A hair by any other name.

Hey D.

So, “The Great Fig Debacle” (stay with me, it is slightly complicated):

Megs and I had lunch at Pascal’s restaurant on Saturday afternoon. We each ordered salads and everything was fine and dandy till we spotted the longest, darkest, rattiest clump of dreaded, foul hair, drenched in a piece of lettuce in Meg’s salad. The waiter approached and noticed the ghastly sight and quickly apologized and removed the salad. We wanted to make sure he knew that we were not fussy girls and would never tell Pascal about the hair and gave him this sort of easy breezy wink. We were on his team.

Salad #2 was delivered to Megan. In it, we found a small piece of hair that was attached to a fig. Pascal joined us at this moment and noticed that we were examining the hair. He proclaimed that it was indeed the hair of a human and returned it to the waiter. Moments later, Pascal’s brother joined us and Pascal grumbled something to him about the hair in our Salad #2. His brother whispered in French under his breath, “well, it was a fig hair and the girls just don’t understand that.” P-skizz then totally threw us under the bus and agreed with his brother that it was clearly a fig hair and we just “don’t understand.” “Pascal, I can understand what you are saying in French and just because we don’t cook often does not mean I don’t know what a fig hair is,” I exclaimed bitterly.

We proceeded to explain that it was possible – even likely – that the hair in Salad #2 was a fig hair, but there was no conceivable way that the hair in S#1 was anything but the hair from a long and dark haired human being. Pascal and his brother repeated in a very condescending way, “you girls just don’t understand that figs have little pieces of hair and that was all you saw.” At this point, we became incensed and called the waiter over to back our story up. He arrived with three other waiters and the host who all explained to us that what we saw was nothing but a fig hair.

Now, not only were my annoying boyfriend and his brother speaking to us like stupid little girls who don’t know the diff between a fig hair and a nasty clump of human hair, but also, the waiters have completely turned against us and are pretending like Salad #1 (which only a select few people saw) never existed! By now, I was nearly shouting at Pascal and we had definitively and swiftly gone from being the non-fussy, cool as cucumber customers who don’t rat on the waiters, to two, wildly out of control and prissy girls who don’t even know what a fig hair is.

It ended with us storming out of the restaurant and Pascal coming home and apologizing to me that I was, “so very upset about a simple fig hair in your salad.” I had to walk around the block several times before returning and telling him that if we hoped to maintain a relationship, we would never again speak of the fig incident.

Eek,
Julia

Julia, Megan, Pascal and Dexter Foltran. One happy family.

Salut mon cherie,

Oh geez, we have really been busy little bees in the last few weeks but have much exciting news to report. First and foremost, le grand frere des soeurs miserables, Thomas Michael Kelly III, proposed marriage to la belle et charmant Kelley Culp last week, under a Moroccan desert sunset. Most fortuitously for la famille Kelly, she accepted (insert Kelley Kelly joke here).

Our Barthhhhhelona groupie adventure was a real jam-packed, grand slam of a time. We zipped through the Picasso Museum, bought awesome euro sunglasses on Los Ramblos, ate scrumptious tapas up the wazoo, purchased portable coffee, ogled at the super crazy Gaudi buildings, and enjoyed one rather star-struck night of romping around town with the fetching boys of Jogger.

We returned to Marrakech and spent a week living in the Medina with the newly engaged couple and our sweet Mamma. Now, renting a riad in the medina is a marvelous thing to do but renting a riad that neighbors a huge mosque in the Medina can be an uneasy nighttime experience. The 4:30 AM call to prayer that is projected from loud speakers in the mosque, was a very alarming and dramatic wake up and made for several nights of pretty nutty and skittish sleep.

La famille left us a few days ago and Megos and I are back to the ol’ grind. We’re currently in a very precarious situation with my boyfriend and his entire restaurant, in fact. I'm still pretty hot and bothered about it, which going forward we shall refer to as “The Great Fig Debacle,” but once I cool my jets a bit, I’ll fill you in.

For now, Saint Denis, just know that I adore and miss you.

MWAH.
Julia

PS. Den, we have a new pet turtle named Dexter. After a long observation period this morning, we simply cannot figure out if he's a supremely cunning little guy or dumb as rocks. I've consulted the web and found a forum addressing this subject. This is a question posted from another turtle lover:

"I've only had my turt a bit over a month now, so still getting used to behaviour and habits etc. The main reason I'm asking is my turt bit my girlfriend on the nose today. Now my ultimate question is, was this deliberate or accidental do you think?"

Den, have you ever had a turt and do you know anything about turt-intel?

Barthelona

My dear puce,

Back from our 48 hours of intense backpacking in Barcelona. It was lovely. My upcoming move to New York may need to be postponed for a year eating Tapas and drinking cheap wine. I tried to convince Amir that it was indeed a good idea to leave behind LA and try Barcelona avec moi, where him and Jonathan's band already has something of a cult following, but he was not entirely persuaded.


I had meatballs, ham, fish, salami, steak, lamb, steak and eggs, crab, and rum coffee.

Thomas and Kelley arrived ce matin, jetlagged and ready for the sun. We are throwing a grand fête for them at Kechmara tonight. I imagine I will be peer pressured to take a shot of tequila that I will secretly spit into an empty beer bottle.

Chubby,
Megan

my most favorite thing to come from the wolf sanctuary

and tom kelly knows how to scan!

Reverting to four year olds, again and again

Les soeurs are in Casablanca. My intention was to go button and ribbon hunting, while my sister tackled the one guide book cultural institution in the city (the Jewish Museum, of course!)

Alas, armed with our oversized parapluie (uie, uie uie), we hit the streets determined to not let the cold air and rain stop us. It did, and we are back at our hotel and on the Internet.

In other far more serious news, we developed a new game to try to make the train ride go by faster today.. To imagine different friends news to sitting on whoopie cushions. That was funny for a little while.

Love,
MM

They call me Grace Kelly

Sup Den,

C'est vrai, ma petite est tres malade and I'm crossing my fingers that her health improves before our turn as groupies next week. On Monday, we leave for Barcelona to see Mimi's friends' band play. The boys are in an electronica band, which is a musical genre I'm unfamiliar with but fairly certain I don't like. However, as Meg previously mentioned, we'll be able to act out our Penny Lane dreams, so, whatevs (currently on the lookout for my very own shaggy fur lined coat).

In other news, we made quite a spectacle at a dude cafe yesterday. We've already talked about how most of the cafes in Marrakech are spilling over with men, sipping on tea and smoking cigs for hours on end, right? It's rare that you find a Moroccan woman enjoying a beverage at these cafes, as this seems to be a generally discouraged activity for les femmes.

Often I feel intimidated going into these cafes, as typically upon entering, total silence ensues and all eyes are on you for the duration of your stay (not in a sleazy way per se, but more in a totally baffled and confused way). Yesterday, Megs and I decided to suck it up and have lunch in a particularly crowded dude cafe. We entered confidently and ordered two cheese omelets. While eating, we were quietly discussing how we'd each gained some weight recently, and I realized I had an old US Weekly in my bag, with a "Diets That Work!" cover story.

I was covertly flipping through the magazine, which was partially tucked into my bag, softly explaining to Megan that she should go on Kate Beckinsale's "Can't Give Up Carbs" diet, when I tragically over-gestured. I made this sort of karate chop gesture in emphasizing Kate's diet regime, and with that, time slowed down... I hit the side of my plate, causing it to fly surprisingly high into the air, and my omelet to separate from it. With cat-like reflexes, I howled something like "myyyyy omeleeeeeet," and mid-air, CAUGHT the omelet in my hand as the plate crashed to pieces on the floor next to us. Half-way off the chair, and with my hand proudly raised in the air, grasping my miraculously unscathed omelet, I looked at Mimi. Her jaw was dropped to the table and eyes bulged out. A quick glance around revealed a similar reaction from all and I attempted to subtly place my omelet on a little side coffee plate. Well, lunch was cut very short and I was barely able to eat my omelet after that mishap, but I suppose, ultimately, that was good for my diet.


Sincerely,

Lady Victory with omelet in hand

More fun with my sister's boyfriend's facebook

dear den,

at home and sick as sick as a dog. i miss finn. like my sister before me, being sick means hours in bed with only Scizzle's facebook to keep me busy. if the next person to come to morocco on march sixth would be so kind as to bring me the 2nd book in the twilight vampire series, so i can find out if they go to vampire 2nd base, i would be oh so obliged. until then, any suggestions for the facebook will be appreciated and reviewed. today...

Pascal is... on team Rihanna. Did you see the pictures? OMG

tu chiant,
megan

The fair and witty Claire, read on and bookmark away

Mon Best Ami,

Yes, it's true, while you have been spending your hours toiling away at the Yale Libes (ok, looking at cute Art Library boy), I have started my days at a new job. So far it can only rival the previous jobs- smoothie and juice girl, LUXURY apartment building concierge, vintage kaftan salesgirl, mirror-making apprentice- in its bizarre tasks, peculiar hours and low pay.

So far the job has entailed going on market wide searches for a yellow bandannas, a certain brand of tomato can to make a cactus vase, a cactus, the pants that the industrial workers wear, a black baby, a blond man, fabric, pom-poms, red peppers, and the list continues. It has brought me to some of the dodgier parts of the Medina where I am trying to learn how to pronounce "laissez-moi tranquille, s'il vous plait" in Arabic (always glancing at my french-arabic dictionary before I say it). It generally just encourages my gentlemen callers to heckle and hassle me more. While waiting for our fabric to be dyed in one of the aforementioned areas, we had tea with the workers. We all know that I am something of a hypochondriac, and a bit phobic of germs, so to drink from the same cup as the rest of the men caused me distress that I thought manifested itself in being jittery and a bit nauseous. "I have realized, Megan, that the herb that they use to make this tea is absinthe," new boss says, as she tossed back her third cup. That explained a lot. We also eat a lot of couscous together, and complain about men.

In other news (and in the interest of FULL blog disclosure), I have met a boy at the notorious music night and actually used an emoticon in our conversations to keep up with his excessive use of them. It slipped and I regret it. If we start dating, will I start listening to Norah Jones and having genuine responses when questioned about my passions?

=),
Megan Marion

I have a special box, too!

Salut Saint Denis,

Did you host your annual Oscar bash last night? I hope that you were pleased with the winners (Megs scoffed at me this morning and called me a “such a dork” because when she told me Slumdog Millionaire won, I tried to high five her in joy) and that you did not overindulge in your famous seven-layer bean dip, as you’ve been known to do.

After several nights of my own overindulging last week, I declared this past weekend to be dedicated to physical activity. On Sunday, we drove about 90 minutes from Marrakech to go hiking in Imlil. This is a wonderful little mountain village that is filled with pink mud-brick houses and walnut trees galore. When you drive up to Imlil, you’re basically attacked by dozens of local "tour guides" who offer to take you on a hike. A tour guide is necessary, as you can easily get way off track in the mountains and things could go all Sheltered Sky on you. The trick is finding one that doesn’t totally rip you off and isn’t completely focused on procuring a kiss (a lesson we learned from our guide in the Ourika Valley, who almost proposed to young Mimi and has been calling here for three months, now).

We chose the one guy who was not sticking his hands in the windows of the car, and I think we chose right in young Brahim. He took us on a great hike through a few different villages and into the mountains. From the top of our climb, we could see Ouikaimeden (remember, the ski station with all the cool onesies) and Jabal Toubkal, the highest mountain in North Africa. Pascal thought it was super funny to trip me in the snowy areas and watch me tumble down the hill. Well, I really fell for Brahim when at one point, out of nowhere, he pinned Pascal down and yelled to me in a mix of Berber, Arabic and French, to demolish Pascal with snowballs. I did so and Brahim and I were subsequently partners in all snow ball fights.

He invited us back to his family’s house for mint tea and walnuts and placed this big box on the table in front of me. The Brahim show began… It was filled with postcards from friends, a few pictures of his one year living in Agadir, and ALL of his important documents (he’s also a bus driver and a ski station operator and I saw the paperwork to prove it, yo). After scrupulously examining all of the contents in his special box, he gave us freshly baked bread for the road, and we headed back to the city.

That’s really all the news from these parts, Den. Oh, I nearly forgot, Mimi got herself a job assisting a stylist and is quite the working girl!! She’s 9-5 these days and I think is currently hunting through the souks for a bright orange bandana for her boss.

Missing you,
Julia

Pascal is a small fish swimming in an ocean of love (last week's status)

Dear Mr. Jones,

I’m over the flu and I think Pascal might be the happiest about it. As Mimi mentioned, I appointed myself Creative Director (and little Megs was given an Editorial Assistant position) to Pascal’s facebook profile. With all of this flu induced down-time, I’ve really been able to commit myself to beefing up his interests and activities and also regularly updating his status. Pascie is extremely complex, with a deep passion for both karate and croque monsieurs. He’s memorized every word in the film Titanic and likes to shake his booty to Beyonce. He’s digs pizza and loves Sunday Fundays. He wishes every day were Valentine’s Day and today, he’s living La Vida Lo Carb (thank you, Dede, for that submission).

Probably almost dumped,
Julia