EVERY morning now, and for all of Ramadan I suppose, the chap with the very large, loud DRUM walks beneath my bedroom window at 0300 hours – in the A.M.! It was interesting the first night, not so much now…
This alarm is to wake the neighborhood so that they can get up and have their breakfast before the daylight of Ramadan. There are exceptions to the fast during Ramadan: pregnant women, children, the ill, and the very old. I don’t ask to be cast into any of those categories, but I am among the Buddhists and I have decided my rule is breakfast when I wake since I have to go to the gym and the whole fainting on the treadmill gig is just not what it’s cracked up to be – the drama is not worth the cracked head; therefore I have no bloody need to be awakened at THREE A.M. I feel a bit like Winnie the Poo’s pal, the ever scattered and terminally angst ridden Piglet getting caught up in that kite (for anyone NOT British consult Google).
The Mega Mall was deserted yesterday. All the restaurants on the Food Court were closed but for the hamburger place. The majority of people were other computer geeks like me. We were all gathered in the area off the Food Court with the comfy chairs, tables, and plugs. I do think I was the only one there who has ever made an appointment with a cardiologist – just to check. I was really surprised; I thought Souissi would be open and serving lunch. I must check out Paul’s and Agdal next week to see their Ramadan status.
All of the restaurants over here in the New City are closed but for the big evening meal with the exception of course, of Mac Doh (MacDonald’s). The cafés that are also bakeries, the Majestic and the Comedie’, are closed for sitting and are acting only as bakeries. The lines outside the Majestic confirm my statement it is the best bakery on this side of town; Paul’s of course holds that title for the other side of Rabat. I have yet to find another place for my café au lait; I’m getting a bit desperate.
Lauren Bacall was 83 on Sunday. What a woman, what a voice. I remember reading when I was young that she obtained the sultry tones by sitting on a hilltop and reading until her throat was sore – day after day. I tried it. I’m Scots. It didn’t work. The genes are too resistant to alteration. Happy Birthday Ms. Bacall.
Abdul has informed me he is going to paint the interior of the house while I am gone to North America and install the Moroccan version of central air and heat, which lends warmth and coolness to anyone within six to eight inches of the front of the device. But the intention is lovely.
I’m still attempting to establish my routine with Q gone. Having the gym, the salon, and most of my eating places on the other side of town does bode for a move, but I do so like it here in the fort; but that makes for a day of lugging about bags and I’m not fond of that. A great problem to have and I’m sure it will resolve itself. In any case as the entire country goes into a holding mode during Ramadan, there will be no big moves until I return from my North American trip in November.
My other big problem at present is a desk that fits properly. I believe I have mentioned before I am taller than your average Moroccan (not as noticeable as when I am in Hong Kong I admit) and I have not found a desk that works for me. I would love to get one of the handmade tables rather than something from the Moroccan Ikeda but the shops don’t really lend themselves to one sitting down at the tables to test the height. I have just about decided however, that I am so decidedly strange looking in any case perhaps the aberrant behavior wound not go amiss? I prefer to purchase any items in Fez but I doubt my friend with the donkey would be willing to make that trek…