SSDD

I can't help but sleep late, it's just something I do.  In Texas I sleep at 4am, in Morocco I sleep at 3. 

Walking out of the apartment, it's colder than it should be, colder than I would be in Texas, and this is Africa, TIA, to take a quote from alfeelm, but mashy mashkill, the scarf and coat is overkill, in my opinion, but I've given my e-ra-yatee to oomee al-maghrebee, cause I'm on her turf now.  Stairs turn sharp and down and down, and I can see like I expect a prisoner sees the through windows with barred but I'm not trapped, I'm just in waiting, down the narrow stairs, and one quick second, I obtain cultures in pairs, so down the apples and pears after downing qahooa-haleeb, and out the door to bat-ha, a five minute walk past a palace, past the children seeing the misplaced American with the cultural inundation calous.  Ahalan wa sahalan filmaghreb, I said in my head, unable to kick the cold from my feet, but the ball left sweet over the heads of rejaal, qorat alkadam, and continuing the walk to batha.

I have become accustomed to absurdity, said Allison, whose name means The Tongue, which tickles me greatly, near-insanely, I'm sure, but keepin' on keepin' on, past techno beats that I can't help but hear on the streets, and rap, too, because English is too hard to translate into, atleast not while listening and swaggering and staggering up the taupe bricks to batha.  You see the same stuff on different days, the awkward guard unsure to salaam walaykum or to keep ignoring, or the kids who shriek for lack of care.  Who shouldn't be awake at 9am?  And the barber spinning the tool to raise the awning over the salon de coffieur eindema a-hasul al-makeena.  The medeena qadeema, eskoon huna, wa I can't help but be accustomed to it, swaying left to avoid the motorcycle taking up 3 feet of the 6 foot street, with the high walls like being in a hedge maze, and I'm amazed with outsider affection how the shoe-maker's glue wafts thick so I can absorb the fumes on the construction street where the rejaal construct a feat of Moroccan genius, the same Moroccan genius that wakes me up when I could sleep in, the hammers beating Berber beats. 

And past the cars parked where cars don't fit, so beggars can't sit, a plus, I suppose, and once again my 6th sense knows that a car is speeding up behind me, so left I move again with an inside grin at the way I move and walk like I've been here long.  Ath-heb ella bat-ha, and I continue past the hanoots, the corner stores, selling homemade yogurt and hobs next to propane and children's games, and up and up and past newspaper with bad grammar to taxi drivers who expect me to speak French, and look confused when I speak Arabic, and flinch when I say the Center an American instead of the American Center, but I hop in praying the whole way, and you would too, if you say the taxi sway, the suspension that breaks your jaw, the uncertainty of the way, and how you can't even trust al-edawdya.  The difference making a difference of dirhamayn or a quarter, roughly.  But I'm where I want to be.  Shake my finger no at the beggar selling kleenexs and who has the sad eyes perfected.  You could make a killing at the airport with you and your cohort, selling kleenexs to tourists who haven't gotten the memo that you can't trust the people on the streets.

You wouldn't see the center if you didn't know it was there.  A gate on a wall on a sidewalk.  Inside I see trees and people talk, stall, and wait for class.  I have two hours a day except for 5 unwanted hours of class that I think are gay.  Can't help it, it's useless, but I grin and bear it, and draw backwards in my notebook.  Did I mention I write backwards now?  You don't think too much about it now, but siht ekil ecnetnes eno etorw I.

The way back is the same but the destination is not.  On the door I knock and ring the bell that sounds like a bird before I get a laa baas and a few handshakes and kiss ebee on the cheeks.  I can still hear the shrieks on the streets and the shieks on TV, and the mooftees and the call to pray, here I'll stay.  I'll drink tea at six and eat at 8.

Filmaghreb, you eat with bread.  Tear a piece off and pinch the food, more carbs than you need, but scant portions suffice, soffee?  Mzien, shabat, and the family laughs when I smack my brother and wear socks with my belghaa.  Even more when I yell moozbaaaaaaall, and stumble through Arabic.

Usratee says they'll cry when I leave, and when again?  Mashy mushkill, I'll keep in touch.  You really will?  Of course.  Good, I will go to America, soon, Lotfi says.  Oosbowayn, I'm counting down the days.