So, I was aware that Moroccan houses would be fairly damp during the rainy season (winter). I was even prepared for some possible leaks within the house. But I’m not sure anything could have prepared me for this morning’s adventure.
I can remember waking up around 7:00 AM a little bit cold, so I walked over to the empty bed across the room from mine and took a blanket to keep me a bit warmer. I remember hearing the rain on our roof (which is covered by plastic but open to the air on the sides), but my room was still dry.
Around 8:00, however, I was awakened by some slight sprinkling. At first I figured that it must just be some strange dream, so I pulled up the covers and rolled back over. After another 10 seconds, though, the fact was undeniable: it was raining inside my room. And after another few minutes, it was more like a downpour.
I jumped up from my bed, switched on the lights, and saw that I had not just a leak, but water streaming from various points around the ceiling. One of these rivulets hit a small ledge over my bed, propelling the precipitation over a wide area of my bed (which was quickly becoming saturated with water); another was just over the doorway, creating a waterfall effect blocking my exit. Meanwhile, the fallen rain was beginning to pool and spread across the tiled floor toward me. For a moment I felt like I was part of a crazy house-possessed-by-a-vengeful-poltergeist horror movie.
After reserving a moment to just think, “What the…?” I snapped into action, grabbing my backpack (with my laptop) and moving it outside the room, where it was still dry, making sure that my charging cell phone was out of the water, and covering up my exposed books with a towel. At first, I’d assumed that the problem was spread throughout the entire house, but quickly discovered that, no; my room was the only one hemorrhaging water from every corner.
Fortunately, my suitcases were all standing up on their wheels, giving them an inch or so of space above the rapidly deepening puddles on the ground. For about a minute, I stood in my pajamas in the driest square foot of space that I could find, hopelessly staring as the water rained down.
Then my family kicked into action.
My host brothers and sister, noticing either the light coming from my room or the noise of cascading water and my own desperate shuffling, charged in and helped me move the rest of my belongings from the room and into the dry sanctuary of the sitting room (where they all slept). By this point, the water on the floor was about an inch deep throughout the room, and my sandals and shoes (which had been on the floor near the bed) were thoroughly soaked through. But fortunately, all of my clothes in the dresser were untouched, and except for some slight dampness, the rest of my belongings in my bags were fine.
Judging by my family’s slight confusion, I assumed that this sort of thing had not happened before. And after some stern talking with a woman who came in, I learned from Yassine that apparently the house next door (directly attached to one side of my room) was undergoing some construction. And at some point in the night (it had been raining since at least midnight) the volume of water just became too much, and it began to spill into our building and through my ceiling. I didn’t press for details on the logistics – I actually had to get to class by 9:00 – but I was reassured by the fact that the rain both outside and inside seemed to be letting up.
So I hope that I didn’t over-dramatize the whole event for you guys. This was by no means a regular event – the rain last night was torrential and unexpected – later in the afternoon we caught a news report about flooding throughout Rabat. And my ceiling had managed to hold up through all but the storm’s final hour – at least I wasn’t awakened at 3 AM! Again I’ll emphasize, too, that none of my things were damaged, and Yassine assured me that not only would it never happen again, but they fully intended to get to the bottom of everything and call in the police to investigate, if necessary. I’m sure they want to figure out what’s damaging their house even more than I do….
Fortunately, there is a quasi-happy ending to the story. First off, there’s always the bonding experience inherent in any crisis situation – I feel like the utter ridiculousness of the situation helped me connect a little better with my host siblings, despite the language barrier. And they seem to feel really bad about what happened. By the time I returned from classes at 4:30 PM, the room had been bailed out, with the beds stripped, mattresses airing out, and only a slight puddle remaining in the sunken area just beyond the door.
But even better, it looks like I won’t have to return to the haunted room: they prepared a new bed for me within the small bedroom near the kitchen in which, until this afternoon, they had been installing new decorative tiles on the walls. So it looks like, until further notice (and perhaps for the rest of the semester…) I will be bunking next to my host brother Mourad, and I will be dry, rain or shine!
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Monday, September 14, 2009
Pictures.
Alright, so as you may or may not have noticed (depending on just how observant you are...) the menu on the right-hand side of the page now contains a section for links to my pictures!
So hopefully the link works for you - it should bring you straight to my Picasa Web Albums page (it's just a fancy name for Google's photo site), where I've uploaded and conveniently captioned and mapped out all of my photos! Well, that is, most of the good ones. Because uploading pictures out here takes forever.
So enjoy these, and I'll try to add more every so often, along with a new link! Or, if you're feeling adventurous, all of these photos are public in Google's photo application - my user name is slink726! It's all the same stuff, but more direct access to it.
Enjoy!
So hopefully the link works for you - it should bring you straight to my Picasa Web Albums page (it's just a fancy name for Google's photo site), where I've uploaded and conveniently captioned and mapped out all of my photos! Well, that is, most of the good ones. Because uploading pictures out here takes forever.
So enjoy these, and I'll try to add more every so often, along with a new link! Or, if you're feeling adventurous, all of these photos are public in Google's photo application - my user name is slink726! It's all the same stuff, but more direct access to it.
Enjoy!
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Pictures?
OK, so that last one was a first shot, and it looks like only 4 of the 35 got posted. Oh well - enjoy the taste! Savor it! Eagerly anticipate more!
I'll continue searching for the most practical way to upload more pictures - this may be via a different site...
I'll continue searching for the most practical way to upload more pictures - this may be via a different site...
The Other Member of Our Family
Moroccans love television. It is an established fact.
In fact, they love it so much, that I can barely think of a moment in my time here thus far when it was not turned on. If my family is awake, then the TV is, too. I am not exaggerating.
My greatest exposure to the last member of our family has been during meal times, when he joins us and selfishly tires to drown out our already-loud conversations. In fact, it is our brother the television which announces that it is time to break our fasting, by interrupting our regularly-scheduled programming to take the strains of “Allah akhbar” which echo from the city’s minarets and pump them directly into our living/dining room.
Moroccan television is, to say the least, never boring. It is filled with loud noises, ubiquitous laugh tracks, and disturbingly catchy theme music (I often find myself humming the 2M channel’s promotional theme music throughout the day and, much to my dismay, cannot erase it from my head afterward). Oddly, though Moroccan satellite TV seems to have hundreds of channels (and everyone has satellite TV – looking out over the city’s skyline is like gazing upon a sea of satellite dishes), every family seems to only watch 2 channels – 2M and 1, both of which show very similar types of programming in Arabic (and, sometimes, news reports in French). The shows all seem slightly shorter than American shows (perhaps due to decreased ad time) – the longest seem to end in 20 minutes, and some go no more than 5 or 10. This is actually really convenient for someone who has no idea what any of the characters are saying – when I lost the plot line, I know that I only have to wait a little bit before something new will come on and hopefully make more sense.
Most of the popular programming fits the standard sitcom format – larger than life characters with obscenely overdone facial expressions, ridiculous voices, and absurd plots – at one point a few characters were blow-drying a rooster. I’m not sure even a complete understanding of the Arabic language would have helped me to figure out why. There’s also a candid-camera type show (or is it just sketch comedy?) where a man dressed as a woman (complete with a flowery hijab) goes around and generally makes people feel awkward. Another involves this 20-year-old kid who goes around on the streets of various Moroccan cities asking people questions and getting humorous answers. As the night wears on, the shows slowly drift more toward soap opera fare, where everything becomes super-serious and melodramatic. Perhaps my favorite part of all of these shows is their music – especially when they adopt very unfitting American tunes for use in the background (think Eminem at really serious moments…).
Of course, the many-named sport of soccer/football/qarat al-qadm is extremely popular, as is the case basically anywhere outside of the United States. And late at night, we get a lot of foreign movies dubbed in French or Arabic – so far I’ve caught part of the animated Tarzan and a Jet Li kung-fu film. Also, they import lots of American television. Yassine and I spent some time at his apartment watching “Made” and “Pimp My Ride” on MTV. Both shows were completely in English and seemingly unedited, but with Fus’ha Arabic subtitles – some of which I even understood! The weird thing is when you begin to consider how contradictory it is for a culture that asks women to cover all parts of their body besides their faces and hands to also watch an Arizona girl try to become a pageant queen, or, for that matter, to see scantily-clad women dance around in a music video by Pitbull or Shakira. But hey, that’s globalization for you!
My favorite find thus far, however, occurred last night over our midnight dinner. So essentially, when the 12-year-old boy first stepped out on the small stage with his Quran, sat down, and began singing verses, I thought that it was simply some wholesome religious programming. Then I noticed some adults sitting in front of the stage with pens and paper who seemed to be judging the poor exploited boy. The announcement at the close listing various numbers to which one should send texts confirmed it: American Idol has reached Morocco, and it is crazy. That’s right, Moroccan Idol (not the real name – I couldn’t understand the actual title) involves bringing a dozen children (both boys and girls, all seemingly under 15 years of age) and forcing them to compete with each other over who can best recite religious verses, according to the families all across the country who are eating their second Ramadan dinner to the background / foreground noise of the television set.
The national idol indeed.
In fact, they love it so much, that I can barely think of a moment in my time here thus far when it was not turned on. If my family is awake, then the TV is, too. I am not exaggerating.
My greatest exposure to the last member of our family has been during meal times, when he joins us and selfishly tires to drown out our already-loud conversations. In fact, it is our brother the television which announces that it is time to break our fasting, by interrupting our regularly-scheduled programming to take the strains of “Allah akhbar” which echo from the city’s minarets and pump them directly into our living/dining room.
Moroccan television is, to say the least, never boring. It is filled with loud noises, ubiquitous laugh tracks, and disturbingly catchy theme music (I often find myself humming the 2M channel’s promotional theme music throughout the day and, much to my dismay, cannot erase it from my head afterward). Oddly, though Moroccan satellite TV seems to have hundreds of channels (and everyone has satellite TV – looking out over the city’s skyline is like gazing upon a sea of satellite dishes), every family seems to only watch 2 channels – 2M and 1, both of which show very similar types of programming in Arabic (and, sometimes, news reports in French). The shows all seem slightly shorter than American shows (perhaps due to decreased ad time) – the longest seem to end in 20 minutes, and some go no more than 5 or 10. This is actually really convenient for someone who has no idea what any of the characters are saying – when I lost the plot line, I know that I only have to wait a little bit before something new will come on and hopefully make more sense.
Most of the popular programming fits the standard sitcom format – larger than life characters with obscenely overdone facial expressions, ridiculous voices, and absurd plots – at one point a few characters were blow-drying a rooster. I’m not sure even a complete understanding of the Arabic language would have helped me to figure out why. There’s also a candid-camera type show (or is it just sketch comedy?) where a man dressed as a woman (complete with a flowery hijab) goes around and generally makes people feel awkward. Another involves this 20-year-old kid who goes around on the streets of various Moroccan cities asking people questions and getting humorous answers. As the night wears on, the shows slowly drift more toward soap opera fare, where everything becomes super-serious and melodramatic. Perhaps my favorite part of all of these shows is their music – especially when they adopt very unfitting American tunes for use in the background (think Eminem at really serious moments…).
Of course, the many-named sport of soccer/football/qarat al-qadm is extremely popular, as is the case basically anywhere outside of the United States. And late at night, we get a lot of foreign movies dubbed in French or Arabic – so far I’ve caught part of the animated Tarzan and a Jet Li kung-fu film. Also, they import lots of American television. Yassine and I spent some time at his apartment watching “Made” and “Pimp My Ride” on MTV. Both shows were completely in English and seemingly unedited, but with Fus’ha Arabic subtitles – some of which I even understood! The weird thing is when you begin to consider how contradictory it is for a culture that asks women to cover all parts of their body besides their faces and hands to also watch an Arizona girl try to become a pageant queen, or, for that matter, to see scantily-clad women dance around in a music video by Pitbull or Shakira. But hey, that’s globalization for you!
My favorite find thus far, however, occurred last night over our midnight dinner. So essentially, when the 12-year-old boy first stepped out on the small stage with his Quran, sat down, and began singing verses, I thought that it was simply some wholesome religious programming. Then I noticed some adults sitting in front of the stage with pens and paper who seemed to be judging the poor exploited boy. The announcement at the close listing various numbers to which one should send texts confirmed it: American Idol has reached Morocco, and it is crazy. That’s right, Moroccan Idol (not the real name – I couldn’t understand the actual title) involves bringing a dozen children (both boys and girls, all seemingly under 15 years of age) and forcing them to compete with each other over who can best recite religious verses, according to the families all across the country who are eating their second Ramadan dinner to the background / foreground noise of the television set.
The national idol indeed.
Day 6, Part 2: Childlike Wonder
After all of 5 minutes in my new home to set down my suitcases and try to get organized, my host brother Yassine asked if I wanted to come along for a ride with him since he was headed over to his apartment for a bit. This was the first time I’d heard anything about a second apartment, and came as a bit of a shock to me. I guess I just didn’t expect a host family in the medina (typically the location of lower-middle class families who have had homes passed down to them as the wealthy moved out to newer suburbs) to have a second residence, especially not within the same city’s borders. But, defying expectations as always, it seems Yassine does indeed have his own apartment about 8 minutes away in the Ocean district just outside the Medina.
And let me tell you, those 8 minutes of travel were among the most exciting of my life.
[Side note: Mom, you may want to skip over this part….]
So, it also turns out that Yassine has a car. In the medina. Now, those of you who have been here probably realize the impracticality of driving within the medina walls. For those of you who have not, picture a tight cobblestone street, the broadest of which are about 14 feet wide. As you drive off of the main avenues, the streets shrink down to about 5 or 6 feet wide, no joke. Now, fill these thin streets with not only vendors and merchandise, but people. People everywhere. People who don’t really care whether or not a car is coming toward them, because they don’t plan to move out of your way anyways. People who are in the middle of haggling for goods, people who are praying, people who are playing soccer, people who are riding bicycles or motorcycles, people wheeling carts and carrying bags and visiting with friends and yelling and wandering and generally taking up most of the available space – especially during the daily rush to the market at around 4 or 5 PM.
A sane person might not try to take a motor vehicle through such streets. Moroccans do.
My first hint should have been when Yassine had to climb through the passenger side to get to the driver’s seat – he had to park literally within inches of the wall in order for anything else to pass by the car. Also, I initially attributed the lack of a side-view mirror on the passenger’s side to an odd design choice or perhaps to ease of parking. After my drive, I now think I might have a better inkling of the real reason…
The car itself is an older model Renault, I would guess late ‘80s. It’s pretty small, but still roomy enough inside, and the outside is dark blue with the assorted scratches expected from city driving.
We got in, and the music started up – House music. Now, I’m not sure how prevalent this music is in America – I know I had never really heard it before, except as described by people I know who have been abroad. Basically, it’s extremely close to techno or electronic music – with their thumping bass lines and repetitive though entrancing synthesized melodies – but with a lot more talking. Not singing. Just talking. Where electronic will have no voices at all and techno will tend to have some sung vocals, house just sort of speaks to you. And, more often than not, repeats to you. All in all, it’s not bad. It’s actually kind of catchy and almost forces you to dance along. Especially when it’s dictating that you must dance. Because when house speaks, you listen. Provided you understand the language in which it is speaking….
And then the roller coaster ride began. I must say, Yassine did things that I didn’t think were possible with a motor vehicle. (And let me say, after driving later on with his brother Mourad, I have a new-found respect for Yassine’s level of proficiency with the stick shift….)
We started out backing straight out of Zankat Jamaa Moreno, on which we live. This sounds simple, but trust me – it’s a good 50 foot stretch of narrow roadway filled with human and inanimate obstacles. And he did it speedily, with complete confidence. When I moved to reach for my seat belt, he assured me that it would not be necessary. Hesitatingly, I chose to believe him.
We then pulled around through the narrow maze-like streets, at one point encountering a large truck trying to come through in the other direction. After a little maneuvering from both parties, we managed to get past, but with a slight scratch on our side from his rear-view mirror. My driver seemed less than concerned.
I noticed that many of our human obstacles seemed to recognize us (well, Yassine) and would wave or shout out some phrase I didn’t understand. Rarely did they make any conscious effort to move out of our way, however.
Upon reaching the medina walls, we came across a slight traffic jam – someone not quite as skilled or experienced at Moroccan driving seemed to have gotten pinned in between a few lanes of traffic and couldn’t back up enough to swing his turn. Horns erupted everywhere. Rather flustered, the offending car eventually managed to get out of the way and we pulled out into the city’s regular streets. From here driving got slightly easier – the streets were wider and some even had multiple lanes! Of course, that doesn’t mean that you have to obey the lines separating them. Yassine wove in and out of traffic, speeding up to 70 km/h and then hitting the brakes, passing wherever possible, and so on. There was never a dull moment.
We finally managed to pull up to his apartment, and after fiddling with the television for a bit and then calling up the landlord to fix it, our mission seemed to be accomplished. I got a short tour of the apartment, which was quite gorgeous – spacious for one or two people, with bright colors everywhere. Out on the terrace, you got a beautiful view down the couple of blocks to the ocean.
The ride back was more of the same, our most exciting moment occurring when we came across a group of men praying on mats in the street outside of a mosque. We held still for a minute, and then they all finished, stood up and allowed us to pass.
We made it back in one piece, I rolled the windows shut, and thanked God that I was back standing on solid ground.
[Note: Mom, it’s safe to start reading again!]
But my favorite moment of the ride by far: Yassine playing the Black Eyed Peas’ “Boom Boom Pow.” Later on we listened to a techno-fied version of “I Gotta Feeling.” How I love cultural melding!
After we got home, we still had a good half hour before futur (the traditional meal breaking the Ramadan fast, once the sun sets). So, I sat down to work on a crossword puzzle. But before long, a young girl walked up to me. She couldn’t have been older than 6 with her bright brown eyes, brimming with bouncy energy and even bouncier dark curls pulled back in two separate ponytails. She pointed at my book and said a word in Darija (Moroccan Arabic) that I couldn’t quite understand.
I decided to try out some of my recent (and very limited) Darija vocabulary. “Smeetee Sean. Shnoo shmeetek?” I asked, trying not to sound ridiculous. “Smeetee Maha,” my new host-niece replied in an adorable squeaky voice. And yes, fellow Al-Kitab sufferers – I have now officially met a real, live Maha. And loved every minute of it.
Following introductions, our conversation took an awkward turn. Essentially, she would try to tell me something, and I would stare at her blankly and either shrug cluelessly or smile and nod enthusiastically as if I understood her. She saw through me pretty quickly and seemed to pick up on the fact that I did not speak any of her language. Or was simply in desperate need of some quick tutelage. So, for the next half-hour until dinner, she took me by the hand, led me around the house, and became my teacher. We played a little game where I would point to something and ask “Shnoo hatha?” to which she would tell me the object’s name. Usually I would try to repeat whatever she said, fail horribly, and we would play call-and-repeat until my part was satisfactory. And little Maha was a tough judge. I only wish I could remember any of the words she taught me – I am a horrible student.
We concluded our little game by playing with my digital camera for a little while. She seemed really intrigued by the device (and I think she liked some of my pictures), and she especially loved removing and replacing the batteries. Even though I was terrified that she might drop it, she was extremely gentle and no harm was done.
All of this completed, we gathered around the table and sofas in the living room and waited for the muezzin to call out “Allah akhbar,” which would announce the evening prayer time, the setting of the sun, and – most importantly – the signal that it was alright to break our fasting (and by “our,” I don’t actually include myself – the CCCL has kept us non-Muslims well-fed). The meal was delicious, and the experience itself was something completely new to me. Everyone around (all of my new host brothers, sisters, and my host mom) was speaking in a tongue that I could barely understand, while Yassine to my right spoke to me in English, Mourad to my left conversed with me in Spanish, and I meekly tried out my feeble Arabic or French with everyone else. It was an incredible, yet somewhat overwhelming, blend of foreign tastes and foreign tongues. As we shared our communal plates of delicious treats, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of wonder, sitting at once within and outside the moment. It all promised an interesting and intense semester to come.
And let me tell you, those 8 minutes of travel were among the most exciting of my life.
[Side note: Mom, you may want to skip over this part….]
So, it also turns out that Yassine has a car. In the medina. Now, those of you who have been here probably realize the impracticality of driving within the medina walls. For those of you who have not, picture a tight cobblestone street, the broadest of which are about 14 feet wide. As you drive off of the main avenues, the streets shrink down to about 5 or 6 feet wide, no joke. Now, fill these thin streets with not only vendors and merchandise, but people. People everywhere. People who don’t really care whether or not a car is coming toward them, because they don’t plan to move out of your way anyways. People who are in the middle of haggling for goods, people who are praying, people who are playing soccer, people who are riding bicycles or motorcycles, people wheeling carts and carrying bags and visiting with friends and yelling and wandering and generally taking up most of the available space – especially during the daily rush to the market at around 4 or 5 PM.
A sane person might not try to take a motor vehicle through such streets. Moroccans do.
My first hint should have been when Yassine had to climb through the passenger side to get to the driver’s seat – he had to park literally within inches of the wall in order for anything else to pass by the car. Also, I initially attributed the lack of a side-view mirror on the passenger’s side to an odd design choice or perhaps to ease of parking. After my drive, I now think I might have a better inkling of the real reason…
The car itself is an older model Renault, I would guess late ‘80s. It’s pretty small, but still roomy enough inside, and the outside is dark blue with the assorted scratches expected from city driving.
We got in, and the music started up – House music. Now, I’m not sure how prevalent this music is in America – I know I had never really heard it before, except as described by people I know who have been abroad. Basically, it’s extremely close to techno or electronic music – with their thumping bass lines and repetitive though entrancing synthesized melodies – but with a lot more talking. Not singing. Just talking. Where electronic will have no voices at all and techno will tend to have some sung vocals, house just sort of speaks to you. And, more often than not, repeats to you. All in all, it’s not bad. It’s actually kind of catchy and almost forces you to dance along. Especially when it’s dictating that you must dance. Because when house speaks, you listen. Provided you understand the language in which it is speaking….
And then the roller coaster ride began. I must say, Yassine did things that I didn’t think were possible with a motor vehicle. (And let me say, after driving later on with his brother Mourad, I have a new-found respect for Yassine’s level of proficiency with the stick shift….)
We started out backing straight out of Zankat Jamaa Moreno, on which we live. This sounds simple, but trust me – it’s a good 50 foot stretch of narrow roadway filled with human and inanimate obstacles. And he did it speedily, with complete confidence. When I moved to reach for my seat belt, he assured me that it would not be necessary. Hesitatingly, I chose to believe him.
We then pulled around through the narrow maze-like streets, at one point encountering a large truck trying to come through in the other direction. After a little maneuvering from both parties, we managed to get past, but with a slight scratch on our side from his rear-view mirror. My driver seemed less than concerned.
I noticed that many of our human obstacles seemed to recognize us (well, Yassine) and would wave or shout out some phrase I didn’t understand. Rarely did they make any conscious effort to move out of our way, however.
Upon reaching the medina walls, we came across a slight traffic jam – someone not quite as skilled or experienced at Moroccan driving seemed to have gotten pinned in between a few lanes of traffic and couldn’t back up enough to swing his turn. Horns erupted everywhere. Rather flustered, the offending car eventually managed to get out of the way and we pulled out into the city’s regular streets. From here driving got slightly easier – the streets were wider and some even had multiple lanes! Of course, that doesn’t mean that you have to obey the lines separating them. Yassine wove in and out of traffic, speeding up to 70 km/h and then hitting the brakes, passing wherever possible, and so on. There was never a dull moment.
We finally managed to pull up to his apartment, and after fiddling with the television for a bit and then calling up the landlord to fix it, our mission seemed to be accomplished. I got a short tour of the apartment, which was quite gorgeous – spacious for one or two people, with bright colors everywhere. Out on the terrace, you got a beautiful view down the couple of blocks to the ocean.
The ride back was more of the same, our most exciting moment occurring when we came across a group of men praying on mats in the street outside of a mosque. We held still for a minute, and then they all finished, stood up and allowed us to pass.
We made it back in one piece, I rolled the windows shut, and thanked God that I was back standing on solid ground.
[Note: Mom, it’s safe to start reading again!]
But my favorite moment of the ride by far: Yassine playing the Black Eyed Peas’ “Boom Boom Pow.” Later on we listened to a techno-fied version of “I Gotta Feeling.” How I love cultural melding!
After we got home, we still had a good half hour before futur (the traditional meal breaking the Ramadan fast, once the sun sets). So, I sat down to work on a crossword puzzle. But before long, a young girl walked up to me. She couldn’t have been older than 6 with her bright brown eyes, brimming with bouncy energy and even bouncier dark curls pulled back in two separate ponytails. She pointed at my book and said a word in Darija (Moroccan Arabic) that I couldn’t quite understand.
I decided to try out some of my recent (and very limited) Darija vocabulary. “Smeetee Sean. Shnoo shmeetek?” I asked, trying not to sound ridiculous. “Smeetee Maha,” my new host-niece replied in an adorable squeaky voice. And yes, fellow Al-Kitab sufferers – I have now officially met a real, live Maha. And loved every minute of it.
Following introductions, our conversation took an awkward turn. Essentially, she would try to tell me something, and I would stare at her blankly and either shrug cluelessly or smile and nod enthusiastically as if I understood her. She saw through me pretty quickly and seemed to pick up on the fact that I did not speak any of her language. Or was simply in desperate need of some quick tutelage. So, for the next half-hour until dinner, she took me by the hand, led me around the house, and became my teacher. We played a little game where I would point to something and ask “Shnoo hatha?” to which she would tell me the object’s name. Usually I would try to repeat whatever she said, fail horribly, and we would play call-and-repeat until my part was satisfactory. And little Maha was a tough judge. I only wish I could remember any of the words she taught me – I am a horrible student.
We concluded our little game by playing with my digital camera for a little while. She seemed really intrigued by the device (and I think she liked some of my pictures), and she especially loved removing and replacing the batteries. Even though I was terrified that she might drop it, she was extremely gentle and no harm was done.
All of this completed, we gathered around the table and sofas in the living room and waited for the muezzin to call out “Allah akhbar,” which would announce the evening prayer time, the setting of the sun, and – most importantly – the signal that it was alright to break our fasting (and by “our,” I don’t actually include myself – the CCCL has kept us non-Muslims well-fed). The meal was delicious, and the experience itself was something completely new to me. Everyone around (all of my new host brothers, sisters, and my host mom) was speaking in a tongue that I could barely understand, while Yassine to my right spoke to me in English, Mourad to my left conversed with me in Spanish, and I meekly tried out my feeble Arabic or French with everyone else. It was an incredible, yet somewhat overwhelming, blend of foreign tastes and foreign tongues. As we shared our communal plates of delicious treats, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of wonder, sitting at once within and outside the moment. It all promised an interesting and intense semester to come.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Day 6, Part 1: A New Beginning
Oh. My. God.
I love my host family so much. They are so amazing!
For any former Rabatians following along, my host family was Matt’s from last semester. For all others, they are Zhoura El Brouhmani and her son, Yassine. And, since it’s Ramadan, all of their extended family. And I love them all, even if we don’t understand a word the other is saying.
To start at the very beginning (Sound of Music reference aside) I had a few concerns when I first got my sheet of paper with their names and a few quick family facts. For example, the Turkish toilet. And the (relatively) small size – a father, mother, and 2 sons.
When Yassine and I met at the short, hour-long time set up by the CCCL for first impressions, most of my fears melted away – he was an incredibly friendly guy who seemed to know half of the other host families there and spoke almost perfect English. Score! He told me that the family had been hosting students for quite some time – 6 times before (or maybe he said 6 years… it was loud in there and I still had some stress floating around and distracting my thoughts.
However, he also gave me the unfortunate news that my family had recently become even smaller: the first was for a very good reason – Yassine’s brother Adil had gotten married and moved into his own place. However, there was also less happy news – his father, Abdelgani, had died recently, in August if I understood him right. Allah yarhamhu.
Needless to say, I remained a little unsure of what the household would be like when I walked into it this afternoon. Following a morning of overly pretentious theoretical discussion on diversity and other orientation wrap-up, Yassine and I set out through the slim medina streets with my backpack and 2 suitcases in tow. I was grateful for the help – the morning’s walk from the Hotel Majestic across the medina to the CCCL had been a bit taxing to say the least. It was the first quasi-exercise I’d had since arriving, and the sweat pouring down my forehead in the early morning heat made that fact rather apparent. (Of course, it didn’t even begin to compare to a certain Parisian suitcase adventure – I’m looking at you, Rebecca and Monica!)
We pulled up to the house around 3 or 4, and I found the brown, studded door to be fairly large, but otherwise unassuming. However, the minute it opened, I was astonished. The entrance hallway was a vision in blue, with gorgeous navy-and-white patterned tiles and teal accents leading down at least 20 feet until it turned the corner into the central atrium. Here, the already massive ceilings shot up through the second floor to a translucent plastic covering above that let sunlight stream in while barring the elements. My host family owns the entire building, but they rent out the second floor to another family (who seem much louder than we are…). The tiles continued to line half of the wall in this room, with the upper half painted plain white and spotted with a few decorative plates, photos, and a clock. The second floor’s balcony is supported by four stunning teal columns with teal and silver relief carvings which broaden out into teal-rimmed white arches. The entire room is bordered by white carvings in elaborate patterns, and the doors are large made of a beautiful, dark wood. If you can manage to yank your eyes away from the ceiling, you will notice the fairly simple black-and-white tiled floor. Mom would be in heaven with the absolute lack of “clutter” – the sole furniture are a simple table just off center, surrounded by 6 chairs, and 3 fluffy navy sofas arranged in the shape of a “C.”
On each of the atrium’s 4 corners is a different room: two sitting rooms on opposing ends, completely bordered by long continuous sofas (one in red, the other in green). Both rooms also have small tables in the center, and the red one contains a television. When I came in, Zhoura and a few others were relaxing and watching tv, weary from a still-continuing day of fasting. Zhoura was incredibly nice, and I tried my best to remember all of the formal Darija greetings that we had practiced a few days before in our classes. All in all, I think it went well. Zhoura is older, maybe in her 60s, with faded blue eyes, fairly pale skin, and white hair with what seems to be a touch of blond tucked under the hood of her cream-white gallaba (a loose, robe-like dress very popular among both sexes in the region).
On the same side as the entrance lies my room, which is small but perfect for what I need it, really. There’s a bureau which I can use half of, though I’m unclear whether they expect me to use it for clean clothes or laudry (the other half seems to be filled with laundry…). On the left side of the room lies a small cot which my host brothers seem to be dividing amongst themselves while they are visiting for Ramadan. My area is a small offshoot to the right, and consists of a small nightstand and a small bed with white, red, yellow, and blue patterned sheets.
On the final side lies the bathroom, completely green-tiled and rather long but thin. Inside is a sink, a shower, and – to my ecstatic surprise – a Western toilet! I’m not sure when these family description papers were last updated, but they really need to be… On that same side is the kitchen, huge by Moroccan standards, with cabinets and appliances and a microwave and spices and all sorts of fun food paraphernalia.
Inside the kitchen lies a stairway leading up to the first-and-a-half floor. As I said earlier, my host family rents out the second floor, but kept this room for themselves. The ceiling is absurdly low (I’d put it just under 6 ft., since I graze my head on the ceiling tiles if I stand up fully), and inside there is a blue-and-white L-shaped couch. But in the corner lies a veritable treasure among medina houses – a computer with a solid (and fairly high-speed) internet connection! Yassine seems to use it to check his facebook and chat really often, and he says I can use it as I wish. The only awkward thing is the international keyboard – it allows you to type in Roman and Arabic letters, which is really awesome, except they switched the keys for “A” and “Q” as well as “Z” and “W,” and moved “M” up to the colon’s spot next to “L.” It doesn’t sound like much, but trust me – it’s just enough of a shift to make it a bit of a nuisance when you’re trying to type quickly. That, and all of the punctuation marks are moved around, and I can’t figure out for the life of me how to get the keyboard to produce a simple period. Again, it’s just enough to make typing in any website’s address just that much more difficult. So for now, I’m going to continue to write on my laptop and go to the internet café.
Navigating up the tight stairway from this room gives you direct access to the roof terrace. Since ours is among the highest in the neighborhood, the view is beautiful! The first time I went up was around 8:30 PM, so the sun had set and the moon hung low and full, just barely obscured by a thin veil of clouds. Down below, the cramped and dimly lit medina roofs slowly gave way to the brighter, more open spaces of the colonial city and finally the modern sections. The outline of minarets and palm trees dotted the skyline, and I could see the blockish and elaborately carved tower of Hassan II out near the shore. For the first time, I felt the week-old knot in my stomach abate a bit, and I calmly breathed in from the light breeze which drifted in from over the ocean.
I apologize for all of this description, I realize that I’d promised some of you I’d try to keep these shorter. Well, take it in installments….
I love my host family so much. They are so amazing!
For any former Rabatians following along, my host family was Matt’s from last semester. For all others, they are Zhoura El Brouhmani and her son, Yassine. And, since it’s Ramadan, all of their extended family. And I love them all, even if we don’t understand a word the other is saying.
To start at the very beginning (Sound of Music reference aside) I had a few concerns when I first got my sheet of paper with their names and a few quick family facts. For example, the Turkish toilet. And the (relatively) small size – a father, mother, and 2 sons.
When Yassine and I met at the short, hour-long time set up by the CCCL for first impressions, most of my fears melted away – he was an incredibly friendly guy who seemed to know half of the other host families there and spoke almost perfect English. Score! He told me that the family had been hosting students for quite some time – 6 times before (or maybe he said 6 years… it was loud in there and I still had some stress floating around and distracting my thoughts.
However, he also gave me the unfortunate news that my family had recently become even smaller: the first was for a very good reason – Yassine’s brother Adil had gotten married and moved into his own place. However, there was also less happy news – his father, Abdelgani, had died recently, in August if I understood him right. Allah yarhamhu.
Needless to say, I remained a little unsure of what the household would be like when I walked into it this afternoon. Following a morning of overly pretentious theoretical discussion on diversity and other orientation wrap-up, Yassine and I set out through the slim medina streets with my backpack and 2 suitcases in tow. I was grateful for the help – the morning’s walk from the Hotel Majestic across the medina to the CCCL had been a bit taxing to say the least. It was the first quasi-exercise I’d had since arriving, and the sweat pouring down my forehead in the early morning heat made that fact rather apparent. (Of course, it didn’t even begin to compare to a certain Parisian suitcase adventure – I’m looking at you, Rebecca and Monica!)
We pulled up to the house around 3 or 4, and I found the brown, studded door to be fairly large, but otherwise unassuming. However, the minute it opened, I was astonished. The entrance hallway was a vision in blue, with gorgeous navy-and-white patterned tiles and teal accents leading down at least 20 feet until it turned the corner into the central atrium. Here, the already massive ceilings shot up through the second floor to a translucent plastic covering above that let sunlight stream in while barring the elements. My host family owns the entire building, but they rent out the second floor to another family (who seem much louder than we are…). The tiles continued to line half of the wall in this room, with the upper half painted plain white and spotted with a few decorative plates, photos, and a clock. The second floor’s balcony is supported by four stunning teal columns with teal and silver relief carvings which broaden out into teal-rimmed white arches. The entire room is bordered by white carvings in elaborate patterns, and the doors are large made of a beautiful, dark wood. If you can manage to yank your eyes away from the ceiling, you will notice the fairly simple black-and-white tiled floor. Mom would be in heaven with the absolute lack of “clutter” – the sole furniture are a simple table just off center, surrounded by 6 chairs, and 3 fluffy navy sofas arranged in the shape of a “C.”
On each of the atrium’s 4 corners is a different room: two sitting rooms on opposing ends, completely bordered by long continuous sofas (one in red, the other in green). Both rooms also have small tables in the center, and the red one contains a television. When I came in, Zhoura and a few others were relaxing and watching tv, weary from a still-continuing day of fasting. Zhoura was incredibly nice, and I tried my best to remember all of the formal Darija greetings that we had practiced a few days before in our classes. All in all, I think it went well. Zhoura is older, maybe in her 60s, with faded blue eyes, fairly pale skin, and white hair with what seems to be a touch of blond tucked under the hood of her cream-white gallaba (a loose, robe-like dress very popular among both sexes in the region).
On the same side as the entrance lies my room, which is small but perfect for what I need it, really. There’s a bureau which I can use half of, though I’m unclear whether they expect me to use it for clean clothes or laudry (the other half seems to be filled with laundry…). On the left side of the room lies a small cot which my host brothers seem to be dividing amongst themselves while they are visiting for Ramadan. My area is a small offshoot to the right, and consists of a small nightstand and a small bed with white, red, yellow, and blue patterned sheets.
On the final side lies the bathroom, completely green-tiled and rather long but thin. Inside is a sink, a shower, and – to my ecstatic surprise – a Western toilet! I’m not sure when these family description papers were last updated, but they really need to be… On that same side is the kitchen, huge by Moroccan standards, with cabinets and appliances and a microwave and spices and all sorts of fun food paraphernalia.
Inside the kitchen lies a stairway leading up to the first-and-a-half floor. As I said earlier, my host family rents out the second floor, but kept this room for themselves. The ceiling is absurdly low (I’d put it just under 6 ft., since I graze my head on the ceiling tiles if I stand up fully), and inside there is a blue-and-white L-shaped couch. But in the corner lies a veritable treasure among medina houses – a computer with a solid (and fairly high-speed) internet connection! Yassine seems to use it to check his facebook and chat really often, and he says I can use it as I wish. The only awkward thing is the international keyboard – it allows you to type in Roman and Arabic letters, which is really awesome, except they switched the keys for “A” and “Q” as well as “Z” and “W,” and moved “M” up to the colon’s spot next to “L.” It doesn’t sound like much, but trust me – it’s just enough of a shift to make it a bit of a nuisance when you’re trying to type quickly. That, and all of the punctuation marks are moved around, and I can’t figure out for the life of me how to get the keyboard to produce a simple period. Again, it’s just enough to make typing in any website’s address just that much more difficult. So for now, I’m going to continue to write on my laptop and go to the internet café.
Navigating up the tight stairway from this room gives you direct access to the roof terrace. Since ours is among the highest in the neighborhood, the view is beautiful! The first time I went up was around 8:30 PM, so the sun had set and the moon hung low and full, just barely obscured by a thin veil of clouds. Down below, the cramped and dimly lit medina roofs slowly gave way to the brighter, more open spaces of the colonial city and finally the modern sections. The outline of minarets and palm trees dotted the skyline, and I could see the blockish and elaborately carved tower of Hassan II out near the shore. For the first time, I felt the week-old knot in my stomach abate a bit, and I calmly breathed in from the light breeze which drifted in from over the ocean.
I apologize for all of this description, I realize that I’d promised some of you I’d try to keep these shorter. Well, take it in installments….
Friday, September 4, 2009
Trip Goals
Goals:
1) Go surfing!
2) Speak Arabic with a real person and have them understand me
3) Bargain something down to a really cheap price in the souk (maybe half the original offer?)
4) Visit
5) Visit
6) Ride a camel!
7) Join a gym / run often
8) Attempt to fast for (at least) 1 day
9) Form a great relationship with my host family
10) Update this blog regularly!
11) Sacrifice
12) Find Brahim’s turtle and/or buy him a new one
13) Hammam!
14) Evade pickpocketing
15) Get used to the Turkish toilet in my house… yes, it’s the only toilet in my house….
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Day 3: Down the Chute
Ahh Café Arab: the site of some pretty awesome mint tea and the first reliable Internet connection I’ve had in weeks – a veritable bastion of civilization! And yet, also the location of a new life encounter: the Turkish toilet.
Now, it’s not that I wasn’t prepared for this. I’d been warned for months that it would happen, by my Rabat recon team of Rebecca, Monica, and Hilary, among others. Yet, when I walked into the room labeled “toilettes” to discover nothing more than a hole in the ground and some foot rests, I was still a bit shocked. And slightly unaware of how to proceed.
So, I crouched down, leaned my back against the wall, tried not to touch too much or visualize the germs squirming all over the stone walls around me. Though a little uncomfortable, everything was going well until I found myself in total darkness. Apparently, the lights are on a timer. Which just seems cruel.
Thankfully, my arms were long enough to reach the button and restart the cycle without abandoning the position. I finished up my business and did as much “flushing” as I could with the bucket of water nearby. I can only pray there are no secret, obvious steps to all of this that I missed out on.
I left the room, washed thoroughly, and came back up to share with all of you. Overall, not too scarring of an experience. However, I’ll be sure to carry around some extra toilet paper from now on….
Now, it’s not that I wasn’t prepared for this. I’d been warned for months that it would happen, by my Rabat recon team of Rebecca, Monica, and Hilary, among others. Yet, when I walked into the room labeled “toilettes” to discover nothing more than a hole in the ground and some foot rests, I was still a bit shocked. And slightly unaware of how to proceed.
So, I crouched down, leaned my back against the wall, tried not to touch too much or visualize the germs squirming all over the stone walls around me. Though a little uncomfortable, everything was going well until I found myself in total darkness. Apparently, the lights are on a timer. Which just seems cruel.
Thankfully, my arms were long enough to reach the button and restart the cycle without abandoning the position. I finished up my business and did as much “flushing” as I could with the bucket of water nearby. I can only pray there are no secret, obvious steps to all of this that I missed out on.
I left the room, washed thoroughly, and came back up to share with all of you. Overall, not too scarring of an experience. However, I’ll be sure to carry around some extra toilet paper from now on….
Day 1: Second Time's the Charm!
Let’s begin the story circa 9:00 on Sunday, August 30. Following some Coconut-Lime Margaritas and a rather teary good-bye with some of my friends, my parents and I set out for Logan with the Boston traffic intent on making us late. While I was the last of our group to arrive to the airport, I still had plenty of time to kiss Mom and Dad goodbye, make a final phone call to Grandma and Grandpa Snazzy, and generally freak out about the months-long adventure ahead of me. Just before I was about to give in to the temptation of a pre-flight shot at Houlihan’s (to calm the nerves, of course…) I heard a pair of voices shout my name from the row of black leather seats near the gate. The ruckus was caused by Anthony and Catherine – the one intensely excited, the other possibly more nervous than I was. Within ten minutes or so, we gathered the rest of the group together (all 7 of us…) and boarding began. The wait was over.
The flights flew by, which was both exciting and unexpected, and definitely called for my blog’s first horrible pun. Air France was awesome as ever – I stuffed myself with curried chicken, white wine, and the most amazing banana-chocolate cake ever, despite the fact that I was still completely full from my chicken sandwich and nachos from Sunset Cantina. If only my overhead light had worked….
After talking with the rest of the row (Catherine, Maura, and Anthony), I turned on the Star Trek movie for about 15 minutes until not even the massive amount of explosions could keep me awake and I passed out. I awoke hours later when the stewardesses delivered a breakfast of sorts to us. Granted, it was about 12:00 Parisian time and felt like 5:00 EDT, but jets work in mysterious ways.
We landed in Charles de Gaulle and spent our few minutes of free time in our quick layover perusing the duty-free shopping for fun and exciting items, some of which were definitely purchased. Passively. The flight from there to Rabat was actually a bit longer than I expected at 2 and a half hours. I spent some of the trip reading up on Ted Kennedy (may he rest in peace) and the rest flipping though our good friend Al-Kitaab trying to remember all of that vocab which has trickled out of my memory since last December. Surprisingly enough, some of Al-Kitaab’s random words actually showed up in the city – like altijaara (commerce/trade). This makes me feel a little more respect for the textbook, but I’m still not convinced we should learn that word before “bathroom” and “help!” I’m just sayin’.
As we neared touchdown, I couldn’t help but notice the general brown-ness of the area. The only time I’ve ever seen anything like it before was while driving through Southern California, where you just don’t get all the green nature of New England. The buildings all tend toward off-white or drab colors, but every once in a while a bright blue door or a grove of palm trees come along to spice things up. As we deplaned (by stairs! That always makes me feel so much more exotic!) the heat hit us pretty quickly. It’s a dry heat, at least, but still felt just as bad as the heat wave back home earlier in the month. And the air in my room, even with the window wide open, feels about as hot and stagnant as Warren Towers on a hot summer night. As the sun goes down, though, the temperature hits a very comfortable level, and a light breeze comes in from the ocean.
So after going through customs and getting screened really flimsily for swine flu, we grabbed our baggage and rode out to the Hotel Majestic, where we got our first taste of the bustle of city life and the chaos that is Moroccan driving. So far we’ve figured out that street signs are minimal and jay walking is required. This is my kind of place! Fadoua (the program manager) then left us for 3 hours to do as we liked. Since we were lost, exhausted, and confused, this ended up being 2.5 hours of rest and bonding in the hotel with sporadic showers (using “sporadically warm” water) followed by a half hour walk into the city, once we had summoned up enough courage to take our initial steps outdoors. We wandered through a little bit only to discover a shell of a town – all of the shops were closed, though we picked out a couple of important spots for the future (i.e. an internet café, a cell phone store, and a delicious-looking bakery).
Fadoua met us a little before 6 (as promised) and took us through the medina to reach the Center for Cross Cultural Learning (to be referred to as the CCCL or, my personal preference, the Trip C L, from here on). If the new city seemed empty, the medina was still hopping despite the fasting. The place was insane – people everywhere selling everything you can imagine from fruit to knick-knacks to wool, kids playing soccer, street cats looking mangy but adorable, and above all an energy unmatched by anything short of Fenway on a game night. Rebecca, you were right. This place is so cool – I can’t wait to actually live there.
Once at the CCCL, we got a quick tour, which impressed all of us immensely (see below). At the 7:00 call to prayer, we participated in the breaking of the fast (though we had done little but eat over the last 36 hours…) with a traditional meal of milk and dates, figs, soup, hard-boiled eggs with salt and cumin, and a thin bread, along with sweet honey-dough treats. This was followed by a main course of couscous with beef and various vegetables (which seemed to be carrot, pumpkin, and squash… I think). Brahim was amazing. This was all followed by wicked strong coffee and a dessert of fruit – most of us chose peaches. Over dinner, Farah contributed the quote of the day: “We’re kind of crazy here – we really like to party.” How awesome is class going to be?!
The dinner finished, we walked back through the dark and labyrinthine streets of the medina to our hotel, then decided that 8:30 was far too early to go to bed. So, we picked a direction (right) and just started walking until we got tired, observing the surroundings, the people, and all of the action. Incredibly, due to the Ramadan holidays, the later it got, the more crowded it got! We stopped at an open-air market area as well as the French bakery from earlier, where I got a cup of vanilla and berry (raisin?) gelato. We also had our most pronounced encounter with the language barrier yet, leaving me unsure exactly what I was eating and whether Anthony paid for it or I got it for free…. Either way, it tasted amazing. Finally exhausted, we headed back to the hotel – passing Fadoua with a group of friends on the way. Kind of hilarious.
To wrap up, I can already see all of you reading this with a smug I-told-you-so look after all of my anxiety and reluctance to leave. And yeah, I guess you earned it. So savor it, and hopefully I’ll continue to be as constantly amazed and intrigued by the culture here as I was today. I’m still a bit nervous about meeting my host family and surviving with my limited knowledge of the language. It is such a weird sensation to walk down the street and understand absolutely nothing that is being shouted at you… especially when you harbor a guilty inkling that you should really recognize at least a few words after 3 semesters of classes.
But the fact remains that I miss and love all of you reading this, and wish you could be here, too.
In case you don’t want to read all of that (and I can’t say I blame you), here’s brief and reader-friendly list of initial reactions!
Things I love thus far:
-The pants and sandals combination is basically standard for men during the day. So comfortable!
-The nightlife is actually crazy – there are more people on the street at 10:30 at night than 5 in the afternoon. Though that may just be a Ramadan thing.
-The view from the CCCL – oh my god! You can look out over the roofs (that’s a word, right?) of the entire city, and on one side the Atlantic Ocean is about 2 or 3 blocks away! To hear the 7:00 call to prayer from there (along with viewing the accompanying sunset) is magical – mostly because it means that you are about to get food!
-Everything about the CCCL – the building is the most gorgeous place I have seen in a long, long time with arches and pillars everywhere, colorful tiling, cozy little nooks, and the aforementioned multi-level terrace view. I’ll try to put up pictures soon….
-I’m remembering more Arabic than I expected! Of course, no one in the country actually speaks the fus’ha Arabic that we study, but it’s a start.
-80% of the signs and pamphlets and such are written in both Arabic and French, so I might pick up 2 languages for the price of one. And when I say pick up, I mean get to know in a very vague, non-committal way.
-This place is padiddle heaven! And anyone who’s ever traveled with me knows how excited that makes me!
-The food tonight was so amazing – I ate figs and dates for the first time (what have I been missing?!) and a traditional Ramadan soup, along with a gigantic bowl of couscous with beef and vegetables that we barely even dented.
Things that confuse me:
-Elbow grabbing. For some reason, when two people walk together here, they don’t hold hands or link arms, but one seems to just hold on to the other person’s bent arm just above the elbow.
-The medina. I will get lost there incessantly. Though the little windy alleyways are so beautiful – it’s as if from straight out of your imagination (or Aladdin, which – let’s face it – is really the basis for all my assumptions about Middle Eastern culture).
-The low ceilings and doorways. Daily head-hitting count: 1.
-The cafes are full of men, while women are simply not socially allowed. But while men seem to be more common on the streets, there are definitely women walking around in groups at night – where do they go? Secret womany places?
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Asalaam alaikum!
Hello friends, Moroccans, and countrymen! And welcome to my experiment in blogging!
I have realized in the last week or so that, considering the high cost of phone calls and general lack of internet availability outside of the Center for Cross Cultural Learning here in Rabat (ps - I'm actually in Rabat this time! Woooo!), it would be a whole lot easier to keep in contact with all of the people I love with one of these newfangled blogs!
So basically I'll come here often (hopefully more often than I have tended to go on facebook) and I hope you do to! Please leave me comments on your own life and all of the fun you're having without me! (but please keep it appropriate - my grandparents are reading this... I hope).
Can't wait to hear from you - and feel free to skype me, too!
I have realized in the last week or so that, considering the high cost of phone calls and general lack of internet availability outside of the Center for Cross Cultural Learning here in Rabat (ps - I'm actually in Rabat this time! Woooo!), it would be a whole lot easier to keep in contact with all of the people I love with one of these newfangled blogs!
So basically I'll come here often (hopefully more often than I have tended to go on facebook) and I hope you do to! Please leave me comments on your own life and all of the fun you're having without me! (but please keep it appropriate - my grandparents are reading this... I hope).
Can't wait to hear from you - and feel free to skype me, too!
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