Junk food

In one of my English classes on Monday, I wanted my two students to read a short (and, admittedly, pretty stupid and boring) passage from the textbook about the world's oldest woman who, at 109 years old, ate only junk food. I asked the students if they knew what junk food was, and they had totally blank looks on their faces. I started at the beginning, explaining the word "junk," and then gave examples of junk food, pointing out that many foods in this category are fast food and/or are high in sugar or fat. They still looked perplexed. I thought more examples would help, but each time I asked them about a food and asked if it went in the "junk food" or "not junk food" category, they got it wrong.

"Is fruit junk food?" They stared at me. "No, in the United States, we say it's not junk food. It's healthy food." I said. I did the same for hamburgers and pointed out that Americans consider just about anything from McDonald's to be junk food.

"Okay, what about fish?"

"That's junk food," one student said. Only if it's fried, I explained.

"Chocolate?"

"Not junk food," they agreed.

And then it hit me. What a ridiculous concept! (Yeah, I can be a little slow.) Food is what sustains and strengthens our bodies. The concept that some food is essentially garbage is bizarre and probably isn't culturally relevant in a country where many people are just happy to have full bellies. I remembered Michael Pollan's discussion in The Omnivore's Dilemma about Americans' weird relationship to food.

When I came home and told T about this, he reminded me that our Canadian friend Sarah, a kindergarten teacher at the K-12 school associated with the University, struggled for weeks to get the parents of her students to send "healthy" snacks to school. She spoke, with horror, of watching one child eat a snack consisting of chocolate pudding scooped out of the cup with Kit Kats. After my confused ESL lesson on "junk food," I wondered whether Sarah had been making false assumptions, like I had, that food can be objectively divided into transcultural categories of "good" and "bad," "healthy" and "unhealthy."

And I'm curious to know if any of you have had similar experiences when engaged in multicultural discussions about food.

Merry Christmas

Wishing you joy in three different languages

Last night, our friends Thomas and Fazia came over to our apartment for hot apple cider. They told us that the tradition of a Christmas tree and presents is becoming popular with Moroccans, which is interesting because 99% of Moroccans are Muslim.

This morning, I had an email from a Jewish friend wishing me a Merry Christmas, and I wrote back wishing her one as well.

Both were reminders of the versatility of Christmas. Although its meaning has changed for me over the years, it has always remained my favorite holiday.

Whatever your beliefs, wherever you are, whomever you're with, I wish you a Merry Christmas.

Things they didn't tell me

In making our decision to move overseas, in our usual fashion, T and I (i.e. T) did a lot of research. He researched the places where we might live, and he found books on the various aspects, from financial to psychological, to making an international move. We even got to talk to someone who worked at this University for five years. We didn't feel completely prepared when we moved here, but we certainly felt more prepared than some.

However, there are still things I wish someone had told me. Or maybe someone did tell these things to me, but I wish they had been emphasized more.

At the top of my list of things they didn't tell me is the absolute truth that some people, after moving to a new country, will get sick, and they will never really get better, at least not as long as they stay in that country. I don't know why this happens. I have many friends, for example, who came to Morocco and started drinking the tap water and eating street food right away and never had a day of travelers' diarrhea. More common, I think, is an adjustment period of the body that ranges from a week to a few months, during which time the individual is more susceptible to all kinds of bacteria and viruses, but after which that person is basically okay.

Then there are those unlucky few who are constantly coming down with a wide range of diagnosable and undiagnosable ailments that affect a wide range of parts and systems of the body. I seem to be one of these unlucky few. This is something I have tried to avoid blogging about because it is essentially "negative," but the truth is it has also become a large part of my experience living in a foreign country for the first time.

Even minor health problems can be complicated in a foreign country, as I'm sure you can imagine. If one has moved from a developed country to an undeveloped or developing one, the quality of medical care will seem subpar. In fact, while I was very reluctant to go to doctors while living in the United States, I have made a fairly firm decision not to visit a doctor (or especially a hospital) here unless I am already in danger of dying – in case they kill me, of course. For people like me who like "be their own doctors," there is the issue of not knowing what sorts of medications and treatments are available. I have lived in Morocco for 16 months and I'm still learning what is and is not available. There is the additional complication of not always knowing what the real problem is that one is trying to treat.

The biggest problem of all, of course, is communication. Think about the last time you went to visit a doctor. Did the doctor understand you? Did you understand everything the doctor said? I think there's a high chance that you will answer at least one of these questions with "no." But if you had to communicate with the doctor in a language with which one of you was uncomfortable…well, imagine the opportunities for miscommunications and misunderstandings.

I don't know what the solution is for those of us in this small and unfortunate minority. I know I'm not the only person going through this, but at the same time it's not that comforting to know there are other people who, like me, haven't seemed to figure out how to be well in a foreign country.

On finishing my second first semester of graduate school

A few minutes ago, I hit the "submit" button on an exam on Blackboard, and that marked the end of my first semester of graduate school in speech-language pathology

But, of course, this was my second first semester of graduate school. The first first semester was in 2002. I was 23 years old, and I was a newlywed. T and I took all of our belongings out of our studio apartment (where we had lived together for only three months) and put them into the back of my dad's pickup truck. We packed ourselves, my sister, and my friend Marcy into our 1992 Dodge Shadow and drove down to New Orleans, with my parents and the pickup truck not far behind. We didn't even have a place to live in New Orleans, and I think we were too young to be particularly nervous about it.

I was pursuing a Master's degree in English, and T was getting a Master's of Fine Arts in Creative Writing. I don't recall either of us having any particular career goal in mind at that time. We were excited about the opportunity to live in a new place. We were excited about the challenge, and about the idea of having an "M" after our names (as in, JABS, M.A.).

To help pay for school, we had teaching assistantships, and so we became teachers.

Eight years later, after selling a large number of our belongings, we put most of what remained into a small storage unit in Omaha, Nebraska, and packed the rest into four large suitcases to bring with us to Ifrane, Morocco. I spent a year doing undergraduate preparatory coursework in a completely new field. And now I am (incha'allah) one quarter of the way through with graduate coursework in that field. In most ways, it is an entirely different experience. This time, I'm not going to school out of a vague love of learning and of literature. I'm going to school to prepare for a job. If you know what kind of person I am, you might understand how strange this is.

In fact, I almost feel like I'm a different person this time around. Yes, the school experience itself is entirely different because it's online. But I'm not the same kind of student, either. While I have to some degree embraced the procrastinatory nature of being a student, I haven't done so nearly to the same degree as I did nine years ago. I have handed in almost every assignment and exam at least one or two days before the due date. I don't stay up late writing papers. I'm not nearly as afraid, this time around, to admit when I don't know or don't understand something.

The one way in which I really haven't changed as a student is that the familiar fear of failure is still present. But again, I think I'm more open about it this time around. And I see that my classmates have the same fear. For most of us, this is a second or third (or more) crack at figuring out what we want to be when we grow up. Many of my classmates have spouses who are working extra hard so they can take time off to go to school, and money is tight for them. They have children who put heavy demands on their time and attention. They have aging parents to worry about. So much more is at stake this time that it makes sense for the fear to be more intense.

I hope this means, though, that in a year and a half the success will be that much sweeter.

Season of relax

My favorite season? Season of relax. And what better way is there to celebrate it than with Milka special edition "Season of Relax" chocolate?

Another holiday season away from home

A few days ago, my uncle Jim sent me a link to this song by Tim Minchin. He's a comedian, but I found my eyes misting a little as I listened to the song about the role of family in making Christmas time special (for theists and atheists alike).

This morning, I was shocked upon realizing that it was time to flip my calendar to December.

Christmas is going to be here before I know it, and this year will mark my third Christmas without family and my second Christmas in a foreign country.

Out of a somewhat unhealthy desire to dwell on my growing melancholy, I went back through my photographs to look at pictures of previous family Christmases. Our last Christmas with my family was in 2008. (It also turned out to be our last Christmas at the house in which my sister and I grew up.) Our last Christmas with T's family was in 2007. Even then, it wasn't a gathering of the whole family – T's brother wasn't there.

I love Christmas. It is, hands down, my favorite holiday. And yet this year, I find myself dreading its approach. I know I should set up our little Christmas tree and try to devise some decorations for it. I know I should try to plan some kind of Christmas brunch or dinner for the small number of friends and acquaintances who will be in Ifrane that day. But I'm unmotivated to do those things because the truth is that I just want to be with family on Christmas this year.

Because I know that's not possible, I find my thoughts jumping all the way to Christmas 2012. Where will I be then? I try to comfort myself with the thought that surely next year we will find a way to be with some family members for Christmas. Realistically, though, I have no idea if that will happen. I will still be a student at that time and won't be contributing much to our household income. I have to go to Kentucky for a month this coming summer as part of my schoolwork, so it's not likely that I'll be able to justify another return to the United States a few months later. We also have family members in New Zealand, but…have you ever looked to see how far away New Zealand is??

My best coping strategy would probably be to move forward in planning a Moroccan Christmas, to make plans to Skype with family members on that day, and to try to develop a sense of solidarity with other people all over the world who spend holidays away from their families for a variety of reasons.

Happy holidays, everyone. Try to enjoy the place where you are and the people you're with.

Vegetarian Thanksgiving international potluck

 I became a vegetarian when I was 12 years old, and since then, holiday meals have generally consisted of a set of rather bland side dishes--vegetarian stuffing and gravy, green bean casserole, black olives, etc. (I don't even get to eat the mashed potatoes and pumpkin pie anymore, thanks to food allergies).

The food was eaten so quickly that I hardly had a chance to get a picture.

American, Canadian, Brazilian, Portuguese...maybe we can all get along!

But that wasn't the case this year! On Saturday, T and I hosted a vegetarian Thanksgiving international potluck dinner for a small group of vegetarians (and veg-sympathizers). This year's Thanksgiving dinner featured red lentil pumpkin soup, roasted root vegetables, spicy Indian chickpeas and vegetable korma (with precious basmati rice), curried lasagna, fruit cobbler and chocolate chip pumpkin bread.

Right now, I think I have what is traditionally called "the holiday blues," exacerbated by being so far from home and by a fairly high degree of uncertainty about my future. Because of this, yesterday's dinner was a much-needed opportunity for me to reflect on what I have to be thankful for. One thing I keep coming back to is the high quality of people I've had the great fortune to meet. I've written about this before, but it's worth reflecting on again. Every place I have lived, I've met remarkably intelligent, kind, generous, and interesting people. It's easy for me to dwell on how much I miss those I've left or who have left me, but I also need to be thankful for the wonderful people I have met here.

On being a teacher again

This morning – despite the fact that, for the past year and a half, I have asserted that I did not want to – I returned to teaching.

Well, sort of. I just started a part-time job teaching English to Ifrane government administrators two mornings a week. I knew soon after this semester began that I was going to need to get a job to give me something to do besides schoolwork, but I wasn't dedicated enough to the idea to aggressively seek a job. This job came to me and was so close to perfect – except for being a teaching job – that I felt I had to take it.

After the first day, I can already tell it will be interesting, and I think I will learn a lot from doing it. Because much of my experience here has been mediated by an American-style university, this teaching job is in some ways my first experience with a Moroccan institution. I have to go to the Ifrane province building to teach, and I walk past several guards on my way. The guards salute one of my students; he's that important.

It didn't take long for me to remember what I loved about teaching and what I hated about it. I enjoy the challenge of trying to decide what to teach and how to teach it. I enjoy interacting with other people in a structured way. I enjoy helping people learn. But one thing I hate about teaching is that, at the same time that it helps me recognize some of my strengths, it also makes me painfully aware of some of my weaknesses. It's hard for me to think of another situation (except, perhaps, lying on a doctor's examination table) in which I feel more vulnerable.

Sometimes I feel incompetent as a student, but to be honest, that isn't often.  Being on the student side of the classroom (whether real or virtual) feels pretty natural to me. I feel like I know how to be a student. But being on the teacher side – even though I did it for years – feels strange. I still feel like I don't know what I'm doing, or how I should be doing it.

I guess I'd better get used to that feeling.

Before and after

Before

After

Soon after. Yum!

A murder of crows, a clowder of cats...and a league of Arabs?

In the push to the end of the semester, I think I will have less time to post to my blog, so in the meantime I'll tell you what's distracting me from my homework at the moment:

Why does "Arab League" sound okay while "League of Arabs" sounds, well, kind of racist? (At the same time, "people of color" sounds okay but "colored people" is just, well, offensive, and it actually makes me cringe.)

Melilla, Spain

Monday was Eid al Adha, or Eid Kbir, a big Muslim celebration which I wrote a little about last year (here and here). T had a few days off from teaching, and we decided weeks ago that we wanted to go somewhere that wasn't Morocco when the Eid break came. When I told my friend Michael this, he wrote (whether sarcastically or not, I don't know) that he was surprised I didn't want to stay and experience the Eid. The truth is, when called upon, I can drum up a great deal of respect, or at the very least tolerance, for a wide variety of cultural practices. But that doesn't mean I am interested in participating in or observing them. For goodness' sake, there are aspects of my own culture that I'm not interested in – like keeping track of celebrity marriages, divorces, and international adoptions, or watching American Idol. So if you're interested in reading more about Eid al Adha, you'll have to look somewhere else, like here.

Because I went to Spain.

A good time for David Sedaris

At the end of September, when our friend JD left Morocco for less green pastures (by the way, we still miss him), he put into our care several books he didn't feel he could take with him. One attitude I adopted very quickly after becoming an "ex-pat" in a non-English speaking country is that English language books are precious. If someone gives you a book, you read it. Then you pass it on to someone else so that person can read it, too. There is a communal attitude about books that I appreciate.

One of the books JD left with us Is Me Talk Pretty One Day by the hilariously insightful (or insightfully hilarious?) David Sedaris. I'd come across many of the essays in the book before (in fact, I used the essay "Big Boy" every single semester in my composition classes, much to the shock and surprise of my students), but I'd never actually read the entire book.

As I'm reading it, I'm discovering that this is a really good time for David Sedaris. The essays in the second half of the book focus on Sedaris's experience trying to learn French while living in France. I think I appreciate both the humor and the poignancy of the essays in a way I never could have before moving to Morocco.

Many of the things he writes about are resonating with me. For example, in "See You Again Yesterday," he writes:

Life may be difficult for a year or two, but I would tough it out because living in a foreign country is one of those things everyone should try at least once. My understanding was that it completed a person, sanding down the rough provincial edges and transforming you into a citizen of the world.

I think Sedaris moved to France without ever having left the country of the United States before that. I guess that means I was a little bit ahead of him before I moved to Morocco, but not by much. And even though I might be reluctant to admit it, I think I moved to Morocco with an attitude similar to the one Sedaris conveys in the above quote.

Sedaris writes that he moved to France knowing only one word of French, the word for "bottleneck."* (In this case, he was ahead of me, because I don't think I knew a single word in Darija when I stepped off the plane in Casablanca last August.) Since this was the only word he knew, it was the only word he could use to communicate. He used it in all situations and at first, he writes, the French responded kindly and generously saying, "You speak very well." This also sounds like a familiar situation. Just as Sedaris started out in France with the memorized list of French nouns, I have memorized several words in Darija and use them enough that I sometimes fool people into thinking I speak Arabic. But of course, I don't, and I can't say I speak it no matter how many nouns I memorize.

I do not always get a positive and supportive response when I try using some Darija. One of the things Me Talk Pretty One Day has gotten me thinking about is how vulnerable we make ourselves when we first start trying to use a new language. I realized the other day that no one has ever made fun of me for speaking English to them, no matter where in the world I was. But I can very clearly and vividly recall a handful of experiences in which I tried to speak Darija in Morocco or Spanish in Spain and was laughed at. I know I have the type of personality that makes me sensitive to situations like this. (I vaguely recall my mother telling me that on the first day of kindergarten I was worried because I didn't know how to read yet, and she had to reassure me that I didn't need to know what I was going to be taught before it was taught to me.)

If I am serious about trying to learn some Darija during the remainder of my time in Morocco, I need to develop more of a sense of humor about myself, my miscommunications, my mispronunciations, etc. Sedaris reminds me of this and provides a model for how to do it.

There is one other reason I love this book. While David Sedaris is now a well-known and successful essayist, in many of his essays he portrays his life as a series of failed attempts to discover his talents. He failed as an artist, as a musician, as a student, as a teacher; he held jobs as a mover, a housekeeper, and a Christmas elf. Given the major changes in my life over the past two years and the degree of uncertainty I'm still experiencing, I gain some comfort from his life story. Maybe this sounds silly, but I get a message of solidarity from his essays: If you're a loser, I'm a loser. And it's okay. Life is a series of discoveries, and it's okay.

If I'm a loser, I'm in the company of David Sedaris, and that's pretty good company.



*Although I'm pretty familiar with Sedaris's essays, I've never been able to figure out how much of what he writes is True. But I've decided I don't care. His essays are incredibly entertaining, and there is clearly some kind of Truth in them. So what does it matter?

Strange fruit

A significant aspect of experiencing a new culture is trying the new foods that come along with it. This is often something I miss out on because I'm a vegetarian with food allergies.

I often resort, then, to vicarious enjoyment of Moroccan foods. I will come home from the bakery with a new treat for T to try, and as he munches on it, I ask for reports on the flavor. I do the same thing when he eats a tasty looking tagine or bestilla.

The truth is, eating at Moroccan restaurants is not very exciting for me, as I usually get panini "fromage" (there's a reason why fromage is in scare quotes), mediocre pizza, a salad, or, if I'm lucky, lubbiya or bessara--both of which are satisfying but not particularly exciting.

If I want to try new foods in Morocco, I'm better off focusing on produce. I once had a rather interesting experience with desert "truffles" I bought on the side of the road outside of Rabat. (They were pretty tasty, but I found it impossible to get all of the sand out of them, which made for a texture displeasing enough that I decided trying them once was enough.) I've tried quince and some squash I don't even know the name of. I've learned how to cook fresh fava beans.

When we were walking around outside the Meknes Medina on Sunday, T and I saw several vendors selling some interesting looking fruit on sticks. We asked one of the vendors what the fruit was, and when he saw that his explanation meant nothing to us, he let us try it. The taste was pleasant enough, although not particularly impressive. It sort of reminded me of mulberries, but a little less sweet. Nevertheless, the fruit was something new to us, and it was cheap (one dirham for a stick), so we bought two sticks.

The fruit looked totally unfamiliar to me, but after we got home on Sunday, T was able to identify it in about five minutes. I don't think this fruit is cultivated in Morocco; my guess is that these trees are growing in people's yards or somewhere nearby their property, and since the fruit is edible, they're picking it and selling it when it's in season.

That's just a guess, though. In any case, it was fun to try something new, and finding that fruit was a reminder to me to keep my eye out for other new foods I can try.

24 hours in Meknes

For those of us who live in Ifrane, Meknes too often is nothing more than a place we go to get things done – to buy groceries, to go to the doctor, to go to the train station, etc. T and I realized recently that, while we had been to Meknes dozens of times, we had never really "done" Meknes. This realization coincided with a rather lazy desire to get out of Ifrane without actually, you know, going anywhere.

The perfect solution, we realized, was to spend a night in Meknes, specifically in the medina.


View Larger Map

Breakfast at the marché

Maybe it means that we are simple people, but T and I don't need a lot of excitement to be happy. One of the simple things that makes us happy is having breakfast at Café Igloo in the marché. We like going with friends, but we are almost as content to go by ourselves.

And we always order the same thing: I get nuss nuss (half coffee, half milk) and T gets atay. We both get meloui bsla (meloui with onions and "fromage," i.e. la vache qui rit). T gets an omelette, which is cooked in a tagine and comes with an entire loaf of fluffy white khobz. If we're feeling decadent, we will each get a glass of fresh squeezed orange juice. This breakfast will cost us about five U.S. dollars.

It's cheap. It's simple. And we both already know it's one of the things we will miss when we leave Morocco.

A little math

Insomnia last night
+ Having to retake a midterm exam today designed by a crazy person
= One adult learner who's about to lose it!

Autumn in Ifrane

I have experienced autumn in a variety of climates. Because I grew up in Nebraska and went to college in Iowa, Midwest autumns will probably always represent "normal" for me--stretching out across October and into November, with a few warm, "sweaterless" days and a few days (one of which was almost always Halloween) of snow. New Orleans doesn't have an autumn as far as I can tell. Autumn in Wyoming is early, swift, spectacular, and tragically short.

Autumn in Ifrane is thick and slow and sweet, like honey. It came so slowly and so gently that it took me quite a while to even notice it was here.

I don't ALWAYS have to be relevant, do I?

Since T and I are living on an income here that might qualify us for food stamps in the United States, I have had the great pleasure of applying for student loans to help pay for my graduate program.

Here's a quote from the master promissory note:

To request a loan discharge based on one of the conditions described above (except for discharges due to death or bankruptcy), you must complete an application that you may obtain from your servicer.

I'm relieved that someone wrote this into the policy, because if they hadn't, I would probably find myself worrying about this if I died. How will I get my loan discharged? I would wonder.

One less thing to worry about. Phew.

Skypefest 2011

If you've ever lived far away from home, particularly in another country, you probably know how touching and important it can be to get the occasional unexpected letter, email, phone call, or Skype call from a friend or family member. For me, this past week has been marked by such unexpected communications, and it has helped me start my Monday morning feeling connected and grounded.

That's a good thing, because I think next week is midterm week, which means lots of grading for T and studying for me. I guess I'd better get to work...

On living in a negotiation culture

About three weeks ago, our friends/neighbors--we'll call them "Ryan" and "Tara"--decided they would get a pet cat. At the time, pets were not, in the strictest sense, allowed in the downtown apartments. But Ryan and Tara opted for the "better to ask for forgiveness later than to ask for permission now" philosophy. Ryan emailed the head of housing to say that they were getting a cat, they would take full responsibility for her and for cleaning of the apartment, etc.

Yesterday, those of us living in the downtown apartments received the following email. Before you read it, keep in mind these points: 1) Up until the day this email was sent out, the University policy was that no pets were allowed in downtown apartments, and 2) Ryan and Tara live in one of only four two bedroom apartments in the downtown building.

Residents living in Downtown Residence can keep cats as companion animals; yet they need to abide by AUI housing rules and regulations regarding this issue:
- Residents who want to have indoor cats need to be residing in a two bed room apartment. They are allowed to have 2 cats in maximum. No other pets are allowed in the Residence,
-Cats should be vaccinated in order to provide the safest protection for the pet and for the environment. The residents should provide a proof of medical history of vaccinations of the pet,
-A cat should not leave the apartment, please ensure that the cat is secured within the apartment,
-A cat should wear a collar, this will facilitate the identification of her owner in case of loss or accident.

Best Regards

Supervisor of Downtown Residence 

These are reasonable rules and regulations, but when I read this email, I laughed; I had a feeling that something quite Moroccan had happened. I don't want to overemphasize cultural differences, but in general, culturally speaking, we Americans expect and value equal treatment and equal application of policies, rules, and regulations. Consideration of individual circumstances may be seen as favoritism and as unfair. Moroccan culture, on the other hand, is a negotiation culture. There is more of a sense that each individual case should be considered separately, in light of individual circumstance, personal connections, and the quality of the argument made on one's behalf (by one's self or by a representative). 

The above downtown residence pet policy was clearly created retroactively just for Ryan and Tara, and I found it to be a clever and delightful (and face-saving) solution to the (potential) problem Ryan and Tara created by getting a cat without permission.

On watching TV

During our nearly 10 years of marriage, T and I have very rarely had "TV." (By this I mean that we have always had a television, but we have rarely had reception of any television channels. This is because we are too cheap to pay for TV, so we have only had it when it has been provided to us for free). Our time in Morocco is one of those rare times. And I have to say that it can be quite interesting watching television in a foreign country.

Our TV channels come in a variety of languages – standard Arabic, Darija, French, and English. A somewhat surprising amount of the television programming is American. Even the programming that is 100% French (languagewise) seems to consist largely of American TV programs dubbed in French. (I really don't understand French, but I enjoyed watching a portion of a dubbed Simpsons episode. I was very impressed by how similar the French voice actors sounded to the American voice actors. If you ever get an opportunity to watch the Simpsons in French, I highly recommend that you do so.)

The commercials are interesting, too, whether or not they are in English. When we first moved here, we frequently saw intriguing and emotionally powerful antiterrorism videos similar to this one:



But I have to say – with the caveat that this conclusion is based entirely on casual and unscientific observation – that a large percentage of commercials are for soaps and other cleaning products: hand soap, body soap, clothing soap, shampoo, etc. Paranoia-inducing commercials for Dettol seem especially prevalent.

I also enjoy the commercials for nonalcoholic beverages that are explicitly advertised like beer.



We now have fewer English language TV channels than we did when we moved into this apartment; for some reason, we keep losing channels. At any given time, though, there will be one or two English language (usually American) movies on TV. I am often amused by the choice of movies, which can range from well-known films like Black Hawk Down to weird movies you've probably never heard of like May to movies with totally culturally inappropriate content like Girl 6.

I'm especially surprised to see these channels showing movies like that last one because virtually all sexual content, including kisses, is edited out of everything shown on these Arabic-subtitled TV channels. (T and I knew we had gotten used to these new television decency standards when, one day, we found ourselves staring slack-jawed at a vigorous kissing and groping scene that, for some reason, had not been edited out of a movie on the Action channel. We were shocked the way you might be shocked if the 10 o'clock news suddenly got interrupted by full frontal nudity.)

Watching TV in a foreign country is so much more interesting than it was to watch it in my own country. Every commercial and every program feels like a cultural clue (or, sometimes, a cultural puzzle). It's also interesting to see what television programming gets exported from the United States and to reflect on how that affects the image people in the Arab world have of Americans.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go watch the latest installment of Arabs Got Talent.

Weekend in Asilah

Asilah is a small, quiet, beautiful but unpretentious town along the Atlantic coast of Morocco. T and I went there once about a year ago for just a couple of hours and were wanting to return ever since.


View Larger Map

This weekend, we got our chance. I went on the trip with three goals, all of which I accomplished. First, eat a vegetable tagine at Al Kasabah. Second, drink wine under the stars on the rooftop terrace of our guesthouse. Third (and most importantly), go to the beach.

I had read a lot about Paradise Beach and intended to go there, but our hostess suggested we go to a less-well-known but even more beautiful part of the beach, which involved driving on unmarked, winding, rutted, and rocky one-lane roads.

She told us to walk two kilometers south once we arrived at the beach, which we did. This brought us to Mounir's place, a clean and simple bamboo structure overlooking the water. We ate lunch there, sat in the shade, sat in the sun, got in the water, and enjoyed having a gorgeous, clean beach practically all to ourselves.

All the same

Are small towns all over the world the same? Here are some similarities I have noticed between Ifrane and small towns in the U.S. with which I am familiar. (Powellites, this is for you!)

-When you fly into the airport (which is in a nearby [or not so nearby] big city), it's probable that you will either be on the plane with someone you know, or you will run across someone you know somewhere along the way. (In the U.S., whichever one of you has a car will offer a ride to the other; in Morocco, you will share a taxi home.)*

-You cannot go out anywhere in your town without seeing at least a few people you know. If you are a teacher, you will see your students, and sometimes they will explain to you why they missed class on Friday; they will ask about the assignment due on Monday; etc.

-When you go to the nearby “big city” to shop (at Wal-Mart, Target, or Marjane), you will, in all likelihood, see some of your coworkers there doing the same thing.

-People you have never met know who you are.

-You don't need the Yellow Pages because any time you need goods or services, you just ask everybody you know who they would recommend.

-When you go to your town's coffee shop, you don't actually have to place an order because they already know what you usually get.

-You evaluate the restaurants in your small town with the highest rating being "[name of small town] good." For example, if someone asks you, "Does this restaurant have good food?" you will respond, "It's Ifrane good."

-You will drive for three or four hours just to get to a place where you can go shopping, eat at a truly good restaurant, go to the dentist, go to the doctor, have a surgical procedure done, etc.

-Any time you try to walk someplace, people driving by will constantly stop to ask if you need a ride.

*Last August, when T and I were flying to Morocco for the first time, on the plane from New York we sat across the aisle from a nice couple and their baby. They asked where we were going, and we told them that T had a job at Al Akhawayn University. The woman said something like, "Oh, my husband's father teaches there." We probably responded with something like, "Oh, that's nice." Fast forward several months. I am in Rabat with my friend LW. She is stopping by the house of her friend Steve to visit his son and son's wife because they are also her friends. Son's Wife opens the door and looks strangely familiar to me. She is much quicker than I am and realizes that she and her husband and baby sat across from us on the plane several months earlier. She even has a picture she took of her baby on the plane in which you can see T and me in the background. This was a weird reminder that the world isn't nearly as big as we sometimes think it is.

Sweeping up

This isn't a great photograph because it was taken covertly, but I want to show you how official city workers clean up the town--using brooms made out of sticks with twigs or brush tied to them. In warmer cities, the workers use fresh palm branches.

The road home

The drive back to Ifrane on Sunday (after a weekend spent in Midelt and Imilchil) was long, hot, and uncomfortably crowded. Nevertheless, I was okay with it. I was accepting of it. And I found that, maybe for the first time since coming back to Morocco after five weeks spent in the United States, I was really, truly accepting another year in Morocco.

I want for the tone and content of this blog to be more positive than negative, more forward-looking than backward looking. I try to do more pretty photographs, and less silly navel-gazing.

But the truth is that it was hard for me to come back here on August 25. It was hard not to dwell on a lot of things that are not (or do not have to be) all that important – the accessibility of a Whole Foods store; the closeness of family and friends (and the ease with which I could communicate with them when I had a U.S. phone number they could call); the convenience of conducting business by telephone and in English; the availability of vegetarian protein products and good microbrew beers; even the presence of a soft, comfortable bed with high-quality pillows.

I lost sight of why I gave these things up, and I was seduced by the ultimately materialistic (and, therefore – at least ideally – unimportant) conveniences and luxuries of living in my home country. I lost sight of what I gained in the previous year here in Morocco, and of what I have to gain in the coming year (or more).

So I am back in Ifrane with greater resolve to live here. T and I are planning on hiring a Darija tutor, in an effort (no matter how pathetic it turns out to be) to be able to communicate with more Moroccans. We will try to go on more trips. We will try to make more friends. We will try to be more kind, giving, and generous to those around us. I will continue working on my constant quest to be less materialistic and less caught up in "the little things."

I think this family was probably ecstatic when they were finally able to get their solar panel (which  is just barely visible on their rooftop). That kind of helps put the Whole Foods thing in perspective, doesn't it?

And even though I know that my ultimate goal is to return to the United States and to find a (permanent) home somewhere within its borders, I will work on being patient and appreciative of the moment.

These are all resolutions that I will have to renew week to week, day to day, and sometimes even moment to moment. That is one reason I am posting them here: a public declaration makes them more real, and harder to forget.

At least for now, I'm home. I'll say it again: I'm home.

A night in Imilchil

See the cow (next to lines for drying laundry) in this backyard?

Imilchil is a small, quiet, dusty village in the High Atlas Mountains. I think it would remain an obscure village, unknown to foreigners (and probably even to many Moroccans) if it weren't for what the Rough Guide to Morocco calls "the world-famous Imilchil Moussem," a giant fair held in September that is attended by "30,000 or more Berbers" from the region. It's also called a "marriage market" because it's a traditional time and place for young people to choose marriage partners.

This festival has become a huge tourist attraction (and the influx of tourists has, sadly but not unpredictably, changed the event).

And it is my understanding that it is happening this Thursday. What that means, though, is that on Saturday and Sunday, when we were in Imilchil, there were virtually no other tourists there. And other than a few worn-out signs pointing to auberges (French "inn"), it was very hard to imagine the village accommodating many tourists.

In any case, we enjoyed our time in this relaxing and beautiful village.

Thea, Sven, and Josiah walking through the bustling city of Imilchil...

Road to Imilchil

In two previous posts, I mentioned a weekend trip to the towns of Midelt and Imilchil. Throughout most of the trip, I was very glad to be doing it at the same time that I thought I will never do this again.

One of the factors behind both of those thoughts was the road, specifically its length and quality. On Friday night, it only took us about three hours to get from Ifrane to Midelt. But on Saturday and Sunday, while we didn't have much distance to cover, our route was very, very scenic…and that means slow driving.

In fact, we were on such scenic routes that Google Maps doesn't even know they exist. The best I could do to show you our route was to place markers on a few of the towns that we drove through.


View Larger Map

Sven, Thea, Rachid, Abdul, and Josiah

In Midelt on Friday night, we stayed at Riad Villa Midelt, which I don't think is really a genuine riad, but it was nice anyway. The manager, Abdul, and his friend Rachid were very friendly and sat talking with us for a long time that evening as we had tea outside in the cool desert air. Later they served us dinner, and I had the best vegetarian couscous I have ever had.

The riad was in a quiet part of town. Rather than exploring Midelt on Saturday morning, we chose to have a leisurely breakfast before setting out for Imilchil.

All of the ceilings in the riad were covered with this intricately handcarved wood.

View of Midelt from our room at the riad

View of Midelt from the rooftop terrace

We set out for Imilchil a little after 10:30, and that's when things got really interesting.

The people of Imilchil

On Friday night, we stayed in the town of Midelt. On Saturday night, we stayed in Imilchil. Here are a few pictures from that village.

The people of Midelt

This past weekend, our friend Josiah had a couple of visitors from Germany. He used their visit as an excuse to rent a car to take a weekend trip, and he invited T and me along.

We had a great time, and my husband took hundreds of pictures. Before I blog about the trip, I need to sort through the photos. In the meantime, I thought you might enjoy some pictures of people in the town of Midelt, where we spent Friday night.