T and I will be heading out tomorrow for an 11 day vacation in northern Morocco, Gibraltar, and some parts of Spain. That means this is my last opportunity to publicly reflect on 2010 before the year is over.
And I think I'll decline that opportunity.
Instead, I will just wish you all a Happy New Year. May 2011 be filled with good things for all of you.
28 December 2010
26 December 2010
Christmas in Morocco
Imagine a plate of traditional American treats – frosted sugar cookies, molasses cookies, puppy chow– but the plate is the base of a tagine or a hand-painted plate from Fez. That was Christmas in Morocco. We all took our Christmas traditions and adapted them to our new place.
Our first adaptation was the Christmas tree. The daughters of our friends LW and JW were very insistent that T and I have a Christmas tree, and they found a small plastic one for us in the church. LW gave me some gold bells she had bought at the dollar store in Rabat (where, inexplicably, all of the merchandise is marked with prices in dollars). Then the girls made us some Christmas tree ornaments out of construction paper and staples. I was quite happy with the result.
We also made some adjustments to our traditional Christmas Eve dinner. When I was growing up, my mom would usually make a simple but satisfying dinner of clam chowder (which I never ate), potato soup, and homemade bread. For various dietary reasons, potato soup wasn't going to work for us, so I went with Moroccan bessara instead. We bought some khobz at the nearby bakery and finished the meal off with shlada limun, a simple salad of oranges, cinnamon, and orange flower water.
Midnight mass was another tradition in my family. Oddly enough, there are three nuns (members of the French order Little Sisters of Jesus) in Azrou. They had a Christmas mass – in French, of course – at 8:30 on Christmas Eve. T and I went to the mass with the Ws and one other person. We were the only people there besides the three nuns and two priests. It was not like any mass I had ever been to before.
Late on Christmas morning, we had brunch with the W family. That was probably the most unadulterated American part of our Christmas celebration. LW had made Russian tea (in my mind, a classic Midwestern winter drink) and a very American-looking breakfast casserole. And to top things off, we saw our first Moroccan snow as we were walking to the W's house for brunch. The snow didn't stick around or anything, but snow falling on Christmas morning is always special.
On Christmas evening, we got together with other Christmas celebrators for dinner. We had turkey, tamales, lasagna, hummus – it was truly an international Christmas dinner.
So there you have it. My first Christmas outside of the United States. Same, but different.
Our first adaptation was the Christmas tree. The daughters of our friends LW and JW were very insistent that T and I have a Christmas tree, and they found a small plastic one for us in the church. LW gave me some gold bells she had bought at the dollar store in Rabat (where, inexplicably, all of the merchandise is marked with prices in dollars). Then the girls made us some Christmas tree ornaments out of construction paper and staples. I was quite happy with the result.
We also made some adjustments to our traditional Christmas Eve dinner. When I was growing up, my mom would usually make a simple but satisfying dinner of clam chowder (which I never ate), potato soup, and homemade bread. For various dietary reasons, potato soup wasn't going to work for us, so I went with Moroccan bessara instead. We bought some khobz at the nearby bakery and finished the meal off with shlada limun, a simple salad of oranges, cinnamon, and orange flower water.
 |
| In case you're wondering what that weird stuff on top of our soup is…it's traditional to top bessara with olive oil, cumin and (if you like) cayenne and/or black pepper. |
Midnight mass was another tradition in my family. Oddly enough, there are three nuns (members of the French order Little Sisters of Jesus) in Azrou. They had a Christmas mass – in French, of course – at 8:30 on Christmas Eve. T and I went to the mass with the Ws and one other person. We were the only people there besides the three nuns and two priests. It was not like any mass I had ever been to before.
Late on Christmas morning, we had brunch with the W family. That was probably the most unadulterated American part of our Christmas celebration. LW had made Russian tea (in my mind, a classic Midwestern winter drink) and a very American-looking breakfast casserole. And to top things off, we saw our first Moroccan snow as we were walking to the W's house for brunch. The snow didn't stick around or anything, but snow falling on Christmas morning is always special.
On Christmas evening, we got together with other Christmas celebrators for dinner. We had turkey, tamales, lasagna, hummus – it was truly an international Christmas dinner.
So there you have it. My first Christmas outside of the United States. Same, but different.
24 December 2010
Things I miss at Christmas time
-Watching A Christmas Story all day on Christmas day
-Canned pumpkin
-Christmas light displays on houses (and even gaudy Christmas lawn ornaments)
-Seeing Christmas trees in everyone's windows at night
-Nativity scenes
-Stockings
-Snow (but just a tiny bit)
-My plastic Christmas tree and my ornaments
-Homemade fudge
-Soy nog
-Wassail
-My mom's rum rolls
-Watching family members open their gifts
-Being with family
-Canned pumpkin
-Christmas light displays on houses (and even gaudy Christmas lawn ornaments)
-Seeing Christmas trees in everyone's windows at night
-Nativity scenes
-Stockings
-Snow (but just a tiny bit)
-My plastic Christmas tree and my ornaments
-Homemade fudge
-Soy nog
-Wassail
-My mom's rum rolls
-Watching family members open their gifts
-Being with family
16 December 2010
Welcome to apartment 10!
Wait, didn't I post an entry very similar to this one, like, four months ago? Why yes, I did. But since I so kindly welcomed you to that apartment, I thought I had better welcome you to this one.
Our new apartment is inside what many people in town call "the bank," as (apparently) the property used to belong to Banque Populaire. It is now called the "Al Akhawayn downtown residences." Most of the building contains small apartments (they're basically studio apartments), but on the ground floor there are four duplex apartments, and we now live in one of them.
Our new apartment is inside what many people in town call "the bank," as (apparently) the property used to belong to Banque Populaire. It is now called the "Al Akhawayn downtown residences." Most of the building contains small apartments (they're basically studio apartments), but on the ground floor there are four duplex apartments, and we now live in one of them.
What the heck am I doing here?
I ask myself this several times each week. I never ask it when I am, for example, sitting outside a café in the sun drinking coffee with friends (the weather is still nice enough, even now in December, that we can still do this on warm days). I ask it when I am trying to solve a problem, such as a broken tooth. I ask it when I am trying to figure out how to get my textbooks here in time for next semester. I ask it when I realize that there is only one online Master's program in speech-language pathology that will even consider admitting me while I live in Africa. I ask it when I have to pay a ridiculous amount of money to send a few small packages to family and friends back in the United States. I ask it when I realize that the novelty of my living in Africa has worn off for both me and all of those people back home, and when I go days without hearing from any of those people. I ask it when I discover that the downstairs bathroom in my new apartment, which is supposed to be much nicer than the apartment I moved out of, smells strongly like sewage and I am told, "the faculty member who lived there before you never complained about any smell."
I need a vacation from my life. But even planning a vacation sounds like too much to me right now.
I need a vacation from my life. But even planning a vacation sounds like too much to me right now.
14 December 2010
On going to the dentist
Last Friday evening, after spending a wonderful but long day in Rabat with my friend LW, I decided to relax on the couch while watching TV, eating some popcorn, and drinking a beer. After biting into a particularly crunchy piece of popcorn, I noticed that one of my molar teeth felt a little funny. I touched it with my tongue, and I went cold. A chunk of my tooth was missing.
As far as I was concerned, one of my biggest fears had come true. I had gotten some crazy idea in my head about Moroccan dentistry that it consisted only of getting teeth pulled (without anesthesia) at the souk by people who may or may not be dentists (yes, you can get dental work done at the souk). I have been experiencing a little bit of "Morocco fatigue," so the idea of having to find a competent and hygienic dentist, figuring out how to make an appointment, figuring out how insurance works, getting to the dentist, and communicating with the dentist was exhausting. In addition, never before had I broken off a chunk of a tooth, and I wasn't sure how much pain I could potentially be in, nor did I know what might be required to fix it.
Luckily, there is an American trained, English speaking dentist in Fez who is used to working with people from the University. And luckily, I have a generous friend here (LW) who was willing to take me to the dentist. The office even had a receptionist who spoke English. Communicating my problem wasn't nearly as difficult as I thought it might be.
However, this was the most painful dental work I can remember having. I was warned that this dentist is "rough." I think she's used to people telling her that what she's doing hurts, so she didn't believe me when I said that the anesthesia she injected did not extend to the tooth she was working on. Tooth nerve pain – ouch. She filled the heck out of the tooth and warned me that it would be sensitive for several days. I'm still a little nervous because if the sensitivity doesn't go away, I may need to have a root canal. If that happens, she had better do a more thorough job with the anesthesia.
It cost me 500 dirhams to have this work done. That's a little over $60, which is affordable even if the insurance company doesn't reimburse me for 80% of the cost. That seems so absurdly cheap to me as an American, and yet it is a cost that is completely out of range for many Moroccans. If I were an average Moroccan, I would probably just have to live with what was left of my tooth, and if it got bad enough –if the whole tooth rotted out –I would go to the souk and get it pulled out. There would be no other option.
As far as I was concerned, one of my biggest fears had come true. I had gotten some crazy idea in my head about Moroccan dentistry that it consisted only of getting teeth pulled (without anesthesia) at the souk by people who may or may not be dentists (yes, you can get dental work done at the souk). I have been experiencing a little bit of "Morocco fatigue," so the idea of having to find a competent and hygienic dentist, figuring out how to make an appointment, figuring out how insurance works, getting to the dentist, and communicating with the dentist was exhausting. In addition, never before had I broken off a chunk of a tooth, and I wasn't sure how much pain I could potentially be in, nor did I know what might be required to fix it.
Luckily, there is an American trained, English speaking dentist in Fez who is used to working with people from the University. And luckily, I have a generous friend here (LW) who was willing to take me to the dentist. The office even had a receptionist who spoke English. Communicating my problem wasn't nearly as difficult as I thought it might be.
However, this was the most painful dental work I can remember having. I was warned that this dentist is "rough." I think she's used to people telling her that what she's doing hurts, so she didn't believe me when I said that the anesthesia she injected did not extend to the tooth she was working on. Tooth nerve pain – ouch. She filled the heck out of the tooth and warned me that it would be sensitive for several days. I'm still a little nervous because if the sensitivity doesn't go away, I may need to have a root canal. If that happens, she had better do a more thorough job with the anesthesia.
It cost me 500 dirhams to have this work done. That's a little over $60, which is affordable even if the insurance company doesn't reimburse me for 80% of the cost. That seems so absurdly cheap to me as an American, and yet it is a cost that is completely out of range for many Moroccans. If I were an average Moroccan, I would probably just have to live with what was left of my tooth, and if it got bad enough –if the whole tooth rotted out –I would go to the souk and get it pulled out. There would be no other option.
13 December 2010
Packing again
Didn't I just do this?
I guess it was quite a bit different last time. Then, I was packing all of my things either to go into long-term storage or for international travel. This time, I am "packing" my things to move them one or two kilometers away. Then, it was very difficult for me to say goodbye to the place I was leaving. This time, I am completely indifferent to the apartment that I am moving out of. Then, I knew I was coming to Ifrane, Morocco, but I didn't know exactly what my apartment would be like. This time, I have visited the apartment I am moving into (it's in downtown Ifrane).
This time should be easier. Right?
12 December 2010
Moulay Yacoub thermal springs
When I am in a new situation, I have a tendency to get very insecure and very nervous. So when I'm in a new situation that is supposed to be relaxing, I'm lucky if I can become 50% relaxed. I would say that's the state I was able to achieve yesterday when T and I went to the Moulay Yacoub thermal springs and spa with a group of other faculty and staff from the University.
The spa is located in a low spot amongst brown, dusty hills 20 kilometers outside of Fez. Outside the building were palm trees and citrus trees covered with cheerful looking oranges. Inside were glass display cases with fluffy towels and expensive, organic body and hair care products. There are all kinds of services one can get at this spa--massage, facial, pedicure and manicure…or one can just pay 100 dirhams to sit in the hot, sulfurous pool.
Sounds great, right? Overall, it was. While I didn't appreciate the smell that was imparted to my hair and clothes, the warm water was relaxing and seemed therapeutic. I also splurged and paid for a massage, which was nice. The stress just came from being in a different country, where the protocol for everything is just a little bit different, and I can only communicate with the staff using one-word phrases and childish gestures.
Besides providing me with an opportunity for relaxation, the spa got me thinking about gender differences and attitudes towards the body in Morocco. The place was not nearly as gender segregated as one might expect it to be. All customers go to a coed dressing room location. The staff at the desk give you a big robe (with a hood, which is useful for the ladies who like to keep their heads covered) and some slippers. You go into a little dressing cubicle, change into your swimsuit, cover up with the rope, and then check in all of your belongings at the desk. There are individual dressing rooms, but there are no separate ones for men and women. There are two pools – one for women only, which has glazed glass doors so that no one can see into it, and a coed pool. I actually like that. I used the coed pool so that I could talk to T, but I think it would be fun to go with a group of (female) friends and use the "women only" pool. For those getting massages and other services, there are not separate sections for men and women. Showers are also individual but in coed locations.
I was also reminded that Americans can be total prudes. For my massage, the massage therapist brought me into a little room, closed the door (but not all the way), and indicated that I should take off my top. I think she was confused about why I waited for her to leave the room (and completely close the door) before I did so, especially since there was no blanket for me to cover up with during the massage.While a Moroccan woman might be expected to keep more of her body covered up around men than an American woman might be, a woman keeping herself covered up around other women probably doesn't make much sense to Moroccan. and there are some places, like a hot springs pool, where it's okay for everybody to be just about naked. (I saw several Moroccan women in bikinis and men in Speedos.)
Also: if you get a massage at Moulay Yacoub thermal springs and spa, expect by the end to be completely covered–from the ends of your hair to the tips of your toes–with olive oil. Thus the showers.
In other news: This past week we had glorious, warm, sunny, springlike weather. The clouds returned just today.
The spa is located in a low spot amongst brown, dusty hills 20 kilometers outside of Fez. Outside the building were palm trees and citrus trees covered with cheerful looking oranges. Inside were glass display cases with fluffy towels and expensive, organic body and hair care products. There are all kinds of services one can get at this spa--massage, facial, pedicure and manicure…or one can just pay 100 dirhams to sit in the hot, sulfurous pool.
Sounds great, right? Overall, it was. While I didn't appreciate the smell that was imparted to my hair and clothes, the warm water was relaxing and seemed therapeutic. I also splurged and paid for a massage, which was nice. The stress just came from being in a different country, where the protocol for everything is just a little bit different, and I can only communicate with the staff using one-word phrases and childish gestures.
Besides providing me with an opportunity for relaxation, the spa got me thinking about gender differences and attitudes towards the body in Morocco. The place was not nearly as gender segregated as one might expect it to be. All customers go to a coed dressing room location. The staff at the desk give you a big robe (with a hood, which is useful for the ladies who like to keep their heads covered) and some slippers. You go into a little dressing cubicle, change into your swimsuit, cover up with the rope, and then check in all of your belongings at the desk. There are individual dressing rooms, but there are no separate ones for men and women. There are two pools – one for women only, which has glazed glass doors so that no one can see into it, and a coed pool. I actually like that. I used the coed pool so that I could talk to T, but I think it would be fun to go with a group of (female) friends and use the "women only" pool. For those getting massages and other services, there are not separate sections for men and women. Showers are also individual but in coed locations.
I was also reminded that Americans can be total prudes. For my massage, the massage therapist brought me into a little room, closed the door (but not all the way), and indicated that I should take off my top. I think she was confused about why I waited for her to leave the room (and completely close the door) before I did so, especially since there was no blanket for me to cover up with during the massage.While a Moroccan woman might be expected to keep more of her body covered up around men than an American woman might be, a woman keeping herself covered up around other women probably doesn't make much sense to Moroccan. and there are some places, like a hot springs pool, where it's okay for everybody to be just about naked. (I saw several Moroccan women in bikinis and men in Speedos.)
Also: if you get a massage at Moulay Yacoub thermal springs and spa, expect by the end to be completely covered–from the ends of your hair to the tips of your toes–with olive oil. Thus the showers.
In other news: This past week we had glorious, warm, sunny, springlike weather. The clouds returned just today.
02 December 2010
Day Six
And on the sixth day God said, "Let there be light...a little bit of light for, like, an hour." And there was, and it was good, but it would have been better if it hadn't gotten cloudy and started raining again right away.
Or something like that.
(Seriously, though, people, the country of Morocco got deluged this week. And tomorrow's forecast calls for more rain. But Saturday should be "partly sunny and warmer." Yippee! Maybe the leak in our roof will get fixed this month after all.)
Or something like that.
(Seriously, though, people, the country of Morocco got deluged this week. And tomorrow's forecast calls for more rain. But Saturday should be "partly sunny and warmer." Yippee! Maybe the leak in our roof will get fixed this month after all.)
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