Morocco and Me

Ugh--what's wrong with me?!

So I've been writing poetry, reading, lounging and being ok with it. And spending time with the best two gals in the world: Nasreen and Kendra.

Now that I've been here for over half my stay, things are starting to feel different. Instead of counting down, it feels more like time is running out. I can't wait to go home--I can't wait to kiss Jon, see the mountains and bike to school. But I no longer know how I can live without these two ladies in it.

I'm making plans for the future and generally doing a lot of thinking in-between stanzas and daydreams. Filling out applications, looking for supplemental work in Missoula for the summer and getting my list of classes ready for next semester at the University. It is CRAZY to think that next May I will have a BA degree.

I actually have to... do something after that.

I'm thinking of teaching English in Thailand, but will Jon come with me? What about my Grandmother Martha? I miss my mom and my family and feel this space inside thinking about making a home. But the rest says its too soon. And am I gonna get married? What about my five year high school reunion, am I even going to go? Half of my friends from high school are married or pregnant or both. The future suddenly arrived before I even knew what it was.

WHAT IS GOING ON?

Spring break in Hungary was magnificent and foggy and being with Rob reminded me of Missoula. Kendra, Nasreen and I roamed through medieval mott-and-bailey fortresses, the vampire-werewolf logged Budapest, and the gray wine capital of Eger. I think I'll let the photos speak for me on this one.

I miss you, can't think or eat (P.S. I'm vegetarian now?) and don't want to never come home.

All of this I feel at once.

Sorry for being weird, poetic and frivolous.

Hey guys, sorry I've neglected you--love you all.

But I've been studying my ass off for midterms since I got back from mid-semester break. Hungary was excellent, and I'm gonna post the pictures and blog more soon.

I just have to make it through next week first.

MISS YOU!

(Yes you.)

Fes was a whirled blend of magic slipping over zellij-tile stoops, the stench of the tanneries, a million cackling speakers streaming the Call to Prayer all the way to the upper Stratosphere, tired donkeys and horny men. Amber, the Andrews, Kendra, Emily and I all made our way to the oldest of the Imperial Cities last weekend for Valentine's--and I must say it was my favorite journey yet. So much to talk about, so many adjectives streamlining across my laptop keys like someone dropped an industrial-sized bag of skittles: I could sooner name the colors of the most wondrous sunset than define what made Fes so amazing. Maybe it was the 2500 year-old medina walls, calling us back to an ancient past, but also the past of ourselves--being in Fes was like shrinking back down to the wide-eyed curiousity of a child. Everything shines, stinks, screams in Fes--even a whisper is like a gun shot in the suburbs. I am fully convinced that magic exists--and it's home is in the Old Medina next to the Bab Boujeloud.

We all got in safely via Grande Taxi Friday night and headed to our hostel called Hotel Cascade. It was full of travellers and peace corp workers with one of the best views in all of Fes, nestled right in the heart of everything in the oldest part of the city. After dinner and a thorough expedition through the night markets full of noise, hustlers, leather, brass and food vendors we made our way back to the hotel to play cards on the roof and gaze over the city lit by thousands of fluorescent bulbs and a million stars. Peter Pan could have flown in at any moment and not broken the scene. That night AGAIN I was crying, just for how fortunate I was to be there... Happy and Sad at the same time--why don't we have a word for that?

On Saturday we went with a guide named Kalim who showed us "his city" including the places tourists never go, the oldest buildings and alleys in the country, two palaces, a museum, the famous leather tanneries and a Berber carpet shop where he served us breakfast on the roof next to an ancient man on the biggest loom I've ever seen. The two palaces were my favorite, and they truly had a transportative effect: it was very strange stepping outside of their lush sun-filled courtyards to the bustling street, like teleporting from the delicate prairie to the densest rainforest at a moment's notice. That night while the city thrummed with bright heart-shaped lights and street children peddling plastic roses for St. Valentine's we explored the Medina Jdiid or "New City" with it's high-rise buildings and discotechs and stopped to eat some Gelato.

Someone once said "People may not remember exactly what you did, or what you said, but they will always remember how you made them feel." I think the same must be said of places, because though the general overlay of Fes slipped away, like a dream, the details come back like the hard blue edges of an ice-cube, white and foggy in the center. But just the sheer joy and wonder will always remain. I can't imagine a life where I didn't go back to Fes--period.

But what I'm trying to say is I'm going insane.

During the week I am an entire different person--trying to push myself to do enough homework to get by, drag myself away from Lolcattery and actually do something with myself, moping and thinking and stewing about anything and everything back home about my life. In Ifrane, most of the time I feel like I barely exist. But during the weekend it's like the first day of Summer--where Spring throws off it's clothes and says "To hell with it--I'm going dancing." I almost never say "No," I almost never have a preference. I go with the flow, I experience, breath, smell, taste, laugh, and most of all LOOK. Spirit seeps from the Moroccan soil like ground water, lining the streets in puddles while no one but outsiders notice--but I know better. People around me complain, and I just don't notice or care. When I was motion sick and puking for six hours I finally said something. In Morocco I'm like a duck in water. Is this apathy or true change? I have no idea.

But the second I come back to AUI it all changes.

My friend (Then, acquaintance) Nasreen told me to call her last Thursday afternoon saying she needed a weird favor--and almost immediately I dialed her up. She explained to me her Dad and brothers were in Spain and she wanted to visit, but her Dad didn't want her travelling alone and she extended an invitation for me to bounce over the straight with her. I told her I didn't have any money, but she said her Dad would cover all the travel expenses, he just didn't want his baby crossing the country by herself. So Friday after Nasreen's test (And Jon wired me a little spending money, THANKS BABE) we joined our friend Natalie and hitched a cab to Meknes to try and catch the train. At first we were in a hurry, and then we could slow down, and then we had to hurry again--and so on it went until finally we were on a train to Tangier from the Grand Station in Meknes. With first class tickets in hand, we didn't really know what to expect but found a nice car with a few gentles dressed in three-piece suits and basically chatted excitedly for five hours as Morocco shot by outside our box car. I highly recommend the train as it is the most fun and fastest way to travel pans Maroc--and much smoother and safer, besides.

Once in Tangier under the stars, around 11:50 Nasreen's acquaintance Mehdi picked us up. Free is always best, and he said we could all sleep at his house--and would hear none of us staying in a hostel, like any decent Moroccan would. However, exhausted from the zipping and winding and turning of the train Mehdi was determined to show us "His city" by night and took us to some wonderful lookouts and near the biggest church and the biggest mosque... and then he started to smoke pot in the car. Now I'm not too big of a square, but I didn't know this man--and both Nasreen and Natalie neither drink nor smoke--DING DING DING---alarms were definitely going off, but through some tender negotiation we got Mehdi to take us for sandwiches and then back to his neighborhood. Mehdi pushed a button on a remote he produced from his jacket and the entire back wall of a cul-de-sac fell away to reveal a five-story marble house with giant windows, several balconies, a pool, manicured lawn and barbed wire fencing. Oh, shit.

It goes without saying that the interior of the house was just as lavish, and it was all so much to take in at first. Maybe this night wouldn't be so bad afterall, but then Mehdi started making phone calls to his little sister, Fahti. Although he sounded angry on the phone, none of us knew enough French to do anything but sit on his bed quietly, dreaming of sleep and feeling a little anxious. But when she walked in, the whole dynamic of the night changed utterly. Tears were streaming down her face tracing black from her huge brown eyes down to her designer clothes. At a daunting 5'11, this girl had 30 pounds too much to be a model, but her black hair shown and the way she carried herself in heels made me think if she smiled, people looked. But Fahti was definitely not smiling. Like a good Moroccan girl, she kissed all of our cheeks and then looked down at the floor--Mehdi told her something quietly and she looked up at him quite upset. Before she could say anything she yelled. And after a very tense exchange--where Nasreen, Natalie and I understood nothing but body language--she started to cry and walked slowly out. Mehdi smoked his joint and through the door ajar, we saw Fahti carry her pillow and blanket past us towards the downstairs living room. No way had this just happened. I immediately felt vulnerable and sick.

Confusion set in, and we told Mehdi we wanted to sleep on the couch--that Fahti should have her room. He argued, said we'd sleep in his, he'd sleep in her's--that it would all be ok. The huge house stood silent and we all stared at each other. We all walked downstairs, Mehdi aside to ask Fahti if she was OK... but she didn't speak Arabic, she'd gone to a Spanish school. Out of seemingly nowhere, Nasreen whipped out nearly fluent Spanish and we tried to see if she's alright. But every time we asked her what she wanted to do, she just trembled and looked up at Mehdi. At this point I was crying so hard I was shaking, just trying to keep it together so Mehdi wouldn't ask questions--and I was fighting the urge to vomit. Nothing inside me could take what was happening--even though the other girls were upset, they were composed. Fahti told us she didn't care, she just trembled--smoking Aviators, mascara running, sitting on the couch with her bedding in her Gucci boots, size million.

We were herded upstairs and told Mehdi we were going to bed, in his room--I couldn't take hers--and they both took care of me a minute or so. Nasreen felt so guilty, like it was her fault and asked us if she should go give Fahti a hug... and no one wanted to alone in the cold glittering house for a moment. Tiptoeing down the stairs, hoping Mehdi wouldn't notice we made our way back to Fahti. I completely lost it, seeing her cigarette ember glowing shakily in the dark. The three of us hugged, shook, smiled and resolved to all sleep in the living room. I ducked into the bathroom to wash my face as Mehdi came downstairs.

Us, now numbered four, sat defensively on the huge room-wrapped sofa under the chandlier--making some makeshift beds, trying to be calm and look chatty while Mehdi made us strawberry milkshakes. He poured us hurricane glasses from a pitcher on a silver platter before hurrying away upstairs. I guess that made it better for him.

While Natalie and Nasreen brushed their teeth in the nearby bathroom (All lace and polished granite), I held Fahti and the two of us cried. She asked me, through a thick accent--"Why are you crying?"

I told her I didn't know.

Falling asleep the night, I looked up from the plush couch cushions through the window and up at the brilliant stars in the sky. From my vantage I could see the concrete security walls lined with broken glass and barbed wire... cold black iron guards over the enormous window above the couch. It suddenly occurred to me I was in the most beautiful prison in Tangier. Sometime that night I slept.

Time for an update--but really, this week has been very slow, and not much to report.

Today was my first day without using my cane (YAY!) which was awesome in it's own right, but the past few days have been a complete drag. I guess it's just the winter-thing, and me being my seasonally-affected self, but it's all I can do to stay awake and/or drag myself out of bed during the day. And I can't seem to get a good night's rest either. My solution? Tea. Or least I'm giving it a shot. Chamomile in the evening and caffeinated in the morning. We'll give it a shot and see how it goes I guess. Here's hoping the sun is here to stay!

I always found the idea of rhetorical questions on a blog kind of weird, especially when they're to the audience. It's like in film when they break the 4th wall and you're left feeling all uncomfortable... But how the hell are you? Seriously, I've just been talking up a storm to everyone back home through email, Skype, and the new and improved voice-chat called Oovoo. Seriously, at the right time of day for me Oovoo works like a DREAM! All of you should download it from Oovoo.com and give me a call--I miss you!

This is such a boring post, but homework is going well I suppose--when I can get myself to do it. I'm kind of concerned that this lack of motivation might be with college in general instead of me being in Morocco. Here's to hoping I can make it through another year..

But on an interesting note that is actually interesting--I wrote a five page short-story today, start to finish in one sitting: I LOVED IT. True, it was only Fan-Fiction, but I felt the end product was at least decent... and I haven't written like that since middle school. I vaguely remember loving to write short stories in middle school, and whenever I had a school project done, I always asked the teacher if I could get creative. I even remember one time in a Geography class in seventh grade--we all had to make up our own country. Draw different maps (Topical, environmental, political, etc) come up with stats for our countries, mottos, draw a flag. Pretty much the whole-shebang. Then we had a side-project we had to complete from a list of choices. Most of the kids picked stuff like getting an eccentric costume and giving a presentation on the traditional dress, or cooking something to be a traditional food.

You know what I did? A 26-page diary of the first explorers who landed on the island as written by a woman passenger named Gabriella from Spain. She was first marooned on the island, and her accounts described the clothing, customs, her own family at home and how much she missed them. Gradually, however, she began to resent her life at home, devoted to husband and church gradually forsaking Spanish life altogether. Sealing her journal with a final entry telling her children she loved them and she was sorry, she reveals she is getting married to a native man and loves her new life of freedom. Anne Frank eat your heart out. I was overly imaginative and dramatic, what can I say?

My teacher was shocked and impressed--although I'm sure she was more impressed by my initiative than my writing. 0_o

Hahahahahaha... I still have a crazy melodramatic imagination, but when I was younger it was funnier.

P.S. Going to Fes this weekend--hope I have enough money!