Monday, December 21, 2009

Other Stuff

List of people who are Muslim (according to the kids in my town)
  • Swedish soccer player Zlatan Ibrahimovic (his last name starts with Ibrahim)
  • Brazilian soccer player Kaka (he does not genuflect after scoring)
  • Michael Jackson
  • Madonna (uhm...she's Jewish)
  • Barack Obama (forgivable considering how many people in the US think the same)
Oddly enough, Yousef Islam, who did in fact convert and change his name is still referred to as Cat Stevens.

Speaking of Barack Obama, it's getting a bit ridiculous how often I have to clarify that he is the "president" of the United States and not the "king" of all America.

So last Friday, for the first time in my life, I saw a real, live Moroccan ginger. Sure, this dude's overall case of gingervitis was not nearly as bad as the one that afflicts Noonan, but on the Adjusted African Ginger Scale, this guy was off the charts.

End of the Sheep?

Today, December 21, is the first day since the massive holiday of sheep slaughtering last month (Nov 28th) that our house ate a meal which did not have some piece of the beast as its centerpiece. I realized this day was nearing when I saw the homemade sheep sausage-like substance that had been drying out for weeks in our cous cous yesterday but I did not expect it so soon. It's possible this lunch was just a juke and we will be thrust into another week or so of that aries.

Saturday, December 12, 2009

Things to Read

So the Moroccan idea of coffee (which is drank very regularly) is basically as follows: 90% boiling hot milk, 9.9% sugar, .06% dirt and accidentally spilling a bit of actual coffee (.04% for you blocs out there) into the mixture. I realized how ridiculous the proportions were when I first noticed that the mixture didn't even change color when the coffee was added. That being said, I have now discovered a substance that goes through me like nothing else on this earth. This potion should really be marketed as better tasting laxative.

As of late, I have begun watching the French-language news fairly regularly to try to get a glimpse of what is actually going on in this country. I tried watching the Arabic language one, but there were too many breaks for Quran verses. Well that and I don't speak a word of Standard Arabic. Anyway, every night in the sports segment, right after the roundup on La Liga and Moroccan soccer sorrows, there is a short bit on the NBA. At first it seemed as they were just picking the best game of each night to do a highlight reel, but this idea was shot down as soon as I saw a broadcast of a Nets-Bobcats game. As my French recognition (notice I didn't say conversational) skills have improved, I have realized that often, they're not even talking about the game being showed. Most of the time they're just talking about LeBron. On a related note there is also a channel that likes to broadcast 3 (or 4 at this point) year-old regular season Pac-10 basketball games. I saw Kevin Love play the other day.

Monday, December 7, 2009

Weekend in Kesh

So this weekend a bunch of peeps headed to Marrakesh to enjoy the International film festival which is being held there until the 12th. As I'm sure is sufficiently obvious, there are few things more Peace Corps-like than watching overly artistic western movies in gaudy showrooms surrounded by [gasp] white people. I would seriously be lying if I said that such overexposure to chicks, brew and lighter skin tones did not shock me a bit.

Within a few hours of arriving I was in an eerily clean (and yes this bears mentioning) shuttle bus which was blasting old Akon tunes ( a Moroccan favorite) when something I had yet to experience happened. Some French lady asked the driver to turn it down, and he actually listened. The thought that someone in this country would not want to listen to three year old hip hop on repeat for hours had never occurred to me, and yet here was this lady demanding the culturally sacrilegious, and being obeyed. If the fact that this was a WTF moment for me isn't an indication of what life is like in my town, I simply don't know what is.

Regardless, we get to the theater just in time to catch a Spanish movie in the contest titled "Woman without Piano." Apparently, this film was just a bit too indie for articles. This fact should have raised questions as to the overall quality of what we were about to watch, but nevertheless we sat awaiting our first film festival experience. Anyone who has seen the Simpsons episode where Springfield hosts a similar festival would know almost exactly what this piece of artsy trash was like. First off, there was maybe a total of one page of dialogue in the entire hour and a half. Even then, most of the lines were spoken by an autistic Polish man who repeated himself nearly every time he spoke (again, not a common occurrence). Secondly, a large bulk of the movie consisted of either the main character chain-smoking or prolonged shots of time passing on various clocks. Thirdly, the official summary which referred to the woman's banal wanderings as "fun, dark... and absurd" could not have been any less accurate. Unless of course by fun they meant tiring, by dark they meant it was nighttime and by absurd they meant that it would be completely ridiculous if anyone actually sat through the whole thing. Perhaps the only thing the film delivered was an apt title. The woman did in fact not have a piano.

The following day we watched a 1950s post-war black and white South Korean movie about a "country bumpkin," his gangster brother, and a whole slew of hookers. Obviously, this was a better film. Due to some translation errors, however, the film's title also has some issues with articles. It was listed in different spots as either "A flower from Hell," "Flowers in Hell" or various other permutations of flowers and Hell. Perhaps the movie's best scene featured one of the main gangsters chasing down a triflin' ho through a mud pit and stabbing her to death despite having just been shot in the chest. Classic. Also, one of the dudes was called Dong.

In short, 1950s South Korea makes better movies than present day Spain, films are often improved with the presence of sound, and bitches ain't shit but hos and tricks.

Friday, December 4, 2009

The Aftermath

So after the killing and skinning of the sheep last Saturday, the poor carcass remained dangling in our house up until yesterday. Before then, my mom had merely been chopping off pieces as necessary for the upcoming meal. Every home I've been to in the last week has been like this, an impromptu butcher shop. Our house is of modest size, however, and thus the corpse severely restricted mobility throughout the main hallway/kitchen area. Ironically enough though, it did make the whole place smell like bacon.

List of meals I have eaten in the past week:
- Liver kabobs wrapped in fat
- Cous cous with brains and other head matter
- Right front leg with potatoes and carrots
- Assorted kabobs (including heart and lung)
- Ribs (not BBQ)
- Stomach wrapped in more stomach

Monday, November 30, 2009

L3id LKbir, bitches

So last Saturday my family slaughtered a sheep in the hallway. Other than that it was a pretty normal day. Got some reading and watched a bit of T.V. Nothing out of the ordinary.

I initially felt a bit of pity for the animal, especially being that I was the one who led the thing from where it was being held across the street into our modest house. Since no one in the family was really qualified to slaughter the beast so my brother had to fetch a butcher to perform the task in a Halal manner. It being 3id and all, butchers were in high demand and thus the sheep remained in the hallway next to the dinner table, tied up and awaiting its fate for over two and a half hours. During these 150 minutes of unrestricted bleating, I lost all of my former pity had for the mofo.

As soon as the butcher arrived, trailed by two little boys who wanted to watch yet another one of these, our little dolly was lain on the floor and promptly had its throat slit. As the blood spewed out of its gaping neck and all over some recently washed dishes, the decapitated body continued to spasm uncontrollably for the next few minutes. It was at this point that I remembered the factoid elementary school kids used to love to retell, about how chickens live for X number of minutes after their heads have been cut off.

Dressed in nice clothes to celebrate the occasion, I wondered how difficult it would be to get sheep blood out of my light yellow tie without the aid of dry cleaners. Reasonably difficult I figured. Soon enough I was holding the carcass' left rear leg off to the side while my brother poked a hole in the other one and blew in to inflate the midsection like a really morbid balloon. It almost seemed like it was breathing except all sorts of unanticipated sections were inflating. Apparently, the insides of a sheep are not only well connected but also surprisingly airtight.

Without much delay, the bloodied mass was strung from the ceiling and promptly skinned while my mom cleaned the severed head. When the butcher opened the chest cavity, a whole host of body parts came spilling out. They were quickly removed and cleaned with almost ridiculous apathy. The stomach lining and some excess fat were hung out to dry on the clothesline in between a towel and some socks while intestines were ripped out much in the same manner as a magician pulling on a seemingly endless rope of handkerchiefs. The butcher had other places to be, it seemed, and so he was working at full speed.

Within a hour, the sheep had gone from interrupting my reading to upside down in the hallway with its organs in buckets, its head drained, and its skin in a fatty mass in the corner. Within another hour, I was munching on the thing's liver. Mmbruk L3id!

Wednesday, November 25, 2009

Words

As someone who claims to have officially studied History and Political Science at a reputable University, I tend to shy away from making overly simple generalizations about what are often complicated and diverse groups of people. That being said, every single Moroccan, without exception, likes the following songs: Titanic theme song, Hotel California, and anything by Bryan Adams. The fact that these songs are the representatives of American culture over here raises a few questions. First, considering that both Bryan Adams and Celine Dion are Canadian, do they fail to see the any large difference between the two countries? The answer was pretty easy to come by as one older kid offered the following, "If I could pick any country to live in it would be Canada because it is just as developed as the US without being as violent." I'm sure Smilo has some thoughts on the matter.

A general update on the ping-pong scenario- I no longer suck as much. I actually beat a few kids the other day and only consistently lose to the one or two kids that are really fucking good.

Last Sunday we had a pre-Thanksgiving meal for which I made some pimp ass apple pie. While having it today would be ideal, all PCVs are banned from travelling this week due to the upcoming Muslim holiday of 3id Kbir or Big Feast. This holiday is in commemoration of that time that Abraham was willing to kill his own son but killed a sheep instead after God was all like "Whoa you were, like, really gonna do that!" So how is such a day celebrated? That's right, on Saturday at precisely 10 a.m. every single Muslim family in Morocco will slaughter a sheep (or goat depending on the availability of funds) and proceed to feast on every single part of it for the next few weeks. Details regarding my future meals will follow.

The other day, the director of the place where I "work" pulled me over to explain something to him. He had bought some strange electronic product at the market and wanted to know what it was. Already this was a ridiculous scenario. Despite constantly complaining over lack of funds, he had bought something, something electronic and thus presumably somewhat expensive, without having even the least bit of an understanding as to what it did. As it turns out, he had purchased an old beeper whose functions had been reduced to off, vibrate and display a 5, and alarm tone while displaying a 0. After assuring him that the FCC number and the words "Made in Korea" were not actually English-language instructions on how to use the thing, he shrugged off his mistake and simply threw the beast into a drawer.

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

Photo

So the other day I had to go get my picture taken so as to apply for my “Carte de Sejour” (Moroccan ID) which I must have to legally live here after three months. First off, living somewhere for three months without issue is a truly shocking experience for those of us that used to carry a Colombian passport. Such a document usually bore with it plenty of unnecessary hassle and customs harassment. But alas, no more, bitches.

Anyway, after managing to explain to the photo guy what precisely it was that I wanted (which confused me because I figured ID pictures would be a simple enough concept to explain. I guess he was bewildered as to what need white dude like myself would have for local identification) he led me through a previously hidden passageway into another room curiously larger than the elevator-sized shop in which we had been previously standing. What was produced from the ensuing photo shoot can only be described as the mug shot of a disheveled hipster terrorist who couldn’t be bothered to fix his glasses for a mere portrait. Needless to say, had my mom been present, a retake would have been promptly demanded. She wasn’t, however, and so my uncombed, unshaven visage with halfway tinted glasses was soon rendered into twenty (yes they need that many) tiny pictures.

Not satisfied with his work, the photo dude then went on to create a complimentary souvenir for me, so I could always remember the experience he said. He then proceeded to photoshop the same image (which displays my glasses and mustache angling in different directions) into a pair of backgrounds so brutal only an awkward mid-90s family portrait done at Sears would fit adequately. Nevertheless, I am now the owner of two miserable adjacent self-portraits, one with my gross rendition wreathed by a golden cord and then thrust in outer space, and the other surrounded by a bounty of brightly colored flowers to fully counter the artificially induced paleness my dear photo guy so generously bestowed upon me. Apparently I can always stand to be whiter.


I realize that the only thing this post says is "I got a picture taken, it came out oddly."


Sunday, November 15, 2009

So I'm Like, in Bzou Now

Yea, for reals. Life just got a lot slower and realer. As oppossed to the freezing cold weather up in the mountains of my last site, this place is fucking hot. Like mid-90s. It's November.

While being done with the brutality that was training (10 hours a day of class) is certainly nice, being hours away from friends and such can be a bit discouraging. Also theres the fact that I have to be a legit human now. Whereas before I was merely some trainee whose mistakes could be excused with this fact, now I'm supposed to head a series of activities at a youth center. Did nobody tell these people I am a total joker? Today I spent a couple of hours there getting absolutely manhandled by a group of kids at ping pong.

On the plus side I do have a site mate who has been great in helping me keep my sanity and such. Her place is awesome cause she has hot water...like coming out of the wall in a controlled fashion. It is awesome and I highly suggest you all try it sometime. That and there are crazy nice peeps in this town.

Friday, November 6, 2009

I Really Hope They Did Not Play The Liza Minelli Version

When the Yankees won their latest pennant a stray thought crossed my mind. Could this be the greatest Yankee team of my lifetime? Yes I am a child, but still the idea of any team being better than the 1998 New York Yankees was difficult to grasp. That particular team is shrouded with such distinct excellence that to challenge its prowess was like rehashing the argument as to whether anyone would ever be better than Michael Jordan. How could it be possible?

With their recent victory over the Philadelphia Phuckoffs, these 2009 Yankees have in many ways matched the on-the-field excellence of the aforementioned Torre-led squad. For me, however, the victory is not as sweet. Unable to watch a single playoff game, I felt my favorite team grow distant, leaving me behind on their way to a 27th World Series title. (Speaking of which, the name “World Series” doesn’t feel patronizing until you’re flipping through 230 channels of Egyptian soap operas and Woody the Woodpecker re-runs trying to catch Game 6.) Those of you thinking that I am not now and never was a member of the Yankees and thus could not have been left behind by them can go ahead and choke on a d. I may not have been on the payroll, but I certainly felt some (albeit deluded) connection to the boys in pinstripes. Not being able to watch their continuous tearing of ass felt like Bean or Smilo must feel every time a friend of theirs is doing work. Yea this is good and all, but why not me too?

But back to the original question of which team is better. While I could go into a detailed “analysis” of which team had a better starting 5, deeper bullpen or more consistent defense, that would seem overly reasonable and might lead me to a conclusion I might not want to have. For this reason, I will rely entirely on a general collection of hunches and time-tested intuition.

For one, the 98 team never forced me to defend it from an onslaught of dbags harping on about payrolls, steroids and total lack of class (basically all A-rod). That the nineties team played in the more innocent era of Big Mac and Sammy Sosa where the country was blissfully oblivious of the pervasive presence of steroids is a fact which I will completely ignore. Like I said, this isn’t analysis; it’s more of a gut feeling. Sure I might have been an oblivious twelve year-old during one season and a disenfranchised curmudgeon during the other but the 98 team had a certain aura missing from the updated juggernaut. Torre’s early Yankees seemed to dominate without even trying or taking themselves seriously. They were simply playing a game, very well. While this year’s team also did its fair share of keek vooking and last-minute heroic mystiquing, the matter of dollar signs was never too far. These Yankees had to win in order to justify their payroll, those of old won almost without even realizing it. I also really liked Scott Brosius.

I realize that most of these thoughts would have probably been avoided had I simply seen the damn series but I have never been one to apologize for my blatant bias.

That being said, the 2009 New York Yankees are World Series Champions and that is absolutely fucking awesome. Maybe I can finally stop having to defend A-rod. (He gets paid to hit home runs people, not to be a model father and husband. What he does on his own time, while likely deplorable, is none of our business as long as he keeps smacking the crap out of the ball.) Maybe now when I see a Masshole wearing a shirt that says “Got rings, lately?” I’ll be able to walk up to him and simply say, “yes.” The fact is that, regardless of the relative distance between me and this team, the Yankees are my squad and there is not much that can be done about it. I learned baseball from the 96-2000 teams (and will feel old the minute Derek Jeter retires) but there is still much to love about this next generation of champions. After all, everyone loves a winner

Real Quick

How do you turn a towel into sandpaper? Let your Moroccan mom wash it. I’d never thought I’d say it, but damn do I miss fabric softener.

So Tuesday was my first ever election day as a U.S. citizen and I spent the day living in a foreign country, not voting and bitching about the Electoral College. U-S-A, U-S-A!

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

Thoughts on My Moustache

Yes I titled it that. My moustache fuckin rocks and it is thus more than deserving of a few words. This mustache is the highest pursuit of all hair. All are jealous of its undeniable charm, calculated technique, and pure aesthetic prowess.

Fez

A few weeks ago some of my family (the young kids, my 17 year old sister, mom and me) of modest means took a trip to major nearby city of Fez. We going to spend the weekend at my aunt’s apartment and this, I was told, would be a great opportunity to visit one of Morocco’s oldest cities (over 1000 years old). Immediately upon reaching my aunt’s apartment I understood a great deal about my nuclear family. Without a single full time worker in the house, it had always been a mystery how mother managed to raise four kids after my host father’s death some years back.

This apartment was not like our house in the mountain town, and my 17 sister was fully aware and mercilessly unforgiving of the glaring differences. While in Fez, my sister reminded me, one was no longer in Morocco. I was no longer referred to as Brahim and speaking darija was suddenly below us. French, with all its elegance, was the language of Fez. That night we walked around the city long after dark (rarely ever the case without a distinct purpose in our hometown) and it became evident that in this setting, my mom was no longer the boss. Instead my 15 year old cousin guided us through the many streets dictating the pace and destinations. In such an urban site, my mom was about as lost as I.

The cab ride back was solemn and silent as we all looked out the window at the metropolis we were leaving behind. As we were pulling into town my sister sighed and let out the conciliatory remark, “this place isn’t so bad, at least it’s home.”

Halloween

Last Halloween I was a drunken mess in overalls and a green t-shirt masquerading as Luigi, stumbling about Franklin Street. This year I was entirely sober for the all of October 31st. To any red-blooded, gun-toting, Bruce Springsteen-loving true American, the previous statement was pure blasphemy. How could any adult possibly go an entire Halloween without one puking on some chick in a cow costume? Surely some booze would materialize, I mean this is fucking Halloween were talking about. Surely it did not.

Despite this, Halloween in Morocco kicked a good deal of ass. Our jack-o-lantern sported a pair of rams horns, a pair of 6 foot 4 dudes dressed as Satan and a Grandmother broke it down to Aqua’s hit single “Barbie Girl” (looped twice in succession), and a spontaneous dance party erupted as the same song played for two hours. The last part was made even funnier by the fact that, being a Muslim society, Morocco tends to frown on PDA and general male-female contact. The result was thus two clusters of hardcore dancing, one of all dudes, the other of all chicks. It was the only time I have ever seen a sausage-fest and a taco-platter occurring simultaneously without any awkwardness.

Wednesday, October 28, 2009

Basic Info: Final Site

So Starting November 12th I will be living in a town called Bzou in the Azilal region of Morroco. It is a historically Berber town at the foothills of the Atlas mountains and (supposedly) famous for the production of Jillabas and olive oil. For those of you who are obliged to visit next year, I will be relatively close to the major city of Marrakesh.



Go Yanks.

Tuesday, October 27, 2009

I Don't Get Intertubes Often

So last weekend, a few of us went for a long hike near the city of Safrou. Our intention was to hike for a couple of hours, eat lunch and walk back into town. Best laid plains…So what actually happened was we stumbled on a Berber wedding about an hour and a half into the hike and were invited n for the festivities. The hour that followed can only be described as pure absurdity. Women’s hands were offered, two volunteers were forcibly married to each other (in order to display the parts of the ritual we had missed), and I may or may not have been served by a toothless old man.

Up to now I have forgotten to mention that upon arrival a few weeks ago, immediately after hearing my actual name, my host mom rechristened (well, I guess not technically since they’re Muslim) me Brahim. They don’t get the Tyler Hansbrahim references.

The other day as I was commenting on how my family always watches some soap opera which I thought was titled “Pub” a fellow PCT chimed in “Pub means commercial break.”

I realize that my blog is not the most informative of resources as to what I actually do on a daily basis but instead of actually typing out numbing ennui I will soon simply reference you to the (better) blogs.

Hey G-men, what ever happened to defense?

I Don't Get Intertubes Often

So last weekend, a few of us went for a long hike near the city of Safrou. Our intention was to hike for a couple of hours, eat lunch and walk back into town. Best laid plains…So what actually happened was we stumbled on a Berber wedding about an hour and a half into the hike and were invited n for the festivities. The hour that followed can only be described as pure absurdity. Women’s hands were offered, two volunteers were forcibly married to each other (in order to display the parts of the ritual we had missed), and I may or may not have been served by a toothless old man.

Up to now I have forgotten to mention that upon arrival a few weeks ago, immediately after hearing my actual name, my host mom rechristened (well, I guess not technically since they’re Muslim) me Brahim. They don’t get the Tyler Hansbrahim references.

The other day as I was commenting on how my family always watches some soap opera which I thought was titled “Pub” a fellow PCT chimed in “Pub means commercial break.”

I realize that my blog is not the most informative of resources as to what I actually do on a daily basis but instead of actually typing out numbing ennui I will soon simply reference you to the (better) blogs.

Hey G-men, what ever happened to defense?

Saturday, October 10, 2009

Quick Darija Lesson

It is no secret that I am an immature child. For this reason, learning Darija (or Moroccan Arabic) is posing some difficulties. To illustrate my point I will quickly translate the (run-on) sentence: I woke up from sleeping, went upstairs, ate breakfast and went to school. Here you go: Fqt mea neas u mshit lfuq, klit lftur u mshit l madresa. Oh boy.

I Don't Smell So Good

So after a month of collecting quantitative and qualitative data (shout out to Mrs. Fisher) I have determined that my odor has taken a turn for the worst. Don’t judge me. I challenge anyone to keep up with hygienic obligations if bath water had to be boiled and loads of laundry had to be hand-washed. Thank God for deodorant, as it's mainly Italian showers from here on out.

My Family is Badass

It has recently come to my attention that my host family does not fuck around. Yes, I already knew that my eldest brother was a nonhuman being who runs up mountains in jeans and a winter coat (my sister hiked up in heels) but I was no fully prepared for the all out badassness that ensued the other night.

So some lady shows up at our door with three boys at her side furious at our entire family. Apparently, my ten year old sister had cheated off her son during a quiz, an offense which he punished by punching her. This family does not put up with that sort of garbage so she hit him back and caused an in class ruckus. Later, when she told my older brother about the incident he physically reminded him that not nobody fucks with our family. He should have also told this because she was grossly misinformed as to what response to expect from my mom. What proceeded can only be described as a seven person (mom, 4 kids and 2 cousins) verbal beat down of this poor lady and the three rookies who supposedly accompanied her for support.

After about fifteen minutes of whooping ass, my mom realized that perhaps this was the most appropriate sight for her young kids and had my seventeen year old sister promptly corral Mehdi (6) Fati (10) and me (21.5) into the living room to protect us from the raw brutality occurring in the middle of the street. We were also given a small ball with which to entertain ourselves.

Tuesday, October 6, 2009

Something Random

Our training class has adopted a cat. Its official name is Henry Rowengartner but I often get it wrong.

Last night my entire family watched 45 minutes of WWE. Oddly enough the people who were most into it were my mom and sister who continually cheered on Chris Jericho. The entire time I was wondering whether Mehdi recognized some of the moves from the dozens of times they've been perfomed on him. When I first got here I was in a big Last Ride and Powerbomb mood, but lately I've been all about the Snowplow. No Walls have occured as of yet.

Hakeem Nicks Finally caught a TD pass.

Answering Basic Questions

Since the second week here, I have been living with a host family in a mountain town called imouzer. Ill be here for the entirety of the two months of training, after which i could be sent anywhere. its pretty chill but fucking cold and im told it could easily snow within the month. five other trainees are stationed here as well as a full time volunteer. We hold it down. those of you not fazed by this either live in canada or have forgotten the fact that its fucking october. if you live in canada the bleak meaningless of your life has already numbed you to common insults an thus calling you a jackass would scarcely serve a purpose. still, screw you.

so, about my family. I have two brothers at 6 and 19 and two sisters at 10 and 17. So as to avoid excessive comments on the subject i will simply say that yes, she is quite pretty. There are also two cousins who tend to live with us. i say tend to live with us because their dissapearance is common and not really spoken of. I do not have a host dad but my mom is pretty chill. Since I sleep in the room witht the only tv, every morning at 7:30 Mehdi, the six year old, wakes me up so he can watch some dubbed japanese show about dueling yo yo gangs that wear matching jumpsuits.

the key boards here are french so typng is a pain in the ass. this will hence be my excuse for any spelling mistakes.

Thursday, October 1, 2009

Sports 'n Shi

With regard to sports, being in Morocco is pretty fuckin odd. The two sports I was debatably passable at, running and soccer, are almost exclusively popular here and thus I now suck at them. Barely existent sports such as baseball and football, however, now redisplay my talentless coordination as the calculated dominance of a virtuoso. Those who have seen me play baseball in the US know, with complete certainty, that I am terrible. Moroccans who have seen me play baseball here (I’ll get to this) are amazed by my ability to catch the ball more than half the time. Those who have seen me play football in the US are aware of how worthless I am. People here are in awe of my ten, sometimes even fifteen foot completions.

Soccer and running, however, are completely different animals. My host brother is a 19 yr old beast who runs a 2:30ish marathon for the Moroccan national youth team and some of the dudes we play sports with are on the town’s soccer team. These mofos are tanks. Luckily, the sport we’ve played the most is baseball and their swings are just as bad as mine. Yes, apparently my swing is so pitiful that a group of people who have only seen the game in bits of movies are instantly of equal caliber. Interestingly enough, their first experience with baseball was a lot like my first experience with baseball. By that of course I mean that someone was hit in the face with a bat. By me. Instead of Chris Mercaldi, my backswing’s target this time was the former pop superstar, Usher.

Intro

I title this a return a return to childhood because in many ways, my experiences here continually make me feel six years old. Communication is labored, often bearing immature utterings like “I don’t like,” “school not good” and “I want this.” Being unfamiliar with this city, my mom stresses a 10 o’clock curfew (which hardly matters as I’m usually asleep by then) fearing an unkempt youth will, quite literally, steal my lunch money. Even the normally reliable TV is unable to deliver a semblance of adulthood, mostly barraging me with the pre-adolescent entertainment of Tom and Jerry. Upon returning from language class it is not unusual for me to have the same homework as my six year old brother Mehdi. Yesterday we conquered counting up to 99. It is still too early for three digits. Speaking of digits, girls are completely unattainable, bound by Islamic regulations. Again I am a child, restricted and confused. But then again, I always liked Tom and Jerry.

I've never really done a blog before (at least one that isn't purposely vile) so who knows how this shit will pan out.