andrea (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} mumblebee) wrote,@ 2005-12-13 16:56:00 |
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Pinecones, tadpoles, beetle shells
[I wrote this yesterday and am thinking about taking back a few things already. For example, contrary to what I wrote there are things I really do not like about Rabat (street harrassment bazef, and not much night life). France tomorrow! France tomorrow! 8 am train to Casablanca, flights to Madrid and then Paris, Métro to Gare du nord, train to Valenciennes, arriving around 9 pm]
My soundtrack for the morning was Joanna Newsom’s “Peach, Plum, Pear” over and over interspersed with Jay-Z songs. Mazian! That song makes me feel funny. The first time I heard it, yesterday morning, it made me crawl under my kitchen table. [That’s not weird, right?]
The Moroccan Arabic words I’ve incorporated into my speech—learn ‘em, love ‘em—are as follows:
mazian: good
maashi: a negation, not
bazef: a lot
schwiya: a little
wakha: okay
yk: right?
While I am berserko-excited about all things France, I’m going to miss Rabat! I love mornings here, greeting people in my neighborhood, dressed business cas’ like I have a purpose, hustling to the bus stop. This morning while I ran get-ready-for-France errands the sky was a clear bright blue. I strode down the city’s main street, near the post office, the train station, Parliament, and no one bothered me. I stopped at every other newsstand to read the headlines, ducked into shops.
I’ve come to love Rabat so much I feel I will tumble backwards screaming, Mary Catherine Gallagher-style. I also feel this way with eagerness to arrive in Lille.
I’ve had MC Gallagher in my head since going to a Moroccan music-meets-jazz concert last night. A guitarist looked just like Molly Shannon, and I kept secretly wishing she would shove her hands into her armpits or fall off the stage. I told the aforementioned French boy, Alex, about this and I’m not sure if he got it. At intermission we stood outside and watched some teenage boys push a car into another car. So, naturally, at the end of the concert I asked, “What do you want to do now? Go push cars with those kids?” He smiled and said, “I am not sure.” I am positive that this is the best way to woo a French boy---telling him things that do not make sense in any language. Marvel at my powerful boy-getting skillz. He may be indifferent toward me, though I am throwing back-flips and retarded somersaults.
[I wrote this yesterday and am thinking about taking back a few things already. For example, contrary to what I wrote there are things I really do not like about Rabat (street harrassment bazef, and not much night life). France tomorrow! France tomorrow! 8 am train to Casablanca, flights to Madrid and then Paris, Métro to Gare du nord, train to Valenciennes, arriving around 9 pm]
My soundtrack for the morning was Joanna Newsom’s “Peach, Plum, Pear” over and over interspersed with Jay-Z songs. Mazian! That song makes me feel funny. The first time I heard it, yesterday morning, it made me crawl under my kitchen table. [That’s not weird, right?]
The Moroccan Arabic words I’ve incorporated into my speech—learn ‘em, love ‘em—are as follows:
mazian: good
maashi: a negation, not
bazef: a lot
schwiya: a little
wakha: okay
yk: right?
While I am berserko-excited about all things France, I’m going to miss Rabat! I love mornings here, greeting people in my neighborhood, dressed business cas’ like I have a purpose, hustling to the bus stop. This morning while I ran get-ready-for-France errands the sky was a clear bright blue. I strode down the city’s main street, near the post office, the train station, Parliament, and no one bothered me. I stopped at every other newsstand to read the headlines, ducked into shops.
I’ve come to love Rabat so much I feel I will tumble backwards screaming, Mary Catherine Gallagher-style. I also feel this way with eagerness to arrive in Lille.
I’ve had MC Gallagher in my head since going to a Moroccan music-meets-jazz concert last night. A guitarist looked just like Molly Shannon, and I kept secretly wishing she would shove her hands into her armpits or fall off the stage. I told the aforementioned French boy, Alex, about this and I’m not sure if he got it. At intermission we stood outside and watched some teenage boys push a car into another car. So, naturally, at the end of the concert I asked, “What do you want to do now? Go push cars with those kids?” He smiled and said, “I am not sure.” I am positive that this is the best way to woo a French boy---telling him things that do not make sense in any language. Marvel at my powerful boy-getting skillz. He may be indifferent toward me, though I am throwing back-flips and retarded somersaults.
