It Really is Magic

There’s a lot of talk these days about the difference between a right and a privilege. Most of us can agree on the very basics: the right to food, water, shelter, education, healthcare, safety. That’s all well and good to say, but that list is pretty theoretical, isn’t it? Read those out to anyone looking for an affordable apartment in St. John’s, or someone from the US whose unexpected surgery bankrupted them, and they’d likely laugh in your face. Don’t even bother with this list if you happen to encounter a mother in Gaza, the Ukraine, Sudan, trying to keep her family alive. I think it’s safe to say that in 2025, the line between a right and a privilege is pretty fucking fuzzy.

Sometimes, when I’m lying in bed awake at night pondering my kid’s future and fuming over the idiots in charge of it, I think of all the great things I would do if I ran the place. Tearing down the stupid harbour fence. Inventing a device that was able to automatically deduct a month’s salary from a politician for every lie they told. Or a technology that could track every Tim Hortons’ coffee cup you’ve ever tossed in a ditch to end up in your bed in the middle of the night like the horse’s head in The Godfather. You know, sensible stuff like that.

One thing I’ve been seriously thinking about since returning from my first international trip in seven years, is how different the world would be if travel was a right and not a privilege. What if it was mandatory? That might sound a bit dystopian (not by 2025’s standards LOL), but hey, some countries make military service mandatory and no one has a problem with that. Well…yeah, I guess that’s up for debate, but you get where I’m going. What if you had to take at least one overseas trip for every decade of your life, by yourself, on a budget, with no smartphone. Let’s say one month, minimum. Long enough to have to learn to adapt to a new way of life. Long enough to get out of your comfort zone, learn a few words in a new language, with the only help you have coming from the locals. Imagine how that would shape your brain in your twenties, thirties, forties, your seventies! I’m convinced in my bones this would turn most people into a better version of themselves. One that was a little less quick to judge, a bit more empathetic, and maybe not so much of a picky eater. All of this in turn would make them less of a pain in the ass to humanity.

(I also think that not a single elected official, from a city councillor to the president, should be allowed to enter office until they’ve lived, worked, secured housing, and fed a family on minimum wage for at least six months, but that’s a discussion for another day.)

Last month I left my family for ten days in Morocco, bookended by quick stays in London. Morocco was A TRIP in more ways than one, and it’s taken me some time to come down from the whole experience and figure out how to write about it. One post is impossible, so buckle up, we’re going Morocco heavy for the next couple weeks before I switch over to summer cocktails and ice cream (and hoooooo boy there are some nice ones coming your way, so keep on keeping on, Chickens).

Okay, full disclosure, this wasn’t a wild excursion into the Atlas Mountains with a backpack and a paper map. But listen, I’ve paid my dues. I’ve had the smell of twenty-five pairs of feet waft under my nose in the massive dorm rooms of European hostels. I’ve killed hundreds of brown cockroaches on the walls of a cabin on the 48-hour train from Beijing to Hanoi. I’ve eaten nothing but bread and cheese and fruit three meals a day for months at a time in my super low-budget travel days. Not to say I’m no longer concerned about budget travel; I’m self-employed in the arts, so until someone wants to launch me into the Booktok stratosphere Colleen Hoover-style, I will likely remain a budget traveller till the end of my days, which is fine by me. Because when you don’t have piles of disposable income, and you save a couple years for something really special, you never forget it. You’ll remember the tiniest, most mundane details that don’t even register in the brains of boring-ass billionaires. When you leave your two-year-old with his dad and shell out for a yoga retreat in Portugal at the nicest hotel you’ve ever stayed at, you will never forget the feel of the cool polished concrete stairs under your feet, and how you marvelled at the fact there were NO CRUMBS ANYWHERE.

Anyway, all I’m saying is that after a few years of saving, and shaking off the dregs of a global pandemic, I embarked on another yoga retreat. Morocco this time! Because my friend Melanie Caines is a badass yoga teacher who leads these things all over the world, because she said she was adding Morocco to her list, because Morocco has always been on my list, and because it was the motivation I needed to get back out there. It also didn’t hurt that it took place at the stunningly beautiful Peacock Pavilions, I’d get fed for a week without really having to think about it, and I wouldn’t have to worry about feeding anyone else. Plus a pool, a desert climate, and a king size bed all to myself. This is midlife crisis mitigation at its finest, kids.

And I will apologize to no one.

Melanie’s retreat is titled “Movement and Magic in Morocco” for a reason. Because the retreat obviously involves a couple of yoga classes a day, and because Morocco is…well…it’s actual fucking magic. Mel manages to jam pack a week with activities and classes and yet you still walk away feeling relaxed but also like you’ve accomplished something, and that’s HARD to do on a vacation. From visiting a non-profit that empowers Moroccan teenaged girls, to guided tours of Marrakech, excursions to the desert, cooking classes, traditional hammams, to just chilling by the pool for hours on end and finally finishing that book you’ve been reading for months…you might not think retreat life is for you, but you can add on some solo travel at either end like I did, just to satisfy your inner critic that you’re still a tough traveller. But if I’m being completely honest, my inner critic shut the hell up as soon as I sat my ass in this lounge chair.

This is all a bit rambly, but I guess what I’m saying is that you come home from travelling a bit better, whether you’re roughing it or treating yourself. When you’re on a budget, travel opens your eyes to how resilient you are. And when you’re able to treat yourself, maybe you walk away a bit more relaxed, but with a better appreciation for how lucky you are to be able to do this at all? At least that’s how it was for me. I’m not sure Jeff Bezos can recall the first time he felt crumb-free polished concrete under his feet, or if he feels immense gratitude and humility when he’s served three meals a day. Maybe we should send him on a budget excursion for a month with no iPhone or superyacht or spaceship and see if he’ll come out of it, I don’t know, ready to pay his fair share of taxes or something.

Happy Friday, Chickens! Back with more Morocco next week. Eat something good this weekend. xo