I hate when a woman in a vividly patterned lizar greets me, and so I greet her effusively, assuming I've met her before and just don't recognize her behind all her wrappings, and so I'm all touchy and chummy with her so she doesn't catch on that I don't even recognize her ... and then come to the realization that I don't know her at all, she's never seen me before, she just wants a dirham.
I love being greeted by a trio of my rowdy dar chebab boys, walking around on nhar jma3 (Friday, mosque day) in their crisp white or beige summer gandoras.
I hate having to break up a fight among other boys in my neighborhood when I can't begin to comprehend what they're fighting about.
I love when two of those same boys are willing to go find me an electrician and drag him to my house, on a moment's notice, then make a run to the hardware store for him, and wait politely for the man behind the counter to finish his Friday prayers before bringing back the parts ~ and my 3 dirhams' change.
I hate, and also love, when the electrician, a young man who's never met me before and has a pregnant wife at home, won't allow me to pay him for his work or time.
I love when my host mom, after an impassioned discussion of the Saudi men vs. Moroccan women issue (see yesterday's post), tells me I need to go home and study to be a women's rights lawyer.
I get tired of this, too.
Vagabonder Rolf Potts visits the "wrong" town in Morocco.
It's Time to Play 'Bush, Obama, or Imam?'
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1 year ago