Stop Being Mean to Yourself: A Story About Finding the True Meaning of Self-Love (3 page)

Page 12

art in the world as the vortex funneled me deeper into the heart of this tour
.

I had chosen Paris because I wanted to get off to a good start, one with a little flair and comfort, as I had expected my time in the Middle East to be stressful and probably deprived of comfort. Now, staring out the window in my room in Casablanca, it looked as if I had been right. I wasn't looking for comfort here, anyway. I was looking for something else.

I planned to spend a few days here in Casablanca. I would store my luggage at this hotel, then fly into Algeria tomorrow, carrying only a backpack. I would stay in Algeria for a few days, maybe a week. I wouldn't decide for certain until I arrived there and saw what was happening. Then I would fly back here, get my luggage, and go on to Cairo. From there, I thought possibly I would fly to Greece. Other than for the final leg of the trip in Greece, I had made hotel arrangements for at least the first night in each city I planned to visit. I wanted to be flexible and let the rhythm of each country and the rhythm of the story that unfolded guide my plans.

I closed the curtains and rode the elevator downstairs to the hotel lobby. Outside the combination restaurant and bar, a Humphrey Bogart lookalike smiled and nodded to welcome me, his head bobbing like a human puppet. I went in, sat down at the bar, and ordered a café au lait.

Page 13

I looked around the room. There were two other people—including the bartender—besides me. The bartender wore a navy blue, shortwaisted suit that resembled a military uniform. A chic woman with short black hair and wearing high platform shoes sat in a booth to my left. She looked as if she were in her late twenties, maybe from Italy. She kept glancing toward the doorway. I assumed she was waiting for someone.

When the bartender brought my coffee, I looked at the milk, hesitating for just a moment. I wanted to be careful about what I ate and drank on this trip. Hell, I was careful at home. But they boiled the water for coffee. This should be fine. I poured the warm milk into the demitasse of espresso.

"It's quiet here," I said to the bartender.

"It's Ramadan," he said.

Although I had heard about Ramadan, I had not been aware it would be taking place during my travels. Ramadan is a month of fasting in Islamic countries, the month when Muslims believe God—or Allah—sent the Koran down to Mohammed, the prophet and founder of the Islamic faith. Islamic religion prohibits Muslims from eating, drinking, smoking, and sexual activity during daylight hours—from dawn to dusk—during Ramadan. Ramadan ends when a reliable source sights the new moon. Muslims consider this a time not so much of deprivation, but of obedience to God.

Page 14

"Where are you from?" the bartender asked.

I told him I was from the United States, feeling complimented by his question. I had wanted to blend in, to not stand out as an American tourist traipsing through the Middle East. To do that, my friend and hairdresser, Angelo, had cut my hair to less than two inches long, then colored it almost pitchblack. I had carefully chosen dark, inconspicuous clothing for this trip.

"Business or pleasure?" the bartender asked.

"Business," I said. "I'm a writer."

"What brings you
here
?" he asked.

"A story," I said. "But it didn't really bring me
here
. I'm just in Morocco to get my bearings and find a place to store my luggage. Tomorrow, I'm flying into Algiers."

Wrong answer, I thought, seeing the scowl on his face. I was used to that look by now. I provoked it whenever I told someone I was going to Algeria. I had seen that look on Christmas Day, back home in Los Angeles, when I had told my friend Maurice, a Moroccan Frenchman who lives in the United States, that I was going to Algiers. The scowling disapproval no longer bothered me. I hadn't let it stop me when I planned this trip. I certainly wasn't going to let it stop me now. I dug out a handful of
dirhams
,
the Moroccan currency, paid for my coffee, walked outside, and hailed a cab.

"Take me to the
souk
, please," I said to the driver.

Page 15

"The
souk
?"
the driver asked, looking at me like I was crazy.

"Yes. The
souk
,"
I said.

I had heard about
souks
before my trip began. They were huge marketplaces, cities within a city, old Arab towns tucked away in the midst of urban highrises. I heard that some people spent their whole lives in
souks
.
They were born, lived, and died in there. One travel agent said people can go in and never be seen again. I had also heard stories about the wonderful openair herb markets in the
souks
,
the clothing, food, and silver goods. I wanted to see for myself.

The driver parked the car at an intersection where the streets began to narrow to one lane.

"We're here," he said.

"Wait for me," I instructed him. "I'll be back in an hour."

He smiled as if he knew something I didn't.

I lasted five minutes. I had walked only two blocks when three men, probably in their early twenties, began first following, then closing in on me. I hurriedly crossed the street and ran back to the cab, making my way through the shoving people, the bicyclists, and the old wooden carts.

"I'm done here," I said. "Take me back to the hotel, please."

I returned to my room and began rearranging my luggage, preparing for tomorrow's flight to Algiers. I had Page 16

traveled a lot, both in the United States and around the world. Sometimes I had gone for pleasure. Mostly, it was for business. In 1989, during one of the controversies in Central America, I had gone to Honduras with some other media personnel from Minnesota. It was part of my work as a journalist for the daily paper in the town where I lived. We had flown to Panama and Honduras in an Air Force bomber. A fivestar general had given us a tour. We were kept under armed guard in a hotel. Then we were flown into the heart of Honduras in a helicopter.

I was
used to
going out and finding the story.

Only this time, I was going alone.

I brought my suitcases down to the hotel lobby and asked the concierge to secure my luggage for a few days. I thanked him, tucked my claim checks in my purse, and returned to my room. It didn't look as if much were going to happen here. This city wasn't opening up for me. I guess I hadn't expected it to. I had only intended this to be a safe place to store my luggage while I flew into the notsosafe neighboring country of Algeria.

As the sun set, the chanting from the evening prayers rose from the mosques scattered throughout the city, filling the air like verbal incense. Lightning flashed, thunder crackled, and the sound of the howling winds intermingled with the prayers and songs. Then the winds began to blow so hard the windows rattled and shook.

Page 17

I remembered the first time the winds had blown
,
the winds of the vortex that brought me here
.
It was the night after Thanksgiving
.
They
'
re strange winds
,

the Santa Anas
.
They blow hard
,
yet warm
.
They
'
re different from any wind I
'
ve ever felt
.

The next day
,
I discovered the Santa Anas had blown so hard they whisked my garbage can away
.
While I stood on the street behind my house looking for
my trash can
,
my daughter
,
Nichole
,
pulled into the driveway with her boyfriend
,
Will
.

I like Will
.
He
'
s an actor in Los Angeles
.
He
'
s young
,
but he
'
s had a degree of success already
.
He has a good spirit and a good heart
.
I liked him from the
first time Nichole brought him home and introduced him to me
.

That day
,
Nichole and Will were glowing when they got out of the car
.
They had something important to tell me
.

''
We had a great experience last night
,
''
Nichole said
.
"
We thought we were going to Venice to have dinner with some friends of a friend
.
It turned out to be
more than that
,
though
.
Master Huang was there
.
He
'
s a special holy man from Taiwan
.
He only comes to the United States once or twice a year
.
Hepulled
Will and me aside
,
talked to us for a while
,
and asked us if we wanted to receive our Tao
.
We said yes
.
So we went through this beautiful ceremony and got
our Tao
.
We also got the Three Treasures
,
the three secrets to life
.
But I can
'
t tell you about those
.
We promised not to
."

Nichole tried to explain more about this mysterious

Page 18

ceremony and exactly what it meant
,
but I didn
'
t understand
.

"
Mostly
,
getting your Tao means that your karma has ended
,"
Nichole said
.
"
We don
'
t have to reincarnate or recycle again
,
evermore
."

I have never understood karma
.
I don
'
t know
—
not in the way a journalist needs to know
—
whether reincarnation exists or not
.
Sometimes I think if we
care so much about recycling cans
,
God would probably want to recycle souls
.
As for karma
,
whatever it is and whatever it means
,
it has always sounded
like trouble to me
.
And I certainly wished I could get mine to end
.

I glanced up and down the road one more time
,
as if staring hard enough could bring that garbage can back
.
Then I gave up and headed down the
stairway leading to the house
.

"
Tell me the secrets
,"
I said to Nichole
.

She refused
.

"
I
'
m your mother
,"
I said firmly
.

She refused
.

"
Are they like
. . ."

"
Let it go
,
Mom
,"
she said
.
"
I
'
m not telling
."

I didn
'
t think about the vortex
,
the Three Treasures
,
Master Huang
,
karma
,
or my trash can again for a while
.

As the end of the year approached
,
I was busy with the holidays and my travel preparations
.
I wasn
'
t excited
—
not the way we feel when we
'
re going on a
vacation
.
I knew then this trip was going to be intense
.
My plan was to research my next book
,
but I knew from the start it was about more than
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research
.
The trip was an important part of my life
.
It was something I had to do
.

When I saw that crescent moon and star in the sky on Christmas night
,
I knew for sure I had to go
.
The newspaper
,
the radio
,
all the guests who had come
to my house for Christmas Day were buzzing about this crescent moon and star in the sky
.
The newspaper was calling it a phenomenon
—"
Venus Kissing
the Moon
."
I didn
'
t know about all that
:
I only knew how I felt when I stood outside and looked up at that beautiful sliver of moon with the glowing star at
its tip
.

It had been only the night before
,
Christmas Eve
,
that I had told Nichole the Christmas story
.
We were driving into Santa Monica to do some last
minute
shopping
.
She wanted to get a book for Will
,
and one or two other small gifts
.
We both felt a little dispirited
.

Holidays had been difficult since my son Shane died
.
This holiday season was no exception
.
While
"
Deck the Halls
"
blared on the radio
,
a dull throbbing
pain pounded in each of us
.
This was our fifth Christmas since Shanes death
.
This holiday pain didn
'
t surprise us anymore
,
but we still weren
'
t used to it
.
I
wanted to cheer up Nichole
:
I wanted us both to find some meaning
,
even in the pain
.
So I just started talking while we drove down the Pacific Coast
Highway
.

"
You know
,
everyone talks about the Christmas story
,
and they talk about no room in the inn
,
and they talk about all the events that took place that day
,"
I
said
.
"
But some other things