the indigestion begins: morocco countdown

This is likely to be my last opportunity to say anything before we board the plane to Morocco. I only work 2 hours tomorrow. There is packing to be done, the house to clean, the address for where I’m taking the dog to find, and some sort of plan for having my mail picked up and the house checked in on…  Must call HAF.

I’m a little fascinated by the way that an act like purchasing tickets gets so disassociated from the act of going, how deciding to go becomes deciding which jeans to put in the suitcase, which suitcase to take and so on. Like you don’t really decide to go, you decide to buy the tickets, then you decide to pack, then you decide to get into the car and go, so eventually the whole thing is wildly disassociated from itself. At a certain point you just get sucked into the thing and it’s all about the motions until you plop like a newborn babe into the Mohammed V airport and choke on the cigarette smoke.

(digression: season three of Bullshit is apparently available from NetFlix. Must have hubby add that to our list.)

My sister is having in-law trauma this week – her MIL has been visiting for the past 8 days and won’t be going home for another three. She called this AM very frustrated and offering dire predications for how I’ll do in Morocco for three weeks. For the better part of the time we are there, the husband will be the only person available who is fluent in English. His Lothario brother used to be functional in English, but is way out of practice. His brother that lives here is fluent, but he’ll only be around for the first week. Other than that, it’s going to be me bouncing along behind the husband like a tethered soccer ball.

I imagine she’s quite right. Come week two, I’m pretty sure that I’ll be ready for a bath that doesn’t involve 100 of my closest Moroccan friends and neighbors. Hamam: the public bath. ‘Tis an experience. We just have a hell of a lot more privacy here. I’m sure I’ll be longing for a toilet I can sit on. Turkish toilet: a hole in the ground with two foot-shaped pads in front of it. You had better hope you are possessed of some damn good balance.

(digression: Tink just called. She received my package of beads and was very pleased, which got us talking about beads, which got me searching on-line for beads. I found, but I’m not sure about their prices. Seems more complicated than it needs to be. Oh yeah.  As I remember it, I’m not allowed to buy more beads. Never mind, then, with the bead store search.)

So I was compiling the list of things that I can say in Moroccan Arabic: I don’t have a brother, pick up your socks (or shoes), let’s go, where, everything, nothing, yes?, mother, parents, no, thank you, you are welcome, fart, little fart, tomato, salt, water, bread, sister, hello (and the proper response), market, white, beautiful, ugly, shame (as in for shame, don’t do that) what’s wrong, big, eat (as in the command) and then a bunch of words that I am never to repeat under any circumstances.

Precious little to go on. Precious little indeed.

the indigestion begins: morocco countdown

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