Still the staff were really very nice after the embarrassing bit between us trying to check in and them not letting us.  Our actual destination was a beautiful, peaceful riad in the medina. Somewhere..this was a perfectly pleasant aparthotel Somewhere Else. But it had a restaurant. And I was hungry. Very. Ruled by my stomach I was ready to give up the promise of the etheral, spiritual experience to come with the instant gratification of a club sandwich.

However, one of our party had already phoned our driver and told him in no uncertain terms to come back, so instant gratification was not to be. The hour and a half at Passport control for no apparent reason had drained me and I was unable to state my case. Instead I stood sulkily on the pavement. No one took any notice.

Waiting for the next stage of our endless journey to start I reflected on the fact that I REALLY DIDN’T NEED THIS.  I had student loan forms to fill in at home. And not EVEN for me.  I also had to sort the bathroom out and clear the garage as well as put my  paperwork into piles, sorry files. (the last three tasks were fairly constant as I never really got around to doing them) 

This weekend was supposed to be a break from trying…but this was very, very trying.

So, back in the car. But not really confident in our drivers navigational ability..still…the streets got narrower and busier, and suddenly humanity seemed to be bursting out of the walls. Rows upon rows of tiny shops, with streets thronged with people, cars, bikes, donkeys, cats, dogs. This looked more like the Marrakech I had seen on my computer.

At last,  we arrived at our destination…or had we? Our driver got us and our bags  out of the car and led the way. Well he would have done had he known where we were going. He didn’t.  Again. As he frantically asked passers by the way to our accommodation, a couple of irate taxi drivers pursued him noisily..he’d parked in front of their cars and blocked them in…  During the ensuing argument he somehow located a young boy..a child…and said “he will take you”.

Then he jumped into his car and was gone. Again. The alternative was to cry, so we decided to do as we were told. The boy turned and took us in the opposite direction to the one in which we had been going, and we had no choice but to follow him. He was about 9. I was not confident.

After a weekend in the city I realised that basically people of all ages just led you places, whether you wanted them to or not, actually, but at this point I did not know this.

So, we were dragging our cases up this street as fast as we could. Nine year old boys walk fast.

Suddenly, he turned into an alley. A ver dark, very narrow alley. There was still someone riding a bike in it though..

Then he turned again into another alley….I was beginning to panic slightly. It was like being dropped into a maze from a plane with your eyes shut.

Whereas we were actually walking very quickly through some derbs in Marrakech quite late and with no idea where we would end up.

Then again he turned. Into a dead end. To a huge wooden door in a windowless wall. The  door opened slowly, and without looking up we virtually fell inside.

We fell inside the most beautiful, serene, glorious room I had ever been in. I feel calm just thinking about it.

Next time: in which I am sent to scavenge for supper and learn the significance of left, left, right..

We’d gone – the four of us, friends from our first term at University, and still friends despite distance and time – for one of our annual weekends away. This year was significant – we were all turning 28 (no, don’t do the maths, please, I said 28, and as far as I’m concerned 28 it is).

To be honest, we’d all seen Sex in the City II, and I fancied a look at the souks and the opportunity to wear harem pants. See #reallyshallow.

I’ve travelled and lived in Europe, but I hadn’t seen half as many places as I wanted to, so a trip to Africa for the first time felt rather exciting. I also somehow wanted be taken right out of my comfort zone, over the hill and far far away, (although it never occured to me that Marrakech would fulfil some of this, as I’d just gone for a spot of shopping) because turning 28 (yes, that is a euphamisim for another number) certainly makes you take a big, long look at your life, and to make long, long lists of what you haven’t done, and what you want to do, and what you really, really, really want to do.

And I’d begun the year about to be this number, with the prospect of my eldest child leaving for university in the autumn, the younger one to follow in the not too distant future. My contract had ended at work and I had decided to go freelance (because if I didn’t now I never would), and frankly, I was veering between “this is a brave, new, exciting world”, to “oh, shit…”

So we land in Marrakech. 

It didn’t start well.  Hundreds of people from many planes trying to squeeze through passport control without the aid of queueing.  I kept a stiff upper lift and a cheery demeanour. But I get fraught in crowds, in fact a little panicky.  I stayed that way for an hour and a half.  When I finally got through to actual Morrocco I was too enfeebled to enjoy the moment.

Still, we’d organised transport. A very nice man took us to our riad.  Or was it? No it wasn’t…but by the time we found out he had gone..

The bit of me that will jump on the back of a motorbike in Marrakech. Just like that…

….it was only at the cashpoint, on my fourth credit card, dropping notes casually into my bag, with a queue forming behind me and a beautiful young man on a revving motorbike waiting for me that I thought that from the outside this may not look quite right…

…but that thought was fleeting, eradicated by the sight of the beautiful young man on the revving motorbike waiting to speed me back through the medina with the wind in my wet hair, screaming silently inside WHOOOP WHOOP WHOOP….past the cars and the bikes and the children and the stalls, and the guards outside the royal palace….

Scuse me..sorry…just had a flash back.

Shall we rewind a bit

I have a picture on my bedroom wall. I picked it up for two euros fifty from a stall by the river in Rome.

The picture is a photo. A publicity still from Roman Holiday. Audrey Hepburn is on a moped. So is Gregory Peck. They are outside the Coliseum. She is a Princess. He is a journalist..somehow, they have found eachother, briefly, fleetingly. He is a good guy. Although he could have been a bad guy. She is a good girl, but she really would like to be a bad girl…If you haven’t seen it, I don’t want to ruin it for you……it is wonderful. That’s my review.

When I first saw it, the fact that Audrey Hepburn’s Princess was exhausted by responsibility and duty and just wanted to escape, was not on my radar. I liked Gregory Peck…hashtag…#shallow…

A few years later, single parent, tired, responsible….Oh yes, I definitely see Roman Holiday in a much…hash tag…#deeper light.
Then I went to Marrakech…

Tune in next week for the next exciting episode of What Christine Did Next..in Marrakech..

a.  I’m not good at being told what to do

b. The lady’s voice gets on my flipppin nerves

c. The last one I had kept taking me to Andorra (via toll roads and ferries apparently) when I wanted to go to Hertford, and Dagenham when I wanted to go to central London.

d.  I like to navigate by the stars (alright I don’t, I tend to use maps and road signs)

So, is this the manifestation of an adventurous spirit, long buried deep in my psyche? Was I once in a past life on wagon train heading due West across the great plains of America?They didn’t have sat nav, did they? Am I descended from seafarers, perhaps, navigating by the sun and the stars? Or am I simply impatient and like things written down on bits of paper with diagrams on them – like maps?

Maybe its the fact that I’m Welsh…my famous countryman, indeed, countyman, being from West Glamorgan – Sir Anthony Hopkins –  famously loves to get in a car and just drive on the open road for miles and miles and miles. . But he can do it across America.  I just get caught in one-way systems.

Last week on a rare visit home I somehow managed to travel from Swansea to Port Talbot by mistake. I wanted to go to Neath. I know I don’t go home often but Neath has always been between Swansea and Port Talbot so why the bloody hell I  thought it had suddenly moved East, I’ll never know. That’s an hour out of my life I’ll never get back.

The reason this has come to a head is because, as I have decided to do all sorts of new things this year, I thought I’d use my considerable driving (but not navigational) skills to help out some friends who were running an event in London. By transporting some of the people involved to the venue.

My task: travel from Russell Square to a hotel on Grays Inn Road and back. How long? Ten minutes? I can’t say I had a lovely time on my hour long accidental journey to the Arsenal Stadium, but at least I saw bits of London I had never seen before. I wish I could say I met many interesting people and had many adventures en-route, a la Jack Kerouak and his legendary book, On the Road. But all I did was sit in my car, clench my teeth and look wide eyed and scary. I mean no-one’s going to talk to you when you look like that, are they.

I blame that first encounter with the one way system near the Euston Road, and the belief that at some point I could turn right and all would be well.

Nahh

It was as if Herbie the yellow beetle had taken over my little lime green fiesta and decided he’d like to take a closer look at a Premier League football ground. Anyway, Herbie got me back to the hotel, evenutally.  The people I was supposed to collect apparently “made their own way there” in the end. I was relieved of my driving duties….

A few weeks ago I said I’d drop a friend home after a night out at a comedy club in Shoreditch. She lives near London Bridge. Driving along the Embankment I was puzzled to find that I had lost London bridge. how did that happen.? I dropped my friend at Charing Cross, much further away from her home than where she’d started the journey in my car. She insisted on catching a tube home.

My children are very strong characters these days, and  now fully accept a few detours as a normal part of our journeys. We have learned view them as interesting, educational, and an added extra  in our travels from A to B – sort of A to B via H, S and sometimes Z.

However, the Florence trip is one we never wish to try again. I managed to drive our little sky blue hire car (affectionately known as the Sewing Machine)  from Barga, north of Lucca, and two hours from Florence, right into the centre of the city and straight to a car park. Oh Yes! Result. Getting back should be a piece of cake..

Couldn’t get out of Florence. I just kept driving round and round and round in our little blue sewing machine. So that when I saw a sign for Pisa I followed it, knowing it to be in the right “general” direction. We ended up in Pisa – an hour further along than Lucca. So I turned the car round and headed back to the town. By now fairly disorientated, I took the wrong road north from Lucca – highlighted by the words of the song, “Got to Turn Around,” which was playing at the time. So, I turned around. Finally managing to get to our hotel, which was at the top of a very steep and windy hill, I ordered a bottle of wine from room service and drunk it in half an hour. Florence was gorgeous,  I know, but next time I’m flying in.

I remember at the end of that holiday dropping our sewing machine off at the airport. But I had obviously reached breaking point. I was unable to manouvre my tiny car into the  parking space. It was painful to do. And it was painful to watch. I know this, because after about fifteen minutes of weary backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, the hire car man could take it no more and said I could just leave the car there. So we did. Discarded it half way in and half way out of a parking space..and left the country…

And there are many others – the engine catching on fire on a journey from lagos in Portugal to Lisbon, the catering saucepans incident last year when  I forgot where I’d parked, the driving the wrong way up a one way street near the Houses of Parliament…

I’m going into London soon, and plan to take the train.

It’s all clean, white, gleaming pages just waiting to be written on. Filled with new achievements, challenges, fun, laughter, lurve, sunlight, hammocks and flip flops.

This year I am looking at things differently. I am now on book three in a  series of books called  Christine Penhall  – did you really do that, really?- and I’ve decided that its time I took control of the plot. In fact, this time, instead of it all being crammed, stuck, in my head, I will write some of it down, in the form of a blog. Perhaps that way, when I read it back, some of it will make sense…will it?

New activity number one this year is..Meditation. I must have needed it – totally knocked me senseless for a few days. However…..if I’m taking control of the plot of my life, I need to strike a balance between being THAT relaxed and a BIT wired…so meditation will be rationed over the course of the year.  Still, what a revelation. I’ve been at full pelt for many, many years without realising it, and I just put myself amongst kind, happy, smiley people, who are also, obviously, rather calm….closed my eyes, breathed slowly, counted properly, and KABUM..Perhaps a work like KABUM is wrong for this activity…maybe AAHHHHHHH…Whatever, however, it works…

So, now, in the half way house between being overelaxed and overexcited I have signed on with an extras agency, changed the way I am working to freelance, am planning a holiday to Marrakesh, getting my bathroom done (no, not very spiritual, but practicality is necessary in some areas of your life), writing my novel. And enjoying rather than worrying.

This year is going to be an adventure.  First one starts at the end of January. What is it..I’ll tell you when I’ve done it!

So, when SC, aka Nikki Parker told me that she had been dancing in Dubai, I went, ”What was the salsa like in the middle east then?” and this is what she said!

Salsa Chick ‘Nikki Parker’ finds Salsa in yet another country 

SK, aka Chris Penhall, asked me if I’d write a Salsa blog after our trip to the UAE (United Arab Emirates)… so here goes. 

It’s time for our holiday and this time we’re visiting my husband’s family in Abu Dhabi.  As is the norm, as soon as I knew it was definite I started the hunt for Salsa in Abu Dhabi & Dubai.  As luck would have it a local Salsa friend, Caroline, who seems to know EVERYONE had a Salsa friend in… guess where?  Abu Dhabi!!  She’d met him at a Salsa Congress in Cyprus.  

No sooner had I mentioned this I was lucky enough to be introduced to Caroline’s friend & Abu Dhabi contact ‘Moe Flava’ (cool name, eh?).  And then, it gets better: Moe was organising a Salsa fiesta at the time we’d be in Abu Dhabi – and only 10 minutes down the road.   And better still, on my birthday, Moe – through Facebook – invited us to the festival as his guests!  Fantastic.  That’s Salsa for you. 

The festival seemed a fairly small affair given the high profile entertainment they had, to include none other than Tony Lara & Dani De Francesco as well as Miriam Oppel & Inaki Fernandez.  We were lucky enough to see their brilliant performances and I was truly wowed by Tony & Dani’s Bachata Tango – a jaw dropping routine.

Moe was lovely and it was nice to finally meet and dance with him after our online-only communication. 

Though in general the standard of dancing wasn’t as high as we’re used to seeing in Essex there were some amazing dancers.  I was lucky enough to dance with someone and then find that between him and his friend(s) they took me through my paces with a full-on fast and furious dance whereby they each danced with me in turn, seamlessly passing me from one to the other.  Amazing.  It was worth going for that alone. 

Another dancer that caught my eye was a beautifully-stylish Salsera – I didn’t know who she was at the time. 

A few evenings later we decided to try out the local weekly class which happened to be at Zenith, in the Sheraton, almost next door to my in-laws.  I was very impressed by the standard of teaching and also by some of the freestyle dancing after class.  Watching the classes – beginner & improvers – their teaching style was just like ours.  Uncanny that you travel all this way and it’s just the same – but then that’s what’s so fantastic about Salsa.  After class I danced with the improver teacher ‘JJ’ (Shaban) who was very nice to dance with.  I then discovered too that the lovely dancer that had caught my eye at the festival was teaching the beginners that night – Naida Akaeva.  I had quite a few dances that evening and once again it proved that Salsa is an international language.  My husband and I had a lovely evening and the music was FABULOUS! 

Sadly, though we went to Dubai for a couple of days, the Salsa there conflicted with either our timing or location so we didn’t get a chance to try it.  

So to the next holiday and the next story of Salsa around the world…

Copyright Nikki Parker 2009

These things always seem such a good idea and the time, and I do love to dance..I do love my salsa.  But dancing for complete and utter fun, and dancing for the enjoyment of others and for an ultimately serious purpose, is something else entirely.

But when word got out about Dancers in Need, all I could think was, I love dancing, I’ll do that, it’s for charity, I love dancing, I’ll do that, it’s for charity..and so I am doing that, and it is for charity, but will I be any good really?.  And, more importantly, do I want to know if I am any good……for years I have existed in this happy little salsa bubble where I was or am good enough for me, thank you very much. I don’t teach it, I don’t perform it, I simply dance it…and so the truth is of little importance.  In my head i move like Ginger Rogers. 

Like I said, in my head…

However, someone is going to tell me exactly how well (or not) I dance in a few weeks time.  And it may change my life forever…or at least the way I feel about dancing.

Sorry, I haven’t explained Dancers in Need, have I.

Well, what it is is this.  For Children in Need 2008 some of the BBC Local Radio Stations are doing their own versions of Strictly Come Dancing.  No, not just on radio, at special glitzy events where we all will all wear sparkly frocks, descend Hollywood-style staircases without falling over (please God), and impress the audience, if not with our dancing prowess, with our bravery for agreeing to do it in the first place.

You see, it does sound like a good idea, doesn’t it.  But I am a social salsa dancer and know nothing of the ballroom.  I happily screech around salsa floors wiggling and giggling in what i like to think of as my own free-spirited style (although others my describe it differently)

But now I need to be disciplined, learn new dances, sort of “perform”, smile throughout, look elegant (impossible), and not cry when the judges give their marks.

You see, it has changed my perspective already.

I usually dance as if no-one’s watching, because usually no-one is watching, but soon many people will be watching, and my safe little salsa bubble might burst…

Although I am looking forward to it, sort of, as i like a new challenge.  And my place of work has become a little bit like fame, with people practicing their steps behind the filing cabinets,  whilst the kettle’s boiling in the kitchen, and whilst walking along the corridors…and they’ve only just started.

Me? I am used to this particular kind of addictive behaviour having been a salsa addict for six years, now.   But to see it happen to one’s colleagues is faintly odd…

Meeting my dance partner this weekend to start practicing myself.   Poor man. Hope he’s got pain resistant feet!

For more info on Dancers in Need, log on to www.bbc.co.uk/essex

And they certainly DID NOT want to do salsa, and although I’d packed my dance shoes in the hope that my whingeing would persuade them to accompany me to a salsa club, they were having none of it.  But if found me, it did, albeit fleetingly.  It sort of waved at me and whispered in my ear – i’m still here, and here’s a teeny tiny bit of me just to keep you topped up…….

Now, it sort of happened like this.  IIt was One of those nights, the last hour of which you just couldn’t make up; the sort of hour, which if you told people about it, they would think you were lying, and you would have to bring out witnesses to corroborate it. And I have got witnesses, because they were in it….

The evening started off with all five of us.  We have known eachother since 19…ahem, and although we don’t see eachother very often these days, all have our assigned roles within the group: the highly organised career woman, who will buy 3 designer outfits before the rest of us have rolled out of bed, the very organised earth mother, who always has a supply of milk cartons and tea bags somewhere in her luggage, the one with no sense of direction who we always lose, the one is slightly older and has had a very interesting life…., and me – the one who is always late.

When its all five of us together at the same time, we balance eachother out; but lose the first two, and well, it can all go a bit to pot really. And it did….but we had more fun!

After a lovely meal and a couple of exploratory visits to a selection of Dublin pubs, the organised section of the group decided they were tired, and headed off to the hotel. This left the scatty section – which included me – to visit one more pub. Then we decided we too should return to said hotel.  But, um, where was the hotel…..

We set off hopefully, positive that something would jog our collective memories.  But we’d spent the evening visiting Dublin pubs, so, really, fat chance there.  Still, it was a very warm summer’s evening, and Dublin is very nice, so we carried on regardless.

Suddenly, the one who always gets lost – who is used asking for directions, obviously – grabbed a nice young man as he was walking past and asked him the whereabouts of our hotel…….and being a nice young man, possibly overwhelmed by our Welsh charm (all three of us are Welsh and will talk anyone into submission), he offered to walk us there.

And of course, he told us his life story.  By now, it is around midnight, and we have no idea where we are or where we are going, but he is such a nice young man, we didn’t really care.  Then, he told us he worked in advertising and was currently working on a campaign for fizzy drinks….and there is my office he said.  There are Cornettos in the freezer and said fizzy drinks in the fridge, would you like me to get you some, it’s such a nice evening…..

And we all went, Yes, please, free ice-cream and fizzy drinks. And its past midnight, get us!!!! (well, we didnt say that, but that was the gist of it)

So, he trotted over the road.  And we waited.  And we waited.  And we waited…..And we waited. And then it began to dawn on us that he may not come back.  That it may have been an elaborate way of getting rid of us.  I mean, we can’t half talk, the three of us.  He could have gone in the front door and nipped out a side door, and the one who’d had an interesting life needed the loo, and my feet were hurting…

And miraculously he reappeared, clutching four cornettos and four cans of fizzy drinks.  What a nice young man! The four of us continued on our way – he was from New Zealand, apparently, over for less than a year, liked Dublin, thinking of Hong Kong next – and then we were there, far too quickly, back at the hotel.  And he turned left, and we turned right, and we all waved, and thought, you can’t beat eating Cornettos at Midnight in Dublin in the company of a lovely young man from New Zealand.

With the best part of the evening apparently over, we climbed the steps to the hotel, still clutching our cans of Fanta, or Seven Up, or whatever he’d given us.  As we walked through the door, the Night Porter said, do you want to go on somewhere else………..?

Myself and the one with no sense of direction said, yes, why not….the one who had had an interesting life, said, no, too tired, need the loo….

So he pressed the buttons for both lifts, sent the tired one up towards her room, and pressed the button sending myself and the one with no sense of direction downwards – to who knows not.  We never asked….

As the lift doors opened in the basement, I heard something….a vaguely familiar tune, with latin rhythms, vibrant and catchy, and i said, salsa, salsa, i can hear salsa….so we turned the corner – still clutching our fizzy drinks – and stepped through a fire escape into a bar heaving with people, as a band played the last few notes of the last salsa tune of the evening (as it turned out).

We stood in the doorway, me waiting for the next track, so i could strut my salsa stuff, but the band started packing up.  This was much to the relief of my friend, I feel – she’d had a bad experience at a salsa club in Cardiff a few years previously, and as a result had a few prejudices. 

So, we walked to the bar, put our cans on the counter, turned to survey the heaving and happy crowds…and when we turned back to pick up our drinks, the barman had poured them into glasses for us and thrown the cans away….

By now, past words, we just looked at eachother, finished our drinks, picked our way back through the fire escape and took the lift to our rooms.

And in the morning made sure we spoke to eachother about it, so we knew it wasn’t just a dream…you know, like the Bobby Ewing dream….

so, there you are – I got a whiff of salsa, despite everything, and a free cornetto to boot….

Copyright Chris Penhall 2008

www.chrispenhall.co.uk

And it’s where i allow myself to bathe in the light and the colour of the sea and the palm trees, immerse myself in the the pinks and whites and yellows of the bouganvaellia, and gaze at the slow sunsets when the sky turns from pink, to purple to clear, starlit black.

It’s where I walk around in bare feet all day just so i can feel the warmth of the grass and the heat of the paths, where I run through sprinklers in the evenings when I am wearing clothes – not a swimming costume – just because it feels nice and i know i will dry quite soon anyway.  Where every day is a Bad Hair Day, because of the heat, but who cares.  And where I jump in the pool clumsily and noisilyfor no reason other than it feels nice and it embarrasses my children. (getting in and out of the hammock is also good for this, too, as I have to roll onto the floor to disembark)

Sometimes we venture out of this little piece of heaven into the bright lights of Paphos. 

I had no desire to dance salsa, speak salsa or feel salsa.  i wanted to escape from everything and be someone else for a while.   One evening, it didn’t quite work like that…….

My children and i sat down at a restaurant prepared to eat slowly and watch the world amble by.

I looked up at an adjascent wall and saw something that wasn’t there last year. A big orange sign.  it said Salsa Classes every Thursday – salsa, merengue, bachata, cha cha, regaetton.

I sighed.  Of all the chairs at all the tables in all the restuarants in Paphos, i had to pick the chair that faced the sign advertising the thing I was trying to escape.  Really, this year I was definately trying to escape.

But, I thought, this is Tuesday, not Thursday, and there will be no music to set my feet tapping or my bottom wiggling and make me ache to dance.

But, then it began to happen.  You know I was trying to escape and be someone else.  Well, nope, not tonight.

The manager of the restaurant decided to share his encycloapedic knowledge of the geograpy of the UK with us.  And very, very impressive it was.

“Where are you from?” he asked.

I told him. Then listened open mouthed as he mentioned two night clubs in the town, a few roads, the main trunk roads and quite a few towns round and about.  We gave him a well deserved round of applause.

A short while later a man from Manchester paused to look at the menu.

“Where are you from?” asked the manager.

“Manchester,” said the man, who then listened open mouthed as he told him the main routes in and out of Machester, plus some towns round and about

Another round of applause

As we were leaving, the manager was talking to a couple, and called us over.

“Where are you from?” he asked the lady.

She told him – a town near to us.

“Listen to this,” I said, “This is impressive.”

Then he told her about her town, where it was near, and what roads you could take to get there.

Another round of applause.

And then it happened……a couple of high fives, and then, “Let’s dance!”he said, so there I was, a 30 second dance on the harbour in Paphos, next to a sign that said, Salsa every Thursday – salsa, merengue, bachata, cha cha, regaetton.

And as I ran after my children (who had disappeared into the crowds, embarrassed, as usual), I thought….how did that happen? And how come of all the people in all the restaurants in all of Paphos it happened to the one that salsa dances – the one that wanted to escape from salsa, for a while at least….

And the reason is, that every time something happens that makes me want to walk away from salsa, it wont let me go.  It waves at me and goes “I’m in your blood whether you like it or not.  You aint going nowhere else, are you, really.  Enjoy the sunsets, and see you next week……..

Wonder what the salsa classes are like in Paphos, then…?

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