The World That We Live In

Easy Does It

2012-01-24T12:21:00.000-08:00

Things are getting back to normal around here after The Holidays andthe DC training and the new puppy. Last week Max and I resumed oursometime tradition of spreading a blanket across the rocky sand of AinDiab and watching the sun set on Sunday evenings. A lot of expats arefrustrated by Casablanca because it’s too dirty/crowded/hard to drivein/rough/whatever but we have really taken a shine to it. You havethis great pulsing city with all manner of people (from even morediverse income brackets) and there are decaying French Art Deco buildingsalongside shantytowns alongside ultra modern high rises and Frenchbakeries with 98% butter croissants sidled up to black markets sellingburned photoshop disks for the price of a chalupa. Then you drive 20minutes to the coast and you get this:

Sunday night is when all the families come out and when, much to mysurprise; young couples come to nuzzle - away from the eyes of theirparents and neighbors. Last week was our first beach adventure withBuckley and we were both shocked and delighted when our tiny pupsterchased down a man on the beach who walked a little too close to ourblanket. To have an 10 inch guard dog – everyone should be so lucky.

But things can change in an instant around here… the day before ourlovely evening we almost drown in swampy sewer water. We drove acrosstown to check out the new Morocco Mall, which is enormousbeyond belief and includes such delights as The Gap, H&M, Burger King,and TWO frozen yogurt stands. But on the way(ish) we swung out nearDar Boaza to pick up some non-pesticidal veggies. The roads out bythe Dar Boaza coast are not as well constructed as those in thediscotequed corniche area and we found this out when it started topour. I mean rain like you just stepped out of a bathtub. I couldn’tbelieve it. It’s a good thing really, because Morocco hasn’t gotten alot of rain this year, but as we chug-a-chug-chugged through therapidly rising water pooling in the middle of the street we started toget that ah-oh feeling. The water was reddish brown from the dirt onthe sides of the road…but also from something else our noses told us.

At one point I jokingly said to Max “what happens if the water getsreally high? How deep of water can cars drive through…?”

Just a few minutes later we drove through a particularly deep stretchand looking out the passenger window I could see the water levelreaching the door crack and sloshing above. We were very quiet for afew seconds, waiting for the torrent of murky water to breach the doorand spill onto the floor mats but we soon arrived at higher ground andwere spared. The moral of the story is don’t drive your tiny grey caron crappy roads when it’s raining a big dog. Even if you have tohave fresh goat cheese and organic red peppers.

Single Girl in the City

2012-01-19T13:43:00.000-08:00

I know that single people live in big cities all over the world anddon’t congratulate themselves after spending a week alone in country,but I’m not one of those people. Max had his first training last weekback in DC and I’m glad to report that no houses were burned down,much Project Runway was watched, and a many things were caught up on.

The things that were good

As previously mentioned, I watched a lot of Project Runway. Aftercatching up on the latest season I flung open the doors to my closetand said “This has to stop.” What has to stop? Keeping things Idon’t love for ANY reason and having so much dang stuff. I purgefairly regularly but still hold on to things that I could look cool or thatI used to like or that I might need to wear when we go to thedessert/Saudi Arabia/ community garden/opera/mountains…you get theidea. I read a few articles online about minimalist closets and I’mvery pleased to say that after a few “fashion show at lunch” eveningsmy closet almost fits that profile. There is something really awesomeabout choosing from one of your 8 tops and knowing that each one isfabulous. …then I did some shopping. But not too much!

Going it alone. I am an alone kind of gal – I like social things andhumanity in general, but for every chunk of time I spend being withother people I need an equal chunk of time not being with people. Oneto one is kind of a ridiculous ratio, but you do what works people. Ialways get tricked into hanging out with Max when he’s aroundbecause…duh, I like him and he’s fun, but it was nice to come home toan empty house and ask myself what the heck I was going to do for thenext 5 hours. I drew a lot, painted, cooked things that were delicious but not healthy and then ate them, and finished about 4 books. I’m prettyserious when I say that I will take a job on the cleaning crew just tobe able to stick around in the future event that we are evacuated frompost and only “necessary” staff are allowed to stay, but the truth iswe will probably be separated at several junctures for undeterminedamounts of time. It was good to have a mini test run.

The things that were lame

I had big plans of making organic feasts every night but I mostly survived onstrawberries, brownies, and grilled chickenbreasts. I know, am I a college freshman?

My dogtastrophy. The plan was for me to keep the puppy a few daysafter Max left and then have him go stay with the puppy whisperer andhis enormous German shepherd for the rest of the week. The puppy needed to start makingfriends and I was really unsure of my ability to play with anddiscipline and feed and clean and walk and pee a tiny yet to be pottytrained dog by my lonesome. Remember, I don’t come from dog people.

I was feeling pretty confidant the first night after Max left, makingcreamy chickpea soup from a new recipe and pulling out my watercolors,but the dog was fussy from a long day at home and things went downhillthe minute after he ate his chow. He was bitey and yippy and mycreamy chickpea soup turned into a chunky bowl of tahini flavoredyuck. A short training session was met with wiggles and naughtiness(adorable naughtiness) and grooming his shaggy locks went much thesame way. While I was laying on my back, trying to regroup from beingbested by a 4 kilo dog, Buckley ate a little corner of his eye wipes.I don’t know if it was the late hour or the bowl of chunky yucksitting a little funny, but I became convinced that it was poison andhe was going to die. I called the after hours vet number in a panicbut he couldn’t quite understand my English and I couldn’t quiteunderstand his French so he had me call his wife at the supermarketand explain to her in a mix of English and French that my tiny dogjust ate a part of an eye wipe and is it going to block his intestinesand/or poison him and will he die? Max’s first day away and I hadkilled our dog! The end of the story is that the dog was fine and Iresisted the urge to drive to the doggy hospital for a miniature bodyscan. I did, however, call the dog whisperer to have him take the dogthe next day. Even though I spent the rest of the week saying “I’veabandoned my boy!” in Daniel Day Lewis’ accent from There Will BeBlood and hearing phantom doggy yelps, he came home happy at the end of the week and I had a quiet week to recharge.

Arf! Arf!

2012-01-06T13:03:00.000-08:00

It must have been a pretty funny sight, the two of us scurrying down Casablanca's dark moped lined alleys whispering "Business time. It business time" in much higher than normal tones.

But that image makes more sense if you know that we have a brand new puppy!

His name is Buckley, Buckley Barnam, and even though I have fought it for severalyears, this little guy melted my heart and thus, he came home with usa few weeks before Christmas.

At the puppy palace on that fateful day:

Me: I don’t know if I really want to play with them. Remember how I don’treally like dogs? And we aren’t ready to buy one yet. And thesearen’t even the types of dogs we talked about.

Max: Well let’s just see. What about that one?

Me: That Yorkie? Well….he is kind of cute. Ok…hhmmm, he’s so calm and adorable….

Other woman entering the store: Let’s see, where’s that cute Yorkie wesaw here last night?

Me: Oh, she means my adorable, chill, snuggly, wuggly ball of crazy hair.I’m sorry, he’s not available anymore.

And that was it.

Max and I had a really ridiculous moment as we faced each otherbetween the TWO bedazzled puppy bed isles with the soon to be namedBuckley in my arms. “Is this our dog!? Did we just get a dog!?” Oureyes welling up a little. We swooped through the store, puppy tuckedunder arm, picking up things one might need for a puppy. Bed? yes,he’ll need that. Toenail clippers? Puppy toenails grow…right? Toys? Just a few. This is going to be so much fun and he’ll be so good!

But then we got home, and freaked out a little bit.

Oh my gosh, it pees in the house. How do we potty train him? We bothhave full time jobs! How can we walk him outside when ourneighborhood is full of broken concrete and glue sniffers? What dopuppies eat for treats? Ah! How can we get him to stop jumping on thecouch!? He seems nervous, is he nervous? How can we make him notnervous…? Oh no, he started to bark!

Enter the Moroccan Dog Whisperer. Mustapha comes to ourhouse once or twice a week to teach us how to train Buckely. After only a couple of minutes at our first session he had him laying down and sitting and all sorts of things on command. And everyone has been very calm since that night. We have beenpracticing our little doggy rules and our little doggy is catching onvery quickly. We've even passed the "getting up in the night to piddle" stage - I know, aren't we ridiculous?

Adventures in Gynocology...er, Merry Christmas!

2011-12-24T00:36:00.000-08:00

So I make the appointment with the fancy shmancy gynecologist in Casa,right? I show up a few minutes before my appointment so I can zip inand zip out. It’s been a rough day, no, it’s been a rough week. Workhas been stressful, I’ve had two doctor’s appointments already thisweek for something other than the nasty cold that is still hanging outin well, my face,and now I’ve been waiting in a crowded room forabout 40 minutes. After a few diplomatic inquiries as to what thehell is taking so long, we are informed that this doctor doesn’treally take appointments. He has a few slots during the day when hetells groups of people to come and then he sees them on a first comefirst serve basis. When our nurse practitioner from the consulatecomes back to tell me this and that there are still about 6 people infront of me I burst into tears. Why this happens, I can’t quite say.Perhaps the buildup of a stressfull day and the bubbling forth ofnerves regarding my visit with this doctor who will, hopefully, unlockthe secret to my skeewhompish raging hormones, WHICH, are probably toblame for the crying anyway.

“If you need to cry, you just cry” our sweet Moroccan nurse says to mein a motherly way and holds me around the shoulders. So I do.

I finally get into the doctor’s office, and I’m staring not only at astrangely balding but friendly face, but at a ginormous painting of awell endowed mother breast feeding her child. Strange. We talk for a minute and he instructs me to change my clothes in the small dressing room at the other end of his office sohe can do an exam.

I shuffle into the dressing room and see a dressing gown with the backcut out waiting for me. I know the drill. I struggle to keep ittogether as I pull off my boots and work suit. I long ago lost the“bum in the air” shame of doctor’s visits and as soon as I tie thestrings at the back of my neck I'm at the door turning the handle tocome out.

But it’s stuck.

I pull harder. It’s still stuck. I twist the knob both directionsand it won’t unlock. I knock at the door ever so slightly but no onehears. I try the handle again and it is definitely stuck. So I knocklouder and the office nurse comes to the door to try and pull the dooropen. Niether of us can get it open so then the consulate nurse, whothinks I’m freaking out behind the door, comes over to help pull on itand calm me down.

“It’s ok my darling, don’t worry, don’t worry!” She says inincreasingly higher pitched tones.

THEN the doctor himself leaves his position in front of the barebreasted painting and come to the door to fiddle with the handle. Atthis point I’m laughing hysterically. After a terrible horrible no good very badday, I got locked in the dressing room with basically a sheettied around my neck. This is hilarious and just what I need. But the more I laugh the more the nurse thinks I’m freaking out and everyone is in a frenzy.

At one point the doctor says in a very commanding voice, like onewould a puppy, “Brooke. Get a towel and hold it against the lock.Push it down as hard as you can.”

Eventually the lock breaks free , the door opens, and I am in muchbetter spirits on the way to the stirrups. Unfortunately, the examthat follows is not very encouraging and by the time I am back in thedressing room I am feeling my eyes well up again. But halfway through dressing I look into the full length mirror and I am stopped in my tracks at what I see. Black leggings, black half shirt I wearunder my sweaters so I don’t have to tuck them in and David Bowie’s haircut from the movie Labyrinth staring back at me. Tina turner called, she wants her back up dancer back on set. Did I forget to mention that I got the worst haircut of my life this week? What I said to Jean Pierre was I would like a Bob with a few layers at the bottom, here’s a picture. What I got was David Bowie from the movie Labyrinth (Poofy mullet for those of you who haven't had the pleasure.)

For some reason, Bowie mullet notwithstanding, a giant grin spreads across my face. You know what? Life gets hard, haircuts go wrong(very wrong), bodies malfunction, and work can get to you – BUT thingsare good. There is something in our church we refer to as “Tender Mercies” – moments when you get a reprieve from the sadness or pain of worldly things. I don’t know if getting locked in yourdoctor’s dressing room with your fanny out or being caught by surpriseby your back up dancer ensemble will ever make it into a Sunday schoollesson, but they were certainly tender mercies to me!

Merry Christmas to All!

Ah, that's the funk I've been expecting...

2011-12-09T03:20:00.001-08:00

You know what happens when you have the stomach fluand/or food poisoning followed by a nasty cold and/or sinus infection? Well, almost nothing. Max and I have experienced what I'm prettysure is a marvel in modern medical science - we had mirror image healthcatastrophes this week. His started at the top and worked its way downand mine has worked in the opposite direction. It has really knocked usout and besides watching what I fully recognize is an awesomely silly guiltypleasure - Buffy the Vampire Slayer: Season 1: Episodes 1-7 - our week wasentirely uneventful.

But it does seem like a good time for an update!

Thanksgiving

This wasn't our first Thanksgiving overseas but ourpost is itty bitty and without any other members of our church in Casa like wefound in Jerusalem we were feeling a bit homesick. But the great thingabout the overseas community is that people come together - no matter howsmall. We had dinner at someone from the consulate's house without adozen or so other people and it was just lovely. Thanksgiving at ourrespective familial homes has always been a mad house of half eaten pickleplates and screaming children. We love that. Thanksgiving this yearwas an adults only candle light affair and we loved that too. Perhaps thebest part was the turkey triple threat: American with traditional herbs andstuffing, deep fried turkey (amazing for the record) and a Moroccan turkey withcumin and turmeric, stuffed with oranges.

Christmas

I sometimes worry that my blog isn't"honest" enough. That I ought to be chronicling every badtraffic day or when I can't find something at the grocery store, but you knowwhat? I don't really care about those things. (In part, I realize,because we practically live in Europe and I can find most things. I hearyou Conakry!) It's my nature to be positive and to look for the best. Is there a growing homeless shelter/inhabited garbage city at theconstruction site just outside my front door? Yes, there is. BUTthere is also an amazing French bakery around the corner and I live closeenough to walk to work every day.

But we pulled out our Christmas tree a few weeksago (as in, a few days before Thanksgiving) and I got my first whiff ofthe funk I'd been expecting to feel since arriving here but hadn't. Lifein the Foreign Service has many benefits but it's hard to be away fromfamily and familiarity sometimes. We feel especially homesick at timeswhen family and friends come together and we worry about maintaining strongrelationships with our siblings and parents. We put up our Christmas treeand decorated it like sad sacks but after sitting in front of our fire placefor a little while with hot chocolate and a few phone calls home we felt a lotbetter. These are the trade offs. From Casa to Caracas ForeignService officers work hard to stay in touch with family and to constructholiday traditions that will ground us.

But there are perks to holidays overseas as well.(I can't help it - even in my funk my glass is pretty full) The things thattraditionally “get us into the spirit” back home are almost completelycommercial. When you are on the streets downtown in any American city yousee bells and Christmas trees and winter displays…to sell clothes or spaces orother attractions. Television adds puts an extra bounce in our step withcommercials about Disneyland announcements on Christmas morning, semis full ofCoke barreling down the snowy mountain, and wives getting just the perfectdiamond necklace on Christmas eve. I’m not saying you can’t celebrate aless secular, less commercial Christmas in your homes and in your hearts, butit’s been interesting for me to see just how much of our holiday celebrationsare driven by commercialism. But seeing Santa at the Mall isfun! And A Christmas Story is one of the finest films ever made! I know, I know (and I agree). My point is, living in countries thatdon’t publicly celebrate Christmas or Thanksgiving means you have to constructyour holidays from scratch. You have to/get to decide what aspectsof holiday celebrations are important to you and which are not. It'sactually a lot easier to avoid the commercial aspects of Christmas when thereis only one store that sells Christmas things and the advent calendar youbought there tastes like soap :)

Ironically, in all this "How can I makeChristmas meaningful to me" business the answer that has come up again andagain is to make it meaningful for other people. We are trying toreinvent our Holidays overseas and that has been a rewarding practice so far. In fact, a certain Mr. Red beard is playing Santa tomorrow at theconsulate party... Pictures forthcoming! (That is, if Mrs. RedBeard can recover enough to play photographer...)

Combat Fit

2011-12-03T03:15:00.001-08:00

Combat Fit soundslike a version of kickboxing, doesn’t it? Punch, kick, kick, punch. Well, if you’d shown up to myaerobics class under that assumption you would have been as wrong as Iwas. It was less like kick boxingand more like…dance aerobics. No,in fact, I’m pretty sure it was exactly dance aerobics. A class I never would have signed upfor. A class I never would haveattended. A class I never wouldhave dared to stand at the back of and shake my groove thing. And yet, a class I thoroughly enjoyed.

Moroccans like to dance, to sing, to move. They are generally a life loving peoplewho express their love through movement and music - among other things. (I on the other hand am a life lovingperson who expresses it through reading and quiet contemplation….hhmmm…) This aerobics class was packed full ofwomen of every age, shape, and size who just wanted to move. There were, of course, very complicatedsteps that I messed up every time; but if I tried to avoid watching myselffumble around in the room length mirror then it was all good.

I like to exercise, but to dance for joy is somethingforeign to me. Ask my dear friendJen. When we went to church campthe summer before our junior year of high school I spent the twice weekly dances sitting inthe foyer saying things like “Please don’t let me ruin your fun. I’d hate to inhibit the way you choose to engage with musicin a social context!” (Nerd alert,anyone?) She, bless her, tried toteach me to dance by having me first tap my index finger to the music and thenmove my hand and then my whole arm but without fail when it got near theshoulder I would call the whole thing off. (Remember that Jen? You are nice. I was lame.)

But anyway, this class was wonderful and I’ll probably go again next week. I need the week to recover!

But what else have we been up to besides going to thegym?

Christmas shopping requires sustenance

Christmas shopping! A few weekends ago I ~~had to work inMarrakesh~~ got to work in Marrakesh on a Friday and so we made a weekend outof it. We got a screaming lastminute deal on a riad and spent the weekend combing the souks of Marrakesh forChristmas gifts. I won’t go intodetails since my family are sneakers and they would try and figure out what Ibought them, but suffice to say I have never wheeled and dealed so much in mylife. In fact, and I’m one partproud of this one part ashamed, I actually got kicked out of a rug shop for haggling too much. I worked the carpet seller down agrundle, but I was blinded by my own ambition and pushed it a step toofar. As we walked away I realizedthat his last offer was about 8 bucks more than my highest offer and I feltsick to my stomach. 8 bucks for crying out loud! Keep it together Brooke. What would that have cost you? But as we were about toturn the corner the teenage shabb who had been showing the rugs for hisshopkeeper tapped us on the shoulder and invited us back to another store. Evidently the neighboring shopkeepergot wind that we were willing to buy but that we’d been given the boot by hissober neighbor and sent the boy to chase us down.

The shabb brought us back to the same street and motioned for us to enter adark set of stairs lined with carpets. Is this our death? Have they brought us back to kill usfor shaming their profession? I whispered to Max “um, is this okay? Should we go in?” And the little shabb from behind us whispered in a similar tone “Yesyou should, it’s good.”

After some additional wrangling to get the shopkeeper tohonor our previous price and somebaksheesh (tips) for the errand boy we walked away with two red/orangeBerber carpets. What’s Christmasshopping without a little something for yourself?

On the way home weaccidently took the long way around Marrakesh back to Casablanca and gotcaught in an incredible rain storm. We had black rock hills behind us and the snow capped Atlas Mountainsbehind them, the open yellow plains in front of us, and intermittent patches ofbright blue sky and black rain clouds above us. I’ve heard Morocco described as a place of paradox andthis moment was certainly illustrative. Like a total goober I stuck my camera out the window from time to timeto catch a few photographs.

November: Spain

2011-11-24T06:28:00.001-08:00

When we moved to Morocco I discovered that several European discount airlines flew in and out of Casablanca for something akin to bus fair...I went a little crazy. In one night I bought tickets for both of us to Lisbon and Madrid...for about the price of two fancy dinners out. Max stopped me just before I bought tickets to Milan, and it's a good thing. Who knows where I would have stopped? I was out of control.

But I do not regret my impulsive travel bargain shopping.

We loved Madrid for the following reasons:

The Spanish Royal Palace & Cathedral
The churches in Spain are pretty much like free art shows - with some extra pizazz...the Catholic kind, I guess. The Royal Palace Cathedral has some beautiful stained glass and vibrantly painted ceilings.

The Royal Palace was nothing to sneeze at either. It was a much welcomed honest-to-gosh blustery autumn day and we were glad to make our way through the line into the Palace after an hour or so. One of the 2,000 plus rooms, the Stradivarious Room, contains the only matching Stradivarious quartet in the world (two violins, a viola, and a cello). I sneaked a picture of one of them before being tsk tsked by an attendant. Which, of course, made me very embarrassed. I hate pushy tourists who think their picture of priceless art is more important than the preservation of said priceless art. I was just swept up in the Stradivarious moment!

The Royal Palace

Art
Outside of amazing free art in the Spanish churches we went to a few museums in Madrid that were terrific. We stood in front of Picasso's Guernica for some time at the Centro de Arte Reina Sofia. It is massive - about 137 inches by 305 inches. Even better than seeing it in person was seeing it in Spain where the tragedy of Guernica actually happened - to read about the history, see part of the country in which it occurred, and then see the art it inspired added another level of appreciation for me. ...and sometimes, let's be honest, adds the first level of appreciation. I like art, but I'm not afraid to admit I don't always get it, you know?

El Greco! El Greco was born in Greece (hence the name) but painted during the 16th century in Spain. The wikipedia describes his style by saying

El Greco has been characterized by modern scholars as an artist so individual that he belongs to no conventional school^. He is best known for tortuously elongated figures and often fantastic or phantasmagorical pigmentation, marrying Byzantine traditions with those of Western painting.

His religious figures are sinewy and sad and always painted as if part of this world and part of the next. I didn't know much about him before this trip and we were lucky to see his work in several museums in Madrid and Toledo.

Which brings me to Toledo!

Tagus River Surrounding Toledo on Three Sides

We took a short 30 minute train ride from Madrid to Toledo and spent a few days wandering up hills (only uphill it seemed) into churches, and mosques and synagogues and having a generally wonderful time. Toledo was once a haven of relative tolerance and co-mingling of Moors (Muslims from North Africa), Christians, and Jews alike. We saw many remnants of Toledo's golden age including a Sephardic Synagogue and Museum (the name for Spanish Jews), a Muslim Mosque, and my favorite, the Cathedral of Toledo. I think this may be my favorite church of the any I've seen in Europe.

The Cathedral of Toledo

Oh, hello.

Toledo's cathedral not only boasts a dozen El Greco's and a handful of Goyas depicting Christ and the Apostles, but also carved stucco in geometric patterns and muqarnes - both very traditional Muslim architectural arts found in Mosques all over the Middle East. The sacristy contains tapestries and clothing of previous cardinals, including golden banners covered in Arabic writing. No where else have I seen such a mixture of religious iconography. Granted the choir seats in the nave of the church depict the violent recapturing of Granada and its surrounding cities during the Crusades, but there are still whispers of a moment where art and devotion were universally appreciated in Toledo regardless of faith.

Is it wrong that after learning the tiny misericords in the choir (small benches what you lean on while praying) illustrate various naughty activities frowned upon by the Catholic church we tried to figure out what each of them was? Surprisingly enough, the only one a little blush worthy was a man peeking on a nude bather. Most of them depicted dragon fighting and animals playing cards together... Strange days, those Middle Ages.

The amazing gold plated altar piece in the Toledo Cathedral

A peek into the courtyard of one of the monasteries we visited in Toledo.

Best Gargoyle Ever.

The horseshoe door speaks to Toledo's Moorish past

Toledo at Night

Don Quioxte
Love me some Don Quioxte. Toledo borders on Don Quioxte's region of windmills and you could find little statues of him everywhere. When Max bopped into a local shop to ask the shopkeeper the name of Don Quioxte's trusted companion he looked a bit aghast and said "Sancho. Of course! This is very important here." So there you go. If you go to Spain you'd better know your Sancho.

Food
I think I found my food heaven. I am a plate sharer and I like to sample everything at the table. Enter Tapas. These tiny portions are usually ordered at bars and people will have a bite and a drink at one bar, mozy down the lane and eat another tiny plate and have another tiny glass of beer and so on. But the experience is equally as good for teetotalers like ourselves. We prowled the streets looking for tasty menus and then popped in for small plates of sausages, cheese, jamon, grilled veggies or fried fish.

For the record, I had the best garlic shrimp of my life in Madrid. I watched them dump a handful of shrimp in a small dish of olive oil and oodles of garlic and slowly heat it up until they were cooked. Max had to stop me from tipping up the bowl of garlicky goodness and drinking it when we finished. We compromised on me sopping it up with a chunk of bread.

Other food highlights include copious amounts of Spanish ham called "Jamon Iberico" - think little four seasons piggies fed on acorns and other lovely things their whole life - spicy chorizo sausage (see a trend?), plates of Manchego cheese and perhaps the finest meal I have ever eaten. After touring castles and walking up hills all day in Toledo we stopped for an early dinner at the base of the Castle. After about three hours we had cleaned up a dish of partridge served with giant white beans, roasted red peppers with cured deer meat, roast suckling pig with mashed garlic potatoes and bacon wrapped fillet Mignon stuffed with a fig dressing (respectively). We finished with a mango moose topped almond custard as well as a chocolate "St. Geronimo" cake. Once a decade my friends. I don't know if my waist line (or my wallet) could handle much more than that kind of excess.

And the hot "chocolate" with dipping churros! Best. Dessert. Ever. On more occasions than a weekend really demanded we partook of hot chocolate - really more like pudding - and tiny churros for dipping into the pudding/chocolate. I'm reliving my food coma just thinking about all the good food.

On Speaking Arabic
Why would my Scottish looking American husband speak Arabic?

That must have been what our waiter at the Museum of Ham was thinking (Please note that the restaurant is really called The Museum of Ham). When we struck up a conversation with our waiter and he learned that we were from America he said "Well, I am from Baghdad. You know, things are hard here. I work and I work and at the end the day I just don't quite have enough to make the ends meet"

Too bad for him said Scottish looking husband responded in modern standard Arabic "You are from Baghdad! Well, it's nice to meet you. How long have you been in Madrid"

To which our waiter did not respond, so Max repeated it and then the waiter smiled nervously, ducked his head and walked away.

Liar!

Playing on the sympathies of traveling Americans in regards to the war in Iraq. Shame on you Mr. Spanish Man. Shame on you. But props to my Mr. Red Beard.

B'saha

2011-11-13T05:06:00.000-08:00

I’m a swimmer. But I don’t come from a family of swimmers. We have kept our feetfirmly on the ground for decades kicking soccer balls. I estimate my sweet mother hassat through at least 1,000 soccer games in her life…that’s a lot of hooting andhollering. But during the 2004 Athens Olympic games I became obsessed and started swimming in our localpool. As my skills improved Ipurchased goggles and a cap – because I felt ridiculous doing the dog paddle infull gear. Overtime it became my go to for exercise. To the point that high levels of chorine in the Universitypool ate away the backside of my swimming suit in college… I didn’t notice forsome time. Good thing it was mycollege bum and not my almost thirty bum.

When we got to Morocco I was very excited to start swimmingagain – between the move from Jerusalem, our temporary status in DC, andfertility injections that made me sick, it had been a long time. Surprisingly enough I couldn’tfind a lot of lap pools in the area! There are pools along the ocean front corniche, but most of them arefilled with ocean water and accessible only with expensive clubmemberships. And really, like Iwant to swim laps in front of people wearing diamonds with their bathing suits.

Another, larger concern of mine in Morocco is interacting with actualMoroccans. For my job I do a bit of it, but it’s always in a work capacity. Max and I have come to realize it’s alot harder to have regular conversations with people now than it was before asstudents. We drive a car so wearen’t interacting with bus drivers and fellow passengers, we have ahousekeeper who buys our groceries during the week so we only talk to people atthe markets on the weekend, and we work with Americans all day long (with the noted exception of locallyemployed staff who are awesome – thank goodness for them).

When we set about looking for a gym we wanted three things 1) a gym with a pool2) a gym with different floors for genders instead of different days like mostplaces in Casa and 3) a local gym where we could engage with actualMoroccans. Thanks to the help ofmy Moroccan office-mate we were able to accomplish all three.

A few weeks ago we showed up for the first time on a women’s swim night – eventhough there are floors for men and women the pool is separated by gendereach night. I pulled my stuff outof our shared gym bag before Max disappeared into the men’s floor and I made myway down to the pool. As Idescended I heard crazy loud disco music and all manner of yelling andsplashing. To my delight, and abit to my nervousness, I discovered a water aerobics class in session.

“Venez! Venez!” the drill instructor/aerobicsteacher hollered from her position at the front of the pool. Come, Come

I dutifully ducked into the changing room but when I unrolled my towel it revealed I had somehow packed onlymy tankini bottoms…. Bad news bears. My options were to stick it out in thedressing room until Max was finished in an hour and try to explain myself inbroken French to the class, or act like it was normal to wear a high wastedtankini bottom with a hot pink sports bra to water aerobics. Some of these women were wearingknee length swimming suits and I already stuck out as the only non-Moroccan,but what’s living overseas really about if not feeling uncomfortable from timeto time?

I tried to drop my towel and sneak into the water as inconspicuously aspossible and it was well worth it. They know how to work it out here! When you think water aerobics you think of retirement home pools full ofswimming-suit-skirted-empty-milk-jug-swinging 70 year olds, but at the risk ofsounding cliché, this wasn’t your grandma’s water aerobics class. A young Moroccan ran the length of thepool and back the entire time shouting for people to work harder and on occasion even reaching into the water to push someone’s headdown, making water treading more challenging. And she didn’t shy away from bossing me as thenewcomer.

“Plus Dur! PlusVite!” work harder, work faster! she yelled, squatting next to me in the pool.

Somehow it wasn’t a confrontationalkind of yelling, everyone was laughing and having a great time – kicking theirlegs about and yelling jokes back to the instructor. Every once in a while she stopped for a small dance break and then got back to the pool. Itwas awesome.

In the locker room afterwards the 15 + women where havingmultiple conversations with each other in a web across the small space andpassing dates back and forth to eat. Most were sitting in wrapped towels telling stories and illustratingthem with exaggerated hand movements. At this point they had switched to Arabic and I had little idea of whatthey were saying, but it was nice to witness, if not be part of in a smallway, the camaraderie and intimacy that happens with Arab women behind closeddoors. It is much strongerthan I have ever experienced in an American women’s locker room where everyonefaces the wall to change clothes and then bustles out before the sweat hasdried on their foreheads. Irealized that my swimming suit bottom/sports bra combination didn’t matter abit and what matters here is being together.

One particularly jovial woman handed me a date. “B’saha” she smiled from behind her sopping wet hair. ToYour Health

Morocco at the Met

2011-11-01T14:05:00.000-07:00

Love This.

Our Time in Lisbon Comes to an End

2011-10-25T16:21:00.000-07:00

We spent our last full Lisbon day in Belem checking out the "Age of Discovery" monuments in honor of Christopher Columbus - the founder of our 3 day weekend feast. We hit the Monastery of St. Jerome - some of the most beautiful cloisters I've ever seen - oh to be a nun! Reading, walking about, thinking...eating broth, staying single forever, waking up for prayers several times a night ...wait, actually that sounds terrible. Nun I shall not be, but cloister appreciator I shall. The adjacent church actually houses the tomb of Vasco De Gama. Vasco De Gama!

Monument to Discovery

Then we hit the "Monument To Discovery" (just what it sounds like) and sampled a very tasty treat called "Pastel de Nata" - a special custard cooked in a sweet filo dough type crust. Divine.

For our last night we went to the Gulbankian Musuem where I accidentally bought an amazing book about all of the books from all over the world in the collection in Portuguese. I was very sad indeed when I pulled it from my back pack and discovered "De Paris A Toquio" instead of "From Paris to Tokyo" like I thought I had purchased. Not to worry, a sweet friend of ours in Portugal is going to swap it for us.

The museum, containing the late Mr. Gulbankian's personal collection, is really stunning. My favorite section was the room comprising Persia, the Middle East, and Turkey. At one point I looked up from a fabulous 3 x 5 yard, 400 year old Persian rug to see a small toddler making his way around the corner from the previous room. He was running towards the rug from the opposite side of the rug I was on. (If you see what's coming then hold your breath like I did.) I waited for a few seconds to see who was with him and an old woman with moccasins and knee highs came toddling through the door, too many paces behind him. Just then it dawned on me that she wasn't going to catch him in time. I let out a pre-gasp gasp. And then the small child jumped onto the platform, peddling across the 400 year old rug. I must have let out a serious cry because Max ran to my side to ask what was the matter. Not wanting to loose this fun game of cat and mouse the child ran a bit further (the threads!) and fell right down in the middle of the rug. I didn't know I had such strong feelings for historical artifacts - but I guess I do. The guards ushered both the child and the old woman out of the room and Max had me sit me down for a minute so I could get it together.

Perhaps that hidden (or not so hidden) compulsion to preserve cultural artifacts explains why I can't really talk about the looting of the Iraq National Library and Archive after the 2003 invasion without getting very sad. Look it up. Be very sad too. Anyway, this particular rug did make it through the toddler invasion of 2011 and for that I am glad.

Tiles from the Gulbankian Museum

As we were packing up the next morning and recounting the many things we'd seen Max said to me "I thought this was going to be a relaxing trip" with a grin.

"But this was a relaxing trip! This was me, low key planning." I said with a bit of panic.

To be honest, I'm a planning maniac. I think we'll just see one thing today and spend the rest of the time milling about but then I realize that historical sites A, B, and C are all on the way so we should just stop there for a little while and this amazing church is only open for a few hours that afternoon so we should probably stop there too. ooh, and wouldn't the perfect Brazilian dinner (which we ate at a place called Brasuca) be a great way to end our relaxing day? And then! We'll walk down by the river front and see the ships come into port... you get the picture.

But I have promised, crossed my heart and hope to die, that our next trip will be a bit slower paced :)

Lisbon, Day II

2011-10-22T08:11:00.000-07:00

Lisbon has a weekly fleamarket in the shadow of the 17^th century Church of Sao Vincente deFora. After exiting therickety tram that wound us up through the Alfama the next morning we wanderedtowards the church. We found ourway by noting the increased number of University students lugging antiquemirrors and carved side tables back to their apartments as we moved furtherdown the hill. The sprawlingmarket has an eclectic mix of old world book sellers, hairy legged hippies makinghemp bracelets, Guinean’s hawking African statues, antique furniture with navelcarvings, and the usual ‘junk from my closet’ collections of televisionremotes, half sets of china, empty chipped frames, and old shoes rubber bandedtogether all spread across an old bed sheet. I bought several black and white postcards of Lisbon fromthe early 1900’s but I found my haggling skills much diminished in this nonMiddle-Eastern country and I’m sure I paid too much.

Many of the churches in theAlfama share a roving preacher and are closed to the public much of the time. We were very fortunate to catch theChurch of Sao Vincente de Fora open for a few minutes after the fleamarket. One of the enclaves has apretty gruesome statue depicting a man, hands shackled but outstretched, andhis heart plucked out – blood gushing down his chest. My training in Catholic saints in minimal so we asked thecaretaker about it as she ushered us out the doors to close for the day. She told us that Sao Joao Do Brito wasa Portuguese Jesuit who preached in southern India during the 17^thcentury. After a significantamount of success he was martyred – slayed through the heart. My reading revealed that when heinstructed a convert to divorce all but one of his wives one of the unhappy (anpowerful) women began a campaign against Sao Joao Do Brito and he was later killedas he became increasingly unpopular among the upper class and religious Brahmin. Funny though, in all my reading Icouldn’t find anything about him being stabbed through the heart. It’s a great story all the same. I think that kind of historymeets legend meets symbolism meets religious expression is what is sofascinating to me about religious iconography.

After a lunch of pork chops– the first in months – and grilled sardines – which I’m slowly becomingobsessed with – we headed up to the Sao George Castle for a few hours. This castle was first built by theMoors in the 12^th century. We spent quite a bit oftime taking in views of they city and reading up on Lisbon from a shady spot wefound…down in the dry castle moat. It was good to rest our feet, but we spent a considerably amount of timetrying not to get busted by the grounds police and making jokes about thenumber of dead bodies/animals/garbage and sundry things that had no doubt madetheir way into the soil through the moat.

After that we checked out the School of Portugese DecorativeArts --an awesome old house full of enough patterns, prints, tiles and carvingsto make your head spin—ate a mediocre Indo-Portuguese Curry and, shame of myshame, caught an American movie in English. In my defense, all of the movies in Casablanca are in Frenchor Arabic and never subtitled in English. For a few moments I felt like I was back home at Movies 8 with a pursefull of smuggled in candy.

I guess sometimes travel isas much about discovering home as it is about discovering new places.

A Rough Start, But...

2011-10-16T14:34:00.000-07:00

It was a double puking.

I probably haven't seen someone throw up for 15 years when my younger brother threw up in the back seat of the minivan on the way to Grandma's. My sisters both rolled the windows down and held their faces out, wailing the whole time that they too were going to be sick and how would they survive?

The flight from Casablanca to Lisbon is very short and the plane size is commensurate to the journey. When the man behind us suddenly passed out and vomited into his shirt pocket I traveled back in time to the minivan's backseat. I, however, didn't attempt to stick my head out of the window - for the obvious reasons but also because I wanted to help. Too bad I don't know anything about helping other humans in need of physical aid and I could only sit there holding my puke bag out lamely... in case he needed another one? Note to self: take a first aid class for crying out loud.

I'm not sure what actually happened, but after someone roused the cabin crew the man came to, changed his shirt and everyone went back to their Portuguese Sky Mall equivalents like nothing had happened.

Very strange.

The second puking occurred on the church steps next to our guesthouse. 4:30 in the afternoon seemed a bit early for drunk street puking, but what do I know about Lisbon? (And actually, I later learned that "street drinking" is a legal and popular activity in Lisbon. It's just what it sounds like. Yikes.)

That's not a very good way to start off describing what was a wonderful trip we had in a wonderful place, but sometimes people get the idea that travel is all about leisure and glamor. Sometimes you have to wade through a bit of street puke to get to the "leisure" part....and I'm not speaking metaphorically here people.

ANYWAY, all grossness aside, we arrived at our guesthouse overlooking the Tagus river at about 5:00 PM and were greeted by what sounded like a Brazilian dance party. A retro jukebox blasted a mix of classic American Rock and rhythmic Brazilian Forro. Pedro, our host, worked a juicer to the beat - churning out two tall glasses of orange juice for us. Do you ever feel like you are the least cool person at the party? That's certainly how I felt in my librarian sweater (it's a bonafide, honest to gosh librarian sweater we are talking about) and Rick Steves guide book sticking out of my camera bag. But whatever. If you worry about not being "cool enough" for the Europeans, or the Jet Set, or the World Travelers or whoever you'll never go anywhere. Who cares. Wear your librarian sweaters with pride I say!

Lisbon. Is. Beautiful. We keep coming back to the adjective "easy". It was easy to get to and from the airport, easy to walk in the streets at night, easy to find something cheap to eat, easy to ask people for help. Our first night we took the quaint city tram (not unlike San Fran's) up to the top of the Alfama neighborhood - where sailors and salty sea characters of yesteryear once rousted. This area was one of the few places in Lisbon not destroyed by the 1755 earthquake that leveled most of the city.

That night we wandered down the steep lanes and stopped at lookout points to take in sweeping views of the Atlantic as the sun set. We sampled Lisbon's famous Bacalhau - fried salted cod fish - and the Pastel de Bacalhau - a kind of codfish cake with potatoes, parsley and eggs all fried together in a delicious ball of goodness. The Bacalhau tasted a bit like beef jerky with breading - only made of fish.. In its defense, we did stop just before closing time when the Bacalhau had been sitting under a heat lamp all day. Mea Culpa.

Bacalhau Shop

For our actual dinner we took a ferry across the river to the other side of the bay and dined on squid stew and a cod fish and cream dish. Even though squid isn't at the top of my 'love it' list, I feel very strongly that you just have to eat the things the locals eat when you travel. Have I ever gotten sick? You'd better believe it. But I have also discovered many new things I like - the stew was actually quite good and the squid very tender. But the best moment of the night was when Max asked the waiter if they had anything with pork on the menu. After months of pork-pravation in Casablanca when he brought out a large dish of mixed Chorizo with flames still licking up through the sausages we knew we were going to love Lisbon.

How to Celebrate a Birthday

2011-10-13T17:02:00.000-07:00

...I know, I know, I always post a teaser when we go somewhere and (usually) follow up with a more substantial post a bit later when I have more time.... today is no different :)

Any guesses?

"Give it Up Y'all!"

2011-10-03T13:21:00.000-07:00

Brooke: "No, no, no, I can't say that!"

Max: "Make some noise?"

Brooke: "No, I can't say that either..."

Max: "What about put your hands together!

Brooke: "...well... oh, no. That will never work."

Max: "Well, what do you feel comfortable saying?"

Brooke: "Well, something like Hello and Good Evening. I'd like to welcome you to what is sure to be a great show. Please enjoy your evening."

Max: "At a hip hop concert? You want to say hello and good evening?"

When I started my new job in the Public Affairs section a few months ago I knew I'd be well, interacting with the public, but I didn't know I'd be called upon to emcee a hip hop concert. If you know me you can confirm that I am, in fact, a huge nerd. I like to read, I like to make and appreciate art, and I like documentaries. I like to stay home and parties make me really nervous. I like fogey rock and indie music that you could sleep to. But when a Muslim Hip Hop band from America comes to Morocco and it's your job to introduce them in front of several hundred people - you do it.

Just before I went on stage one of the band members, nice as pie, gave me a little pep talk about gettin' my groove on.

"You just have to be a little vulnerable" he said

"Yeah, that was it, that laugh you just did - it's relate-able and engaging. You can do this! ...Just don't be a...librarian..." he finished with smile.

I'm happy to report that with only one minor mess-up my gig, as the kids call it, went very well.

Blogger, You Know Me So Well

2011-09-28T16:03:00.000-07:00

I was wasting some time tonight on the computer before reading Stephen King's The Shining out loud with Max and going to bed (ebitty jibitty that is a scary book! And out loud? At night? Awesome) and I came across some of the search terms that lead people to my blog. Most of them seemed obvious, but one of them at once made perfect sense and no sense at all.

More than one person has found my blog after searching for "girls in sweatpants".

I feel both offended and profoundly understood.

I do indeed own many pairs of sweatpants, BUT also many pairs of pointy toed heels. So there.

How NOT to Respond to a Groping

2011-09-21T15:49:00.000-07:00

It happens, I guess.

It happens in America and it happens in the Middle East (and elsewhere I'm sure) but it had never happened to me.

Before Max and I went to Amman for our first overseas experience we were informed that, unfortunately, I should be prepared for an unwelcome pat on the rump or a fully-intentional-accidental brushing up against in public spaces from time to time. I was so prepared for such an event that the first words I learned in Arabic meant "Shame on you!" and I practiced a hand swat that would surely deflect any wandering perverts. Perhaps as a result of my precaution (or just plain old good luck) such an occasion never befell me in Jordan or Jerusalem. I did get spit on by a small boy at the Kalandia checkpoint between Ramallah and Jerusalem once, but that's not quite the same thing.

A few weekends ago we traveled to the southern coastal town of Essaouira via Marrakesh. We spent one night in a lovely Riad so our visiting friend could experience the madness of Jemaa El-Fna - and madness it was. Feeling a bit more confident than our first time in the square I led our posse of three right to a circle of people gathered around traditional musicians. The three of us stood on our tippy toes and shuffled back an forth to get a glimps of the musicians' hat tassels orbiting their bobbing heads.

Just as I settled into a little perch where I could see the action, I felt an arm/shoulder/hand brush past my backside quite forcefully. My immediate, unthinking response? I swung around to see the punk, mid 20's, as he was slinking away and gave him a two handed, open handed shove from behind. Me!? Shove a stranger!? Knowing the level of his guilt he, of course, didn't even turn around but kept on walking. (That's how I knew it was him - would you just keep on walking if a stranger shoved you out of the blue?) But as I was mad dogging him, my back turned to the circle, a felt another close encounter from the circle and after swinging back around (hands at my side this time) I felt another one from yet another direction. Good night! (And not 'good night' as in isn't a triple groping awesome? but 'good night' as in Good Hell People!)

"We gotta get out of here!"

I yelled to Max and our friend over the drums and general chaos of the square. We made it to safety in a nearby cafe and as I explained to Max what had happened including my completely automatic (and un-recommendable) response his eyes got big. I think he was one part proud that my instinct was to fight back, but also one part horrified about what I might have done had he actually turned around to face me. It wouldn't have been pretty.

Anyway, don't get groped. And if you do...I'm not sure that starting a fight is the best course of action...

...but to each their own I say.

Last Days of Summer

2011-09-20T15:50:00.000-07:00

But really, when is it not mostly summer here?

We've been busy bees here in Morocco...

Postcards From The World That We Live In

2011-09-10T07:21:00.000-07:00

Anatomy of an Iftar

2011-09-08T15:26:00.000-07:00

Well Ramadan is over but I figure, no time like the present to talk about it anyway.

A refresher: Ramadan is a holy month where Muslims fast from sun up to sun down, eating only in the early hours of the morning and late at night when the sun has gone down. This daylight abstinence is not only from food, but drink, cigarettes and sex as well. This demonstration of devotion is commanded in the Koran and also commemorates the month during which the Prophet Mohammed received the Koran from the angel Gabriel. It is a time of fasting, reflecting on ones blessings by experiencing what hunger is like for the poor, and much prayer and devotion. After Ramadan (and to an extent during) Muslims give Zakat or alms to the poor.

At the end of the day, around 7 (7:20 ish in Morocco this year) the call to prayer sounds and participating Muslims break their fast at a meal called Iftar. Max and I were very fortunate this year to attend a couple of Iftar's during Ramadan. There are a few traditions associated with Iftar that we were not aware of before coming to the Mahgreb.

To begin with, a date and/or something sweet is traditionally eaten first to end the fast. We sat around a table heaped with pastries, dates and dried fruit at one dinner and I have to say, sweets first is my kind of meal.

Other traditional iftar foods in Morocco include hard boiled eggs, harrira soup - a tomato based soup with herbs, chickpeas, vegetables, sometimes meat - and something called shpekia. How you spell it is anyone's guess, but it is a small sticky pastry made of fried dough, sesame seeds and honey.

At one iftar we were served fried fish caught in the sea that very day along with kefta (spiced ground meat) and various yummy bread/sauce concoctions. At the other iftar we tried our first dish of Kalia. We first spotted Kalia in the Fez medina and I said to our tour guide "...what is that stuff that looks like chunks of meat that have been curing in fat for months without refrigeration?" and she said "Oh, that's chunks of meat that have been curing in fat for months without refrigeration. It's called Kalia." I later learned that it is common to eat Kalia in a tajine that has been slow cooked with eggs. Sounds like a groovy breakfast catastrophe, doesn't it? I was a little skeptical when I saw it sandwiched between layers of fat in the open air markets, but served in a lovely tagine and sopped up with a fresh baguette I actually quite liked it. Will I make it at home? Probably not. Would I eat it again? Absolutely.

The meal is finished, of course, with the ubiquitous mint tea found in every kitchen, stoop, cranny, and street corner in Morocco. Our friends have been gracious to prepare a special no-tea-tea for us on such occasions.

In light of all this food obsession, I'll leave one more food related anecdote that a wise Moroccan told me before Ramadan began. He said to me You know, Ramadan is really special for women. And I thought But surely its special for everyone, what do you mean? He went on to ask me how I felt when I prepared food for Max and I said I liked to do it because I like to cook but more importantly I like to feed Max, to look after him and care for him. He said that Ramadan can be hard for women because they have to cook all day for what are often elaborate iftars while fasting and they are tired. But then he related the cooking of the iftar to my feeling when I cook for Max.

You do this because you love him, because you want him to be happy. If the woman makes her family food during Ramadan with this kind of love it is a very special thing.

A very special thing for her relationship with her family, but also her relationship with Allah, with God. Anyway, it was a lovely sentiment that the labor involved in the fasting and food preparation could be a kind of devotion to her love for God and family.

Busy is as Busy Does

2011-08-27T12:16:00.000-07:00

I feel like I've been posting about our last trip for weeks because nothing has been going on. Wait! That's not true, it's because everything has been going on lately! A short list of goings on are as follows:

1. I started my new job at the consulate and I am loving it. Capital L. It's a bit of library, a bit of public affairs, a bit of social media, a bit of programming, a lot of wonderful people, a bit of French, a bit of Arabic, a bit of.... you get the idea. I feel really blessed.

2. A few of my new colleges have been helping me learn a some Arabic and it has been awesome. I think they get a real kick out of my 'look-what-I-can-do' silliness, but they are gracious when I mispronounce something as simple as good morning and that means the world to me.

3. It's Ramadan! I'll post more about the holy month of fasting later, but it changes the pace of life drastically in this part of the world. Shops are closed and the streets look like ghost towns until about 10:30 p.m. when things really pick up and go well into the night. It's been a much different experience than in Jerusalem and we have learned a lot.

4. I pulled something gnarly in my back whilst working it out to a Denise Austin exercise video. No matter, I've started a regiment of physical therapy including what feels like a mild form of electro-shock therapy. Adventures in health care indeed.

5. I've started driving. You heard right, driving! Remember the left turn I told you about where everyone lines up 10 cars across (instead of behind one another) and then races to funnel into the single lane that T's with intersection? I have made several such left turns and so far so good. It occurred to me that going from being and American driver to a Moroccan driver would have been really stressful, but going from being an American walker (without a car) to a Moroccan driver makes total sense. You just have to behave like you are not driving a several ton machine full of gasoline but a regular person who can squeeze through tight spaces, back up at will, go in the wrong direction, and park on sidewalks (which I've done on several occasions).

6. My youngest brother moved to Hawaii to play soccer as a college Freshman and I'm so proud I could burst. Even though I'm thousands of miles away from him I feel like I have personally sent him off to school all by himself and Max has had to talk me down from my worry several times. In my most extreme moments of anxiety I will cry out "How do parents do this?! How can we ever do this?!" I'm ridiculous.

7. I signed up for French class through the Foreign Service Institute, gulp, in the intermediate class. I may have lost my brain. We'll see how it goes.

8. You've been watching the news, right? Lots of stuff has been going on around these parts and further east. My heart has been heavy for those who have and are experiencing very hard time these days.

I'll leave you with a few pictures of the last leg of our trip to Marrakesh from the Atlas Mountains. We took a day trip up and around several windy bends to the Berber town of Imlil. We ate an amazing Berber tagine in the shadow of the highest mountain in North Africa, Jebel Toubkal, and watched the local children play in the rivers that trickle out of the mountains. The perfect getaway from our getaway. So postmodern.

Small villages in the Atlas Mountains

Evening Falls

2011-08-21T08:10:00.000-07:00

After our mighty lamb lunch we toured the Bahia Palace - an enormous moorish complex with gadzillions of rooms and courtyards and flowers, etc. It was lovely.

Bahia Palace Courtyard - one of them

We finished our second day in Marrakesh with a hearty meal of sausages, pastilla, and grilled veggies at several different food carts on Jemaa Al-Fnaa. I had this idea that we would enter the tangle of carts pushed together to form a kind of outdoor cafeteria and peruse several menus before prudently selecting the best looking dishes with the best prices. No dice. We entered through one of the main entrances and were immediately swarmed by pushy men shoving menus in our face. We got about three carts in before we relented and sat down on the edge of one of the metal tables. But we were not disappointed. The square is amazing and Max only almost got in a fight once when a younger menu hawking soup seller grabbed me by the arm. What can you do?

Snail Soup. It's actually on our list of things to try, but not in July.

If you know Max, this picture could be titled "Of Course!"

We finished the evening with ice cream and flan at the Andalusia Cafe overlooking the square. I read that it is the largest square in Africa and that doesn't surprise me.

On our way out of the square

Lamb by the Kilo

2011-08-19T18:01:00.000-07:00

The next morning we hit the streets early in order to see the historical sites before the sun rose directly above the Medina and, in theory, made the temperatures soar. But we were extraordinarily lucky this trip because the temperature stayed pretty mild - almost sweater in the evening mild.

Our first stop was the Ben Youssef Medersa. Like the Medersas, or Islamic colleges, of Fez, the Ben Youssef Medersa was a place where students could live and study - the Koran as well as other subjects. It operated from the 14th century until 1960 when it was closed down, renovated, and reopened in 1982 as a public historical sight.

Once inside I tucked myself in the corner, shielding my notebook from the glaring sun, and sketched the fountain and Merdersa walls for some time. Although my drawing skills leave much to be desired, it was a great way to soak in the feeling of the place.

Next we hit the Marrakesh Museum and the Almoravid (12th century) Koubba - el-Ba'adyn. Koubba is the Arabic word for tomb and I'm not really sure how it fits in here because this Koubba, with its domed room and basin along the floor, was used for ablutions, or ritual washing before prayers.

Museum

While the Mechoui we ate the night before was fantastic (despite accidently eating large chunks of preserved lemon by accident not once but twice) we wanted to have a more authentic Marrakshi meal. When we explained to our Riad hostess that morning that we were looking for real street Mechoui she drew a lot of squiggly lines on our map this way and that before marking a giant X on a small side street of Jemaa Al-Fnaa. I snapped a series of pictures so you could encounter the street just as we did.

They refer to this dish as Mechoui. In Morocco it is a whole lamb (like the whole thing) roasted over a spit. In this little ally a man known as "The Hajj" hacks the lamb up with an axe and sells it by kilo. So we bellied up, ordered our kilo, and were handed almost 2 pounds of what we think was part of a leg in thin sheets of paper. We picked through the mechoui with our hands in a small white tiled hole in the wall (literally) off the street, about 10 feet squared. The couple sitting behind us, and I really mean behind us - the place was so small our bums met off the back of our chairs - picked the thing clean while we left the bits we couldn't discern or break apart after a few bites.

It was delicious.

We finished our meal just after prayers and as we left the ally we noticed large groups of men performing one of the 5 daily Islamic prayers. I had never seen devotion like this in public and it was really something to behold. They all kneel on prayer rugs facing Mecca and perform certain physical movements associated with the prayer as well as Koranic recitations. Beautiful.

Animal Carpet Wall to Wall

2011-08-14T05:50:00.000-07:00

After winding through the congested streets of Casablanca, no small feat, Max and I finally found ourselves outside the city limits and on our way to Marrakesh. In what may have been slightly on the cheesy side, I put in the CD I'd burned for the occasion that began with Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young's "Marrakesh Express". It quickly became the theme song of our weekend away and, cheesy or not, I do not regret it.

Animal carpet wall to wall
Ducks and pigs and chickens call
American Women 5 foot tall (...?)

Wouldn't you know we're ridin' on the Marrakesh Express.


So many scooters!

After a long and sweaty ordeal trying to get our parking situation figured out we hopped a cab from the new city to Bab Doukkala found along the north side of the Medina walls. Like most places in Morocco there is an old city or Medina and a newer French city built during the French occupation between the early 1900's and the 1950's. While the new city is easier to maneuver and if you are carrying a lot of luggage much easier to traverse, we are light packers and much prefer the medina when we travel - what's a few extra gallons of sweat?

We arrived at our riad, Riad ZamZam, at about 5 o'clock in the evening and found it a very welcome respite from the heat and the commotion of the outside streets. In honor of our anniversary we splurged a bit on the Riad and we were not disapointed. in fact, we were the only ones there the whole weekend and we felt like Kings. But not in a sterilized-white-tiled-bathroom-with-shiny-fixtures kind of way, but a funky-cave-like-shower-molded-to-the-wall-and-tiny-rustic-chairs-made-of-zebra-skin kind of way. The small court yard had a freezing plunge pool that delighted Max to no end and an ancient date tree that rose above the roof and swayed back and forth.

Despite its lovely atmosphere, we fought the urge to spend all of our time at the Riad. That first night we made our way across the medina to a restaurant a friend had recommended. While we were told about the amazing pastilla (chicken pie with almonds and cinnamon and sugar) and slow cooked lamb with preserved lemons we were not warned about the fire dancing woman. Belly dancing is a big touristy thing in Morocco. Many upscale restaurants aimed at tourists (guilty) have belly dancing late into the night. It's not something that either of us really knows how to handle. Should we appreciate and applaud it on the merits of its skill? Should we avert our eyes because of its scandalous-ness? Or should we feel ooky that women are dancing in front of us, scantily clad, for money? We usually feel the latter.

Anyway, there was one dancer in particular (very modestly dressed) that danced with a plate of candles on her head. At one point she leaned over the table, hips still swinging, and offered her hands to me in a gesture to join her. If you know me, I'm not a dancer. To the extent that in Highschool I hid out in the hallway during dances. It's true. But one of my favorite things about travel is that you are so free to redefine yourself. Sure I'm afraid of dancing when I'm myself at home, but why shouldn't traveling Brooke be more fun, more adventurous? My awkward wiggling was only compounded when the woman put the plate of candles on my head. I held it firmly in place, but still felt a bit of terror at the prospects of lighting myself on fire. Of course I dutifully tipped her and, tourist trap or no, it was a pretty awesome experience. ( I would have put the picture of me with the candle plate, but I definitely looked like a googly eyed crazy person trying to move to the beat while not start myself on fire - it isn't pretty)

We passed through the main square, Jemaa El-Fnaa, on the way home and though we didn't spend a lot of time there that night because of the hour, we were there long enough for me to get chased by a man holding a snake and buy some fresh squeezed orange juice.

Weekly Roundup: Oh the Places You've Been

2011-08-06T05:00:00.000-07:00

We didn't have a very big turnout for this week's round up so I gave it an extra day....alas, to no avail. So consider this a little nudge to all you bloggers who read but haven't quite mustered the courage to contribute. We all want to hear what you have to say :) Make sure to check the calender next week and send Enclos*ure your submissions - for yourself or posts you've found during the week. ...Not that I didn't feel like a giant hypocrite writing that - I did. I too will be a better contributor. The more the merrier.

But anyway, this week's roundup is about 'place related joys' - where do you love? In a sense being in the Foreign Service means you get to collect favorite places. Whether it's a coastal retreat in Cameroon, the waterfalls of Iquazu or the snow cone shack in your home town - there is something grounding and sustaining about falling in love with a place and returning to it.

I settled on this topic after listening to a fabulous piece on NPR on two travel writers, Pico Iyer and Paul Theroux called "Five Tips for Making Travel Meaningful". Everyone travels differently and what makes a trip -or a post in our case- for one person might sound like torture to another. But the bottom line is, we are all seeking for ways to make our travels and current post meaningful on a personal level. We want to do good, sustaining work in our jobs, but we also want to have some personal connection with locals, with geography, with history, and with culture.

As a follow up to this week's round up - feel free to comment on how you have managed to make those relationships and connections - with people, with culture, with history, and with geography. "Favorite Places" seemed like an easy way to capture some of that idea this week.

Favorite Places Overseas

Catembe, Maputo

3rd Culture Children starts us off with a wonderful post about her time in Southern Africa. She so perfectly describes a combination of amazing travel opportunities in conjunction with trying personal times. Difficult posts and changing personal circumstances can really mark a place in our hearts.

On that note I'll add one of my favorite places to the list. (I have many - I'm becoming almost indiscriminate about falling in love with a place...get a hold of yourself Brooke!) Before joining the foreign service my husband and I spent a year as students in Jerusalem. Whenever someone asks me what it was like I pause, not because we didn't have a terrific experience in Jerusalem, but because it's not really the type of place you say "It was so fun. I, like, did all these things and had a blast". We were able to travel freely throughout Israel and the West Bank and it was an experience I'll never forget. We saw things that were difficult for both groups of people, but on the other hand, we made friends with people from both groups and saw their joys and their triumphs up close. The struggle is almost palpable in Jerusalem. But we were also able to spend time outside of Jerusalem in the many beautiful natural sights that the region has to offer - wadis and oasis', lakes, the dessert, green hiking trails, snorkeling, stunning shorelines. We made great friends that we'll have for a lifetime. Like 3rd Culture Children it was our first big experience overseas as a family. For those reasons I think Jerusalem will always be one of my favorite places.

Achziv National Park - that's Lebanon you can see in the background.
Below: Video of a candy shop in Hebron - an illustration of the region's many contrasts

So, when you are in these foreign favorite places - how do you communicate? Ogles and Observations has some great language learning tips that can help us making connections wherever we are.

Favorite Places at Home
Small Bits posts about a favorite place near to her home that has been on my list for sometimes. Being away from our homes for so long can sometimes give us new eyes to appreciate it.

Mesa Verde

Hello Taylalay shared one of her favorite places with us this week: Maine. Be sure to check out the great photos - it's like I could taste the lobster roll!


Shores of Maine

A place that we will all call "home" at one point or another is DC. Paul Benjamin: Writer, Editor, Supermodel spent some time there before heading to his new assignment and he posts about some of the great things DC has to offer.

Washington Monument

And to end on a sweet note Wife Mommy Woman really gets at the heart of what "home" means and her favorite place related joys.

Weekly State Department Round Up: Oh The Places You've Been

2011-08-02T14:32:00.000-07:00

This week's theme:

"Favorite Places"

Places you have discovered on your travels that you have loved or that have kept you sane in some way or another. At home or abroad - what have been some of your place related joys?

Feel free to email me or leave a comment below before Friday :)

Six Years, In the Desert

2011-08-02T02:39:00.000-07:00

Initially that title read "Six Years in the Desert" - but that would be an enormous misnomer. It's really been a lovely oasis. What am I talking about? Six terrific years of marriage - each more exciting and less forseen than the last :)

We decided, months and months ago actually, to spend our anniversary in Marrakesh - a lovely city perched at the base of the Atlas mountains. (And across a desertish landscape from Casa. Hence the title.) It has a long history in the region as one of the former imperial cities and a crossroads for the Berbers of the Atlas mountains and the Arabs of the plains and ruling cities found in the west. It is sometimes referred to as the "Red City" - the walls of the medina, made from the local iron rich soil, form a lovely maze of salmon colored walls.

Despite offering all of the delights of modern hedonism - gambling, alcohol, belly dancing, luxury hotels and thrumping night clubs, Marrakesh has a lot to offer if those things aren't really your things (as they are not ours). Marrakesh is home to the largest square in all of Africa and what many argue is the most perfectly proportioned, most exquisite mineret in North Africa found at the Kutubia Mosque.

I was nervous that I would find Marrakesh over commercialized and cynical in its approach to local culture and tourism but I found just the opposite to be the case. We went in the dead of summer which usually spells disaster. Temperatures over 100 degrees are very common through the summer months. However, in what can only be called an anniversary miracle, the temperature lingered around 80 degrees for most of our time in Marrakesh. But anyway, the summer is the low season for this reason, and there weren't a lot of other tourists. But the main square was still PACKED. As I looked around I realized it wasn't misplaced tourists with sunburned noses like myself surrounding the snake charmers and henna tattooers in the square - it was local teenagers out with their friends and young families with children in strollers. Perhaps that's what keeps Jamaa El-Fnaa so vibrant. It's not just a space for local entertainers to free tourists of their change, but a square to meet and mingle for locals as well. It is a terrific public space. But more on that later. For now, a few pictures of the highlights with details to follow.

Ben Yousseff Medersa

Food Stalls at Jamaa el-Fnaa

Friendly Gembri Player

Best. Grapefruit. Juice. Ever.

Small Atlas Mountain Berber village

Berber Tagine. Holy Smokes.

Toubkal - the highest mountain in North Africa

Berber village above an empty waadi (river bed)

Sometimes You Just Need A Little Something Extra

2011-07-25T00:47:00.000-07:00

First, you have to understand that Morocco gained its independence from France in 1956 and most French Nationals left in or around that year. There is an enormous French Catholic cathedral in town that, from what I understand, remains almost entirely empty - no benches, no nothing - because services stopped when the French went home. It now functions as a community center instead of the Catholic church it was intended to be. The Cathedral, like many other things around town, have a kind of "frozen in time" feel to them. My new doctor, I found out last week, has a similarly "frozen in time" aura to him.

Not that I didn't receive great care - I did - but when I sat down in front of his lovely antique wooden desk and bookshelves full of almost antique medical books I thought "He's either a collector...or..." Just then an older French man walked into the room smiling and ready to shake my hand almost right off. He was very friendly but spoke hardly any English. However, other than a slight miscommunication between my name being "Brooke" and not "Brookie" (which I never really mind) language didn't turn out to be a barrier.

When he pulled back the little curtain in his office to reveal a small examination table and its accouterments 1950's medical scenes came to mind. And, don't take this the wrong way because again, he was lovely and I had a positive experience, the room seemed a bit like those white tiled depictions of insane asylums from the 50's. You know the ones? Well, I climbed up a rickety step ladder to the table covered in a green and white checked cloth and the doctor proceeded to smile as he checked out my blood pressure, ears, stomach etc.

When he reached the end of the examination, after looking inside my open mouth, he gave a hearty chuckle and slapped me on the cheek.

"It's nothing serious" he beamed in a heavily accented English, helping me down from the precarious table.

A slap on the face. That was a first for me. I gathered my things and tried not to laugh about the unusual ending to this exam. It wasn't mean or anything, like you tap a toddler's bum as he waddles past you just because he's so stinkin' cute. Not that I think that was the reason this doctor gave me a chuck on the cheek, but the level of playful friendliness was about the same.

He wrote me a prescription and walked me to the front door of the building with his hand on my shoulder assuring in springy french that I would be fine and that I should come and see him if I had any more problems.

To date, I haven't. What a slight slap on the face won't do for you, eh?

Arabic Calligraphy Exhibit

2011-07-11T04:06:00.000-07:00

Next to the Hassan II mosque here in Casablanca there is a little library and community type center. A few weeks ago they had a calligraphy exhibit.

The representation of figures is forbidden in Islamic art and thus Muslims have spent hundreds of years developing art based on geometric patterns and calligraphy. We were first introduced to Arabic calligraphy by our dear friend Hassan in Amman. It can be so beautiful and intricate.

Here were some of our favorites from the exhibit.

FS Weekly Roundup: So Many Hats!

2011-07-08T01:25:00.000-07:00

As it's bidding season and many an FS folk are headed this way and that, I thought the roundup this week could focus on different roles we take on as our lives and our job shift from place to place.

I'll go first...

Being Social
I am slow on posting about the 4th of July because we just had our Consulate Independence Day celebration yesterday. It was my first official state department event and I had a blast. Being overseas makes you think about America in a different way and I'd be lying if I said my eyes didn't water a bit when the Marines raised the flag and the national anthem was sung. God bless America.

My sweet husband had a hefty list of duties in association with the party and so I tried my best to hobnob without him. I played wingman to an awesome new spouse at post and met a few new people. As the wife of a public diplomacy officer I am going to have to get my social event on quite frequently - I'm slowly getting better at it :) I hope to be even more social and meet more people in the future now that I know what to expect.

Back to the Desert shares a story about her own attempts to socialize with locals. While understanding local culture through the eyes of an actual local can be one of the most rewarding experiences abroad, Back to the Desert does a good job of exploring the barriers and stresses associated with it.

Not being social
But the Foreign Service isn't always about being immersed in the local culture - many people are serving tours that require compound living and very restricted movement. Even though Diplojournal hasn't been out to take as many pictures as he'd like in Lahore, he managed to snap some great ones of a lightening storm this past week.

Weebles Kabul but They Don't Fall Down (Afghanistan), Adventures in Good Countries (Pakistan) and newly assigned Muttering Behind the Hardline (Karachi) blog about posts where movement is similarly restricted.

When Everything is New...
Moving is tricky. Even if you've done it several times, packing your stuff, moving your stuff and arriving in a new country where everyone and everything is new cane be quite an ordeal. Here's how a few of our own handled it.

Small Bits imparts her wisdom about sharing responsibility and relearning the daily grind. Great insights!

Diplomatic Dad captures just what it means to go through what he aptly called "Extreme Home Makeover: Foreign Service Family Edition" and Short Term Memory addresses the ever present issue of FS moving: Will we see our beloved stuff again? (And in this case it's a totally awesome cow chair - check it out!) Trying to visit family on top of packing all your earthly belongings comes with its own challenges as Adventures of a Freckle Faced Girl describes.

The less talked about companion to physical relocation is emotional relocation - Fabling pinpoints the day that the adrenaline-getting-there-new-place excitement wears off for her and reality sets in - no matter how lovely her Brussels reality may be :)

On that note Diplomatic Mom has shared a truly beautiful 4th of July salute and captured some of the feelings associated with leaving your country even as you move forward to serve it.

Timing, as everyone knows, is a real humdinger in the State Department. Will the end date at my old post work with the start date of my new post? Will it work with my home leave? School Year? Spouse's Employement? Getting into the foreign service to begin with comes with a host of timing conundrums as the process can take years. Kudos to So You Wanna Be a Diplomat who just accepted a great job in the West Bank and Gaza as he waits for his Oral Assessment appointment. Diplomat in Waiting experiences his first but most definitely not his last last minute change of assignment.

New Hobbies
Sometimes foreign service life gives people a chance to catch up on hobbies they love but don't have the time for in the States and other times new hobbies are a necessary product of their environment - sometimes both. Check out From the Back of Beyond's container gardens! Additionally, she does a terrific job blogging about the "happy hat" that we sometimes put on in the foreign service. Some posts are hard. Some posts are really hard. How do we handle them with honesty and optimism? From the Back of Beyond is doing a great job negotiating the two.

It's harvest time over at Here, There, and Everywhere and Zvirdins at Large are getting their sprout on.

Over at The Briden Bunch Bunco has become a favorite pastime and Adventures in Good Countries, with perhaps my favorite post of the week, demonstrates her newly acquired skills as decoder...of not so difficult to crack codes.

Even though most foreign service officers have to learn at least one language and few would call it a "hobby" Life in the Land of Long White Cloud appears to have taken up an extra-curricular accent.

Kolbi has become an acronym savant over at A Daring Adventure thanks to her Consular training.

Put On Your Traveling Hat!
I'm not exactly sure what one of those would look like - but feel free to post a picture of you wearing yours. My husband has this "awesome" (his words) straw hat he bought when he lived in Brazil...it's probably the closest thing I've seen to a traveling hat...on that note maybe you shouldn't put your traveling hat on afterall...esepcially if it's kind of yellow and saggy.

But I digress - travel! Traveler has been my favorite new role as a foreign service spouse and from the looks of it it has been one of yours too!

Dear Diary: Travels in the Foreign Service heads to Paris while Wandering Memos describes what must have been an amazing trip to the Galapogos Islands. Wanna read about Red licorice and Jujubes trip to Bangkok? (Hint, You do)

The Dinoa Family changed even their vacation pace this past week and is having a great time at the beach. Similarly Sherwood Family Nonsense took a different sort of vacation this past week - without kids! Read about their trip to Turkey from their latest blog posts.

Speaking of pace, You Can Call Me Al has planned what looks like one of the most amazing US road trips I've ever seen. That's a lot of ground to cover - I can't wait to read about it!

May we all find ways to cope with our ever changing lifestyles and discover new joys along the way!

State Department Weekly Roundup: So Many Hats!

2011-07-04T15:27:00.000-07:00

I hope it's okay that I switcheroo the topic for this week's roundup. We'll get to "favorite places" in August, but as a new transplant myself I have been thinking a lot about the different roles we assume when we enter the foreign service lifestyle - whether of our own choosing or because of circumstance.

In our "regular lives" aka, before we joined the Foreign Service, I'm sure we all fell into patterns of how we went about living our life and how we operated in our family unit. But life abroad forces many of us to take on different roles and sometimes that is a welcomed discovery and other times it's a source of stress and anxiety.

Even though hypothetically I might be a little more outspoken than my husband or willing to make a stink when I've been crossed back in the states (only hypothetically) it's a lot harder when you don't speak the language. Thus, public tasks formerly performed by moi get shuffled to the husband who might not enjoy sending back an undercooked steak or demanding a refund as much as I do. Because of language skills or gender or any number of things, public task duties may shift between couples when they move overseas not to mention negotiating a whole new routine when it comes to domestic tasks. Grocery shopping is harder when you aren't sure if a particular red spice is Cayenne or Paprika.

And these are relatively small things. They make a noticeable difference and add up to stresses that are sometimes hard to articulate, but many spouses or partners of foreign service officers have to choose between their own career or education and being with their significant others. The State Department is good about creating opportunities for spouses to advance their career, but a two year job in the Embassy's IT department just isn't the same as designing software for Microsoft like you had hoped to do with your degree.

On the other hand, there are many hats that I probably would never have worn if not for moving overseas. In my particular situation I will have work opportunities in the library and information sciences that I never conceived of when I started my Masters degree in the public library track with the intent to work at a small suburban library for the rest of my career. Hosting people at my house was something that scared me spit-less for most of our married life, but I am really learning to love it as time goes on and see the tremendous value in building a sense of community. I never thought much about traveling before we moved overseas, but as evidence by my countless price comparing spread sheets and maps marked with every sight of interest to me within a three country radius, traveler is a role that suits me better than almost anything I thought of myself as back home.

So here is the topic for this week's roundup/discussion:

What are some ways you have seen your role change in your family, community, or marriage because of foreign service living - both good and more challenging? What have been some of your unexpected joys? How have you coped with challenges and learned to establish new routines and expectations overseas?

Feel free to comment in the comment section below or, even better, write up something related to this on your own blog and leave me the link in the comments. I think there is a lot to be learned from each other and a lot of comfort to be gained from realizing we all have these types of experiences.

So I said...

2011-06-30T02:16:00.000-07:00

"There is a problem with my split pack AC unit. It keeps making funning noises and the filter alarm is beeping"

And then the nice handimen from the consulate who help me fix broken things in my house lifted the front section of the air conditioning unit to reveal a giant cockroach.

A cockroach that was just hanging out in there waiting to be ejected in what would have been a cockroach life triumph: rocketing through the air unfettered, arms and legs waving goodbye to its well ventilated prison, then landing on my face during the night where it would be king of the hill until I awoke the next morning and removed my own face with a toxic cocktail of bleach and facewash.

Dear bugs,

It's on.
I brought traps.

truly,
BES

Burrito Anyone?

2011-06-29T03:42:00.000-07:00

Ok, we just unpacked our last shipment of Household Effects (It came in two shipments - why? No idea) and the presence of an extreme quantity of refried beans and chili powder was clearly the act of a deranged shopper. I thought perhaps it was a little excessive when I bought it back in April but this is really insanity.

My Kitchen looks like a bomb shelter with dry milk and canned food stacked above the cabinets. I can't say I'm not very pleased that I will never run out of salsa... but we might have to start drinking it as a beverage to clean out some space for fresh food in there.

Looks like every party at chez nous from now on will include edibles from south of the border. Er, quit a bit west of our border and then south I guess. Before our Mexican food mandate The Husband and I actually held a little get together last week for his consular section. To cope with the nerves I baked and cooked and dairy-ed away the day in preparation. We had flatbread and veggies with hummus and tzaziki (all homemade) and at the end of the night we bellied up to a quadruple batch of my french vanilla ice-cream. In between food stuffs we sandwiched a game of Monopoly Morocco in which I took on the persona of Donald Trump and shamefully forced good, kind folks out of their property. Winning is not as fun as people think it is AND it is probably bad form for the hostess to demolish her guests. I will be on my best behavior next time.

I'm generally a wimp when it comes to social things. I love meeting strangers - and being a stranger for that matter - but the idea of social gatherings gives me the sweats. Well, I should say has given me the sweats. The party was fun and I felt so happy to be part of the sense of community that the foreign service life offers - and requires to be honest.

I look forward to many more such gatherings...where tiny tacos will undoubtably be served.

Over the Hump

2011-06-22T16:14:00.000-07:00

I always try to anticipate the un-anticipatable and as often happens with...well, the un-anticipatable I didn't expect to go through such an adjustment period here in Morocco. I think I thought (and not without a good amount of hubris) "I've been to the Middle East, I've been to an Arab/Muslim country. It will be just like old times!"

And in truth, many things are similar but the last few weeks we have been realizing the very different circumstances in which we find ourselves compared to previous travels. All mostly good--like we have jobs and a non-cinderblock apartment--but different non the less. When I told my Mom a few nights ago we had had a bit of relocation anxiety she said "Well good. Then you are human."

BUT I'm glad to say that I think we are on the other side of the new place blues! And not really even blues, just a slightly unsettled feeling. I can't tell if the following activities have helped me get through this part of our transition or if they are the fruits of coming out the other side - but here are some things that have helped me feel at home in my home and in Casablanca over the past few days.

-I made french vanilla ice cream yesterday with a hand mixer and tupperware. mmmm mmmmm. It would have gone perfectly with the fig tart I made last week come to think of it... I've never been much of a treat maker, but those days they are a changin'.

- At the market yesterday a few of the venders recognized me from previous shopping trips and I was elated. The fish man taught me how to say "That's enough" in Arabic and then laughed at my terrible pronunciation. It makes me feel like I'm putting down roots and establishing routines.

- I know several routes to and from work, the grocery stores, and various bakeries throughout the city. I am getting to know the areas around where I live pretty well and that's a terrific feeling.

- I'm working on a project for the consulate which has kept me a little busier lately until my job starts.

- My French is improving. I'm studying on my own a bit and I have class twice a week. I successfully told a woman on the phone today, in french, that she had the wrong number and exchanged all the appropriate pleasantries to complete a conversation. Small triumphs.

- I peeled and deveined fresh ocean shrimp today for the first time. It's a little gross BUT so worth it! Perks of living by the ocean.

In theory our last batch of house hold effects has found its way across the Atlantic and we should get it late this week or early next. The Husband has sorely missed his guitar and after buying leather in Fez I am itchin' to make a book. So shwia shwia as they say in Morocco (different than the shway shway of the Levant). Little by little we are making this place our home and settling in.

Fez Medina

2011-06-12T16:01:00.000-07:00

The next morning our tour guide met us in the courtyard of the Riad. Our tour guide's name was Farida, and as the name suggests, she was a woman. In my (mostly observed) experience, the tour guide industry in Morocco is dominated by men. Farida confirmed this fact for Fez at least when she said "there are only about 10 of us (women tour guides) in Fez".

I felt like Farida gave us insights into domestic life and a perspective that I don't think we would have gotten from a male tour guide. She was gracious and informative and we were delighted to be protected from hustlers. She was fasting, as some Muslim women do on days outside of Ramadan*, but insisted on showing us around almost three hours after our official tour ended (without any expectation of more money). She was terrific. In addition to a great our, I really liked the idea of supporting a woman in what is a male dominated profession in what could be considered a male dominated society. I think we will ask about female tour guides in the future.

We started with the "newest" old section outside the Medina walls that was built in the 14th century and ended next to the oldest university in the world, Al-Kairouine built in 859. Hopefully you'll get a sense of the history and artistry that Fez is known for through these pictures.

Al-Karaouine University - oldest in the world. We weren't allowed
to enter because it is also a mosque, but they keep a big
door open so nosey poseys like myself can peek in.

14th century door to one of the King's palaces

The Husband and our tour guide

Talaa K'bira - the main artery of the Fez Medina

That's for my Mom. I know I'm not good about pictures of us...

Some of the streets are VERY narrow

Have you ever seen this? I hadn't.
I must have a giant cooking egg!

Beautifully restored Attarine Medersa - once used as a place of study

and lodging for students.

Amazing stucco work at Attarine Medersa

We saw how they make the tiny pieces of tile that will be worked into a pattern, cemented together
from the back, and then flipped over to reveal the beautiful mosaic.
We also saw ceramic pottery being made and painted. Fez is known for its crafts that have endured the ages.

Bou Inania Medersa

Yay! The Fez Chouara Tanneries. These were first on my
brain when I thought about moving to Morocco.

Tannery pots for dying leather. They smell. Part of the solution
they soak the skins in is made with pidgin droppings.

We ended the day, and our trip, on the terrace of our Riad overlooking the city. Morocco and Algeria had a soccer match that night and after being booted from the Africa Cup of Nations by Algeria in March, Moroccans were looking forward to a rematch. We didn't see the game, but we heard the unbelievably loud eruptions of cheering from the streets below and houses all across the city as Morocco scored 4 goals to defeat Algeria. It was a good game evidently, and a wonderful trip.

*I didn't know that some Muslim women choose to fast outside of Ramadan. Something about fasting on days of the week when the Heavens are more open? I think I'm actually going to email Farida and ask her about it. I'll post her answer here.

A Little Night Music

2011-06-09T13:34:00.000-07:00

After trudging around and then through the Fez Medina, we were starving. Not noticing any restaurants or cafes around our riad we asked the manager where we might find a quick bite before the concert we had tickets for that night. He gave us the card of a nearby restaurant and told us he would call someone to come and get us. Many restaurants in the Medina are tucked away down alleys that tourists would never stumble upon - they are in restored riads or even sections of private homes. It is not uncommon to need a guide or someone from the restaurant to come and fetch you.

Once fetched we traced our way through what was once the Jewish Quarter of the medina. We ate in a large room that, we were told, was "Part of a private residence. We live here!" I had perhaps the best pastilla I've eaten to date and I've been salivating for it ever since. It gave us a nice chance to catch our breath and check out the map in the hopes that our next trip through the medina would be more successful than our last.

We did, in fact, find our way out of the medina without a hitch - other than the fact we busted it uphill for about a mile and a half, just certain it would end once we turned the next corner. The concert we attended was called "Leila and Majnun". (Jen - I thought of your Leila the whole time.) You can read more about the ancient Islamic story the lyrics and orchestration were based on here and the performance itself here. With 40 plus musicians from all over the world, several international soloist singing in Arabic, Urdu, Persian, Hindi, and Mongolian and breathtaking orchestration it knocked our socks off to say the least. Check out throat singing Mongolian soloist Enkhajargal Dandarvaanchig (for real) here and Gombodorj Byambajargal, another soloist with a style I can't begin to describe, here.

The venue was a real treat too - between two giant gates of the royal palace entrance. And the whole night flocks of starlings flew over us, coming back to their manmade nests for the night. Fez's medina walls have small pockets carved into their exterior - from earlier renovation our guide told us the next day. They have proved the perfect home for hundreds of starlings and other birds and at the night the sky is swarming with them. Talk about The Birds. It was a little spooky, but in the most awesome of ways.

And famous of almost famous, after the concert we saw the Queen! Of Morocco! Were were walking to leave when we saw a group of secret service looking men scurrying down a centrally located red carpet and everyone was clapping. Sure enough, there she was in her pink and sequins. We felt a bit sheepish to be so underdressed in our smelly travel clothes.

And lastly, perhaps in a cosmic way of making up for the pushy shebab who latched onto us earlier in the day, two perfectly amiable young boys led us from the gate back to our riad after our taxi let us out in an unmarked alleyway.

Fez: On Being Had

2011-06-08T08:20:00.000-07:00

Despite our best planning we almost missed the 1:50 train to Fez last weekend. We snaked through the long ticket line then ran across the platform just in time to board, stow our bag, and take a seat before the train lurched forward. I do not advise such a start to any trip - it sets you a bit on edge as you can imagine.

The first hour we spent calming down, reading our books, and talking about the weekend to come. Last weekend marked the beginning of the annual Fez Sacred Music Festival for which we were very excited. After our first stop we picked up more passengers and our empty cabin filled up: one business man, two teenage girls wearing all black and picking their way through a big mac, and a friendly older gentlemen who wedged in next to Max.

People are friendly in Morocco. A few weeks ago we met a local student at a state department event who invited us back to her family home for cous cous. The meal was wonderful and the company was even better. We felt so welcomed and taken care of. As we got into our car to drive away that night I could see the mother leaning out of one window to wave goodbye to us and the father in another window on the floor below leaned out to do the same.

But I also know that Morocco has a big tourist industry and "friendly" people are out there to try and get your money. When the man next to Max struck up a conversation we weren't quite sure which kind of "friendly" he was. He chatted with Max about all sorts of things and seemed harmless enough but then came

"Are you going to Fez? I have a friend there who can show you around the city. He is very old and has lived there forever. He can take you around tomorrow. Here he is"

And then he shoved his cell phone up to Max's ear.

Bingo.

So, I tried frantically to make eye signals to Max from across the cabin not to commit to anything (how one does that I'm not sure - but I was trying) but he was way ahead of me and thanked the guy for his kindness and now that we had his number we could call him if we were interested and thank you very much goodbye.

I had actually read about people who ride the trains on popular tourist routes in the hopes of luring tourist to different hotels or setting people up with their "friends" as "guides" out of the goodness of their hearts. Police in Morocco have really tried to crack down on this "unofficial tour guide" business to the extent that, I read in the guide book, they will question Moroccans they see accompanying tourists in the medina (old city) of Fez and especially Marrakech in case they have forced their services as unwanted tour guide upon them.

So we successfully eschewed our friendly neighbor without shaming him-very important-and were left alone once we reached Fez.

After walking around the perimeter of the medina for some time we found Bab Boujloud - our point of entry. I wanted to walk through this main gate even though our Riad was at the other end of the city to "not waste another minute not seeing the sites just because it might be easier to find our riad by walking around the outside of the city" - sometimes I'm full of it. Friday was just such a time. The Fez Medina has 900 plus streets. You heard me right. It is the largest car free city in the world and probably the most confusing. The streets are mostly unmarked and when I asked locals (several of them) to point out where we were on a map they looked at it like it was from another planet, pardon the cliche. They could lead us around with their eyes closed, but a map? What's that?

A few paces into the Medina we were swarmed by a group of Shebab (young boys with nothing to do but hang around and pester) who insisted on helping us find our Riad (a riad is a restored Moroccan mansion where people rent rooms - very common here). We successfully shook the first batch, but a second swarm wasn't far behind. To try and ditch one persistent boy in particular we ducked into a carpet shop, hoping we wouldn't be forced into purchasing a rug in exchange for sanctuary.

The rug owner was actually very nice and after inquiring about the loom in the corner I was sat right down on the bench and taught how they make a certain type of Moroccan rug. I am a maker of things myself and even though I was thrilled to be learning this new thing in the back of my mind I was thinking

Awe man. What are they going to charge me for this? Will I be forced into an ugly scene...brought on by trying to avoid another ugly scene?

There is a bit of pay for play action that happens in Morocco, but probably everywhere to some extent. In tourist areas everyone is very accustomed to "helping" or "showing" or "allowing their picture to be taken" and then demanding money. It's a very stressful thing and everyone has to work out how they will handle it - we are still figuring it out. Because I am cheap and a little bit chicken my tactic has been to just avoid those kinds of situations all together. I almost never take pictures of people (that's for a few reasons though) and I almost never engage in the type of activities that are likely to put me in a position of having to exchange money for tourist type services.

Sure enough, when I was finished weaving a few knots - which was awesome - the innocent faced weaver looked up at me and made a motion for money. Expecting this I pulled out 4 dirhams (not quite 50 cents) and gave it to her. She was satisfied, I was satisfied and all was well.

I'm always on the look out to not be "had" and while I think that has kept us safe and maybe saved us some money, perhaps it's not always an affront to personal pride to pay a few pennies for experiences beyond looking through the window at something. I think it's something we will have to negotiate over the years. I want to maximize our experiences while never risking our safety or too much of our sense of control - illusion though it may be. 50 cents let me weave a row of knots in an actual Moroccan rug. That seems reasonable. But then there's the issue of running around town throwing money at people who can provide us with "authentic" experiences. What's the best, most honest way to approach that as a traveler?

Unfortunately, the shebab was not deterred by our detour and we did, finally, succumb to letting him take us to our Riad. We paid him a small fee when we got to our destination and he looked at Max and said

"You insult me. This is not enough."

Which, of course, it was. It's a really terrible feeling not to be able to find your way somewhere and be beholden to someone for help who may or may not shake you down. I think that has been one of the most stressful things about living in the Middle East: if you're not physically lost somewhere and have to depend on a punk kid to help you find your way, you are culturally and socially lost - depending on other people to help you navigate your way through day to day living. Trying not to get had, while trying to have it all.

More on our wonderful trip to come!

Stay Tuned

2011-06-05T15:49:00.000-07:00

...to read about how this train ride

took us to this marvelous city.

Casablanca, Hassan II Mosque

2011-05-30T06:32:00.000-07:00

On Saturday Max and I toured the Hassan II mosque in Casablanca. It is one of the largest mosques in the world after the mosques of Mecca and Medina (Saudi Arabia). Its minaret is the tallest in the world at 210 meters. It can fit 25,000 worshipers inside and an additional 80,000 outside. It is massive. It took 6000 Moroccan artisans to complete the artistry and rich detail found in and around the mosque and almost everything came from the country of Morocco save the Venetian glass for the chandeliers. The ceiling inside the mosque can be opened up to let in sunlight and fresh air. Our guide kept saying "It's a high tech mosque".

I didn't have the right lens to capture its massiveness - but you can get an idea of how massive it is here. These are some closer pictures of the detailed artistry that can be found on every surface.

No Surprise to Me

2011-05-26T07:32:00.000-07:00

What I am not surprised by is that at this year's Mawazine festival held annually in Rabat, Morocco to promote peace and tolerance Cat Stephens/Yusuf Islam was gracious and delightful and Kayne West was not.

Does that surprise you?

If you want to read a bit more about Yusuf's take on the festival and his music in general follow this link.

Kayne's less than stellar review can be found here.

Yusuf donated his proceeds from the concert to the orphan children of Morocco and tried to relate to the theme of the festival throughout his performance and his interviews. Kayne, on the other hand, took his money, refused to talk to press, and then split in a hurry. It seemed strange to see him on the bill at a festival like this, but he did draw a massive crowd and someone has to pay for the festival I guess.

Max and I actually drove up north to see Yusuf perform and it was a wonderful show. The open air theater doesn't have any seating so everyone stands and lounges about on Moroccan carpets strewn across the ground. We stood next to a group of Moroccan teenagers who, despite not being alive while Yusuf wrote any of his old music as Cat Stephens and growing up in another country, knew most of the words to his old songs. It was awesome. In truth, neither of us were alive when he wrote those songs either - but we had some rockin' moms who taught us well.

Here is a video of Yusuf performing one of his most popular songs. People were literally chanting for it. As Max pointed out in his way "he definitely rubbed some funk on this version of Peace Train".

What the heck - here's another video from the night.

hhhmmmm... after watching that video I think I could see myself in the crowd if I looked hard enough. We were pretty close!

To Market

2011-05-23T06:09:00.000-07:00

I'm just getting up the gumption to take my camera out by myself. I realized today that I usually use my husband as a kind of shield. I run around and take pictures while he acts as body guard and attention diffuser. It's not like he juggles or anything (which he can do by the by) but that I feel like the many pairs of eyes are split between the two of us. Thanks for that Max :)

But today I took some shots of the great little market by my house. I came home with a bunch of basil, two round loaves of bread, and 10 dirhams worth of almonds.

I got there right around lunch time and most of the people were sitting down to bread rounds and harira soup. And when I say "people" I mean men. Outside of the grumpy girl who sells fly covered pastries I was the only woman. Maybe I missed the rush of women buying food for their evening meal already?

As I circled the enclosure I saw one man washing his dentures in the fountain at the end of the market. A splash on the face, a dripple on the hands, and a dash on the dentures for good measure. Why not?

"C'est Moi"

2011-05-21T12:12:00.000-07:00

As we were walking home from the grocery store tonight Max and I came upon a very common scene here in Casablanca: a soccer parade. I don't think that's really what they are called, but that's what it amounts to. Scores of mostly teenage and early adult males swarm the streets and block traffic through the main thoroughfares of the city. I'm sure it's annoying to drivers, but as a product of a serious soccer playing family it always brings me such joy to see the chaos.

There are evidently two big soccer teams here in Casablanca - Weedad and Raja. As much as I'd love to go to some of there games I'm not sure it would be prudent given the dangerous mosh pit atmosphere that inevitably prevails, win or lose.

This little boy in the front with his hand up ran up to my camera and said "C'est Moi!" or It's Me! just as I snapped the picture.

Before the impromptu soccer parade Max and I had a lovely, lazy Saturday complete with buttery croissant at a little breakfast place down the street from our house. They are part of my new diet...of deliciousness.

On Walking

2011-05-19T08:44:00.000-07:00

So I have had this book called "Aerotropolis: The Way We'll Live Next" on my Kindle cue for sometime, but a recent review caused me to put it right to the top. (A companion piece of sorts to "Triumph of the City: How Our Greatest Invention Makes Us Smarter, Greener, Healthier and Happier", formerly at the top of my kindle cue) Basically, the author projects that airports will soon replace cities as the focal point of development, commerce, and habitation. Amazon describes the Aerotropolis thus:

A combination of giant airport, planned city, shipping facility, and business hub... Today, the ubiquity of jet travel, round-the-clock workdays, overnight shipping, and global business networks has turned the pattern inside out. Soon the airport will be at the center and the city will be built around it, the better to keep workers, suppliers, executives, and goods in touch with the global market.

A London Review of Books reviewer, Will Self, referred to this type of development as "A Redeye to the Apocalypse" which is a pretty funny turn of phrase even though I generally avoid all things Apocalyptic. As a traveler I love the idea that I could get somewhere quicker and possibly for less...but what will we be traveling to if "cities" as we know them are turned into commercial centers based on global trade instead of local tradition? But more on that after I finish the book.

In a New York Times article the other day titled "To Fly or to Walk" Roger Cohen addresses the Aerotropolis and its consequences to the way we experience the world. He cites British author and book reviewer, Will Self, who, concerned that he had lost his physical place in the physical world, took up walking treks from big city airports into their city centers.

"Airworld reduces people’s experience to jump cuts, sudden transpositions of scenes with no establishing shots between.” Self explains.

Cohen recommends walking from our old cities to our airports "the better to measure where we really are, who we are, and where we want to go."
...

Sounds like a bit of abstract space and time doctoral research mumbo jumbo doesn't it? Well, perhaps let me relate it in a way that made total sense to me as a traveler.
...
In the fall of October 2009 Max and I took our first trip to Northern Israel. We traveled through many a checkpoint and banana grove to get to the northernmost tip that shares a border with Lebanon: Rosh Hanikra. The trip was fabulous - we spent a few days touring around the Galilee, we stayed a night in the holy city of Tsfat, and swam in the bluest Mediterranean water I have seen to date in Achziv. We rented a car and drove through Jericho on the way home, a city claiming to be the oldest in the world.

But you know what I remember most? The sticking image of the whole trip? After touring the chalk white cliffs of Rosh Hanikra we waited over an hour for a bus to take us back to our lodging in Achziv, about 3.5 miles away. As the sun started to sink behind the Mediterranean we decided to hoof it instead. We walked for just over an hour through netted banana fields and abandoned kibbutzim. We caught glimpses of the sun setting over the ocean every once in a while through the trees and had to steer clear of farmers creeping up behind us on their tractors. We got back to our hostel just before the last bit of light disappeared.

That is my most vivid, most lasting memory from that trip.

Self talks about walking in order to reestablish where he was in the world "in a visceral and muscular way." There is something about so real and life sustaining about engaging our bodies in the pursuit of experience. That physical memory is powerful and connects us to the world, the space around us.

When we lived in DC I loved the terrific metro system, but, I felt like I was reducing my experience to "jump cuts with no establishing shots in between" as Self describes. It was hard for me to explain why that was a little unsettling, to leave my home in Arlington and pop up at Dupont Circle without any context. For a few weeks I took the metro involving one transfer from my Doctor's office to my Acupuncturist office because I didn't know they were only about a seven minute walk apart. I had no concept of space and how I related to it.

Our relatively short time in Jerusalem left such a mark on both of us for many reasons, but I have no doubt that one of them is that we walked the hell out of that city. Forgive my French. Max and I talked about it over lunch and sure enough, most of our strongest memories are of walking through the old city, through our parking lot after class, through Beit Hanina on the way home from work. I guess if you think about it, you engage almost all of your senses when exploring a place on foot. You hear the construction and haggling, you smell the street food and the uncollected garbage, you see buildings up close and brush up against people in crowded walkways.

We have come to enjoy Casablanca more and more as we walk to and from work and the market. In fact, I have a trip planned next weekend where I think instead of getting a cheap taxi to the roman ruins we will "walk with locals on their way to their olive fields" as the guidebook says. We'll try and have a "visceral and muscular" experience.

But then again, sometimes we get lazy :)

2011-05-15T08:20:00.000-07:00

I bet you are starting to think that all I do here is eat.... well, I do other stuff too. In addition to the eating :) On that note Max and I shared an out-of-this world paella two nights ago with shrimp, clams, lobster: all manner of fruits of the sea. mmm-mmmm. These lovely cookies are Moroccan Macaroons. They come in multiple colors and flavors and are my new favorite little treat. Delicious.

But on to the other activities of the week.

This past week Max and I attended a bluegrass / Moroccan folk music concert called "Bluegrass Maghrebi". It was just what it sounds like - two singin', dancin', strumin', hollarin' bluegrass musicians from the American South collaborated with some local Moroccan musicians (famous ones as I understand) and the result was terrific. One Moroccan musician played a three stringed rectangular lute type instrument called a Gimbri or Ginbri. This instrument is very common in North African music. It is associated with the more mystical Gnawa style of music having to do, in part, with the Sufi tradition of North Africa.

On Saturday we drove a borrowed car all over kate's kingdom, or should I say Mohammed VI's kingdom, to pick up some necessary house things. There is an Ikea knock-off here called Kitea and a pretty great hardware store. My ambition for this apartment is to have more personalized painted walls in some of the rooms. When I grew up the appropriate colors for walls were white, beige, light beige, and perhaps a darker beige in small spaces. I have since seen a multitude of painted walls that I have liked, but I'm pretty wimpy when it comes to painting in my own home still. In fact I've never done it.

When we got to the paint section of the hardware store Max asked me if I knew what I needed.

"Sure. Paint stuff."

"...like what kind of paint stuff?"

"You know, stuff to paint our room with."

Did I mention I've never actually painted before?

"Do you know if we need primer? Or how big our room is? Or what kinds of brushes we need?"

Sheepishly "....My plan was just to ask someone who works here. You know, like at Home Depot?"

Believe it or not, that plan actually worked. A very knowledgeable, English speaking employee named Hassna took good care of us and we came home with 5 liters of RAL Pigeon Blue paint. Terrible name, very nice color.

Dinner with friends, lunch breaks together, and unseasonably warm weather kind of sums the week up for us.

Postcards From the World We Live In

2011-05-10T14:45:00.000-07:00

Working Gal

2011-05-10T11:21:00.000-07:00

Well, almost.

I've been waiting to post about this because I'm a chicken and didn't know if I would get the job or not and could subsequently face my digital shame, but all is well and so I'll share.

They have a program in the State Department called the Extended Professional Associates Development Program or EPAP in the ubiquitous acronym State Department speak. This program allows qualified spouses to apply for professional positions at post so that they can continue their professional development. As a side note I have been very pleased with the way the State Department looks after spouses (and other family members I would assume). A happy family is a happy and long lasting employee. Kudos.

A few months ago I noticed an Information Specialist job in Casablanca for this program and contacted some people to ask about it. Information is my schtick and the idea of using my newly minted Masters of Library and Information Science degree right off the bat was pretty exciting to me. Unfortunately, the job was more IT than it was library science, HOWEVER (and a great big however), the nice woman at State told me there was a Cultural Affairs job that I might consider applying for...

After some sleuthing I discovered that one of my potential tasks, in addition to a host of other fabulous tasks, would be to work with the Information Resources Center (library) at post. Needless to say I was thrilled and promptly applied for the position. I received my official offer a few weeks ago and my official title will be the Assistant Cultural Affairs Officer. This position will also be involved with the many cultural events and speaker programs the consulate plans and implements in the region.

So good news bears all around. If you know me personally and a federal agent shows up at your door - don't be nervous. He just wants to know if I'm nice and trustworthy :)

Email Subscribers

2011-05-08T10:55:00.000-07:00

Hello Friends,

I recently had to migrate email subscribers over to a new web domain and in the process may have lost some of you. If you no longer receive emails but you once did (and still want to), please check your inboxes and junk folders for a confirmation email from "Feedburner Email Subscriptions". Once you click on that you will receive my emails again.

You can reach me at theworldthatweliveinblog@gmail.com if you have any questions.

Thanks!

Brooke

P.S. If you want to receive emails every time I post just fill out the little box on the bottom right hand corner :)

P.P.S If you've used this opportunity to cut ties and run for the hills, then tafuddal my friends. (That means be at your pleasure, be welcome in Arabic)

Casablanca: The Habous Quarter

2011-05-07T16:45:00.000-07:00

My first Tagine in Morocco!

We've learned how to ask for just mint, water, and sugar - Mormon style.

Rabat & Salé

2011-05-03T07:30:00.000-07:00

Rabat is about an hour and a half north of Casablanca and is where the actual Embassy is located. I went up with Max yesterday and was able to meet up with a few friends from church who live in the area. They were so sweet to take me to some of the souks and we drove around parts of the city. It's really beautiful. There are a lot more tourist sights in Rabat and certainly a lot more green space.

Rabat is separated from its sister city Salé by the BouRegreg river. Salé is, evidently, the place where Robinson Crusoe was shipwrecked. ...but I didn't know that from actually reading the book like I should have in 10th grade AP European History. Wikipedia. I'll have more to say about Rabat and Salé when we visit them in a earnest sometime, but here a few pictures from my short visit.

We went to a rug shop in Salé - rugs are a big deal in Morocco. I'll tell you more when I know more :)

We also visited a ceramic shop where they sold the ubiquitous tagine - it's both the name of the dish and the food that is made in it.

At first I didn't like this picture because of the giant crane, but it's actually perfect. There is a lot of construction around Morocco - right amongst the ruins. You can see the Kasbah walls and the white/blue houses within it. Off to the right is the ocean.

Bastiyya

2011-05-02T11:22:00.000-07:00

These are Bastiyya. They are a delicious type of Moroccan meat pie/pastry. They are filled with chicken (although pigeon is the traditional filling) cinnamon and almonds, all wrapped in a flaky cinnamon and sugar powdered phyllo dough crust.

They are very good.

But one of these is chicken and the other is white fish with noodles.

Weird.

I think one of them may have made my love sick because he is out for the count.

Boo.

Tank Tops, Lady Drivers, and Pork. Where am I?

2011-05-01T10:55:00.000-07:00

Our first week here in Casablanca has been quite nice. Slowly but surely we are making our apartment our home and figuring out the city in increasingly larger concentric circles.

Last Saturday our sponsor drove us around to get a sense for the city. We drove through the Haboos, an "old city" type area with a mosque, a plaza, and traditional goods like rugs, leather shoes, olives and yes, even camel meat. Evidently you can tell if camel is on the menu in the Haboos if a camel head is tacked to the outside of the shop. Such was the case last week as we saw a camel head with a mouth full of mint hung above the mantel. Maybe on our next visit... I expected the city to be as urban and gritty as it is, so I am always delighted to see more charming, traditional places like the Haboos.

We had lunch in the central market which is shaped in a square with shops facing into the square and a smaller square inside with shops facing the walkway between the two. The central market and its neighborhood including Place Muhammad V are remnants of the French occupation that didn't leave Morocco until in 1956. We didn't tour the area very extensively, but there is an old post office that was on the french route through Morocco during WWII and some other historical buildings of note and architectural substance. We ate a fine lunch of fried calamari, sardines, and some white fish with lemon after a bowl of lentils. I haven't liked sardines or calamari up to this point in my life, but they were so fresh and flavorful. I think I might be changing my mind about many a fish dish here in Morocco.

We also drove past the flea market which was constructed mainly from tarps and crates and looked tres mysterious. Casablanca experiences a very disparate distribution of wealth and little shanty towns called "Bidonvilles" have sprung up all over the city, growing in the cracks between pricey restaurants and new foreign investments. There are actually a lot of new building projects fueled by foreign and local investments all over the city. The new Casablanca Mall will be opening up in October (including a Gap and an H&M) and there are a few different projects taking place along the coast including a new aquarium and another commercial center.

Lastly we passed by the Corniche, or boardwalk area running parallel to the Atlantic Ocean. The Corniche is a long walkable path sandwiched between two Mcdonalds - one of which was having a performance of some kind as we drove past. Mcdonalds are a big deal in the Middle East - a big fancy deal. We've had a bit of rain here and so we haven't taken a walk out there yet, but we will get there some day this week after work. From the corniche you can see the enormous Hassan II mosque (and really, any place high up in the city I guess). I am very much looking forward to touring it soon.

Other Observations
Left turns here are absurd. Instead of lining up one at a time to turn left, all of the cars line up side by side, seven, eight, nine, ten, across and when the its time to go it's a race to see who can/will go first and the herd follows suit until they are back into one or two lanes of traffic. Craziest thing I've ever seen.

People don't eat dinner here until LATE. We had heard this about Moroccans and so we prudently waited to go out for Indian food at the India Palace until 8:30. We were the only people there for almost an hour. Even the cooks were just staring out at us through the kitchen. While it might sound kind of cool to have four or five waiters attending to your every twitch and head nod, it's actually mostly creepy.

In one day Max and I saw men and women holding hands on the street, women in tank tops and short skirts, pork butchers, and a woman cab driver. What country is this? We heard it was more european than the rest of the Middle East, but we have been surprised to the level at which that is true. I've never even had a female cab driver in America - land of the free and the progressive. Morocco is nice.

Awesome Moment of the Week
There's no way to convey irony through a font I guess, but that last sub-title was meant ironically. Last week a few worker men came to the house to take away my broken dish washer. I was rushing home from lunch with Max because I knew they were waiting for me. When I got inside I unlocked my multiple locks locked front door and put my bag somewhere quickly to show them to the kitchen. These two men only spoke French and my French, unfortunately, has taken a hit over the last few months. As they were carrying the dishwasher towards the front door the doorbell rang and their english speaking supervisor, whom I had met already, was waiting outside to facilitate communication between the three of us. In my initial rush to get in the door I had unthinkingly placed my keys...somewhere... and I couldn't open the door.

So, the two men holding the dishwasher are locked inside with me, asking questions in French while I run around and look for the keys and the english speaking supervisor on the outside of the door thinks something is wrong with the door and does he, perhaps, need to break in.

It was epic.

I found the keys after a few embarrassing minutes and all was well. I'm just saying, these are the moments you miss when everyone speaks the same language and you have lived in your house for more than a week :)

Around Town

2011-04-29T11:13:00.000-07:00

In Times of Madness

2011-04-28T16:50:00.000-07:00

I was in my kitchen this afternoon, stuffing a whole chicken with thyme and onion, when I learned there had been a bombing in Marrakesh, about a four-hour drive from our apartment in Casablanca. The news was pretty shocking to both Me and Max as our expectations of Casablanca did not really include events like this. Sure, it’s always a possibility when you live in the Middle East (or anywhere with a history of bombing) but after Jerusalem we felt a bit like we’d be cooling down on the edge of the Atlantic for a while.

When there was a bombing a few weeks ago in Jerusalem my heart instantly dropped out of my chest and I emailed everyone I knew who was still there. When I first heard the news about the bombing in Marrakesh I didn’t know how to process it. Unfortunately Jerusalem is a tense place where awful things like this happen and you learn from people who have lived there to grieve, help where you can, and then brush the dust from your shoulder and go about your life. But what is the protocol here? A bombing like this hasn’t happened here for over eight years and I just wasn’t sure how Moroccans dealt with these kinds of events or how I should deal with them as a new comer.

Fast forward about four hours where Max and I attended a screening for a film called “All I Wanna Do” about a father and son duo from Casablanca who are aspiring hip hop artists. The documentary follows a parking attendant and his 17 year old son as they set about to record their first hip hop album together, get it aired on local radio stations, meet their respective musical heroes and achieve their dreams. Even though the film was in Arabic with French subtitles (neither of which I understood very much of) I was moved to employ the “think of dirty toilets” tear stopper trick that my mother in law taught me several times.

17 year old Ayoub and his father Simohamed were jubilant and irrepressible as they battled their modest circumstances and Ayoub’s would be disability of having only one leg. I couldn’t get over the extent to which they believed in and pursued their dreams- unashamedly and joyfully.

When they turned the lights on after the show all of the heads swung around to a row of people on my right and everyone started clapping. The show’s creator and its real life heroes were in attendance. They were brought down to the front of the auditorium where people in the audience made comments and asked questions. One outspoken viewer from the back, not waiting for the microphone to be passed to him, hollered something to this effect

“You are the pride of our country. You give the young people hope Ayoub.”

Unfortunately there have been attacks in Morocco before and life is not easy for its many impoverished citizens. But stories like Ayoub and his Father’s helped me know better how to process terrible events like what happened in Marrakesh today. Moroccans have hope. People of the Middle East have hope. They work hard and aim high so that their children might inhabit better, more peaceful worlds. I shall do the same.

*If you are interested in the film, and you should be, you can watch the trailer below. The film will be showing at film festivals in Miami, DC, New York, Boston and Dubai – if you are in one of those cities I would highly recommend it. There is also a facebook page for the film.

Here is a bit from the BBC about the bombing today.

Place Mohammad V

2011-04-27T07:54:00.000-07:00

Bienvenue A Casablanca

2011-04-25T14:46:00.000-07:00

After nearly missing our connection in Paris (boo for you Charles De Gaulle) we had an uneventful flight to Casablanca. As we walked down the exit ramp we were greeted by a nice moroccan man holding a hand written sign baring our names. He whisked through all manner of check points and customs lines and before we knew it we were traveling down the road toward downtown Casablanca.

I have to say, Casa is a lot greener than I thought it would be. I know it's the Spring and that Summer will mean a drier, browner landscape, but I couldn't believe the greenery as we drove into town. Max mentioned several times that it reminded him of his mission in Brazil a bit with the shrubs and mud and palm trees...as well as the crazy traffic and litter I imagine :)

Our apartment is lovely. It's in a very upscale urban center surrounded by clothing stores we won't be able to afford for some time. But a girl can always try stuff on. There are beaucoup de scrumptious restaurants around and we have already sampled a few. On our second day I met Max and some of his colleagues for lunch at Le Four A Bois for pizza and pasta. The food was delicious, but, as you can imagine, did not help our jet lag any that afternoon. I heard Max say only half joking that he would just stand up for the rest of the day. Jet lag has kicked our butts.

We have an awesome sponsor from the consulate and she showed us around the neighborhood on our first night, pointing out cafe's, gyms, grocery stores with hard to find products and the best produce stand on Max's way home from work. She even braved the terrible Casa traffic for us on Saturday to show us around different areas of the city - more on that later.

We have two doorman, a night man and a day man. They are both very nice and one in particular has proved a determined language partner for Max already. Morroccan Arabic is quite different than Standard Arabic or the Shami dialect he's been speaking for the past few years but Max has been good to get practice in wherever he can. It's been helpful for me to get some French in too. French! I have been surprised at the amount of French they speak here in Casablanca. I guess I thought there would be more Arabic and in private conversations that might be the case, but almost all official information and public discourse is in French from what I can tell. It's coming back to me slowly...

A few funny moments:

The only bag to get lost had Max's work shoes in it and he had work the next morning. I assured him that his Vans looked fine with his black suit.

We ordered a pizza the first night we were here...only our apartment does not have a number. We are the only apartment on a little side street-ish thing and Max did a whale of a job describing our apartment, the neighborhood, the apartment kitty corner and any other distinguishing landmarks before the pizza guy figured out where we lived. It was funnier for me than it was for Max, but ultimately successful.

I know this isn't what you want to read...

2011-04-24T13:07:00.000-07:00

but for family history purposes I have to record a few bullet points from our time in New York before moving on to more Moroccan pastures.

New York City: April 17-20

Taxi ride from Hell - JFK to Soho. Yuck.

Shared a sausage roll and tartufo at Saluggis. It made everything ok.

Worked on my thesis over a peanut butter bagel breakfast the next morning.

Walked through China Town and spent several minutes watching a man cut and scoop out a fruitish substance from what looked to be a porcupine referred to simpl as "The King of the Fruits". Anyone been to China and know what that was?

Ate a full meal, including sodas, for $9 at The Dumpling House. Dined on chive and pork dumplings with spicy wontons and pork fried buns. Delish.

Overheard this conversation between the two men sitting next to me at lunch

"Have to you been in touch with Thomas Freedman lately?"
I lean in closer
"No, he's just been so busy."

Really!? If the answer would have been yes, I think I would have ponied right up to their table and helped myself to a won ton while I caught up with old Tom vicariously. In hindsight...maybe I should have done that anyway.

Got our computer fixed at the mac store where I caught a free photoshop demonstration. New skills for the pictures of Morocco I have not taken yet.

Ate the best doughnuts ever at The Doughnut Plant on the Lower East Side. We shared a tres leche, chocolate volrhona, chocolate chocolate cake doughnut, and chocolate chip cookie cake doughnut. That's a gooda doughnut. Thanks for the tip Eve!

Finished our time in New York with a bank breaking sushi night. Max was obsessed with getting "New York Sushi" because of that Office episode where Michael and Dwight aren't invited to Ryan's hip New York party. Dumb reason, good sushi.

Goodbye DC, Goodbye NYC, Goodbye America

2011-04-22T15:16:00.000-07:00

I knew we'd get it eventually

2011-04-19T17:07:00.000-07:00

Love you mamma!

Home Leave

2011-04-16T20:15:00.000-07:00

Well, it wasn't officially home leave, but what's the difference between hobbling together a string of cross-country budget flights and some annual leave days?

Actually, a boat load.

But I'll tell you why I'm sitting in the Milwaukee airport at 11 PM when we started our first leg at 8 AM later.

For now: the joys of going home! Max and I spent a week at home in Utah with our families and had a wonderful time. We are, however, exhausted and decided that next time we will take a little mini vacation during our vacation to regroup :)

I have to say, one of the many highlights was watching my rock star little brother kick serious butt in his high school soccer game. There are few things in life that give me more pride than my little brothers and my wee heart ranneth over. I don't know how many games of his I'll get to see as he is going to play college soccer in Hawaii (even farther away from Morocco than Utah...lame) and this was a great game to be the last for a while.

Oh, that's right, the airport. In my frugalness I patched together some vouchers and free plane tickets we had accumulated and the journey out to Utah went well (if very long) but the ride home has been a disaster. Our first flight was delayed by an hour because the co-pilot was a no show and after two layovers, Denver and Milwaukee respectively, a giant storm grounded all of the planes coming in or out of DC. Curse you weather. But we just heard over the loudspeaker that the flight has left the DC gate and should arrive in about two hours. A 3.5 hour delay might seem awful after 12 hours of flying....but I've decided to take this opportunity to get our bodies on Morocco time. I think we're going to set our watches forward in New York the next three days and see if we can't stave off some jet lag.

And I overheard a stirring defense of '-------redacted--------redacted-----who is actually a good dictator' on the airplane. Max was sure I was going to flip around and tear into the yokel.

But I did not.

I am a diplomat.

(more on that later!)

Busy Busy

2011-04-05T07:26:00.000-07:00

Even though 99% of our stuff has already been packed up (including all of Max's socks and t-shirts...woops) I am still busy busy as we prepare to leave DC on Saturday. There's the last minute tailoring and dry cleaning, insurance getting, paper work filling out and friends seeing.

And did I mention that I'm finishing my thesis this semester? If you "eaked"after reading that, then you and I did the same thing just then. The good news is, I'm almost finished! I will submit all of my work to my supervisor by April 13th (hopefully before) and If all goes well I'll graduate on May 28th with a Masters in Library and Information Science. Max has assured me that he will not feel threatened by my higher level of education and my theoretical ability to earn more than him.

I think I can crank out the last bit before we leave on Saturday.

I have definitely earned at least a day at the hamman in morocco and perhaps even a fun European weekend of my choosing. Any suggestions?

What else have I been doing in my "free time"?
Carving lino-cuts and making prints.

Everybody needs a release, right?

This is my first go at it, but I hope to make
many more.

How Did It Come To This?

2011-04-01T09:56:00.000-07:00

In two ways really. One: how did it come to me buying out the entire selection of refried beans, chillies, and enchilada sauce in two grocery stores - one of which was the equivalent of a Mexican Costco?

And Two: How did it come to be moving day already!

I sit on my bed, my last island of "stuff not to pack" as clearly marked by a yellow sticky, and write this as three very nice men pack my 60+ cans of refried beans and 13 bottles of chili powder. What can I say, we are from Utah and we eat Mexican food. Moroccans, as I understand, do not.

I don't quite feel nostalgic for America yet as we still have one week in DC and another in Utah, but I am feeling a bit nervous that I have let my second set of keys and my parking pass be packed up on accident... But if that's the worse thing to happen, I think I can manage.

Actually, that's not entirely true about nostalgia. We saw Rango last week and as a girl who comes from some serious farmer/pioneer heritage it made me start idealizing "The West" and my memories of spending time with my Grandparent's on what used to be the farm on which my mother grew up. It's funny because among my relatives who still live there my siblings and I are often referred to as "city kids", which has really made me laugh as I contemplate cocktail parties where I have nothing to say and dinner parties where I use the wrong fork. I always feel like a country bumpkin when I travel, but as my travel mentor Rick Steves says - that's not a bad thing. We bumpkins are good at stumbling onto lovely things and asking questions others might be embarrassed to ask. Our understood and accepted lack of culture makes us eager and thoughtful travelers.

But back to "The West". When we were in Jordan I started getting an idea of things that were "Jordanian" or what was "Arab" and I wondered what things were seen as "American". There are obvious things like Hollywood and Americata (what my Italian mom Rita says Italians call bang, bang, fast paced American movies) and for the most part, the type of values we hope to project into the world: ingenuity, hard work, creativity, the ability to make it from nothing - American Dream type stuff. I also came to realize that "The West" is pretty central to people's idea of America. I found it was pretty common for Western things and even Mexican things to represent the whole of America in billboards, TV ads and restaurants- like when I when to "Reel Mexican Fud" in Dhahiyat Al-Rasheed, Amman for what I hoped would be an enchilada and was served a hamburger with fries. One's pretty much the same as the other, right? I certainly didn't see any deep dish pizza chains or philly cheesesteak joints. America didn't even have a "West" for a long time, but something about the gun-slingin', lone-ridin' cowboy must have really captured the world's imagination.

It seems my nostalgia follows suit. When I start longing for home, I don't think of my regular old apartment in DC or driving my car home from college through the snow, I think of getting scooped up by my grandpa's giant tractor shovel and carried through the air or husking corn in grandma's front yard and storing the corn worms in a jar to scare her with later.

Or Disneyland. Somehow that sneaks in there pretty regularly too.

By the by, if you aren't from the West and want to feel what I'm talking about - you should read "All the Pretty Horses" by Cormac Mcarthy or any of his Border Trilogy. They are superb.

On The Bus: The Airplane Edition

2011-03-27T17:40:00.000-07:00

"In a car or a plane or a choo choo train"

Ahh, one of our favorite songs from English Camp, lots of fun in Italy last summer. We could work in 5 or 6 rounds of this song before the kids got bored. It was golden.

But I digress: Air Travel. I have flown quite a bit this past year. With coming home from Jerusalem, moving to DC and visiting Utah a few times, and the free ticket bonanza of Christmas 2010, I've had my share of Bloody Mary Mix. (Max is a ginger-ale guy, but nothing says fancy to me like spicy tomato juice with a lime.) I was able to visit my sister in Wisconsin this past week and never before had I felt like airplane travel had so much in common with public transportation. Of course there's always the underlying smell of body oder and the loudness of either engines or babies - or a combination of both - but this particular flight was really....well, ghetto.

When I got to my seat there were cracker crumbs from here 'till Sunday on the cushion. No big deal, I wiped them off. But then I noticed that the little pouch on the back of the chair in front of me was full of someone else's garbage already. Half eaten lunchable anyone? But the best was when I noticed the cushion on the chair next to me had been pulled about half way off revealing the metal hinges and gizmos below it. I tried to pull the cushion back to its original position for my future neighbor, but it wouldn't budge. She ended up just putting her jacket over the bare metal which was probably a good thing because there were several empty water bottles in the pouch in front of her where she would have put it otherwise.

But don't think I'm complaining. I actually love public transportation. A few weeks ago I was talking to my sister on the phone about something sad and I burst into tears right on the bus. No one around me even batted an eye. There is no such thing as "normal" behavior on public transportation or public spaces for that matter and thus you get to be surrounded by people and potential conversations while still enjoying a high level of reclusiveness if you choose. That's part of what I like about being in a foreign country, but that's a post for another day.

More than loving public transportation, flying amazes me. I'm always glued to the window when we take off and I can't believe the modern marvel it is. Not only how fast air travel is, but the sheer mechanics of moving a hundred people and their tiny pretzel bags from one place to another through the air. So, I'll take my smelly cabin-mates and crumbed upped seats any day.

PS - here is a picture of me with my adorable little niece. And one of her with an angry face. It's my favorite face of hers.

Handcrafted in Morocco

2011-03-21T15:52:00.000-07:00

Zellij

Morocco has a rich history of handcrafted art. Think painstakingly painted, fired, and set tile work called Zellij, hand carved stone and wood in intricately detailed geometrical patterns, handmade leather work and a host of other handcrafted goods. Morocco is very proud of its tradition of highly skilled artists and it has really made the effort to promote the making and selling of local handcrafted goods in light of cheap tourist goods flooding the market.

I just finished reading "A House in Fez: Building a Life in the Ancient Heart of Morocco" by Suzanna Clarke who, in preparation for remodeling a Dar (house) in Fez (and in preparation for the book too I'd imagine) learned about all things Moroccan art and architecture. The two often go hand in hand. She worked with local craftsman to try and restore a centuries old house as faithful to the neighborhood and artistic blueprint as possible. Throughout the book she explores dealing with locals, red tape to high heaven, and the many aspects of Moroccan Architecture and hand-craftmenship (a word I may have made up). Tahir Shah's "A Year in Casablanca" provided similar insight into the art and architecture found in the region.

The point is, it's amazing. I don't think I'll do a very good job at explaining how amazing, so check out these slides about a new Moroccan architecture exhibit at New York's Metropolitan Museum of Art. You can also read the New York Times Article about it here.

Ready, Set, Get Jazzed!

2011-03-16T16:48:00.000-07:00

And that's what we are are. After we initially got our post to Morocco I read a bunch of stuff and got excited, but then I calmed down and kind of avoided it for a few months so I wouldn't 1) romanticize it too much or 2) get overloaded before we got there. BUT this past week I have delved back into all things Moroccan and it has been fabulous.

After I taught a lesson in church last Sunday a woman came up from the back of the class and said in a rush of excitement

"Oh, we just got back from two weeks in Morocco. The strawberries! We bought them right off the street and they were so warm and good. Oh! The oranges with cinnamon! You are going to have the best time."

I have heard that the fruit is fine indeed, along with everything else. In order to get my Moroccan groove on I did what I always do: I went to the library and checked out a grundle of books. ...and then got some on my kindle...and put the rest on my amazon wish list.

Here is a list of books having to do with Morocco. If you want to have a little book vacation, take a look.

The * are ones I've finished so far and the ** are ones I'm in the middle of - all worth your time. I can't vouch for the others necessarily but they all have good reviews.

The Caliph's House: A Year in Casablanca Tahir Shah *
In Arabian Nights: A Caravan of Moroccan Dreams Tahir Shah **
A House in Fez: Building a Life in the Ancient Heart of Morocco Suzanna Clarke*
Islam: A Short History Karen Armstrong **
Folk Tales From Morocco Raja Sharma *
In Morocco Edith Wharton
Skeletons on the Zahara Dean King**
Glory in a Camel's Eye: Trekking Through the Moroccan Sahara Jeffrey Taylor
Hope and Other Dangerous Pursuits Laila Lalami
Return to Childhood: The Memoir of a Modern Moroccan Woman Leila Abouzeid
Year of the Elephant Leila Abouzied
A Palace in the Old Village Tahar Ben Jalloun
Leaving Tangier Tahar Ben Jalloun
Spider's House Paul Bowles
Dreams of Trespass: Tales of a Harem Girl Fatima Mernissi
Fez: The City of Islam Islamic Texts Society
Lord's of the Atlas: The Rise and Fall of the House of Glaoua 1893-1956 Gavin Maxwell
Morocco: The Islamist Awakening and Other Challenges

Oh my heck. I'm such a librarian!

La Maison Blanche

2011-03-05T10:06:00.000-08:00

or rather, The White House.

Max and I, feeling our days in DC slip quietly away, are trying to hit up things we haven't seen before departing in April. Max's brother and his wife are in town and we have had a blast with them. It's also given us an excuse to get out of our house after a long winter's nap and see the town. Yesterday we woke up uber early and took a tour of The White House.

I think my favorite room was the Red Room where first ladies often entertain. Not because of the room's function necessarily, but because it was pointed out that the rooms are still in use and some of the furniture in that room had even been stained from previous guests. I just loved the idea of Spain's first lady getting a little tipsy and spilling red wine on the 100 year old sofa. Or maybe Michelle Obama dealing a deck of cards on the beautiful inlaid table for a game of gin with the Queen and perhaps one of Burlesconi's girlfriends.

We also saw the President's Dog. Talk about degrees of separation! We are pretty much famous.

Needles Shmeedles

2011-02-15T15:51:00.000-08:00

Imagine me, chatting away with the phlebotomist as she drains blood from my arm, my head actually turning down to watch the process at one point.

"All finished."

"So fast? Well, thanks. See you again tomorrow"

If this situation doesn't strike you as monumental, then you missed the post about about my extreme needle phobia. Or should I say, my former extreme needle phobia? (Trypanophobia for anyone who wants to wikipedia the official name for this phobia like we just did)

That's right. I think I've kicked the habit - the habit of passing out and having a panic attack around needles. Fertility treatment means, among other things, needlemania. For the first and second blood draws I laid down, for the third I sat in the chair but had Max sit by me in case he needed to catch me, for the fourth I sat in the chair without a Max safety net (just wike a big giwrl), and for the most recent one I chitty chatted away with the phlebotomist and even watched part of the process.

I'm ecstatic.

On top of regular blood draws I decided to start seeing an acupuncturist. I was a bit nervous for the needles at first, but they are so small and the relaxation so intense that I quickly got over it. She has been a great intermediary between the Western and Eastern approach to medicine and the body.

On top of acupuncture and regular blood draws, I have been giving myself a shot every night when Max gets home from work. Well, to be fair, Max has actually been the shot giver, but I have been the bravest. The first night I iced the area down (a nice tummy roll - I've never been so glad to have a few extra pounds) cleared a spot on the couch where I could faint gracefully without hurting myself and prepared for doom. But to my great surprise (and Max's as well) I could hardly feel it. Subsequent nights went better and better to the point that I began looking forward to our 5:00 PM date so that I could face and hopefully conquer my fears a little bit more.

So it's official, I'm a grown up.

Salem

2011-02-10T07:51:00.000-08:00

After a hearty breakfast of salmon and eggs benedict we stumbled upon a delightful little bookstore at the corner of Essex and Derby with a most enigmatic owner. When I asked aloud, mostly to Max, if I could take a picture of the store a voice coming from a small space between two mighty stacks answered

"If you buy a book, you can take all the pictures you like."

Max ponied up and purchased World War Z: An Oral History of the Zombie War by Max Brooks. Zombies and Witches and Bookstores - oh my!

The Comic Book Store Was Open

Not a lot of things were open in town but we were able to take a tour of the Witch museum where we learned not only the history of the famed Salem Witch trials but also about modern day witches. We are regular people, just like you. When you meet us, let us explain our religion the animatronic figures dressed in crushed velvet say to the crowd. Evidently Wiccans are like old fashioned pagans. They worship nature and "[their] religion has nothing to do with the devil". Their tenants, as described by the figures, are 1) Do no harm 2) Do as you will 3) Everything you do comes back to you three fold. And do not refer to them as warlocks. That's derogatory...to people who refer to themselves as witches.

Samantha!

All of this got me thinking about the moment when the town's leadership decided they could make a tourist destination based on their horrible Witch history. I mean really, it's a terrible story, many innocent people were killed. I would have loved to sit in on the meeting where the mayor said "You know, it's time we turn this whole witch thing around and make it work for us."

You have to imagine that it was a great shame for the city for some time, as well it probably should have been. But at some point they started erecting witch museums, witch statues based on popular television, and luring in scads and scads of palm readers and fortune tellers.

However that went down, we had a delightful time in the snow filled city including a spot hitting crab roll on our way out of town.

Witch House, which we were misled to believe was open

Oh...that's a...

2011-02-08T09:56:00.000-08:00

Scrotum. That's right. It was a scrotum. I debated telling this story or not, but the more I think about it, the funnier it is and I just have to. Sorry Mom. As promised, after several tangential posts, I will resume reporting about our trip to Boston in which we sip Saudi Arabian Lime Tea, escape a near death by butter incident, and yes, have an epic encounter with Scrota (that's plural if you don't spend much time writing about male genitalia as I previously had not).

After a terrific but exhausting day hoofing it through Boston we ended up at our Airbnb hostess's lovely home in the suburbs of Boston. Airbnb is great for many reasons, but the most rewarding thing about it is the new friends you make with diverse backgrounds. Friends you probably wouldn't have made otherwise. And the local advice ain't bad either.

Shortly after we stowed our bag in their wall to wall library that served as a guestroom (awesome) we got to talking about Morocco and Moroccan food. We found out that she was a trained chef and Moroccan food was one of her specialties. She told us about this Moroccan cooking substance called "Smen" which is basically aged butter. She pulled an old babyfood jar from the fridge with a label across it reading "Smen: 1997". As she shared her dream of visiting the Berber tribes of Morocco high in the Atlas Mountains she cracked open the lid, releasing a whoof of agedness, and burnished a spoon. She dug around in the container a bit and came out with a spoon of the white flaky substance.

"I think I'd better try it before I give you some." She said as she raised the spoon to her mouth and winked at us.

I didn't know we were in line for tasting, and we would have done it, but the gastrointestinal angels were watching out for us. She coughed a little, took some drinks of water, pulled the bottle away from her face to examine it from the inside and out, and then giggled "Wow. It's a good thing I tried that first." It was a rather strong batch of Smen evidently. Maybe a little too aged.

When we told our sweet hostess that we were thinking about a day trip to Salem she promptly called her friend to come over and give us the low down. Both women are artists and the one had lived in Salem for sometime. These two women spent about two hours telling us the ins and outs of what we should do and not to, eat and not eat the next day. It was like they had nothing more important to do in the world. It was very kind. After dumping a box of maps and pamphlets on the table for us to peruse our hostess plucked a few shriveled limes from a two foot jar on the table marked Saudi Arabian Limes and put a kettle on the stove. The tea was sweet but still citrusy - just boiled dried limes -no sugar. Who know? (The Arabs, that's who. They are the kings of tea afterall) The women, longtime friends, argued back and forth about which routes to take and which sights were worth it as we sipped tea late into the night.

At about a quarter after midnight I shyly said "So, I understand the two of you are artists, I'd love to see your work if you have a minute."

Despite the late hour they put on their boots and we tromped out to a large shed in the back where they both had studios. It was wonderful to see their art and talk about process with real artists. I forget how much work there is in art. I know that sounds silly, but you get this idea that artists have a burst of creative genius, slap together a Starry Night and call it a day. The truth is most artists work and work and work tirelessly to improve their skill and create something they are happy with.

Our hostess's particular art was enormously scaled objects drawn in minute detail - flowers mostly. We're talking 6 foot by 6 foot flower petals and 4 feet tall blades of grass. All hand drawn, implementing various processing and transferring techniques. They were just beautiful. Just as we were about to leave she cocked her eyebrow and said "let me show you something."

By this point we could tell that she was imminently good natured and perhaps she "had a we bit of the devil in her" as a Scottish friend of ours said about me once. She pulled out three large sheets of drawing paper, three or four feet squared, and laid them on the studio floor. Both of them looked at us with anticipation to see if we could tell what the super close up drawings revealed, a bit of a smile on our hostess's lips.

I spoke first "Why, I think that's..."

"Huh." Max added when he realized that the pictures were minutely detailed, extra enlarged scrotum.

What does one say to that? I like how you captured the realness of the subject? What was your inspiration? How in the world did you get that angle?

I have to say we kept our cool pretty good and found a way to talk about the drawings without being 1) 6 years old or 2) hacks that acted like we 'got it'.

She actually said some pretty interesting things about the reception they got at an art exhibit on the Cape (that was eventually shut down for its obscenity). She said that she watched people encounter the pieces and it was almost always women who recognized what they were before men did. Go figure. As her friends said "I guess we do have a different perspective of it then Men"

She also said something about the scale of the pieces and what she liked about this subject matter at this size "People will look at it for sometime and not know what it is. When they figure it out they either laugh from embarrassment (check) or frown with disapproval. Between the time people figure it out and have a reaction to it I think there is a great opportunity for them to be surprised by their own innocence."

Whether you buy that or not, it made for an interesting trip and has definitely sent us into giggles several times since.

Reality is really...real

2011-02-01T16:02:00.000-08:00

Today we finished a security seminar where we learned, among other things, that we will be victims of food poisoning, we will have a car accident, and in our case we have determined that we will get evacuated - probably multiple times.

All this in light of the evacuation of the U.S. Embassy in Egypt today and Tunisia last week really puts things in perspective.

My friend over at Small Bits has written a great post about what it is like to be evacuated from post and Diplopundit, as always, has all the details about the recent evacuations. The embassy personnel and their family in Tunisia was evacuated to Morocco for a short time and has now returned to post. There are several flights today and tomorrow that will evacuate officers and their families serving in Egypt.

All I can think about is preparation, preparation, preparation. There are so many unpredictable things about living overseas, but there are a few things that we can do now to make the unthinkable a little more manageable. I came away from the seminar with lists of things to do and after reading through some posts and information about the evacuations in the Middle East I added even more things to it. So it's triple spreadsheet mode for me over the next few weeks.

Any tips for a first timer?

All I can say is may the combined force of the blogging community good will be with all those who have been evacuated. My thoughts and prayers are with the officers and families - especially those whose job it is to manage crisis' like this within the embassy. You do a hard job and it doesn't go unnoticed.

Foreign Service Update

2011-01-29T12:11:00.000-08:00

Casablanca:
To our great surprise our departure date has been moved up from June to the middle of April! This is actually a great thing, but it does make my "right on track" status in regards to planning more like "just behind the curve". BUT I'm maniacally making lists and checking them twice as I am want to do. The gist of our big list is as follows:

-Make sure that our travel orders are correct, schedule flights, UAB/HHE (our stuff) pickups
-Get housing, car, etc, figured out in Casablanca
-Get our diplomatic passports
-Make a Coscto run for spices and all things Mexican, pick up other things we will need in Casablanca that are hard to find. We just bought a Christmas tree last week for example.
-Max has his language test in a couple of weeks and I have a few training courses I hope to get into

on that note...

Language:
About three months into French I had to quit for health reasons that made it difficult for me to get to class everyday, but I am still chugging along on my own with Rosetta Stone and go into FSI when I can. I just started my Masters classes again so hopefully that will get my study butt in gear and I can hit the Francais more frequently.

In a few weeks French will end for Max and he will start his Consular training. Exciting!

We are both going to a "Security Overseas Seminar" on Monday and Tuesday where I hope they will teach me the ever so scrappy Israeli handfighting skill of Krav Maga. Krav Maga employs "wrestling, grappling and striking techniques, [...and is...] mostly known for its extremely efficient and brutal counter-attacks". ....but maybe I'll have to pick that one up on my own when we make it back to Israel.

On the Bus: Boston Edition

2011-01-25T12:38:00.000-08:00

Over the course of two days we made a total of 19 transfers connecting us between the 21 legs of our journey through Boston and to Salem and back*. If you think traveling is glamorous...prepare to be disappointed by public transportation that smells vaguely of urine - unless you are made of money I guess. Despite the complexity of our travel strategy, we spent most of the time walking the streets of Boston and Salem and learned a grundle about American History - both wholesome and a little more back alley.

We packed one light backpack so that we could get to Boston's Historic 'Nawth End' for our 11 o'clock tour without having to drop our luggage off across town first. Our tiny French tour guide Michelle showed us around in freezing temperatures just shivering through animated stories of immigrants, priests, brothels, and revolutionary heroes. We ate at a cozy Italian restaurant and stayed as long as we felt we could to warm our frozen toes without ordering more food. The weather was actually beautiful: blue skies, no wind, but freezing none the less.

We wound our way backward through most of the Freedom Trail, but made a slight detour to see the Boston Aethenaeum. The Aethenaeum is one of the oldest independent libraries in the United States and is one of the few 'members only' libraries left. For the record, I'm not sad about the trend away from private libraries toward public ones over the past century, but there was something a little awesome about a library that felt more like a private learning club than a homeless shelter. The library was founded in 1807 and overlooks the historic Granary Burying Ground including the graves of Samuel Adams and Paul Revere.

From there we hopped on the E train and barely made it to the last showing of the Maparium in the Mary Baker Eddy Christian Scientist Library. Not familiar with a Maprarium? Nether was I. In 1935 an architect named Chester Lindsay Churchill built a three story tall, stained glass, to scale replica of the world. This wonder is hollow on the inside and you walk through it on a bridge. There is a brief presentation describing the ways in which the world has changed (USSR, French IndoChina) and also highlights figures who changed it with quotes from Martin Luther King Jr. and Mahatma Ghandi. It was quite moving actually.

With several hours to go before our dinner appointment and the Boston Symphony later that night, we holed up in a corner of a Boston Market and played paper triangle football for sometime. You know, where you hold your hands up like goal posts? Winter traveling is harder than other seasons I think. At least its more expensive. If we had a few hours to kill during May we could have read our books in a lovely park, sat by the sea and ate ice cream, or drawn pictures of the historic buildings from a park bench, but in the dead of winter you have to find shelter and most of the time that means paying for something.

We had a lovely tapas dinner followed by the Boston Symphony, for which we stayed mostly awake. It was a long day.

I think I'll leave tales of Salem, Saudi Arabian Lime Tea, and hand drawn genitals for the next post.

First Italian Catholic Church in Boston

"One if by land, two it by sea" Historic Steeple where Paul Revere hung his lanterns

*Many of our legs had to do with getting to and from the airport. We wanted to use our free tickets so we had to get to Baltimore at 6 in the morning, which required a few early morning maneuvers to keep the cost down. I also included things like the free shuttle from the Amtrak Station to the Airport.

Who Goes to Boston in January?

2011-01-17T12:48:00.000-08:00

We do.

Details forthcoming.

Stuck at the Airport...in an Awesome Way

2011-01-01T09:39:00.000-08:00

I realize that posting a picture of a cemetery is a pretty lame way to celebrate Christmas, so a belated, and much less existential, Merry Christmas to all. This Christmas holiday brought the gifts of Family, Wii, Thai Massage, and six free round trip tickets anywhere that megacheapairlinenottobenamed flies. God bless us, everyone.

Max and I visited my sister and her sweet family in Wauwatosa Wisconsin this year, just outside of Milwaukee. We played tea party, dress ups, legos, and wii; we colored pictures, visited the Milwaukee Natural History Museum, and gorged ourselves on the delicious food my sister made. Much fun was had by all and Santa Clause even found us all the way over there (thanks Jenn).

On our way to the airport I said to Max "I hope that the flight is full so that we can volunteer to go later and get free tickets!" Max refers this kind of attitude as "Getting my coupon's worth" and it has taken us many places so I don't apologize for it. I got the idea on the way to Milwaukee when the flight next to us was over booked and they called for volunteers to go on a later flight by offering two free roundtrip tickets. My heart literally began racing and I started planning all the trips we could take with two free roundtrip tickets.

I like to plan trips. I'm a little compulsive about it actually. I've probably planned several dozen trips in my head (with the help of my nerdtastic "Travel Spreadsheet") that we have never taken - down to the price of hotels and food. In general I think it's helped to hone my travel skills...if made me a little bit crazy.

So, when we got to the farthestawayterminal at the airport and I saw it was packed with screaming children and frazzled parents returning from their Christmas visits I had a hunch we were in luck. As soon as our flight showed up on the board I approached the gate and asked the nice woman working at the counter how full the flight was.

"Oh, it's full honey. We need a few volunteers to bump until tomorrow morning actually"

(Me, feigning like I'd never thought of the idea)"Really? Well, what kind of compensation could you offer?"

"A round trip ticket for each passenger as well as a hotel stay tonight and a free meal"

"I think I might be interested in that. Our schedule is pretty flexible"

"Can I send you into Reagan National instead of Baltimore? (WAY closer to our house and easier to get home from)"

"Yeah, I think that would work."

"You know, if you are flexible you should just keep bumping all day tomorrow morning and rack up the tickets"

...! Of course!

So after the nice women dealt with a dozen or so passengers who just didn't get on their flight because they were roaming around the airport she helped us with our vouchers.

"You know, because you guys were so patient about the whole thing (having to wait forever while she dealt with people threatening to never use the airline again - which they will, because it's super cheap. Silly) I'm going to bump you up to first class"

We spent the night in a nice hotel and ate a lovely filet mignon in a restaurant akin to the restaurant in The Shining with old timey music and a formally dressed maitra d. The next morning we bumped one more time, this time getting TWO free round trip tickets for our 'troubles'. We ended up getting home at 1 pm the next day instead of 12:30 in the middle of the night. A win win as far as I’m concerned.

A nice old woman with a suitcase full of cheese latched on to me after signing the volunteer sheet and we chatted together about the places we’d go with our free tickets. She was so nervous about the whole thing and wasn’t sure it would work, but when it did and she realized she could go see her children a few more times she started scheming about doing it again. Just as I was boarding our 10:30 flight (our patience waning and our remaining three day weekends already booked)I heard her name called as a volunteer to get bumped to the next flight again. You go.

Where are we going to go? Well, the first is a no brainer – visit our moms in Utah. And secondly, I think we are going to take a nice midwinter trip to the Caribbean. We are pretty set on the Dominican Republic, but we’ll see. And the third is still just a twinkle in our eye at this point.

But other than rocking the system, I wanted to blog about this to impart some airport lessons learned this past week. They are as follows:

1. BE NICE. If you think that being a brute to the only people with the power to help you in a missed flight situation is going to get you what you want – think again. There are times to be firm, but if you smile and ask nicely and be understanding you WILL be compensated in kind. If not in tangible services then at least in good travel Karma, which I think is real and very important.

2. Check and re-check your gates people. During times of high volume traveling, the airport gets nuts and gate numbers change and announcements get drowned out. If it’s about time for your plane to leave and you haven’t seen the announcement flicker across the gate screen where you are sitting – you are in the wrong place.

3. Be Nice. Don’t reserve your niceness just for when you want something. People get stressed in airports and a smile or kind word is an easy way to help someone out and spread some old fashion good will across connecting airports the worldwide.

4. The people at the gates have power. They can re-assign your seats, upgrade you, and offer things in the case of a full flight.

So, happy holidays and happy travels...from my 3 year old self (in the middle)!

Because I Like Cemeteries

2010-12-22T09:17:00.000-08:00

For the State Department Round Up this week "Small Bits" has asked for submissions of our favorite pictures. This picture is of a cemetery on the Mount of Olives that overlooks Jerusalem. If you look close you can see little birds flying over the graves. There are many "end of days" prophecies in Judaism and Christianity regarding these cemeteries - I'm not sure about Islam. I started researching some of them, but then it occurred to me that I could harness the power of the internet and crowd source it. So feel free to enlighten all of us if you know the Mount of Olives prophecies from any religion.

On Touching Stuff

2010-12-19T21:32:00.000-08:00

I read this today on National Geographic's "Intelligent Travel Blog"regarding the top 10 archeological discoveries of 2010:

"The magazine also listed their threatened sites of the year, which include prehistoric Native American geoglyphs in southeast California, and the neolithic rock art in Egypt's Cave of the Swimmers. The rock art, which was popularized in the film The English Patient, is being "admired to death by tourists who feel compelled to touch the 10,000-year-old paintings," the magazine reports. But Egypt's council on antiquities is working on an outreach effort aiming to educate drivers who transport tourists to these sites. Their hope is that the drivers will encourage good behavior and teach tourists how to behave appropriately when viewing the art."

This touched on a pet peeve of mine and at this juncture of good will and holiday hope, I'd like to snark about it for a minute or two. Isn't that what people keep blogs for anyway?

It's summer 2008. Max and I are getting pretty good at the get-on-the-bus-get-off-the-bus migration that constitutes an inordinate amount of time on our Jordan study abroad program's detour in Egypt. We have just uniformly shuffled off the bus in front of The Pyramids in the Giza Necropolis. The Great Pyramid of Giza, or Pyramid of Cheops, specifically is the oldest of the 7 Ancient Wonders of the world. It is enormous and mysterious and marvelous.

Along with a pack of students we wind our way through grimy teethed Egyptians trying to relieve us of as many Egyptian Pounds as they think we'll be tricked into giving away.

"I was in that picture you just took. Bakshish (tips)" they say with hands extended and smiles which quickly turn into grimaces if you refuse. It's tricky to get to the Great Pyramid's entrance without getting harassed or fleeced (and most endure a combination of both) but we do finally arrive at a dusty booth where a woman sells tickets through a small slit in a dirty window.

"No cameras inside. No cameras" she says, "You can leave them here." And she points to a woven basket full of expensive cameras.

Dutifully I drop my camera in the bucket and hope that I will see it again in 40 minutes when the tour is finished. A group of us descend into the Pyramid and at first I'm groovin, Egypt style. Its' amazing, really, I'm going to walk deep into the heart of an Ancient Pyramid! But then the floor slopes into a sharp decline and I have to bend over at the waist to fit, the ancient stones scraping the sides of my shoulders. I start to feel claustrophobic and the only thing I can think of to stop me from turning around and making everyone get out so I can breath again is singing church hymns. A bit of an odd juxtaposition, Christian worship music in the heart of a burial temple for a polytheistic pharaoh, but if it works, it works. And it does. When we stand up straight at the end of a cramped tunnel and find ourselves in an actual burial chamber I am awestruck. In April of 2008 I wrote in my journal

"Everything has been stripped in the burial room except for a giant stone box that the sarcophagus used to be in. They had one small light backlighting the stone box and it was absolutely beautiful. Despite the 120 + muggy temperature inside (and all of it 4000 year old air) it was such a surreal experience. Knowing that this was the final resting place for one of the pharaohs, but more than that, knowing the sacred processes that when on in this room and how important it was to the Ancient Egyptians. It had the stillness of a regular cemetery, but the religious implications of a temple in some ways. Amazing."

But my much enjoyed orientalist awe is interrupted by the click, click, clicking of little cameras and obnoxious flashes illuminating the chamber with garish light. Several of the students had decided that their experiences were so much more important that the rest of ours, and CERTAINLY more than those yet to visit the pyramid, that they snuck their camera in and ran around from corner to corner touching things, trying to climb up the walls, and taking pictures. I could have died.

So here's my beef. When people say "Don't take pictures" "Don't Touch" - they mean it. These artifacts are remarkable and irreplaceable shrines to our history and our planet. If you think that your experience is more important than anyone else's and you just have to touch something - it's not and you shouldn't. Consider this a big fat digital tsk tsk.

Anthony Bourdain, Food and Travel Writer, frequently edits the "The Best American Travel Writing" series. In the 2008 edition he said something like "Travel writers ultimately destroy the things they love." They write about an off the beaten path Mom and Pop restaurant and the next year it is swarming with customers - it's charm given way to sweaty tourist in Hawaiian shirts. A tucked away meadow becomes trampled after being written about for its solitude and beauty. It's a reality of travel. But people, for Heaven's sake, if an official says "Don't Touch" - don't touch it. If they tell you not to take pictures of the Sistene Chapel - don't do if. If someone says "Do not remove anything from this sight"- don't do it. And even if they don't say that - don't do it.*

If travel is about what you can post on your facebook profile the next day or what you can say you've touched or have displayed on your mantle - you are missing the spirit of the thing entirely. So please, for all of you touchers and takers out there - ease up. I want my kids to be able to see the amazing things of the world decades from now, and it will be a shame if we gobble up all the treasures in our traveler's greed and carelessness.

*As a photographer I am certainly not advocating that you put your camera on the shelf. Just don't take pictures inside 10,000 year old caves when someone tells you not to. Ok?

Merry Christmas

2010-12-17T21:49:00.000-08:00

Consider this an early Christmas Present.

Fillipo was one of my favorite/most horrible students at English Camp in Italy this summer. He has no front teeth. Now just imagine him wolfing down bowl after bowl of spaghetti with the hair-netted lunch ladies pinching his cheeks - red sauce from ear to ear.

Rick Steves on My Birthday?

2010-12-11T22:07:00.000-08:00

After a good sleep in, a documentary about an Afghan American Idol, a nice long read, a fine dinner out, and a renaissance Christmas performance by the Tallis Scholars, we came home to find a Rick Steves Marathon on our local public radio station.

Could this be the best birthday ever?

The National Cathedral

2010-12-06T13:11:00.000-08:00

Just because of how things worked out, I experienced the big cities of Europe and the Middle east before I visited them in my own country. I pretty much went straight from my little town in Utah to the Middle East - stopping on the East Coast only to switch planes and take a pre-Atlantic potty brake. It has been really fascinating to encounter my own "National" things with something to compare them to - a perspective about how other countries perceive their national identity and how they translate that into their buildings or parks.

Jordan, for example, doesn't really embrace the idea of the "public park".   I recall a stroll through what was basically a manicured gravel pit with benches one Sunday after church. Israel's national library has the goal of obtaining all things Jewish and/or Hebrew throughout time and the world. If that doesn't speak to Israel's national Identity of sanctuary for and steward over all things Jewish, I don't what would.

The first time I went to the National Mall with Max and walked through its green grass I was struck with such pride in the way American architects and public officials have conceptualized our national spaces. The mall is green, it's open, and people wander over it freely*. All people have equal access to it, and it speaks to the nature found in the area - replete with forest service protected wildlife. (Squirrels) The buildings are beautiful, but not gaudy; grand but not unapproachable.

Anyway, Max and I have been able to see several public performances at the National Cathedral. It's a stunning building that at once says "old world craftsmanship" and "new world values". I don't know a lot about building construction, but evidently, it was built in such a way as to adhere to all of the traditional masonic rules and practices - real old school. It is the 6th largest cathedral in the world and the 2nd largest in America.

The melding of old and new can be seen in the stained glass windows. The nave is filled with beautiful, very colorful, stained glass windows - like traditional late Gothic churches. BUT instead of religious images alone, the stained glass windows also depict scenes from American life and history. There are windows depicting farmers, the industrial revolution, and my favorite, a window depicting the space program with a REAL MOON ROCK at its center. This website has some beautiful pictures of the windows.

The boss stones (decorative sculpture knobs at the intersection of ceiling ribs or walls) have traditional things like flowers, but there is also one of Alaskan Inuits with a dogsled and another of a fisherman. Somewhere there is a gargoyle fashioned after Darth Vader, but I have yet to spot it.

The church is officially Episcopalian and funded entirely by donations - nobody need get their Church and State panties in a twist. Below you'll notice the state flag of Arizona. Inside the cathedral they fly the flag of every state in the union. Each week they pray for one of the states at Sunday Services. On the 51st week they pray for the district and on the 52nd they pray for the nation. Isn't that a sweet thing?

It's a lovely building.

*If you want to think about American public spaces and their relationship to American values check out Ken Burn's National Parks series. I'm really not a sierra club kinda gal, but he touches on some fascinating aspects of our national character by exploring our public parks history. Very dear.

Manuscripts Awesomeness

2010-11-29T07:11:00.000-08:00

warning: The nerd factor of this post is about 8/10. If you don't really care about making books...skip this post.

In this, the second to last semester of Grad School, I am taking a Medieval Manuscripts Class. I know, it's totally awesome. We basically study the construction, design, history, and context of manuscripts from the 6th century through the late middle ages. It's like I've died and gone to heaven and someone is giving me school credit for it.

When Max and I were in New York I insisted that we go to the New York Public Library- twice actually. I didn't know if they had any exhibits going on, but I thought it was worth a shot. When we got pas security I looked up to find a sign that read

"Three Faiths: Judaism, Christianity, Islam. Scriptorium This Way"

What? A scriptorium? (The scriptorium is the room where monk scribes copied manuscripts and did the illumination and decoration) Turns out we had stumbled into an exhibit on the "founding religious manuscripts of the three Abrahamic faiths" complete with scriptorium. I spent most of my time in the scriptorium watching videos about making ink and parchment and doing medieval calligraphy. This little backlit table below was set up so people could trace calligraphy from the various languages involved in the exhibit.

These other pictures help illustrate the book making process. The first pictures are bottles of pigment that were traditionally mixed with egg white (called tempera) or gum arabic to produce flowing inks and paints. It looks awesome, but somehow I doubt that 6th century monks had hot pink ink. They did have a surprising amount of colors at their disposal, but I don't think hot pink was one of them. The color pigments come from things that occur in nature - trees, rocks, dirt, plants, rust, special kinds of fungus, etc. There is a long soaking and grinding and sifting process that takes place before you get to this stage.

This is a piece of parchment as it stretches on a frame. But let's back up. In preparation for my final on Wednesday, I'll just give you some of the juicy bookmaking details. Parchment was used for "books" after things like clay, wax, or stone tablets. You make parchment, which comes from the skin of an animal, by soaking the skin in a solution of lye, sometimes alum, sometimes oakgall (little knots on trees left over from insects) - there are a variety of things. This helps the hair fall off. Then you scrape the skin with a sharp knife, soak it again, scrape it again and then stretch it out to dry on a frame. While on the frame you scrape it again, making sure to remove all of the hair. Lastly, there is a kind of polishing done on the parchment by rubbing pumice or the flat side of knife over the skin. It was also common to treat the parchment with something that would help ink stay put on the skin later in the bookmaking process. By the end the very thin skin is folded, cut, marked and text is copied onto it.

They also had a display about paper. Paper is made by separating the fibers of an existing thing, a plant or a tree, or natural fibers like the ones below, by soaking it in water, beating the pulp to break fibers apart, running the sludge through a screen and then leaving the newly formed fibers to dry and bind into a new sheet of paper. There was a little egg shaped burnisher made out of a rock that we could try and burnish the paper with to give it a better look. Very hard stuff.

Wow. I've really nerded up the place. I'll leave the other mysteries of bookbinding for another day. But if you want to learn more about the exhibit and watch the awesome videos, you can follow the library's link. NewYork Public Library: Three Faiths

Nothin' a Pair of Sweatpants Can't Fix

2010-11-22T11:50:00.000-08:00

When I was in college my dear friend, who was also my roomate, and I wore sweat pants most days. I'm pretty sure we wore regular clothes to school (....) but for some reason the weekend and any time away from school was spent in sweatpants. There were several pairs in rotation between us - one a cut off pair left over from High School Powder Puff with something like "Juniors Rock" written across the tush, a giant pair I think I stole from my little brother, a baggy construction orange number that my roommate contributed (and wore the most) and a black pair of wide leg pants, torn and dirty from dragging over the ground. Which, come to think of it, must mean that this particular pair was worn many times outside of our apartment. Whatever. I fondly think of the 2003-2004 school year as "The Year of the Sweats".

I've have been feeling a bit under the weather lately, and what longing I've experience for the vast sweat pant collection of my college days! Not to worry. Today I woke up feeling just as cruddy as I had for the past few days and so I hopped on the internet and order a few new pairs of sweat pants. Fancy ones.

Ahh.

But what does one do when wearing said sweatpants? Read. That's what. I have read a few fantastic books lately so I thought I'd pass them along.

When I told Max I was reading a book about immigrant factory girls in China he groaned a little. I have a penchant for sad books about world events. It's just my bag. HOWEVER, this book was anything but sad (ok, a little). It is largely about the mass migration of young, rural, Chinese girls to the industrial factories of South East China. But more than that, it's about the values of modern China that these girls represent - exchanging centuries of history and the idea of familial legacy for financial increase and fierce self-reliance. The Author, Leslie T. Change, at once explores China's changing landscape from past to present, rural to urban, tradition to instability, and also her family's own history as they endured the cultural revolution. It is one part biography, one part narrative, and two parts cultural analysis of Modern China - a place I knew next to nothing about. It's a big 'un, but fabulous through and through. Probably one of the best books I've read in the past 5 years or so.

The subtitle of this book reads "a girlhood caught in revolutionary Iran". And that's pretty much what it's about. The daughter of a poet and poet herself, Hakakian's book is a thoughtful and beautiful narrative of her experiences in Iran during a very tumultuous time.

And last the best of all the game. If you don't know Nancy Pearl, you should. She is a librarian and world class readers advisory guru. (For all of you non-nerds out there - that is the action of advising readers, like at a library, what books they might enjoy reading based on their stated preferences). She has several books that give wonderful suggestions about what books people with certain interests might like. "Book Lust" and "Book Crush" are the title of some of her books. She even has little action figure.

On a most purposeful trip to Barnes and Nobles a few weeks ago to pick up a map, this book sneaked into my bag and I have since given it a place of honor on my nightstand. Basically, she breaks down book recommendations by country or region of the world with a few chapters about mode of transportation and miscellaneous travel writing. I can hardly wait to read all the books she has recommended! Last week I said "hmmm, where do I want to travel? What place do I want to learn more about?" And turned to a section about Spain, but in the end I settled on a book about Afghanistan - a place I don't really want to travel, but would love to learn more about. It's like a portkey!...Harry Potter fans? Anyone?

Anyway, the full title is "Book Lust To Go: Recommended reading for travelers, vagabonds, and dreamers." If you like traveling, or would like to travel or even just care about the world - get it!

And on that last note, I will end this post on topic that is rather sad for me. People read for all sorts of reasons, but certainly one of the largest reasons has to be to learn stuff, right? To learn about history, the world, the human body, human relationships etc. For date night this week Max and I had a quick bite and then went to Barnes and Noble where we were each going to pick out just one book. What possibility! I was feeling like learning something about the world, so I headed to the current event section. Much to my still present dismay, the "current event" section had been overcome by political hackery written by each and every political hack that ever learned to write. I would say 80% of the books were about President Obama ruining the country, or Republicans ruining the country, or why the crap I think is better and more patriotic than the crap that that other guy says. I was down right furious.

And I hear you say "but it's Washington. Duh." But no! Shouldn't this be the place where people want to actually learn stuff? Where they want to be informed about the world and its history, not imbibe in some ninny's sis boom ba "My book might get me elected to something" extravaganza?

Anyway. I found a lovely book after all my foot stomping and I've made my peace.

Stuff We Ate and Stuff We Saw

2010-11-02T19:21:00.000-07:00

Our main purpose for going to New York was to see a few Broadway shows. But how could we pass up these tiny cupcakes that were being sold out of a "shop" the size of my closet? Fitting, really.

After the tiny cupcakes we saw a new musical called Bloody, Bloody Andrew Jackson whose tag line is "History Just Got All Sexypants!" For real. It's is a musical about the life of Andrew Jackson. I know, not thrilling right off the bat, but Jackson is portrayed as the in your face, emotional king of populism as it was practiced in the 1800's....with hilarious and spot on commentary about the way it is practiced in 2010. The Artistic Director had this to say about his interpretation of the show:

[Bloody, bloody] is using the immensely pleasurable tools of Populism to critique that most dangerous of American political phenomena. I think it is entertainment appropriate for our time. It may be about our seventh president, but it tackles that ebullient, sentimental, no-nonsense, self-pitying, anti-intellectual, rowdy energy that is at the core of our national identity - with a precision that speaks totally to our moment. This is who we are, and if it's horrifying, it can also be a lot of fun. What a contradiction. America.

We had, as they say, a rollicking good time. The costumes and set design were this awesome mix of Victorian England, 19th century Frontier, and one dash Trailer Park 1991. The theater (below) was unreal. Don't pay too much attention to the stuffed horse hanging upside down in the middle of the theater.

We also saw an experimental movement piece that knocked our socks off. It was a bit like an organized dance party and we had to move around the theater space throughout the show. At one point a giant clear tarp filled with water was lowered above the audience, and people swam around in it. Wild.

More on the Museum of Modern Art in the near future. I'll just say that we saw someone marginally famous AND drank these amazingly overpriced and undersized hot chocolates at the Museum cafe. It was all we could afford :)

oohh, along with a report about the Museum of Modern art I will reveal the NYC public library exhibit that set my little librarian heart a flutter.