Istanbul, Turkey

Modernity! After the lost baggage fiasco in Morocco and a whirlwind tour of Cairo and Luxor, I was ready to relax a bit... and Istanbul was the perfect locale. Immediately after deboarding the plane I knew I was in a wonderful place. After attempting to figure out the currency (why don't more countries take Moroccan dirhams?), we took the metro to our hostel in the southern part of the city. Although most of Turkey resides in Asia, Istanbul is amazingly European. The coffee shop patios, cobblestoned alleyways, the modernity and architecture... all very Western. In addition, the mix of people reminded me of the United States. I was struck by the influence of other cultures and the heterogeneity of the populace. It was a total mixing pot. After traveling with Shelley through Ukraine and Poland, the strong Eastern European facial features were easily noticed, but the proximity to Iran, Iraq, and the rest of Mesopotamia was obvious as well. And, for an Islamic state, the people in the city certainly weren't taking religious restrictions to heart. The Call to Prayer could be heard from the roof tops, but most Istanbulers seemed not to notice.

Our hostel was beautiful (thanks again to Kelly), and we could sit out on the top deck and have a view of the harbor and the Hagia Sophia at the same time. At night the palace was lit up beautifully, its own sunset on the horizon of the night sky. We picked out eating locales that had even better views, and we drank beers while eating hummus and Turkish delight in the face of the warm sea breeze. The three of us made sure to hit all the tourist spots: the Hagia Sophia, the Blue Mosque, a couple of the islands off the coast (we made sure to set foot on the Asian continent to secure bragging rights). We ate fresh fish sandwiches next to one of the bridges over the water. Here, fish are caught and immediately thrown onto a huge grill. Slices are then slapped into a pita with lettuce and lemon juice: a simple recipe that was quite delicious, even for those of us not too keen on fish. For me, heaven. We walked down the boisterous "strip" (city-esque Franklin Street) and made our way through the huge Grand Bazaar, which is unlike any market I've ever been to. It was an interesting mix of market bargaining and haggling, with the security of buying purchases with a credit card. It was here that I bought Shelley's gift: handmade Turkish serving bowls. After haggling with dozens of merchants, I ended up purchasing from the one that refused to bargain (he had the lowest prices for a reason: no haggling and no nonsense, he said... "Everyone always comes back and buys from me anyways!"). Kelly and Anna made away with even more goodies than I, and the whole adventure was extremely satisfying.

It would be negligent of me, however, to leave out the most interesting part of our experience: the artist formally known as Mohammed. I need to preface his description by stating that I could never do this man justice in words. I have never met a more ridiculous human being in my entire life. I'm sure if you went to a Jordanian jail somewhere, you'd find him. It started immediately after moving in to our 10 person dorm. He was skyping with his "woman" late at night when the rest of us decided to go to bed. It was pretty obvious that the group was ready to slumber, and he needed to take his freakshow upstairs. The lights were turned off, but he just kept jabbering away in Egyptian. Originally (not knowing any better), we thought that he must be talking to his girlfriend. But no, he was face skyping with Mom. I kicked "homeboy" out, only to have him return a few hours later around three in the morning. Serge (we love you, RIP) found Mohammed leaning over the bunk, staring at him while he slept. Later we found out that he only sleeps 2-3 hours a night, so he has to pass the time by some other means... this was only the beginning.

Mohammed had a lot of questions, but no social cues. He tried to corner everyone to pester each person about the road to American citizenship (I tried to explain that we weren't experts on the topic, we just happened to be born there - to which he remarked, When I was born I was too young to decide which country I would be born in!). It didn't take long to realize that I could not leave Anna or Kelly alone with "homeboy." His only goal in life was to get to America by any means possible... hopefully by finding a beautiful (or less beautiful) American wife. But he didn't understand why he kept being turned down. He had some very honest questions: Kelly, how much do you weigh in Kilos? Anna, would you marry me?  Robert, why can I not ask a woman if she is virgin or not? This seems to me a very important question! Mohammed had talked to the people at the American embassy in Cairo, and explained to them that his physics research was going to change the world. He didn't have a PhD or even a Masters, but his few science classes in college convinced him that he was the next Copernicus.

Kelly, why is it wrong to ask how big a woman's breasts are? How big are yours?

Mohammed got kicked out of the hostel a few days later. Why? We don't know. But staring at women in their sleep isn't a good practice.

The team had to debrief after the continual pestering by Mohammed, so Serge plus three went to a local dessert and bar joint to learn how to smoke hookah. Our waiter laughed as the Spaniard and three Americans puff puff passed with cough interspersed. In a few days we would return to the real world, full of Step 1 freaked med students and a week long transition to becoming a real live 3rd year... bring it on, Asheville.


"Robert, there are three things in the world I love: science, physics, and America. Now do you want me to rap Eminem?? No? Okay, I will!"
- Mohammed

Cairo and Luxor, Egypt

After the Air Maroc lost-bag fiasco in Casablanca, the three of us were more than thrilled when our bags were spotted riding the Cairo carousel.

It was apparent thereafter that we made the right choice by going with Global Basecamps (GBC-http://www.globalbasecamps.com/). I used GBC when I climbed Mt. Kilimanjaro and safaried in Tanzania, trekked through the mountains of Marrakech, and waded through the Bolivian Amazon on probably the most epic trip of all time, so GBC in Egypt was a no-brainer. When we walked into the main lobby of the airport, we were immediately accosted by "trip salesmen" and the "hotel managers" trying to get us to hop on with their touring agency. Fortunately, a slightly flustered man with a "Kelly Esposito" sign came running in, and introduced himself to the three of us. Apparently there was a time zone mix up between the airplane and airport, and thus we arrived "an hour early." Be that as it may, we were ready to sit back and be guided through this ancient and beautiful land.

Another reason to go with GBC: the traffic. Egypt boasts about 80 million people, and I think all of them drive through Cairo day 'n night. Our guide told us Cairo's traffic is considered the second worst in the world, just behind Bangkok. So navigating the city would have been a no-no. Then, as we pulled up to our hotel, my heart skipped a beat. One of the coolest things about GBC is that although I pay for the "budget" excursion every trip, each time I am astonished by our accommodations. We walked into a 16 star hotel in the middle of Cairo's "strip," with all the amenities. Apparently, because tourism has dropped so sharply post-Revolution, GBC bumped us up to "mid-level." Mid-level? BAH! I'm used to staying in $8 hostels in Lima, not 5-Star resorts. I shouldn't have been shocked. Our hotel and mountain trek in Morocco was equally divine, and I got plain fat on the food whilst running up Kili. Usually people lose their appetites as they approach summit. Not me. I was downing three course meals galore at 15,000 feet. All "budget." I'd love to see what top shelf gets me (feel free to send me a free upgrade next time, GBC: Southeast Asia, 2013).

The bottom line was the trip was nuts. The three of us packed it in over 3.5 days. We did everything we could. Obviously, we hit the main attractions, living it up at the Pyramids and Sphinx (duh), getting all the standard tourist photos. We also tried to get off the beaten path, meeting shop owners and perusing the local markets. We skipped the Grand Market though - we were all marketed out from Marrakech. Valley of the Kings, Egyptian Museum, dinner and Nile Cruise (meh, this was the only part that wasn't all it was cracked up to be), the Coptic Corner, beautiful Mosques, Temple of Hatshepsut, etc. A lot of it was exactly what you would think, only we were lucky enough to have most of the places to ourselves. I'll try to just throw out the major highlights. This is the stuff that made GBC a true advantage...

1. Tahrir Square. I have to say that our guide, Mostafa, was phenomenal. It turned out he was the owner of the company GBC contracts with (but he didn't want us to know). With him, we got the true history. Mostafa was actually in Tahrir Square during the Revolution, and was able to give us a tangible feeling of what went on in the city. As a political science major, it was amazing to hear his enthusiasm and optimism about the future of Egypt. We stood in the middle of Tahrir Square as he gave us a play-by-play of those 17 days. And the Revolution continues! Mostafa also steered us away from the tourist corners, and got us real Egyptian cuisine (kushari is by far one of the tastiest dishes I have ever put in my mouth - it is worth the plane ticket just to try it, and it's so cheap!). We found real papyrus paintings, and I enjoyed picking out gifts for the fam.
2. Valley of the Kings. In Luxor we switched guides. "Big Smooth" was our Egyptian Vince Vaughn, with equal wit. He took us through several tombs in the Valley of the Kings in Luxor, which was hotter than Hades but worth it. There were dozens of long chambers with ancient hieroglyphics waiting to be pondered, with tombs yet to be found. These kings had people digging, painting, and adorning their tombs their entire lives. My only qualm was that many tombs didn't have glass protectors on the walls, so people could touch the ancient paintings (a true travesty). It was a sight to behold, but unfortunately no pictures were allowed (though for good reason).
3. Egyptian Museum. Lonely Planet calls the Egyptian Museum "an embarrassment of riches," and I have to concur. There are so many priceless items in the museum that would be the main attraction at any other museum around the world, but here, they don't even have a name tag. Fortunately the government is building a new museum that should be state-of-the-art, so if you go in a couple years you might have a totally different experience. It was incredible though. After a two hour guided tour, I spent some time just walking around, trying to take it all in. Because of the low-volume of tourists, I got to spend a good ten minutes staring at the mask of King Tut. Ten minutes, no joke. This is one of the most exquisite pieces of art you will ever see. Usually the line to see King Tut's mask wraps around the second floor of the museum, and you only get a quick glance at epic history. I stood and stared, taking in every color, every etching, trying to make an indelible mark in my memory in case I never see it again. This is reason enough to make the journey. But if you want me to sum up the museum in a nutshell, Mostafa laid it on us at the end of the tour. We moseyed on over to a random corner to see a giant, unlabeled slab of stone. He told us he was talking to a curator a few weeks before, and asked what it was because there was no label and it had been sitting there for months. Answer? It was a part of the Beard of the Sphinx. What?!?! Really, just sitting there. The beard of the Sphinx...

It was a once in a lifetime opportunity, and you gotta go. We were sad to leave, but ready to take on our next adventure: Istanbul, Turkey. The last stop before real life begins again...

...And the After. Marrakech, Morocco

The best way to relax after an exam is to lose your luggage on the way to Morocco.

After just a few days of pure nothingness (and one day getting over the fact that I'm really not 18 anymore), Kelly E., Anna R., and I quickly packed our bags and flew across the pond to Marrakech. We had an uneventful drive to Charlotte, where we boarded a plane to JFK. The three of us happily checked one piece of luggage each to Casablanca, where we would pick it up before taking the train south. However, upon arriving at JFK airport, we found out our flight to Casablanca was cancelled. The plane "was malfunctioning." No problem; we could catch the next flight out... which was tomorrow. It was a slight snafu in our itinerary, but hey, this was Africa (TIA).

The fun began as we waited "in line" for three hours attempting to solidify our new flight. I put "in line" in quotations because 99 percent of the world doesn't seem to understand that concept. We were pushed, cut in front of, jabbered at in who knows what language, and pleaded with, in order to move ahead. So hold your damn horses, people. All of us waited; in fact, those in the front of the line (us), waited the longest.  We met many characters along the way, including "wack-a-mole" (a short, stocky lady who kept popping up in different parts of the line, complaining earnestly), and LeBron James (or at least his double), who was content to post up on the wall and let his minions do the grunt work.

I was waiting less than patiently at the front of the desk, flagging people down with our three passports, using my height to its full advantage, when we heard someone yell, "Hey tall white dude, over here!" James (affectionately known as "Jimmer" from here on out) was another 20-something with an American passport. Apparently Air France was allowing U.S. citizens to take a flight to Paris, and then connect to Marrakech. Jimmer's call was like that of a siren, and we went running. With seconds to spare, a lovely French lady proffered a new itinerary: Air France would fly us to Paris, and Royal Air Maroc would have a bus waiting to transfer us to the Orly airport (qualified by, "they won't really have a bus, so bet on having to transfer yourselves"). There, we would catch our final plane. Air Maroc did not have working computers in JFK, however, so they relied on carbon copy paper for all these transactions. Somehow, our luggage would arrive in Marrakech.

Not likely. It really wouldn't have been that bad, except when we called Air Maroc the next day, they told us in perfect English, "We have no idea where in the world your bags are." But we'll get to that later.

After a 4 hour train ride from Casablanca to Marrakech, we were delirious. Jimmer was speaking in nonsense, and I hadn't slept in 36 hours. By the Grace of God, Mohammed picked us up at the train station and brought us to our hostel. It was gorgeous. In the middle of the Medina (old city), we had the top floor of a four story "town house." That night was capped off, however, by a lack of air conditioning. Heat rises, so we sweltered. This wasn't ameliorated until the following day. The next morning, we found that the streets and buildings were so packed together like a maze that we had to pay a small child to lead us out to the square (he wanted more; we said no, a dollar was enough).

So Saturday and Sunday didn't quite go as planned. Undeterred, the three of us set out for the market. We shopped, we haggled (Anna bought a T-shirt for one-fifth the $40 asking price, not bad, but they still profited), and we met the Moroccan Denzel Washington. We visited the Marrakech "museum," walked around the medina, and observed the architecture. The center of town was alive. Snake charmers ran after foreigners who tried to take pictures, clamoring for money; old ladies tried to grab our hands and paint the traditional "henna" on the dorsal surface with an old syringe; freshly squeezed orange juice was sold at dozens of stands for 50 cents; and, restaurants magically appeared in the middle of the square for a quick dinner. We ate at 1-1-7, which apparently "takes you to heaven" with its delicious cuisine.  "Where are you from? USA? Barack Obama! Michael Jordan! Come here and see my shop! Eat here, my friend! How can I take your money today, sir?!" The city was exhausting and exciting, and we were finally on vacation.

That night was when we called Air Maroc. It was a miracle that they had our claim numbers, but we lost hope of ever getting our bags back. We had to start over... we had to find the Moroccan Walmart.

Marjane.

Westerners' paradise. Travel backpack: $17. Socks: $2. And most importantly, capris: priceless. We stocked up on the pure essentials, and enough clothes to make it the rest of the way. A trek through the Moroccan mountains was planned, so we had to be ready. Excited to be in new clothes for the first time in four days (really, I could have gone longer, but a change of socks was welcome), we haggled our way back to the medina via taxi and chugged a few glasses of freshly squeezed orange juice before packing it in for the day.

We moved on... to the traditional hamam. Mohammed and I went to the local bath, where we sat in a steam room to let out all the excess worry and relax. The relaxing part didn't last long because he began to vigorously scrub me. Yes, man on man scrubbing. Apparently, after getting a nice sweat going, one washes with hot water from a bucket. Hair is washed with clay, and soap is spread all over one's body before the vigorous, vigorous rubbing begins. Mohammed said that since all my skin was peeling off mid-scrub, that meant I was "very relaxed." If one is too tense, the skin remains taut. He was telling me all this as I tried not cringe while my sunburn got sandpapered away...

Then it was off to the mountains with Global Basecamps (I love you, you are my everything). GBC never fails me. Up and down the mountainside the three of us went on our trusty camels. Food was served to us in the Berber village; mountains rose beyond mountains on either side in the valley; the food kept coming: tajine after tarjine (look it up, delicious); bread, bread and more bread; and always fresh squeezed orange juice. The people in the village (and everywhere else for that matter) are what made this country special. Everyone asked and affirmed, "Where are you from? America? You are welcome here!" Literally, the only people I disliked where the snake charmers, aggressively charging after foreigners asking for payment. Marrakech is a city I will miss, and the people I will not forget. I will miss the spice salesman yelling, "Bonzai! You drink this and you last all night long! If your women don't drink it with you, they cry! BONZAI!" I will miss riding Nick Saban (my donkey) with capris on, of course, roll calling and rolling tide. And, I'll miss haggling with the slipper man, and being offered pot by the shoemakers above the store (no, MOM, I didn't inhale).

It was a wonderful city, this Marrakech, and I would love to go back. At some point I will climb Toubkal, the tallest of the Atlas mountains and the highest in North Africa. Apparently though, I did not truly experience Morocco. A man told me on the plane to Cairo, "You didn't sleep with a Moroccan woman? Then you don't know Morocco. Their women, muah, yes, they are professionals!"

I think my experience was just fine, thank you.

For your reference, items of note:

• White Russian - a disaster, and by far the worst white russian I've had in any part of the world. I understand, though, that mixing alcoholic drinks is difficult in an Islamic country. My explanation of how to make it was clearly not interpreted correctly. It was a cold latte with vodka, no ice. I should have used Jimmer's French, "Yo... je... kahlua, vodka, and cream please??"
• The Beer - again a disaster. Tasted like Miller Lite.
• McDonalds - the ketchup was good, at least in the airport. But stop with the damn olives already!!
• Book of the Week - "Emperor of All Maladies," a fantastic biography of cancer. I recommend it to anyone medically oriented. One of the better books I've read in a while.

The Before...

This post is actually being written retrospectively, since my brain was a little too fried to write a few days before Step 1. However, I remember very well how I felt on the actual June 3, 2011...

Why have I not taken this DAMN exam already?!? This is ridiculous. I was ready for this thing at least a week ago. June 1st. If there was one thing I would have done differently over these past few months, it would have been to move my exam up a week. That would have given Kelly, Anna, and me over three weeks in North Africa! But what is done is done, and I will finish these last few days out strong.

Sigh. On Tuesday, Momma Bear took Matt Forgues and me out for dinner at Vespa. With one week to go before my exam (and two and a half for Matt), this was a wonderful little celebration. We both took a practice test in the morning, and then we were able to fully relax in the evening. These weeks "off" are weird. At least when you're in school, you have a cut and dry structure: you know what you have to do in the mornings, and you know what you have to do for the tests. Now, all-day-everyday is open. Exactly how much time is spent studying is up to you, but your conscience comes in loud and clear. On one shoulder there is an "angel" telling you that every moment you relax another moment is lost. You could be studying right now, you know that, right? Don't you want to look over those lysosomal storage diseases one more time before bed? Why not do a couple more questions to stay on track? Chop chop! On the other shoulder, Devil Robert is whispering, Come on, man! Take a day off, or a week! You've done plennnnty. You have six Tosh.0's on the DVR and they aren't going to watch themselves! It's an annoying battle between good and evil each day. My guilt lets good win out.

However, since taking this practice test on Tuesday, it's been more evil than good. I am so over this, mentally. I have the 2-3 hours of reading I want to do on the day before, but other than that I WANT TO BE DONE! How much am I going to really be able to learn in the next week? Most of it honestly has been review, just plugging away at First Aid and USMLEworld. But there is that guilt...

The most important thing I've done over the last week is to accept the fact that I can't know everything. When I find a new little tidbit in First Aid, I forget a different little tidbit 300 pages back. Learn something, forget something else. There is only a finite amount of brain space up there (think about that, your head would have to grow!), and after a certain point, little morsels start slipping out your ears. Without clinical relevance, it is impossible to make all this stuff stick. So, I know come test day, there will be things on the exam that I've never heard of, and I don't care anymore. It doesn't matter. You can't know everything. I've accepted this, and it's calming. I know what I'm going to know, and I'm just ready to get it over with.

The thing that's weird about this exam is how it consumes you. Years from now, I will look back on these past few months and laugh about all the stress and anxiety it caused me and the people around me. We're the ones who built this up so much in our minds. But, when that's really what you do all day (besides the sleeping/exercising/eating/breaking), it's tough to talk about much else. This is what I'm most looking forward to: post-Step 1 there will be no Step 1 talking. There will be Morocco-talking, Hieroglyphicing, and Turkey-gobbling, only. We will be on the "other side."

Well, enough is enough. No more talking. Let's get it done!