The Hammam

            As we continue farther, the atmosphere becomes dense and breathing becomes difficult.  The air is so thick with moisture that it seems as though we are walking through clouds.  Not the happy, white clouds that sit high up in the sky and impart upon their guests a cool, bright, tingling feeling, but rather the muggy, steamy clouds of the low lands, the type to be found in an uninhabited swamp in southern Louisiana, trapped between a canopy of old, damp limbs and leaves above and the muddy mire of the bog below.  The humidity threatens to break out in a full blown downpour at any moment.

            We reach the final room and the heat is stifling.  Wispy pillars of steam rise up from the giant blue buckets lining the walls and slowly climb higher until they reach the ceiling above.  There, large drops of condensation hang upside down, tempting gravity as they grow and stretch until finally they are too heavy to hold their footing and fall down towards the tiled floor, splashing quietly before they begin their slow descent down an unnoticed slope, into the gutter and out into the street.

Men and boys of all ages accompany the buckets.  They sit and they squat.  They stretch out upon the ground and they curl up into balls.  They splash the scorching hot water on their face, hair, and neck and let it run down the length of their almost naked bodies, reveling in the sweet burning sensation.  They focus their thoughts on this sensation alone, allowing all worry and apprehension to be washed away from their minds as the dirt is washed away from their skin.  Some are covered head to toe in soapy lather, scrubbing furiously at their arms and chests and legs.  They go on to elicit the help of a neighbor, whether friend or stranger, to wash the hard to reach places on the back and shoulders.  No one is refused.  Little boys wrestle and play in the corner, splashing water on each other and giggling loudly until an old man with sad eyes and thinning hair addresses them.  This is no place for games, he says.  This is a place for relaxation and quiet, for meditation and bonding, for cleansing the body and the mind.  Other patrons look on, nodding approvingly, and the boys cease with their games and lie out, face down on the warm, wet floor, still giggling softly to themselves.  But the giggles soon give way to smiles and the smiles, in turn, fade to nothing.  Before long, the only thing left on their young faces is the look of quiet contentment, a peaceful calm that is found only by surrendering to the heat.

Mrka

            “Tariq. Tariq!”

            “Eh?”

            “Aji takul.”

            “Waxxa.”

            It’s just past one in the afternoon; lunch is early today.  As I descend the stairs the aroma of simmering meat and vegetables grows stronger in my nostrils.  “Mrka,” I mumble.   As I enter the dining room I see that the table is already set; four small plates of tomatoes, cucumbers, olives, and onions, salted and oiled; a basket of homemade bread, still steaming and wrapped in a well-worn dish towel; and three small bowls of olive oil, each boasting a few leftover bread crumbs that have sunk down to the bottom like the jagged fragments of a tiny ship that became lost and was broken apart upon the sea.  I greet my father with a quick “Salam” and take my customary seat on the far side of the table; just left of where two couch cushions meet.  Shortly thereafter my mother enters from the kitchen carrying a large plate with potatoes, carrots, and beef piled high, forming a sort of mountainous island surrounded by a murky, brown sea of watery, stew-like gravy, the result of a four hour cooking process.  My mother unwraps the bread, tears off sizeable chunks, and doles them out to the family.  My father accepts his piece, says “bismillah”, and pops an especially plump, black olive in his mouth.  I accept my bread, tear off a small portion, and mumble, “mrka.”

            If you plan on spending any considerable amount of time learning how to cook mrka like a Moroccan, I would encourage you to reconsider.  I don’t mean to say that this Moroccan dish isn’t delicious, it is; nor do I believe that you shouldn’t want to learn a new culinary style, you should; it’s just that one need not spend any time at all learning this particular skill.  If you have ever made stew or have ever used a pressure cooker then you are ten tenths of the way to becoming a Moroccan mrka chef.  It really is that simple.

            For those of you who like things in neat, ordered lists, the following steps provide a surefire way of creating a classic mrka dish:

1.      Pick your favorite red meat and vegetables.

2.      Pressure-cook them until they lose all semblance of original texture.

3.      Serve with bread.

That’s it.  Perhaps the incredulous among you don’t believe that capturing the essence of a national dish can be boiled down to three steps, especially when one step involves picking ingredients and another involves serving the meal.  However, I can assure you, as a lifelong consumer of food and current expert on all things Moroccan, that this time-tested method of preparation is sure to have you cooking mrka like the pros in no time.

A final piece of advice: if your vegetables crunch at all during the meal, consider yourself a failure; this is the most obvious sign of an amateur.  If the vegetables put up a brief, futile attempt at resistance against your teeth, take heart, you may yet become a great Moroccan chef.  And if the vegetables put up no fight; if instead they melt away as though they had been pureed and then reformed to look like the vegetables that they once were, then give yourself a well deserved pat on the back, for you have just created the perfect mrka dish.

Patio Café

            Cigarette smoke as thick as London fog hangs over the heads of patrons of Patio Café.  Miniature tea kettles rattle when poured and spoons clink-clink inside coffee mugs.  A steady hum of commentary flows from the two flat screen televisions bolted to the walls on either side of the front door.  The only other noises come from the men; the occasional ‘zwina’ or ‘willi willi willi’ are all that pass for conversation in this place.

            The café is dimly lit and prone to power outages.  These, however, never affect the mood of the crowd.  When they do occur the men sit silently and wait; they pour their tea and they stir their coffee in the darkness; they shuffle in their chairs and uncross their left leg in order to cross their right.  They are used to waiting, but they need not wait long; the game resumes and the silence is broken.  A quick glance at the score line indicates that they have missed a goal, but 5 replays and 3 angles are sufficient substitute.

            Kora is by far the most popular sport in Morocco.  On any given day one can find children playing it in the streets, in the alleys, and in the fields.  Any café worth its beans will have its televisions tuned to one of the many channels broadcasting local matches.  Throughout the day Moroccan men funnel into cafés in order to watch their favorite teams compete.  They say their salams and find a seat facing the TV, which is most assuredly playing a Moroccan league game.

The cafés are always most crowded at night; that’s when La Liga is broadcast.  Indeed, if there is one thing Moroccans prefer to Moroccan kora, it is Spanish futbol.  La Liga is followed with a passion rivaled only by that of bread and tea.  And the lines are clearly drawn: simply mentioning the words ‘Barcelona’ or ‘Real Madrid’ can turn strangers into instant friends or enemies.  Both teams are well represented at every game, regardless of who is playing, and a café during El Clasico, the bi-seasonal meeting of the two teams, can quickly turn to riot.

             Even at seemingly innocuous games, like the one playing at Patio Café between Barcelona’s B team and some soon-to-be-relegated, 4-15-7 team, there is potential for confrontation.  The relative silence of the crowded café is broken only by Barca fans cheering loudly at the goals and Real fans laughing loudly at the mistakes.  Then it happens.  Glances are exchanged, harsh words are spoken, and immediately the whole room is on its feet.  Friends hold each other back, fling curses, and dodge projectiles.   And amidst all the loud words, chest bumping, and water throwing, another goal is scored north of Gibraltar, but no one has noticed.

How to Skin a Sheep

            The scene is gruesome, like something out of a horror film.  Bits of animal, hooves, heads, and hides are scattered over the ground and thick red blood has formed limpid pools in the low-lying places.  It looks as though a family of goats exploded here just a few moments earlier.  Men stand around with large knives, talking and laughing and sharpening.  The women sit in small circles, hovering over bowls of hot water and intestine.  They too are laughing, for it is a joyous occasion.

            An old metal door clangs closed and the final sheep is led out.  This one, like the ones before it, senses its impending doom and fights with the men as they drag it out into the open.  The look in its eyes is one of terror and surprise.  Surrounded by the sights and smells of his dead brethren, this sheep is forced onto its side and is held down by two of the men, one of whom brandishes a large knife.  This man kneels down behind the sheep’s head, feels under the sheep’s chin for just the right spot, and then, before you think to look away, digs the knife blade deep into the fleshy neck, almost completely severing the head from the rest of the body.  The blue blood turns red as it spills out of the animal and meets the surrounding oxygen.  The sheep thrashes around on the ground and, like his brothers before him, attempts to flee the scene, rising quickly and stumbling wildly, head bouncing and blood spilling until he runs headfirst into a nearby wall and collapses.  The sickening sound of gargling blood is the only noise audible as the men watch the dying sheep breathe evermore slowly.  Finally, the breathing ceases completely and the men approach their slaughter with smiling faces.  The first man nears the sheep and reaches out to grab it, but just as he does, the animal begins thrashing yet again, with all the energy it can muster, one final effort at escape that lasts a mere twenty seconds and is over as quickly as it had begun.  The sheep is dead, and now the work begins.

            Two men can skin a sheep in roughly fifteen minutes.  They start by rubbing water on the open flesh of the neck, washing away the blood before it dries on the meat and fur.  They then turn to the hooves, cutting the ligaments in what would be the sheep’s knees and bending the joints backwards with a satisfying crack.  The remaining piece of flesh is severed and this chunk of leg and hoof is thrown into a pile with the others.  The first incisions are made on the inside of the hind legs.  From here, the skin is cut away from the meat and fat and slowly peeled off, little by little.  After a short while, the hind legs and tail are completely bare and the carcass is hung by the leg upside down in a nearby tree.  The men continue peeling the animal, separating the hide and meat by slicing through the connective tissue and by hitting it with their fists and handles of the knives.  The sheep now looks as though it is midway through taking off a fleshy dress, the top of which is folded over, inside out, and slowly being pulled down towards the ground.  After a few more minutes, the body is bare and the only places where the skin is still connected are at the front knees and neck.  It is at this point that the head is completely severed from the body, and the remaining blood and some stomach bile spill out of the open neck and onto the feet of an amateur sheep skinner.  As he splashes dirty water onto his sandals and socks, the pelt is completely removed and hung, still inside out, on another branch of the same tree.

            The men now begin disemboweling the animal.  A small slit is made and slowly the fleshy underbelly is cut open, allowing the stomach and other organs to flop out.  The small intestines are pulled out first, handful by handful, and placed into a bowl of warm water.  Next, the organs are removed, one by one, liver, heart, lungs, and placed in water.  These are then given to the women to be cleaned and prepared.  Then the stomach is removed, opened, and its contents spilled out upon the ground.  The stomach is then cleaned and added to the rest of the meat.  These insides will be eaten first.  Finally, hot water from a teakettle is poured into the animal’s anus, flowing backwards through what is left of the intestines and flushing out what is left of the animal’s last meal.  This marks the end of the slaughter.  The sheep carcass is now carried inside and set on a table where it will remain for the next week.  The family will slowly hack away at it, cutting off a piece here, a piece there, grilling and boiling and steaming and pressure cooking until all that remains of the once vibrant sheep is bones and memories.

Sky is Gray

Sky is gray inside my city

Winters here and weathers shitty

You’ll get wet and cold and sick

If you walk outside

No pavement so roads are gritty

Taxi drivers show no pity

You’ll have to run and chase and yell

            If you want a ride

It wont get cold enough to snow

Zero degrees, but never below

So through the freezing rain you go

            Every single day

So put on layers and put on coats

Put on hats and put on boots

Put on a smile and show the folks

            You don’t care anyway

Bucket Baths

            It has been over one year since I was last fortunate enough to take a bucket bath.  For months in the U.S., I had to suffer through standing in tubs for minutes on end, scalding hot water raining down upon me, wondering when it would be that I would have the opportunity to once again sit on a tiny plastic stool and pour small bowl-full’s of non-chlorinated water over my body.  Fortunately, living in Morocco has afforded me that chance.

            It isn’t everyday that one takes a bucket bath.  Indeed, it may be many days, or even weeks that pass before this small treasure, this half hour of bliss, this soapy, wet spot of joy on the dusty, dirt floor of the communal outhouse that is life in Ain Medyouna is experienced.  The sheer ecstasy of it all stirs the soul and awakens the body like half a pint of icy cold well water splashed onto warm, dry skin.  There is no mundane, constant shower of clean, heated water to lull the body into a sleepy calm.  There are no nozzles to twist; no spray heads to aim.  There are no mirrors to be fogged by excessively hot and damp conditions.  There is only a bucket and water.  And this is no ordinary water.  This is water that hits the body like frozen punches, targeting the most sensitive areas with great vigor and aim; water that leaves the naked skin underneath even more able to enjoy the biting wind that comes blowing through old planks of wood that have been bound together with bits of string and connected at four corners; water that begins quickly to dry, leaving behind a thin layer of dirty, soapy film; water that is not only the source of life, but actually has life living in it.  This is the water that shower dreams are made of. 

            Close your eyes and imagine yourself squatting over a bucket, butt naked in an outhouse, trembling and shivering with excitement, scooping and pouring water over yourself with a small metal pot you borrowed from the kitchen.  Imagine the enchanting sensation of local spring water running down your sides and legs, forming dirty little pools at your sandaled feet.  Think of the delight you would feel during such an incredible experience; the quick thumping of a rapidly beating heart; the tight clinching of curled toes; the brief moments of lost breath.  Now think back to the last time you bathed.  The characterless caulk and tiling.  The unnatural, over-processed water.  The fake, halogen lighting.  How boring.  How sad. 
           Sometimes it takes travel abroad to really understand how hard we have it in America.

Bread: A Brief Discourse

            Xubz is instrumental to Moroccan cuisine; it is found at all four meals and is consumed at a voracious rate.  The Moroccan government understands its people’s great appetite for bread and heavily subsidizes the cereal industry, an industry that imports 56% (Economist) of its product.  This subsidization keeps bread prices very low throughout Morocco.  On average, you can find bread for sale for one or two dirham (12 to 23 cents) per loaf.  Loaves are round, flat, crusty disks, an inch or two thick and ranging in diameter from eight to 14 inches.  They can be bought at a local shop or baked in a communal, dome shaped, mud oven.  Traditionally the bread Moroccans cooked was whole wheat, but recently there has been a shift towards white bread and many consider wheat bread to be the stuff of ‘poor’ people.

In a country where silverware is not traditionally used or owned, bread serves as the means by which food is taken from the central, communal dish and transferred to eagerly awaiting mouths.  Every eater has a style particular unto himself, but for the most part, the process is as follows:  Each diner receives a chunk of bread, about the size of a hand, from which he will tear off a smaller piece, the size of which varies according to preference.  The index and middle fingers hold this piece and food from the main dish is pinched between it and the thumb.  This tiny, open-faced sandwich is then brought to the mouth and eaten whole, save the fingers.  Another piece of bread is torn off the chunk and the process is repeated.  It is not uncommon for a diner to use multiple chunks of bread in one meal, and these chunks can sometimes add up to almost a whole loaf.  All manner of food is eaten this way: scrambled eggs, cooked vegetables, olives, olive oil, meat, butter, chocolate, French fries, etc.  The only foods commonly eaten without bread are fruits, which are generally considered as dessert foods.

One result of this rapacious appetite for bread, and other carbohydrate and sugar-high foods, is a high prevalence of diabetes in Morocco.  In 2006, 10% (IDF) of the Moroccan population was diagnosed with diabetes compared with 7.7% (CDC) in the US.  Another 2.2% (CDC) of Americans are estimated to be undiagnosed and we can infer, due to lack of education, medical training and facilities, etc, that the undiagnosed rate in Morocco is much higher.  According to Peace Corps health volunteers, convincing Moroccans that bread, while not sweet, will turn into sugar in their bloodstream and eventually cause diabetes is an arduous task.

Ed’s note: A more developed discourse on diabetes in Morocco is forthcoming.

            A meal without bread is a meal unfinished; indeed, a meal without bread is not a meal at all.  Whether used for sopping up olive oil during kaskrut or tearing apart a piece of chicken in a tajine, xubz is the central tool and staple in any Moroccan’s diet.  Most would prefer bread without anything to anything without bread.  As a friend of mine put it recently, “If you want to keep the Moroccans happy, make sure we have our bread.” 

CDC: Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.  www.cdc.gov

Economist: The Economist Magazine.  www.economist.com

IDF: International Diabetes Federation.  www.idf.org

October Hills

            Extending for miles, hills rolling like ripples of water, out from center, off into forever.  Dotted with leafy trees and square white houses. Fields of brown, able dirt, ready for sowing, ready for growing.  A lonely autumn sun shines down on the farmers, turning their backs a brown as rich as the soil.  Thin white clouds sit calmly in the gallery, watching all that goes on below, smiling at the slow pace and good feelings.  October in Ain Medyouna, sitting high above the trash.

The Cyber

            Two dirhams an hour to use the internet is a good deal.  The closest internet café is only ten minutes from your house and the walk is generally pleasant.  Recently though the rain has made this otherwise enjoyable trip less and less convenient.  The reasons for this are two-fold. 

For one thing, you have yet to procure an umbrella and therefore must settle for walking without one.  Obviously, the extent to which this is a problem varies with the weather.  Usually if you leave your house during a drizzle, you will walk home in a similar drizzle.  But from time to time it happens that you venture out into a small shower only to later find yourself trapped inside the cyber watching the onslaught of tiny water droplets as they barrage the street outside, wondering to yourself if it will ever ease up enough to make it back home.  Eventually it does.

            The second problem is that more often than not the rain will cause the power to go out in the entire village.  This, of course, is a massive problem if you are using one of the computers that are provided.  But even if you have brought your own laptop, the power outage relegates you to working offline, something you could easily do anywhere else in greater comfort and at less expense.  And even this is only possible until your battery runs out.

            So what do you do?  Occasionally you will practice your broken Darija with your fellow café goers, but these conversations can only last so long.  You look through over one hundred gigs of music and end up playing one of the regulars.  You play Hearts and lose.  You play Minesweeper and blow up.  You stand by the window and look at the wet, gray sky, wondering what the weather is like in other parts of the world.  Eventually though, you decide to make lemonade of lemons; you settle back down into your seat, open a fresh Word document, and start writing your next blog entry.

Karate

            My eyes hurt.  I can taste the iron in my blood every time I take a breath.  The street is rocky and uneven and the ten degree incline feels more like forty five to my tired legs.  My head is pounding in unison with my feet and every step is a triumph.  Stumbling along, I gasp at the icy air around me, forcing it way down into my lungs and releasing it back into the night where it condenses and floats away from me in little puffs of wet smoke.  My calves are so tight I can barely lift my legs and so instead drag my feet through the recently formed mud, not caring as much as I will tomorrow about the layer of grime now caked onto the suede.  Soon I’ll be home and able to collapse onto the heap of blankets that is my bed, but first I must navigate half a kilometer of unlit, unpaved alley.

            Two hours ago I had just stepped into my local gym, ready for my first karate lesson.  It had been over a month since I had last been able to partake in any sort of athletic activity and everyday I could feel my body becoming stiffer, slower, and weaker.  At this point, a gym with a martial arts instructor felt like a godsend.  This particular gym had everything you expect in a gym: a giant blue mat on the floor that spread from wall to wall; a plethora of extremely worn looking exercise equipment gathered together in a far corner; pictures from the 90’s of overly muscular men and women plastered everywhere; upbeat hip-hop and pop mash-ups blaring from overhead speakers; a bathroom; a shower room; and a distinct, musty odor.  When I arrived there were already men running in a small circle around a handful of inconveniently placed load-bearing pillars.  After setting down my things and changing dress, I joined the men in their warm-up, careful to keep my own circle as wide as possible, without running into the walls or equipment, in order to avoid dizziness.  The following hour and a half were a blur of stretching, running, jumping, pushing, pulling, kicking, punching, blocking, squatting, and sweating.  No exercise was ever over until at least half of the students in class were lying on the floor in the fetal position, groaning.  When this was achieved then it was time to stand up, shake it off, and move on.  The only thing I remember distinctly is that on one particular wall there was a strange combination of words, flags, and pictures that gave me pause: a South Korean flag, a collage of Bruce Lee and Jackie Chan pictures, the word ‘Karate’ spelled in Arabic, the word ‘Taekwondo’ spelled in English, and above all of this, the words ‘Full Contact’ in English.  It was at this point that I realized that this class was, above all, a fighting class and didn’t adhere to any particular style or principle other than ‘keep your guard up or the teacher will slap you in the head’. 

When class was over I collapsed in a heap on the floor in the corner, unwilling and unable to make any effort at maintaining some semblance of dignity.  This approach did have its upside in that by the time I was able to stand again, the line for the shower had dwindled down to two or three people and soon I was able to take the first hot shower I had had in a month.  Despite the fact that I could barely lift my arms high enough to wash my hair, or face, or chest, this shower alone was worth the seventy dirhams I had paid for three lessons a week and open availability to the equipment.  After drying off and changing, I hobbled out into the chilly, mountain air, took one deep, painful breath, and started the long journey home.

Laayachi and Fatima's House

The first thing you notice is the donkey.  She is tied up about five meters opposite the gate to the courtyard and surrounded in feces, presumably her own.  She brays as you walk by and you speak words to her that she has never heard before.  There are two trees outside the courtyard wall, one on each side of the gate, both of which have limbs low enough to hit you if you don’t duck.  There is a third tree, bearing an as of yet unnamed fruit, sitting in the middle of the courtyard looking a bit sad, but managing to stay alive.  To the right is a large stable with a straw floor housing the animals: cows, sheep, and chickens; the family’s only source of income.  Next to this room are three more closet sized rooms, the last of which is the bathroom which is rather large considering the only thing inside it is a hole in the ground and two pieces of porcelain indicating where your feet go.  The extra space provided will be necessary when it comes time to bathe.  Across the courtyard is the neighbor’s living quarters.  There are two doors, though you aren’t sure which one leads where.  Above these neighbors live another set whose kids are peeking down at you over the poorly constructed railing.  On the side opposite the gate is the house in which you will live for the next nine weeks.  A thin iron door is open wide, allowing all manner of bugs to enter as freely as you do.  Inside you meet Laayachi for the first time.  He is extremely friendly towards you and talks rapidly in Darija to the mudir who brought you.  Laayachi wears a yellow fez that you are sure was once bright white and a long one-piece robe thing that covers his ankles and elbows.  The faded blue sandals on his feet look like they are about two miles from falling apart.  He is an old man, though you aren’t sure how old.  A few weeks on you will find out that he is seventy-five.  The first time you see Fatima she is exiting the kitchen with a tray of sweet mint tea, bread, and olive oil.  She greets you, pours tea for everyone present, and sits down on the other side of Laayachi where she remains almost invisible for the next twenty minutes.

As Laayachi and the mudir talk, you get a chance to survey your new digs.  It is an old, small house with stone walls, ceiling, and floor.  The bottom half of the walls are painted a dirty sky blue and the top half and ceiling are a dirty eggshell white.  You realize quickly as you look around that you may as well drop the word ‘dirty’ from your vocabulary as dirty in this place is normal.  The living room in which you sit consists of two backless couches pressed up against a corner and a short, round coffee table in front of them.  From your seat on the couch you can see the sink in the kitchen and out into the courtyard.  On the wall separating the kitchen there is a small dresser with a ten inch color television and a silver radio with two tape decks.  After the mudir leaves your new hosts give you the grand tour.  On the west side of the house is a room almost the size of the living room; your new bedroom.  With a broad sweeping arm, Laayachi shows you just how much space there is and tells you that you will sleep well.  This room has two small, wooden tables pressed up against one wall and two closets worth of stuff pressed against another.  Multiple blankets and pillows have already been laid out on the floor under the window for you.  As you leave the room to continue the tour, Fatima indicates that a sheet will be hung in the seven by ten foot hole in the wall separating your room from the living room.  This sheet will arrive in nine days.  Back in the living room you are shown that to the right, the south, is Laayachi and Fatima’s bedroom and that between it and the kitchen is another room used by your four new brothers.  After a few more hand gestures and sips of tea, you are left to your own devices and you begin to settle in.

Flying In

            Flying into Casablanca, the first thing you notice are the huge tracts of yellow and brown farmland outside of your miniature, double paned window.  Occasionally you see a patch of vibrant green, but these are few and far between.  Skinny, winding roads weave their way through the brown rectangles and connect little white squares to other little white squares that are scattered over the flat terrain.  As the plane descends, the white squares become larger and more compact until finally you find groups of them stacked up on each other in a style similar to that of a lego city built by a fourth grader with ADHD and a deadline.  If you take a second to think back to the city from which you departed, you will realize that this is not that.

            In another moment your airplane touches down in one of the brown fields.  The runway is lined with green palm trees that look like they were just imported from a movie set.  The people around you cheer and applaud, congratulating the pilot on his landing, though it didn’t seem to differ greatly from any of your previous experiences.  Perhaps it’s a cultural thing.  Or perhaps you slept through some earlier turbulence.  As the plane rolls along you catch a glimpse of what you assume to be an out of date factory that is currently under construction.  It is only after the pilot pulls up beside it and the flight attendant opens the exit door that you realize that this building is, in fact, the airport.  You grab your carry-on and head toward the exit, down a steep flight of stairs and out onto the tarmac.  The air is fresh and cool; twenty degrees Celsius and not a cloud in the sky.  The bus, however, is dank and stuffy.  Luckily it is a short ride to the airport entrance and the beginning of a two year journey.