This foreign/expatriate life offers many privileges and free drinks!
Because the owner of a club called Le Barrio Latino thinks that my friend Lauren is a Dutch ambassador, I spent Thursday night at an open-bar VIP party. Lauren made dinner reservations there once, weeks ago. The owner must have kept her phone number because since then she calls every week to tell her about their events. When Lauren went to pick up her party invitations she was given an envelope reading “Lauren, l’Ambassade du Pays-Bas +5.” We can’t figure out why on earth this woman thinks Lauren is Dutch or an ambassador. En tout cas, this party was off the fucking grid. Insane. We were ushered in and given drinks right away. The club was packed with Moroccans and foreigners, salsa and dance music boomed. We were served drinks and drinks and drinks, mostly mojitos, at our little table as we met friends of friends and ate Spanish snacks. I worked on wooing a French boy. Then we all danced until one, sloshily, I must say, taking pictures and kissing each other’s cheeks. (How I wish fetes here went into the late night like they do in Dakar. Nothing there gets started until midnight, then it goes until crazy o’clock—four or five)

Then! Yesterday, another open bar! At the Marine House with one of two Fulbright Chrises and Alex. It is an odd place, decorated with American flags and old military propaganda. Everyone there was American, drinking Budweiser, playing pool, eating Bugles and Cheetos. I met a few people, American diplomats and military officers and their families, but was above all interested in the drinks and snacks. Chris and I stopped by McDonald’s on our way home to eat Deluxe Potatoes, seasoned fries. We strolled as we used to together in Fès, talking about what we want to do with our lives and how we think Morocco will change us. I exchanged texts with the French boy, and we have plans to make plans today, though my night may already be full. It’s too bad. I’m invited to a holiday cocktail party at a Fulbright Senior Scholar’s apartment (more free drinks), then dinner at my friend Saleh’s house.

This morning I went to a holiday craft show at the American School (anglophone, American-style elementary through high school, I believe). The admission charge benefited charity, and most of the vendors were participants in rural economic development projects. I bought presents, all of which I love so much I want to keep them for myself.

Maybe I’m giving you all the wrong idea, making you think I don’t do any work here and spend most of my time drinking. I’ll have to write about my work in an upcoming post. I’ll start now by saying that I find doing independent research really hard. I struggle with these projects because I want my research questions to be the most pressing and relevant in the field. I’m studying contemporary, francophone, Moroccan women’s writing, particularly as it concerns linguistic politics of the francophonie. A mouthful. I’ve said, written and read these words so many times they’ve disintegrated into nonsense I half-believe I’ve invented.

Ordinary, street-level things have been going on too, aside from getting generous invitations because I’m American or have some money to spend. I nearly had a laughing fit at the post office; I’ve tried several types of sandwiches sold on my street; my Arabic teacher, Rjaa, and I spent about ten hilarious minutes one morning working on my “Ain”s, the retching sound; I’ve almost made friends with the blind woman who I frequently end up sitting next to on the bus; I killed a bug that turned out to be a bee and almost cried (I have a thing about bees); a new supermarket opened a few blocks from where I live; I discovered an artfully arranged fruit and vegetable stand; I read in bed and on my balcony; I “h’chouma!”-ed (shame on you!) a particularly persistent street harasser for the first time; I exchange daily greetings and what’s up nods with two beggar women; I got some books copied at a tabac with the best selection of magazines I’ve seen in Morocco; and, lastly, I think one of my doormen actually likes me, finally.

On a completely different note, I wish I weren’t missing so much at home. My mom’s enormously, desperately anticipated retirement starts on Friday. I truly wish I could be there to celebrate with her. Second, it seems more and more probable that my parents will move to Tucson by the time I return. Casually, stuck in the middle of an email, my dad mentioned that someone had looked at their condo and liked it a lot. I didn’t know it was even on the market! It’s okay, I don’t plan on living in Michigan again, I’m happy for them to finally get to do what they want, I just....it’s just....sad. I miss familiar streets and want many reasons to see them again.