Prose and Politics

npr: nprfreshair: Patricia Volk tells Terry Gross about how...

Wed, 08 May 2013 13:38:11 -0400

nprfreshair:

Patricia Volk tells Terry Gross about how Elsa Schiaparelli changed women’s underwear:

Women’s underwear before World War II was kind of elaborate. It was usually made of silk and it had pleats and it had to be ironed. This was in France. There was no such thing as ‘drip dry’ and when the war started, most of the men went to the front and the women had to take jobs. There was gas rationing and so everybody had bicycles and you had to be licensed to ride a bike in Paris and in one year bike licenses tripled: it went up to 11 million. The way women dressed with these long skirts and this very elaborate underwear didn’t lend itself to riding a bike so Schiap changed panties completely. First of all, there was famine, so she got rid of the buttons and put elastic in the waist so that as you were losing weight, your panties would stay on. Then, she made them out of drip-dry material, so you didn’t need a maid to iron them … and she added a double-slung crotch and suddenly women could ride their bikes with a lot more freedom.

Image via Vintage Everyday

So much good information here, I had to share. — tanya b.

"When I say, ‘I love you,’ it’s not because I want you or because I can’t have you. It has nothing to..."

Sat, 04 May 2013 16:35:23 -0400

“When I say, ‘I love you,’ it’s not because I want you or because I can’t have you. It has nothing to do with me. I love what you are, what you do, how you try. I’ve seen your kindness and your strength. I’ve seen the best and the worst of you. And I understand with perfect clarity exactly what you are. You’re a heck of a person.”

- Joss Whedon (via urban-dynamics)

"The year before that an honor student named Jordan Miles who is also an accomplished violinist who..."

Fri, 03 May 2013 21:16:05 -0400

“The year before that an honor student named Jordan Miles who is also an accomplished violinist who performed for First Lady Michele Obama was beaten down by police in Pittsburgh who thought he might have drugs on him. Miles was beaten so bad, his dread locks were pulled out..The cops in question were all honored and given promotions by the police chief Nate Harper who has since been charged with bribery and is looking at jail time.”

- The Case Around Fla, Teen Kiera Wilmot is Part of a Bigger, More Disturbing Pattern | Davey D’s Hip Hop Corner (via robot-heart-politics)

"Well, let it pass, he thought; April is over, April is over. There are all kinds of love in the..."

Wed, 01 May 2013 09:46:16 -0400

““Well, let it pass, he thought; April is over, April is over. There are all kinds of love in the world, but never the same love twice.””

- F. Scott Fitzgerald, ‘The Sensible Thing’ (via bowlingstoned)

What the World Eats - A Week's Worth of Groceries

Tue, 30 Apr 2013 15:29:45 -0400

What the World Eats - A Week's Worth of Groceries:

What families from around the world consume in groceries in a week.

What the world eats — a week’s worth of groceries -...

Tue, 30 Apr 2013 15:22:24 -0400

What the world eats — a week’s worth of groceries - Imgur

April 28, 2013: Living Like a Moroccan

Sun, 28 Apr 2013 10:49:00 -0400

Two weeks ago I packed up my bags and said goodbye to my host family and moved out… and into an apartment only a few blocks away with five of my best friends in my program. All SIT programs end with a month of working on an independent study, and during the independent study time - deemed, “ISP time” - SIT recommends that students do not live in the comfort of their homestays, but that they spend their independent studies living on their own. Several of my friends and I decided to stay in Rabat to work on our research, and with the help of a Moroccan friend, we found a beautiful flat in the old medina that we decided to rent. Our flat is on the first floor of a medina house that has been renovated into a separate apartment with traditional Andalusian carvings and tiles on the ceiling and the walls. It is complete with a wide-open courtyard that stretches, roofless, to the sky. We have two bedrooms (ringed with traditional Moroccan wall-couches that act as beds), a bathroom with a real shower and hot water, and a kitchen that has a stove, a huge sink, a refrigerator, and beautiful stained-glass windows that let in the sun and the sounds of children playing “football” on our street. Our upstairs neighbors can be heard when they do laundry or watch late-night Moroccan television, but otherwise the space is incredibly private and cozy.

So far, my ISP time has consisted of a lot of cooking and watching movies, with some interviews and writing in between. Every morning we wake up early and make ourselves breakfast. After a few solid hours of working on our research, we make lunch and then settle back down for interviews and more research and writing. Our evenings have been filled with making elaborate meals from scratch, eating them while sitting on the floor of our kitchen (we only have two chairs and six people), and then watching various feel-good movies until we fall asleep on our claimed couches. Cooking has been one of the best parts of living on my own, in Morocco. But food shopping in the souk is by far the best part - other than living with five really great friends, that is.

Bokroune, the street that houses the major vegetable souk for the Rabat medina, is an extremely short walk from our house. We go there to buy fresh vegetables and ingredients for our meals almost every day. A bulging bag filled with carrots, onions, potatoes, tomatoes, cabbage, green and red peppers, and avocados is less than half the price that volume of vegetables would be at any supermarket in the U.S., and it is fresher and much more satisfying of a purchase. Pushing past dozens of other shoppers - medina moms in their jellabas with babies secured to their back, old men on bicycles, and young teenagers sent to pick up tomatoes for the tagine - we approach the vendor with the best looking produce, pile on as much as will fit into a plastic tub that the vendor owner then weighs on a scale, tossing on a few more veggies to make it even, and hands back to us for a mere 20 Dirham. On the same street, we can pick up ricotta-type cheese that we refer to as “medina cheese” that tastes as though it came out of a goat about ten minutes before we bought it, fresh rounds of whole-wheat khubs, or thick handmade bread, and even chicken or fish. Today, Julia and I went to Bokroune to do our weekly Sunday grocery shopping, and we stopped to get some chicken. After indicating that we wanted a chicken that was already dead and relieved of its feathers, instead of the live white hens chirping in a cage around his feet, the vendor owner hacked a whole chicken into several pieces with a cleaver, removed the throat and other grotesque inside parts, and wrapped the meat in a plastic bag. After he handed a few soggy and stained bills back to us with a hand covered in chicken blood, the man said, “B’sahaa,” - “to your health” - and we went on our way. Before heading back to our house, we grabbed some tissues and toilet paper, which were the same price as our bulging bag of vegetables.

Our incredibly fresh and cheap ingredients have led to a lot of experimental cooking and intricate meals: Chocolate chip banana or banana ricotta pancakes with homemade peach and honey syrup, baguette french toast with homemade strawberry syrup, egg scramble with peppers and onions and cumin, chili with squash and lentils and chick peas and parsnip and carrots, spinach goat cheese and strawberry salad, hamburgers with caramelized onions and sauteed spinach on a sweet sesame bun, cole slaw, watermelon and mint salad, sweet and sour meatballs with cabbage, stir fry with lemon chicken, macaroni and cheese, and skillet chocolate chip cookies - all made from scratch. Alhamdulillah!

With only two weeks left in Morocco, I am beginning to look forward to returning back to the conveniences of the States. However, several things I am already sad about leaving are the accessible and fresh vegetables and fruits and foods that I get to choose from every day while living in the old medina. And, of course, I will miss cooking and eating on the kitchen floor with my five great roommates.

The Official White House Tumblr: The White House, Tumbling Things

Fri, 26 Apr 2013 14:06:10 -0400

The Official White House Tumblr: The White House, Tumbling Things:

whitehouse:

We see some great things here at the White House every day, and sharing that stuff with you is one of the best parts of our jobs. That’s why we’re launching a Tumblr. We’ll post things like the best quotes from President Obama, or video of young scientists visiting the White House for the science…

Amazon Announces the Most Well-Read Cities in the USA

Thu, 25 Apr 2013 13:48:04 -0400

Amazon Announces the Most Well-Read Cities in the USA:

emilykolb:

Alexandria, Va.

Knoxville, Tenn.

Miami, Fla.

Cambridge, Mass.

Orlando, Fla.

Ann Arbor, Mich.

Berkeley, Calif.

Cincinnati, Ohio

Columbia, S.C.

Pittsburgh, Penn.

St. Louis, Mo.

Salt Lake City, Utah

Seattle, Wash.

Vancouver, Wash.

Gainesville, Fla.

Atlanta, Ga.

Dayton, Ohio

Richmond, Va.

Clearwater, Fla.

Tallahassee, Fla.

That’s right, suck it uppity cities!

Love is equal. Hooray for France!

Wed, 24 Apr 2013 12:39:55 -0400

Love is equal. Hooray for France!

latimes: Preserving ancient teachings in Timbuktu Boubacar...

Tue, 23 Apr 2013 15:21:32 -0400

A handout picture, dated 1997 and released on July 1, 2012 by the UN, shows ancient manuscripts displayed at the library in the city of Timbuktu.

A man recovers burnt ancient manuscripts at the Ahmed Baba Centre for Documentation and Research in Timbuktu on January 29, 2013.

Men recover burnt ancient manuscripts at the Ahmed Baba Centre for Documentation and Research in Timbuktu on January 29, 2013.

latimes:

Preserving ancient teachings in Timbuktu

Boubacar Sadeck, the youngest of Timbuktu’s scribes at 38, is a master of an ancient art - one that ties him closely to the historical writings that he spends his days transcribing and preserving.

“My weakness, my love, is calligraphy,” said the scribe, who fled Timbuktu, famed for its collection of centuries-old manuscripts, when Islamist militias invaded last year. “If I go a day without writing, I feel as if something is missing or strange. When I sit down with my paper and my pen, I feel wonderful. I feel at ease.”

Many of Timbuktu’s ancient scripts are now refugees separated from their former home in Ahmed Baba Institute after Islamist militias invaded. The rest have been either lost or destroyed in the chaos caused by the successful fight to drive the militias out of the city. Now, the future of these artifacts from the past is up in the air.

Read more in reporter Robyn Dixon’s story here

Photos: Evan Schneide / UN, Eric Feferberg / AFP/Getty Images

Is it wrong to care more about 4 deaths in Boston than 80 in Syria? | War of Ideas

Mon, 22 Apr 2013 15:17:00 -0400

Is it wrong to care more about 4 deaths in Boston than 80 in Syria? | War of Ideas:

“The New York Times has the Syria story on page A4 today and the Wall Street Journal has an update on the rescue effort in Sichuan on A12, but its fair to say that a week after the Boston bombing, it’s pretty clear which story is getting priority. While nobody is downplaying what happened in Boston or the deaths of the three people at the Marathon and the MIT security guard killed on Thursday night, should the event make Americans reflect a little bit more on the tragedies around the world that we shrug off on a near daily basis?”

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Mon, 22 Apr 2013 10:27:00 -0400

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Mon, 22 Apr 2013 10:26:00 -0400

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Mon, 22 Apr 2013 10:22:33 -0400

April 21, 2013: Mayhem in Morocco: Research and Independent Study

Mon, 22 Apr 2013 07:32:00 -0400

Completing primary research and writing a thirty-page paper for an independent study would be difficult in any location. However, Morocco’s disorganization presents an extra challenge that I did not expect. Our classes ended on April 5th, and on April 14th we moved out of our homestays and I moved into a flat in the old Medina with five of my closest friends in the program. Our last three weeks in Morocco will be devoted to our independent studies. The goal of my independent study is to observe the social attitudes and norms that affect the sexual health of Moroccan women, which is below average compared to other middle-income countries, and to find the origins of these attitudes

My strategy to meet with all of my interviewees and contacts in the first week of ISP time did not go as planned. The first major difficulty was that Moroccans do not use e-mail in the same context as Americans. My academic advisor urged me to either call my contacts directly or to just show up at their offices and ask to meet with them. A product of my generation, the ease of connecting through email has caused me to get extremely anxious when calling someone I do not know on the phone. The added fear of whether or not the person on the other end will speak English only exacerbates my anxiety. In addition, formal addresses might exist in Morocco, but they certainly are not used widely. Google Maps and GPS are rendered useless, and I have been left with nothing but the directions of people who offer to help, the will of taxi drivers, and my own intuition. However, despite these setbacks, I have still been able to meet with several incredible people, including a board member of OPALS, an NGO that works with HIV/AIDS patients and prevention, the director of Rabita Mohammadia, the League of Islamic Scholars in Morocco, and a representative of the Moroccan National Council for Human Rights.

The kindness of Moroccans has proved to be the single most useful tool when trying to find a particular address, and it will never cease to amaze me. Upon walking into a random government building with the hope of being pointed in the right direction of the National Council of Human Rights, last week, I was greeted warmly and passed from security guard to secretary to manager, all of which who were eager to help me. The director of the office (I’m still not entirely sure where I was at that point) was an incredibly friendly woman who sat me down, brought me water, and proceeded to call the National Council to let them know I was coming. She then walked me to the correct building, gave me her phone number - which I am to call if I ever need anything - and kissed me hard on both cheeks before saying goodbye.

On Thursday, a very committed taxi driver got me to the right address, the OPALS office, in the most inconspicuous part of Rabat possible and even waited outside until he made sure I was safely inside. Once there, I interviewed Boutaina, a women who works for the organization. Despite her limited knowledge of English, we discussed my project in a mixture of English, French, and Arabic and had a very informative conversation. Listening to my recording of the conversation, later on, I could not help but laugh at the casualness of the atmosphere. The buzz of a lawnmower outside of the window, which was left open despite the noise, and the chatter and interjections of the other members of the office make my interview sound as though I held it in a public park or a crowded cafe instead of in a private office. At one point in the middle of the interview, two other ladies working in the office brought over tea and proceeded to stand over us with anxious smiles on their faces. “They want to learn to speak English, but we don’t have time for that now,” Boutaina joked. After a quick word mumbled other her breath, the women backed away, still smiling. After the interview I thanked all of the women and they said goodbye with kisses and more smiles. It’s fascinating to me that after only a short thirty-minute visit, women who I have never met before can somehow feel like great aunts just by bringing me tea and pulling me into their large soft arms.

The completion of my independent study will take a lot of effort and confidence and speaking in languages that I am not comfortable with. Three weeks is no where near enough time to conduct multiple interviews and then analyze them and write a thirty-plus page paper. But I will still try my best, even if that means embarrassing myself with my Arabic and acting out locations with all of the taxi drivers in Rabat.

GW YOU: Response to Washington Post Article

Mon, 15 Apr 2013 09:28:53 -0400

GW YOU: Response to Washington Post Article:

gwyou:

This year, we have worked to define our identity as a student body. Through the university’s rebranding, the loss of this year’s ranking, and the recent article in the Washington Post, this is a defining moment for our community.

As members of this student body, we live every day by our…

April 14, 2013: 'aa'ilatii

Mon, 15 Apr 2013 07:26:00 -0400

“Anti craazy,” Khalid tells me, even though he’s the one dancing around the room to the Macarena and I’m the one sitting stationary on the couch. “Laa, anta crazy,” I reply, unable to help but smile from the mischievous look on his tiny face. I move out of my homestay in a few hours, at which point I will move in to a flat with five of my friends, only a few blocks away. However, as I sit at my computer attending to my emails while Khalid, my homestay brother, dances around and pretends to talk on his fake cell-phone, it feels just like a regular Sunday morning with the El Abbadi family. I have spent two and a half months with my Moroccan family, which has been just enough time to fall in love with them, feel annoyed with them as I would with my own siblings, and then become sad about leaving. I have survived countless six to seven-hour birthday parties and name-day parties with my aunts and cousins and siblings and parents and family friends who are referred to as aunts or cousins or siblings and struggled through evenings of homework while Khalid and Khouloud are competing with the volume of my host mother’s favorite TV show. However, despite the difficulties of living in close quarters with a new family, I would not trade my experience for the world.

Having younger siblings is something I always secretly wanted, and the past few months have allowed me to feel as though I have a little brother and sister while also making me appreciate the serenity of the situation I have, back at home. Khalid is truly the cutest six-year-old I’ve ever met. On the days when I’d see him on the street while walking to class and he’d run to say hello, or when he’d see me first and attack me from behind, his dimpled smile full of chocolate, I could’ve died happy. Despite being a strange older girl in his house who can’t speak his language, he took to me incredibly quickly. Almost immediately, Khalid chose to hold my hand instead of his mother’s while walking around at night and would find me to play cards at large family gatherings instead of running around with a soccer ball with his older cousins. We have kept the “anti crazy, laa anta crazy,” (you are crazy, no you are crazy) thing going since early on in the semester, and his little voice saying, “Aleksandaraa,” when he’s doing something silly and wants me to watch is something I am going to miss dearly, when I’m gone. Khouloud is just as sweet, but she is at the universal pre-teen sassy age that most girls reach around ten or eleven, and occasionally her sassy side decides that I am the enemy. However, Khouloud and I have also shared many fun moments, like dancing together at several family parties, cuddling together on the couch under the same blanket to watch our favorite Turkish soap opera, “Fatima,” and ganging up on Khalid when he won’t leave her alone. Khouloud is a beautiful and incredibly smart young girl, and I look forward into keeping in touch with her.

Mama Fatiha and Baba Bouselham were quick to make me feel at home, as well. And as the semester has gone on, I have gotten very close with and felt increasingly protective of Mama Fatiha. She helped me with my Arabic homework (even though it usually resulted in an argument with Khouloud over which answer they thought was right), took me to all of the name-day parties for newborn babies that she was invited to (all of which lasted over six hours), and even scrubbed my back at the hammam. This past week, Bouselham and the kids were gone for a wedding for almost a week and left Fatiha and I at home, together. The first night we were alone, Mama Fatiha made pizza and we ate it together on the couch while watching movies and sipping Pepsi. It felt just like a regular mother-daughter night at home. On Thursday, we had a culminating celebration with the families at the CCCL. Mama Fatiha dressed me up in a traditional Moroccan-inspired red dress and sprayed me with her perfume, and then we walked together to the party. All of the families had dressed up their new “sons” and “daughters” and paraded them, prom-day style, into the hall where we danced to a Moroccan band and had cookies and tea. All of the mothers and siblings laughed at our dancing and took pictures of us and with us, their proud smiles stretching wide, and Mama Fatiha beamed when I danced with her. After the party ended, we walked home in the summery purple haze of the setting sun, arm-in-arm.

The most challenging part of living in a homestay was not that I couldn’t speak English or take a normal shower or sleep in a real bed, it was simply just living “at home” again. Since going to college, I haven’t lived at home with parents for longer than a month in almost four years. I had to re-learn how to do homework with tons of noise in the background and to check in with my mother if I wasn’t coming home for lunch and get used to not being able to sleep in. But even if I had to wake up early on the weekends, I woke up to freshly brewed coffee and breakfast, I came home to smiling faces and clean laundry, and always had someone caring about my whereabouts and well-being. And that is all anyone can ask for. They are truly عائلتي (‘aa’ilatii) - my family.

April 07, 2013: Fourth Meal - Eating and Eating and Eating in Morocco

Sun, 07 Apr 2013 14:13:27 -0400

The Friday couscous tradition is one of my favorite food traditions here in Morocco, but I was especially excited for it this week because Friday was a particularly cold and rainy day. I walked home in the rain after I finished my Arabic final, attempting to avoid the puddles and land mines - the hidden pockets of water under loose tiles that explode with mud and “medina juice” when you step on them - and the smell of the couscous and the heat of the kitchen when I entered my family’s house were a wonderful relief. I cuddled up under a blanket on the couch in between my host-dad and little sister as my mom brought in the heaping pile of couscous and vegetables steaming on the huge tagine. My host-dad, my brother and I each picked up an oversized spoon and began to dig into the couscous and chickpeas (“hummus” in Darija - no, not what we think of as hummus) in our “zones” while my host-mother and sister went right in with their hands. In Morocco, many traditional meals are cooked in tagines, which are large conical clay cooking pots that allow steam from the meal to condense and drip back down into the base. The meals are brought to the table in the tagine base, and each family member is expected to only eat the food in their “zone,” or the pie-slice of the circular plate that is closest to them. Tagine meals are often eaten without using utensils. Most of the time, bread serves as a utensil, and each bite is achieved using a small piece of “khubs” as a scooper. Couscous, however, is traditionally only eaten with your hands by scooping some couscous and some vegetables into your hand, forming a ball with it, and popping the ball into your mouth. Luckily, the modern habit of using a spoon for couscous has become more common, and I am not subjected to the difficulty of forming couscous balls by hand. Although Moroccan couscous is a cultural staple, it is only eaten for lunch on Fridays. Friday is the most important day of the week, for Muslims, and almost all Moroccans head home from work or school for the afternoon prayer and to eat family couscous before returning back to their normal activities.

Moroccan cuisine has morphed and gradually moved away from the traditional styles of cooking and eating. However, some families, especially those that live in the old medina, have stuck to their cultural roots. My family is one of those. Every morning I wake up and eat a breakfast of bread with cheese and a cup of coffee that is closer to a cup of steamed whole-milk with a spoonful of coffee than any cup of coffee I’ve ever had in the U.S. Lunch, whether at home or at school, is huge and consists of several different salads or sides in addition to the main course, as well as a piece or two of bread. At home, I almost always have a meal for lunch that requires using bread as a utensil. Evening snack, called “Kaskroot” in Darija, takes place at home every night between five and seven o’clock and consists of tiny glasses of tea and cake, Moroccan crepes, overly fried donuts, overly fried bread, regular bread, or cookies, depending on the day and who is present. My favorite kaskroot is a chocolate cake that my host-mom makes that also happens to be the most moist and fluffy and delicious chocolate cake I’ve ever tasted in my entire life. Because our kitchen does not have an oven, she uses a communal oven down the block to bake her cakes and cookies.

Dinner at home can take place any time between nine and twelve at night. Thanks to my little siblings, I usually luck out with dinner happening around ten o’clock. My family maintains a fairly traditional kitchen. We generally have some type of tagine consisting of beef or chicken with vegetables and sauce simmering on top. Our most common meal is chicken tagine with potatoes, green beans, carrots, and a very saffrony sauce all steamed together and eaten with bread. Sometimes my mom changes it up and we have dates or lentils steamed in, too. My favorite meal is hareera, a thick Moroccan soup with lentils, chickpeas, and a number of other vegetables that closely resembles American vegetable soup. When we have hareera we also generally have dates and hard-boiled eggs on the side, which is a treat. Dinner is almost always followed by a dessert of fresh fruit. On most nights I have a banana or an orange, but as the seasons have shifted, strawberries have been added to the mix. Fruit here is like nothing I’ve ever tasted before. The oranges, especially, are more juicy and sweet than any oranges I’ve had in the U.S.

Although Moroccan food is incredibly delicious, it has taken a lot of getting used to. The sheer amount of food is probably the biggest adjustment. Once, I went to a party for a baby’s name day, and while sitting at a table with five other women I was served one platter of three whole chickens and potatoes which was quickly followed by a second platter of three lamb racks with caramelized dates on top, all after having already eaten at least four helpings of cookies and tea. Needless to say, I learned quickly to almost always expect a second course. Eating food with bread as a utensil only exacerbates the too-much-food problem. In addition, the disregard for personal health is almost appalling. Diabetes and high cholesterol are huge health detriments in Morocco, which is easy to understand after personally tasting the insane amount of sugar and salt used in Moroccan cooking - even in the tea! What’s more disturbing, though, is the number of people who live with and are aware of these health problems and yet still continue to eat as though they are not a concern. I suspect that the low-sodium and healthy-crunchy diet trends that are enveloping the West will soon make their way into Morocco; however, as of now, the term “diet” is far from the majority of Moroccan minds.

I have adjusted to Moroccan eating norms, for now, and combat them with lots of fruit and exercise and hilarious stories shared with friends. However, though I look forward to my couscous every Friday and will miss it dearly when I go, I am anticipating returning to salads and smaller meals with excitement.

March 30, 2013: Train Rides and Rock Climbing

Sun, 07 Apr 2013 06:16:43 -0400

I am currently riding the train back to Rabat from Marrakech, which is a five-hour process that will get us home at about two in the morning. Even though it’s late and I am more physically exhausted than I have been in a while, having a whole two seats on the train to stretch my legs and doze off is more than I could ask for. This weekend, a small and very wonderful group of students from our program decided to go to Marrakech in order to get in some good hiking and exploration in Ourika Valley, which is about an hour outside of the city. On Friday evening we boarded the train to Marrakech, and were very unpleasantly surprised by the crowd that we found on the inside. For the first half of the train ride, we stood in the hallway or sat on our backbags on the train floor because we weren’t able to find any seats. I had been looking forward to spending the time reading and writing postcards and was disappointed that we had to stand, but the packed cars seemed appropriate for a train going to Marrakech. We stood completely still, trying not to sweat in the humid and crowded aisles, while young Moroccans who were eager to practice their English talked to us about the places we had been within the country. Eventually, a group of young men returning home from the police academy in Rabat who had started talking and joking with us offered to give up their seats. At the end of the ride, they even helped us get our bags down from the overhead compartments and made sure we knew where we were going once we got off in Marrakech. I am continually amazed by the helpful nature of Moroccans (last week a boy and his sister got on a bus that they weren’t waiting for in order to ensure that we got to the destination we had asked them about… what?!). I have encountered so many incredibly friendly and helpful people who are willing to go far out of their way to ensure my safety and security. It is truly astounding.

The crowded Jema al-Fna square was much livelier than the last time we had seen it in the rain and cold only a month before. The lights from the various stalls and food venders glowed in the haze of heat and smoke and men with monkeys on chains and snakes around their necks called us over to take pictures with their animals. We headed straight to our hostel, which was on a small street right off of the large square, and went back out into the chaos of Jema al-Fna to find some food. Even at midnight, the square was loud and crowded and we found ourselves bargaining with several stall owners about what deal they would give us if we chose to eat their food instead of the food at the neighboring tent. With an offer of free drinks and two free meals, we settled into benches under one of the vendor’s tents and ate a huge meal of pocket sandwiches stuffed with grilled eggplant, sausage, chicken, and grilled peppers and onions, in addition to sides of olives and freshly-made french fries.

After dinner we headed back to our hostel and all fourteen of us sat on the floor-mattresses in our bedroom and talked and laughed until about two in the morning. For my first hostel experience, I think it went very well. I slept like a rock and woke up the next morning to the smell of breakfast and the stifled conversations of other guests sitting below our balcony. After brushing our teeth and getting read in the communal bathroom, the extremely chill hostel owner brought us a breakfast of khubs (bread), fruit, Moroccan crepes (similar to pancakes), butter, and apricot jam. We ate our breakfast and sipped on tea and coffee while the voices and drum beats of a group of students singing on the terrace above us echoed through the walls and old men with dreads lounged on the cushions next to us, smoking from a pipe. Morocco’s extensive hippy culture will never cease to amaze me.

The grand-taxi ride to Ourika Valley in Toukbal National Park, situated in the middle of the High Atlas Mountains, took about an hour-and-a-half, but we enjoyed talking and feeling the wind on our faces as we drove. Once in Ourika, we adopted a guide (only 100 Dh for all fourteen of us!) to show us to the cascades. Our guide, Hassan, looked fragile and wrinkly and had a tanned wide smile that revealed very few remaining teeth, but he still scampered up fevery treacherous boulder ridge with ease. Ourika has seven waterfalls, and we passed each one on our way to the top. The trek was much more of a climb than a hike, and I was glad I had decided to wear shorts and a t-shirt for the occasion (it was my first time wearing shorts all semester). At the second-to-last tier, we took our shoes off to feel the water in the pool that had formed in the rocks. I had every intention of fully submerging myself in the water, but the stabbing pain in my feet from the cold water when I just dipped in my toes made me rethink that decision very quickly. The climb was difficult and I was dirty and soaked with sweat by the time we reached the top, but the scenery was so incredible that I still have a hard time believing it was real. The snow-peaked mountain ridges of the High Atlas loomed behind the huge brown and grey peaks that stretched at ninety-degree angles on all sides of us. All throughout the ridge, water gushed over the sides of the rocks and tumbled into the green and fertile trees and river banks below. We sat for a while at the top of the ridge and munched on dried fruit and granola as our feet dangled over the edge. It was exactly the kind of day I had been craving.

The ride back to Marrakech felt like a moment out of a late summer afternoon. We all sat in silence and dozed off, exhausted, as the wind pouring in from the windows dried the sweat on our sunburned faces and blew wisps of hair into our eyes.

Back in Marrakech, we grabbed our stuff from the hostel and went hunting for Earth Café, our favorite vegan-vegetarian restaurant that we discovered on our first visit to the city. Then, bellies full and feeling good, we walked back to the train station, passing through the smoke and noise of Jema al-Fna and making a gelato-pitstop at Dino’s, our favorite dessert café, on the way.

I have had so many incredible and perfect days during my semester in Morocco, and it still does not feel as though most of them have actually happened. The density of Morocco’s variety of landscapes and people and its beauty is not something I will take for granted during the last six weeks of my stay, and it is not something I will ever forget in my lifetime.