Today I went to the San Diego Registrar of Voters and voted early! After months of waiting and waiting I finally got to mark my ballot for Barack Obama. I am so happy!
Now if only my clothes would pack themselves . . .
October 20, 2008
October 17, 2008
And We're Back
Is anyone still reading this? Well, besides lovely Matthew, who occasionally looks up from his intense social calendar of tea, leather and mountain climbs to read about my silly musings on CostCo. If you are: thanks!
About eighteen months ago I decided that New York had given up on me. It's an intensely fickle city, full of itinerant freelancers and subletters. Most people I know are struggling to figure out their careers, and we're never sure if it's because we're under thirty or if because the city is just more difficult than other places. For some reason many New Yorkers believe that by simply existing in that space they are somehow "making it". Fearing that trap, I made a decision to leave, sold all my furniture, gave up a lease on a disgusting vermin-infested studio (thank you, Parkoff Management!) and jaunted off to Morocco. What a great idea that was!
Actually, it was. As difficult as my experience turned out to be--the lack of water, the parasites, the crazy host sisters who thought it was OK to gossip about my health and spend 8 hours in a too hot public bath, and the men who thought daily marriage proposals should be considered carefully (highest offer? 100,000 camels!)--it was worth it. I never want it to be thought that I didn't value my time in that place. The most important lesson I took from that experience, however, wasn't the three languages I learned, or the insights into a different culture, or how to make cous-cous. It wasn't even my realization that I'm somewhat of a change junkie. What I hope to always carry with me is the knowledge that I am my best and only true judge.
And so next week I return to New York, to work in my chosen field, in a position I've always thought I wanted. I hope it's true. It's work that I love and believe is important, in a place that I've always felt the most myself. I'm frightened that I'll fall into some old, very damaging patterns, that only serve to undermine my happiness. Mostly, I'm anxious about leaving my family again. Who will take me to CostCo and make sure I see the latest Hollywood releases? The wanderlust in me has been cured, though, I think. Everything else will follow.
About eighteen months ago I decided that New York had given up on me. It's an intensely fickle city, full of itinerant freelancers and subletters. Most people I know are struggling to figure out their careers, and we're never sure if it's because we're under thirty or if because the city is just more difficult than other places. For some reason many New Yorkers believe that by simply existing in that space they are somehow "making it". Fearing that trap, I made a decision to leave, sold all my furniture, gave up a lease on a disgusting vermin-infested studio (thank you, Parkoff Management!) and jaunted off to Morocco. What a great idea that was!
Actually, it was. As difficult as my experience turned out to be--the lack of water, the parasites, the crazy host sisters who thought it was OK to gossip about my health and spend 8 hours in a too hot public bath, and the men who thought daily marriage proposals should be considered carefully (highest offer? 100,000 camels!)--it was worth it. I never want it to be thought that I didn't value my time in that place. The most important lesson I took from that experience, however, wasn't the three languages I learned, or the insights into a different culture, or how to make cous-cous. It wasn't even my realization that I'm somewhat of a change junkie. What I hope to always carry with me is the knowledge that I am my best and only true judge.
And so next week I return to New York, to work in my chosen field, in a position I've always thought I wanted. I hope it's true. It's work that I love and believe is important, in a place that I've always felt the most myself. I'm frightened that I'll fall into some old, very damaging patterns, that only serve to undermine my happiness. Mostly, I'm anxious about leaving my family again. Who will take me to CostCo and make sure I see the latest Hollywood releases? The wanderlust in me has been cured, though, I think. Everything else will follow.
September 20, 2008
My Grandmother Has a Crush on Jon Stewart
The television in my house is a hot commodity. Four adults with very different viewing preferences reside here. My mother will watch anything and everything on the SciFi Channel, including but by no means excluded to, Eureka, Dr. Who, Dead Like Me and some show about a man whose parents sold his soul to the devil when he was born. Rick enjoys WWF and Burn Notice. I enjoy anything on Showtime (Weeds and Dexter are probably my favorites), along with Lost and The Office.
My grandmother has always liked what we affectionately call "dead people shows." House, Monk, CSI, CSI: Miami, Law and Order, Law and Order: Criminal Intent, Cold Case, NCIS, Bones and a myriad of other shows which tend to revolve around an illness or crime and wrap up their story lines within the hour. She despises Lost even though I've explained that the main character is a doctor, just like House, there are mysteries to be solved and a few people even manage to die. She's not buying it; she thinks the polar bear is ridiculous, and that a bunch of pretty people on an island should really "get a grip". She also doesn't find comedies funny. (Don't get me wrong, Grandma actually has a fabulous sense of humor; she just finds sit-coms inane.)
But while I was away on a recent trip to New York (yay!), as you may know, Senator John McCain named little-known Governor Sarah Palin as his running mate. For some reason this has opened up a whole new world of television. She watches Countdown with Keith Olbermann and The Rachel Maddow Show with me. There are few objections when I watch the other news programs. Somehow the whole X chromosome ploy by McCain didn't win over my Grandma - a woman who once told me that Senator Barack Obama was smarmy, and that she didn't understand how people my age could be so enthusiastic about him. And tonight, after a lovely trip to CostCo for a three pound package of strawberries, I turned on The Daily Show, and Grandma admitted that "Jon Stewart is so cute." Obviously, this country is on the right track.
My grandmother has always liked what we affectionately call "dead people shows." House, Monk, CSI, CSI: Miami, Law and Order, Law and Order: Criminal Intent, Cold Case, NCIS, Bones and a myriad of other shows which tend to revolve around an illness or crime and wrap up their story lines within the hour. She despises Lost even though I've explained that the main character is a doctor, just like House, there are mysteries to be solved and a few people even manage to die. She's not buying it; she thinks the polar bear is ridiculous, and that a bunch of pretty people on an island should really "get a grip". She also doesn't find comedies funny. (Don't get me wrong, Grandma actually has a fabulous sense of humor; she just finds sit-coms inane.)
But while I was away on a recent trip to New York (yay!), as you may know, Senator John McCain named little-known Governor Sarah Palin as his running mate. For some reason this has opened up a whole new world of television. She watches Countdown with Keith Olbermann and The Rachel Maddow Show with me. There are few objections when I watch the other news programs. Somehow the whole X chromosome ploy by McCain didn't win over my Grandma - a woman who once told me that Senator Barack Obama was smarmy, and that she didn't understand how people my age could be so enthusiastic about him. And tonight, after a lovely trip to CostCo for a three pound package of strawberries, I turned on The Daily Show, and Grandma admitted that "Jon Stewart is so cute." Obviously, this country is on the right track.
August 14, 2008
Places I've Been Carded in San Diego
It's sort of a running joke that I look like I'm twelve. I suppose it's because, at nearly 28 years-old, I have no (obvious) wrinkles, I smile easily, and I have a "sweet," "soft" voice. (I don't always appreciate these adjectives.) Since when does friendly equal youth? Especially considering the amount of complaining I hear about "today's youth". Here are just a few of the places I've been carded during my stint in lovely San Diego:
The Ralph's grocery store in Mission Valley
Legal age to purchase alcohol: 21.
Question from cashier to me: Looks like you have wine here. Who will be making the purchase today?
Answer: My grandmother.
AMC Movie Theaters in Fashion Valley
Legal age to view an R-rated movie accompanied by an adult: 17.
Cashier to my grandmother: I'm sorry but she really needs to be 17 to see this film.
My grandmother to cashier: Add ten years and you have her age.
The Point Loma Public Library
Legal age to obtain your own card without a parent's signature: 18.
Question from librarian to me: Did you bring your mom with you, hun? She'll need to sign your application.
Based on the reactions I've received whenever I reveal my real age, I'm beginning to worry that my driver's license will be confiscated by an over zealous librarian who is convinced that I couldn't possibly be closing in on 30 and that I must have stolen some nice old lady's wallet to obtain a fake ID. Not cool!
The one place I wasn't carded: The San Diego County Registrar of Voters. Apparently, they compare your signature in their database. What a relief!
The Ralph's grocery store in Mission Valley
Legal age to purchase alcohol: 21.
Question from cashier to me: Looks like you have wine here. Who will be making the purchase today?
Answer: My grandmother.
AMC Movie Theaters in Fashion Valley
Legal age to view an R-rated movie accompanied by an adult: 17.
Cashier to my grandmother: I'm sorry but she really needs to be 17 to see this film.
My grandmother to cashier: Add ten years and you have her age.
The Point Loma Public Library
Legal age to obtain your own card without a parent's signature: 18.
Question from librarian to me: Did you bring your mom with you, hun? She'll need to sign your application.
Based on the reactions I've received whenever I reveal my real age, I'm beginning to worry that my driver's license will be confiscated by an over zealous librarian who is convinced that I couldn't possibly be closing in on 30 and that I must have stolen some nice old lady's wallet to obtain a fake ID. Not cool!
The one place I wasn't carded: The San Diego County Registrar of Voters. Apparently, they compare your signature in their database. What a relief!
What I Learned At the Bowling Alley Tonight
Some of you know that I was a dork growing up. Sure, I had friends, but I also watched Star Trek (both the original series and The Next Generation) and even attended an actual convention with my family in tow. The best part was when they showed us how the transporters worked. Cue ooh's and aaah's. My other claim to dorkiness? The bowling league in which I participated for about two years from the age of ten on the naval base on Coronado Island. No, we didn't have those silly short-sleeved polyester shirts. And I never got a crazy nickname. At my strongest I bowled an 85 and used a six-pound ball. If I broke a hundred that was amazing! I never used the granny throw, even though it seemed like an effective strategy because you got to use both hands.
Looking back on it, I think it's pretty silly that I was playing an indoor sport at the peak of my childhood in sunny Southern California. I rectified this as a high-schooler by taking up tennis and developing more tan lines than I care to remember. Despite the lack of tanning opportunities, bowling taught me excellent hand-eye coordination and perseverance by repeatedly showing me that no matter how hard you try sometimes the ball just isn't going to go your way.
To my surprise I still carry these lessons. My arm is straight and true, and my ball placement is fantastic. About a year ago, I bowled a 180 with an 8 pound ball, shaming my date, who seemed to think he was supposed to win because he was male and had paid for my shoe rental and the beers that should have made me throw poorly. No way, Jose. I've got skills.
Tonight was a slightly different story, under slightly different circumstances. I went bowling with my Uncle Val, who is crazy good (he got five strikes!) but not crazy competitive. He's encouraging and helpful, yet still let's me do my own thing. What I was surprised by was that I threw the 8 pound ball like it was nothing. My ball wasn't straight and true-it skewed right. That wasn't cool. So I upgraded to the 10 pound ball. Same thing. My score was in the toilet; I needed to adjust my form, but how? Could I, little Anjuli, The Little One, as my Aunt Lisa calls me, actually throw a 12 pound ball with control and grace? As it turns out, I could. I'm buff. Who knew?
Did my score vastly improve? Yes. OK, fine, it improved for one game and then my arm got tired and I was throwing all over the place. But the point is: I was much more powerful than I thought. Maybe all of that carrying of my own trash in and out of my site in Morocco actually worked out my arms. Or maybe it was wringing the water out of my hand-washed clothes?
What I've been thinking about since we returned from the bowling alley and finished our amazing In-and-Out burgers, is about how much I've changed. There are the more obvious psychological changes I've undergone - the stress, the regret, the pride, the excitement, the wonder - but there are also the physical ways in which my experiences have manifested themselves. Not only am I mentally stronger, but also, it turns out that I can lift heavier objects and run greater distances. I keep expecting to return to who I was a year ago because that's who I think I am. But actually, I'm a physically and mentally stronger, longer-haired, one-year older, some might even say better, version of who I was when I left. I didn't necessarily have to travel to Morocco to achieve all of that, but I tend to take the most dramatic approach to life. What direction I'll take next is still up in the air, but it's reassuring to know that I have this new strength to draw upon as I make yet another transition.
Looking back on it, I think it's pretty silly that I was playing an indoor sport at the peak of my childhood in sunny Southern California. I rectified this as a high-schooler by taking up tennis and developing more tan lines than I care to remember. Despite the lack of tanning opportunities, bowling taught me excellent hand-eye coordination and perseverance by repeatedly showing me that no matter how hard you try sometimes the ball just isn't going to go your way.
To my surprise I still carry these lessons. My arm is straight and true, and my ball placement is fantastic. About a year ago, I bowled a 180 with an 8 pound ball, shaming my date, who seemed to think he was supposed to win because he was male and had paid for my shoe rental and the beers that should have made me throw poorly. No way, Jose. I've got skills.
Tonight was a slightly different story, under slightly different circumstances. I went bowling with my Uncle Val, who is crazy good (he got five strikes!) but not crazy competitive. He's encouraging and helpful, yet still let's me do my own thing. What I was surprised by was that I threw the 8 pound ball like it was nothing. My ball wasn't straight and true-it skewed right. That wasn't cool. So I upgraded to the 10 pound ball. Same thing. My score was in the toilet; I needed to adjust my form, but how? Could I, little Anjuli, The Little One, as my Aunt Lisa calls me, actually throw a 12 pound ball with control and grace? As it turns out, I could. I'm buff. Who knew?
Did my score vastly improve? Yes. OK, fine, it improved for one game and then my arm got tired and I was throwing all over the place. But the point is: I was much more powerful than I thought. Maybe all of that carrying of my own trash in and out of my site in Morocco actually worked out my arms. Or maybe it was wringing the water out of my hand-washed clothes?
What I've been thinking about since we returned from the bowling alley and finished our amazing In-and-Out burgers, is about how much I've changed. There are the more obvious psychological changes I've undergone - the stress, the regret, the pride, the excitement, the wonder - but there are also the physical ways in which my experiences have manifested themselves. Not only am I mentally stronger, but also, it turns out that I can lift heavier objects and run greater distances. I keep expecting to return to who I was a year ago because that's who I think I am. But actually, I'm a physically and mentally stronger, longer-haired, one-year older, some might even say better, version of who I was when I left. I didn't necessarily have to travel to Morocco to achieve all of that, but I tend to take the most dramatic approach to life. What direction I'll take next is still up in the air, but it's reassuring to know that I have this new strength to draw upon as I make yet another transition.
July 29, 2008
Washing Machines, CostCo and Roberto's
Now that it's been a month since I returned to San Diego, I'd like to say that I've completely readjusted to everything. Afterall, my entire life minus those ten months in Morocco has revolved around such modern day conveniences as hot running water (no boiling required!) and 24-hour Mexican food. And on many levels I have found my way back to my American self, unless you think the urge to reuse Ziploc bags and rinse and dry paper towels for later use is un-American. (Seriously, you can use them at least three times!)
Occasionally, at places like CostCo and Trader Joe's, I'm entirely overwhelmed by the sheer abundance and choice of products. To give you an idea, my family of four buys three different types of milk from CostCo: unsweetened soy for me, fat-free Lactaid for Grandma, and whole milk for my mother's partner, Rick. And we don't just buy one; my soymilk comes in a pack of three and doesn't expire for over a month. Compare this to the tiny, square plastic bags of milk sold once a week on Fridays to go with cous-cous in my tiny desert town. There was one kind (thick) and to make it thicker it was placed in a warm spot, such as an oven, so it would turn just a bit. Then it was re-refrigerated (if you owned such a machine, which I didn't) and served denser than a milkshake. Let's say that it was an acquired taste. I happened to love it, but that was after a slow, incremental three-month process of increasing my tolerance for the at first gag-inducing taste. (Yes, I was a trooper, but I was also hungry and willing to try many, many things at which I would normally turn my nose up.) Just walking through the dairy aisle at my local grocer is a lesson in variety and choice nearly unheard of in the countryside in which I lived. And it's glorious.
And perhaps that's one of the best parts of coming home - everything is fresh and new to me. I treat grocery stores like museums, and blueberries like a rare find. I'm sure I'll go back to taking these things for granted, but for now I'm enjoying the sense of wonder that comes with the rediscovery of basic amenities such as a hot shower and door-to-door transportation. The first week home was a series of waves of relief, slightly tinged with guilt, that basic things didn't have to be difficult. Now after a full month, I can proudly say I'm happy to be home.
Occasionally, at places like CostCo and Trader Joe's, I'm entirely overwhelmed by the sheer abundance and choice of products. To give you an idea, my family of four buys three different types of milk from CostCo: unsweetened soy for me, fat-free Lactaid for Grandma, and whole milk for my mother's partner, Rick. And we don't just buy one; my soymilk comes in a pack of three and doesn't expire for over a month. Compare this to the tiny, square plastic bags of milk sold once a week on Fridays to go with cous-cous in my tiny desert town. There was one kind (thick) and to make it thicker it was placed in a warm spot, such as an oven, so it would turn just a bit. Then it was re-refrigerated (if you owned such a machine, which I didn't) and served denser than a milkshake. Let's say that it was an acquired taste. I happened to love it, but that was after a slow, incremental three-month process of increasing my tolerance for the at first gag-inducing taste. (Yes, I was a trooper, but I was also hungry and willing to try many, many things at which I would normally turn my nose up.) Just walking through the dairy aisle at my local grocer is a lesson in variety and choice nearly unheard of in the countryside in which I lived. And it's glorious.
And perhaps that's one of the best parts of coming home - everything is fresh and new to me. I treat grocery stores like museums, and blueberries like a rare find. I'm sure I'll go back to taking these things for granted, but for now I'm enjoying the sense of wonder that comes with the rediscovery of basic amenities such as a hot shower and door-to-door transportation. The first week home was a series of waves of relief, slightly tinged with guilt, that basic things didn't have to be difficult. Now after a full month, I can proudly say I'm happy to be home.
June 25, 2008
On the Road Again
It began with a side of broccoli. There it was, sitting matter of factly next to the largest piece of meat served to me in about 10 months. I had just said goodbye to my community in TToot a few days before and to my best friends via text and phone. Completely overwhelmed and, to be honest, pretty damned scared about what the next chapter of my life holds, I ate the broccoli. And it was good.
Now I'm in Park Slope, Brooklyn for the next few hours (even travel out of Morocco is complicated!) trying to take in all the things that seem familiar yet are totally freaking me out. Why are bagels so big here? Why are there bagels at all, actually? And the iced coffee I just had is easily five times the size of a coffee in Ouarzazate. Everyone speaks English, which is like soooo cool. There are no plastic bags hanging off trees! And everything is so shiny and new!
I kind of miss my desert town, and I know that I'll miss the simplicity of the life I led, even though it felt complicated at the time. Coming home early was a very, very difficult decision, but ultimately the right one. And I'm happy to say that it feels good to be on familiar territory and to see familiar faces. Not to mention the incredible amount of support I've received from the Peace Corps in Morocco volunteer community, my friends here in the States, and most of all, my family, who has prepared a room for me and is eagerly awaiting my arrival in San Diego tonight.
There's a lot for me to readjust to, so I think I'll still maintain this blog. There are a lot of things about Morocco I wasn't able to share in this forum that now I can, and I'll need a place to process the whole experience. I hope you'll continue reading! And if you're anywhere near Park Slope right now come to the Tea Lounge!
p.s. Kudos to my good friend, Evan, for picking me up at the airport last night on extremely late notice, and to Eric, my favorite rabbinical student, for coming down to Park Slope as I type!
Now I'm in Park Slope, Brooklyn for the next few hours (even travel out of Morocco is complicated!) trying to take in all the things that seem familiar yet are totally freaking me out. Why are bagels so big here? Why are there bagels at all, actually? And the iced coffee I just had is easily five times the size of a coffee in Ouarzazate. Everyone speaks English, which is like soooo cool. There are no plastic bags hanging off trees! And everything is so shiny and new!
I kind of miss my desert town, and I know that I'll miss the simplicity of the life I led, even though it felt complicated at the time. Coming home early was a very, very difficult decision, but ultimately the right one. And I'm happy to say that it feels good to be on familiar territory and to see familiar faces. Not to mention the incredible amount of support I've received from the Peace Corps in Morocco volunteer community, my friends here in the States, and most of all, my family, who has prepared a room for me and is eagerly awaiting my arrival in San Diego tonight.
There's a lot for me to readjust to, so I think I'll still maintain this blog. There are a lot of things about Morocco I wasn't able to share in this forum that now I can, and I'll need a place to process the whole experience. I hope you'll continue reading! And if you're anywhere near Park Slope right now come to the Tea Lounge!
p.s. Kudos to my good friend, Evan, for picking me up at the airport last night on extremely late notice, and to Eric, my favorite rabbinical student, for coming down to Park Slope as I type!
June 11, 2008
Ridiculous Fun in Agadir
Last week I attended my training group's IST, or Inter-Service Training, and it was amazing! It was so great to be back with everyone (minus a couple wonderful colleagues who have returned to the States for various reasons) and to learn about their communities and projects. Even with eight hours of sessions everyday, we managed to have a bit of fun. Those of us who live in the desert were particularly fond of the hotel pool! From right to left: Danice, Quigs, Anny, Megan (it was her birthday so she got to be the "swan"), Matthew, me (big splash, no grace) and Brian.
May 28, 2008
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
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.
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.
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