Warning: Kapparot are taken very seriously, every single person gets a chicken. You may come home one day to find your house full of said chickens (de-feathered and de-footed, thank God) occupying all manner of container from the pasta strainer to the laundry basket. We had 11 total -- one for each of the 7 children, one for Baria, one for Jakob, one for Lisa and one for me. And then Baria sewed them up. I'm still not sure why.
Suggestion: Don't get home at 5pm from the plage (beach) with Mike when you need to be at synagogue at 5:45pm. You need more time than that to shower, dress and EAT Baria's delicious kitchen (she means chicken).
Warning: Your host mother will say many strange incantations in the name of Rabbi Meir Ba'al HaNes. Don't get nervous -- just go with the flow. She'll eventually bless you in his name that you should be married and become a good journalist or doctor depending on if your name is Sheva or Lisa...though sometimes she gets confused, so the name probably doesn't matter a whole lot.
Suggestion: Bring your own siddur to synagogue. Machzorim are not provided. We got one from Mike.
Warning: Purchase a see-through white blouse to wear (applicable to both genders). They are fashionable, and thus preferable.
Suggestion: Ignore the prohibition against leather shoes. In fact, snakeskin and white leather pumps for women are in vogue. Available for purchase at your local Mango or Zara.
Warning: You will be distracted by (the few) adorable children in town for the holiday visiting their Moroccan grandparents. But you needn't worry about them until 4:30 when most of hte women arrive.
Suggestion: Before you come, try to age as much as possible. Most people are over 70, and you'll want to fit in.
Warning: Be ready for the heat. The sun hits the synagogue straight on through the window beginning around 2pm, and if you're wearing Tzitzit (a Talit) on top of your suit on top of a long sleeve shirt it can get quite toasty. So says Mike. Also there's a power play over the windows and the mechitza curtain (whether or not they stay open) in the women's section. It all goes down in French so I recommend just staying out of the way.
Suggestion: Be prepared for no bowing at Aleinu, and no Unetane Tokef, and no fun tunes. At all. Weird.
Warning: If you speak French you may have your back rubbed and scratched whether you want it or now by Strasbourg.
Suggestions:
- MEN: I suggest setting your watches to Moroccan time. The governor - yes - makes it a habit to come visit "the Jews" on Yom Kippur every year. He was supposed to come at 3pm, between Mussaf and Mincha, but instead came at 5:30pm between Mincha and Neila. Also, men, I suggest learning all of the prayers by heart. Moroccan davening is extremely participatory.
- WOMEN: I suggest becoming a man. The governor shook all of the men's hands individually and warmly, asking how their businesses were faring, seeing how all the children were getting on...and then, as he was leaving, he gave a condescending but gentlemanly wave in the direction of the women's section. The entire section smiled and waved back. Except me. I wanted to shake his hand.
- ALL: Learn Fusha! (This may be the only time I recommend this.) The speech by the Jewish community's representative (you may remember David Toledano) was in slow, beautiful Fusha (!), as was the halting first half of the governor's. I followed both, despite the double-digit decibels coming from the window due to the 8-car entourage double parked on the street outside. The second half of the governor's speech was in much more fluent Darija -- so his audience could understand. It was ingratiatingly sweet, but comforting at the same time. The Jews know that the Muslim government knows about them, likes them, and has their back.
Warning: The shofar comes as quite a surprise (I jumped) in what you might think is the precise middle of Neila (final prayer of Y"K). But its not. Its the end. Be thankful.
Suggestion: Leave the sanctuary at least once to visit the "hang out" room. You won't ever meet all 300 Jews who live in Rabat, but the woodworky ones (60 or so) who come for Y"K are accessible one day a year...you just might need to leave the sanctuary to find them (make your way to the couches).
Warning: You may begin to lose your concentration around 6:30pm or so...there's no break.
Suggestion: Bring food for afterward, Jakob may take his time with Ma'ariv, Kiddush Levana, walking home with the "Shaliach Gadol", in the bathroom, and saying Havdallah. A 25-hour fast quickly (or slowly?) turns into a 27-28 hour fast. But if you didn't remember to bring food, it'll be OK. Baria made a thousand types of delicious cookies to go with the coffee made with hot milk for you to break your fast with.
Warning: You won't be able to sleep if you drink coffee at 8:30pm.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Marriage! (prounced: "Mariyaaj")
We got a talk today from Jakob over our breakfast meal-- actually one of the better, more than 3½-word conversations we’ve had -- about how our biological clocks are ticking. He mentioned that Baria got married at 19, and had 7 kids, Baria’s sister has 8 kids (he said 10, Baria corrected him) and that his own sister got married at 16 and had between 11 and 13 kids (I’m fuzzy on the French details). His last two sons are getting married very soon (we’re going to one of the weddings as I may have mentioned, in November -- in Paris!) Oh, and the kicker: His youngest, 19-year-old daughter whom we've met named Miryam, is engaged to a guy not only she but the entire family’s never met. They have just a picture know a few facts about him: He is 23. He has a big beard. He works with electronics. He wears black and white. He lives in Israel. Did I mention that Miryam does not speak Hebrew? In any case, Lisa better get in the game marry Mike! (I learned how to say that in French so I can annoy Lisa: “Elle va sur marriee avec Mike”!) Anyway, song for the day, from the Julie Andrews and the Von Trapps (who we should all strive to emulate?). Here's a short clip from "Doe, A Dear".
A View from the Balcone; Characters of Life
1) Zohair (AKA homo religiosis) - Our neighbor. I've mentioned him before. Now I'll describe him a bit. He has a longish black beard, a winning smile, and is probably about 32-33. I think he needs a wife. He has two sets of clothing. One, perhaps for Ramadan (?): All white djelaba (traditional long shirt) and all white knitted skull cap. Two, for "chol" (?): When he plays hackysack with his buddies he wears a purply shirt and yellow calf-length pants with, what I call, "Arab tennis shoes" - the kind that is usually black and laces up the side instead of straight and looks purposefully like a European knockoff. He's pretty good...not great. Anyway, we got Baria's scoop on him today. According to her, he doesn't work. He doesn't have the "smarts" for it. We saw him outside our window after dinner talking to Khadija, who was buying water from him. Khadija (whose name is the same as the first wife of the Prophet Mohammad) is the Ben Loulou's "maid"...but she's really part of the family. She's probably in her 50s, and is as sweet as Baria's almond cookies that we ate last night. Anyway, we waved to her from the balcon and she waved back and we said something in Arabic, and Zohair (now we know his real name) was taken aback by the fact that we spoke Arabic and started sort of trying to talk to us, but Baria, giggling like a teenager, rushed us inside and told us - in detail - that he (Zohair) just liked to look around at the girls and basically was a good-for-nothing who didn't want to work. "If he were smart, he would work, because Hashem gave us limbs and minds for one reason: to work." While he does loaf a lot, Zohair doesn't strike me as a "stupid" guy. For now, we have someone else to say hi to when we come in and go out of our Bab. Yay?
2) Aziz (AKA Bob Marley) - So we've seen this guy twice now. The first time last week when we were coming into "town" (Avenue Mohammad V), and we talked - mostly in English - and oday he had his dreads tied in a knot at the back of his head. He had a gaggle of friends with him who had poorer English than he did, so they just stood there (one of whom was wearing nothing but a women's v-neck sweater (!?). This time he chatted with us for a while while we waited for Lisa's language partner, and then told us to come sit with them when she came. We didn't...but I'm sure we'll keep running into him no matter how hard we try to avoid him and his awkward friends.
3) Name Unknown (AKA Strasbourg) - this is a guy we've seen (not met) at synagogue. He affords us endless entertainment based on his a) appearance b) mannerisms c) activities. He looks a great deal like a skinny, ginger version the Harry Potter character Wormtail. He has a constantly startled, mousy look, and scurries around the synagogue talking to people in rapid French, no matter the prayer. Yesterday we saw him rubbing and scratching one of the other mens' back int he middle of Kedusha. Just a generally hilarious - and slightly unnerving -- individual.
4) Mike (AKA Moshe) We met Mike at synagogue on the second day of Rosh HaShana. I introduced myself to a girl who I thought was my age who was sitting next to me. She looked like she could be American and I was just being my Friendly Seattle Self. Turns out, she's 14. And she's from Rabat. And she has a brother who she wanted to introduce us to. This was Mike. Mike is 31. He is not married, and lives the life of a happy bachelor. He works until 3:30 every day, then goes surfing for the remainder of the afternoon, and parties hardy at night. It was not long before he was coming with us to our Internet haven, Cafe Arab (I was convinced from the very first that he was smitten with my roommate, Lisa), taking us in his huge Toyota 4WD truck to the tucked away beaches of Rabat to try and surf with his sister (there were no waves), to swim (a pre-Yom Kippur dip in the Mikve of the Atlantic, if you will) taking us out to El Palentino, the "most swankified club in town" to meet his friends, all of whom are fantastically interesting and successful, paying for us, and just generally showing us a good time -- and Baria approves; he's Jewish! He wants to go jogging with us today...I think we're going to beg off of that one, he's 6'3 and in seriously good shape.
2) Aziz (AKA Bob Marley) - So we've seen this guy twice now. The first time last week when we were coming into "town" (Avenue Mohammad V), and we talked - mostly in English - and oday he had his dreads tied in a knot at the back of his head. He had a gaggle of friends with him who had poorer English than he did, so they just stood there (one of whom was wearing nothing but a women's v-neck sweater (!?). This time he chatted with us for a while while we waited for Lisa's language partner, and then told us to come sit with them when she came. We didn't...but I'm sure we'll keep running into him no matter how hard we try to avoid him and his awkward friends.
3) Name Unknown (AKA Strasbourg) - this is a guy we've seen (not met) at synagogue. He affords us endless entertainment based on his a) appearance b) mannerisms c) activities. He looks a great deal like a skinny, ginger version the Harry Potter character Wormtail. He has a constantly startled, mousy look, and scurries around the synagogue talking to people in rapid French, no matter the prayer. Yesterday we saw him rubbing and scratching one of the other mens' back int he middle of Kedusha. Just a generally hilarious - and slightly unnerving -- individual.
4) Mike (AKA Moshe) We met Mike at synagogue on the second day of Rosh HaShana. I introduced myself to a girl who I thought was my age who was sitting next to me. She looked like she could be American and I was just being my Friendly Seattle Self. Turns out, she's 14. And she's from Rabat. And she has a brother who she wanted to introduce us to. This was Mike. Mike is 31. He is not married, and lives the life of a happy bachelor. He works until 3:30 every day, then goes surfing for the remainder of the afternoon, and parties hardy at night. It was not long before he was coming with us to our Internet haven, Cafe Arab (I was convinced from the very first that he was smitten with my roommate, Lisa), taking us in his huge Toyota 4WD truck to the tucked away beaches of Rabat to try and surf with his sister (there were no waves), to swim (a pre-Yom Kippur dip in the Mikve of the Atlantic, if you will) taking us out to El Palentino, the "most swankified club in town" to meet his friends, all of whom are fantastically interesting and successful, paying for us, and just generally showing us a good time -- and Baria approves; he's Jewish! He wants to go jogging with us today...I think we're going to beg off of that one, he's 6'3 and in seriously good shape.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Shana Tova/Eid Mubarak Finale
Right. So today I'm starting out with the music because I want to give you the full effect as you read and look at the pictures. Traveling to and from Marrakesh is really what The Kinks meant when they tell you to "Take A Walk on the Wild Side". It's a mazy mess of carpet, jewelry, lamp and leather shops, snake charmers, hashish dealers, orange juicers, tourists, horse carriage drivers, and flies. Lots of flies. I'll leave it to the pictures to speak for themselves.
Oh, and these pictures backwards in terms of order. I'm going to go through them here backwards, and I suggest you do as well:
First: Lisa in our smokey first class compartment on the train at 5:45am
Awesome: A picture of us with a weaver in the Kasbah (old city) of Marrakesh. He invited us into his home, and his friend (who lives above him)'s wife made us tea (which we happily consumed and couscous (which we sadly decline). The next picture is him showing us how he works. We stayed and chatted for more than an hour. His stuff is gorgeous.
Next: 4 pictures in sequence of the roof of our fantastic $25/night hostel. We went on to the roof for the call(s - there approx. fifty thousand) to prayer and to watch the sunset. It was beautiful, haunting, and charming all at once.
So: We went to the Jardin Marjorelle, a beautiful, brightly colored, exotic garden planted by a Frenchman. Fountains, cacti, intricate latticework, in blues, reds, greens, made it the best 30 dirham we spent in Marrakesh.
The next two are from the train home -- we got stuck in 2nd class because it was Eid al-Fitr (end of Ramadan, as you know) and everyone and their uncle was going home from their family visits. So we actually managed a compartment, but it was so hot at 3pm that we ended up standing for about 3 of the 4 hour train ride. After teaching our compartment English via my Al-Kitab Book III, Ch 2 Arabic flashcards, we moved to the door (which was left open the entire time...very safe. Note the sign above the door in the picture), talked to two Casablancans, were stuffed into corners by mothers and their big bags, fathers with their little children, got a bit overly friendly with a gaggle of police offers from Sale, and, since we were leaning against the bathroom door, learned about the bowel movements of a good chunk of Morocco's travelers. The last picture is one of the sunset from the train. It was a long, sticky ride, but it was a communal, educational, and culturally rich experience.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Shana Tova/Eid Mubarak
So where was I....ahh yes, Friday night:
FRIDAY NIGHT:
A guy I know from Penn who is on a different program here in Rabat, joined us for dinner. He had gotten in touch with me the day before, and Baria had been more than happy to set one more place at our holiday table. Jakob was thrilled - a son! So we all go home together, sat down in the living room (special! not the regular dining room) - and Jakob immediately grabs the alcohol: Beer for the girls (none for Baria) and a stiff glass of J&B whiskey on the rocks for Yosef (my friend), and another hefty one for himself. And that was just the beginning.
So we're shmoozing and boozing during we have the first course of salads which involves a few new ones (spinach, artichoke, dates) and then the (previously mentioned) "rosh keves" which, I'm told by a new Jewish Moroccan acquaintance of mine, may NOT have been brain, but might be cheek meat...Either way, I'm glad Yosef was there or I might not have tried it, recovering vegetarian that I am. Anyway, the meal was progressing grandly and Jakob was starting to feel...happy. By the time we had eaten the main course was over and we were eating our Fruwi (fruit, our desert), Jakob wanted to sing. And Yosuf was more than happy to join in.
So we sang...and danced (Jakob and Yosuf mostly) for a good 45 minutes, if not more. We sat on the couches and tried to find mutual songs in mutual languages. We stood with our hands over our hearts for Hatikva, swayed for Alouette, and Jakob dipped Yosef through a tango, and tried to kiss him...twice. Jakob is an adorable, lovable man every day, but this night was clearly Jakob at his most entertaining. I'm excited for the wedding.
That night we walked Yosef back to his Bab, but on the way back we were followed by two Moroccan males. They persisted for 10 minutes with their "Hello, how are you?"s and their "Bon Soir"s and finally I'd had enough. I turned around and said - sternly - "SHUMA!" (Shame!). It did no good. I did it again. And again. Lisa took a turn and tried out her newly learned Arabic curse words ("Go F* yourself" was her epithet of choice). To no avail. Finally, after one of the two began to caress my arm, I turned to a cab driver who was standing by his cab and pointed to the guys following us and said, loudly, "Shuma!" That worked. The cabbie gave them one look, and they were done.
SATURDAY:
We went to shul, and there were a million women! But ZERO Machzorim. It was crazy. I don't know how the men followed. I happened to have a siddur, but even so, it was very difficult to follow the whole service. They skipped things, added things, and all the men and even some of the women who weren't talking or staring into space or jumping around after their kids, somehow knew where we were and what was going on. One thing that really threw me for a loop was that they didn't do the bow-all-the-way-down-to-the-ground part of Aleinu, which to me is so essential to Rosh HaShana...Lisa and I were both sort of shocked. There was no speech, no wasted time, and we got out at noon. Yosef came again for lunch, and we had another lovely, less drunken, time. (Baria didn't allow more than one glass of whiskey. "Morning!" she said.)
NOTE TO MOM: On Shabbat day/Yom Tov we forgot the beets! It was just like home, when we always forget the beets. We also had a pomegranate Saturday night for our shehchiyanu whose taste conjured up images of our own shining, happy, family-filled Yuntif table.
SUNDAY:
Sunday was less eventful, except that we met some more woodwork Jews who came to hear the Shofar (which they obviously couldn't blow yesterday since it was Shabbat). We went to the beach and met more American students from the other main study abroad program that's here in Rabat. Between our Arab Cafe Internet-hangout, the beach, and prior acquaintances. I think we know most of them now.
OK whew. That's a lot for you to digest -- literally. I'm going to go to bed because I have to get up in 4 hours to get to Marrakesh, but I'll leave you with the song by Sergio Menedes featuring John Legend called "Please Baby Don't" (sorry it's a live version -- but at least its from Philly!) which has been stuck in my head all weekend, and never fails to put me in a good mood.
FRIDAY NIGHT:
A guy I know from Penn who is on a different program here in Rabat, joined us for dinner. He had gotten in touch with me the day before, and Baria had been more than happy to set one more place at our holiday table. Jakob was thrilled - a son! So we all go home together, sat down in the living room (special! not the regular dining room) - and Jakob immediately grabs the alcohol: Beer for the girls (none for Baria) and a stiff glass of J&B whiskey on the rocks for Yosef (my friend), and another hefty one for himself. And that was just the beginning.
So we're shmoozing and boozing during we have the first course of salads which involves a few new ones (spinach, artichoke, dates) and then the (previously mentioned) "rosh keves" which, I'm told by a new Jewish Moroccan acquaintance of mine, may NOT have been brain, but might be cheek meat...Either way, I'm glad Yosef was there or I might not have tried it, recovering vegetarian that I am. Anyway, the meal was progressing grandly and Jakob was starting to feel...happy. By the time we had eaten the main course was over and we were eating our Fruwi (fruit, our desert), Jakob wanted to sing. And Yosuf was more than happy to join in.
So we sang...and danced (Jakob and Yosuf mostly) for a good 45 minutes, if not more. We sat on the couches and tried to find mutual songs in mutual languages. We stood with our hands over our hearts for Hatikva, swayed for Alouette, and Jakob dipped Yosef through a tango, and tried to kiss him...twice. Jakob is an adorable, lovable man every day, but this night was clearly Jakob at his most entertaining. I'm excited for the wedding.
That night we walked Yosef back to his Bab, but on the way back we were followed by two Moroccan males. They persisted for 10 minutes with their "Hello, how are you?"s and their "Bon Soir"s and finally I'd had enough. I turned around and said - sternly - "SHUMA!" (Shame!). It did no good. I did it again. And again. Lisa took a turn and tried out her newly learned Arabic curse words ("Go F* yourself" was her epithet of choice). To no avail. Finally, after one of the two began to caress my arm, I turned to a cab driver who was standing by his cab and pointed to the guys following us and said, loudly, "Shuma!" That worked. The cabbie gave them one look, and they were done.
SATURDAY:
We went to shul, and there were a million women! But ZERO Machzorim. It was crazy. I don't know how the men followed. I happened to have a siddur, but even so, it was very difficult to follow the whole service. They skipped things, added things, and all the men and even some of the women who weren't talking or staring into space or jumping around after their kids, somehow knew where we were and what was going on. One thing that really threw me for a loop was that they didn't do the bow-all-the-way-down-to-the-ground part of Aleinu, which to me is so essential to Rosh HaShana...Lisa and I were both sort of shocked. There was no speech, no wasted time, and we got out at noon. Yosef came again for lunch, and we had another lovely, less drunken, time. (Baria didn't allow more than one glass of whiskey. "Morning!" she said.)
NOTE TO MOM: On Shabbat day/Yom Tov we forgot the beets! It was just like home, when we always forget the beets. We also had a pomegranate Saturday night for our shehchiyanu whose taste conjured up images of our own shining, happy, family-filled Yuntif table.
SUNDAY:
Sunday was less eventful, except that we met some more woodwork Jews who came to hear the Shofar (which they obviously couldn't blow yesterday since it was Shabbat). We went to the beach and met more American students from the other main study abroad program that's here in Rabat. Between our Arab Cafe Internet-hangout, the beach, and prior acquaintances. I think we know most of them now.
OK whew. That's a lot for you to digest -- literally. I'm going to go to bed because I have to get up in 4 hours to get to Marrakesh, but I'll leave you with the song by Sergio Menedes featuring John Legend called "Please Baby Don't" (sorry it's a live version -- but at least its from Philly!) which has been stuck in my head all weekend, and never fails to put me in a good mood.
Lead up to Shana Tova/Eid Mubarak
So this doesn't happen every year, in fact it only happens once every dozen years or more. As Rosh HaShana ebbs away, Eid Al-Fitr begins. And they might even have fallen on the same day, since Muslims still do the old-school-check-the-moon-to-determine-the-beginning-of-the-month thing. Implications: Ramadan is over, and I have two more days of weekend! So its off to Marrakesh tomorrow morning. My roommate and I are getting up at 4:45am to catch a 5:45 train and sleep on it for its 4-hour duration. We're staying until tomorrow night and we'll get to see Eid in action instead of sitting on our Jewish mother's balcone in Rabat.
PREFACE:
This Rosh HaShana held not a few incidents that bear recording in this blog. I will begin chronologically, from last Sunday. It was a rough week.
SUNDAY:
I spent Sunday at the Oudais -- that wonderful garden area overlooking the sea. Lisa and I sat there for 3 hours or so during which time a parade of beautiful little girls and their grandfathers meandered through. I guess its the thing to do when you're a grandfather.
MONDAY:
Uneventful. Gym was normal. Nice.
TUESDAY:
I got a cold.
WEDNESDAY: I woke up in a blur of haze and daze, but I went to the gym after class anyway because, well, I'm paying for my 20 minutes of cardio three times a week, and I better get my money's worth. But I was miserable. I had planned on taking it easy, but of course I worked myself pretty hard and then by the time musculation rolled around I was feeling like death. But I picked up my bedraggled body and did the musculation, and I did it well. But then, as I was coming back I was looking down to get a tissue, and I walked straight into a barbell. I heard a CRACK, saw black and doubled over, thinking I'd broken my nose. I hadn't. But I did have a nice black eye and cut on the bridge of my nose for a couple days. I made up a good story about how Musculation Man tried to punch a creeper who followed me to the gym but punched me instead. Everyone bought it. But I couldn't keep it up for long. I wasn't in good shape.
THURSDAY:
I was very sick. But I came to class anyway, and I even gave a presentation on one of the readings. I went home, ate some of Baria's weird barley soup to try and clear my sinuses, failed to clear them, got a fever (100.9 F. Baria was worried. I thought I had swine flu), and stayed in bed instead of going to the art gallery show with the rest of AmidEast. Cry.
FRIDAY:
I was better, but the sickliness was sticking around so while Lisa went to the gym I passed out on the wicker chairs outside, ripped my pants on the wicker, and crinked my neck from holding it the for too long in a position one might think was inspired by Picasso. When we got home we showered and got ready for the Chag, and went to shul -- which had fewer women, but maybe triple the men than it does on a normal Friday night.
Oh, forgive me for the pause, but I need to interject here with a short list of strangely awkward, and necessarily bizarre things I have (on occasion forced myself to) consume in the recent past.
From least gross to grossest:
1) Tea made from "Verveine" (French) or "Quisu" (Arabic), a dried plant substance that Baria told me would be good for my "Grippe" (cold). A spot of saccharina, and I was ready for bed.
2) 1,000mg Acetaminophen soluble tablets. Baria insisted I take at least 3 a day. One with every meal. I probably dissolved 7 or 8 of these huge tablets in about a half a cup of water, brace, chug, wince, and hope I'd feel better.
2) A tiny applypear fruit that is apparently very expensive and only eaten once a year - Rosh HaShana.
3) Orange juice that had the distinct aftertaste of gasoline. I was at Bert's and I swear it tasted like neft (Arabic/Hebrew for the stuff you put in your tank). I was just trying to a good dose of Vitamin C! Like I said, it was a rough week.
4) Glan (French pronounced "Glon(d)") AKA Blota (Arabic) - its a sort of tasteless nut thing that comes from a tree. We had to peel it and somehow consume it while pretending to enjoy it.
5) Sausage - we actually ate intestine-encased ground beef on Tuesday after watching Baria deep fry them. It made me feel feel...viciously and sickeningly carnivorous.
6) Liver? I don't know whether or not I ever actually ate this - but I saw Baria preparing it in the kitchen. She took huge chunks of the raw stuff, sat them on top of a grill that sat on top of a flame that sat on top of a propane tank. But it didn't show up anywhere in our meals that I could detect...My new spy novel is to be dubbed: "The Mystery of the Disappearing Grilled Liver".
7) Lamb Brain - "Only on Rosh HaShana". They had the ENTIRE head of lamb ("Rosh Keves" insisted Jakob) on a plate at the table. And we ate the brain. Let me repeat: WE ATE THE BRAIN OF A LAMB.
I don't have the energy after that list - and I can imagine that you don't either - to write about the actual night/day/night/day that was my Rosh HaShana in this post. Stay tuned for Part Deux. For now, based on my mood of the moment: Gravity, by Embrace.
PREFACE:
This Rosh HaShana held not a few incidents that bear recording in this blog. I will begin chronologically, from last Sunday. It was a rough week.
SUNDAY:
I spent Sunday at the Oudais -- that wonderful garden area overlooking the sea. Lisa and I sat there for 3 hours or so during which time a parade of beautiful little girls and their grandfathers meandered through. I guess its the thing to do when you're a grandfather.
MONDAY:
Uneventful. Gym was normal. Nice.
TUESDAY:
I got a cold.
WEDNESDAY: I woke up in a blur of haze and daze, but I went to the gym after class anyway because, well, I'm paying for my 20 minutes of cardio three times a week, and I better get my money's worth. But I was miserable. I had planned on taking it easy, but of course I worked myself pretty hard and then by the time musculation rolled around I was feeling like death. But I picked up my bedraggled body and did the musculation, and I did it well. But then, as I was coming back I was looking down to get a tissue, and I walked straight into a barbell. I heard a CRACK, saw black and doubled over, thinking I'd broken my nose. I hadn't. But I did have a nice black eye and cut on the bridge of my nose for a couple days. I made up a good story about how Musculation Man tried to punch a creeper who followed me to the gym but punched me instead. Everyone bought it. But I couldn't keep it up for long. I wasn't in good shape.
THURSDAY:
I was very sick. But I came to class anyway, and I even gave a presentation on one of the readings. I went home, ate some of Baria's weird barley soup to try and clear my sinuses, failed to clear them, got a fever (100.9 F. Baria was worried. I thought I had swine flu), and stayed in bed instead of going to the art gallery show with the rest of AmidEast. Cry.
FRIDAY:
I was better, but the sickliness was sticking around so while Lisa went to the gym I passed out on the wicker chairs outside, ripped my pants on the wicker, and crinked my neck from holding it the for too long in a position one might think was inspired by Picasso. When we got home we showered and got ready for the Chag, and went to shul -- which had fewer women, but maybe triple the men than it does on a normal Friday night.
Oh, forgive me for the pause, but I need to interject here with a short list of strangely awkward, and necessarily bizarre things I have (on occasion forced myself to) consume in the recent past.
From least gross to grossest:
1) Tea made from "Verveine" (French) or "Quisu" (Arabic), a dried plant substance that Baria told me would be good for my "Grippe" (cold). A spot of saccharina, and I was ready for bed.
2) 1,000mg Acetaminophen soluble tablets. Baria insisted I take at least 3 a day. One with every meal. I probably dissolved 7 or 8 of these huge tablets in about a half a cup of water, brace, chug, wince, and hope I'd feel better.
2) A tiny applypear fruit that is apparently very expensive and only eaten once a year - Rosh HaShana.
3) Orange juice that had the distinct aftertaste of gasoline. I was at Bert's and I swear it tasted like neft (Arabic/Hebrew for the stuff you put in your tank). I was just trying to a good dose of Vitamin C! Like I said, it was a rough week.
4) Glan (French pronounced "Glon(d)") AKA Blota (Arabic) - its a sort of tasteless nut thing that comes from a tree. We had to peel it and somehow consume it while pretending to enjoy it.
5) Sausage - we actually ate intestine-encased ground beef on Tuesday after watching Baria deep fry them. It made me feel feel...viciously and sickeningly carnivorous.
6) Liver? I don't know whether or not I ever actually ate this - but I saw Baria preparing it in the kitchen. She took huge chunks of the raw stuff, sat them on top of a grill that sat on top of a flame that sat on top of a propane tank. But it didn't show up anywhere in our meals that I could detect...My new spy novel is to be dubbed: "The Mystery of the Disappearing Grilled Liver".
7) Lamb Brain - "Only on Rosh HaShana". They had the ENTIRE head of lamb ("Rosh Keves" insisted Jakob) on a plate at the table. And we ate the brain. Let me repeat: WE ATE THE BRAIN OF A LAMB.
I don't have the energy after that list - and I can imagine that you don't either - to write about the actual night/day/night/day that was my Rosh HaShana in this post. Stay tuned for Part Deux. For now, based on my mood of the moment: Gravity, by Embrace.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Characters in the Life; A View from the Balcone
1) Zohair (AKA homo religiosis) - Our neighbor. I've mentioned him before. Now I'll describe him a bit. He has a longish black beard, a winning smile, and is probably about 32-33. I think he needs a wife. He has two sets of clothing. One, perhaps for Ramadan (?): All white djelaba (traditional long shirt) and all white knitted skull cap. Two, for "chol" (?): When he plays hackysack with his buddies he wears a purply shirt and yellow calf-length pants with, what I call, "Arab tennis shoes" - the kind that is usually black and laces up the side instead of straight and looks purposefully like a European knockoff. He's pretty good...not great. Anyway, we got Baria's scoop on him today. According to her, he doesn't work. He doesn't have the "smarts" for it. We saw him outside our window after dinner talking to Khadija, who was buying water from him. Khadija (whose name is the same as the first wife of the Prophet Mohammad) is the Ben Loulou's "maid"...but she's really part of the family. She's probably in her 50s, and is as sweet as Baria's almond cookies that we ate last night. Anyway, we waved to her from the balcon and she waved back and we said something in Arabic, and Zohair (now we know his real name) was taken aback by the fact that we spoke Arabic and started sort of trying to talk to us, but Baria, giggling like a teenager, rushed us inside and told us - in detail - that he (Zohair) just liked to look around at the girls and basically was a good-for-nothing who didn't want to work. "If he were smart, he would work, because Hashem gave us limbs and minds for one reason: to work." While he does loaf a lot, Zohair doesn't strike me as a "stupid" guy. For now, we have someone else to say hi to when we come in and go out of our Bab. Yay?
2) Aziz (AKA Bob Marley) - So we've seen this guy twice now. The first time last week when we were coming into "town" (Avenue Mohammad V), and we talked - mostly in English - and oday he had his dreads tied in a knot at the back of his head. He had a gaggle of friends with him who had poorer English than he did, so they just stood there (one of whom was wearing nothing but a women's v-neck sweater (!?). This time he chatted with us for a while while we waited for Lisa's language partner, and then told us to come sit with them when she came. We didn't...but I'm sure we'll keep running into him no matter how hard we try to avoid him and his awkward friends.
3) Name Unknown (AKA Strasbourg) - this is a guy we've seen (not met) at synagogue. He affords us endless entertainment based on his a) appearance b) mannerisms c) activities. He looks a great deal like a skinny, ginger version the Harry Potter character Wormtail. He has a constantly startled, mousy look, and scurries around the synagogue talking to people in rapid French, no matter the prayer. Yesterday we saw him rubbing and scratching one of the other mens' back int he middle of Kedusha. Just a generally hilarious - and slightly unnerving -- individual.
4) Mike (AKA Moshe) We met Mike at synagogue on the second day of Rosh HaShana. I introduced myself to a girl who I thought was my age who was sitting next to me. She looked like she could be American and I was just being my Friendly Seattle Self. Turns out, she's 14. And she's from Rabat. And she has a brother who she wanted to introduce us to. This was Mike. Mike is 31. He is not married, and lives the life of a happy bachelor. He works until 3:30 every day, then goes surfing for the remainder of the afternoon, and parties hardy at night. It was not long before he was coming with us to our Internet haven, Cafe Arab (I was convinced from the very first that he was smitten with my roommate, Lisa), taking us in his huge Toyota 4WD truck to the tucked away beaches of Rabat to try and surf with his sister (there were no waves), to swim (a pre-Yom Kippur dip in the Mikve of the Atlantic, if you will) taking us out to El Palentino, the "most swankified club in town" to meet his friends, all of whom are fantastically interesting and successful, paying for us, and just generally showing us a good time -- and Baria approves; he's Jewish! He wants to go jogging with us today...I think we're going to beg off of that one, he's 6'3 and in seriously good shape.
2) Aziz (AKA Bob Marley) - So we've seen this guy twice now. The first time last week when we were coming into "town" (Avenue Mohammad V), and we talked - mostly in English - and oday he had his dreads tied in a knot at the back of his head. He had a gaggle of friends with him who had poorer English than he did, so they just stood there (one of whom was wearing nothing but a women's v-neck sweater (!?). This time he chatted with us for a while while we waited for Lisa's language partner, and then told us to come sit with them when she came. We didn't...but I'm sure we'll keep running into him no matter how hard we try to avoid him and his awkward friends.
3) Name Unknown (AKA Strasbourg) - this is a guy we've seen (not met) at synagogue. He affords us endless entertainment based on his a) appearance b) mannerisms c) activities. He looks a great deal like a skinny, ginger version the Harry Potter character Wormtail. He has a constantly startled, mousy look, and scurries around the synagogue talking to people in rapid French, no matter the prayer. Yesterday we saw him rubbing and scratching one of the other mens' back int he middle of Kedusha. Just a generally hilarious - and slightly unnerving -- individual.
4) Mike (AKA Moshe) We met Mike at synagogue on the second day of Rosh HaShana. I introduced myself to a girl who I thought was my age who was sitting next to me. She looked like she could be American and I was just being my Friendly Seattle Self. Turns out, she's 14. And she's from Rabat. And she has a brother who she wanted to introduce us to. This was Mike. Mike is 31. He is not married, and lives the life of a happy bachelor. He works until 3:30 every day, then goes surfing for the remainder of the afternoon, and parties hardy at night. It was not long before he was coming with us to our Internet haven, Cafe Arab (I was convinced from the very first that he was smitten with my roommate, Lisa), taking us in his huge Toyota 4WD truck to the tucked away beaches of Rabat to try and surf with his sister (there were no waves), to swim (a pre-Yom Kippur dip in the Mikve of the Atlantic, if you will) taking us out to El Palentino, the "most swankified club in town" to meet his friends, all of whom are fantastically interesting and successful, paying for us, and just generally showing us a good time -- and Baria approves; he's Jewish! He wants to go jogging with us today...I think we're going to beg off of that one, he's 6'3 and in seriously good shape.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Precursor to the Apocolypse
I was having a bad day. I woke up on the wrong side of the bed. A few times. The calls to prayer, the guy who bangs the drum before the call to prayer for s'hur (the pre-dawn meal), my mosquito bites from our frolic and Frisbee in the Hilton Forest on Friday and the need to pee all had woken me up at some interval during the night. Needless to say, my phone alarm sounded more like a lullaby than a call to greet the day. Then, when I got to AmidEast I realized that I had forgotten to do my homework for Fusha. I scrambled to throw it together but couldn't finish in time for class, so I had to admit to my (adorable) Ustatha, Touria, that I had forgotten. ("Meshi Mushkila, Ghadan!" "No problem, tomorrow!" Still.) After Darija class, I spent an hour trying to do a homework that had been due last week but made very little progress, mostly because Al-Kitaab is stupid and I had no one to do the homework with because they were all in a class I don't take. Then I ate my lunch at 11 and was hungry again by 1 when Lisa and I went to the gym. Which was hard. Our musculation was super intense today and I had forgotten a few key times regarding the shower I took after our workout.
But things began to look up. We went back to AmidEast, got some work, and sat for a couple hours in Bert's (the French-owned coffee joint -- open during Ramadan!) reading about Islamic feminist thought. Then we went to the Toledanos. And wow, did my day change. Theme of the night: Good things come to those who wait.
David Toledano is the "head" of the Jewish community in Rabat. That is to say, he is the most well-connected Jew in Rabat. We were put in touch with him by AmidEast -- Alhumdulilah.
The Toldedanos house is gorgeous. Lisette Toledano, a scintillating, sparkling woman, picked us up from a grocery store (after we had been sitting waiting for her there for a 1/2 an hour when she was approximately 10 feet away the whole time) and took us to their, well, mansion. We walked in and were stunned. The house they live in now took 4 years to build, and the dining room is the most gorgeous elaborately tiled and chiseled work of private art I've ever seen. They have a pool and a piano. And empty bedrooms. All of which they offered us -- anytime. I think we may take a swim on Friday. Anyway, they laid out a spread of "genuine" - vegetarian (!) - Moroccan f'tour. We had Harira, the typical break-fast soup made with tomatoes, lentils, egg whites, and noodles. On the side were dried walnuts, figs, and dates (traditionally the fast is broken with three of these, as the Prophet himself did thusly). We then dove (with extreme politeness) into the hard-boiled egg, and typical flat fried bread and pancakes we routinely see sold in bulk in the souk, that we spread with a glorious honey-butter combo, as well as soft cheese on small rolls. I hadn't eaten anything since 11am except for a glass of orange juice at Bert's. But everything would have been sumptuous even if I hadn't added my hunger to the meal's many spices. Also included in the spread was shabakia...and a little cookie whose name I can't remember, but both of which are typical f'tour items. Shabakia is a pastry of layered philo dough fried and then soaked in eucalyptus honey and sprinkled with sesame seeds. And this other cookie - she explained the whole process to me (I was fascinated) - is made with the same philo dough as its crust, but inside its just crushed, peeled almonds and sugar smushed together and roasted, then rolled into triangles, fried, and then, of course, dunked in honey. Stay away, ye Diabetes. Oh and there was (GOOD) coffee and (FRESH) orange juice to go with dinner. After dinner we all went to the living room and - ah! - they let me play the piano (a Yamaha baby grand)! while showing Lisa (and me when I was done with the piano) the 4 albums from the wedding of their eldest son. We both now have memorized the entire genealogy of the Toledano clan. We know about the daughter in Chicago, and the son who just broke up with his girlfriend in France, the uncles, aunts, friends from Canada, Israel, and the Lebanese embassy. We had a ball. Then they drove us back home in his Audi. All the way home. Like to-the-door-inside-the-bab home. Contentment.
Now its raining again. Love it. I'll go to bed soon...I didn't go back to AmidEast after the Toledanos so I don't have my homework. Ma lish (whatever). It'll be fine. Goodnight all. Ramadan's almost over. Song of the day: "Hit the Road, Jack" by Ray Charles. I played it on the piano and David hummed along and clapped afterwards.
PS: We woke up this morning to the sounds of the apocalypse. Crashing thunder and blinding lightening and torrential rain. In our search for a cab on the way to school I put my laptop under my jacket, and needed to wade through the river that was Ave. Hassan II. There were at least 6 inches of water to soak my green low tops. The cab took us to the wrong place and we had to explain to him that, actually, our destination was on the other side of town. He took us. Sweet guy. The apocalypse has begun.
But things began to look up. We went back to AmidEast, got some work, and sat for a couple hours in Bert's (the French-owned coffee joint -- open during Ramadan!) reading about Islamic feminist thought. Then we went to the Toledanos. And wow, did my day change. Theme of the night: Good things come to those who wait.
David Toledano is the "head" of the Jewish community in Rabat. That is to say, he is the most well-connected Jew in Rabat. We were put in touch with him by AmidEast -- Alhumdulilah.
The Toldedanos house is gorgeous. Lisette Toledano, a scintillating, sparkling woman, picked us up from a grocery store (after we had been sitting waiting for her there for a 1/2 an hour when she was approximately 10 feet away the whole time) and took us to their, well, mansion. We walked in and were stunned. The house they live in now took 4 years to build, and the dining room is the most gorgeous elaborately tiled and chiseled work of private art I've ever seen. They have a pool and a piano. And empty bedrooms. All of which they offered us -- anytime. I think we may take a swim on Friday. Anyway, they laid out a spread of "genuine" - vegetarian (!) - Moroccan f'tour. We had Harira, the typical break-fast soup made with tomatoes, lentils, egg whites, and noodles. On the side were dried walnuts, figs, and dates (traditionally the fast is broken with three of these, as the Prophet himself did thusly). We then dove (with extreme politeness) into the hard-boiled egg, and typical flat fried bread and pancakes we routinely see sold in bulk in the souk, that we spread with a glorious honey-butter combo, as well as soft cheese on small rolls. I hadn't eaten anything since 11am except for a glass of orange juice at Bert's. But everything would have been sumptuous even if I hadn't added my hunger to the meal's many spices. Also included in the spread was shabakia...and a little cookie whose name I can't remember, but both of which are typical f'tour items. Shabakia is a pastry of layered philo dough fried and then soaked in eucalyptus honey and sprinkled with sesame seeds. And this other cookie - she explained the whole process to me (I was fascinated) - is made with the same philo dough as its crust, but inside its just crushed, peeled almonds and sugar smushed together and roasted, then rolled into triangles, fried, and then, of course, dunked in honey. Stay away, ye Diabetes. Oh and there was (GOOD) coffee and (FRESH) orange juice to go with dinner. After dinner we all went to the living room and - ah! - they let me play the piano (a Yamaha baby grand)! while showing Lisa (and me when I was done with the piano) the 4 albums from the wedding of their eldest son. We both now have memorized the entire genealogy of the Toledano clan. We know about the daughter in Chicago, and the son who just broke up with his girlfriend in France, the uncles, aunts, friends from Canada, Israel, and the Lebanese embassy. We had a ball. Then they drove us back home in his Audi. All the way home. Like to-the-door-inside-the-bab home. Contentment.
Now its raining again. Love it. I'll go to bed soon...I didn't go back to AmidEast after the Toledanos so I don't have my homework. Ma lish (whatever). It'll be fine. Goodnight all. Ramadan's almost over. Song of the day: "Hit the Road, Jack" by Ray Charles. I played it on the piano and David hummed along and clapped afterwards.
PS: We woke up this morning to the sounds of the apocalypse. Crashing thunder and blinding lightening and torrential rain. In our search for a cab on the way to school I put my laptop under my jacket, and needed to wade through the river that was Ave. Hassan II. There were at least 6 inches of water to soak my green low tops. The cab took us to the wrong place and we had to explain to him that, actually, our destination was on the other side of town. He took us. Sweet guy. The apocalypse has begun.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Fa Mim Lam; A Blog of Frustration
Or: How my addictive tendencies have been stymied by Moroccan insanity.
Fa = F (for: Fix my Internet!)
Our internet doesn't work any more. We bought a USB network plug-in for our computers at home, and we got an excellent deal. Usually the nice ones are about 600 dirham up front, and then 250 or so dirham per month, and the cheap ones are 350 up front and the same per month, but there was a "promotion" (my favorite French word) and ALL of them were 350 dirhams! So we bought the best one, the Sony Ericsson, and took it home happy as clams (which they sell, incidentally, in our fish market). We figured it out in a day or two and had a mostly-working internet connection in the middle of Rabat's old medina. Cool. Then today it all went horribly awry. And we have no more interwebs at home. But I had a craving, and I needed my Internet fix. And there we were, Lisa and I, walking down Avenue Hassan II, up Rue Mohammad V, getting sticky carrying our laptops looking for a "Cyber" or a Qahwe (coffee shop) that had Wifi. We didn't find one. We came home and with "Fa Mim Lam" on our lips.
Mim = M (for: Messenger bag)
I didn't bring a backpack to Morocco. I went to the souk as soon as was humanely possible and tried to find one. To no avail. All there seemed to be were knockoff Versace or Dolce & Gabbana or pretty Moroccan leather purses which were not big enough for laptop, folders, notebooks, highlighters, my camera, photocopied passport, etc. Then I went back with my host mother, and we saw it. Deep in the medina. The bag. The one that would carry me through Morocco. It was a canvassy-looking sort of messenger bag, made of cloth, beige and boring, but probably large enough to hold my computer. I came back two days later - with my computer - measured it, bargained, and finally purchased the plain thing...and a number of markers to make it exciting. Then I made the bag exciting. And my friend Tyrone agreed to draw on it as well (he's a fantastic artist). But then it broke today. At school. And I was distraught. I carried it in both arms to my language partner's volunteering excursion and back again and then all the way down from where the 5-dirham petit taxi drops us off at Bab Chellah to home at Bab Diwana. And then I sat down to sew. And I sewed and I sewed and I sewed. And there I was, with a broken bag in hand, stabbing myself with my needle and realizing why people use thimbles (my fingers are raw), listening to the warped sounds of Frank Sinatra (My Way) and Simon & Garfunkle (Bridge Over Troubled Water) coming from our neighbor's, (alias: homo religiosis) house.
Lam = L (for: my soon depreciated Lung capacity)
Today my roommate and I went to the gym for the second time since signing up earlier this week. As you may recall, I was extraordinarily excited by my new gym membership. I do not recall if I related the full story of what happened while were at the gym (apparently we paid for "musculation" which is French, not for cardio or weights, but for a personal trainer who does jumping jacks with you and stands on your feet and makes you hi-five him when you do situps. I need to learn French. Anyway, we learned today, from Musculation Man (his new name) that we, in fact, only signed up (recall, we paid ~$50) 20 minutes of cardio 3 times a week. I.e. 1 hour of cardio a week. No more. And on top of that, we're not allowed to use the treadmill all three times, you have to rotate machines. I think this is because there is only ONE treadmill in the entire gym (the other two being one elliptical and one bike). Where was this in our contract?
So we wanted our money back. But the woman at the desk really only spoke French, her Arabic was so Frenchified that Musculation Man had to translate into real Darija so that I could understand, but eventually I became so frustrated- not by the language but by her refusal to be sensible - that resorted to calling an AmidEast staff person to ask for advice. And there I was, having my gym - the feed for my adrenaline addiction - ripped from my grasp. A thousand sighs. We're going back tomorrow with someone who speaks both French and Arabic. On the bright side they turned on the hot water for our showers and I remembered a towel. Looks like exercise is going to come from runs along the beach and in the Hilton Forest by AmidEast. Unfortunately neither of those places will provide us with a method for washing ourselves afterward...which may present a problem since we, by implicit and tacit understanding, are only meant to shower 3 times a week. So much for my final addiction...to cleanliness.
So today has been frustrating. Best part of it: Going to volunteer with my language partner at the old age home. Even though everything was in French, it was really adorable. And I got to play the piano (I think I may add music and playing music to my list of American addictions...) More on that later. For now, I have to get ready to go back and confront the gym people. Wish me luck. Other best part: When we got home from our desperate, unfruitful search for Internet, Baria, who I think I am going to begin to call Beruria (since that is, in fact, her name), showed us two baby birds that had fallen onto and were sitting on her balcony. Oh and we had delicious fried hoot (fish) for dinner. Really tasty. Yay for our fish market (?). Pictures to follow. Song of the day: Viva la Vida by Coldplay. My language partner's friend was very impressed by my piano rendition, she played it for me in the car on the way back to Agdal.
Fa = F (for: Fix my Internet!)
Our internet doesn't work any more. We bought a USB network plug-in for our computers at home, and we got an excellent deal. Usually the nice ones are about 600 dirham up front, and then 250 or so dirham per month, and the cheap ones are 350 up front and the same per month, but there was a "promotion" (my favorite French word) and ALL of them were 350 dirhams! So we bought the best one, the Sony Ericsson, and took it home happy as clams (which they sell, incidentally, in our fish market). We figured it out in a day or two and had a mostly-working internet connection in the middle of Rabat's old medina. Cool. Then today it all went horribly awry. And we have no more interwebs at home. But I had a craving, and I needed my Internet fix. And there we were, Lisa and I, walking down Avenue Hassan II, up Rue Mohammad V, getting sticky carrying our laptops looking for a "Cyber" or a Qahwe (coffee shop) that had Wifi. We didn't find one. We came home and with "Fa Mim Lam" on our lips.
Mim = M (for: Messenger bag)
I didn't bring a backpack to Morocco. I went to the souk as soon as was humanely possible and tried to find one. To no avail. All there seemed to be were knockoff Versace or Dolce & Gabbana or pretty Moroccan leather purses which were not big enough for laptop, folders, notebooks, highlighters, my camera, photocopied passport, etc. Then I went back with my host mother, and we saw it. Deep in the medina. The bag. The one that would carry me through Morocco. It was a canvassy-looking sort of messenger bag, made of cloth, beige and boring, but probably large enough to hold my computer. I came back two days later - with my computer - measured it, bargained, and finally purchased the plain thing...and a number of markers to make it exciting. Then I made the bag exciting. And my friend Tyrone agreed to draw on it as well (he's a fantastic artist). But then it broke today. At school. And I was distraught. I carried it in both arms to my language partner's volunteering excursion and back again and then all the way down from where the 5-dirham petit taxi drops us off at Bab Chellah to home at Bab Diwana. And then I sat down to sew. And I sewed and I sewed and I sewed. And there I was, with a broken bag in hand, stabbing myself with my needle and realizing why people use thimbles (my fingers are raw), listening to the warped sounds of Frank Sinatra (My Way) and Simon & Garfunkle (Bridge Over Troubled Water) coming from our neighbor's, (alias: homo religiosis) house.
Lam = L (for: my soon depreciated Lung capacity)
Today my roommate and I went to the gym for the second time since signing up earlier this week. As you may recall, I was extraordinarily excited by my new gym membership. I do not recall if I related the full story of what happened while were at the gym (apparently we paid for "musculation" which is French, not for cardio or weights, but for a personal trainer who does jumping jacks with you and stands on your feet and makes you hi-five him when you do situps. I need to learn French. Anyway, we learned today, from Musculation Man (his new name) that we, in fact, only signed up (recall, we paid ~$50) 20 minutes of cardio 3 times a week. I.e. 1 hour of cardio a week. No more. And on top of that, we're not allowed to use the treadmill all three times, you have to rotate machines. I think this is because there is only ONE treadmill in the entire gym (the other two being one elliptical and one bike). Where was this in our contract?
So we wanted our money back. But the woman at the desk really only spoke French, her Arabic was so Frenchified that Musculation Man had to translate into real Darija so that I could understand, but eventually I became so frustrated- not by the language but by her refusal to be sensible - that resorted to calling an AmidEast staff person to ask for advice. And there I was, having my gym - the feed for my adrenaline addiction - ripped from my grasp. A thousand sighs. We're going back tomorrow with someone who speaks both French and Arabic. On the bright side they turned on the hot water for our showers and I remembered a towel. Looks like exercise is going to come from runs along the beach and in the Hilton Forest by AmidEast. Unfortunately neither of those places will provide us with a method for washing ourselves afterward...which may present a problem since we, by implicit and tacit understanding, are only meant to shower 3 times a week. So much for my final addiction...to cleanliness.
So today has been frustrating. Best part of it: Going to volunteer with my language partner at the old age home. Even though everything was in French, it was really adorable. And I got to play the piano (I think I may add music and playing music to my list of American addictions...) More on that later. For now, I have to get ready to go back and confront the gym people. Wish me luck. Other best part: When we got home from our desperate, unfruitful search for Internet, Baria, who I think I am going to begin to call Beruria (since that is, in fact, her name), showed us two baby birds that had fallen onto and were sitting on her balcony. Oh and we had delicious fried hoot (fish) for dinner. Really tasty. Yay for our fish market (?). Pictures to follow. Song of the day: Viva la Vida by Coldplay. My language partner's friend was very impressed by my piano rendition, she played it for me in the car on the way back to Agdal.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Snippets of le Maroc
I finally managed to get my pictures to work again. My friend Yanik helped me download resizing software. So I'm experimenting with picture locations. Bear with me.
Here is the view from our "balcone" out into the street. The fish market is to your right, and immediately below is the Hanut (makolet) general store.
This THE room. It gets incredibly hot at night and the only thing to do is sit out on the balcone and breathe.
Political djelaba. Articles about American bombing Afghanistan and Israeli oppression are sprinkled over this fashionable
So these pictures are out of order -- sorry. Two Above: one of the many signs of American globalization. Dora the explorer balloons at the Ramadan carinval/fairground. Immediately Above: The chicken truck. Baria may think that the word for chicken is "kitchen", but she has no problem leaving a kitchen in her chicken (or the other way around) with its feathers and legs still attached...and then serving it up for dinner.
Above: My feet in awesome Moroccan "baboush" that everyone wears. I didn't buy them, but I was tempted. Below: I don' know how to turn images yet (taking baby steps) but its a display of skin treatments, mostly types of soaps. I tried to eat them when the vendor brought them to my nose. Mistake.
This is a door in the Kasbah, the most ancient part of Rabat (sorry, I'd turn it if I knew how). Its part residential and part glorious garden. The residential part was originally inhabited by Spanish ex-pats in the early 18th century who's real estate is now being slurped up by wealthy Europeans and Americans.
The view from the Kasbah cafe:
TURTLES in the souk. They're sold live, killed, and then used as, yes, decoration, in people's homes:
On the left here is a view of the road along the sea that has come alive at night after f'tour -- O Ramadan, we have such a strange inexplicable relationship... Below is my closet of perfectly folded clothing. Khadija folded EVERYTHING. Including all of the underwear. And then rearranged it. I couldn't find anything for two days.
Here we have Tour Hassan -- it is unfinished. It stands at 44 meters and is next to the mausoleum which was built much much later (1960s I think) guarded by the sentries above. It's a tribute to the first "independent" king of Morocco, Sultan Yacoub el-Mansour in the 12th century. He wanted it to be the largest Mosque in the world, but he died before it was finished. The minaret is 44 meters high, and was meant to be closer to 80.
Here is the view from our "balcone" out into the street. The fish market is to your right, and immediately below is the Hanut (makolet) general store.
This THE room. It gets incredibly hot at night and the only thing to do is sit out on the balcone and breathe.
Political djelaba. Articles about American bombing Afghanistan and Israeli oppression are sprinkled over this fashionable
So these pictures are out of order -- sorry. Two Above: one of the many signs of American globalization. Dora the explorer balloons at the Ramadan carinval/fairground. Immediately Above: The chicken truck. Baria may think that the word for chicken is "kitchen", but she has no problem leaving a kitchen in her chicken (or the other way around) with its feathers and legs still attached...and then serving it up for dinner.
Above: My feet in awesome Moroccan "baboush" that everyone wears. I didn't buy them, but I was tempted. Below: I don' know how to turn images yet (taking baby steps) but its a display of skin treatments, mostly types of soaps. I tried to eat them when the vendor brought them to my nose. Mistake.
This is a door in the Kasbah, the most ancient part of Rabat (sorry, I'd turn it if I knew how). Its part residential and part glorious garden. The residential part was originally inhabited by Spanish ex-pats in the early 18th century who's real estate is now being slurped up by wealthy Europeans and Americans.
The view from the Kasbah cafe:
TURTLES in the souk. They're sold live, killed, and then used as, yes, decoration, in people's homes:
On the left here is a view of the road along the sea that has come alive at night after f'tour -- O Ramadan, we have such a strange inexplicable relationship... Below is my closet of perfectly folded clothing. Khadija folded EVERYTHING. Including all of the underwear. And then rearranged it. I couldn't find anything for two days.
Here we have Tour Hassan -- it is unfinished. It stands at 44 meters and is next to the mausoleum which was built much much later (1960s I think) guarded by the sentries above. It's a tribute to the first "independent" king of Morocco, Sultan Yacoub el-Mansour in the 12th century. He wanted it to be the largest Mosque in the world, but he died before it was finished. The minaret is 44 meters high, and was meant to be closer to 80.
Monday, September 7, 2009
pronounce poverty punditry popularity pulminary
(I realize the name of this post is odd and sort of unclear. To clarify: Each word corresponds to a paragraph in this post.)
BREAKTHROUGH: Due to their French skills, Moroccans can pronounce the letter "V"! This means my name is not "Shefa" and is, instead, "Sheva"! I'm thrilled. Oh, also for the record, the saccharina that we're fed in our tea by Baria every morning and afternoon is actually aspartame. I find this every so slightly hilarious.
Interjection:
Beggars here are incredibly disturbing. More so than Egypt. They said it was a sort of industry - people pretend to have disabilities, etc. but even if they are pretending - their images haunt my dreams. I've seen eyes clouded by massive cataracts or skin growths, I've seen metal wire through deformed feet, I've seen stumps of every shape on every limb, and its hard to sleep sometimes. I've now also seen a few Maybedead People (I spoke too soon), but I think that one of them isn't Maybedead, and instead just sleeps every night right outside our Bab ("door" or entrance to the Medina) every night.
In other, more uplifting news, Casablanca was great.
We had a disastrous first few hours in which we were ripped off (we paid 4x the price of a 5 dirham We took a hike (~2 hrs) to the beach on Saturday. It was a gorgeous day. Almost too gorgeous. I was wearing a highish necked shirt and I put on another shirt after we got back I had such an absurd tan line that it literally looked like I was wearing two shirts. Even better: I had been wearing a necklace all day and so I had a large white dot right in the middle of chest. Anyway, our hike was leisurely and we stopped for a bit to admire the Hassan II Mosque, the 3rd biggest Mosque in the world. And its really new. Ground was broken for it in the 80s and it was finished in 93/4.
There were three best parts of being in Casablanca. 1) Our hotel was located off of Rue Colbert. I took a picture. 2) When were at Hassan II's Mosque, we saw a group of kids, ages ranging from 6/7-17/18, jumping off of the side of the Mosque's plaza that hung out over the water into the crashing waves below. It was probably a 30-foot drop, but the water was deep and the weather was hot. I desperately wanted to join them. Some of them, the older one's, did backflips or would hang off of the edge of the side of the plaza and push off of it with their feet. We watched them - along with many others - for something like 20 minutes before everyone was kicked off for prayer (I think). 3) Rick's Cafe is just about everything I thought it would be. It feels luxurious. Velvety. It has a sheen that I thought was only possible in the 1950s. The waiters are older Moroccan men in tuxes who speak English and wink at you, as though to say "Here's lookin' at you, kid." It was also the only bar in Casablanca that was selling alcohol. And this wasn't just alcohol. This was nice, expensive, beautiful alcohol. No one got drunk, don't worry, it was just a lovely time from another time.
Totally Unrelated:
Popular Sufism is like Kabbalah. It's also like Catholicism. I've been thinking about it a lot. It has saints and shrines and a desire to fuse oneself with God. So it's got the same trappings of mystery as any religious mysticism, but instead of either being just for the hippies, crazies and bandwagoners (as it is in Kabbalah) or kept in the hands of the few (as it historically has been in Catholicism) it has been an extremely popular form of Islam and as such is the basic force "battling" against political Islam in here Morocco. Orthodox Sunnism, like Orthdox Jewry when it comes to the Baba Sali or Rabbi Meir Ba'al HaNes, often looks upon it with either suspicion or amused affection. But I'm fascinated.
So today I had to stay at AmidEast late. Until 10pm. Why, you ask? Because we're having our first meeting with our language partners and we have to wait until after iftar (the break-fast meal) which ends around 8:30. Not to worry - I made use of my time. No, I didn't do my homework. I TRIED (and failed, sorry) to uploaded pictures to THIS blog and...went to the gym! I signed up, paid approximately 50 dollars (including the initial fee to sign up which is about $20) for the month, and my roommate and I got a personalized workout with the one trainer who works there. Normal guy - married, not sketchy, and very nice - except that he, like most Arab men I've seen work out, was wearing long pants the entire time. I ran, did a floor workout (with the trainer), and biked. I was totally sweaty by the end and wanted to take a shower. So I did. No towels, no hot water. Great. After drip drying from my icy sprinkle inside a fly haven pretending to be a shower, I thought about my American addictions. I am addicted to feeling clean, for one. I am addicted to working out, for another. And I'm desperately addicted to the Internet. Good thing I don't have a blackberry.
Song of the day: Edison Glass's My Fair One (I'm feeling Biblical).
BREAKTHROUGH: Due to their French skills, Moroccans can pronounce the letter "V"! This means my name is not "Shefa" and is, instead, "Sheva"! I'm thrilled. Oh, also for the record, the saccharina that we're fed in our tea by Baria every morning and afternoon is actually aspartame. I find this every so slightly hilarious.
Interjection:
Beggars here are incredibly disturbing. More so than Egypt. They said it was a sort of industry - people pretend to have disabilities, etc. but even if they are pretending - their images haunt my dreams. I've seen eyes clouded by massive cataracts or skin growths, I've seen metal wire through deformed feet, I've seen stumps of every shape on every limb, and its hard to sleep sometimes. I've now also seen a few Maybedead People (I spoke too soon), but I think that one of them isn't Maybedead, and instead just sleeps every night right outside our Bab ("door" or entrance to the Medina) every night.
In other, more uplifting news, Casablanca was great.
We had a disastrous first few hours in which we were ripped off (we paid 4x the price of a 5 dirham We took a hike (~2 hrs) to the beach on Saturday. It was a gorgeous day. Almost too gorgeous. I was wearing a highish necked shirt and I put on another shirt after we got back I had such an absurd tan line that it literally looked like I was wearing two shirts. Even better: I had been wearing a necklace all day and so I had a large white dot right in the middle of chest. Anyway, our hike was leisurely and we stopped for a bit to admire the Hassan II Mosque, the 3rd biggest Mosque in the world. And its really new. Ground was broken for it in the 80s and it was finished in 93/4.
There were three best parts of being in Casablanca. 1) Our hotel was located off of Rue Colbert. I took a picture. 2) When were at Hassan II's Mosque, we saw a group of kids, ages ranging from 6/7-17/18, jumping off of the side of the Mosque's plaza that hung out over the water into the crashing waves below. It was probably a 30-foot drop, but the water was deep and the weather was hot. I desperately wanted to join them. Some of them, the older one's, did backflips or would hang off of the edge of the side of the plaza and push off of it with their feet. We watched them - along with many others - for something like 20 minutes before everyone was kicked off for prayer (I think). 3) Rick's Cafe is just about everything I thought it would be. It feels luxurious. Velvety. It has a sheen that I thought was only possible in the 1950s. The waiters are older Moroccan men in tuxes who speak English and wink at you, as though to say "Here's lookin' at you, kid." It was also the only bar in Casablanca that was selling alcohol. And this wasn't just alcohol. This was nice, expensive, beautiful alcohol. No one got drunk, don't worry, it was just a lovely time from another time.
Totally Unrelated:
Popular Sufism is like Kabbalah. It's also like Catholicism. I've been thinking about it a lot. It has saints and shrines and a desire to fuse oneself with God. So it's got the same trappings of mystery as any religious mysticism, but instead of either being just for the hippies, crazies and bandwagoners (as it is in Kabbalah) or kept in the hands of the few (as it historically has been in Catholicism) it has been an extremely popular form of Islam and as such is the basic force "battling" against political Islam in here Morocco. Orthodox Sunnism, like Orthdox Jewry when it comes to the Baba Sali or Rabbi Meir Ba'al HaNes, often looks upon it with either suspicion or amused affection. But I'm fascinated.
So today I had to stay at AmidEast late. Until 10pm. Why, you ask? Because we're having our first meeting with our language partners and we have to wait until after iftar (the break-fast meal) which ends around 8:30. Not to worry - I made use of my time. No, I didn't do my homework. I TRIED (and failed, sorry) to uploaded pictures to THIS blog and...went to the gym! I signed up, paid approximately 50 dollars (including the initial fee to sign up which is about $20) for the month, and my roommate and I got a personalized workout with the one trainer who works there. Normal guy - married, not sketchy, and very nice - except that he, like most Arab men I've seen work out, was wearing long pants the entire time. I ran, did a floor workout (with the trainer), and biked. I was totally sweaty by the end and wanted to take a shower. So I did. No towels, no hot water. Great. After drip drying from my icy sprinkle inside a fly haven pretending to be a shower, I thought about my American addictions. I am addicted to feeling clean, for one. I am addicted to working out, for another. And I'm desperately addicted to the Internet. Good thing I don't have a blackberry.
Song of the day: Edison Glass's My Fair One (I'm feeling Biblical).
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Abba, this is NOT for me
Polygamy exists here.
I learned about all sorts of new marriage and "provisional" marriage practices today in my new sociology class called "The Magreb: Societies in Transition". Get ready.
1) Amhars - This a form of pre-Islamic Berber marriage practice that no longer exists as of the 20th century. It was an invention for people who had run away from their tribes and needed to marry into a new one and make a living, something that would be nearly impossible if not for this practice. So it goes like this: The foreigner marries one of the chief's daughters, but on a provisional basis. She is free to dismiss him at any time and take all of his wealth and keep all of her children, etc. Power to the ladies.
2) Zawaj Muta'a - This is a Shi'a version of provisional marriage that is fully legal...in Iran. Sunnis consider it to be heresy. It's basically so that people (students, for example) can have sex without their relationships being illicit. Marriage merely requires two witnesses and signatures, and then the two can go at it, and, as long as they don't have children, its all dandy. I think you can write into the document how long it is meant to lasts. It can be anywhere from a couple of days to a few hours. Try telling American college students to do that. Ha.
3) Zawaj 3rfi- This takes place in Egypt most commonly. The situation is this: A married man takes a mistress on the side that, generally, his wife is unaware of. He proceeds to marry HER and maintain her in an apartment somewhere where she may or may not have kids, build a life, etc. (the mistress) so that this one man has two wives, one of which does not know about the other. And then, say, the man dies. Since he was legally married to both women, the second wife/mistress obtains half of his property. SURPRISE first wife!
4) Zawaj Misyar - Saudi Arabia is messed up. No joke. This case happens usually with well-off, older (pushing 30) unmarried women, and because there are lots of wealthy people, and there are often not enough men to marry all of the women in each respective tribe (to continue the tradition of endogamy), this happens. A rich girl who hasn't found a husband from her tribe marries an already-married man (who's wife is OK with this) found by her father. And the girl lives at home, under her parents roof, supported by them, where she will raise her children and make her life. Her husband may fly in once or twice a week for a couple hours, and then leave. Talk about an absentee father. But for them, its a win-win situation. She gets to have a family, and he gets a no-strings-attached mistress. Incredible.
I'm going to Casablanca this weekend. We have plans to stay at this adorable old hotel and spend Shabbat with the Chabad there. We leave Friday right after class. The composer of The Strokes' music is named Julian Casablancas -- so here's some Strokes for you today. Sometimes I feel like this when it comes to speaking Arabic to people. They just speak French back, so "I Can't Win." Pictures coming next time.
I learned about all sorts of new marriage and "provisional" marriage practices today in my new sociology class called "The Magreb: Societies in Transition". Get ready.
1) Amhars - This a form of pre-Islamic Berber marriage practice that no longer exists as of the 20th century. It was an invention for people who had run away from their tribes and needed to marry into a new one and make a living, something that would be nearly impossible if not for this practice. So it goes like this: The foreigner marries one of the chief's daughters, but on a provisional basis. She is free to dismiss him at any time and take all of his wealth and keep all of her children, etc. Power to the ladies.
2) Zawaj Muta'a - This is a Shi'a version of provisional marriage that is fully legal...in Iran. Sunnis consider it to be heresy. It's basically so that people (students, for example) can have sex without their relationships being illicit. Marriage merely requires two witnesses and signatures, and then the two can go at it, and, as long as they don't have children, its all dandy. I think you can write into the document how long it is meant to lasts. It can be anywhere from a couple of days to a few hours. Try telling American college students to do that. Ha.
3) Zawaj 3rfi- This takes place in Egypt most commonly. The situation is this: A married man takes a mistress on the side that, generally, his wife is unaware of. He proceeds to marry HER and maintain her in an apartment somewhere where she may or may not have kids, build a life, etc. (the mistress) so that this one man has two wives, one of which does not know about the other. And then, say, the man dies. Since he was legally married to both women, the second wife/mistress obtains half of his property. SURPRISE first wife!
4) Zawaj Misyar - Saudi Arabia is messed up. No joke. This case happens usually with well-off, older (pushing 30) unmarried women, and because there are lots of wealthy people, and there are often not enough men to marry all of the women in each respective tribe (to continue the tradition of endogamy), this happens. A rich girl who hasn't found a husband from her tribe marries an already-married man (who's wife is OK with this) found by her father. And the girl lives at home, under her parents roof, supported by them, where she will raise her children and make her life. Her husband may fly in once or twice a week for a couple hours, and then leave. Talk about an absentee father. But for them, its a win-win situation. She gets to have a family, and he gets a no-strings-attached mistress. Incredible.
I'm going to Casablanca this weekend. We have plans to stay at this adorable old hotel and spend Shabbat with the Chabad there. We leave Friday right after class. The composer of The Strokes' music is named Julian Casablancas -- so here's some Strokes for you today. Sometimes I feel like this when it comes to speaking Arabic to people. They just speak French back, so "I Can't Win." Pictures coming next time.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
KUL! KUL! (EAT! EAT!)
I lied to a man on the street yesterday. He was selling ripped DVDs in the Suk. His English was very good, and we were discussing some of the movies. I pointed to "Bruno" and asked if he had it in English (most of them are dubbed in French) he said "Oh, this one, they make fun of Jews, yah, its funny. The Jews, Haha. You're not Jewish are you?" Keeping it chill, I said, "No, no" (my roommate almost strangled him but I gave her a look). He later whipped out his phone to search us for our names for Facebook, but if he saw my Facebook page he'd know in 1.4 seconds flat that I was Jewish. I told him my name was Shireen and that we didn't have Internet. Which is approximately 3/5s of the truth. I do go by Shireen and our house does NOT have internet, though we tried to buy a USB plug from MarocTelecom, but it has yet to work.
One of the things that is a curse and a blessing about living in the Medina is that there are people selling things (food items, mainly) everywhere. For example, the reason it smells so bad when we walk outside is not, as I had previously thought, due to the garbage, but rather a result of the fact that our street is a FISH MARKET. They don't sell swordfish or shark like they do in the main souk, allhumdulilla, but it reeks of sardines and shellfish pretty much constantly. My favorite part is the liquid runoff that trails down the incline of the road and into the street. I'll take a picture and show you sometime.
In other food news, we now know how we obtain poultry. Yesterday we came home to two chickens in the kitchen still with their feathers and feet. I saw the chicken truck was outside today. Baria said that the shochet lives down the street and kills the chickens to be sold at the one kosher meat store in town, next to the synagogue. So it seems that our food practices are rather sustainable and local, while our eating habits, on the other hand, are not.
For food each day, Baria, our hostmother, makes us drink tea (of her brewing) with our choice of sukar (sugar) or saccharina (saccharine) and eat her "bisquettim" (homemade sesame cookies) and some very sweet "Danone" (yogurt, usually strawberry flavored). She packs us a sandwhich of eggs and either salad (dressing: handful of salt and a bucket of oil) or matbucha (of Israeli renown, also made with a bucket of oil) in addition to a fruit of some sort. When we get home -- before our curfew, which is - get this - 6:30pm (!!!) mostly because of Ramadon -- we are forced to eat something "light", like bread and cheese and more tea with saccharina. Then, at dinner time (read: 10pm) we have the big meal. Salatim are served first, and just when you're about to be full after 20 minutes of munching on oil-soaked carrots, eggplant, and salted cucumbers . The Kuskusu (Couscous), chicken, or weird barley soup called simply "s3ra" or "barely" (Hebrew: Seora). And through all of these meals the two constants are the jabber of the TV for the French news or the Moroccan Ramdan specials (my favorite is called "Cool Center") and the sound of Baria's voice urging us to "Kul! Kul!"
Ad kan. More about life later. I bought a pair of yellow Moroccan shoes yesterday. Now to figure out how to wear them...Today Your Country by Gogol Bordello. New to me, too.
One of the things that is a curse and a blessing about living in the Medina is that there are people selling things (food items, mainly) everywhere. For example, the reason it smells so bad when we walk outside is not, as I had previously thought, due to the garbage, but rather a result of the fact that our street is a FISH MARKET. They don't sell swordfish or shark like they do in the main souk, allhumdulilla, but it reeks of sardines and shellfish pretty much constantly. My favorite part is the liquid runoff that trails down the incline of the road and into the street. I'll take a picture and show you sometime.
In other food news, we now know how we obtain poultry. Yesterday we came home to two chickens in the kitchen still with their feathers and feet. I saw the chicken truck was outside today. Baria said that the shochet lives down the street and kills the chickens to be sold at the one kosher meat store in town, next to the synagogue. So it seems that our food practices are rather sustainable and local, while our eating habits, on the other hand, are not.
For food each day, Baria, our hostmother, makes us drink tea (of her brewing) with our choice of sukar (sugar) or saccharina (saccharine) and eat her "bisquettim" (homemade sesame cookies) and some very sweet "Danone" (yogurt, usually strawberry flavored). She packs us a sandwhich of eggs and either salad (dressing: handful of salt and a bucket of oil) or matbucha (of Israeli renown, also made with a bucket of oil) in addition to a fruit of some sort. When we get home -- before our curfew, which is - get this - 6:30pm (!!!) mostly because of Ramadon -- we are forced to eat something "light", like bread and cheese and more tea with saccharina. Then, at dinner time (read: 10pm) we have the big meal. Salatim are served first, and just when you're about to be full after 20 minutes of munching on oil-soaked carrots, eggplant, and salted cucumbers . The Kuskusu (Couscous), chicken, or weird barley soup called simply "s3ra" or "barely" (Hebrew: Seora). And through all of these meals the two constants are the jabber of the TV for the French news or the Moroccan Ramdan specials (my favorite is called "Cool Center") and the sound of Baria's voice urging us to "Kul! Kul!"
Ad kan. More about life later. I bought a pair of yellow Moroccan shoes yesterday. Now to figure out how to wear them...Today Your Country by Gogol Bordello. New to me, too.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)