Day 3: Wednesday January 14, 2009. The Imminent Tears.
When we woke up this morning in the hotel, I definitely got the feeling that I was very close with my peers that are on this trip. It’s really surprising, especially since we have known each other for about four days, excluding the one time we all met together at BU for the Rabat orientation. We all seem to be very open with each other, as if we’ve been friends for a while. I think it’s because we all have gone through the struggle of jetlag, exhaustion, and ultimate change in culture together. From the hotel, we headed back to the CCCL so that some of us could start our very first class: Moroccan culture. While eight of them sat through the class, the other six of us continued to explore our CCCL environment, which included sun bathing on the terrace. Most of us were chilly due to the damp air that comes from the nearby ocean, so sunbathing was definitely necessary.
Eventually their class let out and the 14 of us were once again reunited, spending more time on the terrace. We laughed, talked about our experiences, waved to the locals that were standing on their terraces (sharing the friendly greetings of “Salam” and “Salam wah-lay-kuum”), and even danced around in the sunshine. We all felt so free and in this amazing country that was somewhere between a vacation and a dream. Everything around us was so beautiful that none of us could really imagine that we’d have to actually be studying here at some point; no way! I’m already thinking that I don’t want to return to America, no matter how tired I am.
While we basked in the afternoon sun and the beauty surrounding, one of our house cooks, Brahiim, came out to serve us some AMAZING mint tea. As I described of the tea they served in the café during breakfast, this was a small glass that was a little less than halfway full of tea. Only, this tea that was prepared by Brahiim was unlike anything I’ve ever tasted; it had been seeping for about a half hour and had so much sugar that it felt like I was drinking candy. But it wasn’t too sweet. Just then someone noticed a little turtle that was hanging out with us on the terrace! Of course we all circled around it, taking pictures of it while it cautiously hid within the protection of its shell. We even took pictures of each other, for no other reason than to express how fun it was to just be young, carefree, and in a foreign country. I really felt like they were my family.
After gallivanting around on the terrace of the CCCL, Fadoua again gathered us for our first class that included all 14 of us, which was aptly named “Morocco 101”; it was a basic overview of the culture of the country including major newspaper topics, politics, colonization, and history. It was really interesting to learn about and it helped me obtain a better perspective regarding the country that I will be living in for the next four months (which I am beyond excited about).
After that, we were chauffeured up to the dining room where we had a delicious meal that consisted of various vegetables, meat, and lots and lots of bread. As we ate, some of the staff members were eating with us and telling us a little more about Moroccan culture and how they eat. Just as Brahiim had showed us how to eat couscous with our hands, we also learned that Moroccans eat a lot of bread; they use small pieces of bread as makeshift spoons that scoop food into their mouth. Although I was eating with silverware at that time, I was really happy about the idea of eating a lot of bread; I am always dipping bread in my soup, vegetables, and even sometimes salad. I was thrilled that they would be doing the same!
Lunch ended and it was off to our first class of the aptly-named “Survival Arabic.” Here we learned the necessary sayings in the Moroccan Arabic dialect that we would need to communicate with our families and venders on the streets. The class was extremely fast-paced, seeing as how they didn't speak a word of English, but the teachers were really great at what they did; the two spoke to each other in a slow and very animated manner, using hand gestures that truly helped us to be better able to make guesses at what they were saying. That being said, it was still extremely difficult because there aren’t the same helpful cognates between Arabic and English as there are between English and other Romantic languages. Instead, it felt like I was learning how to speak all over again.
The beginning was fairly easy to discern what they were saying because it was just introductions and such, which included name, nationality, and profession. After that, however, it got much more difficult. Just as I figured out the basics, they were throwing more vocabulary at us. At one point, they had us go around the room in a circle, counting off from one to ten. This doesn't sound like it was that difficult, but it really was! I didn't know the numbers, so how was I to be expected to use them now?? Plus, there were four students and two teachers, which allowed more than one opportunity to voice a number. After that, we started counting up to twenty! Yikes! It was really difficult. The difficulties didn't really start to hit me, however, until we were expected to carry on conversations with each other using the words that we had just learned.
It seemed like my peers had really gotten it down to a T while I was struggling to remember how to say, “What is your name?” I continuously had to flip through the pages of my notebook, which really was a bunch of English letters in my attempts to sound out the words that I was supposed to say. I thought to myself, “It wasn’t so difficult when the teachers were talking to each other, using gestures and body language that really helped me understand what they were saying; why am I having so much difficulty now?” I guess comprehension is one line of thought in your brain, while expression is something totally and completely different. I found great difficulty in holding even the most simple of conversations and I started to get really overwhelmed. I felt my face heat up and my brain shut down, not allowing anything else in. After our makeshift conversations, they tried to push a few more vocabulary words into our brains, at which point I had already shut down; there was no way I was going to learn anything else. Finally, after what-felt-like-an-eternity passed by, the teacher called for a break.
I immediately rose from my chair and headed for the door to the classroom. I felt the color drain from my face as I walked down the hall, trying to find the nearest bathroom or any other enclosed space where I could be alone for a few minutes. Alas, I found a bathroom right across the hall, closed the door behind myself, and broke down into a crying sob (for which it was difficult to hold back sounds that would give me away to my peers).
A little while later (I actually lost track of time while I was in there), I calmed myself down, splashed my face with some cold water, and decided to make a break for the door. Conveniently, I had chosen the bathroom that was central to all the other classrooms in the CCCL that were being used by my other peers learning the same Moroccan dialect. So, when I opened the door, all my peers were waiting right outside to use the bathroom. Overwhelming! I must have had a really upset look on my face because several of them asked if I was okay. I forced a smile and kept walking in the direction of my classroom, where my teacher was smiling and gesturing for me to hurry back. I took a deep breath, and a seat, and sat through the other half of the class.
Why was something that usually comes fairly easy for me so difficult now? I can usually pick up languages quickly, but for some reason I just kept getting really overwhelmed. Maybe I was wasting too much time writing everything down, so much that it was preventing me from really learning the words. Whatever the reason, it was a really difficult experience for me, and was probably one of the most overwhelming aspects of my time here so far.
After that class, it was off to another about harassment where I learned that in Morocco, it is very common for men to call at women on the streets or in public, saying flattering comments (or attempts at such) that are a testosterone-driven means to copulate. It sounds really trashy, and something that is worthy of a court case in the States, but it’s actually part of the culture; in fact, men do this because it wasn’t until fairly recently that women were allowed to even show themselves in the streets. The house was the woman’s “space” because it was her job to rear children, maintain the house, and feed the family while it was the father’s job to provide income, buy food, and otherwise interact with the outside world. I initially thought that this idea was highly oppressive to women, but there is certainly a rationale to it; if it were the woman’s job to do housework and provide income for the family, she would be overworked and not be able to accomplish anything. Therefore, the fact that the men provide income and purchase food for the family is a separation of jobs so that the family unit can benefit as a whole.
Due to this tradition of “spaces”, which holds that women stay in the house and men leave for obtaining money and food, it is understandable that when a woman leaves the house it is shocking since the streets are not her “place”. In Moroccan history, if a woman was seen walking the streets it meant that the man in her life is not strong enough to provide for her (whether that means a brother or a husband). It is actually a sign of a woman’s elitism if she is able to never leave the house. That being said, if a woman is seen walking the streets, she is considered poor and/or out of place, which means she will receive public humiliation in the form of harassment. Although Moroccan women frequently walk the streets today, the mentality of “spaces” still exists in even the most liberal of minds. Therefore, verbal sexual harassment has become a social norm.
It’s really interesting because men in the streets do it to me too, albeit differently because I’m a foreigner. They stare me down with intense eyes and say things like “you’re fine” or “Oh my god, what a model!” in broken English. Sometimes they even say things to me in French, which is most entertaining of all; just because I have white skin they automatically think that I am French. Perhaps that is the general mentality here since France once colonized Morocco. Regardless, they say funny things to me, which makes me wonder what they say to the native women—it must be so descriptive and vulgar. I guess in some ways I am glad that I don’t know Arabic.
I had experienced some of this harassment prior to taking the harassment class at the CCCL and I suppose it bothered me a little bit, but I was never really upset by it. For some reason, however, talking about it during this class really disturbed me. They made it seem like it was something that was really dangerous, and they taught us ways to deal with it (which included ignoring of course). I guess because they made it seem like such a big deal, I thought about what would happen if some guy actually DID start to follow me. For some reason, I was really worried that I might forget that these men are not like the ones in America; merely talking to them was an invitation for something more than my intentions. In America, it’s okay to be nice to boys on the streets and talk to them, but in Morocco, such a gesture is an invitation for a one-night stand. Okay, so maybe my exhaustion (and womanly time of the month) was getting to my head a little too much, but I was still scared about the rest of my semester here. Regardless, the class was really helpful and informative in terms of the things that I would be encountering in the streets on a daily basis.
After the harassment course, we were allotted some free time to relax and further explore the CCCL building. They even organized a little reception for the 14 of us, which was designed to meet our professors. It was a nice and relaxing way to get to know them because of the tea and light snacks that were served, but I was already overwhelmed and exhausted from everything I had done for the day. Let’s just say I was at my maximum capacity for new experiences. Besides, I would meet them on the first day of class, right? So, I spent a fair amount of my time hiding out in the bathroom, where neither my peers nor the staff members would talk to me. Okay, it sounds a little harsh, I know. Overwhelmed is simply not a powerful enough word to describe how I felt…
Later that night, the 14 of us decided we would go out and explore the city a little bit for a nice restaurant or bar to relax at. We ended up eating at the same place that a few of the staff members from the CCCL went to: a classy place not too far from our hotel with live music, couches, and expensive everything. It was nice to spend time with all of them in an environment that was not all work, but I was still tired. We finished up, said goodbye to the staff members that we had run into, and headed back to the hotel to catch some zzz’s.
Before bed, however, my roommate and I decided that it would be a good idea to cut my hair; it was getting shaggy and to the point at which I didn't like it anymore and I didn't want my new family to see me like that. Our idea didn't turn out to be such a good one after all since we didn't have scissors, a comb, or a hairdryer. Alas, the man at the reception desk of the hotel laughed at me when I gestured with my forefinger and middle finger that I would be cutting my hair and needed some scissors. Several snips and a slew of laughter later, and I was downstairs in the lobby again asking for a broom to clean the floor of our hotel room. Great idea, girls…
Day 4: Thursday January 15, 2009
This morning we had to wake up earlier than ever: 7am. We decided to carry our heaviest piece of luggage to the CCCL early in the morning so that our transition to our host family would be easier. So, I stuffed all the clothing and junk as possible into my giant backpack, which is meant for a several day vacation in the backwoods of anywhere, and looked like a fool as I walked down the crowded streets of the medina.
For some reason the CCCL was getting further and further away after each step with that 50lb bag. When we eventually arrived, there was a pool of sweat between my back and my bag. Pleasant. Then, of course, we were expected to attend a class directly after our early-morning work out. Today was my second day of survival Arabic, which wasn’t nearly as traumatizing as the first day. Although I was anxious throughout the class, I still felt much more comfortable than I did the day before; I was more accustomed to the teachers as well as the language, and I could even recall some words from the day before. There were still some words (a lot, actually) that I completely forgot. Such is learning, I suppose.
In the evening, we were served a Moroccan delicacy for dinner that is only served at expensive, special occasions. It is called “Bastilla” and it is probably the most delicious concoction of food that I’ve ever tasted; between flaky layers of thin dough lies a mixture of pigeon meat, various fruits and vegetables, and powdered sugar. It was like eating all the courses of a full dinner in one bite, with each bite. I’ve never tasted anything like it! It sounds really strange, and like it wouldn’t taste very good at all, but all of us loved it! One day I would love to be able to make it, but I have heard that it is among the most difficult meals to prepare because it is so-much based upon balance. One fine day, one fine day, I will succeed!
Monday, March 9, 2009
Friday, January 23, 2009
The Moroccan Flag! Red background with a green star
The Mausoleum where Mohammed V is buried. He is the father of Morocco's current king, Mohammed VI. The inside of the building is really intricately designed, and his casket is in the middle of a room on the first floor, while spectators can view it from the second floor balcony.
A native Moroccan standing by an orange tree just outside the medina's (city) walls. The oranges here are amazingly sweet and unlike anything else I've ever tasted.
One of the guards just outside Mohammed V's Mausoleum.
Mohammed V's casket, which we view from a second floor balcony.
A Moroccan stop sign, read as "Qaawf"
The river that separates the cities of Sale and Rabat. Absolutely GORGEOUS!
The view overlooking a neighboring city to Rabat. My sister and mother stopped on this path on the way to visit Mohammed V's Mausoleum.
This is the view looking up at the ceiling of my house from the first floor! My house is absolutely GORGEOUS! It has three floors and a terrace where we hang laundry on the line to dry.
This was just a random intersection that we drove by on our guided tour. I thought the lamp post looked cool with the sunshine behind it! :)
CHAPTER TWO: "A NEW WORLD"
Day 1: Arrival into a New Wonderland – January 12, 2009
After clearing customs in Rabat’s one-gate airport, we were chauffeured to a huge bus that is usually designed for long trips that groups of students go on. From that point on, it was an endless train of photograph after photograph of the beautiful surroundings that continued to overwhelm our senses. We even passed a sort of Moroccan Disney world, which had a few carnival rides and arcade games. It was really interesting to see the drastic differences between my home country and this new one; I just wanted to keep looking in every direction possible to take in more stimuli.
After our twenty minute ride from the airport to our hotel, we unloaded the bus and hauled our bags up to the “first” floor of the hotel; the first floor in many European countries labels the first floor that happens after a full flight of stairs, which is quite different than the American first floor that is on ground level. This new way of labeling floors was all good and well, until we realized that we were all on the second and third floors of a building with no elevator. It was a grand ole time hauling all our suitcases up those stairs.
We dropped our bags into our tiny room, showered, and headed for the souks (markets) across the street. My two roommates and I decided that we would explore until the group had to meet back at 5:30pm to walk over to the location of our future classes. Thirty pictures of vibrantly colored flowers, rows of hanging horses and cows equipped with testicles, and many arrays of locally grown fruit later, we realized that the group actually met at 5:00pm. We were only in Rabat for a few hours, and we already messed up!
We hustled back to the hotel only to find out that the rest of the group had already departed to explore our new school. The hotel receptionist hailed a cab for us and we got to the CCCL (Cross Cultural Center for Learning – which is our school) for a little less than one US dollar, or eight Moroccan Dirham (pronounced der-um). Upon arrival, a Moroccan woman named Noel showed us through the narrow medina walls toward our school.
The CCCL is absolutely gorgeous! The walls are adorned with beautiful mosaic patterns with a multitude of brilliant colors. My senses were almost overwhelmed with beauty, and I was only in the lobby. “Come on, we’re going upstairs,” said Noel in a shooing manner to get us into the conference room where the rest of our peers were learning about the building that we would be spending most of our time in for the next four months. Up the narrow and winding, yet well-accented with more intricate mosaic patterns, spiral staircase, we stumbled across a small room with a few desks. There, the program director and founder of the CCCL described the previous residential usage of the building.
From there, we headed to the conference room, which was the largest room in the house but still about half the size of an American style classroom. As she talked, a mixture of my jetlag and the contrasting mosaic patterns made me dizzy. Needless to say, as she talked, I felt myself coming in and out of attention. I wanted to listen to her, and I cared about what she was saying, but I was so exhausted. Besides, the room’s walls were so strikingly beautiful, yet dizzy-inducing. After that, we went around the room and got to share a little bit about ourselves, including what we hoped to obtain from the program. Most of the students said that they’d hope to become more efficient at speaking Arabic, while others said that they wanted to live like a Moroccan. I said that I hoped to learn about a religion and culture that many Americans have misconceptions and therefore unnecessary fears about. Then, with my increased understanding, I could hopefully teach my future students about this culture, as I’m planning on becoming a teacher.
After our brief introduction to the program, and to each other, we headed across the hallway to the dining room for a delicious gourmet dinner. There was no better meal to start off with than cous-cous and eggplant; so delicious! And the cook even taught us the way to eat with our hands like many traditional native Moroccans do (some of them also use utensils). You basically mush the cous-cous together with the eggplant (or whatever other type of mushy food you want to put with it) with the palm of your hand, then put it into your mouth with all five of your fingers. Bread and meat, however, are eaten with the thumb, index, and middle fingers. Pretty cool!
Exhausted, we headed back to the hotel after dinner and passed out by 9pm. Due to the nearby ocean and the types of buildings that are native to Morocco, the indoors end up being much colder than the out of doors. The dampness lingers instead of permeating out. Needless to say, I fell asleep with long underwear and many layers beneath heavy covers.
A few hours later, my eyes shot open and I had a little tickle in my throat; I couldn't fall back asleep for a little while later. A few hours later, one of my roommates woke up coughing. Expecting it to be ready to wake up by then, let’s just say I was a little frustrated when I found that it was only 3am. When I had to wake up a few hours later, I was definitely tired.
Day 2: First Full Day in the New Wonderland – January 13, 2009
Although my morning got off to a rough start due to such exhaustion, it was a pretty good morning. Just having other people in the room motivated me to wake up pretty quickly, or more-so than I do when I’m in the middle of the semester or if my mom tries to wake me up at home. Plus, it’s nice to just have the moral support. We woke up to a wonderful surprise, of which I guess was told to us during orientation, but I never really thought about it; FREE BREAKFAST! Woohoo! We popped down to the café/restaurant that is just right next door to our hotel, where we were served croissants, freshly-squeezed (emphasis on the freshly-squeezed) orange juice, and mint tea (which really was just mint leaves gingerly dropped into boiling water). It was such a delicious breakfast, but it was a little different since I’m so accustomed to my large American breakfast consisting of high-carb, high-fat foods. Several “shoukran”s (thank you’s) later, we were up and out of the café and once again chauffeured to the CCCL by our fearless leader Fadoua.
Upon arrival at the CCCL, I finally had the opportunity to snap some pictures of the gorgeous building with its overwhelming mosaic adornments before we were again ushered to some other activity. At 9am, we met a man that gave us a briefing about all the health issues and safety concerns in Morocco. There was nothing really big to worry about, just a few things to consider that are different than what we might experience in America. For example, obviously you have to be careful about contracting STD’s, but the risk of rabies is slightly different than that of America; there are many stray dogs and cats that roam the streets, eating whatever they can find, that could carry Rabies. It was a little strange that we had to consider that, but it was nice to be told.
After the safety briefing, the founder of the CCCL provided us with more introduction to the program including our expectations and our upcoming schedule. It was a nice introduction and she was really accommodating of the fact that we were horribly jetlagged from the day before. She kept the information brief, and our accountability low; she only provided us with the essential information and knew that other information could hold off for later when we were more awake and aware.
Afterwards, we grabbed some lunch in the CCCL, which was amazingly delicious of course. All the food here is so great! I can’t even tell you what I ate; it all looked like a mosh of crushed up/mixed up food, but was so ridiculously delicious. And the best part was, it wasn’t too spicy and it was healthy.
With such a delicious lunch behind us, it was time now to explore our surroundings; they had booked another large charter bus, just for us, to take a tour around the city of Rabat. It was absolutely gorgeous! Since there were only 14 of us students on the bus, we all got to have our own row of seats, which meant that we were free to jump from one side of the bus to the other if we saw something interesting. It was by far the best bus-tour I’ve ever taken, just because we had such an opportunity to see everything that we wanted.
The city is full of intricate, aesthetically pleasing designs and patterns, which makes the entire city seem like an art exhibition to a visitor. The Arabic language in itself is used as an art form; from beautifully scripted calligraphy on the side of a building, to the street signs, it was all so (I can’t think of a better word) beautiful. Even the most run-down buildings or alley-ways had a certain beauty to the them; you could tell that the particular home or building was lived in to its fullest potential, and that it was truly a home. This is a much different feeling than most of the houses and buildings that are traditional in American suburbs; everything seems too pristine and doesn’t look like it has the typical wear of, simply, life. Ah, so amazing.
Another really notable feature of the surroundings was the presence of the Moroccan flag. First off, the flag itself is a perfect representation of the culture: a plain, yet strangely beautiful arrangement of a solid red background and a contrasting green star in the middle. So plain, yet so powerful. Second, the flag is seen everywhere! On buildings, in parks, in medians of streets, and along the walls of the medina (Rabat’s oldest part of the city, which is walled).
I delighted in taking pictures of the rapidly-changing scenery, which switched from a lush city park with trees, grass, and flowers, to a more metropolitan-feeling area with crumbly-looking buildings and cars speeding everywhere. Again, the flag is such a great representation of the way the country feels—everything is so contrasting, which makes it so strikingly beautiful. That said, everything in the city has a place and a purpose; nothing exists in excess and everything is placed for a specific reason. Same with the flag: the green star in the middle is simple, yet has symbolic meaning behind it I’m sure.
I most enjoyed driving by the mosques, which sport tall, rectangular pillars that shoot up to the sky like an arm outstretching to meet their “Allah” or God. Again, the pillars are so plain, albeit intricately adorned with traditional pattern-like carvings on the sides, but exist so with such great purpose. It is as if the builders used only the essential amount of materials when building the mosque, yet still were able to create such a work of art that could be enjoyed from miles away. I only wish that I could have captured it in its beauty, and the way that it makes me feel, in a mere photograph, but it simply cannot be done. That’s one feeling that I’ve been having a lot on this trip; I feel that I have not taken enough pictures that capture the way I’m feeling, but I know that I have actually taken upwards of 500 so far. I still wish that I could some how bottle this place up and keep it with me forever.
For as strikingly different that Rabat is from Boston, there are still some similarities. Rabat is currently undergoing a large amount of construction to develop a train system similar to our T, and several public libraries to accommodate the sudden influx of higher-level education. I even saw a store with bright pink billboards that said “Women’s Secret” which I compared to our Victoria’s Secret. I thought it was interesting that in a country where women are fully covered when they walk the streets, they still have advertisements for undergarments.
Toward the end of our tour, we had the opportunity to cruise by the local spit of ocean. Oh… my… gosh. As if I wasn’t already overcome with so much beauty in the first place, I could not handle the sight of the ocean; huge waves splashing onto shore over porous boulders, which shot spray into the air for all the surrounding romancing couples to view. What a sight. And just on the coast of the ocean were several homes, as well as the biggest (and most crowded) graveyard that I have ever seen in my life. It seemed to continue along the entire coastline and it was crowded with head stone after head stone.
I finally sat back down in my seat and stopped saying “wow” when we passed the shoreline. As the bus pushed on toward the CCCL, the tour guide came onto the loudspeaker and announced that we would be doing a drop-off exercise in which we’d be dropped off somewhere in Rabat and we’d have to find our way back to the CCCL. I thought to myself, “Oh this won’t be a problem. I mean, they’re probably going to pair us off, and at least we can depend on each other to get around and remember which way is best to go.” They let a few of us off the bus for a quick bathroom break, which was good because it was my womanly “time of the month” and I was feeling a little woozy from being so active in the morning. I ran back to the bus so that they wouldn’t leave without me, just in time to hear that this little drop-off excursion would in fact be solo. Great. So, they’re going to drop me off in some random part of a city that I’ve never been to, in a country for who’s culture I’ve never before experienced, that speak a language of which I just recently learned the alphabet. I have a fair sense of direction, but the bus was taking turn after turn on side streets that did not follow an easy grid pattern. My initial plan of remembering which way the ocean was in terms of where I was began to slowly deteriorate when we got deep enough into the city that the buildings masked the ocean from view on the horizon. “Okay” I thought, “So I guess I can depend on the sun, which sets in the West, to help guide me back to the CCCL.” Even so, if I knew what direction west was, I wouldn’t know where the CCCL was from there. Besides, it was about 4:30pm and cloudy, so the sun was rapidly disappearing from sight the more we weaved through the city streets.
They assigned each of us a number, which they called when it was our turn to be dropped off. I got lucky number 13, which, you know, made me feel much better about this whole solo experience. NOT! Plus, they were calling the numbers at random, which meant that I had to gather my stuff and remember where I was at any given moment. Unfortunately, I was among the last few to get off the bus, which meant that I was getting more and more lost as time went on.
My number came up and I walked to the front of the bus. Just before I got off, I received a card with Fadoua’s cell phone number, as well as 20 Dirham (about $3.00 or $4.00) and the information necessary for returning to the CCCL in a taxi if I really got lost. I felt like I was walking the plank or something, like they were saying “Sy-ah-nar-ah” (however you spell that…). My stomach churned, I swallowed hard, and got off the bus.
Now that I think about it, I don’t know what I was so scared of; really I had the information necessary to return to the CCCL in a taxi if I really couldn’t get back, as well as enough money to do so. Plus, I knew French, so I could just ask directions of some stranger if need be. But something about being alone in a foreign country, and having to navigate my way around it on the first real day that I was there was so frightening. I had always been taught by my parents, who are avid hikers and backpackers, that you never hike alone. And if I hadn’t gone on a three-day solo hike in the backcountry of New Mexico this summer and felt so dreadfully scared and alone to the point at which I sat on a rock weeping, calling out for my mother (who was across the country in Ohio), I might not have been so worried about my Moroccan solo excursion. I have no idea how my peers felt about it, but I certainly equated it to hiking in New Mexican woods all over again, where a mountain lion or bear could jump out and attack me at any moment. (Well, that being said, there weren’t any mountain lion attacks on the New Mexican property that I was hiking on, but exhaustion from sleeping on a hard floor as well as rigorous hiking over three major mountains made my anxieties a frightening reality that was too strong to ignore). And maybe, just maybe all the talk about harassment on the part of the Moroccan men toward women and foreigners was equating in my mind to those New Mexican mountain lions and bears. I have never felt so scared and unnerved while traveling to a foreign country as I did when I stepped off that bus.
I started walking as fast as my feet could carry me (without running), my tote bag clutched tightly under my arm that had my laptop, camera, and wallet in it. I made zero eye contact with any person on the street, man or woman. I didn't want to get harassed, treating it like an encounter with a mountain lion in New Mexico. Our program leaders had given us brief ways to deal with the harassment, which included ignoring them or looking at the ground. But even looking at the ground was hard for me, as I was taught to look up walking through a busy city such as Boston to prevent unexpected attacks. All these anxieties were compounded by the fact that I was horribly jetlagged, and having probably the worst menstrual cramps of my life. All I wanted to do was curl up in a ball and weep, which, as it turns out, probably wouldn’t have helped me get back to the CCCL after all…
I continued to walk toward the direction of the sun, since that was west and the Atlantic Ocean is on the western coast of Morocco. If I got to the ocean, I could navigate through the city to find the landmark known as the “skyscraper” to get me toward where I wanted to be. This “skyscraper” is a hideous, non-Moroccan styled building about 20 stories high, which unnecessarily towers any other building in the city. And don’t worry I’m not being over-critical; the Rabatians hate this building too. It is very out of place. Unfortunately, I was not on high enough ground so as to see the skyscraper, but I kept heading toward what I thought would be the ocean. It was my only hope of figuring out where I was.
As I was about to cross a busy intersection, there was an older married couple that was walking in my direction. I didn't know when it was best to cross the street so I decided to take cues from them so as not to end up in the hospital on my first day in Morocco. I followed them as they crossed and coincidentally it seemed like they were walking in the same direction as me. As I followed, something told me that I needed to ask them the way. So, I pulled over, and in the best French accent I could muster, I said, “Excuse me, but do you know where Mohammed V Avenue is?” The man addressed me and signaled that he didn't know, and that I should ask the nearby police officer that was directing traffic. I thanked them and headed back toward the busy intersection to approach the cop. “Excuse me, sir, do you speak French? (yes). Do you know where Mohammed V Avenue is?” As he began directing me, it became quite clear that I didn't know the word for intersection, or any other landmark that he was trying to describe. I guess I was a little rustier than I thought on my three years of French from high school. He must have recognized this from the puzzled look on my face, so he began patiently gesturing the way and using the smallest words he could think of to express it.
I graciously thanked him, smiled, and headed on my way (which, for the record, was the exact OPPOSITE way of the “head toward the ocean” technique I had previously used). I had no idea how far it was, but I did remember that he said I would come to the third major intersection, at which point I would take a right. From there, Mohammed V Avenue would arise shortly thereafter. As I walked, I tried to keep track of the number of intersections I passed (I know, I know, three is very difficult to count to…), which actually was true because my mind was racing at 10,000 miles per hour of all the things that could possibly go wrong. So, I was somewhat jumping in and out of consciousness and attentiveness, which wasn't exactly the best scenario to be happening when I was trying to find my way back home. But, I kept trucking, ignoring everything in my path so that I could just get back to the CCCL before dark. That was another anxiety of mine; when I was hiking in New Mexico, the third day consisted of my hike back, which was almost in the dark. I arrived back in base camp just before sundown, which is prime feeding time for those lovely mountain lions. And since I started walking back to the CCCL at 4:30pm, my primal hiking instincts kicked in that made me want to arrive before sundown as well.
Eventually, I turned right at the third major intersection and luckily found Mohammed VI Avenue, which had view of the walled city (medina) where the CCCL is. Relieved, I continued walking at the thought that I FINALLY knew where I was. And, surprisingly, my ignore tactic worked pretty well for warding off unwanted harassment by the men of the streets. I didn't get a single catcall until I reached the walls of the medina (which is the old walled-in city). From the wall, I found my way back to the hotel, but for some reason had a mini brain-fart because I couldn't for the life of me remember how to get to the CCCL from there (which was dumb because we had walked between the CCCL and the hotel several times before today).
Eventually I made my way back to the CCCL, navigating through the maze-like narrow streets of the medina market. When I walked up into the dining room, there were 4 or 5 of my peers who nicely welcomed me back. I was definitely frazzled from the experience that was too similar to the one that I had had earlier this summer.
After about an hour of relax-time while we waited for the rest of our peers to arrive, we had a little debrief to discuss our experiences. I didn't know what to say; I felt really ashamed for being so terrified of something that was so benign. I opted to keep my mouth shut. It was especially difficult to express myself because I recognized how important the experience was in order to get acquainted with the city, but I still really struggled with it. My peers expressed similar feelings of recognizing that they got something out of it, so I let them drive the conversation.
Afterwards we had dinner in the CCCL, and eventually headed back to the hotel to attain some much needed sleeeeeeep.
After clearing customs in Rabat’s one-gate airport, we were chauffeured to a huge bus that is usually designed for long trips that groups of students go on. From that point on, it was an endless train of photograph after photograph of the beautiful surroundings that continued to overwhelm our senses. We even passed a sort of Moroccan Disney world, which had a few carnival rides and arcade games. It was really interesting to see the drastic differences between my home country and this new one; I just wanted to keep looking in every direction possible to take in more stimuli.
After our twenty minute ride from the airport to our hotel, we unloaded the bus and hauled our bags up to the “first” floor of the hotel; the first floor in many European countries labels the first floor that happens after a full flight of stairs, which is quite different than the American first floor that is on ground level. This new way of labeling floors was all good and well, until we realized that we were all on the second and third floors of a building with no elevator. It was a grand ole time hauling all our suitcases up those stairs.
We dropped our bags into our tiny room, showered, and headed for the souks (markets) across the street. My two roommates and I decided that we would explore until the group had to meet back at 5:30pm to walk over to the location of our future classes. Thirty pictures of vibrantly colored flowers, rows of hanging horses and cows equipped with testicles, and many arrays of locally grown fruit later, we realized that the group actually met at 5:00pm. We were only in Rabat for a few hours, and we already messed up!
We hustled back to the hotel only to find out that the rest of the group had already departed to explore our new school. The hotel receptionist hailed a cab for us and we got to the CCCL (Cross Cultural Center for Learning – which is our school) for a little less than one US dollar, or eight Moroccan Dirham (pronounced der-um). Upon arrival, a Moroccan woman named Noel showed us through the narrow medina walls toward our school.
The CCCL is absolutely gorgeous! The walls are adorned with beautiful mosaic patterns with a multitude of brilliant colors. My senses were almost overwhelmed with beauty, and I was only in the lobby. “Come on, we’re going upstairs,” said Noel in a shooing manner to get us into the conference room where the rest of our peers were learning about the building that we would be spending most of our time in for the next four months. Up the narrow and winding, yet well-accented with more intricate mosaic patterns, spiral staircase, we stumbled across a small room with a few desks. There, the program director and founder of the CCCL described the previous residential usage of the building.
From there, we headed to the conference room, which was the largest room in the house but still about half the size of an American style classroom. As she talked, a mixture of my jetlag and the contrasting mosaic patterns made me dizzy. Needless to say, as she talked, I felt myself coming in and out of attention. I wanted to listen to her, and I cared about what she was saying, but I was so exhausted. Besides, the room’s walls were so strikingly beautiful, yet dizzy-inducing. After that, we went around the room and got to share a little bit about ourselves, including what we hoped to obtain from the program. Most of the students said that they’d hope to become more efficient at speaking Arabic, while others said that they wanted to live like a Moroccan. I said that I hoped to learn about a religion and culture that many Americans have misconceptions and therefore unnecessary fears about. Then, with my increased understanding, I could hopefully teach my future students about this culture, as I’m planning on becoming a teacher.
After our brief introduction to the program, and to each other, we headed across the hallway to the dining room for a delicious gourmet dinner. There was no better meal to start off with than cous-cous and eggplant; so delicious! And the cook even taught us the way to eat with our hands like many traditional native Moroccans do (some of them also use utensils). You basically mush the cous-cous together with the eggplant (or whatever other type of mushy food you want to put with it) with the palm of your hand, then put it into your mouth with all five of your fingers. Bread and meat, however, are eaten with the thumb, index, and middle fingers. Pretty cool!
Exhausted, we headed back to the hotel after dinner and passed out by 9pm. Due to the nearby ocean and the types of buildings that are native to Morocco, the indoors end up being much colder than the out of doors. The dampness lingers instead of permeating out. Needless to say, I fell asleep with long underwear and many layers beneath heavy covers.
A few hours later, my eyes shot open and I had a little tickle in my throat; I couldn't fall back asleep for a little while later. A few hours later, one of my roommates woke up coughing. Expecting it to be ready to wake up by then, let’s just say I was a little frustrated when I found that it was only 3am. When I had to wake up a few hours later, I was definitely tired.
Day 2: First Full Day in the New Wonderland – January 13, 2009
Although my morning got off to a rough start due to such exhaustion, it was a pretty good morning. Just having other people in the room motivated me to wake up pretty quickly, or more-so than I do when I’m in the middle of the semester or if my mom tries to wake me up at home. Plus, it’s nice to just have the moral support. We woke up to a wonderful surprise, of which I guess was told to us during orientation, but I never really thought about it; FREE BREAKFAST! Woohoo! We popped down to the café/restaurant that is just right next door to our hotel, where we were served croissants, freshly-squeezed (emphasis on the freshly-squeezed) orange juice, and mint tea (which really was just mint leaves gingerly dropped into boiling water). It was such a delicious breakfast, but it was a little different since I’m so accustomed to my large American breakfast consisting of high-carb, high-fat foods. Several “shoukran”s (thank you’s) later, we were up and out of the café and once again chauffeured to the CCCL by our fearless leader Fadoua.
Upon arrival at the CCCL, I finally had the opportunity to snap some pictures of the gorgeous building with its overwhelming mosaic adornments before we were again ushered to some other activity. At 9am, we met a man that gave us a briefing about all the health issues and safety concerns in Morocco. There was nothing really big to worry about, just a few things to consider that are different than what we might experience in America. For example, obviously you have to be careful about contracting STD’s, but the risk of rabies is slightly different than that of America; there are many stray dogs and cats that roam the streets, eating whatever they can find, that could carry Rabies. It was a little strange that we had to consider that, but it was nice to be told.
After the safety briefing, the founder of the CCCL provided us with more introduction to the program including our expectations and our upcoming schedule. It was a nice introduction and she was really accommodating of the fact that we were horribly jetlagged from the day before. She kept the information brief, and our accountability low; she only provided us with the essential information and knew that other information could hold off for later when we were more awake and aware.
Afterwards, we grabbed some lunch in the CCCL, which was amazingly delicious of course. All the food here is so great! I can’t even tell you what I ate; it all looked like a mosh of crushed up/mixed up food, but was so ridiculously delicious. And the best part was, it wasn’t too spicy and it was healthy.
With such a delicious lunch behind us, it was time now to explore our surroundings; they had booked another large charter bus, just for us, to take a tour around the city of Rabat. It was absolutely gorgeous! Since there were only 14 of us students on the bus, we all got to have our own row of seats, which meant that we were free to jump from one side of the bus to the other if we saw something interesting. It was by far the best bus-tour I’ve ever taken, just because we had such an opportunity to see everything that we wanted.
The city is full of intricate, aesthetically pleasing designs and patterns, which makes the entire city seem like an art exhibition to a visitor. The Arabic language in itself is used as an art form; from beautifully scripted calligraphy on the side of a building, to the street signs, it was all so (I can’t think of a better word) beautiful. Even the most run-down buildings or alley-ways had a certain beauty to the them; you could tell that the particular home or building was lived in to its fullest potential, and that it was truly a home. This is a much different feeling than most of the houses and buildings that are traditional in American suburbs; everything seems too pristine and doesn’t look like it has the typical wear of, simply, life. Ah, so amazing.
Another really notable feature of the surroundings was the presence of the Moroccan flag. First off, the flag itself is a perfect representation of the culture: a plain, yet strangely beautiful arrangement of a solid red background and a contrasting green star in the middle. So plain, yet so powerful. Second, the flag is seen everywhere! On buildings, in parks, in medians of streets, and along the walls of the medina (Rabat’s oldest part of the city, which is walled).
I delighted in taking pictures of the rapidly-changing scenery, which switched from a lush city park with trees, grass, and flowers, to a more metropolitan-feeling area with crumbly-looking buildings and cars speeding everywhere. Again, the flag is such a great representation of the way the country feels—everything is so contrasting, which makes it so strikingly beautiful. That said, everything in the city has a place and a purpose; nothing exists in excess and everything is placed for a specific reason. Same with the flag: the green star in the middle is simple, yet has symbolic meaning behind it I’m sure.
I most enjoyed driving by the mosques, which sport tall, rectangular pillars that shoot up to the sky like an arm outstretching to meet their “Allah” or God. Again, the pillars are so plain, albeit intricately adorned with traditional pattern-like carvings on the sides, but exist so with such great purpose. It is as if the builders used only the essential amount of materials when building the mosque, yet still were able to create such a work of art that could be enjoyed from miles away. I only wish that I could have captured it in its beauty, and the way that it makes me feel, in a mere photograph, but it simply cannot be done. That’s one feeling that I’ve been having a lot on this trip; I feel that I have not taken enough pictures that capture the way I’m feeling, but I know that I have actually taken upwards of 500 so far. I still wish that I could some how bottle this place up and keep it with me forever.
For as strikingly different that Rabat is from Boston, there are still some similarities. Rabat is currently undergoing a large amount of construction to develop a train system similar to our T, and several public libraries to accommodate the sudden influx of higher-level education. I even saw a store with bright pink billboards that said “Women’s Secret” which I compared to our Victoria’s Secret. I thought it was interesting that in a country where women are fully covered when they walk the streets, they still have advertisements for undergarments.
Toward the end of our tour, we had the opportunity to cruise by the local spit of ocean. Oh… my… gosh. As if I wasn’t already overcome with so much beauty in the first place, I could not handle the sight of the ocean; huge waves splashing onto shore over porous boulders, which shot spray into the air for all the surrounding romancing couples to view. What a sight. And just on the coast of the ocean were several homes, as well as the biggest (and most crowded) graveyard that I have ever seen in my life. It seemed to continue along the entire coastline and it was crowded with head stone after head stone.
I finally sat back down in my seat and stopped saying “wow” when we passed the shoreline. As the bus pushed on toward the CCCL, the tour guide came onto the loudspeaker and announced that we would be doing a drop-off exercise in which we’d be dropped off somewhere in Rabat and we’d have to find our way back to the CCCL. I thought to myself, “Oh this won’t be a problem. I mean, they’re probably going to pair us off, and at least we can depend on each other to get around and remember which way is best to go.” They let a few of us off the bus for a quick bathroom break, which was good because it was my womanly “time of the month” and I was feeling a little woozy from being so active in the morning. I ran back to the bus so that they wouldn’t leave without me, just in time to hear that this little drop-off excursion would in fact be solo. Great. So, they’re going to drop me off in some random part of a city that I’ve never been to, in a country for who’s culture I’ve never before experienced, that speak a language of which I just recently learned the alphabet. I have a fair sense of direction, but the bus was taking turn after turn on side streets that did not follow an easy grid pattern. My initial plan of remembering which way the ocean was in terms of where I was began to slowly deteriorate when we got deep enough into the city that the buildings masked the ocean from view on the horizon. “Okay” I thought, “So I guess I can depend on the sun, which sets in the West, to help guide me back to the CCCL.” Even so, if I knew what direction west was, I wouldn’t know where the CCCL was from there. Besides, it was about 4:30pm and cloudy, so the sun was rapidly disappearing from sight the more we weaved through the city streets.
They assigned each of us a number, which they called when it was our turn to be dropped off. I got lucky number 13, which, you know, made me feel much better about this whole solo experience. NOT! Plus, they were calling the numbers at random, which meant that I had to gather my stuff and remember where I was at any given moment. Unfortunately, I was among the last few to get off the bus, which meant that I was getting more and more lost as time went on.
My number came up and I walked to the front of the bus. Just before I got off, I received a card with Fadoua’s cell phone number, as well as 20 Dirham (about $3.00 or $4.00) and the information necessary for returning to the CCCL in a taxi if I really got lost. I felt like I was walking the plank or something, like they were saying “Sy-ah-nar-ah” (however you spell that…). My stomach churned, I swallowed hard, and got off the bus.
Now that I think about it, I don’t know what I was so scared of; really I had the information necessary to return to the CCCL in a taxi if I really couldn’t get back, as well as enough money to do so. Plus, I knew French, so I could just ask directions of some stranger if need be. But something about being alone in a foreign country, and having to navigate my way around it on the first real day that I was there was so frightening. I had always been taught by my parents, who are avid hikers and backpackers, that you never hike alone. And if I hadn’t gone on a three-day solo hike in the backcountry of New Mexico this summer and felt so dreadfully scared and alone to the point at which I sat on a rock weeping, calling out for my mother (who was across the country in Ohio), I might not have been so worried about my Moroccan solo excursion. I have no idea how my peers felt about it, but I certainly equated it to hiking in New Mexican woods all over again, where a mountain lion or bear could jump out and attack me at any moment. (Well, that being said, there weren’t any mountain lion attacks on the New Mexican property that I was hiking on, but exhaustion from sleeping on a hard floor as well as rigorous hiking over three major mountains made my anxieties a frightening reality that was too strong to ignore). And maybe, just maybe all the talk about harassment on the part of the Moroccan men toward women and foreigners was equating in my mind to those New Mexican mountain lions and bears. I have never felt so scared and unnerved while traveling to a foreign country as I did when I stepped off that bus.
I started walking as fast as my feet could carry me (without running), my tote bag clutched tightly under my arm that had my laptop, camera, and wallet in it. I made zero eye contact with any person on the street, man or woman. I didn't want to get harassed, treating it like an encounter with a mountain lion in New Mexico. Our program leaders had given us brief ways to deal with the harassment, which included ignoring them or looking at the ground. But even looking at the ground was hard for me, as I was taught to look up walking through a busy city such as Boston to prevent unexpected attacks. All these anxieties were compounded by the fact that I was horribly jetlagged, and having probably the worst menstrual cramps of my life. All I wanted to do was curl up in a ball and weep, which, as it turns out, probably wouldn’t have helped me get back to the CCCL after all…
I continued to walk toward the direction of the sun, since that was west and the Atlantic Ocean is on the western coast of Morocco. If I got to the ocean, I could navigate through the city to find the landmark known as the “skyscraper” to get me toward where I wanted to be. This “skyscraper” is a hideous, non-Moroccan styled building about 20 stories high, which unnecessarily towers any other building in the city. And don’t worry I’m not being over-critical; the Rabatians hate this building too. It is very out of place. Unfortunately, I was not on high enough ground so as to see the skyscraper, but I kept heading toward what I thought would be the ocean. It was my only hope of figuring out where I was.
As I was about to cross a busy intersection, there was an older married couple that was walking in my direction. I didn't know when it was best to cross the street so I decided to take cues from them so as not to end up in the hospital on my first day in Morocco. I followed them as they crossed and coincidentally it seemed like they were walking in the same direction as me. As I followed, something told me that I needed to ask them the way. So, I pulled over, and in the best French accent I could muster, I said, “Excuse me, but do you know where Mohammed V Avenue is?” The man addressed me and signaled that he didn't know, and that I should ask the nearby police officer that was directing traffic. I thanked them and headed back toward the busy intersection to approach the cop. “Excuse me, sir, do you speak French? (yes). Do you know where Mohammed V Avenue is?” As he began directing me, it became quite clear that I didn't know the word for intersection, or any other landmark that he was trying to describe. I guess I was a little rustier than I thought on my three years of French from high school. He must have recognized this from the puzzled look on my face, so he began patiently gesturing the way and using the smallest words he could think of to express it.
I graciously thanked him, smiled, and headed on my way (which, for the record, was the exact OPPOSITE way of the “head toward the ocean” technique I had previously used). I had no idea how far it was, but I did remember that he said I would come to the third major intersection, at which point I would take a right. From there, Mohammed V Avenue would arise shortly thereafter. As I walked, I tried to keep track of the number of intersections I passed (I know, I know, three is very difficult to count to…), which actually was true because my mind was racing at 10,000 miles per hour of all the things that could possibly go wrong. So, I was somewhat jumping in and out of consciousness and attentiveness, which wasn't exactly the best scenario to be happening when I was trying to find my way back home. But, I kept trucking, ignoring everything in my path so that I could just get back to the CCCL before dark. That was another anxiety of mine; when I was hiking in New Mexico, the third day consisted of my hike back, which was almost in the dark. I arrived back in base camp just before sundown, which is prime feeding time for those lovely mountain lions. And since I started walking back to the CCCL at 4:30pm, my primal hiking instincts kicked in that made me want to arrive before sundown as well.
Eventually, I turned right at the third major intersection and luckily found Mohammed VI Avenue, which had view of the walled city (medina) where the CCCL is. Relieved, I continued walking at the thought that I FINALLY knew where I was. And, surprisingly, my ignore tactic worked pretty well for warding off unwanted harassment by the men of the streets. I didn't get a single catcall until I reached the walls of the medina (which is the old walled-in city). From the wall, I found my way back to the hotel, but for some reason had a mini brain-fart because I couldn't for the life of me remember how to get to the CCCL from there (which was dumb because we had walked between the CCCL and the hotel several times before today).
Eventually I made my way back to the CCCL, navigating through the maze-like narrow streets of the medina market. When I walked up into the dining room, there were 4 or 5 of my peers who nicely welcomed me back. I was definitely frazzled from the experience that was too similar to the one that I had had earlier this summer.
After about an hour of relax-time while we waited for the rest of our peers to arrive, we had a little debrief to discuss our experiences. I didn't know what to say; I felt really ashamed for being so terrified of something that was so benign. I opted to keep my mouth shut. It was especially difficult to express myself because I recognized how important the experience was in order to get acquainted with the city, but I still really struggled with it. My peers expressed similar feelings of recognizing that they got something out of it, so I let them drive the conversation.
Afterwards we had dinner in the CCCL, and eventually headed back to the hotel to attain some much needed sleeeeeeep.
CHAPTER ONE: HURRY UP AND WAIT
Sunday January 11, 2009. On the plane to Boston.
After countless hours of packing, repacking, crying over my packed bags, then unpacking and repacking them again, I am finally on the first plane in a series of connecting flights to Morocco. From Cleveland, I am first going to Boston, at which point I will ship off with 15 other BU students to France, and then finally Rabat, Morocco. For the last couple hours, I have been running around my house like crazy, making sure that I didn't forget anything while simultaneously feeling sick to my stomach at the mere thought of traveling to a place that is vastly unknown to me. I was moving so quickly, in fact, that once I got on the plane, my body was confused at the idea of sitting still; I fidgeted around with my belongings and made sure that everything I had planned to use during flight was easily accessible until the crew closed the cabin door. Finally, I could take a deep breath; I’m going to Morocco! It’s so unbelievable that this trip that I have been planning for since October is actually becoming a reality.
It all started freshman year, when I promised myself that I would study abroad at some time in my four years of academic rigor at Boston University. Despite my good intentions and desires, the curricular requirements of SED (BU’s abbrev. for the School of Ed.) are simply too strict and do not allow much leeway for academic exploration, thereby taking studying abroad out of the picture.
My sophomore year started, and with it came a very caring and helpful academic advisor; although she understood the idea that SED’s requirements would likely limit me from possibly traveling abroad, she had done a fair amount of traveling herself and was excited for me to obtain similar experiences. She helped me in any and every way imaginable to pull through BU’s bureaucracy to allow me to go abroad. Once we figured out the most optimal semester for my travels that would fit into my course schedule, the next hurdle was deciding where to go. First, it was Australia, followed by Ireland, Denmark, Turkey, Singapore, and finally Morocco. It was quite a ride, but I would not have it any other way.
By the time I finally settled on the idea of going to Morocco, it was late November, which was about a month-and-a-half before I actually left. And even after I mentally decided to go, and got accepted into the program, I still had to jump through what I call the “SED hoops” to make it actually happen. SED hoops consist of rules and regulations provided by the state of Massachusetts, as well as BU, which are required for graduation; if I don’t abide by these rules, I can’t graduate in time, which could seriously jeopardize my acquiring a teaching license. The rules are beneficial to us, admittedly so, as they were enacted to assure we would be able to graduate with the proper knowledge to teach the future. After numerous trips between the dean of SED, my academic advisor, the study abroad office, and my parents (as well as all the paperwork and stress that goes with it), I was finally on my way to go.
So here I am, sitting on the plane, punching away the keys on my brand new Mac Book Pro laptop, of which I am a proud parent no matter how much my family and friends think I’m crazy for getting a computer that is known to have compatibility issues with the rest of the world. But come on, I’m invincible, right? I mean, I’m going to (expletive) Africa! If that can happen, anything can, right? Well, let’s just say that in the days prior to getting on the plane to Boston, I’ve been driving like a lunatic during this winter storm that Cleveland has seen in the past couple of days. Let’s just say I’m really happy that I didn't crash my mom’s car, but don’t tell her I said that…
Okay, just one more thing before the pilot turns on the seatbelt sign and says we’re beginning that “initial descent” into Boston; the backs of my hands are all cut up and dry because of all the rigorous packing that I’ve been doing for the past 48 hours. Not that I’m complaining, it’s just an interesting “battle scar.”
Well, next time I write, I will be in beautiful Rabat, Morocco! That is, unless I’m inspired to write while I’m in Paris, or if my laptop battery will hold up.
On to France
The 14 of us waited for our flight to France, arranged in two rows of chairs that face each other like football players in the face-off position. We anxiously, curiously, and excitedly discussed the experiences we were about to have in a country that none of us have been to. Some of us have traveled to other countries of the world, while others of us have parents that were hesitant to let us go to Morocco in the first place. Likewise, our experiences with the Arabic language have a similar diversity; I along with two others know zero Arabic, while one student speaks Arabic at home. It will certainly be quite a challenge, but I’m confident that we can depend on each other for support.
Two hours of airport sitting, one slice of pizza, and a plate of spaghetti later, we were finally ready to leave US soil. We gathered up our belongings and headed down the runway that connected the airport building with the airplane. After I got my stuff all organized on the plane (which, by this time, I had that fidgety energy out of me), I promptly curled up and went to sleep. But before we took off, something didn't feel right.
Why did my heart hurt? I was starting to panic that maybe it was one more thing that I didn't get checked out before leaving; included in my winter break were visits to the doctor, the dentist, the orthopedist, and a vaccination clinic. I had been poked and prodded all week long, and I had completely forgotten about this heart thing. Why was it the one thing they didn't even listen to? What if the very organ that keeps me alive suddenly shuts down? What if I went into cardiac arrest right here on this airplane? Do any of the flight attendants know CPR? Would anyone even notice me fall over?
Ok, so I guess I am a little anxious about this trip all together, which probably manifested in my heart rather than my gut like it usually does. Nothing ever came of my chest pain, but it had been bothering me for the past week or so leading up to this trip. Convincing myself it was nothing, and attributing it to mere heartburn, I curled up with those thin airline pillows and snoozed for the next 2 hours.
I woke up to my neighbor with a plate of dinner in front of him. “Oh shoot!” I thought. “I missed dinner! That means I’m not going to have the opportunity to eat for a while.” Following were a series of what-if’s, so I flagged down a flight attendant to get me a dinner. He expediently arrived with a tray full of food a few moments later: A brownie, some chocolate pudding, bread, cheese, a little bowl of salad with some baby shrimp on top, and a plate full of salmon zucchini. I absolutely hate shrimp! And I usually don’t eat salmon unless my father cooks it just the way I like it. This is just great; I went through the trouble of flagging down the flight attendant to get me some dinner and I don’t even like it. I ended up eating the brownie, chocolate pudding, and bread, while leaving the rest. It was no gourmet meal, but it will tide me over I hope.
Hopefully I’ll be able to sleep for the remainder of the flight…
Finally to Rabat
We’re finally in France! The flight went well, but it was just really long. I’m excited to be able to at least part-way understand things that are happening around me due to my three years of French under my belt that I took in high school. It’s going to be interesting going to Morocco where I’ll really have trouble.
I really have nothing else to say. I’m pretty excited about finally getting into Rabat and settling into cozy hotel waiting for the jet lag to avail. Until then, I’m here in this airport with the rest of my BU peers. All of us are pretty tired and cranky from the flight over. Hopefully when we settle into our homes and classes we’ll be able to be more “on our game” and actually have the cognizance to meet each other and be civil. Until then, we're just a bunch of cranky college kids.
Okay, so I’m just a little bit bored here in France, but I decided to write again. That, and I love typing on my new laptop; it makes me feel so sophisticated as if I’m creating some award-winning book in the middle of a crowded airport. Also, I’m thinking that I might not take the time necessary to really create something good during my semester abroad, as I will probably instead be so obsessed and entertained with exploring my environments.
Can’t wait for my adventures to come.
After countless hours of packing, repacking, crying over my packed bags, then unpacking and repacking them again, I am finally on the first plane in a series of connecting flights to Morocco. From Cleveland, I am first going to Boston, at which point I will ship off with 15 other BU students to France, and then finally Rabat, Morocco. For the last couple hours, I have been running around my house like crazy, making sure that I didn't forget anything while simultaneously feeling sick to my stomach at the mere thought of traveling to a place that is vastly unknown to me. I was moving so quickly, in fact, that once I got on the plane, my body was confused at the idea of sitting still; I fidgeted around with my belongings and made sure that everything I had planned to use during flight was easily accessible until the crew closed the cabin door. Finally, I could take a deep breath; I’m going to Morocco! It’s so unbelievable that this trip that I have been planning for since October is actually becoming a reality.
It all started freshman year, when I promised myself that I would study abroad at some time in my four years of academic rigor at Boston University. Despite my good intentions and desires, the curricular requirements of SED (BU’s abbrev. for the School of Ed.) are simply too strict and do not allow much leeway for academic exploration, thereby taking studying abroad out of the picture.
My sophomore year started, and with it came a very caring and helpful academic advisor; although she understood the idea that SED’s requirements would likely limit me from possibly traveling abroad, she had done a fair amount of traveling herself and was excited for me to obtain similar experiences. She helped me in any and every way imaginable to pull through BU’s bureaucracy to allow me to go abroad. Once we figured out the most optimal semester for my travels that would fit into my course schedule, the next hurdle was deciding where to go. First, it was Australia, followed by Ireland, Denmark, Turkey, Singapore, and finally Morocco. It was quite a ride, but I would not have it any other way.
By the time I finally settled on the idea of going to Morocco, it was late November, which was about a month-and-a-half before I actually left. And even after I mentally decided to go, and got accepted into the program, I still had to jump through what I call the “SED hoops” to make it actually happen. SED hoops consist of rules and regulations provided by the state of Massachusetts, as well as BU, which are required for graduation; if I don’t abide by these rules, I can’t graduate in time, which could seriously jeopardize my acquiring a teaching license. The rules are beneficial to us, admittedly so, as they were enacted to assure we would be able to graduate with the proper knowledge to teach the future. After numerous trips between the dean of SED, my academic advisor, the study abroad office, and my parents (as well as all the paperwork and stress that goes with it), I was finally on my way to go.
So here I am, sitting on the plane, punching away the keys on my brand new Mac Book Pro laptop, of which I am a proud parent no matter how much my family and friends think I’m crazy for getting a computer that is known to have compatibility issues with the rest of the world. But come on, I’m invincible, right? I mean, I’m going to (expletive) Africa! If that can happen, anything can, right? Well, let’s just say that in the days prior to getting on the plane to Boston, I’ve been driving like a lunatic during this winter storm that Cleveland has seen in the past couple of days. Let’s just say I’m really happy that I didn't crash my mom’s car, but don’t tell her I said that…
Okay, just one more thing before the pilot turns on the seatbelt sign and says we’re beginning that “initial descent” into Boston; the backs of my hands are all cut up and dry because of all the rigorous packing that I’ve been doing for the past 48 hours. Not that I’m complaining, it’s just an interesting “battle scar.”
Well, next time I write, I will be in beautiful Rabat, Morocco! That is, unless I’m inspired to write while I’m in Paris, or if my laptop battery will hold up.
On to France
The 14 of us waited for our flight to France, arranged in two rows of chairs that face each other like football players in the face-off position. We anxiously, curiously, and excitedly discussed the experiences we were about to have in a country that none of us have been to. Some of us have traveled to other countries of the world, while others of us have parents that were hesitant to let us go to Morocco in the first place. Likewise, our experiences with the Arabic language have a similar diversity; I along with two others know zero Arabic, while one student speaks Arabic at home. It will certainly be quite a challenge, but I’m confident that we can depend on each other for support.
Two hours of airport sitting, one slice of pizza, and a plate of spaghetti later, we were finally ready to leave US soil. We gathered up our belongings and headed down the runway that connected the airport building with the airplane. After I got my stuff all organized on the plane (which, by this time, I had that fidgety energy out of me), I promptly curled up and went to sleep. But before we took off, something didn't feel right.
Why did my heart hurt? I was starting to panic that maybe it was one more thing that I didn't get checked out before leaving; included in my winter break were visits to the doctor, the dentist, the orthopedist, and a vaccination clinic. I had been poked and prodded all week long, and I had completely forgotten about this heart thing. Why was it the one thing they didn't even listen to? What if the very organ that keeps me alive suddenly shuts down? What if I went into cardiac arrest right here on this airplane? Do any of the flight attendants know CPR? Would anyone even notice me fall over?
Ok, so I guess I am a little anxious about this trip all together, which probably manifested in my heart rather than my gut like it usually does. Nothing ever came of my chest pain, but it had been bothering me for the past week or so leading up to this trip. Convincing myself it was nothing, and attributing it to mere heartburn, I curled up with those thin airline pillows and snoozed for the next 2 hours.
I woke up to my neighbor with a plate of dinner in front of him. “Oh shoot!” I thought. “I missed dinner! That means I’m not going to have the opportunity to eat for a while.” Following were a series of what-if’s, so I flagged down a flight attendant to get me a dinner. He expediently arrived with a tray full of food a few moments later: A brownie, some chocolate pudding, bread, cheese, a little bowl of salad with some baby shrimp on top, and a plate full of salmon zucchini. I absolutely hate shrimp! And I usually don’t eat salmon unless my father cooks it just the way I like it. This is just great; I went through the trouble of flagging down the flight attendant to get me some dinner and I don’t even like it. I ended up eating the brownie, chocolate pudding, and bread, while leaving the rest. It was no gourmet meal, but it will tide me over I hope.
Hopefully I’ll be able to sleep for the remainder of the flight…
Finally to Rabat
We’re finally in France! The flight went well, but it was just really long. I’m excited to be able to at least part-way understand things that are happening around me due to my three years of French under my belt that I took in high school. It’s going to be interesting going to Morocco where I’ll really have trouble.
I really have nothing else to say. I’m pretty excited about finally getting into Rabat and settling into cozy hotel waiting for the jet lag to avail. Until then, I’m here in this airport with the rest of my BU peers. All of us are pretty tired and cranky from the flight over. Hopefully when we settle into our homes and classes we’ll be able to be more “on our game” and actually have the cognizance to meet each other and be civil. Until then, we're just a bunch of cranky college kids.
Okay, so I’m just a little bit bored here in France, but I decided to write again. That, and I love typing on my new laptop; it makes me feel so sophisticated as if I’m creating some award-winning book in the middle of a crowded airport. Also, I’m thinking that I might not take the time necessary to really create something good during my semester abroad, as I will probably instead be so obsessed and entertained with exploring my environments.
Can’t wait for my adventures to come.
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