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!