She sells sea shells

In the past three weeks – has it really already been three weeks? – I have done a lot of learning. I have learned how to tie a head scarf, how to describe myself in Classical Arabic, several odd and unrelated words in Moroccan Arabic, how to eat with my hands (three fingers, right hand only), the fastest way to get from the house to my classroom, at what time the sunsets and when it rises, that art escapes definition, that prices are never fixed, how to eat a Sharon fruit, that the best macaroons are at the end of my street, that almonds from the Rif Mountains are like nothing I’ve ever tasted, how to make a cup of Moroccan mint tea, that a smile and a nod go a long way, that sometimes it’s ok to be late, that Berber is actually a Roman-like language - written from left to right - that has been practically erased from written memory, why the men on Mohammed V feed the pigeons (to prevent them from swarming the markets), that the most interesting people are those that know how to look, that Moroccan minarets are square, and that cockroaches, when burned in a fire, emit loud pops and sparks just like pine needles do.
In celebration of all this learning, I’ve decided to do a little teaching. The other day, I accompanied my friend Conner to a small, blank classroom on the outskirts of Rabat where he teaches English every day. The class theoretically takes place between 4 and 6pm, but since “being on time” isn’t really a concept in Morocco, most students showed up around 4:45. But the ensuing hour and fifteen minutes was some of the most fun I’ve had in this country. As Conner, who’s been here for four months and counting, knows well, a curriculum is sort of beside the point. You never get the same group of students twice and the range of abilities is huge: some unable to understand either the French or English alphabet and some fairly fluent in both. So teaching becomes tangential. And fun. We played head shoulders knees and toes, we SOLD and BOUGHT the same red marker about 10 times, we learned tongue twisters and spent too long trying to describe a PECK, and we read as many different clocks as I could draw. In the meantime, the students made fun of my Arabic and tried to teach us some Arabic tongue twisters which I’m convinced are just a combination of the hardest sounds known to man and don’t actually mean anything. But as I watched their faces light up with joy each time they remembered or word, or when I made a fool of myself by taking off my shoes and wiggling my TOES around, and when I watched the way the oldest (a man about 25 years old) urged on the youngest (who may have been 9), and when I felt their little kisses on my check when the class was over, I realized that I’m still learning.

In an attempt to combat the outrageous amount of (delicious) food that I’ve been consuming in the past couple of weeks, I’ve started running in the mornings. Rabat is a different city between the hours of 7:00 and 8:30. The streets are practically empty and the soft light that infuses everything as the sun slowly rises makes me feel somehow full and energized. Or maybe it’s the sea air. Or the women that I see, some running, some walking, decked out in baseball caps on top of headscarves and full-length sweat suits under their wind proof pants and jackets. Or maybe it’s the sea gulls that are, for some reason, less obnoxious and more romantic early in the morning. Or the little speckled dogs who trot after me for several meters before deciding that I am far too boring and slow. Or maybe it’s just running. Whatever it is, it feels good.

Things to do in my last 6 days here:
-Go to Casablanca
-Learn how to prepare couscous
-Have tea on the terrace of one of the beautiful houses in the Oudaiyas
-Go surfing (!?)
-Get henna-ed. The kind that I actually want. While I’m sitting still and not trying to walk away.
-Visit Chellah, the dusty old fortress at the edge of Rabat
-Fill up my little journal with contact information and promises of continued communication
-Keep on learning.