A day in the life.

My brother, during his short visit here, expressed multiple times that he loved my life, and wanted it for himself. While this is flattering to hear, it hit me that he didn't really know what to expect before coming here... and I'm assuming that neither do any of you. With that in mind, let me run through today's happenings with you to try and show you a standard Saturday is like on this side of the Atlantic.

I woke up at seven fifteen, and then read, wrote and laid in bed fighting the daytime until about nine. I finally got out of bed, prayed, and had some breakfast in my newly-created breakfast nook: some leftover gazpacho, a frozen wheat-flavored yogurt (which is delicious, if you've never had it before) and an ice-cold glass of water.

I love my new fridge, can you tell?

Then, it was time to consider going to find some internet, courtesy of my souq town. I left the house around ten, and was greeted with shouts of Nicole! and La bas! and How are you!!!! in that great singsong-y way that only eight-year-old Moroccan children can greet you. I stopped, kissed two girls, shook one boy's hand, and then patted him on the head as he wrapped his arms around me. Greetings are far more important here than they are in the States, so a casual wave and 'morning would not do with these kids. After assuring them that I'd only be gone a little while, I then turned back toward the taxi tree and was assaulted by two other small girls shouting How are you!!!!, in English, courtesy of the previous volunteer. I greeted them, and their mother, in a similar fashion, and then walked the half-kilometer or so to my taxi tree with the girls still shouting How are you!!!! until I disappeared from view.

When I hit the top of the hill on my way to the taxi tree, I was greeted by my anti-fan club, who consist of a group of elementary school-aged boys who like to call my name and then hide from view when I try to say hello back. They, again, called out my name and a similar How are you!!!! until I was out of earshot.

I then dropped off my garbage (one cannot let garbage sit around the house for long when it's 40° and above), and finally arrived at the taxi tree. I flagged down three taxis en route to my souq town from the provincial capital, with no luck. These taxis will pick you up if there is an extra spot in the taxi (if someone has gotten out early, for example), but weekend mornings aren't good for that.

I was then greeted by a man who knew my name, but whose face I could not place. Nice guy... though I never figured out where he knew me from (aside from the fact that I'm the local foreigner).

And then, a car drove up to me - a standard car for my American standards, and a gorgeous car for my Moroccan standards - and the driver greeted me in English.

Its been three weeks since you were at my house. Do you remember me? he said in that standard, Moroccan French-laced English.

Unfortunately, I didn't remember him at all. This hasn't been a good morning for this kind of thing.

Three weeks since the election... he tried to prompt me.

Unfortunately, my brain wasn't making the connection with this man with the zween car and the firm handle on my native language. I normally remember people that speak English, as it's an uncommon trait here. But, I drew yet another blank on this man.

You were at my house... in (the name of his neighborhood)... again, with the prompting.

Unfortunately, I went to a lot of houses during homestay. Also, I couldn't shake the feeling that 'three weeks ago' was not truly three calendar weeks ago. My brain was stuck on this point when he told me blatantly:

You were at my party, with (the name of my friend that speaks fabulous English and invited me to the party with the security guards).

Oh!, I replied cunningly. That was your house? Tbarkallah aleek! I didn't realize that you owned that house.

(Yeah, yeah, judge away. I never claimed to not be socially awkward.)

So, there you have it. He and his friends in the beautiful car were headed in the opposite direction, so I was left standing at the taxi tree waiting an empty seat to souq.

Finally, I hear a frenzy of clanks and groans, and an engine turns over unwillingly at the café behind the tree. My favorite taxi driver pulled up alongside me and motioned me inside. We drive off in his (t)rusty old car, bouncing along the road to souq town. This man has always been determined to speak French to me, and today is no different.

Ca va? he asks me.
I respond in Tashlheit.
We sit in silence.

We then get flagged down by a small boy with a cold waterbottle, asking the taxi driver to take it to someone he knows. This is pretty common these days, I've noticed, and I was already in the taxi... so I sat back and let life take me where it would, as I do every other day here. We pass my souqtown to find this friend, who happened to be a portly man without a shirt sitting at the entrance of a campground just outside of town.

I haven't seen that much flesh in a long time, friends. I averted my gaze to retain my modesty (and my breakfast).

Finally, we roll into town (no, literally, we were coasting with the car shut off at this point), I pay the driver and I'm on my way to the internet. I debate buying a phone card, but decide to put it off in lieu of wanting to ask around to make sure that double-recharge doesn't start tomorrow. There's nothing worse than buying credit and then hearing that double-recharge -- which is just what it sounds like, double the credit you paid for -- started the next day.

I decide to stop in a favorite shop of mine for a bottle of water, as it's really hot again today, and I'm offered a glass of tea. I gladly accept, and get tea and some sweets along with my bottle of water. We make small talk for about ten minutes, and then it was across the street to my cybercafé, where I've been camped out for the past, oh, let's say four hours or so, catching up on emails and listening to the music that my brother so badly wanted while he was here: "fun Berber music."

The rest of my day will consist of buying a few necessities, having tea at my tutor's house (although she's out of town, her mother invited me over -- actually, her exact words were where have you been? Come over for tea! I love this woman.) and then sitting downstairs at the association underneath my apartment and working on a recipie for a ginger-garlic green bean sautée over crispy rice that I've been working on.

Summertime in Morocco, friends. Summertime in the Maghrib.