 I did something crazy this past weekend. Not since the somewhat flawed trip to Asilah and the wedding reception I wanted no part of did I take my friend up on her offer and head to the mountains. Yes, it was time to check off Morocco’s Blue City, Chefchaouen, the tourist mecca most international visitors and expats flock to for blue walls and photo-friendly moments. Then again, from my brief exchange with the shady guy on the street who asked me if I wanted some hash, maybe people come here for other, nefarious reasons. Full disclosure: I have known about Morocco’s Epcot Center for three years, since IntotheBloom shared her adventures (https://www.intothebloom.com/chefchaouen-photo-guide/). Dominika’s blog gave me hope it might be worth a visit, until I actually started living here and realized it was a hub for people to check off their travel lists, as though it were a necessary stop on the way to seeing the real Morocco.  Let’s be clear: aside from some blue-painted walls, which would look better whitewashed, any charm this village in the mountains has comes not from the vendors or the tourists who do their ridiculous dance. Sure, there are some lovely bags, bath salts, and a ridiculous amount of knockoff paintings showing some senorita in the streets, or a lone cat stalking the medina, but the real charm of this city comes from the quieter moments. That, my friends, is what I will focus on as opposed to giving you a list of where to visit or what to see, let alone what to eat. Come on, I went out of my way to eat at a local pizza restaurant because I was hungry and didn’t want to walk around any longer looking for some authentic Moroccan cuisine that was likely as good as the same standard tourist menu they hawk at us here in Tangier. Then again, maybe if I had gone to Twins and gotten some tagine or couscous, I wouldn’t have dealt with the wrath of one of my students. Note to self: always consult your students for tips before any adventures. Back to the silence, or at least the perception of such compared to the constant hammer and grind of the big city in Tangier. That’s what this trip was about: getting away, for an overnight retreat, to not have to deal with the incessant noise, whether from the hobbyist renovator who might live above my head and has decided that Saturdays are the best days to pretend he is redoing the apartment, but more likely he is attempting to look occupied going from room to room in an attempt to hide from his wife. Between that nutjob who has been “busy” since October on this pressing project, the same one that flooded my kitchen the previous January, and the drone of motorists not communicating with their horns, but simply being a-holes, I needed a proper respite. We aren’t even considering the random drum circle that loves to frequent the restaurant below my apartment window, or the women who walk around doing their glorified throat singing that sounds more like a battle cry to my ears. Chefchaouen seemed promising, with at least fewer people to contend with and, if we were lucky, a bit of quiet. Granted, this is Morocco, so one has to put such things in perspective, just like dealing with idiots jumping in front of cars because they can, or parking attendants stopping vehicles to get them to go to a different lot when it makes little sense. The ride itself was already a blessing in disguise. Sure, the GPS told us the trip would take two hours, but it took us two and a half because, unlike the trucks and cars that seem oblivious to common sense or rules of the road, we drove like our grandmother would on her way to church. There was no rush, just a sense we would get there in time to appreciate the service. I treasured the change of pace, the sheep and goats who claimed the roadside as their own, and the occasional mule eager to push its master into the passing traffic.  Thank goodness, we didn’t stop at the intermittent mountain-side vistas where suspect old women carried prepared food in plastic containers and vendors were selling necklaces that I could have been ripped off for just as easily, here in Tangier. However, according to my friend, the food was fresh cheese and bread, so maybe we should have stopped after all. The roadside coffee is some of the best in Morocco, spiced if that is your thing. I suppose a follow-up trip might be necessary to confirm if this is, in fact, the truth. I also seem to remember a mention of Morocco’s number-one barbecue venue, but you know the pizza was calling in Chefchaouen, so we continued on at our measured pace. We were more concerned about getting to the mountain city, past the random police markers where everyone appeared to be waved on, and no one was actually being stopped. I know, I for one, was eager to be pulled over so they could see me in the front seat with an assortment of stuffed friends on my lap and an empty container of gummy bears. All we needed were some Slim Jims and Combos to make this the perfect trip. When we finally arrived at the Blue City, after driving up a significant incline with way too many street lights, as though people actually walked this route, when I knew it was really for dogs dropped off at the bottom by rescue organizations, I wondered if we had made the right call. Several minutes passed before we parked the car in front of a hotel, with too many taxis blocking the way and people who had no clue where they were going or why. As with the alluring seaside hamlet of Asilah, the questionable, potentially dubious act of old men standing on the streets, jingling their keys, made me ponder what awesome rooms for the night they were offering. What could go wrong in paying for a room from a stranger on the outskirts of the old medina? I’m sure these are only the best, safest places without shared bathrooms and beds free of bedbugs and other fun overnight visitors. If only my friend had been more adventurous, or if I had wanted to eat the price of our reserved riad, we could have experienced one of Morocco’s greatest charms. Alas, like with Twins, I’m sure we missed out on what others only dream about. By the time we arrived, the blue streets were busy with old-timers and their hiking sticks blocking the already narrow alleys, gathering closely and listening to their tour guides, who were sharing only the greatest history lessons on the ancient practice of painting walls blue, as if it were something special. We forced our way around these veterans of the traveling circuit, past the vendors whose stands were encroaching even more of the path, and Generation Z members paying for opportunities to pose in beautiful corners on provided cushioned chairs, because it would help their auras.  I pretended to be a nomad, not of the digital kind, but a man who knew where he was going, away from this prescribed schtick, and to our awaiting riad, far enough from the madness, but with enough charm to make it worthwhile. We weren’t disappointed. This place wasn’t next to the kasbah or to the square that needs no name, because everyone and their friend has taken a photo at this thing. No, our place was off the main path, no vendors, no madness, unless you call the young girls forcing the boys to play soccer somewhere else madness or simply role playing for their adult years when the men would find other reasons to avoid their spouses. The riad was a complete contrast to life in Tangier. Tiles galore, fountains, and an abundance of designs that, while not my preferred aesthetic, worked. More importantly, the little living room with the vintage couches proved an ideal spot for a delivered Chinese dinner, and the rooftop terrace offered views without the headaches of sharing space with hundreds of other people watching the setting sun. Don’t misunderstand me, we ventured out to play tourist, but within reason. There was, of course, the walk to the river, looking for that connection to nature where even in constructed chaos, the sounds of water can still soothe the soul. We walked to the Spanish Mosque in search of good views and aloe plants I could entertain the thought of digging up for a lifetime supply, but most importantly, we walked to clear our heads from the demands of school life, where students require our undivided attention and some parents prefer preferential standing when the need arises. Aside from a few stumbles on loose cobbles eager to claim new victims, we found a near-empty cafe that other tourists feared to go to. I now found a reason to explore the next morning, when everyone else was sleeping off a night of excess and boisterous activity. I fell asleep in silence, without even the hum of activity outside to stir. As the residents and tourists disappeared into their rooms, bringing many of the city’s cats with them, we woke to explore a new city, untouched, unbothered, and free of commercial transactions. That’s when the real fun began, with four-legged angels keeping us safe and leading us to the best spots without the madness that a Moroccan experience typically entails. While I’m sure you want to hear more, I’ll let the vlog take over from here. In the end, the trip to Chefchaouen was a good one. I’m still unsure whether I liked the city, but I appreciated the well-deserved respite from constant noise and the opportunity to be closer to nature, even as I watched others treat it as a place meant for tourists rather than a home to so many.
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 This is always an interesting time of year for me, or has been since 2005. For Americans, some of us are getting those last-minute tax returns in, but with that already checked off the books, for me, it’s more about reflecting on the twin brother who passed in his prime. I find it humorous the lead-up, the week before the anniversary, where, frankly, even now, 21 years later, I’m subdued in some moments, reflective at others, and any patience I do have is out the door as my body and mind go back to that week and those last interactions. The movie Fever Pitch springs its head as that was the last movie I told my Red Sox-obsessed brother to go to with his expecting fiancée. They never did make it to the movie, nor did he get to watch the Queer Eye for the Straight Guy episode with the Red Sox championship players, including our mutual favorites of Jason Varitek and Tim Wakefield. Little things still bring me pause, even here in Tangier, living what feels like half a world away. His son is turning 21 this year, which we all know is a rite of passage. Still, it’s a bit surreal to watch his child grow into a man, while my brother never got to experience any of that process. As for his fiancée, she made the final transition home a decade after Stephen, leaving a heavier weight on this annual holiday. We aren’t just talking about my twin, but the woman he loved as well. I know it’s far easier to write she died, but then again, the word transition makes it seem less final. Even Stephen, my dear twin, physically died. Trust me, I’m well aware, as I can see the bloodied clothes from the car accident, and can feel the emotions run through me as if it were yesterday. Sheesh, I can open up the page from Running With Vince, where I literally explained that scene, the plastic bag with his belongings, those blood-stained clothes representing some relic that the medics and hospital thought we would want to keep. His car was totaled, I know it well as I climbed in through the trunk, trying to salvage what belongings remained, or dare I say, he left behind. Fittingly, Phil Collins' greatest hits CD was taken with him, lost in the carnage, as were several other musical hits that Stephen had commandeered without my permission years earlier. I still laugh, finding these little tokens in the years that have passed. Again, he physically left, but his influence and touch still permeate everything, or maybe just enough of my daily environment to realize he is still around, helping in other ways. Even now, here in Morocco, I put on our local radio station 98.7, from Somersworth, New Hampshire, and the first song that comes on is REO Speedwagon’s “Keep On Loving You.” If I needed a cosmic wink that Brother Bear was around, there couldn’t have been a clearer sign. This was one of his anthems, a song I have been forced to like, and a funny reminder of the twin dynamic we shared. Flashback to the infamous Snow Bowl, the game between the Raiders and Patriots, that led to the “Tuck Rule” and to Adam Vinatieri’s winning kick that eventually took us to the Super Bowl. The dynamic duo started off at Crazy’s Ottos, a dive bar to begin the game, so Stephen could check in with his local bookie (no joke) and have a couple beers with heavenly wings while watching our home team play. I don’t remember much about the first half of the game or even up until the fourth quarter, save that we were losing 13-3 and I told him we were going home to watch the rest of the game from there. There was no point in being sad at a bar when we could do it from the living room, less than two miles away. Stephen turned up the television as we arrived just in time to watch the Patriots drive down the field and score their first touchdown of the game. He was nuts. He was loud. He was drinking his beer and screaming at the television set with every run, pass, and play. It was ridiculous, but then again, this was Patriots football, and Stephen loved them dearly. A few minutes later, he was back at it again. The Patriots had the ball and were driving in blizzard-like conditions. Somehow, some way, Vinatieri nailed that 45-yard kick through the uprights, tying the game and taking us to overtime. Stephen was off the rails, screaming louder, jumping up and down, and of course turning on his celebration anthem of REO Speedwagon. He was a party unto himself. Even with me pleading with him to turn down the music so I could hear the television, he insisted on getting through the first verse and chorus before he recentered enough for the overtime period. He also refused to move out of the way so I could turn the stereo off, which made the entire exchange even funnier. I was excited about the overtime period, but I didn’t need to shout to the neighbors on the other side of our living room wall or to anyone walking their dogs past the front door. He was so LOUD, but that was him. I just wanted to clap and take it all in. Now, in 2026, the song still plays, and I’m brought back to those moments, to this exchange and others. It doesn’t take much to bring him front and center, and for that I’m grateful. As for football games, I can’t watch them anymore without taking on his boisterous traits or the over-the-top passion for our home team to do well. I will say I prefer the little winks, his reminding me of our moments, of the twin boys who grew up together, and even now, years later, share a bond that can’t be broken. Anniversaries will continue to come and go, with different perspectives and challenges, but the love remains. That’s all that matters.  I don’t know about you, but I’m delighted this week is finally over. Hello, April, I’m happy to see you, and I hope you’ll treat me and others better than March ever could. Here’s a new story for the books, as I still process the everyday realities of life living abroad. Then again, this exchange could very well have happened at home. The only difference is that I would have been able to talk to someone in person and actually solved everything sooner. The BOA LessonBanking is always a pain in the backside, I don’t care where you live. I remember being in my teens and realizing that the moment the account goes negative, the bank is swarming in for their hit job. Banks live off people who bounce checks, overextend their accounts, or don’t time their purchases accordingly and go in the red. I really appreciate the ethical aspects of say, instead of freezing an account when it hits zero, some banks, like Bank of America, back in the day (probably now as well), will let the purchase go through, sort of, enough to charge you for the overdraft. Then, like magic, the next day, if you aren’t on top of your account, that same purchase tries again, and who, with a smile on their face, does another overdraft charge? Yep, BOA and other entities that really aren’t in business, save to make money off people who don’t know any better. Could we say this is predatory? There might be a debate on that. At the very least, if one doesn’t take the time to read the fine print on the 1000-page agreement, it’s a surprise when these things come about. I’ll say I never got into any of these excessive charges, but my dear twin Stephen did. Sheesh, poor kid in his early twenties wrote a few checks, and they weren’t cashed in a timely manner. I remember the phone call, how pissed he was, because he figured once the checks were passed over, family members, companies, etc, immediately deposited them. This most definitely wasn’t the case, at least with the family members. For whatever reason, our dear relative held the check for several weeks, because I suppose it was too much of a hassle at the time to go into the flippin’ bank that was on their way to work. This was before direct deposit on our phones, so no chirping on that scenario, but if it were possible, then it would make this story even worse. Anyway, dear Stephen goes to the bank and takes out some money. He sees his receipt and is pleasantly surprised to find that he has more money in his account than he thought, so he partied and lived it up for another weekend of fun. Now don’t get me started on why he should have double-checked his ledger and not simply estimated his purchases to get a rough idea of what his account would be. As a math teacher, I’ll tell you that people who aren’t going to keep a close eye on their budgets should probably forgo bank accounts entirely and simply use cash to get around. Let’s cast that point aside for the time being. Stephen was careless and assumed his checks had already been deposited and cleared. That was his bad. None of them had gone through yet, let alone been deposited. To make a long story short, a few weeks later, his account is not only negative but several hundred dollars in the hole. What I bloody love about BOA was the constant double-charging once the account dropped below zero. Maybe it’s changed since then, but his account was easily -300 dollars. I can’t unsee the triple hits for having a negative account, then the hits for bouncing the checks, and then some other insane charge that BOA added to the fray for good measure. I’m still pissed on his behalf, and it’s been twenty-five years. Could he have been more attentive to the account, of course? Could our relatives have actually deposited their check in a timely manner? That, for me, is a bigger pain in my backside, simply because I don’t understand why people hold on to checks once they get them. Unless you are a landlord at the beginning of the month and you are waiting for multiple tenants, it doesn’t make sense. One time, my sister had a check deposited ten months (or some ridiculous number) after the fact. Who the heck does that? Even with a ledger, I’m going to assume that one was deposited. Anyway, I can rant about that side topic another day. Let’s keep focused on the banks. Poor Stephen was strapped for cash, trying to pay his bills, but now he owes a significant amount to the bank. Did they freeze his account? No, absolutely not, because they wanted to keep charging him for the negative equity, which at this point was all their fees. What good came out of this ordeal was that, so annoyed by all those fees, I made sure to keep an excessive buffer in my account so it would never bounce. So yay me, I guess. But not everyone has that luxury. Fast forward several years, and I got rid of my BOA account and, for that matter, refuse to go back to certain national banks, especially the ones that got government money during the 2008 crisis, even though it was their bad practices that created some of that ridiculous mess. Same Game, Different CountryI’m all fired up now on this topic, realizing we could go in so many directions. Focusing, though, on the present, I loved living in Poland because my account there was set up so that you couldn’t go negative. Again, it wouldn’t have been my intention, as a responsible adult and a math teacher who lives on a budget, to do that, but I still appreciated that the account was effectively blocked at that number. The card wouldn’t work, nothing could be taken out, the way it should be. As for life in Morocco, I have no clue about the specifics of my current bank account, aside from two things. One, I get around a five-dollar service charge each month for holding my money, and any money sent (like my rent) to a non-bank member is subject to an additional one-dollar surcharge. Granted, these aren’t deal breakers, but they remind me of BOA and not my current banking institutions in the States, where I don’t have any monthly fees or charges. In addition, accessing the online account is nearly impossible, and the app only appears to work well during traditional business hours. The number of times it’s frozen up on me is comical. The second issue I have with this bank is that I believe the bank supervisor is a schmuck. That’s my bottom line. My employer steered us to this bank for “ease of use” and to this point of contact, who is as phony as they come. He might as well be a used-car salesman trying to get me to buy a forty-five-year-old Pinto. If I were staying in this country long-term, I would be looking for a new place to put my funds. Quick story on the schmuck. We all know this type of person, but it’s still worth mentioning, because customer service honestly goes a long way in my world, and being a good human being in general. I’ll admit, I’m not one for small talk with strangers. I try to be pleasant and somewhat friendly, but I also don’t go out of my way to start conversations. In the United States, it’s a little different; it’s more of a cultural norm in Maine and New Hampshire to at least talk about the weather, some random cultural event, or the Patriots. With that said, this past week, for the second time in a year, the bank screwed up my transfer home. We have done 15 wire transfers. That’s right, so this isn’t an unknown commodity, but still, whether it’s at this branch office or the headquarters in Casablanca, someone’s job is to approve all of these transfers. The Wire Transfer FiascoLast year at this time, they put in the wrong number. They literally took every cent out of my account, as though I had intended to zero it out. My actual wire transfer form was 2000 dollars less than what they transferred. Thankfully, the woman I worked with caught the error and called me to double-check the number. She apologized for the head office not doing the amount that I actually signed off on, and within hours, my local account was swimming in money again, and my American account had the correct amount. In effect, a crisis was averted, and everything was transferred promptly.
Last week, a completely different scenario played out. I went in to do the monthly wire transfer and made sure the woman I worked with followed the exact procedure we always did. One day passes; the money is withdrawn from my Moroccan account. Two days pass, three, four, five, and nothing has appeared in my American account. Baffled, I reached out to one of the women I had worked with before and asked her to look into it for me. She said she would and that everything appeared to be in order. Two more days pass, and guess whose wire transfer was denied? This guy, and it wasn’t because of the form, it was because of the blasted headquarters personnel or whoever finalizes all these, didn’t do their blasted job. Unlike last year, when everything was straightened out quickly over the phone, I had to come back inside and repeat the entire process. Now let’s cue the schmuck, the bank manager who sits in his office and spends more time looking at his flippin' phone than helping a few people when the one or two tellers are swamped by the influx of customers. I sit down at the table as my rep begins issuing the wire transfer. This guy, on cue, walks by. He sees me and offers me his hand. “Hey. How are you doing?” I replied with, “Well enough.” He didn’t even stop, but kept walking and said something like, “Me too. I’m good. Thanks.” I watched him continue his walk to the door as he slid out his vape for a well-deserved break. Why even greet me? Seriously? If you aren’t going to really engage, even from a customer service aspect, then just walk by so I don’t label you as a glorified douchebag. This is not the first time we have had this introduction. Every single time, I wait to see whether he stops or is so caught up in appearances that he assumes I asked how he was doing. Talk about someone on autopilot. Full disclosure: Years ago, I stopped asking people how they were doing because I wanted to see if they were actually listening. Maybe I’m a dick for not engaging, but the point is, if you want to have a conversation or be pleasant, then do just that. If your intention is simply to give the appearance that you are interested, but then blow by, that’s flawed to begin with. Thankfully, I didn’t have to work with him to finalize my wire transfer. While I processed the fact that he was doing his same schtick with other men sitting in the waiting area, I simply wanted to go home, knowing this transaction should be good to go. Days later, the money appeared where it was supposed to be, but in a typical big bank fashion, did they reimburse me the $52 for the failed wire transfer, the one they screwed up on? Of course not, because how else can the manager afford his designer suits and keep up his schmoozing habits? Maybe some things never do change, or the universe wanted to remind me whether it’s my twin brother fighting the good fight with BOA twenty plus years ago, or me in the present, most banks are going to find a way to take money from you, whether you have a balanced budget or not. Then again, I did say it was April, right? Uncle Sam wants his money, too. I guess I’ll get right on that. Do you want a check or a transfer? I ask my brother to get right on it… |
Meet Mr. Jon- a traveler at heart who loves a good story and walk. Jonathan has over twenty years experience in independent publishing. While he prides himself on crafting a good story, nothing truly beats an adventure and a camera. 
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