Spring break commenced on the last Saturday in March, and on Sunday, my dear friend traveled from Rabat to meet up with me in Tetouan.  We spent the night in Tetouan, caught a horribly graphic movie about Gaza at the Mediterranean Film Festival and then hit the road early Monday morning.  Here's the breakdown of our "RiHla Tawila" through the Northeast of Morocco. 

Mon. 29 Mar: Tetouan to Targuist by public bus.  Transport Souhail, I will never ride your buses ever again.  The bus broke down an hour down the road, and after what seemed like hours waiting at a rest stop, we picked up our journey in a half-fixed bus that could only go 15 km per hour.  From Targuist, we took a grand taxi to the tiny village of Beni Boufrah.  Ate a ton, then slept like logs.

Tues. 30 Mar: Hiking in Beni Boufrah to Cala Iris.  Our Moroccan-cum-Basque guide Wafi taught us the words in Arabic for pretty much everything, from the hut-like bales of hay to the red poppies dotting the countryside. 

Wed. 31 Mar: Trip to the local cooperative specializing in aromatic and medicinal herbs.  Relaxed at a cafe in the evening and bonded with a Basque (don't you dare say Spanish) couple.  Because of them, I was able to translate from Arabic to Spanish for the first time in my life.  It was a tangible measure of my hard work and achievement.  I was ecstatic.

Thurs. 1 Apr: Beni Boufrah to Al Hoceima by Grand Taxi.  Lunch of Fritura (assorted fried fish and seafood plate) before continuing on to Melillia. More bonding with the Basques, who turned out to be great travel companions.  Melodee and I found our way to the Residencia de estudiantes y deportistas and found it very much to our liking, although the complimentary breakfast left much to be desired.    We had our first dinner in Spain, tapas style, and I had the pleasure of introducing Melodee to the wonderful world of Spanish cuisine.

Fri. 2 Apr:  Good Friday.  Beautiful weather, but almost everything was closed.  We wandered for a bit and took a long afternoon nap.  I had Chinese food for the first time in over 6 months and in the evening we had front-row seats to the Semana Santa procession.  Melodee got some nice pictures of the floats featuring Jesus in a coffin and Mary in mourning.  Lots of tinto de verano (wine) for me and caña (beer) for Melodee. 

Sat. 3 Apr: Easter Saturday!  Since we knew we would be traveling back to Morocco early on Sunday morning, Melodee and I decided to celebrate Easter a day early.  We hid kinder eggs for each other around the hotel room (mine was hiding very cleverly in the toilet paper role) and stuffed ourselves with jellybeans.  Then we got some Italian food, napped on the beach and explored the breathtaking Old City.  This was one of my favorite days on the trip.  We wandered the streets taking pictures, eating Dorritos and occasionally sighing contentedly.  We wandered into the Museum of Melillia, were I was given a personal tour by the most precious 7-year-old boy I have ever seen.  He told me all about the history of the town, explained the original uses for the various antiques on display, and even gave me a brief overview of the Boston Tea Party.  My favorite moment was when he explained how to use the old phone board salvaged from the city's old hospital.  "Maybe you want to call someone, say, the Wine-lovers club, for instance."  I told his father, one of the board members of the city's historical society, that the future of Melillia was clearly in good hands.  After our unofficial tour, Melodee and I splurged on an amazing sea-side dinner, and then danced until 2 a.m., when most Melillians were just spilling in to the discotecas. 

Sun. 4 Apr: Melillia to Oujda, via (unfortunately) Nador.  I will dedicate a whole post to Nador, so I won't elaborate on the horrendous experience.  Melodee and I at least made it across the border, with only a few minutes of the usual questioning.  At Oujda we stayed with a Couchsurfing friend, but were so exhausted we just read until we fell asleep.

Mon. 5 Apr: Another night in Oujda, this time at a "good hotel hit by hard times".  Oujda is a great city, though.  Half the size of Rabat, double the size of Tetouan, the city is full of life, despite the economic blow it suffered when the border to Algeria was closed in 1995.  Melodee and I splurged at this amazing women's artisanal cooperative.  I bought Koichi and I each mugs as well as a glass and pitcher set, all hand decorated.  Our attempt to catch a Bollywood film at the nearby theater failed when we discovered  the movie was American dubbed in French and that the theater had clearly not been cleaned since local Pee-On-Things Festival.  We studied Arabic in our hotel room, instead. 

Tues. 6 Apr: Oujda to Taza by train.  Melodee politely talked to the women we shared the car with.  I looked out the window and wished I were in Japan, where trains are for sleeping and talking is taboo.  Aside from just being grumpy, I wanted to relax on the train, and the one woman in particular had several obnoxious habits, such as cracking gum, drinking abandoned drink boxes, taking up an entire seat, asking obnoxious questions and being otherwise unintelligible.  Once we arrived in Taza, there was some drama with out hotel room which I would rather forget.  Neither Melodee nor I were in great spirits, so we took it easy, got a good meal and went to bed early. 

Wed. 7 Apr: Very early.  Much earlier than we had intended.  Somehow we had set the alarm clock an hour behind, and I didn't realize it until after we were both showered the next morning.  I did a double take as I looked at my wristwatch, then stuck my head out of the hotel room to ask the maid to confirm the time.  8 a.m.  We had intended to wake up at that time, but instead left the hotel shortly after 8 and had a nice, calm breakfast served by a nervous and timid waiter who giggled giddily when I spoke to him in Moroccan Arabic.   The train to Fez that morning was much more pleasant than the one the day before, although our cabin mate did continue to speak to me in Spanish and French even though I told him that I only spoke Arabic.  I even gave him the option of Standard or Moroccan.  Somehow this was confusing for him, because he kept going in Romance.  And I kept pretending not to understand.  The things you do to learn a language!  One of Melodee's friends met us in Fez and we stayed with his family.  Fez is very tough on "fake guides" who try to show tourists around and then charge a ridiculous price.  They are so tough, in fact, that our friend couldn't show us around the town for fear of being accused of being a "fake guide", fined and  possibly arrested.   Luckily his brother/friend (?) was an official guide (for Italians!) so he showed us around in a mix of Arabics and "Romancified" English.  Fez was an amazing whirlwind, and I hope to go back someday.  It was definitely the best night on the Moroccan part of this trip.

Thurs.8 Apr:  Fez to Taza, via a CTM bus.  We had considered spending an extra night in Fez, but both Melodee and I were ready to get home.  The bus ride was (thankfully and relatively) uneventful.  Melodee "fired" all of the culturally insensitive tourists, and had me in stitches in the process.  She made some good points though.  What's the point of wearing legwarmers with a low-cut top?  So your legs are cold but your chest isn't?  And as my roommate Mary had previously pointed out, why wear a scarf with a tank top?  The experience made me feel very old and very isolated.  I wanted to go over and say, "Excuse me, young people, can you explain this to me?  Is this the new cool thing in the western world?"  Also, 100 dirhams to the guy who can explain the Spanish subculture of dreadlock-mullet-heads.  And has half the Spanish male population converted, or do they just really happen to like Morocco? 

There's no place like Morocco, and being that it's  home for now, there's no place like home.

Pictures from my trip to the conference in Agadir, Feb 1-6, 2010

What does my smile mean?
And what about my eyes?
If all these words are true
Then all the truths are lies.

What does my presence say?
And what about my socks?
It seems we say plenty,
While no one really talks.

When I speak your language,
Are my ideas mine?
Are they of the people,
the state or the divine?

And when I speak of trees,
Do you see palms or oaks?
And when I speak of friends,
Do you see me or other folks?

On Thursday, my Arabic teacher fell asleep during my lesson.  I am the only student in the class.

Also on Thursday, I left home early to get a quick coffee before heading to mosaics.  As I reached the corner at the end of my street, I realized it was spring.  This morning, on my way to class, I saw blossoms on the tree in front of the school.

This afternoon was the first day of my first ever film series.  We showed Forrest Gump, because it was a previous Oscar winner, and we will show some other previous winners up until the date of this year's Oscars on March 7.  Eleven students showed up.  We are a small center, so I am happy with that.

Today I met the US Ambassador to Morocco.  He came to the ALC (my school) to shake hands.  He is a business man who deals in banking and retirement homes, and he donated a lot of money to the Democratic party.  He speaks neither Arabic nor French nor Spanish nor Tamazight. 

Happy Birthday, Koichi!

February marks the one year anniversary of this blog.  To celebrate, I have decided to post photos capturing the happiest moments of this eventful year. 

I finally figured out what that guy said to me three weeks ago.

I was paying for my meal at bus stop on the way to Rabat.  The waiters were very nice and chatty, and I was flattered when they asked if I was Syrian (we were speaking Arabic.)  As I said good-bye, one of the waiters said what I thought was "Welcome to Islam".  Not sure what to do or say, I just smiled piously and hurried onto the waiting bus.  I immediately told my roommate and travel buddy Mary that I think I had been extended a welcome to Islam.  As the bus continued, I become more puzzled by the man's comment, and wished I had asked him to repeat what he had said or clarified somehow.  By the time we arrived in Rabat, I was pretty convinced I had misunderstood the man, but still had no idea what he actually meant.

This afternoon I went out to do a little shopping.  As usual, I greeted the store keepers with a friendly "Assalamu 3laykum", to which they invariably reply, "wa 3lykum assalam."  On the way home, I repeated this call and answer to myself, practicing the sounds and enjoying the difficulty of pronouncing them.  I began thinking of other phrases that contained the word "salam" (peace).  There are many, but one in particular popped into my head.  "Tariq Assalam".  Suddenly, the pieces of the puzzle fit together.  Then man hadn't welcomed me to Islam.  He had said, "Tariq Assalam.  Marhababik", which means (drum roll please!) "Bon Voyage. Welcome (to Morocco)." 

I saw the King yesterday.  I was trying to get home from my Arabic lesson, only to find a police barricade preventing me from crossing the street.  I milled around for a few minutes, trying to figure out how to get home in time for work, when a shout in the crown signaled the King was coming.  He drove by in one of the many ridiculously nice sports cars, waving to the crowd.  I just saw his hand, his neck and his hairline, but I recognized him.   The woman next to me shook her toddler and coaxed him to look at the waving hand.  A few people clapped.  The car disappeared and people pushed through the barricade and practically trampled each other crossing street. 

I always wondered what kind of langauge learner I was.  In linguistics classes, I learned that there are traits a good language learner has, and I would always try to figure out which category I fell into.  There was the category that seemed to imply that (pardon my paraphrasing) extroverts made better language learners.  It always depressed me a little.  I don't think I am an extrovert.  Sometimes, I prefer listening to talking.  I would pressure myself in language situations to be more outgoing and talk as much as I could.  But when, for whatever reason, I didn't have the energy to do so, I would feel guilty about wasting a good opportunity, and not being a better language learner.  This has been going on inside my brain for years, but just the other day, while walking down the street, I remembered another thing I learned while teaching Spanish at the University of Pittsburgh.  Listening comes before speaking.  To be a good speaker, you have to be a good listener.    If you are super active all the time and speak at every opportunity, when do you get to listen?   

I am not about to write a theory of second language acquisition based on this experience, but it does make me feel more justified in my approach to language learning.   All roads lead to Rome.  The important thing is to keep walking.

For 18 or so years of my life, Sundays involved getting up early and going to religious education classes for children.  Even after I started high school and was too old to be a student, I continued assisting in or teaching the classes, since my Mom ran the program.  It's been 7 or 8 years since I taught one of those Sunday morning classes, but the memory, or the habit, seems to be embedded in my subconscious.   We just started the winter term at the ALC,  and my new schedule has me teaching just one class on Saturday mornings.  It's a Junior's class, so my students are about 12 or 13 years old.  It feels like old times!   From the moment I woke up this morning, I couldn't shake the feeling that today was a Sunday.  At first I couldn't figure out why, but I really think my new schedule is stirring up old childhood memories of Sunday mornings gone by.  I wonder if  Morocco has  powdered jelly doughnuts I can enjoy after class?

What's Christmas like in Morocco?  For one thing, it's only two days long.    

Fortunately, I had about three weeks off between the fall and winter sessions, and since this nicely coincided with Christmas and New Years, I decided to head to Rabat to visit a friend and former classmate.  After classes ended, I stuck around for a few days, took care of some business and said my good-byes.  I have to admit, I was kind of nervous for a couple reasons.  For one thing, I hadn’t left Tetouan for any reason in about a month and a half.  It felt so comfortable, I knew more or less what I was doing, where I was going, and what to expect.  I was afraid leaving my little nest would be too much of an unpleasant shock.  I was also excited, though.  I think there was a big part of me that was feeling suffocated and needed to get out! 

And get out I did.  For about 10 USD I caught a bus from Tetouan to Rabat.  The trip took almost 5 hours exactly, with two stopovers in various locals.  I had been looking forward to that trip for so long!  Ever since I was a little girl crossing the Mason-Dixon line in the backseat of my grandparents Mercedes , I have loved the process of traveling.  It’s almost therapeutic.  My mind stops racing and thoughts float through my head as the scenery slips by.  Staring out the window, the vibrations of the car and the constant drone of highway driving would calm me, often to sleep, but many times just to a point of pleasant sedation.  Even the best book or the latest video game was not enough to lure me from this state.  Now I wouldn’t say that I was particularly stressed in Tetouan.  Life was good, but I had been sick for over a month and felt worn down.  Being in a new place, speaking a new language and teaching from a new textbook can also wear a person down pretty quickly.  So the thought of sitting in a bus for five whole hours and watching the scenery slip by was really enticing! 

The trip was really everything I wanted.  I brought about a half ton of books that I of course never touched!  It was a cold day, but the sun was shining brightly and warmed my face as I looked out the window.  I sighed deeply.  All was well with the world.  Only a single, tiny worry crossed through my mind.  I was going to Rabat to visit my dear friend Melodee.  We had studied Arabic together in Jordan two summers ago and got along well.  But it had been two years.  What if we didn’t get along?  What if she secretly hated short, Spanish-speaking, vegetarian Pennsylvanians?  What if she didn’t want to do anything I wanted to do?  What if she wanted to watch American football and drink fresh buttermilk all day?  I hate buttermilk!  I was afraid that even if things were just a little bit bad, it would make being away from my family at Christmas positively unbearable.  Ok, I told myself, you’ve got to make the most of this.  So you don’t want to drink buttermilk at Christmas.  What do you want to do, Alaina?  I already knew the answer.  I had decided after watching Love Actually that I wanted to spend my Christmas doing two things: cooking delicious meals and watching movies late into the night.  I have found knowing what you want really does make you feel better.  And after a fabulous, relaxing and inspiring week and a half with Melodee, I am now convinced that knowing what you want is often synonymous with getting it. 

After my first night in Rabat, all my worries about the coming week and a half melted away.   We spent the night splurging and spoiling ourselves!  We happened upon this really posh bakery where I bought fancy chocolates and Melodee bought (I kid you not!) Foie Gras and specialty coffee!  Then we stuffed ourselves at a fancy Keiten Sushi restaurant, followed by a giant ice cream sunday and an ice cream Christmas cake (buche du noele) which we got to go.  That night, we snuggled up to the space heater and watched movies until we couldn’t keep our eyes open.   The next morning, while I was eating breakfast, Melodee asked me if I had any Christmas favorites I wanted her to download.  I took a calculated risk in admitting I wanted the Dolly Parton Christmas album.  “Great!” said Melodee, “Growing up, all we listened to in my house was Dolly Parton, Kenny Rodgers…”  I laughed.  “Actually,” I admitted, “The Christmas album is a duet with Kenny Rodgers…”  Within a few minutes the album was downloaded and I was unapologetically singing along to the lyrics.  And then to top it all, we sat down and planned our Christmas Eve and Christmas Day feasts. 


* Moroccan Christmas: http://tv.yahoo.com/the-office/show/moroccan-christmas/episode/192342/recap