The Sheep in the Closet

     So I came home yesterday and there was a sheep in the closet.  Today, there's a second one in there.

     Tomorrow is Eid el-Kabir, the day Muslims around the world celebrate the fact that Abraham was willing to sacrifice his son for God, who received a last minute pardon and thus was spared the knife.  That's more than can be said for the goat that was sacrificed in his place.

     That's where these sheep come in, because tomorrow I'm getting out of bed at a brisk 8:30 a.m., and will get to watch (and maybe help) my host family, you know, shepherd these sheep onto the dinner table.

     I had named the first sheep Lucy, but today I noticed he has horns, so I'm pretty sure he wouldn't like being named Lucy.  Of course, he probably doesn't like being in that closet, either.

     Did I mention the whole house smells like sheep now?

Thanksgiven

     If I weren't laying in my bed right now, with the lights out and getting ready to go to bed, I would be able to see my breath.  As you might not be aware (as I was not), almost no homes in Fez have central heating.  As you might not be aware (although I was), it does actually get cold here in the winter, and my computer claims it's a tropical 48 degrees Fahrenheit.  Yeah, right.

     But in the spirit of Thankgiving, I'm taking comfort in knowing that I have two of the thickest blankets man has ever made, that my host family actually has a house to speak of, and that my house in the States has heating.  Those three things alone are more than some people in this world can say.

     That's not all there is to be thankful for.  

     For the past two months I've been trying to fulfill all of the requirements for getting a carte de sejour (residency card), so that I can stay here in Morocco past my 90-day visitor visa.  Among the things necessary are $2000 in a Moroccan bank, bank statements that attest to that amount, statements from my school declaring how long I will be studying here, notarized and non-notarized copies of my passport and the page with my date-of-entry stamp, notarized copies of a sheet providing my address of residence, 9 smaller-than-passport-sized photos (which are conveniently sold in sets of 8), and three copies of a basic personal information form.  

     No one gets their carte de sejour in fewer than three trips to the local police station, which is where you have to submit this stuff.  And when I say that there is a visa bureau in this police station, please don't assume it's actually a bureau of any sort.  It's a guy behind a desk (who is quite grumpy), and behind him is an 8'' x 11'' sign that looks like it was laminated back in the 1970s, and the last time it was cleaned was before Windex was invented.  So this is where I'm supposed to become official here.

     Two-month-long story short, I made 5 trips, needed more copies of more things ALIF didn't tell me about, and was told I could pick up the receipt for it on none other than November 27, otherwise known as my birthday and Thanksgiving.  I'm not superstitious, but when you go through as much as I did to get this residency card, you don't want to test your luck by writing a blog and saying you're getting your residency card until you do. 

     I did get it, and as they say here:  al-hamdu lil'lah (praise be to God).  

     

     

Mysterious brown powder

     When I talk about Morocco being a little boring at times, I never mean that it has managed to lose its unexpectedness.  Of course, the little red taxis zipping around town are now a normality, and referring to yogurt as Danoon (instead of the brandname Dannon) is nothing new.

     But you can't always keep your guard up against crazy things happening.  Yesterday I was sitting on the couch, half-spaced-out after eating two dinners (yeah, that happens sometimes).  We were at the sister's house, there was soccer on TV, and I was almost ready to fall asleep.

     In usual fashion, somewhat large and older Moroccan women in the extended family shouted out a conversation around the table in the living room, and I was in the middle of the ruckus, sitting rather obliviously to what they were talking about.  There is never an "inside voice."  They are either shouting at each other, or almost completely quiet.  I think the volume is part of the accent.

     Anyway, the conversation got quiet and I got the feeling someone was looking at me.  I glanced to my left and not only is there a large Moroccan woman, wrapped from almost head to toe in a light shade of blue cloth, glaring at me, but she is also holding a lightly gripped fist out to me, almost as if she wants to do the Obama fist bump. 

     Surprised as I was to see this, I still managed to glance down at her hand to see why she was holding it out.  I had trouble seeing what it was she wanted to show me on her hand--at first it looked like a small brown moth or a leaf. 

     But then as I got a closer look, I saw it was a very tiny pile of brown powder, almost like the chocolate powder used to make chocolate milk.  And then she slightly flicked her hand up as if I should smell it, so I could figure out what it was.

     Now this is where, in normal human interaction, I would usually say something.  Maybe a "what the hell are you doing?" or even a simple, "what is that?" would suffice.  But no.  Because no matter how prepared you are for a new culture, why would you expect to be put into this situation?  Every word you've learned in class flees you.

     And now not only are you in this awkward position, but you can't say anything about it.  So what do you do?  Well, there's really only one thing to do.  I leaned over and smelled the powder.

     I couldn't smell anything.  But I'd bought myself a couple seconds, and managed to cobble together enough Arabic words to ask what it was.  Then these women just giggled at me, looked at each other, and then the one to my left lifted her hand to her nose, and snorted half of this powder into each nostril.

     And if I'd thought I was at a loss for words before, then I really had nothing.  How do you deal with something like this?  Did this woman just snort chocolate cocaine?  Did I just honestly watch a 60-year-old woman do a line right there in the living room?  Moreover, did she just proposition me to do the same?  And, of course, they look at you to see your reaction afterward.  If I couldn't tell them in Arabic I thought they were crazy, I'm not sure I was able to keep the look off my face. 

Go Vote

     There is an election tomorrow, and I've already cast my ballot by mail.  If you haven't, then you should go vote tomorrow.  

     And speaking of the election, if there has been one topic I've been actually able to follow on Al-Jazeera with any sort of success, it has been the election.  Baby steps.

     Anyway, go vote. 

     And go Obama.

Cold, rainy days

     Generally speaking, the past few weeks since my trip to the Sahara have been pretty bland.

     Get up in the morning.  Go to class. Use the internet.  Go to class again.  Hang out at the ALIF Villa.  Go home to the family's house.  Eat dinner.  Do homework.  Go to bed.  Repeat.

     Our second six-week block of classes just started last week.  The last block ended really well and I've made pretty big strides with the Arabic, but not nearly as much as I'd like to know.  That's what this six-weeks is for.  During the break between the two, I studied quite a bit and have gotten off to a pretty good start.  One of our teachers last quarter is teaching us once again, and he was somewhat impressed with how much I'd practiced in the five-day break.  

     Even so, the weather has gotten cold and rainy here, so going to the medina can be a wet, miserable experience.  I've been staying in Ville Nouvelle, trying to find out where I can buy packs of regular athletic socks, since I seem to have a less than sufficient number of them, considering how long it can take to do laundry.  From most of the stores in Ville Nouvelle, one would think people only wore dress socks, but there is a rumor that regular socks can be found in the medina.  

     This routine is accentuated by some of the broader difficulties a couple of us are having.  We're trying to apply for residency cards (required for anyone staying longer than 90 days), and there are quite a few administrative obstacles to overcome.  We also have a lot of classwork, and between that, the weather, and some peoples' living arrangements (not mine), it can be difficult to break out and feel like you're really experiencing Moroccan culture.  

     I have a hunch, though, that a hint of the boredom I'm feeling with Moroccan culture is not so much because I'm not experiencing it, but more because I'm getting used to experiencing it.  Meals will occasionally catch me off guard, but fewer and fewer things seem foreign, and really only a complicated Moroccan dialect of Arabic stands between me and really getting to know this place for sure.  And that is just going to take time and patience.

Pant Shopping

     So a couple weeks ago I decided that I didn't have enough pants here in Morocco.  After a couple good wearings you feel like they should probably be washed, but you know that laundry can take so long that you decide to wear them twice as many times as that. 

     So yesterday rolled around and, to my extreme surprise, Ahmed actually followed through with doing something on schedule.  We went shopping for jeans, and he took me to some neighborhood in Fez I've never been to before, and he found a shop that sold "medium quality" jeans, and he told me they'd be 250 dh tops ($30), which was pretty okay because I knew they'd be Levis and I'd probably be happy with them.

     So we get there and this place is tiny, like all shops in Fez.  So tiny, in fact, that when I went to try on jeans, I found there was no dressing room.  Instead, the store owner hauls out this bi-fold wooden curtain behind which you undress and try things on.  They fit, and life was good.

     So then Ahmed starts bargaining with the guy, and and the store owner starts off with a price of 210 dh--better than I'd expected.  But Ahmed has a little surprise in store, because a few days ago he'd bought jeans from this guy, but this guy didn't remember who he was.  So Ahmed busts out with the info that these jeans actually sell for 160 dh ($20).  The guy realizes who he is, and all of a sudden, I've just paid $40 for two pairs of jeans.  Sweet deal.

     So this morning when I go to put a pair of them on, I have trouble buttoning them up.  That's because in Morocco, somehow, we sell Levi jeans whose button holes haven't been cut through yet.  They've got the stitches in so you know where the holes are supposed to be, but you have to cut them through yourself.

     Just more of the typical services offered by Morocco's House of Random, Unexpectable Surprises. 

The Desert, Epilogue

     In order to add a sense of humanity to the past few blog posts, and to keep the people contained within them from sounding like more than characters in a dramatized story, I thought I'd update the blog with just a few words about how things have turned out.

     First off, Deborah seems to be doing fine.  No one that I know of has seen the letter that supposedly exists, but this was the third seizure she has apparently had.  She missed class on Monday, I think, but has been back at class since.  She was pretty tired for a couple days, but seems to be doing better.  I think it would be interesting to find out how this has all impacted her relationship with Martina, but that's between them.  

     For the rest of us, I think there is a consensus that it was a trip in which everything went wrong at almost all the right times.  Only as many bad things happened could happen, and it still be possible for us to have a great time.  For me, I feel no further need to visit a desert or ride a camel--although I do recommend visiting the desert at least once.  It is beautiful.  After that, it's just a bunch of sand to me. 

The Desert, Part 5: An anxious tension

     If Deborah's seizure seemed to last an eternity, the half-hour spent afterwards felt almost just as long.  A hospital could be found in a nearby town along our route, but sharp curves on steep cliffs slowed our travel.  Once the decision was made to go there, few people spoke but in hushed voices, in anxious tension that another seizure might occur. 

     Still Deborah and Martina were obstinate in that we shouldn't visit a doctor.  Deborah's parents were called and they confirmed their daughter's assertion that a doctor not be seen, and that she certainly not be treated by one.  Around the bus, quiet conversations persisted about whether it was the right thing to do.

     Her parents said we shouldn't go, and we should respect that, some said.

     Taking only her vital signs couldn't her hurt, other said.

     Maybe the doctor would find something worse than we knew, and could do something about it, still others said.

     Along the way, Deborah requested that we stop so she could use the bathroom.   All we could find was a should on the side of the road with a big gravel mound separating the road from an open field.  It was all we could find and it had to do.  Later, an abandoned gas station would have to fulfill the same purpose.

     The hospital was a small building off the main road in a fairly uninteresting town, but the doctor was waiting outside and approached the vehicle as we arrived.  He was immediately ushered to away to a safe distance by someone from our group, but from the back I couldn't tell how much or even if he got close enough to take vitals.  When I spoke to him myself after about 20 minutes, he told me her situation was serious and he didn't seem altogether pleased with the lack of contact he'd been allowed to have.  

     We left without much resolution to either the cause of Deborah's seizure, her current condition, or the prospect of an impending attack.  But we left anyway--with at least the consolation that she had refused treatment--and started what we hoped would only be a 4 hour trek back to Fez.  

     As planned, we stopped briefly for lunch along the way and continued home.  In some of the best luck we'd had that weekend, the rain had stopped and roads were dry, leaving only the terrain and distance as obstacles to our arrival.  We finally rounded a corner on a fairly steep cliff and saw the lights in Fez.  

     We slugged off the bus--tired, but relieved--some of us joking, many of us complaining, but all of us with a deeper recognition not only of the dangers present in the travel itself, but also of the fragility of good circumstances.  Consciousness of that fragility is something that wore off, at least for me, a couple weeks after my arrival in Fez.

     After setting a few bags down Sunday evening, a friend and I took a short walk to McDonalds--if for nothing else than to restore a little normalcy to an otherwise extraordinary weekend.  

     

The Desert, Part 4: Decisions

     Deborah's seizure lasted only about a minute, but for those nearly standing in their seats trying to get a mental grasp on the scene before them, her rigid body and muscle jerks seemed to last forever.  As the driver tried to find a gravel shoulder to park the bus alongside the road, someone from the front approached Deborah and put her finger under her nose. 

     She had passed out, but was still breathing--barely, Laura said.

     For a few minutes we were consumed by what was happening in the bus, and by the gaping lack of understanding about what had just happened.  There she was, unconscious, and her friend tried tirelessly to bring her back to consciousness.  But the reality was that we were alongside the road and couldn't stay there, and decisions had to be made about what to do.

     A few weeks before, Deborah had told Martina that she had a letter of what to do in case she had a seizure.  None of us, not even Martina, now knew where this letter was.  And Martina was just now telling us.  People raced through her bags for a letter that would only be in Italian when we got it.  No letter was found.  

     The bus pulled away and Deborah's eyes opened, much to everyone's relief.  But all Martina got in response to her frantic questions was the blankish stare, void of any concentration or presence, of a person absent from their body.  I had to turn away because the look was just too empty. 

     When I looked back a couple minutes later, Deborah was tying her own hair and talking quietly to Martina, but didn't seem to have any recollection of what we would never forget.  She was just confused and tired.  But then we learned from their conversations that the letter talked of so much was back at ALIF.  We also learned this had happened before and that Deborah knew what to do when it happens.

     However, she said what needed to be done was nothing, and that she didn't want to see a doctor--a request we were not inclined to accommodate.

The Desert, Part 3: What to do?

     A two-hour came ride took us back to our hotel the next morning, where hot showers, clean clothes and breakfast awaited.  Ten minutes after I showered, it started raining.  Yes, in the desert.  I booked for breakfast and managed to avoid further wetness.  And minutes after that, we were on the bus again, headed back to Fez.

     The bus featured two rows of seats on the left hand side, and a single row on the right.  But four seats stretched across the back row, and with only one other person back there, stretching out for a little nap helped pass the time and alleviate some pain from the dunes and camels. 

     The weather was dry once again and we rumbled over rough roads through small towns, which was no help to the few of us suffering from stomach ailments or unexpected car-sickness.  They clung to window seats in the hope their conditions didn't worsen.  But I was feeling fine, and had managed to get the timing right on using the bathroom.  

     Most people put on headphones or played game to help pass the time.  No one knew what the road conditions would be like as we got further north, and there remained the possibility of another 11 hour marathon drive.  I turned off my computer to preserve a little battery just in case.  But amidst the laughing, joking and impressions of our teachers, an alarmed voice pierced through and urged the driver to stop the bus.  

     I looked around for whoever might be getting sick, and saw an Italian girl in one of the single seats on the right.  From the back I had trouble seeing her--she sounded like she was gagging and convulsing.  But she started lurching forward and her arms tensed up, and her hands were stuck rigidly at right angles from her wrists.  Her Italian friend across the aisle, Martina, quickly shot over and tried to calm her down.  But there was nothing she could do.

     She was having a seizure.

The Desert, Part 2: A Day in the Sand

     Saturday morning we lazily awoke and enjoyed almost painfully strong water flow from the hotel showers.  My British friend Jorge was the first to try it, and the spray sent water over the shower and into the bedroom, where I awoke to water splashing on my face.  The drain also had difficulty keeping up with the immense flow, and water flowed into the bedroom, threatening to soak--once again--our clothes.  

     Discomfort averted, we passed the day fairly quietly, but some of us had a quick swim in the beautiful pool over which the Spanish tourists endlessly oodled.  In true tourist fashion, about 40 of them lined up in next to the pool for a giant group shot of them all in bright green, tour group polo shirts.  Jimmy--a friend of mine who will do just about anything you pay him to--decided to rain on a little parade.  When all the Spaniards lined up for their nice photo, Jimmy ripped off his shirt, cried out "America," and cannonballed into the pool halfway between them and the camera.  Once my video of it hits YouTube, it's sure to worsen U.S.-Spanish relations.  Oh wait, can they be worse than they are now?

     Saturday afternoon we packed up and headed for Merzouga--about an hour drive still--where we almost immediate got on camels and rode for two hours through the desert to a small, permanent camp our hotel has set up for just such excursions.  The sand was a bright reddish-orange and the camels smelled bad.  No adjectives exist that can adequately describe the discomfort of riding on a camel.  Every downhill step the camel takes mashes your balls into Smuckers Original. 

     Once at camp, our guides played ridiculous music on bongos and metal clapper cymbals.  I don't know if it was traditional Berber music, or just tourist music, but it was loud and gave me a headache.  Our camp butted up against a huge sand dune (probably more than 1,000 feet high), and a few of us made the arduous trek up.  The sand was packed so tightly in places that if you went fast enough, you wouldn't even sink in.  That was the easiest way to climb, even if more tiring.  

      We'd left our hotel at sunset, so it was fully dark when we'd arrived at camp, and on top the dune it was pure night.  The desert can get pretty cold, they say, but it didn't seem too bad.  Ben, Megan and I considered sleeping at the top of the dune, since we were going to climb it the next morning anyway to watch the sun rise.  The cold wasn't terrible, but the sand in the eyes was, so that was a no-go.  And when I came down, I knew I'd feel the aches in the morning. 

     

The Desert, Part 1: Water, Water Everywhere

     Preface:  ALIF arranged a trip for students to visit the Sahara desert this past weekend, which included a night in a nice hotel and another night in the desert, a two-hour camel ride from a second hotel.  Our group of 10 Americans, 2 Italians, a Brit, and our Moroccan driver and American program organizer set out Friday afternoon for the city of Merzouga, 7.5 hours due south of Fez.  This is the story of our weekend.

     Part 1:  Water, water everywhere.

    

 Friday morning I woke up quite relieved--no sore throat like I expected, nor congested sinuses.  The day before I'd begun to feel under the weather, and was reconsidering my decision to go on the Sahara trip.  With the consolation I'd soon be on a mini vacation, I cared less that I'd done only half my assigned homework, which was a ludicrous amount to begin with. 

     But outside it was pouring down rain.  I hastily stuffed spare clothes, my computer, and Al-Kitaab into my hiking bag.  About the same time my classmates were getting to school, I was just leaving the house.  It was 8 a.m.  Half an hour later, I slopped into class dripping wet and dreading the next four hours.  During class I gradually dried off, only to get soaked again when we set out to find a portable lunch for the bus. 

     They say it hasn't rained so hard in 60 years here in Fez.  Even today, Monday, part of the medina is still flooded.  And the roads were in no better shape on Friday.  At a dozen places on the way, the road was covered in water and sometimes rushed across the road in 6 inch-deep inundations.  Some places our bus waited only a few minutes to cross--other places we waited more than half an hour.  

     Since recovering from 12 days of diarrhea in early September, my bathroom routine has been virtually to realize that I have to use the bathroom, and to absolutely need to be there within a few minutes.  So when I found myself sitting in the back of this bus, only half

way to our destination and waiting an eternity for our collective courage to cross the torrent of water in the road, I started to get worried when I felt a little gurgle in my stomach.  Moments later, I had to go.     I thought about hopping out of the bus and searching for a bathroom. It wasn't like our bus was going anywhere.  But just then we budged and edged forward, and started through the water.  By now, my stomach was hurting.  I made my way up to our organizer and asked if we could find a place, any place, where I could go.  We crossed the flood and soon found an old cafe.  Despite being in Morocco for more than a month, I'd managed--until this cafe--to avoid traditional squat toilets. 

     But life was good then and we made our way south, stopping for food and coffee during the day.   My coffee had a fly in it, a fact I didn't realize until I pulled it out of my mouth with my fingers. We crossed mountains and passed into drier territory, and eleven hours after we left ALIF, we arrived at a ludicrously over-the-top resort, packed with Spanish tourists.  The decor gleefully mimicked primitive Berber life, and I had difficulty discerning whether it was reaching to recreate Berber or Native American life.  Martina, one of the Italian girls, carefully searched for the proper word.  

     "Kitsch," she said.

     But it was almost midnight, we were tired, and they had beds.  They also had beer and hot showers, and it took little convincing for me to have my first beer in Morocco.  It's called Flag and comes in a bottle, but it tastes exactly, I mean exactly, like Bud Light. 

An end to my negligence.

     I really haven't been negligent with this blog.  I've just been busy.  Moroccan weddings, new suits, Eid al-Fitr, Ahmed's flu, internet outages, voting, trips to the medina, and keeping up with the news consumes a lot of time.  Oh yeah, and then there's also class.

     So here's the deal:  Ramadan ended last week and we got a pretty sizeable break from class out of that (Wednesday through Friday off).  That afforded plenty of time to head to the medina and hang out before I went to his relative's wedding over the weekend.  I bought a new suit--which his brother-in-law helped me pick out--and I had a blast at the wedding.  I spent most of the time there talking to Ahmed's friends, but there was tons of traditional music and celebration to be had.  More details probably in another post.  Anyway, on Sunday there was a gigantic family dinner at Ahmed's sister's house, a house not designed for such a large crowd.  

     Now things have finally returned to normalcy.  Restaurants and cafes are open during normal hours, and quite a few places stay open into the night.  You can find as much food as you want here, of all different kinds, so my insistence on four meals a day isn't too hard to accommodate.  Every morning I stop by a patisserie near ALIF, where they sell fresh-baked pain au chocolat for 1.5 dirham each, and slices of chocolate cake for 2 dirham each.  

     At the current moment, I'm actually waiting on my friend Ben so we can get schwarma at a place called Cocorico.  It's kind of a hike, but it's pretty close to where Ahmed lives, so I've gotten to know it pretty well.  Excellent food, and it's cheap, but their ketchup sucks.  If you've ever used off-brand dish soap, and compared that with Dawn, this is about the ketchup equivalent of that.  

     Oh, and this weekend I'm taking a trip to the Sahara, where we will trek by camel through the desert, in sha'allah.  No matter what we get out of this, I know we'll never forget (I'm actually listening to Smoke on the Water right now).

     Ok, schwarma is up.  Peace out. 

Debate Night

     Far away from the economic mayhem appearing to engulf the U.S. and send the value of Moroccan currency surging far ahead in value (just kidding), several of us Americans in Fez are in the process of making copious amounts of Tajine and getting ready to cheer on Obama in the debate we always knew would happen.

     Seriously, I don't think McCain fooled anyone.  In any event, we made a run to the huge Wal-Mart-like grocery store "Marjane" just outside the city, and bought all kinds of snacks and such.  This is going to be quite a long night, though, because the debate doesn't start until 1 a.m. our time and won't be finished until 3 a.m.  Plus, I don't live at the Alif residence, so I'm going to be sleeping on the floor.  

     Go Obama.  More thoughts after the debate. 

Class at ALIF

     Class started at ALIF on Wednesday, and it is just about everything I didn't have in the U.S.  There are four people in my class.  My professors are native Arabic speakers, but are also fluent in French and English.  We attend two two-hour classes five days per week, and don't have the bother of other classes, jobs, etc.  Plus, when we leave the ALIF grounds, people are speaking Arabic everywhere we go. 

     Oh, and I'm pretty sure we're using Al-Kitaab (the book used both at OSU and here) the way it was designed to be, because we're intensely focusing on the listening and comprehension sections.  That's part of the benefit you get from being in class 20 hours each week instead of 4. 

     The professors are sweet (not to say those back home weren't).  Our first teacher is this guy who is quite direct in his statements about what you're doing wrong, but equally emphatic with his praise when you do something well.  He and I are kind of on different wavelengths when it comes to explaining things to each other in any language, but I hope we can work that out.

     My second prof is a lady named Tourya who told us on the first day of class that we're her kids first and her students second.  She follows the book less closely but holds conversations with us for about half the class, which is very useful in terms of learning vocab we can use right now. 

     At this point, at least from what I've seen so far, if I don't get as much out of this as I wanted to, it will be either because I didn't work enough in class, or because I didn't try to speak enough Arabic outside of class.  

     Now, a word about ALIF.  There are classes that teach Arabic for those who have never seen the alphabet, all the way up to pretty advanced levels.  Despite the range, the school itself has pretty small enrollment, so the staff is very much able and willing to accomodate concerns about the level of courses its students are in.  So far they haven't mentioned how grades work, and there is a rumor they might be pass/fail.  Our teachers carry with them a quiet determination that we actually learn, so it would not be outside the realm of possibility that grades are in fact pass/fail.  

The Host Family

     I've been living with my host family for a full week now in their apartment/house on the southwest side of Ville Nouvelle.  Their area is more commonly known as Fez City Center, where a very large area of land is in the beginning stages of construction of some pretty expensive apartments, hotels and parks.  Even Ahmed's house (the host brother) is in a sort of seemingly artificial city center, where there are streets but very rarely used as such by cars.  

     It's hard to call where he lives either a house or an apartment.  The closest thing I can compare it to would be the houses in San Francisco that sit wall-to-wall without any space between, but are still individual structures.  My bedroom is on the third of three floors, and just down the hall from me is the rooftop terrace that has a great view of the other houses' fourth floors and their satellite dishes.  

     Ahmed left on Tuesday to visit his brother in Tangiers, so while his parents and I have been sleeping at his house, we've also been spending quite a bit of time at his sister's house much closer to Boulevard Hassan II and ALIF.  His sister is 36 and I'm not sure how old her husband Khaled is, but Khaled and I have been going to a nearby cafe close to every night around 9 after he gets back from the mosque.  I've made friends with his friends (who all seem to be in their 40s).  The cafe is very much a man's place--where you go to smoke, drink coffee, watch soccer, etc.--and I've only seen a woman there once.  Usually the women stay at home and prepare the second meal of the evening, since we eat once at sundown and then once again around 11:30 p.m.

     As you may know, Islam forbids believers from consuming alcohol, and I'm reasonable certain that it is this restriction alone that has prevented and all-out revolt by the female gender--or at least the permission of alcohol that has hastened such a revolt in other (our) culture. 

The Shower

So I've been trying to figure out how to use the bathtub/shower at Ahmed's house.  Here's how I described it to my mom:

So yesterday I took a shower at Ahmed's house..or I tried to, at least.  Imagine this:  there is a bath tub (you know, a regular nice bath tub), which has in it like a 10-15 gallon bucket, and then inside that is a small bowl.  There is a faucet, and connected to that is a shower head on a flexible pipe.  

Well, I tried to turn the little knob that would let water come through the shower head, and the knob came off, and shot cold water everywhere.  Instead of turning the water off, I tried to put the knob back on.  Brilliant, I know.  Anyway, I get that taken care of and still need to decide what to do with this bucket.  My feet are leaving prints on the tub, and as I wasn't sure what the bucket was for or why it had water in it when I first got into the bathroom, I went ahead and emptied the bucket, put some water in it and stood in the bucket itself, so that you wouldn't be able to tell that I stood in the tub, just in case I wasn't supposed to. Not wanting to use too much water, I got my washcloth wet, watered myself down, did the whole soap thing, and then rinsed off as best I could with my washcloth.  Thankfully, the faucet in the sink in the bathroom has a high arch, so I've been washing my hair in that.  Note to self though:  keep my hair short.  I think it could be a real hassle to have shaggy hair.

What Would Martin Love/Hate?

     Let’s play a little game called “What Would Martin Love/Hate” (WWML/H).  For those of you who don’t know who Matt Martin is, he was my roommate freshman year, sports (and movies, and food, and beer) connoisseur, and crotchety grump at-large.  One of the top five smartest people I know, but it seems that he and I disagree on most things.  Anyway, this game might be my favorite thing next to David Letterman’s “Will It Float?” I don’t know how often this will get posted, but Martin loves some things, and hates quite a few, so we’ll see…

This week in WWML/H:

LOVE:  Nut stands—Stop.  Don’t make this dirty.  There are literally food stands in Fez that open up at night (at least during Ramadan) that sell all kinds of nuts and seeds to eat.  They roll newspaper up in the shape of an ice cream cone, only instead of ice cream, you can get peanuts, macadamia nuts, pecans, sunflower seeds, and just about anything else.  And it’s cheap.

HATE:  Faux guides—“False guides” are these guys who wait around at train stations and other high tourist density places, and try to get you to let them carry your bags, get you a taxi, give you a tour, show you a way to your hotel, etc..  They approach you, talk to you, insist on helping you, and expect to be paid.  As Martin would say, “I just want to be left alone.”

Unless you are Matt Martin himself, I encourage you to debate my selections for these posts.  I’m excluding Martin because he’d disagree with me just to be contrary.  Or, if you like, feel free to tell me which of these things you would love/hate, and why Martin would be wrong to feel differently. 

Hooey

     So I promised another post on what I expect to find in Fes.

     Basically, what I'm thinking is this:  A lot of people are full of hooey.  That's right, I said hooey.  Not that Moroccans will be, but that all those guide books that talk about prim and properness all the time.  Yes, this will be Ramadan and everyone will be fasting.  I get that.

     However, younger people (who ware the people I'm going to want to spend the most time with) are a little different from their aged counterparts.  I do expect some people to be more liberal than others, and for those that aren't, I will be treating them respectfully.  

     But I can't believe that young people will be all that different from me.  Sure Americans (and everyone else, as a matter of fact) do things a little differently from what another, but isn't it all rooted in satisfying basic needs anyway?  

     Food, though different, satisfies hunger.  It's just a variance of degree.

     Of course, maybe I'm the one full of hooey. 

Gate C53

     I am literally looking and staring at Gate C53.  It is a yellow sign with black letters.  Not very interesting.  But then again, neither is waiting for a flight. 

     The past week or so has been, though.  Endless list-making, working, and moving all make preparing for a trip all the more complicated--but it does take away the amount of time you feel like you're dithering without getting anything accomplished.

     But the most important things that I've gotten accomplished have happened in the last 48 hours.  The money situation seems squared away.  I've packed a large suitcase, a half suitcase, and a hiking bag.  And I have a game plan:

     1. Go to NYC.

     2. Go to Casablanca.

     3. Buy train ticket/get on train to Fes. 

     4. Get to Fes and find a taxi. 

     5.  Take taxi to Hotel Menzeh Zalagh. 

     6.  Sleep. 

     7.  Go to Arabic Language Center in Fez, and get housing all arranged.

     Small steps, every one of them.  But that's how they need to be taken.  

     And speaking of steps, I've come up with what I think is a pretty decent goal timeframe that I can use to help structure time and set goals:

     1. Day-to-day:  Some things just have to be taken a day at a time--especially if I run into particularly unpleasant smells and who knows what else I'll find (more about this in another post)

     2.  Six-week blocks:  My classes are broken up into six-week blocks.  After each block, I get a week off, and then I start a new class again.  My first class will be Modern Standard Arabic 300, or Chapters 14-20 of Al-Kitaab, for those keeping score at home. 

     3. Nine months:  Gotta have some big goals.  Learning how to cook Moroccan food is one of them.  Maybe working out if I find a gym.  Certainly getting better at playing soccer.  Maybe I'll learn how to play an instrument.  We'll see.

    

Priorities

    Something had to happen to make this trip seem more real, and I got that in spades.

     About ten days ago I bought plane tickets to leave for Morocco on September 3rd, and to return on June 2, 2009.  My expectation had been that I would be able to see myself in Fez once I bought the tickets, and that stronger preparation would soon begin.  But what it has really taken is the nine days since then to convince me preparing should be my priority.

     I want to call the last week and a half a time full of distractions.  I want to say it was time spent getting the most out of a few remaining moments of summer, of living with roommates, of classless college, and of down time in central Ohio.  To say any of those things would be a lie.  To say these were distractions would be a lie.

     A distraction is something that takes your attention involuntarily.  I deliberately paid attention to, committed to, and attempted to follow through on things that should have received no such focus.  In other cases, I deliberately ignored certain realities and responsibilities to others and myself.  

     I have made some people priorities when I was merely their option.  And I have treated some like options when I was made a priority.  When you treat some situations like this, you have to wonder how you will act in other, far more important circumstances.  And honestly, how can you tell the difference sometimes between which are important?  Aren't they all?

     But it can't go without saying that for much of this time, I have gotten many things right.  The bad instances themselves can probably be counted on one hand--it is simply the knowing they have happened and the thinking about them that has filled the void between them and been my focus.

     No more.  Last night I cleaned my room.  I did dishes and took out the trash.  I have made a packing list and a budget for money.  I have thought about what it's going to take to make friends there in Morocco, how to treat personal relationships, and to pursue confident, responsible strides toward getting to know Fez and Morocco.

     Mostly though, I've come to terms with what I should expect from myself.  That's what will make a difference no matter where I go.

     Game on.

One shot, one opportunity

I'll never get a chance to do this again. 

Nine o'clock on a Tuesday evening, after the day has cooled and the humidity thinned.  A few cars drive down Norwich Avenue, and a few more further away on High Street, but for the most part things are quiet.  And dark. 

A few dishes sit in my kitchen sink and next to me on the porch lay my silent phone and a half-drank beer.  Bell's Oberon, to be exact.  Sometimes it helps with the writing to sit in free-flowing air with something cold to drink and, most importantly, no time constraints.  

I'm waiting on a chain reaction of things to happen for me to feel like I'm really going to Morocco.  I'm waiting on notification from an insurance company that I'm covered while abroad.  When I can prove I have insurance, I get the money from one scholarship.  When I get that money, I can buy a plane ticket.  Once I buy the plane ticket, I can start receiving money from another scholarship.  

In the meantime, I'm managing a perpetual tension between excitement about studying abroad (not to be confused with excitement about leaving Ohio) and impatience over the real and perceived gastropodic slowness that has marked every step of trying to study abroad this time around.  If from life we seek guidance as to the structure of divine reasoning and decision-making, then I can only deduce from personal experience that God's creating the universe in seven days did not occur via bureaucracies.

Soon enough, this frustration will pass and in its place certainty, excitement and perhaps indigestion will fill the void.  And when it does, I'll never get a chance to do this -- to capture this moment -- again.  Until then, all I can do is sit on my porch and enjoy a beer.  Good night.