The women's room.

Sneaking in a real picture before the "official" group picture ... aren't these women beautiful?

I've misspent a good deal of energy over the past months worrying about how little work I'm doing. Somehow my brain has linked the closure of the dar chebab with my insecurities about my language and my abilities ... that somehow the closure was subconsciously, psychically, karmically, my fault. Yeah, yeah, I know ... but who ever accused me of being logical?

Anyway, in the heat of summer everything tends to shut down, so I'm not alone in facing a lot of lazy days. My mind races with all the things I "could/should" be doing ... preparing future lesson plans, creating on a resource kit for gender issues, reconnecting with the Flickr site that I've sadly neglected since arriving in Morocco, perfecting my yoga practice, finally learning to meditate ... and cook ... and write ...

Instead, the stifling 110-degrees-plus heat of this past week has left me nearly catatonic. Lying atop my bed, the fan trained directly on me, listening to podcasts instead of reading in order to avoid even the movement of turning a page ... still I found myself reclining in a pool of sweat. Dry heat, my ass.

I've spent more than a few days in just this way lately, entire days and nights with no energy even to read. Now that's lethargy.

But ... a recent surge of activity in my social calendar has not only brought some much-needed energy into my days, it's also snuck some psychic energy into my soul.

Take just the past couple of days.

Yesterday Soumaia, my favorite advanced student who recently passed her graduate exams, invited me to her home in a duoar (little farm village) just outside of town. Yesterday was the hottest day yet -- I heard 117 degrees -- and I spent the morning moaning quietly to myself about the moment I would have to leave my beloved fan and enter the furnace outside, walk a quarter-mile in blazing sun, then press myself into a crowded, un-air-conditioned transit van.

But once I got there ... well, I won't say I forgot all about the heat, because it was impossible to ignore. Every couple of minutes someone says the equivalent of "Hooo, it's hot," and unwraps her veil in order to fan herself with it, whipping it around like the hair of an '80s headbanger.

But beyond the heat, there was great warmth. After quickly finishing off the cake Soumaia had baked -- strawberry filling and chocolate icing with sprinkles -- we crossed the highway to visit her friend Rachida across the road. Four chatty, laughing daughters and their welcoming Tashelheit mom who proclaimed herself my twin, letting down her veil to show her own twin braids to match my own.

One by one the other women in Soumaia's family appeared as well, friends and neighbors who naturally congregate on a daily basis. Soumaia and Rachida's is a second-generation friendship; their mothers are close as sisters, finishing each other's sentences, fiddling with each others' clothes, scolding each others' daughters.

We talked about Soumaia's plans to go to computer school. We talked about differences, and similarities, between Moroccans and Americans. We talked about Oprah's newly straight hair. We talked about the heat. We laughed, a lot -- the kind of laughter I could feel was not pointed at me but meant to include me.

There's absolutely nothing better here than spending time with a group of women who obviously enjoy each others' company -- unless it's the feeling that they welcome me as one of them.

Friends for life.

Today, if possible, was even better. First, lunch with my host family, at which I learned the birthmark on my right shin is a result of my mother having looked at a strawberry when she was pregnant with me. Then a two-hour nap with Rakya and Khadija, fading in and out to "The Lizzie Maguire Movie" without missing a single beat in the less-than-complicated plot.

From there I met my friend Sihem, who had asked me home to meet her mother. Another dearly warm and hysterically funny woman -- really, she's missing her calling as a stand-up comedian. She was doing everything but pratfalls to keep me entertained -- making faces, doing impersonations, deadpan lying through her teeth ... then cracking herself up. I haven't laughed so hard in ages. Comedy and good intentions, both persevere through cultural and language barriers. I can't wait to go back.

Plus, I learned that darling independent Sihem, besides riding a motor scooter and working as a compliance officer in a local dairy co-op, has a black belt in karate. And bingo! I have another counterpart for positive activities for girls come fall.

Best of all, once home I finally had energy to do something besides lie in a pool of my own sweat. Made a big batch of my favorite salad -- rice, diced tomatoes and peppers, chopped green olives, cilantro, tuna and cashews -- and one of green melon, cucumbers and fresh mint. Made some notes on advanced English lessons for the summer language immersion camp I'll be working next month. Settled in to write this update. I've done more in the past couple of hours than I've managed in a week.

A year ago I was without a job and without a home (having cut ties with both before my original Peace Corps invitation got messed up at the last minute) and feeling rather weightless, centerless. I've spent much of the past months in the same disconcerting place. I know I'll continue to float back and forth between confidence and angst, but lately I have to admit that I'm not just *trying* to feel as if I fit in here ... I have moments when I actually do.

Masala al fresco.

Dinner on Vish's rooftop.

My social outings aren't limited to my little neighborhood. On Saturday several of us gathered at the home of a volunteer in a neighboring village. Vish treated us to amazing homemade Indian cuisine, bottles of perhaps incongruous but no less satisfying sangria, and an evening of laughter punctuated by comfortable stillness, or perhaps it was the other way 'round. Several of us laid blankets on Vish's roof and slept under the stars and a refreshingly cool breeze.

This weekend, maybe escaping the heat with a trip to Tagazout, Morocco's surfing capital but also supposedly a tranquil beach community.

Turns out being out of work isn't such a chore after all.

In the news.

Here's a short video on the ubiquitous Moroccan djellaba, produced by a young American journalist I met last month in Rabat (her husband and fellow journalist has Nebraska ties). It only scratches the surface of women's wear in Morocco -- for one thing, western garb handily competes with the djellaba in Rabat, the capital; for another, the traditional full-body wrap referred to here as the haik is, far from being obsolete, at least as common as the djellaba here in the conservative south. Still, this offers a look at the variety and fashion of the modern djellaba.

Next, an amusing short piece by a Moroccan-American author on seeing local customs through an expat's eyes. I hadn't before heard of Laila Lalami, but her two novels sound fascinating, and I can't wait to hunt them down.

Finally, a blog post by another American in Morocco who captures quite perfectly the feelings of being an outsider here.

Currently reading: "The Man Who Walked Through Time: The Story of the first trip afoot through the Grand Canyon," Colin Fletcher

Currently listening to: "Trouble in Mind," Janis Joplin

Trouble in mind, babe, I'm blue,
but I won't be blue always
Yes, the sun gonna shine,
in my back door someday ...

Insects I have known, and not loved, and occasionally killed, in Morocco.

-

* Mosquitoes. I just counted ... currently logging at least 30 bites, in every place you can imagine, despite the newly installed screen on my bedroom window.

* Flies. They're ubiquitous. My house isn't too bad, even with open doors and windows. I keep my kitchen and my clothes clean, and it seems to cut down on my attraction to them. In my host family's house, I often wish I had a tail to swish at them with, they're so overwhelming. My least favorite are the tiny white ones that like to hang out in the bathroom; I assume the moisture attracts them? Well, they aren't attracted to me, so I leave them be.

* Crickets. I am actually one of those who love the sound late at night ... unless they're in the room with you. Then they have to die. This happens nightly. Being, previously, one of those who tries to take the bugs outside rather than kill them when they dare to cross my threshold, I'm a little disturbed by the glee I take in catching one in the act. "Tell your friends," I whisper to them as I toss them down the Turkish toilet. I've considered leaving the corpses where they fall, as a warning to the others, but that's just ... icky.

* Cockroaches. I was logging about one of these a day as well until the past week or so. I'm afraid to jinx myself by mentioning that I haven't seen a single one in at least a week. So I won't. They're big mothers here, too.

* Ants. The little ones like to congregate around my toilet. Bigger ones occasionally can be seen scurrying down my hallway, bearing more than their weights' worth of some treasure or another. These I leave alone. And not just because they are protected in the Koran.

* Scorpions. Are these insects? Probably not. And I've only seen one so far, on the paved street in my little village. How'd he get here? And how'd my host brother manage to spot him in the dark? I'm afraid of them and yet I want one, being's as we're kindred spirits. Anny logs her kills in "Scorpion Death Match" on her blog; last weekend she was mentioning how she hadn't seen a single one yet this summer. Lamenting might be too strong a word, but I think it's fair to say she sounded just a wee bit wistful.

And one I have yet to know in Morocco:

* Giant camel spiders. Again, I know, not really insects -- especially not when they're this big. Matt claims to have seen one at a recent summer camp. I think that would exceed my freak-out levels.

Really, as with most everything else, the creepy crawly situation here (scorpions and camel spiders aside) is no different than that back home. The difference seems to be in how I deal with them. I can't imagine the earlier versions of me managing to sleep knowing there's a giant cockroach in the house. Now, it's like -- meh. Surely this is increasing my fortitude in other areas as well.

News on Peace Corps and Morocco.

There's been plenty of it lately, and I'm behind on most of this. Also too lazy/tired to write -- killing bugs is hard work! -- so just the links if you're interested in learning more.

* President Obama this week finally announced his nominee for director of the Peace Corps. Sounds like a career do-gooder; what's not to like?

* It's been a month now since Obama appointed his ambassador to Morocco. Wonder if he'll continue his predecessor's "tradition" of rewriting "Twas the Night Before Christmas" for Peace Corps volunteers' swearing-in ceremony.

* It's also been about a month (I told you I'm behind) since Sen. Chris Dodd a former PCV himself, introduced legislation to gradually double Peace Corps' budget. Here's a good site for tracking the bill's progress and media references.

On Independence Day (America's), Obama and Morocco's king traded love letters about their common goal of Middle East peace.

* If you're really, really interested in Peace Corps, the agency has a new YouTube channel and a Twitter page.

Guest writer: Rumi.

A Moroccan friend posted this on Facebook. It's really speaking to me today.

The Guest House

This being human is a guest house.

Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,

some momentary awareness comes

as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!

Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,

who violently sweep your house

empty of its furniture,

still, treat each guest honorably.

He may be clearing you out

for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,

meet them at the door laughing,

and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,

because each has been sent

as a guide from beyond.

Quotes of the day.

“I must govern the clock, not be governed by it.” – Golda Meir

“There is more to life than increasing its speed.” – M.K. Gandhi

Currently reading: "In Praise of Slowness: How a Worldwide Movement is Challenging the Cult of Speed," Carl Honore

Summer slowdown.

Well, we’re deep into the summer doldrums here in the village. Looks like the dar chebab will be closed all summer, as is the women’s center. In this heat, people just don’t go out during the day if they can help it. It’s only been in the high 90s so far, for the most part; as people here love to remind me, machft walu mazal: I haven’t seen anything yet.

Accepting that it’s not my fault nothing’s going on, that indeed it’s out of my control, has been a struggle. But I’m learning to adjust to having even more free time than is usual for me here. Trying to write more, trying to practice my yoga more, trying to arrange an August vacation to a yoga/meditation/reiki retreat in Spain.

I’m also trying to accept that my every interaction is some kind of progress.

Take this afternoon, for example: I agreed to meet a possible counterpart at the appliance repair shop where he works. Ayoub also leads a local theater troupe, and we’ve been talking about ways to create some theater activities at the dar chebab. I had some trepidations about hanging out in such a male-centric environment, but Ayoub has a well-deserved reputation for being nishan – straight, a good, honest young man – and I got a great deal out of the hour I spent sitting among ailing refrigerators. Not only did he teach me an intricate new method of making mint tea, he told me about some women’s organizations in Taroudant, the nearest city, that might be able to help me organize some educational sessions when the women’s center does reopen this fall. I learned about some girls in a village not too far away who could use some positive activities. And we agreed to launch a schedule of theater and music events this fall, when the dar chebab – inchallah! – is open again. Frankly, a lot of networking got done in one afternoon.

On my way to meet Ayoub, I was accosted by a brazen gang of elementary-age boys, all clamoring to be the most brazen in daring to converse with me, all rushing to hide behind each other the second I met their gaze and answered their questions. Typical boys of that age, trying so hard to be naughty but frankly unable to hide their ebullient goodheartedness behind dimpled laughter.

Later, walking home, I made my usual rounds of “Salam, labas 3lik?” (“Hello, how are you?”) with women and kids I meet in the street. Sometimes people, especially women from the country, look at me suspiciously; more often, I get the reward of a broad smile, a handshake followed by a kiss of the fingertips, and enthusiastic inquiries after myself and my family. I carry those moments with me all day.

As I rounded the corner into my neighborhood on this afternoon, laden with a bag of vegetables and a round of bread, I heard giggles and “Allo, Becki!” Three elementary-age girls came bounding out of a courtyard to greet me, a toddler sister trailing behind. After kissing each others’ cheeks, we just kind of stood there for a few moments. We still don’t have much to say to each other, beyond: “What are you doing this summer?” “Walu” (nothing), but they always seem as happy to see me as I am to be called out. As I said goodbye and headed off again, I heard one of them say, in practiced English: “I love you, Becki, very much.” I know the limitations of such a statement, but how can you not tear up hearing that, so far from home?

Having no work to rush off to, no lessons to plan, frees me in my mind to spend more time simply being with people. Yesterday I went to my host family’s for lunch. I spent a couple of hours sitting on the ground with Rakya, cleaning wheat –sifting through it, looking for rocks and dirt. That's all we did, just sift wheat and talk. I didn't feel like rushing off; I had nowhere else I had to be. I learned some new vocabulary. Lunch meant the homemade flat wheat bread I love so much, freshly baked on a charcoal fire on the roof, still warm when we sat down to eat. And then, when everyone else laid down for their post-lunch nap, I didn't feel at all uncomfortable lying down alongside them. It felt communal. I slept.

Speaking of sleep, I’m finally sleeping in a big-girl bed! It was delivered on the Fourth of July. Just two twin-size frames with slats, shoved together under a thin foam mattress, but you have no idea how happy it makes me after camping out in my living room these past six months or so. That Independence Day evening, I fell asleep not to blasts of neighborhood fireworks, but to the rhythmic drumming of a wedding ceremony just outside my front door. I couldn’t have felt more at home.

Other recent news.

1. One of my favorite students passed the final exam that meant her graduation from high school. She sent the good news in a text message: “hi becki I am somaia how are you. Im sucssed in bacalorea.” Somaia worked so hard in English, as in all her subjects. Many students drop out of high school before reaching bac level; of those who stuck it out this year, only 27 percent passed the bac exam. With more than 60 percent of Morocco’s females still illiterate, Soumaia shines as a local role model; I hope this means she’ll continue her education at the university level.

(A girl in Rabat earned the nation’s highest baccalaureate score. In this interview, she encourages other girls to stay in school and work hard to better their futures.)

2. In local elections last month, two women won seats at the belladia, equivalent to a city council. One is a local nurse with whom I hope to coordinate some health classes at the women’s center this fall. There’ve never been women on the council before; a nationwide drive to recruit more females to office earmarked 12 percent of local seats for women.

Thanks to those quotas, women have made political inroads across the country. Marrakech has its first female mayor in history; a young woman in Tata province, south of here, is the youngest person ever elected in the country.

If you want to read more about the recent elections and what they mean for democracy in a Muslim country, here’s a good article on Slate.com. And here’s some inspiring news about women and government in other Muslim countries.

Quotes of the day.

“When you have compassion in your heart, you will suffer much less.” – Thich Nhat Hanh

“There’s an intrinsic value in doing something without being the best at it.” – Susie Gephardt (don’t ask me who she is, but I love the quote)

The only people who find what they are looking for in life are the fault finders. – Foster's Law (via Miz K)

"The most wasted of all days is one without laughter." – e.e. cummings (via Joy)

Currently reading: “Long Quiet Highway: Waking Up in America,” Natalie Goldberg

Currently listening to: A variety of legitimate free downloads from the Team Love Library.

Currently loving: The rice-stuffed, cheese-topped, broiled tomatoes I made for dinner.

More house photos.

No joke.

First, a couple of random photos, as I don’t have anything to illustrate this post:

Coral (or salmon, take your pick) was the in color at last week’s in-service training in Marrakech.

My new students at the nedi neswi, or women’s center.

And now, the lesson of the day.

Peace Corps works toward three goals:

1. Helping the people of interested countries in meeting their need for trained men and women.

2. Helping promote a better understanding of Americans on the part of the peoples served.

3. Helping promote a better understanding of other peoples on the part of Americans.

So far, I’m frustrated in my (lack of) abilities to do much related to the first goal, but I do my utmost to work toward the second and third – here in my village by discussing American culture and habits with my new friends and students, and in this blog by sharing the culture of a typical village in a typical Muslim country.

The other day I woke to find a mass-distributed “joke” email from an old friend – someone I think greatly of, someone smart and empathetic and educated about world affairs, someone who's been most supportive of my work here:

Don't forget to mark your calendars. As you may already know, it is a sin for a Muslim male to see any woman other than his wife naked. He must commit suicide if he does. So next Saturday at 4 PM Eastern Time, all American women are asked to walk out of their house completely naked to help weed out any neighborhood terrorists. Circling your block for one hour is recommended for this anti-terrorist effort.

All patriotic men are to position themselves in lawn chairs in front of their house to prove they are not Muslims, & to demonstrate they think it's okay to see nude women other than their wife, & to show support for all American women. Since Islam also does not approve of alcohol, a cold 6-pack at your side is further proof of your anti-Muslim sentiment. The American gov't appreciates your efforts to root out terrorists & applauds your participation in this anti-terrorist activity.

God bless America!

It is your patriotic duty to pass this on. If you don't send this to at least 5 people you're a terrorist-sympathizing, lily-livered coward & are in the position of posing as a national threat.

Sigh. Obviously I have a ways to go in achieving Goal 3.

Say it with me this time: “Muslim” does not equal “terrorist.” Islam at its core is a peace-loving religion that, in a very few places, has been co-opted by power-hungry factions that instill fear – much as certain U.S. politicians have used 9/11 to instill fear in Americans -- for their own political or capitalist gain.

To belittle another’s religious customs only points up the effectiveness of that xenophobic fear-mongering.

(Then there’s the misogyny implied in the “joke” – that women are useful only as sexual beings, and that all-American men are base creatures who want only to watch naked women parade around them, beers at the ready.)

Morocco is only one example of the majority of Muslim countries that are peaceful and increasingly progressive; Turkey and Indonesia and India (largest population of Muslims in the world even though Islam is the minority there) and many countries in sub-Saharan Africa are just some of the others. It’s time, too, to start recognizing the substantial Muslim communities in such “developed” countries as France and Britain and Canada and, yes, even the United States.

The wonderful people I meet here are the same as the people I love and miss back home. They are not terrorists. They are mothers and fathers and grandparents, sons and daughters, sisters and brothers. They love their families; they eat three meals a day plus snacks; they pray; they work and cook and clean and laugh, and they hope their children will have it better than they did. There are some slight cultural differences in what we wear and how we pray; but while the specifics may vary, the concepts are the same.

The more we can all realize our commonalities, the less we will fear each other. The less we fear each other, the less likely we are to attack each other. This is human nature. This is part of why I’m here.

Some people will read this and make fun of me for not being able to take a “joke.” I’m OK with that. I would only ask that they imagine their own family had been born on the other side of the world, still loving each other, still doing a hard day’s work, still practicing a religion – a religion far more alike than unlike the one they practice currently. Imagine the joke’s on you. Still funny?

My day.

I don’t really have a “typical” day, especially as the dar chebab’s continued closure has left me without a specific workplace to frequent. (I’ve taken a peek inside the new building, by the way; it’s lovely and really, really should be open by the time I return from a work-related trip to Rabat next week.)

I do, however, think this is a rather representative look at life for one Peace Corps volunteer in one Moroccan village:

7:30 am: Wake up; obsessively check email; update podcasts to my iPod.

8:30 am: While listening to yesterday’s news, wash two basins of clothes (one darks, one whites) by hand in the kitchen sink, then hang them to dry on the clotheslines in my courtyard

9:30 am: Shower; write a little bit while waiting for my hair to dry; obsessively check email.

10:30 am: As sun beats down, erasing any evidence of my morning shower, walk equivalent of three or four blocks to my tutor’s apartment; arrive drenched in sweat. Spend a couple of hours asking for new vocabulary and points of grammar (Kifesh kangulu -- "how do we say" -- “crickets”? Kifesh kangulu “They’re driving me crazy!” Lend her my Internet modem for a couple of days (I could use the break, frankly).

12:30 pm: Walk to host family’s house; no one’s home but the youngest daughter, Khadija. Spend some time with her, watching a Bollywood musical on the telefaza. Sweat.

1:30 pm: Stop by the supermarche before it closes for the 2-3 hour lunch break; treat myself to a couple of croissants instead of the staple round of unleavened, unenriched bread.

2 pm: Lunch on croissants, cucumber with green melon, an orange, yogurt with peanuts, and mint iced tea. Think of all the paperwork I didn’t get around to yesterday but really, really will get to today.

2:30 pm: Decide to pop in a movie while lunch is settling; it’s too hot to move, even sitting directly under my new fan. Wish I could obsessively check email.

4 pm: Wake from movie. Take clothes off line. Think of all the paperwork I really, really will get to this evening, after the heat of the day passes.

4:30 pm: Read from one of half a dozen unfinished books lying around.

6 pm: Wake from reading; walk to hanut (store) to buy a new lightbulb to replace the one that burnt out during the cricketcide I waged last night. Enjoy being hailed by several groups of kids, young girls stretching up to kiss my cheek with dirt- and sugar-sticky lips. Do not enjoy l3jej, the afternoon desert wind that threatens to lift my skirt, Marilyn Monroe-style, just as I pass a posse of brooding young men.

6:10 pm: At the hanut, a young girl asks me for flus (money); I tell her I don’t have any – I’m a volunteer. But I agree to visit her home, hoping to talk with her and her mother about activities at the dar chebab (when it reopens). Khadija is 15 and elated to have company; younger brother is 12 and bratty; neighbor girl is 14 and insists on speaking French; grandmother keeps telling me she doesn’t understand French, while I’m speaking to her in Arabic. On the way to the house, Khadija tells me her mother is a little sick; I arrive to find a woman my age lying on the bedroom floor, writhing in pain from a twisted leg. She’s visited the doctor and has medicine, which she offers for my perusal. I tell her I’m not a doctor and can’t read Arabic. She’s surprisingly chatty in between bursts of pain. The daughter and grandmother offer me tea – well, there’s no tea, but they offer me bread and olive oil. I eat their food, food they likely can little afford to share. The girl asks me again for money, or for clothes from America if I have any that are too small; I say “inchallah.” I ask her to come to the dar chebab; she says “inchallah.” We each know what the other means by "inchallah."

7:30 pm: My heart hurts on the walk home; I know some volunteers get asked for money or medical advice on a daily basis, but it hasn’t happened very often to me. I don’t know what the right answer is, what would be best for them, what would make my heart less heavy.

7:35 pm: Crossing the highway, come across a man of European descent standing with two Moroccan men in front of two stalled cars. Thinking I might be of some help, I ask in French whether he speaks English. “Non,” he scoffs, barely able to spit the single word my way. My attitude turns bitter, disdainful.

7:40 pm: Try to do some yoga; still too hot, and my stomach, still too full of bread, rebels at the notion of any inverted poses. Quick, cold shower to rinse off the day’s grime.

9 pm: Paint toenails in honor of impending trip to the big city. Too hot for dinner. Chew on some cold, cooked green beans I’d meant to turn into an elegant salad involving walnuts, brie and fresh ginger, all of which I inexplicably possess and never get around to using.

10 pm: Start writing blog post; begin nightly ritual of killing bugs large and small. Crickets and roaches and beetles, oh shit.

Midnight: Lights out; decide to listen to a podcast under cover of darkness instead of reading by flashlight, to avoid attracting more bugs. Asleep before host finishes introducing her guests. Dream of paperwork I didn’t get to today but really, really will get to tomorrow.

Quote of the week:

“Success is the ability to go from failure to failure without losing your enthusiasm.” – Winston Churchill

Podcast of the week:

Here On Earth’s episode on “The Blue Sweater,” a new memoir about the dependencies fostered by traditional means of international aid, vs. creating participatory, entrepreneurial partnerships with local communities.

Currently reading: “In Morocco,” Edith Wharton

Currently listening to: “Killin’ the Blues,” Allison Krauss and Robert Plant

Shout out to: My fabulous and inspiring Peace Corps recruiter, who had a beautiful baby boy this week!

An extra dose of love to: My dad. Happy Father's Day!

Life in the city.

The Earth Cafe, Marrakech -- hands down the best restaurant I've yet visited in Morocco.

I’m back home in my dusty little village, after a weeklong in-service training in Marrakech. Training was … training. Actually, many of the sessions were both useful and inspiring, as they were led by fellow volunteers who have actually used the tips they were sharing. And it was great to see everyone again … though with so many workshops, so many people and such hot weather, the week was maybe a day or two too long.

But we briefly reaped the benefits of life in the big city. Our bungalow was not the zwinest, but it did sport this crazy new invention called air conditioning, and that more than made up for the fly-ridden, cold-water shower. And I got to bust out some outfits I would never wear in my conservative site -- good gracious, my calves were showing! And my upper arms! Hshuma 3liya -- shame on me!

I spent too many dirhams, but it was totally worth it for the amazing food I was able to sample. I’m not knocking tagines or couscous, or even my own rotation of salad concoctions, but it’s nice to branch out into some other fare once in awhile. Seafood swimming in red coconut curry one evening, authentic Italian another. My favorite meal by far, though, was my second visit to the Earth Café, a wonderfully hip vegetarian eatery just off the Djemma El Fna, Marrakech’s central square of food, souks and free entertainment. Goat cheese baked in phyllo pastry, atop a bed of balsamic-roasted veggies ... I can still taste it melting on my tongue.

And then there was cocktail hour … glorious cocktail hour. Mmm, cocktails … In a country where alcohol is forbidden for Muslims and hard to find for travelers, it’s hard not to turn into a high-schooler, continually cruising for the possibility of scoring a bottle or two. We found a bottle or two. ’Twas lovely.

Danice and me in color-coordinated garb.

A not-so-strange not-turn of events.

Here’s a shocking surprise, upon my return home: My dar chebab is still closed! (cue sarcasm). Couldn’t even find the director for a few days, though I finally tracked him down this evening. The new library/informatique building is finished, actually, and looks lovely, with a tiled floor and peach and lavender walls. Soon’s they clean up a bit and move all the computers and books into the new room (and out of my classroom, which currently looks like a storage locker), we’ll be back open for business. So, I’m guessing, maybe another month or so. (Sorry, can’t seem to turn off that sarcasm feature.)

My women’s class is too busy to meet, and will be on vacation soon. The young women I was tutoring for their final exam have taken the test and disappeared on me. Even my dar chebab regulars are nowhere to be found. I have one last class at the women’s center tomorrow before it closes for the summer.

I feel utterly useless at times. I know this is normal for this time of year, this slowness. But I’ve already felt idle for a couple of months now. Hard to ward off that American mindset of work = success = reason for being. The one thing that calms me is afternoon tea with my host “mom” (again. two years younger than me). It’s not your fault the dar chebab’s closed, she reminds me. Everyone’s taking tests anyway, she reminds me. And then they’ll just hang around the house all summer. It’s too hot to do anything else. It’s OK, she says. Relax. Breathe.

So I try.

Plenty else going on, though.

* Both of my host sisters have new jobs that, I hope, will help them each feel more successful. Though it means I likely will see far less of each of them.

* Their sister has been visiting from Germany, where she moved about a year ago after marrying a professor she met in Agadir. The grandmother’s here, too, from her home out in the country. It’s been lovely to see the family dynamics evolve into a constant house party atmosphere. There is nothing lovelier than the idle, comfortable laughter of a houseful of female relatives.

* I bought a bed today, my first big purchase made solo, with no one to interpret or bargain for me. I’m pretty happy with it and look forward to feeling more at home once I have an actual bed to sleep in at night, to spread out my books and journal and music. (For months now I’ve been camping out in my living area, on a mattress considerably narrower than a twin bed and lumpier than Pamela Anderson, which is not a plus in my book.) Pictures to come once it’s built and delivered.

* Still making friends everywhere I go. Yesterday I spent time talking with a trio of women, two of whom spent most of the time trying (in vain) to convince the third that I was speaking Arabic to her, not French or some other exotic language. (I know what she means, though. It’s all Greek to me, too, honey.) Today it was a lovely older woman who held both my hands the entire time, saving when she had to use her own to waggle her substantial breasts at me while indicating the number of kids she’s raised. I can only be thankful she didn’t waggle mine while trying to comprehend why I haven’t had any.

Proud to be a citizen of the world.

I’m still a little bit out of the loop, newswise (my amazing new internet connection seems to be more predisposed to ridiculous and random Facebook quizzes than to information about the serious news of our day), but I did manage to catch Newt Gingrich’s speech in which he proudly declared, “I am not a citizen of the world. I think the entire concept is intellectual nonsense and stunningly dangerous!” Much has been made of the statement, especially how it contrasts with GOP hero Ronald Reagan’s quote a mere generation ago that he was a citizen of both the U.S. and the world.

The brouhaha seems to be over semantics. Newties are afraid the word “citizen” puts them in league with the dictators and commies of the world. For the more open-minded, less literal among us, it’s just a term of solidarity – with people, not governments. Being American does not make us superior – only very fortunate.

Huma huma, as we say here – People are people, the same everywhere. We all try to roll over for a few more hours of sleep in the morning, then get up, get the kids dressed and fed, do our daily work whether it’s at home or elsewhere, make another meal, crash in front of the telefaza, laugh a bit, fight a bit, fall asleep and do it all over again the next day,

That, more than anything, is what I’ve gotten out of my Peace Corps service so far.

And it seems to be a meme of sorts, at least in the news bytes and podcasts that have been coming my way this week.

Here on Earth has a recent episode on “Travel as a Political Act” – the idea that exploring other worlds brings home to us the reality that we’re all more similar than we are different. And that we’re all motivated essentially by two things: Fear and love. Fear of change, and love of our families.

We’re like spiders in that respect … the “other” (society, religion, etc) is just as afraid of us as we are of them. A very good reason to get to know our world neighbors better … and let them know us, the us defined by everyday life, not by our show of force.

Other good resources on the topic:

* On Point had a discussion this week on global education for high-school and university students – not only for the lower cost, but to make them more comfortable in / understanding of the larger world.

* Rita Golden Gelman, author of the greatly inspiring book “Tales of a Female Nomad” is trying to drum up support for a formal “gap year” program, a concept Michelle Obama has already embraced.

Quotes of the day:

“Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry and narrowmindedness.” – Mark Twain

“Not to know is bad. Not to want to know is worse. Not to hope is unthinkable. Not to care is unforgivable." — Nigerian saying (according to Facebook and the innerwebs, anyway)

“There is only one success — to be able to spend your life in your own way.” — Christopher Morley

“You don’t have to be unhappy to have the blues.” – Little Ed (of Little Ed and the Blues Imperials) on “Wait, Wait – Don’t Tell Me,” June 12, 2009

Currently reading: “In Morocco,” Edith Wharton; “A Beginner’s Guide to Meditation,” Charlotte Parnell

Currently listening to: music from Gnoua Festival 2008

Currently solidaritizing with: The brave, green-wearing women and men of Iran