On Friday, Cynthia mentioned that her host sister had a surfing lesson at 11:00, so she was going to the beach, and invited other people to come too. So anyone else who was interested and particularly good at finding a small group of Americans among a lot of Moroccans could join her.
I only fit one of the above qualifications. I made it to the beach, but walked back and forth without any luck finding her. I was about to turn around and give up when I was approached by a Moroccan man.
“Bonjour.”
“Bonjour.”
“Do you speak French?”*
“A little.”
This was all the encouragement he needed to start a “conversation.” And by “conversatoin,” I really mean “question/answer/related statement/repeat” cycle.
“What's your name?”
“Sabrina?”
“Sophia?”
Sure, let's go with that. “Yes.”
“That's a pretty name. I'm Houssin.”
“Oh.”
“Sophia is a Moroccan name.”
I have yet to meet a single Moroccan named Sophia. Granted, I don't have a very large sample size. More importantly, I've met a fair number of Sophias, and none of them have been Moroccan, or had any Moroccan inspiration for their name, so it can't be a terribly Moroccan name.
“Are you going to swim?”
“No. I don't like swimming.”
“Do you like sports?”
“No.”
“Running?”
“No.”
“Tennis?”
“No.”
“Eating?”
I gave him a strange look (which was also one of the few times I looked at him this conversation.)
“Eating is a sport,” he said.
Sure.
“The ocean is very pretty.”
“Mmm.”
“It's blue. How do you say that in English?”
He tried that out for a bit. “Blue. Blue.” (It's not as funny a word to repeat as “toothpaste.”) Then he told me that my eyes were like the ocean.
All right then.
After several more minutes, he either tired of the lack of responses he was getting, or the pace I was setting by walking. He said it was the latter, and that was probably true, because he concluded by asking me if I had a phone number.
“No.”
“Oh. Well, can I give you my phone number too? Just in case.”
“Sure.” It seemed the quickest way to get rid of him. He wrote down his number (which was a cell) and name, and told me he was a fireman. Then he went to sit down, and I went back to my house.
The night before, I'd had Abir ask her mother what time lunch was going to be, because I didn't want to miss it. “1, 1:30. Maybe 2.” I was back by 12:30, so I was in no danger of missing it, but for good measure, lunch wasn't served until 2:30.
Lunch was a beef and potatoes dish, with a side of cooked carrots. The carrots were cold, which was a disconcerting combination, but the beef was deliciously tender. I have yet to have had any beef here that wasn't.
After lunch ended, I went back to my computer to see the beginnings of a conversation about going to Agdal, which Nisrine had labeled as “the cool area.”
By “beginning of a conversation,” I mean Nathan had sent an e-mail saying he couldn't find us (by which he meant Cynthia and Natasha) on the beach, and if we were still planning on going to Agdal we should let him know. Then Cynthia responded that she would also be interested in going to Agdal if other people were planning on it.
Someone needed to be the decisive one. That person turned out to be Natasha, but only because she sent her response while I was typing mine up. We agreed to meet at Sidi Fata, and got definite signs of interest from pretty much everyone, followed by two or three e-mails that essentially said “someone else suggest a time, please.”
This time, it was my turn to be the decisive one. Decisive, but still flexible. “Five? Earlier? Later?” With a definitive question, Cynthia responded “How about later? Six?” Which was followed by a flurry of agreement.
It frightens me whenever I'm put in a situation where I'm the only one expressing an opinion or making a decision. Because it never means I've experienced sudden character growth, only that the people I'm with are even worse at making decisions than I am.
Cynthia's mother had told us that the best way to get to Agdal was to take 2 taxis and ask it to drop us off at the McDonalds. Nathan, Erika, and Cynthia took the first taxi they flagged down, leaving me, Natasha, and the growing realization that we both sucked at getting a taxi to stop. No taxi drivers noticed us, though someone on the street did and got the taxi to stop, which had nearly the same effect.
We arrived at Agdal and walked around for a bit going “so. This is Agdal.” What makes it “cool” is that it sells American and European-style clothing. Rather expensively. Agdal looked a bit like an ordinary shopping street that you could find elsewhere in the world. Having been to Shibuya and Fifth Avenue, it takes a lot more to impress me.
“So, this is Agdal.”
Eventually, we agreed on going to a cafe, and succeeded in finding one that wasn't full of men glaring at the outside world. (At least half the cafes in Morocco are like that.) The one we settled on was especially European-like, and had three of four women, at least when we entered. It also had quite the variety of drinks, milkshakes, smoothies, and desserts.
Natasha asked if it was too excessive to get a banana smoothie and banana crepe. I told her it was, but she ignored me and ordered it anyway. (I would have done the same in similar situations. The people at Einstein's Bagels last fall seemed to think I was weird for ordering a pumpkin bagel with pumpkin cream cheese. I mean, it's not like I got the pumpkin mocha at the same time.)
I ordered a kiwi juice. (I did not order the kiwi milkshake, which was probably tied with ginger juice [also present at this restaurant] as the weirdest drink they offered.) It tasted strongly kiwi, with an aftertaste of orange. Which makes me wonder how that differs from the “kiwi with a base of orange” juice they also offered, apart from the latter being about five dirham more expensive.
When we sat down, the waiter had brought over a tray of desserts and left. No explanation of what they were described in words designed to make your mouth water. No even indication of the price. Everyone admired the desserts, but I was the only one to get one. (Cynthia, Erika, and Natasha got crepes, and Nathan just got his drink.) I'd committed myself to asking about the price and, provided it was reasonable, getting a piece, but hadn't quite thought through which piece, so I ended up pointing randomly.
It showed up as “cheese” on the bill, so I presume it was supposed to be a cheesecake. Chocolate coated and with a layer of nuts inside. I thought the cheese part of cheesecake tasted like the inside of a kinder egg, complete with roughly equivalent textures.
We ate, and talked for a bit, and then the Ghana/Germany match came on. The noise of the match and the people watching it made conversation impossible, and besides which, we'd lost Nathan. Natasha, Erika, and Cynthia would occasionally crane around to check the score. After deciding it wouldn't be anti-social because there was no socialization happening, I started reading.
At one point Nathan asked if we wanted to go. He clearly wanted to stay.
Cynthia:”I don't care.”
Erika: “I don't care.”
Natasha: “I don't care.”
Me: “Yes”
Then something happened in the match and a cafe full of men let out an “ooooh” noise, and Nathan was back to watching the game, so that was forgotten about for a while. But (spoiler alert) Anna Karenina was preparing to throw herself under a train, so it was fine. (Sign of a really good book: it can make you ignore the cheering of at least 20 men, one of them sitting right next to you.)
We'd agreed not to eat dinner out (Cynthia: “Are we eating dinner out? I don't care, but I need to know before we leave.” Natasha: “I don't care.” Me: “I'd just assume eat dinner with my host family, unless someone has a strong preference otherwise.” Obviously no one else did.) so we left a little before nine so that Cynthia and Natasha could get to their homes for dinner. The cafe that had had several females when we'd entered was all male by the time we left. That's what the world cup does to audiences, apparently.
Hailing the cabs to go back went easier, but the cab that Nathan and Erika ended up in didn't know where Sidi Fata was. They also didn't know where the Kasbah was, which made me slightly suspicious of their training. It would be like a Chicago cab driver not knowing where Navy Pier is. So Nathan and Erika just told their driver to follow us, and it worked.
Agdal: successfully seen. I don't anticipate going back. After all, we'd finished the debate the day before, so we no longer needed to worry about being “cool, like Americans.”
