B'salaamah, Senoir Qibsh.

Perhaps my most memorable in Morocco thus far (and trust me, gentle readers, there have been many), was my experience during Eid Al-Kabir (Eid Al-Adha). This holiday, which marks Abraham’s sacrifice of his son Isaac to the Lord, is celebrated by Muslims around the world. (As you may recall, the story ended on a happy note when the Lord replaced Isaac with a ram at the last minute, rewarding Abraham for his willingness to make an immense sacrifice for his faith.)

This year, Eid Al-Kabir took place in early December, and so this entry is both cursed and blessed with the gift of time to reflect and ruminate on my experience. While I doubt I can add anything that hasn't been said before, I wanted to share this unique experience with my family and friends that read this blog.

So, the facts. Moroccans celebrate Eid Al-Kabir with the sacrifice of a sheep (qibsh), which is followed by eating nearly all of the animal.

In the weeks leading up to the Eid, subtle changes occur in the medina. Knives, barbeque sets, salt, and cumin, the accoutrements of Eid, are on display on every street corner. Moroccans drag reluctant sheep through the streets to their homes, where the sheep will live until they meet their maker. The sheep often live on the roofs, and so the bleats of sheep that seem to know what awaits them adds to the usual cacophony of roosters and stray cats in heat that make up our daily medina soundtrack.

Here is a photo of my friend Susannah's sheep, who we nicknamed Senoir Qibsh.


Our landlord Mustafa and his mother Fatima invited my roommate Roz and I to their home for the holiday. Not wanting to 1) Offend our wonderful landlords by refusing their invitation, and 2) Miss out on this singular experience, we accepted. We'll only stay for the sacrifice, we told each other. Whatever happens, we will not eat innards.

When we arrived to our landlord's apartment, the sheep was already up on the roof. The families in the building must have staggered themselves, because our group was the only one there. Our small group was composed of Roz, Mustafa, Fatima, a family friend, a butcher, and me. (Similar to Jewish dietary law, the sheep must be butchered in a specific way, and trained butchers are in hot demand during the Eid.)

The butcher and the friend held down the sheep, said B'ismilah (in the name of Allah) and slit it's throat. After the sheep stopped convulsing, the family decapitated the animal, drained the blood into the roof’s drain, and skinned it, the last of which involved poking a hole in the skin and blowing into the hole, effectively loosening the skin from the body. Then they went to work on the innards, cutting everything out and placing them in a large bowl.








Afterwards, we made our way downstairs, where Roz and I drank tea and watched Men in Black while Fatima prepared lunch. This is when Roz and I started to panic and doubt our resolution to avoid eating innards. We knew that brains take a day to prepare, and so they wouldn’t be on the menu. But what other organs would be presented to us? As we watched Fatima bring bread, cumin, salt, and soda out to the table one by one, I felt like we were in some insane parody of “The Tell Tale Heart,” in which every passing minute compounded our fear. It didn’t help that the decapitated carcass sat just feet from us on a spare table, slowly dripping its remaining blood into bucket.

Finally, lunch was served. Roz and I eyed the meat kabobs (neither of us had any idea what type of meat it was), made eye contact, silently weighed our options, and dug in.

The meat was chewy. And smoky. And wrapped in fat. I tried to keep my bread-to-meat ratio high, and followed every bite with a large gulp of soda. Fatima’s eyes were on us as we made our way through the kabobs, and so I tried my best to fight my gag reflex, keep a smile on my face, and not think about what I was eating. Roz did the same.

When we left, we thanked Fatima and Mustafa profusely. And, despite the greasy, charred taste that wouldn’t leave our mouths, we meant it. They opened their home up to us, not because they had to, but because they wanted to share the holiday with us. And I’m truly grateful for their hospitality.

Roz has a motorcycle, and, as we made our way back to our house, the streets were smoky with makeshift barbeque pits, where young men cooked sheep's heads. As we entered the gate of the medina, the streets literally ran red with blood. The slight rain only added to how surreal the experience was; it looked like the apocalypse.

I left the day with a mixed perception of the Eid. In many ways, the holiday has become less about the sacrifice's religious origins and more about the expensive rituals (and associated status). A nice sheep will set a family back more than 100 dollars, and families that can't afford a sheep sacrifice a smaller animal, like a goat or a chicken. Shortly before the Eid, a girl in the hammam asked me for money so that her family could buy an animal. This is not uncommon. And it seems to me that such a spiritual event taking on such a capitalistic dimension is the antithesis of the holiday.

And yet it is difficult to deny the impact of an entire nation (not just Morocco, but the larger Islamic ummah) celebrating the holiday together. It's about more than eating a sheep's brains; it's about faith. Not just individual faith, but collective faith. It's something Americans, raised in a nation of "secularism" and religious plurality, may have a difficult time fathoming. Even though I am not Muslim, there's immense power in the though that the King of Morocco and families in the slums of Fes, and everyone in between, celebrate a moment of faith, of belief, together.

And so the contradictions, and the beauty that lies within them, continue.

PS- I finally found out what sort of meat I consumed several weeks later, when my Arabic teacher asked us about our Eid experiences. "What did you eat?," she asked me. "Bouchra, I don't know." "You don't understand the question?" "No, I have idea what I ate."

After much discussion, she decided that I ate the sheep's pancreas. Bi Sahah. And B'Salaamah, Mr. Qibsh.

In which I went skiing in Morocco.

Perhaps the biggest misconception about life in Morocco is that the weather is perpetually warm. True, spring is balmy, summers are brutally hot, and fall is temperate, but, at least in Fes, from approximately mid-October until mid-March the climate is horribly, horribly cold. The absence of central heating and insulated walls makes the temperature all the more awful. At the moment, I can see my breath in the house. My roommates and I have developed several coping mechanisms for dealing with the weather: We sleep with many, many blankets, constantly wear spandex and long-sleeved shirts under our clothes, and use a Butagaz, essentially a gas tank with a metal grate on top that acts as an archaic space heater.

In Fes, the temperature hovers just above freezing, and so rain, sometimes sleet, pounds down on our house, the sound amplified by the plastic roof that covers our open courtyard. Further up in the mountains, the rain turns into snow, creating the perfect conditions for a Moroccan ski adventure.

That's right. My first ski trip since high school took place in North Africa.

Our ragtag group of skiers gathered at 7:00 am last Saturday morning. 14 in total, we piled into our rented van while the rest of Fes still slept. Most of us dozed on the bus as we climbed further and further up into the mountains. Along the way, we passed through the town of Ifrane. I'd driven through Ifrane a few times before, but it never ceases to make me smile. France developed the town, which is situated about 45 minutes from Fes, as a resort village in the 1920s. The architecture is firmly European, the trees are neatly groomed, and joggers and recreational bikers abound. The drive through Ifrane is like passing through the Swiss Alps for ten minutes, only to be plopped back into Morocco again once you reach town limits.

We reached the Mischliffen resort an hour or so after we left Fes. Several inches of powdery snow were on the ground, and we took the opportunity to throw some snowballs and marvel at the fact that we were several inches deep in snow. In Morocco.


After some scrambling to find "suitable" boots, skis, and poles for all of us (Suitable is a relative term. My skis were a good foot taller than me and appeared to be about 20 years old. I did only pay around 5 dollars for all of my equipment, though.), we hobbled over the basin, where people were skiing, snowboarding, sledding, and generally taking in the scene. There were about 4 trails in total, but when we first arrived none of rope tows were running, and so we skiied around in the basin for awhile until one rope tow started up (50 cents per run).

After a truely meskeenah fall off of the rope tow, I began my first run. I quickly realized that super long, un-curved skis are extremely difficult to control, and so my hopes of parallel turning were replaced by a strong desire not to wipe out completely. I failed at even this modest goal when I took a spectacular wipeout on an icy patch.

The top of the run was pretty beautiful, though.



After a few trips down the open trail, a bunch of us decided to hike over to an unopened trail. This was perhaps my worst idea ever. Hiking in ski boots while knee-deep in snow and carrying skis on your shoulder is extremely difficult. Making our way down the ungroomed trail was even more difficult. Out of fear for our lives, Stephanie and I opted to take off our skis and walk down the mountain/slide down on our butts. The final straw proved to be getting my boots back into my binding at the bottom of the run. In case you're wondering, it took 2 friends 15 minutes to shove my boots back into my skis. Yikes.

We finally made our way back to the lodge, where we enjoyed some hot chocolate before heading to Azrou, a beautiful little town in the mountains, for lunch.


On the way to Azrou, we stopped briefly at a cedar forest which is famous for its Barbary apes. Apes were chilling in the road, climbing in the trees, and aggressively begging for food. As Stephanie posed for a photo, one of the apes attacked her leg. Barbary apes do not mess around.


After lunch, we made our way to our driver's family's house for tea. The house is located in a Berber village, and the landscape was incredibly beautiful. More importantly, I got to play with the family dogs a little bit.


We boarded the van once more to make our way back to Fes. 12 hours after we departed, we arrived to our city once again, and once again the city was dark. While my shins ached for the next few days and my socks took nearly a week to dry, I can now proudly say that I went skiing in Morocco, and lived to tell the tale.

Najib: Muul a-Taxi/Guardian Angel

As I write this entry, I'm sitting in the international terminal of JFK, awaiting a flight back to Casablanca. As many of you probably know, I returned to the United States for the holidays; it was a wonderful break filled with friends, family, and all the American culture (read: beer, pizza, and Chinese food) I could soak up. But I'm not going to tell you about how much fun my vacation was. Instead, I'm going to tell you a story that should restore your faith in humanity.

Let's start at the beginning.

Fellow Fulbrighter Susannah and I booked the same flight from Casablanca to New York. The flight departed at 11:30 am, which meant it would be difficult/impossible to leave from Fes in the morning and make our flight on time, since Fes is a good 4 to 5 hours from Casa. So Susannah and I decided to spend the night with friends in Rabat, only an hour away from the airport, and to get an early start in the morning.

After a fun girl's night filled with junk food and a terrible movie ("The Women"- don't see it),
we rolled out of bed at 5:35 am, and left the house with our 120 some-odd pounds of luggage at 6:10, hoping to catch a cab to the train station for the 7:00 am train from Rabat to Casa.

When we exited the apartment, It was pitch-black and freezing cold. As we trudged along the sidewalk that runs next to the beach, it became glaringly obvious that no taxis were passing our way. After about a mile and a half of walking, I was close to crying tears of frustration, and my arm muscles were shaking from dragging so much stuff. Why do I always overpack?!?

Just as we were about to admit defeat and resign ourselves to the 7:40 train (which wouldn't be a total disaster, just a little more stressful), an unmistakable blue taxi emerged out of the fog like a beacon of hope and miraculously stopped mere feet from us to let of its sole passenger and pick us up.

With a taxi secured, we made our way to the train station, chatting with our driver in Arabic along the way. I noted with happy surprise that our muul a-taxi (taxi driver) had turned on the meter. Generally, taxi drivers in Rabat don't object to using the meter, but when passengers have many heavy bags it's customary for the driver to charge a higher fee. When we arrived to the station, our driver only asked for the metered fee. Pleasantly surprised, we insisted that he take a tip, and we made our way down to the platform.

We'd arrived at 6:45 am, in time for an earlier train to Casa at that time, and so we loaded our luggage onto the train, content with ourselves for making it so far, so good.

But, holy crap.

As we transferred our bags from the platform to the train, I did a mental check of our many possessions, and realized that Susannah wasn't carrying her small purse, which contained her only true possession of importance- her passport.

Trying to keep calm, I asked,"Susannah, where's your purse?"

Her face crumpled. I could see her entering panic mode (rightfully so). We needed a plan- Did she remember having it in the taxi? Yes. Okay, great. At least she didn't drop it somewhere along the sketchy beach sidewalk. But what to do now?

I waited on the platform with all our bags while she ran upstairs to scope out the situation. Nervously chatting with the station's employees, I ran through possible scenarios in my head. None of them were good. If she didn't have her passport, there was no way she could make our flight. Period.

But then!

I saw Susannah coming down the escalator, purse in hand, just in time for the 7:00 train.

You see, Najib, our taxi driver, noticed the purse immediately after we exited the taxi. He was planning on taking it to the police station, but when he looked in the bag, he saw the passport and airline tickets and realized where we were headed. He decided to return to the station, where he was able to give Susannah her purse back. Najib was truly our guardian angel that morning, and I will think of his kindness every time I'm on the verge of cursing Moroccan men.

And so we triumphantly boarded the train and made our way to Casablanca, where we caught our flight to the United States to experience what can only be described as reverse culture shock. And now, three weeks later, I'm prepared to go through it all again. While my jaunt to the United States was fun, I'm ready to dive back into my studies and experience the emotional roller coaster that is life in Fes again.

eid a-shukr

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!

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.

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.

Where do I fit in?

I’ll be honest: I think of myself as superior to the throngs of tourists that constantly crowd the Fes medina. I have a house, a lease, a landlord. I grocery shop. I study Arabic. My decision to live here was well-planned, a product of months of research and writing. My experience (I tell myself) is completely different from those of tourists who come here for a week on a package tour.

The reality of the situation is more complicated.

Because, as I may or may not have made clear before, absolutely nothing is simple in Morocco, and the tourism industry is no exception. And one of the most interesting (and convoluted) facets of tourism in Morocco is the riad phenomenon. In fact, my roommate Roz’s Fulbright project will look at the impact of riad restoration on medina culture.

Riads are restored medina houses, and they are everywhere. It seems that every other Moroccan I meet is converting his house into a one. Restored riads are either rented out as upscale guesthouses or bought by Westerners as a first or second (or third, or fourth) home. The restoration process usually involves replacing or repairing the house’s internal doors and zillij (tile). Many medina houses are stripped of their original decorations, since selling these doors, tile, fountains, etc., is an easy way for families to make some money. Western-style bathrooms and kitchens are usually added to the houses as well. All of these factors combined have created a huge demand for artisans such as tilemakers, blacksmiths, and carpenters (these professions were on the wane before the riad resurgence), as well as for plumbers, electricians, Moroccan contractors, etc., etc. It’s undeniable that housing restoration has created an influx of industry in the medina, and has revived a lot of artisan work as well.

But the long-term effects are less clear. In my mind, the medina will soon reach a saturation point; there are only so many houses, and there are only so many tourists and ex-pats to fill these houses. In addition, what impact does this influx of Westerners have on the medina? Is this centuries-old medina structurally able to handle a rapid increase in Western toilets and showers? And, more complicated still, will Westerners still be drawn to the medina when many of the original Moroccans have left? What’s the point of buying or renting a house in Morocco if you’re not surrounded by Moroccans?

Maybe I’m giving tourists too much credit; the rapidly changing medina may not affect tourism at all. Because riads-as-guesthouses, for all their restored Moroccan glory, are essentially safe havens for Western tourists in the midst of the overwhelming medina. You feel like you’re getting an “authentic” Moroccan experience while experiencing as little of Morocco as possible. It’s hard for me not to condemn riads as a mild form of Orientalism; people see what they want to see of a country without truly opening their eyes to the amazing, complex world around them, filled with flaws but also with incredible beauty. In this way, it seems like riads will continue to thrive well into the future, since their guests (by and large) aren’t seeking out a particular character of the medina but instead are looking for an experience that can be created with or without the actual medina intact.

Westerns who make their home in the medina are also creating an interesting dynamic here. A Fulbrighter from last year (a graduate student in film) bought a house in the medina; she plans to turn it into a film school for Moroccans. She’s developed a symbiotic relationship with the medina, and it’s a really cool thing to see. But I also witness some less than positive attitudes from ex-pats; one homeowner memorably responded, after I asked him if he planned to stay in Morocco indefinitely, “Of course not. But it will be so great to tell my grandchildren that my first house was in Morocco.” I was blown away by the selfishness of this statement, and I think about it a lot as I examine my own place in the Fes medina and in Morocco.

As much as I like to pat myself on the back for avoiding some of the common tourist/ex-pat pitfalls, I’m definitely not above criticism. As a clearly non-Moroccan woman, it’s nice to sometimes go places where I don’t feel like I’m constantly on display, and I find myself frequenting cafes and restaurants geared towards Westerners. I'm renting a house that belonged to a Moroccan family just a few years ago. And, of course, I travel, fueling the tourism industry that I'm so quick to criticize. It’s easy to get bogged down with guilt about my role in the larger changes in the medina.

But I’ve come to realize in the past six weeks that massive amounts of guilt does absolutely nothing- It’s crippling, not constructive. I’m only one person, and I can only take responsibility for so much. I’m reading a really wonderful novel right now: The Map of Love, by Ahdaf Soueif. The story revolves around a British woman’s journey to Egypt in the early 20th century. She reflects in her journal that, “It must be so hard to come to a country so different, a people so different, to take control and insist that everything be done your way. To believe that everything can only be done your way.” (70) I try really hard not to embody this idea, and I find myself succeeding, shuyyah bi shuyyah (little by little). While Marjane and Asima, Moroccan superstores, once held a comforting allure, I now look forward to grocery shopping in the medina, and only head to Asima for the few things I can’t find in the street markets (peanut butter, sliced turkey, skim milk).

I’ll never be Moroccan, and, if I aspired to be, I'd be losing aspects of my identity that I'm proud of, that I've worked hard for. My job isn't to become Moroccan anyway, it's to explore, learn, and represent the United States as best as I can. And, most importantly, I don't want to be selfish with my experience. My roommate, the one who's studying riads, has been tossing around the idea of writing something about sustainable tourism and pitching it to guidebooks. I'd like to do something like that; it seems so silly to have this amazing opportunity and keep it all to myself. But I have no idea what form I want my final product to take. Oh, well. I have plenty of time to figure it out.