"I can't decide whether I should get hot chocolate or chocolate milk."
So said the ever-wise Colleen as we sat upstairs in the Rabat's Carrion Cafe - an eatery that could be a secret ballroom in a 40s era movie theater with its dusky chandeliers, luxurious booths, and a mirrored bar. These (hot chocolate or chocolate milk, pistachio or lemon ice cream) are the tough decisions that govern our lives, that we mull over for anxious minutes. That this is so is pretty indicative of the quality of life that we enjoy here, a kind of dream world where there is a distinct fuzziness attached to each new memory I create here.
I realize this is making my whole study abroad experience sound pretty frivolous, which is most definitely is not. Indeed, this week marks the beginning of preparation for our independent study project - when we are really released from the cocoon of comfort provided to us by the CCCL and out into the big, brave, sometimes bad, world.
So, this past Friday marked the last day of Arabic and official classes of the program. At the end of this week we move out of our homestay at the end of the week. Naturally, we decided to celebrate being "done" directly after class and headed down to the beach. The hangout known affectionately to us as the "American Bar" was closed so we went to the roof of another cafe, just in time to capture the incredibly sunset over the Atlantic, stretching behind us to Rabat. As I sat there, as Nick and Colleen fought over whether to get a caramel crepe or a Nutella crepe (decisions, decisions), as Julia snorted over the fact that our original plan to get beers and read had failed spectacularly, as the sun seemed to set horizontally, filling the sky with stripes of mutated pinks and oranges that exist only during the confluence of that instance in time, the edges of my vision frayed and everything became from the other customer's laughter to the amateur soccer stars running about the beach, became fuzzy and dreamlike. This is what I'm talking about, the ethereal film that coats and then seems to alter the way you experience moments and remember them afterwards.
It's been pretty cold in Rabat for the past week. By pretty cold, I mean 65 degrees Fahrenheit, but of course the markets are have begun to sell parkas and coats and it's been raining a lot. We have to cover the open skylight in the living room with a tarp to ensure the room won't flood. The rain pounds the tarp, sounding like a metallic onslaught, the kind of energetic, if not a little violent, weather I'm not used to in Rabat.
Thus we've spent a lot more time inside instead, avoiding the cold breeze and pools of mud taking up residence on the medina streets. Cozy in the living room with thick blankets and never-ending cups of mint tea, Khalid, me, and our new family member Micah (!) have played game after game of Uno and practiced our Arabic and cheered on Real Madrid. In fact, the weather has provided me with a lot of good material for a nice solid segment of Keeping up with K+K. I realize that I've neglected this segment quite solidly - and this is less because I've been slacking and really more because the kids work a lot. I don't see them as often as I did in the beginning of the semester. They leave for school early in the morning and come back late, then go to various activities like gymnastics and revision. They're exhausted by dinner time. And Mama Fatiha prioritizes education over everything else so our playtime is really limited.
Khalid recently had a Qur'an recitation exam. He spent the entirety of Sunday studying, locking himself in the bedroom and reading out loud to himself and then coming out to be tested by his mother. By the end of the day he was so nervous and tired that he burst into tears and then threw up out of nervousness. I can't imagine being 8 years old and having to recite in front of my entire class verses of a pretty heavy religious text. Not even the promise of a great tickle-battle would rid him of the pre-exam butterflies. It was adorable and fascinating at the same time. Adorable because, really, anything Khalid does is certifiably the cutest. And fascinating because Qur'anic studies are simply part of the curriculum in both public and private schools here.
The more time I spend running around the house escaping Khalid's *menacing* tickle-attacks, being Khouloud's 12-year old love-life confidante, joking around with Fatiha about how much of a mushkiljEEya (trouble-maker) I am, the harder it becomes for me to comprehend that I'm leaving this house in just a matter of days. Over the weekend we went to Sale to visit some old family-friends of our family. Again it was pouring rain and oddly bitterly cold. We squished through the medina to the bus stop and shivered onto the bus, the fourth form of Rabat public transportation that I can cross off my list. It was the bleakest day I'd seen in Rabat. There were no promising signs of future sunlight - no signs at all actually. Just flannel djellabas and fleece hijabs, socks with sandals accompanied by sniffling noses on the bus. We hiked from the main road to a small almost-village on the outskirts of Sale, sinking into the damp earth and leapfrogging puddles all the while, the promise of huge soft blankets and warm mint tea keeping us on. And sure enough our second Moroccan mother Mama Naima had plates of warm, crumbling almond cookies and bone-soothing tea for us.
Once again I was pleasantly struck by the notion of timelessness. We came to Sale with really no purpose other than seeing Mama Naima and her family, but we spent the entire day there from 11AM to 7PM. The day was aimless as Fatiha and Naima chatted, cooked, walked, sat, cooked again, brewed tea three times, chatted some more. We ourselves slept most of the day and woke up periodically just to eat. It was like village-stay take two.
In absolute and stark contrast to Sale was our day-trip to Casablanca (finally) two weekends ago. We'd heard mixed things about Casa and that had resulted in us putting off visiting week after week.
I think the perfect symbolic representation of Casa is its tram. Rabat has a tram too. But it's a sleek, unobtrusive silver-grey, equipped with all the bells and whistles but otherwise blending into the urban landscape. Casa's tram runs just as smoothly but is a bright, scarlet red, a bold declaration of modernity and achievement in a city that already seems to boast of its industrial and commercial character. How strange it felt to be in an urban metropolis with skyscrapers and billboards and a train station entirely encased almost entirely in glass. Yes, Casa is a rather undeservedly boastful city with it's mixed-metal buildings and long, palm-tree lined avenues and iconic site-seeing spots. It knows this, we know this, and yet we still indulge it simply because it is...Casablanca.
The mosque was absolutely worth boasting about though. And had the totally obvious effect of rendering me speechless at how humanity is so adept at creating both awe-inspiring beauty and heinous violence in the name of religion. We got there rather unconventionally, following the god-send of Julia's phone GPS through one of Casa's medina, side-stepping the lovely street goulash of fish guts and fruits, nimbly navigating through fishmongers and fruit sellers. Eventually we found ourselves walking through one of the neighborhoods that guidebooks probably tell you to avoid before finally catching sight of the mosque's proud minaret in the distance and following it like a beacon in the sea-blue sky.
Beacons in the distance, whether literal, physical beams of light at the end of a dark tunnel, or hope and support offered by a friend in a time of need, or the promise of a really good dinner after a long and exhausting day, are perhaps more vital to our existence than we may believe. I've collected a few beacons on this trip and I'm sure I'll add a few more to my collection before I return to the States. In fact, my return to the States is in itself a beacon of excitement and anticipation, as is the eventual arrival of my family in Morocco.
Fair warning, you may hear very little from me in the next few weeks, as I will be caught up and actually quite busy pursuing research and fieldwork goals for my independent study project. To be more specific, I will be talking to female entrepreneurs operating small businesses in Rabat's medina - in order to understand the nuances of what it means to be a self-employed businesswoman in space (public, economic) that still very much belongs to the man in this country. So cheers until next time, who knows when I'll be dropping in next!
So said the ever-wise Colleen as we sat upstairs in the Rabat's Carrion Cafe - an eatery that could be a secret ballroom in a 40s era movie theater with its dusky chandeliers, luxurious booths, and a mirrored bar. These (hot chocolate or chocolate milk, pistachio or lemon ice cream) are the tough decisions that govern our lives, that we mull over for anxious minutes. That this is so is pretty indicative of the quality of life that we enjoy here, a kind of dream world where there is a distinct fuzziness attached to each new memory I create here.
I realize this is making my whole study abroad experience sound pretty frivolous, which is most definitely is not. Indeed, this week marks the beginning of preparation for our independent study project - when we are really released from the cocoon of comfort provided to us by the CCCL and out into the big, brave, sometimes bad, world.
So, this past Friday marked the last day of Arabic and official classes of the program. At the end of this week we move out of our homestay at the end of the week. Naturally, we decided to celebrate being "done" directly after class and headed down to the beach. The hangout known affectionately to us as the "American Bar" was closed so we went to the roof of another cafe, just in time to capture the incredibly sunset over the Atlantic, stretching behind us to Rabat. As I sat there, as Nick and Colleen fought over whether to get a caramel crepe or a Nutella crepe (decisions, decisions), as Julia snorted over the fact that our original plan to get beers and read had failed spectacularly, as the sun seemed to set horizontally, filling the sky with stripes of mutated pinks and oranges that exist only during the confluence of that instance in time, the edges of my vision frayed and everything became from the other customer's laughter to the amateur soccer stars running about the beach, became fuzzy and dreamlike. This is what I'm talking about, the ethereal film that coats and then seems to alter the way you experience moments and remember them afterwards.
It's been pretty cold in Rabat for the past week. By pretty cold, I mean 65 degrees Fahrenheit, but of course the markets are have begun to sell parkas and coats and it's been raining a lot. We have to cover the open skylight in the living room with a tarp to ensure the room won't flood. The rain pounds the tarp, sounding like a metallic onslaught, the kind of energetic, if not a little violent, weather I'm not used to in Rabat.
Thus we've spent a lot more time inside instead, avoiding the cold breeze and pools of mud taking up residence on the medina streets. Cozy in the living room with thick blankets and never-ending cups of mint tea, Khalid, me, and our new family member Micah (!) have played game after game of Uno and practiced our Arabic and cheered on Real Madrid. In fact, the weather has provided me with a lot of good material for a nice solid segment of Keeping up with K+K. I realize that I've neglected this segment quite solidly - and this is less because I've been slacking and really more because the kids work a lot. I don't see them as often as I did in the beginning of the semester. They leave for school early in the morning and come back late, then go to various activities like gymnastics and revision. They're exhausted by dinner time. And Mama Fatiha prioritizes education over everything else so our playtime is really limited.
Khalid recently had a Qur'an recitation exam. He spent the entirety of Sunday studying, locking himself in the bedroom and reading out loud to himself and then coming out to be tested by his mother. By the end of the day he was so nervous and tired that he burst into tears and then threw up out of nervousness. I can't imagine being 8 years old and having to recite in front of my entire class verses of a pretty heavy religious text. Not even the promise of a great tickle-battle would rid him of the pre-exam butterflies. It was adorable and fascinating at the same time. Adorable because, really, anything Khalid does is certifiably the cutest. And fascinating because Qur'anic studies are simply part of the curriculum in both public and private schools here.
The more time I spend running around the house escaping Khalid's *menacing* tickle-attacks, being Khouloud's 12-year old love-life confidante, joking around with Fatiha about how much of a mushkiljEEya (trouble-maker) I am, the harder it becomes for me to comprehend that I'm leaving this house in just a matter of days. Over the weekend we went to Sale to visit some old family-friends of our family. Again it was pouring rain and oddly bitterly cold. We squished through the medina to the bus stop and shivered onto the bus, the fourth form of Rabat public transportation that I can cross off my list. It was the bleakest day I'd seen in Rabat. There were no promising signs of future sunlight - no signs at all actually. Just flannel djellabas and fleece hijabs, socks with sandals accompanied by sniffling noses on the bus. We hiked from the main road to a small almost-village on the outskirts of Sale, sinking into the damp earth and leapfrogging puddles all the while, the promise of huge soft blankets and warm mint tea keeping us on. And sure enough our second Moroccan mother Mama Naima had plates of warm, crumbling almond cookies and bone-soothing tea for us.
Once again I was pleasantly struck by the notion of timelessness. We came to Sale with really no purpose other than seeing Mama Naima and her family, but we spent the entire day there from 11AM to 7PM. The day was aimless as Fatiha and Naima chatted, cooked, walked, sat, cooked again, brewed tea three times, chatted some more. We ourselves slept most of the day and woke up periodically just to eat. It was like village-stay take two.
In absolute and stark contrast to Sale was our day-trip to Casablanca (finally) two weekends ago. We'd heard mixed things about Casa and that had resulted in us putting off visiting week after week.
I think the perfect symbolic representation of Casa is its tram. Rabat has a tram too. But it's a sleek, unobtrusive silver-grey, equipped with all the bells and whistles but otherwise blending into the urban landscape. Casa's tram runs just as smoothly but is a bright, scarlet red, a bold declaration of modernity and achievement in a city that already seems to boast of its industrial and commercial character. How strange it felt to be in an urban metropolis with skyscrapers and billboards and a train station entirely encased almost entirely in glass. Yes, Casa is a rather undeservedly boastful city with it's mixed-metal buildings and long, palm-tree lined avenues and iconic site-seeing spots. It knows this, we know this, and yet we still indulge it simply because it is...Casablanca.
The mosque was absolutely worth boasting about though. And had the totally obvious effect of rendering me speechless at how humanity is so adept at creating both awe-inspiring beauty and heinous violence in the name of religion. We got there rather unconventionally, following the god-send of Julia's phone GPS through one of Casa's medina, side-stepping the lovely street goulash of fish guts and fruits, nimbly navigating through fishmongers and fruit sellers. Eventually we found ourselves walking through one of the neighborhoods that guidebooks probably tell you to avoid before finally catching sight of the mosque's proud minaret in the distance and following it like a beacon in the sea-blue sky.
Beacons in the distance, whether literal, physical beams of light at the end of a dark tunnel, or hope and support offered by a friend in a time of need, or the promise of a really good dinner after a long and exhausting day, are perhaps more vital to our existence than we may believe. I've collected a few beacons on this trip and I'm sure I'll add a few more to my collection before I return to the States. In fact, my return to the States is in itself a beacon of excitement and anticipation, as is the eventual arrival of my family in Morocco.
Fair warning, you may hear very little from me in the next few weeks, as I will be caught up and actually quite busy pursuing research and fieldwork goals for my independent study project. To be more specific, I will be talking to female entrepreneurs operating small businesses in Rabat's medina - in order to understand the nuances of what it means to be a self-employed businesswoman in space (public, economic) that still very much belongs to the man in this country. So cheers until next time, who knows when I'll be dropping in next!
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