A is for Adventure

Muslim populations in Europe: A threat or an opportunity?

2010-11-29T12:30:00.005-05:00

This Wednesday I'll be leading a discussion on a topic I believe to be critical to the long term relationship between the "West" and what is too often homogenized as "the Muslim world."

The discussion is hosted by the Boston Univeristy International Affairs Association as one of our weekly meetings that occur each Wednesday at 7:30 pm in CAS 222 on BU's campus.

Check out the post below used help inform our members about the topic. I hope to see you on Wednesday!

After the Swiss voted to ban further construction of minarets in 2009, Oxford scholar Tariq Ramadan wrote,

"At the very moment Europeans find themselves asking, in a globalizing, migratory world,'What are our roots?,' 'Who are we?,' 'What will our future look like?,' they see around them new citizens, new skin colors, new symbols to which they are unaccustomed."

In recent years Islam and those who practice it have become connected to a variety of controversial debates ranging from extremism to gender discrimination. The Muslim presence in Europe is not a new immigration phenomenon, but their presence and integration into European society has recently been the subject of great debate and policies like the 2010 ban on the burqa in France. However, the process of integration into European societies also presents challenges for Muslims who are “working hard to try to find ways to educate their own communities and talk about the balance between being Muslim and Western, not Muslim or Western," says Farah Pandith, U.S. envoy to Muslim communities.

Some suggest teaching about the labor contributions of Muslim immigrants to post war Europe that led to modern Europe as a way to demonstrate Islam is not as foreign as some perceive. Others contend the policies should address socioeconomic disparities present in Europe rather than cultural ones. Experts at the Council on Foreign Relations advise European media and politicians to “tone down the rhetoric on Muslims as a group--particularly on terrorists--if there is to be any hope for greater integration and assimilation.“

At the meeting on Wednesday, the Muslim presence in Europe will be discussed with representation from the following interested parties:

European policy makers

European Muslims leaders

Non European state

European citizens

We invite you to debate as a representative of one of these interest groups as we address the following questions:

What does “integration” mean in the 21^st century?

Is integration possible? Should this be the goal of policy makers?

Are European policy makers approaching the Muslim community and the religion in the right manner? What could they be doing differently?

Are Muslim communities being represented in the policy process?

What can other Western nations learn from Europe?

Philadelphia: Best Shots

2010-11-16T21:19:00.003-05:00

I was in Philadelphia this weekend for my last time at U Penn's Model UN conference (UPMUNC) and had a chance to snap a few pictures.

City Hall

View from the center of Avenue of the Arts looking towards City Hall

Boston Autumn

2010-11-09T20:17:00.002-05:00

"Model" UN, it's fake, right? So, why do you it?

2010-10-25T14:10:00.006-04:00

I was recently asked, "why do you do Model UN?" I started my involvement in Model UN before I ever set foot on the campus of Boston University. North Dakota did not offer me the chance to participate in conferences, but I was intrigued and knew I wanted to be a part of it in college. I started out in an entry level position as a "crisis staffer" at the Boston Area Model UN Conference (BarMUN) quickly realized my knack for this unique style of debate and tried to soak up every bit of information possible about my new passion. I'm in the process of what I've christened "the career hunt," and I find myself coming back to Model UN and my time in the Boston University International Affairs Association. I developed the skills I am drawing upon when I talk to a recruiter, write a cover letter or prepare for an interview through my experiences in Model UN.

I do Model UN for two reasons, the first of which is simply, it is fun. From a more strategic standpoint, MUN is an extension of my education in international relations, but in a much more practical way. I get a rush from balancing treachery occurring behind the scenes and politicking during debate, but more importantly I am accustomed to speaking about international issues in a room filled with highly intelligent and competitive people. This means I am constantly challenged to write an eloquent directive faster, find a more comprehensive solution and make a more memorable speech. Each of these skills helps prepare me for life in the “real” world. The chance to function as such unique bodies and debate as if I am the power player is unmatched by any classroom discussion or lecture on international issues. Model UN gives not only a two sided perspective to an issue or a crises, it forces you to leave your academic or cultural cocoon and examine reality, or at least as close to reality as we can get in a hotel conference room.

Let me explain the best experience I've had in a Model UN committee in the past 3 years of competing on "the circuit." Let me warn you I will be using "industry" lingo in this description. My time in the Euskadi Ta Askatasuna (ETA) committee at Virginia International Crisis Simulation (VICS) in 2009 was top notch. Our chair was in character at all times and reprimanded delegates who broke the “4th wall” by referring to the source of news as being “crisis” or when they stopped representing their position in an effort to gain more power in the committee. My committee experience was also enhanced by the fact that ETA was a Joint Crisis Committee with the Spanish Cabinet, who we consistently trumped by our ability to react so quickly to crises. The quality of delegates was excellent, but more importantly they stayed true to the mission of the group we were simulating rather than just trying to win hardware. I felt a genuine sense of accomplishment at the end of the weekend because I knew my experiences in that committee forced me to “think like a terrorist” for a few days and thus enabled me to better understand the motives behind their actions in the real world.

There you have it. The tip of the iceberg reason for why I spend hours upon hours in the "fake" UN. More to come later on another major motivation, the other people who "do MUN."

gnawa gnawa gnawa

2010-04-26T12:17:00.007-04:00

(The following is an excerpt from a paper I wrote for my history class.)

Prior to the night of April 21^st, I was under the impression that gnawa was a style of traditional Moroccan music originating from black African slaves. When my host brother, Si’Mohammed asked if I wanted to go to gnawa, I immediately agreed and even asked my friend Alex to come along. As we walked through the medina, I was completely convinced we were about to attend a music performance and maybe dance a bit. However, upon entering the home of Saddiq, a local Maalem, I realized this was a far more serious ritual. I was about to witness a Lila Derdeba, a ritual unlike anything I have ever seen and one which peaked my curiosity about the gnawa in Morocco, provided me insight into the rich history of this type of Sufi Islam, and most importantly gave me a window into how past traditions are made relevant through ceremony and music. I will briefly examine the history of the gnawa, describe my own experience at the Lila Derdeba and how enriched my understanding of Morocco.

The term gnawa has been used to describe dark skinned Moroccans, the type of mystic Sufi-like Islam they practice as well as the gathering itself. More recently this term has been used to describe the music used in these ceremonies, but performed in public. Regardless of how the term is appropriated, those who practice it claim to be descendants of Bilal, a black African who supposedly was Mohammed’s son for a time (Waugh, 108). Gnawa music, critical to their rituals in Morocco, developed among black slaves brought to Morocco to either work in households or serve in the sultan’s armies (Waugh, 110). The collective experience of being slaves has given the gnawa a tragic shared history that to an extent explains how their traditions differ from the orthodox Islam.

I felt confused and rather awkward when I entered the house because I did not know quite how I was supposed to act. There was a women dressed entirely in black who seemed to be “in charge.” She was very stoic and her demeanor made it instantly clear that this was not going to be just a musical performance. After removing my shoes, I followed my host brother into the central room. He continued on into a room just for men and I noticed directly behind me was another room filled with mostly veiled older women. I found myself sitting with other younger women, many of whom were wearing very brightly colored djellabas.

Before the musicians entered, the woman in black walked around the room with a pot of burning incense. This appeared to be just one of the ingredients of the Lila Derdeba. Then the key element to the ceremony, the musicians made their entrance. Saddiq and six men wearing vivid red smock like shirts sat down on a traditional couch about three in front of my seat. He began to chant and many of the older women around me joined in the chant. Then the other man began playing a rhythm on their krakebs that resembles that of a galloping horse on cobblestones. The general pattern of the chant consisted of Saddiq playing a series of low haunting notes on his guembri and singing a line. The men in red would repeat this line in perfect unison while maintaining their base rhythm. The combination of the soaring voice of Saddiq and the throbbing guembri and the rhythm of the krakebs was powerful in a way my words cannot quite describe. There were no sheets of music or papers with lyrics, every note and word was played from memory.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw a woman crawling towards the musicians. The woman in black rushed to her with incense and soon the woman was dancing wildly. “What is going on?” I thought to myself. Her head flailed back and forth and her feet pounded the ground to the beat of the krakrebs. It was as if she had become an instrument and was being played by the very music to which she was listening. Her movements followed the lead of the Maalem’s voice and he seemed to control her like a puppet master manipulates his marionettes. This woman was only the first of many woman and men I witnessed go into a trance state. Watching those in the trance was both unsettling and incredibly alluring. The trance state was clearly one of the objectives of the ritual and was a means of having an out of body experience to connect with the spiritual realm. In his study of memory’s role in Sufi ceremonies Earle H. Waugh argues, “one might say trance becomes a normative means by which the transcendent realm is visited and appropriated “(Waugh, 113). Thus for the gnawa the trance state is akin to what Christians would call “worship” and is a means of getting closer to God. Though there was a performance element to the ceremony, rather than cheapening the experience, it contributed to the authenticity of the whole experience.

As the ceremony continued I completely lost track of time as I stared at those possessed by the trance and the music of the gnawa pounded in my ears. Though I understood only a few words of the chants, there was a definite sense of power in both the words and the notes. This power was especially evident when Saddiq would command the other musicians to stop and he would then play his guembri as if he was talking with those in the trance state. Saddiq controlled the entire ceremony (sometimes with just a turn of his head) and his presence combined with that of the woman in black ensured the event was taken seriously. I found the female role in the ceremony to be quite fascinating as she was absolutely essential in ensuring those in the trances did not hurt themselves. The woman in black was also the second most powerful person taking part in the ceremony, which I found noteworthy.

The ritual continued through different phases, involving various instruments and even at one point only the light of a candle. The final phase was much more light-hearted and everyone was invited to dance. Though at first I had felt quite out of my element, as the night went on I became more comfortable and was honored when I found myself dancing with all the other women. Contrary to the trance like states of previous phases, this type of dancing seemed to be a celebration of a successful ritual and a send off before attendees made their way home in the early morning hours.

I feel deeply privileged to have had the chance to attend this ritual and see for myself how a mystic ritual is conducted. I have become very curious about the gnawa and what draws people to take part in the ceremony. I believe people are drawn to this ritual both because it is eccentric and because they want to see the power music and religious liturgy have over people. A gnawa adept described the force at work saying, “ I do know that one sings that text, the spirit enters into the munshid and influences both the singer and the text. The text is empowered by the spirit that spins towards the singer and suddenly enters him” (Waugh, 113). It was remarkable to see how such a young man maintained control over so many people merely by his voice. I witnessed a definite power structure within the ceremony dictated by spatial seating arrangements, color of clothing, the instrument being played and even a nod of the head. All of these factors combined with the ingredients of incense, ceremonial dress and those in trance provided legitimacy to both Saddiq and the tradition of the gnawa.

Attending the Lila Derdeba provided me with a window into Moroccan society by allowing me to witness a deeply religious experience. For those who practice gnawa, the Lila Derdeba is a way to connect with God. When I told others of my experience I was met with some disapproval that made me realize how the gnawa are still a marginalized group in Moroccan culture and especially among Orthodox Muslims. Critics tend to focus on the bizarre elements of the ceremony, rather than viewing it as another means of religious expression. As a foreigner, I tried to put the whole experience, especially those in trace, into context rather than simply judging the gnawa as a cult or as practitioners of sorcery. Instead, I relished the extraordinary opportunity to watch oral tradition being passed down right in front of my eyes.

The very ritual is a living site of memory as the Maalem’s chant draws on the past to affect participants. The oral history is appropriated to connect participants to another spiritual realm in a way a history textbook will never achieve. The Lila Derdeba is a participatory and deeply meaningful approach to the history of the black slaves in Morocco. As Waugh reminds us, “This is not just a remembering of the text. It is a remembering of the power, or even of the potential for power “ (Waugh, 116). Witnessing this “remembering of power” made me feel profoundly connected to this part of Moroccan culture and it is an experience I will always cherish.

Excurshionne Photography

2010-03-08T04:22:00.010-05:00

Here are some of my favorite shots from the excursion and hopefully when I have finished midterms I will be able to post about specific adventures.

Bislama

Vegetables and so much more

2010-03-05T04:42:00.004-05:00

I am going to miss it. It has only been in this last week that I have started to realize how medina life and Morocco has grown on me. I may not particularly enjoy the way the pungent odor of fresh fish laying in the hot sun overtakes me when I turn the corner onto vegetable street, but I am now trying to engrave it in my mind instead of just attempting to only breathe through my mouth. I can’t quite explain it, but being away from my medina life for a week made me realize how much I actually like it here. I’ll never forget when I walked into the medina in Fes after being away from medinas and instantly recognizing the “smell” of the medina. By this I do not mean it was necessarily unpleasant, but there is a distinct medina smell--one that now means I’m home.

There are stretches of perhaps 3 days when I do not even leave the walls of the medina kadima (old city). This is not only because my classes are held in buildings within the medina, but also because the medina has absolutely everything. The most convenient part of medina living is how I can find everything I need just on my way to class. You see, as I’ve mentioned before I live on what I’ve christened “Vegetable street” known more formally as Boukrone. This is where everyone in the medina has to come to buy their produce. So let me take you down my favorite street in the medina, though I will admit it can be tricky to navigate when there is heavy medina traffic! Though this street might not always be the fastest way to my house, it is certainly the most colorful.

A walk down Vegetable Street is not just a stroll in front of shops-it is a full-on adventure. Make sure you listen for skinny motorbikes approaching from behind! Keep glancing down around the fish salesman or you might end up stepping in a puddle of fish guts or even worse step on tricksy loose tile that will squirt you with medina sludge. You absolutely must watch out for the elderly women, because running into them would provoke an exclamation of “hashuma!” (shame on you in Darija).

When I turn onto the street after emerging from the side alley where I live, there are stalls with hanging cow hooves, massive lungs, and giant cow livers among other difficult to identify parts. After this are the stalls with hanging dead plucked chickens and just under the counter are the coops filled with live chickens or at least alive for the next hour or so. Then the street reverts to crates of carrots, beets, and turnips so fresh the still clings to them. On we go to the man who sells everything from beans, flour, and dates to peanuts who is just before the fruit section of the street begins. Here there are mounds of oranges (limons in Darija), apples and even succulent strawberries-all sold by the kilo of course.

At the fork of Vegetable Street and what I’ve christened Thread Road (these names were primarily used when I was first trying to find my way around the medina, but they stuck), there is a woman selling laundry detergents and soaps. The detergents have been poured into Sidi Ali bottles, the local brand of bottled water and as I walk past I get a 3 second whiff of squeaky clean. If you just so happen to be in need of toilet paper, shampoo or a bucket for your next hammam session you can stop at the very next shop which is located only 3 steps after the lady who sells detergents. And only 4 steps farther is the local thrift shop where clothes are piled high on tarps that are laid out in the middle of the street. A few steps more and Vegetable Street is no more when it meets one of the main medina thoroughfares. This new street doesn’t even pales in comparision to noisy, crowded and colorful charm of my Vegetable Street.

It's an EXCURSION!

2010-02-19T07:44:00.003-05:00

The weather in Rabat is absolutely insane right now. The wind is whipping things off terraces and last night the sound of the rain was deafening. The sound woke me up at around 3 am and brought back memories of the sound of rain pounding on our tin roof in Gounou Gaya-a sound akin to artillery fire. Speaking of sub-Saharan Africa, there was a coup today in Niger. I'm glad I'm safe here in Morocco, but a part of me wishes I was there in spite of the danger. It bothers me that ex-pats tend to flee the scene at the first sign of unrest, but the majority of the population has no such option. Here's a link to an article about the coup, a headline which is painfully absent from the New York Times main page right now.

But the real point of the post was to post my upcoming itinerary for the next week. Tomorrow at 8am the BU 8, Fadoua and our driver will pile into a van and make a giant loop around Morocco. The trip is a part of our program and all expenses are included-yes! The excursion is a hands-on education learning portion of the program that I really believe is essential for a study abroad program. We will have the opportunity to go beyond the typical tourist destinations and do things like, meet with a nomadic family, visit a battered women's association and even sleep in tents in the desert. We will take jeeps to the desert, be riding a camel as the sun sets and then spend the night on the dunes with a musical performance in the evening.

I cannot wait for this break from coursework and for this chance to really explore this beautiful country. Here's a rough rundown of the week:

Saturday: Marrakech
-field exercises in the grand square and museums

Sunday: Zagora

Monday: Erg Lihoudi Desert
-visit to a pottery village and night in the desert!
-discussion with local nomads and camel ride

Tuesday: Rissani /trek towards Fes

Wednesday and Thursday: Fes
-tours of the medina and one of the oldest universities in the world
-visit the women's association

Friday: Chefchaouen!
-guilded of tour of Volubilis (roman ruins)
*we will be here the night before the birthday of the prophet, so Fadoua might arrange for us to be able to attend a Sufi ceremony

Saturday: return to Rabat

That's all folks! Hope I have plenty of adventure filled updates after next week.

A language anyone can understand

2010-02-12T04:53:00.004-05:00

It is both frustrating and also almost amusing to think that two grown adults are reduced to hand signals and acting out what they want to say in order to communicate simply because they don't speak the same language. As a result of my current level of Arabic, (which is shiwa shiwa), my host mother who speaks no French, and just being in a country where you are not fluent in the local tongue--I have started to notice the things that seem to be universal regardless of the language you speak.

Here is my list so far, though I make no claims that it in fact accurate as I have not (yet) traveled the world...

Laughter. This is possibly the most important because of the way it can unite people who are struggling to communicate.
A nod means yes.
Shaking your head from right to left means no.
The shoulder shrug meaning "I don't know."
Handshakes as a form of greeting *this may not be universal, but it is generally accepted
Grey hair as a signifying age. It will eventually happen to everyone.

This may seem to be a bit of an odd and as of yet short list, but I hope to continue to find things that transcend cultures and linguistic barriers. If you have any ideas or experiences from your travels that you feel fit the criteria -- let me know!

cravings in purgatory

2010-02-12T04:12:00.003-05:00

I would kill for some chocolate covered pretzels right now. Oh to walk to Camp-co, take my time shuffling around the aisles and shelves brimming with garishly wrapped sugar highs. I know the precise location of the tower of crunchy goods where I would at last settle upon that iridescent azure package with “FLIPZ” emblazoned on the front. Grabbing a liter sized Snapple from the section of the fridge directly in front of the crunchy tower I drag my feet to the counter. Not quite wanting my brief excursion for sustenance to end, (which is in fact half a procrastination attempt, half a measure essential for my sanity) I prolong the paying process as long as possible. “Noooooo I don’t want to go back to 111, I’m so tired. I better go grab a Red Bull too,” I dawdle a bit more before reluctantly heading out the door into the unwelcoming gusts, all too familiar to Boston, especially at 2 am.

My feet drag down the half block of Cummington street that somehow manages to run North and South, while the rest of the street is completely perpendicular to it. I take a left at the end of this poor excuse for a city block and with each step closer to the door numbered 111, my pace slows. At the door, warmth returns for a moment before my descent into the depths of paper writing purgatory, where one is forever in limbo, in limbo between sleep and the level of alertness needed to write a coherent paper, in limbo between the successful completion of a masterful document and a tangle of words thrown together before your face hits the keyboard, stuck in the early morning hours between the outside world covered night and the sun which will likely rise before one finishes this blasted paper.

Here I am, thousands of miles away in Rabat Morocco. I live in a walled city with a family who doesn’t speak my language, in a room inhabited by dozens of foreign students before me, but here I am writing a paper--in limbo-- just as if I were in Boston. The lights have the same familiar florescence as Cummington, but in the next room some show in Arabic is blaring to the amusement of my host family. No desk or table in this room, just my lap and my papers strewn over my bed. And just the thought, the smell, the sheer desire to eat something crunchy takes me on a trip to snowy Boston. The types of nights I used to dread, now from a distance take on a romantic appeal, one I am well aware did not exist while I was living through them.

Oh to have internet, while I’m writing!
Oh to have someone to talk to or bounce ideas off of!
Oh to just be able to sink my teeth into one, just one solitary chocolate covered pretzel!

But most of all, oh to just get out of this paper induced purgatory that follows me no matter where I go.

Chellah!

2010-02-09T09:13:00.003-05:00

The other weekend I headed to Chellah, the site of Roman ruins, just outside Rabat. It was a beautiful day and we had a great time wandering the premises, leaning over walls to pick oranges from just out of reach trees, admiring the storks and scoping out the creepy eels in this ancient pool. The storks come to Chellah in the spring to mate and they were making quite the ruckus. There is even one pair of storks that has nested at the very top of the old minaret!

new locale

2010-02-07T13:36:00.003-05:00

Practical update

New family. New room. More laughter, less arguing. Three sisters and Mama, estrogen galore. Plenty of blankets at night and a window that opens on the sky during the day. Names to learn, relationships to be built, family routines to absorb. But I am happy here.
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Sunlight streams through my open window in full force as my fingers fly across my keyboard. Perched atop the four blankets covering my bed, my bare feet hang out over a floor tiled with a black ant white ornate circular pattern. The black flourishes are punctuated by copper colored stains are now a permanent fixture of the tiling. Who knows how long these tiles have rested here silently? On the advice of my family, I do not walk on these tiles without sandals even though it is the most decorative floor I’ve ever seen.

The walls are whitewashed with a shade of foggy foam blue and there are massive chunks of yellow visible from previous paint jobs. The ceiling rises perhaps 10 feet above the black and white tiles. A lone poster with various scenes of Mecca adorns on the Eastern wall. The Northern wall is marked by a three foot miniature door leading to the toilet chamber and just above it the coils of a naked florescent light bulb. The bulb is attached to a fixture of sorts hanging precariously from a cord protruding from a hole hammered into the wall.

Just below my eastern window are my suitcases, which also serve as my dresser are splayed open revealing their melange. My life in two containers. To my right and directly in front of my door to the courtyard stands my dresser, piled high with journals, guidebooks and cahiers. My shoes, by now baptized by the dirt of the medina streets, line the base board near the door. A coat and towel hang on the two nails driven into the back of the door. My Arabic textbooks and pens are scattered across my bed as I attempt to force myself to do homework. Smells of tagine are seeping into my room and hope I’ll soon be called for dinner.

After almost four weeks filled with excitement over new smells, sounds and tastes, as well as great frustration arising from language learning, sickness, and switching host families, I think I have finally settled into this new routine. Weaving through the hordes of people on vegetable street (Boukrone) and the occasional motorcycle is now just what I have to do to get to class. I now plan to always be home around mealtimes and at night by 9:30, as I don’t have a key. If I want to buy something in the medina, I know I have to bargain unless I want to get ripped off.

I may never be able to completely blend in here, but I carry myself with an air of someone who walks these streets daily. The label of foreigner may be practically impossible to shed, but it is possible to lessen its power as the first word locals use to describe you. This is my mission, mon but.

Miss Clean

2010-01-25T05:34:00.002-05:00

Confession: It’s been a week since I have been able to take a true shower.
I’m clean! Oh hot water, I shall never take you for granted again!

Contrary to your initial revulsion, let me please explain how this came about.

It is completely normal for Moroccans to only bathe once a week. This intense bath session takes place at a local bathhouse called a “hamam.” This weekly ritual is no 10-15 minute shampoo and rinse as it can last up to 2 hours. Unfortunately, I cannot tell you more about hamam’ing because I haven’t yet experienced it and this is partially how I came to be in my oh so dirty state.

I moved into my host family’s house last Sunday and as is often the case with moving into a stranger’s house....there is a period of relative awkwardness that ensues. I almost never tire of asking questions, but coupled with intense Arabic courses, new ways of eating, and trying to find my way through the medina, I just let the whole shower thing slide as a means of avoiding another intrusive conversation in broken French. Other students were asked by their host families to go to the hamam and so part of me was also expecting to be asked to go this weekend....but the coveted and oh so necessary invite never came.

This afternoon (Saturday) the humidity in my room just pushed me over the edge and all I could think about this afternoon was showering. When I finally approached the subject after dinner Samira immediately instructed Hamza to go turn on the gas to warm the water. But this is no ordinary shower.

(I will explain the following for those who want to know more about life in the Rabat medina and truly hope I don’t come off as an obnoxious American.)

There is no separate stall for the shower in my bathroom, just a shower head in room. The fact that there is no separate shower means you have to strategically place your towel or it may end up getting absolutely soaked, thereby defeating its very purpose and leaving the bather rather grumpy at her lack of planning. On another procedural note, after the shower is done, I make use of a broom sized squeegee to “sweep” all the water into the Turkish toilet hole. The bathroom has a Turkish toilet ( a hole) that also serves as a drain for the shower. It actually is rather water efficient if you think about how much water is used in a standard Western bathroom. No 11 gallon water wasting flushes here!

So what exactly is the point of me telling you all about my medina shower experience? First of all, the complexity of this weekly (hopefully soon to be biweekly) routine clearly makes it much more exciting than what for most (usually including myself) is just a daily routine. Also, after experiencing a different way of doing an activity that I admit I was initially hesitant about at first I start to think about why it really does make great sense to shower that way.

Hot water is expensive. The sewage systems here are old. Hamams offer a very thorough weekly cleaning. So why should I take a hot shower every day? This is more than just a “when in Rome” moment--it’s really made me rethink what I always just thought of as normal. We’ll see what sort of enlightenment next week’s bath brings.

Relearning how to eat

2010-01-25T05:30:00.004-05:00

I can’t claim to be a master of all the graces of table etiquette, but I would say I do know how to feed myself at meals. The simple skills that allow one to get food from the plate to the mouth are first attempted as a small child and perfected until one can eat “politely” with adults. Adults are expected to at least know the difference between one’s salad fork and when it is appropriate to use each culinary utensil. Until a week ago, I thought I was a fairly capable eater, but in the last week I have been reduced to a child like state as I struggle to master a new way of eating.

In Morocco, most meals are served in one large flat dish set in the middle of the table and accompanied by bread (khoubz). Who needs utensils when you have khubs and fingers? It means fewer dishes, right? I have no problem eating with my hands, but I have found that I am not nearly as good as the rest of my family. I frequently end up spilling some of my “bite” on the table. My piece of bread just never seems to pick up as much potato or lentils as even eight year old Marawa! So in the last few days I have been “studying” so that I can move beyond my toddler skill set in the eating department.

My goal is to be able to take a small piece of “khoubz” and maximize its absorption and pick up power to allow me to eat more of the actual dish while using less bread. I carefully watch how Samira uses the first three fingers of her right hand to pinch the bread in a way that it grabs a large morsel and then still makes it all the way to her mouth without a drop spilling onto the table. I’ve learned also how to discreetly use the khubs as my napkin to clean my fingers rather than just licking them off. Khoubz has become my all in one knife, fork, spoon and napkin. Just as the challenge as kids is to learn when to use which and how exactly to use it, I have to now master the multiple uses of this starch in order that I can finally eat at the level of the other adults in my family. I will do it, oh yes I will. My competitive spirit is not limited to academic pursuits, but I now find it being used at the dinner table. Little by little, khoubz morsel by khoubz I am getting the hang of it.

Some may be shocked that most Moroccan meals are eaten with one’s hands, but have you ever eaten a hot dog or potato chips with a fork or spoon? Using utensils and individual plates is not a sign of progress or civilization, it is merely a different way of doing things-one which happens to create far more dishes to wash and water to be wasted.

Marjane: A supermarket adventure!

2010-01-25T05:21:00.002-05:00

Sunday Afternoon Grocery Shopping à la Marocain

Today, I went to the supermarket with my family, the El Idrissi’s.

However, the previous sentence really doesn’t do the excursion justice. This was no ‘load up the family in the mini-van and go stock up for the week’ afternoon. Samira, Hamza and I left the house at 1:30 and were joined outside the medina by Abdelmalek.

“Tu aimes marcher? C’est un peu loin.” Samira asks me and I respond that yes I don’t mind walking. Little did how know how much walking we would be doing.

After stopping by Hamza’s math tutor’s office, (where I am introduced to the staff) we make our way down to the highway that runs alongside the Bouregreg River. The Bougregreg separates Salé from Rabat and flows into the Atlantic Ocean. Samira explains to me that in the summer the river is bright blue but due to recent heavy rainfall it is a rather unappealing shade of rusty brown. When I say we made our way down to the highway, what I really mean is that we are walking on the actual highway on the far side of the right lane. Due to a massive bridge construction project, there really is no other place to walk and so we walk in a formation of the parents on the outside and Hamza and I farthest away from the traffic.

We continue along this highway walking in the direction of oncoming traffic until we reach a point where the road turns into a bridge headed towards Salé which is not at all where we need to go. But never fear Abdelmalek has found a solution to our little predicament. There just happens to a slope that resembles some sort of ravine and at the bottom lies another highway that heads towards Marjane. Abdelmalek dislodges several chunks of the wall separating us from the ravine and throws them down to serve as a sort of step system. Samira says “yella!” which is the equivalent of “let’s go” and the next thing I know I’m half climbing half sliding this sandy slope. Hamza screeches and yells “lalalala” because he is scared to go down, but after a bit of coaxing we all make it down safely.

This highway has a bit of a shoulder and so we resume our formation until we reach Marjane. Marjane is quite the shock after being in the medina-it has a strip mall-esque parking lot filled with cars in front of it and even a Pizza Hut. “Whoa. This is weird” I think to myself even though this is such a familiar scene in the States.

Once in the store, Samira and Abdelmalek pick up different items and inspect them thoroughly. They appear to be discussing the price, but I really have no idea what they are saying. I’ve assumed that they come to buy things they can’t find in the medina like butter or maybe some other special treat. Yet, each item they pick up gets put back. We make a giant circle around the store. I look and follow along matching their ambling pace. I must admit this was an adjustment as I tend to practically speed walk everywhere. We saunter by the fresh fish and the fresh bread section. Samira calls over her husband and they intensely talk right next to the fish, but once again we continue on. Hamza ferociously attempts to convince his parents to buy Nesquick, but alas with no success. We return to the entrance and exit Marjane.

In my head I’m thinking, “What?! Why did you walk for an hour when it is drizzling out just to walk around a store? What is the point if you aren’t going to buy anything?” My initial reaction centers on how I will have wasted 2 hours of my afternoon by the time we return to the medina. However, just like so many things I’ve experienced in Morocco I need to put in context. I do not understand why we went to Marjane today, but I also didn’t understand a thing that was said in the store. I do not know the family’s routine or what going to the supermarket means. Perhaps it is just a Sunday afternoon stroll or a scouting expedition for later purchases. I’ve only been living with this family for one week and so what seems perfectly natural and logical to them has not yet become my norm.

I may not have bought anything this afternoon, but I did learn two new ways to get to my house and out of the medina. I also have more dirhams in my wallet. But this afternoon also made me think about how I consider it “normal” to buy something in a store if you take the time to go there. Take for example, if I spent the money on gas to go to an outlet mall or to drive to Fargo, I would feel as if I hadn’t accomplished anything if I ended up leaving empty-handed. I’d rather buy something even it it was something I may not really need, than leave with nothing to show for my journey. Maybe I’m the weird one. So yes, today I went to the supermarket. I may not be able to tell you or show you all the things I bought but I can tell you it made me reflect on my materialistic tendencies and somehow I think that is more important.

ra ra rabat

2010-01-25T05:08:00.002-05:00

For the next three and a half months I'll be writing to you from Rabat, the capital city of Morocco. I'll be trying to focus my writing on describing a certain aspect of daily life, even if it seems trivial. I've found that even the most basic act of say eating or bathing has made me question what I've always considered to be normal or natural.

Here's the rundown of my life in Morocco:

I live in the medina, the old walled part of the city that is separated from the ocean by large cemeteries. I am living with a Moroccan host family near what I've taken to calling 'vegetable and fish street.' Samira and Abdelmalek have two children, Marawa, who is 8 and Hamza who is 13. All my meals are eaten with my family and thus I weave my way through the medina everyday at noon to return home for lunch. Abdelmalek is a TV repairman and has a little boutique in the medina that supports the family. TV is to put it lightly, the family pastime and it is blasting at almost all hours of the day.

The family tends to be fairly quiet and reserved, but then again I don't understand what is going on since they only speak Dari'ja, the local dialect, to each other. I hope by the end of the semester I can at least understand what they are talking about! We speak French to each other as I do not yet speak enough Arabic (Fus'ha) to communicate.

So there you have it -- a little introduction to my new routine!

L'ASSFAM now has an English version!

2009-12-15T10:24:00.004-05:00

This is a shameless "I'm proud of myself" moment. Creating an English version of the association's website was my first project as part of my internship and was much more challenging than it might initially appear. I came in knowing practically nothing about the association or the immigration system in France. I interviewed a variety of people and employed other means to try and really get at the essence, the heart of l'ASSFAM (Assocation Service Social Familial Migrants).

(As a side note, I've learned that translation is "vachement" dificult, especially when trying to describe the complex French system.)

The association's website is rather limited in formatting flexibility, but here is my work, the text at least!

En Fin a "regular"

2009-12-11T04:46:00.007-05:00

Let me confess that after working at Trident all summer and realizing how cool it is to have some place where you are known to the employees, I sort of wanted to be a regular somewhere. Unless you have a place that you call "yours" or you have worked at a place that has such customers, I don't think you can quite understand the thrill or the comfort of being a "regular."
I tried becoming a regular at another boulangerie near my house, and while the bread and pastries there are great-- the lady who worked there was to be blunt, she was mean. But I resumed my quest for the title of "regular" in November as I started my internship.

I leave my apartment building every morning at 8:45 sharp to begin my commute to work in the 9eme arrondissement. For the past month and a half, before I squeeze my way into the frowning mass of Parisiens on la ligne 9, I stop to buy a croissant. The 45 minutes of being packed like steer in a truck to the sale barn is more manageable after having devoured a the flakey buttery deliciousness that is a croissant in France.

The same guy is always working at that hour, chaque jour I pay 90 cents and our little ritual has gone on like this for about a month. I've wondered several times if at some point he will acknowledge that we do this every single work day, but until today it was just business as usual. But today was different.

As soon as I stepped in the door, the man says with a mischievous smile "un croissant?" to which I reply "Oui, c'est comme d'habitude non?" and he laughs. I paid in exact change as usual and walked out with a huge goony grin on my face. Though I attempted to keep my Parisien mask of the cross between a scowl and a face completely devoid of expression...it was pretty difficult. It might sound childish, but inside I was shouting "Wooooohoooo I'm a regular! I'm in the club!"

This whole daily ritual is one of the things I will dearly miss when I am back in the States. Starbucks, 7/11, Dunkin Donuts: I'm sorry, but I don't think you can ever measure up.

Up next: Furthering my status as a regular by making small talk.

Housekeeping

2009-12-10T10:45:00.004-05:00

I honestly have no idea who reads this blog, other than Lulu (name changed to protect privacy). Originally I wanted to write to share my "adventures" with others, but I've found that my definition of the word "adventure" has changed over the past 3 months in France.

I've learned that an adrenaline rush can come from spending the Festival of "Eid" with an Algerian family as you are surrounded by the sounds of Arabic, French and the smell of mint tea. An adventure can also be going to a "marché" (outdoor market) in a tough neighborhood that French people often describe as "chaud" which translates directly as "hot." In a nutshell, I've decided that rather than long posts attempting to describe some mountain top-esque moment in my life, I'd rather stick to short musings. I see and read things everyday that make me laugh, (70 year old man riding one of those little scooters normally associated with 10 year olds), angry and most importantly make me wonder.

Also here is a very important disclaimer: my English skills and more particularly grammar skills are well to be blunt...not up to par after spending over almost 4 months concentrating on mastering (not there yet though) French. Perhaps this exercise can help me get back on track in the English language.

So here's to wondering and concisely writing about it afterward!

Blunt, yet so appropriate.

2009-12-10T09:44:00.009-05:00

I just finished reading the text of Obama's Nobel acceptance speech, which he delivered this morning in Oslo, Norway. As an International Relations major, a student studying abroad and more specifically a person who thrives on debating international issues in Model UN committees, this speech was spot on. His words impressed me because he did not shy away from pointing how that it was not international institutions like the UN who really restored and rebuilt Europe after WWII. He was blunt in a way that I feel politicians (both American and International) often are not.

I highly suggest reading the entire text but here are a few of my favorite sections or as I like to call them "zingers."

"The other is a conflict that America did not seek; one in which we are joined by 42 other countries -- including Norway -- in an effort to defend ourselves and all nations from further attacks."

"As someone who stands here as a direct consequence of Dr. King's life's work, I am living testimony to the moral force of non-violence. I know there is nothing weak –nothing passive – nothing naïve – in the creed and lives of Gandhi and King.

But as a head of state sworn to protect and defend my nation, I cannot be guided by their examples alone. I face the world as it is, and cannot stand idle in the face of threats to the American people. For make no mistake: evil does exist in the world. A non-violent movement could not have halted Hitler's armies. Negotiations cannot convince al Qaeda's leaders to lay down their arms. To say that force is sometimes necessary is not a call to cynicism – it is a recognition of history; the imperfections of man and the limits of reason."

"I understand why war is not popular. But I also know this: the belief that peace is desirable is rarely enough to achieve it. Peace requires responsibility. Peace entails sacrifice. That is why NATO continues to be indispensable. That is why we must strengthen UN and regional peacekeeping, and not leave the task to a few countries."

"Yet the world must remember that it was not simply international institutions – not just treaties and declarations – that brought stability to a post-World War II world. Whatever mistakes we have made, the plain fact is this: the United States of America has helped underwrite global security for more than six decades with the blood of our citizens and the strength of our arms."

"But it is also incumbent upon all of us to insist that nations like Iran and North Korea do not game the system. Those who claim to respect international law cannot avert their eyes when those laws are flouted. Those who care for their own security cannot ignore the danger of an arms race in the Middle East or East Asia. Those who seek peace cannot stand idly by as nations arm themselves for nuclear war."

Amid all the controversy after the recent announcement of the troop surge in Afghanistan added to the controversy regarding the Nobel prize, I found it appropriate that he stressed his role as a "head of state" who must first defend his country. I feel as if some people acted as though just because he received the peace prize he was supposed to abandon his duties as President of the US.

While my interpretation of the opinions of some maybe be taking to to far right there, many people I talked to were outraged that he would increase troops just after receiving the prize. (My thoughts on the troop surge in Afghanistan deserve a whole other post) I do believe that his job as President must come before being the recipient of the Nobel Peace Prize. Regardless of your political leanings, when critizing the President--remind yourself of his responsibilities and the enormous complexity of his job that your 420 character Facebook status will never sum up.

Here is a link to the text of the speech:
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/12/11/world/europe/11prexy.text.html

The American Intern

2009-11-05T18:03:00.007-05:00

On November 2 I started my internship with an Association that works with immigrants of all ages in France. Here are some of my thoughts after the first week.

I am the American intern who sits at her desk and types types types away. I have my own coffee cup, sticky notes, notepad, pens and even my own ream of paper. Each day I work on my projects, but my favorite moments are when I get to hear the individual stories of immigrants. Today a woman called our jurist (my desk is right next to hers) and since she was on speaker phone I overheard the situation. *For reasons of confidentialité I can't really talk about the specifics of her situation, such as nationality.

Her local prefecture is threatening to take away her ‘nationalité” or right to be in France. I could hear her baby crying in the background and really my heart just broke. She needs 300 euros for some required medical exam and she really needs a lawyer because she has no chance in a tribunal without one. But the problem is she has no money to pay for the exam and certainly not enough to cover legal fees. What is she supposed to do? I can not even imagine how frustrated and discouraged I would feel if I was her.

More and more I get a feeling for how difficult it is to be an immigrant in France. I hear from the association’s social workers how the officials at the prefectures are intimidating, rude and almost seem to enjoy frightening those who really are in need of help. The laws are extremely complicated and the fact that the names of government agencies and types of permits changes so frequently doesn’t help at all. Furthermore, most immigrants and even most French citizens have difficulty understanding all the legal jargon. I can easily see how one without intending to could end up in a very messy legal situation in this country.

I just finished reading about the many projects of the delegation of Seine-Saint-Denis. They work with victims of domestic violence and provide support groups. They work with youth to try to help discover their native cultures and occupy their free time so they don’t end up involved in drugs and gangs. They try to help parents be involved in the academic lives of their children. I am impressed and really in awe at the dedication of this organization and its employees to help these populations.

Earning a living and supporting a family is hard enough. The things I've learned and overheard over the past few days have painted a picture for me of what it is like to be an immigrant particularly in France.

It is as if you have a yoke on your shoulders that makes things more difficult. It is as if everyone else has starting blocks for the race of life and somehow you not only don’t have starting blocks, you also are running into a strong head wind. Every single step towards the finish line takes more effort.

All of this makes me grateful and yet makes me feel incredibly guilty. Partly because I know I am privileged to be an American citizen and also because before my internship started I knew so little about the issue of immigration in general and in France. I only hope that I can continue to soak up as much knowledge about immigration in France as possible even though I have no idea yet how it will serve me and others in the future.

Changes

2009-10-17T13:07:00.006-04:00

The following are a few indicators of the metamorphosis of Aura Lee into Parisian Aurélie.

It is now normal to just wake up and start speaking French. "Salut" Tu as bien dormis?"

There are moments when I actually find it difficult to express myself in English.

I've come to enjoy staring at people when I take the Metro every morning and imagining what they do in their lives outside the trains and tunnels.

I'm capable of writing a 5 page paper on the effects of France rejoining NATO integrated military command. It may not have been eloquent, but this would have been impossible a month ago.

No longer care or wonder if people can tell I'm a foreigner when I'm walking down the street.

I had my first dream entirely in French!

Red lipstick is no longer reserved for nights out on the town.

Debating in another language may be extremely difficult, but it still gives me that familiar adrenaline rush that I adore.

Going to my boulangerie for a warm baguette after class gives me that cheesy comforting feeling.

I may not be a Metro-pro, but I'd like to think I'm a well versed in this oh so efficient underground system.

*Can't even imagine what I'll be like after living here for 4 months.

Wish I could have the Abroad part minus the Studying.

2009-10-12T12:03:00.006-04:00

Studying and school have been cramping my game when it comes to adventures. At this moment I feel as if the endless museums in Paris are calling my name and wondering why oh why I have only shown my face at Louvre? The mountains of papers and homework that make me feel chained to the BU building and my room only fuel my frustrations. In a perfect world I could come live in Paris and just explore every single day, but I guess that's called vacation.

I am rather anxious for the internship portion of the program to start. I truly love speaking French with French people, just not writing on France's relationship with the NATO integrated commandant entirely in French. (Well aware that is why I am here, however that does not make the task any easier. ) I will be working for an Association called "L'ASSFAM," which operates throughout France to aide immigrants as they try to integrate into French society and life. I will be working at the Administrative center, but will be traveling to the other field offices within Paris to conduct interviews. This is about all I know about my internship at this point, but next week I will find out more.

In other news, the hot chocolate I'm currently sipping on this crisp autumn day is delicious.

Les Trucs que j’Adore à Paris

2009-09-09T18:34:00.009-04:00

*Let me just preface this by saying I am a "list" person. *

The juxtaposition of singing sirens and ancient church bells.
Discovering the nearest boulangerie by the scent of freshly baked baguettes.
My floor to ceiling windows framed by fabulous green curtains and my little balcony that overlooks a courtyard.
The absolutely necessary pleasantries that change depending on the time of day.
“Tu as bien dormi?” “Bonjour” “Bonne soir”
I don’t think I’ll ever want to go back to just saying, “Hey” “What’s up?” or “How’s it going?” ever again.
Using the tip top of the Eiffel Tower as an orientation point at all hours of the day and night.
The plenitude of bridges (ponts) and the fantastic stone pathway that is runs right next the Seine! Sadly, no cable suspension bridges, but I think I’ll survive.
Le Parc André Citroën. This what you get when you turn an old factory into a superb park with canals, fountains, grass, salsa dancing and a hot air balloon.
Croissants and Pain Chocolat. French pastries melt in your mouth like nothing you’ve ever tasted or will ever taste at Starbucks.
Hearing and starting to use French interjections as well as hearing them say words like “cool” and “ok” in French accents.

“Puh” (said while blowing air through one’s closed lips in strange fashion, but somehow this little sound can express so much!)

"Bah" (French version of ummm)

"Tac Tac Tac" (my favorite!)
Always having another park to discover, a museum to explore, and an adventure waiting for me.

My Friend, the Cantaloupe

2009-09-06T17:45:00.002-04:00

“Bonne soir Nicole”

Jet lagged and dazed, I walk through the door to the living room after a three hour nap. On the table in front of the TV are three rainbow colored place mats with enormous slices of ripe cantaloupe on each plate. A bottle of wine has already been opened and I sit down to join Nicole, my host mother, and her niece, Margot. Nicole serves up slices of what appears to be a cross between smoked ham and prosciutto.

“So, this is dinner, ” I think to myself with an inner expression of raised eyebrows that I dare not exhibit in my new home.

After a draining transatlantic flight, the last thing I want to see is a hefty slice of this staring back at me, in the shape of a menacing, orange smile. To put it bluntly, the cantaloupe and I have a strained relationship. There is just something about the smell and texture that makes my skin prickle. Others may find my whole rant about cantaloupe a tad childish and maybe even inappropriate for my first entry about Paris, but please consider that I am not a picky eater- this is practically the only food item I cannot tolerate.

I have a very vivid memory of my mother forcing me to try the vile fruit at a fancy hotel breakfast in Maroua, Cameroon while reminding me, “You have to learn to like it.” Back in Cameroon, I took one bite and sneakily disposed of the half chewed vomit colored morsel in an crisp white napkin under the table.

I have learned to like many things during the past two years in Boston, but I never managed to conquer cantaloupe. But there he was, my culinary nemesis, mocking me saying, “Bet you can’t eat me, even if you are in Paris. You don’t even know how to politely refuse! You say you like new things, but you’ve always refused me”

I do not even think about saying “Je n’aime pas les melons.”

This is my first night in Paris.

I will eat it.

Slicing as far away from the rind as possible and attempting to swallow the chunks whole, I can almost avoid tasting the venomous melon. I temper the melon’s taste with a dry red wine and the as of yet unnamed combination meat. It is now the weather section of the broadcast and even this is unfamiliar. I must rely on the pictures of clouds and suns to try to decipher the weeks forecast. My brain is absolutely overloaded with all the new smells, tastes, feelings, and especially words.

In between bites, my mouth attempts to express all that is swirling around in my head. I limp along through the conversation and strain to understand Nicole and Margot. Though the conversation spurts and sputters, it chugs along and somehow manages to become less awkward. Nicole changes the channel, while lighting her slender cigarette. I recognize Richard Gere and after a few minutes realize I am watching a French dubbed version of Pretty Woman. At this point, I just have to laugh. My eyelids feel like lead and my body aches. I feel like my whole system has received a jolt and yet, here I am watching Pretty Woman. A taste of America, but in the context of an evening that reminds me, I am truly in France.

This past week has taught me many things. I’ve had to learn to survive in a foreign country, in the very basic sense. I never knew grocery shopping could seem daunting, getting lost without a good map could be so scary, or that I could make a fool of myself by asking for “un pain” instead of “une baguette.” These few experiences are just the tip of the iceberg of ordinary activities that can become very frustrating in another country.

The repulsive melon, the cantaloupe, and I will likely never become friends. It has not managed to charm me even after another appearance at the Sunday night dinner table. There are many things I will remember about my first week and first night in Paris. Though I never thought one of them would be a melon, but I am glad I have a reminder of my Mom’s little saying. I am already falling in love with so many parts of this city, but there are definitely things I have encountered and will encounter that I will be difficult. I do not have to love everything, and there will always be things I miss about home. However, my first night in Paris will always remind me of the importance of at least trying something new and perhaps even learning to like it.

Lessons from the Other Side of the Table.

2009-08-11T12:05:00.005-04:00

What 3 months of waiting tables taught me about eating out

1. You always deserve good service, but you are never entitled to a personal slave.

2. If you cannot afford to tip appropriately, do not go out to eat.

3. Unless you received horrible service, 15% is the absolute bare minimum you should tip.

4. Remember that the restaurant pays servers only $2.63 an hour, so if you are angry about your food or at the restaurant you should take it up with the manager and not out on your server.

5. If you have to split a meal, this is an indication you cannot afford to go out to eat and should see “2."

6. “Ice water with lemon” is not actually an order, it’s a pretentious request. If you can drink water at home without slicing lemons for it, then you can do without it at a restaurant.

7. The following are not the fault of your server and should not be taken out on his or her tip:
a. How your food tastes-we don’t cook.
b. Your small table.
c. Prices.
d. A “no substitution” policy.
e. The amount of time you had to wait to get a seat.
f. Your noisy neighbors.

8. If they look “rich” they probably won’t tip you well, but there are always exceptions.

9. Being rude to waitstaff somehow makes people feel important and they believe they are entitled to have their every whim (no matter how miniscule or trivial) catered to.

10. Commiserating with your coworkers about a particularly obnoxious table does make you feel a bit better.

11. Be aware of your surroundings when out to eat. If you only see 1 waitress in your section and there is a plethora of other customers near you, that means it is busy and therefore your food, your extra napkin request and even your “ice water with lemon” will take a longer.

12. As a server, you are almost completely expendable to your employer- one small screw up can cost you your job.

13. I will always tip over 20%, just to make up for all the assholes who stiff their server.

14. If you want to save yourself $2-3, order food within your means instead of just wimping out on the tip. Would you rather fatten the pockets of the restaurant owner or the college student who is waiting tables to get by?

15. Just remember your server has probably been on her feet for 8 hours and has countless things to remember and never ending changes to mess something up. So when she forgets to bring you 3 creamers, or 7 different kinds of jelly it was not her way of being rude to you. Sometimes like other human beings, we simply forget.

*This is in no way just a rant about my job. I actually really enjoy being a server and all the people I've gotten to know this summer. However, the above "lessons" are things I honestly did not realize before I was a server. I just wanted to make others aware and hopefully you will take them to heart the next time you dine out.