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...