just another day in the Maghreb

Now THIS needs to go to the World Court! Ladies is there ANY way we can have this enacted as the law of the land in all countries? Oh what rejoicing there would be from all the ladies of the world! No more wondering, “Why do they do that?”, “Can they not do that in the bathroom, or at home, or in the automobile?”, “What would he/they do if I started repositioning my breast?” – but see that last buys us nothing because it would not cause the discomfort in the male population that their machinations cause the females. Yes, legislation sounds the way to go – but…. It really is Big Brother in all his worst form eh? Oh sigh, perhaps if we purchased billboards worldwide and expressed our discomfort? It’s an idea…

World Briefing | Europe
Italy: Men Can’t Grope...Themselves

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By IAN FISHER
Published: February 28, 2008

Whatever their reason might be, a passing hearse or simple discomfort, Italy’s highest court ruled that men may not touch their genitals in public. The ruling settled an appeal by a 42-year-old worker from Como, north of Milan, who was convicted in May 2006 of “ostentatiously touching his genitals through his clothing,” though his lawyer argued it was a problem with his overalls. But the court struck against a broader practice: a tradition among some Italian men of warding off bad luck by grabbing the crotch. The court ruled that this “has to be regarded as an act contrary to public decency, a concept including that nexus of socio-ethical behavioral rules requiring everyone to abstain from conduct potentially offensive to collectively held feelings of decorum.” The judges suggested that if they need to, men can wait and do it at home.



I received this by email from Q after the last post about Hassan:

“If you are going to describe sex in the next few entries, do please find a way to put it behind a link that says, Q, Don't Click on This. Appreciated....;-)”

That’s my girl!

I have a new roommate temporarily, or perhaps longer, we’ll see. She bears an amazing resemblance to a wood sprite. She is slender, and short in stature, with lovely brunette hair. She has the most amazing eyes that sparkle and reflect her moods as clearly as a reflection in a pond. She is British, interpret as you will, and has eyelashes that are dark, curly, and long enough to catch the morning dew. She is a journalist and in Morocco to learn Arabic and establish herself as the reporter on the scene.

I met her through A. – an American who came to Morocco in 2005, and is currently in Spain working on her doctorate in architecture. A. is one of those souls who has a brain firing on all synapses available and speaks at the speed of light (from New Jersey) – which is a joy for me as I do the same. She, of course, fell in love with Morocco when she was here and was back to visit. There is a new cadre of Americans in the city for study (a semester abroad) that drew in both JT (my new mate) and A. JT was looking for a temporary home while she scouts for longer-term digs and A. brought her here, and I took her in. It’s nice having another voice around the place, albeit she is gone more than she is here.

The past few days have been glorious weather wise, but I can feel the heat making its way from Fez to the coast, sigh. That said the Moroccans are still in their down coats where I have gone over to my sandals and skirts again.

I am determined to have no more respiratory failure, what a pain! The housekeeper was in this morning and we carried out the Moroccan version of spring cleaning – which involved a good deal of “Quoi?” on her part, but make that in Darijia as she speaks neither English or French – but we got the job done, and all is clean and sparkling.

I will be getting the subsequent installments of a romance in Italy to you this week never fear – and thank you again for your patience.

Ciao.