Weekend of Zen

I declined an invitation to go back to Salé this weekend – and despite missing a real shower, I am glad I did. The weekend was quiet and relaxed, and gave me a chance to catch up on my sleep and work. The grant application is nearly complete; all it needs is a last glance and an edit here and there. After the bad news from last week I am not confident about this one, but it will have to do…

I am starting to connect with other non-Moroccans here, due in large part to the NIMAR. Last night I went out with a group of fellow Europeans – three other Dutch ex-pats, a French photographer, a British BBC correspondent, and a German radio reporter. We had come together through a chain-reaction of contacts, so to speak – each of us arrived knowing just about one other person in the group – but the evening was informal, pleasant, easy. And for me, after a month of non-stop immersion into Moroccan family life, this evening of English/Dutch conversation, European food,* wine,** and sharing stories about our experiences and impressions of life in Rabat, felt incredibly liberating. An evening like this is something I have never done before in Morocco – and I am very, very glad to discover that it has proven to be an option. It adds to the growing sense I have that I could in fact live here comfortably without missing too much of the ‘liberties’ (luxuries?) I am used to at home.

Nevertheless, today I could not quite shake the slight sense that I had done something sinful last night. My host family knew that I had gone out to dinner with a group of Dutch people, and eagerly asked me today if I had had a nice evening. Telling them about my night, I couldn’t help feeling a little bit like a teenager who had furtively snuck out of the house the night before to do something gravely forbidden. As I listened to myself reporting, conveniently leaving out the wine at the restaurant, let alone the Ivorian bar/lounge we went to at the end of the evening, a slight and unfamiliar sense of guilt emerged – an evening like this is something I have never had to lie about before.

But I think I’ll get over it – as long as I don’t have to be completely dishonest, I don’t think I mind leaving out a few small details if it means I won’t completely shock them, and buys me a bit of freedom to go out like this occasionally. And apart from Fatima saying in passing that 1 AM (my hour of arrival back home) was very late to still be out alone and that she was glad I had been escorted all the way home, no one seemed bothered by my evening away. I think I’ve been graced with a host family whose protectiveness knows its limits…


* Not to mention forks and knives…
** I can now report that Moroccan wine is not bad at all!