Category: Travel

The first people you will meet in Marrakech are taxi drivers. I’m not sure how you avoid this, as the hand to hand combat of the awaiting drivers is a gauntlet all visitors to the kingdom are compelled to run.

While taxi drivers in Paris and Rome are licenced to kill, in Marrakech they don’t require a licence. Each driver exists only to go down fighting, preferably with his fare. Their only qualification, it seems, is to have a dead goat concealed somewhere in the their vehicle.

Sylvester and I got to our Bed and Breakfast, after our driver had kindly taken us to all the other ones, and we found ourselves staying in a beautiful Riad inside the Medina. With a front door that resembled the entry portal to a leper colony, the unprepossessing entry opened onto a palatial interior of a traditional Marrakech Riad. Tiling of exquisite detail, a cooling pool and a courtyard open to the night sky welcomed us.

I was looking forward to getting into the market in the morning to find something cool to wear. I do love some of the traditional styles.

You know Sylvester can be a total clutz. Yes, somewhere between getting on the plane in Lyon and here he had been bitten by something. He had a small but brightly colored bite on his elbow.

Now, I think you know me. I am a born healer.  It’s not just the sympathetic nature and gentle bedside manner. It’s something ‘given’. Bestowed.

Yes, I examined Sylvester’s elbow and frowned.

“Polysporin. Definitely. And cover it. You don’t want that going nasty.”

Simple words. Words easily ignored. Words that proved portentous.

The following night after a hard day of travel I took another look.

“I don’t like it. It definitely doesn’t look right,” I said. The bite had been banged around and looked quite livid.

Sylvester reluctantly agreed we should go to the medical clinic in the morning.

The following morning we taxied to the clinic. Sylvester’s arm was very swollen and he was running a fever.

When asked by the nurse to roll his sleeve up Sylvester revealed the swelling.

“Oh my god, that thing’s huge!” said the surprised nurse.

I cannot say her surprise filled me with confidence. What followed was the strangest medical exam I have ever been witness to.

Our nurse hurried of to get a doctor and I had the distinct impression it was to show them what was clearly an object of curiosity – Sylvester.

The doctor, another young woman, inspected Sylvester, presumably satisfied he was human. She palpitated his swelling, and Sylvester nearly went through the roof. She traced the outline of the swelling, and examined his arm in detail.

While the nurse readied an infusion for Sylvester’s arm I couldn’t help but notice a cat wander into the examining room. I glanced at the doctor and the nurse, neither of whom was the least bit interested in the feline visitor.

About to ask if the cat lived here, I was pre-empted in my guess as a security guard came into the examining room with a net. By now the cat was sitting on the beep beep machine, looking skeptically at the security guard.

His net was the kind you’d use to remove leaves from a swimming pool. Its long handle caught the doctor round the back of his head as the security guard maneuvered to catch the cat. The cat, being faster than the security guard quickly threw off the poor fellows attempts to catch him and scampered off in the direction of the morgue.

The chaos the security guard left in his wake seemed just an everyday happening as his running footsteps receded down a corridor.

After some X-rays, and prescription of various antibiotics I took Sylvester back to our accommodations to rest up and hopefully get over this thing. Only the following day he was worse. His fever was almost constant, and his arm had swollen more. The traced outline of the swelling now seemed more like a single contour, and we traced another, bigger this time.

And then there was the ‘vein’ issue. With the swelling being a livid red, I had noticed a redness spreading in a thin line up the inside of Sylvesters arm. I could see this was inflammation running up the basilic nerve. This was progressing hour by hour.

Sylvester was in and out of fever most of the day. Very disturbingly he seemed to get a string of WhatsApp calls from Amanda, apparently concerned for his health. I have some questions to ask about their relationship at some point, I think, but not just yet.

Now I was really concerned about Sylvester. Some of you know I’ve spent years in Africa, though it was a while ago. However, some things don’t change. Here things can turn bad real fast. A minor scratch can lead to an abscess and become sceptic very quickly.

I should add that by now we were no longer in Marrakech. We were hours away on the coast. To leave meant a three hour dash through the bush before we’d even get to Marrakech. This was going to take some organising.

The following day Sylvester was too sick to move, but I booked the earliest possible flight out of Marrakech to Paris, with a connecting flight directly to Vancouver.

The following 48 hours were a taste of misery. I don’t think I need to detail the flight across empty landscapes and then the onward journey. By the way if you’ve ever wondered what qualifications you need to work at Charles De Gaul airport in Paris, believe me you only need one; to hate anyone who travels.

I resisted the temptation to tease Sylvester. I know what you’re thinking, I am all heart, I know. It’s who I am. However, it was very tempting to say “if you think it hurts now, wait till the larvae start to hatch…”

Eventually we arrived in Vancouver and one of our friendly border security people welcomed us home, along with Ali, Sebastian and Amanda all waiting for a very sick Sylvester.

Next stop Vancouver General Hospital.

Fiona

Lyon is a city of stairs. Yes, it’s an unusual thing to say about a city, but then this is an unusual city. The bank of the river Rhone is steep, and in the summer heat struggling up those streets on foot is something one does one’s best to avoid. Currently we’re experiencing 40 degrees of heat.

And it’s not just me. Roman soldiers struggled up these hills two hundred years before the birth of Christ. Generations of Lyonnaise women have done so, and soldiers of the Wehrmacht did so in the second war. The sweat of many have dripped onto these stones. We were in notable, if not ‘good’, company.

Yet, off these steep streets run still steeper steps of stone that lead to many of the older houses. It was up these steps that Sylvester and I found ourselves struggling in the 38 degrees (100 degrees F) of summer heat. Sylvester has been saying for some time that he wanted to get in shape. Of course, he didn’t specify into the shape of what. Either way, between the heat and the steep incline I felt sure this would help.

We paused in our climb and I gasped for breath the sweat glistened on my cleavage. I said to Sylvester, between heaving breaths, “What the hell possessed us to come up these steps?”

“My mother lives up here. You know that,” he replied.

“She climbs these stairs?” I said astonished.

“She’s a tough old bird,” he said as we gathered our strength. “Fit as a fiddle, but deaf as a post.”

Eventually we found the right doorway off the steps. There were tearful greetings, glasses of sparkling water pressed into our hands, and I gratefully sat down. As it happens, we were visiting at a time when two of Sylvester’s nieces were also visiting their grandmother. These two lovely thirteen year old girls were twins, both a picture of innocence and giggling girlishness that one who is trans will likely never know. Big eyes, curling locks falling over their elegant shoulders and faces of angels. Bridgette and Claudette were the image of young French loveliness.

“Bonjour,” both had said in chorus, twins are so delightful. One can see so swiftly that they share an almost psychic connection. They blushed slightly, embarrassed to giggle at my terrible attempt at replying in French.

It so happened that Sylvester had to go out with his mother, to assist with carrying some shopping. This left me with the two girls, and barely any language in common. It was only for an hour or so, and Sylvester pointed me in the direction of the kitchen and I made a cup of tea for the tree of us, as Sylvester disappeared out the door.

How is it that teenage girls can giggle so much? I asked myself this as I poured the tea, placed the pot and three cups on a tray and carried the refreshments to the front room where the girls were sitting demurely on the couch. I poured the tea and we attempted to talk until shortly after our little soiree had started there was a ring at the door.

I looked a little surprised, unsure of quite what to do. The girls laughed and Bridgette pressed her finger to her lips, motioning me to be silent. Claudette went to the window, and gingerly looked through the shutters. She hurried back to the table, sipped her tea and tried to stifle a giggle unsuccessfully. Some French conversation in hushed tones took place between the two girls and Claudette went to the shutters, only to collapse in barely stifled laughter.

I was at a loss.

In broken English Bridgette explained.

“It’s the Amazon man. He has to climb the steps,” she laughed.

“Oh dear,” I said. “Hadn’t we better let him in?”

“Oh no. This is more fun! It’s the third time today. We always do this.  Grand mother doesn’t hear the door bell,” she said by way of explanation.

Alarmed I said, “What? That’s terrible.”

The doorbell rang more insistently.

I sipped my tea, unsure of what to do.

“What’s he delivering?”

The girls dissolved in laughter, and Claudette managed to stammer out something unintelligible. I took out my phone and opened Google translate and handed it to her.

She typed in some text, handed it back to me and went back to the window.

I starred at the scene and then blurted out, “Quelle the fuck! A mattress! A bloody mattress!”

“He’s crying this time, Bridgette!” said Claudette excitedly.

I went to the window and stared out at the receeding figure leaving with a rolled up mattress in is arms.

I looked at the two girls in horror.

“This isn’t how we do things in Canada”, I said in broken French.

“Vive la difference!” said Bridgette between gasps of laughter.

What a joyful experience it is to travel to Europe and escape from the abject insanity of life in our busy advertising agency. Why, sometimes I have had to appear in the office as early as 11 am!

“It’s this crazy North American work ethic,” Sebastian commented while behind me his hands gently manipulating my hips, adjusting my yoga position.

I had left the office a little early, at 2 pm since an air conditioner on the second floor had failed.

“It’s inhuman expecting staff to work in these conditions,” I had pointed out to Brenda, our human resources manager. Admittedly my office is on the seventh floor, but it’s the principle of the thing.

“What you need is a holiday, Fiona,” said Sebastian as he adjusted my pose. He’s right, of course. I do so much more than the required amount of work. That’s the sort of person I am. Always ‘over delivering’.

“You’re running a serious risk of burn out. And then what would people do?” he continued. “With so many people depending on you, you’re almost honor bound to get away. It’s the kindest thing to do.”

I sat upright and took a sip of Perrier.

“It’s true,” I said. “Few people understand the pressures on a transgender advertising executive.”

You might think I am joking but the very same thing was said to me the other day when I took a couple of hours out of my work day to see my masseuse, and I always find it wise to listen to the advice of experts.

This is how I came to be sitting on an Air France flight to Paris with my friend Sylvester who had decided it was time to visit his aging mother who lives in the beautiful ancient city of Lyon. After touch down we quickly cleared customs, a process made all the more human by the total lack of human contact as we progressed through the airport. Gone are the days of invasive baggage searches by curious homeland security perverts wondering why I had so many exciting items of lingerie. Prior to going on hormone replacement therapy, while still in the realm of emergent crossdressing, this had been the humiliating ritual I went through when traveling anywhere in the States. Fortunately most of Europe has made the technological leap forward that leaves their US counterparts clutching at their flies while mumbling about tariffs. In Europe the technology exists not to need to do searches, or they just don’t care enough to give travelers a hard time. As a result, disembarkation to clearing customs took no more than five minutes.

We quickly found the TGV – a train that would swiftly carry us to Lyon two hundred and forty miles from Paris. I should explain something here, for the benefit of my American readers who have not experienced European train travel. Trains have come a long way since they first started carrying fare paying travellers. While Amtrak appears to be stuck in the dark ages, believing male engineers who told them that female passengers travelling at speed would experience their ovaries exploding and the uteruses flying out of their bodies, elsewhere things have moved forward. Admittedly this would add a little color to an Amtrak journey.

While Sylvester fiercely defends the great American train journey, I prefer the TGV. I find it comfortable and fast. No, I mean really fucking fast. The TGV rushes from Paris to Lyon at speeds of up to 200 mph. Yes –  you read that right. Check it out.

I remember traveling to LA on one occasion to visit a client. After a humiliating airport search we sat in traffic for two hours to travel a full 15 miles to their office. In France in that time we covered more than 240 miles to arrive in Lyon.

The journey was easy and uneventful, other than occasionally having to rebuke Sylvester.

“No, Sylvester! I’m begging you, never again say visiting Paris is just like ‘that time you travelled to Anchorage’. You’ll start an international diplomatic incident.”

I sometimes think it’s like traveling with a child. I’ve seriously thought about having Sylvester tested for, well, something.

So, now you know how I come to be sitting in a pavement café in the Place de Terreaux in the centre of Lyon sipping Cointreau with Sylvester. This is a place where pavement cafés compete with beautiful old buildings to take your breath away. Street art, statuary and the beauty of the Basilica surrounds us as young French students casually roll cigarettes and glance at tourists, their innocent chic indifference inviting us to drop dead. These people have a style all of their own, made still more dramatic by the occasional rumble of thunder in the distance as summer lightening cuts across the night sky.

Here the in-crowd manages to radiate cool when they go out in the heat of the summer night. It’s a quality we may manage to imitate but can never master. The difference is no less than the difference between a parrot and a poet.

Welcome to Lyon.

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The next episode in this collection will be out in a few days.

FD