I knew there was something special about today when I woke up at 7:30 and did not want to waste any more time sleeping. I don't think this had happened since Christmas Day before I learned about Santa Claus. Today was my first day back in my own country, and like Christmas, I knew it would be full of little pleasures, like being able to walk inconspicuously down a street; to transact business without any comment on my language ability or lack thereof; to purchase everything I need at a CVS, and not have to calculate the value in dollars. But the biggest pleasure was simply having a day completely to myself, with nowhere to be at any specific time, and only one agenda item: to buy shoes for the wedding, and since I am in New York City, this seemed like one of the most delightful agenda items ever to be set. I realized that having a day like this is a "skill" that I picked up in Morocco. I have learned to allow myself to do virtually nothing, and be totally satisfied with it. This is probably the main reason I decided to return next year, because I love having the time, not often afforded in the American lifestyle, to indulge in doing whatever I want. Today was a harmonious marriage of my new skill in my old world.
As it turns out, I was not successful in my shoe quest. I walked from Times Square at 42nd Street down to 14th Street, covering the length of Fashion Avenue, and still did not find a shoe that met my specifications. But I really couldn't care less. It was a warm summer day that started in a cute Brooklyn apartment where I am couchsurfing with Daniel, one of Jill's friends from Yale. After waking at the aforementioned ungodly hour, I did some internet stuff related to jobs in California, since I just learned yesterday that the teaching job I thought I had lined up fell through. Now I'm considering a stint as the first white woman taxi driver. Anyway, after that, I got a bagel (duh) and walked a mile through this charming Brooklyn neighborhood to the nearest Payless Shoes, and onto the CVS. I got back and did some more internet stuff, mainly chatting with my Romanian friend Dani (from couchsurfing.com, yes that's one more plug for the site) who has graciously volunteered to tour me around southern France in September. Then I walked down the street to lovely Prospect Park, where I laid on the grass and wondered if this was all a dream.
It was in this blissful frame of mind that I began the Manhattan portion of the shoe odyssey. I later joined Daniel and his friend for dinner on the patio of a restaurant where I consumed a beer in the open air. It was BYOB, so I had purchased the beer at a corner market where I had stood for a few minutes in awe of the vast variety of beers available to me. (I went with an old favorite, Molsen Ice.) Now, at the end of this momentous day (maybe not the best in my life, but it's up there), I am too exhausted to write any more about my recent adventures in Essaouira and Madrid, but you can see the photos here.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Celebration
It feels like the entire city of Rabat is celebrating our successful completion of one year. Summer is an exciting time here. For a week in May there was the Mawazine Music Festival, where artists from around the world came to play on 9 different stages around Rabat. Most of it was free, except the big Whitney Houston finale, which we skipped. There was a stage on the riverfront just outside our neighborhood, so we checked out some Spanish, Cuban, and American bands. We had a sweet view of the closing fireworks display from our rooftop.
More recently, there was a Jazz Festival at Chellah (the Roman ruins), and this was truly one of the best concerts I've ever seen. They bring in top-notch European jazz bands, and at the end, they are joined by a traditional Moroccan band, and the result is a great example of synergy - an awesome fusion that you can't buy in any store. Everyone was on their feet dancing, under the stars in a beautiful garden...one of my favorite nights in Rabat. I went to several other shows, which only cost about $1, so that's about the best value for your money that you can get. (Maybe it makes up for all the times I've been ripped off in the medina).
Another exciting development is that I finally made it to a salsa club, which was almost exactly like the salsa scene in San Diego. The main difference was that the men are more exclusive here - if they don't know you, they won't dance with you. I would not have danced at all if I had not run into a student of mine there, and she literally had to beg this guy (who is a high-school student) to dance with me once. After that, I mainly sat and watched, but oh, was I treated to a wonderful show: there was a girl there who I am pretty sure is the best salsa dancer I have ever seen. She was just perfect: musical, sensual, and truly artistic. I decided to talk to her, hoping to god she would not say she was an accountant. Luckily, it turns out she used to be a professional dancer in Paris. She wasn't interested in giving salsa lessons, but I will definitely study her moves when I return to the salsa scene next fall.
The whirlwind begins tomorrow: I meet Bill in Casablanca, we spend a few days in Essaouira, a beach town in the south, then a quick night in Rabat, then a few days in Madrid, and finally I arrive stateside on June 30!! I can't wait to be back in the land of the free. I'll be a bridesmaid in Jill's wedding in Montana (wearing my new dress made by a tailor here in Rabat), and then I settle in San Diego for July, hopefully teaching at the school where I got my TEFL last summer. I will likely spend August in LA and September visiting family in Texas and Virginia. Meanwhile, I have 50+ exams that need to be graded by tomorrow morning, and bags to be packed...and instead I am blogging! The things I do for you people. ;-)
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Road Trip Morocco
Geez, this is ridiculously tardy, but I need to talk about the road trip we took during our week off in April. In short, it was both a lot of fun and genuinely terrifying.
We decided to embark on this adventure with our friends Soufiane and Greg. Soufiane is a 23 year old from "Jersey" (which is tattoed on his arm) who has Moroccan parents and returned here last year to teach at the ALC. He introduced us to his former co-worker Greg, 22, who lives in Oudaya and has become our favorite neighbor. These boys are pretty much our best pals in Morocco. Despite their proximity in age, Greg is like 22 going on 30, whereas Soufiane is more like 23 going on 17. I am opening with these remarks so you can appreciate the folly of putting Soufiane "in charge of the trip".
After much time spent negotiating where we were going to go, the day of departure approached and we still did not have a plan. For anything. This was of very little concern to my free-wheeling 20-something cohorts, but I was skeptical: Where exactly were we going again? (we had changed the route about 6 times) Who exactly was going? (Soufiane kept threatening to bail at the last minute) Did anyone have a map? How well were Moroccan roads marked? What would we do if we ran out of gas in the desert? What were the chances that Soufiane, our designated driver, would wreck the rental car? As it turned out, they were right not to fret about most of this stuff, as a road trip in Morocco is not too different from one in Arizona, in terms of both safety and scenery. We left almost 48 hours later than originally "planned", but we remained flexible and were able to see all the things we wanted to: some pretty Colorado-esque towns in the Middle Atlas, Merzouga and the fringe of the Sahara Desert, the Todra Gorge, Ourzazate and its movie studios, the incredible red rocks and green valleys of the Atlas en route to Marrakesh, and a brief tour of Casablanca at night. But on the point of Soufiane's driving skill, we did miscalculate a bit...
The night before the departure I had had an "intervention" of sorts with him, both trying to convince him not to bail on us, and to seek some assurance that he would take the driving responsbility seriously and not get us killed. I was successful on the first point, but it is a complete waste of breath to suggest to The World's Greatest Driver, who is 23 years old (going on 17), that perhaps a more defensive driving style would suit the purposes of our trip (which in my mind was to "see the country", not to "get from point A to B in as little time as possible"). Perhaps it seems I am dwelling on this too much, but after only a few hours in the car, I was seriously in tears, wishing that I had said a proper goodbye to my family and thinking how upset they would be if they knew what a dangerous situation I had voluntarily put myself in. The chances of dying in a car crash are much higher than most other seemingly dangerous activities, and I felt that our chances that day were as high as 5%. And as for the rental car making it out unscathed, I gave that about a 0%, especially after Molly and Greg had to McGyver a way to fix the bumper to the car (it involved plastic bags and hair bands). When Soufiane decided to drive the 2-wheel-drive Honda Jazz into a sand dune, and (surprise!) got stuck, I pretty much lost hope.
Despite all this, the trip turned out to be my favorite experience in Morocco, and we, as well as the car, made it back in one piece (though even Nazha remarked that I returned somewhat pale, and Greg and I in particular probably lost 10 years off our life in the mountains between Ourzazate and Marrakesh, an extremely treacherous route that nonetheless did not deter Soufiane from passing on the left around blind curves). The highlight for me was our night in the desert, playing cards around a candle until the wee hours and sleeping in Berber tents under the incredible starry sky. On that night, I felt that I was meant to be in Morocco.
You can get the blow by blow via my photo album here.
As a final note, Soufiane is going through a rough time right now, and while I can't exactly forgive his driving, I would like to say to him: Soufiane, "houya", thank you for getting us back home safely. You know I love you like a brother.
We decided to embark on this adventure with our friends Soufiane and Greg. Soufiane is a 23 year old from "Jersey" (which is tattoed on his arm) who has Moroccan parents and returned here last year to teach at the ALC. He introduced us to his former co-worker Greg, 22, who lives in Oudaya and has become our favorite neighbor. These boys are pretty much our best pals in Morocco. Despite their proximity in age, Greg is like 22 going on 30, whereas Soufiane is more like 23 going on 17. I am opening with these remarks so you can appreciate the folly of putting Soufiane "in charge of the trip".
After much time spent negotiating where we were going to go, the day of departure approached and we still did not have a plan. For anything. This was of very little concern to my free-wheeling 20-something cohorts, but I was skeptical: Where exactly were we going again? (we had changed the route about 6 times) Who exactly was going? (Soufiane kept threatening to bail at the last minute) Did anyone have a map? How well were Moroccan roads marked? What would we do if we ran out of gas in the desert? What were the chances that Soufiane, our designated driver, would wreck the rental car? As it turned out, they were right not to fret about most of this stuff, as a road trip in Morocco is not too different from one in Arizona, in terms of both safety and scenery. We left almost 48 hours later than originally "planned", but we remained flexible and were able to see all the things we wanted to: some pretty Colorado-esque towns in the Middle Atlas, Merzouga and the fringe of the Sahara Desert, the Todra Gorge, Ourzazate and its movie studios, the incredible red rocks and green valleys of the Atlas en route to Marrakesh, and a brief tour of Casablanca at night. But on the point of Soufiane's driving skill, we did miscalculate a bit...
The night before the departure I had had an "intervention" of sorts with him, both trying to convince him not to bail on us, and to seek some assurance that he would take the driving responsbility seriously and not get us killed. I was successful on the first point, but it is a complete waste of breath to suggest to The World's Greatest Driver, who is 23 years old (going on 17), that perhaps a more defensive driving style would suit the purposes of our trip (which in my mind was to "see the country", not to "get from point A to B in as little time as possible"). Perhaps it seems I am dwelling on this too much, but after only a few hours in the car, I was seriously in tears, wishing that I had said a proper goodbye to my family and thinking how upset they would be if they knew what a dangerous situation I had voluntarily put myself in. The chances of dying in a car crash are much higher than most other seemingly dangerous activities, and I felt that our chances that day were as high as 5%. And as for the rental car making it out unscathed, I gave that about a 0%, especially after Molly and Greg had to McGyver a way to fix the bumper to the car (it involved plastic bags and hair bands). When Soufiane decided to drive the 2-wheel-drive Honda Jazz into a sand dune, and (surprise!) got stuck, I pretty much lost hope.
Despite all this, the trip turned out to be my favorite experience in Morocco, and we, as well as the car, made it back in one piece (though even Nazha remarked that I returned somewhat pale, and Greg and I in particular probably lost 10 years off our life in the mountains between Ourzazate and Marrakesh, an extremely treacherous route that nonetheless did not deter Soufiane from passing on the left around blind curves). The highlight for me was our night in the desert, playing cards around a candle until the wee hours and sleeping in Berber tents under the incredible starry sky. On that night, I felt that I was meant to be in Morocco.
You can get the blow by blow via my photo album here.
As a final note, Soufiane is going through a rough time right now, and while I can't exactly forgive his driving, I would like to say to him: Soufiane, "houya", thank you for getting us back home safely. You know I love you like a brother.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Crazy Voodoo Stuff
For The Prophet's Birthday, we had a 2 day holiday so we went to visit Molly's friend Eric in Meknes again. There is a lot of crazy stuff that goes on there during this holiday, which has nothing to do with Islam (in the way that Santa Claus has nothing to do with Jesus). People get "entranced" by Gnaoua music and do things like cut themselves with glass bottles, or kill a cow and eat its meat raw. You are told not to wear black or red or the crazies might attack you. Eric saw some of this in Meknes, but I was not too disappointed that we missed most of it. But we got a small taste the next day in a nearby village called Sidi Ali, were people were making offerings to the saint Lala Aicha. They were bringing various animals into her mausoleum, where there was music and dancing, the type where women twirl their heads all around until they faint. They were also rubbing live chickens on their bodies and shaking them over their heads. Anyway, this is all kind of weird and not well-viewed by upstanding Muslims, and frankly wasn't that interesting to me. What I really loved about Sidi Ali was the scenery. We climbed a hill and got some great views of the farmland. It all reminded me a great deal of the countryside villages in Peru. Check out the pictures here.
Also, previous pictures of Chellah are here.
In other news, Balia has been successfully spayed. However, the whole process took a heartwrenching turn. When I went to pick her up, her puppy, Black, was sick. Black had become best pals with the day guard, Said, who did his best to look after the dogs. Said agreed to let me take them both to the shelter. Nazha managed to bribe a cab driver to take us all, with the dogs in the trunk (luckily it wasn't a long ride). The staff at the shelter were not particularly helpful when we got there. After waiting a while, the vet took a look at the puppy, who was gaunt and refused to move, and said he just needed some crunchy food. He wasn't willing to do much more unless we turned the puppy over to the shelter. So reluctantly, Nazha and I decided to do that, knowing that Said would be devestated. We thought of lies we could tell him, but it turns out they were not necessary: when I returned the next day, Black was dead. In fact, he was lying dead in his kennel, and no one on the staff had noticed until I pointed it out. Needless to say, this didn't leave me feeling very good for the rest of the day. I had to go tell Said that his best friend had died, mysteriously, without his mother, after I had whisked him away in a taxi. I knew I had done the right thing, but I still felt vaguely guilty, especially after seeing the look on Said's face.
I ended up leaving Balia at the shelter for a week, so they could remove her stitches without me having to shuttle her back and forth. She had a clean place to sleep and plenty of crunchy food and clean water, so I don't think she minded. I felt better about the shelter after that. They told me Black had died of Parvo, which street puppies easily contract if they aren't vaccinated at 1.5 months (which of course he wasn't). I explained all this to Said, hoping it might teach him something about dog care. But he and Nazha both still insist that if I ever find another puppy, I should give it to him to "raise", whatever that means in their minds. So sadly, this makes the second dog memorial I have erected on this blog. Let's hope it's the last.
"Black"
January 10 - March 19, 2008
Rest in peace
On a happier note, we just finished our winter session, so I have been grading exams. The tedium is always broken by bits of hilarity that the students unwittingly inject into the writing portion of the exam. I will share with you now my favorite from this session, which is actually more culturally interesting than "funny". This was written by a Beginning 5 student, responding to "What is your favorite restaurant and why?"
My favorite restaurant in Rabat is McDonald's. I love it because I find it very beautiful and clean and the people are clean. Hmmm, the dishes are very delicious. When I'm going to this restaurant I usually order humburger and french fries and ice cream. [...] I think this restaurant is the most beautiful in Rabat. And almost all the people love it.
Oddly enough, I think she's right.
Also, previous pictures of Chellah are here.
In other news, Balia has been successfully spayed. However, the whole process took a heartwrenching turn. When I went to pick her up, her puppy, Black, was sick. Black had become best pals with the day guard, Said, who did his best to look after the dogs. Said agreed to let me take them both to the shelter. Nazha managed to bribe a cab driver to take us all, with the dogs in the trunk (luckily it wasn't a long ride). The staff at the shelter were not particularly helpful when we got there. After waiting a while, the vet took a look at the puppy, who was gaunt and refused to move, and said he just needed some crunchy food. He wasn't willing to do much more unless we turned the puppy over to the shelter. So reluctantly, Nazha and I decided to do that, knowing that Said would be devestated. We thought of lies we could tell him, but it turns out they were not necessary: when I returned the next day, Black was dead. In fact, he was lying dead in his kennel, and no one on the staff had noticed until I pointed it out. Needless to say, this didn't leave me feeling very good for the rest of the day. I had to go tell Said that his best friend had died, mysteriously, without his mother, after I had whisked him away in a taxi. I knew I had done the right thing, but I still felt vaguely guilty, especially after seeing the look on Said's face.
I ended up leaving Balia at the shelter for a week, so they could remove her stitches without me having to shuttle her back and forth. She had a clean place to sleep and plenty of crunchy food and clean water, so I don't think she minded. I felt better about the shelter after that. They told me Black had died of Parvo, which street puppies easily contract if they aren't vaccinated at 1.5 months (which of course he wasn't). I explained all this to Said, hoping it might teach him something about dog care. But he and Nazha both still insist that if I ever find another puppy, I should give it to him to "raise", whatever that means in their minds. So sadly, this makes the second dog memorial I have erected on this blog. Let's hope it's the last.
January 10 - March 19, 2008
Rest in peace
On a happier note, we just finished our winter session, so I have been grading exams. The tedium is always broken by bits of hilarity that the students unwittingly inject into the writing portion of the exam. I will share with you now my favorite from this session, which is actually more culturally interesting than "funny". This was written by a Beginning 5 student, responding to "What is your favorite restaurant and why?"
My favorite restaurant in Rabat is McDonald's. I love it because I find it very beautiful and clean and the people are clean. Hmmm, the dishes are very delicious. When I'm going to this restaurant I usually order humburger and french fries and ice cream. [...] I think this restaurant is the most beautiful in Rabat. And almost all the people love it.
Oddly enough, I think she's right.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Title Schmitle
Some things I have been doing recently that I haven't talked about on this blog yet:
Future plans: Molly and I have decided to sign on for another year here. But I will be spending July-Sept in the U.S., mostly in California where I already have some leads on summer teaching jobs. Not sure if I'll be in L.A. or San Diego, but please tell me if you know of anyone with a room for rent in those places, or who would like to rent my room in Rabat!
- Going to salsa class at a gym on Wed night. One of the other Moroccan teachers at school told me about it. She and all the other ladies are fantastic salsa dancers (mainly Cuban style), which didn't surprise me since most Moroccans seem to have a natural talent for dance. We usually only have one man - the instructor - so we mainly do little routines, and he partners each of us for a few minutes. He keeps suggesting that I should come to beginner class instead, though I can't due to my schedule. This is another typical Moroccan trait: they are very critical. They frequently tell Molly and I how bad our Arabic is. Anyway, I still haven't been a real salsa club yet but I will try it someday.
- Visiting tourist attractions. I finally made it to Chellah, a park with Roman and Islamic ruins, and lots of storks. I went on an absolutely beautiful day (since then the weather had been eratic) and really enjoyed it. View my photos here.
- Hanging out with Jeff. I spent last Sunday with him, and we went to visit Nazha and family. It didn't go incredibly well: Jeff chewed through his leash and got bitten by Billy (turns out Jeff does not get along with other dogs). He got very upset every time I went in the house, so Nazha and I sat in the garden with him and worked on mending one of my sweaters. We managed to take both dogs for a short walk around the neighborhood without further incident. Jeff was tired and hungry when he got back home so I bought him a sandwich and returned him to his owners. Luckily, the Irish girl who rents a room there was just coming home and I got to talk to her about Jeff. She had bought him the flea medicine which seems to have effectively killed all his fleas. She said she had taken him to the beach yesterday and he had bitten a waiter! We concluded he just needs to get out more, so I will try to take him out each weekend. Fortunately, the cobbler down the street was able to repair his leash.
- Visiting the animal shelter, S.P.A.N.A. I took a long walk along the oceanfront boulevard to get there. The shelter is actually quite nice, better than the one we got Rocky at. They have cats and dogs from the street, as well as donkeys and a horse that been brought there due to injury (the details of which are too horrible to recount.) These were the lucky ones, though of course they are the great minority. I asked about volunteering there but they said it was too dangerous since the dogs may have rabies, etc. A young vet took me on a tour, and we made an appointment to get Balia spayed! I'm not sure if I'll be able to manage it logistically without a car, but we're going to attempt it on Tues.
- Celebrating my 32nd birthday. Molly's boyfriend Aaron came to visit along with Nicole, another friend who taught in Russia with them. So we all went out to my favorite place, Bistro Pietri, the same one we went to on Christmas. They usually have live flamenco music on Tues nights, but this time it was jazz, which was slightly disappointing but still a nice break from gnaoua (the traditional music that we have grown a bit tired of). We had a nice dinner and ice cream sundaes for dessert. As a result of their visit, we also have a hoard of cherished American goods like peanut butter, Craisins, and various Trader Joe's chocolate confections.
Future plans: Molly and I have decided to sign on for another year here. But I will be spending July-Sept in the U.S., mostly in California where I already have some leads on summer teaching jobs. Not sure if I'll be in L.A. or San Diego, but please tell me if you know of anyone with a room for rent in those places, or who would like to rent my room in Rabat!
Sunday, March 2, 2008
Goodbye, Old Friend
Jeff spend the night for the first time last week. Jeff is a neighborhood dog who I had been calling Scratchy until I found out his real name. I called him that because he liked it when I scratched him, and now I know why: the poor dog is covered in fleas, and seems to have other skin problems as well. One night we were coming home late and the neighborhood thug was in the main street so we took a detour. We heard a noise and Jeff came running up behind us. I'm not sure if he had a run in with the thug, but he seemed ever so happy to join us. When I opened our door, he came right in and made himself at home. We gave him some water and he drank it as though he had not had water in days. Then he promptly threw up all over the courtyard. He checked out the house and then engaged in a lenghty self-scratching ritual. We felt pretty bad for him. Though by most standards Jeff is a street dog - you see him bopping around all parts of the city as if he knows exactly where he's going - he does in fact have an owner. I actually met him and he seemed a decent old man; he gave Jeff a pat on the head, a gesture you don't see too often in Morocco, and he didn't offer to sell Jeff to me for $12, a gesture that is pretty common in Morocco.
Anyway, Jeff indeed seemed like no stranger to the indoors. Although we set up a bed for him in the courtyard, while I was brushing my teeth, he went in my room and hopped right on my bed. So I got in next to him, and he started to doze off while I petted him. This was one of my most blissful moments in Rabat. But it ended a few minutes later when I squashed a flea on my face. As much as I liked Jeff, I wasn't keen on sleeping with fleas, so I put him back in the courtyard. He scratched at the door for a few minutes and then went to sleep. I heard him up at 6 am so I released him into Oudaya to pee on the walls and carry on with his day. I learned where he officially lives and spoke to the owner's daughter about taking him to the vet. There is actually an animal shelter called SPANA here and they sounded very nice on the phone and said I could bring him by tomorrow for some flea treatment.
I think it is no coincidence that all this happened only 2 days before Rocky died. Bill sent me an email on the 27th that will forever be difficult for me to read. He said Rocky had spent a restless night and was having trouble breathing. That morning, Bill had made the heart-wrenching decision to put him down. He said it took everthing he had to ring the doorbell at the emergency vet clinic. I am sorry, but almost grateful, that I could not be there with them. I am sad that I can't sleep next to Rocky when I come home in July, but I know I will dream of him often.
Rocky Schwevak
December 1994 - February 27, 2008
Rest in peace.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Travel Sick
Last weekend, they closed the school for a couple days so all the teachers could attend a professional development conference in Marrakech (see the new photos in my Rabat album.) The other ALC branches from around Morocco were there, and we learned that our school has way more women than the rest of them. Anyway, we had a fabulous time: they put us up in a swanky hotel, in the area of town with lots of other swanky hotels, so although we didn't get a very "real" view of Marrakech, it was definitely a nice view. There was a huge swimming pool and even in February, it was warm enough at midday to take a dip. They had a big fancy dinner for us the first night, much like a wedding where we sat at round tables with golden tablecloths and an over-abundance of silverware. They served delicious traditional food including many of the vegetable spreads ("Moroccan salads") that I like. Since we all ate the same thing, I cannot say it was the food that made me vomit the next day. Yes, Montezuma's Revenge struck again, on it's semi-regular monthly schedule. I have concluded that it must be a microbe I picked up upon arrival here, so I took a regimen of antibiotics and am praying that will be the end of it. Still, even that was not enough to ruin a good time in Marrakesh. Although I missed a few of the presentations while doubled over in the bathroom, the conference provided some excellent teaching tips. They invited some entertaining guest speakers - a pair from the Uk and Laurel Pollard, author of the Zero Prep books. We really only had 1.5 days and there wasn't much time for site-seeing, but we were able to visit the (in)famous Jmaa el-Fna, a huge square where something akin to a State Fair happens every single day. It is filled with snake charmers, monkey handlers, musicians, and dancers who do not hesitate to break formation in order to pursue any tourist who dares to take a picture without leaving some money. Then around 6 pm, the food vendors show up and erect a gazillion food stalls and heckle the heck out of passers-by until the wee hours of the morning (for obvious reasons, I didn't try any of their food). Despite all the warnings about harassment, we actually had a very pleasant visit since we were accompanied by some Moroccan male teachers. I had a snake on my shoulders at one point, but as I do with other harassers, I ignored it and it went away. Before getting on the train back to Rabat, Molly and I spent an hour in the Jardin Majorelle, a colorful and cool spot to escape the afternoon sun. So at least we hit 2 of the major tourist attractions, but our current plan is to to return in April when we have a 1-week break and do a tour of the south as well as a short desert trek.
That was the positive part of the blog. Now I have to rant. Lately, I have been completely and irrationally occupied with worrying about what to do next. I think the having-no-money panic is starting to set in. Manifesting Europe is going to be very difficult on a teacher's salary, and from the looks of it, they don't hire too many Americans in Spain and France. I found out that I am officially too old for the French assistantship program that some of my American friends have done. I am living pretty comfortably here so it would make sense to stay another year...but I just don't want to. The daily harassment, lack of social life, and blatant racism, not to mention the regular vomiting, are getting old quickly. There is actually an English-language Master's program here that I think I could enroll in, but I can't imagine how miserable I would be if on top of everything I had to STUDY. It's Feb 2008 so it seems like I should just take it easy, but we have to sign next year's contracts soon, plus I have to make my summer travel plans, so I need to figure things out pronto. Over a week of brooding has not yielded anything yet. Your ideas are welcome.
I guess I can't throw out a word like "racism" without being prepared to defend it. So here is my evidence: we have been to several restaurants where they would not let a Moroccan friend enter until we came outside and vouched for them. Wait, you're saying, aren't you IN Morocco? Well yes, but there seems to be a European-only policy at many high-end places in some lame effort to keep out "riff raff". In the same vein, hotels in Marrakech, even crappy ones, will not give rooms to Moroccan males. So there's all this weird self-hate racism, and then there's the more standard racism against dark-skinned Africans. Even my well educated students told me that immigrants from sub-Subharan Africa are "lazy" and they wouldn't hire them if they had a business (a fact all the more ironic given that this is typically how the French perceive Moroccan immigrants).
Now I'm going to watch American History X, which I bought in the medina for $1.25.
That was the positive part of the blog. Now I have to rant. Lately, I have been completely and irrationally occupied with worrying about what to do next. I think the having-no-money panic is starting to set in. Manifesting Europe is going to be very difficult on a teacher's salary, and from the looks of it, they don't hire too many Americans in Spain and France. I found out that I am officially too old for the French assistantship program that some of my American friends have done. I am living pretty comfortably here so it would make sense to stay another year...but I just don't want to. The daily harassment, lack of social life, and blatant racism, not to mention the regular vomiting, are getting old quickly. There is actually an English-language Master's program here that I think I could enroll in, but I can't imagine how miserable I would be if on top of everything I had to STUDY. It's Feb 2008 so it seems like I should just take it easy, but we have to sign next year's contracts soon, plus I have to make my summer travel plans, so I need to figure things out pronto. Over a week of brooding has not yielded anything yet. Your ideas are welcome.
I guess I can't throw out a word like "racism" without being prepared to defend it. So here is my evidence: we have been to several restaurants where they would not let a Moroccan friend enter until we came outside and vouched for them. Wait, you're saying, aren't you IN Morocco? Well yes, but there seems to be a European-only policy at many high-end places in some lame effort to keep out "riff raff". In the same vein, hotels in Marrakech, even crappy ones, will not give rooms to Moroccan males. So there's all this weird self-hate racism, and then there's the more standard racism against dark-skinned Africans. Even my well educated students told me that immigrants from sub-Subharan Africa are "lazy" and they wouldn't hire them if they had a business (a fact all the more ironic given that this is typically how the French perceive Moroccan immigrants).
Now I'm going to watch American History X, which I bought in the medina for $1.25.
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