Happy July 4th weekend! I have some fireworks of my own with which to celebrate our day of independence: traveler's diarrhea! Sorry, that was too perfect to waste. Yes, it has happened to me, who so cockily proclaimed herself super. It's not a whole lot of fun, but luckily I have avoided the truly wretched ends of the deal that some of my friends have suffered. I'd say just about everyone in the program either has this thing now or has recently recovered. If you were to stroll through the ALIF garden, you'd hear so many frank conversations about bowel movement that you'd think you were in a retirement home. I think the culprit of my illness is delicious pistachio ice cream that made Jeannie, Oumaima, and me sick in varying degrees. Speaking of which, I spent Wednesday night with Jeannie in the hospital; she was there because of a 104 degree fever and severe dehydration. Whoa! A classmate of mine was there for the same thing in a neighboring room. Luckily, that night happened to be a break in my own difficulties, so I was able to fetch water and give company without worrying about myself. Both Jeannie and my classmate were discharged the following morning, and both are doing better. For myself, I'm going through the last stages of the traveler's curse, in which I eat small meals, regret them every once and awhile, take no less than five prescription medicines, and feel overall better every day. I think I will reclaim super status by this weekend.
In the meantime, my homestay family has been absolutely incredible through all of this. On the worst night of my sickness, two of my homestay brothers came up to me individually to say that I should wake them up the second I need anything. I've heard constant reassurance from all the brothers that this happens to everyone foreign and that even Moroccan people get sick when they're kids. Hamid has given me all kinds of advice about what to do, most of which is new to me (I should consume mint tea, chocolate, and olives? Whatever you say -- I love those things) and even the father and grandmother, with whom I can barely communicate, have gone way out of their way to make it clear that they're around if I need anything at all. The father told me that I'm like a daughter to him, and Hamid said that most of their conversations during the week Jeannie and I were sick revolved around what could be done for us. The first time I volunteered to eat a plate of food I received a standing ovation. I am extremely, extremely fortunate.
Interesting experiences abound in spite of illness! At the hospital on Wednesday I had some occasions to attempt to ask nurses and/or doctors for things, and it was, as always, kinda funny. No one spoke English, Arabic was out of the question, and my French hospital vocab is limited, so I talked to a whole lot of people before I managed to be understood. Everyone was very nice about it; there was a lot of laughing and baffled shaking of heads. Fortunately, a very attractive doctor ended up understanding, and besides helping Jeannie out, he even treated my terrible French with good grace. Oh, how little it takes to develop a crush when you can't understand half of what's going on. I also spent some time in the waiting room and saw a passel of women oohing and aahing over a baby boy (who seemed huge for a newborn and healthy to boot, so I'm not sure what the story was) and talking every once and awhile about me. I was loaded down with school books and overnight bags for me and Jeannie, sitting there in my knee-length skirt, short hair, and Birkenstocks. All I could make out was "American" and "student"; in any case, they had my number. Another cool thing was how everyone seemed to know everyone else - every time someone came in the door one group or another exclaimed and went up to kiss their cheeks. It was kind of funny to watch macho, hair-slicked-back men in their twenties prowl into the waiting room, swiping pairs of Aviators from their eyes, only to become extremely considerate and personable once they recognized a friend or relative. Another family, exiting, carried with them a huge silver tray and samovar and several bouquets of flowers, still wrapped in plastic. From their happy faces it seemed someone was coming home.
I'm two weeks into my time here, which seems downright impossible. Time is FLYING.
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