Winter in Morocco

It's not even winter. Winter doesn't start officially until December 21. I know this because it's my birthday. The shortest day of the year. And while it's often cold in Ohio around this time of year, there are many places one can go to get warm, like inside of a house, a cafe, a movie theatre. Not in Morocco. Not in the house. Not in the shower. Sometimes under the covers and countless blankets. But usually, you can see your breath inside and outside of any and all structures. This is my biggest complaint about Morocco. I would go so far as to say I hate it. I hate being cold. I hate waking up and not wanting to get out of bed because I'll be cold. I hate taking naps in the afternoon because it's cold. GRRR cold!

But there is one place where one finds warmth. A Hammam. This is a gorgeous cultural experience here in Morocco, and if you ever have the chance, you should try it. It's a foreign idea to us western women, stripping off our clothes, bathing bear-breasted with one another. But it's so warm in there. It's the most wonderful haven from the outside world. I'm not sure if I shared this experience with you before or not, but it's amazing. And I look forward to bringing my visitors to the hammam while they're here- mostly so they forget the misery of the weather. I apologize, I'm really down on that today.

On another note- school is almost over. A week from today I'm leaving for a few weeks- visiting a friend in London and exploring Istanbul and Venice. Thank goodness I'll have a recharge outside of the country. I need a change of pace, central heating, english?

I really miss the twinkly lights that are surely up for the holidays right now. I miss eggnog lattes, christmas trees, fireplaces, and hot showers. Enjoy those things a little extra for me.

B'salama

Megan

breakdown, sad animals, yet on the brink of sheer bliss.

Tonight is the night. I'm sitting on a Moroccan style couch, watching CNN, waiting for the results of the 2008 election. This will, as I'm sure you all know, change the path of our country. It will change the way we're perceived as Americans internationally-- and most pertinently for the moment, it will change the way my friends and I are seen as Americans in Morocco starting tomorrow. For the past three months, living in Morocco, 10 times out of 10 I'm given hugs and thumbs up for supporting Obama. Most people here don't even know who "that other guy," McCain, is. If only the whole world had a ballot, it would be unianimous.

Ilhamdallah, all the other students here are pro-Obama. What does that say about the reality of the situation in the US? Well, if you ask me, it says that well-travelled, highly educated, intelligent, loving, yet highly critical of politicians in general. And yes, we have all come to the conclusion that Obama will take our country in a much better direction than McCain will take us in.

This... is BIG. Starting tomorrow- to be an American will be different. For my future, the future of my peers, my parents, my children... I truly hope that Obama will be the next president of the United States of America. Enshallah.

So, on to the title of this entry: BREAKDOWN. Now, don't get scared. I'm just coming to a point here- ya know, the point of breakdown. This is to say nothing about things here. I think I need moments like these sometimes; they could just be called moments to recharge. Today, it came to crying in class. I was crying, at surface level, because I was struggling to pronounce the words that I had written myself (granted, vowels aren't written in Arabic script and these were words that I just learned). But, it wasn't the day that I could tolerate those little mistakes and being corrected. So I cried, just a few small tears. But, it was good. Then I journaled a bit, realized how much I miss having my friends available to call whenever I want, and then just let it go- or attempted to as best I could.

What warms my heart is that I have such beautiful friends here and I have two immensely cute, super friendly kittens at home who love to snuggle. There is far more to be happy and grateful for in this moment than there is to be critical or negative about. I love this country and my experiences herein.

But on the animal note, the way in which animals are treated in this city is truly frightening. Today, on the old city streets, I was fighting the urge to vomit and or cry as I saw a pained horse standing near by: he had several open wounds on his legs, he was carrying at least 100lbs on it's back, and it's eye was dripping with puss. My eyes are welling up just thinking about it. Now, I've come to know in my travels that it's impossible to talk about this reality as the fault of the citizens. "It's not right, it's not wrong, it's just different" (Thank you AFS). But, it's still a question I find perplexing. There, on the street, there was this subconscious desire to grab the horses owner by the shoulders and slap him across the face. But there is the practical side that tells me not to do it, that it would make no difference. And this question is a lot bigger than the state of care for Animals in the Fez medina. These things come about when crossing cultures, so what does one do? This is, of course, a big question-- perhaps even unanswerable. Wa... hakatha.

So, this is "breakdown" and "sad" but pending the election results, live tomorrow could be sheer bliss. Enshallah, Obama will bring America (and the rest of the world) to a state of greater peace, stability, and hope.

B'salama.

A Little Bit of Everything

The past few weeks have been a potluck of experiences. I'm quite proud of myself for that metaphor. Ya know when you go to a pot luck dinner, only one dish is within your control. When you get there, you find all sorts of goodies, but some of them aren't so good. The thing is though, usually, you find plenty of scrumptious dishes that it evens out to be a wonderful experience. Ok, enough of the metaphor.

In the weeks following the trip to Chefchauoen, I have:

Been to the desert
Nearly died in flash flooding
Had a first kiss with a wonderful guy atop moonlit sand dunes
Wittnessed a medical emergency
Adopted a kitten, Noodle
Fell down a flight of marble stairs, causing immense pain in my right hip that continues today, a week later
Recieved additional funding for my stay here- meaning I'll be here through June
Found out my parents and best friend are coming to visit
Took multiple tests (the final is today)
Got "married" ie bought a wedding ring so the ravenous men here will leave me alone
Moved out of my old house (and will move in to a beautiful refurbished space next Tuesday)

Now on Friday, we leave for Spain. I love Morocco. I love my friends here. And I love seeing my progress in Arabic.

B'Salama

Mint Tea

Wednesday of last week was Eid, the holiday celebrating the end of Ramadan. So, we had this huge break. We only went to school on Monday and Tuesday and then had a five day weekend. For me, this has had both positives and negatives. I've found that I'm really bad at getting back into the swing of school after such sparing school attendance. I tend to get antsy in class now, and a little crazy. But, I think I provide some entertainment- for my teachers and classmates both. So, I don't think I'm too much of a disturbance. What's really unfortunate is that our class schedule has changed as well, and most days we have class for four hours in a row with no break, and we're at school and in a classroom until dark. Yikes.

But, there were good tidings of this vacation as well. My roommate, Liz, and my other friend George went to Chefchouen for the weekend. For those of you not familiar with Moroccan geography (and assuming that's quite a few because I don't really know it either) it's about four hours away from me on a bus, generally north of where I am in Fes. The bus ride there took as through curvy roads and into the Rif mountains. It's a beautiful trip. But even more beautiful is this quaint town of 40,000. Nestled amidst the valleys of the mountains, Chefchouen is full of white washed houses- and for some reason they paint the pathways between the houses a pale, cauliflower blue. It gives off the feel of an ocean town, but there is no water in sight.

Our first day there, we settled into our hotel (which cost a total of $20 a night for three people in a perfect 3 person room), we took a "pleasant walk" up to the ruins of an old spanish mosque. There, we met two guys from England, Harry and Tom (and for those of you who know my style back in the states, you know that us meeting them was totally thanks to me considering I'm willing to embarrass myself and talk to strangers- when appropriate of course). We ended up spending the rest of the weekend with them, and they showed us a truly pleasent way of walking back from the mosque as our first route was actually somewhat grueling.

We spent our days there drinking mint tea, eating wonderful hot meals, and talking. But the highlight of the trip- for me at least- was our Saturday hike up into the mountains surrounding the city. We hiked about 2 hours out and then returned. For me, this is a big deal because my fear of heights used to be something that completely inhibited me from participating in anything that involved a general upwards direction. But, I was able to conquer my fears partially when I was tricked into climbing a mountain in Argentina, and I couldn't be more grateful that I have maintained a determination to resist that fear. The views from the top were spectacular. If you ever find yourself in Morocco, this would honestly my number one recommendation as of October 10, 2008.

On Monday, we were back to school. I've been hanging out a lot with people at school, and sharing meals with them often. It's nice to be constantly eating with other people here- I tended towards loner meals back in the states. I just found that everyone was running on their own busy schedule, and here, everything is quite leisurely. I can't lie, most of our food comes in the form of a tagine, which I thought I would get sick of. But now that the weather is getting colder, I think I'll continue to be very appreciative of the warmth of a tagine and a good bowl of harira (traditional Moroccan soup). I've had this relationship with most of the food here- when I first got here, I thought I would die eating tagines and harira and drinking mint tea for a year. But, I've found that all these things have grown on me- I even crave a cup of mint tea occasionally. Watch out, I may just become more Moroccan that I bargained for.

B'Salama

Mind Your Language

I haven't mentioned too much about the language here in Morocco. I think a large part of me is trying to ignore the fact that I don't speak it. Now, you might think I'm referring to Arabic. And then you'd say that I'm being hard on myself, that I've studied it for over a year and of course I can have some basic conversations. But then, I'd tell you that unfortunately, you are mistaken. It is not Arabic that my fellows speak here in Morocco. It is a whole new animal.

The language in Morocco is referred to as Darija (and in addition to that, there are 4 Berber dialects that are spoken in various regions, and pretty drastic regional differences within Darija itself). People warned me of this when I was back in the states, in fact I was prepared to use French to get along for a while before I picked it up. But a note to those who have Morocco in their future: Darija is not something that one simply picks up. In my opinion, it is related to Fusha in about the same way that French and Spanish are relatives. I wasn't prepared to learn a whole new set of conjugations, vocabulary, etc. And I most certainly was not prepared to be critisized for my inability to speak Darija. Alas, I am. And I plan to set out on a Darija adventure for the next six week session starting in late October- that is, if all goes according to plan.

Tonight, my roommates and I are planning a Mid-East Feast complete with Hummus, Falafel, and Mojadara. I was one of the sorry souls that was under the impression that some of these foods would be readily avaliable in Morocco. Yet again, however, I was mistaken. The cuisine here is nothing like the fresh, green, cool, healthy wonder-food that hails from the Middle East. The food here is heavy, over-cooked, tomato-based, greasy, and sweet. People here have not yet gotten word of the benefits of the Mediterranean diet, or of the hazards of consuming 2,000g of sugar on the daily (hence, obesity and diabetes are on the rise, and people teeth aren't so hot here either). And to my surprise, Middle Eastern foods are much more avaliable in Columbus, Ohio than they are here in Fez. Apparently there is a Syrian restaurant in the capitol, Rabat, but it's also fairly pricey. Oh how I miss Aladdin's and their scrumptious vegetarian combo...

But anyways, tonight we're creating our own. The chickpeas soaked for a good 2 days, and now they've started their 2 hour boiling stint. We may not be successful in finding tahini- we haven't been so far. But there are plenty of recipes for tahini-free hummus online. Liz, my wonderful roommate with just as much love for Middle Eastern cuisine, has mastered the preparation of Falafel- which I'm very much looking forward too (although I'll miss the tahini yogurt dressing I get from Aladdin's- Can you tell I'm kinda over the food here much? How about I list all the other things I miss... no, I won't bore you with that). And Mojadara, for those of you who haven't had the pleasure of indulging in this Palestinian treat, is a lentil dish garnished with caramelized onions. Yum-City, as Mr. Bertolino would say.

I'll have to let you know how it goes. This is our first collective stint with rejuvinating dry chick peas. At first, none of us knew that you had to boil them. Thank God for the internet and all sorts of crazy cooking websites. In our past experiences with dinner parties, more people than expected always show up- but we're planning for it this time. Our house is ideal for entertaining...

Cheers

Sometimes, I'm Spanish.

I've commented before on the amount of people that will talk/holler at me when I'm walking down the street. It's incredible. But I don't think I mentioned the ethnicity game these young men play, it's quite interesting. Sometimes, I'm Spanish. Most times, I'm French. And many times, I'm English/American/"Hello Beautiful." My roommate and I both find this interesting, and we've been trying to come up with the reasoning behind their guess. We've decided that it must be based on the clothing one sports on a particular day. We've deduced that skinny jeans, colorful scarfs, and crazy tennis shoes= Spanish. We think flip flops and sandals tip them off to our Americanness. And there is a general assumption that all tourists here are French. Which I am not. I do not like being spoken to in French, AT ALL. Are you listening Morocco?

Most times I'm hollered at, I roll my eyes, look down at the ground, and start walking a little faster. I think these boys must smell my discomfort, and thus they talk to me more than the average bear. I also have this blondish hair that's growing in- natural for the first time in quite a while. But au naturale is not helping me here, in fact, it's probably a strike against me. But, I must admit that at times, the comments I get and the situations I manage to find myself in on the streets can be quite amusing.

Yesterday, I went grocery shopping around 5pm. Since I've been taking Darija tutoring, I'm trying to have all my communications in Darija, especially simple ones like at the produce and meat stands. So, I had already donned my Darija cap before leaving the house. As soon as I started towards the produce stands, an obnoxious moroccan young man came up beside me: "Sister, sister, you must go to the right- that is the main direction." I turned around and glared. But he continued, and he was spitting at me with each of his words. I just charged on, like a fish swimming up stream, figuring I'd lose him when it was obvious that I was interested in the produce section, not the tourist one. But 30 seconds later, on the other side of the mob, he's still behind me, just as obnoxious and authoritative. You see, he knew where I meant to go. Newsflash: No he Didn't. So, I turned around, looked him right in the eye, reminded my self of my Darija hat, and said: "Hey, Seer- Askun hunna (meaning: Hey, Go Away! I live here!)." His eyes bugged out a bit, his goofy grotesque grin faded, he muttered an OK, and left me. I was beaming. Take that you Mushharreebs (trouble makers). I am no longer Megan from Amreeka and I will no longer take your shit. I am Mariam, I live here- back up off.

A few nights ago, some friends and I went to this Eurotrash cafe that just opened up in the middle of the old city. It's a pretty rediculous place, and not one that I could see myself frequenting in the states. But here, its wonderful, and it's another place to go to get out of the house sometimes. On our way there, I was walking beside my friend Jorge. He doesn't spend too much time in the old city, and thus he's still somewhat amused by the seeming friendliness of the Moroccan young men. A group of boys shouted hello as we walked past and he was friendly enough to return their greeting. He was immediately shut down, however: "Not you, HER!" they informed him. I got a good laugh out of that. Good thing I got my "go away" vocab down, "Andee Rajl, Seer MFers! (I have a man, go away)."

And then last night, my roommate Liz and classmate Ben were walking back from a Gnoawa concert at an expat cafe and these little boys were sprinting through the streets. If I'm not in the right mood, they can really piss me off. But lucky for them, I had just gotten a good laugh out of my interaction with the deli man (in which I reaffirmed that a particular meat was turkey by acting out a turkey- although I must say the deliman's impression was better than mine). So when the boys ran past, and the last one stopped at me and barked, I just barked back. One thing they may not know about me, Mariam or Megan, I'm somewhat willing to make a fool of myself and it doesn't bother me too much to lapse sometimes and not act my age. And sometimes I think little boys have it made in life, especially here.

And just quickly, I have to comment on a mistake I made. I've done a fair amount of travelling, one would think I've got the cultural sensitivity down pat. But Morocco is just a whole new world, truly. This is the first place I've been where interactions between friends, men & women, is less physical than in the US, and sometimes I forget that when it's important for me to be mindful of it. Thus, last night on the walk home, I saw Mohamed- the chicken man- outside his stall talking to a friend. As we passed him, I reached over and patted him on the back: "Salam, Mohamed". AHHH this is a big no no. Yikes. Now what do I do. The chicken man may hate me. And he's my only chicken man. What do I do? Should I apologize? Should I hope he forgets? Should I attempt to laugh it off with him? What's your advice, my readers?

Until we meet again...

Things I Never Knew

I didn’t know what a lot of things really were when I was living in Ohio, or anywhere else for that matter.


Dear Morocco,
Thank you for showing me the REAL DEAL on:

Diarreah, or “pissing out the ass” as it was lovingly referred to by my Australian companions the first few weeks as we gripped our toilet paper and fought for the toilet.

Sweating, or reverse showering in one’s own persperation. I can’t begin to count the amount of clothes that have waves of salt that have formed as the copious amounts of sweat have dried. I do not like this, in fact, I don’t particularly enjoy sweating at all when it’s not in the context of an intentional work-out.

Leg strength, squatting while constipated can be quite a testastament to muscle capacity.

Olive oil, the real stuff. It’s wonderfully pure and almost sweet.

Honey, also the real stuff with chunks of honeycomb dispersed throughout.

Unhealthy food, especially in Ramadan where people gorge at night on high carbs (breads, sweets, milk) and grease (although these greasy things are very delicious).

Couscous, prepared for one day, choc-full of veggies, meat, and delicious sauce and eaten from a communal dish on the table with one’s hands. *I must say, I enjoy all communal eating. We do a lot of it here in Morocco. You don’t have to eat too much, you get plenty of bread to take advantage of the wonderful sauces, and you feel as though you’re part of something bigger. It’s a little weird when glasses are communal, and a lot of times I’m frustrated only because I wish I had COLD water, with ICE. But, all in all, I love it.

Hospitality, or basically taking a stranger in as if they were your own.

Homeless animals, specifically cats. Al-humdelalla, my roommates have adopted a kitten named Marley who looks as though he’s just been electrocuted. I love him, bizef (a lot).

Paint chips, which are continually falling off my lovely, yet moist bedroom walls.

Cheap furniture, which my room is full of.

Variety of fruit, because the only things really available in the states in my experience have been apples, bananas, and oranges (occasionally)- otherwise, you’re looking at canned.

Good roommates and beautiful old houses, who knew living in Morocco could be so wonderful and hassle free, after a few snags.

“I have nothing to wear!,” which translates, in Morocco, to absolutely everything I own has been saturated with sweat twice over and is now starched with dried sweat and stinks hardcore. (Hopefully we’ll secure a laundry/cleaning laday today in our meeting with the landlord).

Gratitude for a hot, pressurized shower, which we have in our house! Cheers! I’ve experienced multiple other possibilities including: filling a bucket with water (hot of cold, sometimes boiled on the stove first) and scooping it over my head with a Tupperware (which is actually quite nice), cold dribbles from a shower head, only a handle of a showerhead but no ability to put it on the wall. I mean, we really lucked out with this place, and the gas heater is very efficient, sometimes too much so- it’s still freaking hot here.


I’m sure more of these will come. For now, please know that I am THRILLED with what the universe has provided me. I am now the happy resident of a beautiful, old house in the ancient medina. We’re just outside Bab Boujloud and just steps away from LaPos-da (post office) at Bat-ha; a few turns through narrow streets and past tiny, quaint doors you’ll find our house.

Inside, you’ll find Raz (my first wonderful roommate originally from Atlanta, with wonderfully crazy hair, cute glasses, and a shit-ton of smarts- in Arabic and otherwise), Liz (my second wonderful roommate originally from Maine, with an admirable sense of style, great glasses just like mine, and again a shit-ton of smarts), and Marley (our wonderful, handsome, crazy kitten whose black and white fur makes him appear as though he’s just been electrocuted *pictures to come).

The house is four floors and a rooftop that overlooks the city and has a perfect view to the ancient ruins nearby. The first floor is a kitchen, Marley’s room (or the Turkish, squatting, hole in the ground room), a huge living room with couches, dining tables, and a western style plastic table, and two other salons lined with Moroccan style couches and decorated with rugs and beautiful chandeliers. Up one set of mosaic-lined, cement spiral stairs, you’ll find my room. Although its small, its quite cozy. The double bed is a little big for its britches, but oh well. I rearranged it to create a study area behind the bed near the full closet. And the landlord was nice enough to decorate it a bit with a Moroccan lamp. The only other room I share a floor with is our storage room, which is perfect for storing our empty luggage. Basically the place couldn’t be any more perfect. Up another flight are Raz and Liz’s rooms which overlook the primary living room, and a western style bathroom with proper shower. Up another floor is a tiny laundry room and a small staircase which leads to the roof (but only after you pass through a somewhat freaky, triple-padlocked door.) I love it up there, and hope to christen it with a yoga practice soon.

Forever and Ever Later

I've become somewhat frustrated with blogspot.  I have an entire post written up for ya'll on my computer, but there's no way to copy and paste it into blogspot.  For those of you that are VERY interested, check out facebook.  I posted it there. 

I'm happy to report that I have settled into a house with two other Americans.  Ensha-allah, I will not have future troubles with housing situations.  We live in the old city near Bab Boujloud, which is the famous arched doorway into the medina ancienne, or qadeema, or ancient, or anciano, or whatever language you're feeling like speaking at this particular moment. 

Language here is a fluid thing, speak whichever words you like, borrow from French, Spanish, English, or Japanese?  It's cool, just get you're point across.  One would think this may be cool, especially someone like me who is always wondering about other languages and the like.  But today, I made sure to ask my language tutor to teach me "go away!" in Moroccan Arabic (or Darija) because I'm pretty fed up with the english/french coming in my direction most nights.  Some of the best ones: "Come to  break fast with my family, we will spend beautiful times together!" (oh really?  confident if nothing else), "I  know you don't fast, you must break fast with me" (grrr, leave me alone), "Halow, you are so beautiful, are you married" (vomit).  I'm sick of Moroccan men.  

I was explaining to a friend early on that I figured my buzz cut would deter a few people.  But he quickly pulled out his lonely planet and read to me the excerpt on lesbians.  Moroccan men do not think lesbians exist.  They usually think the woman is (a) playing hard to get, (b) hasn't met the right man yet, adding to the collective conclusion of Moroccan men than American men are sexually inadequate.  So, even if they did pick up on some lesbian vibes, apparently that would do nothing but make their efforts greater.  

Another reason I'm frustrated with blogspot- it wont post my pictures.  I'll probably put a few up on a photobucket site or something and add a link.  

And Skype is a failure here.  

Perhaps at a time in the near future when I'm no longer super full, muy sick, and very tired, I will write a bit more. And i'll try to be more consistant. 

b'salama. 

A Natural Born Sprayer

You may have never considered your urinating tendencies. To be honest, neither had I until recently. Yet again, I meet the hole in the ground, and this time, with less fortune than the last. I have just arrived at my temporary abode, and yet again, I find the hole is the only throne in the bathroom. WONDERFUL. So, I manned up a bit, psyched myself out, ya know- and waited till I could wait no longer. Then, I took the dreaded walk to the hamaam, stripped down to nothing as to avoid soiling my clothing, and positioned myself on the footholds (clever these footholds, although they do nothing for a gal like me). After stripping, I surveyed the land and of course, no toilet paper. I put my pants back on and trodded through the apartment shaking my fists at 'this country', took some tp from my stash, and returned to the to the dreadful place. I undressed again and took one last deep breath. Back on the footholds, deep squat, 1-2-3. And then, I came to my realization. I, Megan Cairns, am a natural born sprayer. I proceeded to urinate all over my feet. "Yum City" as a friend of mine would say. Ummm, how about not. I do not like this pee on feet, I do not like this- it's far from neat. So, next time you take a seat on that beautiful throne (especially ladies), take a moment to think: how would you fare with the hole in the ground? Sprayers, beware of the hole.

Now, humor aside. Today has been rough. Hardcore rough. At the same time, it has been exceedingly wonderful:

Today was the first day of school. I had a good night's sleep, at least 12 hours. I woke up and ate a scrumptious bowl of 'corn flakes' with a peach, some brazil nuts, and some coconut yogurt (something the states needs to get ahold of, yum). After a little cat nap, I geared up for school. I packed a turkey pita, some plums, a few cheese triangles (also love la vache qui rit, very popular here- they have a whole aisle of the grocery store), and a diet coke. Pretty much, an American lunch. What can I say, Ana Amrekeeya. I packed my backpack, put on some make up for the first time in a month, donned my glasses for intelligence sake, and left the house. Abderrahim came down with me to see me on my way. I couldn't help but smile, remembering the days when my mom would take a picture of me all set for the first day when I was in elementary school, it was always taken on this pink arm chair we used to have at our house. Anyhow, I digress.

So, Jude (my motorcycle) and I sped off in excitement. Just 10 minutes later, I arrived at my school. I saw Tim (another OSU student) for the first time and we had a catch up chat. We're in the same class, which is ironic considering we had never met eachother back at home, and now, in Fez, we're in a class of 4 together. The other two students came to join us soon after and we shared trials and tribulations of our time here thus far. Mostly, it was sick stories and difficulties finding housing. I was comforted to find that others had experienced much difficulty in finding a place to stay (some not, of course, and of them, I am jealous). But, when I shared my current situation (living with three small children, with no room of my own, far from the school, and with a limit on my freedom regarding even friendship with males) they were quick to suggest that I meet a girl named Zeinab (who later would save my life). She was looking for a roomate, they told me, and it would cost $150USD a month. Umm, ok. I was paying Samira $400USD a month and she just finished eating about $50 of the food I bought just the other day. So, RIP OFF. I couldn't wait to meet Zeinab, and though I thought about her frequently, I fully enjoyed my first class!

To my fellow classmates- I am sorry that I drug you through so much grammer. I do like it I suppose. And I think, just maybe, I'm a bit of a perfectionist :). I don't think it bothered them too much, though. It was a good review. And I was surprised at how much I remembered (and how much my review yesterday helped). Our teacher is wonderful, Abdelhafid. Great guy, trickster. Love it.

After class, I impatiently awaited Zeinab. I shared my lunch with Ben, a classmate. And on my way to the bathroom, I saw her. I just knew it was her. "Zeinab?" I asked. And of course, it was her. I shook her hand and introduced myself as her new roomate. She smiled, and things have been wonderful since. We will, enshallah, be living just 10 minutes walking from school in a 2 bedroom apt with a huge terrace for, thats right, $150USD/month. Damn Straight. She's cool with male visitors as long as they don't spend the night, she has them herself. She's an english teacher at the school, but also speaks a bit of Spanish and of course French, MSA, and Darija. Love her.

The second teacher, Touraya, a doll! I can already tell we'll be bffs. She's adorable, and she gave us 2 hours of PRACTICAL information. We spoke a ton, reviewed numbers and time. It was fantastic.

After that, I left school to call my dad to review my living situation. All was a go with him. All that was left was telling Abderrahim and Samira. Prepare for complete and herendous TERROR! Samira flipped a shit. HARDCORE. She wouldn't let me speak. Among her criticisms were:

Do you know, Megan, that I can sue you? Do you know American law? I can sue you because we had an oral agreement that you would pay me $400/month!

You're selfish! You were using me to suit your own interests!

Pay me for the days you were here and the days you ate with my family.

Don't ever treat another person like this, ever again.

You think you're a responsible 20 year-old, you're not. You have no idea what you're doing. (Basically, you won't survive in Morocco without me- to that, watch me!)

And the best part, she wouldn't let me speak, not even to say that I am grateful for all she has done for me, that I appreciate everything, that I simply want my own space and want to live with someone my own age, that I think it will work better for both of us. When I said thank you, she replied that she didn't even want to hear my thank you, that she wouldn't accept it, and that my stuff should be out of the house by the morning. Wonderful! Although, in all honesty, I wanted out ASAP at that point anyhow.

Following that was about 3 hours of crying. I spent 2 1/2 blaming myself for everything, crying to Mohammed, to Zeinab, to my dad. My dad was the best one. I was on a pay phone on the street, using a phone card. My sobs soon attracted a crowd of men and women wanting to help. The begged me to explain in French, so I tried. It was Fraribiclish, the best I could manage post sobs. So, someone went to fetch the resident English speaker, who served as my translator to ease the group and then invited me to have a juice with him. Mohammed was his name. He had me enter his number into my phone as 'Mohamed, Brother.' "You stay at my house and pay nothing," he told me many times. "God rewards good people, and if I am good to you, enshallah one day you will help my children. You are a good person! It's not you're fault." For him, I am grateful. I needed that reminder. There's some sort of divine order to all of this seeming chaos.

After calming down, I returned to the house. Well, not really. Adnaan, my friend/Abderrahim's cousin, came down to talk to me for a while. We discussed the situation, possibilities, what he thought was best. I think he maintained hope that living with them would work, but through another convo with my dad, I remained firm in my decision to leave. But he continued to assure me that they like me a lot, that they want me there, etc etc. So, we went up together, and I was greeted with a whole lot of nothing: oh yes, the silent treatment (which some of you know, makes me want to kill someone). They wouldn't let me interact with the kids, as if I had some sort of contagious disease or had committed a crime. I had come to reconcile with them, but there was no reconciling to be done. I heard the tone of their voices as they continued to bitch about me to Adnaan. So I walked out. I packed up all my stuff, gathered all my food and took all the things that I had purchased for the house (those that hadn't been rudely consumed already, at least).

Thank God for Adnaan and his willingness to help me, even though I am the outsider. He brought me to his house, let me use his computer, he's a godsend. I'm here now, exhausted, sad, a little angry, and with lots and lots of homework to do. I don't imagine it will happen till tomorrow. Enshallah, tomorrow will be better. And Friday- To Rabat!

Blessings, may your day be better than mine was.

West Meets Near East: Culture Clash Rant

Today, and the last few days to be fair, I have been frustrated. Every second of the day, frustrated. Why? you may ask. Well, this lack of equality between men and women is really getting to me, and more so on a personal level now as I spend more time with the male species here in Morocco (this doesn't include "my" Mohamed, I'll explain about him later. And I say "my" only because there are approximately 90 Mohameds out of 100 Moroccan men, not because I own him).

Here's how the story goes: Samira and Abderrahim left for Casablanca on Sunday morning, claiming that they would return on Monday. They left me in the "care" of Samira's 26 year-old brother, Simo (a nickname for Mohamed). Ok, first off, that pisses me off. I'm 20, but lets not play games here. I tend to be more capable and mature than most 26 year-old men, not to toot my own horn or anything. Nevertheless, we were supposed to help eachother out, figuring out our food etc. To be honest, I was kind of looking forward to spending some time with the younger generation here. To bad that was short lived.

So Sunday was the motorcycle day, which was invigorating of course. And then, that afternoon after riding around in a car for an ungodly amount of time, I was finally able to go for a cruise; I even got to do some road driving. But then the annoying stuff started. Now, I had already developed a bit of an annoyance with Simo. I didn't like the way he corrected my Arabic, grabbed my face and directed my eyes at his lips as he re-pronounced the word. But the real annoyance developed after AlFtour that night.

Adnan (who I very much enjoy), Simo, and I headed downtown. Fes is beautiful at night. There are hundreds of people, just wandering around. There are twinkle lights and colored fountains, in the new city of course (I haven't yet been to the old city at night here although I am looking forward to it). It's lovely. But what wasn't so lovely was that I was forced to hold onto Simo at all times. He'd grab my hand and interlace it with his, or bark some order at me about needing to hold on to his arm as if he were my escort. Um, I do not like this, AT ALL. All night it was like this, and all night the frustration simmered.

Now, he could have redeemed himself. I thought, just maybe he would have a liberal position on the hijab, say its a woman's choice, or maybe even that he doesn't think its a necessary thing. But, he did not redeem himself, in fact, he did just the opposite. My hand in his, he basically declared it necessary and that all women who don't wear it are not good Muslims. By the end of the night, even though it was lovely and we had enjoyed some wonderful smoothies on the promenade, frustration was reaching a boil.

Monday morning, I awoke to the news that Abderrahim and Samira wouldn't be returning until today, Tuesday. Yikes. By the way, I had to beg for this information as Simo doesn't find it necessary to inform me of anything, only to drag me around like is arm ornament apparently (and I don't feel like I make a good one, I have a buzz cut, no hijab!). So, onto day two with Simo and I in the house.

I also decided yesterday that I was done with fasting. No more. It was driving me nuts. I was obsessing about food, wanting to eat all the time, feeling weak, often feeling sick after eating, but the worst was waking up multiple times during the middle of the night to eat and therefore, hardly sleeping and completely screwing over my biological clock. Simo's response, get ready: I am anger (he doesn't know English well enough to know that the correct word is angry, which I include because he also seems to think he's a wiz at english). Well Simo, bite me. Ok, so I didn't respond that way. In fact, I didn't really respond at all. Later in the morning when the subject resurfaced, I explained that I KNOW that Islam preaches acceptence of other people of The Book (the Bible, meaning Christians and Jews) and although we are alike in many ways, we have different practices, and I asked that he respect me. He dropped it after that, thankfully. Thank God for studying Islam before coming here cause that could have been a blow-up, at least from my side. It was hard enough for me to make the choice not to fast, knowing that it would disappoint some people. I didn't need to hear it from him.

There were a few times while we were running errands yesterday that he pissed me off, continuing to bring the pot to a nice boil. Still, in broad day light, I needed to hold onto him, lest I get hit by a car or something. I made some exasperated comments at time, telling him that I was capable of doing it by myself, but then feeling guilty and apologizing for the way I had reacted. I tried to explain that it was different in the States. But, my overwhelming sentiment at the time was GRRR.

Last night, I really got pushed over the edge: I think it was somewhere between being lectured for using the word F*ck and when he grabbed the extra skin on my neck, jiggled it like a chicken and laughed (claiming that he thought it was zweena, beautiful). Again Simo, bite me. I'm over it. I'm over living with him. I can hardly put on a smile when he looks at me or tries to engage in conversation with me. I'll be happy when he leaves, and even happier if I leave first.

The plan for this weekend is to go to Rabat. My Mohammed will be there. His friend has an apartment that we stayed at last week. It's kinda warn down, but its the best thing since sliced bread as far as I'm concerned. I love Rabat, I love freedom, and I love being with him.

I realized in some phone conversations yesterday that I haven't mentioned him really at all on my blog. I think I was afraid to like him at first. And while ultimately, I have no idea what will happen, I know that for now, I'm enjoying it, and I'm pretty grateful for his presence and support especially when things are hard. He's funny, spontaneous, proudly imperfect, adventurous (not only a tour guide but also a snow board instructor in the mountains), humble (the 7 languages thing), willing to share, and perhaps a little intense. Part of the cultural difference is evident in his willingness to share that he's falling in love with me, that he'd like to marry me. That's kind of the norm here. But, I can tell him when it's too much, when he's annoying me, or when I feel like he's being- perhaps- a bit controlling (not unlike my dad, who really just wants what's best for me). In fact, I can tell him anything. He's quite the catch as far as I'm concerned.

On that note, there are a few things that are bothering me about the situation, and really they have nothing to do with him. It's outside situations that come into play: I don't have privacy, so I don't have time to talk to him except through text messages, he lives in the south so we're not close enough to see each other more than once every couple weeks or so, and dating is not looked upon highly in the muslim world- basically, I should be killed, or at least disowned. Ok, so that's probably a little harsh, but the societal commentary on dating is so strong that I don't even feel comfortable sharing the fact that I like him with anyone here, any Moroccans. I feel torn between the two worlds. I want to tell Samira, and perhaps ensha-allah, I will. But, in time I suppose, it can't all be fixed to my liking in this instant.

It's an adventure, as is everything I do here I suppose. Last night I sent in a request for a budget increase that would enable me to stay in Morocco until mid-June. I think I'd like to be back at OSU for summer quarter, all of this ensha-allah.

I do miss Balanced Yoga. I miss my friends there, I miss the regularity of my practice, I miss our honesty and openness. But, I can see on a daily basis that what I learned this summer during my teacher training continues to effect me on a daily basis. Sometimes, things aren't comfortable. Sometimes, I don't want to keep going and doing and feeling. But, if I do, I'm bound to feel better. I'm actually suiting up for my first real practice on the roof of my building this morning.

And one last thing, I'm happy to report that the living situation worked out well. When Simo and I arrived at ALIF yesterday, my host family had already called to tell them I wanted to move out. At first the coordinater, Yossef, suggested that the policy for leaving was one week rent at $150dH/day in addition to a $300dH service fee, around $200, and I lived there for a night. I shared my frustration by means of: "that sucks". I wasn't planning on sharing any reasons for why I was leaving other than that I would be more comfortable with my teacher. But I ended up spilling the beans after seeing that it could potentially save me $200. And it did. I came out only $15 less, and they're going to check into using the family in the future. It's not that they aren't beautiful people, its really just the lack of privacy and quiet. (Apparently the 'private' room should include a door and a lock, ha! Far from it!

Anyhow, today should bring more practice on my now insured motorcycle. Hopefully, pictures will be here soon.

I miss you, but love it here as well.
Ma'Salama

You can't judge a shower by its cover.

One may be intimidated by the room in which I showered yesterday. Yikes. That pretty much sums it up. BUT, to my surprise and delight, it was probably the best shower I've taken since I've been here. Hot, lots of pressure, the works. Too bad I felt dirty just being in the decaying room. Tear.

Moving into my host family's house was at first wonderful. I was thrilled to meet my host father and sister, they came to pick me up from the american center in a 'fancy' car. Then we drove just to the border of the old city, very close to the famous Bab ElJadoud, all looking very good. But when I got there, I started feeling a little out of place. My room there is a living room with a curtain up seperating it from the family room where the TV and other noise sources are a constant. So I ended up enduring my second real freak out fee morocco- What do I do??

I ended up coming to my professor's again last night to break Ramadan, and we talked about me moving back with them. I decided to do that, and thus began the stress! To make a long story short, right now, Sunday night, I'm living in my professors house with a pair of pants, a shirt, a night gown, some tennis shoes and a tooth brush. All my possessions are in the other house, yet they know I want to move out. Ensha-allah, everything will be figured out tomorrow.

On a positive note, pictures are soon to come, including one of my and my MOTORCYCLE! Fee lugat el arabia, darraja-narriatee!! yay!

I've spent the day picking it out with Adnan and Simo, Abderrahim's cousin and Samira's brother. We bargained it down to $1,000 and hopefully I'll sell it for about the same price when I leave Morocco. I'm still feeling good about staying here for a year- Bring it on! But who knows, all of this is ensha-allah (God willing). The frequency of that phrase a good reminder for me that it's not all in my control, Thank God!

So, tomorrow, the game plan is: buy insurance, get my gas gage callibrated, pick up my possessions from the host family, work things out with school (and hope they don't kill me or punish me financially), and study a bit more. In fact, studying is what I should be doing now. All this english isn't good for my head :)

Blessings.

Avocados are fruit.

So, the othe night, Mohamed and I took meal number 2 in a corner store in Casablanca. When I say meal 2, I mean at 11ish. This Ramadan thing, woof. Anyhow, I truly understood for the first time that avocados are fruit. I just wanted to eat one, really. Perhaps spread on som e bread with a little cheese. But alas, my yet limited vocabulary- and sudden submissiveness when it comes to ordering- allowed Mohamed to order for me. Out comes this overflowing beer mug, not with beer though (we don't drink in Morocco, let alone in Ramadan, yikes), full of a frothy avocado drink. I came to find out that this is the Moroccan version of a smoothie, and I've had similar concoctions since then. But, it was simply avocado, milk, and sugar that first night. Who knew?
I'm writing after al-Fotur (break-fast) on day 4 of Ramadan. I have done ok so far, not even a drip of water has entered my mouth between sun up and sun down these past four days. Today was the hardest so far. It's so hot in Fez.
There will be much more to come, but this computer is driving me nuts!
Ma'salama.

The hole in the ground.

ATTENTION:WARNING:GRAPHIC

I can't remember if I've mentioned this before or not. But assuming I haven't, I'll start from the beginning. So, on my tour, most of the places we stayed- though kind to the budget- were fairly nice. They came fully equipped with beds, sheets, and bathrooms with toilet paper and European toilets. Now, this is not a common occurence in Morocco I've found. Usually, houses don't have European toilets, they rock out Asian style with the hole in the ground. (I promise to upload a picture in the future). I suppose it makes sense that bathrooms would be different here, but those first few weeks in hotels tricked me. What a tease. I first came into contact with only the hole option when I was stying in Mohamed's cement house. But I wasn't there long enough that I HAD to use it. At Hakima's, however, I wasn't quite as fortunate. I peed in it a few times yesterday, but prayed that I wouldn't have to do number 2.

Well, the time came. I couldn't hold it any longer. I've been keeping up with a diet heavy in fruit to keep myself regular, and I was priarie doggin' it, as you may say. So, I grabbed my cottenelle wipes, donned the bathroom shoes (crappy sandals) and marched into the room where the sacred hole is. I decided to remove my pants entirely to avoid anything to messy. I squatted nice and low, and even aimed well. I landed it right in the hole, and this thing isn't big, probably the size of a baseball. It was the most intimate I've been with my own feces, at least that I can remember. But, I couldn't help but smile. This was a real accomplishment.

Now, you may wonder how you flush, I mean, it is just a shallow hole. But no, they've got this figured out. The hole is connected to a little ramp, or 'shit shoot' if you will. Next to the hole, there is a faucet and a bucket which you fill with water and then dump down the hole, which encourages the poop to take a ride. The same can be done with toilet paper or my cottenelle wipes. I was pleased to leave the holeroom in the same state as I had found it. What a day.

In addition, today is a rather big day in the Muslim world as well. I've decided that I will take part in the festivities, so I suppose its just a day of firsts for me as well. Today marks the start of Ramadan. For anyone that doesn't know, Ramadan is the month of the year (according to the lunar calandar) in which all Muslims fast from sun up to sun down. Some people wake up early, before sun up, to eat and then do the dawn prayer. Otherwise, during the day, you don't ingest anything, no food, no water, no lipgloss or brushing of teeth even. I decided to participate because its super disrespectful to eat in front of those fasting and I'm hardly ever on my own. Besides, I want to be immersed in the culture, I don't want to stick out, I want to be a part of. Today is day one, only 29 to go. But to tell you the truth, its already afternoon and I don't foresee it being too bad. We'll all break the fast together tonight after sun down and both evening prayers, around 11pm (which seems to be the usual dinner time anyways).

I had a nice convo about polygamy with Abderrahim last night- he supports it 100%. More to come on that in a post to follow.

Blessings. Ma'salama.

Settling in... sort of.

It's been a while. I haven't really been free to do my own thing- not at all. On Thursday, I returned from Marakkech to Fes. It was an 8 hour, sweaty, silent, boring, hungry, disgusting train ride. The only communication I had was laughing and gasping as the man next to me tried to put his humongous suitcase on the tiny baggage rail above the heads of the people behind us (unfortunately I was half asleep when it finally came crashing down- i mean, inevitable, right?), a little bit of french with an old woman next to me to make sure i hadn't missed my stop, and with a man that i'm pretty sure was on the verge of proposing to me- a common occurrence here fee al-magreb.

I left Marakkech a little tearfully. I was staying with Mohamed in his hometown the day before. We were planning on travelling, but I let my dad's warning get into my head. He was afraid I'd get raped. I keep forgetting that I'm a 20year-old, fairly independent individual. I love my parents, especially my dad, and am eternally grateful for him looking out for me. But I can't allow him to limit what I do here. It's just not worth it. Mohamed and I had all thesee travel plans, to Agadir, Essouira, and into the mountains. But instead, I turned into a little girl and went back to Fes.

I met Mohamed's family, everyone except his dad, when I was at his house. He lives in a cement shack in a town called tannahout. Please know that I don't say 'shack' with criticism, but it's the only way to describe it. It was one of those moments when I realized, I'm not in Kansas anymore, ya know? It was the most barren, basic, jail like house i've ever been in. I honestly felt like I was in a decorated prison cell- cement floors, walls, ceilings. There was one rug in the living room that we kicked our shoes off before stepping on. It was made of bamboo like material. We sat on thin mattresses on the floor and watched their nice flatscreen tv, complete with sattelite and channels from everywhere (a common phenomenon amongst the poor in the 3rd world.) Heck, I don't even have a TV, but this way, people are in touch with the crazy world we live in, and Mohamed's barely educated, Berber mother from the Mountains of the Sahara probably knows more about the election in the US than most Americans do.

Upon my arrival, I was greeted with laughter. Ya, I kinda look like a boy with my buzz-cut. And I don't speak a word of Berber. I'm just now starting to speak a little bit of Moroccan Arabic, but I could forget on the Berber all together. We just laughed at eachother, not understanding anything, and they threw me into the small kitchen and critisized my inability to evenly pat the fried bread cakes they were making. The house was full of only women, Mohamad's father and eldest sister work and live in the city of Marakkech. They were casually dressed inside the house, still with scarves tied around their hair, but not around their necks (not hijabs). In the dirt streets surrounding their house, women were fully dressed in hijabs and jelabas, not the men of course. I'm trying my best to be accepting of this disparity between men and women, but my western upbringing keeps yelling at me: this is bull shit, it's unfair. But, at the same time, I'll probably be buying a jelaba and wearing hijab in the near future. I can't stand sticking out as much as I do.

I am really grateful that I have the willingness to try new things. It hasn't gotten me into trouble yet, although people love to make me feel like I'm doing things wrong. This may not make sense to my readers, but I just feel like I'm always screwing up here, making the wrong decisions. But the universe has me in it's arms, I feel supported, here or there.

I went to a Turkish steam bath with Mohamad's sister Hassna and his cousin Fatima. For those of you, like me, who don't know what this is, get ready. The three of us walked hand in hand, barely communicating, probably three miles in 90 degree weather, wearing long sleeves and pants, to this decrepid looking building with two doors- one for men, one for women, seperate, but equal, right? (I can't help myself). The first room, we stripped, everything came off apart from our underwear- bra, gone. Hello Hassna and Hello Fatima. I mean, really. That was a bit intimate considering I'd met them less than an hour before. But, Mohamed told me it was a way for the family to show me hospitality. Ok, lets see. Then, the steam part. As if I wasn't already hot enough. I think this country has plans to kill me by draining me of all vital liquids. Somehow, Hassna and Fatima weren't at all bothered by the fact that we had just endured another temperature increase, and were content only to use hot water to bathe. Are you SERIOUS. I was totally rocking out with a huge bucket of 'cold' water. really it was luke warm, but considering it was at least 130 degrees in there, it was ok. Fatima then proceeded to scrub me with one of those exfoliating gloves. She washed my entire body at least three times over the course of our trip to the turkish bath. We also played, laying down on the floor and testing our limits pouring cold water over our naked, steaming bodies. Yikes, seriously.

I'm realizing now that I can't relay all my experiences here. I mean, I made mention of that before. Everything is new, I'm always over stimulated, and I sleep a lot. I always take a nap after lunch and when I wake up they're serving me food again. So, I'll stop now. But, Abderrahim, my professor, did ask me an interesting question the other day when we were again riding the horribly sweaty train to Rabat with his family. He asked me, what are the things you love about moroccans, and what are the things you hate. Here are a few I came up with:


I love:

The hospitality. Literally, an aquaintence becomes a friend in less than a half hour, and they will do ANYTHING for you. My first aquatintence on the plane let me stay at his house, shower, nap, eat... until I could meet with my tour group and check into the hotel. He also insisted on paying for most things, although I did demand to buy him dinner.

Their patience (or timelessness, which could be something I don't exactly love, it all depends on your perspective I suppose). Everyone is so patient with me, my inability to speak the language. I only hope I can be a little more patient with myself in that respect. The reason I mentioned timelessness, well they can afford to be patient because no one is ever in a rush. There's no where to be too fast. If you're two hours late, even three, its no big deal. I remember in Fes, Abderrahim (my professor) said he'd meet me around 7 and didn't end up showing up till I was asleep, around 10:30.

The food. Enough said. I just love learning a new cuisine, although globalization has made somethings familiar- McDonalds being one.

Sitting rooms. Every house, even the cement shack in tannahout, has a sitting room. All the walls are lined with these couch like things. Perfect for sitting and chatting, eating, or sleeping. This way, guests- even overnight ones- are never a problem.

The call to prayer. It happens 5 times a day. Usually, its a beautiful, deep, rich, male voice. Sometimes they overlap eachother, echoing between the different mosques. They serve as a reminder for me to say a little prayer, and they remind me that I'm in another world from the one I've always called home.

Motorbikes. Thats right. It's European style. And in a week from now, Ensha'allah (God willing) I'll be a proud owner of my own motor vehicle, hell yes.


I'm not loving:

Sticking out so much. I'm used to being a fairly modest member of society. Ya know, I don't think people see me and think: whore. In Moroco, its a bit of anoither story. I don't know, perhaps its an exaggeration, but sometimes I feel like I need to ward off the eyes of all the men around me. I need a shirt that says in Moroccan Arabic: I'm a lesbian. I mean, who knows if I am... But I could use a little less attention. I'm going to purchase a jelaba and hijab soon though. I can't handle the sticking out thing.

Train stops. They last hours. Of the four trains I've taken, all have been around 2 hours late, either delayed during the trip or delayed in coming to pick me up.

Feeling religiously inadequate. Some of you know I feel this way in the states. Here, just multiply that feeling by 1,000. Geeze, the whole country is Islamic. The name of God is EVERYWHERE. And here I am, stripped of religion, wandering the streets. Yikes.

The lack of equality between men and women, especially in leisure activities. Men sit in cafes all day, they swim at the beach, they wear shorts and sleeveless shirts. Women do none of these things. They work at home or in the office, they don't even go to the beach 9 times out of 10, and they cover completely, God only knows how they aren't drenched in sweat like me.

Ok, if I still have your attention now, thanks my friend. I'm glad you're along for the journey.

Hopefully, my next post will find me smiling- moto keys in hand.
Blessings. Ma'Salama (or salami?)

So I know youve been waiting...

I know you've all been sitting at your computers, waiting for days upon days now to find out how it's been going. I just can't tell you, it's a secret.

Just kidding, I love it here, absolutely!

My first impression> it's almost better than home. It's honestly the first time I can remember that I've landed and been just as comfortable as I have been landing at home. I sat next to a really nice guy on the flight and he helped me out so much once we landed. He took me to his house and let me shower and rest while I waited until I could check in at my hotel where I'd meet with my tour group. But instead, we ended up spending the day together, drinking fresh juice near the coast of Casablanca and exploring grocery stores and train stations... very important research you see.

I met up with my group later that night, all Australians and super friendly. I love their accents, but sometimes, I can barely understand them- knickers, i'm not fast, knackered, dearer... alright, whatever. But they've been so great, and not too critical of me in light of Mr. Bush, many thanks for that.

I sort of fell in love with the tour guide, his name is Mohamed. At this point, 7 days later, I'm fairly certain that he woos at least one girl per tour group. But, at first, I thought I'd marry him. Think Megan, perhaps a little crazier, Moroccan, and add Japanese and German to the list of languages spoken- hey, I'll get there some day. He certainly is a charmer. And I would love to have his job. He tells me theyre looking for people at his agency, who knows people, I may never come home.

I need to stop and comment on how weird it is to communicate this stuff through the computer knowing that there's really now way I can express it so that it's understood on the other end. It's wonderful here, the people are amazingly friendly, accepting, open-minded, caring, beautiful... I absolutely love it. At the same time, I miss each one of you. Can I just have it all, please?

So far, the highlight of my trip- on a cultural level that is- has been when Abderrahim (my professor from OSU) invited me to a wedding late last Tuesday night when I was in Fez. The weddings here last many days, so this was just one night of the celebration. Lucky me, it was the night they kill the sheep. After finally understanding what was about to happen (at first I thought they were talking about beheading me considering the hand gestures they were using) I went out back and watched Abderrahim take a knife to the poor sheep's jugular. All the women stood in the kitchen singing Allah AlAkbahr (God is the greatest) and all the neighbors looked on from other apartments. Needless to say, after watching the half dead sheep stand again, then have gargantuan muscle spazams splashing blood all over the patio... well i've been sick ever since.

I have actually been sick since, but I'm fairly confident it wasn't the sheep that caused it. Our group has determined it was a tagine restaurant in the old city of Fez . 12/13 of us were sick by the day after, and I was hit pretty hard. In fact, I wish I could do more of a report on the food, but I haven't eaten much more than crackers and sprite since Wednesday of last week. I'm just working my way back to a meal today- a chicken skewer and some french fries. The food looks good though, just a lot of the same.

I haven't had the chance to get much yoga practice in. I did hop into a headstand before coming to use the internet today though, and it felt wonderful. Oh, and I did attempt a few vinyasas in the Sahara post camel ride, but the Australians told me "Enough of the yogar" not that I care what they think, I was just a little too sick then to be attempting anything to crazy. I have had lots of time to meditate, although it's still quite off setting to be so far away from everything that seems familiar.

I can already tell you that I'll be missing:

Ice water
Balanced Yoga
Romaine lettuce
Starbucks (pathetic, i know)
and all of you

I love you all Immensely.
I only hope to share that love with those I meet here.

Namaste.

Leaving Tomorrow!

This will be my last post before I leave.  It sounds so final, yikes! I'm not sure how  much posting I'll be able to do in the first few days, but knowing me I'll find the time.  I'm still scrambling to get things packed, but I'm super ready and excited!  

The picture, though generic, speaks of times to come.  In a week or so, I'll be riding through the desert on a camel, and I'm pretty psyched-- though I realize it's not the ideal vacation for everyone.  

I did my first home practice today and did call and response with my recording of the ashtanga invocation for a while.  I'm looking forward to some desert yoga! 

Namaste!

Matt Damon gets it.

I was reading The Columbus Dispatch tonight after I journaled for a while at Starbucks (which, by the way, I'll really miss- I've grown accustomed to drinking a free cup of earl grey tea with cream on nearly a daily basis) and I came across a quote on the back side of the life and arts section.  It was almost lost amongst a slew of absurd and useless celebrity quotes, but it truly spoke to me: 

"I think many of our problems as a country would be solved if people had thick passports.   There's just  no substitute for actually going and seeing things."

-Matt Damon, on the benefits of world travel

Amen to Matt Damon.  Now, in true Megan fashion, I don't know who Matt Damon is in particular (I'm not one to keep up to date on celebrities).  But this idea resonates so deeply with me, and has for as long as I can remember.  I hope more people stumble across this idea in the future: more of my peers, more of our teachers, leaders, pastors, children...  I truly don't believe that I can speak to the reality of a country (or city for that matter)- its values, its religions, and most importantly its people- until I've been there to experience it for myself.  And what I find more often than not is that even after an extended stay in a particular place, I still find it difficult to come to any conclusions about it for myself, let alone form opinions that I'd be confident in sharing with others.  Never can I fool myself into thinking that I'll be able to predict what a travel experience is "going to be" for myself or for another.  

I ran into a few Moroccan men drinking coffee on the patio of Starbucks.  I'd been introduced to them when I used to work at that location.  Their faces lit up as they shared with me about their country: the seafood is wonderful, the beaches are packed this time of year, there's good surfing in Essouria, and don't worry- people aren't going to care how you dress...  At that moment, there was nothing but excitement surging through  me- I stand at the threshold of this experience, an opportunity to see another part of the world, and to see the rest of the world through Moroccan eyes.  

Now, I feel obligated to admit that I am feeling afraid.  I have fallen in love with Columbus, I have created communities for myself, made friends, discovered places I enjoy going, developed a sort of routine.  I'm very afraid to leave, I suppose because I'm having trouble trusting that it will all still be here to welcome me when I return.  But, after a day full of tears, I'm feeling just a little more confident that it will be.  And I'm admitting this in hopes that owning up to it will lead me to have compassion for myself, that I'll be aware of my own humanity, and that you'll all still love me in spite of how afraid I feel and how far away I may be.  

I leave to go back to Cleveland tomorrow morning.  Let the journey begin...

Pre-Departure

The first post, yikes.  I'm finding this process somewhat intimidating.  Yet, I don't feel it's appropriate to start writing in my journal just yet, but I think it's appropriate to start blogging; after all, I do depart in less than a week...

Well, I'm still living in Columbus as of Tuesday evening.  My plane departs at 3pm from Cleveland, so a lot of moving will take place over the next few days.  As I look out over my bedroom, I'm discouraged by the amount of things that still clutter my space, as well as the amount of things that I'd like to do before I go.  I suppose at some point I'll have to break down and accept that there's only so much I can get done, and in some respects, I suppose it's good that I'm leaving soon- there's only two more days to procrastinate now.  

I was at dinner with friends tonight and Caitlin asked me if I was getting nervous.  I'm pleased to report that I could honestly respond: "Ya know, I'm becoming less nervous and more excited." I couldn't help but smile at that response.  For such a while now, I've been dwelling on my nerves, and I suppose its been healthy to some extent.  But geeze-oh-pete, I want some time to get excited about all of this: I'm about to ride a camel through the desert (i'll be sure to report back on that one).  

Considering that my life is a little short of interesting here right now, I'll hold off on too many posts until I do have things to report.  Feel free to email me or leave me friendly voice messages though from now until I get back.  I'll check them often to remind me that there are good people here (with lots of wisdom, yogic and otherwise) that I'll be able to come back to someday soon.  I love you all!