Moment of truth

And now for the big decision. Since I have been home, I have not been sure whether or not to keep blogging. My activities are decidedly more mundane (went to the grocery store, read, worked --though I did get chemical burns on my legs, ask for more details--, went out with friends...), and thus less blog worthy. That being said, I am moving to NYC in a little less than two weeks to live with people I don't know and start law school shortly there after. I don't know how interesting it will be, as far as entries go ("I did homework today." "Today I did more homework." "Mmmm Torts." and the like can probably be expected), but ya never know. If it gets too painful, I will take requests to stop. :)

As of now, I am doing lots of reading: A History of the Supreme Court, Egypt's Road to Jerusalem: a diplomat's story, Law for Dummies (yup.), The Calif's House in Casablanca, Law School Confidential, and Seven Pilars of Wisdom, (all started frantically in an attempt to finish within a week and a half and start on another set BEFORE school--I am not too confident all will be finished, but we'll see).

Other than my ambitious reading I've been preparing to move a little, and hanging out. I've been to Madison and Iowa since home and some of my friends have come here to Winona to chill. It's been a great time in general. That's about all that's new for now.

The worst trip home EVER

So I didn’t even want to go home, right? Well after a night of goodbye and happy birthday (to Ann, another trainee) revelry, I woke up with all the people who’d have to leave for work well before 9am. I had kind of packed the night before, but I still had quite a bit more packing to do. I also had to check my flight times on the computer. Amine was taking off work and taking me to the airport at 10:30. Four of the trainees ended up staying at the apartment later (Due to Nick forgetting his shoes, and NEEDING brown dress shoes? Or the door to the other trainee apartment not working? -I’m still not exactly sure why they didn’t go to work on time, or at least why everyone but Nick didn’t go, but I wasn’t complaining since it meant buying me a little more time with my friends) and we went to breakfast. It was 10AM. After saying our goodbyes, I promptly got a terrible stomachache and spent the next 20 minutes miserably in the bathroom. I got out and tried to shove my things into my suitcase. Amine arrives at 10:30--I am not done. I hadn’t checked my flight times, couldn’t find my dvds, or other important items. So I throw all my stuff pretty much indiscriminately into either my luggage that would be checked or one of 3 carry-ons. As we are rushing out of the apartment, a strap on my plastic bag that held 2 big serving dishes breaks. Off to a great start.

We taped the bag back together in the car, but it wasn’t long lasting to say the least. At the airport Melissa, Amine, Youssef, and the airline check in lady watch in amazement as I'm kneeling on the ground and can’t find my tickets (They were E-tix. What an idiot!) or my passport (not excuse...). The bag weighed too much, so we had to undo my luggage and try putting various things with the carry-ons. As soon as my friends say goodbye, my plastic carry-on breaks again.

Apparently Air France is full of ASSHOLES, and they won’t let you take a full huka on board the plane. Well I find this out after I had already sent my bags under the plane. I had to take the vase out from the carrying case and carry it with me (by this time I am a walking circus. I had: royal air maroc’s in flight catalogue, tagines, jewelry, carpet, a dead cell phone, Cocktail and American History X, a camera charger, Egyptian pounds, Czech money, underwear, the Torah, my Salaam binder, tickets to a jazz festival, facewash, and photo albums to start) and leave the metal parts of the shisha to chance unprotected under the plane. Fine, Air France, fine.

Next as we are boarding (20 minutes late, might I add), and they discover that they hadn’t really printed me a ticket. I go over and get it printed. Of course they had to hold my passport and check me through all over again. (it’s the 3rd time). Thanks Air France.

So since I didn’t have a chance to check my email at the apartment (the stomach pills Melissa gave me are working, for the moment), as soon as I got to Paris I ran to the nearest phone to call my mom to have her check my email and my flight itinerary. Oh, and France won’t let me exchange dirhams. So I am out 200DH aka about $20. Thanks French Currency Exchange. Anyway, I finally do get a hold of my mom collect.

Turns out there is no fire. I don’t fly out till 10:30 the next morning. It is 5:45 PM. I buy a book and drag all my belongings from café to café for a few hours. I got to talk to this guy (I think he was pretty coked out. He was something) about Bush. Mostly I got to listen to him rant about the US and the government and about how we are killing everyone and how I shouldn’t go there. “I don’t really want to right now,” was all I could really say. At about 11PM, I am dying of boredom and exhaustion when a policeman comes over and tells me that there are dangerous people staying in this terminal and I should move because “they’ll do anything to get your money….or even worse.” I didn’t have any money (I would disappoint any bum), but I didn’t like the sound of the “even worse,” so I hauled my crap about a mile to another terminal where a bunch of ppl were sleeping. I basically alternated between staring into space, staring into space while listening to dance music on my iPod, reading, and trying to sleep with no blanket, no socks, on a hard airport chair.

Finally finally finally the place starts to come back to life. (Oh, btw, the bag with no handles, yeah, every time I used the bathroom I had to set it on the floor of the stall. Then I’d have to hoist it back up—it probably weighed 20 lbs and it was huge—and hug it to my chest to carry it. Mmmmm public bathroom floor). Finally I am on the plane to DC.

Well the plane gets to the US about an hour late. Baggage claim takes forever. I RUN to the AirTran ticket counter to be told they stopped checking in for my flight to GA 10 minutes earlier. I beg, I plead. Nothing. The crabby lady tells me that I can maybe fly standby for the 6:30PM flight (it’s currently 1PM). My eyes start to tear up, “but, I have to make another flight from GA to MN…” “Sorry.” CRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAASH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Just at that moment, my purse dislodges itself from the cart, shattering my shisha vase.
“FUCK.” I yell loudly enough for several parents to shoot me disapproving glances. I glare back. My beautiful pink shisha vase from Egypt is in a million pieces and my foot is all bloody. The crabby AirTran lady stops talking and looks sour. So anyway, she books me standby tickets, and I go clean out my purse.

6 hours later (and another collect call to Mom) I am on a flight with no food or drink to Georgia. I don’t live in Georgia. I wait another 3 ½ hrs for my next flight.

Oh, and since AirTran is such a class act, they are always at the farthest littlest shittiest corner of the airport which always requires a tram ride 5 escalators and shlepping all your belongings through the part of the airport that is under construction. Thanks AirTran.

By this time I am practically unconscious from the lack of sleep. It is July 12, and I have not had more than 3 hours of sleep since the night of July 3rd. Most of those nights—though not all-- were my fault, but that didn’t help my delirium at all. The airport was freezing and I was bleeding. Hadn’t showered in 2 countries. Ugh.

Of course on both of the standby flights I had to sit in the way back next to the bathroom in the seats that don't recline.

On the last flight a fat old man next to me wants to chat it up. Do I look like I wanna shoot the shit when I am passed out and have headphones on? Apparently. All I could think of was suppressing the intense desire to tell him how much I hate it when people spill over into my seat and invade my personal space and that he should lose 75 pounds and stop gesturing so wildly with his flabby arm that it hits me on my leg, on my stomach on my left breast. I didn’t tell him, though I may have an ulcer now.

Then I got into Minneapolis at 1:15AM. Mom snaps photo. Thanks Mom. We drive what is normally a 2 hour trip in 4 because it is raining and her one of her lights goes out making the road impossible. 4:15AM I get into shower and go to bed shortly there after.
Time changes taken into account, the whole ordeal was 44 hours.

And the worst part? When I woke up, I was no longer in Morocco.

City of the Dead

Thousands of Egypt’s urban poor have nowhere to go, and live in cemeteries. They live in mausoleums. “Previously, Cairo rulers chose the area for their tombs outside the crowded city in a deserted location. “This area was used as a burial ground for the Arab conquests, Fatimids, Abbasids, Ayyubids, Mamlukes, Ottomans, and many more…In modern times, because of Egypt’s housing crisis, a lack of satisfactory and affordable housing for a rapidly growing population, many poor Egyptians have made these rooms (graves) their permanent homes. More than five million Egyptian live in these cemeteries,” (http://touregypt.net/featurestories/city.htm).

After weighing various warnings against going with the Rough Guide blurb that it is okay if you are careful and my own insatiable desire to take risks and see something interesting (and dangerous, yay!) along with Greg and Atif’s general agreeableness, we went to the one such cemetery.

We felt really out of place. We walked quickly once inside the gates. There were people eating and sitting outside mausoleums. There were graves in the “streets.” We took winding a winding path so as to be able to snap a few photos. Then, having been discovered, we took more winding paths to as to avoid those following us. Eventually, we lost all but one. We ended up talking to him (well, Atif did. This might be repetitive, but I don’t speak Arabic). He was rather shady, rotten teeth even though he probably wasn’t more than 18. He asked us where we were from, Pakistan (I love Osama bin Ladin---the common response. I thought that was incredible as I heard it over and over again), Switzerland and Switzerland. (USA USA USA—but no one was ever the wiser). He produced a silver evil eye medallion and gave it to me. He wanted something back in return. “Something interesting.” I looked through my purse for a suitable gift. It was kinda tough cuz I had, let’s see, an iPod (no) some headphones (nope) camera (nope) notebook with my “Arabic,” a bunch of Moroccan recipes, and Kaitlyn’s address (no), and there was no way I was taking out my wallet. By some stroke of luck, I found some body spray and gave it to him. We explained how to use it and demonstrated. He loved it. As we were leaving I strayed behind a minute to look at an inscription (okay, and to try to take one more photo---I know, I know), the guy walked with me and took my arm stopping me in my tracks, puckered his lips and pointed to my mouth. “La,” I shook my head and finger and touched my right arm to my chest backing away. Not making out with this dude, nooo thank you. He was trying to ask me something. “Uh, guys—wait for me! What’s he asking?” He wanted to know if I was married (are you seeing a common theme here?). “Aaah” I say and point at the rings I wear on my pinky finger (not exactly wedding bands) but they did the trick. “Aaaah,” he nods, understanding. We left the cemetery triumphantly. Though uncomfortable, we came away having seen something really cool and what could have been a Sisqo experience turned out to be positive (except for the near kiss) all around.

Sufi Dancing (whirling dirvishes)

These guys were insane. Or in ecstasy. One of the guys spun for about 40 minutes. I felt like I was in almost as much of a trance as he was. I was sincerely worried for his health. How would he come out of the spinning? Would he fall over and die? Would he have to lay on the ground and retch? Eventually he just stopped. He stood perfectly still. Incredible.

Egypt

So I decided I wanted to go to Egypt. I have to tell you, it’s actually rather far from Morocco. But in any case, I went. I met some fantastic people there. Here’s the play by play:
Day 1
Got to Kaitlyn’s (see “I am a navigational genius” post).
Slept 2 hours
Egyptian Museum hours of mummies and artifacts—really cool.
Walked along the Nile & the AUC campus
Went to the Cairo Tower and hung out
Party at Ryan and Bub’s in Ma’adi at night.

Day 2
7AM leave for Agami (beach town in the N near Alex) with lots of ppl
Spend day there.
Nearly die on the way home. Not kidding.

Day 3
Coptic Cairo see churches, synagogue, graveyards, walk around.
Pick up another friend at café
Credit card stops working.
Eat koshery ( I had been eating before this, but the sheer amount of pasta, chick peas, fava beans, noodles, lentils and sauce consumed warrents mention here)
Go to Atif’s
Sufi Dancing show
Khan el halili
Smoke shisha.
Buy shisha.
Go back to Kaitlyn’s
Forget to take shisha from Greg, who is so kindly carrying it.

Day 4
Pyramids at Giza
Looong lunch and convo
Islamic Cairo
Fight with cab driver
See various mosques. Fail to view city from minarets.
Walk in slums searching for City of the Dead
Take cab to City of the Dead
ENTER City of the Dead (see post).
World Cup Final
Exchange of photos
Flight out (my flight out is actually part of Day 5, but such a day never really existed for me, as I didn’t sleep. Pure delirium).

I am a navigational genius

In my usual fashion, I didn’t prepare ANYTHING for my trip to Egypt. (I worry about the stupidest things but then completely neglect details about things that actually matter) I didn’t have a guidebook, anything to do, even the address of the person I was staying with (Kaitlyn---a saint) until the day before I left. In fact, I never actually had her address. All I had as I left alone for Egypt (again, not knowing Arabic) was, “tell the cab driver, ‘Sheria Sheik Maroof. Go to Koshery Abu Tarek—a restaurant, take a R then walk all the way down the street. It is the last building on your L across from the mosque.”

So I manage to get to Casablanca, transferring once in Ain Seba and I even get on the right plane (applause welcome). After the night passes (night 2 of no sleep—there were 3 3 more in the next week. Not kidding. We’re not talking about nights with almost no sleep.), the plane lands and I get off. Kaitlyn had mentioned in an email that someone might pick me up from the airport, but since then I didn’t have the chance to check my email, so I didn’t know if someone would pick me up or if I would have to find my way. I waited a few minutes looking for people who were looking for people, but then I decided to go. I overpaid the cab driver, and after asking me to marry him, we arrived at Sheria Sheik Maroof. Or close to it. Goodbye. “No tip for me? Baksheesh?” Of course. So I get out of the cab. I am exhausted. I look around for a restaurant. Hmmm. I start walking so as to try not to look conspicuous (right.), but end up asking a guy for Koshery Abu Tarek. He points me in the right direction. By this time it has occurred to me, that “a right after Koshery Abu Tarek” would depend completely on where one was dropped off, and though a nice neighborhood, it is kind of windy and full of allies I don’t want to find myself lost in right off the bat. I’m looking around to see if I can see any minarettes of a mosque, and a man asks if he can help me. YES! Thank heavens. So I ask for the nearby mosque. He doesn’t know (or understand?). I ask for a nearby phone where I can make a call. He pulls out his. We spend like 10 minutes trying to dial Kaitlyn’s number. No luck. The man won’t take any money (dear sweet man). But I’m a little worried. What if I can’t find her apartment? What do I do? Anyway, someone else is able to point me in the direction of “the mosque.” Okay, so I walk into the last building on the left of the street. I do NOT think Kaitlyn lives here. No, as a piece of the ceiling falls off. No, I don’t think anyone does. So some friendly guy comes and asks what I am looking for. I ask if there is an apartment building nearby. “A hotel?” he asks. “No, an apartment. I am staying with a friend here.” “Oooooh, come with me.” So I go with the man (around the corner I might add. This wasn’t in the directions I was given….). He takes me up six flights of stairs. It’s a hotel. So again, I explain that I don’t need a hotel, that I am staying with a friend who lives here. “Ooooh! Sorry. Follow me.” Another building. Another hotel. (Am I speaking clearly? What is the deal? I am getting a little frustrated here, but still in relatively good humor). So the concierge of the hotel ends up taking my notes and decides we should back track all the way. We go downstairs, but I see no reason to backtrack all the way to Sheik Maroof (especially with him, no sooner than we stepped from the hotel, I get, “Are you married? Boyfriend? You are very beautiful…”), so I ask the nearest person I see if there are apartments nearby. An unbelievable stroke of luck. People live in THIS building. “Who?” the man asks. “Uuum, Kaitlyn.” –silence- I try again, “Amereeka?” “Yes.” I was soooo happy to walk up those stairs and knock on that door (of course not before saying goodbye to my friend. “Do you have phone number? Email? I would like to see you again. Later today?” I gave him my email and told him I’d see him later maybe. Ensha’ala).

The Sahara Trip

Jackson Bentley: What attracts you personally to the desert? T.E. Lawrence: It's clean.

It may be clean, but after sweating, riding camels and not showering, I was not. When I got back there was sand coming from my clothes and bags for days. Such a cool trip. We got back from the Sahara (at 6 this morning). It was incredible. We rode camels through the Sahara (ouch!), ate delicious Friday couscous at Hassan’s ( Hassan=a palace worker/desert marathon runner), went off-roading in the desert, danced with our Berber guides to Berber music, slept under the stars, witnessed rain (!), witnessed a sandstorm (!), played marco polo at a hotel pool, climbed a huge sand dune (Well, some of us did. Of course I was there….), took a horse carriage ride out to a "forest" where we ate rabbit, enjoyed a backrub train, and practically bathed in a cold well, and finally, last but certainly not least, we saw Youssef “lose his cool” (FUNNY). I’ll tell you that story:

So we are at the very end of our trip, pretty much just waiting to embark on the 9 hour ride back to Rabat. Now, you have to consider that Youssef, our Moroccan friend who was leading all of us helpless and hapless trainees, had not slept in two nights and led us around and arranged EVERYTHING for us. He was loosely nicknamed the Moroccan Kramer bc he would always be popping up somewhat unexpectedly and he always had amazing amounts of excess positive energy even when the rest of us were wilting under the heat. We left for the desert on Friday night around 9PM and arrived in the morning at 6ish, and it was really tough to sleep on the bus. I sat by Youssef. He didn’t sleep (unfortunately I know). Then the next night we spent in the 110 degree heat. At night when everyone else was absolutely exhausted, Youssef couldn’t sleep. We were all lying on carpets laid out on the sand, and there were cats all over the place allegedly protecting us from alleged desert animals (scorpions, spiders…ick), and they were meowing and playing all night. As we were trying to fall asleep, every two minutes we’d hear, “Sssshhh! Get away from me! Fuck! Get! Shoo! I HATE them!” and something would be thrown or bug spray would be dispersed at a cat. After this went on for an hour or so, Michel and I invited Youssef to sleep in the middle, away from the edge of the carpet so that cats wouldn’t bother him. He did, but he kept up the anti-cat rally pretty much all night. When I went to bed he was sitting up shooing the cats. When I woke up, he was shooing the cats. He says he didn’t sleep because they were “crawling all over him” (they weren’t crawling on me, but hey). I have no reason to doubt that he didn’t sleep. So anyway, we’re getting ready to board the bus. Youssef says we are in a super shady area in Erfoud and we should stay in a group. He asked who needed to use a bathroom. No one said anything, but there were some people who wanted water. Youssef led some people to get water, but then (and I am one of these people, I admit it) some people realized they did, in fact, need to go to the bathroom and should go before the long bus ride back began in about 13 minutes (much searching, Turkish toilette, no lights, Michel buckled under the pressure of the decision. We had to hold it)…So we left. We didn’t get to go to the bathroom, but we did meet a frazzled Youssef who couldn’t find a trainee and his friend. They too had wandered off, and he had expected the worst. When they showed up mere moments before the bus left, Youssef said something along the lines of, “Where the hell were you guys? Don’t you know you can’t wander off like that?” He apologized the rest of the night for being so harsh with them. Hilarious. I seriously admire his patience. Even when he gets impatient, he is a model of togetherness. I sat next to him on the bus ride back. I am happy to report that he did eventually doze off.

The Cave of Alcohol

I don’t speak French. I know this is stupid—and PEN 15 club immature, but it is one of those things I see on an almost daily basis and always cracks me up. The grocery store a few blocks from the apartment has a basement where they sell alcohol in opaque black bags to really shady looking characters. In French “Cave d’Alcool” translates roughly to “Alcohol/Spirits Cellar” but I feel like I am going into the “Cave of Alcohol (and Iniquity).” Every time I pass it, I crack up.

Alone in Apt Hassan?

I live in an apartment with anywhere from 9-14 other people. I’m not even sure of the current count. We have 3 people sleeping in each of three bedrooms (though two are leaving shortly), three people sleeping in a dining/sitting room-turned bedroom (converted conveniently with a sheet across the entry-way). There was also a point in time where two people were sleeping on the couches in the living room. We have lots of guests at our apartment in Hassan—it’s a good meeting/party/chill place so there are usually a few extra people who opt to crash here for the night. Even though we have 15 beds, sometimes these lucky extras have to sleep on the floor. We recently did 2 ppl / bed. Interesting to say the least….

Anyway, I used to consider myself a kind of private person. I was big into alone time. Alone time is not a concept in Morocco, and it is especially not a concept in the Hassan apartment/hotel/homeless shelter. Now, however, when I do find those rare moments when there are not 30 people all around, I don’t really know what to do with myself.

Luckily, I don’t have to worry about it much.

“Our September 11th”

I’ve heard this phrase in several countries but often in Morocco. You’ll be talking to someone, it could be an embassy worker or a shopkeeper in the medina, and they’ll want to stress their aversion to terrorism. They’ll say, “You know, we had our own September 11…” I’ve found this especially common in Morocco where on May 16, 2003 there were five bombings in Casablanca that killed over 40 people an injured over 100 more.

It always makes me sad that people use this phrase to talk about attacks on their country. I feel like while comparing the atrocities of Morocco to those in NY and DC allows for some sort of solidarity, it somehow puts the suffering of the Moroccans in the shadow of the 9/11 attacks when I think they deserve their own name, date, phrase, whatever. Though it is unrealistic (and consequently really depressing) to think that every terrorist attack can be remembered and recognized world-wide the way 9/11 is, it always makes me feel bad and a little uncomfortable that people are remembering their own loved ones or the pain their country experienced in terms of the United States. These events are SPAIN’s March 11, ENGLAND’s July 7… the world should know about the bombings in Buenos Aires, Casablanca, Sharm el-Sheik, and most recently in Mumbai as such. Saying "Our September 11" doesn't even give those victims their own dates. They shouldn’t have to be referred to as “Our September 11” for us to recognize the painful nature of terrorist attacks.

“Bgheet du kilos d' le… (pointing)”

I am going to be coming out of Morocco with absolutely no viable language skills. When I first came, I was fairly determined to learn a little Arabic. Well, people here don’t speak Arabic---they speak Darija dialect (aka Arabic that is virtually unintelligible to Arabic speakers) and French. Mostly though, they will say half a sentence in French and the other half in Darija. Now, I can’t claim to speak French. I can’t claim to speak Arabic and I can’t claim to speak Darija. After almost 2 months, I can put together phrases in partial French, partial Moroccan dialect and lots in gesticulations, pointing, and facial contortions with the occasional sprinkling of Spanish or English. This is (drum roll please…..) utterly useless outside of Morocco and semi useless even inside. Sigh.

VIP

Okay, this post is probably a long time in coming. It absolutely amazes me that just because I am foreign I am almost automatically a VIP at bars and clubs and the grocery store. Seriously, they move me to fronts of lines, they let me in after hours, they let me into places (like this posh hotel party last night) that I would have no business atin the US. We do hang out with some of the coolest young Moroccans who do have names and titles and connections, but still, it blows my mind the things I can do here. “We’re closed, they say,” I smile, I get what I want. I am gonna miss that soooo much.

4th of July

So uh, the fourth of July is even more fun in other countries. This is the second year I have been gone…although we missed fireworks yesterday, we watched the world cup, made burgers and salad (okay, actually our cook/cleaning lady Maleeka made that) and cut watermelon and drank wine and listened to American music. And then, being the American I am, I went out… Being here with other Americans (and pretty everyone else--our apartment in Hassan represents) makes you feel so good about our country. We all listed the things we love and miss about the US (from Taco Bell to having TP in the non-turkish toilettes to organization to tampons), and there wasn't a person there who wasn't beaming. It's funny because we are all here because we want to see more than just the US, and we all love Morocco and see how flawed our mother country is, but just all being in the same boat like that on a day like the 4th is pretty cool.
This is a photo of our feast. Note the hamburgers on french bread.