whooooOOAAAAaaaoooh, tainted love, whoooooOOAAAaaaooh BAM BAM

ONE NIGHT I was loitering in the kitchen looking at spices and, hey! My white shirt found the saffron! I tried to brush it off, then realized I had saffron on my fingers and was effectively reproducing a Kline painting. What a Moroccan way to go to your end, shirt.

INTERNET ACCESS has reached the Benyoucef family. This means Omaima is always listening to angsty French songs on headphones and singing along very passionately, very off-key. One time I looked over at her and she was swaying in her seat, shaking her index finger to the music. Pretty funny, but I didn't dare laugh; at twelve, Omaima takes herself very seriously.

SLEEPING CONDITIONS I've already touched on - it's impossible to do more than doze unless it's between the hours of midnight and six AM (heat, three TV's, people in the street, music, construction trucks, drills, Ariz the barking dog, the three squawking pet birds, noisy pigeons outside my window). Well, today Hamid told me, clearly expecting excitement, that he's going to get a talking parrot. After a moment of tunnel vision, I wheezed, "You know, those things can live thirty years." Hamid nodded appreciatively. "That would be good." Let's just hope the parrot enters after I exit.

THIS may actually bring the definition of "awkward'" to a whole new level. Jeannie met a friendly Fassi guy (Jamal) on the train five weeks ago, and she figured it was a great opportunity to make a Moroccan friend. They exchanged email addresses. His first few emails were ambiguously flirtatious, but Jeannie figured it was just his pseudo-French manner. Then he invited her to get coffee. I came along like a frowning, beefy-armed matron from a Dickens novel to ensure that things would be decidedly platonic. Then there was another email, which was slightly more romantic, but Jeannie figured if she was clear about her intentions there shouldn't be an issue. When he invited her to coffee again, she told him I was coming, too. 

Jamal enters the ALIF garden, bachelor cousin from Sefrou in tow, both men dressed to the nines. Jeannie hastily invites along our friend Michael. We end up at the nicest cafe in Fes. I know nothing about either of these guys, and due to language barriers group conversation is out of the question. Michael is stuck precariously at the end of the table, and whenever he speaks the two Moroccan men's eyes glaze over. Every topic of conversation bombs. Jeannie freaks out  and, putting her hands on the table, exclaims, "Well! Conversation's not going too well, so I'm going to go to the bathroom!", leaving Michael and I to examine the faux-alligator seat cushions. I order a 25 Dh sandwich (at a sandwich stand it would cost 4) and Jamal and his cousin don't let me pay. We FINALLY leave, after an hour and a half.  Jeannie is mortified.

Incredibly, that night Jamal texted, called four times, AND left a voice mail with Jeannie to tell her he just wants to hear her voice. She has since, with the clearest language possible in polite society, set him straight.

I LEAVE in seven days. Since I am sick AGAIN (though not as bad as last time) I am mostly looking forward to being able to eat with grotesque abandon without serious consequences. And when I say "grotesque" I really mean it. If you live on the Eastern seaboard, lock your pantry and turn off all your lights on August 2nd! After twenty hours of international transit and a month and a half away from pasta (cous cous is good but not the same!), I cannot be held responsible for what I might do.