When I was young, maybe 6-8, my family lived in a house with a significant field behind it. For those years this field was my playground. I built paths through the tall grass from the garage to the woods a few acres back. I would spend all afternoon back there, forging away through through my imagination and any scenario that would come to mind. ANYTHING was possible as it was all created. Now my world is made of concrete and brick. New paths are roads I have never walked on and the noise and chaos, as beautiful as it is, keeps my eyes pegged to the walkway looking three steps ahead for oncoming bicycles and pedestrians.

Harvey Cox once defined pre-modern man as living in a magical glen where the very rocks and trees had fiendish properties that would either make or break you. The Babylonian prophetesses of Ishtar would partake in ritual copulation, hoping their act would inspire the gods of rain to do their work. The cave drawings of Lascaux, France are said to be a form of sympathetic magic, meaning the act of drawing one’s self killing an animal inspired the action to occur in reality. The point is that for so long humanity saw itself as a series of interactions between nature and humanity. Neither one controlled, but both played a part in what became. Nature was every bit as alive as flesh and blood.

There is something overwhelming about the outdoors: the organic systems in place, the flow of material and energy (not necessarily in the new-age sense), the awareness of your fragility. You know that you can not control. When you are camping and cooking over a fire you have to first build something. You don’t just flip a switch. You can’t just turn on an oven. You have to perform an action. It is you interacting with what is around you.

When I’m in the woods I carry a knife. Not for defense, but because I’m beginning to believe it is symbolic. The tool is a segue between man and nature. It is a simple way of breaking a divide between who we are and what our species came from. It is difficult to consider and thoroughly grasp the idea that we are tied in with our ecosystem. We are told that.  We know that. But do we really know that? I for one, despite my experience outdoors, think in terms of man and nature. Two separate entities metaphorically separated at birth. But when you cut something real to build a fire you are changing the variables. You rely on it directly.

Being enchanted with nature is an old idea. Thoreau defined this poetically. He wanted to live deep, suck the marrow out off life. He wanted his interaction with the world around him to be meaningful. He wanted to take the actions that led to learning and find what he felt was missing. He is not alone. Why in a world of houses and hotels do people still camp? Why do people build fires on the beach? Why if we can see it on a screen would we step out in the cold to watch the northern lights? We are missing something deeply human.

When my parents lived in Alaska I visited a small pond behind their house a few times in the winter. At 40 below zero I laid down in a foot of snow and watched the sky for as long as I could take the cold. The sky was so bright and it was so quiet I could literally hear the snow land on my hood and around me. I felt so deeply satisfied.

I don’t have any problems with cities. I love the resources, the cultural events, people, and interesting food. But it isn’t enough. We, or I, need to be outside among the trees.

I just came across an email I sent to WSJ journalist Elizabeth Bernstein after her article “How facebook Ruins Friendships”, where she argues that something went wrong when we took our friendships online. She says that there is something odd about discussing so many aspects of our lives that are basically irrelevant to most people. Rather than post my response in full, here is the crux of my argument:

People post this information because they like to share their lives. I often share what I ate for lunch with my coworkers. Not everything, but the interesting bits. But now that our “community” is not a local village where we would share our daily lives, but spread out across the world, the daily aspects of our lives are lost to all but those in our immediate vicinity. I would argue it is the little things that truly make a community.

Online tools are simply that: tools. Websites such as facebook and Myspace are used to satisfy a niche that is currently unsatisfied - otherwise they would not become popular. The market demand determines the success of the tool. I agree that people go too crazy with it and post bits that are irrelevant to me. Then again not a day goes by where someone says something to me about their life that to me is also irrelevant. In WebLand I have the choice to gloss over whereas in the real world I must say something.

The crazies have the loudest voices and always will. But these are the exceptions not the standards. I read through my friend’s statuses a few times a day. I love to hear what people of whom I was once very tied in with locally are now doing.

I’m beginning to view these exceptions as a kind of growing pains. Much like a teenager will blurt out a socially awkward statement or tell someone too much information out of a lack of knowing what is relevant and what is not, the language and style of online communication is much the same.

I’ve noticed a difference between age demographics and the kind of information users post. 20-somethings post only the most interesting content. 30-somethings will post EVERYTHING. And over 40 generally only post information that will be relevant to family or work. I think this in some ways can be traced to the digital native/digital tourist divide and whether people are able to unconsciously understand the unstated rules and behaviors of a group.

Through facebook I’ve reconnected with family that I haven’t seen in years. I’ve shared aspects of my life with my Grandfather and cousins that were all but lost in the only occasional visits we seem to be able to achieve. I can keep tabs with my parents beyond our biweekly phone calls and chat with my sister about our lives in ways that were impossible in the past , even with cell phones that never leave our sides.

I understand the point of your article and applaud your honestly. We should pick up the phone more often than not. But the distance between “worth calling about” and “don’t bother with the little stuff” is sometimes where the real substance lives.

What do you think, oh world of online users? Is facebook just an annoying portal for those who don’t understand the method and meaning behind the post-your-daily-lives madness, or is there a purpose to the sharing at a deeper, human level?

Leaving Milan I was full of expectation. The pictures of Marrakech were of deep blue skies, exotic visuals, and customs barely changed for hundreds of years. I landed in Marrakech International Airport at 9:00 am feeling a little dragged down from the 4:30 wake up call. The airport is a lush garden of a port, set amongst trees and flowers with dry hills and the snow capped Atlas range in the background. The cab took me as close as is possible for a car to my hotel. He handed me my bags and said “go straight”, which I have come to find out is a euphemism for “try to head in this direction and find your way along the small, twisting, turning streets and try to not get run over by a motorcycle”. Being directionally challenged I was lost almost immediately. Luckily a nice man in the traditional djellaba (traditional one piece wool clothing worn by men and made famous – aka – borrowed for the clothing of the desert people in Star Wars part 1. Think Obi-wan’s costume.) led me the way there through the maze to the front door. I use the word hotel lightly. I’m staying at Jnane Mogador, a riad, or traditional family home built around an open courtyard with an open roof top deck. Luckily its very close to where I want to go and what I want to see here – mainly Jamaâ El Fna in the old city, or medina.

Jamaâ El Fna, a UNESCO World Heritage Site since 2001, is an open square in the center of the old city that dates back to the 11^th century by most accounts, and in some form or fashion for longer still. Being on an ancient trade route to the sea, Marrakech was a stopping point for caravans of spices and/or pilgrims making their way to Mecca. To feed hungry travelers locals began setting up small food stalls. These were made to be portable and drawn by donkey, just as they are today. As the city grew more varieties of food began to open, as well as forms of entertainment. I went first thing today after dropping off my luggage. By 10:00 am there were a good thirty stalls selling fresh orange juice and as many selling nuts and dried fruit. Snake charmers with their strange instruments and drums sit on carpets and keep their cobras and vipers entertained. Monkeys on leashes perform tricks and sit on shoulders. Water sellers, in their ornate, brightly colored clothing, bang together small cymbals to let possible buyers know they are near by. The square is a living being as a social creature, as many sociologists have said of groups of people. It is controlled chaos. Within an hour the square had changed a little. Food stalls started opening and some of the juice stalls started closing. It wasn’t like a changing of the guard, it was more organic than practiced. I sat in a corner shop and sipped sweet mint tea for an hour watching the comings and goings. And as the mint finally settled to the bottom of my second glass a more vibrant square was beginning to take shape. I wasn’t the only one watching. I was surrounded by locals doing the very same.

I left for a bit to explore. I meandered down a few side streets glancing in the souks, or shops, at the millions of objects for sale. The souk district is similar to the Grand Bizarre in Istanbul, only smaller and a little less controlled feeling. Not really in the mood to purchase, I caught an open top bus, a tourist’s paradise on wheels, to get my self familiar with the area. Marrakech is a strange city. It is a place of deep tradition and old ways of life. At the same time the outskirts have in the past few years become the playground for the rich and famous of Europe. A simple hostel can go for five dollars a night. One night in a renovated historic riad can cost thousands. The only real casino in town requires a coat and tie to get in the door. Winston Churchill loved to vacation here and is known to frequent a particular bar in the newer side of town. I thought about this quite a bit today while aboard the bus as well as stopping for a walk around a garden created by designer Yves saint Laurent, a walled off city block circled by less than opulent surroundings. In a world of Disney theme parks and Travel Chanel specials, travel can easily become a bit of a top ten travel sites to visit demi-glace – lots of the good condensed into single servings. Not necessarily a bad thing, mind you. I have, after all, done that very thing for ten days so far. I rode from site to site getting a feel for the place but not really feeling anything. Shortly after dark, however, I got off at Jamaâ El Fna and walked to the distant sound of drums toward the bright lights and smoke pouring out of the center of the square. Unlike the daytime, this was true madness. Where was once a few dozen orange juice stalls was now a mob of cooks and waiters selling everything from kabobs, tajines (small, one serving stews cooked in clay pots over a flame) and couscous to the more exotic snail and boiled sheep head options. This is street and comfort food rolled into one. Along the way to my stall of choice I passed interesting oddities you don’t often see in my neck of the woods. Crowds gather around belly dancers moving to the beat of the drummers, fortune tellers reading palms, witch doctors selling remedies for every ailment under the sun, and story tellers who make their living recalling forgotten myths and legends. This is one place where the tourist actually adds something to the mix. The square was created for travelers passing through. It would be almost nothing without someone to be sold something.

And in this sense the idea of “history” becomes something to really think about. We grow up reading history texts – memorizing the dates and locations of monumental events. TV series and movies use strange phrases like “…and changed history forever.” But really, history is much more abstract than that. It isn’t just a collection of recalled events organized by periods and state or technological advances. You don’t change history, you create it. Every person I walked by today has a history as unique to them as their own face. And their, or our, history is more important to us than the achievements of Reconnaissance artists (which will be the next blog – got a little behind on account of lacking internet access in Italy) or the impact of Hellenism after Alexander the Great. This is my fascination with a relatively obscure four block by four block square in the middle of a small city in northern Africa. History is transported from an abstract concept attached to an ancient building into a living, breathing being that continues to find its small place in a large, diverse world. An ancient tradition becomes part of my history. I often think about the importance of tradition in living. For a very long time we humans have survived both mentally and physically by traditions. We live in an era where it is normal if not encouraged to “break with tradition”. To see not just a physical building but a way of life and tradtiona received as a Heritage Site is very important.

The food was as good as I had hoped. Being a fan of a good tajine, and despite the fact it was also my lunch, I had one with bread and a few kabobs on the side for good measure. The smell of the tajine when the waiter removed the lid, with its still sizzling chicken and vegetables, was incredible. Tajines were traditionally food for the working man. The round, heavy clay pot with domed lid were brought to work every day with the necessary ingredients. The ingredients would all be mixed together and thrown on coals in the morning and would be perfectly cooked by lunch. Its basically a single serving stew. My personal favorite, and the type I had for lunch is chicken with preserved lemon. The stall I ate at, (Stall 1) had four or five different tajines available, of which I hope to try by the end of my visit. The kabobs were fantastic and under a dollar a piece. All in all it was the best $8 (with water) I could have spent. I will be back tomorrow and the next. I think tomorrow might also be a good day for snails…

My stomach is full and my eyes are heavy after the early morning flight. More on this and hopefully Florence tomorrow.

The first blog is always the hardest. So much to say and post so lets start with a top ten.

Ten reasons to read this blog:

1. Food (of course). I love almost everything I have ever tried and I have tried everything I have seen. I will eat what ever is served wherever. AND, as a bonus I’ll take pictures and write it up on this site.
2. Promised to be a good blend of history, culture, and everything in between. Traveling is much more complex than sitting on a beach.
3. If there is a cheap trip that is worth mentioning I will.
4. Why restrict travel blogs to international trips? Even a walk down the street can be worth talking about.
5. The up and coming places you want to visit. I obsessively read travel magazines. Why sort through a pile of ads just to see whats hip to visit this year?
6. I’m one of the few guys to ask directions. Maybe not pertinent to this posting, but interesting none the less.
7. Because you want to. Seriously, you do.
8. Obsessive research. I can’t seem to go to lunch without reading everything published or posted on the restaurant, the cuisine, and the environment. But skill is found not in the compiling of data, but the sifting through.
9. Something new. Its here. Just wait.
10. Blogs are cool, man! Catch up.