Syke!
Today I had to go to my province capital to turn in some scholarship forms for the kids I am incha’allah bringing to summer camp. The Dar Chabab director had business in the capital, too, so we agreed to meet at 8 am at the taxi stand and travel together.
I got to the taxi stand a few minutes before 8 and told the driver where I was going, but that I was going to wait for someone. No big deal. In Morocco, traveling by taxi is a little different in that you cram six passengers into the car, and the driver won’t leave until all seats are either filled or paid for (ie, if I was obese and needed two seats I could buy two places in the car).
At 7:57 am (I know the exact time because it was later rubbed in my face…teaser!) The driver had collected four other passengers going to the same town. This meant the whole cab was waiting on the Dar Chabab director. I was totally fine, sitting on the curb reading my book, when all of a sudden the driver tells me to get in. He wants to pick up the director on the way (the Dar Chabab is on the road we would be taking. I barely have time to consent because the passengers are rushing into the cab and the driver is ushering me in along with them.
As we pull out, I see my boss and the driver flags him down. It takes him a full minute to realize why the hell some taxi driver is pulling up alongside him, telling him to get in. He gets in the cab all confused, then sees me and starts laughing about how it’s only 7:57! He still had three minutes! He wasn’t late! You Americans are so crazy about keeping on schedule!
He was talking so fast I couldn’t get in a word to explain that the driver, not me, was being the time nazi in this situation. Wamp wamp. The teasing didn’t stop when we arrived in town, either. We got to the ministry office around 9:15 and noone was there yet (because, honestly, who’s at work at 9:15 on a Monday morning?), which prompted my boss to say something like “it’s a good thing we left EXACTLY AT 7:57 this morning…”
By the way, the original plan to meet at 8 am was not even MY idea, but his. I’d have been just as happy to go at like 11. Or, hell, NOON. Ballsy, I know. But I’d do it. To prove a point.
Anyway I have to go it’s almost 6:00 and 6:00 is when I have my snack.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Thursday, June 24, 2010
a few things
I think I've mentioned the summer camp I'm taking some kids to in August, yes?
Well.
I can take four, and this past week I've been getting them their paperwork so they can get parental permission, ID photos, birth certificates, etc. The plan is for them to get everything filled out and turned into me so I can bring their files to my Ministry of Youth and Sport (they are paying for the scholarship students) representative on Monday. It should be a pretty simple task, right? All four of them know where my house is, so all they need to do is gather their paperwork and drop it off with me by Sunday-ish. And if it takes longer, it's no big deal. Camp isn't until August and my representative lives about an hour away. Easy peas.
At least, that's how I saw the situation. Apparently one kid sees things quite differently. The following is a text message I received at 6:52 am on Monday:
FIN NTI DABA ALLIIIIIII
In English, this translates to "WHERE ARE YOU NOW ALLIIIIIII" and no, I'm not exaggerating on the number of i's there. I counted. Seven.
When I crabbily responded I was at my house, he wrote back, totally normal, that he'd be by at ten to drop off his folder with me. When he showed up at 9:57 I asked him what his deal was and he said someone had told him (very mean-spiritedly) that I left to travel and he wouldn't get to go to camp now because I wasn't around to turn in his forms.
All I can say is this camp better be out-of-this-world fun for the amount of stress it's causing this poor kid.
Next order of business. I carried a watermelon! My boo Donniell already made a Dirty Dancing/watermelon reference in her blog (we like our watermelon in Morocco) but I don't care. It's just too easy.
But yeah, I finally sucked it up and bought my own watermelon. I had recently had this conversation with another volunteer:
Erika: i watched lord of the rings today
me: i cleaned and reorganized my entire house
OMG
SHUT UP
Erika: and ate way too much watermelon
me: I DID TOO
lord of the rinfs (sic)
Erika: REAAAAAALY!
me: not watermelon
Erika: schwing!
me: i'm too lazy to carry watermelon to my house
Erika: i was at someone elses house
and i small-girled* some little bitches to carry it to their house
That bolded part there makes me feel like a big fat liar, because the VERY NEXT DAY I was shopping and the watermelon man offered me a free sample. After trying to just buy part of a watermelon (not happening) I asked him for the smallest one. Next thing I know, I am lugging 10.5 kilos of watermelon to my house. Worth the sweat and sore arm muscles? I think so...it's been two days and I've eaten 2/3 of it.
Another thing. I'm worried about myself, because Single Ladies is slowly taking hold of my brain. I watch it everyday and yet come no closer to learning the dance. I keep hoping if I just kind of stare at it I will absorb the choreography, similar to Professor Harold Hill's method for learning to play music, but with less swindling and capital T Trouble in River City.
Back to the point: Single Ladies is on my mind all the time. For example, when I saw this photograph the first thought that went through my mind was "that statue knows the dance better than I do."
(photo credit: my dazzling cousin, Janie Taylor. Google her, she's kind of a big deal in the ballet world--and should be a big deal in the photography world.)
In closing,
*to "small-girl" or "small-boy" something is to find a small child to do a task that you are too lazy to do. It's a common practice in Morocco...just yesterday I was celebrating the USA win over Algeria and small-boyed a kid to bring an extra glass for tea.
Well.
I can take four, and this past week I've been getting them their paperwork so they can get parental permission, ID photos, birth certificates, etc. The plan is for them to get everything filled out and turned into me so I can bring their files to my Ministry of Youth and Sport (they are paying for the scholarship students) representative on Monday. It should be a pretty simple task, right? All four of them know where my house is, so all they need to do is gather their paperwork and drop it off with me by Sunday-ish. And if it takes longer, it's no big deal. Camp isn't until August and my representative lives about an hour away. Easy peas.
At least, that's how I saw the situation. Apparently one kid sees things quite differently. The following is a text message I received at 6:52 am on Monday:
FIN NTI DABA ALLIIIIIII
In English, this translates to "WHERE ARE YOU NOW ALLIIIIIII" and no, I'm not exaggerating on the number of i's there. I counted. Seven.
When I crabbily responded I was at my house, he wrote back, totally normal, that he'd be by at ten to drop off his folder with me. When he showed up at 9:57 I asked him what his deal was and he said someone had told him (very mean-spiritedly) that I left to travel and he wouldn't get to go to camp now because I wasn't around to turn in his forms.
All I can say is this camp better be out-of-this-world fun for the amount of stress it's causing this poor kid.
Next order of business. I carried a watermelon! My boo Donniell already made a Dirty Dancing/watermelon reference in her blog (we like our watermelon in Morocco) but I don't care. It's just too easy.
But yeah, I finally sucked it up and bought my own watermelon. I had recently had this conversation with another volunteer:
Erika: i watched lord of the rings today
me: i cleaned and reorganized my entire house
OMG
SHUT UP
Erika: and ate way too much watermelon
me: I DID TOO
lord of the rinfs (sic)
Erika: REAAAAAALY!
me: not watermelon
Erika: schwing!
me: i'm too lazy to carry watermelon to my house
Erika: i was at someone elses house
and i small-girled* some little bitches to carry it to their house
That bolded part there makes me feel like a big fat liar, because the VERY NEXT DAY I was shopping and the watermelon man offered me a free sample. After trying to just buy part of a watermelon (not happening) I asked him for the smallest one. Next thing I know, I am lugging 10.5 kilos of watermelon to my house. Worth the sweat and sore arm muscles? I think so...it's been two days and I've eaten 2/3 of it.
Another thing. I'm worried about myself, because Single Ladies is slowly taking hold of my brain. I watch it everyday and yet come no closer to learning the dance. I keep hoping if I just kind of stare at it I will absorb the choreography, similar to Professor Harold Hill's method for learning to play music, but with less swindling and capital T Trouble in River City.
Back to the point: Single Ladies is on my mind all the time. For example, when I saw this photograph the first thought that went through my mind was "that statue knows the dance better than I do."
(photo credit: my dazzling cousin, Janie Taylor. Google her, she's kind of a big deal in the ballet world--and should be a big deal in the photography world.)
In closing,
*to "small-girl" or "small-boy" something is to find a small child to do a task that you are too lazy to do. It's a common practice in Morocco...just yesterday I was celebrating the USA win over Algeria and small-boyed a kid to bring an extra glass for tea.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
i don't really like grateful dead
and yet i have a ton of the dead in my itunes library. what's with that?
Anyway, today I realized that my best friend in town is the old man that guards the Dar Chabab. I see him 5 times a week and we almost always walk home from work together (he lives at the bottom of the hill, I live halfway up). His favorite thing to do is sit around and watch the world go by, preferably with a cigarette and a friend to talk with. For this reason, he has become invaluable to me. I don't have an Arabic tutor anymore (and honestly haven't even tried to find one), so I get a lot of practice just sitting around talking to the guard.
Sadly, today was the last day the Dar Chabab will be open until next school year starts. There's some camp going on there that I'm not involved in and the guard invited me to come by and sit with him during the long camp hours, but other than that I probably won't see him much.
Second order of business, there were like six students from Texas in town today. I heard they were coming a few days ago and was wildly excited, but when I actually met them this morning I was sort of disinterested. I think it had something to do with how they showed up for a meeting at the DC while I was cleaning my classroom with some of my kids. We were having a blast running around barefoot on the soapy wet floor and all of a sudden I had to go be social and shake hands with all these strangers. Some random guy I had never met started telling the Americans all about my work and how well I speak Arabic and it was just total bullshit. The bullshit level was made clear when the guy made me translate things for him and I didn't understand half of what he was saying. I'm working really hard here but I'm not perfect. Hell, I wasn't even wearing shoes during this whole transaction.
Soon after my translation fail I was able to escape back to the comfort of my classroom and resume having fun. The meeting I was missing out involved a bunch of cross-culture games between the American students and some hand-picked youth from my town. Of course it occurred to me I should be involved in that, but then I just kind of felt like my place was with the couple kids that showed up to help me clean out my classroom for summer. Plus it was way more fun.
One last thing, I am INSANELY fatigued lately. I don't know if it's the intense sun beamage or what, but yesterday, after sleeping 10 hours, I took a two hour nap and had two cups of coffee and was still a zombie. I'm a bit bit better today but I feel like something is off. In Darija you say "ana madiggadigga" which translates more or less to "I'm in pieces." I just really like saying "madiggadigga" and the sound of the word goes so well with how I feel.
snack time!
Anyway, today I realized that my best friend in town is the old man that guards the Dar Chabab. I see him 5 times a week and we almost always walk home from work together (he lives at the bottom of the hill, I live halfway up). His favorite thing to do is sit around and watch the world go by, preferably with a cigarette and a friend to talk with. For this reason, he has become invaluable to me. I don't have an Arabic tutor anymore (and honestly haven't even tried to find one), so I get a lot of practice just sitting around talking to the guard.
Sadly, today was the last day the Dar Chabab will be open until next school year starts. There's some camp going on there that I'm not involved in and the guard invited me to come by and sit with him during the long camp hours, but other than that I probably won't see him much.
Second order of business, there were like six students from Texas in town today. I heard they were coming a few days ago and was wildly excited, but when I actually met them this morning I was sort of disinterested. I think it had something to do with how they showed up for a meeting at the DC while I was cleaning my classroom with some of my kids. We were having a blast running around barefoot on the soapy wet floor and all of a sudden I had to go be social and shake hands with all these strangers. Some random guy I had never met started telling the Americans all about my work and how well I speak Arabic and it was just total bullshit. The bullshit level was made clear when the guy made me translate things for him and I didn't understand half of what he was saying. I'm working really hard here but I'm not perfect. Hell, I wasn't even wearing shoes during this whole transaction.
Soon after my translation fail I was able to escape back to the comfort of my classroom and resume having fun. The meeting I was missing out involved a bunch of cross-culture games between the American students and some hand-picked youth from my town. Of course it occurred to me I should be involved in that, but then I just kind of felt like my place was with the couple kids that showed up to help me clean out my classroom for summer. Plus it was way more fun.
One last thing, I am INSANELY fatigued lately. I don't know if it's the intense sun beamage or what, but yesterday, after sleeping 10 hours, I took a two hour nap and had two cups of coffee and was still a zombie. I'm a bit bit better today but I feel like something is off. In Darija you say "ana madiggadigga" which translates more or less to "I'm in pieces." I just really like saying "madiggadigga" and the sound of the word goes so well with how I feel.
snack time!
Thursday, June 17, 2010
summertime goals
...because I'm more likely to work towards them if I post them publicly on the internet.
(currently enjoying jaydiohead)
Summer 2010 Goal 1!
I really want to learn the Single Ladies dance. I'm obsessed with the video. I watched it four times today. I don't get tired of it, and can't fathom a situation where I wouldn't rather be watching it.
That's a bold-faced lie, but still.
The problem is, everytime I watch it, I watch it with the intention of learning the dance. Then I stand up and try to follow along and immediately feel like a freaking idiot. My hips don't work like Beyonce's. I can't even do the first 8-count and look like a sane, attractive person, much less the part where she does that crazy thing with her vag and ends up on one knee. Who even thought that up?
Moreover, there are parts where Beyonce herself looks like a spaz. Granted, she can pull it off because she's awesome.
One last thing about Single Ladies...if these male ballet dancers in full costume for Don Quixote can do it, so can I. Right? RIGHT?
Not gonna lie, going on youtube to get the code for that video led to a sizeable amount of my time being spent watching Alex Wong of Miami City Ballet's other posted videos. I need a hobby, which brings me to:
Summer 2010 Goal 2!
Everyone here has cool hobbies. I want to know how to do stuff. Right now the only hobbies I indulge in are crossword puzzles and doodling my own wallpaper. LAME. I want to know how to knit, or something. Then again, if I'm going to take up a new hobby, it should be something radically new, right? RIGHT? Like...I should learn how to eat fire.
Summer 2010 Goal 3!
Give up caffeine. KIDDING. lmaozzzomg I had six cups of coffee today.
Summer 2010 Goal 4!
Wash clothes as often as possible. Washing clothes is super-fun now because I was recently enlightened. Don't use your hands, sillies. Use your feet! After soaking laundry in soapy water for an hour or so, break out the iPod, put on a sweet song and start stomping. It makes me feel like Lucy Ricardo and also brings back pleasant memories of my old job as an office manager.
What's that, you say?
In my last weeks on the job, I started cleaning out a storage room with files dating back to the Great Society. I ended up spending at least four hours a day (completely made-up estimate) shredding paper, then maximizing recycling bin space by jumping in the bin to pack down paper. Man I loved working there.
Summer 2010 Goal 5!
Get the hell out of my town more often. I have never been south of Azilal province, and that sickens me. I don't even have a good reason. I want to go out east this summer and then at some point see Marrakech FINALLY.
Summer 2010 Goal 6!
Survive Ramadan. I'm going to fast! Somewhere my mom is getting stressed out at the mere memory of what life was like for her when I hadn't eaten for like 90 minutes. Sure, my metabolism has settled down since high school, but I still tend to eat...healthy portions...so Ramadan is going to be a character-building experience, fo shiz.
I think 6 is good, yeah?
(currently enjoying jaydiohead)
Summer 2010 Goal 1!
I really want to learn the Single Ladies dance. I'm obsessed with the video. I watched it four times today. I don't get tired of it, and can't fathom a situation where I wouldn't rather be watching it.
That's a bold-faced lie, but still.
The problem is, everytime I watch it, I watch it with the intention of learning the dance. Then I stand up and try to follow along and immediately feel like a freaking idiot. My hips don't work like Beyonce's. I can't even do the first 8-count and look like a sane, attractive person, much less the part where she does that crazy thing with her vag and ends up on one knee. Who even thought that up?
Moreover, there are parts where Beyonce herself looks like a spaz. Granted, she can pull it off because she's awesome.
One last thing about Single Ladies...if these male ballet dancers in full costume for Don Quixote can do it, so can I. Right? RIGHT?
Not gonna lie, going on youtube to get the code for that video led to a sizeable amount of my time being spent watching Alex Wong of Miami City Ballet's other posted videos. I need a hobby, which brings me to:
Summer 2010 Goal 2!
Everyone here has cool hobbies. I want to know how to do stuff. Right now the only hobbies I indulge in are crossword puzzles and doodling my own wallpaper. LAME. I want to know how to knit, or something. Then again, if I'm going to take up a new hobby, it should be something radically new, right? RIGHT? Like...I should learn how to eat fire.
Summer 2010 Goal 3!
Give up caffeine. KIDDING. lmaozzzomg I had six cups of coffee today.
Summer 2010 Goal 4!
Wash clothes as often as possible. Washing clothes is super-fun now because I was recently enlightened. Don't use your hands, sillies. Use your feet! After soaking laundry in soapy water for an hour or so, break out the iPod, put on a sweet song and start stomping. It makes me feel like Lucy Ricardo and also brings back pleasant memories of my old job as an office manager.
What's that, you say?
In my last weeks on the job, I started cleaning out a storage room with files dating back to the Great Society. I ended up spending at least four hours a day (completely made-up estimate) shredding paper, then maximizing recycling bin space by jumping in the bin to pack down paper. Man I loved working there.
Summer 2010 Goal 5!
Get the hell out of my town more often. I have never been south of Azilal province, and that sickens me. I don't even have a good reason. I want to go out east this summer and then at some point see Marrakech FINALLY.
Summer 2010 Goal 6!
Survive Ramadan. I'm going to fast! Somewhere my mom is getting stressed out at the mere memory of what life was like for her when I hadn't eaten for like 90 minutes. Sure, my metabolism has settled down since high school, but I still tend to eat...healthy portions...so Ramadan is going to be a character-building experience, fo shiz.
I think 6 is good, yeah?
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
I'm SOMEBODY now!
So, this was roughly the reaction I expected to have when my Moroccan ID was delivered to me after waiting 7 months since applying.
You know, up until the sniper part. I imagined taking my little pink Carte Sejour in my hands and shrieking to the rooftops about how I'm legally allowed to be in this country now.
Instead, my Gendarme handed me the card then informed me there was a typo and my card says I am a French citizen.
Why do the gods of identification papers have it in for me?
On a different note, I had my fortune read against my will yesterday. I was standing around waiting for the storekeeper to come back from his afternoon prayer (I swear, it's like that man prays five times a day or something) when this crazy woman beckoned me inside her house. For a normal kid raised in America this would set off all kinds of alarm bells, but my first thought was literally "whatever, it's not like I've got something better to do."
I assume she is just going to do the customary tea and cookie thing, then harass me about getting married, but instead she whips out tarot cards and goes to town. If I understood her correctly, I have a brother, my father is very ill, I'm going to get married, then pass a driver's test, then move back to America.
Suck on that.
I'm going to provide you with another youtube clip in an attempt at some auto-therapy. That's a word I made up. It means I'm doin therapy to myself.
This, my friends, is one of the greatest movies of all time. I'm also weirdly obsessed with it. I can remember watching it when I was a little kid and my sister had her friends over and they graciously let me hang out with them. Before I left for Morocco, my sister and I made a point of getting wasted and watching it. Sure, I ended up booting all over her apartment then passing out then waking up in my own apartment hours later, but that's not Labyrinth's fault.
I'd love to tell you I can watch Labyrinth whenever the hell I want. I'd love to tell you that today I blew off work because I stayed up too late watching Labyrinth the night before, resulting in a Labyrinth hangover. I'd love to tell you that I was planning to quit my job here so I could take my One-Man-Show version of Labyrinth to stage and screen.
Oh how I'd love to tell you these things. Sadly it is just not in the cards for me (the crazy lady made no mention of Labyrinth...although maybe she did because I don't know how to say Labyrinth in Darija. I'd love to tell you I know how to say Labyrinth in Darija.) Nope. I can't do any of those things because someone I THOUGHT WAS A FRIEND, SOMEONE I THOUGHT I COULD TRUST, denied me access to Labyrinth. Why would anyone want to hurt me that badly?
Now for some "On the Home Front!" updates:
-Mumus are allowed in my house. They do not violate the no-pants policy. I am currently wearing mine and don't plan to take it off until I have to go outside again. Then I will come home, check my pants at the door, and reunite with the mumu.
-I have dark brown hair now. My hair was getting really light with all the sun exposure and I made an executive decision.
-I made delicious falafel today.
You know, up until the sniper part. I imagined taking my little pink Carte Sejour in my hands and shrieking to the rooftops about how I'm legally allowed to be in this country now.
Instead, my Gendarme handed me the card then informed me there was a typo and my card says I am a French citizen.
Why do the gods of identification papers have it in for me?
On a different note, I had my fortune read against my will yesterday. I was standing around waiting for the storekeeper to come back from his afternoon prayer (I swear, it's like that man prays five times a day or something) when this crazy woman beckoned me inside her house. For a normal kid raised in America this would set off all kinds of alarm bells, but my first thought was literally "whatever, it's not like I've got something better to do."
I assume she is just going to do the customary tea and cookie thing, then harass me about getting married, but instead she whips out tarot cards and goes to town. If I understood her correctly, I have a brother, my father is very ill, I'm going to get married, then pass a driver's test, then move back to America.
Suck on that.
I'm going to provide you with another youtube clip in an attempt at some auto-therapy. That's a word I made up. It means I'm doin therapy to myself.
This, my friends, is one of the greatest movies of all time. I'm also weirdly obsessed with it. I can remember watching it when I was a little kid and my sister had her friends over and they graciously let me hang out with them. Before I left for Morocco, my sister and I made a point of getting wasted and watching it. Sure, I ended up booting all over her apartment then passing out then waking up in my own apartment hours later, but that's not Labyrinth's fault.
I'd love to tell you I can watch Labyrinth whenever the hell I want. I'd love to tell you that today I blew off work because I stayed up too late watching Labyrinth the night before, resulting in a Labyrinth hangover. I'd love to tell you that I was planning to quit my job here so I could take my One-Man-Show version of Labyrinth to stage and screen.
Oh how I'd love to tell you these things. Sadly it is just not in the cards for me (the crazy lady made no mention of Labyrinth...although maybe she did because I don't know how to say Labyrinth in Darija. I'd love to tell you I know how to say Labyrinth in Darija.) Nope. I can't do any of those things because someone I THOUGHT WAS A FRIEND, SOMEONE I THOUGHT I COULD TRUST, denied me access to Labyrinth. Why would anyone want to hurt me that badly?
Now for some "On the Home Front!" updates:
-Mumus are allowed in my house. They do not violate the no-pants policy. I am currently wearing mine and don't plan to take it off until I have to go outside again. Then I will come home, check my pants at the door, and reunite with the mumu.
-I have dark brown hair now. My hair was getting really light with all the sun exposure and I made an executive decision.
-I made delicious falafel today.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
So it's wedding season
Listening to U2
This morning I woke up to a text message from a 50-year-old Moroccan midget asking for my hand in marriage. A text message. Asking for my hand. In marriage. From a 50-year-old Moroccan midget.
I had to read through it three times before I even understood what he was asking, because he had written it in Darija, phonetically spelled out using the English alphabet. Truth be told I don't understand the message word for word but the basic gist was "hi, how are you alli fine? so, important, marry me. think about it. okay sorry bye."
Um.... WHAT?
After I texted back my response ("no," in case you were curious) I got to thinking.
Fact: I am not smoking hot. I'm not saying I have one eye or a hook-hand or anything. I'm a normal-looking person. I can even look really pretty when I try hard enough. But honestly, most of the time I'm out and about in Morocco I look a few shades shittier than everyone else on the street. I'm perpetually in need of a shower, I always wear my glasses and my clothes are usually stained or torn somewhere (or both). The summer heat has helped my look immensely, because now I am wearing short-sleeve shirts more often and showing off my super-sexy watch tan.
So I'm not very attractive in Morocco. Why else could I be getting so much attention?
It can't be my personality. God knows why Andy sticks around because I spend most of my time talking to him about:
-why I hate Joss Stone, and on one occasion sending him links from google images that illustrate how heinous she is
-Admiral Ackbar
-how much it sucks wearing pants these days
The rest of the time I spend acting like a child at the Dar Chabab and getting into really emotionally-exhausting games of Speed and Egyptian War.
Seriously, the only thing attracting these men to me (when I say 'these men' I'm referring to my stalker, this-other-guy-in-my-town-that-does-nothing-but-hang-around-waiting-for-me-to-walk-by-so-he-can-hiss-at-me, a cab driver in Rabat and the midget) is the fact that I have an American passport (barely). And now I pose this question: what the hell do they expect to do in America? Buy a big house with a chicken in a pot and two cars in the garage? Magically speak English upon arrival at JFK? Sit back as all their wildest dreams come true?
I just...don't know.
This morning I woke up to a text message from a 50-year-old Moroccan midget asking for my hand in marriage. A text message. Asking for my hand. In marriage. From a 50-year-old Moroccan midget.
I had to read through it three times before I even understood what he was asking, because he had written it in Darija, phonetically spelled out using the English alphabet. Truth be told I don't understand the message word for word but the basic gist was "hi, how are you alli fine? so, important, marry me. think about it. okay sorry bye."
Um.... WHAT?
After I texted back my response ("no," in case you were curious) I got to thinking.
Fact: I am not smoking hot. I'm not saying I have one eye or a hook-hand or anything. I'm a normal-looking person. I can even look really pretty when I try hard enough. But honestly, most of the time I'm out and about in Morocco I look a few shades shittier than everyone else on the street. I'm perpetually in need of a shower, I always wear my glasses and my clothes are usually stained or torn somewhere (or both). The summer heat has helped my look immensely, because now I am wearing short-sleeve shirts more often and showing off my super-sexy watch tan.
So I'm not very attractive in Morocco. Why else could I be getting so much attention?
It can't be my personality. God knows why Andy sticks around because I spend most of my time talking to him about:
-why I hate Joss Stone, and on one occasion sending him links from google images that illustrate how heinous she is
-Admiral Ackbar
-how much it sucks wearing pants these days
The rest of the time I spend acting like a child at the Dar Chabab and getting into really emotionally-exhausting games of Speed and Egyptian War.
Seriously, the only thing attracting these men to me (when I say 'these men' I'm referring to my stalker, this-other-guy-in-my-town-that-does-nothing-but-hang-around-waiting-for-me-to-walk-by-so-he-can-hiss-at-me, a cab driver in Rabat and the midget) is the fact that I have an American passport (barely). And now I pose this question: what the hell do they expect to do in America? Buy a big house with a chicken in a pot and two cars in the garage? Magically speak English upon arrival at JFK? Sit back as all their wildest dreams come true?
I just...don't know.
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