My life is a strange thing. Actually its not really my life. Its my circumstances. My experiences. My changing state of being.
I've had this weird sense lately that stuff I've been wishing for has been coming true. I wished that my baggage would be lighter so I wouldn't have to pay so many overcharge fees when I get on my planes in a few days (it is totally uneconomical for me to ship stuff to either Israel or America). And then some shab (plural: shebab) stole my incredibly functional REI 65 L petite size...with all my heavy stuff inside of it. No matter that that heavy stuff consisted mostly of my macbook, its charger, and my sweatpants. Now I don't have to pay the 7lbs or so overcharge1 I also lost my ipod, its charger, my calendar, journal (you can't get that back), and...MY PASSPORT. But my bags are now lighter. And I hope that when this young shab opens my bag he will scratch his little mean head and think about how much of a favor he did me. And then he'll scratch it some more: A good deal of what was in there was in Hebrew.
And then - after I had alternated between the stages of grief and full-blown fury at myself for letting this happen (I had been asleep during the fateful event, covered my my Ouarzazate camel-hair blanket no less) - I wanted a shower. But I had no time for a shower. I spent the remaining hours to Marrakesh yelling at myself, talking (relatively) calmly to the ticket-taker-policeman on the train, and walking the length of it to make sure the bag actually wasn't there (it wasn't). And then I turned around, got back on the train (which I got to take for free...yaaayyy?), and went to Mohammadia, where I made some great friends. The Station Chief (prides himself on knowing all the important people) and the Chief of Train Police (who's role models are American boxers) became my saviors. We spent 4 hours together at the Mohammadia Police Station - a bathtub of a place where the slow flies that land on the single, albeit warm, computer scatter whenever anyone sits down or stands up. I paced some. The flies didn't like that. I don't think the Deputy Chief of Police did either. But he wasn't going to say anything, sitting there in his Mikey Mouse coat and double chin, pecking away at the keyboard with one hand in Arabic, only to print out four copies of a police report that I needed to sign, four times. And then he refused to give me one. I had to come back the next day to get a piece of paper with a stamp at a different office. There's bureaucracy and then there's Arabeaucracy. I think this was the latter.
So anyway, I had wanted a shower. I hadn't had a minute since Sat. night when I packed up my stuff to get it ready for my departure, and then left at 5am on Sunday morning to see Marrakesh (and some friends) for one last bash. And when I got back on Sunday night I was just too distraught to even consider it, getting up Monday morning and leaving for another Mohammadia/Casa run to get the stuff I needed to leave the next day. Anyway - they also stole my deodorant so life was greasy and smelly. And then it rained. No, no. It poured. I got to Casablanca after obtaining my Declaration of Loss from Chief Mickey Mouse after a good, long delay-of-train and a good deal more stress-of-Sheva (the Consulate opens magically at 1:30pm and then closes magically at 3pm...and it was 2pm)...it was bucketing. I got out of the train and ran to an overhang. And then ran to a taxi. I asked him to take me to Moulay Ismail (the street that the consulate is on) and he said no -- over there. I went over there. The taxis over there refused. They said - here. I went here. The taxi driver said: Across the street. There were no taxis across the street and by this time I was wet to the bone. Some cabbie had pity on me and stopped, but not before I had stepped in every puddle in Casablanca in order to get to his cab. Short Fessi leather jacket, long flowy (now dirty) skirt, non-water proof cheap-Paris boots. I was not prepared for this kind of shower.
Anyway, I made it to the Consulate, they were very nice (to me...a real American...not so much to the Moroccans who were standing outside in line, in the rain) and I got myself a passport that will last me a year.
Things I now regret:
Not drinking coffee at 5:30 before I got no the train.
Not putting my passport in my purse (duh).
Caring so much about my Mac. She was beautiful. But she's just stuff, like everything else.
Not writing my last Morocco post - which was going to be about growth, things I'd learned, how i changed, etc. etc. Mushy stuff. Maybe I'll write it some day. But for now...its still raining in Rabat.
Lots of other things but I can't go into them now because I have to go get myself some things from the medina before I leave this country (E.g. a carry on bag that will fit my heavy books and gifts, and, of course, deodorant).
No song today, folks, its just one of those days. And I have no itunes. B'slama.