Later in the day, one of the more difficult kindergarten classes came in for their story. When it was time for them to leave the library, I tried playing the mandolin as they lined up. Worked like a charm. Twenty-four of the rowdiest children at our school quietly faced forward, lined up, and walked back to class. Admittedly, a couple of them nearly walked into doors because they were craning around to watch me play as they trotted off. I felt a bit like the Pied Piper of Hamelin. (You know, minus trapping the children in a mountain to punish their parents.)

The rest of the week went smoothly, and on Saturday afternoon I was off to Spain. You might remember from my last post that Eid al-Adha, the Muslim festival which includes sheep sacrifice, was coming up. Well, rather than listen to thousands of dismayed sheep bleating across the city (and smelling them roasting later on) I opted to travel to northern Spain. My goal, San Sebastián, (Donostia in Basque) was only two flights and a three-hour bus ride away. On the first flight I sat next to a young man who had never flown before. Through him, I remembered the wonder of seeing the tops of clouds for the first time. It was great seeing the look in his eyes in the moment when the plane lifted off the runway.

Smooth sailing at the Madrid airport, though I’ve never liked the place. It’s sprawling, sterile, unnecessarily cavernous, and always seems empty in relation to its size. I looked out the window on my flight to Santander and was lulled to sleep by the gray expanse of clouds and the sound of the engine. I woke up to turbulence and passengers discussing it nervously. There was a tense atmosphere as the plane shook and wobble its way through the storm, but I closed my eyes and ears, and let the airplane rock me back to sleep. We landed over water, with the last sunlight glowing faintly behind a wall of clouds. After crossing a drizzly runway, I splurged and paid 8.50 euros for a Spanish-English dictionary, figuring that it would be a good resource should any translation crises occur.³ Half an hour after my flight arrived, I caught the night bus⁴ to San Sebastián, about a three-hour journey.

We rushed through the night, rain glistening on the ground, across a landscape so dark that it blended into the overcast night sky. The other passengers chatted quietly or slept. We stopped in Bilbao and I was the only one left besides an elderly couple in the back who stood to stretch their legs, then sank comfortably back down into their seats. I looked out at Bilbao and thought for a while about how shockingly different the scenery was from Morocco. Even after only four months, I was so used to the landscape, the structures, and the people that Spain seemed utterly alien to me. I had even been taken aback by the bathrooms at the airport, with their uniform, painted doors and automatic dryers. The road had rails, lights, and resembled most of the roads I was used to from the US. But where were the grand taxis crammed full of people traveling two towns over? Where were the boys selling onions and live chickens by the side of the road? Where were the familiar mosque towers in every village? What about the occasional run-down bus careening precariously as it rattles and whizzes down a mountain road? I felt a brief moment of homesickness for Morocco, until the Spanish bus driver honked his horn. That felt a little more like home.⁵ I arrived in San Sebastián at night, in the rain, and headed to a friend’s house. Undaunted by the howling wind and violent raindrops on my window, I went to sleep excited about my first experience in Basque Country the following day.

The next day it rained, too. In fact, I was told by my friend that it was the most unpleasant weather he’d ever seen in the city. Crossing a bridge by the port, I saw waves taller than any I’d ever seen, blown in by ferocious winds. We walked around town until every article of clothing was soaked, fingertips wrinkled.  Stopped into a bar for orange juice and warmth. It was crowded with refugees of the wind and rain, who chatted and sipped their coffee while waiting out the storm. We trudged home eventually, squelch squelch squelch, and changed into dry clothes. After a simple three-course lunch and a delicious nap, I spent the evening discussing psychology, learning Basque pronunciation, and listening to the rain.

On Monday the rain was light enough for me to explore San Sebastián all day. As my sandals were soaked from the night before, my friend lent me a pair of sneakers and off I went. Mid-morning, I slipped into Cathédrale Buen Pastor behind two women in beige raincoats. My plan was to stay long enough to dry off a bit, but it was so peaceful that I ended up sitting in a pew for three quarters of an hour, writing down my thoughts⁶ and admiring the Neo-Gothic architecture. Women walked in every couple of minutes, pausing briefly in front of the pulpit before continuing to the other side. Bells chimed nine times, twice, and sounded much more distant inside than out.

I looked at the arching ceilings and the orange-yellow light coming from electric bulbs attached to every few columns. It was so dark outside that even the stained glass windows were dim, barely illuminated by a gray sky. (So different from that day in Sacre Coeur when I stepped into a dappled pool of light that danced down from colored glass.) There was a pipe organ in the back of the cathedral. I’ve always wanted to be in a church when somebody is practicing the organ.⁷ To hear and feel the music as it ricochets across columns, in and out of pews, brushes against each colored pane of glass before catching warm candle air and rising swiftly away like a freed balloon.

Passing women gone, I found myself alone in the cathedral. Just me, the columns, and the shadows. Rows of wooden pews waiting for the next mass. I spent some time studying the confessionals; I’ve never confessed. I’ve only seen it in movies. I wondered briefly if it’s like going to a therapist. What are the differences? What does it feel like to have your sins peeled away? Do you feel light and free, or naked, exposed, and alone?

Sitting there, in the dim electric light, I was reminded of a library. Or maybe, for me, libraries are cathedrals. Holy places. I could so easily imagine the walls lined with books, every cranny and crevice, all the way up to the stained glass. Around the lower windows, climbing one at a time like ivy, books filling this beautiful, arched space. There would be the tallest ladders stretching up into the shadows. The pipe organ remains, of course, and every time it’s played, the books would shake off their dust and resonate with joy.

I wandered down the streets of San Sebastián, hunched in the rain. I tried on hats in a very fancy hat shop, and the Spanish-speaking saleswoman was extremely patient. Eventually decided against a hat that day, as none were waterproof. I followed the scent of fresh bread to a bakery and was amazed at the number of people bustling in and out despite the rain. A sign of a good bakery. I found out from a man in a music shop that there were no accordions for sale in the entire city.⁸ I played piano in a second music shop, but was refused an audience with the mandolin. I was drawn into another shop by a beautiful dress in the window, and decided to make it myself in Morocco. Whenever I passed a fashion shop, I received judgmental looks from the people inside. I must have been a funny sight; oversized men’s sneakers, voluminous blue skirt with pockets, mismatched turtleneck, tiny backpack. I consoled myself by deciding that, were they visiting for the weekend from Morocco with only a few items of clothing, most of which had gotten soaked the day before, they would be dressed that way too.

In the early evening, I returned to the cathedral for a second time. It was even more deserted than it had been earlier in the day. The rush hour street sounds were muffled and distant, and when I sneezed it echoed all around the room. The stained glass was dimmer than ever, and I closed my eyes for a few minutes as all my thoughts drifted away into the dark. I had pintxos (pronounced “peen-cho”) for dinner, and they were so good that couldn’t stop thinking about them for hours afterward. (A pintxo, dear reader, is the Basque version of tapas, only about ten times more delicious.) Went to bed and dreamed of picnics in the sun.

On Tuesday I woke up early with sunlight⁹ trickling in through my window. My first stop was a recommended bakery, where I picked up a baguette and a croissant. Ate the croissant while crossing the city, much to the envy of passers-by on their way to work. I walked through the old town and climbed up, up, up the hill to the old fort.¹⁰ Clouds were spread out across the sky in ripples, like a worn out blanket, sea glimmering below. The ocean was dappled with sunlight, and the rugged clouds above made it look like two landscapes instead of one. A red sailboat bobbed miles out, as clouds floated past it and the ocean changed color with the sun. I looked the other way, over the city, and saw mist rising off the buildings and hills. I sat in a park at the top of the hill, nibbling my baguette and enjoying my first glimpse of sun in three days. I listened to birds chirping and muffled footsteps on stone. Too late in the year for tourists, the people who passed by were runners, dog walkers, middle-aged lovers. I tried to lure a bird in front of my camera with a piece of baguette, but it got the better of both me and the bread. I walked down, squinting in the sunlight, past happy dogs and a family on a picnic.

On the bus to Santander, I watched the Basque countryside drift lazily by. Old stone farmhouses with terra cotta roofs. Rectangular and blocky with small square windows, they made me think of cow herds, strawberry jam, and family around the fire. Every so often, the ocean would appear between two hills. I remember thinking about the huge valleys going by with sheep grazing on the slopes, then remembering that I was going by, not the valleys, and certainly not the sheep. Other roads twisted through fields and trees, disappearing into the hills. I thought about how I would like to come back and explore every single one of them, given the time.¹¹

In Santander, I visited yet another historic cathedral and, for the first time in my life, lit one of those tiny prayer candles.¹² I bought yarn at a knitting shop, sipped tea and read a book in a café, visited a dive bar with a friend, and ended my day curled on her couch, crocheting a scarf and listening to Spanish television. In the airplane on the way back, I looked out the window as we crossed the mountains of northern Spain. There were roads zig-zagging up steep slopes, and I imagined cars simply tumbling backdown. The sun glinted across rivers, like spotlights in succession. Further south, a dense cloud bank hung over farmland. The clouds looked so solid that it seemed it would hurt to fall into into them. They were packed tightly, with a band of blue sky above, followed by another stretch of solid, white clouds that ended in a line near the horizon as if painted on with one, long brush stroke. In the midst of turbulence, the flight crew offered fake cigarette packs over the intercom. “Tobacco flavored. They produce NO smoke!”

1. If you didn’t catch all my pre-Halloween adventures in the last post, go take a look.
2. Ironically, I think this was the closest I’ve gotten to dressing like a Moroccan. Long skirt, long sleeves, head covering…
3. I had a printed page of useful Spanish phrases, too.
4. The bus driver had a passenger list, and knew my name as soon as I reached for my UK passport.
5. Morocco may be the only place I’ve been where drivers honk more than they do in Washington, DC.
6. Most of this post was written by hand in the cathedral, on the back of my San Sebastián map.
7. When do they do it? In the middle of the day? At night? Does it wake up the neighbors?
8. So much for my half-baked “buy an accordion and somehow transport it back to Tangier” plan.
9. Finally!
10. Thanks to the pleasant weather, I was out of the man shoes and back in my sandals, skirt, and leggings.
11. There is a beautiful coastal path from San Sebastián to Hondarribia, a neighboring town, that takes about ten hours to hike. It’s already on my to-do list for my next visit to the area.
12. I spent about five minutes deliberating over this, but decided eventually that one does not have to be religious to light a candle. I decided that I would light mine to send good wishes and love to my friends and family back in the states.

On Wednesday I made a new friend, Fabian. Fab left Germany in September to embark upon a traveling charity project, Fab&Vivien Around the World. Here are the details in his own words:

“10 Bucks, two friends and one crazy bet around the world. Fab&Vivien claim that for each 10€ donated to social grassroots projects, they will find 1 person to sing with them. As they travel around the world, imagine they go to Thailand and raise 1000€ for a new school – and 100 people singing in a mass performance! And as if that wasn’t spectacular enough: It has to be a song in the local language: “mai dai kee itcha”, you know?! If Fab&Vivien loose the bet, a horrible penalty awaits them: Will it be sleeping on a scary cemetery or working hard on a local field?”

Kind of a neat idea, right? Fab and I had a long evening getting lost in the medina, drinking mint tea at my usual rooftop hangout,² and discussing his project, music, Moroccan culture, and whatever else we could think of.

I don’t remember why I originally volunteered to chaperone the high school Halloween party, but on Friday night I found myself at the school gate shining a flashlight into girls’ purses.³ I spent the second hour standing around outside the building with the other faculty members, bored out of my mind. The students were all inside, dancing to the kind of music I usually go out of my way to avoid. But since it was between boredom outside and hearing loss inside, I ventured in. Now, I know I see these kids every day, but it made such a difference being around them during a social event. They looked like they were having such fun, and I couldn’t help but feel happy and energized, too. I spent the last hour dancing.

I got a call bright and early on Saturday morning from Fab, who wanted to go hiking. It wasn’t until we both got into the car that we realized that neither of us actually had a destination in mind. Thankfully, I recalled some scenery I’d notice on my trip to M’diq the previous weekend and suggested Tétouan as a closer alternative to Chefchaouen. As soon as we saw big mountains, we took the first road off into the hills, driving past an enormous open-air sheep market,⁴ run-down houses, and women moving huge sacks of something from a taxi into their homes. Parked where the road ended, and managed to confirm with two women (who were staring at us) that there was, indeed, a way to hike up into the mountains from our side of the hills.⁵

Fab needed to film scenes during our hike for his next video installment, and appointed me director for the day. If you’ve been reading this blog faithfully, you’ll remember that nearly every time I try to go on a pleasant, civilized hike in Morocco I end up losing the path, wading through miles of thorns, climbing cliffs, and asking goatherds for directions. This is exactly what happened to me and Fab. Just so you’ve got a clear mental image, remember that, as designated camerawoman, I had to scramble up those cliffs first and and capture Fab climbing them.⁶ We even had a couple of alarming encounters with unsettlingly large and orange spiders.⁷ We reached the top of the ridge, legs covered in scratches and cuts, and utterly triumphant. Two goatherds had been watching our progress,⁸ and I offered them a few handfuls of nuts and dried fruit. (Fab gave them cookies.) I confirmed with them that a path devoid of thorns actually existed, handed out some more food, then continued up the mountain.⁹

Predictably, after hauling ourselves to the top of the first peak and discovering that it was not, in fact, the highest point on the ridge, we set off for the next mountain. At the top of that one, Fab parked himself on a flat rock, probably hoping that I’d be satisfied with our considerable achievement. After all, even the (now far away) goatherds looked impressed. But when I turned, I saw one more ridge just a little higher than the one on which I was perched. So off I went, Fab calling after me to “please try not to fall”. After a few close calls¹⁰ I plopped down on the highest rock on the highest ridge on the highest mountain. The wind blew noises up from the valley below, and I could hear birds chirping, goats bleating, and water dripping between rocks. I smelled wood smoke as the goatherds lit a fire and cooked their lunch. One of them got out a thin flute and began to play a beautiful, haunting melody. Even the birds paused to listen.

We raced the sun down the mountain, guessing at paths until we ended up in a sandy clearing where teenagers were finishing up a soccer game. They followed us down the path and around the hillside, calling out and throwing the occasional rock. (It sounds shocking, I know, but we were so tired and scratched that we didn’t much care.) We lost them eventually, only to be discovered by a pack of wild dogs. They growled at us out of the dark, and I picked up a rock and a big stick, just in case. Finally we rediscovered the tiny village where we’d parked the car and walked down the hill toward the lights of the local mosque. Dogs and children long gone, Fab and I grinned silently at one another. A group of women carrying freshly baked bread emerged from around the corner. They took one look at us, our cuts, our sun-burnished faces, and handed one of the loaves over to us. We sat in the car, still grinning, and nibbled warm bread.¹¹

On Sunday I hosted a Halloween movie night in the library for grades four through six, which was a great success and not at all as chaotic as I’d feared. Raised a decent amount of money for the library¹² and the kids had a great time, repeatedly asking when the next one would be. Even parents were excited; perhaps partially because of the extra two hours they had to themselves, but also to see their children involved in extracurricular activities and socializing outside of school.

I ended my eventful week with a kitten on my lap, a bottle of wine, and my mandolin.

1. The usual bit about perpetuating stereotypes, but also the simple fact that the movie isn’t well-known to many people outside the English-speaking world. While I remember watching The Sound of Music several times a year from an early age, many Austrians don’t even hear of it until well into their adult lives.
2. Got lost trying to find it, of course. Also pranked two kids who were following us around, and it was extremely satisfying.
3. Thankfully, I found no drugs or alcohol. Instead, most purses were crammed with spare clothes, makeup, and even shoes. The girls had left home dressed modestly, changed at at a friend’s house along the way, then arrived at school for the party in a completely different outfit than the one that their parents had approved. I had a pretty hard time controlling my laughter when I found three makeup bags, a pair of jeans, a shirt, a sweater, and two shoes… all in the same bag. Incidentally, nobody wore a Halloween costume. I was told by a senior, point blank, that if I wore a costume I would be laughed right out the door. Apparently costumes aren’t cool anymore. What these kids don’t realize is that once they go to college, Halloween is all about the costumes. Revealing, skin-tight ones that are just an excuse for girls to wear even fewer items of clothing around campus than usual, but still technically costumes.
4. In preparation for Eid al-Adha, an important Muslim festival that involves sheep sacrifice.
5. Also that it was okay to park the car there.
6. You can see some of the footage I filmed here: http://www.fabandvivien.com/webisode-2-good-bye-europe-and-the-importance-of-patience/
7. Another bad habit of mine: forgetting to maintain a safe distance from possibly venomous creatures. Like the time I walked right up to a rattlesnake in Shenandoah National Park for the sake of a clear photograph. My macro lens was back at home, so I leaned in until I was nearly touching the web. I don’t think the spider was poisonous. As a lifelong arachnophobe, I was pretty proud of myself. How’s that for exposure therapy?
8. They were undoubtedly entertained by our hour-long effort to climb the relatively small hill below.
9. Among other things, we made friends with a couple of sweet goats, followed a dung beetle around with the video camera, and I collected some wild succulent samples. Sedum sediforme, to be exact.
10. Sorry, family members reading this.
11. The moral of this story is: Sometimes if you can get past children throwing stones and ferocious dogs, smiling women will give you homemade bread for your journey home.
12. We’re on our way to having enough money to order real, actual books!

Partially because I was rejuvenated from a relaxing weekend in Chefchaouen, and partially because my work week was only four days long, my week started out great. Got lots done in the library, and even managed to begin the planning stages of a new, exciting project in the community. More on that later.² I cooked yummy Ethiopian food,³ had a couple of delicious dinners with friends, and enjoyed the city at night.⁴

Most of Friday was fantastic. For the hour before school started, I played Metropolis in the library for whoever felt like walking in and taking a look. A few of the students asked me what it was, and were impressed when I told them the film was made in 1927! They thought that was very cool. Later on, several teachers decided that they wanted to show their kids videos in the library as a special Friday treat. The Pre-Kindergarten and Kindergarten One classes got really into the Tom & Jerry cartoons I showed them, dancing along to the music and calling out the names of animals they recognized.⁵ One of the high school students was in the library doing work, and I caught him looking over at the video and grinning a few times. Proves my theory that there’s no age limit to good cartoons.

The afternoon, like many Friday afternoons in the library, was a bit (well, a lot) more stressful. Made it through the day, barely, and then spent the night unwinding at home with Loki on my lap and pasta in my belly. Went to bed early with a book.

I woke up on Saturday morning, still in a funk, and hopped into (well, trudged over and slouched into) a car with a friend, and we were off to M’diq, a seaside town about 45 minutes from Tangier. It was overcast and windy, with patches of blue sky peeking through like they were painted on. We pulled up to a windswept beach, where men dressed in somber colors were pacing along the water’s edge, lost in thought. I pulled out my seashell-collecting bag and started off down the beach.⁶

I was immediately amazed at how perfectly shaped and colorful the shells were. Each time I picked one up, I’d find an even prettier shell just a few paces away. White, yellow, purple, blue, pink, red, brown… colors I don’t even know how to describe, combined like watercolors over each ruffled surface.⁷ I searched the beach for two hours, unaware of anything but the sand and shells underfoot, the deafening crash of wind-whipped waves, and my own thoughts.⁸

Finally, looking up, I noticed other things. Each wave rolling in behind the next, tall like soldiers constantly battling the sand. The patterns of clouds, dark then light then dark again, stretching out to the horizon. Fishermen reeling in their lines, watching me curiously as I stooped to pick up bits of sea glass.⁹ Leaning in to take a photo that I hoped would capture the windy violence of the waves, one took me by surprise and I ended up with ocean all over my ankles and feet. Turned around to see that I had an audience of one, an old man leaning against the beach wall. I scampered back out of the surf and laughed at myself for a long time. I think he was laughing with me.

Once my seashell bag became too heavy to carry comfortably, I retrieved my friend and we set off for another part of town. Met some new friends (one Moroccan and two Czechs) for a fresh seafood lunch on the dock¹⁰ Then home again, home again jiggity jig, as the rhyme goes. Just in time for sunset, dinner, cat.

And we’re back to Sunday, with the sunlight in my window. Possibly for the first time in years, I stayed in bed to read a book. (The Help by Kathryn Stockett.) I adored it. It may sound odd coming from someone who is currently making a living working with books, but this book continually reminded me of how much literature can enrich lives. Since I moved to Morocco, I’ve made a conscious effort to reclaim my identity as a ravenous reader, something that I left behind back in middle school when academic reading became my primary focus. I think it’s probably true, too, that I’m inspired by some of my students. The ones who come into the library to return books they’ve taken only the day before, gushing about how much they loved every page. That used to be me, and–in my heart–it’s still me. The rigors of adult working life aside, I’m still that little girl who begged to be taken to the public library,¹¹ who checked out twenty books at a time and read them all in the first four days, who hid under the covers with a flashlight because reading was more important than rules about bedtime.

Arranged all of my new shells in a beautiful but wholly unnecessary manner, then took photographs. Went for the second run of my adult life and survived.¹² It was a gorgeous autumn day in Tangier, with constantly shifting light and a slightly wilder-than-usual sea breeze. Ran into town along the ocean, then up through the medina and back home via my favorite bakery, where I picked up two loaves of warm, freshly baked bread.

1. Sunrise arrives later here each day. On the days I go to work early–which is most days–I sometimes arrive at school before the sun does. On a related note, if someone can tell me why I’ve been going to work an hour early, making my workdays at least ten hours long, I’ll give ‘em 20 dirhams and a cat treat. Yes, it’s because I have lots of work to do, but doesn’t everyone?
2. I know, I promise that every time.
3. Recipe in a subsequent post.
4. That’s all I seem to manage these days, since I go to work just after sunrise and sometimes stay till after dark. It’s a good thing Tangier is such a nocturnal town… there’s always something to see/do/eat at any hour of the night.
5. In one of the Tom & Jerry cartoons, Tom is serenading a lovely female cat with his upright bass, singing a song with the lyrics “Is you is, or is you ain’t my baby?” Kathy, the assistant librarian, pointed out that at the end of the day these kids will probably go home and sing that for their parents, bad grammar and all. Watch the video here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eR-Ckj5M-jU
6. I sent my friend in the other direction, since we were both collecting shells and I tend to be intensely competitive.
7. Luckily, I don’t have to describe them because I took photos. This was, hands down, the best beach for shell collecting that I’ve ever visited.
8. I like the idea that, when shell-hunting, you only see the product of other beachcombers. Maybe one has picked only orange and white shells, or another wanted ones small enough to put on a necklace. So you arrive and see a beach made of everyone’s extras, constantly shifting. Sorted by both tides and people.
9. Hoping these will become jewelry in the near future.
10. Yes, I know you’re shocked. I ate baysara, a delicious soup made primarily of puréed lentils, a salad, and some bread. Everyone else ate bug-eyed sardines and upset-looking shrimp. Less shocked now, right?
11. And eventually volunteered there, just to spend more time with the books.
12. I want you, dear readers, to picture the looks I get when I go for a run. First of all, I’m running for exercise, which, apparently, isn’t done much here. Second, I’m wearing shorts and a tank top, something I wouldn’t normally wear out. Third, I’m a girl. Fourth, I’ve got on those ridiculous looking Vibram FiveFingers shoes and they’re bright blue. Just imagine the reaction. Puzzled looks galore.

“The only things they trust are the racing ships
Posiedon gave, to sail the deep blue sea
like white wings in the sky, or a flashing thought.”
The Odyssey (Homer)

One of the perks of working in a school¹ is getting to hear children say all sorts of silly things. Students at AST (especially the kindergartners) are fond of exclaiming, “Oh my God!” at the drop of a hat, for instance.² Talking about volcanoes? “Oh my God!” Finding out that a dinosaur in a book is too tall to fit on the page? “Oh my God!” Explaining that a tomato is a fruit? “Oh my God!” I suppose our students just have a flair for the dramatic. And not just in one language, either! On Monday I happened upon a little tyke sitting outside the office, where kids usually wait for parents to pick them up. His family are native French speakers, so sometimes I ask him questions in French.

Me: “Bonjour! Tu es malade?”
Student: “Oui, je suis trés, trés malade.”
Me: “Oh, c’est beaucoup!”
Student: “Oui! C’est trés beaucoup! Je suis trés beaucoup malade!”

And this is just a five-year-old. You should see the high schoolers.

Week twelve was also the week that the first grade discovered Schoolhouse Rock. I’ve been showing them a few songs during each of their scheduled library sessions, and they’re loving it. Sometimes they even start singing along with the chorus! Good to know that something so well-loved during my time (and before) can still excite children today. On Tuesday, to my extreme dismay, I came down with the superbug that’s been going around.³ Most of my week’s activities were accompanied by sad sniffling and self-pity. On Thursday I welcomed a friend from Germany, Patricia, who is traveling south through Morocco to sub-Saharan Africa to complete a documentary project. I took her on a tour of the medina at night, climbed up to my usual mint tea rooftop haunt, and ended the evening with a yummy vegetarian Moroccan dinner. Sniffles at a minimum.

Friday was the start of a four-day weekend for me (midterm break) and I celebrated by waking up early and having an invigorating swim in the school pool. Dried off in the sun while reading The Odyssey⁴ and snacked on some pastries. Patricia and I packed up a picnic lunch of bread, cheese, tomato, green peppers, carrots, and cucumber before heading out on the town. I had intended to take her to a great spot in the kasbah that overlooks the Atlantic ocean all the way to Spain, but instead got horribly lost. After wandering around the city for over an hour, we ended up in a beautiful rocky spot right next to the water. Fishermen tended their lines nearby and the sun shone white and tiny through the last of the morning mist. We wandered along the ocean wall for another hour, hopping from rock to rock and receiving strange looks from passers-by. On the way home, I found a cat family snuggling up for their mid-afternoon nap.

I continued to relax throughout Saturday, beginning with a soothing and uneventful bus ride to Chaouen.⁵ Patricia explored the city while I sat in the hotel gardens, drank homemade juice and tea with friends, chatted about healthy eating, and read my book. I found a fantastic green insect⁶ and made many failed attempts to capture it on film. (Eventually sketched it instead.) Got a massage later in the day and fell asleep to the sound of water trickling outside my window.

We woke up early on Sunday morning and set off for the mosque on the hill, just in time to see the sun rising over the mountains. And then do you know what we saw?⁷ We saw another mosque, on a second hill, away across the sloping farmland. So we went there. In the process, we wandered into someone’s backyard and paused behind a barn, looking around at the scenery.⁸ And, of course, from there we saw a trail winding up into the mountains. The lady of the house leaned over her fence to say hello, and I asked her (again, through gestures and smiles) whether it was possible to reach the top of the mountain on that trail. She nodded and waved encouragingly, so up we went.

From the top of the mountain we had a great view of the valley, complete with little houses, fields, dirt paths, and–of course–upset donkeys. But then I turned and looked up at the mountain next to ours. And would you believe it, there were a couple of tiny people waving and cheering at the top. “Well, gee,” I thought to myself, “I could go there.” It took me about fifteen minutes to convince poor Patricia accompany me on this challenge, and then we were off! Down the trail until there was no more trail. Into a ravine. Straight up a few rock walls, with the wind blowing us sideways. Through prickly bushes. By the time we arrived at the top, scratched and breathless, the happy hikers were long gone. A boy watched us from a distance, perched on a rock with his dog and goats nearby. After taking in the view and catching our breath, we decided it was time to head down. It was my silly idea, of course, to attempt a loop and go back on opposite side of the mountain. Neither of us were thrilled with the idea of inching our way down the cliff face we’d just had to climb, and assumed that an easier trail existed on the other side. The goatherd demonstrated with sweeping arm gestures the course of the path down the hill, and, squinting, we thought we could see where it twisted away down the mountainside.⁹ So with naïve enthusiasm, we set off downhill.

After about five minutes, the trail disappeared. After half an hour, we ran out of water just in time for the hottest part of the day. We waded through bushes and thorns, catching sight of trail after trail, all of which wove in and out of trees, shrubs, and boulders, eventually ending abruptly and leaving us even more lost than ever. (Luckily, we were always within sight of the top of the mountain and the wide valley across to Chefchaouen. Just no way of getting there!) Finally, we picked up a more promising trail, following human, dog, and goat hoof-prints through the undergrowth. We crested a second mountain, then looked down at–oh joy–the wide dirt road that leads back out of the mountains and into town. We half walked, half tumbled the rest of the way and set off down the dusty track with renewed energy.

A woman and daughter passed us, grinning, with about forty goats in tow. Perhaps surprised to see anyone–let alone two foreign women–this far into the mountains, they invited us to their house.¹⁰ Exhausted and intently focused on reaching Chefchaouen, we politely declined and continued on our way. We probably only walked on that road for about an hour, but it felt like three. The afternoon sun beat down on us and we tried to focus on encouraging things like a patch of shade at the end of the next switchback, or the delicious fruit salad that we would eat when we got back to the hotel. By the time we stumbled in through the upper city gates, we must have been quite a sight. Scratched, bruised, covered in dust and dirt, a little sunburned, hair marvelously askew. We waited in line at the spring behind two little boys, who took one look at us and waved us up to the tap. The first taste of water after our adventure was impossibly wonderful.

As our morning stroll had turned into a day hike, I soon realized that I had under an hour to grab my things and head to the station to catch my bus back to Tangier. Upon arrival, however, I found myself in a crowd of dismayed Moroccans. The bus office’s computer was down. By the time a slightly grouchy man got everything back up and I reached his desk, the last ticket had been sold. I hung around the bus station, trying to decide whether to buy a ticket for the next day and add another night to my stay in Chefchaouen. Suddenly, and miraculously, one of the other frustrated travelers told me that there was a second bus about to leave, with just two spots left. I paid a slightly shady-looking man my bus fare, was rushed aboard, and settled into the last remaining seat, hoping that the bus would indeed carry me to Tangier. I envisioned a number of alarming possibilities, but–resigned–decided that this was all part of the adventure. The bus sputtered to a start and chugged its way up the hill and out of town. Every time the bus slowed, its engine sputtered and whined a bit, and I watched the other passengers exchange worried looks. I closed my eyes and went to sleep.

The bus stopped again in Tétouan (about an hour away from Tangier) and, after waiting to make sure it got started again, I pulled out my book and read all about Odysseus and his travel-related catastrophes until we arrived safe and sound (and sputtering) at the Tangier bus station. Walked to a park to meet a friend, ate my weight in salad and stewed beans,¹¹ then ended my day with a huge cup of every ice cream flavor¹² in the shop.

1. Other than the long holidays, of course.
2. Imagine this with a slight Moroccan accent.
3. My immune system is pretty good, but apparently not good enough to withstand an infection bred in a school full of small children.
4. I’m working on it right now with one of my students, and it makes such a difference to re-read it after so many years. There are passages in the book that are simply breathtaking, and reading it near the Mediterranean just feels right somehow.
5. Yes, again. It’s the most beautiful place I could think of to go within a three-hour radius.
6. A type of shield bug, I think.
7. Warning: this is going to be just like the song my parents used to sing to me when we went hiking, “The Bear Went Over the Mountain”.
8. Our reverie was interrupted sporadically by the sound of upset donkeys. I don’t know why they were upset, but if you have ever heard a donkey bray you’ll understand what I mean. The sound echoed across the hills, and I got the distinct feeling that the donkeys were just complaining to one another about the quality of their hay, or the lack of universal health care options at their local farms.
9. Can you see where this is going?
10. Which was, I assume, the lonely farmhouse where the road met our trail.
11. I hadn’t actually eaten yet that day, since the walk was supposed to be a leisurely pre-breakfast stroll, and then I was rushing to catch my bus.
12. Minus bubblegum.

On Tuesday evening, I accompanied a couple of friends to an informal basketball game with their buddies, where–for lack of proper footwear–I sat and snickered at their warmup hijinks. Ten minutes of utter chaos, with the ball being thrown in every direction but the correct one, funny jumping and spinning, and goofy grins on every single face. One of my friends even did a spontaneous headstand on the court. I expected the actual game to continue in this fashion, but once they worked out all that silliness, they weren’t half bad at basketball.⁴ The wind picked up later in the evening, and when it grew too cold to play, we did the most logical thing we could think of. We went for ice cream. I had every single flavor all in one cup, with no regrets. We sat on rocks overlooking the Atlantic ocean, the lights of Spain, and the stars. I nibbled on an ice cream cone⁵ and thought about how lucky I am to live somewhere so beautiful.

The rest of my week was occupied by–in no particular order–book cataloging, reading, sleeping, eating, and playing with Loki.⁶ Friday I spent more time with Wafae’s lovely children. We made harira and discussed aging. I was in the library all morning Saturday to supervise installation of our brand new, first ever air conditioning unit!⁷ This is actually much more exciting than it sounds, because the library is sweltering in hot weather. Instead of being a wonderful workspace for the school community, it becomes our own personal sauna. Only the people who are paid to be there–myself and the assistant librarian–brave the heat on those days. Though a small change in the grand scheme of things, this will make a huge difference for our students and faculty.

Sunday morning I went to the big farmer’s market⁸ downtown and bought the following: four tomatoes, three large green peppers, four onions, six carrots, one large bunch of bananas, one kilo of apples, three large bunches of garlic, one head of lettuce, one kilo of assorted nuts, three kilos of dried fruit, and two medium-sized clay pots, all for 198 dirhams, which is roughly $24.⁹

After my shopping victory, I was spirited away to the beach by my friends, where we grilled chicken over a fire and I climbed lots of rocks. I watched the sun set over the ocean, and even though I watch the sun set over the ocean at least once a week, each time is different. Each location, each color, each white and orange-tinged wave. I wish there were a way to file away sunsets like a stamp collection, capturing the exact colors, the direction of the breeze, the smells, the glinting pinpoints of light that stretch out to the horizon. But I suppose sunsets have to be fleeting. Otherwise, why would you look for the next one?

1. Slow in the sense that I didn’t do much for fun, but worked all the time instead.
2. Yasmine and Naoufel, my co-worker Wafae’s children. They’re my two favorite new friends.
3. I have been specifying the type of pastry every time because I am aware that you, my readers, are extremely discerning and absolutely need to know whether each pastry is Moroccan-style or French-style.
4. Not that I’m a great judge.
5. If you’ve ever seen me eat ice cream, you know that it meets a very speedy demise.
6. His new favorite toy is my drying rack. He thinks it exists purely for his entertainment, and when I attempt to restore its original function, he leaps up and pulls my items of clothing down, one at a time.
7. Thanks to a generous donation from a dear friend of mine.
8. It sounds strange to me to say “farmer’s market” here, because nearly every market here would meet the western world’s definition of a farmer’s market.
9. I am operating under the assumption that everyone, like me, wants to know exactly how much food costs here and what kinds of things I buy day-to-day. I love coming home with fresh vegetables, tallying them as I put them away, and then doing a series of currency conversions to determine exactly how glad I am to be in a country where food is unbelievably cheap. FYI, without the dried fruit/nuts and clay pots, my total was 39.50 dirhams, less than $5. That’s for two weeks’ worth of tomatoes, peppers, onions, carrots, bananas, apples, garlic, and lettuce.

My tenth week in Morocco was challenging. I had one of those workweeks where the few rewarding moments are swept away in a deluge of minor catastrophes.² Despite all of that, this week I put the finishing touches on a school reading contest (with the help of my intrepid student volunteers, of course), fleshed out ideas for a few library fundraisers, and got paid. And, of course, read one of my other favorite childhood books to the kindergarteners, In the Night Kitchen by Maurice Sendak. Loved the amazed faces when Micky flies his dough-y airplane to get milk for the bakers.³ Still in store for the kindergarteners: Pierre, Just A Dream, Cautionary Tales for Children, The Adventures of Isabel, Amos & Boris, The Paper Bag Princess,⁴ Two Bad Ants.⁵

The aforementioned young ladies from Bristol stayed two nights with me early in the week, and were lovely house guests. They played with Loki, shared pastries, and commiserated with me over a rough day. On Thursday, two of my favorite people in Tangier came over for dinner⁶ and we chatted and joked late into the night. Friday evening I curled up on the couch and watched Empire of the Sun with Loki, who was very interested in the airplanes and scenes with young Christian Bale crawling through rushes and tall grass. (He was less interested in the coming-of-age and cross-cultural tolerance aspects of the film, as they involved neither cats nor shiny objects.) Later he climbed the drying rack and swatted at tiny imaginary airplanes in my living room.

I woke up early on Saturday⁷ and, after a brief game of tag with Loki, hopped in a car to Chefchaouen⁸ with a friend. Since my first visit consisted mostly of hiking the nearby mountains, I was determined to spend this time in an exhaustive exploration of the town itself. My tour began, naturally, with a Moroccan-style breakfast on a shady rooftop. Fresh bread, olive oil, eggs, four types of cheeses, and some kind of shredded meat.⁹ A scraggly kitten camped out under the table, helping us to finish our breakfast. After eating, we traversed nearly every street and every shade of blue. We climbed hundreds of steps to the very top of Chefchaouen and stood beside the old city wall, surveying the cascade of blue rooftops and valley beyond. I caught and released a very daring grasshopper, then skipped back down the steps to the bottom of Chefchaouen to explore the ancient walled kasbah. Wandered through the prison,¹⁰ then climbed two towers and looked down at people passing through the streets. Saw flocks of birds sailing down from the mountains and weaving  between mosque towers before alighting in the town square. I even had a chance to be an annoying know-it-all when I overheard three American tourists discussing a rosemary bush in the kasbah garden. “It’s basil, guys.” “No, basil has actual leaves. It’s gotta be sage.” I think I walked up and, with barely concealed amusement, corrected them. Also gave a good tip about cooking potatoes with rosemary, though it was likely lost on my listeners.¹¹ Upon taking a photo of intricate green tile in a doorway, I was smacked on the rear end with a plastic water bottle by an old woman, who grinned and cracked what I’m sure was a hilarious joke in Arabic.

Now that the architectural and historical exploration had come to its end, we spent the next two hours exploring the local shops. We had a long conversation with a weaver, and sat in a huge room filled with folded carpets while a pair of merchants unfolded each in front of us on the floor to display its color and pattern. All afternoon, we bartered, laughed, argued, admired.¹² I found the happiest cat in town curled up in a pile of blankets outside a weaver’s shop. I bought a blanket I’d been lusting after since my first trip there, with every shade of blue to remind me of Chaouen’s painted walls.¹³ We attempted, for at least an hour, to locate a green blanket that wasn’t woven out of fluorescent thread.¹⁴ Everywhere we went, we were shown the same blinding lime green/forest green combination. We explained, in multiple languages, what normal green should look like, pointed to relevant colors, and gesticulated wildly. Each shopkeeper was so keen on making a sale that he dug out every blanket he had that even contained a hint of green.¹⁵ After being shown about twenty different fluorescent green blankets in twelve shops, I announced, “If you can show me a tree this color, I will buy your blanket.”

Exhausted by the bright colors, we tiptoed up to another rooftop café, where I sipped mint tea and watched the late afternoon bustle of the town square. On the way to the hotel, we ran head-on into a wedding procession and were engulfed in smiling, singing women who sprinkled me with flowery oils as they walked by. Later, I found myself walking up the street side-by-side with a little girl who wheeled a pink stroller in an extremely businesslike manner. Since she looked like she knew where she was going, I accompanied her for about five minutes, earning appreciative smiles and laughter from nearby women and children. Just after sunset, when the edges of the mountains were glowing and the moon hung low above us, we trekked up a small mountain to Chefchaouen’s most famous mosque. We sat on a wall and nibbled a chocolate bar while lights gradually blinked on across town until the whole valley looked like a reverse night sky, with a city of stars below and the real sky dark above.

Back at the hotel,¹⁶ we shared a stranger’s chocolate cake and conversed for hours about religion, global politics, travel, and–of course–Morocco. Read myself to sleep only to be awakened at four o’clock in the morning by an overzealous imam in a nearby mosque. My friend had happened upon a geode the night before during our walk up to the mosque, so–being the avid rock collector that I am–I set out on my own to repeat the journey. After reaching the mosque with no sign of amethyst, quartz, or any other attractive mineral, I continued up the side of the mountain. I sat on a boulder and looked back at the town, cut in half by early morning sunlight and shadow. A woman herding goats made her way up the slope past me, shhing and clicking at them as they meandered across the rocky ground. Lost in thought, I gazed down at the tiny figures moving about blue streets below.

Eventually, like the ill-fated protagonist in so many fairy tales, I wandered off the path. About halfway up the mountain, I crossed paths with the goat herder a second time. She was sitting on the shady side of a boulder with her daughter while their goats grazed contentedly nearby. I nodded and sat down a few feet away, but was soon invited to share their shade. Through gestures and smiles, I introduced myself and told them how much I loved their town and their mountains. The girl, Nada, watched me, curiously, before deciding that I was okay and enlisting my help in digging six little holes in the dirt. She scampered around collecting dried rodent pellets and handing them to me to deposit in each hole. I assumed this was to be some sort of game, but after a while I realized that she was just trying to occupy the time. I pulled out the colored string I carry with me everywhere and showed both of them the friendship bracelet I’d been working on. We sat together, squinting in the sunlight and listening to happy goat bleats, for nearly half an hour. Before leaving, I dug two spare friendship bracelets out of my pocket and tied them around Nada’s wrist. She met me again on the road down the mountain and grinned at me before disappearing behind a whitewashed gate. My search for a geode was long forgotten.

1. I am doing my best, however, to eliminate both peanut butter and nutella from my diet. Because this is a task of near-Herculean proportions, I’m just taking things one day at a time.
2. Catastrophe is a strong word, but I felt pretty strongly all week.
3. Did you know that this book is listed as one of the most controversial children’s books ever written, mostly because of depicted nudity, and has been banned in many places? The kindergarteners giggled through the first couple of pages but got over it quickly. Toward the end, when Mickey’s dough outfit falls off and he’s naked again, one of them exclaimed “Oh my goodness!”
4. True story: I dressed up as the Paper Bag Princess one year for Halloween. My dad got a paper grocery bag and cut out a neck hole and two arm holes, then I trick-or-treated in it all night.
5. I have a much longer list, but perhaps my overabundance of opinions on children’s literature are best left for another day.
6. Spaghetti with fresh onions, garlic, green pepper, and carrots in the sauce. Fruit smoothies accompanied by assorted French and Moroccan-style pastries for dessert.
7. Or, to be precise, every hour beginning at 2:00am.
8. A charming mountain town about three hours from Tangier, known for its gorgeous blue walls and handwoven blankets. Known affectionately as “Chaouen” by locals.
9. Still on my unique and confusing pollotarian diet, but maintaining my “try everything once” rule.
10. Tried on the shackles chained to the wall, but my small hands slipped right through them. May have made a joke about how no prison can hold me.
11. If they can’t even tell the difference between rosemary and basil, they probably don’t spend much time cooking.
12. I even managed to pick up a birthday gift my darling sister and celebrated track star, of whom I am very proud.
13. Just in time for winter, too. A strategic purchase.
14. An earlier attempt at a gift for my sister, who loves the color green.
15. Except for one obviously colorblind one, who thrust brown and red blankets into our arms.
16. A fabulous place, by the way, Hotel Molino is in a 400-year-old riad in the heart of the medina. This was my second stay there and this time I had the pleasure of meeting the owner. He showed me around his beautiful garden and even gave me two aloe vera plants, something I’d been searching for since arriving in Morocco. Highly recommended.

On Saturday I wandered through sunlit streets to a little shop with art supplies and bought a set of drawing pencils and some acrylic paints. Picked up a fresh baguette and vegetables on my way home, then made a delicious pasta sauce for lunch.² In the evening I headed downtown for Tanjazz, Tangier’s annual jazz festival. The featured musician, Fouad Hani, played about five different instruments, which were lined up in front of him and switched after each song. The crowd was full of young people, who were jumping, riding each other’s shoulders, throwing hats and scarves into the air. Near me, a mother and daughter danced together. The musician, who had a big gray beard and jaunty yellow cap, pranced about the stage as he sang. He stomped, kicked, grinned into the flashing lights. The drum pulsed through the crowd like a false heartbeat.³

I explored the city docks on Sunday, frightening a flock of seagulls and, later, a school of fish. Met a cat with the kind of eyes that cats only have in Halloween storybooks. Befriended two travelers from Bristol, England and showed them my favorite spots, then enjoyed a late-night tagine. Fell into bed just in time to catch my breath before the coming workweek.

1. It’s all arranged on an unused door, so there are big letters that say “DINO DOOR”. The girls keep asking for books about princesses, so I think I’ll make a princess corner next, featuring reigning women throughout history who defied gender roles to make a difference in the world.
2. Green peppers, two perfect tomatoes, onions, garlic. Fresh baguette.
3. Later that night, Loki caught, killed, and devoured an enormous cockroach in my apartment, reaffirming that adopting a kitten has been one of my smartest choices since moving here.

During the second week of school, the library was a flurry of activity. Reading my favorite childhood stories to the kindergarteners,⁴ revamping the library card system,⁵ meeting with the editors of Al Tanjaoui, the student literary journal,⁶ organizing student volunteers, sorting through and cataloging summer book donations,⁷ meeting parents, installing three computer stations, and eating rushed lunches of bread and cheese between elementary school library visits and high school study halls. Continued work on Super Secret EdTech Project.⁸

On Friday after school I kidnapped a couple of weary colleagues for a peaceful picnic dinner in the Kasbah overlooking the ocean. Fresh bread from L’Italienne (my favorite local bakery so far), cheese, melon, flaky pastries, cucumber and tomato. Saw Spain on the horizon and enjoyed the evening breeze. On the walk home, I made friends with several cats and one tiny child.⁹

Saturday was my catch-up day. Blogged week seven, had a long meeting for work, and spent some quality time with Loki. On Sunday I made a scrumptious vegetable curry with couscous, which I shared with a friend.¹⁰ In the early evening, I took a leisurely walk around town, wandering through a hillside cemetery (complete with a grazing flock of sheep, shepherd, and sheepdogs) and following the road down through the verdant Spanish part of town. In the Kasbah, I admired tilework I’d never noticed before, found a cat with oceans for eyes, and passed two little girls walking hand-in-hand down a curved passageway. I walked through the city as the light faded and tantalizing smells rose through the sloping streets. I walked past cobblers packing away their wares for the night, and honeybee-encrusted cake peddlers selling one last sticky treat. I tasted honeysuckle and inhaled tagine-flavored air. My walk ended with a freshly baked baguette and a meandering conversation on the city beach, under a star-speckled sky. (Toes buried in cold sand and the wind carrying secrets from the ocean to my ear.)

1. No, not an old man. Or an anorexic walrus.
2. Ten points if you can identify his namesake and understand why it’s such an appropriate name for a kitten.
3. And there are a lot. See photographic evidence.
4. Heckedy Peg, Strega Nona, and If You Give a Mouse a Cookie.
5. This involved a lot of cutting, gluing, taping, and recycling old wooden card catalog drawers.
6. More on that in a subsequent post.
7. Speaking of which, the library badly needs book donations! If you have books you don’t need anymore and would like to send them to Morocco, shoot me an email.
8. I know, I know, I’ll tell you all about it soon. Just need to make a few final touches before I unveil it.
9. The previous week, I was walking through the medina one evening when a small girl said “Hola!” to me. I said hello back, and she ran up and hugged me. When I couldn’t figure out how to make her let go, I picked her up and spun her around, which made her giggle and smile shyly. Her brother walked up to me and announced, “Ten euro.” Morocco is full of smartasses, and I love it.
10. Loki thought I wanted to share it with him, too, and stuck one tiny paw in Barbara’s lunch before we caught him.

A couple of days later, Martha Burtis threw together Cookies for Cogdog, inviting Alan’s friends¹ to bake cookies and share them as a tribute to Alyce.²
So last Saturday I got up early and made an enormous batch of sugar cookies,³ coating myself, my kitchen, and far too many kitchen implements in flour. The six dozen or so cookies I made lasted all weekend. First I brought the cookies to a potluck at my school, sharing them with AST faculty, staff, and their children. They were a big hit, disappearing in a matter of minutes, and the kids gave me requests for next time. (“A blue T. Rex!” “A pink heart with pink sprinkles!” “Chocolate chip!”) The following day I brought the rest to the surprise picnic for Mustapha’s sisters. I saved the cookies till the end, which made it a double surprise!

I made lots of shapes, but enjoyed my rookery of penguins⁴ the most.

And a plate of sunflowers, with chocolate sprinkle seeds and almond petals.

On Sunday, Mina eats the first cookie.

A penguin takes a suicidal leap into Mustapha’s mouth.

Meanwhile, my penguin shares a similar fate.

Even stoics love their cookies. Despite the grouchy countenance, she ate more cookies than anyone else!

A cookie vampire appears.

The last cookie.

Thanks, Alyce, for bringing a little more happiness to Morocco.

1. Or anyone. Even if you don’t know Alan, it’s a wonderful project. Join us and bring some cookie love to your part of the world.
2. Take a look at the whole story here. The response has been amazing, and renews my belief that an online community of dedicated individuals can be just as warm, supportive, and loving as a community in your neighborhood– sometimes more.
3. Using my Dinosaur Cookies recipe, but without the icing because corn syrup seems not to be a thing in Morocco.
4. See one of my favorite Wikipedia lists, “List of collective nouns“.

During the first week of school, I had the pleasure of meeting many wonderful co-workers for the first time, most of the students, and even a few friendly parents. I read stories to the lower school, worked on our Super Secret EdTech Project (soon to be unveiled), and got to know a few of the seniors. I mastered the computer catalogue system and located the best sandwich place in the neighborhood. There was a faculty potluck/picnic on Saturday and I spent the morning baking a huge batch of sugar cookies² and the rest of the day playing with the teachers’ children, swimming, and eating lots of delicious food.

On Sunday, I got up early so Mustapha and I could surprise his sisters with a picnic lunch. (See today’s post “How to Cook a Tagine in the Woods” for more on that.) A lovely day of cooking, chatting, playing music, eating, and running around on the beach. On the way home we stopped off for two varieties of jade plant and one aloe, all of which are now happily inhabiting my apartment.

1. Which is, of course, why I’m nearly a week late with this blog post.
2. Partially for Cookies for Cogdog. More on that later.