not about much of anything

Much to relate from the past few days.

Allison, Rachel, and I went to the Exotic Gardens in Kenitra this past Sunday. They’re not really exotic gardens in my opinion because the subdivisions looked remarkably similar. In any case, they were super fun because there were multiple levels and stairs and bridges tucked into corners. It was really more of a playground. It would make the world’s best game of Hide-and-Seek.

I finally got to go up on the terrace; I went up with Hajja when she was hanging laundry. It’s a shared terrace because the house is divided into smaller apartments, and everybody gets access to the terrace. The terrace is the clothes dryer. The view is magnificent, if you can look past the roofs of the neighbors: you can see the Oudaya kasbah, the Bouregreg River, the ocean, Sale, and way up the Bouregreg valley to where the suburbs of Sale are spilling over the hillside into the valley below.

Aside from the view, I was also treated to a minor rant about Hajja’s neighbors, who don’t keep their part of the house clean enough. I think Hajja also said that the other families rent from Al-Hajj, whose house it is. Mind you, this was all in French. Al-Hajj grew up in this house.

Our house is on the Rue des Consuls, which back in the day was the only street in the entire city where foreign representatives could live. Hajja is sure my room was once the office of a diplomat. She also said that a few years ago somebody knocked on their door and asked to see the house because their great-great-great(-great) grandfather had been a diplomat and lived here

I had never really associated our house with history before. The house is old, sure, but I had never stopped to think that it had a history; it’s just the building where I live. It’s very Moroccan, living in history. In fact, that’s what I want to do my ISP about.

My friend’s host sister has started teaching a belly dance class just for us CCCL-ers. Monday and Wednesday nights we get to see just how uncoordinated we are. Personally, I just don’t think American hips can move like Moroccan ones. And talk about a workout: I didn’t even know those muscles existed. Happily there were also showers at the dance studio, as I believe my brother may have messed up our hot water. You have to turn the gas on manually here to get hot water.