Author: Laurie Sunderland

Trees, birds and patience.

I finished making the book for my friend from Ecuador yesterday.  Well, almost and not quite.  Upon what I thought was the completion, I ordered just one copy to check for mistakes, then took it over for Marta to review before ordering the 12 books she wanted.  I was very pleased with the end result, but given the history thus far on the project, I knew not to relax just yet, a totally correct hunch.
Marta was standing at her front window waiting for me when I arrived, a gesture that I’ve become quite fond of, and has me on my punctual toes each time I visit.  Her living room looked like she was expecting company, as she had moved all her kitchen chairs into the room, and each chair held one of her original paintings, as well as stacks of paper-clipped text.  There was a system here, and I knew not to question, although I was somewhat surprised, as I had already reassured her multiple times that I had the paintings and the text pages in the proper order.  I thought we had already jumped that hurdle.

Inhale.  Exhale.  Patience.  Or paciencia, en español.

She loved my “sample” hard-copy book, much to my delight, yet still walked around the living room, checking my page order with the stacks of paper on each chair.   She did find a couple of small mistakes, errors in her spelling on some of the Spanish text, and I agreed that I would keep the book with the mistakes as my own, would make the necessary corrections, then would order the 12 books she wanted.  She wanted to pay me right then and there,  but I insisted we wait until she had all 12 books in her hands and was pleased with them. We agreed to meet for lunch once she received the books and she could pay me then.  So last week, as agreed, we met at a neighborhood restaurant she liked, which, ironically, happened to be French, and enjoyed the lovely French cuisine while conversing in Spanish the entire time.   The language section of my brain opened up, then got confused, as I was “merci-ing”  in the middle of a totally Spanish conversation.  I felt very European.

That was last week.  Since then, my friend has found things in the book she wants to change, which means another order and, unfortunately, a significant expense for her.  I tried to talk her out of it, since the books are not cheap, but she insisted they be perfect. She said she would only publish one book in her lifetime, and this was it, so it just had to be perfect.  She apologized for pushing me to get them done so quickly, but said she was nervous she wouldn’t make it to her 80th birthday, a comment I have argued with her more than once.  When the book was finished, she told me she was relieved and would not worry about dying before December.  I don’t know how to say “stop overthinking the dying stuff” in Spanish, but I gave her a smile that communicated my thoughts, and she smiled back.  I’m starting to understand her humor, and she mine.

That was a few weeks ago, and the same process of ordering, proofreading, correcting, and re-ordering has happened twice since then.  Last week, I think we finally reached a point where we’re both satisfied, but my fingers remain crossed and my breath held.
This has been far more of an ordeal than I ever thought it would be when I signed on, but it has been about so much more than a book of paintings and text.  Last week I spent 2 hours conversing in Spanish with my new friend and felt so comfortable with it that, at one point, I actually forgot I was slogging through a language that wasn’t my mother tongue.
As I was driving home from that last visit,  I realized that the many trips to her house to do and redo were far less about the book that we were jointly creating and far more about the friendship that was developing.  I think about Marta, and I smile.  It’s been a synchronistic connection that I think we both needed, and the timing was impeccable.

The book, by the way, is a lovely story that showcases Marta’s love for her children and for trees.  She represents each of her 6 children as golondrinas, a bird common in Ecuador, who, one by one, leave the nest and find their own trees to begin their lives as adults.  Many different trees are represented, including a saguaro cactus, which means her son, who lives in Arizona.  One of the paintings shows a bird returning to its mother, with the text “trata otra vez” (he tried again).  I was that kid.  I get it.  No doubt her children will be very touched by the paintings and the story that accompanies them, especially given that they haven’t yet learned that she knows how to paint!

Sometimes getting to the prize at the end of the proverbial tunnel isn’t what you thought it would be.  I’ve got a new book to add to my growing collection of books I’ve made, but the gain here isn’t in the pages of that book; it’s in the added gift of an unexpected friendship. There is always a purpose behind our chance meetings with people, and some of those relationships continue as they are needed in one way or another, while others fall away.  I’m hopeful that the friendship I’ve found with Marta will continue far beyond the pages of a book.

Learning to say “gracias”…

Quito, Ecuador and my friend, Marta’s home town

Last night, over a pizza with extra mushrooms and pepperoni, I carefully listened to the life stories a woman from Ecuador told me in Spanish, who, at the tender age of 20, moved to Kansas City with her soon-to-be doctor husband.  After having seven children with him, she divorced and raised them as a single mom, remaining in Kansas City.   She’d only interject with English when she’d see my head tilt and brows knit in confusion over a word or a phrase, then seamlessly, would fall right back into her native tongue.  When the waitress came over to our table to see if we needed anything, I quickly responded in Spanish. My immediate reality hit me, and I had to marvel at the beauty of sharing these moments with this woman, in Spanish, in Leawood, Kansas, over a pizza.

I met this lovely woman a few years ago, when she was my teacher in an evening Spanish class I was taking. After the 3rd class, she called me at home and told me she thought I was too advanced for the class, and asked if I would rather come to her house and converse once a week.  Of course I would! I’d much rather speak Spanish while sitting on someone’s couch than at a desk with a notebook in front of me! And that’s how I got to know Marta.  After a few months of weekly Spanish at her house, I ended up taking a trip to her native Ecuador with her and three other students.   It was interesting getting to see the country through her native eyes, and frustrating at the same time, as they were 78-year-old eyes, and we didn’t exactly share the same philosophies on travel and adventure, or how many more museums we had to, I mean, get to go to today??  But that’s another story.

I didn’t hear from her after the trip until a month ago, when she emailed me and asked for my help with a project she was working on.  Her children are throwing her an 80th birthday party in December, and to thank them, she was putting together a short story of her life, told in paintings and brief text, that she wanted to make into books. Could I please offer a tiny bit of help with the project?  I hesitated, and with good cause, but hung onto the words tiny or “muy pequito” more specifically.  I really didn’t know Marta well as she was fiercely private, so I was both surprised and flattered by her request.  Flattery won.

I agreed to meet her at her house, a short 10 minutes from mine, where she would show me what she was working on and how I could help.  In my mind, I thought it would be giving an opinion on fonts or text placement, kind of thing,  which I was more than happy to help with.  I’ve got to add that when I returned from Ecuador, I made a photo book of the trip with some text and gave a copy to Marta, so any hopes of saying I didn’t know how were lost on that piece of history.   When I got there, she took me to her spare bedroom/office, where she had 20 8 1/2 by 11-sized paintings, carefully laid out on the sofa bed, all with a similar theme of trees, birds, and a lot of blue sky.  They were quite lovely and all hand-painted by Marta, who told me she taught herself to paint on the heels of this project.  Inhale.  Exhale.  It was far more than an opinion she wanted and I was in too deep to walk away.  She begged, she pleaded, she insisted on paying me for the work, which at that point, seeing the size of the project, I already had a number in my mind to charge her.  I looked at her standing proudly in front of the 20 paintings that depicted her life, carefully placed on the bed as a display for me, and wondered how in the world I could say anything but yes.  Yes, of course I will help you.
She was so excited that I said yes and began to explain how she wanted the book by showing me her handwritten copies of stapled and stacked papers, far more confusing than it needed to be, then explained how she learned to paint, again, far more explanation than I needed. Still, I was committed at that point,  so let go of my need to grab the explanation and be on my way, and allowed myself to be present in a moment that was not just about me making a book.  There was something else in the makings here, and although not quite sure what that something was, I was willing to stay the course and find out.

I knew I’d be there until next Tuesday if I didn’t tell her I had to be somewhere else, so with the paintings and the papers, all organized into two folders,  we said our goodbyes and I almost made my exit when Marta came running out the front door and stopped me and handed me a lucite in-box from her desk, insisting that I put the paintings, the paintings that were safely tucked into a folder, into the box for the drive to my house.  She said they’d be safer that way.

While driving home, I glanced over at the clear Lucite box containing a 79-year-old woman from Ecuador’s life story, told in paintings and brief text, who was riding shotgun in my car, and I knew I had made the right decision.  This gift, created for her children and to be given to them on her 80th birthday celebration,  no doubt was going to be a gift for me as well, and to that, both out loud and to myself, I said gracias.

My first task at hand was to photograph the paintings, which had given me the most angst about the project, as I didn’t want to lose one brushstroke in the copying process. Still, they turned out beautifully and I began the process of digitally putting them into the book format, along with her pages of text.  The ease of the project ended quickly when I got an email from Marta saying she wanted all the paintings back because she wanted to make the birds in them darker, which represented important parts of her life.  I knew there was no arguing with her, so I told her I’d be over “around noon” on the following day.  I pulled into her driveway at 12:10 and noticed her standing at the front window waiting.  My irritation with her request that seemed unfounded melted at the sight of her anxiously waiting for me.  It made me think of my grandparents who would drive an hour to see me dance in a 10-minute half-time performance in my high school gym.  They always looked little and vulnerable and more excited than anyone else in the room to see me.  I found myself more than willing to hear Marta’s explanations of the small changes she wanted to make and how she would make the birds darker in all 20 paintings.  I’m finding my Spanish again with each visit, and she’s finding someone to use her Spanish with, and I think in the process, we’re both unexpectedly finding a friendship.

After about a week of working on the book and two more trips to her house with worries and suggestions, I brought over the final copy via my computer for her to look at before ordering.  She was thrilled!  Well… mostly.  There was one painting that she wanted to tweak just a little bit, and then I could come back the next day and get it.  Or, I suggested, the tweaks could be done as I waited, then I could carry the wet painting home in my car, oh so carefully.  She hesitated and said she’d do it now and that I could take it home with me. In the meantime, would I like to go eat pizza with her tonight at a nearby pizza place she likes?  My first thought was to say no, I have to go, but then thoughts of her sitting by herself at a trendy and likely busy pizza parlor came to mind, and I graciously said yes, of course, yes.  It was over pizza that I heard about Marta and her seven children, and both her happiness with being here and the longing for Ecuador.  I am both blessed and honored to be a tiny part of the celebration of this dear woman’s 80th birthday.

The warmth of such an enjoyable evening quickly faded when Marta emailed me later that night, saying she wanted all the text sizes changed, as larger text is just nicer to read.  She didn’t seem to understand that the actual book would be larger than my computer screen, but that didn’t matter.  She wanted it changed and needed me to come by her house ASAP, at my convenience, of course so that she could explain.  She ended the email by telling me that, because she had shared her and her family’s history with me, “we are now friends.”

And so, with my new friend directing me, I continue to work on this project, which, in reality, was completed a while ago, while realizing that this is less about the book and far more about what is going on between Marta and me during the process of making it.  These really are the moments,  wrapped up in a package so cleverly disguised that it hardly seemed like a gift, let alone one I’d want to unwrap.  It has been the unexpected treasure of friendship, wrapped in the wrappings of frustration and annoyance, that I never saw coming.  For that, I am grateful and say gracias,  muchas gracias, mi amiga Marta.

And so, with my new friend directing me, I continue to work on this project, that in reality was completed a while ago, while realizing that this is less about the book and far more about what is going on between Marta and I during the process of making this book.  These really are the moments,  wrapped up in a package so cleverly disguised that it hardly seemed like a gift, let alone one I’d want to unwrap.  It has been the unexpected treasure of friendship inside wrappings of frustration and annoyance,  that I never saw coming.  For that, I am grateful and say gracias,  muchas gracias mi amiga, Marta.

To be continued…

20/20 vision on remembering…

Now wouldn’t she have been a whole lot cuter with blue framed glasses on?  To maybe detract a little from the hair??

When I was in the 3rd grade, I desperately wanted glasses, so I did what any scheming 8-year-old would do: I told my Mom I was having a hard time seeing.
Seeing what?  The chalkboard?  Your books?
Yes.  All of it.  It’s all blurry.

And it was that easy.  My Mom took me to the nearest Ophthalmologist, which happened to be a few towns away, making the experience even more notable in my pretend-to-be-weakening eyes.  I did my best to flunk the test, telling the Dr. that the blurriest lenses he tested on me were the clearest and vice versa.  I did not doubt that by the end of the day, I’d have glasses to add to my look, blue rims please.  I know this all teeters between downright strange and a bit pathetic, with desperately seeking attention written all over it, and I’ll confirm all three.  Unfortunately, I couldn’t find the attention I craved from the corrective shoes I was sentenced to wear for a few rough years of my grade school career, but clunky black shoes trimmed in velvet, in an attempt to make them attractive, were not cool.  At all.  And when the school dress code for girls was dresses and skirts only, they were also very hard to hide.  I dragged the toes of said shoes several blocks across rough sidewalks on my way home from school one day, wearing holes in the toes of both so big you could see my socks.  It was my not-so-well-thought-out plan to get new shoes that were not of the corrective variety.  Instead of the latest shoes I had hoped for, I was left with a pair of shoes with holes in the toes to wear until it was shoe-buying time again, which was not any time soon.  Light blue cat-eyed-framed glasses would have probably helped me get over my dumb shoes, holes and all.

The Dr. and his machines were far wiser than my scheming 8-year-old self, and miraculously, I passed the test and even with extra credit as I was far-sighted enough that had I needed to, my eyes could have made their way around the classroom test time for a bit of help, which of course I never, ever did.  There were no glasses for me, but instead, I received the consolation prize of a pair of temporary dark glasses to protect my dilated eyes in the light. They looked more like a big negative strip wrapped around my head than the glasses I had hoped for, but they were better than nothing.  I returned to school that afternoon, still wearing my pretend glasses. Although the effects of the dilating had long since worn off, I continued to wrap that dark piece of film around my face for the next two days, looking more like Helen Keller than the 20/20 plus visioned 8-year-old that I was.  I insisted to my classmate that the eye doctor told me I needed to wear goofy-looking glasses for a few days because of the tests they had done on me. I don’t know, I might have even told them I had a rare eye disease, for that matter.  It seemed to be the path I was on at the time.  I can’t help but think about my teacher looking at the girl in the classroom who, with all seriousness, was wearing a temporary pair of film glasses that are usually thrown away after a few hours.  She had to be rolling her eyes and shaking her head every time she looked at me, continually adjusting that ill-fitting piece of film around my ears, without even a shred of embarrassment amongst my peers.  No doubt the few kids in the class that legitimately wore glasses knew precisely what it was that I continued to wrap around my face and tuck behind my ears, but they were kind enough not to say anything.

Last week, some 52 years later and still with good eyes and with my hopes of having to wear glasses long since faded,  I went to the eye Dr. and was told I need surgery.  My eyes are starting to catch up with my age… sigh… and although not necessary immediately, I was told that lens replacement will improve my vision immensely,  a vision I didn’t realize was compromised.  Although I don’t have cataracts… yet… I will soon enough, so the lens replacement surgery would be a proactive move.  I stopped giving the doctor full attention upon hearing the word “cataract”.    I remember when I turned 50, and the AARP information started filling my mailbox.  AARP?  Seriously?  I felt like I had started getting someone else’s mail… some old person, not me.  Cataracts make AARP sound like a subscription to Glamour magazine.

While at my recent eye exam,  my overachieving self stepped in and painstakingly tried to distinguish the letters in just one more row, feeling discouraged that I couldn’t read the bottom row at all.  I couldn’t help but think of the time I tried so hard to flunk the test to get the glasses, blue frames please, that I so desperately wanted.  Although I know this is standard procedure, I’m still a bit uncomfortable with the idea of someone working on my eyes, which makes the concept of glasses sound not so bad.

I was offered the disposable glasses when I was getting ready to leave, in case I didn’t have “real” sunglasses with me, and was surprised that they hadn’t changed over the decades.  Thankfully, I had real sunglasses with me, so I turned them down.   Seriously?  I wore those in public for TWO days?  20/20 vision doesn’t necessarily mean an accurate or precise perspective when you go beyond the eye charts.  Thank goodness for maturity, even if aging eyes are part of the package.

Unscheduled silver linings…

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I had been in Colorado for a few weeks with no new snow and melting temperatures, so when the day came with a forecast of a few inches of snow, which overnight turned into a quick 7, I was very anxious to strap on my boots and skis and play.  I’ve never been a skier who feels the need to make the first tracks down the mountain, so with the Copper Mountain bus schedule in mind, I set a leisurely 9:30 as my departure (9:35, specifically), which would have me comfortably in the usually short lift line by 10:00ish.

I made it to the bus stop (a short block from my house, 96 paces to be exact) with time to spare. Still, minutes before the bus was to arrive, I realized I didn’t have my ski pass, so, knowing full well I’d miss the bus and have to catch the next one 25 minutes later, I leisurely walked back to my place and grabbed my pass.  Once back to the bus stop, I realized I had neither a credit card or cash with me, so, once again, I walked BACK to my place and grabbed my credit card, this time with time to spare before my now 2nd bus choice.  At this point, things were not looking good, but I stayed the course in anticipation of the fun ahead.  While waiting,  I saw my neighbor and started talking to her, and was so distracted that when the first Summit Stage bus came along,  I said goodbye and jumped on without a thought.  When the bus driver started going a different direction than I was used to, I realized I had gotten on the wrong bus  (the bus to Breckenridge comes one minute before the Copper Mountain bus).   I could have gotten off at the next stop, but my pride got in my way (who gets off at the hospital stop with skis??  Or the high school stop??)  So, pride winning, I decided I was in it for the long haul and rode to the Breckenridge station, while trying to make the best of the unscheduled tour that I had just added on to my usually 15-minute ride.

This was a pivotal moment for me.  I could either regret, bemoan, continually check my watch, and sigh at the stupid mistake that would cost me a few hours of skiing once everything was said and done, OR I could go with it and try to find the positive in the situation, which I did.  While getting off the bus to transfer, I asked the driver when the next bus to Frisco was (I would have to start over on the process, as there was no bus to Copper Mountain from Breckenridge). He gave me an odd look, or so it appeared, as I could hardly make eye contact, given my embarrassment.  He directed me to the stop, which had a timetable posted, and with skis in tow, I got off and waited for the bus to take me to where I had just come from.  Again, make the best of the situation.

A woman was waiting at the stop with me who was headed to the hospital as she had fallen a few days earlier and thought she may have broken a rib.  I’m guessing she was about my age, but it was hard to tell as she was bundled up in a long wool coat and a scarf that could have doubled as a blanket.  We started talking, and she told me about her stupid fall (her words) and how her friend from Iowa had come to visit her and had done the same thing and was now at her house, unable to get up off the couch.  She was from Alma, a small mountain town on the other side of the Hoosier Pass, and had driven down to Breckenridge (a drive that scares me on a dry-summer-day pavement) to catch the bus to the hospital.  She told me that she and her friend had planned on coming to Breckenridge for lunch and a lovely afternoon before the falls happened, but with her friend prone on her couch and her on the bus to the hospital,  all bets were off for fun in Breckenridge. The shift of plans, and with an out-of-town visitor no less, made me feel just the tiniest bit guilty for the focus I was putting on what now seemed to be nothing.  Big deal.  I got on the wrong bus.

A few minutes into the ride, she pulled a paper plate out of her large tote bag,  peeled back the plastic wrap,  and, before digging in, asked me if I wanted some.  I wasn’t sure what it was and was so struck by the fact that she was toting a plate of food in her bag that I’m sure I had an inappropriate gaping mouth stare for far to long than I should have.  I thanked her, but nicely declined.  The norm would have been a Cliff Bar or maybe a piece of fruit.  I liked that she carried a plastic-covered plate of food instead.  It seemed charming in an eccentric sort of way.
After she got off, my focus shifted to a mother and her two sons (7 and 9, I guessed) whose accent told me she was likely from New Zealand.  The boys were high energy and quite frankly rather annoying, and after scolding them several times and asking them to play quieter (they both were playing video games on a shared phone), she finally got up and moved to the seat behind them, in a bit of an exasperated move.  The boys got up and tried to sit with her several times, but she wasn’t having it and in a firm voice that she was trying to keep to an unnoticeable whisper, she gave them multiple warnings. With two boys 18 months apart, this was a very familiar scene to me, and I admired her moxie for simply getting up and changing seats.  There was a time I wouldn’t have considered that to be “mom legal,”  but maybe rules are different in New Zealand.  Although I could hardly blame her, there was a part of me that wanted to tell her that yes, they are loud, they are annoying, they are exhausting and frustrating,  but there will be a day when they are in their late 20’s and maybe or maybe not living close by, that you will miss this…obnoxious, over-energized behavior and all.  Holy cow.  I’ve turned into that mom who looks longingly at other moms with kids who aren’t yet shaving or in make-up and heels.  Even though it’s been a couple of decades since I was scolding young boys and telling them to keep their hands to themselves,  there are times that it really does seem like it was last week.  More than once, I can remember hearing from moms a few decades ahead of me that the time really does fly by, and to savor the moment.  I’d kindly thank them and quickly return to the task at hand, which usually wasn’t pretty.  Only when you have reached that point in time can you understand.  Note to all moms with kids still young enough that you’ve got a bit of hands on hips, stern faced control over them, time really does speed by and what becomes essential is rarely what you anticipated.

I got off at the bus stop near my house, waited for the Copper bus, and was back on route, this time the correct route, and was in the lift line just short of 2 hours later than what I had planned.  Honestly, I didn’t miss all that much. Instead, I collected a couple of fun and interesting memories that nudged me to be present, to find the good, the interesting, and the inspiration in the moment, and to be grateful, because it’s the journey that is far more memorable than the destination.

I remember the sky was blue, the sun was shining, and the mountain had a nice, fresh coating of powder, but it’s the woman in the oversized coat with a plate of food in her bag, and two energetic boys and their tired mom, who have become the bigger memory for me that day.

And Christmas wasn’t ruined…

I have a strange perfectionist tendency that says if I do something once and succeed with it, then it has to be done the next time and every single time after that, until the end of time. In this case, I’m talking about traditions, more specifically, Christmas traditions.  For starters, I’m a Virgo, and this is simply what Virgos do, but I’m also from a family that holds onto traditions,  close and tightly, and next to their hearts,  especially when it comes to Christmas.  At age 59, I know I’m in a tiny minority of people who can say that they have spent every Christmas of their life with their entire family.  Every.  Single.  One.  My parents, my siblings, my siblings’ spouses, my own kids, and now their significant others, all come together for a few days that hold the same kind of magic that it did when I was a small child.  We do Christmas well, and because of that, I’ve always been a tiny bit afraid to make any changes to the many traditions that have made their way through the generations.

There was a point a few years ago when I realized I was doing a whole lot of things simply because I had always done them, and while the end was accomplished, the process suffered as I trudged through tasks I didn’t really enjoy.  Baking, cutting out, and icing cookies was my first tradition to hit the dust, and lo and behold, Christmas was not ruined.  It almost pains me to admit it, but I do not enjoy baking, and whether it’s Christmas cookies or birthday cakes, I fail miserably at it, probably because I don’t enjoy it.  I will knit Christmas stockings with names and designs knitted right in and load up mantles with nature’s bounty until the cows come home, but I will leave the baking to someone else.  I’m throwing in the towel and the cookie sheets and am calling myself done.  And finally, I can say it’s OK.
Our family tradition of putting a handwritten poem on every one of our gifts that gives a hint of the contents inside   has made its way through 4 generations unscathed, as has our tradition of “pie presents,” which are small gifts placed on everyone’s plate for Christmas dinner.  Both traditions remain strong while evolving to suit an expanding, maturing audience.  The poems have become every comic in the family’s moment of fame when it’s read (which is everyone, by the way), and the pie gifts have transformed into a pre-Christmas Yankee swap, with a whole lot of trying to outdo the next guy taking place.  Both have survived the holiday cuts because they are something we all enjoy.  Baking for me, not so much.  Writing Christmas cards, which I sadly gave up a few years ago because of time constraints, has also been dropped and not picked up again… at least not yet.  And still,  Christmas was not ruined.

The traditions give us a sense of history and are carried on until they become cumbersome; then, hopefully, we have the presence of mind to let them go.  Poems that started with a couple of lines that my young children would scribble onto a sheet of paper have grown into witty works of art, many of which I’ve saved over the years.  Give up the cookies, the cards, and even the outdoor lights, if you will, but please, oh please, save the poems, my children.  You will be the carriers to the next generation.

While some traditions are held tight, and others are let go of, what really matters and what has become the biggest tradition of all isn’t wrapped up or baked or sent in the mail, but rather is the gift of a family coming together, once again,  for a few days of magic.  It’s the gift that is wrapped up in memories and continually given and received with open arms and hearts and topped with a handwritten poem that speaks of love and family and Christmas magic.  THIS is the tradition that I have no doubt will be carried safely in the hearts of the generations to come.
Wish all my family and friends a very Merry Christmas!

Feeling just a little more grateful this Thanksgiving…

My field of gratitude stretched just a bit further than usual this Thanksgiving season, to the North African country of Morocco, specifically.  As much as I like to think that I’m helping to better someone’s life when volunteering,  if only a few moments at a time, the reality is that the people who I am supposedly helping, whether that means teaching English to or simply being attentive and loving to a child at the orphanage, give me far more than I could ever give them. The gift of gratitude is the gift I take away—the greatest gift of all.

There were so many reminders of gratitude during my stay in Rabat, but two in particular that I can’t seem to let go of.  The first one was during my trip to Fes.  I met a fascinating young man while on the train and had the opportunity to chat with him during the entire 3-hour journey.  He was 23, from Georgia, and was attending school in Rabat, working on his master’s degree in Middle Eastern politics.  He spoke several languages fluently but apologized for his poor French, which was hardly an apology to this barely bilingual person.   His stories were more like a history lesson to me, and I was amazed by his knowledge of American history, which put my own knowledge to shame.  One of his stories that particularly touched me was about his memories of 9/11.  He said he was in the 3rd grade, and he remembers watching the videos of the planes going into the towers and how afraid his parents were, even for their own safety.  I certainly could understand the fear, yet, half a world away,  I assumed they would feel more isolated and somewhat protected.  His response I will not soon forget.

“America was the last safe place in the world, and now it wasn’t.  The whole world was afraid.”
I’m thankful that David happened to claim the seat right across from me on the train that morning, even though my first thought was that he wouldn’t be someone who wanted to talk, since I tried to sleep.  His words and his reminder that the world is far bigger than our U.S. borders made a massive impact on me that I won’t soon forget.

The second reminder I got was something that Mohamed told us during one of our first lessons on Moroccan culture.  He told us to never lose sight of the gift we have, simply by the name of the country that is imprinted on our passports, as it puts us ahead of most of the world.  Our passports are worth far more than we realize.  It is so easy to forget this, especially during a time of such political turmoil in our country.  It’s a complex, time-consuming, and expensive process for a Moroccan to obtain a tourist visa for the United States, and the chances of being selected through the lottery system are slim.  I had a couple of women in my class who were perfecting their English in hopes of visiting children and grandchildren in the United States.  I was so sad when Mohamed told me that their chances of visiting the United States were very slim, yet they continued to plug away at their English lessons, their energy fueled by such a tiny thread of hope.

So underneath my table of abundance this year at Thanksgiving will be the faces from Morocco – a girl at the orphanage reaching her hand out to me through the bars of her crib, a young man on a train who opened my eyes to a reality a world away from mine and to the dark blue booklet that I guard with my life when I travel outside of my country’s borders that says, “United States of America.”

Yesterday, while finishing up my unpacking, I picked up one of my shirts, was drawn to its smell, and couldn’t figure out why it felt so familiar. Then it hit me—the orphanage.  I had gotten clean clothes from the laundry before I left Rabat, and they must use the same soap that they use to launder the children’s clothes at the orphanage.  Now that I know, I find myself burying my face into a memory to ensure that it won’t be lost.  I’m not quite ready to let go.   I know that as life goes on and memories start to fade a bit, a thread of connection to Morocco will remain and, no doubt,  will present itself to me when I become too complacent with what I have.  But for now, with my Moroccan memory still vibrant and with its scent still in my clothes, I will go deeper into my list of what I have to be thankful for this Thanksgiving.  The stories, the people, and a hand reaching out to me to communicate as she had no words, for starters…

To all my friends and family, I am thankful, over and over again,  to have you in my life.

Pulling back the veils… discovering the culture…

 

Rabat is situated on the coast, but it wasn’t until my last day that I saw the beach.  This geographic tidbit seemed to be overlooked by the people of Rabat, and odd as it sounds, I kind of forgot about the beach while there!

 

 

God, Country, King – the motto of Morocco (in Arabic script on the mountain side)

 

Driving into the Sahara Desert

 

 

 

Things I’ve learned about Morocco:

~    The literacy rate is about 50% and even less in the countryside.  The number falls even more when you’re talking about girls.  That, in part, is due to the fact that the schools in the country usually do not have a bathroom.  Whereas, it’s easy for the boys, the girls will simply stop going to school as there is no bathroom for them.  Sometimes the answer to the problem is so easy….

~    Moroccan Arabic (Morocco’s first language) is not a written language so there is no “correct” or “incorrect” when it comes to spelling a word.  You spell it as it sounds to you.  Classical Arabic, on the other hand, IS a written language and is the language taught in school, but it is Moroccan Arabic (or darija) that is spoken in the home.  Berber is also taught in the schools and is spoken by at least 50% of Moroccans.  French is taught in the schools from grade one, and is considered the “second” language of Morocco. The Moroccans aren’t willing to give up the French from the time when they were under French rule, as they see it as a more “sophisticated” language and would rather have it as a 2nd language than English.  When I asked Khadija (our house director,  who speaks Moroccan Arabic, classical Arabic, Berber, French and English) which language was the most difficult to learn, she said French, by far.  Then of course there is the difference in alphabets, both with the letters, the pronunciations,  the way the letter is written and does it go from right to left or left to right?  I’m beyond impressed.

~   When I asked our guide while in the desert if a Moroccan woman would wear a swimming suit and swim in the pool (there was a pool at the place we spent our first night in the desert), he hesitated then said…
“No…. unless she was a bad woman.”

How about men, Hamza?  Would a Moroccan man swim in the pool???

Again, he hesitated, but with a look on his face that clearly said, “Huh????”

Then he answered, “But of course a man would!”

Double standards.  All over the place.  And they know it.

~   The call to prayer (or adhan) that we hear over the loud speaker 5 times a day is the same call in every Muslim country in the world.  It sounds like chanting and at this point, I find it rather soothing, if, that is, I even notice it at all any more…

~  Every Arabic speaking country has a different dialect, and there’s not necessarily an overlap in the language.  Women tend to know more dialects from other Arabic speaking countries than men because they watch soap operas on TV.

~  Tipping is considered a gesture of kindness and is in no way required or considered rude if
neglected.  The students in my classroom were amazed that there are “tipping jars” in so many places where we make purchases or receive services.

~   My students told me that Moroccans don’t feel the “need” for the money to go from hand to hand in a customer/merchant situation.  They would actually prefer to just leave the money on the table and leave.  There is no sales tax so it is easy to know the exact amount of money to leave.  The fact that there is a difference between the price on the price tag and the price we are asked to pay due to taxes, amazed them.

~    Time moves much slower here and being 20 or 30 minutes late to appointments is not that
uncommon or even considered rude, which explains why when class starts at 9:30, there are still students straggling in at 10:15 or 10:30 with nary an apology!

~   I’ve never been in a country who displays their flag more…. there are groupings of the Moroccan flag that look like flowers in a vase with all the flag poles slanting out from the middle.  These displays are up and down every median from the cities to the small villages.   The flag is quite pretty in its simplicity…. a red background with a 5 pointed green star outline in the center.

~   The first law of  Islam is to never kill, whether another person, or yourself.  The second law of Islam is to honor your parents, ESPECIALLY your mother and to never speak bad of her.  Lots about Islam that I like…

~    Dogs are rare in Morocco and only owned for protection.  They are considered unclean and one needs to wash their clothing if it comes in contact with a dog.  That being said, they are not touched and obviously are not petted.  Cats, on the other hand are considered sacred and pretty much have the run of the place!  They are not owned “individually” but rather are owned and fed by everyone.

~   When you sign your name in Morocco, it does not necessarily have to be your name, but could be a design you make up.  It has to be consistent, though.

~   Morocco is the biggest importer of China’s tea.  These folks love their Moroccan mint tea!

~    Islam is the 2nd largest religion in the world next to Christianity, which is the largest and Hinduism the 3rd largest.

~    Security always is seen in a trio – a police officer flanked by military

~   Women start to wear the hijab (a veil that covers the head and chest) at the onset of puberty.  The Quran says that women should lower their gaze and guard their modesty and should not display their beauty.  When I asked Khadija why it is that I had some women in my class that never wore a jijab and others, such as herself, always wore one and she said, although the Quran instructs women to wear it, the choice is between them and God.  It is not worn while at home, or as Khadija said, “I take it off when I’m hanging with my girlfriends at someones home.”

~   Dating is illegal – for example, a couple spotted alone in a park could be stopped by a police officer and asked what their relationship to one another is (which prompted me to ask if there are a lot of “brothers and sisters” spotted in parks!  They can be arrested and thrown in jail for the night if caught.  Men and women are introduced through friends and get to know one another in “group gatherings.”  Pre-marital sex is also illegal, as is being an unwed mother, which explains why the orphanages are over-run with babies.

~  The King of Morocco is the 7th richest statesman in the world and when I asked Mohamed if there is any resentment among Moroccans given the huge disparity of wealth between the King and the people.  His answer was, no, but it doesn’t matter if there is as the country’s motto is,

“God, Country, King”

Because of this, if there is resentment, it wouldn’t be voiced.

~  I’m not sure I’ve ever encountered such a gracious and warm group of people as the Moroccans.  A few days into my trip,  I went with one of my housemates to the bank to exchange money.  That particular bank didn’t do exchanges, but we were told by one of the tellers that there was a nearby bank that would.  He started giving directions, and given the communication difficulties (he speaking Arab, we speaking English..), he told us to just follow him and he’d take us there.  He delivered us to the doorstep of the bank that could help us… a good FOUR city blocks later!

Chellah – Roman ruins outside of Rabat

 

 

My wonderful housemates in this adventure!

 

Fez, she says? Why sure… why not?

 

My Moroccan travel buddies…. Dee Dee and Mimi

 

 Given that it was on all of our “must see” lists,  Dee Dee, Mimi and I decided to go to Fez on our “day off.”  Morocco has a lot of holidays,  this one, their Independence Day.  The national holidays, in contrast to the religious holidays, seem to garner far less importance and when I asked my students earlier in the week how they were going to celebrate the holiday, they all responded with rather ho hum answers, most with the main theme of “do nothing.”  Deciding that leaving the day before after placement and spending the night in Fez might be more Fez than we wanted, we opted for an early morning, three hour express train.  After an enjoyable and scenic ride from our own “compartment” on the train, we were met at the station by Aziz, a guide that Khadija, our house manager, had set up for us the previous day.  All of the guide books spoke of the importance of having a guide, especially through the tangle of over 9,000 roads in the medina (or old town).  Once deep into the bowels of the medina, we understood the need and were very grateful to have someone with us who knew where they were going.

Our first stop with Aziz was the Kings palace… that would be his “other” palace, the “main” one being in Rabat.  I found out yesterday that “other” means 48…more on that later.  It was similar to the palace in Rabat… nothing simple, mosaic for miles and lots of ornate brass.  It feels rather disrespectful to say once you’ve seen one Moroccan palace, you’ve seen them all, but I will say it anyway.  It felt uncomfortable for me to see such an excessive display of grandeur and wealth in a 3rd world country.  Most of the front of the palace is done in zillij tile, or a type of mosaic, which is an old technique used by skilled artisans who hand cut and glaze each and every tile then lay them in intricate geometric patterns.  It really is quite impressive, especially when seen in such massive fields.

The tile is quite impressive, especially when seen in massive fields such as that around and above the door…

 

Every single tile is glazed,  cut and laid by hand.

The bigger interest for us was the medina and the labyrinth of streets and maze of markets or souqs.  Once inside the medina, it felt as if we were walking deeper and deeper into a civilization that isn’t seen at all from the outside.  There are no cars allowed inside, which became clear as we got deeper and deeper into the bowels of this ancient, walled city, that was built in the early 700’s.  The streets seemed to narrow the farther in we went, with some of them so narrow that I couldn’t even stretch my arms out completely while touching both walls.  As we zigged and zagged down the narrow pathways, I asked Aziz how anyone would give directions to their house to an outsider?  He said that everyone knows where everyone lives inside of the medina and that even though he also lived there, he still gets lost on occasion.  I can’t imagine how frightening it would be to be lost in the maze, especially at night, as the only natural light that was coming in was from the narrow openings where the tops of buildings didn’t quite meet.  There is electricity, but I’m guessing it’s pretty dark in there at night.  Before we went in, Aziz did ask if any of us suffered from claustrophobia.  I’m guessing if one of had said yes, we would have turned around and gone back to the King’s palace.  This was no place for anyone who suffers from a fear of small places!

 

Furnishings that are wider than this narrow road, have to be brought in through the roof.

 

Aziz told us that the medina in Fez is the oldest in Morocco and within its walls is the oldest university in the world.  Surprisingly, the original plumbing is still in use, which was really hard to wrap my head around.  Over 10,000 people live in the medina and their houses all have simple, understated doors that line the narrow streets and pathways.  Moroccans believe that large, ornate doors that would portray wealth, are bad luck and it is better to have a modest, very simple door, regardless of what’s behind it.  The palaces it would seem are the obvious exception to this belief.   Most had small hand knockers on them, one placed at a “normal” height for people walking and the other placed higher for those seated on mules.

Lunch was at a place that Aziz recommended for us, with assurance that we’d really like it after we told him we were growing tired of tagine  (a type of Moroccan stew) and was there a restaurant that sold anything else??  Without answering our question, he then added that it was really clean.  Our confidence to eat outside of the traditional faded on that one.  The menu had 8 different meal options, all with the same salad and dessert and different entree options,  well, I say different, but all but one were variations on the tagine theme,  and the non-tagine dish was couscous.  After almost 3 weeks of having some sort of tagine at least once a day, our stomachs longed for bland, white food.  Mashed potatoes and macaroni and cheese with ginger tea to drink would have been nice.  My stomach had started giving me the 3rd world nudge the day before so I was exercising caution, not an easy task in this spice loving country.  With little enthusiasm, we ate what we could and did a lot of moving food around on the plate to look like we had at least tried.

Tile for miles…

 

This was our “salad”… a hint of what was to come… and it wasn’t mashed potatoes…
Here’s a piece of advice for anyone traveling to Fez… don’t eat lunch, most likely a spicy lunch,  then go to the tannery.  It’s not a good fit.  Tanneries, if you’ve never been to one, smell like a combination of rotting flesh and vomit.  It’s not pleasant.  That’s the bad news.  The good news is you’re handed a big handful of mint to bury your nose in while you make your way through  and by the end, at seeing all of the beautiful leather, at least for me, the visual overcame the stench. Hands down.
The animal skins are soaked in water and pigeon droppings… the droppings are acidic and soften the hides.  They are then placed in these large kettles of natural dyes.

 

Hides… hanging everywhere…
Moroccan slippers or babouche.  A very common footwear in Morocco, even though it seemed more like a slipper to me…

From leather tanning to weaving… the traditional Berber scarfs are made in part from the silk from inside the agave plant.  The weaving, all by hand, was a very interesting process to watch.  At this point, however, I realized that our pal Aziz has directed us to “specialty shops” where he shares a bit of the profit of anything sold to us.  It would explain why when I stopped to look at one of the smaller “booths” for a scarf, he told me to wait, that he had a place that would give me a much better price.  I guess I could have been annoyed, but it’s good business for the guides, who are a necessity, and if they can make a little extra on top of the little bit he was charging us, then why not.? The sales style in Morocco is NOT aggressive.  It’s a very comfortable place to shop.  Once in a shop, there is a little more salesmanship, especially once the bartering starts (a custom that is as much of a game as much as anything else and one that Moroccans really enjoy, in fact I’m told that prices are doubled so the bartering is a necessary part of the shopping experience).  I never once felt like there was any aggression directed towards me to shop in one place or another with shouts of prices and deals, which was very refreshing.

One of the many weaving shops…
The sales man was trying hard to sell me a Berber scarf…. I was one step ahead of him.  Already have one.  Already donned it in the desert.  He did have a pretty cool way to tie it though…
I think I would have enjoyed a few more hours wandering in and out of the many markets, but 3rd world stomach had caught up to the 3 of us, and we were souk’d out and called it a day after about 4 hours.  The highlight for me was getting to experience a living city along the same lines as it has done for a thousand years.  The endless confusion of lanes with various shops, homes and mosques felt very exotic to me.  Very Morocco.
Our journey home was quite a bit different from the nice quiet train ride we had in the morning.  By accident that morning, we bought one way tickets, which of course weren’t accepted at the gate,  so we had to make a quick scramble to purchase tickets and given that it was a holiday, the train was very busy and since we got on last minute,  we felt lucky to find seats at all let alone ones that were close to one other.  At almost 30 minutes past the departure time, while we were still sitting, a very agitated, very angry man got on our car and started yelling as he was walking through the train car.  I didn’t think a whole lot about it until I heard…
“All people who speak English need to GET OFF THIS TRAIN!!!!”
Which was followed by a lot of Arabic, which I could not understand, but the English, laced with quite a bit of profanity that I will spare you,  I understood.  Clearly.
For the first time during my stay in Morocco, I truly felt afraid, especially given that it looked like we were the only “English speakers/Americans” riding on that car.  The yelling continued, with some around us looking confused, while others simply ignored him and couldn’t be bothered to look up from their newspapers.  The conductor came over and said something to the man, which only escalated his anger, eventually leading to him getting off the train and moving the scene to the train platform.  We had no idea what was going on and no one to ask, given that everyone was speaking Arabic.  The train, now 40 minutes late, started up and all the women on our car then began to pound their open palms on the windows, perhaps to get the conductor’s attention, but I really have no idea, and why just the women?  And what did they want?  It was all very surreal… scarfed women hitting the train windows while the yelling and screaming continued on the platform.  To be in a situation like this and not understand what’s going on because you don’t understand the language is really frightening.  Fortunately, a few minutes later,  a young man who we had met on the train that morning and had spent quite a bit of time talking to, got on and sat in an open seat right in front of me.  He witnessed enough of the yelling that he was able to tell us what was gong on.  The man was simply voicing his anger at the trains delay, something that sounds like it happens quite a bit.  Something that ended up being an irate passenger voicing his opinion about a 40 minute delay, with a heads up to the “English speakers” who may not know about the trains frequent tardiness, looked a whole lot different to us given that we couldn’t understand what was being said. When you hear “English speakers” and “GET OFF THE TRAIN,” followed by a whole lot of profanity, it’s easy for your mind to go places out of fear. After all, the world has become a different place post 9/11.  Thankfully, I was wrong, but how sad that because of what’s going on in the world today, my mind went there initially.

A fun day in Fez…
and that’s what I told my students the next day when they jokingly asked me if I did anything to celebrate Moroccan Independence Day.  They didn’t do anything.

piles and piles of pashminas (or stacks of scarves…)

 

Welcome to Chefchouan… a memorable entry ino this charming town

It’s not always the most obvious memory that comes to mind when recalling an adventure, but rather the funny, odd one that comes to mind.  No doubt when I think back on my weekend in Chefchouan, Morocco, I will think of the beautiful blue and whitewashed buildings that were nestled in between peaks of the Riff Mountains, but high in the queue on memories will be our entrance into town.  It was raining, and dark when the bus pulled into the station and the lack of taxis waiting at the ready, gave us all concern as we had no idea where we were going.  Three of the girls were going to a hostile and Mimi, Dee Dee and I had a reservation at a hotel, which just happened to not be near the bus stations, near being a relative term as the town is small (30,000 and change).  I grabbed the first (and one of the only), drivers I saw and claimed him as ours but wires got crossed and the girls traveling with us, but who weren’t t staying at the same place, joined up with us as we were pouring
ourselves into the tiny van, luggage and all.  The driver, upon seeing 6 of us rather than the 3 he hadanticipated, said something, in a not so happy voice,  that of course none of us understood as it was in Arabic.  I’m sure it had something to do with “bait and switch.” Figuring he might be able to make some more money out of the whole deal, he agreed but suggested with gestures, that one of us sit in the very back with the luggage ( it was a very small van… a “vanette”, if you will, that barely could accommodate 5, let alone the 7 we had just mashed in).  Kelsey took one for the team and crawled into the very back with our bags.  The driver had a hard time getting the vehicle started, (I think what he was trying to do was pop the clutch…think “Little Miss Sunshine” car scenes here…) but was unsuccessful. Being on a hill going up was only adding to his problems.  He finally asked us all to get out, which we did, and while standing in the cold rain, watching the taxi roll farther and farther down the hill, someone asked where Kelsey was… it was then that we realized she was still crammed into the back of the van, that was now rolling faster and faster down the steep hill.  Eventually, he stopped, pulled up the parking break and deeming the situation as hopeless, got out of the cab at which time we ran down the hill to the car to rescue Kelsey.  She seemed no worse for the wear, but did say she prayed more during her “ride” than she had in a long time.  Fortunately, another cab came by and the hostel girls grabbed it and our driver, willing to give it another go, motioned for us to get back in for another try.  The extra weight must have been the cause of the problem because once the 3 of us were back in, the driver had no problem getting the car started and up the hill.
Not even a block from our start, the driver motioned to the curtains in the back, and thinking he wanted to insure the best view possible of this charming city, I pulled them back all the way.  He responded abruptly with a “No!” and gestured to me to close them… something that a man who he picked up during all the chaos and who was now riding with us in the front seat, translated his driver friend’s words to broken English that said something about the police and the law and he could only
have two passengers in the back seat.  OK,  so I promptly closed the curtains and wondered what explanation he would have had for the police when there were FIVE of us in the back a seat and onewith the luggage!
Once at our hotel, there seemed to be a problem with the payment as the “friend” was insisting on payment in Euros while the driver was quoting prices in dirhams (the currency of Morocco).  After about the fifth time of telling him we didn’t have Euros (a likely assumption given the proximity to Spain), he old me 20 dirhams a piece (about $7 each), which was sky high.  I gave him 20dh and he shook his head no, so reluctantly, I gave him another 20 dirhams and he then nodded yes and promptly gave me the first 20 back, which put us back to square one and the number I had argued for in the first place, 20dh for all 3.  Welcome to Chefchouan.
Our very green, very ornate room…No problem if you have 3, as there is plenty of room, said the website. The 3rd bed (mine), was a mattress on the floor between the two beds.  No complaints though, as it was far more comfortable than the bunk bed I’ve been sleeping in!  Besides, I’m in this for a cultural experience, not to re-experience what I’m already familiar with.  And new and different it was!
The very elaborate, and hand painted,  albeit slightly crookedly, ceiling.  As good a view as the TV ( which was Arabic with French subtitles and most of it coming out of the Middle East.
Breakfast included…ala Morrocan style… So many selections but few that weren’t their diet mainstay….bread…
After getting ourselves comfortable in the small room, we headed out for dinner. Now had we gotten past charming and blue and whitewashed on our research, we would have learned that Chefchouan is basically a dry town.  It took asking three people where we could get a glass of wine, before we had an answer, along with directions.  Although Chefchouan may be an “almost” dry town, there is no shortage of kief, or hashish, which is a largely grown crop in the area around Chefchouan.  Although illegal,  it didn’t  sound like the laws are enforced.  We had all been given forewarning on this, both from Mohamed and for me, my students.  Everyone wanted us to understand that there was a strong likelihood that we’d be approached to buy, but that didn’t happen, although the scent was ever present, especially in the market, where the venders were hardly trying to hide it. It does explain the more laid back,  backpacker type of culture that seemed to flood the town, mostly from Spain.
So we followed our insider’s directions and made our way down to the one and only local bar, ironically only a few doors down from our hotel.  I was relieved to be able to dip into what felt like my mother tongue of Spanish and understand the directions and actually have a brief conversation with our directions man, something I’ve missed terribly these past few weeks and why typing this blog feels a bit like a big gulp of oxygen for me right now.  Spanish is  common in Chefchouen due to  its close proximity to Spain.  We had to make it past the bouncer to get into the bar, who basically needed to know what we would  be drinking.  Beer?  He seemed OK with wine and let us in.
Once in,  we noticed that it was all men… all men and a whole lot of cigarette smoke.  A very kind middle-aged man,  who was seated at the table next to us and who I thought was a customer, quickly got up and came over to take our order when he saw us.  He was very excited about our choice, which was his suggestion, of a Morrocan red wine,  After a bit of a wait, he  brought the wine over with sincere apologies for the glasses, as one was a slanted rimmed brandy snifter and the other a very small, I’m talking a few tablespoons small, glass that I’m guessing was for aperitifs.  The drinks were followed by plate after plate of food….rice flavored with red and green peppers, a  plate of Moroccan salad (peppers, onions, cucumbers and tomatoes, all finely chopped) and a fish dish that we were all reluctant to try as even smelling it was a bit unpleasant.   We told him we weren’t staying for dinner but he kept saying, “no problem, free…” and would bring more!  When the plate filled with fried sardines arrived,  I had to lie and tell him that we didn’t eat fish.  He was so gracious that I didn’t want to hurt his feelings by not eating them.
And then I finally  had to ask about the elephant in the room…(or shall we call it a camel…)
“Why are we the only women here?”
“Well, Moroccan women aren’t allowed inside because they…well …they cause trouble with the men and the men have trouble with them.”
Given what I’ve learned about Morrocan society, its  treatment of women and the illegal trouble these women often find themselves in (ie pregnant without a father willing to take responsibility), and then of course the babies and children that I’ve been with the past few days at the orphanage, his answer hit me a little harder than I had anticipated.  No Morrocan women, no trouble, which explains why we were let in so graciously.  We were a bit of a spectical though, which was both kind of enjoyable along with a little bit creepy.  But our waiter was so charming that but we  ended up returning the following night, but this time our waiter was ready and had dug up two glasses of the same size that although not intended for wine, we were touched by his efforts in trying to get it right for us!
We spent the bulk of Saturday walking around this beautiful,town, with plenty of time spent bartering in the medina, and ending up with a few nice treasures.  There was a hike up to a Spanish mosque that we had talked about but by mid afternoon, none of us felt all that great and we opted for naps in our tiny, green, ornately decorated and stinky room.  Living in such close quarters with everyone sick, has finally caught up to me and I’m afraid I am following suit.  We took an early 4 hour bus ride home and all of us have spent the day in various degrees of rest. I did  wander out into the adjoining neighborhood for  a bit this afternoon on my own, which felt good, although I didn’t  have the energy to venture far.  I’ve got a short week left, with a national holiday on Tuesday, so hopefully will be able to knock this thing off before it gets too bad.  Emergen-c’s and zinc are in short supply around here and can  fetch a pretty good bartering price!  No doubt an early to bed night for everyone tonite.
Nothing, but nothing  in the Moroccan culture is simple… this photo is of  the lobby and dining area of our hotel (people use the many coffee tables as dining tables, the same as we do at the volunteer house)

Finding my “Moroccan roots”…(.or my ease with this place….)

 

Comfort has set in, which is both good and bad, but I’m going to go with the good.  The first week I was in Rabat, I kept my clothes in nealy stacked piles in the small dresser provided for me, and for items with intermittent use, on the unused top bunk of my bed.  My toiletries were lined up neatly on the dresser top and my books and scool materials stacked in tidy piles on the floor by my bed.  I put a bit of effort into my clothing decisions and would even change my shirt if headed out after placement to the medina (market) or for a coffee.  All bets are off now.  I wore the shirt I had on today yesterday but tried to disguise my repetition with a scarf, and it’s possible I will sleep in it tonite.  My socks don’t match (no shoes in the house so they do show) and my hair… well let’s just say thank goodness for hats and scarves.  Showers come about every other day, if I’m lucky, and are under a dribble of warm water that is quick to turn cool.  The Hassam is not only my pleasure dip into Moroccan culture, but my reassurance that all good hygiene is not lost.  Honestly, I really don’t care, which feels nice and pretty doggone freeing and maybe just a tad bit scary, but I’ve walked these paths before when traveling in developing countries, so it’s familiar.  Whereas the makeup came out the first few days, it’s tucked away now…replaced with a tube of Berts Bees Chapstick and a bottle of sunscreen.  I’m comfortable.  I’m thinking about going Morrocan on my eating….sans silverware, but don’t want to frighten my fellow volunteers….at least not just yet.

I’ve adapted to the slower pace and am enjoying the unscheduled time I have to simply be while I process this new culture.  I love the food.  I love the warm spirit of the people.  I love their deep sense of country pride that radiates from their excited faces when they are sharing a piece of their culture with me, whether it be a place, an artifact or a dish.  I love that they aren’t afraid of color or spices and with both, everything goes together.   For example, today’s lunch of pastilla, which was a grouping of foods that I would never put together….think baklava stuffed with saffron seasoned chicken.  Sweet and savory all wrapped into one dish.  My students will be thrilled that I tried it and even more thrilled that I liked it as they’ve been talking it up to me since my day with them!    I love the afternoon Moroccon mint tea, and am drinking it like a true Moroccan…with sugar and a “tourban” (the foam that is formed on the top when the tea pot is held high from the cup during the pouring).

I love the work I’m doing, both at the orphanage and the school and although what I’m doing is only a small drop in a very big bucket, I know it is changing the way I see the world, and my place in it.  I continue to be reminded of the tremendous fortune behind the country name that’s written on my passport, something that’s easily forgotten, especially during difficult times at home with elections that didn’t go as I wanted and the frustrations that are growing within the social structures at home.  Still, they are problems that although significant, pale when compared to those in developing countries, such as Morroco.

I’m on the downhill part of my Morrocan adventure and in less than a week, will be on my way home.    All of my housemates are in various stages of sickness, upper respiratory crud caught from the kids at placement, or dish washing by hand in cool water, or the close sleeping arrangements, or most likely a little bit of each.  For some reason, I’ve been spared, and am feeling great, with a side of guilt….

After another difficult day at the orphanage…one boy had a seizure, an epidemic of chicken pox among the babies and an older boy hitting me because he wasn’t getting the attention from me that he wanted, I’m breathing a TGIF relief sigh and will be getting on a bus shortly headed for the beautiful (or so I’m told) , town of Chefchouan for the weekend.  Today, I feel like I’ve earned it…