4th of July - !عيد استقلال سعيد

We answered last minute questions in class today before taking our Midterm. There were some subjects on there she didn’t mention but it wasn’t too bad. Afterwards we all head to TGI Friday’s! It was probably the greatest mid-program pit stop we could ever have. The entire group made it down there but Geoffrey and Rachel, and Fadowa and Hanan join us as well. We expected every American in Morocco to be there, and for all we know they were, but the place was basically just the 17 of us with a few other families. As we walked in we were greeted in French, but that disappointment was soon washed away as we looked upon walls filled with knickknacks from the US. I checked around the restaurant to see if anyone had beaten us there, including the restroom. They have a hose bedee in the stall, and my curiosity shot my shoe with it. Oh well. On my way back to the table a very large, strong black dude gave me a smile that had this sense of elation in it that I couldn’t quite understand. A little while later this guy comes to our table and introduces himself. Rusty Rutherford (or something like), this guy was the manager who whole-heartedly welcomes us to his establishment. He was from Orlando, Florida and was extremely excited to have Americans here. He invites us to come as often as we like, and made a point to shake every person’s hand at the table. We order 2 Three-For-All’s as appetizers, and pretty much everyone gets a strawberry lemonade. We get typical Moroccan service, and have to wait about 30 minutes for our appetizers, and another 30 for the meal, but we didn’t care, as we talk about everything we miss at home. They also have the Wimbledon on, which brings smiles to Whitney and Fadowa, who are huge fans. The rest of us make jokes about tennis at their expense. Honestly, how pompous it is to rub it in the loser’s face by shooting up the points at the beginning and telling those having bad games that they at least have 'love'? As far as food goes, I ordered a barbecue burger that I load with fries and literally have to use two hands to hold. I would have taken a picture of it, but I ate it too fast, as it was amazing. The cook came out to talk to us for a while too. He was also American, which gave me a little more hope in the food. And Egyptian Heinz’s ketchup! It was a little diluted, but still the best condiment I’ve had since I arrived. To finish off we order almost every desert on the menu, and share the Mud Pies, Oreo Delights, and steaming Brownies melting the vanilla ice cream above. Everyone has a blast, our smiles holding even as we chew our food.

Most of the group all has plans to travel this weekend, so we part ways, as I’m staying in Rabat this weekend. Mely and I catch a cab to Chelah, where the jazz festival was, as it is also a bird sanctuary built on Roman ruins. During the ride, we make small talk in French with the nice driver and other lady passenger, and the latter invites us to her house for tea. She worked in a hospital with sick children, and spoke only of how she cared for them, so previous comments on hospital corruption and greed are certainly not the steadfast rule here. When she leaves we continue conversing with the cabdriver, who is Berber and shows off his many languages. It is really nice to have Mely, another French speaker, to help keep the topics going.

Chelah is beautiful. We start off by straying off the path, taking some countryside photos before returning to the bird side of the paradise. There are seriously birds singing everywhere, and somehow we make it through without any nasty bombings from our upstairs neighbors. The ruins contrast a snapshot of nature surviving man’s self-destruction, and nature’s beauty clothes the entire hillside. We explore the entire bird-town, and even find the cat-ghetto, where I’m pretty sure a family lives. The edge of Chelah overlooks a sort of vineyard, and we stroll off our meal with our singing companions.

After a cab ride back and a quick nap, I go out with Hemsa for soccer at 7. At the beach, we play past the sunset for at least two hours. I’m solidifying more of the unstated rules, such as the sidelines extending from the hot part of the sand, to literally the ocean (even, as in our case, when it is a soccer field length away). You have to call your own fouls, and your team claps if you get really close on a shot or do any sort of slide or bicycle kick. Also, if you even tip the sandcastle goalposts it’s considered not a goal, which keeps the contestations to a minimum. I start off playing horrible, but soon pick up my game with an assist and goal. Once again, score, and gain your team’s immediate trust. I start guarding the guy on the other team who thinks he’s the greatest player (who way too often cherry-picks goals). Our team happens to be excellent at defense, but they really needed a forward who can move to make a play happen, so I try to fill that spot (key word "try"). By far my favorite moment happens when I block their narcissist champ from scoring, and dribble through their entire team, including one nutmeg, before scoring on their goal-sitting keeper. My team loved that. We play for hours, even wearing out Hemsa, who sits for a while on the sidelines to rest. As players get tired, more cycle in, and when you need a water break, you need only to go to the ocean for a quick dip before returning. Also, there’s isn’t much of a focus on the score, and conversely no one really cares if a team has one person extra, as the focus is on everyone playing. Seriously, soccer here is more like a dance. I’ve noticed even if I’m open I won’t get a pass if I’m just standing there forever (if you’re on offense) and goal scoring opportunities are often foregone if its too slow and easy. Instead the forward will pass back to the defense, and the team will try to set up another run. Shinguards aren’t needed as everyone is controlled enough to almost never hit, though this group plays more like soccer in highschool, meaning you have to play the man as much as the ball (which is more my style too).

We wear ourselves out and Hemsa and I dribble down the streets on our way home, just like Paul and I used to do returning from the field. We stop to play with the neighborhood gang (in the Little Rascal sense), and there’s no difference in treatment between me and any other local kid, as we mess around with soccer moves and fake-outs in the lamplight.