Here's a basic primer for those of you who do not know what Ramadan is. I'm not an expert by any means, but I've asked lots of questions and done some research since I've been in Morocco and this is pretty much what I've come up with:
There are five pillars in Islam; five things that all Muslims must do to be good Muslims. The are to go on Hajj (the pilgrimage to Mecca, at least once in a lifetime), pray 5 times a day, declare there is only one god and Mohammed is his prophet, donate 2.5% of their total wealth to charity every year, and fast (and observe other rules) during the month of Ramadan. Because the Islamic calendar is based on lunar cycles, the time for Ramadan changes each year and this year it falls during the month of September. Currently, the exact date of Ramadan's commencement is uncertain; it is up to a group of religious scholars and scientists to determine the exact cycle of the moon before they announce the beginning of Ramadan. However, most likely it will be this Monday, September 1. I know it's already been announced in some other countries, but here in Morocco, we're still waiting for word, as of this morning, for when the fast will begin.
During the month of Ramadan, every Muslim who is able bodied, past the age of puberty and not traveling, must fast from sun-up to sun-down. This includes no eating, drinking or sexual relations. In addition, Muslims are supposed to try even more than usual to avoid bad thoughts, fighting, gossiping and other negatively associated behaviors.
It seems that, here in Morocco, even non-devout Muslims tend to participate in the fast during Ramadan. I've met a lot of people who smoke or drink or do not pray regularly, who have told me that they always fast during Ramadan. I, too, plan to fast while I'm here because I want to experience this phenomenon and hopefully be able to better understand Islamic culture better in the process. I'm looking forward to the sense of oneness that comes with participating in such a grand scale activity. Not only will the people in my immediate surroundings be experiencing the same kinds of things as me, but people all over the world will be doing so as well. I think that's pretty cool. However, I'll probably think it's less cool when I'm sitting in class, really thirsty, staring out the window, willing the sun to set so I can drink. But, we'll see. For now, my plan is to fast.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Smecta -- mmm...dead people
Have you ever read the warning on the Immodium box to see a doctor if symptoms did not improve after four doses in one 24-hour period? Every time I have ever taken Immodium in my life, I have had it work after one single pill. In some strange foreshadowing, Lisa and I were joking about this a month or so ago when I was back in the staes. We could not imagine what kind of horrible sickness you would have to have to take FOUR doses of it. Well, now I know.
Since returning to Morocco, I became that very sad individual who took four doses and STILL had my ass planted on the toilet almost constantly. However, I was still hesitant to see a doctor here.
I heard a lot about Moroccans' ideas about medicine over the last few months and have been praying that I would not have any issues so severe I'd have to see a doctor while here. Can you believe some people in this country still operate on the belief that if you walk barefoot on tile floors, the cold will travel up your legs and into your chest and you will catch a cold> Or, that cumin seeds cure everything from headaches to diarrhea to infertility? (I just made up the infertility thing, but I would not be surprised if it were true.) These are not just instances of I heard from someone who heard from someone that their grandmother believes this. These are common beliefs of seemingly very well educated people who have traveled all over the world and know that antibiotics and aspirin exist.
My favorite example is of my Arabic calligraphy teacher, Mohammed, who broke a couple of bones in his hand after falling. He had it set by a doctor, but it did not heal fast enough for him, so he traveled to Fez, where he is from and sought out a traditional healer there. The healer had him remove his bandages and he proceeded to rub olive oil on his hand and massage the tissues every day for the next week or so. Mohammed, my teacher, believed that this would heal the bones completely and he could return to work as if he had never had the fracture. Imagine my surprise when he had to go back to a regular doctor who had to re-break his hand and re-set it because all of the massaging had messed up the original setting of the bones. Shocking. However, no one ever put Mohammed's hand in a cast or a splint. Both the doctor and the healer just wrapped it in gauze and told him (a man who makes his living from painting and calligraphy) not to move it. Brilliant.
Anyway, with this idea of Moroccan medicine roaming around in my head, I didn't really want to bother going to an actual doctor here.
When I finally had one day where my fever spiked so high, I found myself in the shower using all cold water, trying to bring my temperature down before I became delusional. I was all alone in my house, dehydrated from sitting on the toilet, sleep deprived, anxious and generally feeling like walking death. That was the last straw and what prompted me to make an appointment to see a gastrointestinal specialist whose name I found on the US Consulate website.
It turns out Fatiha, one of my host sisters, saw him in the past and told me that he basically was an idiot. Great, if a Moroccan says a doctor is not good, does that mean that he's really, really bad, or maybe really good in my eyes as a Westerner? Since I already had an appointment, I decided to go anyway. When I got there, I learned that the doctor was not actually in the building yet for the day and that he would arrive within the hour. Great. I wasn't sure if I could keep out of the bathroom for an hour, plus there were other patients who had been there for almost an hour already, waiting for him. It was a really hot day, I was already dehydrated and feeling like the walking dead. The last thing I wanted to do was to sit in this doctor's office, without air conditioning, waiting for some quack doctor who might not even show up at all, let alone within an hour. (Moroccans' ideas about time are much more fluid than those of Americans.)
I decided to cut my losses and go to an emergency clinic, figuring I didn't have any serious disease and just needed some medicine. I took the bus with Wafaa (my host sister) to another part of the city (although I would have gladly paid for a taxi, I got the feeling that this frivolous waste of money was looked down upon when a bus was so much cheaper. And, buy so much cheaper, I mean about 50 cents less than a taxi). So, we walked a few blocks from the bus to the clinic and walked into god-blessed air conditioning. Immediately, we were whisked into an exam room and a nurse was in the room within seconds to take my temperature and blood pressure. Now this was what I needed!! The doctor only took about 45 minutes to see me and with just a small amount of translation needed, I was out the door with prescriptions in hand. Although Wafaa speaks a little English, it's generally easier for me to speak to her in Arabic. She understands me well and uses words I know to communicate with me, or is very good with gestures. So, the doctor spoke to her in Moroccan Arabic, she translated to me into Standard Arabic (Fusha) and I spoke to the doctor in Standard Arabic which he could understand but for some reason not speak. I've stopped asking why this is usually the case around here. Anyway, about $30 later, I was out the door with prescription in hand. Even in the US, with insurance, I would have paid at least $50 as a co-payment. This was a private, very Western clinic and it cost next to nothing to pay out of pocket. The same turned out to be true for my medications.
After my appointment, we had to find a pharmacy that was open, no small feat on the weekend. There is always one pharmacy open in each neighborhood on the weekend, but it changes every weekend and you have to go on a little treasure hunt to find which pharmacy in the neighborhood is open. So, more walking. Fantastic. Forty-five minutes later (and probably 3 km), we found the pharmacy. At this point, I was close to passing out, badly in need of a toilet and completely dehydrated. I got the three prescriptions filled and we walked another couple of blocks to find a taxi.
Finally, we made it back home and I was able to take the first dose of medicine. There were three different boxes of concoctions, none of which I had ever heard of and I have no idea what any of them were for specifically. I just blindly trusted in the doctor and the pharmacist and began mixing my first dose of "Smecta." Let's just say that Smecta tastes exactly like it sounds...like crushed up dead people with a dash of vanilla. Or, really, really gross. However, it did the trick and within 48 hours, I was back in class and sleeping through the night. I now have more faith in Moroccan medicine and a bigger fear of getting sick again for fear of having to take more Smecta. It is an experience I do NOT recommend.
Since returning to Morocco, I became that very sad individual who took four doses and STILL had my ass planted on the toilet almost constantly. However, I was still hesitant to see a doctor here.
I heard a lot about Moroccans' ideas about medicine over the last few months and have been praying that I would not have any issues so severe I'd have to see a doctor while here. Can you believe some people in this country still operate on the belief that if you walk barefoot on tile floors, the cold will travel up your legs and into your chest and you will catch a cold> Or, that cumin seeds cure everything from headaches to diarrhea to infertility? (I just made up the infertility thing, but I would not be surprised if it were true.) These are not just instances of I heard from someone who heard from someone that their grandmother believes this. These are common beliefs of seemingly very well educated people who have traveled all over the world and know that antibiotics and aspirin exist.
My favorite example is of my Arabic calligraphy teacher, Mohammed, who broke a couple of bones in his hand after falling. He had it set by a doctor, but it did not heal fast enough for him, so he traveled to Fez, where he is from and sought out a traditional healer there. The healer had him remove his bandages and he proceeded to rub olive oil on his hand and massage the tissues every day for the next week or so. Mohammed, my teacher, believed that this would heal the bones completely and he could return to work as if he had never had the fracture. Imagine my surprise when he had to go back to a regular doctor who had to re-break his hand and re-set it because all of the massaging had messed up the original setting of the bones. Shocking. However, no one ever put Mohammed's hand in a cast or a splint. Both the doctor and the healer just wrapped it in gauze and told him (a man who makes his living from painting and calligraphy) not to move it. Brilliant.
Anyway, with this idea of Moroccan medicine roaming around in my head, I didn't really want to bother going to an actual doctor here.
When I finally had one day where my fever spiked so high, I found myself in the shower using all cold water, trying to bring my temperature down before I became delusional. I was all alone in my house, dehydrated from sitting on the toilet, sleep deprived, anxious and generally feeling like walking death. That was the last straw and what prompted me to make an appointment to see a gastrointestinal specialist whose name I found on the US Consulate website.
It turns out Fatiha, one of my host sisters, saw him in the past and told me that he basically was an idiot. Great, if a Moroccan says a doctor is not good, does that mean that he's really, really bad, or maybe really good in my eyes as a Westerner? Since I already had an appointment, I decided to go anyway. When I got there, I learned that the doctor was not actually in the building yet for the day and that he would arrive within the hour. Great. I wasn't sure if I could keep out of the bathroom for an hour, plus there were other patients who had been there for almost an hour already, waiting for him. It was a really hot day, I was already dehydrated and feeling like the walking dead. The last thing I wanted to do was to sit in this doctor's office, without air conditioning, waiting for some quack doctor who might not even show up at all, let alone within an hour. (Moroccans' ideas about time are much more fluid than those of Americans.)
I decided to cut my losses and go to an emergency clinic, figuring I didn't have any serious disease and just needed some medicine. I took the bus with Wafaa (my host sister) to another part of the city (although I would have gladly paid for a taxi, I got the feeling that this frivolous waste of money was looked down upon when a bus was so much cheaper. And, buy so much cheaper, I mean about 50 cents less than a taxi). So, we walked a few blocks from the bus to the clinic and walked into god-blessed air conditioning. Immediately, we were whisked into an exam room and a nurse was in the room within seconds to take my temperature and blood pressure. Now this was what I needed!! The doctor only took about 45 minutes to see me and with just a small amount of translation needed, I was out the door with prescriptions in hand. Although Wafaa speaks a little English, it's generally easier for me to speak to her in Arabic. She understands me well and uses words I know to communicate with me, or is very good with gestures. So, the doctor spoke to her in Moroccan Arabic, she translated to me into Standard Arabic (Fusha) and I spoke to the doctor in Standard Arabic which he could understand but for some reason not speak. I've stopped asking why this is usually the case around here. Anyway, about $30 later, I was out the door with prescription in hand. Even in the US, with insurance, I would have paid at least $50 as a co-payment. This was a private, very Western clinic and it cost next to nothing to pay out of pocket. The same turned out to be true for my medications.
After my appointment, we had to find a pharmacy that was open, no small feat on the weekend. There is always one pharmacy open in each neighborhood on the weekend, but it changes every weekend and you have to go on a little treasure hunt to find which pharmacy in the neighborhood is open. So, more walking. Fantastic. Forty-five minutes later (and probably 3 km), we found the pharmacy. At this point, I was close to passing out, badly in need of a toilet and completely dehydrated. I got the three prescriptions filled and we walked another couple of blocks to find a taxi.
Finally, we made it back home and I was able to take the first dose of medicine. There were three different boxes of concoctions, none of which I had ever heard of and I have no idea what any of them were for specifically. I just blindly trusted in the doctor and the pharmacist and began mixing my first dose of "Smecta." Let's just say that Smecta tastes exactly like it sounds...like crushed up dead people with a dash of vanilla. Or, really, really gross. However, it did the trick and within 48 hours, I was back in class and sleeping through the night. I now have more faith in Moroccan medicine and a bigger fear of getting sick again for fear of having to take more Smecta. It is an experience I do NOT recommend.
Sunday, August 3, 2008
marriage and mamograms
I was recently back in the states for a whirlwind tour of a variety of doctors offices and of course, to attend my mom's wedding. I think it's a pretty clear choice on which I preferred going to.
The wedding itself was very nice; we got luck with the weather and aside from some very hungry flies, the ceremony was fantastic. My mom looked as beautiful as ever and everyone seemed to enjoy themselves. I loved getting to see all of my family in one place, especially since there was a time restriction for how long I'd be back in the states and I don't think I'd have gotten to see everyone otherwise.
Among the doctor's visits, I got the okay from my orthopedist to use my knee again, but the frown when I asked if I could climb or really do anything with my shoulder. I was given a prescription for physical therapy, something I could not bear to do while back there, considering how many other appointments I had scheduled, so I continued to will my shoulder to recover. So far, it seems to be working since I can actually raise my arm high enough to get dressed without crying. Progress! (A word of advice on this one: Should you ever encounter a deranged man with a possibly deranged monkey, give him some money to let go of your arm, even if you are afraid of said monkey biting or shitting on your bare skin. Do not attempt to run away and possibly leaving part of your rotator cuff in his clutches. I learned this the hard way and will forever associate Marrakesh with excruciating pain.)
I got an appointment to see my doctor for my annual physical and lucky me, she found two "questionable" lumps in my breasts. This led to a fun filled week for me. The week consisted of 10 (yes, TEN!!!) mammograms (something I do not recommend one partake in the week before her period), an ultrasound, a needle biopsy and some waiting. Not exactly the kind of thing I had planned for myself on my "vacation". I assumed this whole time that I had cancer, since my mom was so young when she was diagnosed, and since her mother, too, has had cancer. So, I pretty much resigned myself to a malignant diagnosis and made furtive plans in my head about my coming mastectomies (my mom will assure you that this kind of exaggeration and assuming the worst is easily within my personality) and was so proud of myself for finding the silver lining that I could have liposuction on my stomach to rebuild my breasts.
Imagine my surprise, when, a week later, it turned out I did not in fact have cancer. The cells biopsied were not even "pre-cancerous," whatever the hell that means. Aren't all cells, in theory, capable of mutating and therefore, aren't all cells in a way, precancerous? So, instead of being bummed about having cancer, I had to cancel all of my made-up plans to have liposuction. Now I'm kind of pissed that I have to keep my stomach the way it is, unless I want to starve myself or find some other way to escape from my genetics. I guess not having cancer is better.
So, I went to a few other appointments, none of which were nearly as exciting as the cancer scare. Went up to Stowe, VT for a long weekend with some friends to celebrate Robyn's birthday, kayaked a bit, ate a lot of cheese and returned to hang at my mom's for the remainder of my time in Boston. Then, off to Morocco for my return to studies.
I had a (thankfully) uneventful, but long trip through Paris to Casablanca, where I was met at the airport by my boyfriend. Yes, this very elusive man that I don't talk much about, mostly because I'm still trying to wrap my head around the fact that I've kept him around for more than a month. Let's not jinx it all by actually discussing him. We took the train back to Rabat (which in reality is not nearly as romantic as it sounds...to be picked up at the Casablanca airport and to take the train with one's boyfriend. At least, it's really not very romantic when you have not slept in 30 hours and have 140 lbs of luggage you've schlepped halfway around the world and have not showered or brushed your teeth in what seems like an eternity).
Back at my school, I found that a lot of my Arabic had mysteriously decided to stay on vacation in Boston and I had to hit the books pretty hard to regain some of the vocabulary I lost. So, immersed back in both Arabic and Derija (the Moroccan dialect I speak with my host family and to anyone outside of my school), I did not have time for much adventure. These are some photos taken before I left to return to the states, back in mid-June.
However, I was invited to go to a wedding with my host family last Saturday night and although I was not feeling especially energized, I went and luckily remembered to bring some extra batteries to better capture the whole craziness of the Moroccan marriage. I've written about this before, but really, it's a spectacle not to be missed if at all possible when visiting Morocco. The whole event is centered around food, music, dancing and the bride changing her costumes. Not unlike American weddings, there is a lot of food, music and dancing. However, most American weddings are winding down around the time that their Moroccan counterparts are getting warmed up. We arrived at the hall around 10:30 pm, a respectable time and just over half of the tables were vacant, so we (thankfully) got choice seats as far from the band as possible. I know I sound like an old fart when I say that I wanted to sit far from the music, but really, I learned my lesson last time and my eardrums were grateful for the reprieve.
I'm also thankful that we did not stay for the entire wedding, as we did last time. We ended up leaving around 5 am and I was in bed by 5:30. I really don't get it how all those old folks can go to so many weddings and stay up and aware until 7am. They must drink all the tea that's offered and eat all the sugary stuff that comes at the end of the wedding to make it that long. I just can't eat like that in the middle of the night! As it was, we had dinner served around midnight, beginning with fresh juices, then cookies covered in burnt sugar, like on creme brulee. Then, a round of savory hors d'oeuvres including some caviar topped something, which I totally avoided. Next, there was pastilla (pronounced baas-till-a in Arabic), a strange concoction of phyllo dough layered with shredded chicken cooked with cinnamon and sugar, hard boiled eggs mixed with cilantro and parsley and a layer of ground almonds and more cinnamon and sugar. All of this sweet/savory combination is covered on the top layer of dough with powdered sugar and a design of cinnamon. Don't forget that each layer of the dough is smeared with plenty of oil so the whole thing flakes apart and is probably about a million calories per bite. I find it to be heavenly. Then, each of the 13 tables was served half of a lamb, roasted and served intact (at least the head, tail and feet were chopped off). This, of course, was eaten with the hands, ripped off from the carcass in strips and dipped in dishes of salt and cumin. It was actually really good. Next came a disgusting "ice cream" cake which tasted more like frozen cool whip and I passed on, then a huge bowl of all kinds of fruits. After this, a selection of cookies and of course, tea full of sugar.
We skipped out before the next round of cookies, which would have been followed by the wedding cake. Finally, after the wedding cake, they serve breakfast which is always harira soup (a tomato based soup with chick peas, parsley, onions and whatever else you have on hand and is always served to break the fast at the evening meal during Ramadan), fried breads, more cookies and assorted other things either filled with sugar, or served with honey on the side to make sure they are sufficiently bad for you. Please note that there is no alcohol served and this makes for a remarkably memorable time, as in, you can't get totally wasted and forget some parts of the night. This also makes for lots of boredom on my part and a couple of surreptitious games of Tetris played on my cell phone beneath the table. I passed the rest of the night by counting how many outfits the bridge changed into and watching women dance together (in kind of a provocative way for Muslims!). However, I paid good money for my Moroccan outfit and I'll be damned if I'm not going to get some good wear out of the darn thing! So, I'll be going to more weddings this summer for sure.
The wedding itself was very nice; we got luck with the weather and aside from some very hungry flies, the ceremony was fantastic. My mom looked as beautiful as ever and everyone seemed to enjoy themselves. I loved getting to see all of my family in one place, especially since there was a time restriction for how long I'd be back in the states and I don't think I'd have gotten to see everyone otherwise.
Among the doctor's visits, I got the okay from my orthopedist to use my knee again, but the frown when I asked if I could climb or really do anything with my shoulder. I was given a prescription for physical therapy, something I could not bear to do while back there, considering how many other appointments I had scheduled, so I continued to will my shoulder to recover. So far, it seems to be working since I can actually raise my arm high enough to get dressed without crying. Progress! (A word of advice on this one: Should you ever encounter a deranged man with a possibly deranged monkey, give him some money to let go of your arm, even if you are afraid of said monkey biting or shitting on your bare skin. Do not attempt to run away and possibly leaving part of your rotator cuff in his clutches. I learned this the hard way and will forever associate Marrakesh with excruciating pain.)
I got an appointment to see my doctor for my annual physical and lucky me, she found two "questionable" lumps in my breasts. This led to a fun filled week for me. The week consisted of 10 (yes, TEN!!!) mammograms (something I do not recommend one partake in the week before her period), an ultrasound, a needle biopsy and some waiting. Not exactly the kind of thing I had planned for myself on my "vacation". I assumed this whole time that I had cancer, since my mom was so young when she was diagnosed, and since her mother, too, has had cancer. So, I pretty much resigned myself to a malignant diagnosis and made furtive plans in my head about my coming mastectomies (my mom will assure you that this kind of exaggeration and assuming the worst is easily within my personality) and was so proud of myself for finding the silver lining that I could have liposuction on my stomach to rebuild my breasts.
Imagine my surprise, when, a week later, it turned out I did not in fact have cancer. The cells biopsied were not even "pre-cancerous," whatever the hell that means. Aren't all cells, in theory, capable of mutating and therefore, aren't all cells in a way, precancerous? So, instead of being bummed about having cancer, I had to cancel all of my made-up plans to have liposuction. Now I'm kind of pissed that I have to keep my stomach the way it is, unless I want to starve myself or find some other way to escape from my genetics. I guess not having cancer is better.
So, I went to a few other appointments, none of which were nearly as exciting as the cancer scare. Went up to Stowe, VT for a long weekend with some friends to celebrate Robyn's birthday, kayaked a bit, ate a lot of cheese and returned to hang at my mom's for the remainder of my time in Boston. Then, off to Morocco for my return to studies.
I had a (thankfully) uneventful, but long trip through Paris to Casablanca, where I was met at the airport by my boyfriend. Yes, this very elusive man that I don't talk much about, mostly because I'm still trying to wrap my head around the fact that I've kept him around for more than a month. Let's not jinx it all by actually discussing him. We took the train back to Rabat (which in reality is not nearly as romantic as it sounds...to be picked up at the Casablanca airport and to take the train with one's boyfriend. At least, it's really not very romantic when you have not slept in 30 hours and have 140 lbs of luggage you've schlepped halfway around the world and have not showered or brushed your teeth in what seems like an eternity).
Back at my school, I found that a lot of my Arabic had mysteriously decided to stay on vacation in Boston and I had to hit the books pretty hard to regain some of the vocabulary I lost. So, immersed back in both Arabic and Derija (the Moroccan dialect I speak with my host family and to anyone outside of my school), I did not have time for much adventure. These are some photos taken before I left to return to the states, back in mid-June.
However, I was invited to go to a wedding with my host family last Saturday night and although I was not feeling especially energized, I went and luckily remembered to bring some extra batteries to better capture the whole craziness of the Moroccan marriage. I've written about this before, but really, it's a spectacle not to be missed if at all possible when visiting Morocco. The whole event is centered around food, music, dancing and the bride changing her costumes. Not unlike American weddings, there is a lot of food, music and dancing. However, most American weddings are winding down around the time that their Moroccan counterparts are getting warmed up. We arrived at the hall around 10:30 pm, a respectable time and just over half of the tables were vacant, so we (thankfully) got choice seats as far from the band as possible. I know I sound like an old fart when I say that I wanted to sit far from the music, but really, I learned my lesson last time and my eardrums were grateful for the reprieve.
I'm also thankful that we did not stay for the entire wedding, as we did last time. We ended up leaving around 5 am and I was in bed by 5:30. I really don't get it how all those old folks can go to so many weddings and stay up and aware until 7am. They must drink all the tea that's offered and eat all the sugary stuff that comes at the end of the wedding to make it that long. I just can't eat like that in the middle of the night! As it was, we had dinner served around midnight, beginning with fresh juices, then cookies covered in burnt sugar, like on creme brulee. Then, a round of savory hors d'oeuvres including some caviar topped something, which I totally avoided. Next, there was pastilla (pronounced baas-till-a in Arabic), a strange concoction of phyllo dough layered with shredded chicken cooked with cinnamon and sugar, hard boiled eggs mixed with cilantro and parsley and a layer of ground almonds and more cinnamon and sugar. All of this sweet/savory combination is covered on the top layer of dough with powdered sugar and a design of cinnamon. Don't forget that each layer of the dough is smeared with plenty of oil so the whole thing flakes apart and is probably about a million calories per bite. I find it to be heavenly. Then, each of the 13 tables was served half of a lamb, roasted and served intact (at least the head, tail and feet were chopped off). This, of course, was eaten with the hands, ripped off from the carcass in strips and dipped in dishes of salt and cumin. It was actually really good. Next came a disgusting "ice cream" cake which tasted more like frozen cool whip and I passed on, then a huge bowl of all kinds of fruits. After this, a selection of cookies and of course, tea full of sugar.
We skipped out before the next round of cookies, which would have been followed by the wedding cake. Finally, after the wedding cake, they serve breakfast which is always harira soup (a tomato based soup with chick peas, parsley, onions and whatever else you have on hand and is always served to break the fast at the evening meal during Ramadan), fried breads, more cookies and assorted other things either filled with sugar, or served with honey on the side to make sure they are sufficiently bad for you. Please note that there is no alcohol served and this makes for a remarkably memorable time, as in, you can't get totally wasted and forget some parts of the night. This also makes for lots of boredom on my part and a couple of surreptitious games of Tetris played on my cell phone beneath the table. I passed the rest of the night by counting how many outfits the bridge changed into and watching women dance together (in kind of a provocative way for Muslims!). However, I paid good money for my Moroccan outfit and I'll be damned if I'm not going to get some good wear out of the darn thing! So, I'll be going to more weddings this summer for sure.
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