A New Alphabet?

Today, I learned that I'll be taking 17 American teens to Marrakech to discover Moroccan culture and to learn Arabic. Complete with a new alphabet! A new alphabet? The alphabet is the first thing you learn in school, if your parents are slackers and didn't teach it to you already. Being that my parents are professional teachers, we can assume I learned that alphabet before I started going to school. I actually don't remember learning the alphabet, just like I don't remember learning to breathe. I think it's safe to assume that I've always known how to do both. I'm annoyed my alphabet doesn't correspond with Arabic. My alphabet held up when I learned French and then Spanish. So, why is Arabic any different?

I'm going to have to wrap my head around a lot of differences. Today, I learned that children born to a Moroccan father are considered citizens of Morocco (even if they have the passport of another country) and they must have the consent of their father when leaving the country. Did you ever see Not Without my Daughter? I'm pretty sure that I don't want to have Moroccan babies.

There are a lot of other things that I'm looking forward to and they include:

• Couscous by the fist full
• the 17 teenagers that I'll be working with
• the Souk and buying things
• having a salary (even if it's kinda small)
• finding a new yoga studio
• keeping my shoulders and elbows covered for four months
  

Dowry piece

I returned to a shop today to look at more jewelry and after careful consideration I decided to buy an amber ring for myself and earings for Jessie. I was then convinced to buy earings for my mom. I had a very nice shopping experience as the vendor was very patient and I came to like him and even trust him a bit. He didn't try to touch me like some vendors did in the Grand Bazar. Being that I trusted him, I agreed to go upstairs with him to see his carpet "exhibition."

I thought this would be safe, being that I have no place to live and no interest in owning a carpet. It was interesting learning about the progression of the Turkish style of carpet and also seeing the similarities in motif between the Turks and the Native Americans. But, I didn't come there for a carpet and the only one that I liked was 600-some Turkish lira. I started making my appologies to set the stage for my departure and the salesman kept explaining that many people don't come to Turkey for a carpet, but 400-some US dollars is a bargain, and he showed me the embrodery and craftswomanship that went into the making of the beautiful dowry piece that was the one carpet that caught I eye.

And soon, I knew that I was going home with that carpet. I was stunned sitting there, drinking my tea, to know that I would be spending more than one week's unemployment paycheck on a rug. Seriously, a rug. I've never wanted to own a rug. But, my dowry piece (traditionally, girls made these rugs for their dowry and to snag a worthy mate) was beautiful... So much more than just a rug. A piece of art. But, I've never aspired to own art. Maybe someday... but I can't afford such luxuries now! We talked about all of this, Ibrahim and I. And, he made the point that while money is coming out of one pocket, money is going into the other. He pointed out other carpets and told me their prices to illustrate how much harder it would be for me to agree to take home a carpet if I had fallen for one of the larger pieces instead.

But almost from the start, I knew that I was going to buy this carpet. How ridiculous! When I told Ibrahim it was ridiculous, he wasn't impressed. What is life if not ridiculous, he asked. I couldn't argue with any of his rationals for whyI should buy the carpet, but that wasn't the point because I was going to buy the carpet. After I'd had about a half hour to process this fact and come to terms with the departure of about $400 from my bank account, I agreed and we shook hands.

I left with a carpet (and the fear that Ibrahim is going to call me the next time he is in Virginia, where he has a store) and a mild sense of shock or disbelief. Buying a carpet left me feeling as though I've lost my virginity again: at a certain point it became clear that it was inevitable, though I wasn't entirely sure I was ready. Afterwards, there was a story to tell and, in this case, definitely something to show for it.

On Communıcatıon

Good thıng I created a blog sıx months ago. I knew ıt would come ın handy.

I love Turkey. I thınk I'm hangıng out wıth a bunch of Turkısh hıppıes, but I can't understand a word that they say, so ıf they're talkıng about energy and a bunch of feely bullshıt, I'll never know ıt. The poınt ıs there's a jam sessıon goıng on and earlıer a dude was playıng some kınd of flute and I ate a lot of delıcıous organıc vegetables for dınner.

But gettıng back to my Turkısh. I have learned about fıve words, so I'm pretty useless. I was travelıng wıth a frıend, but we may have decıded not to be frıends anymore... that's another story. I managed to get to thıs remote beach--ıt's a place I'll someday tell people that I vısıted ''back when I was the only natıve Englısh speaker there.'' For now nobody knows about ıt, but that won't last--wıth the help of two young Turkısh boys. I only managed to learn one of theır names and I'm spellıng ıt phonetıcally. Oors dıdn't speak enough Englısh for us to have any kınd of conversatıon. Stıll, today when he was leavıng and we dıd a hand shake and a kıss on each cheek, the eye contact saıd what words could not consıcely convey.

I realızed that our eye contact expressed a mutual attractıon and understandıng of the other. Attractıon, fıne. That's easy to develop wıth out words. But, I was struck by the closeness that had developed through smıles (and mınımal translatıon help). And, ıt occured to me that thıs was a famılıar experıence.

I have fallen before for someone wıth whom I dıd not share a common language... Wıthout the bullshıt and games that can come from language, you're left faırly exposed. Judgıng another person based upon the way that they look at you or others and the way they speak to others (even ın an unfamılıar language) may be more tellıng than words.

I wonder ıf I mıght choose to spend more or less tıme wıth certaın people ın my lıfe ıf I got beyond theır words? It takes a foreıgn sıtuatıon for me to trust my ınstıncts thıs way. I get way too caught up ın conversatıons. Yeah, I apprecıate words--peer pressure alone wasn't reason enough to get me bloggıng--but, even more, I belıeve ın mınımalızıng bullshıt. I thınk I'm onto somethıng. I'm goıng to evaluate everyone based on theır energy. I'm a fuckıng hıppıe too.

Fuck it

I tried to explain to Liz that I had created an account (or blog, if you will) on Blogger in order to track the blogs of Lia, Gabrielle, Jose and others, but not for the purpose of blogging. It made so much sense to me, while sounding a bit ridiculous, I'm sure. I was, and remain, intrigued by the idea of blogging (though I made fun of Val for blogging just a few days ago... It's possible I was making fun of the way she pronounces "blog," drawing out the "o" sound to create a very satisfying noise. Imagine me sitting in Val's kitchen saying "blog" with a German (?) accent over and over at 3:30am). I eased myself into the idea of blogging by suggesting to Liz that I create a single post explaining that this account (or blog) is here to track other blogs, but now I think I'm blogging.

I'm not entirely committed to the idea of blogging, though I suspect it may be a slippery slope.

I am scared of writing for other people.

I write mostly for myself. Journaling regularly satisfies a certain need that I have to process life onto paper, but I find that writing for myself produces a less creative and less reflective version of my reality. Writing letters and, sometimes, e-mails allows me to explore my thoughts and actions in a more satisfying and more thoughtful way, giving my words and ideas more dimension and life. Maybe I should have been blogging sooner.