONE OF COLOR or of a different race in that establishment…I am not waiting another second to be belittled by an asshole that ended up sitting down next to me.

All I was doing was enjoying my lunch in solitude. Why both tables had to raise the topic of my skin color…or why I was even discussed is beyond me. I wasn’t bothering them. In all honesty, they were bothering me…staring and talking about me.

I was there before they were. I was enjoying my meal quietly. They came and sat down around me and then kept staring at me…even turning around to look at me. I have never met any group of people that were so rude.

I grew up in a town where racism was a part of every day life. The one black kid that showed up during my sophomore year was chased out of town. While most kids in my class and at school didn’t care about my skin, I went away to college, came back and I’m practically being chased down the street with a pitchfork in hand with some old guy screaming, “We don’t want your kind in this town.”

I had to run into the library to seek sanctuary. I literally locked the door behind me. The librarians took one look at me and remembered me from all of the years I spent studying everything I could that I couldn’t get in school. They provided me with sanctuary. The eldest of the librarians went to the door to make the old man leave. She wouldn’t even unlock the door.

I couldn’t understand, because I grew up in that town. My brother was still going to school there. Why would anyone act that way?

I never went back to my hometown again. Even when we have our high school reunion, I don’t go. That’s a world I could leave behind.

Even recently, with my brother and I talking about our family, we’re the outcasts. It’s come down to race. Our family doesn’t want us around because we’re not white. Well, I should say that the matriarch has decided this for the family.

I never thought about skin color or race…not even to this day. But I know when someone with hate in their hearts is aiming it at me, I shouldn’t stick around any longer. You can’t change someone’s mind that there’s nothing wrong with you. You’re a normal human being. All they see is that you’re not white.

I never answer questions about my race because it’s so personal and not for a complete stranger to know. If I know the person, then I’m okay telling them. I don’t tell strangers because I believe you must have racist blood in you if you have to ask what makes me different from you. My answer is usually, “I’m human and that’s all you need to know.”

I’ve been saying that since I was in the 7th grade when asked what my race was on one of those standardized tests. I always marked OTHER and wrote in “HUMAN.” It’s something I still live by to this day. I look at people through their humanity, not through their race or skin color.

On Sunday, when Georges sent me the link to the Colored Hockey League, I thought…YES…why are we not all human, yet? Why is an entire hockey league regarded as non-existent in the hockey history books? Why are they excluded? Why have we not moved on to be human beings?

Ah…see there was a reason why I posted up those two videos yesterday.

Some races or skin colors get prejudices worse than others. I usually brush off most “CHINK” comments or someone pointing out my skin color, but I’ll tell you something…I will not entertain idle talk about how I’m not white. Yeah…I’m human and proud of it. If you have a problem with me excluding myself from the white race, even though I have royal Scottish blood pulsing through these veins, then FUCK OFF.

If the British hadn’t invaded Scotland, those racist bitches would be kissing my royal ass for the opportunity to sit in the same restaurant as me.

And another thing…I’m a writer and the way I’ve immortalized them in my universe is by calling them a bunch of classless racist ignorant bitches…not to mention 100% rude.

The waitress and maitre’d though…they knew something had happened when I practically jetted out of there. I didn’t have the patience to explain to them that they had sat a bunch of racist bitches around me. It’s not their fault because they had no idea. Ignorance can be hidden until someone opens their mouth and lets it be known.

Getting back to that guy that played hockey as a kid…there’s a universal irony here that years later, he ended up meeting a hockey writer from NYC (he said he was there just recently…during Hurricane Irene). He told me about the prejudices he had endured as a child just to play the game of hockey…right after I had experienced that racial crap at The Pump Room restaurant just an hour before.

You know what I’m thinking, right? England is not my kind of place.

In London alone, there is a strange vibration here in the city that makes all of the electronic devices I’m carrying around me shake. For me, in my condition, it wears down the body at a much faster pace. I’m sleeping more because my body is saying that there is something wrong.

It’s coupled by the fact that my stomach really hates London. I mean I try to eat and then it just decides…nope…hate it. Stop trying to put it down. It sucks…won’t allow it down.

Also, what is their fascination with chips (i.e. French Fries in American)? Or shall we say…ANYTHING POTATO. Every meal, a plate of ‘chips’ comes with it. I hate telling the waitress…ummmm my stomach doesn’t like ‘chips.’ It abhors it.

But for the sake of being in England, I’ve been attempting to eat chips sans ketchup and with vinegar. I said I’ve been attempting the British tradition. My stomach still doesn’t like it.

They also have too much cold food. Hot food is so bland my stomach is ready just to protest it all and say…we’ll eat when we get to France. The only thing I’ve liked since I got here is the potato and leek soup from The Pump Room. At least I got that down before the bitches sat down next to me.

I’ve also tried their cheese sandwiches, because I heard a little girl going on and on about how she couldn’t wait to have a cheese sandwich. Not grilled cheese, mind you. I’m talking two slices of bread with some kind of non-American cheese in the middle.

I found Camden Food Co. on Sunday…an organic market. But they only sell take away food, so it’s only sandwiches and pastries. I’m not a big fan of cold food, but it’s either this or give in and starve until Paris.

Trust me, that fear of food has really set in. Fear to not find suitable means, and fear that the body will not allow it in. I’ve had more instances of needing to throw up then I’ve had in the last year. It’s just a sign that English food is not good for you at all.

So back to Bath. I enjoyed watching the street performers. I saw a tightrope walker that played the violin. I saw a guy on a unicycle juggling torches. Bath is a very beautiful village. I picked up 3 classic books and that leather-bound journal. At Stonehenge, I bought a jar of lemon cured butter and a gooseberry chutney. Guess we’ll see if it’s any good when I get back to the States.

It’s probably bland. But at home, I can make it taste better.

I captured a lot of pictures of Bath while I was there. Maybe not as much as I usually would, but it’s enough. There’s just something about England that I’m not seeing the beautiful moments. It’s a place that still talks about the war (I’m talking about World War II, the Battle for Waterloo…you get my point).

On the way to Bath, the tour guide pointed out a village the Military of Defense took over back in World War II. They said they needed it for state reasons. Everyone was supposed to get their homes back after the war, but no one did. The village is a complete ghost town…and by village, I’m talking about a good 30,000 residents there. Imagine a whole town completely left to fall to ruins. No one is allowed to live there or go within a mile of it. It’s called the Lost Village of Imber.

Bath was spared the German bombers because it was too far out of reach for them back then. In a way, it was a good thing. There’s a lot of history there dating back to the Romans in 5 B.C.

Bath is a beautiful place. If you’re ever in England, make the Stonehenge/Bath tour part of your trip. It’s pretty, but don’t let the yahoos get to you.

Back in London today (Monday). I’m supposed to tour around London today, but I may just go and lay back down in bed for the next few hours. I had to take an allergy pill today and my body is still feeling that strange vibrating pull.

I’m glad I never moved to London. I’m glad I moved to NYC instead. I think I would have hated London. As the Bath hockey player said, “Every city starts to look the same.” That is the truth. Everywhere I go, I think…I’ve seen that in NYC. There are stores like that back in NYC. In other words, if I can find it back home, I’m not visiting it or shopping there.

Even the style of clothes…not so different than casual stuff back in the States. Rather bland, I might say.

I guess you can say that the thrill and excitement of London…it’s quite boring.

So much of it sucks. The hotel I’m in…I have to sit in the lounge in order to charge my laptop and Blackberry. Going green for this hotel meant non-working outlets in each of the rooms…and no real showers. Just so gross sitting in a hotel bathtub to clean yourself. So gross.

At any rate…I so need to lay down. My body is begging to leave London now rather than tomorrow morning.

Maybe after I rest again I can find something about London that I’ll love. I’m keeping the opportunity to be amazed open to possibilities.

So today’s not really hockey related…or maybe it is…but R.E.M. broke up today. 

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_eyFiClAzq8]

When I Google R.E.M. I get Michael Stipe’s penis.  WHY?!?!

Very frightening image…and I didn’t even see the actual photo.  Just disturbing. Very disturbing.  *Washing my brain out with soap*

This is what happens when Twitter breaks the news BEFORE the rest of the media world can write the friggin story!  Michael Stipe’s 51 year old penis is the headline first.  Why post it up on Tumblr, Michael?  WHY?!?!?

The only good thing I can think of that could flush out the hairy penis from Google is a R.E.M. breakup.  So with that…thank you R.E.M. for breaking up today.

*shudders*

Just gross.

In other news, Mike Modano made the announcement on Facebook that he is retiring.  Press conference will come later this week (he said Friday?).  Interesting to see he used social media to break the news rather than have the NHLPA or the Dallas Stars release the presser. 

***

So besides preparing the office and the apartment for my vacation away for the next 3 weeks, I’ve been doing some London research.  I just booked my hotel today in London.  Always interesting to see the rates drop as the weekend approaches.  So far, this trip is costing me $7,000+.  That’s more than I spend in 5 months.  $7,000 for just 3 weeks.  Trying not to soak that number in and hate myself for spending $7,000+ on a vacation.

I’ve been researching Stonehenge/Bath tours today.  One company had me cracking up.  Excluded from the tour was the return portion of the trip back to London.  Really?   What’s the point then?  LOL.

Along with Stonehenge, I’m also researching the Jack the Ripper tour.  Being as Halloween is not too far around the corner and it’s fall…I thought it would be a nice, fun thing to do while I’m in London.

The main reason for going to London?  To see Christopher Marlowe’s “Faust” at the Shakespeare Globe.  I actually own a copy of “Faust.”  Like…the really old copy that’s a few centuries old.  When I saw that Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre would be doing a performance of it, I booked my vacation around that show.  That will be one of the highlights of my trip.

I’m keeping this one short and sweet because I’m on London time and I’ve got lots to do before I leave on Friday…like pack.  Happy Hump Day, folks!

 

 

Today is filled with a lot of mixed things going on.  The big event today is Kristin Chenoweth at the Russian Tea Room.  I’m so excited that I’m going to be able to photograph her today. 

The news for today…

1. The hockey wives have decided to develop a fund to help the wives of the Lokomotiv club.  You can donate here.  So far, I see that Eric Nystrom, Zach Parise, Travis Zajac and Fedor Tyutin have donated to the fund.  Tamara Ribeiro (Mike Ribeiro’s wife) even posted that the Dallas Stars wives are going to try to sell bracelets at American Airlines Center.

For those who are not Facebook donation savvy…there’s a link to the left that says DONATE.  Follow the directions after clicking on that link. 

2.  Sean Avery threatens to punch out NY Post reporter.   Alright, it made me laugh.  Seriously…it made me laugh, especially after reading the NY Post news on the Devils yesterday.  That NY Post…they just keep on making enemies instead of friends.

3. If anything, last week’s hockey devastation has shown that when it comes to hockey, there are no barriers when an entire team is lost.  There’s no KHL or NHL…there’s just a hockey community.  We felt the loss as if it were one of our own teams…not just the KHL’s team.  Because of that, KHL president Medvedev said that the tragedy made him rethink his relationship with the NHL. “Need to meet with Bettman, take steps forward.” 

There is always a silver lining in even the worst of situations.  Even good can come from the most horrific moments in history.

4.  HBO has started filming 24/7 today with the New York Rangers.  That reminded me that I had to decide whether to request (before the season has even started) if I can cover the Winter Classic (even if as a photographer)…or put down a couple thousands of dollars for ONE ticket to the game.  We’ll see what ends up happening.  I’m thinking…I may end up buying a ticket to the game…unless some New York Ranger or Philadelphia Flyer takes pity on me and scores me a ticket.  [Hint, Hint.]

5.  NHL All-Stars.  Looks like I may be in Canada a lot in January.  The All-Stars game takes place on January 29th in Ottawa. 

6. Devils Golf Tournament.  The 2012 NJ Devils golf tournament takes place tomorrow at the Upper Montclair Country Club in Clifton, NJ.  I’ll be running around the golf course all day taking photographs.  If you’re not following on Twitter, I suggest you do so for photos during the day and random discussions.  @MichelleKenneth

7. Wade Belak & Depression.  There is a reason why I decided not to do a special piece on Wade Belak after he committed suicide a few weeks ago.  I think the last entry at Losing 100 Pounds of Unhappiness should explain it all.  If I know someone has committed suicide and has left behind loved ones like a wife and children, I do pass judgment.  When you’ve been that wife or that lover or that girlfriend…there are some things that are very hard to discuss.  Anger is usually the first thing that comes to mind.  Forgiveness comes later.  This article written by Michael Landsberg is probably the only thing you should ever read about Wade Belak and depression.

It’s written by a person who lives with depression.  There was one point he makes in his article that I’ve thought about a lot since Wade died, “Suicide is what happens when the angel of death and the angel of mercy start working together.” 

The last person to commit suicide in my life was my boss a year or two ago.  He had just started working at the company.  He talked about his kids like they were the world to him. 

But a week before he killed himself, we started to notice that something was off in the universe, especially when he was around.  We’re talking weird stuff…like little imps messing with you and the people around you. 

Something weird had happened right after he passed my desk.  I turned to my co-worker and said, “Did you feel that?”  She said, “Yes.  That is so weird.”  Then I heard that laugh…that impish laugh that accompanies death. 

That weekend, he killed himself. 

On Monday, his real first official day after spending 2 weeks in training, he didn’t show up to work.  I thought it was strange. 

That night, during meditation, you know that time that’s supposed to be all peaceful and carefree…your one on one time with God…God decided to show me something else.  He said, “You can’t save him.  It’s already too late.”  He showed me my boss…dead.

The next day, my boss didn’t show up to work again.  I called human resources and said something’s wrong.  I called him.  He never returned my calls.  I emailed him, text messaged him and nothing. I asked them if they would please call someone to find out if he’s returning to work. 

That night, his mother called the office and spoke to the Human Resources Director and said that he had committed suicide.  The worst of it…she asked the Director to tell me thank you for letting them know, because it was my worry that alerted them that something was wrong.  If it wasn’t for me, they wouldn’t have found him.

Personally, they could have left out that last part.  I’m too fragile when it comes to that stuff.  I was afraid to meditate after that.  I actually had to get counseling from the sisters at the meditation center.  I was afraid that God would show me something like that again. 

After some time, I was able to meditate again, but it just wasn’t the same. 

Knowing the details of Belak’s death…I’m just too fragile to talk about it.  But I’m glad that Landsberg did.  Truth be known, no one knows what was going through Wade’s mind when he decided to leave this world.  But I do know one thing is for sure, when those little imps start whispering in your ear…if you can’t find the light to get out of that darkness, they will tell you things so horrific about yourself that you feel like ending it all. 

I know, because I’ve been to that point.  But if it wasn’t for meditation, I never would have sensed that evil was following me.  I never would have known how to banish it from my mind.  It’s like a switch.  You can flip on the light, or keep walking in the darkness. 

I recognize that impish laugh.  It surrounds death.  I say their impish, because they like to do very mischevious things to the living.  It’s all in an effort to destroy that person.

Landsberg’s discussion on Belak and depression is probably one of the best stories I’ve ever read about depression and suicide.  It’s one of those…don’t try to understand what was going on through his mind when he left behind his wife and two kids.  Just don’t try to understand.

****

In the other world…I’ve been reading “The Paris Wife.”  It’s a story about Ernest Hemingway and his first wife.  So far it’s been a great backdrop to the places I’ll be visiting while I’m in Paris.  I can’t wait to sit in the same cafes that Hemingway, Ezra Pound and James Joyce frequented.  Who knows…after this trip, I may not want to come back to the States.

What I find interesting is that while Hemingway was trying to get his book off the ground and get someone interested in publishing his work, he lived in Paris with his newlywed wife, living off of freelance work for the Toronto Star and International News Service.  His heart was never in being a reporter.  He went from one rejection letter to the next.  Ezra Pound and Gertrude Stein both tried to help Hemingway find his way to getting published.

Despite the rejections in his career, he still carried on.  He knew he would be published someday.  He kept chasing that dream, no matter what the cost. 

You know, I admire that about Hemingway.  He reminds me of myself, as well as how pursuing a dream is all the same routine.  You have to keep going at it again and again and again until one day you reach your brilliance and someone out there understands it enough to publish your stories.  But the point of it all…you have to start from somewhere.  I believe the old adage is true that the more hours you clock in to achieve your dream…the more likely your dream will come true.  10,000 hours is all it takes according to Malcolm Gladwell (“The Outliers”).

Ten years ago today was a day that none of us would ever forget.  I still remember at 7am that morning on the way into work in Tysons Corner, Virginia, that I told myself, “This will be a day you will never forget.”  Ironically, a decade later “Never Forget” is still the slogan for 9/11. 

A month after 9/11, I moved out of Washington, DC and into Northern Virginia.  Not even a year had passed that I decided to change my life.  I realized on 9/11 that I had dreams…dreams that needed to happen.  If I had died that day, what in the world would go on my epitaph?  What have I accomplished?  What have I done?

That day set the change in my life to do something with it.

A decade later, I’m living in New York City.  I can only remember dreaming with my roommate about living in the Big Apple.  Carrie Bradshaw made us dream and dream big about living in the big city, wearing designer clothing…and LIVING each and every single day to its fullest.

It’s funny that these days, in my group of friends, I’m the Carrie Bradshaw…the writer of the group…I just write about hockey most of the time.

There are always some sort of silver lining in the most horrific of events.  We grow to love the ones we’ve taken for granted like our local police departments and firemen.  I’m reminded every day as I walk by the fire department on 48th and 8th Avenue, just how many men lost their lives on 9/11. 

The guys that work there now have become a tourist attraction.  I’ll admit…like in Sex and the City…every woman in New York City is looking out the side of their sunglasses as they see a fire truck driving by.  After all, some of the sexiest bachelors in New York City ride around on that big red fire engine. 

9/11 taught us to stop taking things for granted in life.  Tell the people you love that you love them, just in case you never get to.  Live every moment as if it is your last.  Live like there’s no tomorrow.  Cherish freedom.

I can imagine back during the emancipation of the United States from England, what it must have been like when America became free.  Today, we fight to protect that right…a right many of us took for granted until 9/11/01.

As I move into the new chapter of my life, I’ve started to fall into the things in life that I love.  Music is one of them.

When I first got my hockey column, my editor told me that I needed to start taking photographs.  Of course, I thought she had to be insane.  Me, take photographs?  Oh, was she in for some bad photography.

It took one step at a time.  One camera at a time.  One passion to take over in order for me to realize…you could find love behind the lens of a camera.

Friday night’s photography experiment has actually been much better than I thought it would be.  Would you believe that photographing some rockstar would net me more unique hits to this site than I’ve had since I began covering hockey?  The number of hits have gone up 6x the normal hit count for the busiest traffic day to this site.

Constantine Maroulis is actually using one of my photos as his avatar on his Facebook fan page.  Surprised?  Yes, I am surprised.

As I go through each photo that I plan to hang in my home and in my office during the makeover that will happen when I return from my three week vacation, I realize…hmm…I could make a living off of this. 

There really is no money in hockey unless you play for a team.  I’ve been forbidden from selling my work (because we get into that royalty thing because of the emblems and the logos).  Even if I were to turn it into artwork and claim First Amendment rights as an artist, would it be worth the pain of going to court over it?  No, not really.

There are countless photos from the hockey realm that never get published.  NEVER.  Because I don’t write that much.  I have thousands to choose from.

But take a little thing like a rockstar…fans want what you can offer to them.  I mean think about it…Constantine Maroulis is 6x more popular than hockey.  Do the math.

I’ve been talking to my friends about photographing more and selling the work.  Their response is to go for it.  They all say I’m talented enough and take great pictures.  My friend that asked me to photograph her wedding…you want to know what she was more excited about?  The fact that she knew that I would turn her wedding pictures into artwork.  I wouldn’t be handing her a bunch of photos…I would be designing artwork with it too.

I think the reason for the excitement lies in the fact that I love to do it.  I learned from the model Marti Vodrazkova that there’s no such thing as a bad photograph.  You can always change any photograph into something better.  You can edit it…just like you can edit a story.

After all, every magazine in the world edits their photographs, right?

I’ve been looking at various sites to sell my work.  I think back during my rookie year when Zach Parise told me I shouldn’t be giving these photos/artwork away, I should be selling them…and I remember telling him, “Not now…maybe later.”  Well, it’s later and I’m ready. 

I’ve noticed that several record labels have been checking out the photos from Friday night.  Could it mean more work in the future?  Guess we’ll see, because I’m scheduled to photograph two talented ladies this week.  We’ll see what I see on the other side of that lens.

There are books I’ve been contemplating putting together from my vacations.  I feel like it’s time.  I usually stand in Barnes & Noble looking at photography books of places I’ve been…and all of the photos look exactly like mine.  I’m standing there thinking, “I could do this.”

My friend laughed at me when she went through my Prague guide book and noticed some of the photos in the book.  She told me that it looked like I took every single picture in the book, but the ones I took were better, because I followed Czechs around and took photos of them…lovers, children with their parents, guys sleeping on a park bench, the beggars, fishermen…I took pictures of life in Prague…and everything else in the guidebook (but better, as she says).

I used to be a horrible photographer.  I mean HORRIBLE.  But now…I’m okay.  As an editor…well, I’m better than okay.

You see, when I go through photos I’m looking for a moment.  I’m trying to capture a moment in life.  It may mean nothing to the person at the time, but actually I’m looking for the beauty in that moment.

I’ll never forget following a mother and her daughter for a couple blocks in Prague, just trying to photograph the innocence of the moment.  When I found two middle aged people making out on the castle wall in Vysehrad, all I wanted to do was sneak a couple of photos of them…because it was beautiful.  They were so passionate!

There was one guy begging for money outside of St. Nicholas’ church…I thought it was the most beautiful thing I had seen in Prague. 

There are things in life we take for granted.  Sometimes just taking a moment and capturing the things that are beautiful in some strange way…that is what fills us with love, joy and happiness.  At least for a photographer it does.

When I picture myself, I picture myself selling my photos and being really good at it.  That is the way I envisioned myself at the start of my ‘hockey writing career.’  Crazy, right?  No, I’m not switching to being a photographer photographing the Devils.  I’m just expanding my work into a new realm.

Going back to the Constantine is 6x more popular than the NHL work…just imagine if it were a more popular celebrity.  Maybe, just maybe my return to music will be about photographing those rockstars.  Guess we’ll see where this all leads.  All I can say now is that I’m going to be selling my work. 

Like I said…the NHL work is not for sale.  But the other stuff I’ve photographed…get your credit cards and checkbooks ready.  I feel like stretching out on canvas.

Honestly, I thought I was done.  I finished up the Jonathan Toews and Steven Stamkos photos and then saw a bunch of dark photos.  Oh, what’s that?  It’s the Constantine pics I was really looking for to make the Rockstar artwork. 

This is actually what I was looking for at the concert when I wanted to create a Rockstar series.  It may not be to everyone’s taste, but when I think of what I would want to decorate my home in…this is the type of artwork I’m looking for.

It’s a hit or miss with most.  No one will know this is actually Constantine Maroulis…unless I tell you it’s him. 😉

And of the photos taken…this one is defintely going up in my office.

This one reminds me of Bono and the Edge for some strange reason.  I think Anton Corbijn may have taken a similar photo.

And this one…just looks like an album cover to me. 

Guess I have plenty of new ‘rock and roll’ artwork to go up.

As I was going through the Jonathan Toews and Steven Stamkos photos from yesterday, I found a few more Constantine pictures. I have no idea how they got mixed up in there!  The Toews and Stamkos pics will be up a little later today, but here are the rest of the Constantine photos from last night.  [And girls, be patient…Toews did a wonderful job looking into the camera, so I’ll have some gems for you.  Yes, Winter Adams…I know you hate me. 😉 ]

Oh, and according to my schedule, not only will I be taking photos at the New Jersey Devils golf tournament next week, but it looks like I’ve got Kristin Chenoweth and Suzanne Vega on the sched next week, too!  “My name is Luka…”

Without ado…here’s the last of the Constantine pics from last night.

 

And the fave of the bunch is this one.  It’s so peaceful.

Also, after listening to the album (third time since last night)…I’m only going to say this…the songs that really stick out to me happen to be the ones written by Constantine. There’s a different feel to them, a different meaning. 

I was reading the lyrics to “So Long” and saw myself back in 2004 leaving the man I loved (the rockstar that will remain nameless) and heading to New York City.  He thought I was moving to Los Angeles.  He found out two weeks later, after I moved to NYC, that I didn’t move to LA like we planned.

“So Long” is like that song that summed up exactly why I left for NYC.  You’re always scared that you made a mistake, because you know this person was something very special to you.  I mean…it was like God was winking at the two of us.  But the fact remained…he had broken my heart. 

I needed to be lost in a sea of eight million people where he wouldn’t find me so that I could heal what was left of me.  I left before he could completely destroy me like Dorian Gray did to Basel.  Yeah…that rockstar…he’s my Dorian Gray.

Last night, maybe in a drunken haste, listening to that other guy who watched me and the rockstar fall in love, I wondered if I made a mistake in not staying with that guy.  He stood at the back of the club that one night because he had to see it for himself.  He had to see if some other rockstar had stolen my heart…and he saw it was true.  He saw the way we looked at each other.  He saw the way that other rockstar would look at me when I wasn’t looking, and he knew he had lost me to someone else.

I broke that rocker’s  heart and he headed to the studio a couple of months later and worked out that broken heart in the studio…and made something incredible.  It came from his heart. 

That’s what I love about the songs written by Constantine.  It comes from the heart.  He sings the song differently.  You can feel the song much differently than when he sings someone else’s song.

Ironically, the songs he writes…I can relate the story to some page in my life…when rock and roll was actually part of my life.

This was supposed to go up yesterday, but because of the tragic event that occurred, it just made sense that it wait a day.

Today’s picture is actually a photo that my grandfather took of me when I was 8 or 9 years old down in Morganton, Georgia (in the Blue Ridge Mountains).

When my grandfather passed away, I saw this photo up in his home.  It was always one of his favorite photos (when he used to be the photographer, just like his brother). 

There were a lot of things happening on this day that would end up shaping and changing my future for the better and create a stronger bond between me and my grandfather.  One thing’s for sure…this day gave me someone that let me know I wasn’t alone.  I had somebody. 

Miss you, grandpa.

2.  I Love You, Goodbye (Celine Dion).  If you read the latest entry over at “Losing 100 Pounds of Unhappiness,” you’ll understand why this song is listed here today.

1.  Running to Stand Still (U2).  I think we’re all running to stand still.  Just a profound song.