one german on the rocks, please

This compilation comes from Germany. It's a form of persuasion. A soundtrack for the true fiction that came to pass for 72 hours on the mystical, purple coast of Morocco. The track list itself is a poetic testament--a haiku of magic, brown eyes, such lyrics as "your ex is dead and will remain so", etc.

One journey for you, but it's worth it. One life here with me and it's magic.

Coincidence? Imagination is powerful: I ordered it up like a Pizza Hut special with a side of Ipod, and it was delivered in less time than the typical 25-30 minute window. I was at the end of my rope, so like Matilda, I used my powers. I had just discovered them too. And I was being cheeky and irreverent when I said to the sea, "Send me a single, intelligent, well-spoken and intuitive cohort to watch the peachy sunset dance across the crashing waves of this ancient and achingly romantic Moroccan coastal town..." And you can imagine my surprise when I got exactly what I asked for.

Of course, every time I started feeling invincible and "at home" with my new powers, I got a rude reminder that I was a guest in magic territory. After a three hour conversation confirming such odd commonalities as our childhood hometowns, favorite and obscure musical artists and comparing general philosophies on life--I skipped merrily on my way to spruce up for dinner. Humming to myself, quite pleased with my amazingness in fact, I turned the corner to prance down the cobblestones when I got a swift stone to the head. Of course, this was the cold reminder (in impish, local trouble-maker juvenile street urchin form) that I was merely plugging in to the magical Moroccan wi-fi, and I could lose connection at any time. Ok, I thought, thanks for that. My temple was throbbing and I tried not to look like the confused, crying, injured, single, vulnerable and emotional American tourist stumbling through the twilight. Be brave, I told myself, literally, have a stiff upper lip if you've got any sense at all...crying right now would be like a fat, unsuspecting guinea hen parading through a field of salivating foxes. Look mean. Think bitter, acerbic, salty, vengeful thoughts..emit them on high heat. Look mildly irritated and like you've had enough of the "gazelle! amore! lady! hallo!" cat calls from each and every shop boy along Rue Lalouj.

I recovered, ducked into my little hotel that looked like a ride at DisneyLand (mirror tiles and intricate mosaics casually adorning the entire lobby--modestly fantastic) and climbed the stairs to my humble hideout. The room was the size of a flipflop box with a narrow bed, sink, mirror--even some bars on the window to complete the "Alcatraz Meets Morocco" theme.

Now, "sprucing up" was a whole different boardgame in Morocco..my inner she wolf had been kept strategically suppressed as a precautionary measure. I had loaded up on Old Navy cast-offs for the trip, in an effort to turn up the frump dial and minimize any smattering of feminine appeal. And I was hideously successful at it. The plan was to give it all to Goodwill when I got home, but Freulein Maria's voice kept playing in my head, "The poor didn't want this one" and that pretty much sums up my faux maternity collection in which I made my Moroccan debut.

I decided that I'd put in some dangerous effort that night, just to make sure I hadn't completely lost touch with self-expression. This didn't involve any serious primping...I reshaped my hair (notice, I didn't go so far as "brushing out" my fully-organic dreadlock that I'd had in a cleaning-the-catbox knot for 30+ days...that would have been far too suggestive) and felt vaguely reconnected with my feminine side, in the privacy of my own Moroccan cell/hotel room.

I then decided to really vamp it up and add some mascara, after the little crooked mirror told me I had some work to do. I was giddy, like I was digging in Mother's makeup bag--age 5 again--playing with pretty and stomping around in too-big high heels. A few strokes here, a little manipulation of the mop and I was in my old neighborhood again. I'd have to make a well-planned bee line for my designated dinner spot... I had a mental rehearsal to map out my route: left out the front door of the hotel, through the little midget archway, past the mumbling drunk on the corner, right at the mini-mosque on Rue Mohammed Something-abibi. I pranced down the stairs, past the front desk clerk who unsurprisingly inquired just where I thought I was going with my hair looking half decent. With my carefully-cultivated Stupid Smile that came in handy more than once, I breezed past him and out the door.

Then it was about walking fast but not so fast that I'd arouse attention. I finally understood why women are called gazelles by the local male omnivores--gazelles are hysterical animals of limited sense, treading cautiously through the African Savannah and enduring the bloodthirsty cries by their food chain superiors. Hence the gawking, the rubber-necking, the customary fascination and commentary, "Madamoiselle! Hello! Gazelle! Chica Guapa! So sexy!" I realized, of course, that I could be a tranny in gold platforms and fishnets and garner the same response.

Dinner with my conjured-up friend was the flower of my magical realism...a brief rescue from the hazards of femininity and fatal allure of baggy capris.