while travelling, one will inevitably meet new and interesting bacteria.
a week ago i arrived in larache intending (this word has lost its strength like a refilled teapot) to stay for a day or so, walked toward the sea and into the cemetery and was appropriated by a woman with a pram and subsequently by her large family.
it was thirty-five days since the death of their grandmother.
these three facts led to my lying in a bed in a strange house drifting in and out of consciousness to the sound of the chanting out of an old lady's soul. it would have been a little more disturbing had the funereal sobriety not been punctuated by screaming toddlers and the hushed giggles of the chanting men when they forgot the words. apart from the stomach complaint my week with this family in their little house on the edge of the cemetery and their shopping trips and endless insistences on my eating and conversations with the young divorced poetess with whom i shared bad spanish was lovely. though i did feel that i had been abducted by aliens. for example, is there really any appropriate answer as to why i have not brought my parents with me? and is there an appropriate justification for not having a pack of squalling sprogs at my age? how about a significant barrier to marrying one of their sons?
well, probably. in any case i have removed myself; i got on a bus this morning 'intending' to visit rabat for a day or so. i am therefore in casablanca. of course i was going to come here anyway, being an addicted romantic as the album calls it, i just missed my stop. blame the busful of chanting football hooligans. some truths are indeed universal.
i have conducted sufficient experiments with the controls of headscarf, company, jelaba and attitude to ascertain that it doesn't matter what i do, strange men will follow me speaking french. i will therefore wear what i want while i ignore them, a decision with which i am quite pleased.
the affordability of this country is such that i find myself attracted to shiny things in shops and culinary experiments. though i didnt go as far as eating the snails from a street stall i did construct an extended metaphor about them which should manifest as a poem shortly. is that the same as consumerism? digestion. at least literature doesnt give you explosive diarrhea at strange family functions.
oh and they killed a sheep. that's three and the novelty's worn off. fortunately i had a cloud of small boys to torment with mimed violence. suffice to say they loved me, what a random aunt i must have made.
a week ago i arrived in larache intending (this word has lost its strength like a refilled teapot) to stay for a day or so, walked toward the sea and into the cemetery and was appropriated by a woman with a pram and subsequently by her large family.
it was thirty-five days since the death of their grandmother.
these three facts led to my lying in a bed in a strange house drifting in and out of consciousness to the sound of the chanting out of an old lady's soul. it would have been a little more disturbing had the funereal sobriety not been punctuated by screaming toddlers and the hushed giggles of the chanting men when they forgot the words. apart from the stomach complaint my week with this family in their little house on the edge of the cemetery and their shopping trips and endless insistences on my eating and conversations with the young divorced poetess with whom i shared bad spanish was lovely. though i did feel that i had been abducted by aliens. for example, is there really any appropriate answer as to why i have not brought my parents with me? and is there an appropriate justification for not having a pack of squalling sprogs at my age? how about a significant barrier to marrying one of their sons?
well, probably. in any case i have removed myself; i got on a bus this morning 'intending' to visit rabat for a day or so. i am therefore in casablanca. of course i was going to come here anyway, being an addicted romantic as the album calls it, i just missed my stop. blame the busful of chanting football hooligans. some truths are indeed universal.
i have conducted sufficient experiments with the controls of headscarf, company, jelaba and attitude to ascertain that it doesn't matter what i do, strange men will follow me speaking french. i will therefore wear what i want while i ignore them, a decision with which i am quite pleased.
the affordability of this country is such that i find myself attracted to shiny things in shops and culinary experiments. though i didnt go as far as eating the snails from a street stall i did construct an extended metaphor about them which should manifest as a poem shortly. is that the same as consumerism? digestion. at least literature doesnt give you explosive diarrhea at strange family functions.
oh and they killed a sheep. that's three and the novelty's worn off. fortunately i had a cloud of small boys to torment with mimed violence. suffice to say they loved me, what a random aunt i must have made.
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