Stateside Round 2

It was recently brought to my attention that I have seriously neglected this recording of my life's twists, turns, and international adventures.  I am not lying when I say that I have had every intention of transferring my thoughts and photos from my paper journal to this digital one, and that the word "blog" has remained on my multitudes of To-do lists for months (even if it was at the bottom).  All this being said, there will effectively be a large gap in the timeline delightful events marking my last months abroad this time around.  These moments are recorded elsewhere, but I feel that working backwards to rewrite them here would not only be counter-productive given the lack of free time available, but also, I get the sense that the emotions and perspectives of these memories would be skewed by not having been written in the moment. This would therefore make them less-than-honest representations of themselves, which defeats the purpose of this online chronicle.

Basically, to sum things up, my last months in France went like this:
-Springtime hits the Lycee (last blog post).
-I am visited by my boyfriend, with whom I spend three adventurous (train strike and natural disaster-ridden) weeks traveling between Paris, Le Touquet, Brugges, Bordeaux, Lorgues, Monaco, and Sospel.
I could write a series of blog posts on this trip alone. Amazing.
-I return to Lorgues to finish up my remaining two weeks of school, while also packing up the entirety of my apartment and preparing for a trip to Spain. Such a tough life I was living... sigh.
-I move out of my apartment on the last day of school and immediately embark on a weekend of exciting, action-packed activities and rendez-vous with Patricia.
-I leave for Spain three days after the end of school and spend 26 consecutive hours on 8 different trains in attempt to reach Sevilla. I arrive to find sunshine, tapas, lemon-tasting beer, and relaxation. I stay 3 days in Sevilla before heading to Madrid to spend a week with a friend I met in Morocco months before. Marc=best tour guide ever. I get quite sick with some mystery illness and spend nearly 2 days in bed before heading to Tolédo for a matter of hours, then to Barcelona for a weekend with Patou and Roland. Here, another series could be dedicated to Barcelona. Two words: Antoni Gaudi.
-Following our return from Spain, I had a matter of a week or so left in France, and I crammed for my last lessons of TEFL certification (which I have yet to complete).
-The eve of my departure was spent with surrounded by my favorite people in France (minus Lucy) at a BBQ thrown graciously by Patricia and Roland.  This lively dinner followed a day of shopping at the Vide-Grenier in Sospel, and I could not have imagined a better finale to 8 of the best months of my life so far.

And so here it is, July already and it all still feels like I could step out my front door and expect to be on my 12th century street.  My french is fading a bit (as I discovered today when I sought desperately for the translation of the word "couch").  My culture shock will be the discussion of another blog post, but I can definitely say that I feel that culture shock will never entirely disappear once you have lived abroad.  Mme. Brault, my college french advisor and mentor, told me once that you will always feel some sense of homesickness no matter where you are, once you have fully experienced another culture.  You long for elements of the culture even if you were craving your home-cooking every day you spent abroad.  My "mal du pays" has come in quite a different and much delayed form in comparison with my last homecoming experience, and I am intrigued by how much each homecoming might be different, and consequently change me and my perspective each time.

My relationships with people have also changed. Travel and long-distance living give you great insight into who your best-of-friends really are, and in a harsh way, show you with whom you truly wish to stay connected.  I have also come to realize that my relationships formed in the extreme situation that was Lorgues, will perhaps never be the same again, but will not fall away like those of my high school career.  While I may not have much time to reminisce between taking drink orders and running pizzas, I think of France everyday; I long to indulge in friendly "soirées des filles" and Patricia's gourmet cooking... just one more time.

High schoolers in springtime; they're "twitterpated"

Spring is upon us here in Lorgues, and with every walk through the high school courtyard, I am reminded of that scene from Disney's "Bambi" when all the animals are in love and cudoodling.  They're "twitterpated" as the old grouchy owl explains it.  However unlike the old owl, I find myself strangely unaffected by such excessive public displays of affection.  These loving couples in mid-kiss appear to be simple extensions of the high school building's architecture when you pass by them every five feet.  I have asked myself if perhaps my apathy is born of bitterness and jealousy at not being among this congregation of happily entwined young lovers.  My romantic interest is, after all, halfway across the world, making any semblance of physical embrace a complete impossibility.  Perhaps a small portion of my dispassion stems from resentment, but I feel that the real causes are rooted elsewhere.  It is possible that I have grown desensitized to the openness of affection that is so customary in french culture.  I no longer feel the shock and repulsion I felt when walking the streets of Paris last spring. And while I continue to view such public fondling as inappropriately timed and placed, it has effectively become an element of everyday life.

In any case, it was not so long ago that I was in their shoes.  It is the beginning of that age when innocence is fleeting and when raging hormones and emotions may not always make for the best of situations, yet never fail to produce entertaining results.  Everything is the end of the world, or the beginning of a new one.  When walking through the halls of Lycée Lorgues, I often wonder if my high schools halls were as full of such amorous spectacle.  Somehow, I doubt that I was as as enthused by public displays of affection, even back then, but I do find myself far more reserved now when giving hugs and being within the personal space of others.  I find that such a loss of conviviality is rather unfortunate, being as I rather enjoyed the option of being cozy in the presence of random friends.

Nonetheless, twitterpated teenagers are a perfect sign of spring, especially when surrounded by tweeting birds and jovial squirrels.... a sight to see, for sure.

"Julie and Julia;" inspiring more people than just me, I am sure

And so I emerge from that daze which follows watching any truly delightful film, especially upon the first viewing.  The recent box office hit, "Julie and Julia" starring the icon of an actress, Meryl Streep, has hit home with me as well as with women across America and across the world.  I am not being all too over-dramatic when i say "the world," as I have found that french women (at least those in the south) are in as much of a frenzy over the film as my friends back home.  I held out to see the film, determined to see it in "version originale" (ie english, and not dubbed in french), and found myself constantly taunted by praise for the film at every turn.  I even found myself in a conversation with a local bus driver, an italian woman, living and working in france, who "simply could not believe [I] had not seen it yet!"

The concept is brilliant. The wonderful woman who thought to combine traveling, cooking, blogging, eating, and Meryl Streep, is truly a genius.  I have no doubt that every woman in America, and many across the world (or at least english-speaking french anglophiles) will be flocking to purchase their own copy of the masterpiece that is "Mastering the Art of French Cooking." I would not be surprised if husbands and boyfriends across the land will be experiencing their ladies cooking their way through the book(... not that the men would complain).  While it is rather a copycat idea, I have personally placed this monster of a task on my life's-to-do-list, with hopes to conquer those key elements of cooking that have managed to escape my comprehension.  

To this goal, I have added one of my own design.  I was already conceiving of this notion as I began to accumulate recipes with each trip to Sospel, but Mrs. Julia Child and her miraculous story have given me a swift kick to start the ball rolling.  I decided, for the purpose of further studying and retaining the recipes I have learned while in France, that I am to type them all up in both english and french and compile my own sort of personal bilingual collection.  It is to be as illustrated as photos as will allow, and personalized with the comical anecdotes that paralleled each cooking adventure.

The goal is not to attempt to write a cookbook, but rather to simply review my notes and thus to retain them for future cooking.... oh, and of course, to have the sumptuous occasion to eat delicious food.

And I say once more... "C'est bon d'être gourmande!"

Berber whisky and its culture (Moroccan hospitality)

When traveling in Morocco, there is one thing every tourist should accept and expect: Moroccan Hospitality.  While this notion applies to the attitude of its good-natured locals, warm and inviting riads, and the unending array of guides for those attempting to navigate the winding streets of the medina, it specifically refers to the moroccan tradition of mint tea.  This tradition is a custom, probably excercised as often as the five daily prayers of the local religion, Islam. It is not that the tea is a part of the religion, nor is as important, but more so that it is simply a cultural norm.

They call it Berber whisky, a term we heard at least once a day on our 2 week tour of the country, and with good reason: it is delicious to the point of being addictive.  Perhaps it is the fact that you are offered (and expected to accept--though not forced) said tea at practically every house, riad, and business establishment that you happen to have the pleasure of entering, which helps the addiction take hold.  Or maybe it is simply the sugar content.  It is a combination of green tea (de Chine), fresh mint leaves, and copious amounts of sugar (approximately 1 tablespoon per 5 oz glass).  Or perhaps it is because it warms you thoroughly passing from the physical realm to the emotional, and then even into the spiritual.  This may sound drastic, and even a bit frightening, but the truth is that it creates a break in a stressful day, a sactuary in a difficult situation, and an oasis in a desert of exhaustion.  

Like the unending greetings of "salaam 'llekum" (arabic meaning "peace be upon you"), and the countless cries of "bienvenue" (french meaning "welcome"), the moroccan tradition of mint tea is meant to help you feel at home and comfortable, be you even from another side of the globe.  We often heard the phrase, "This is your [second] home" spoken to tourists in any number of languages.  While some might say (and it may be true in certain instances) that this warmth and hospitality is present for the simple sale of a carpet or necklace, we found it to be the standard even among those with nothing for sale but their friendship.

In Fez, we wandered into one of the hundreds of local shops, drawn in by the beauty of the craftsmanship, and were shocked to find that all the merchandise was crafted two doors down by friends of the vendor.  He invited us to have a look for ourselves, and when we had finished poking around, we sat down for some good ol' mint tea.   We ended up spending at least 2 hours of each of our 3 days in Fez at this niche of a workshop, and enjoyed ourselves immensely.  We took in tastes of local customs, played music, viewed bits of a regional film,  and at one point, we even met the vendor's mother.  Our new friend educated us in the local artisanal crafts and the meanings of the different colors used (green for Islam, blue for Fez), and gave us advice about our intricately-planned itinerary for our travels in his homeland.  Guided in part by his recommendations, we decided to break from our plans and head south to the desert instead of continuing on a tour of the imperial cities.  It is for this that we were able to explore most deeply the true meaning of Moroccan hospitality.  

We learned that our new drink of choice was the single strongest common factor tying together all the places we visited.  It is the common thread weaving together the cultural differences across Morocco, from the post-colonial european cities to the nomadic Berber tribes of the mountains and deserts.  We shared in this custom with our guides in the Sahara, our Senegalize immigrant riad-owner in the Toudra Gorge, and our culture-sponge food-tent friends in the Jamal fna Square in Marrakech, and we left feeling as though the tea had brought us together (with a little help from fate).  

It became a great equalizer between us and our newly made friends in a land where our native tongue was spoken, but only as a third or fourth option, and where the religion was not only different, but also at odds politically and culturally with that of Christianity and our cultural norms in secular France.  99% of the time, the tea was "offert" meaning "free of charge," and thus served as an economic equalizer as well.  It was to be shared with all, regardless of whether or not he/she could afford it.  This, to me, is a true sign of hospitality.  It did not matter that the tea was rather inexpensive to make; it mattered that it was free of charge regardless of where we traveled in the country.  Of course, in a few cases, there was the pressure then to purchase something in appreciation for the hospitality shown, but we found that it sufficed to be openly grateful and graciously take our leave if we did not feel inclined to buy. Such an exit was usually followed by, "Bienvenue en Maroc! Vous êtes chez vous." ("Welcome to Morocco! May you feel at home.") uttered without the slightest twinge of sarcasm, even if the disappointment was evident.  

We were served tea when we descended from the bus after our 10 hour overnight ride to Merzouga in the desert, and again when we reached the desert hostel 1 hour later.  We were offered tea by a family of Berbers when we happened to stumble upon their humble abode in the midst of our hike in the mountains. Instead of sending us away in hostility for violating their privacy, then welcomed us into their home to share with us their own personal moroccan hospitality.  Despite language barriers (they spoke neither french nor english), we formed a bond lasting for that brief moment in time that will never fade from my memory.  We shared tea with our riad owner in the Toudra Gorge who subsequently took us on a free tour of the neighboring villages and upon our return at the end of the day, he taught us how to make couscous the traditional way, mixing it with your hands.

We shared tea on several occasions with our friends at Food Tent #12 in the Jamal fna square, at which we became regulars in our short stay in Marrakech.  We became common acquaintances with the boss's wife who came around at the same time every night, and even gave us her plate of food when the communal tagine dinner was served to the employees.  Our two girlfriends later when on an evening excursion with two of our new friends at #12, and the boys surprised them with a traditional dish called Pastilla knowing how eager the girls were to taste it.

 

By the end of our trip, we were on our way to being able to make the tea, pour it, and serve it like real Moroccans.  I feel like the sense of hospitality that came with the education is one we will continue to honor and share with others... perhaps with a glass of mint tea. 

Photo credits: Photos 4 & 5 by Lucy Hodge; Photo 8 by Julie VanHorne

Le voile; scandal?

photo by Lucy Hodge; others by Vanessa Armand

Before embarking on my latest travels abroad, I took an additional step in preparing for the experience ahead. I normally make an attempt to learn some basic phrases in the local dialect, read about the area's historical background, and make lists of the must-visit sights along with some off-the-beaten path ideas to gain a better sense of local life.  This past trip to Morocco, however, called for something extra: the study of the nation's religion and its reference to the local culture. Morocco holds the title of two firsts for me; my first time on african soil, and my first time in a politically and religiously islamic state.  As a woman of the western world, I knew some of the dangers and stresses I would face in my travels in a world dictated by the Qur'an, and felt both intrigued and anxious about the experience.  I fought to keep an open mind amid warnings and cautionary tales from westerners and one-sided perspectives of western news stations.  I find that it is very difficult to learn the truth about Islam in today's world when we are faced with, and subsequently shown, only extremes and extremists.  

I began my discussions about Islam with a coworker a few weeks back during our semi-weekly walks in the countryside of Provence.  It seems a strange setting indeed for such a debate, being as the subject of muslim immigrants in france is a sore one, and that even in a small town such as Lorgues, rather hidden from big city lights and controversy, the "Islamic issue" is overtly apparent.  The wearing of the headscarf by muslim women is outlawed in french schools and state-run establishments (which is most of them), as are all other displays of religious signification or identification.  The key word is "digression" when speaking about religious paraphernalia, allowing, for example, small necklace charms; but the veil is far from discrete, and thus causes great disturbance in the normal french order of things.  In my experience, it is viewed by non-muslims as a symbol of the confinement, limitation, and even servitude of muslim women.  In talking with my colleague, a woman born of an "ahead-of-its-time fusion marriage" (british mother and french father), who has lived on 3 different continents, and who converted to Islam after spending time in Istanbul and subsequently marrying a muslim man of Iraqi decent.  She was neither pressured, nor forced to convert to her husband's faith, but rather found solace in the messages of the Qur'an.  

Contrary to what we are led to believe as westerners, the Qur'an does not preach holy jihad and the oppression of women. Its main message is that of peace and understanding with a heavy emphasis on respect and self-analysis.  My friend informed me that the Qur'an grants women the right to choose whether or not to cover, and that the extreme cases, such as in Afghanistan, are products of tradition, and not directly of the word printed in the Qur'an.  She admitted that even muslims are frustrated with the treatment of women in such countries, that their extremist catch-22 laws, and especially those regarding female physical health, is a outrage to muslim women across the globe. She reminded me that it is important to remember that extremists do not necessarily represent the majority of those practicing a religion, and that more often than not they misuse ambiguous wording of religious texts to strengthen and support their radical perspectives.  The Qur'an itself predicts its misinterpretation and misuse by muslims and non-muslims alike, and reminds the reader to be mindful of what is in his/her heart. 

In any case, we discussed the level of need for a western woman to cover while traveling in such a country as Morocco, where tradition is very much a part of everyday life, but tourism and western influence are equally as strong and hold increasing importance.  My friend does not cover in france, as she is a private person, and chooses, as is very much the french fashion, to keep her religion hidden from the public eye.  She did inform me that she willingly covers when she travels to Istanbul, and that she does so enthusiastically.  I could not quite understand how someone would be excited to restrict their range of motion by wearing a tightly donned headscarf, nor how such an accessory would not become a nuisance in such a warm climate, but in keeping an open mind, I decided that I would give it a try if the opportunity presented itself.  

Upon my arrival in Morocco, I was instantly hit with culture shock to find that the headscarf was anything but an infringement on the display of personal style and attitude.  I immediately noticed several different manners in which women wrapped their scarves to cover their hair, and it became a sort of personal challenge to take note of the styles that seemed the most complex and to attempt to deconstruct them in my mind.  It was not only the multitude of styles that shocked me, but also the vibrant display of personality in the choice of color and pattern.  I was astounded by women wearing fire-red djellabas (traditional robe) and matching headscarves as they proudly marched down the tiny, crowed medieval streets of Fez.  The djellabas themselves were a sight to see, and throughout my time in Morocco, I had to fight the urge to purchase one.  With their full- or wrist-length bell sleeves, sweeping hems, fabulous fabrics, and intricate decoration, these T-shapes garments, worn by what seemed to be 90% of the natives, appeared to be not only the latest (and most ancient) craze, but also the most comfortable choice in clothing.  I noticed that matching the headscarf to the djallaba was unnecessary, and that contrasting patterns and colors were often preferred as an expression of personal taste.  

Even on the outskirts of Morocco, where the fashions of the cities are more or less unknown to the locals, I experienced the powerful use of the scarf.  Lucy and I traveled to the rock climbers' heaven known as the Gorge Toudra and its surrounding towns such as Tamtatatouche, which are largely inhabited by the Berber people. The Berber people are groups of nomadic shepherds and nature dwellers, whose title of Berber is attached to a great number of different tribes across Africa, traditionally marked by the face-tattooing of the female members of the tribes.  From what we witnessed, they live simple lives, inhabiting tents, grottos, lean-to structures in the mountains, and occasionally small towns a bit lost to tourists.  Even here, the motto seemed to be "the more color the better," and the headscarf was no exception.  I was overwhelmed by the beauty of one woman with whom we shared a taxi into the mountains, and I was mesmerized by the patchwork of patterns that made up her traditional garb.  I descreetly snapped a photo, hoping she would not take my zealous enthusiasm for that of a camera-happy tourist (though I may have been), but for that of a western woman in love with this style a world apart from her own, its historical, political, and cultural significance, and its breathtaking poise and grace.  

On multiple occasions, I was granted the opportunity to take part in this tradition.  I had brought along my favorite scarf for the occasion, which seemed only natural considering I wear it everywhere I go and in all types of weather.  It took on a new life and meaning in Morocco, tethering itself to memories brimming with a sense of security and comfort.  I had never imagined that this symbol of "confinement" and "lack of freedom" would bring me such a feeling of inner warmth and safety.  In one instance, Lucy and I wandered into a local quarter of Marrakech, not normally traversed by tourists--or so we sensed from the tension expressed as we walked by.  I later expressed to Lucy that in my unease, my first instinct was the desire to cover (I had not been wearing my scarf on my head but rather around my neck).  Somehow, the sensation of the tightly wrapped fabric translated itself to me as that of a blanket or a hug, a familiar closeness with the therapeutic ability to calm my nerves.   

In the end, I gained a great appreciation for this internationally infamous symbol, and was able to discover its many other faces, by far more positive than negative. It still retains for me its sense of mystery when combined with the similarly scandalous veil, but in Morocco, I learned that while the woman may hide her face, she does not hide her individuality; she wears it on her scarf. 

Memories of Morocco; First of many

Ok, so in attempt to register the mass quantities of photos, lessons, and memories that Lucy and I have accumulated in the past two weeks in Morocco, some of it will be in the form of lists. We began our journey in Fez, traditionally the artisanal capital of Morocco, and rightfully so. Everywhere we turned we witnessed breathtaking handcrafted works of leather, pottery, wood, and metal, not to mention the mystifying carpets hanging on every wall in sight. It is difficult to say with place we liked most of all that we visited, but I can say for sure that I am thrilled to have started our journey in Fez, and I would return to our riad and fassian friends tomorrow if I had the chance. 


 Here are some useful bits that we learned in Morocco (specifically in Fez).

1) the Lonely Planet moroccan arabic book is like gold. The locals are very enthusiastic to find that you are interested to learn arabic and will eagerly teach you new words and phrases before you can even ask for help.

2) Speak french and say you are married. While most people speak english, french is preferred and helps you to momentarily avoid discussion of problems associated with the anglophone world.  While wearing wedding bands did not help us avoid catcalls, the statement of having a boyfriends or husband helped to deter advances of the unwanted nature. 

3) DO NOT follow the people that offer you guides. They will more than likely rip you off and not show you good places of interest (mostly just the places you would have found on your own). You can do fez without a guide and get a better deal doing it that way. Less hassle. 

DO follow people that want to help you find your destination. They are very useful and usually very nice. Most often they want to show you their family restaurant (which is good to know about), or the place where their family practices their craft. They might even tell you some useful history about the area. You do not need to tip them if you do not feel that the detour was worth it, but they do appreciate it. Even if you do not tip them, but are very gracious about their help, they take it with a grain of salt, and always wish you "Bienvenue en Maroc" ("Welcome to Morocco").

4) DO NOT go into a rug shop unless you want to buy an overpriced rug. While Lucy and I learned invaluable information about the different rugs manufactured in Morocco, we were a bit put-off when they refused to let us leave without "offering our best price" and were called liars in the end when we told them we only had a certain amount of money to spend for the rest of the trip. We later gained an orange from the experience, which is entirely a different story for another time. 

5) Eat everything!!!!!! While we ate at Restaurant Fassi in the Medina every night, we tried something different each time and were never disappointed. Pastilla is a traditional sweet/savory chicken pie from Fez and is best at Restaurant Fassi (we tried it again in Essouira, and determined that it was best in Fez). In Marrakech we adapted to calling it a "chicken doughnut" after hearing it referred to as such by some friends from the Bronx that we met at the hostel. 

6) Buy KILOS of mandarins and bring them back to france. We paid between 3 and 7dh (30-70 euro centimes) per kilo and they never failed to be the best ones we had ever eaten. 

7) Visit the Tanneries (the big ones) and buy a pair of super comfy babouches. They are the traditional moroccan slippers/shoes for both indoor and outdoor use. Buy them at the tannery because they are the best quality but be sure to bargain for them. If you are hard, you can get them for 100dh (10 euros). You dont need to tip the saleman if he shoes you around the tanneries and workshops and spends copious amounts of time helping you find the perfect pair of babouches (as he did with us), but you can if you want. 50dh is generous.

8) You do not need a taxi to take you up to the ramparts. We walked. Twice. Try to walk thru the junkyard. It leads past some other tanneries and some cool hides drying in the sun (and a very welcoming workman that will gladly give you directions and take a picture for you) and is a great panoramic view of the city. (You also dont need a taxi to the bus station if you want to take the bus somewhere. We walked and it took 5 minutes. Fez is small).

9) Buses; CTM is the typical bus for tourists because it is clean and timely, but you can take the regular bus for 10 euros with locals and have an interesting experience. If you take the regular bus, expect people to sit next to you, talk to you for the duration of the trip, and tell you about their personally guided tour to some picturesque place where their family lives.  Lucy and i took the bus a few times and it wasn't bad, but one time it was pouring outside and thus raining inside the bus as well.

10) The Nouvelle Ville isnt much to be seen in Fez or elsewhere, so stick to the medina. Better atmosphere and safer.

11) Stay in riads and ask to watch them make the traditional mint tea. They will most likely teach you. It is the stamp of "Moroccan hospitality," and is offered everywhere you go. Most of the time, they ask you whether you want it with or without sugar, and not whether or not you want it. I was immediately hooked on this "Berber whisky" (the mint tea; alcohol is strongly frowned upon in Islam, but this tea is just as addictive).  I The woman at Riad Hala taught us how to make it. I believe we will be going through withdrawal for quite some time until we can get our hands on some deliciously fresh mint.  

12) Buy almonds and other nuts, being as they are cheap in Morocco. Expect to pay 50dh the kilo for good almonds. Do not pay 4 euros for 1/2 a kilo like I did. We did get free raisons with the bunch, many photos, and a detailed description of each of the spices offered by the vendor, so the 4 euros was more than worth the education. 

13) If you are with someone else (preferably a man) don't be afraid to take vendors up on their offers to show you the workspace. We got to see people handcrafting products, and then had tea with the vendor. We also came back later for traditional music, and even met his mother.

We stayed at RIAD HALA in the old medina. It cost 20 euros per nite or something, but was worth EVERY PENNY. They had the best breakfast we ate in all Morocco, and even found us a discounted trip to the desert via the jewelry vendor next door, Muhammed, who runs trips to Merzouga. We paid 70euros each for 1 day and nite in a hostel in the desert with food and entertainment, and 1 day and nite in the dunes riding camels and sleeping in tents. The hostel outside of Merzouga was called Lahamada. 

Riad Hala

156 Derb Lakram, Talaa Kebira, Fez

tel +212 05 35 63 86 87

www.riadhala.com

Morocco; a mystery

In less than 2 days time, Lucy and I will be embarking on a journey to an entirely different continent.  Morocco makes the 8th country I have visited, making Africa the third continent in which I have set foot.  It is hardly imaginable at the moment, that I will finally be taking a journey I have long awaited, so much so, that its dream-like quality rivals that of my moments before moving to France.  By this point, I have become accustomed to life in the western world, be it France or America. These countries no doubt have their jolting cultural differences, but I am ecstatic to have the opportunity to experience a culture for which Christianity is not foundation, and english is not one of the two main languages.  Morocco is very much a mystery to me, a sort of exotic fairy-tale land.


From photographs, I have gathered an image of its culture as one snatched from history and transplanted in the modern world. Cars are forbidden and donkeys are common; food is cooked using ancient techniques and colorful pottery; leather is dyed in natural elements and worked into the hide with hand and foot.  The people speak a language that I seem entirely incapable of pronouncing, and I find my tongue exhausted with frustration and jealousy at its incapacity to create the musical tones known as the Arabic language.  Carpets for sale coat the walls of streets, their colors rivaled by the nearly over-stimulating tile designs covering almost every other surface.  The sights and sounds of the local market are more than welcomed by the senses, yet sanctuary is only one side-street away, where a hidden niche-of-a-café serves calming mint tea, toujours fait maison.

This dream is about to become reality.....someone pinch me please.