Oh Moroccan transportation. You are laughable. You have made me friends. You have made me late to work. You have made me want to kill everyone within a mile radius.

First, let's discuss buses. I'm blessed with the privilege to take bus number 32 to work. Now, this bus looks like it was jacked from the USSR circa 1950. Sometimes, the doors don't work. Air conditioning? That's a joke. Windows that open? If I'm lucky. On a good day I arrive at work with my shirt only slightly soaked through with sweat. Sometimes, it doesn't run for 2 hours at a time. This leaves me sitting at the bus stop staring in disbelief at my watch, 15 minutes after my class was due to begin, imagining my students sitting in their desks wondering where I am. I'm convinced that only 2 buses run the 1 1/2 hour route. I watch 5, 6, 7 of the other buses go by and resist the temptation to punch the guy who's trying to speak to me and get my number, despite the fact that I have my iPod plugged into my ears and at max volume. I don't want to talk to you. Get the hell away from me.

Next: Trains. Again, as a train pulls into the station, flashbacks of newsfeeds from 50's Russia come to mind. Sure, there are a couple modern trains that run to Kenitra, Casa, and the like, but for the longer trips you're stuck in these massive, ancient, ugly trains. For some reason, the people getting on and the people getting off are both in a rush to run into each other in the most inefficient way possible. It's like they think the train is just going to start moving as they're handing their 100kg suitcase to the unfortunate person on the platform. Meanwhile, the getter-oners are convinced that the train is going to leave without the. Even New Yorkers have the decency to step to the side so one can exit the subway before jamming themselves into a car. You're stuck in a compartment with 7 other equally pissed off, sweaty people - if you're lucky enough to find a compartment. The old Muslim women are staring at you like you're a heathen for wearing a tank top in 120 degree heat. Yes, I know I'm going to hell for showing my collarbone. Put your eyes back in your skull. Oh, and in case you were wondering, these trains rarely have air conditioning. A train from Meknes turned the dirt on my feet into mud. Gross.

Trains also bring out the most hypocritical thoughts I've ever thunk. In a 30 second period, I've found myself thinking..."Get the f**k out of my way. Why the hell aren't you moving?"...then..."YOU REALLY EXPECT ME TO GET OUT OF YOUR WAY? ARE YOU KIDDING ME?" Awful, I know, but when you've sweat out enough to quench the thirst of the entire continent of Africa, it's hard to think clearly. I end up putting on the badass-bitch-hate stare that I perfected last summer in New York, and hoping it will evaporate people that piss me off with a single look.

Even worse are the guys who think they can pick up girls on a train or a bus. I'll never forget the day that Cassie yelled in several languages at the guy on a train from Casa to Rabat who decided her lap would make an excellent seat. Then tried to help himself to our water. And of course, there are those who try to deter any touching at all from happening. I "insulted" 20 people (whose seats were facing in the opposite direction) by giving my boyfriend a quick kiss.

Granted, I've had one or two good experiences on the train. I met a guy from Seattle who is in Morocco managing physical therapy clinics with his wife. I met another guy from Seattle (a little younger) who we decided was Cassie's soulmate. We don't know his name or number, but we'll find him. Oh yes. We will. Inchallah.

Someone give this country money to create some freaking infrastructure, S.V.P.

You complete me

Help me complete my map of where I know people...

Packing my bags...

I will officially be nomading through Europe from August 1-10. No concrete plans yet. Let me know if you want a visit (or to join) :)

I'll then be back in Morocco until the 23rd. Classes start on Aug 25. Kill me now.

I'll be returning to Morocco to visit (and snowboard the hell out of this country) over Winter Break, inshallah.

It's Morocco

I recently passed my 2 month mark of being in Morocco. Kate and I (Kate has been in Morocco a couple weeks less than I have) have been noticing the huge changes that seem to happen almost day to day. My life - and I - have changed so much from the one I had and who I was two months ago.

You know you've been gone for a long time when you get comments on your pictures saying "OMG, Caitie, your hair is so long!" Personal grooming and care have been put on the back burner. I can almost hear my mother saying, "Your eyebrows are looking pretty bushy. I'll make you an appointment to get them waxed."

Nevertheless, there have been certain constants over the last couple months. I long to be just another invisible girl behind big shades walking around Miami's campus. I can't walk outside for more than a few minutes without turning heads, getting whistled at, and the occasional "Hola, CHICA!" Every day I am amazed by the men who are able to drive their motorcycles down a busy street while at the same time, turning around to stare at me. Last night I was snapped at in the Medina. It's incredible that these men think that these tactics would ever work.

The only other constant I can think of is Rachid. People come and go. Everyone who lived in the house in the Oudaya when I arrived, with the exception of Sarah, who is leaving tomorrow, is gone. I started spending time with Rachid a couple weeks into my trip. Back then, he didn't speak English, and I didn't speak French, so communication was limited. Now, we can carry on a fairly intelligent conversation using my extremely limited French and his constantly improving English. Unfortunately, this often leaves me speaking like a 3rd grader.

The difficulties in a Moroccan and an American being seen together are not as bad as I thought. This is probably because I can't understand what people around us mutter in Arabic when we walk through the medina holding hands, but it rarely seems to bother Rachid. There have been exceptions, however. Once on a train to Kenitra, Rachid kissed me in the area between cars. A conductor rushed over and yelled at him for being disrespectful to everyone around us. Yesterday at the beach, we were laying next to each other on the sand. I was trying to teach him Southern accents by saying "Alabama" with my fake southern drawl, and asking him to repeat. The result was hilarious, and sounded something like a mix between a French and southern accent. I had my hand on his face at one point. A little boy ran by and told him "not to let me touch him, because it's shameful." The conductor I could kind of understand, seeing as he was older, but the fact that children are still taught this is awful. When I looked visibly upset in both these situations, Rachid has said, "It's Morocco." True...but should that be an excuse?

All in all, it's been a wonderful trip. I've learned so much, and I still have another month to go. It's difficult to deal with the changes - with friends leaving and new friends coming, other relationships around me ending and beginning almost seamlessly, and Rasta guys seemingly appearing out of nowhere. I just hope I can hold some thought of continuity when I think back fondly on this trip.

Newsfeed

Be not too hasty, to trust, or to admire, the teachers of morality: they discourse like angels, but they live like men

Samuel Johnson

I had an incredible weekend with my fellow Americans (and Cassie and Gabriel) in the north of Morocco. I will talk about that later though, because I left the notebook where I wrote down all my notes at home, and Im not in a cyber next door to work.

Im really happy because I had a class with only one student who was very rude to me, and he got another teacher. Hes a 32 year old man whos engaged. I never really knew what level he was or what to teach him because he never really spoke when I asked questions. A couple weeks ago for the 4th of July I opened the class up with a little American history, and then showed him some things I brought from the U.S. I went on to teach a shorter lesson than usual because of the time that took. At the end of that class, he asked if I could not teach him useless things anymore. Ass. But now I dont have to deal with him anymore, so yay.

Lindsay left last Thursday and it has left a fairly large hole in my time here. I miss being able to relate to her about our relationships with Moroccan men. However, Hichams actions since she left have been no less than dispicable. Its difficult to even be in the same room with him without my gag reflex acting up.

In other news, Rachid cant go to Europe anymore because he doesnt have the money, so that changes a lot of my plans for August. Its so hard to decide if I want to stay with him longer. Either way, I gotta be out of Maroc by August 12 or else the po po can come get me. Tonight were going to get Chinese food/sushi at a good restaurant he knows of, so it should be interesting to see the Moroccan version of these foods. I already had sushi, but I was supremely disappointed. Maybe this restaurant will be better.

Thats all the updates for now.

Dancing with Matt

With all of the drama and the controversy over the last couple days, this video really helped bring me back down to where I want to be.

I highly suggest you watch it if you're down in the dumps. Especially if you're an AIESECer.

In response...love

Sometimes in life, you feel completely and utterly out of control. That's how I feel right now. I'm taking a day off of work to collect myself, absorb information that I've been gathering, and try and piece together my life from across the Atlantic.

This excerpt from Tuesdays with Morrie has been especially helpful:

"Life is a series of pulls back and forth. You want to do one thing, but you are bound to do something else. Something hurts you, yet you know it shouldn't. You take certain things for granted, even when you shouldn't ever take anything for granted. A tension of opposites, like a pull on a rubber band. And most of us live somewhere in the middle."

Sounds like a wrestling match, I say.

"A wrestling match?" He laughs. "Yes, you could describe life that way."

So which side wins, I ask?

"Which side wins?"

He smiles at me, the crinkled eyes, the crooked teeth.

"Love wins. Love always wins."


This is love.


This is love.


This is love.

Impulse Buy of the Century

It was just a normal evening, walking back from the train station yesterday with Rachid and Aid. We stopped for sugar cane juice, which I still like to think of as bamboo juice because it looks like they're pushing bamboo juice into this machine that magically churns and makes the most tasty juice ever. A few minutes later, we stopped for snails, and a couple of girls asked Rachid if he was Italian.

After buying cheese for the pizza we were planning on making later, we were about to exit the medina when we saw a splash of color in a box. Upon further examination, these colorful balls of fluff looked exactly like a bunch of baby chicks. Real baby chicks. Dyed different colors. I decided I wanted one, so I picked out a bright pink baby chick. In exchange for 6 dirhams, I got a baby chick and a bag of feed for it.



Her name is Elena. We brought over the cage that was randomly hanging in Kate's room, and that's her new home. She tends to be loud when Rachid or I aren't around, but when you take her out and play with her she's extremely affectionate. She loves to snuggle up in the folds of my clothes or in my hand. She has a bad habit of spilling her food into her water bowl, and then going for a swim in said water bowl.


A picture of the happy family.

Puma, the resident cat, isn't too fond of the new addition to the Oudaya family. Mostly because she can't get in the cage and eat Elena.

Independence Day

This is my first time not celebrating the 4th of July playing or watching volleyball in a tournament in Lima, or enjoying the hot Ohio day with close friends and taking part in the events of the Star Spangled Spectacular - making fun of the morbidly obese radio personalities that we hear every day, but never really see. Before this, I spent every mid-summer at Grandma and Grandpa's lake house, water skiing and tubing with my cousins all day until the boat ran out of gas and eating Spiedies for dinner and roasting marshmallows over the fire for smores until the firemen set off that years' fireworks display. Even last year, I rang in Independence Day throwing up on a Chinatown bus headed back to New York from D.C., where I was visiting Kellyn (she did an excellent job of intoxicating me beyond recognition), met up with friends for a Yankees (ew) game (during which I experienced a massive hangover), and watched the fireworks over the East River. There is nothing in my memory of this day where I have not celebrated.

Here I find myself in Morocco, where every day has been more fun than the next. We just went to Marjane and bought two 24-packs of the cheapest beer and a cheap bottle of whiskey (to add to our collection of two bottles of vodka). It's going to be an American Independence Day party to remember.