2013! And…the Welcome Home post.

Well, hello again, Blog! It’s been awhile. Last I posted was a day or two after my little brother’s birthday, which was in September. In the intervening months, I read a whole lot of philosophy (that’s my major. Nice and practical) and did a bunch of other stuff, too. Turned 21. Started baking bread. Considering running away to Japan to study Zen soon as I graduate. Applied to graduate. Applied to graduate!

Remember that one time I studied abroad in Morocco?

Wait WHUUUUT I REMEMBER THAT.

Around Thanksgiving, a friend of mine who was studying in Rabat at the time (WASSUP MAMA SAM!!!) asked what the transition back home had been like, because it looked like it was going to be a rough ride.  When I started to reply, I realized that it was the first time I’d really thought about it–about putting that transition into words for another human being to read. I think it turned into a bit of a novel. Oh, well. So as we all kick off the new year, I’m going to tell you about transitioning home. All yous guys coming back from study abroad, this is for you.

***

In a way I’m still adjusting back from Morocco. I’ve got some pictures and my red blanket hanging on my bedroom wall, I doodle Arabic on my class notes, I make Moroccan tea ALL THE TIME. My experience in Morocco informs the way I think, behave, and interact with the world to this day (or whatever). It’s not as though you get back, endure 3 weeks of shitty culture shock, and then everything’s back to normal.

Nah. It’s way, way better than that.

(Ooh, that was dramatic. Suspense. Suspense. Woo!)

Here’s the thing–you get to Morocco, and what’s it like? HOLY CRAP NEW CITY NEW CULTURE NEW COUNTRY NEW LANGUAGE WHOA WHOA WHOA WHOA and every day brings you new awkward experiences, new laughs, new places you never thought you’d be, new words you never thought you’d say. It’s a constant barrage of discovery, and even when you start forming routines and begin to feel like you have an “everyday life” of some kind, you’re still not done adjusting. It’s a bit like that coming home, except…actually, no, it’s not like that coming home at all. Well, maybe just a bit.

Because let’s be real: studying abroad, particularly in a place like Morocco, is like climbing into a cannon (like the ones at the circus) and blasting yourself straight out of your comfort zone. In fact, the explosion obliterates your comfort zone. You don’t even have one anymore. So for one thing, you’re better equipped to handle the transition back than you think you are–hell, you already handled the transition
there. Possibly the worst thing you’ll face when you come back is your own disillusionment, and maybe some frustration with how little this world has changed compared to how much you’ve changed.

But seriously, you’ve probably only gotten more awesome in your time away. You’ve gained a lot of valuable skills in a lot of areas, you’ve thought new thoughts, you’ve left the bubble, and you’re looking at returning to the bubble, and maybe that weirds you out a bit. It should. It is sort of weird coming back. But it’s also not weird at all, because it’ll be so, so familiar. You’ll eat a bagel or a hot dog and LOVE it. You’ll hear some new Britney song that you don’t know all the words to. You’ll have missed some internet thing like YOLO or Friday or whatever. You’ll have some awesome stories to tell.

You’ll realize that you can answer those questions you’ll get that seem so obvious, even ignorant, to you – “did they make you wear a bourka?” – with patient “no, actually…”s, and you’ll be able to answer that silly old question that everyone knows is ridiculous but asks anyway: “so, how was Morocco?”

It was good. How was your quarter?

Because, well, it was good! Parts of it probably sucked, but at least for me, those parts were worth it–and, in retrospect, necessary for that experience to have been what it was. Sure it was life-changing, or whatever, but epiphanies are rare things, and life is always changing. And maybe, in the grand scheme of things, four months in Morocco isn’t the hugest deal in the world. And that should be a relief. And the transition home won’t be a super massive upheaval, probably. You’ll be okay.

I guess I’d say allow your past experiences to inform the way you shape your outlook on the present, in small ways. I cook dishes my family taught me to make sometimes. I speak darija to myself sometimes when I’m cleaning. Sometimes, I listen to Cheb Khaled while I do my homework. And then again, sometimes I don’t. It’s whatever. I keep in touch with my host family, on and off. They’re still wonderful.

I don’t think culture shock is always as crappy as it’s made out to be, it’s just a handy term for getting-used-to-where-you-suddenly-find-yourself. Going to college is culture shock, in a way, and I imagine graduating college is going to be a kind of culture shock too. I mean, hell, we live our lives in a constant state of evaluating and re-evaluating the way we live them, and we’re always striving to do something good with whatever that might be. Or something.

And yeah, the first few weeks do suck, or can suck, or might suck, but it gets better. And try not to presuppose that it definitely will suck, because maybe it won’t. Who knows?

Oh, and EVERYONE LOVES YOU AND MISSES YOU A LOT AND WILL BE SO SO SO HAPPY TO HAVE YOU BACK.

That’s all I can think of to say, at least out of my own experiences. You’ll be great.

***

I always feel fancy when I do the above three-centered-asterisks-subject-change thing.

I’ve heard some people, bloggers, teachers, say they wish study abroad-ers would come back and write a bit more in their blogs after coming home. Updates on the transition, and all. So here it is, blog-sphere! Here I am!

Though the transition back to normal college life was a lot harder than I expected it to be, I’m doing really well, everyone. Hello, world! I’m still alive! Probably going to graduate on time, too! Definitely want to go back to Morocco sometime!

And wasn’t it just a wild ride?

I’ll probably come back to this blog, sometime. When I travel. When something cool happens. When I learn something cool or read a new Morocco-book. When I feel like it. You stay cool, gentle reader. Catch ya on the flip side.

AND!

MOROCCO SIBLINGS AND ROOMIE!!!! SMILES!!! Boy, how I miss these kids. Pax in terra, everyone.

Happy Birthday, Tom!

Tom’s my little brother. I don’t think he reads my blog, and his birthday was actually four days ago, but I did start writing this post on his actual birthday, so happy birthday anyway, Tomo! WOOHOO! PARTAY!

Here’s where I was four days ago:

Well, I’m all packed, my bedroom is – gasp – tidied up, and I’m enjoying my last real day of absolutely-nothing-to-do. Tomorrow, I hop on an airplane to Seattle, will hopefully paint my bedroom up there (the colors are ghastly), find myself a wardrobe, learn a metric crapton of music in time for Tuesday, and SCHOOL. Wait, what’s school?

In short, this nine-month break from my university is giving way to one more year of undergraduate classes, and then I’ll have to start Real Life. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, though. Right now, I’m concerned with the ending of my nine-month break from class, during which I saw a whole lot of the world…

And that’s all I had to say about that. I got distracted, probably by Tom’s birthday cake. School starts tomorrow. Anyway, got choir stuff today. Room painted, wardrobe built, music (sort of) learned – I mean, I’ve even bought my books. I don’t think I’ve ever been more and less prepared for school to such extremes before.

So there’s that, for what it’s worth. Hello!

And THIS is your last update before I turn to Nicaragua and possibly more Morocco stuff. I swear. Not sure what else I’m going to write about. Maybe I’ll take up quasi-Moroccan-cooking again. Zip! OH HEY! Tip (haha preemptive pun AND RHYME WHOA): Never say zip, or zipper, in Morocco, because it sounds like Arabic slang for the male anatomy.  We thoroughly embarrassed our intensive Darija teacher with that one in our very first week. We were an illustrious bunch, you can be sure.

Stay classy, world. Kiss kiss.

And now I’m cooking.

Have you ever noticed how breaking up summers makes them go by faster? A little time here, a little time there, WOOHOO I’M UNEMPLOYED, let’s go ride bikes, holy shit this room needs a rug. That’s sort of my summer. For the next two weeks, though, I’m holed up in Seattle: beautiful weather, big library, not much to do, Moroccan cookbook. I’m SET.  Two weeks to keep myself busy: LET’S COOK MOROCCAN FOOD (and feed it to Caroline)!

Today was Day 1 of Let’s Cook Moroccan Food and Feed it to Caroline, and it was a bit of a flop. I came decently close to making beghrir/galettes/those spongy-bread crumpet-like things that you drizzle with melted honey and butter and it’s the SHIT–but I (dumbly) decided “screw it, I’ll try it with whole wheat flour instead of white flour because I’m too lazy to run to the grocery store!” and, well, the consistency wasn’t at ALL what it’s supposed to be. Caroline would never have known, because they were still pretty good (I mean, what could be bad about a fried pancake drizzled in butter and honey?!), but I’m going to try again soon and use the right flour.

So, uh, I’m not a good Moroccan cook. What kind of blog IS this, anyway?! OH WAIT! I did successfully make BOMB Moroccan mint tea, as close to my family’s as possible. Got some loose leaf green tea, some fresh mint (I want a mint plant. I want potted mint. It grows like a weed in my mom’s garden), and a buttload of sugar, and POOF. AHAHAHA. It was this instant portal back to the whitewashed house behind the high blue walls, where we sipped endless cups of tea and traded stories about our lives.

I’m going to try to find some rose water to put in it too, my fam did that.

ANYWAY, that’s my plan, update this blog with tales and pictures of MOROCCAN DINING! Operation Cook Moroccan Food and Feed it to Caroline is a go.

HaHA! And you thought this blog would WIND DOWN once I got home! MUAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA!!!!

Peace out, scouts.

CAMPING!

(just kidding, I’m not going to talk about camping. HA! I AM THE MASTER OF DECEPTION! MAYBE I NEED A NAP!)

I love seeing the things people Google, hoping to find something useful and informative, and instead they find this blog.

On the WordPress.com dashboard, my little ego-homepage where I can obsessively check how many people have read my blog today (FOUR VIEWS! I’M INTERNET FAMOUS!), I can see the “top searches” that led to some poor schmuck accidentally reading this blog. Today, it was: mezien, can’t talk memes, morocco meme, arabic mint tea memes, is farting sexual harassment

I read the last one and WHAT?!???!?!! I HOPE not, JEEZ! If so, I’m screwed. I’ve written a personal statement about it and published it on the INTERNET. Wellp, there goes my life. Maybe I’ll get off because it was retaliatory, but probably not.

Another of my favorites was (I had to go back and find this in the draft of a post I never published) March 28: the 10 scary seconds when u trapped in the shower with the cold water running

Terrifies me too, those 10 scary seconds when u trapped in the shower with the cold water running

Anyway, I figured (since now more people are following this blog – OH HI WELCOME! – ) that I should continue to write and update you on bringing the Morocco experience back home. Well, here’s how it’s going: remember how I said that Morocco was hard to talk about because it was in a different universe? Not emotionally difficult or anything, just that Morocco resided in a separate sphere of existence that simply didn’t translate into life in the U.S.?  It was as though Morocco, Arabic, French, tea, and all of that just dropped out of my life all at once–oh, wait. It did. Well, that train of thought just derailed.

Well, anyway, Morocco has begun to turn from a cynical internal monologue (about the meaningless materialism of life in the U.S. and all that stuff) into stories. Anecdotes to pop into conversation here and there: an interesting factoid about something, an I-can-relate-to-your-stomach-problems-and-by-that-I-mean-one-up-them-HAHA story, stories that I keep short to avoid those awkward moments when everyone remembers that they don’t really care about Morocco. No, that’s a good thing. My friends doze off while I tell my usual stories, and there’s never even a good punch line. They call them Katie stories. Oop, derailed again.

Well, ANYWAY, long story long, it’s been great. I have fun facts to share. I wear poofy pants. This lack of Struggle and Emotional Journeys and all that stuff that I spent January through March writing about PROBABLY makes for much boring-er reading, but oh well. You’ve read nearly 487 words of derailed thought-trains heading for those poor schmucks googling stuff like “do cats in morocco understand french”

(DO they?)

I’m off to go invent some arabic mint tea memes, while hoping that farting isn’t sexual harassment. Peace out.

(bows to tumultuous applause)

THIS WEEK I would like to thank and shout out to Elise Blalock, whose blog is as awesome as SHE is! It’s called Global From Home, and it’s great. It’s also sort of ironic that I’m mentioning her now, since many of you seeing my blog today will have been directed here from hers! Today, Elise featured this silly little blog on her “Study Abroad Blog of the Week” series! AAH! (I’m still squealing with excitement). She also nominated me for the Versatile Blogger Award, and I’m going to pay it forward as soon as I get home from the Griswold Family Camping Trip (it’s Christmas, Clark. We’re ALL suffering), for which my raucous aunts, uncles, cousins, siblings, and parents are leaving today. I’m eating pop’ems at the kitchen table. Anyway, EEE! I’m still all a dither from all of this excitement.

So, most importantly: thank you Elise! Yaaaaay! Yaaaaay! I’m honored and excited and grateful for everything. Woo!

And, to all you new readers, welcome! Welcome to these silly tales of study abroad, snacking, and, well, farting. That’s the post that started it all. Have fun! Feel free to e-mail me, I’ll reply as soon as I get home (in a few days): sweenums@gmail.com.

To my old readers, guess what?! PEOPLE THINK I’M FUNNY!!!!! I know, right!?!?!? For an exclusive interview with ME (as if you people haven’t read ENOUGH of what I have to say about myself), and, more importantly, because Elise’s blog is awesome, check out Global From Home!

Okay, everyone. I’m still in my jammies and the family is rumbling out to the cars. Time to start packing, I guess!

Thanks again, Elise! Welcome again, everyone! Have a lovely day, see you in a bit!

Pax in internetta, y’all,

Katie

 

AÏCHA! AICHA! ECOUTE-MOI!

AÏCHA! AÏCHA! T’EN VAS PAS!!!!!!!!

Here’s a bit of pop culture from North Africa! Cheb Khaled is an Algerian singer, and everyone loves him. Me included. Definitely beats “Call Me Maybe,” which was topping the charts when I got back to the US. (Call me maybe? Really?)

This song topped OUR charts o’er yonder, and we all know the words. I listen to it and am transported back to our home sweet van, singing and dancing to this as we trundle through the Moroccan countryside.

Since we’re all feeling wistful

and I have NO SELF CONTROL

AT ALL,

(AT ALL)

(I was going to post this the day after I got home from Morocco because I thought I’d be funny and ironic, but then I forgot. I just remembered, and it made me giggle. No, I don’t have any self control. NONE.)

This may also be one of my favorite songs to sing in the shower, but that’s neither here nor there. (It just seems appropriate in the shower, right? It’s almost like you’re standing in the rain–no, I’m stopping there. I’m already running low on shame. And dignity.)

But seriously. Thanks for the views and thoughtful comments, I really appreciate it!

(Now play the song again. Sing along. Dance like you’re kelp. DO IT.)

EDIT: this song also ALWAYS reminds me of my cousin Elizabeth, trololol. She’d love that, so I’m going to go post this on her Facebook wall. HI BETHIE WHAT’S UP THIS IS ME SHOUTING OUT TO YOU ON MY BLOOOOOOOOOOGGGGGG ALSO YOU MET ANDY DICK?!?!?!? (She met Andy Dick. I saw pictures. WHAT) THAT IS SO COOOOOL ALSO WHEN ARE WE HANGING OUT NEXT!??!?! YOU SHOULD COME CAMPING IN TAHOE THIS YEAR.

OKAY EDIT OVER

(PEACE OUT BETHIE)

THINGS I HAVE DONE TODAY:

1. READ BOOKS
2. RUN INTO OLD FRIENDS WHO WERE ALSO ABROAD OTHER PLACES LIKE COSTA RICA (NOT LIKE I’M TALKING ABOUT KATELEN OR ANYTHING I MEAN WHATEVS)
3. GONE DONATION BIN-DIVING FOR CLOTHES AT ALL THE RESIDENCE HALLS WITH AFOREMENTIONED FRIENDS
4. AM CURRENTLY WEARING THE FRUIT – I MEAN PANTS – OF MY LABOR.

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!

 

Absence makes the heart grow farter

It’s funny the things that I think of, now that I’m – what – 2 weeks gone from Morocco? Oddball memories occur to me every so often, of classmates and Moroccans and funny stuff that we did.

For example: yesterday, I thought of my tiny, devious revenge on catcallers in the street.

Now, YOU all know how much intestinal distress I had in Morocco. I’d be walking along, minding my own business, when (of course), I’d need to relieve some of that gaseous pressure building up down there. One time in February or March, this sudden need to pass wind coincided with a particularly explicit catcall by a passing male.

So, obviously, I farted as he walked by.

…And cackled maniacally!

Some of these catcallers do what I call The Swoop: he’ll swoop in waaaayyyyyy too close to an unsuspecting woman’s face, whisper something filthy, and then swoop out again before she has a chance to react. It’s a really unsettling experience, even after you get used to it; nobody wants to feel a strange man’s breath on her ear, whispering something dirty, before he swoops out again and goes back to his wife and grandkids (no, I’m not kidding. Gross, huh?). So I began to fart whenever they did it, and it always gave me this sort of goofy satisfaction: take THAT, I’d think, with (probably unwarranted) vindictive pleasure. Smell my FARTS, you STUPID CATCALLING MAN!

This became my own silent (but deadly) retaliation against any sexual harassment I encountered during my time in Morocco. If someone followed me, I farted. If someone grabbed me, I farted. If someone catcalled me, I FARTED. I could only hope that after I passed, supremely ignoring them, they’d catch a whiff of Intestinal Distress and wrinkle their noses in disgust. It was, as I recall, the only upside to having tummy issues during their time there: I had an inexhaustible supply of farts to aim in the direction of people yelling at me.

And then I’d giggle. I remember chatting about this with some other girls in my cohort, a few of whom had taken up the same silent battle against catcalling: harassment vs. gas. How else could we fight, when middle fingers and harsh words won’t work, but ignoring them wasn’t enough to satisfy us? Farts.

I am a dignified and mature woman.

Coming up soon: How to Cruciate Catcallers (another of my altogether useless but entirely satisfying methods of fighting the eternally losing battle against sexual harassment: the Cruciatus Curse). Stay tuned!

Or I could make my OWN meme…

It’d be something like “study abroad student comes home,” probably featuring a confused-looking college student wearing vaguely ethnic clothing (christ, doesn’t this girl realize how hollow words like “ethnic” are when used in that context? How insensitive. Culture Shock is no laughing matter, nor is the Inappropriate Use of Cultural Symbols Like Clothing. Jeez).  There would be captions like, “LOOKS AT FACEBOOK/WHO ARE YOU PEOPLE!?” or “/BAGELS” or “WTF IS THIS SHIT / $ ”

I suppose that last meme would apply to anyone who didn’t go to a Euro country, for whom the dollar would be a blessed relief. I, however, have found myself far less rich than I was in Morocco, where a kilo of fresh oranges cost me 6 dirhams (remember that exchange rate? Actually, the dollar’s struggling; it’s up to 8.8956 MAD to one US dollar).

That’s still around 67 cents for a kilo of oranges, though, so no complaints here.

Anyway, we’re cooking Chinese food for dinner tonight. SWEET. Holy crap, this blog is getting pretty boring now that I’m spending my days folding clothes. HERE IS A COOL PICTURE THAT FORREST TOOK!!!!! Forrest is Angela’s pal, who studied with her in France and came to visit us in Morocco during our last few days there. She takes awesome pictures.