An Open Letter to the Flies of the Ouarzazate Region

Dear Flies of the Ouarzazate Region:

First, let me commend you on your persistence and willingness to live in harsh conditions that until nine months ago I could never have appreciated. The desert life, with its sand storms, lack of fresh water and growing threat of scorpions, is harsh. That you have thrived in such an environment warrants both my admiration and consternation.

For you see, flies, your success here in the Ouarzazate region has made you arrogant. Never have I formally invited you into my home, yet you let yourselves in at all hours of the day, buzzing from 6:00 AM to all hours of the night. Nor are we friends, yet you insist upon sitting on my lap, leaning on my shoulder and landing smack dab in the middle of my forehead. In short, flies, you’re ridiculously rude and I hate you.

These sentiments may come as a shock, dear flies, but they are long overdue. Besides the few angry outbursts where I murdered you with Newsweeks I never intended to read, I’ve been quite tolerant of your inconsiderate ways. Indeed, I was even mildly flattered that you appeared to admire my cooking so much that you multiplied exponentially at the dinner hour. That is, until I noticed you preferred the vegetable scraps to my tortillas made from scratch!

Enough is enough. You should know that I’ve employed a small lizard to eat you. So don’t be surprised when you come to an abrupt, slimy end next time you’re sunning yourself on my bedroom window. Perhaps it will teach you to give a lady some privacy.

All the best,
Anjuli

21 Simple Steps to Enjoying Yourself at a Patisserie in Rabat

Quite often I’m struck by the incredible amount of time it takes to complete simple tasks, such as making a deposit at the bank (1 hour 30 minutes), purchasing stamps (45 minutes), or obtaining a menu at a restaurant (25 minutes). On a recent trip to the capital, I was looking forward to the quick pace and efficiency of a large city. It turns out simple pleasures can consume a great deal of time as well! Here are 21 simple steps to enjoying yourself at a patisserie in Rabat.

1. Enter patisserie around the corner from the Gare du Ville, Rabat
2. Peruse vitrines of pastries, wondering if the thing that looks like a pear tart is, in fact, a pear tart, or if it secretly contains raisins for some reason.
3. Wriggle nose at thought of being surprised by raisins.
4. Ask in Arabic if there are brownies. Wesh kayn brownies?
5. Hear response in French, but pretend not to understand. Oui, il y a brownie.
6. Repeat question in Arabic. Wesh kayn brownies?
7. Hear exclamations of “A foreigner who speaks Arabic! My God will wonders ever cease? How do you know Arabic?” Whda rmi lli tkllmha l’3rbia? Tbark llah 3lik! Fn t3llemk l’3rbia?
8. Realize that you are utterly incapable of answering this question in the proposed language.
9. Explain that actually you don’t speak a lot of Arabic (Ana tkllmt l’3rbia shwiya. . .); you really know Tashlheit because you live in Ouarzazate (. . . walakayn ad sawlgh Tashlheit ashku ad zdghgh gh Ouarzazate).
10. Hear exclamations of “Holey moley! An American who knows Berber! God bless your parents.” Tbark llah 3lik!! Marikaniya wHda tkllm shlHa! Lla y-rHm l-walidim.
11. Ask again if there are brownies.
12. When told, “No, there are no brownies” order a pear tart despite aforementioned risk of raisins.
13. Pay cashier after server places tart atop a doily upon a tray.
14. Walk upstairs to find a table, making sure to find the one with the best view for people watching and the occasional suggestive, if accidental, stare.
15. When waitress approaches your table, ask for a café crème, prepared to repeat steps 5 through 11, substituting coffee for brownies.
16. Sigh.
17. Watch as waitress leaves with your tart, vaguely wondering if it was defective.
18. People watch, noticing that no one around you is speaking Arabic, slowly realizing that you exposed yourself as a country bumpkin downstairs.
19. Feel slightly relieved when waitress returns with your coffee and tart.
20. Raise an eyebrow when you notice that the tart has returned sans doily and now sits on a neat white plate with a fork and knife.
21. Dig in.