On the Road…Not So Much

Well, there are no excuses I can make. I lied, and I am very sorry. I just have to admit it to you guys and move on.

I did go on the road again – that wasn’t the lying part – but once in Tunisia, I just couldn’t find time to record all the amazing things I was seeing. I told myself I would write them all down when I got home, but between finishing up my internship and cranking through my senior capstone project, it just didn’t happen.

Fortunately, I again find myself with time on my hands and the itch to write. Read along if you dare.  Coffee is entering the scene yet again, and I think blog entries will tend to center on that. But I’m also going to be searching for a new pad in Washington, D.C., and that will certainly be an adventure in and of itself.

To kick off, let me tell you my dilemma. My best friend from home, who is also a coffee-loving little woman, is moving to the city at the end of May. She and I will be staying in my current place until the beginning of August, when we plan to move in with our other (male) friend and as of last night, potentially his largely unknown, ginger-bearded friend. While as a newly-hatched adult, I’d like to find a place where I could have my own room, D.C.’s rent prices often make that pretty difficult. We also don’t want to live in a place where we have to walk a mile to the bus/metro or carry a machete (it really clashes with our going-out-attire).

So ultimately we’re three-to-four recent college grads trying to find a three or four bedroom apartment in a decent neighborhood with metro or bus access for close to $2400 or $3200 (depending on how many people live with us) per month.

To give an example of what this might mean, trawling Craigslist this morning, I found a 3-bedroom, 1-bathroom apartment for $1850 – score! The pictures looked nice, there was a washer & dryer, and the ad said it was one block to the bus. Perfect, except…I google-mapped it and realized it’s on what my former coworker outlined for me as the sketchy side of H-Street. Not the up-and-coming cool side, but the murder-before-midnight side. A couple blocks away from emergency psychiatric services.

Another great one for $2350 looked nice until I checked it out on OneCityMap and found there had been an assault with a deadly weapon right next door in the last month.

And so the search continues…but not without coffee:

On the Road Again

Today marks the return of the Littlest Barista to the Arab World! Okay, not quite today. Tomorrow technically. But in about five hours, I’ll hop on a plane to France, followed by a plane to Tunis and then it’s “Marhaba Maghreb!”

 This time I’m packing a little lighter, because I won’t be there quite so long. Just eight days or so, sponsored by the United States government. Thank you, Uncle Sam!

While in Tunisia, I’ll officially be participating in a debate exchange program with three different schools and living with a host family.

Unofficially I’ll be soaking up some sun, attempting to learn a little more of the language and speaking to people about how social media played a role in their revolution. I’m also determined to investigate the mystery of the Bouazizi myth. Multiple people have told me the story of the fruit seller setting himself alight after having his cart revoked is not quite on the mark with what really happened.

The journey began yesterday at Georgetown University’s campus, where our delegation of 15 (or so?) American (and one French) students met for the first time. Already we’ve experienced our first language confusion. As you can see below, the sign in the bathroom at the hotel was a little confusing. Why exactly should I “be cautious” of the soap dish? Is it okay to jump out and bite me? I might have been a bit more wary had I been fully awake when taking my shower this morning. Thanks to a post-orientation stop at The Tombs, however, I was pretty bleary-eyed this morning.

Post-shower, I was perky enough to enjoy our breakfast with Mohamed Salah Tekaya, the Tunisian Ambassador to the United States, and Andrew Rabens, a representative from the state department’s youth engagement department.

The ambassador spoke at length about the opportunities the U.S. and Tunisia now have to improve their relationship, in light of the revolution. He said one of the basic problems he finds with this relationship is that many Americans can’t even locate Tunisia on a map. I may have blushed a little when he said this; up until last year, I’m pretty certain I couldn’t.

I apologize for the poor quality of the photo, but here is the ambassador, holding up the sign that represents our delegation: the USA-Tunisia Youth Debates.

As a side note, if anyone has any questions they would like me to try to answer while I’m in Tunisia, please let me know. Also, if anyone has any recommendations for good camera purchases, I’d love to hear those as well. I’m hoping to replace this guy soon. As you can see, he’s on his last legs.

 

For the Record: Starting a Food Log

Leaving Morocco meant a change of scenery, but it also meant adjusting to a completely different lifestyle.

In Rabat, I had four meals per day, plopped on the table in front of me with no question as to what I wanted and no required thought on my part.

Now I have to feed myself, and let’s be honest: so far, it hasn’t been a pretty sight. Goldfish crackers, PBJ and cookie dough ice cream are staples of my diet. It doesn’t help that I’ve yet to get my first paycheck, so grocery shopping means watching my balance shrink and shrink.

Fortunately, I found this wonderful place called “Trader Joe’s,” where I can buy anything from sushi to frozen corn to  organic carrot sticks for amazing prices. With my cabinets and fridge full of food, I thought my work was basically done. NOT.

Turns out you have to actually keep track of what you’re putting in your body and how much you’re exercising, if you want to live better. On top of that general guideline, my doctor recently put me on a strict diet, because of the damage my GI track sustained thanks to the infection I contracted in Morocco. So in a matter of weeks, I’ve had to go from an apathetic eater to a conscious consumer.

That’s where MyFitnessPal comes in.

It’s a website that combines my two favorite things: social media and food. The main idea is to log your foods and exercise for the day, and it calculates your nutritional intake as well as what you’re lacking.

What I like about it: I can be very specific with the foods I log. Instead of putting in “peanut butter sandwich,” I can log two pieces of Market Pantry Enriched White Bread and two tbsp of Skippy Chunky Peanut Butter. That makes it more accurate than many sites I’ve seen.

What I don’t like: The exercise calculator seems questionable to me. Did I really walk 3.0 mph for my entire walk from Loehmann’s to Chipotle last night? How about between the Metro and the Travel Clinic? I have no choice but to guesstimate. (My friend, Tess, doesn’t have this problem. With her iPhone, she can track how long she walks/runs and her speed, so no guesstimation for her!)

I also don’t love how diet-centric the site is. My purposes are more for keeping track, not for losing weight, but the message boards and inspirational phrases on site all revolve around shedding pounds.

Something to think about: The site says people who diet with friends are more likely to lose weight. Translate that to people with healthy friends are healthier themselves. It makes sense to me — Tess was the one to tell me about the site in the first place. To help users be inspired by their friends (or incite a little healthy competition), this site incorporates Facebook-like status updates, telling all of your MyFitnessPlan “friends” how many calories you burn and how much weight you’ve lost. It feeds into the Millenial Generation’s obsession with making their private lives public.

Despite its flaws, I’ve decided to give the site a two-month try. That will get me through the doctor-prescribed diet with an idea of what I need to do to keep myself on track, nutritionally.

What do you think? If you want to join me on my trial, sign up and add me as a friend. We can go through this epic journey together 😉

And Then There Were None

That’s right. I broke the cardinal rule of blogging.

I let an entire month go by with no posts.

But I had good reason. In that month I…

…aced my finals. While dealing with the emotional drama of saying goodbye to new friends, family and a country to call home (plus the collapse of my love life in the U.S.), I cranked out three papers, two written tests in foreign languages, one oral foreign language test and a final presentation. The most frustrating part – in the end – was how much I missed my University’s library. The Moroccan National Library is open to students, but I find the echoey hallways and ban on Facebook utterly intimidating.

…got a tan. My roommate and I tried to cram all those things we’d said we wanted to do from the start into our last couple weeks: eat snail soup, go surfing (she did, I didn’t) and take one really relaxing vacation. To that end, we spent our last weekend in the same beach town I visited over spring break, Essaouira. We ate some tasty chicken chwarma (which turned out to be not so good), and I brought out my bathing suit for the second time all semester. Morocco pulled out all the stops, giving us two terrifying experiences that weekend to cap off our stay — but we survived and lived to forget the tales.

…said goodbye. Got on a plane and seven hours later, I was back in the land of French fries and ketchup. Or more accurately, French fries, gravy and cheese curd — my flight landed in Montreal. I left Morocco behind, but not before witnessing men practically fighting to carry my suitcases for me. Thank God for Moroccan hospitality and my irresistible foreignness.

…cut off all my hair. Not to be too much of a cliche, but after all I witnessed in the past four months, I feel like a new “Sarah.” To match my inner new Sarah, I now have new Sarah hair, too. My awesome stylist, Kathy from The Gallery in Concord, cut off 10 inches and dyed the rest auburn.

…resigned myself to the BRAT diet. After two days of painful stomach cramps and an inability to digest food properly, I went to the doctor and found out that delightful chicken chwarma back in Essaouira contained campylobacter, a bacteria that took up root in both my and Robin’s intestines. For almost a month now, I’ve been avoiding alcohol and spicy foods – with only one bad lapse – and I have to say, it has taken some patience.

…started an internship at ABCNews.com. That’s right. If you’re looking for a story on Sarah Palin or the National Spelling Bee this summer, you’ll know who to call.

…dived right back into D.C. living. I’ve got a new apartment, right across the bridge from the hottest nightlife in the District. I’ve got a pantry full of food that I picked out and purchased myself (such a novelty after four months of Mama Rachida’s cooking…not that I’m complaining either way). I’ve got a walk-in closet full of heels and dresses. All of this is so different than my life one month ago, that sometimes I have to stop and remind myself that it wasn’t all a dream.

But it wasn’t. Morocco was and still is real. I have the souvenirs — and stomach bacteria — to prove it.

The Right Question

When deciding where and how to study abroad, staying with a host family always stuck out as a benefit in my mind. Some of the students on my program would argue that homestays in the Arab World are inherently a bad idea; they say plunking an American 20-something down in the midst of an authoritarian, abstinence-oriented nuclear family leads to unavoidable conflicts (from what I’ve heard, this could involve stumbling home a drunken mess only to realize that you’ve broken curfew and have to bang on the door until someone wakes up to let you in). While I did expect some problems, I hoped being immersed in Moroccan life would answer all my questions about language, gender roles, Islam and Westernization.

Fast forward 4 months: I’ll be leaving in two weeks, and I’m finding that I still have a myriad of questions. Why has women’s health suddenly become a priority in Morocco? Are the racist/Orientalist advertisements that I see on TV and billboards created in the West or here in the Arab World? If the King owns two of the three leading grocery chains, does that mean the government can track people’s everyday purchases, just as Safeway or Shaw’s does in the U.S.? What do the narratives behind Lebanese music videos that are popular in Morocco say about gender roles here?

Instead of getting all the answers I wanted, it has taken me four months just to figure out the right questions. My roommate joked that she’s glad I found this out for her — she plans to do anthropological work in other countries after she graduates, and now at least she has a timeframe for how long she’ll need to get started. But why does it take so long to figure things out here? I can think of a few reasons.

First, it takes a long time to get comfortable enough to question. Though it’s true that there are a lot of similarities between my life here and my life in the States, the differences are pretty overwhelming. For example, in the States I don’t have the option to sit for hours without interruption in a cafe with free wifi. In Starbucks, there’s always a barista hovering around with a broom or a pre-teen blasting hip hop from his iTunes. But here, going to Al Houda – our usual cafe – is the only way I can get work done. I have no space in my home reserved specifically for studying. At any minute, my host sister could come bounding into my room on her cell phone, looking for some privacy from her parents and older brother. When I’m at home, I’m summoned for food or conversation every hour or so, making it hard to get into a good work groove. So it took me at least two months to even get studying down, let alone navigating the crumbling sidewalks.

My second obstacle was the language barrier. Language plays a key role in how I analyze the world around me. The fact that I couldn’t understand any of what my family members said to each other when I first came made it impossible for me to guess about their relations with each other beyond what I could see and feel. How often they hug and the tones of their voices say a lot about their interactions, but once I’d thought about those things, I was stymied. Now that I have a better understanding, I can ask things like, why does Mama Rachida sometimes refer to Papa Hamid as “my brother?” What does this say about their relationship? It’s a question I couldn’t have asked before I learned the word “hoya,” which is “brother” with a first-person possessive pronoun in Moroccan colloquial Arabic.

Finally, there’s a sort of indirect quality to interactions here that always leaves me guessing. No one ever says what they are actually feeling, out of politeness. If you run into a friend on the street, she will insist that you join her for tea, even if she is on her way to do something important or is feeling sick or is on the brink of running out of tea and can’t afford to buy more. No matter what, her hospitality will dictate that she welcomes you, and come hell or high water, you better accept that invitation.

There are subtle hints when a Moroccan is saying one thing but means another: a gleam in the eye, the tone of the voice, something. I haven’t gotten it all quite figured out yet, and I’m not entirely sure that this quality is unique to Moroccans, but regardless, it often leaves me feeling like I’m looking at a reflection or an abstract painting. I have to modify it in my mind in order to find the real meaning behind what’s being said.

Catching Up After Catching A Break: Part II

When I left off, I hinted at further travels. Where could I go after hitting Rabat, Tangier, Chefchaouen, Ifrane, Fez, Azrou, Marrakech, Casablanca and Essaouira, you ask? The desert!

For less than $150, six friends and I spent the night in the sand dunes of Merzouga. One night might sound short, but it was enough. More than 36 hours with insane amounts of beauty, no sign of plumbing, few trees and no buildings is enough to start messing with the mind.

On the first day, our guides met us at the bus station at 6 a.m., drove us to the hotel and fed us. With food in our bellies, they ushered us into rooms where we could sleep or relax as we wished. After 10 hours on a rickety bus with three babies and a puker, this was exactly what I needed.

At 4 p.m., we met our newest travel companions: camels! They aren’t used to transport people as often as they once were, and it’s easy to see why. While I’m sure my beast of burden (deemed “Ted” after much deliberation) had the best of intentions, he was both higher and more bumpy a ride than any horse I’ve encountered. Every time we went downhill, I gripped him with my knees and prayed I wouldn’t slip off. The sand dunes are hard enough on my ankles, but I imagine being a 700-lb mammal with a person and luggage on your back makes it significantly more difficult.

That afternoon, we trekked out to drink tea at an oasis (full of cats) and hiked up the dunes to watch the sunset. At nightfall, we counted the stars on a blanket outside a tent. Our guides cooked tajines on a gas stove for us and played music while we ate. Turns out they and their friends have some sort of desert-blues band! They tried to teach us Amazigh (the Berber language) and the drums but sadly failed at both.

Sleeping conditions were what I had most feared, but we were actually quite comfortable on mats in a tent reminiscent of what I imagine Harry and Ron used at the Quidditch World Cup. Though we were sweating during the day, after sundown it got very cold. Thick blankets and the body heat kept the chill out. In the morning, we woke up to watch the sunrise, then crawled back into our beds for an early-morning snooze.

The incredible thing about the desert is how untouched it is. Everywhere else in Morocco there is a hanout on the next corner, stocked with bottled water and Kinder bueno, or a hotel boasting free wifi. We saw a few obvious tourist hot spots like the one where our tent was pitched and an Amazigh village full of mostly crumbled, roofless houses, but other than that, there was no infrastructure: just sand and stones, grass and rocks, lizards and graves. Our guides explained that that was why most of the families in the village had moved out; there was nowhere for their children to go to school. Only one family stayed behind, and they were nice enough to cook us “Berber pizza” (thick bread baked with cheese, chicken and vegetables inside) for lunch that day.

Our guides themselves really made the trip interesting. Most American teenagers would think of a day without internet, running water or television as a waste of 24 hours, but these guys had no trouble keeping us entertained.

First there was Mustapha, 21 years old and the brooding musician type. He didn’t put his guitar down the entire time we were there. Coincidentally, he also fell head over heels for one of the girls from our program that had come on an earlier trek. The entire time we were there they texted back and forth, nonstop. This week, he is coming for a visit (inshallah or God willing, as Moroccans say after any expression of future tense) to Rabat. He speaks Arabic, French and Amazigh fluently, but his English is only so-so, leaving communication extremely limited. Sound enough like a rom com for you?

The other guide, Adi Kaka, was the crazier of the two. Adi’s English consisted of a handfull of phrases that he threw out seemingly at random. “Don’t speak, don’t move,” he would shout in the middle of a walk through the sand. How could we not move? And why exactly did we need to be silent? Both questions that will forever go unanswered. “You want hahas?” This question was repeated time after time while we were on our camels, with Adi  walking beside us below. To our chagrin, we found that “hahas” actually meant anything from foot tickling to a little lizard on our legs. No one really wanted either of these things, but that didn’t stop Adi from asking.

Almost a month later, I worry about Adi from time to time. At the end of the trek, he told us he was going to Casablanca soon to see a doctor. He complained of headaches and said he forgot things easily. I can’t imagine living with migraines in the desert, and I have no idea what sort of treatment is available in Morocco – let alone in the desert – so I can only hope that he soon saves the money to go live with his girlfriend in South America, as he planned.

Overall, the desert trek wasn’t quite as much a time for reflection and relaxation as I’d hoped, but I do feel immensely more powerful knowing that I’ve relieved myself in the sand dunes. If I can go without even a hole in the ground, I can do pretty much anything.

Our group on the camels. I'm third from the right.

Stuck in the Middle with Robin

After three months of being a student in Morocco, I am in a unique position, somewhere between tourist and ex-pat. Basically, I know enough to know when I’m being ripped off but not enough to stop it completely.

For example, Robin and I took a one-night trip to a beach town called Asilah this weekend. The train station is situated somewhat far from the city, across a bridge that isn’t pedestrian friendly, so this afternoon, we opted to take a cab there. Any time you ask a cab driver to take you to or from a train station in Morocco, it’s time to whip out your bullshit detector. Cabbies see this as an immediate avowal of your ignorance to all things Moroccan. But Robin and I were savvy; before getting into the cab we made sure to establish our price: 20 dirham, nothing more. It’s higher than I would have paid for such a short ride in Rabat, but it was only $1.50 each, and there really was no other option. When the cab pulled to the side of the road next to a closed gate and a field of wildflowers, we balked, but he assured us that the gate was open and would lead right to the tracks. He was right about the latter, but after he drove away, we found the gate securely locked. We had to walk through weeds to the other side of the tracks, which, though easy enough, was humiliating for us old-pros.

But really, how can I complain? The other side of studying here is the financial freedom I have as an American. When else will $30 get me round-trip train tickets and a hotel room in an ocean town? The streets were clean, the food was decent and the people were friendly; the last minute jaunt was exactly what Robin and I needed this weekend.  Back in the states, the ripping off is unabashed: $40 for a night in a mildewy motel, $10 for a soggy burrito and fries, $60 for the second season of Madmen on DVD (which sells for $4 in the Rabat medina). At least Moroccans make an effort to be creative about it.

One Big Happy Family

The family at the beach, minus me and Yassine. From left to right, Mama Rachida, Rihab, Robin and Papa Hamid

Living with my host family is very different from life at the Parnass household, but when it comes to family vacations, the two are remarkably close.

At first, I couldn’t tell. On the morning of the trip, Mama Rachida and Rihab calmly primped, while Papa Hamid brought the car around. Where was the timetable? Where was the yelling? No one even argued about what to put on the radio. How refreshing!

My chronic travel-induced narcolepsy hit the moment I set foot in the car, and I didn’t wake up until we hit a rest stop. Getting out of the car simply for a cup of coffee? My roommate had never heard of such a concept, but it fit perfectly with my memories of Dunkin Donuts coolattas in the backseat — the only difference being that here, we sat around at the cafe for a good 20 minutes before we got going again.

At our destination, we wandered the fish market, posed for pictures in front of the skyline and drove around looking for a parking space — all not unlike a Parnass family trip to Maine. There was no restroom at the beach, so we changed into our swimsuits in the car, doing our best to hide from guys peering in the windows. Flashback to childhood, though then I was usually changing for dance class on the way back from the lake.

The sand was hot, the water was cold and the waves were mild. Papa Hamid and Mama Rachida left the three girls to go in the water; like my real parents, they weren’t interested in swimming. After the beach, we changed at a bathroom that actually topped my other experience for most disgusting Turkish toilet I’ve ever encountered. Lunch consisted of fried fish, fresh bread, French fries, salad and coca cola. Then we were back in the car, and I was out like a light.

Don't worry, this was posed. Driving in Morocco is NOT on my to-do list.

But ten minutes down the road I crashed into consciousness to loud music and the car violently lurching from side to side.

Turns out the road Hamid picked had a scenic view and more potholes than tar. After 20 minutes of jerking along at a snail’s pace, Robin identified this as a metaphor for the third world. Everyone except her was praying that the car – a BMW with at least a decade of hard Moroccan driving – wouldn’t just give up and keel over at every new bump. First a large truck carrying wheat passed us. Then it was a kid on a donkey. Finally, the sun-tanned boys on foot walked right by our car. By that time, I was in hysterics, trying to stifle my laughter.

As it turned out, the road led us to a shopping town. It’s a great place to go if you’re looking for off-brand pesticides, neon green lingerie or pajamas that say things like, “You are my luck best friend,” but Rihab wanted skinny jeans. We spent three hours watching on the sidelines while she went from store A to store Z and back through the alphabet again. By the end, she had a pair of jeans, and Robin, Hamid and I had a sincere desire to get back on the road.

We didn’t stop on the way back. As night fell, Robin and I became engrossed in our own conversation. I only tuned into the host family when I heard Rihab raise her voice. The gist of the conversation as I got it was that Rihab had asked for a new present – pajamas, I presume. This erupted into a full-scale fight, complete with yelling and tears.

It was then that I realized, no family is exempt from day trip disasters. Putting any group of blood relatives in a car together will always lead to all-out warfare after a while. It’s not an issue to work on but merely a fact of life. The moral of this story is that now I miss my bilingual, frozen-dinner eating, backseat driving, Dunkin drinking family more than ever. Good thing they’ll be here one week from today.

Catching Up After Catching a Break – Part I

What happens when you mix a visitor from the States + midterms + travel opportunities? Backlog! It’s a blog’s worst enemy, and I fell prey to it this month. Side note – you know you’re really slacking when your dad sends you multiple e-mails a) making sure you’re alive and b) complaining about your lack of posts.

So what did I do with all my time apart? First, I picked up my boyfriend from the airport in Sale, an adventure in and of itself. He got a brief introduction to Darija, the family and Moroccan cooking before we hopped in a car with three others and headed for the majestic hills of Chefchaouen.

This mountain town was a great place to start our trek. Even the ride there is both terrifying and beautiful. It rained all the way, so that some of the roads weren’t so much roads as mud baths, but we made it there in one piece. That night we hiked up to a mosque in the side of the mountain in time for the evening call to prayer. Imagine sitting arm-in-arm with some of your closest friends while the undulating voices of twenty or more muezzins rings out over the city at your feet. How can one moment be so beautiful?

On the way back from Chefchaouen, I used the most horrifying “Turkish toilet” that I’ve ever seen and enjoyed some of the greasiest fries. Once back in Rabat, Nick and I popped into my apartment to “refaire les valises,” only to find that our host family was once again repainting my room. That’s right; for the second time this semester, they moved aside all mine and my roommate’s belongings in order to completely redecorate. They anticipated our arrival with a huge meal of lamb and vegetables. After having such a small host daughter, I think what really endeared Nick to my host mom was his willingness to consume everything she put in front of him. So much for “popping” in.

One 5-hour train ride later, Nick and I found ourselves in Marrakech, at the heart of tourism in Morocco. By sheer luck, we wound up at a riad (Moroccan equivalent of a bed and breakfast) with a heater in the room and English television – two grand rarities in Moroccan hotels. The best part of our time in Marrakech was probably the great cat pictures I got; otherwise, things were a little too hustling and bustling for my tastes.

From there, we took a three-hour bus south to Essaouira. This beach town quickly became my favorite place in the country. Maybe it was our shared love of the ocean that made us feel at home among the locals. Perhaps we just needed a break from being constantly hassled after Marrakech. Or maybe it was the view of the sunset from the rooftop terrace at our hotel. Who knows? Whatever it was, we left on Saturday morning with heavy hearts, vowing to come back – someday.

After spring break, I got back just in time for midterms…and more traveling! Unfortunately this cafe is about to close (fun fact: apparently Morocco runs on daylight savings time, too! It changed Sunday, and I’m still feeling an hour behind), so that story will just have to wait.

Cats, Hot Wax and Other Things that Don’t Mix Well

Meet Nano, the salon cat.

My roommate and I spent almost the entire week knocked out of commission by our respective illnesses. In between watching the first season of Mad Men and catching up on our Oscar winners, our biggest adventure was a trip to a nearby salon.

I should have known the place was less than legit the moment we stepped into the back room and saw a large, longhaired cat seated in one of the salon chairs, beside a woman getting her eyebrows plucked. Alas, as both my roommate and I are catladies-in-the-making, we simply saw this as a sign of her benevolence and good taste.

“These are cat people,” we thought. “They must be good people.”

Well, good or bad, one thing is for sure, the white-coated salon girl knew very little about épilation, as the French call it. That word literally means “peeling,” which is exactly what that treatment felt like: as if she was peeling the skin off my legs in long strips. Unfortunately, all the pain was for naught. Robin and I left too quickly to examine the work she’d performed, but when we rolled up our pant legs later on, we saw a bounty of hairs still there and long as ever.

We retreated to our host family’s apartment defeated and depleted. I find being sick is exhausting enough when I’m at home, in my own space, but there’s something about being both a guest and an invalid that is practically impossible. From politely suffering through homemade remedies (a straight spoonful of olive oil or honey mixed with something crunchy, anyone?) to stifling late-night coughs with a pillow to refusing another helping of chicken for the millionth time, it’s enough trouble to scare me well again. And don’t get me started on communicating with the health professionals in Morocco. While the doctor may have claimed to speak English, there was definitely some sort of miscommunication going on.

Regardless, I’m well enough now and excited to be embarking on my spring break travels this weekend. More on that to come!

Also posted to The Incubator.