Just as a heads up, I'm going to be trying to get at least two or three of these out per day over the next few days so I can, from a writing perspective anyway, close off Morocco before plunging into India. I've no schedule now that I'm here in Delhi, and I plan to take my friend Parvez's advice and ease my way into it, so focussing on writing for a bit makes for a good use of time. And I doubt like anyone thinks of these posts as presents, but if you were to, then this is like me doing all of my Christmas shopping at the last minute and perhaps getting some final things during boxing day sales for people I wasn't seeing till after.
Essaouira is on the coast of Morocco, a few hours west of Marrakech. It used to be the main port for all trade in and out of Morocco, which meant that is was also the hub for much trade between Europe and Africa, and really the rest of world. That started a long, long time ago, and Essaouira now is much quieter, though it does remain a very busy fishing port.
Essaouira was the first excursion the tour agency I was working with sent me on. Picked up outside my place by a comfy van a little before 8am, I popped up into the front passenger seat, said hi to Abdul, the fellow that ended up picking me up from my place for all of my excursions, and went off to the main sending off point for all of the companies tour buses, not far from Waka Waka.
Right, I should mention that by this point I had moved to the riad where I lived for most of my time in Marrakech. More on that later.
By the way, I often say "more on that later", and think I am doing an okay job of keeping track of when I say that and getting around to the "more on that part" part of it. Hope that is the case. If you're still waiting on something, just let me know and I'll get on it.
So got to the spot and met up with Abdellah, Ali, and Mbark, the three guys who run Tafraout/ Marrakech Travel Services. We said our good morning and then I popped up into the front passenger seat beside Mohammed, the driver for today's excursion to Essaouira.
I find it interesting how preconceived notions can shape how we experience something, or equally likely, be shattered by reality. In the case of this first excursion, it was very much a shape.
As this was the first excursion, I was super focussed on the guys getting value for their money with me, soaking up as much as I could of the experience, seeing lots, and getting plenty of "money shots" for the brochures. You know, the picture you look at that makes you say "I want to go there. Now." I'd had that experience when Sabong had told me about Imlil and I'd looked at some pictures. Sadly none of my Imlil pictures came near as close to the ones I looked at in terms of that kind of beauty. I'd like to blame the season and the lack of green, but it's more likely just me and the lack of photography skills, time, patience, and luck necessary to get that kind of shot.
I don't think my Essaouira pictures totally nailed it either. Some came close perhaps. You can judge.
But first, here are some goats.
Like I was saying, the drive from Marrakech to Essaouira is about three hours, and its pretty much a straight, if somewhat squiggly, line. Kinda like walking through the medina. The direct path and relatively flat terrain made Essaouira the perfect port city for Marrakech, and now makes it a great beach-side getaway for anyone wanting to go.
It's along this path, as you get closer to Marrakech that you'll find the groves of argan trees. Argan is a nut used for cosmetics and cooking, though by cooking I mean drizzling on salads, as I may have mentioned before.
Well, apparently goats like to sit in the trees and graze on them too.
Yes, someone likely put them there, or at minimum coaxed them on their way up. This same someone came up to us when we pulled over to take pictures, and while holding a goat in his arms, was still somehow able to reach out a hand and ask for a few dirham for the privilege of witnessing goats in a tree.
So yes, a bit of a setup. But such a silly one it was totally worth it.
What I'm not sure about is whether or not goats started doing this on their own, or whether shepherds tried it out for a lark and found that it made their's and the goats' lives easier. In either case, the goats seem quite content standing on a branch and munching away, and it makes for a good picture and entertainment for passing motorists, so there you go.
This, by the way, is what they were munching on.
And here is a goat-less argan tree. It though gets a mule and a couple of people to keep it company. Busy life being a tree in Morocco. Everybody works.
So when I say that the preconceived notion of the trip shaped the trip, I do not mean that I had set out that morning to see goats in trees and that the universe heard me and ever so kindly obliged. What I meant in this case was really about "us" and "them". Us, being the tour company people, and them being the tourists on the trip. Putting myself up with the driver was me firmly announcing that I was an "us". And so it was.
Mohammed and I chatted as we drove along, him pointing out the different towns we passed through and letting me know their names, me promptly forgetting as, when it sounds different from how words and names are usually constructed I find it is harder to remember. And there were plenty of them. He also quite kindly shared his snack of nuts and fruit. I've so little french it doesn't count, and he thought his english wasn't very good, though I think he is wrong, so we didn't do a whole lot of talking, but we did do some, and that helped me with the "us" thing I had going on in my head. Mohammed also used me to pass messages on to everyone else, and I was keeping track of everyone at stop offs, opening and closing the van door for people, and at times herding people back to the van when we needed to get going.
I expect everyone thought I was a bit of a weenie.
I probably was.
But I wanted to belong to the tour company, not the tourists. This is what I'd been dreaming of from a longer stay somewhere. Getting to know locals, becoming a part of something. Belonging. I had the ridiculous good fortune of having the opportunity for this now to happen and I wasn't about to squander it. That said, it's not like "belonging" became any more real outside of my own head on this trip. And it's not like I could make it happen, or will it to happen. And it didn't happen on this trip, and when it did happen, it wasn't because I was trying to make it so. It just did. In it's own time and at it's own pace and because I'd forgotten all about that particular goal and had finally gotten on with just being and doing.
At this point though, it was still very much an "us" and "them", to the point that I actually wrote a little note to myself about it, and wondered if all the excursions would be this weird sort of limbo where I an insider on the outside, not quite belonging to either place, but hearing the chit chat from the others in the van, and smiling at it while not really engaging, would spend my time silently witnessing events while not really being a part of them.
I can be such a tool sometimes. Thankfully, and through no fault of my own, I eventually get my head unstuck from where it firmly places itself in my ass and get on with reality, as opposed to these various fictions of my own devising.
The group I was with consisted of three groups of two, and then myself. Little chat on the way there, and the minute we arrived, seven people went in four different directions. So it's not like there was a whole lot of cohesiveness to begin with, but still, you know what I mean. I'll note though that on the way back we picked up a group of nine from Poland, one of whom sat up between Mohammed and me, as she suffered from car sickness and the front was better for her. No puking and awesome time chatting, so all good, both in terms of travel conditions and shattering that vapid us/them crap I was talking about. Bottom line is you end up being who you are. In my case I just need to get out of my own way sometimes.
Before arriving in Essaouira proper we stopped to look down on the city and coast. It looks something like this, assuming you're not looking to the left or right of where I was looking, in which case it looks different.
Everywhere else looks like this.
But maybe that was just my imagination. It certainly did make it hard to go anywhere.
By the way, first person to comment on the blog with the correct reference for that one gets $20. I have a bet with myself on who that might be.
So, here I now was, with a little over four hours to myself, Essaouira before me, and an incredible desire to "do it right". So much to see, so little time. There's the port, the medina, the walls, the canons, the seafood, the tidal pools, the beach. I couldn't not see these things. I mean, I needed to experience them, get pictures, do all that. How could I possibly actually write about them in a brochure if I didn't?
And let's just say that that attitude really changed the experience. Not worse, not better, just different. And for the record, I was doing this to myself. The guys had been "Go, just do what you want to do, take some pictures, and then write about it when you come back." Well, if I'd actually done that then you would all have been reading about Essaouira alot sooner, and their brochure would have a big pink square in the middle of it, so perhaps it's a good thing that I didn't quite follow their instructions to the letter.
But off I went on my mission. And, having done some reading the night before, I had my plan of attack all sorted out. Start with the port, see the fort, get some fresh seafood, checkout the tidal pools, wander the medina, definitely find some woodworking dude, stroll along the beach, head home.
And that's pretty much how it went.
Started with the port. Busy place with lots of blue boats, people working on boats, selling fish, mending nets, boxes, and all that good stuff you'd expect to find at a fishing port.
That's where I bought my lunch. The guy then lead me to this little hole in the wall where another guy with a charcoal grill outside was set up. He took my catch (squid and shrimp) and got it on the coals, and then lead me inside to a table where it was soon served up with some bread, salad, and of course, tea.
I drank a lot of tea in Morocco.
The blue of the boats by the way is called "Essaouira blue". I don't know if it's a custom pantone swatch they own the exclusive rights for, but you do find it everywhere in Essaouira. Everywhere being doors, window shutters, fabrics, the sky. The blue originally comes from a dye called murex, which in turn comes from local snails. The females produce the blue, and the males produce a purple, also known as Tyrian purple, as it was used by romans to stripe their togas, or whatever John Belushi was wearing at that party. I'm sure there is a synthetic version used for paints, and I'm also pretty sure snails are not responsible for the sky being blue (though it would make a good response if anyone ever asks me again - just imagine it "Why is the sky blue?", little Jimmy asked one afternoon as I pushed him on a swing, my own sons having had enough of me and my idiotic stories and more relevantly to this story, being pushed on swings, years ago. "Well", I sagely responded, "it's because Moroccan snails peed all over the sky.")
That may be the most flagrant abuse of parantheses in this blog yet.
Makes me proud.
By the way, I may have gotten the genders confused. I am happy to say that that rarely happens for me when it comes to anything other than snails.
And these are the ramparts.
Essaouira is a fortified city, meaning it's got walls. Big, thick, walls. Like pretty much every other place I've been to in Morocco.
And what goes well with fortified walls? You got it - canons.
And here's a couple of other views from up there.
Fortified coastal cities, by the way, also have a lot of gulls.
Small world.
So they then showed me around the medina. Oh, we had to head back by the way.
It's a nice Medina. Yes, old walled city, but updated by the French, so the medina is actually a grid, with fairly wide streets, and lots of room for sunlight to come on down and be the next contestant. And so much more relaxed than the one in Marrakech.
Max likes to take pictures of doors too, and Whitney is incredibly patient about it. A couple of other new friends Colin and Matilde, who I will introduce you to another time (that's two future commitments in this blog so far) also have a similar situation with Colin liking doors and Matilde being patient.
Q: What do you do when you've got a fetish for doors?
A: Get a room.
This is an herbalist shop I visited. Not only did I visit it, I did so of my own accord. That's right. There was no one outside trying to haul me in there. So why did I go? Because it looks so friggin' cool.
The floor is all argan shells.
And while it is apparently not okay to suggest that the medina in Essaouira has the same sort of stuff as the medina in Marrakech, as this turns off potential shoppers, the truth is that it does, but that it still makes for something pretty to take photos of and walk around.
This is inside one of the wood-worker's shops. Essaouira is apparently known for this, and it's because of that that I learned that the Tetraclynis, Thuya, Arar, and Sandarac tree are all the same bloody thing.
It's also endangered now, and buying this stuff isn't helping with any of that. Tough one though. What happens to this entire industry when the tree that makes the work unique stops being used? Especially when it's also the roots being used, as they've got a really cool grain. Yes, if the tree goes extinct then that problem will happen anyway, so you can argue it's only a matter of time before the economic issue presents itself. But somehow in my head, (and likely others or this wouldn't be a problem) making the switch isn't that easy. Like all problems relating to humans and the planet the answer is an easy one, but it's also a hard one to make happen, and the impacts are significant along the way. So the hard part is finding the solution that actually works. I'm sure there is one out there, but my job title is "Sr. Consultant - Complex Solutions" and I haven't the foggiest on where to begin with this one. Good thing I work in healthcare.
It's nearly Christmas, so let's here it for what I call a clementine, what people in Morocco call oranges, and what people from the US, UK, and Australia that I've met think of as "Christmas oranges".
Someone, I think he was from the Netherlands, on one of the other excursions had asked us all where else had we encountered this particular fruit, as he had only seen it in Morocco. My response was "At the bottom of my Christmas stocking".
This fellow is a artist and caligrapher next door to the wood working place I visited. He wrote my name in arabic on a piece of parchment that is now safely tucked in a book. Yes, a book. Having lost my kobo and not replaced it I am back to actual books.
This is the sqaure where it all started.
And these are shots outside of the wall around the tidal pools that I had forgotten about putting down here when I first put the pictures in the blog entry a few days ago, and was wondering about when I got to the picture of Max and Whitney and was going to go back and include up there once I'd finished writing but now don't need to because they're here, and you're here, and now I've explained it, so it's all good.
And this is the beach.
And that guy walking away tried to sell me happy cookies. That tray he is carrying had six rows of cookies on it. The first four were typical cookies. The second last one had marijuana in it, and the last row had hash. Happy cookies indeed.
And now for some reason I'm feeling hungry. Talk again soon.
Essaouira is on the coast of Morocco, a few hours west of Marrakech. It used to be the main port for all trade in and out of Morocco, which meant that is was also the hub for much trade between Europe and Africa, and really the rest of world. That started a long, long time ago, and Essaouira now is much quieter, though it does remain a very busy fishing port.
Essaouira was the first excursion the tour agency I was working with sent me on. Picked up outside my place by a comfy van a little before 8am, I popped up into the front passenger seat, said hi to Abdul, the fellow that ended up picking me up from my place for all of my excursions, and went off to the main sending off point for all of the companies tour buses, not far from Waka Waka.
Right, I should mention that by this point I had moved to the riad where I lived for most of my time in Marrakech. More on that later.
By the way, I often say "more on that later", and think I am doing an okay job of keeping track of when I say that and getting around to the "more on that part" part of it. Hope that is the case. If you're still waiting on something, just let me know and I'll get on it.
So got to the spot and met up with Abdellah, Ali, and Mbark, the three guys who run Tafraout/ Marrakech Travel Services. We said our good morning and then I popped up into the front passenger seat beside Mohammed, the driver for today's excursion to Essaouira.
I find it interesting how preconceived notions can shape how we experience something, or equally likely, be shattered by reality. In the case of this first excursion, it was very much a shape.
As this was the first excursion, I was super focussed on the guys getting value for their money with me, soaking up as much as I could of the experience, seeing lots, and getting plenty of "money shots" for the brochures. You know, the picture you look at that makes you say "I want to go there. Now." I'd had that experience when Sabong had told me about Imlil and I'd looked at some pictures. Sadly none of my Imlil pictures came near as close to the ones I looked at in terms of that kind of beauty. I'd like to blame the season and the lack of green, but it's more likely just me and the lack of photography skills, time, patience, and luck necessary to get that kind of shot.
I don't think my Essaouira pictures totally nailed it either. Some came close perhaps. You can judge.
But first, here are some goats.
Like I was saying, the drive from Marrakech to Essaouira is about three hours, and its pretty much a straight, if somewhat squiggly, line. Kinda like walking through the medina. The direct path and relatively flat terrain made Essaouira the perfect port city for Marrakech, and now makes it a great beach-side getaway for anyone wanting to go.
It's along this path, as you get closer to Marrakech that you'll find the groves of argan trees. Argan is a nut used for cosmetics and cooking, though by cooking I mean drizzling on salads, as I may have mentioned before.
Well, apparently goats like to sit in the trees and graze on them too.
Yes, someone likely put them there, or at minimum coaxed them on their way up. This same someone came up to us when we pulled over to take pictures, and while holding a goat in his arms, was still somehow able to reach out a hand and ask for a few dirham for the privilege of witnessing goats in a tree.
So yes, a bit of a setup. But such a silly one it was totally worth it.
What I'm not sure about is whether or not goats started doing this on their own, or whether shepherds tried it out for a lark and found that it made their's and the goats' lives easier. In either case, the goats seem quite content standing on a branch and munching away, and it makes for a good picture and entertainment for passing motorists, so there you go.
This, by the way, is what they were munching on.
And here is a goat-less argan tree. It though gets a mule and a couple of people to keep it company. Busy life being a tree in Morocco. Everybody works.
So when I say that the preconceived notion of the trip shaped the trip, I do not mean that I had set out that morning to see goats in trees and that the universe heard me and ever so kindly obliged. What I meant in this case was really about "us" and "them". Us, being the tour company people, and them being the tourists on the trip. Putting myself up with the driver was me firmly announcing that I was an "us". And so it was.
Mohammed and I chatted as we drove along, him pointing out the different towns we passed through and letting me know their names, me promptly forgetting as, when it sounds different from how words and names are usually constructed I find it is harder to remember. And there were plenty of them. He also quite kindly shared his snack of nuts and fruit. I've so little french it doesn't count, and he thought his english wasn't very good, though I think he is wrong, so we didn't do a whole lot of talking, but we did do some, and that helped me with the "us" thing I had going on in my head. Mohammed also used me to pass messages on to everyone else, and I was keeping track of everyone at stop offs, opening and closing the van door for people, and at times herding people back to the van when we needed to get going.
I expect everyone thought I was a bit of a weenie.
I probably was.
But I wanted to belong to the tour company, not the tourists. This is what I'd been dreaming of from a longer stay somewhere. Getting to know locals, becoming a part of something. Belonging. I had the ridiculous good fortune of having the opportunity for this now to happen and I wasn't about to squander it. That said, it's not like "belonging" became any more real outside of my own head on this trip. And it's not like I could make it happen, or will it to happen. And it didn't happen on this trip, and when it did happen, it wasn't because I was trying to make it so. It just did. In it's own time and at it's own pace and because I'd forgotten all about that particular goal and had finally gotten on with just being and doing.
At this point though, it was still very much an "us" and "them", to the point that I actually wrote a little note to myself about it, and wondered if all the excursions would be this weird sort of limbo where I an insider on the outside, not quite belonging to either place, but hearing the chit chat from the others in the van, and smiling at it while not really engaging, would spend my time silently witnessing events while not really being a part of them.
I can be such a tool sometimes. Thankfully, and through no fault of my own, I eventually get my head unstuck from where it firmly places itself in my ass and get on with reality, as opposed to these various fictions of my own devising.
The group I was with consisted of three groups of two, and then myself. Little chat on the way there, and the minute we arrived, seven people went in four different directions. So it's not like there was a whole lot of cohesiveness to begin with, but still, you know what I mean. I'll note though that on the way back we picked up a group of nine from Poland, one of whom sat up between Mohammed and me, as she suffered from car sickness and the front was better for her. No puking and awesome time chatting, so all good, both in terms of travel conditions and shattering that vapid us/them crap I was talking about. Bottom line is you end up being who you are. In my case I just need to get out of my own way sometimes.
Before arriving in Essaouira proper we stopped to look down on the city and coast. It looks something like this, assuming you're not looking to the left or right of where I was looking, in which case it looks different.
Everywhere else looks like this.
But maybe that was just my imagination. It certainly did make it hard to go anywhere.
By the way, first person to comment on the blog with the correct reference for that one gets $20. I have a bet with myself on who that might be.
So, here I now was, with a little over four hours to myself, Essaouira before me, and an incredible desire to "do it right". So much to see, so little time. There's the port, the medina, the walls, the canons, the seafood, the tidal pools, the beach. I couldn't not see these things. I mean, I needed to experience them, get pictures, do all that. How could I possibly actually write about them in a brochure if I didn't?
And let's just say that that attitude really changed the experience. Not worse, not better, just different. And for the record, I was doing this to myself. The guys had been "Go, just do what you want to do, take some pictures, and then write about it when you come back." Well, if I'd actually done that then you would all have been reading about Essaouira alot sooner, and their brochure would have a big pink square in the middle of it, so perhaps it's a good thing that I didn't quite follow their instructions to the letter.
But off I went on my mission. And, having done some reading the night before, I had my plan of attack all sorted out. Start with the port, see the fort, get some fresh seafood, checkout the tidal pools, wander the medina, definitely find some woodworking dude, stroll along the beach, head home.
And that's pretty much how it went.
Started with the port. Busy place with lots of blue boats, people working on boats, selling fish, mending nets, boxes, and all that good stuff you'd expect to find at a fishing port.
That's where I bought my lunch. The guy then lead me to this little hole in the wall where another guy with a charcoal grill outside was set up. He took my catch (squid and shrimp) and got it on the coals, and then lead me inside to a table where it was soon served up with some bread, salad, and of course, tea.
I drank a lot of tea in Morocco.
The blue of the boats by the way is called "Essaouira blue". I don't know if it's a custom pantone swatch they own the exclusive rights for, but you do find it everywhere in Essaouira. Everywhere being doors, window shutters, fabrics, the sky. The blue originally comes from a dye called murex, which in turn comes from local snails. The females produce the blue, and the males produce a purple, also known as Tyrian purple, as it was used by romans to stripe their togas, or whatever John Belushi was wearing at that party. I'm sure there is a synthetic version used for paints, and I'm also pretty sure snails are not responsible for the sky being blue (though it would make a good response if anyone ever asks me again - just imagine it "Why is the sky blue?", little Jimmy asked one afternoon as I pushed him on a swing, my own sons having had enough of me and my idiotic stories and more relevantly to this story, being pushed on swings, years ago. "Well", I sagely responded, "it's because Moroccan snails peed all over the sky.")
That may be the most flagrant abuse of parantheses in this blog yet.
Makes me proud.
By the way, I may have gotten the genders confused. I am happy to say that that rarely happens for me when it comes to anything other than snails.
And these are the ramparts.
Essaouira is a fortified city, meaning it's got walls. Big, thick, walls. Like pretty much every other place I've been to in Morocco.
And what goes well with fortified walls? You got it - canons.
And here's a couple of other views from up there.
Fortified coastal cities, by the way, also have a lot of gulls.
So one of those above shots is of the tidal pools that are along the seaside wall of the city. And a good place to put them too. If they were along the landside wall then there'd be a real problem.
I'd read about the tidal pools on Atlas Obscura. You remember it, one of the five top sites I'd been using for the trip? Well, I'd checked out Essaouira on it the night before in hopes of finding something to include in the brochure that I couldn't just plagarize from Lonely Planet. And for the record I do not plagarize. Aside from the moral and legal implications, my father would kick my ass.
Atlas Obscura was a hit with these tidal pools, so it sounded like the place to go. Easy to access, but not something typical to see. Lots of nature, but also the antiquity of the city wall. And it was true. Very few people. Very, very few. So naturally, after awhile of walking along, when I started to wonder if there was another way back into the city or if I'd have to turn around and return from whence I came, and I spot two people in the distance and decide to call out and ask if they know or not, the people turn out to be Max and Whitney, friends from Waka Waka who had left a week earlier or something like that.
Small world.
So they then showed me around the medina. Oh, we had to head back by the way.
It's a nice Medina. Yes, old walled city, but updated by the French, so the medina is actually a grid, with fairly wide streets, and lots of room for sunlight to come on down and be the next contestant. And so much more relaxed than the one in Marrakech.
Max likes to take pictures of doors too, and Whitney is incredibly patient about it. A couple of other new friends Colin and Matilde, who I will introduce you to another time (that's two future commitments in this blog so far) also have a similar situation with Colin liking doors and Matilde being patient.
Q: What do you do when you've got a fetish for doors?
A: Get a room.
This is an herbalist shop I visited. Not only did I visit it, I did so of my own accord. That's right. There was no one outside trying to haul me in there. So why did I go? Because it looks so friggin' cool.
The floor is all argan shells.
And while it is apparently not okay to suggest that the medina in Essaouira has the same sort of stuff as the medina in Marrakech, as this turns off potential shoppers, the truth is that it does, but that it still makes for something pretty to take photos of and walk around.
This is inside one of the wood-worker's shops. Essaouira is apparently known for this, and it's because of that that I learned that the Tetraclynis, Thuya, Arar, and Sandarac tree are all the same bloody thing.
It's also endangered now, and buying this stuff isn't helping with any of that. Tough one though. What happens to this entire industry when the tree that makes the work unique stops being used? Especially when it's also the roots being used, as they've got a really cool grain. Yes, if the tree goes extinct then that problem will happen anyway, so you can argue it's only a matter of time before the economic issue presents itself. But somehow in my head, (and likely others or this wouldn't be a problem) making the switch isn't that easy. Like all problems relating to humans and the planet the answer is an easy one, but it's also a hard one to make happen, and the impacts are significant along the way. So the hard part is finding the solution that actually works. I'm sure there is one out there, but my job title is "Sr. Consultant - Complex Solutions" and I haven't the foggiest on where to begin with this one. Good thing I work in healthcare.
It's nearly Christmas, so let's here it for what I call a clementine, what people in Morocco call oranges, and what people from the US, UK, and Australia that I've met think of as "Christmas oranges".
Someone, I think he was from the Netherlands, on one of the other excursions had asked us all where else had we encountered this particular fruit, as he had only seen it in Morocco. My response was "At the bottom of my Christmas stocking".
This fellow is a artist and caligrapher next door to the wood working place I visited. He wrote my name in arabic on a piece of parchment that is now safely tucked in a book. Yes, a book. Having lost my kobo and not replaced it I am back to actual books.
This is the sqaure where it all started.
And these are shots outside of the wall around the tidal pools that I had forgotten about putting down here when I first put the pictures in the blog entry a few days ago, and was wondering about when I got to the picture of Max and Whitney and was going to go back and include up there once I'd finished writing but now don't need to because they're here, and you're here, and now I've explained it, so it's all good.
And this is the beach.
And that guy walking away tried to sell me happy cookies. That tray he is carrying had six rows of cookies on it. The first four were typical cookies. The second last one had marijuana in it, and the last row had hash. Happy cookies indeed.
And now for some reason I'm feeling hungry. Talk again soon.
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