Viva Las Vegas

Dear Denis, on this hottest of Sundays,

We were supposed to go to Essouria for the weekend, but we didn't take the Lonely Planet guide seriously when it directed us to buy our bus tickies one day prior to departure. As we had our mind set on the beach, we chose the next best option that had a bus leaving on Thursday evening: Agadir, aka Las Vegas, Morocco. So, people say that Agadir is a lot like Vegas and isn't really authentic Morocco. Agadir was totally wiped out from this huge earthquake in the 60's and they rebuilt the whole place in a very....ummm modern, let's say, style. There's lots of neon signs and bright lights and tons of enormous all inclusive type huge hotels (in a moment of total desperation when we could not find any cafes open because of Ramadan, we snuck into one such resort and were quickly denied food as we clearly were not guests of the place and were forced to hit the streets again). Anyway, the whole "soul-less," "inauthentic" thing that people complain about Agadir didn't really bother us much and upon getting to the amazing beach, I couldn't care less how much neon surrounded us. Agadir, CHIN UP! Your beaches are perfect, your sand is absolutely flawless, your water is impeccable and your cool sea breeze made us shed a tear after the heat we've been dealing with in the 'Kech. So to anyone thinking of taking a jaunt to this southern most beach town, I wouldn't listen to the Agadir nay-say-ers. Totes worth it.

Quite freckled,
Julia

a warning, from Agadir:

chere denny et our three or four other readers,

comment on notre blog or be confident that we will stop with our updates.

love,
m et j

Some like it hot

Sweet Denis,

We went to buy our bus tickets to go Agadir this morning. Waiting in line at the bus station around noon in Marrakech feels like eating a bowl of sand cereal while sitting in a small room with 1000 flies and 500 sweaty men, wearing a head to toe wool body suit (Megan's is pink) and your only relief is to take a dip in a vat of hot sauce.

We are off to the beach,
Julia

Ramadan

Dear Den,

Some reflections on Ramadan:
1) One of our many new friends told us that towards the end of 'dan people start to get rather upset easily, and fights often erupt. It appears on our street, Rue Mohammed El Beqal, this has started already. For a whole fortnight, R.M.E.B. was a peaceful little haven away from the many men-cafes and speeding mopeds of Rue Mohammed V. Last night, however, on day jooj (that's two, in my 2nd language Arabic), a crowd of about seventy men, and one fierce looking pit bull, gathered around a fight blocking of all traffic on our petite rue. In the end, because of the large crowd, we couldn't really see the root of the scuffle, but I promise you Denny, it was intense and amazing that I escaped unscathed. And without the pit-pup in my arms.
2) The naturally sympathetic soeurs we are, we ask all the men-waiters how they are doing with their extreme hunger and thirst. With extreme pain across their faces, every single one so far has said, "No! It's not the thirst. I have not smoked all day." The thirty day ban on smoking has improved my life, however, and I can finally eat without having all of my food taste like nicotine, and the air outside smells only of gasoline and the trash.
3) The streets are now vacant from 6-10 at night. This, my friend, is totally terrifying. Walking on desolate streets in Marrakech does not exactly make one (us) feel at all at ease, particularly when passing the usual group of dudes outside a cafe. Outside our window, at about 11, Rave Ramadan commences, and music fills up R.M.E.B., and all of our neighbors party and feast for about six hours. I think perhaps Jules and I are just a bit bitter that we are not invited to the gigantic block party, but it has cut down our sleeping time from about seven hours to four. Last night I had a really scary dream about Scientology-I blame Ramadan.

I really do love you,
Megan

gna nzharrab shnu kaatakul hiyya

My Dear Denny,

I thought you would be a bit curious about Moroccan tradition. Me too!
So you've been invited for couscous...
Receiving a lunch or dinner invitation is truly an honour. It means that you have warmed the heart of a local and they want to reciprocate by receiving you in their home, the seat of the beloved family unit.
Handshakes are exchanged with everyone in the room, and if you can manage it, a greeting in Arabic makes a big splash! You will probably be shown to the almighty TV. If you need to use the bathroom, ask discreetly.
Over tea and pastries you will be asked questions which you probably have no worlds for. Act them out- Moroccans love theatrics and goofing around.
Moroccans tend to encourage, even bully, their guests into eating as much as they can. Pace yourself. Also, slurping tea and belching is taken as a sign of appreciation. When the event is over, your host may doze off and you are welcome to join them.

xoxo,
Gossip Girl

I am going to start a street sign business here

Dear Denis,

Every day, Megan and I have a destination that we want to reach, and we then spend AT LEAST four hours walking around completely and utterly lost trying to find it. The other day, we were exploring our neighborhood (Gueliz) and I was certain that we had covered most of the surrounding neighborhoods as well as we had been hitting the pavement for most of the day. We got home and I mentioned to Megs that I really felt like I had a feel for the layout of Marrakech after seeing so much of it that day.

After getting to the know the area a bit more in the last few days, I am 120% certain that we were never more then about 5 blocks from our apartment that day, we literally just made circles for a good 5 hours. We called a driver to pick us up that evening to meet some people at a Cafe we had passed earlier that day (which at the time seemed miles and miles away) and it took us 20 seconds to get there. It was 3 blocks away. The driver didn't even charge us for the ride which is unheard of here as they normally milk you for all you are worth in taxis.

Anywhooo, I blame much of our lack of direction on the fact that there are street signs about 10% of the time. You can walk like 10 blocks without seeing one and in our case, that led us in circles for an entire day. While I am not attending to my duties as the school intern, I shall start a street sign business and it will be a wild success.

Bisoux,
Julia

Les Dents

Dear Denis,

I think the heat has really gone to Megan's head.
Today we were in the Medina and she bought 3 pairs of false teeth. Like, teeth that belonged to some dude at some point. She is wearing a pair of the falsies right now.
Perhaps you should come visit us sooner rather then later.

With affection,
Julia

Dear frequently asked questions, THANKS for nothing

Chere Denis,

The other night, the littlest one and I encountered an enormous, vile African cockroach (which was to be the first of many). After frantically spraying nearly an entire bottle of Raid in the apartment, we were able to trap the venomous creature under a blender. We quickly consulted the internet to learn more about our toilet dwelling friend as we wanted to ensure we would not meet his family that night. We clicked on frequently asked questions regarding cockroaches, hoping there would be a question that said "how do you prevent cockroaches from getting into your bedroom and crawling all over your body while you are sleeping?" Instead, we found that the following question was more important to the aspiring cockroach connoisseurs: "Could cockroaches develop albino mutants in the wild?" If you wanna know, you'll have to google it yourself.

Respectfully,
Julia Andrus Kelly

Dear Denis,

Marrakech feels like it is a hot summer day and you decide to go inside a sauna and light a camp fire wearing a parka and smoke a pack of cigarettes and you reach for a bottle of water only to find that there is just the dysentery filled eau that your pet cockroach just crawled out of.

Denis, I am so hot.

Love,
Mimi Santiago

women are gazelles

Dear Denis,
The other night, Monty and I were in a cab going home from dinner. We were giggling to each other about something and the cab driver turned around and said definitively, "you are gazelles." I asked him what he meant by that and he responded, "all women are gazelles," with a little snort. "Well, if women are gazelles, what are men?" we asked. Our driver responded as though conveying a well known fact, "women are gazelles and men are men."
Good to know.

Kisses,
Julia