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!
Sunday, June 20, 2010
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.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
i give you a flow chart
Way too much of my time over the last few weeks has been spent discussing what this chart might look like.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
I ain't steppin outta shit all my papers legit
you'd think i'm listening to something really hardcore based on that GANGSTA RAP title (represent. i don't know what i'm talking about.) but to be honest it's a Neil Diamond kind of morning (early afternoon).
This is going to be a long one...I decided to type up scribblings from my 16 hour vacation in the Casablanca airport, then I have ALL SORTS of fun facts to share about my romp through Europe.
For those of you who have no patience for my writing style, I give you something that those of us in the Biz call a "teaser:" A CRIME WAS COMMITTED IN MADRID. Who dunnit? Was he (OR SHE) apprehended? Do I still have all my limbs? Where are my pants?
This section dates from 13/05/2010:
My flight leaves at 9:15 am tomorrow and I decided I was too stingy to pay for a hotel room. Who needs it? I'm a hard-core, burly PCV. I wear flannel and am best known as the spokesperson for Bounty paper towels. I sleep all night and I work all day.
Correction: I am a small white girl who has a pretty sweet set-up in Morocco (one of my main complaints is being "too loved") and as I curl up on the bench to write this I pull my hood over my head to look less friendly. Too bad my hoodie is white with bright green stripes, has big festive buttons and flairs out jauntily.
Note to self: start dressing like an adult.
What was I talking about? Well whatever. So I'm at the airport for another 7 hours or so until I can check in, then another two hours before I am airborne. You know, like a disease. Next stop: Barcelona.
So far, mixed feelings about this airport. I like how easy it was to get here (taxi to Rabat. Train to Casablanca. Only one transfer.) and it's a spectacular place for people watching.
However. I paid 40 Dh for a cheese, lettuce and tomato sandwich. And the sandwich was not served politely at all. I get so used to small town hospitality that when people in cities are rude it's really shocking.
General thoughts on the trip ahead: Very excited. It will be weird to not hear Darija everywhere, but I am in desperate need of a break from PCV life. I love my job but when I get burned out like this I can't do it properly.
-Time check: 4:51 am
I dozed about 2 hours, then the cafe re-opened. Whoop! Now sitting in cafe, blasting Jesus Christ Superstar in my headphones, fighting the urge to break free in song and sipping coffeeeeee.
7:20 am
Holy shit, I almost just crapped my pants. They almost didn't let me through security because I don't have a carte sejour yet, just the receipt for it. Like, seriously I think the only reason I was allowed to go was that the security guy felt bad for the little American who mysteriously speaks Darija. I had to buy a Moroccan crepe to make myself feel better.
Okay so that's all I got in my scribble pad. Now for a brief account of the trip.
Barcelona:
Andy was nauseated in the airport when he met me at the exit. How flattering. He liked his gifty though (A Raja jersey, one of the Moroccan club football teams). And he brought me some baller stuff, too. SOUR PATCH WATERMELONS. ONE OF MY CALVIN AND HOBBES BOOKS. TRAVEL-SIZED CONTACT SOLUTION (it ended up being the wrong thing and almost burned a gaping, smoky hole in my eye, but it's the thought that counts.) A BALLET DVD because all I do is whine about how I miss taking class.
Our apartment was awesome. Nuff said.
We got to watch a Barcelona game in Barcelona, which was pretty ridiculous. We went to this bar called Dow Jones, where the price of drinks rises and falls based on demand. For those of you who don't know me well, I find economics incredibly stressful and confusing beyond the most basic supply and demand graph, but I still had a lot of fun.
Berlin:
Um, hello beer towers and currywurst. I'm not really sure how I survived 23 years without you.
The proprietor of our apartment was kind of a dick...he was mad at us for being late, but it's not like it was any of our faults that the EasyJet crew was convinced there was a terrorist on our flight and our departure was delayed by like an hour.
Some fun bars...a few we went to were:
Flo- only stayed for like 5 minutes because it was pretty empty, but in my short time there a song that sampled "The Dance of the Knights" from the Prokofiev version of Romeo and Juliet, immediately followed by a Lou Reed song. Um, hi, welcome to my brain.
Studio 54- I imagine it wasn't much like the ACTUAL Studio 54, unless the ACTUAL Studio 54 was about the size of my house, had a backyard patio and a DJ playing fantastic mix of 90s and early 2000s rap. But whatever, I had a good time and got my awkward groove on.
This Other Bar- It was furnished with thrift store furniture and Pretentions British Actors Talking About Acting (PBATAAs). There was a functional door, but most people preferred to enter the bar through an open window.
Madrid
RIP wallet and passport. WOKKA WOKKA WOKKA. (This is the crime I referred to earlier. Less interesting than a story that involves he/she criminals who may or may not have been caught and situations involving the loss of body parts and pants, but let me assure you it was a traumatic experience.)
More interestingly, the Munich-Inter Milan game was really fun to watch and the city was totally nuts with Italians and Germans running around everywhere in Blue and Red, respectively.
Our hostel was a pretty big flop--the reservation was for a room with a double bed and shared bathroom and we ended up with a room, slightly smaller than the last place I lived in in DC (my room was a modified kitchen pantry with no lock), with two twin beds and access to a bathroom wayyyy down the hall.
There was also a bit of a club fail. Turns out I'm pretty lame. I finally got around to wearng my Cute Dress for Going Out but spent the majority of my time in it stuffing my face with a ham sandwich, hanging around waiting for other people to get ready, wandering around a Madrid neighborhood then going home after a few glasses of sangria with absolutely no desire to club it.
I experienced culture shock at a fancy restaurant. A mix of not having any money (remember my wallet was stolen), not understanding the menu, not being dressed accordingly, not having been in a nice restaurant for 9 months and getting stressed out by the high-tech hand dryer in the bathroom led to me kind of shutting down and staring at my plate most of dinner.
I had to wait until Monday (same day as my flight back to Morocco) to get my emergency passport because of the Embassy's hours. The American Embassy is not a fun place to be, by the way. The only person who was remotely friendly turned out to be an RPCV from Burkina Faso, go figure.
Okay so that's my vacation in a nutshell... I got home okay, have enough money to hold me over 'til I can get a new bank card and my paperwork for a new passport is coming together. It's good to be back.
This is going to be a long one...I decided to type up scribblings from my 16 hour vacation in the Casablanca airport, then I have ALL SORTS of fun facts to share about my romp through Europe.
For those of you who have no patience for my writing style, I give you something that those of us in the Biz call a "teaser:" A CRIME WAS COMMITTED IN MADRID. Who dunnit? Was he (OR SHE) apprehended? Do I still have all my limbs? Where are my pants?
This section dates from 13/05/2010:
My flight leaves at 9:15 am tomorrow and I decided I was too stingy to pay for a hotel room. Who needs it? I'm a hard-core, burly PCV. I wear flannel and am best known as the spokesperson for Bounty paper towels. I sleep all night and I work all day.
Correction: I am a small white girl who has a pretty sweet set-up in Morocco (one of my main complaints is being "too loved") and as I curl up on the bench to write this I pull my hood over my head to look less friendly. Too bad my hoodie is white with bright green stripes, has big festive buttons and flairs out jauntily.
Note to self: start dressing like an adult.
What was I talking about? Well whatever. So I'm at the airport for another 7 hours or so until I can check in, then another two hours before I am airborne. You know, like a disease. Next stop: Barcelona.
So far, mixed feelings about this airport. I like how easy it was to get here (taxi to Rabat. Train to Casablanca. Only one transfer.) and it's a spectacular place for people watching.
However. I paid 40 Dh for a cheese, lettuce and tomato sandwich. And the sandwich was not served politely at all. I get so used to small town hospitality that when people in cities are rude it's really shocking.
General thoughts on the trip ahead: Very excited. It will be weird to not hear Darija everywhere, but I am in desperate need of a break from PCV life. I love my job but when I get burned out like this I can't do it properly.
-Time check: 4:51 am
I dozed about 2 hours, then the cafe re-opened. Whoop! Now sitting in cafe, blasting Jesus Christ Superstar in my headphones, fighting the urge to break free in song and sipping coffeeeeee.
7:20 am
Holy shit, I almost just crapped my pants. They almost didn't let me through security because I don't have a carte sejour yet, just the receipt for it. Like, seriously I think the only reason I was allowed to go was that the security guy felt bad for the little American who mysteriously speaks Darija. I had to buy a Moroccan crepe to make myself feel better.
Okay so that's all I got in my scribble pad. Now for a brief account of the trip.
Barcelona:
Andy was nauseated in the airport when he met me at the exit. How flattering. He liked his gifty though (A Raja jersey, one of the Moroccan club football teams). And he brought me some baller stuff, too. SOUR PATCH WATERMELONS. ONE OF MY CALVIN AND HOBBES BOOKS. TRAVEL-SIZED CONTACT SOLUTION (it ended up being the wrong thing and almost burned a gaping, smoky hole in my eye, but it's the thought that counts.) A BALLET DVD because all I do is whine about how I miss taking class.
Our apartment was awesome. Nuff said.
We got to watch a Barcelona game in Barcelona, which was pretty ridiculous. We went to this bar called Dow Jones, where the price of drinks rises and falls based on demand. For those of you who don't know me well, I find economics incredibly stressful and confusing beyond the most basic supply and demand graph, but I still had a lot of fun.
Berlin:
Um, hello beer towers and currywurst. I'm not really sure how I survived 23 years without you.
The proprietor of our apartment was kind of a dick...he was mad at us for being late, but it's not like it was any of our faults that the EasyJet crew was convinced there was a terrorist on our flight and our departure was delayed by like an hour.
Some fun bars...a few we went to were:
Flo- only stayed for like 5 minutes because it was pretty empty, but in my short time there a song that sampled "The Dance of the Knights" from the Prokofiev version of Romeo and Juliet, immediately followed by a Lou Reed song. Um, hi, welcome to my brain.
Studio 54- I imagine it wasn't much like the ACTUAL Studio 54, unless the ACTUAL Studio 54 was about the size of my house, had a backyard patio and a DJ playing fantastic mix of 90s and early 2000s rap. But whatever, I had a good time and got my awkward groove on.
This Other Bar- It was furnished with thrift store furniture and Pretentions British Actors Talking About Acting (PBATAAs). There was a functional door, but most people preferred to enter the bar through an open window.
Madrid
RIP wallet and passport. WOKKA WOKKA WOKKA. (This is the crime I referred to earlier. Less interesting than a story that involves he/she criminals who may or may not have been caught and situations involving the loss of body parts and pants, but let me assure you it was a traumatic experience.)
More interestingly, the Munich-Inter Milan game was really fun to watch and the city was totally nuts with Italians and Germans running around everywhere in Blue and Red, respectively.
Our hostel was a pretty big flop--the reservation was for a room with a double bed and shared bathroom and we ended up with a room, slightly smaller than the last place I lived in in DC (my room was a modified kitchen pantry with no lock), with two twin beds and access to a bathroom wayyyy down the hall.
There was also a bit of a club fail. Turns out I'm pretty lame. I finally got around to wearng my Cute Dress for Going Out but spent the majority of my time in it stuffing my face with a ham sandwich, hanging around waiting for other people to get ready, wandering around a Madrid neighborhood then going home after a few glasses of sangria with absolutely no desire to club it.
I experienced culture shock at a fancy restaurant. A mix of not having any money (remember my wallet was stolen), not understanding the menu, not being dressed accordingly, not having been in a nice restaurant for 9 months and getting stressed out by the high-tech hand dryer in the bathroom led to me kind of shutting down and staring at my plate most of dinner.
I had to wait until Monday (same day as my flight back to Morocco) to get my emergency passport because of the Embassy's hours. The American Embassy is not a fun place to be, by the way. The only person who was remotely friendly turned out to be an RPCV from Burkina Faso, go figure.
Okay so that's my vacation in a nutshell... I got home okay, have enough money to hold me over 'til I can get a new bank card and my paperwork for a new passport is coming together. It's good to be back.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
new time, old time and packages
listening to "stand by me" by john lennon
Daylight Savings Time stresses me out. It stressed me out in America, where people heed it, and it stresses me out in Morocco, where people heed it if it suits them. Here I feel like going by "new time" or "old time" depends on how late you are. Or maybe it depends on which hour will be less convenient for me at any given moment.
For example, on Saturday I threw a party for the kids that participated in the Reading Race. It was set at 4:30. I showed up at 3:30 to make sure the venue was all arranged, and found that about five kids were there waiting to be let in. It seemed really weird because I was actually expecting everyone to start showing up around 4:45 or 5:00...but just figured it was some new aspect of Moroccan culture I don't understand.
I greeted everyone and remarked that they must be excited to have shown up an hour early, and they all gave me these "oh, you" looks then informed me they were going by "new time."
Great, no that's cool. Just hang out and be obnoxious for an hour while I try and set up THIS PARTY I WORKED SO HARD TO ORGANIZE FOR YOU. No you CAN'T HAVE A COOKIE YET.
Of course, Daylight Savings wasn't supposed to start until Sunday morning at midnight, but whatever.
The next day (when daylight savings actually went into effect) I woke up nervous. I had changed all my clocks before going to bed, but upon awakening I couldn't remember FOR SURE if I had changed them or not. It LOOKED like 8:00 am, but how could I be sure? The street was still quiet...then again it was Sunday.
When I showed up to Dar Chabab, things went about as I expected them to. One kid was there at 10:00 and the rest trickled in after 11, shocked I was using "new time." Their chess club leader never showed up at all, even though I had seen him the day before (his wife and I had tea) and asked him TO HIS FACE if he'd be there Sunday. I'm assuming the stress of changing all his clocks led to some sort of breakdown and he needed "me-time" (he-time?).
My question is this: if you are going to bother to implement Daylight Savings Time, and everyone seems to know it exists (everyone always asks if you are going by "new time" or "old time") then WHY DOESN'T EVERYONE JUST USE NEW TIME. Or do away with DST and always use old time. Whatever, I don't care. Just pick one and send me an SMS. I'll be at home, pantsless, watching episodes of Glee.
Haha...I just got a mental image of important people having a huge round table meeting and just going back and forth about "what are we going to do with this new-fangled time business?" "well I think it's trouble. it doesn't make sense." "actually it kind of does...Benjamin Franklin--" "--I DON'T KNOW WHO THAT IS." and so forth.
And now: Mondays just got better.
I've had a care package stuck in customs in Rabat for awhile, and I decided that since I have Monday off, I would go out there Monday morning and see what's what. Maybe crack some skulls, if needed.
I wasn't super-psyched to go to Rabat on Monday, because, to be honest, I wasn't sure I'd still be able to get in a ton of doing nothing with no pants* on in my house. However, I am a responsible adult and I said to myself I said "Hey you! Roll up those shirt sleeves, eat your nutritious breakfast (four bowls of Wheaties and 12 egg yolks) and ease on down the road!"
If I had time right now I would link you to a youtube video of Diana Ross and Michael Jackson singing "Ease on Down the Road," but I don't. I do urge you to research this on your own time because it's the stuff jive dreams are made of.
My goodness am I glad I did (go to Rabat...I'm also glad I youtubed "Ease on Down the Road", though). Sure I had to pay an obscene amount of money at customs, an amount that forced me to leave, go to the atm, and come back. But my mom sent me nail polish! And a really cute dress! And new jeans! And saline solution! And Earl Grey tea for those days where I feel too classy for my instant coffee (rare, but treasured, days are these). Plus, by some lucky twist of fate I didn't have to wait for a really long time and ended up being out the door, package in hand, by 11 am, conveniently in front of one of my favorite spots in Rabat. There is a big swanky hotel across from Parliament and it has an outdoor cafe perfect for sitting around, drinking over-priced coffee and not being bothered by anyone. Then you can pop over to the art supply store around the corner and drool over all kinds of cool markers and pens. This is my life.
I made a really delicious salad for lunch today. It came from my handy Peace Corps cookbook and I am going to post the recipe here:
You need:
4 T olive oil
3 med apples, cored and quartered
2 green peppers, seeded and diced
salt and pepper
2 T parsley
2 garlic cloves, crushed
1 med onion, finely sliced
4 med tomatoes, quartered
juice of 1 lemon
2 T mint, finely chopped
Heat oil in large frying pan and add garlic, apples, onion and peppers. Fry until lightly browned. Add tomatoes and heat through. Season to taste with salt and pepper; then pour into serving bowl. Arrange neatly and leave cool. Sprinkle with lemon juice and fresh herbs; serve.
Um, party in my mouth.
*The No-Pants Policy is still in effect, but at the moment it is no longer mandatory. Reasons include:
1. I may have over-reacted because
2. it's actually not that hot out
3. I think I was just having trouble adapting.
4. It's like my first semester of college when Emma and I experienced "fall" for the first time and it reduced us to whiny, crying brats rolling around on her dorm bed wearing seventy layers of clothing.
Daylight Savings Time stresses me out. It stressed me out in America, where people heed it, and it stresses me out in Morocco, where people heed it if it suits them. Here I feel like going by "new time" or "old time" depends on how late you are. Or maybe it depends on which hour will be less convenient for me at any given moment.
For example, on Saturday I threw a party for the kids that participated in the Reading Race. It was set at 4:30. I showed up at 3:30 to make sure the venue was all arranged, and found that about five kids were there waiting to be let in. It seemed really weird because I was actually expecting everyone to start showing up around 4:45 or 5:00...but just figured it was some new aspect of Moroccan culture I don't understand.
I greeted everyone and remarked that they must be excited to have shown up an hour early, and they all gave me these "oh, you" looks then informed me they were going by "new time."
Great, no that's cool. Just hang out and be obnoxious for an hour while I try and set up THIS PARTY I WORKED SO HARD TO ORGANIZE FOR YOU. No you CAN'T HAVE A COOKIE YET.
Of course, Daylight Savings wasn't supposed to start until Sunday morning at midnight, but whatever.
The next day (when daylight savings actually went into effect) I woke up nervous. I had changed all my clocks before going to bed, but upon awakening I couldn't remember FOR SURE if I had changed them or not. It LOOKED like 8:00 am, but how could I be sure? The street was still quiet...then again it was Sunday.
When I showed up to Dar Chabab, things went about as I expected them to. One kid was there at 10:00 and the rest trickled in after 11, shocked I was using "new time." Their chess club leader never showed up at all, even though I had seen him the day before (his wife and I had tea) and asked him TO HIS FACE if he'd be there Sunday. I'm assuming the stress of changing all his clocks led to some sort of breakdown and he needed "me-time" (he-time?).
My question is this: if you are going to bother to implement Daylight Savings Time, and everyone seems to know it exists (everyone always asks if you are going by "new time" or "old time") then WHY DOESN'T EVERYONE JUST USE NEW TIME. Or do away with DST and always use old time. Whatever, I don't care. Just pick one and send me an SMS. I'll be at home, pantsless, watching episodes of Glee.
Haha...I just got a mental image of important people having a huge round table meeting and just going back and forth about "what are we going to do with this new-fangled time business?" "well I think it's trouble. it doesn't make sense." "actually it kind of does...Benjamin Franklin--" "--I DON'T KNOW WHO THAT IS." and so forth.
And now: Mondays just got better.
I've had a care package stuck in customs in Rabat for awhile, and I decided that since I have Monday off, I would go out there Monday morning and see what's what. Maybe crack some skulls, if needed.
I wasn't super-psyched to go to Rabat on Monday, because, to be honest, I wasn't sure I'd still be able to get in a ton of doing nothing with no pants* on in my house. However, I am a responsible adult and I said to myself I said "Hey you! Roll up those shirt sleeves, eat your nutritious breakfast (four bowls of Wheaties and 12 egg yolks) and ease on down the road!"
If I had time right now I would link you to a youtube video of Diana Ross and Michael Jackson singing "Ease on Down the Road," but I don't. I do urge you to research this on your own time because it's the stuff jive dreams are made of.
My goodness am I glad I did (go to Rabat...I'm also glad I youtubed "Ease on Down the Road", though). Sure I had to pay an obscene amount of money at customs, an amount that forced me to leave, go to the atm, and come back. But my mom sent me nail polish! And a really cute dress! And new jeans! And saline solution! And Earl Grey tea for those days where I feel too classy for my instant coffee (rare, but treasured, days are these). Plus, by some lucky twist of fate I didn't have to wait for a really long time and ended up being out the door, package in hand, by 11 am, conveniently in front of one of my favorite spots in Rabat. There is a big swanky hotel across from Parliament and it has an outdoor cafe perfect for sitting around, drinking over-priced coffee and not being bothered by anyone. Then you can pop over to the art supply store around the corner and drool over all kinds of cool markers and pens. This is my life.
I made a really delicious salad for lunch today. It came from my handy Peace Corps cookbook and I am going to post the recipe here:
You need:
4 T olive oil
3 med apples, cored and quartered
2 green peppers, seeded and diced
salt and pepper
2 T parsley
2 garlic cloves, crushed
1 med onion, finely sliced
4 med tomatoes, quartered
juice of 1 lemon
2 T mint, finely chopped
Heat oil in large frying pan and add garlic, apples, onion and peppers. Fry until lightly browned. Add tomatoes and heat through. Season to taste with salt and pepper; then pour into serving bowl. Arrange neatly and leave cool. Sprinkle with lemon juice and fresh herbs; serve.
Um, party in my mouth.
*The No-Pants Policy is still in effect, but at the moment it is no longer mandatory. Reasons include:
1. I may have over-reacted because
2. it's actually not that hot out
3. I think I was just having trouble adapting.
4. It's like my first semester of college when Emma and I experienced "fall" for the first time and it reduced us to whiny, crying brats rolling around on her dorm bed wearing seventy layers of clothing.
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