Waiting for The Man.

Waiting along the 'toroute, hoping for a glimpse of Mohammed VI,

with my hostmothersister* and some of my favorite little girls.

The king has been in our neck of the woods recently, visiting various projects in the Agadir-Taroudant region. I knew something was up a couple of weeks ago, when all of the sidewalks and medians and dirt paths along the 'touroute -- the highway that passes through our village -- were suddenly torn up, along with several patches of road. The king would be stopping, I was told, and we had to make improvements to welcome him.

The appointed day came and went, with a few new palms hurriedly planted in the medians, a few bricks laid in the dirt, some red and white stripes freshly painted along the roadway. No king, though ~ he took the road several kilometers north instead. I wondered to myself, sarcastically, how long before all of the piles of concrete rubble might be hauled away and the piles of bricks actually laid into walking paths.

On Saturday I started hearing that the king once again was expected to pass through on Tuesday ~ and that, this time, he was even going to stop and give a little speech. He's never visited the village before, at least not in the memory of anyone I asked. Moroccan flags and banners started going up along the length of the village, along with barriers along the highway route. No, the construction work is far from done, but even I have to admit they made a valiant effort.

Things in fact looked pretty festive when my hostmothersister* stopped by to pick me up and we walked to the center of town. School was let out for the day, and kids were already milling about the length of the route. Rakya and I picked out a prime viewing spot on the shady side of the street, squatting on an empty concrete planter where a palm tree should stand. Some of my little girl friends came to hang out with us. We took some photos. The gendarmes (local police) told us we couldn't take photos of the king. They were happy to let us take photos of them, however. Women hauling babies and toddlers nodded in greeting as they passed. Boys trying to look smart made sassy comments about the gowria (foreigner) as they skidded past on their bicycles, sliding dangerously through the growing crowd. My girls offered me water and sunflower seeds. We counted together in English.

A couple of hours of this and even my hostmothersister was bored. Why don't we go have lunch and return later, she suggested. I agreed but parted ways when we reached my house, remembering I had a lesson to arrange for my first English class at the women's center later that afternoon.

Another couple of hours after that and I heard the tree-stiffening rumble of helicopters overhead, and I knew the king was on the highway. Lying in my salon in my post-lunch stupor, I had little desire to jump up, get appropriately dressed and rush out to see the fuss. Turns out I hadn't missed a thing ~ the King waved from his limo but didn't stop. "Oh, but he was zwin (handsome)," one of my little girls sighed, in all the seriousness with which an 11-year-old can sigh.

So that's the news around here this week.

This is my first week of English classes. First class at the nedi neswi (women's center) this afternoon was hilarious ~ this class is going to be much more laughing and chatting than anything else, but I think that's the point. Next week we add "Sport" ~ yoga lessons twice a week. At the dar chebab, where slowly we are seeing more students visiting every day, I expect to have to really cajole the younger students but already have several dedicated (I hope) young women interested in my Friday conversation classes for bac (high school seniors).

For National Women's Day last week, I screened a fabulous Moroccan film at the nedi and the dar chebab. "Number One" is a comedy (in Moroccan Arabic, with French subtitles) about Aziz, a husband and supervisor who isn't the world's nicest guy ~ until his wife slips him a tainted tagine and he suddenly becomes the most empathetic guy around. I won't spoil it for anyone who might watch it; suffice to say it was the best Moroccan film I've seen yet, not only in production value and entertainment, but in the positive message it enforced about the moudawana, the laws that govern marriage, divorce and family. Revised several years ago now on Oct. 10 ~ hence the inauguration of National Women's Day ~ the moudawana now gives women far more rights and equality at home and in the workplace.

Here's one of many looks back at the moudawana changes, their effects on reality, and what remains to be done: http://www.magharebia.com/cocoon/awi/xhtml1/en_GB/features/awi/reportage/2009/10/09/reportage-01

* This is what I've decided to call the wonderful woman who normally would be considered my host mother but who in fact is likely several years younger than me. She insists she's my Moroccan mother, I insist that if anything, she's my little sister; the one thing we agree on is a great deal of affection for each other.

And in other news ...

Because I'm a lazy blogger ~ because these give a very accurate flavor of my daily Morocco life without me lifting a finger ~ I am linking to several other bloggers today. There's good stuff here if you have time to take a look.

First, my friend Faye writes beautifully about the sounds of her nearby town here in the Souss, our southern Morocco desert region: http://fayexcassell.blogspot.com/2009/10/sounds-of-soussand-beyond.html

Next, our stajmate Duncan gives a hilarious account of some of the cultural "exchanges" that often have us Americans laughing, cringing, or both: http://moroccanroller.blogspot.com/2009/10/9-things-that-will-shock-american-in.html

This YouTube video is a couple of years old, and barely scratches the surface, but it gives a good overview of the various lives and challenges of Moroccan youths. It also shows the gamut of female attire, typical Moroccan homes, architecture, streets, foods and music (and, warning for those sensitive of stomach, a fairly grisly but entirely typical scene of a sheep slaughtered for L3id Kbir, the biggest holiday of the year).

My dear friend Kari linked me to this blog post about the perspective Peace Corps service bestows on us, about the world and about ourselves: http://ivancampuzano.com/top-10-lessons-i-learned-as-a-peace-corps-volunteer/

Finally, the Pew Center has released a major study on global Muslim populations. Muslims make up nearly a quarter of the world's population. Contrary to popular belief the Middle East is synonymous with "the Muslim world," more than 60 percent of all Muslims live in Asia. Lots of interesting facts and perspective here, if you're interested.

Word of the day.

"Moroccracy" ~ Morocco plus bureaucracy (nicked from Anny's blog)

Quote of the day.

"That it will never come again is what makes life so sweet." -- Emily Dickinson

Currently reading: "African Visas: A Novella and Stories," Maria Thomas

Currently listening to: Leonard Cohen and Neko Case (not together ~ but wouldn't that be a duet!?)

Currently loving: Peanut butter and Hot Tamales sent from the States (again, not simultaneously ... chokran bzzf 3la mma u bba u sahabti Jenny!)

More photos of Waiting for the King.

Getting the ball rolling.

Aicha (one of my favorite "little girls") shows me a thing or two about playing jacks.

The good news (and it's really good news): My dar chebab did, indeed, finally open this week. Hamdulilah! Nearly six months we've been closed. It felt so good to slide open the rusty bolt that latches the metal gate and throw the doors open to welcome the village children.

The bad news: If a rusty bolt squeaks in the vast desert and no one's around to hear it, is it really open?

In the four days we've been open so far, I've seen a total of seven youths ~ and two were repeats. We have some work to do in getting the word out that kids can finally come back. I have a few of my devoted regulars acting as town criers, charged with bringing me warm bodies. I'm also posting announcements around town, promoting the dar chebab's opening and the schedule of English classes I've arranged with the help of my regulars.

This week, I'm visiting the schools to meet with the principals and English teachers. One cannot just make arrangements with a teacher, accompany her to school and speak to her class. One first must meet with the school director and have tea. Then one must ask for a letter of reference to the regional minister of education in Taroudant. Then one must take the letter to the ministry and get it stamped. Then one must return to the school director with the letter. Then, and only then, can any arrangements long ago struck between Moroccan public school teacher and Peace Corps volunteer be carried on as planned.

Shwiya b shwiya.

I spent some time at the lycee (high school) this morning to that effect, assisted by an English teacher named Halim. We had a good conversation about ways I might participate in his class occasionally throughout the school year, doing some activities that force listening comprehension and spontaneous conversation ~ in a fun way, we hope.

I'm really impressed by Halim's approach to his classes. You hear a lot about Moroccan schools focusing solely on repetition and rote memorization. Halim has all kinds of ideas about theater and games and an activity he calls the "hot seat," in which students will take turns peppering me with questions and then I'll lob questions back at them. I'm excited to try some of my leadership/teamwork/communication exercises that are part of our Gender and Development curriculum.

Halim also has eyes on the dar chebab's datashow, or screen projector. He wants to show English-language movies that show education can be fun and that teachers and students can have positive relationships. One favorite he mentioned somehow involved a fat man who answered the phone and lied and then became a teacher and the kids loved him and then later the teachers did too ... eventually, I was able to determine that he was referencing "School of Rock." Awesome. I'll be looking for a copy when I come home for the holidays in December. Also "Dead Poets Society." Any other ideas?

When Aicha and I broke out the sidewalk chalk, even my mudhir got into the action.

Meanwhile, the quiet atmosphere around the place Saturday afternoon gave me time to play with Aicha, one of my favorites among the young girls who like to follow me around the neighborhood. I brought out a new package of jacks, realizing as I did that I couldn't even remember how to play, much less explain it in Arabic. I needn't have worried; Aicha was a pro. She even knew how to toss the jacks up in the air and catch them on the back of her hand before letting them drop to the ground.

We also had a good time with some new fat pencils of sidewalk chalk. My effigy is now emblazoned on the basketball court, available for anyone to walk all over.

So, no ~ not much activity at the dar chebab our first week, but we'll get there. I'm also branching out, spending two afternoons a week at the nedi neswi, where I'll be teaching English and yoga. And somehow I've agreed to teach English at a daycare/preschool run by two of my favorite adult students. Somehow, that intimidates me more than anything else. Well, that and the yoga.

As a bigger project, I'm planning to write a grant to stock our new informatique/library with books and other supplies. This is the new building that forced us to close for construction so long ago. I've still no idea why it all happened, but I'm really happy with the results. A clean, brightly lit new room outfitted with desks and eight computers that have been in hiding since I arrived last winter. The computers have Microsoft Word, Excel, PowerPoint and even Publisher. (Also, as the mudhir's assistant happily demonstrated for me, a variety of computer games.)

I'd really like to set up a schedule of computer literacy classes for youths, as well as for my nedi women if they'd like. Two problems there: 1) I'm about as literate in computers as I am in Arabic, and 2) a for-profit computer school in town means we probably won't be able to find an instructor who'll do it for free. The grant I hope to write would cover the costs of hiring an instructor, and also to stock our empty bookshelves with a variety of books in Arabic and beginner English.

Fair warning, dear readers: The type of grant I'm planning involves not NGO funds but participation from Peace Corps supporters and especially from friends and family. You'll be hearing from me soon!

Our new "informatique" ~ I'm impressed by the lavender/peach color combo.

For some reason, this morning's visit to the school gave me an unusual burst of domestic energy. I started by defrosting my fridge, which likes to leak icicles. I also did a little refrigerator repair, in the form of duct tape, to close a gap that may be leaking air and contributing to the public.

Once the defrosting was a success, I had quite a puddle of water to clean up. One thing led to another, and next thing I knew I was giving the whole place a good cleaning, top to bottom. Just yesterday one of my favorite Peace Corps neighbors, Matt, was saying that one of the things he'll miss most about Morocco when he finishes his service next month is the way we clean here: Just dump a basin of water on the floor and push water, dirt and debris right out the front door. Pretty dang satisfying.

I've made two of my favorite salads and hard-boiled some eggs and whipped up some iced coffee, all of which, along with the fat, juicy apples that have appeared with the change of season, should get me through at least the next couple of days' worth of meals. I've caught up on the news via at least 10 podcasts. Now I'm ready to curl up with Paul Theroux*. I think I've earned it. Goodnight.

My well-stocked, (temporarily) icicle-free fridge.

Kitchen towels in the courtyard. (My mom makes these ~ aren't they pretty?)

*Currently reading: "Dark Star Safari: Overland from Cairo to Cape Town, Paul Theroux

Currently listening to: Patsy Cline, Portishead, and some Gnaoua music (a Berber/Arabic/Saharan mix that's kind of Morocco's answer to jam bands)

Currently pondering: "Understanding engenders care." -- Natalie Goldberg

Spain 1: Me encanta Madrid.

“Going to another country doesn’t make any difference. I’ve tried all that. You can’t get away from yourself by moving from one place to another.” – Ernest Hemingway, “The Sun Also Rises”

Hallway of the Reina Sofia.

No, I didn't get away from myself ~ but I did get away from Morocco for awhile this summer. Five nights at a yoga/reiki retreat in Andalucia, followed by four nights in Madrid. I traveled solo, purposefully. A quiet, restful break from the rigors of Peace Corps life. (insert sarcastic smirk here).

Seriously, I needed the break. And it was nice to find I can still butcher Spanish as badly as I currently butcher Arabic.

Madrid was everything I wanted in a vacation. I walked and walked the historic streets of the city center. I would meander around a bit in the morning, find a place to sit and have an iced latte while reading the International Herald Tribune/El Pais, then head off to a museum, passing majestic churches and historic buildings on the way.

I wore makeup and a tank top and a knee-length skirt, and was not bothered once in four days. I got a pedicure. I read five books* ~ in fact, I had to restock and was grateful to find a bookstore with some English selections. I bought street art, and postcards, and souvenirs for my host family, and some Morocco-appropriate tops for only 6 euros each. I snacked on tapas and calamari, and splurged my last night on a seafood paella.

And I will admit that for some reason I indulged in a daily habit of Oreo McFlurries at the nearest McDonald's. Y'all know how I feel about chains, what they do to our eating habits, our economies, our environment. And yet, it felt oddly ... comforting.

When I tired of walking or needed a break from the museum, I stopped at an outdoor cafe and sipped a glass (or two!) of very cold, very crisp white wine. I did this several times a day. Retox, I liked to call it, giggling to myself behind the pages of my book.

(Those of you who can enjoy any of these small luxuries at any time have no idea how lovely it was to revisit a world where they are so readily available.)

My main purpose in choosing Madrid (besides the inexpensive flight from Marrakech) was to fulfill a lifelong dream of visiting Museo del Prado. And it was just as quietly spectacular as you might imagine. Velazquez, Goya, El Greco, Carravagio, Titian, Bosch's "Garden of Earthly Delights" ... and so much more. My favorite: Rubens' version of "The Three Graces," beautiful women drawn with such tender love even when they're "of an age." Spent the better part of a day at the Prado and still didn't see Bellini, Botticelli ... I guess I'll just have to return.

But, to me, the real gem of Madrid turned out to be the Reina Sofia, Madrid's modern art museum. Famous for being the home of "Guernica," Picasso's giant statement on the horrors of war, the Spanish Civil War in particular. It's enormous, overwhelming. But that wasn't the half of it. The Reina Sofia was without a doubt the best museum I (an amateur appreciator, to be sure) have ever visited. A sizeable collection of Picassos, of course, as well as Dali, and the usual modern masters (Duchamp, Rothko, Lichtenstein, Calder). But just so full of works by people I'd never heard of, that mesmerized me by content rather than name. Painting and film and sculpture and installation. I had to leave for lunch and come back, and again for a snack (and, yes, some more wine) before returning to love it some more. And I'm not a museum person, really. That's how great it was.

My third highlight was accidentally discovering the Royal Botanical Gardens, a 20-acre stretch next to the Prado, ill-advertised and hidden by a marble and iron fence, giant yews beyond. I smelled it first, damp humusy fertile earth that almost made me cry with homesickness for my own garden. (Well, actually, it did make me cry.) Another morning spent wandering through plots of yuccas and rosemarys and grasses and sculpted privet and meandering thymes. I wished I could've slept in there, in that damp earth smell.

Madrid. I miss it. I slept well in a private room (24 euros/night) the size of a closet but with the luxury of a ceiling fan, in a hostel where not until I arrived did I realize the proprietor was of Moroccan heritage. He didn't understand a word I said in Arabic; whether that was because of my language-butchering or because he never learned the language of his origins, I never determined.

I'm posting just a few photos here, and yoga photos farther down; many more are available on my Flickr site.

I was afraid that in returning to my dusty Moroccan village, I would lose all the calming benefits of my vacation. I needn’t have worried. Same old ups and downs here (up = crowds of kids running to greet me every time I turn a corner, my favorite transit driver telling me how much my Arabic has improved; down = crowds of young men trying constantly to get my attention, Berber women telling me I really can't speak Arabic very well, can I?)

Mostly, though, it’s been ups. The dar chebab reopens today, inchallah. I look forward to moving ahead and finally getting some work done. And to booking a flight home in December, my next getaway.

Street musician outside the Prado.

Picasso's "Woman in a Garden," with the giant "Guernica" in the background.

Sculpture outside the Reina Sofia.

One of my favorite finds at the Reina Sofia, a 1937 piece by photographer Jose Renau photograph: "Shedding her outer layer of superstition and misery, from the immemorial slave there emerged THE WOMAN capable of active participation in the making of the future"

One of many beautiful churches.

Mercado de San Miguel ~ the Williams Sonoma of mercados. Wine bar, organic nuts in bulk, fruit and veggies lovingly cradled in (recycled paper?) nests rather than dumped into plastic crates as I'm used to.

Graffiti at an alleyway cafe.

Nebraskans, can you imagine a Ministry of Agriculture building as majestic as this one?

Street art purchased in the park across from the Prado.

Toilet paper art sculpture in Plaza Mayor.

I loved this prominent PSA campaign spread across Madrid:

"Shit sack: Plastic bags jeopardize the lives of many animal species."

* Books read in Spain.

1. Seeking Peace: Chronicles of the Worst Buddhist in the World, Mary Pipher

2. Thunder and Lightning: Cracking Open the Writer’s Craft, Natalie Goldberg (third read?)

3. Unaccustomed Earth: Stories, Jhumpa Lahiri

4. Fiesta: The Sun Also Rises, Ernest Hemingway (and just as it takes him halfway through the book to get to Spain, it took me equally as long to realize I've read this one before. But such a delight to actually read Hemingway in Spain!)

5. The Best American Short Stories 1999, Amy Tan, editor

Spain 2: Yoga retreat.

Sunset over the Sierra de los Filabres.

The first half of my vacation was spent at the Casa Blanca Yoga and Reiki Retreat, in the Andalucia region of southern Spain. A small, family-run, private studio in a traditional Spanish farmhouse, this rural getaway was a restful time for stretching mind and body. A lovely young Londoner and I were the only clients for our five-night stay, assuring us personal attention.

Two hours of yoga in the morning, an hour of reiki in the afternoon, two more hours of yoga before dinner ~ and the time in between filled with reading, writing and chatting over the views of the Spanish countryside, orange and lemon groves with the mountains beyond. Amazing homemade vegetarian meals, served al fresco. Vivid sunsets.

One afternoon we made a side trip to a mineral springs near Baza. I was expecting a hot springs spot within the nearby lake. Instead, we found a lovely 1930s-era pool built to surround the natural springs, jutting out over the lake beyond, surrounded by the Sierra de Baza mountains. A restful, peaceful afternoon.

The retreat was more work than I'd expected ~ not so much the four hours of yoga a day as the slowness of the yoga pace, holding only a few repeated poses for much longer than the athletic flows I'm used to. It was taxing not only physically but mentally. I liked the change of pace. Slow down. Be only in the moment.

Who knew life could move more slowly than it does in Morocco?

Yoga instructor Liz in front of her lovely home and retreat.

Rural Andalucean views.

The hammock where I read away the afternoons.

The (manmade) lake around the hot springs near Baza.

The springs pool.

With Eleanora, my new yoga friend from London.

Stretching out the kinks first thing in the morning.

Walk-up headstand (she only caught me coming out of the pose,

so my toes and back aren't straight).

Anny and me displaying my new rug, designed and woven by the women she works with.

After returning from Spain, I visited my friend Anny's site, a very remote collection ofdwayers (tiny villages) east of Taroudant. Anny is always such a wonderful host ~ a peaceful, cozy home, a courtyard/yoga studio and a kitchen from which the most amazing concoctions come. She's leaving me in a couple of months, her two years of service having come to an end, and I really don't know what I'll do without her.

Members of Anny's weaving association.

The visit was arranged so I could thank the members of the weavers' association she's been working with for the amazing new rug they designed and created for me. The center says "Salam" ~ Peace ~ in Arabic script. It's so beautiful and will be a lifelong reminder of everything I have experienced in Morocco.

The association does amazing work, at reasonable prices, with wool they dye themselves. You can see some of it here and even commission your own order.

We also helped the association hand out sacks of flour and other staples (sugar, tea, etc.) to community members as part of the Ramadan invective to help those less fortunate. It was a beautiful morning, and it felt good to be doing something, no matter how small. The tiny Berber women were appreciative of the help in hauling the heavy flour sacks out to the road; their menfolk would come pick it up by donkey but, the women said, were too embarrassed to be seen accepting charity. Not too embarrassed to send their wives, mothers, grandmothers to do it, however.

Helping load sacks of flour during Ramadan.

Happy 48th birthday, Peace Corps!

On Sept. 22, 1961, President Kennedy signed the act inaugurating Peace Corps.

Unlike anyone in my staj here in Morocco, at least the agency itself is older than I am.

Mabruk l3id ~ Happy holiday!

Holiday henna, applied by my "sister" Kabira.

Today and tomorrow are L3id sgir, the "little feast" holiday signaling the end of Ramadan. My Muslim friends no longer have to fast from sunrise to sunset ~ and I no longer have to hide the evidence that I don't fast. That's a relief, as is the knowledge that now, finally, inchallah, the dar chebab will reopen and activities will resume.

But I will miss the evening lftr, the breaking of the fast that brings families together for a traditional Ramadan meal every evening. The past month has been a wonderful bonding experience with my community, as students, friends, neighbors and strangers all invited me into their homes to share their traditions. I had so many invitations I had to turn people down, and I got to see a tender and giving side of many families. I personally can't imagine being so warm and inviting after 14 hours without food or drink.

Today is a day traditionally given to walking through town and visiting friends' homes, a day of too many cookies and even more cups of sugary mint tea than normal. I, however, was actually at work all day. Well, OK, I wasn't exactly working, just keeping my host sister Kabira company at her new hanut.

In between customers, a little art on the side.

Business was slow, it being a holiday, but Kabira's one smart entrepreneur. She knew she'd be one of few places open today, so instead of enjoying the holiday with her family, she chose the option of making a few extra dirhams.

In between customers, she offered to henna my hands, henna being a traditional way of celebrating any event in women's lives. She's a true artist. The designs you see here were drawn freehand, the henna paste stuffed into a syringe and oozed slowly over the skin. Hours later, I returned home to wash off the dark mud, revealing lovely reddish temporary tattoos.

Her own boss.

The big news, though, is the hanut itself. Kabira works harder than anyone I know. She dropped out of school at 16 (she thinks) to help support her family. After years of working at a local patisserie, her job situation recently changed, she lost her autonomy and she became increasingly unhappy.

Rather than wallow, she decided to fulfill a lifelong dream. Somehow she rounded up the financial backing, found a storefront, painted and outfitted and stocked it all by herself, and opened the doors last week. In addition to such staples as milk and eggs, soap and soda, she's baking her own bread and making her own hlwa, the patisserie sweets that dress up the front counter. The rest of the family helps here and there, but this is Kabira's show.

Baking bread ~ 65 loaves today.

The prospects for survival of a small business are as dim here as at home; it's certainly not a given that she'll make a go of it. But she's in a great location, and I've been impressed by how many customers she has already. If anyone can make a go of it, Kabira can.

Song of the day.

I'd never heard of Chico before I heard his song "Curvy Cola Bottle Body" on a recent "Here on Earth" podcast on women's body images around the world. Apparently this Moroccan-Welsh pop singer wrote the tune as a response to the "Size Zero" pro-anorexia movement, and he donated profits from the song to an eating-disorder charity. OK, I'll applaud him for that ~ but the models in the video look plenty thin to me, not to mention that their scanty dress and hshuma dancing aren't exactly a feminist statement.

Watch the video and judge for yourself.

Happy anniversary to me!

It's more than a year now than I landed in Morocco. I can't think of anything to say that isn't a cliche ~ how time flies, look how far we've come, etc. There've been times I didn't think I'd ever feel comfortable here. But this afternoon, drinking tea with my host family, casually waving away the horde of flies, leaning against my host mother's hips, her feet in the small of my back, discussing (in Arabic!) the outrageous price of apples at souk this week, the television blaring over the sheep bleating on the rooftop and the call to prayer in the distance, I realized ... I've wllfted (adjusted). Shwiya.

Keep watching this space.

I know, I know ~ more than two weeks after my return, I still haven't written about my holiday in Spain. An update's on its way, honest. Suffice to say I had an amazing time and have the photos (and a new craving for Spanish accordion music) to prove it. You can see all of my photos on my Flickr page.

Quotes of the day.

“To live is so startling it leaves little time for anything else.” — Emily Dickinson (thanks, Joy!)

"Human beings are remarkable — at what we can learn to live with. If we couldn't get strong from what we lose, and what we miss, and what we want and can't have, then we couldn't ever get strong enough, could we? What else makes us strong?" 
— John Irving, “The Hotel New Hampshire” (thanks, Tricia!)

“The future depends on what we do in the present. — Mahatma Gandhi (thanks again, Tricia!)

Currently reading: "A Street in Marrakech," Elizabeth Warnock Fernea (simultaneously comforting and dismaying to read the same difficulties I've experienced adjusting to life here through the eyes of an American family some 40 years ago).

Currently watching: "John Adams" miniseries (fabulous ~ thanks, Anny!)

Currently listening to: lots of Wilco and Gillian Welch, in a pleasantly nostalgic mood lately

Currently drinking: Iced chai (thanks to Anny for the idea, Miz Meleeska for the tea bags, and whoever introduced skim milk to Morocco)

Currently eating: Pasta salad with pesto I made myself, with basil harvested from my own pots ~ I'm gonna have to revise my "I don't cook" disclaimer ...