In Peace Corps, as in life, you will fail, or you will feel like you have failed. It is all part of the charm. I mean really, how will you ever really appreciate what you have accomplished if you have never known what it is like to get kicked in the kidneys a few times? Though lets be honest here, it is much easier to say than actually ENJOY the experience of failure for its character building charm. Coming into Peace Corps I knew I was going to fail at a few things (or feel like I had failed a few things), fail at communication, fail at teaching english, and fail in my attempt to convince people I am not mskina or stupid. But knowing and actually living those failures has been...charming, really really charming. For example:

Center Employee: It is HOT today!

Me: Yeah, I know!

Center Employee: Why are you here?

Me: I have English class...

Center Employee: But no one is here. It is just so hot, shame you came all the way here in this heat for no one to show up.

Me: I know (fail)

Me: Nakhla Juj (Palmtree 2, the neighborhood where I live)

Cabbie: waxxa, fin f Nakhla Juj (ok, where in Nakhla 2)

Me: qrib hammam u j-jam3 (near the hammam and mosque)

Cabbie: Fin? (where)

Me: qrib hammam u j-jam3

Cabbie: Fin?

Me: qrib hammam u j-jam3

Cabbie: Fin?

Me: qrib hammam u j-am3

Cabbie: Fin!?

Me: QRIB HAMMAM U J-JAM3

Cabbie: Fin!?

Me: (gets out and walks...fail)

Woman at aerobics class: Hahaha, it is funny that you teach aerobics but you are fat like us! (grabs stomach fat and squeezes it and jiggles it a few times while telling all the other women to look)

All the women in aerobics class: hahahahahahahahahah

Me: It is not normally this big, I just ate a lot of couscous today

All the women in aerobics class: hahahahahahahah, you have so much stomach fat!

Me: (roll eyes...fail)

Me: (in Darija) I would like to hang my English schedule up around town, is that ok with you?

Director: What?

Me: (in Darija) I would like to hang my English schedule up around town, is that ok with you?

Director: (blank stare) What?

Me: (in Darija) I have no students, so I need to market my class a little to get people to come.

Director: What?

Me: Never mind

Director: It is hot today

Me: Yes it is (fail)

Oh, the dialogues can go on and on and on and on...but I am sure you are getting the picture of what my life has been like so far. And while I have had many accomplishments (at least for Peace Corps standards) a day does not go by where I don't feel like I have failed in one small way or the other. But I keep reminding myself that it could always be worse, at least I am "failing" in a place like Morocco, where the food is AMAZING and the weather is like Florida. So actually, maybe I am winning :)

I am mskina (sad) bzeef (really). I don't know if you knew this, but I am. I am the mskinaest person that people here in Morocco have met. I am so mskina, that people constantly have to remind me in case I have forgotten. I am introduced as Lucia, the mskina American. I try to say that no I am not sad, I really love being in Morocco and I am happy, but I obviously have no idea what I am talking about so people ignore my efforts to state otherwise.

I am mskina because:

1. I live by myself (actually I live on top of an amazing family that feeds me everyday and who I watch Turkish soap operas with, but that doesn't seem to matter)

2. My family is in America and I can't talk to them because it is sooo expensive (not true, there is something called email, which turns out is free)

3. I am not married, YET, but someone knows of a very nice man who wants to go to America (YES! JACKPOT!)

4. I don't speak the language (well I DO speak the language, people just don't understand what I say, they keep expecting the white girl to speak French, and when she doesn't they are too confused to re-group and try to understand what I am saying)

5. I work and can't sit home all day and watch TV (it doesn't matter if I don't find the idea of watching TV all day fun)

6. I am not married (did I already say that?)

7. I can't cook tajines or couscous or bake bread (I can cook other things, but REAL women can cook tajines and couscous and bake bread, so, I am screwed on this one until I learn how to be a real women)

8. Since I am not Moroccan, people charge me triple of what I should really pay so I am constantly getting taken advantage of (which isn't actually true, but that doesn't seem to matter either)

9. I don't have air-conditioning (ok, I will give them that one)

10. I have NO friends, how can I, I don't speak the language (which yet again isn't true, I have friends, who also speak English)

So there you have it, the reason why I am mskina bzeef. Like I said, it doesn't matter if the reasons why I am mskina are true or false. People find the idea that I am American AND mskina charming, story of my life...

Weddings in Morocco are INSANE. I danced until 4 in the morning, 4 IN THE MORNING! And there was NO liquor, yeah I know right? There was a tent set up in front of the bride's family's house and it was PACKED with invitees and I think people who just came off the street who happened to be wearing kaftans? The bride changed 5 times, first a green outfit, then a white and brown outfit, then an orange outfit, then a blue and silver outfit, and THEN a white outfit. Each outfit was more extravagant than the next with different tiaras, jewels, and weave to match. In the time she changed she even re-did her makeup to match the outfit! CRAZY! The wedding consisted of us eating, dancing, and watching the bride and groom be prodded by the bossy wedding planners and photographer to make sure they got the PERFECT photo, hopefully out of the million they took they will find one they like.

My very nice landlady (who calls herself my Moroccan mother) was nice enough to lend me a Kaftan, which is a long sleeved dress with a belt. See below:

And then this is what happens when an American goes to a wedding in Morocco dressed like a Moroccan:

1. Arrive.

Everyone stops and stares at you. They are all very confused, what is this American girl doing wearing a kaftan? Where is she from? Why is she trying to speak to me in Darija?

2. Answer the same questions over and over again.

Partygoer: Are you married?

Me: No (here we go again...)

Partygoer: How old are you?

Me: 27

Partygoer: WHAT! You know the bride is 17, and she is getting married, so why are you not married?

Me: (in English) Because I am an old hag

Partygoer: What? I don't understand?

Me: Never mind

3. Eat.

You will be served TWO dishes. A chicken dish and then a beef dish with prunes. Do not listen to the other women at the table to "eat eat eat" the first dish, because then you will not be able to eat the second dish, and then everyone will ask you if you are trying to lose weight so you can find a husband. And you will say "yes, that is exactly why I am not eating, because I am a fatty and need to find a husband".

4. Take an awkward picture with the bride and groom.

Remember, just like in America, the wedding is not for the bride and groom, it is for the guests. The bride and groom will spend the entire wedding sitting on a throne like couch while the wedding photographer and planners put them in different poses for pictures they can appreciate later. They don't get up, except to change outfits, they don't talk to other guests, and they don't dance until the very end. Oh, they also don't really smile. The wedding planners are SCARY and the bride and groom are too concerned about not pissing the planners off any more for not making the correct pose for the camera. One of the few interactions the bride and groom have with the guests is when you can go up to the bride (as everyone stares at you, because they all want to know what the American is going to do next), say thank you so much you look beautiful, and then take an picture awkwardly standing next to the bride and groom you have NEVER met before.

5. DANCE.

You are expected to dance. People want to see if the American, who can dress like a Moroccan, can dance like a Moroccan. So you dance, you dance your Moroccan slippers off. Follow what the kids are doing, they are CRAZY good dancers. Plus people will think you are such a good English teacher because look how good you are with the kids! Even if you are tired or feel like a complete fool, keep dancing. Because let me tell you, the next day when you see people on the street they will all comment on how AMAZING you are because you can dance. So dance monkey, dance.

I dance. Every single day in the Peace Corps I dance like a monkey, and people LOVE it. You HAVE to dance in the Peace Corps, at least Peace Corps Morocco, because really, what else are you going to do? Yes I teach English and aerobics, but increasingly I am finding that Peace Corps Morocco is more of a diplomatic mission to get people to see just how nice Americans are. So I dance, dance like a crazy monkey, and people eat it up and love me for it and then they feed me.

Here is a perfect example:

Scene: Walking in my town to English class, go to a store for a coke.

Me: A'salam wa'alekum! Kif dary? (Hello, how are you?)

Store owner: (look of utter shock on face)

Me: Labas?! Kulshi bixir?! (good? is everything good?)

Store owner: You speak arabic?

Me: Iyeah! Kan tkllm shwiya arabia, shiway bzeef! hahahahahah (yes! I speak a little arabic, very little)

Store owner: You are amazing! Hey (to the store owners next to him and people in store) this white girl speaks arabic!

Other People: No way! Wow! Where do you live?! Why are you here!? Are you married to a Moroccan?! Do you want to get married to a Moroccan? Why aren't you married to a Moroccan? We will find you a husband don't worry. Do you like tajine and couscous!? Can you cook tajine and couscous?! Wait, why are you here? Don't you miss your family?! Oh, she misses her family, she is just so sad. Are you sad? But isn't Morocco beautiful?! Do you think Morocco is beautiful!? How is the weather?! Do you like the weather?! Which is better, Morocco or America? You can say Morocco, it is ok, we won't tell your family back home! Wait, so when you say you live here, you mean you actually live here! Why? Isn't Morocco great! Don't you love the food!? Which soccer team do you like better, Barcelona or Madrid?.....

Me: (dancing like a monkey)

People: (eating it up) You need to come to my house for couscous!

Me: Done!

In Morocco, a gazella is not a fur like animal with horns but a pretty woman. And just like hunting gazellas in the jungle, or wherever it is they live, catching one is an art form. Here are a few helpful steps to get you on your way to catch yourself your own gazella:

1. Find a woman on the street you think is attractive. Make sure she is not Moroccan because it would be extremely inappropriate to talk to a Moroccan woman without the presence of her family. Make sure she is a foreigner, preferably an American, because what you see in movies is true and American women are all sluts, EVERY SINGLE ONE. Plus, they most likely don't know what is culturally appropriate and inappropriate, so you don't have to feel bad about being an asshole, because she doesn't know any better.

2. Say "bounjour", "bueno sera", "ciao", "hello baby", "hey gazella", "mmm lquqa(artichoke)", "give me your number", and/or "I speaka da inglish". It doesn't matter if she doesn't speak the language of the phrase you use, she is white, and therefore speaks some type of non-arabic language. It is also not important that you use the proper term for the appropriate time of day, "bueno sera" can be used during the morning, evening, or night. What IS important is that she knows you speak another language and have therefore had some type of education, watch American movies, and/or know just what American women want.

3. It is very important that you say these things AFTER she passes you on the street. Looking her in the eye and actually saying these things to her face requires something called "balls" or a "scrotum." This is not a common thing for gazella hunters to have because it requires that the hunter has a certain level of integrity. That is ok if you lack integrity, it is overrated anyway, and remember, as the movies show, American women like assholes.

4. Don't get discouraged is she says things like:

"what the f*** is wrong with you?"

"are you saying I look like a furry animal with long horns on my head?!"

"why are you missing all your teeth?"

"it is the morning, you say buon giorno, asshole"

"Je ne parle pas francais, asshole"

"who the f*** are you calling an artichoke, are you telling me I look like a f****ing artichoke!"

"no I will not give you my number, asshole"

The fact that she took the effort to turn around and say something to you means she is interested. This is good.

5. Don't listen to what she is saying and continue to talk in the foreign language you know best (French, Spanish, Italian, or English). Ask her if she is married, tell her she is pretty, and most important tell her you need her number so you can take her to a beach town to get to know her better. If she tries to walk away, block her way and continue asking her personal questions that you would never ask a Moroccan woman. Foreign woman LOVE this.

6. After she threatens to talk to your mother about how horrible you are (because you do still live with your mother), call the police, or says "shame on you for talking to me in such a bad way, you wold never talk to a Moroccan woman like this, so why are you talking to me like this" let her go on her way, she is making a little too much sense and this is bad. But remember, you might not have caught her TODAY but there is always tomorrow.

7. If after doing this all day, you still haven't caught a gazella, don't be discouraged. Remember you can always just go home and jerk off to the pajama section of the Marjane catalogue, because lets be honest, that is all you have.

The end.

Scene: Cafe G with the Moroccan Actor and his friend.

Moroccan Actor: talk talk talk talk

Moroccan Actor's Friend: talk talk talk talk

Me: (damn I wish I knew more Darija)

Woman comes up and asks Moroccan Actor's Friend for a cigarette.

Woman: Salam.

Me: Salam! (excited to see another woman in the place, maybe we could be friends!?)

Woman: (in Arabic) Oh, she speaks Arabic?

Me. Iyeah! Shnu smitk? (Yes! What is your name?)

There is an awkward silence.

Me: (hmm, maybe she didn't understand?) Shnu smitk?

Moroccan Actor: (in Arabic) She is asking you what your name is.

Woman: (says something I don't understand)

Me: Mutchirfin! (nice to meet you!)

Another awkward silence and woman walks away laughing. A few seconds go by...

Me: Did I just introduce myself to, a lady of the night?

Moroccan Actor: Yes.

Me: Oh, I thought this was an honest place.

Moroccan Actor: It is, but sometimes she comes here.

Me: Ok, so do people think I am a lady of the night for coming here?

Moroccan Actor: No, you don't have the look of a prostitute.

Me: Ok, thanks. So, I guess we aren't going to be friends then. It is a shame, she seemed very nice.

Moroccan Actor: I am sure she is, she is a prostitute.

The End.

This last Friday, I attended Shabbat services at Synagogue Beth-El in Marrakech. Yes, there are Jews in Morocco, that song I learned in Hebrew School "Wherever You Go There is Always Someone Jewish" turns out to be true. There are actually a lot of Jews in Morocco, ok, not A LOT, but there are about 7,000-6,000, mostly in Casablanca, but there are a few in Marrakech (260, most over the age of 60).

I was raised both Christian and Reformist Jew, which makes me very versatile, and I figured if I attended church in Marrakech for Christmas I should be fair and attend Synagogue. I contacted the President of the Jewish Community of Marrakech-Essoruia to make sure I didn't need a reservation (this question is going to seem very funny a few sentences from now), confirmed the time, and told him I was excited to meet him at services.

So, I get there. The guard points me to the women's section (right, this is an Orthodox Synagogue), I walk in, no one. Nope, no one in the women's section, just me. I stand there. I look at the bibles, all in Hebrew, no English or transliteration for the Reformist Jews. Just Hebrew. I grab a lace hair piece, stick it on, grab a bible that has SOME French in it and sit down.

The service, from what I can understand, are very democratic with each man (all six in attendance) in the man's section (good thing they don't ask the women or I would have been SCREWED!) read part of the service. So it is not entirely led by the Rabbi. I sit there for a good 15 minutes by myself until a woman walks in, we both stare at each other, and she asks if I am American, and I say YES! AND YOU! She says YES! and I am saved! The American (a Fulbright Scholar named Sarah) tells me she is going to Shabbat dinner at the house of the President of the Jewish community and I should come, he is very nice, speaks English, and would enjoy talking to someone else who is interested in the History of the Moroccan Jews.

Services end and we meet in the courtyard with the men. The President isn't there, his brother is, he comes up and says "Sarah? You come with me. Cucinotta, you go with him." (Um, WHAT). I give Sarah a look but she is already walking out the door, they turn one direction, and I go the other.

We walk for about 15 minutes, and I tell them my life story in DARIJA (the whole time thinking I can't believe they understand me). We get to his house, meet his family, eat (there is hallah!!!), and everything is going really well until they find out I am 27 and not married. "WHAT? YOU ARE NOT MARRIED! You should have been married at 25!" they tell me. I say I have lots and lots of time, in America we get married at 30-35 (ok, this might be a lie, but I really have no idea). They laugh at me, silly American (btw why does everyone think I am so silly?). Turns out I have no time, I need to be married.

I have gotten some pretty intense reactions from Muslim Moroccans about not being married, but when you combine the Moroccan culture with the yenta business in a shrinking Jewish community who needs babies to stay in existence, you have a pretty interesting reaction to unmarried young Jewish women and men. "Do you want to get married?" they ask. "Um, yeah, but I have time?" I reply. "No, you have no time." they say. "Ok" I respond awkwardly, "what do I do if I have no time?". "You need to find a nice Jewish husband, do you want a nice Jewish husband?" they ask. "Sure, as long as he can cook" I respond. Silence. They didn't get the joke, note to self, do not try to joke in Darija, your language is not that good.

Dinner is finished, we say our goodbyes and I thank them for their hospitality and kindness. On my walk home I realize that I might have mistakenly agree for them to find me a nice Jewish husband...but I guess as long as he can cook it might not be that bad.

John Cena is American. I am American. John Cena was born in Massachusetts which is located on the East Coast. I was also born on the East Coast, in a little place called New Jersey. Therefore, John Cena and I know each other, we are actually BEST FRIENDS FOREVER.

Or at least that is what my students think. I mean, we are both American, how can we NOT know each other. Duh. Plus, John Cena likes pizza and I like pizza. Actually, ALL WWE Superstars likes pizza according to my students, so that means I must know them too. Well, the Undertake doesn't like pizza. I am not sure if you knew that, but he doesn't. The Big Show MIGHT like pizza, but we haven't come to any definite conclusion, but he definitely does NOT like sandwiches. Nope, no sandwiches for the Big Show. But the Big Show and I aren't friends anyway, I mean, we are both American but he is very big, very very big. Therefore we don't know each other. How can we? He is just so big and I am just so short.

And this is what my students and I talk about in my beginner English conversation class. Which WWE Superstar I am friends with and which I am not. It doesn't matter that I don't ACTUALLY know any WWE Superstars, because I obviously have no idea what I am talking about, silly American. I mean, since I am one of the only Americans my students have met in person, and the WWE Superstars are their favorite Americans they see on TV, we must know each other, which is actually very sweet when you think about it...

But not the Big Show, the Big Show and I aren't friends. He is too big, and I am too short, WAY too short. But we agreed that if the Big Show and I tried, we would get along quite well.

I just returned from In Service Training in Mehidiya where I re-leanred everything I knew about Logic Models and Monitoring and Evaluation. I honestly really enjoyed it, so much so that I made a Logic Model for my Peace Corps Service! Let's just say work has been slow. Don't get me wrong, I have work, it is just not what I am used to in America, so I have what I feel like is a lot of spare time, so I made myself a Logic Model. Ok, it is kind of a joke, but not really, so I thought I would share with everyone how much I love Logic Models so you can all snicker at just how much of a dork I am.

Enjoy!

Scene: Walking down Mohammed V Avenue with a friend during a day trip to Marrakech.

Me: *saying something of no particular importance*

Friend: *saying something of no particular importance*

Me: (thinking to myself: why does that man have such a funny look on his face?)

*look down*

(thinking to myself: holy s***, is that his penis?)

Holy s*** , I think that weird guy his showing us his penis!

Friend: What?!

Me: Holy s*** I think that guy is jerking off to us.

Friend: What?! Why would he be doing something like that?

Me: I don't know, but it is a strange thing to be doing during the middle of the day on a main road like this don't you think?

Friend: Yes it is.

*both turn around to see the guy is looking at us with his penis hanging out*

Me: I don't understand? Why would he do that? I mean look at it, it is a really sad penis, if I were him I wouldn't be showing that to too many people, it is just so sad.

Friend: I agree.

Me: You know, in my 27 years of life I have never seen anything as crazy as that, and I am from New Jersey, so you know, that is saying a lot.

Friend: Yes it is.

Me: Actually, I did see a guy once take a poop in Lafayette Park in D.C. and then get arrested, but I think he was on drugs. This however, it just doesn't make any sense.

Friend: No it doesn't.

*both start to laugh, man is embarrassed that we are laughing at his sad penis, and we spend the rest of the walk to the Grand Taxi stand making fun of him and his sad, sad penis*

The End.

For those of you who know me well, know I have a little thing for men in uniform. I am not sure what it is, perhaps it is the AMAZING abs, the cute butt, the sparkly medals on the uniform, or the assumption that they have already been vetted by the U.S. government so they must be good catches. Whatever it is, I have a thing for men in uniform.

For those of you who know me also know that I have given up men in uniform, with extreme difficulty. No more men in uniform for Cia! This was a difficult decision I had to make, but it turns out the U.S. doesn't vet them enough and my experiences have never ended well. Ok, this could have something to do with my inability to end a relationship without blowing up the bridge in a fiery ball of disaster, but that is beside the point. Lets just say the reason I don't date men in uniform anymore is a long story that I don't want to get into right now...but it has something to do with breaking the cycle.

Anyway, the point of all this is that on my recent trip to Rabat I heard of this place called the Marine House which is a house filled with Marines who also serve beer. HOLY S***! And then I remembered that I am not allowed to date men in uniform anymore...shit. Wait, but I can look, right? I can even talk to one, right? No harm done! So off I went with some fellow PCVs who know of my predicament and promise to keep me in line.

Let me just say that the Marine House is AMAZING! And not for the reasons you might think based off of what I wrote above. It is a house with five Marines who open their doors and serve beer like Sam Adams so people can have a good time. And a good time was had! We danced all night to great music that I remember from middle school, I drank Sam Adams, met some really nice people, and felt like I was back in D.C. at a house party.

So, thank you Marines at the Marine House. Thank you for playing good music, thank you for serving Sam Adams, and thank you for showing me your abs, they are very nice :)

I am an educated woman. I am a well traveled woman. I have quite a few friends (and perhaps one or two enemies). I like cheese and fine wines as well as long walks on the beach. I read, I don't read as much as I should, but I read. Usually historical fictions, poetry, and the occasional mystery book because we all need a little excitement in our lives. So I was surprised to realize one day that I am, in fact, illiterate.

When I go to the post office, I am not exactly sure what the form is I am filling out. On my walks to the Center where I work, I can't read any of the street signs (which isn't that big of a deal because I really didn't read signs in the States either). When I go to the grocery store, I am the one to ask the owner "is this salt?" and be embarrassed as they look at me like I am crazy (which isn't that big of a deal either because most people here look at me like I am crazy). But, you know, it looked like salt, but I didn't know for sure so I had to ask, because I couldn't read the label, because it was in ARABIC.

Ok, so I am not totally illiterate. I can read anything that is based off the latin alphabet, so you know, not too shabby. But when it comes to Arabic, I am illiterate, and it is difficult being illiterate. Actually, it sucks being illiterate. It really, really sucks being illiterate because it makes me feel powerless, confused, and dependent on other people that I might not totally trust have my best interest in mind.

However, for Morocco with an estimated country wide literacy rate of 39.6% for women and 65.7% for men, I fit right in (United States Department of State, 2011). I am not sure how I feel about that, but there it is, a glaring reality of a compulsory education system that is not always enforced or supported with the adequate infrastructure to make it realistic. But there is quite a bit of hope with this new government, and a lot of changes are happening in Morocco, so we will see, maybe after two years I will become the minority.

You really learn something new everyday, don't you?

United States Department of State. (2011). Background note: Morocco. Retrieved from: http://www.state.gov/r/pa/ei/bgn/5431.htm

So, for the people who know me fairly well know that I am what my mother affectionately considers a worry wort. I worry about everything, and I mean EVERYTHING. Honestly, I think I worry the perfect amount, but I suppose there are a few people who would beg to differ. Being a worry wort has been an interesting experience while serving in the Peace Corps where things don't really seem to make sense all the time. It has been even more interesting in a country where the phrase Inshallah (God willing) is the phrase to live by.

The phrase Inshallah is tied very closely to the Moroccan concept of time and functionality, like the examples below show:

Sure we will meet for coffee at 3, God willing... (actual time, 4)

Sure, class starts at 5:30, God willing.... (actual time, 5:45-6)

Sure, the Post Office will be open and the ATM will be working, God willing... (hahahaha)

Sure, of course you will be able to get a taxi back from the small little village you are visiting, God willing... (hahahahahahahahahahah)

Hopefully you are starting to get the idea....

Inshallah is also tied very closely to the religion and the idea that one does not have control over ones life, God does, so if God is willing for it to happen when you hope it does (or around the time you hope it does) then it will. And this is why I don't mind, and actually enjoy, the little nuances of the Moroccan concept of time and functionality tied to the phrase Inshallah. I find everything much calmer here and not so fast paced, which is a nice change. However, I am still having trouble getting used to the phrase being used in a cab like setting, and you know how much I trust cabbies...

Picture this, I get in a cab, tell the cabbie where I am going, and he says sure, INSHALLAH. And I am like, WHAT! WHAT DO YOU MEAN IF GOD IS WILLING, you only have to drive FIVE MINUTES! Shit, are you going to rob me?! Are you going to drop me in the middle of no where because I am not from here and it would be funny!? Is your cab so shitty it might not make it!? How can you tell me we might not actually make it to our destination!? WHAT THE F*** IS GOING ON!!!!

Please note that this dialogue is happening all in my head and I am not actually saying anything to the cabbie because my language skills are not advanced enough to express a total freak out. But we, of course, as always, make it safely to the destination, and I pay the cabbie, embarrassed that I actually thought he might rob me etc.

Well, at least the first stage of recovery is admitting you have a problem right? So Inshallah these bouts of insanity I experience when stepping into a Moroccan cab will slowly fade away, just as soon as I stop being a worry wort, Inshallah...

Couscous is AMAZING because:

1. It just is, what the f*** is wrong with you?!

2. See reason 1.

3. It is buttery and delicious and comes filled with vegetables that would be healthy if they were not soaked in massive amounts of butter.

4. Is eaten with the entire family.

5. Because it is eaten with the entire family, it is a great opportunity for them to all laugh at you as you still attempt to master the language.

6. It is a great opportunity to make cultural faux pas and then laugh about it. Oh, that American is so silly...

7. Did I say it is buttery and delicious?

8. It is not served with lamb penis.

9. It IS served with this interesting tasting yoghurt drink, that if you just suck it up and drink, will win you the esteem of EVERYONE at the table.

10. Once winning the esteem of everyone at the table, you will then be deemed eligible for marriage RIGHT NOW, even if you don't want to get married RIGHT NOW, it doesn't matter, because who doesn't want to be married? Marriage is AMAZING! Oh the silly American...

Scene: Dinner table at my homestay with my male site mate.

Me: Dude, what is that?

Site mate: I am not sure? (eats a little of it)

Me: Um, dude.

Site mate: What?

Me: That totally looks like a penis.

Site mate: (looks at it) Shit, it does.

Me: OMG YOU JUST ATE THE LAMB'S PENIS!

Site mate: No I didn't, they said it was a muscle!

Me: Um YEAH, what do you think a penis is? Plus they didn't offer it to me did they? Just you.

Site mate: Shit.

Me. hahahahahaha

Site mate: I'm not convinced it was the penis.

Me: Ok, well whatever makes you feel better...

End Scene.

I have no idea, why are you asking me!? But I probably should find out since I will be teaching workout classes at my center three times a week. This is going to be interesting...

The first two classes I "taught" went "well". It was a mix of aerobics, yoga, pilates, belly-dance and anything else I could pull out of my a** in two seconds. The trick is to not let anyone sense that you have no idea what you are doing. Ok, ok, now I don't want you getting the wrong impression. The class did go well and the women in my class were so amazing and patient, but explaining that tree pose is a great way to stay centered and how important it is to be centered in one's life is not that easy to say in Darija. I didn't even try to explain the importance of a strong core, that wasn't in my Darija dictionary.

So teaching workout classes is one of the things I will be doing for the next two years inshalla. Not too shabby I must say. I am hoping to focus on yoga and pilates since that is what I know best, and maybe sprinkle a little dance in it, something like yoga-dancealates (copyright Lucia Cucinotta so don't steal it!) Now if only I knew more Darija...story of my life.

I did it! I made it! Finally! I am officially a Peace Corps Volunteer!! WooHoo! I have no idea what I will be doing or exactly what my new home is like, but isn't that all part of the charm of Peace Corps?

So far during Community Based Training I was hit in the face with a boob, laughed at by my host mom for for attempting to do anything domestic because lets be real I had no idea what I was doing (at least I am amusing), saw a sheep get slaughtered, felt bad, and then ate it because meat is AMAZING, was rewarded for being a sassy pain in the a** by being elected as the representative to the Volunteer Advisory Committee, and went to the dentist! Yes, went to the dentist AND got a filling (which was not as scary as I thought)! Don't worry, my filling is white, my mother would kill me if it was any other way! Maybe me insisting to the Peace Corps that I need to go to a place that can give me a white is one of the reasons I am considered a pain in the a**? But I am from New Jersey so really it could be anything...

I am not sure what my internet connectivity will be like, but once I get something consistent I will post more about me being a pain in the a** or just funny stories about me not knowing what the f**** I am doing, which is actually ALL the time...story of my life.

p.s. if there is anyone who is reading this ibecause they want to learn more about what it will be like serving in the Peace Corps, don't believe a word I am saying. The most important thing I have learned so far is don't believe a word any Peace Corps Trainee or Volunteer is says, because they are full of s**t, including me. Ok not full of s**t, but speaking from what cross culturalists call your "lens". As cheezy as this is, the Peace Corps experience is really your own, how you will deal with a new culture is really all your own, and how you will deal with uncertainty is really all your own, and how you will deal with crazies is really all your own. God speed and be prepared to have your MIND BLOWN!

(camel burgers are cool)

It is official, the Year of Adventure has begun! First, I ate a camel burger! VERY adventurous of me, no? I was however a little disappointed, I was not really tasting the camel. Maybe I was too infatuated with my date milkshake, but I think the burger just lacked the "wow I am eating a F***ing camel burger!" factor.

I also now know where I will be living for the next two years! I will be an hour away from Marrakech and two from Essouria. And that is literally all I know. ADVENTURE! I am honestly very excited about this experience, because this is what the year of adventure is all about!

Finally, the Peace Corps. Oh how you have been an adventure and will continue to be one! Oh how I love the sometimes culturally insensitive things my fellow PCs say and the constant wondering if I am the one who is OUT OF MY MIND or if it is the people around me. But is this not the story of my life?

SO yes, this is the beginning of my Year of Adventure, I hope you all enjoy the ride :)

( me looking like I know what I am doing)

Greetings are VERY important in Moroccan culture, so much so that you really only need eight words to semi-survive in Morocco while somewhat looking like you know what you are doing, these are:

salam: hello

labas: good

kulshi: everything

bixir: fine

l-Hamdullah: thanks to be God

inshallah: if God wills

mzyan: good

bslama: goodbye

Below is a typical conversation I have everyday:

Moroccan (who is acting like they know me): Salam!

Me (trying to act cool like I know them but secretly have no idea, did I see them at the hammam the other night?): Salam!

Moroccan: Labas?

Me: Labas inshallah! Labas?

Moroccan: Labas inshallah, kulshi bixir?

Me: Kulshi bixir inshallah! Mzien?

Moroccan: Kulshi mzien inshallah!

Me: Mzien, mzien!

Moroccan: (says something I cannot understand because I do not know that much Darija)

Me: inshallah! (I am asking this hoping it is the right answer, but I really have no idea)

Moroccan: Mzian! (yes! I answered correctly!) Bslama!

Me: Bslama! (thinking to myself that I hope I didn't just get invited to dinner because I have no idea who this person is...)

Story of my life, the end.

This picture of a hammam (or public bath) is a lie. Ok, not a total lie, the part about everyone being naked is true. But there is no music, not tea, no dates, no fancy headscarves and jewelry, and no rose water. Therefore, orientalism is a liar, a big fat liar. I don't know what I was expecting my first real hammam experience to be like (I don't count that time in Turkey because it was really touristy) but I didn't expect to get hit in the face with a boob. Yes, a boob. I mean how do you even prepare for that? But despite the boob slap, and the fact that orientalism is a big fat liar and I will never listen to him again, going to the hammam is a really amazing experience.

The town where I am training in is known for their hammams. The town's water is said to have special healing powers so a lot of people from surrounding towns come to my town just for the hammams. Every store sells some time of hammam product, but the must gets are a brilla pad like scrubber (lkiss), hammam soap (sabun lbldi) which looks like mud wrapped in saran wrap, henna, soap, and shampoo. Once you get all these things you are ready to go.

When you get to the hammam, you take off all your clothes but your undies (just suck it up and do it). You find a spot, preferably by the central pool, you get a bucket with some hot water, you get a bucket with some cold water, and then you scrub. You don't just scrub, you SCRUB all that dead skin off with that brilla brush, and gurl if you aren't doing a good job someone will do it for you (just suck it up, this is a compliment). But be careful, if you have sensitive skin you can get rug burn on your neck and then everyone will make fun of you because it looks like you have hickies all over your neck, not that I would know...

When you are done with your first scrub you then you put the sabun lbldi all over yourself, then you scrub some more, then you wash off, then you put the henna all over yourself, then you scrub some more, then you wash off, then you put some soap all over yourself, then you scrub some more, then you wash off, then you put shampoo in your hair, and then you wash off. This whole process takes about three hours. Yes, THREE HOURS. But remember, you aren't just scrubbing in the hammam, you are socializing (or at least trying to socialize in broken Moroccan Arabic). You are meeting people, making connections, and getting invited to things. However, this can be problematic. Turns out people look MUCH different naked then they do with clothes on. SO, if you think you get invited to dinner by someone who acts like they know you, but then realize you have no idea who that person is, make sure you are with your host sister so she can make sure you don't look like a complete asshole.

And remember, there is minimal personal space in the hammam, so be prepared. And when you are going to fill up your buckets with water, which you will do quite often in three hours, be careful of where you head is or you will get hit in the face with a boob, true story.

Honestly, wtf? The goal of a phrasebook is to NOT make me look like an asshole, which is what I would look like if I used ANY phrase from your Sustainable Travel phrase section in the back. If I went to the local souq (market) and or hanout (store) in my CBT site and asked “Wash Katibi’u ssel’a dyal ttizhara lmunsifa?” (do you sell Fair Trade products) or “Wash katbi’u lmuntazhar l’udwiya” (Do you sell organic products) I would look like a complete asshole. Besides from the phrases in this section being completely pretentious (e.g. would you like me to teach you some English?), last I checked this isn’t Whole Foods, this is Morocco. I saw the man in the souq kill my chicken in-front of me, feather it, gut it, and then give it back to me in a plastic bag. No saran wrap here, this chicken is legit free range AND local. Gurl, you don’t need phrases to make sure you are eating locally and fresh here because you just are. I know, shocking.

Oh, and it gets better, oh yes, much better. For a phrasebook that is written for a tourist, Lonely Planet gives you the phrases “What sorts of issues is this community facing” and then gives you the option of inserting “freedom of the press”, “police and army reforms”, political unrest”, “religious freedom,” and “rights of women and children.” I have been living with a family for almost a month now, and even I wouldn’t ask that, you know why, because I don’t want to look like an asshole. Lonely Plant, I am not sure if you know this but there is this thing called integration and diplomacy, where you get to know the people and the community, build a few relationships, and hopefully are seen as trustworthy and then you can talk about sensitive subjects like police brutality. You know what happens if you don’t do this, you look like a pretentious asshole. And believe me, if you asked Air Maroc “wash ‘end sharika ttayaran dyalkum bernamazh lta’weed lkarbun” (does you airline have a carbon-offset scheme?) you would look like an asshole.

So, meet the turkish toilet. After a six hour plane ride from JFK to Casablanca, and then a 4 hour bus ride from Casablanca to Fes, this was the last thing I wanted to see. My problem with the turkish toilet lies in the possibility of having to do number two coupled with the possibility that I CAN'T use toilet paper because it might clog the toilet. Yes, a hole in the floor can get clogged, go figure. So all those jokes about wiping my ass with my hand and water that I made before I left might actually come true. Story of my life...

But you know what, I AM FROM NEW JERSEY! I am not some punk that is going to let a piece of porcelain push me around! And anyway, after our turkish toilet training that was originally scheduled for Monday was moved to today after multiple requests, I am more convinced by its benefits. Turns out squatting is better for your digestive track anyway and will make "things" run smoother! In addition, it is surprisingly more hygienic if done right! Ok, hear me out. If you think about sitting on a toilet, when number two comes out it gets all over your bum. But on a turkish toilet there is minimal poo/bum touching because your cheeks are spread! Also, you don't have to use your hand! Instead of using your hand to wipe off the said poo with paper (ew!) you use water, then a cloth and soap, drip dry or cloth dry, wash your hands, and then voila you're done! While some might need a little more convincing that the turkish toilet is in fact better, I have made up my mind and am remaining positive about my current situation as you can see by my constant use of exclamation points! Oh culture shock, you are so ironic...

So here it is, my Peace Corps blog, where you will find the answers to all the important questions you have been asking me like "what will you be doing?", "where in Morocco will you be?", and my all time favorite "are you going to marry a Moroccan?" I will also write about other things, but I promise that I will try to avoid horrible cliches and pretentious rants about changing the world in 27 months. Gurl, I'm no fool! We all know it takes at least 28 months to do anything these days. So here it is, the place where I will post a story once a week (pending internet availability) about something that happened to me that will guarantee to make you laugh, story of my life...