Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!
This is my second Thanksgiving spent abroad, but my first time really celebrating the holiday outside of the country. (2 years ago, I spent my Thanksgiving in an off-season beach town in Egypt; there was lots of felafel, but no turkey.) This year, I'll be eating my Thanksgiving dinner at my school's residence hall, then heading back to the medina for dessert and drinks with Fulbrighters. I'm excited to spend tonight with all of the new people in my life, especially after all of the hard work that’s gone into preparing the meal.
For most Americans, myself included, Thanksgiving is all about the ritual. It just isn't Thanksgiving without turkey, cranberry, corn casserole, and pumpkin pie. It's been a challenge trying to recreate these dishes in Morocco, where many of the basic ingredients Americans take for granted (brown sugar, sour cream, cranberry sauce) are nowhere to be found. Don't even get me started on American desserts.
But, if any group is able to overcome these hurdles, it's my extended social circle. As many of you may know, a staple of my Thanksgiving is corn casserole, a delicious combination of corn, creamed corn, corn muffin mix, butter, and sour cream. It looks vaguely like vomit before it’s cooked, but, once it comes out of the oven, it’s warm, artery-clogging perfection. Amazingly enough, this dish also happens to be a staple of my roommate Roz’s Thanksgiving. Unfortunately, there is no sour cream, corn muffin mix, or creamed corn to be found in Fes. But wait! Roz’s mother is visiting from the States for Thanksgiving, and threw some corn muffin mix (and cranberry sauce) in her suitcase. One missing ingredient down, two to go.
Roz, a master chef, was confident she could make sour cream by combining yogurt, oil, and salt and letting it sit overnight. I remained skeptical, but, as I tried a spoonful of her concoction this morning, I had to admit that it tasted like the real deal.
Finally, the elusive creamed corn. Roz once again came to the rescue, combining regular corn, tumeric, flour, powdered cream, and sugar to create something that was remarkably similar to creamed corn. With all the ingredients available, we proceeded to make the dish, which came out just as we’d both remembered. And, lest you worry that I’m not getting my fair share of pumpkin pie, we’re lucky enough to be friends with a trained pastry chef who will be attending our dinner and supplying some dessert. In addition to corn casserole, our house is making sweet potatoes, green beans almondine, and sangria to bring to the communal dinner. All in all, it should be a great meal.
While I've always had some qualms about celebrating a holiday that essentially marks the beginning of genocide, I do think that Thanksgiving is an excellent opportunity to reflect on your life: what you're grateful for, what you wish was different, and where you're going in life.
I have a lot to be thankful for this year: I have wonderful, supportive family and friends; I was lucky enough to receive an amazing grant; and I’ve developed a pretty great life here in Morocco. I started a new chapter of my life this year, and, while I haven't always been sure-footed, I think I'm on the right path.
But of course there are some things that I want to change in the following year. I want to make more Moroccan friends, especially women my own age. I know I’d learn a lot from them, and (hopefully) the other way around as well. I want to improve my Darija and work on my Fusha and maybe learn a little French; I’m lucky enough to have quite a bit of language money at my disposal, and I want to get as much out of it as possible. I don’t want to squander this amazing opportunity.
It’s easy to think of my Fulbright grant as an excuse to ignore reality for 14 months, but I have some big decisions to make this year. Do I want to go to law school? Graduate school? In what? Should I work for awhile, or dive right back into school? I’m thankful that I have the time to make these decisions, and hopefully a year from now I’ll be a little closer to figuring it all out.
I hope everyone’s holiday is filled with good food and good company!
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Makainsh mushkil?
Most days, I feel pretty good about my Arabic skills. Basic, everyday things like grocery shopping and taxi rides are makainsh mushkil (no problem). I’ve even gotten to the level where I can sometimes eavesdrop successfully. But the past few days have been a severe blow to my Arabic ego, largely because of a persistent medical condition that I finally sought treatment for after almost a month of self-medicating.
My past few weeks have revolved around a pretty much constant UTI. Wait, wait. Before you freak out on my behalf, let me clarify: This isn't the horribly painful, peeing-blood, kidney infection type of UTI (Al hum du le lah!). The only symptom of my particular variety is that I have to pee pretty much constantly. Which, you know, isn't the end of the world. But it is exhausting and frustrating to constantly battle your body: "No, self, you do NOT have to use the bathroom. We just went 10 minutes ago. Shut up."
My biggest UTI-instigated setback has been travel, or my lack thereof. Since travel in Morocco generally means non-existent bathrooms (buses don’t have them), embarking upon a voyage with a UTI is a cruel misadventure that I've avoided for the most part (with one notable exception that I’ll blog about later, in sha allah). Even the seemingly simplest of excursions (exploring the medina right outside my house) can go south quickly. And so I’ve generally been staying in the house, where there’s a toilet I know and trust, which means that I’ve missed out on some cool adventures with fellow Fulbrighters.
With an Independence Day vacation looming and a trip to Spanish Morocco in the works, I decided that enough was enough. I found a well-recommended doctor in the Ville Nouvelle, Fes’s new city, and gave her a call. Unfortunately, she couldn’t fit me in until the 28th. So I decided to walk-in to another doctor. This is where my problems began.
The doctor was a French woman, with no knowledge of Darija. This made our communication next to impossible, since, while I can understand French pretty well, I can't speak it. At all. I never realized just how much I rely on a combination of basic Darija, even more basic French, smiles, hand gestures, and “makainsh mushkil.” This did not fly with the French doctor. She looked at me like I was crazy when I responded to her questions in Darija (a natural reaction, after 10 weeks of Darija class). After a few botched attempts at communication, she then summoned her male, Moroccan assistant, who spoke to me in Classical Arabic, even after I begged him not to. And so they both spoke to me at the same time, and I understood maybe 20% of what they were saying. Things were not makainsh mushkil.
Despite my general lack of comprehension, I was able to understand that there are no labs attached to doctor’s offices in Morocco. The patient goes to the lab on his or her own, then gets the results later, and brings them back to the original doctor for analysis. I was told to do this by the French doctor.
As I obediently walked to the lab this morning, it dawned on me that I was remarkably close to the original, well-recommended doctor. I guess a little of Morocco has rubbed off on me, because I decided to stop by and plead my case for an emergency appointment. Surprisingly enough, they agreed to squeeze me in today. The doctor was Moroccan, understood my Darija, and, most importantly, didn’t make me feel like a complete idiot. Al ham du le lah!
While I haven’t gotten any lab work back yet, I'm a lot more comfortable with my new doctor, and I feel well enough to take a trip this weekend, in sha allah. If there’s anything I’ve learned from my chronic UTI experience, it’s that your health is NEVER makainsh mushkil. It’s a lesson I’ve learned the hard way, and I’ll think of this experience in the future, since I’ll almost certainly encounter health problems again. After all, I’m in a country where even fairly complex medical care is affordable; I might as well take advantage while I can.
My past few weeks have revolved around a pretty much constant UTI. Wait, wait. Before you freak out on my behalf, let me clarify: This isn't the horribly painful, peeing-blood, kidney infection type of UTI (Al hum du le lah!). The only symptom of my particular variety is that I have to pee pretty much constantly. Which, you know, isn't the end of the world. But it is exhausting and frustrating to constantly battle your body: "No, self, you do NOT have to use the bathroom. We just went 10 minutes ago. Shut up."
My biggest UTI-instigated setback has been travel, or my lack thereof. Since travel in Morocco generally means non-existent bathrooms (buses don’t have them), embarking upon a voyage with a UTI is a cruel misadventure that I've avoided for the most part (with one notable exception that I’ll blog about later, in sha allah). Even the seemingly simplest of excursions (exploring the medina right outside my house) can go south quickly. And so I’ve generally been staying in the house, where there’s a toilet I know and trust, which means that I’ve missed out on some cool adventures with fellow Fulbrighters.
With an Independence Day vacation looming and a trip to Spanish Morocco in the works, I decided that enough was enough. I found a well-recommended doctor in the Ville Nouvelle, Fes’s new city, and gave her a call. Unfortunately, she couldn’t fit me in until the 28th. So I decided to walk-in to another doctor. This is where my problems began.
The doctor was a French woman, with no knowledge of Darija. This made our communication next to impossible, since, while I can understand French pretty well, I can't speak it. At all. I never realized just how much I rely on a combination of basic Darija, even more basic French, smiles, hand gestures, and “makainsh mushkil.” This did not fly with the French doctor. She looked at me like I was crazy when I responded to her questions in Darija (a natural reaction, after 10 weeks of Darija class). After a few botched attempts at communication, she then summoned her male, Moroccan assistant, who spoke to me in Classical Arabic, even after I begged him not to. And so they both spoke to me at the same time, and I understood maybe 20% of what they were saying. Things were not makainsh mushkil.
Despite my general lack of comprehension, I was able to understand that there are no labs attached to doctor’s offices in Morocco. The patient goes to the lab on his or her own, then gets the results later, and brings them back to the original doctor for analysis. I was told to do this by the French doctor.
As I obediently walked to the lab this morning, it dawned on me that I was remarkably close to the original, well-recommended doctor. I guess a little of Morocco has rubbed off on me, because I decided to stop by and plead my case for an emergency appointment. Surprisingly enough, they agreed to squeeze me in today. The doctor was Moroccan, understood my Darija, and, most importantly, didn’t make me feel like a complete idiot. Al ham du le lah!
While I haven’t gotten any lab work back yet, I'm a lot more comfortable with my new doctor, and I feel well enough to take a trip this weekend, in sha allah. If there’s anything I’ve learned from my chronic UTI experience, it’s that your health is NEVER makainsh mushkil. It’s a lesson I’ve learned the hard way, and I’ll think of this experience in the future, since I’ll almost certainly encounter health problems again. After all, I’m in a country where even fairly complex medical care is affordable; I might as well take advantage while I can.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Makeshift Moroccan Election Center
It's 1:15 in the morning. I'm sitting with ten other Fulbrighters in the larger of our two salons, smoking sheesha, and watching election coverage on BBC World. The tally is 34 to McCain, 103 to Obama, and it's going to be a long, long night.
Observing the US Presidential election from abroad has been a truly bizarre experience. In many ways, I feel disconnected from the process. I'm surrounded by a self-selecting group of young people who have chosen to live abroad; we're not exactly a representative sample of Americans, and it's been difficult to gauge how our nation truly feels about the candidates and issues. But living abroad, especially in the predominantly Muslim world, has made me acutely aware of how crucial this election is. The world is watching us. The Moroccans I've spoken to are incredibly inspired by Obama, and would be shocked if he didn't will the election. (Generally, when I speak to cab drivers about the election, they don't know McCain's name, but instead know him only as Obama's opponent.)
I don't know where I'm going with all of this. But I do know that it's a really exciting time to be American, and, however the election turns out, the whole world will know the outcome as soon as America does.
Observing the US Presidential election from abroad has been a truly bizarre experience. In many ways, I feel disconnected from the process. I'm surrounded by a self-selecting group of young people who have chosen to live abroad; we're not exactly a representative sample of Americans, and it's been difficult to gauge how our nation truly feels about the candidates and issues. But living abroad, especially in the predominantly Muslim world, has made me acutely aware of how crucial this election is. The world is watching us. The Moroccans I've spoken to are incredibly inspired by Obama, and would be shocked if he didn't will the election. (Generally, when I speak to cab drivers about the election, they don't know McCain's name, but instead know him only as Obama's opponent.)
I don't know where I'm going with all of this. But I do know that it's a really exciting time to be American, and, however the election turns out, the whole world will know the outcome as soon as America does.
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