Prelude to Ramadan

The past few days have been spent anticipating and preparing for Ramadan. Houses have been intensely cleaned, lots of cooking has been done, the medina has been especially packed with people buying the immense amounts of food they will need for iftar. Everyone made their final hurrahs at the beach, and Ramadan will soon be upon us. So here is, effectively, what has happened in the final days before the city shuts down.

             If there’s one thing that brings people together, it’s the World Cup. Everyone here is very invested in it. I've asked around, and the consensus seems to be that people believe Brazil will win, but are also silently rooting for their buddy Algeria. As someone who has never really watched any sports team or event religiously, it's very strange to see a country consumed with this soccer tournament. My host father and I still watch the games together. When the US played Germany, my host dad put on a Washington DC hat and chanted "USA" with me. But it's not just my host family. One day, I was walking home, and heard very loud cheering at infrequent intervals coming from restaurants on both sides of the street. Everyone, and I mean everyone, was watching the World Cup. If the restaurant has a TV, it's going to be showing the World Cup. It's ridiculous.

Before Ramadan, a lot of activity happened in the streets. I had a fight outside my room two nights ago. Amidst the completely unnecessary but very frequent honking, I heard some shouting outside my room. There was quite a commotion until the police arrived. They arrested around 3 people and then the night moved on. A lot of the problems with crime in Morocco are solved with civilian intervention (if your wallet is stolen, many will jump in to stop the perpetrator) and I was told that we really wouldn't see the police, so it was very unique that they came. Yesterday however, it was no longer a novelty to see the police. The day before Ramadan began they were everywhere. 

Good old American fast food

Before Ramadan started, I made it a goal to visit as many restaurants as possible as many of them shut down during the fasting period. In doing so, I've now found perhaps the most American restaurant in Morocco, “Faceburger.” The only difference between here and your average burger joint is that we were told we needed to order quickly so the workers could make it down to the mosque in time to pray. However, this was the most American tasting meal I’d had since arriving. A lot of restaurants claim to be American, but they can’t get the fries right. I was very impressed with Faceburger’s quality of fry. The container the fries were in couldn't handle how American the fries were.

Speaking of American things in Morocco, another element of America that has infiltrated Morocco is our music. I have heard maybe 2 cultural songs since arriving here. Restaurants play our music, people blast our music in their cars, our host family talks about our artists. My room is somewhat close to this restaurant (across the street and 3 floors up from it) and I hear people driving in with some American pop song blaring. It’s Adele, Lady Gaga, Miley Cyrus, Macklemore, etc. Our host sister loves “Al Staircase” and even saw her in concert (it took me about 4 repetitions before I understood “Alicia Keys” from that pronunciation). American music has definitely hit the streets of Morocco.

The garden down the street from us

Yesterday morning I took a walk about Rabat with my roommates, Catherine and Elizabeth. We found the classiest Burger King I’d seen in my entire life. I’m not a Burger King kind of person, but the building itself really made me want to eat there. However, I was hanging with two vegetarians so it just wasn’t going to happen. As we continued walking, I was almost hit with a flood of questionable liquid falling from some window four stories up. I’m sorry to admit, I yelled rather loudly and jumped out of the way (before it could hit me, thank goodness. I don't even want to know what it was) A Moroccan guy sitting in his car absolutely lost it and laughed, much louder than what I think was necessary.

Feed the birds, tuppence a bag

One of the more interesting things that I saw was the guy whose job it is to make sure these pigeons in a park by my house have food. While I was waiting on some people for lunch, I sat down and watched him wet down their food and put their water in bowls. It’s someone’s job to feed these pigeons. After I thought that, I couldn’t get the “Feed the Birds” song from Mary Poppins out of my head.

Afterwards, we spent the afternoon at the ocean. While in the water with about 8 members of the group, this random Moroccan dude started motioning towards us and pointing at his surfboard. A couple of the kids freaked out because we have sat through so many lectures about not making eye contact, not saying hello and so on so they swam back. But he seemed well-meaning and we had quite a few boys from the program with us, so I went with the group that decided to swim over. He motioned for me to get on his surfboard, so I did.

I’ve never been on a surfboard before. According to that Wii fit board, my balancing skills are sub-par at best, so I fell off multiple times. But then I eventually stood up on the board, and paddled around a bit on it. Then everyone in the group tried doing the same.

This guy and his friends shook all of our hands afterwards, and I asked him, in Darija, what his name was. His name sounded something like Bee-lah. I was very proud of this successful communication. Then he spoke something rapidly to me and I just nodded and said yes, and him and his buddies started cheering and pumping their fists in the air. We said thank you and good-bye, and as we were swimming away, I was informed that I had just told the man that I was Muslim. I was thinking later that it could’ve been a marriage proposal and I would’ve just gone along with it. So I’m clearly not very good at this language yet.

 

Then, I found the most beautiful part of Morocco, I swear. I walked up all these rocks in bare feet, which absolutely killed, but it was worth it. The view was gorgeous. Ugh. What a beautiful country. 

However, I did go and sit in one of those pools of water before the cliff drop-off into the Atlantic. This huge wave hit the side, rushed over the top towards me, and knocked me backwards. So I got kind of cut up on the rocks. It was still worth it.

So now, today, Ramadan has officially started. I've been up for 5 hours and I've yet to hear a horn, which is absurd considering the incredible amounts of honking in the past week. It's very quiet out today. I've got to say, I'm incredibly excited for dinner tonight. Because fasting is hard and I'm hungry. 

Rabat

Our final plane ride

After 13 hours of travelling and over 20 hours of waiting around in airports, we finally flew into Morocco. Upon arrival, we made the journey from Casablanca to Rabat and stayed in a hotel for the night. They brought us Moroccan Dominos which had cool specialties like cheese pizza with chunks of goat cheese. Welcome to Morocco, I guess. But really, that pizza was fantastic. The goat cheese really pulled the ensemble together.

The next day, after various seminars, we met our host families. My host family lives in Agdal, one of the community segments of Rabat. Their apartment is very spacious and has gorgeous decorating. I have two host sisters, Wiam and Manal, and my host parents are Ali and Saida. I’m also living with two girls from the NSLI-Y program: Catherine and Elizabeth, both from Tennessee. There is a bit of a language barrier around the house. Manal is very good at English and does a lot of the translating for us. Her parents, fluent in both French and Arabic, speak mainly French around the home. Both parents are working on their English and are very cute when they find the word they’re looking for. They’re also eager to help us with our Arabic, which is a nice way to study outside of the classroom.

When we arrived at the house, the family relayed that they hadn't found out until recently that they would have 3 girls rather than 2. Because I was the last one up on the elevator, they asked me to stay in their study room. Most homes in Morocco have extra couches all over that can act as beds. It’s so multiple family  members can come over and have a place to sleep. I love staying in the study, it’s nice take a breather from the interaction all day. They also have an interesting book collection (half French half Arabic) and a neat window that looks right onto an  incredibly active street. I'll admit  that the street noise took some getting used to. I usually proclaim to have a hard time sleeping with noise, but when you have little choice, it just happens. Moroccans drive in a very aggressive manner and I've heard more horns in the past 4 days than I've heard my entire life in Des Moines. Of course, all of this horn blaring happens right outside my window, as well as the blasting of music from car radios. It's just something the citizens here are used to, and I'm trying to get to that point as well. But I'll get to the driving later.

Anyway, as soon as we arrived I noted the language barrier, and tried to find something to do with the sisters. The study had a couple of board games stacked on a shelf, and I thought that’d be a good way to hang out. The only game I saw that was in English was Monopoly. I've only ever tried to play Monopoly once and I’m really not all that familiar with the set-up. I had no idea what I was getting into as Catherine, Elizabeth, and I sat down to play with Wiam and Manal.

We finished 2.5 hours later by just seeing who had the most money. It was Wiam. They were far too polite to tell us that the game was incredibly boring, but I apologized for it multiple times during game play. I asked Manal later, and she said that her uncle had given it to her as a present and that was the first time she’d played the actual game. Normally, they make up the rules and it becomes a lot more interesting and fun. Whoops. Since then we've channeled time into more interesting activities, like the World Cup. Everyone is really into soccer and the World Cup and they're cheering on their neighbor, Algeria. My host family watches the games with German commentators and German subtitles on, and I think it's the funniest thing because no one speaks a lick of German in their family. They just turn them on. I don't get it at all. They're just adorable. Anyway.

Breakfast has quite a bit of bread

The final activity of the day was dinner. Cuisine was not the first thing that came to mind when I justified wanting to go to Morocco. However, in PDO everyone mentioned how excited they were so I went into this first meal with positive expectations. I was not disappointed.

The food our host mom makes is fantastic. The first night we had some kind of greenish soup and green beans with beef, every kind of bread imaginable, fresh fruit, mint tea, orange juice, and pastries. My two housemates are vegetarians, so when my host mom put the green beans and beef dish on the table she told me, “It’s all up to you.” I tried to clarify what some of these dishes are called, but no one really understands the specifics I’m looking for. (“What is this?” “Soup.” “What kind of soup?” “It’s just soup. There is no meat.” “No, no, I’m not the vegetarian, I was just wondering what’s in this.” “I don’t understand, it’s just soup” and so on.)

Every night since then it’s been some kind of new dish that always tastes excellent. Bread is a holy food in Morocco, and every meal here is very bread-intensive. I don't know what half of the rolls are called, but I'm not complaining. I've yet to taste a food I didn't like.

The most surprising thing I've tasted was the cantaloupe. I hate cantaloupe in the States. It’s hard and bitter and has a watery taste. In Morocco, it more follows the consistency of a pear and is much sweeter. I had 5 pieces, and told my host mom that my mother would never believe I had touched a cantaloupe, let alone had 5 pieces. I was also told Coca-Cola was better overseas than in the US. Sadly, this is not the case. I thought I would magically enjoy it, like the cantaloupe situation. It just wasn't meant to be. However, I did discover that I love mint tea.

In Moroccan culture, mint tea is served all the time, everywhere. We have it for breakfast and dinner, and throughout the evenings. Mint tea is everywhere in Morocco. It’s symbolic of welcoming guests and friendship. I didn't expect it would be as popular as it was, and went in with negative conceptions about tea. When I was told I’d be served tea all the time every day, I was going through strategies in my head to make it look like I was drinking it without consuming anything. That would've been a mistake. Mint tea is fantastic. I am determined to learn how to make it before I go.

The streets of the Kasbah

Our Arabic classes began the next day, and started with Arabic 101 reviewing the alphabet and the numbers. Our teacher goes through every letter very carefully with us, as she believes pronunciation is vital in Arabic. It’s funny though, after we go through this very specific pronunciation, she has us sing this song that blunders all of the specifics, but is catchy nonetheless.(https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0xYy3D6zYgY). It easily gets stuck in your head, so be careful.

Roommates at the Chellah gardens

It was very short first day as we cut class short to have a briefing from a man from the Moroccan Consulate who warned against things we’d already been told not to do. After that, a group when down to visit the Chellah gardens and wandered through the Kasbah of the Udayas. The Kasbah has these half white and half blue residences that are quite well known. They’re very different from the tone of the rest of the city, and are quite beautiful in a distinct way. We also went down and touched the other side of the Atlantic Ocean. It was funny to go to a beach and see no one swimming. I was told it had something to do with the fish.

Overlooking the Kesbah into Agdal

The next day we continued with class and went over short vowels and long vowels and listening activities where we write the full form of words we hear. After 4 hours of morning class, we get an hour break for lunch. We went to a small sandwich shop and I ordered completely in French. Yes, this program is supposed to teach Arabic, but I love the idea of having to pick up all these different languages to get by in day to day life here.

After lunch, we have Darija class. In Morocco, everyone understands MSA for religious reasons, business reasons, and communication across regional boundaries. But everyone here actually speaks to each other in Darija. Rather, everyone speaks a strange combination of Darija, Fusa (MSA), and French. Darija class has kids from each level of Arabic classes thrown together, and this teacher gives rapid-fire vocab.

After class, we went on a scavenger hunt around Rabat, called the “Rabat City Challenge.” We started in the Medina, the “old town” of Rabat that has these traditional shops. Our first assignment was to find a Hand of Fatima key chain, which is an Islamic symbolic of protection. As everyone on this program is currently learning Arabic but is not necessarily ready to accurately communicate with locals in that language, the most valuable skill to have is proficiency in French. In our group, we had only one member with any knowledge of French, and it was very minimal. We looked for anyone who had an idea where to find the hand of Fatima, but no one understood the word “keychain” in English, and we didn’t know the French translation.

A sight on the Rabat Challenge

Eventually we ran into some shopkeepers who really wanted to help us, but couldn’t understand a word we were saying. One of them asked “Espanol?” Absolutely relieved that I had finally found some way to communicate, I yelled, perhaps too loudly, “Donde esta la mano de Fatima!?” and he began walking quickly the other direction, signaling us to follow. We trailed him halfway around the Medina until we arrived at a shop with the cook serving out sausages. The Spanish-speaking Moroccan beamed and pointed and said “Fatima!” I was confused, until Fatima waved and said “Fatima!” I realized this guy had taken us all the way around the Medina to find the one person here named “Fatima." We shook our heads and eventually got pointed in the direction of someone who spoke English. He then sent us through the center of the Medina, until we found someone else who spoke English, who helped us find the keychain. Our success was definitely a group effort, thanks to the wonderful English-speaking shop owners in the Medina.

Later that night, I went back to the Medina with some girls from the program with the goal of finding Jellabas (traditional Moroccan hooded dresses) and Balghas (traditional Moroccan slippers). The Medina gets increasingly crowded at night. Swarms of people come to shop, as it is Moroccan tradition to buy only what you need for each day on that day. I’ve seen my host parents go buy food for dinner around 6 o’clock multiple times, come back and cook it, and be ready by 9. This means that around 7:00 in the Medina, it’s very packed.

One entrance to the Medina

Jellaba shopping is much more complicated than I thought. Apparently, if the starting price is less than 200 dirhams, then it isn’t a good Jellaba and the price is meant to trap the tourists. I eventually found a Jellaba that I liked and had Paris, a girl in the program who is fluent in French, argue the price down. It was a very intense bargaining situation. After they wouldn’t take the price down more than 50 dirhams, Paris had me take off the Jellaba and told them we were leaving. They then asked what price she wanted, so she typed the our price in a calculator. They shook their heads so we began to leave. Then, they grabbed her arm and entered a lower number in the calculator. She accepted, and I gave them 2 bills and needed 40 dirhams in change. They only gave me 20. Paris told them they needed to give me the correct change. One shook his head and told her that they agreed on a price 20 dirhams higher than what he had typed in the calculator. She then told him to give me my money back and we would return the Jellaba. The other store clerk slapped another 20 dirhams in my hand and they shooed us out of the store. And that’s the Medina.

Unfortunately on the Balghas side, size 9 is too large for any girl shoe in the Medina, so I’m going to have to order them. Oh well.

Today after class, we met our language partners. The language partner is a recently graduated Moroccan student who will help you say whatever you want to know or will help with your homework. Mine is named Nora and she was incredibly positive and friendly. Which is a polar opposite from how people drive.

Moroccan stop sign

            This is my one major problem with this city. Everyone drives like a crazy person. They tell you that pedestrians don't have the right of way, but what they mean is no one ever truly has the right of way. There are no lanes. Many stoplights are taken as suggestions. You can drive in whatever part of the road you want, and it is more common to park on the sidewalks than in the street. I've ridden in quite a few taxis, and it's very difficult to find a seat belt . Worst of all, everyone honks all the time. They honk when the light doesn't turn green as fast as they want. They honk when someone is driving too slowly. They honk when someone gets into their hypothetical lane. I've never heard so much car noise. I'm also terrified of getting run over. Des Moines gives the ultimate right of way to pedestrians. I've had two lanes of traffic stop to let a person cross the street even when they're not at a crosswalk. Here, you could have the green signal to walk and still not be able to cross the street. A popular way to get around this is to walk in the middle of the street, stand on the lane divider, and wait for the other lane to clear before walking the rest of the way. I've tried it, it's terrifying, I'm going to get hit. I am not a fan of this traffic.

Ramadan is coming up soon, and you can tell how excited everyone is getting. During Ramadan you reunite with your family, share in big celebrations after dark, sleep in late and work less hours. I've decided to fast at least a part of Ramadan (when in Rome…) because this may be my only chance to experience this practice which is someone else's livelong reality. When I told my host mother, she broke into the widest grin. We were told in a lecture that Muslims love Ramadan, or at least the idea of it. They said that people get pretty grumpy in the middle of the fasting, but the practice Ramadan is near and dear to their hearts and essential to their religion. But that's a topic for another day.

So that’s where I’m at in Morocco right now. More things, I’m sure, to come.

By the way, if you’re having a bad day, at least you didn't accidentally ask your host sister if the call to prayer was the sound of a Moroccan fire engine siren. 

Letter from a Belgian Airport

                 After a very rigorous 2 day orientation in DC, we are finally on the way to Morocco via Brussels. In Brussels, we have a 10 hour layover, and everyone is suffering from some serious jet lag. Belgium is 7 hours ahead of Iowa, while Morocco is 6 hours ahead. So we've actually gone over one more time zone than where we’ll end up. Basically, everyone is tired. 

Visit to the Moroccan Embassy

                

                 These orientations that we just got back from lasted 2 days in DC, with continuous session after session. They covered everyday life, health and safety, personal takeaways, and cultural aspects like Islam. It was a lot of information in a very short period of time. The part I found the most engaging was when a member of the State Department and American Councils came and talked about future opportunities in study abroad and careers abroad (www.exchanges.state.gov and www.careers.state.gov if you’re interested).

                

                At the end of the day, we walked around DC for a bit. A small group of went to see the White House and generally just meander around DC.

                 

               At the end of the next day, we were off to the DC airport to head to Brussels. Airports get worse each time, I swear. This time we had 22 kids to get approved and check their baggage, which took a very, very long time.

              

              After all of that happened, we went through a long security line, got on a tram, went over to our gate and did more waiting.

              At this point, I should explain that some kids didn’t technically had seats on the plane. Instead of having a number, they had three asterisks. This was not me, I had seat 31 B. Anyway, as kids with asterisks were called to come pick up their tickets for the plane, I discovered a girl from our program had been given my seat.  So I wondered, once again, if I was going to have an issue getting on my plane. I didn't doubt it, based on my very enjoyable experiences in airports so far. They then called my name to approach the desk and sort this all out.

             

               Two other boys who had asterisks also didn't have seats because they had overbooked the plane. We waited at the front for a half hour while the staff worked on booking a couple a separate flight that ran through Madrid. There were multiple issues and it took quite a while. Once they finished, our chaperone patiently and graciously explained that we all needed to be on the fight as we were a group. She then also explained that they had given my seat away to another student so they needed to place me somewhere. A few moments later, a man at the end of the counter called my name and gave me a different ticket to get on the plane. So, thank heavens, I would at least make it to Belgium.

             

               It turns out the only seat they had for me was in the joint first class/business class section. Which was pretty neat. They’re a lot nicer to you up there. There’s more food and they screw with the temperature of your silverware. Your chair converts into a bed of sorts. I think it was God apologizing for putting me through the O’Hare flight fiasco. The guy next to me was not as cool as Konrad, though. Also, I spent a good portion of the flight sleeping, but not before I could watch “Miracle” to see the Americans win the Olympics in hockey. Such a classic.

              

          Now we’re in the midst of a 10 hour layover in the Brussels Airport. We can’t really leave the airport because we don’t have visas, but we did walk outside a bit. I also got some Belgian chocolates, and intend on eating them all by myself. 

       

  By the way, I love the Belgian bathroom signs.

              Anyways, we’re headed to Morocco tonight. First Casablanca, then Rabat.

              I just have to stay awake until then.

I'm Leaving on a Jet Plane

A journey of a thousand miles begins with at least 3 flight cancellations. Are you really taking a trip via plane if you aren’t delayed at least once? I don’t think so. More on that later.

               

                I had my last supper with my mother and sister at Noodles & Company. Elea informed me that as a good sibling, she would be commandeering my room as soon as I left. She’s actually switching our rooms. At least I don’t have to clean anything.  

                I said goodbye to my mother at 10:00 that morning at the Des Moines International Airport. I was wondering what about this airport qualifies it as “International.” No matter.

               

I got this TSA pre-screened line thing, which sounds all fancy, but all it really means is there is no line and you get to keep your shoes on. They searched my carry-on and found my 10.4 oz bottle of sunscreen. I kicked myself for forgetting to check that in my other bag. Went downstairs, called my mom about what to do, threw the sunscreen away, and went back into the line. After I made it through again, I made for the lounge.

                

                A friend’s dad told me once that “It’s either a good experience or a good story.” What fun is life if you don’t rack up a couple of good stories? There were a lot of good ones today. The first one I had was a bit like a dare: how long can my flight be delayed? It was a fun game that the illusive “dispatch” and I played. Chicago had been undergoing a couple of thunderstorms and so all flights had been grounded until 12:30. This meant the earliest I could get was one hour after I was supposed to be taking off for DC. So I got comfortable in this airport lounge and waited for what seemed like forever.

                

                Then, finally, the plane arrived and we were off. 50 minutes later, I find myself in O’Hare. Or rather, I find myself lost in O’Hare.

               

                The staff had everyone’s carry-on checked because of the size of the plane. I, of course, had no idea where to pick this up so I wandered around for 20 minutes. After finding my carry-on, I discovered my flight had been cancelled, so I went to get a new flight. I stood in the customer service line for a half hour and got my new ticket that departed at 7 for DC.  I found out that I now had 5 hours to burn in this airport rather than 45 minutes.

                

                My mother told me that I needed to find the USO, a lounge for military personnel and their dependents. I asked a staff member, who said all I had to do was make it to terminal 2. Since I was at terminal 1, I didn’t think it would be that difficult. Nope. That journey was the most confusing thing I’d encountered all day. I’ve never been so lost. But then this lovely worker walked me through the airport to find the USO, and an hour after I started walking, I found it.

               

I often under appreciate being a military kid. Sometimes it really sucks. Other times I am so incredibly grateful for it. This was one of those times. After frantically running around this massive airport, I was so thankful for an area where they took your carry-on, offered you a variety of free food, free wifi, and let you watch the World Cup in recliners. I was so relieved. Thank God for the military. As my mother always said “Lose your husband before you lose your military ID." 

     

                So I camped out at USO for 2 hours with some Navy recruits on their way to Basic Training and their commanders. While I was there, one man commented to me, "You are too young to be a Lieutenant Commander, and too happy to be a recruit. Who are you?" And I explained how I was lucky enough to hold the prestigious status of "Dependent."

After charging my phone and eating dinner, I headed back into the crazy world of the airport in a once-again desperate attempt to find my new flight that was to begin boarding at 6:25. It went much better this time. I got to the right terminal and everything.

And then it started raining.

Again. I’m sitting in the lounge one hour before my flight is supposed to leave and the lightning starts coming in and I’m wondering if I’m actually ever going to make it to DC.

Then I meet up with Colette, another student on the program who is also trying to get a flight. We put ourselves on the standby list for the last flight out for DC. If we don’t make this flight, we’re going to have to stay in a hotel for the night. We’re sitting in the airport lounge watching our names slowly get pushed down the list as other people pay to get seats. It’s nerve-wracking and one of the most stressful things I’ve ever done. It is now 9:30, and this plane that was supposed to start boarding at 8:25 finally opens the doors. Standby seats are slowly given away. Based on the ratio of available seats to people ahead of us on the standby list, we didn't think we were going to get on the plane. I already had called my dad and told him I was probably going to be in a hotel for the night. But then, somehow, Colette got a ticket. And then I, finally, got a ticket.

At last, I get on the plane. I sat next to this guy named Konrad, who was fluent in Polish, a former male gymnast, a somewhat health nut, right out of school chiropractor who offered me his bag of plantains. It was probably the most enjoyable flight I'll ever have. I had actually planned on reading my book or studying, but ended up having a two hour conversation with a guy who was on his way to a chiropractic convention. It made having the middle seat on a 2 hour flight at 10:30 not entirely awful.

So finally, I arrived at DC at 12:30 in the morning, found my luggage, waiting in a very long taxi line, and got the hotel by 1. 

Like I said before, it's either a good experience or a good story. 

And this is just the first day.

So I'm Going to Morocco....

I got an email today that threw me for a loop. I'm not going to Oman. There was a visa complication in going to Oman- a special waver was introduced for those of us born in 1996 or before. They're uncertain that they can get us this waver, and we were 11 days away from departing. So instead, they're sending us to Rabat, Morocco.

On the one hand, I'm thrilled that they adapted the program to make us fit and are working to get us into host families. I'm excited I still get to learn Arabic and learn about this foreign culture.

On the other hand, I wasn't ready to give up Oman.

I've spend about the past 3 months learning about the country and meeting all these lovely people, many of whom I'm not going to meet now. I have to exchange those absolutely gorgeous rials and meet a new group of people and change my flights.I have two weeks to prep to be in this country I had no idea I was going to be in and know little about. 

Most importantly, I'm going to have to change the name of this blog.

But I'm starting to see the bright side. Oman had incredibly high temperatures (like 106) while Morocco right now is sitting around a 70. I think their policy on modesty is a little bit looser. Their flag is easier to draw.

I'm going to  hate giving up Oman, but I think I will like Morocco. I've heard nothing but good things, it's just wrapping my head around everything.

I'm going to Morocco. A Summer in Morocco. I'll get there.