when the veneer begins to tear a little...

What happens when you combine an elderly man, a catheter, and a train at rush hour?  That, ladies and gentlemen, would be a story I am about to share.

I take the train from Rabat to Mohammedia anywhere from two to five times per week, depending on how many classes I have, etc.  My classes are either 9-12 or 2-5, leaving time for an ample lunch for both students and faculty in between.  The events I am about to share with you all occurred on one of those trips from Mohammedia to Rabat at rush hour-between 5 and 7 pm.

In order for this story to make a bit more sense, I am going to give you some background.  The trek from my front door to my classroom is roughly 2 hours.  Here's why.  I walk about 20-25 minutes through the medina to the train station.  Then I get on a train.  This can either make or break my day.  There is a fast train, which is roughly 30 minutes and only 1 stop between Rabat Ville and Mohammedia.  Then there is the slow train of doom with 4 stops and tons of people who get on at each of these stops which ends up around 50 minutes.  Once I get to Mohammedia, I need to find a taxi, meaning I have to run quicker than the other eight million commuters and then get to the university, make copies, etc.

The day that this insanity took place, it was of course on the slow train.  After work, and on a train full until bursting.  I had gotten on at Mohammedia and spied an empty seat.  Taking it, I breathed a sigh of relief and hoped that the train ride back to Rabat would be uneventful.  This was not to be.

At one of the next stops, people continue to get on, crowding around.  Only this time, it was a bit different.  From a crowd of people, I begin to hear a man praying in pain.  I turned to see who was praying fervently but could only hear a voice.  The voice got louder as men began to rise up from their seats investigating the noise.  Finally, I saw him-an elderly man wearing a cream djellaba stooped over praying to God to deliver him from his misery.  Behind him was his wife who was stooped over more than her husband.

The men ran towards the elderly Moroccan and tried to help him into a seat.  It was then that I realized the source of his discomfort.  Peaking out from underneath his djellaba was a catheter in a plastic pharmacy bag.  The moment I saw that, my heart just died.  I got up from my seat, wanting to help these people in some way.  One of the men saw my distress and came over to calm me down, saying that there was nothing I could do.  Taking one last look at the man, his wife, the eager helpers, I got up from my seat and walked away.

Although that was a few weeks ago, I still cannot help feeling like I could have done something to better that man's life.  I keep wondering where his family was, why weren't they helping him, and, this experience more than any other showed me the solidarity of the Moroccan people.  I doubt I will ever forget that. 

the trials and tribulations of apartment hunting

I arrived in Rabat at the end of October, and since, I have been fruitlessly searching for an apartment. Now, you might think this task would not be so difficult, but trust me, it has been!

First, you have to decide where to live.  In Rabat, there are four main areas: Agdal, Hassan, Centre Ville and the medina.  I thought I wanted to live in Hassan, which is centrally located and pretty modern.  However, the more I looked, the higher the prices became.  So, I ditched that idea.  Then, I had a few interesting propositions in Agdal.  The cost there was also prohibitive.  So, I focused my search in Centre Ville and Medina.  This was more than a month ago.  Since then, I have seen roughly six apartments.  I would like to share a few interesting stories.

The Prostitution Scare
I went with another Fulbrighter to see an apartment in Centre Ville.  We arrive at the location which is next to one of my favorite restaurants.  A woman meets us there and takes us up to the apartment.  The apartment has THE BEST American kitchen that I have seen in Morocco.  There is ample counter space, a huge open space kitchen, basically I like the kitchen.  There is also a living room and big bedroom.  Now, this is where the entire experience goes pear shaped.

The woman explains the rent which is MUCH higher than normal.  Then she said that the person renting the apartment would not be allowed to have any guests.  Any guests coming over for dinner would have to leave the apartment and could not spend the night.  She explains this by stating that she could raise the rent and have rich businessmen use the apartment with prostitutes but that she would prefer to trust Americans.  So, rather than having a good trustworthy tenant, she prefers to harass a trustworthy tenant.  I basically had to clarify that my job was not as a lady of the night, but as a Fulbrighter.  To this day, this encounter still makes me laugh.   Clearly, I did not take this apartment.

The Never-ending Visit 
The other highlight of the apartment search was a visit with the same Fulbrighter in another area of Centre Ville.  This apartment was big enough for two people and in a nice, well lit and modern building.  When we arrived, we met the girls who were currently living there as well as their mother, and two younger sisters.  Their father came home during our visit and we were immediately invited to stay for juice and tea.

This discussion lasted longer than 3 hours.  While the father was very interesting, it was clear that he desired an audience more than conversation partners.  We tried on many occasions to depart, but it required a finesse that neither of us had after a three hour spontaneous lecture.  Needless to say, this apartment also fell through.  Le Sigh.

The Solution
So, having looked at apartments for the last month, I have decided that I will be taking the apartment next door to where I am living.  The move in date has been a continuous dance.  Hopefully, the apartment will be ready in the (very) near future.  I am enjoying spending time with my friends, but I really want to nest and decorate my new abode!