Tag Archives: cafe



New pants! Thanks, Bellarmine Hall donation bin. Whoever in Bell that wears my size pants and donated them. I needed pants. (badly.)

Here is the current transition situation: this whole thing is a big pile of awesomeness and headaches. Figuring out leases, being unemployed, sleeping on couches, reading books, exclaiming enthusiastically upon meeting someone I haven’t seen in five months, getting sometimes frustrated or overwhelmed or headachey until I go to some quirky Seattle café and get some dark, black, AMERICAN HAHAHAHA I LOVE IT coffee and chat with personable baristas that I remember from back when and read books by Milan Kundera or Slavoj Žižek (I’m really smart, didn’t you know?) (actually, he just published 1,000 pages on Hegel in a weighty tome called Less Than Nothing, which is funny because it’s 1,000 friggin pages of a lot more than nothing. No, I’m on page 12. I’m not that smart. I just like to appear smart in cafés) and that always raises my spirits.

This is my third café of the day, and do you know what it isn’t? A MAN CAFÉ. HEMDULLILAH.

Funny story, I’d typed all the “café”s in this entry without the ´ over the E, because I thought now that I’m in the U.S. the accent looks pretentious, but then when I read it over I pronounced it cafe as incapewith an F instead of a P and it sounded pretty dumb in my head so I replaced them all with És.

Here’s what I find myself doing: randomly writing stuff in Arabic all over the place, saying stuff like “oh. mushkil,” in my head, and scrolling through our cohort’s facebook page every time I’m on the computer. All my girls and boys have become so…so…cyber-real now that we’re not together in Morocco anymore, whereas all my home-friends have become real real, and DUH KATIE OF COURSE THEY DID but I didn’t realize just how polarized these worlds would be. Morocco feels like another universe: though I can recall every detail as soon as I close my eyes, I can’t seem to finds the words or pictures or anything that brings it to life for my old friends, who seem both excited and unsure about what I’m doing here. Well, I’m excited and unsure about what I’m doing here, too, so we’re on the same page.

And then there’s the whole realization that nobody really cares about Morocco, which is also sort of funny. It doesn’t bother me, it’s just kind of funny–that what happened over there really only matters to 1) my friends, or 2) the very small minority of people who know about Morocco. Then I remember that we all have our bubbles, and that Morocco is a new bubble that I inhabit alone here, and that’s okay.  The French in France people will have their France bubbles, the IDIPers have their IDIP bubbles, the SUers who stuck around had their Winter-Spring 2012 bubble, I have my Morocco bubble. The fun part will be blowing our bubbles at each other–if we can find the words, if we can find the pictures. I’m still working on that.

(blowing our bubbles at each other? I think I need an editor.)

I swear, though, if I hear one more “Arabic! Wow. Squiggles and dots, right?!” I WILL SQUIGGLE YOU. Arabic is a LANGUAGE with LETTERS THAT ARE CONNECTED. Okay, I’m not being fair, because I’d have said the same thing before I learned anything about it. In fact, I probably did. In fact fact, I think the only reason that it bothers me is because I don’t like to be reminded that I’m not in Morocco anymore. Which is also unfair because I’m not in Morocco anymore, and simply by virtue of their not-being-in-Morocco-either, other people constantly remind me of it. Squiggles and dots. Ha.

You know, I even feel a little guilty typing that. Who do I think I am, judging people like that? SHUT UP, KATIE. It’s just so surreal to not be complaining about Al-Kitaab to the English-speaking Arabic students around me (a sure-fire way to start a conversation with any student in Morocco), and instead have English-speaking Normal People look impressed by my practically nonexistent Arabic skills. Bizarre. Also, hearing English everywhere: bizarre. The flow of traffic: bizarre. The price of bread/fruit/anything: BIZARRE. The coffee: INCREDIBLE.

However, let me counter this withjust how muchI’ve felt welcomed in the past few days: people who, even though we’re barely even acquaintances, remembered that I’d been in Morocco and looked excited to see me home. People who squeal in excitement and make sure I know that they’re interested in my experience there, who want to grab coffee and catch up, who can’t wait to catch me up on news of home, who want to cook Moroccan food with me sometime. As isolated as I’ve been from this community, I’m reminded upon my return of why I missed it so much.

I’m still nervous about coming back for senior year, though. I feel so done with college, and the concept of a whole ‘nother year is a bit daunting at the moment. Nervous about choir, which is very different from what it’s been in the past. Nervous about math class and houses. Living in this weird couchsurfey limbo, till I figure out whether my summer sublet (in the house I’ll be living in come fall) fell through or not (I’ll be temporarily homeless if so, how sad).

So, now that I’m rambling, let me wrap this up with a life-summary: my current existence is as comically disoriented and disorganized as my brain, which plans no farther than 5 days in advance (and even that’s a stretch) and has been reading books and drinking coffee rather than doing anything constructive for my life or future. I’m living by the seat of my new donation-bin pants, both happy and frustrated to be back in Seattle. I am going to try to start writing more stories about things. Maybe I’ll take a writing stories class or something. I am going to keep updating this blog, probly, because what else will I do in my 3rd café of the day?

Okay, this is enough. Peace out, y’all!



Word of the Day


I am sitting on the terrace outside the café at the Bibliothéque Nationale du Royaume du Maroc. Read: Moroccan Library of Congress, except replace Congress with KINGDOM. I just finished a heap of nonsense words that had something to do with Fez and Amazigh culture and submitted it, and to reward myself for this strenuous mental activity, I’m sitting back and allowing myself to wonder what—no, really, what—possessed whoever it was that started this chain of cafés when he or she sat down to name it.

You see, I’d let the name of the café go for awhile, figuring it meant something in French, but Google Translate turned up nothing when I typed it in just now. I’m now second-guessing our decision to make this our go-to study spot, because the name of this café is…is…Café Carrion.

I’m not kidding. The best part is how classy this café is, with little gold teapots and glass mugs shaped like the upper class.

Word of the Day: carrion!

There are so many great definitions of this word on the internet, I’m sitting here giggling like a maniac as bourgeois intellectual Moroccans look curiously at the weird foreign girl in the corner laughing to herself. DAMMIT THE WAITER JUST TOOK AWAY THE LAST OF MY ORANGE JUICE BEFORE I COULD REACT KSDJFLKSJWLEKJFLKSDFJSEIF

Anyway, carrion:

Merriam-Webster says: : dead and putrefying flesh; also : flesh unfit for food

Dictionary.com says: 1. dead and putrefying flesh. 2. rottenness; anything vile.

thefreedictionary.com says: n. Dead and decaying flesh. adj. 1. Of or similar to dead and decaying flesh. 2. Feeding on such flesh.

And, finally, Wikipedia says: Carrion (from the Latin “caro”, meaning “meat”) refers to the carcass of a dead animal. Carrion is an important food source for large carnivores and omnivores in most ecosystems. Examples of carrion-eaters (or scavengers) include vultures, hawks, eagles,[1] striped hyenas,[2] Virginia Opossum,[3] Tasmanian Devils,[4] coyotes,[5] Komodo dragons,[6] and burying beetles.[7] Many invertebrates like the burying beetles, as well as maggots of calliphorid flies and Flesh-flies also eat carrion, playing an important role in recycling nitrogen and carbon in animal remains.

Hey, guys, wanna go eat at Café Carrion? YEAH TOTES ME TOO. LOLOLOL

You know what’s even better? This is a chain. You can find these all over Morocco, and it makes me chuckle every time I see one. Did they realize that in English, this is Café Dead and Putrefying Flesh? Probably not. This, friends, is proof of how few English speakers there are in this country.

You know, I’m always nervous about these sorts of posts because I wonder if I’m missing something big and obvious, and someone will call me out on it with something like “oh, Hassan or Mohammed Carrion was involved in some Big Important Thing that Everyone Knows About Except You, which explains the name, you ignorant snarky fartbucket.” Until then, though I’m going to enjoy the twisted enjoyment I get out of sipping a glass of orange juice at Café Dead and Putrefying Flesh.

Feel free to join.