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runswithscissors


Sunday, February 29, 2004

My second morning in Sevilla -- two short weeks ago -- I woke from amazing, luminescent dreams of well-being. This morning, my second in Casablanca, I woke from turbulent, disquieting dreams situated back in the States, the political state of things figuring prominently. A shower followed by a walk in morning sunlight and two or three glasses of hot tea at a café brought me back.

They make killer tea here, BTW. And salads. ("Killer": not a word I tend to associate with tea or salads, but there it is. If they made them in Madrid or the States they way they do here, I'd indulge in both a whole lot more.) Also, as might be expected, some righteously excellent hommous and tabouleh.

When I stepped outside at 10 a.m. this morning, the streets weren't quite as quiet as those in Sunday morning Madrid, but more sedate than I'd been expecting. I'd had some blinkered idea that Sunday a.m. in a Moslem city would be more or less like weekday mornings in western cities, Friday being the day of religious observance here. Silly me. The Monday-to-Friday business model predominates here as well -- stores were dark and shuttered, with few people about. A walk brought me to a café that's become my default haunt here, I grabbed an outside table, ordered tea, watched the local world slowly come to.

Sitting at cafés here means being an automatic target for the wandering black market vendors who pass by every few minutes (cigarettes; socks/neckties; batteries; sweets; occasionally toys -- an enterprising guy with boxes of toy trains passed by this morning). Males looking to shine shoes appear frequently, people pass asking for money. Almost all solicit respectfully, move immediately on.

Looking like a westerner, even one as unobtrusive as me (though salt/pepper hair and honky-white skin work against complete invisibility), has not meant getting hit on more than the locals, which I've appreciated. It has, however, meant receiving artificially friendly overtures once in a while from a certain type of male, wanting (a) money or (b) to guide me to a rug shop. They start out with an ingenuously friendly hello in Arabic or French, quickly change to broken English if I don't respond. I've learned the routine, I mostly continue on my way.

The street-encounter thing has been interesting. Curious glances aren't uncommon, and far more Moroccan women than I'd expected have checked me out in obvious fashion, some returning my gaze boldly, directly. Could be they're actually scoping me out male/female-wise, could be they're trying to determine my cash value, westerners apparently assumed to be automatically swimming in money. (All things being relative, it may be that compared to the local standard we actually are swimming in money.)

And there are occasionally lengthier, conversational encounters. I experienced the first of those Friday afternoon after leaving my cross-eyed benchmate. [See yesterday's entry.] A skinny, short 50ish type -- copper skin, receding hair, day-old stubble, lacking a few teeth. We jostled each other along a stretch of broken, uneven sidewalk, I said, "¡Perdón!"

"¿Español?" he asked. "Sí," I answered, meaning yes, I speak it -- not necessarily his question. He spoke a little Spanish, some English, immediately began a conversation that veered between them and French, laying a complicated story on me about owning a boat and a marine company, about Spanish business contracts that keep him going between Spain and his country, Mauritania, about mechanical problems that had left him stranded in Casablanca for a week.

A true tale? A fanciful yarn? Total rubbish? I couldn't tell, didn't press him to find out. I listened, genuinely interested in this character, enjoying the unexpected encounter, wherever it led.

***********

I have no idea what this billboard is getting at.





[continued in next entry]

rws 7:19 AM [+]

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BLATHERINGS

August 2001
September 2001
October 2001
November 2001
December 2001
January 2002
February 2002
March 2002
April 2002
May 2002
June 2002
July 2002
August 2002
September 2002
October 2002
November 2002
December 2002
January 2003
February 2003
March 2003
April 2003
May 2003
June 2003
July 2003
August 2003
September 2003
October 2003
November 2003
December 2003
January 2004
February 2004
March 2004
April 2004
May 2004
June 2004
July 2004
August 2004
September 2004
October 2004
November 2004
December 2004
January 2005
February 2005
March 2005
April 2005
May 2005
June 2005
July 2005
August 2005
September 2005
October 2005
November 2005
December 2005
January 2006
February 2006
March 2006
April 2006
May 2006
June 2006
July 2006
August 2006
September 2006
October 2006
November 2006
December 2006
January 2007
February 2007
March 2007
April 2007
May 2007
June 2007
July 2007
August 2007
September 2007
October 2007
November 2007
December 2007
January 2008
February 2008
March 2008
April 2008
May 2008
June 2008
July 2008
August 2008
September 2008
October 2008
November 2008
December 2008
January 2009
February 2009
March 2009
April 2009
June 2009
July 2009

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .


MORE FOCUSED BLATHERINGS


Travels:
London '01
Pamplona
Italy '03
U.K. '03
Sevilla
Casablanca
Stoke-on-Trent
Barcelona
Québec/Ottawa
Boston/Lisbon/Madrid
Italy '04
Montréal
La Sierra

Events:
Madrid -- arrival
9/11
Emergency Room I
Holidays 2001
Holidays 2002
Holidays 2003
Holidays 2004
Holidays 2005
A neighbor's passing
Madrid -- March 11 bombings
  and aftermath
Emergency Room II
Israeli friend/Madrid Marathon
Madrid -- Royal Wedding
The DELE exam

GONE, a novel:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10

THE BASTARD CHILDREN OF
JOE ROCCO, a novella:
-- Part 1
-- Part 2
-- Part 3

BURBANK SHRUGGED,
a screenplay:
-- Part 1
-- Part 2
-- Part 3
-- Part 4

Short stories:
Murphy's Wife
Another Autumn
La Queja de Una
  Hermanastra Muy Conocida

Autobiography
-- Personal History
-- Hormones On Parade
-- Accidents, Random Mishaps,
    Personal Problems

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .


OTHER SOURCES OF WHOLESOME ENTERTAINMENT

People/Weblogs:
dooce
foxvox
fudge it
fear not
rebekka
bookslut
802online
idle words
madhaiku
wockerjabby
grow-a-brain
rebel market
letting me be
out and about
kung fu grippe
fanatical apathy
baghdad burning
wfuv's music blog
kexp's music blog
mimi smartypants
between the miles
just a hippie gypsy
the impossible cool
tomato can brushes
vermont homestead
sugar mountain farm

Good Clean Fun:
gizmodo
futurismic
postsecret
dave barry
human clock
mcsweeney's
spaceweather
book-a-minute
internet archive
self-portrait day
my cat hates you
out of context quotes
surrealist compliment
  generator
strindberg and helium

Makin' Musical Whoopee:
last fm
stereo8
pandora
soma fm

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .


ABOUT RWS/CONTACT





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