Hardcore Hammam

Day 38
July 12^th

Summer is already halfway over! Stephanie and I have been taking very good care of ourselves. Pampering, you might say. Weekly manicures and pedicures—why not when they only cost $4 each! Every Moroccan woman who can afford it takes very good care of herself. Always a French manicure, eyebrows perfectly groomed, hair blown out—it's all a sign of wealth. We've found a good little salon, courtesy of Houda. I just had my eyebrows threaded. It's a very common practice in India and the Middle East. Instead of waxing facial hair, a beautician takes a piece of thread, wraps it around two fingers on each hand and twists it. Then she can press the thread to your face and twist it even more to pull out every single hair--no matter how fine. It almost feels like someone is snapping a tiny rubber hand against your face, and then when it's over, your face is all tingly for a short time. It hurts a lot less than waxing, is cheaper, and doesn't make your face red.

Another common beauty practice is weekly trips to the local hammam or sauna. The authentic hammam is not for the fainthearted. I had been to a hammam before in Casablanca so I thought that I knew what I was in for. Indeed, I was mistaken.

Stephanie and I found a solidly middle-class hammam not too far from our hotel. It was bring our own towels and soap style. We paid the entrance fee of 12 dh (less than $2) and found a woman to give us massages. We started stripping, trying to figure out exactly what we were supposed to do with our things by looking around at the other women. It's important to note that staring (especially at foreigners) in Morocco is more acceptable, especially in public spaces. We're white and foreign and totally new, therefore very interesting. Still, the old Berber woman with the face tattoos didn't need to stare at me for fifteen minutes, chewing her cud, while I got undressed. I just told myself that she had never seen anyone with such stylish plastic glasses before.

Once we were wearing only underwear, Nearly Naked Fatima, our hefty masseuse, led us to the sauna part. It was like stepping into ancient Roman times, with the exception being all of the plastic buckets. There were three, large, barrel-vaulted rooms, each parallel to one another. Suddenly, all the Roman ruins that I've seen made more sense. It was all white tile, with very interesting alternating bands of blue conveniently located at eye-level. The blue tiles were square and each one was about oh two by two inches, a pretty, deep cobalt blue color…I stared at the tiling a lot.

Everyone sat on the marble floor next surrounded by a half circle of buckets full of water. Nearly Naked Fatima helped us rub on savon noir, goopy brown soap that is used for exfoliation. Then came the "massage." I was first. She directed me on what to do by pointing and grunting words in French. Once I was laying down, Naked Fatima proceeded to brutally slough off layers of my skin. Using only a glove made out of a rough material and her brute strength, she made my dry skin peel off in rolls like soggy paper. It kind of burned. Then I started to get used to it. When she had done every single centimeter of my body (emphasis on every), I felt so smooth.

It was literally a scene from an Ingres painting. There were women of every shade, of all ages, and most were pretty plump. Even the lighting and the colors evoked The Turkish Bath. We were the only Westerners but not the only ones getting the same scrub down. Nearly Naked Fatima also gave me a real massage, washing my hair and dumping buckets of water over my head as though I were a child. She also made me wash my own underwear, just to make sure that they were squeaky clean as well.

It was very different from the first hammam that I went to in Casablanca, which was more upscale and more expensive. There, everything was provided and we chose a package that included towels and a massage. The whole experience brought up interesting differences between my own culture and that of Morocco. None of the women there were the least bit ashamed of their bodies. I tried to act the same, but the truth is that North Americans are much, much more concerned about how our bodies appear to others. The hammam is an interesting intersection of public and private space. At once, it is closed off from the street, and segregated by gender. But once inside, the space belongs to everyone. Whole families come to wash and gossip and relax. The other women stared at us, but they were also very helpful, motioning to us what to do. The central area is public, but you must always rinse the floor before you sit down, even as clean as it is. The water cisterns are also public, and you never dump your water back into them. But once you sit, the space becomes private, and you can get down to washing yourself as you please.

And sorry, no pictures for this post…

Some Interesting Pictures

Some interesting sights that I see daily when I walk through the medina....look closely

Easter in July in Morocco















I'm joking...Easter is not celebrated by Muslims. But those are live, baby chickens that have been dyed very festive colors. They cost 2 dh each (mere cents). No really, they move and chirp and poop. I asked a Moroccan friend about them and apparently you buy one as a pet and when it grows up...you eat it.


Pimped Out Teleboutique

Why go to a competitor when you can have a private phone conversation in this sweet pay phone store? Complete with rotating disco ball and other mirrored decorations. Sets the atmosphere nicely.













Actually, you eat it
Oh, I have coveted this photo for quite a while and I finally had my camera (and enough batteries) to take it. There are several stalls on zenkat Sidi Fateh that sell roasting cow and goat heads. They set the whole heads on the flat grill and wrap them with saran wrap, then roast them until the meat falls off. Then for a tasty treat, they stuff the meat into a pita bread for you. Here, the cow's jaws make a convenient spot to hold the pita bread. Probably warms it up nicely for you, too. Tasty biz, indeed. And those are sausages to the right, not entrails.

Rules to Essaouira By

Day 24 & 25
June 30th & 31st

The rest of the weekend in Essaouira was wonderful. Our very first night, we ate in a hip Moroccan restaurant that was well decorated but completely empty. We were the only two customers there. It was a little disconcerting given the huge number of people in town for the festival. The Israeli owner was eating at another table with a friend, speaking really loudly in very bad French. She was very unusual looking, with a puffy white face like Pillsbury dough and short, blond braids. When I went to use the bathroom for the second time, I had to cross the inner courtyard in front of her and open the unmarked wooden door to use the toilet. As I walked away, I closed the door gently behind me. As Stephanie and I started to leave, the women asked me in English, in a heavy accent, "Why don't you close the door behind you?" I begged her pardon, and confused, I looked around. The door had indeed swung open again. I apologized, saying that I hadn't realized it was still open. "Go close it now." I looked at her for a second, then turned around and did exactly as I was asked. She didn't thank me. As we left, I wished that I had refused. What made her think that I left the door open on purpose? Why did she think that she could talk to me like that? And most importantly, why did it matter that the door was open? If anyone else had eaten dinner there that night, they would have known, thanks to the open door, exactly where the bathroom was. Was she rude because I was clearly American or because I was young? At least the food was good.

Playing dress-up in a jewelry shop

The actual festival didn't start until dark when several performances, traditional and non, were taking place at multiple venues around the medina. Gnaoua music originates in southern Morocco, created by descendants of black slaves brought to work in the leather-dying and tanning industries. It's clean and spiritual, as sparse and complex as the desert. Traditionally, the singer only uses his guitar, castanet-like instrument and his voice to create complex melodies that are at once mellow, joyful, energetic and even trance-like. You can dance to it several different ways, all in order to produce a spiritual trance. It's also associated with reggae music randomly…there are a lot of bands that do fusion between the two.

We just wandered through the crowds, stumbling upon a huge stage or a small courtyard full of music every once in a while. Friday night, the streets were packed. We stopped to watch a group perform traditional Moroccan music on a huge stage. All of the musicians were men dressed in long red djellabas. There was a line of men dancing, side by side, performing a shuffling step, shrugging their shoulders and letting their arms dangle. One man broke away from the line, grabbed an enormous brass pot, hefted it over his head and started swaying and swirling with it balanced on his head. (Video quality is nothing special--I recorded these on my digital camera)

At another stage, another group was playing traditional gnaoua music. This time, it was improvised percussive music. Most of the musicians were black and wore little hats, similar to fez, but with several long strands of black cord, decorated with cowrie shells. To the left stood a drummer, beating a huge tbel strapped to his chest. The rest were furiously clapping krakeb or giant metal castanets. Triplets, sixteenth notes, their hands were a blur. One by one, they stepped out of line and spun around like tops, crouching and standing, the cords on their hats flying. As a finale, the drummer went last and beat out a frenzied rhythm as he spun and spun.

On Saturday, Stephanie and I hit the shops hard. I got a leather belt and Stephanie got a beautiful plain leather bag. I've gotten pretty good at bargaining. I've found that it's a lot easier to bargain for someone else, when I'm not invested in the article that I'm bargaining for. Knowing numbers in Arabic really helps too! We stepped into a Berber jewelry shop were the owner insisted on ordering tea and sweets for us. He also pulled out two giant swatch of blue fabric and wrapped each of us in traditional Touareg headdresses. Then he piled on hundreds of dollars worth of jewelry. I love playing dress up! We also found a cool little café marketed towards tourists, certainly, full of abstract posters by one artist for sale for only 20 euros.

Sweet abstract art

Saturday night, we met up with the two guys from Boston for dinner and ran into our British friends from the taxi ride. We all had a lovely dinner at tapas restaurant overlooking one of the main venues. The big performance for the weekend was Ky-Mani Marley who performed several songs of his own angry rap creation and all of hi father's hits. We also paid $20 to sit in on the last few songs of a private concert. The band, 3Ma was composed of three musicians: one from Mali, one from Madgascar and one from Morocco (Maroc in French, hence the 3Ma). The best song was one describing African politics, full of dissonance and pantomiming bribing, arguing, and shooting a giant bazooka.

Ky-Mani Marley concert

Then it was back to the hotel for three hours of sleep before a looooooong (and uneventful—hamdililah) bus ride home.

A Guide for the Moroccan Taxi Driver

The 1991 Mercedes C220 is an excellent model for desert crossings. No A/C, fake vinyl upholstery, cassette drive and finicky windows all make it very well-suited to driving in hot climates, especially when passenger discomfort is priority. You may have to reach behind you frequently to open and slam the passenger doors to ensure that they stay closed. Do this often while traveling at high speeds in order to keep your passengers on edge.

In order to maximize profits, every slight decline should be coasted down, with as little acceleration as possible. The minimum speed limit however on flat stretches is 190 km/hr (93mph). Also, there is no real speed limit. The red and white signs with numbers are mainly for decoration.

A two lane-highway actually does not mean one lane in each direction. No, to the contrary, the two lanes actually alternate directions. The key is to be able to see the oncoming traffic, which can be difficult to do when multiple cars in front of you decide to pass other slower-moving vehicules as well. When you are driving in rural areas, there will be an abundance of large, produce-and-illegal-immigrants/hitchhiker-laden trucks. These are particularly slow-moving and must be passed constantly. Timing is key. Only pass when you have less than ten seconds to change back into your own lane. Even better, to save time, wait until multiple tucks pile up to pass them all at once. Large tour buses should also be passed every time you encounter one. Please note that they are often just as fast as your Mercedes and more likely to tip over.

As for gas mileage, you can drive at least 12 km (7 miles) on empty. Gas fumes will last a long distance, especially when coasting downhill. Changing elevation can affect the needle in the gas tank and you might find that you have even less/more than you previously thought. Accuracy is not very important. However, note that all the tour buses and trucks that you passed earlier will now want to pass you at very high speeds.

On long trips, take frequent and unexplained breaks at rest stops. The vague excuse of coffee does indeed signal to your passengers that you will be eating an entire three-course meal with tea and will spend an undetermined amount of time doing so.

Be prepared to be stopped by the Moroccan police at least several times. Do argue with them thoroughly before you grudgingly agree to show your registration and papers. Don't explain what is happening to your foreign passengers—they might become even more confused.

And one last suggestion: make sure that you don't have any change for large bills at the end of the trip. Your passengers will be very satisfied customers indeed.

ESSAOUIRA OR BUST

Day 23rd
June 29^th

Train ride from Rabat to Marrakech: 117 dh ($16.71)
Breakfast for four: treat from a fellow passenger
Taxi ride for six from Marrakech to Essaouira: 600 dh ($85.71)
Last minute hotel room for two: 300 dh per night ($42.85)
Fake ID made at an internet café: 9 dh ($1.28)
Last three songs of an exclusive concert: 150 dh ($21.43)
Making it through the weekend ALIVE and enjoying yourself: priceless.

Every year, hippies of the world and Moroccans young and old congregate at the Gnaoua and International Music Festival to listen to four days of free, live music performances. The festival takes place in Essaouira(pronounced ess-a-WEER-a), a blue and white, windswept resort town on the Atlantic coast. An excellent location for wind surfing, the city is notably cooler than the Mediterranean coast or the interior of Morocco. It's approximately 7 hours away from Rabat by road. Approximately.

Because this is Morocco, and because nothing ever goes according to plan, those seven hours turned into twelve hours of constant traveling. The trip could not have sounded more ill-fated from the beginning but somewhere between the lung cramping, mental breakdown, heat, sweat, packed taxi ride, dehydration*, and near-starvation*, I felt the true exhilaration of traveling that comes only from knowing that it literally can't get any worse and that there is an end in sight. ***Request to hear "vomiting during 6 hr car ride in India" story.

The first pitfall of the trip was the fact that our original transportation fell through. We had originally planned on going with the SIT study abroad students who are taking classes at the Center. However, we found out the night before we left on Thursday that we were not allowed to take two days off from work. There had also been complaints when the interns last summer took the transportation with the students without paying for it. We scrapped the plan of spending one night in Marrakech and decided to go straight to Essaouira on Friday. The easiest way to get to Essaouira is to take a 4 and a half hour long train ride from Rabat to Marrakech and then continue by bus to Essaouira.

However, come Friday morning, I woke up at 4:30 with a pain in my left lung, as though it were being squeezed by an iron band. I had had a bad cough since arriving in Morocco that thus far had refused to go away. My mind racing, I was already thinking that it might be a lung infection or a partially collapsed lung or bronchitis or TB or polio or shingles and that I might just asphyxiate any minute if I didn't go back to bed and then see a doctor later that day. However I didn't want to give up the train ticket that I had already bought. After all, I was still breathing, talking, and walking. We got on the train at 5:45 am but as the hours and towns passed by, I found myself panicking. The pain wasn't lessening any and given my medical history of bizarre side symptoms occurring during major illness, I was getting more and more worried. So in the usual Kellye fashion, I preceded to cry on public transportation in front of two other Moroccan men. I kept jumping up at every stop, debating if I should get off and take a train back to Rabat. But soon we were half way to Marrakech and continuing on with Stephanie rather than turning around alone was much more comforting. The other passengers were very nice and sympathetic, even if a little disturbed by my crying. As Stephanie pointed out in French, "We're all family here in Morocco." One of them bought us all sandwiches and drinks for lunch. They chatted with us a bit, in order to calm me down. I explained that it had been three weeks in Morocco and I still couldn't get rid of my hacking cough and missed my family (whom I haven't seen since December.)

About an hour outside of Marrakech, the train ground to a halt. And stayed still. After a few minutes, we could feel the desert heat. In front of us was a low range of red mountains, and all around, a bleak, dusty-red landscape reminiscent of Arizona. After an hour of sitting in the compartment, slowly heating up, we moved to a better, more air-conditioned train car. We also took a quick excursion to a convenience store along the highway, about the only two things in sight. It was one of those highways familiar to those from the western US where, stretched out in a straight line across a virtually flat plain, it seems to extend from horizon to horizon. Welcome to the High Atlas. It was at least 95 F. The heat felt like it was bubbling up in convection waves from black asphalt—even when we were standing in the dirt. We spent a few more minutes in the train before a conductor came by to tell us that it would be a delay of another hour due to electrical problems with the tracks. An hour later, another train passed by us in the opposite direction, and finally the train started to move again.

You might ask about bathroom conditions, especially after I had consumed several bottles of water and reached the four hour mark. Don't. It's just better not to know. Suffice to say that the toilet on the train wins for Worst Toilet Ever in the History of Mankind and considering what I've used in the past, it's a very competitive title. You know, a dirt hole in the ground is a dirt hole in the ground but this one was a foul human invention coated in grime and the flaking excrement of every passenger since 1978. It used to be a bright orange like the rest of the train but now it was just the indistinct brown of neglect and overuse.

Finally, we pulled into Marrakech where I realized that my lung had stopped cramping. Hamdililah! Miraculously cured! My train family told me that it was because I had reached the high, dry, mountain air. I think so, too.

Once off the train, it was a mad rush to find transportation to Essaouira. The main bus company was running five buses a day for the festival but they were booked until 9 pm. A guy came in and started asking in English about a minibus to Essaouira for six people at 100 dh each. We quickly found four others going—a young British couple and two Moroccan girls and starting bargaining with the guy. It was a chaotic scene with other taxi drivers butting in and arguing and shouting and demanding questions and bargaining. We got down to 80 each (even though the real buses only cost 65 ea) and crawled into his nice, air-conditioned minibus. Just then, the swarm of taxi drivers around us called the police and it turned into a full-out argument in the street. The problem was that our driver—ahem, our friend—was not licensed for touristic excursions and could not give us a ride and receive money in exchange. The taxi drivers were angry because they paid taxes and fees and owned their decrepit Mercedes but could only charge a flat rate. In a grand taxi, Marrakech to Essaouira would be a flat fee of 600dh. We talked to the driver in English behind the policeman's back, agreeing to text him and meet him again in another spot. It didn't work, however, because no matter how much we tried to explain that we were going to get lunch, the policemen and the taxi drivers would not let all six of us head off in the same direction.

We ended up getting in a grand taxi, hardly of own volition; it was more like a mob decision that we were getting in this taxi and leaving now. Once all six of us and the driver were packed into the car, the driver took off down the highway. I leaned forward asked how long it was going to take…three hours. For some reason, I had been thinking that it was only an hour to Essaouira. Within minutes, we were all soaked in sweat, plastered to each other, and unable to move much But we were on our way to Essaouira! Really, it could have been a lot worse. Three hours wasn't that long. I felt more or less exhilarated to have gotten through the morning alive! The taxi ride went surprisingly quickly as we passed through scrubland and then flat desert. Halfway, we stopped at a sort of rest stop with a few restaurants and ran into two guys from Boston, of all places. They were also headed to Essaouira for the festival, but lucky for them, only two to a taxi. We all exchanged numbers to see if we would run into each other again during the festival. The second half of the taxi ride was much more uncomfortable, seemingly more crowded. But as we got closer to the coast, we could feel the weather change—the breeze suddenly got much cooler.

Approaching Essaouira actually took forever because the taxi driver insisted on coasting down the hills on an empty gas tank. We made it to the taxi stand in town going about 20 km an hour. All of the buildings were white, covered in a fine layer of dust, punctuated by bright blue shutters here and there. Seagulls squawked and wheeled around above us. Stephanie and I decided right away that we would try to look for a hotel room instead of waiting to get in touch with the friends that we were supposed to stay with. The first hotel that we walked into was clean and pretty on the inside and had a room for two! The only problem was that Stephanie hadn't brought any kind of ID. I had my driver's license but in Morocco, every guest at a hotel has to have a passport or picture ID. We went next door to an internet café, determined to get into this hotel. After Googling a picture of a Columbia University ID, Stephanie made a very convincing "photocopy" of a school ID on Adobe. It was truly beautiful—and worked like a charm.

Such sweet relief. We had made to Essaouira and had lodging.

----TO BE CONTINUNED----

*Adults who may be concerned about my health: these are just exaggerations.

A la plage

Day 16
June 22nd

The beach again! We went on one of our first weekends with our friend Houda, a Yemeni/French/Djbouti woman living in Rabat. When I started packing for Morocco, I hardly thought that I would be able to wear a bikini on the beach. Turns out that that is not the case at all. There are plenty of women and girls wearing string bikinis on the beaches. There are even still a few women in headscarves. Moroccan beaches are always crowded, no matter what time of day, especially on the weekends. Coming from a landlocked state, anything regarding the ocean or beaches has always fascinated me.

This time we drove to Skhirhat beach with some Moroccan boys. We had to drive through a dry, dusty field to get to the dirt parking lot for the beach. First we passed by a ramshackle house made of corrugated steel. The owner, a weather-beaten and leathery farmer charged us 5 dh ($0.71) for crossing his land to get to the beach. Looking at the two hundred cars parked on the other side, I'm guessing that he made much more money charging a toll than he did for farming.

The beach is just like a beach in any other country. The sand is deep, the Atlantic cool and refreshing. But you do have to watch out for strong currents. Someone is always playing ping-pong or volleyball—you can easily join the game because everyone is very friendly.

Houda at Bouznika beach

Scouting out the goods

Day 15
June 21st

I found the true souq of Rabat! After all my comparisons to the medina of Casablanca, Rabat has finally revealed its treasures to me. Our internship director from Wellesley, Tere, came to visit and check up on the interns. After traveling throughout the world, she has a solid background in bargaining for antique jewelry in developing countries. She led us to Rue des Consuls, which is lined with shops selling gold jewelry, silver jewelry, leather shoes, leather coats, leather poufs, brass lamps, wood furniture, artwork, pottery, cheap shoes, knock-off purses, goods imported from sub-Saharan Africa, and anything else that you can imagine. It was like the whole other half of the medina opened up to me. Although I didn't buy anything, I now have a long shopping list.

One of the stores that we stopped in had a beautiful pair of silver earrings in the shape of vines with several dangling coral beads. I decided not to buy them right then, but to wait instead. Tere spent twenty minutes bargaining with the shop owner for a Berber-style antique silver brooch. To seal the deal, she threw me in as an extra bonus for the shop keeper. I had thought that he was simply impressed by my French but apparently he gave her a better deal with the promise that I would return to his shop. Maybe I'll get a good deal on those earrings…

Photo courtesy of Stephanie Brown

Restaurant Review

Day 8
June 14th

A week in the cross-roads of Africa and Europe! I can hardly believe that so much time has already gone by. It's also been hard to realize that my year in Aix is definitely finished. I keep mentioning it, "When I was in France…" "In France, they always…" I am really starting to sound like a snob. There is something that is inherently more snobby about constantly referencing your experiences in France than in any other country.

The weather has been really nice, too. Despite snickers that I die of the heat, humidity, and always being covered up, I have been doing well without A/C. It has ony been in the 80's and mildly humid. Usually, there's a nice breeze. But the summer will only get hotter!

The only criticism that I have after a week is the food. Yes, I have been pretty disappointed. Moroccan food is diverse, delicious, hearty, full of spices—and hard to find in restaurants. So far, the best food that I have had is at the cafeteria at the CCCL which is the closest to home-cooked Moroccan as possible. Brahim, the chef (who has a wonderful sense of humor) cooks all sorts of vegetable and meat ragouts and soups. For lunch on Friday, the entire staff of CCCL had a traditional couscous lunch at the center. About twelve people at a time sat around a round table laden with a huge clay dish full of couscous, chicken, and stewed vegetables. We each got a spoon and dug in. Moroccan table manners are simple—respect your zone, the triangular slice of the dish right in front of you, and never cross in front of someone else's spoon. The only part that I didn't absolutely love about the couscous lunch was the buttermilk. Oh yes, a huge glass of buttermilk is traditionally served with couscous lunch. Sadly, I am completely averse to drinking anything that looks, tastes, and separates just like soured milk.

After eating in restaurants for a whole week, I am getting pretty sick of the selection here. Most restaurants feature several choices: sandwich, pizza, or kebab with the option of lamb, beef, chicken, or tuna. Multiply that and you have twelve dishes to choose from. Everything comes with a side of French fries and mayonnaise. All of the salads are covered in mayonnaise as a dressing. I even went to a Syrian restaurant (one of the few ethnic restaurants in Rabat) where I had falafel, a shawarma sandwich and mayonnaise. It's much more than a condiment here; it's a style of cooking. Too bad I hate mayonnaise. Yes, after France, I grew to like the taste of raw egg but just thinking about it in combination with oil makes my poor arteries contract in fear. Maybe at the end of the summer, I will be able to add mayonnaise to the list of things that I learned to appreciate about Morocco. Until then, it's just going to continue to ruin my appetite. Hopefully, it's just the city of Rabat but I am afraid that it's actually the advent of Western culture, sadly misappropriated.

I also am getting tired of the greasy spoon restaurants. I am on a 50 dirham per meal or $7 budget which means no fancy restaurants everyday. So the ones that offer couscous at 25 dirham are very appealing, despite all appearances to the contrary. However, I have never been a fan of greasy spoon restaurants. This is something that I feel rather guilty about. I feel as though I should have a favorite greasy spoon place that I like to eat at regularly in the US. I don't. And I judge. I admit that now. Plastic chairs, flies, dirty tablecloths, and used ketchup bottles turn me off here just as much as they do in the US. Or in Spain for that matter. I still have bad memories of eating plain rice covered with ketchup labeled as "Cuban rice" in a greasy, smoke-filled hole in Barcelona. It was a waste of eight euros and completely unsatisfying. So although I must remind myself that cleanliness standards are different in Morocco, it's hard to let go of my normal standards. It is entirely possible to find good, clean, cheap restaurants here--you just have to look. I found one right near my hotel last night that serves the same things as all the rest, yet it's much cleaner and has a huge flat screen TV. It will probably be my new favorite place to eat dinner.

This is not to say that I am picky or a germophobe. I can eat a meal in a filthy restaurant, it's just that I would prefer not to. Today, after spending the afternoon at the beach, we ate at a roadside restaurant near Bouznika. It was really nice sitting outside at dusk. The meat at the restaurant was very fresh; it was still draining blood and hanging about ten feet away from our table. The feral cats really liked the restaurant, too, especially the bucket of bones, gristle, and intestines on the side. And I'm sure that if you asked all of the crows and flies, they would also give you a strong recommendation. I think that I should get major props for finishing my meal without gagging.

Street Vendors

Day 6
June 12th

Everything is still going well. I ventured my first snack from a street vendor—grilled corn! Delicious. I was a little wary when I first saw the carts that the vendors haul out onto the street of the medina at rush hour, around 6 pm. The carts are not very clean or sturdy looking and they roast the ears of corn over open coals, fanning them with a piece of dirty cardboard. After I bought mine, he asked if I wanted salt--of course I did--then he plunged the entire, blackened ear into a container of dirty salt water. But it was still good, burnt and salty!

I finally arranged my cell phone. I still had an international phone from France so I bought a new SIM card with Maroc Telecom. Sadly, I made some beginner's bargaining mistakes. I bought it from the first stall that I walked into and paid the full asking price. He named 50 dirhams and I was just so amazed that a SIM card could only cost $7 that I didn't even think of bargaining, especially for electronics. A fair price would have been 15 or 20 dirhams, around $2 or $3. Putain. The electronics that are available are amazing. You can find authentic ipods and iphones for about twice as much, but the fakes are the real bargain. A fake ipod video nano costs about 300 dirhams or $43. I have to wonder how well they work. You can also find any kind of fancy cell phone for the same price.

I am learning very quickly how and when to bargain. You can argue about the price anywhere where there aren't any prices listed, especially in the medina. And never, ever pay the first price that the vendor asks for! So far, I haven't had the same customer treatment as I had in Casablanca, where the shopkeeper would sit me down in the store and pull every single item off of the shelves in order to entice me. I actually made friends with Khaled, my connection in the Casablanca medina who supposedly gave me "prix d'ami" or a price for a friend and taught me some Berber words. But Casablanca's medina is much touristier. My friends and I spent a day being led on a wild goose chase through the whole medina in search of a wooden box and a pair of sequined shoes. We first ran into a shopkeeper who spoke English very well and then he just hustled us from one relative's shop to another's for a few hours. I never saw shoes that I actually liked but I did see all manner of leather goods and "magic" wooden boxes.

It is really cool to see what people hawk on the streets as well. Sunglasses, dress shirts, shoes, suits, band-aids, surgical gloves, pirated DVDs. Pirated DVDs cost about a dollar each, which is literally putting the movie theaters out of business. I can buy an entire season of Alias or 24 for mere dollars…my friend told me that Americans always go home with bags of DVDs.

A wedding celebration

Day 2

June 7th

Saturday was an absolutely incredible day in the full meaning of the word. I literally spent the day eating with Stephanie the other intern and Krispijn (pronounced Chrish-pein) our new Dutch friend. (Ok, it wasn't just incredible due to the constant flow of food.) I was already on the fourth café of the day when Stephanie and I decided to explore the medina. Like all cities in Morocco, Rabat has an older, walled section called a medina, or city in Arabic. Some medinas date to jahaliyya or the period before the advent of Islam in 632 AD. Others, like that of Rabat, were built in the medieval ages. The medina is usually a twisting rabbit warren of stucco buildings, ancient mosques, and shop stalls selling everything from leather goods, cheap clothing, electronics, produce, jewelry, and cleaning supplies. Every city's medina has a different flavor. The medina of Casablanca is aimed towards selling traditional Moroccan crafts and is literally a maze of tiny, dirt alleyways. Rabat's medina is entirely different. First of all, it has boulevards that make it much easier to navigate. There are much fewer traditional goods to be bought and much, much more electronics. The streets are also paved with tiles which makes it a lot less dirty. In the more residential section of the medina, the buildings are white-washed with tile decorations and beautiful, wooden doors.

Stephanie and I were wondering around the residential section when we passed by a group of young women our age in red costumes sitting in front of a house where loud traditional music was issuing forth. We passed by and then decided to turn and around to ask what the special event was. A wedding! The women asked if we wanted to see what was going on, and just ushered us in. It was a traditional Moroccan-style house and once we passed through the tiled entry-way, we found the main celebration of the wedding in a small tiled courtyard, with rows of chairs and an awning. The space was packed with women, all wearing their finest. Every woman was wearing a djellaba or traditional gown, with coordinating headscarves and belts. There were so many colors and patterns and infinite details such as rows of tiny buttons and crystals and sequins everywhere! The bride, in a bejeweled red gown, was sitting as though she were a regal queen on a silver sequined dais in the front. To her left, a band of women were playing traditional music, mostly drums and singing. It was absolutely amazing! We thought that we would only watch for a few minutes but several of the women came over, took chairs from other guests, and bade us to sit down. Over and over, the women welcomed us, in French and Arabic. After sitting for awhile, the four women in costumes led us back into the entry-way and served us a huge platter of chicken and lamb tajine and Coca-cola. We were the only ones eating! It traditional Moroccan-style; we ate with our hands and chatted with Hanane, the leader of the group who spoke the most French. It turns out that they were the hired dancers for the wedding. Hanane is studying to be chef and she only does weddings on the side for pocket money. One of the first questions was whether or not we were married. We had a hilarious conversation with a lot of mute gesturing about Saida, another one of the dancers, who wanted us to look for a husband for her. "When?" she asked, twisting her ring finger as though she had an invisible ring. "When I go back to the States, I'll look for one for you," I promised. "Black or white, Saida?" the other girls demanded. "No, no, he'd better be white," she laughed. Stephanie asked if they had brothers so that we could switch which made all of us laugh.

When we were done eating, it was time for the girls to perform. Accompanied by a CD of traditional music, they led the bride (who had changed into a golden djellaba) to sit on a wooden palanquin, hand-carved for the occasion. They hoisted the palanquin up on their shoulders and started a choreographed dance, spinning, raising and lowering the palanquin. The four girls were wearing almost rodeo-style costumes, red and white, with capes. They used the capes to create a swirl of red and white around the bride and stopped to pose for several pictures in various creative poses. After the dance was finished, caterers brought everyone mint tea and sweets. Now it was time to dance. We were pulled up to the dance floor a few times, including by the adorable 10 year-old girls in attendance. Of course, we felt pretty awkward, just wearing jeans and having no clue how to dance well. A woman was video-taping the entire celebration, and I am sure that she has more than a few good shots of us, standing out like awkward foreigners in the middle of the wedding. After a little while longer, we left with Hanane and the other dancers as they were packing up their things. By that time, they had all changed into western, street-clothing. More guests asked us to stay, but we had to decline. We said good-bye to the girls, kissing them each once on the left cheek and then twice on the other cheek. We exchanged phone numbers and they promised that they would dance for free at either of our weddings if we got married in Morocco. Hanane kept repeating that we had entered into their hearts, and that we were truly special guests.

None of our Moroccan co-workers were particularly surprised when we told them the story. That kind of hospitality is normal here. And although we only stayed for two hours, we only saw a sliver of he celebration. Most weddings feature at least six or eight dresses for the bride. This one was also a fairly conservative celebration since the sexes were segregated. I have to wonderful what the men were doing during the whole time!

La première nuit et on a déjà fait la fête!

Rabat, Morocco
Day 1

I expected to start off my first blog entry in Morocco with a ridiculously romantic sentence like, "I stepped off the plane into the blinding and humid sunlight where waving palm trees welcomed me to North Africa." However, the trip didn't go exactly well as I had hoped. I was never more relieved to board a plane before. It was an awful last 48 hours.

First lesson that I learned: I really need to pack a lot less. I don't know exactly how it happens but I accumulate so much crap. If you have seen me move in or out of my dorm room, you know how true this is. I thought that I had packed pretty lightly but after spending around 240 euros to ship boxes pack to the States, I have painfully realized how wrong I was.

It was even more stressful when I arrived at the airport in Marseille to fly to Casablanca to find that my luggage was overweight by 15 kg. The woman at the desk was really harsh and told me that I had to take out about 15 kg (about 30 lbs) out of two suitcases before she checked them. Only after I had desperately tried to decide what to throw out and what I could possibly carry on, on the verge of tears, did she mention that I could just pay for the extra kilos. Pay handsomely for the extra kilos, that is, at about 6 euros each. Of course that still left me with carry-on that was overweight by another 6 kg. The woman was so mean and condescending that she made me worry that they would weigh the carry-on at the gate and I would be forced to throw out more things. Between my laptop, camera and some clothing, it would have to be my French Harry Potter books that went. So I found myself about to leave for Morocco, crying in the bathroom, stressed and worried. (Sadly, crying in an airport bathroom is not a first for me. Usually, the root cause is that I really don’t want to leave said country.) But thankfully I (and all 7 HP books) got on the plane just fine. It was a very Kellye moment, lol.

Thus far, Morocco has not been nearly as foreign or overwhelming as I thought it would be. It helps that I had already spent five days in Casablanca on vacation. But even more so, my year in France helped prepare me. I know that I can do anything that I need to in French. I am also used to be stared at constantly and knowing that I am obviously a foreigner. I have barely even noticed the staring this time around.

My first night went much, much differently than I would ever expect. I met a large slice of the young ex-patriot community at a rooftop party in the old Oudayas neighborhood. It was a Great Gatsby-themed party, hosted by a random group of Westerners who live in the same house. Noellie, an eccentric French/American/Moroccan/citizen of the world was the star. It was her prerogative to provide everyone with the costumes. With her smoky accent, long blonde hair, and twenties-style red dress she played the part of the glamorous, ex-pat with dramatic flair. As soon as we met, she pulled out a slinky black dress for me, slit to the thigh in multiple places. With the addition of a red scarf tied flapper-style around my short curly bob and a long string of pearls, I found myself standing rather scantily clad on a roof in the casbah overlooking downtown Rabat, wine cup in hand. In Aix, I had become accustomed to meeting people from around the world all in one place to work, visit or learn and this party was no exception. There were lots of Americans and Dutch people as well as a few Australians and Moroccans. It will be a fascinating summer indeed!

I found that the lingua franca of the party was English, not French. Most of the various students here are in transition or traveling, and staying only to teach English for awhile. Everyone obviously spoke at least a smattering of French but most preferred to use English. I received a lot of compliments on my French along with amazement that I had studied at a French university for an entire year. It was a nice change from France, where no one is ever pleasantly surprised that you speak French. If they are nice enough, they will compliment you on the quality of your French (especially in comparison with their English) but for the most part, everyone expects that if you are in France, you should know French. But I could not imagine spending the summer in Morocco without speaking French!

10 Things that I Learned in France

How does one begin blogging about oneself in an online public forum? One can begin in a variety of trite, trivial introductions designed to catch the devoted blog reader's eye and sense of humor to ensure that he/she/zhe will devote unhealthy amounts of time obsessively reading one's online confessions. And like one in ten American adults, I'm baring my own soul on the most public, international forum possible, the internet. This summer, I am working as an intern through Wellesley College with the Center for Cross-Cultural Learning in Rabat, Morocco. It's the fulfillment of a dream and the apogee of three years of studying French, Arabic and Middle Eastern Studies. I can only strive to make it a full nine weeks of cultural exchange and learning.

As I hop the Mediterranean to go from Wellesley-in-Aix to Wellesley-in-Africa (all expenses paid) I think that it’s important to note exactly where I'm coming from. I am just wrapping up a long luxurious year spent studying French in sunny, snobby Aix-en-Provence, the crown jewel of France's Provençal region. Friday, I'll fly from Marseille to Casablanca to start my very first full-time internship at a Cultural center in Rabat, Morocco. My year abroad has been amazing, just barely short of perfection. Although I cannot claim to be fluent in French even after studying it for seven years, I can claim to have done amazing things in French such as scream for help locked in a Laundromat, enjoy the Sex and the City movie, and understand textos. But looking back on the year, there are some very important lessons I've learned about French culture, American culture, this global generation, and myself.

1. The French never smile.
And it follows that Americans smile far too often. This was a general observation that I was told to expect when I visited France for the first time in high school. I still find that it is true. But now I am so completely used to the lack of dental flash that my cheek muscles are out of practice. A French woman smiled at me today while I was shamefully stealing boxes from the recycling piles to use for packing. I nearly fainted in gratitude. If it had been an American woman, there is no telling what she was thinking when she smiled, "WTF is she doing?!" "What a fool," "Good idea," "Lol," "She's obviously homeless, poor thing," or "I need to buy some new silver sandals." But since this was France and I had not seen a smile on the streets in several weeks that I knew exactly what she was thinking: approval. A very rare gift to be given as a foreigner in public indeed.
I already know that I will be overwhelmed by people smiling constantly and sending complicated mixed messages in the US.

2. Sometimes disgusting food tastes delicious, especially in a salad.
Sometimes. I have really come to love raw egg yolk (which should be a good shock to anyone who knows my standards for hygiene and general aversion to animal products). In France, beef, burgers, crepes, toasted cheese sandwiches called Croque Madame, pasta, risottos, salad dressings—they're all better with raw egg yolk. It also toughens up the digestive system. Cheese in particular works on this same principle. French cheese is more delicious because they do not obsess about multiple flash pasteurizations or expiration dates. In fact, Camembert cheese has three stages of ageing even after you have bought it. It does not reach its peak until 18-35 days after leaving the grocery store. You can still consume it in its mature age, unsealed and opened, at 50 days. I doubt that I have ever seen an expiration date that long on cheese in the US. More disgusting things that I particularly enjoy in salads: goat cheese covered with ash and smoked duck meat.
One French delicacy that I cannot defend is foie gras or literally fat liver. From a goose. It is not hard to find or expensive in the US, it's just in the pet food isle, under a different name such as Fancy Feast or Kitty's Choice. I cannot find any reason to eat something with the texture, taste and smell of cat food on a daily basis.
Of course, defining what is disgusting and what is not often follows cultural lines. Almost to a person, the French believe that peanut butter is absolutely foul and has a disturbing texture. Especially if it's chunky.

3. Balsamic vinegar + olive oil + mustard + lemon juice = French café salad dressing.
Grâce à Mlle J. Rowe

4. The French love American culture although they will never admit to it.
Perhaps constantly inundated by American culture is a more correct way to describe the phenomenon of globalization. Yet I never heard anyone complain about the non-political aspects of American culture. In the clubs, 80% of the music is American from various decades. In the cinemas, even the independent ones that show foreign films, 80% of the movies are American and are simply dubbed. Even in the bookstores, I found a disturbing amount of cheap American bestsellers translated into French. Of course, I also spent most of my time in the two biggest American ex-patriot cities in France, Paris and Aix.
The French language is also full of Anglicisms like "site-web", brownie, cookie, le big love. They even conjugate the word stop. J'ai pas stoppé. Love it.

5. French men are lunatique
That is to say, moody. My experiences with the infamous French lover revolved around text messages and techno music in the Aix nightclub scene. Probably not the best way to find a long-lasting beau in any culture but I can solidly base my generalizations on multiple accounts from both French and American friends. The French man can go from happy/fun/charming/bold/intelligent/sarcastic/selfish/
childish/needy/depressed/pensive/pessimistic/stubborn/cold/distant/asshole in the course of an evening. He usually prefers to string along two or three girls at one time and if that isn't enough drama, then he will always cause more by himself. Really, it's like dating a girl.
My best example is one long night in which I briefly flirted with a friend, danced with him, found out that he was in the middle of breaking up with a girlfriend, and witnessed a screaming match in the middle of the street at 2 am. Half an hour later, he hit on me again. A few weeks later without having seen him at all, he text-messaged me to "break up" saying that he was back with the girlfriend and was going to erase my number. I think that was a hint for me to text him back. Due to a severe lack of cultural misunderstanding, I never responded.

6. French dogs/children obey the same rules.
They both are to be seen but not heard. The beauty is in the key phrase is Ca suffit, that's enough. It is simplicity, class, and versatility in discipline. On the whole, French dogs/children are much less spoiled and coddled than their American counterparts. Despite never using leashes, the French have trained their dogs/children to stay out of people's way. However, they are both still allowed to s**t on the streets. This is not nearly as unsanitary as one may think because a street cleaning truck comes by every night. Except for that one day when everyone noticed that there was either a dog with an upset stomach or just an epidemic.
Also good to note, especially for Americans: never approach a French person to compliment him or her on his or her dog/child. This is seen as overtly familiar and you will be greeted with suspect and disdain.

7. The French higher education system sucks.
I say that after having ripped out every single hair on my head during a particularly frustrating and demoralizing finals period so I will stop there. Suffice it to say that la Fac de lettres has a long arduous road ahead of herself if she ever wants to win back my respect.
Perhaps I should mention rather lamely, I did take a year to leave my own imperfect school to experience another system and after this year, I have definitely learned to appreciate Wellesley. I cannot say that this year it was waste. But that's all the Fac gets.

8. Alcohol=water.
This is a general European attitude, perhaps left over from the medieval ages when it was unsanitary to drink water. In the Czech Republic, law requires that restaurants must offer at least one non-alcoholic drink cheaper than beer. In France, a 75cl wine bottle is cheaper than fancier fruit juices such as Clementine or grapefruit juice. In Madrid, they literally give you (big groups of American study abroad students) free shots and beer just to enter the club before 11pm. A nice, French, five course meal will have more rounds of alcohol than courses. For lunch. We need to change our laws (and attitudes) in the US.

9. Traveling in Europe is unbelievably easy
Two friends and I visited 7 cities in 8 days. We encountered dozens of other students in the hostels that we stayed who were visiting more or less the same cities in a similar amount of time. And there are still cities that I want to see. I am constantly re-amazed every day how much there is to see and do in Europe.
Since I normally take a 3.5 hour long flight from home to college that costs around $120 on a "budget" airline, I am always thrilled to hear stories of cheap, cheap, cheap flights in Europe. With the advent of companies like Ryanair, SkyEurope, Easy Jet and Jet4You, it is possible to take one or two hour-long flights to random destinations at random times for dirt cheap. Some pretty normal examples that I actually found: round-trip Marseille to London for 70 euros on two different carriers. Lyon to Venice, 25 euros via Sky Europe. My personal best was Madrid to Casablanca for 11,99 euros. It gets better. Ryanair once offered a buy one get one sale except that the java script on the website had a flaw that allowed some friends to buy dozens of flights to Scandinavia for FREE. Always a beautiful word to American ears.
All the countries are so cute and tiny and close together that train travel is also an excellent option. It is sometimes still cheaper than budget airlines. I really came to appreciate traveling by train once I got used to the swaying of the cars.
During my travels, I also overstayed in hostels. Never again. Word of advice: budget hotels rock.

10. The French win for best slang words
American English has some excellent slang that I know and love but the French easily have us beat. Some new and/or classic American slang words that I particularly enjoying lately are biggity biz, shit-show, dude, ridic, def, hardcore, tots, sketchy, and creeper. However, the French have a slang word for everything you can possibly think of, some of which are borrowed from Arabic like the verb kiffe (to really, really like something). They even have an entire system for creating new slang words. If it's a really hot party, it isn't a fête, it's a teuf. If you got yourself a woman, she isn't your femme, she's your meuf. If it's really sketchy, it's not louche, it's chalou. Get it?
Also the French win for the most impossible text abbreviations. Why type out the conjunction que when you can just use ke? So much time saved.
And then there are the Anglicisms which are just so good. Imagine if you said, "it's like déjà vu all over again" to an English-speaking French person. It never fails to make me smile when I hear a Frenchman say business, challenge, success story, hardcore, or le Black.
They even have better filler words than um or like. Every other word is bahhhhhh, oaui, fin, je sais pas quoi, enfin, en fait, baaaaaoui, quoi.

Of course, I learned so many things both more profound and pyschologically accurate during my year. But they aren’t nearly as amusing :)