I saw this article in the London Times and I must say I am with the pissed mothers on this one. I think the story of Madeline is an unspeakable tragedy, and yes if I were her parents I would turn over every stone – but that has to stop where it impinges on the well being of other children. Just my thoughts. What do you think?
Here is one for you and I swear I would have taken a photograph but I really am quite certain I would have encountered some severe difficulty. I was coming back from the bank, la de da; and at the opening of the medina was one of the men with just one of the toys, aprons, phones, noise makers, whatever they are hawking on any day and he had a toy train running. Now you know what a train fan I am, so I stopped and took a look.
The front car had a character that bore a remarkable resemblance to Osama bin Laden (white turban, long beard, beady eyes), close on his heels was an American Sherman tank, long gun aimed at his head, occupied by an American solider. Around and around the track…. I had to walk away quickly because I was about to whoop in laughter. Can you believe it? Or maybe not so funny..
The other side of Moroccan character is demonstrated by my trip to the bank. I go usually to the same ATM as it has an English (designated by the British flag, ta da) translation, a better chance of the slim chance of a receipt, and is located in an open area that feels safe). On this morning when I arrived, you remember I had told you they were tearing up the sidewalks a while back (can’t find the post, sound of head knocking on the wall) – well now they are putting down a new one, quite lovely really, looks like marble. However the portion between the street and my ATM was just the wet cement. Yikes! I told one of the chaps, “I need to get over there. Will you be done later?”
“Oh no Madame. Stand here,” he said. Then he called over four or five other chaps and they laid me out a path to the ATM! Can you believe that!? It was so sweet. And afterwards they were all beaming like they had done the Princess a good turn. So great.
On Tuesday Q’s Arabic tutor called to cancel her lesson. “Oh is it a holiday?” asked Q.
“No,” answered the tutor and hung up. Welcome to Morocco.
The tale of the great cockroach hunt goes like this: I came downstairs after my morning ablutions to find Q holding up M.C. Solaar in pride, she was beaming. “He killed a cockroach!” she said.
“Oh my gods we have roaches,” I cried out in horror heading for the kitchen and the under-the-sink supply of insect killing sprays.
She is following me cat in hand. “It was so cool. He climbed out of his bed (the playpen which we cover with a large blanket and weigh down with my yoga pads; I was hoping he would not figure out he could get out of there until it was time for him to refugee out) – I guess he must have seen the cockroach.”
“Dear gods how BIG was it?” now I am looking all around the floor expecting to be covered head to toe in disgusting flesh eating roaches at any minute.
“Oh a good size I guess,” she beamed. “I came down the stairs and had to wrestle it out of his mouth. He really had a hold on it,” still beaming.
“Did you WASH YOUR HANDS? Do you think there are more” I ‘m still looking for the kill spray. Napalm anyone?
“I think he’s going to be a mouser,” beaming more if possible. “No I think it was just a stray that got in.”
Finally I get into the spirit of the first hunt and give him a pat. “That will come in handy, (shudder) with you living in NYC.”
I sent the two of them up to the terrace while I sprayed the kitchen and the front door stoop to a state of preemptive warfare.
A is in Ghana now and cyber café’s charge 25usd/hour for the Internet so there is some tension here. Q and her friend are going up to Tangiers for the weekend, so I can have something to worry about. I’m going to the gym now and have a massage so I will be ready for the worrying.