February 11, 1990. I was a senior in college, living in an off-campus house with two housemates and a mildly psychotic cat. Almost all of the streets in the town of Swarthmore are named after colleges; I lived on Kenyon Avenue (one of those strange coincidences that one seems to collect as one gets older), a small, quiet street in a multiracial, working-class neighborhood. I heard the news first via the car horns, then as families began to gather in the street, forming a spontaneous and joyous parade. Nelson Mandela, a hero to many of us, imprisoned for twenty-seven years, had been released from prison.
For my second to last post from the Maghreb (I leave on the 14th!), I thought I’d write a guide to something that is an essential skill here: bargaining. I have yet to master the art of bargaining, which essentially amounts to the right combination of charm and disgust*, but I’ve come a long way since the beginning.
I realized the other morning, as I was drinking tea on my terrace and looking out over the ocean, that I’m going to miss Morocco when I leave. It was the first time I wasn’t wrapped up in being challenged or where I was headed next, and I got a serious feeling that this country had finally gotten under my skin. Maybe it’s the freedom and independence I have now that my two-month homestay is over, or maybe it was the gloriously red tomatoes I saw in the market today, but something made me suddenly wish I could rewind to that first night when I couldn’t sleep because of all the strange noises.
"We would like to offer you a position with us," the woman said, and I nearly dropped the phone at my first job offer. "But," she continued, "Can you be ready to leave the country in a week?"
Life is hard, being a functional adult is harder.