Sweden's crayfish party tradition

"I hope you had a good time at your Seafood Festival," came the text.  He was, of course, referring to the crayfish party that I managed to snap out of my antisocial funk long enough to attend.  Crayfish parties are a very Swedish celebration of life/the end of summer/alcohol.  They involve games, drinking, and decorations resembling Chinese new year’s lights.  Oh, and crayfish.  Which are like lobsters in their color, shape, and beady angry boiled alive eyes; but unlike lobsters in their size and willingness to provide accessible meat.

I’ve pulled some quotes from Wikipedia for you:

“It is culturally correct to suck the juice out of the crayfish before shelling it.”

“The alcohol consumption is often high, especially when compared to the amount of food actually eaten (crayfish shelling is tedious work).”

Due to my rather temperate drinking, I possibly missed the entire point of a crayfish party (getting plastered), but I still had a good time.

Here is a photo I took of my first little buddy.  I refrained from naming him because…well you know.

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Chilling with the locals

Samira, a beautiful, reserved, 18-year-old Moroccan girl, was introduced to us on our second day in Essaouira. She was the daughter of Aziz, the jaunty, crazy man who sold us necklaces and stories on the beach. Aside from money, he was interested in exchanging goods for his jewelry.

"Do you have a mobile phone or a bikini? My daughter would love a bikini. The quality here is very bad," he made a face.

I was confused. "When would she wear a bikini? Not here." I gestured toward the ocean.

"No no. When they go to the bathing hole. Just women. Then she can wear it. But it is bad, the ones here."

We didn't end up trading bathing suits (awkward) with him, but Emma grabbed a pair of old jeans and a t-shirt from the hotel room, and offered them. In return, he gave her a vividly blue necklace – a very important one which had secretly come over a border with him – which he claimed to be one of a kind and of great value. We later saw the exact same necklace sold in shops throughout Ouarzazate. Fair enough; it was still a good story.

After chatting a while and asking him questions about his three wives and many children, he suddenly became really excited.

"You can meet my daughter! She owns a store in the village. Come, come."

Emma and I looked at each other. Essaouira is a beach town, known for a music festival, "the Moroccan Woodstock," which attracts hippies. Apparently Jimi Hendrix had visited in the '70s and made quite an impression. Still, its biggest attraction (and the reason for our visit) was the beach which meant we had lots of free time for meeting the random daughters of quirky, multilingual salesmen.

"Okay." We agreed, not knowing what to expect. My mother later told me that this was the part of our journey where she worried the most. Will sent her a text telling her that "the girls are fine, they're just going to the village of a man they met on the beach."

He led us beyond the large square and down several streets and alleys, chatting the whole way about our surroundings. We finally arrived at a tiny, unobtrusive grocery store, tucked away on a quiet street. It was a typical Moroccan mini store, filled with packaged crackers, cookies, candy bars, cooking supplies, plastic household supplies, etc. Samira was behind the counter, smiling shyly, wearing a headscarf and a long sleeved top over jeans.

She did not, as her father had claimed, speak more than a few phrases in French. Aziz smiled hugely, introduced us, translated back and forth, and then left to continue his beach sales. Emma and I sat down on dirty plastic chairs, and we all communicated through hand movements, body language, bits of Arabic, English, French, and laughter. Lots of laughter.

We fell in love with Samira, mostly because she was affectionate and adorable, but also because we were excited to meet a girl our age, communication issues or not. That night we took her out for dinner, and Emma brought my notebook so that we could talk through pictures. We drew a picture of our entire family, and she did the same for us. I then showed her some of the old pictures we had drawn on our trip. This included a drawing of all the characters in Gossip Girl. I don't think she ever fully understood that particular sketch, despite my effort to explain to her that it was on T.V. by drawing a little box with an antenna. (Okay, maybe I forgot the antenna). I can only assume she thought they were our attractive extended family.

At some point in the evening, I noticed that she was wearing an engagement ring, and what looked to be a wedding ring.

"Vous etes mariee?" Are you married? I asked in French, pointing at the ring.

She looked at it and nodded. Crazy.

Later on we asked if her husband would miss her while she was out with us. Or rather, we drew a picture of a man behind a window in a house crying. We then drew the three of us girls far away from the house.

"Won't he," I pointed to the ring, "Be sad that you're out?" I pointed at the picture.

She shrugged. Later, we spoke to her father and he told us that she was engaged, not married. She must have thought we were really, really weird.

**

Ouarzazate, the next city we visited, is known for being a popular Hollywood film location. Lawrence of Arabia, Star Wars ('77), The Mummy, Gladiator, were all shot in Ouarzazate. So was The Hills Have Eyes 3, or so we were informed by a friendly young shopkeeper. Part of his front wall was filled with pictures, all containing himself posing with a movie star.

He dropped names of directors and actors that he had driven around for the movie company he worked for. We steered him towards information about the megastars he had met.

"When Leonardo Decaprio was here, he was scared of the people. He only went from his trailer to the set. But Ridley Scott made him wave to the crowd one day."

And what about Brad?

"Brad Pitt was good. He was walking out around here, you know. We were told not to bother him."

"How was Julia Roberts?"

"Julia Roberts!" His eyes lit up. "She was so nice. So friendly. She told them she didn't want a body guard, she just needed me to walk with her and translate."

The picture of him with Julia Roberts is in the bottom left corner of the photo collage. She looks casual; no makeup, hair pulled back, but her famous smile stretches across her face and she is radiant.

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Arabs like to feed you.

In Morocco, everything felt closer to nature. Depositing your excrement into a hole in the ground. Heating water over an open flame and then pouring it over yourself as a shower. Using blankets as a new heating system. Watching a skinny, grinning butcher cut your beef off the hind quarter of a cow that he has hanging. Drinking orange juice from actual oranges.

**

When you meet someone, you shake hands (opposite gender), or are violently attacked (same gender) with kisses on the cheek. We couldn't figure out the kissing methodology – sometimes it was one on each side and then two on the other, sometimes it was only two, sometimes it was four...

After you shake hands in greeting, you put your hand to your heart. I liked this. If something is good, you can say "Zwayna," and curl your figures and flick them out like a twinkling star motion. "Keef keef," (same, same), had its own hand motion.

**

The avocado juice was a special moment. After our first day in Marrakech, we met up with Anna and Jessie, her visiting bubbly, fairy friend. Jessie had a guide book – what a clever idea – and was packed with information from an article she had read before arriving. Her guide book, The Lonely Planet, had a lot of useful information, and occasionally attempted a witty comment. One restaurant was recommended – with the caveat that "the avocado juice is best avoided."

Amadeus and I found this hilarious: when wouldn't avocado juice be avoided? It sounded vile. As it turns out, it's a big drink in Morocco and can be found at all the juice stands. No problem; I could use it to practice my no's. And then Will started texting us about the concoction, insisting that we try avocado almond juice at Cafe Amsterdam in Ouzazete. First we ignored his texts. So he called and insisted we that we try it. Am and I discussed it, and decided we would halfheartedly look for the cafe – and we couldn't find it.

Will called again with very specific directions. At this point we debated to simply lie to him and tell him we tried it. No. That wouldn't be a fun bedside confession. We went inside Cafe Amsterdam and ordered one to share.

It was the most unbelievably wonderful, fresh, milkshakey creation. The almonds add a delightful nutty flavor, and the avocado taste was present, but not overwhelming. Our fears had been groundless.

**

I also ate sheep liver and possibly stomach, while avoiding brains and other organs. This was a less charming experience.

Will, Jeff, Am, and I were all invited to dine with a local cafe owner, an older man who knew Will. The invitation went something like this: we had just arrived and Will, Am, and I were pulling our luggage down the street. We passed a large cafe/restaurant, and a man called out to him. This was not his first shout out – in Tinjedad, he is a rock star, and half the town shouted greetings as we walked. But this man insisted that we come over and have tea and bread with olive oil. We dragged our bags up and stuck them in a hallway which led to an outdoor seating area at the back of the cafe.

The man's teeth were black, and his face was middle aged – 40's? – and very animated. He started to raise his voice, speaking loudly and quickly at Will in Arabic and gesturing unhappily. Will argued back, smiling, protesting and shaking his head. In between bouts of contention, he explained that the man was saying something like "shame on you for ignoring your friend." He wanted us to eat dinner with him, but Will had told him we were fully booked with his host family, and the basha, the appointed government official in Tinjedad. Finally they settled on a dinner date that evening.

Eating Lebanese-Moroccan food at Azur

Which is when I discovered couscous with sheep's innards.

"Try it! They'll love you!" my brother was encouraging me into a sort of food prostitution. However, this was some love that I could refuse – except that I was a little bit curious. Hence the tiny piece of liver and stomach.

**

I listened to the audio version of "Three Cups of Tea" a few years ago. I don't remember the exact story behind the three cups of tea in Pakistan, except that I think it equates to some sort of friendship: share one cup, you're acquainted; two, you're friends; three, you're bosom buddies.

Morocco was more about five cups of tea. (Takes a longer time to build relationships?) Or As Many Cups of Tea As We Can Convince You To Try. Moroccan tea is incredibly sweet (they like sweet things), and it is unfiltered. It is poured from about eight inches above the small glass cup. When you don't want any more, you say "Al humdillah" ("Praise God") and shake your head smiling.

After five cups during the afternoon, and several more at dinner, I asked Will about the caffeine content. He shrugged.

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A glimpse into my brother's Peace Corps existence

"We like big women here...like onions," Aziz said, gesturing a large curve with his hands. "You know, we feed them couscous to get big." He went on to tell us that girls buy pills at the store to help them gain weight. I'd like to write that infomercial.

**

"You want space cakes?" The man was pointing to dubious looking brownies, sandwiched between various other goodies. "They will give you 15 minutes of happiness."

**

"I will give you the entire store for one kiss." This was a younger man. I was starting to wonder if all their English was sales terms and pickup lines.

We politely declined the offer, claiming a boyfriend and a husband. He figured out the husband was fake when Emma tried to switch her ring to the proper finger in front of him. The boyfriend he didn't seem to find problematic.

**

Will's apartment is on the side street of a row of nearly identical looking unfinished cement buildings. He says the stretch of buildings occasionally gives him a surreal "am I in a video game" feeling sometimes. As we arrive outside, pulling our two suitcases, backpack, grocery bags, bulky coats and ukulele, he stops us before we enter.

"I have a no dirt policy," he says, staring at the bags we have dragged through the dirt and rocks for the past ten minutes.

"Seriously?" I want to laugh at this point. The idea of fighting the all consuming dust and dirt of this country is...laughable.

"Yes," he is barely listening to me, staring at our suitcases and working out the problem in his head.

"What do you want us to do? Hose them down?" Emma says. She is joking.

He looks at her thoughtfully. "Maybe something similar."

Em and I go inside and leave him to figure it out. It has been a long, hot day. Our morning was spent shopping for groceries he might not have easy access to: peanut butter, tapenade, corn flakes, etc. Then we rushed around town looking for the grocery store we had actually meant to use, hurriedly asking locals in French and then following their hand gestures (their replies got a bit complicated for my rusty language ability).

Deciding to split up and save time (needing to make a 3.5 hour busride; only one a day), Em went on to the store while I went to pack and check out. 20 minutes later, she returned, out of breath, to where I stood at the front of the hotel.

"You have the key, I couldn't pack," I informed her.

"You have the money, so I couldn't buy anything," she returned.

Fail. We went into fastforward mode and completed our errands, making our bus with 20 minutes to spare, and managing to not lose the everpresent ukulele.

The uke was a Christmas gift to Will that arrived two days after Christmas; one day after his departure from Sweden. Our holiday turned into a quest to deliver the ukulele unharmed. After nearly leaving it on several buses and listening to it jolt around on various truck, taxi and bus rides, we finally united it with its owner.

**

"Are you doing your best?

Are you even trying? Your best, Will, your best. Look back at the best you had to give.

And don't forget your sense of humor. Please."

These are bold, black words, printed out and hanging on his wall.

**

As we hopped into a taxi, Will and Emma in front, I in the back with three random women, Will turned around from the front seat with a big grin on his face and enthusiastically announced something to the women.

"What did you say?"

"I told them you were my sisters." Sweet, right?

"Do you know them?"

"No, but I didn't want them to think you were hookers." Less sweet.

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Early impressions of Morocco

Ah, Morocco.

Typing in the Cybers (internet cafes) here drives me crazy.

We have not continued with our nightly poetry sessions. This is not surprising.

I am addicted to daily fresh glasses of orange juice. It took one glass initiate this.

The smells are less overwhelming than the dust and noise.

Amadeus and I have been reacquainted with the squatty potties from previous Middle Eastern experiences. Not bad unless the lights are out, the floor is questionable, and the toilet paper is out. Then I want to be a man. There are other times I wish I was a man here, but for different reasons.

This trip has allowed Willikins to develop his big brother side, and we get constant texts like "Don't talk to anyone wearing over the top Turbans or Rastas" and "Don't walk too far down the beach where there aren't people. I got robbed at knifepoint on that beach" and "Make sure you drink lots of liquids if you start puking."

We have met extraordinarily colorful and friendly people, both locals and foreigners. The locals are amused by our Egyptian Arabic words. Amadeus has told me that the reason people don't leave us alone is that I laugh when I say no. She often does the same thing, and has broken a few hearts. They'll get over it.

Amadeus and I availing ourselves of fresh juice

We visited Anna, Will's girlfriend who is also in the Peace Corps. Coming back from having tea with her zany boss, wife, and child, she told us that she wonders if the entire experience will feel like a strange dream when she returns home.

When we first arrived at the city near Anna's site, it was dark and we were confused about walking to our next stage of transportation. Our driver to the city kept telling us that there wasn't transportation to her small town because it was night. He offered to drive us the remainder of the way for a fee, adding that it was dangerous. We declined after talking to Anna, and I informed him in French that she would be picking us up. Actually I probably said something like "my friend had be coming here." Stupid tenses.

On the 30 min. drive to her site, Amadeus and I opted for sitting in the truckbed, shrugging off warnings of cold. This was a silly move, and we hunched down to avoid the brunt of the wind, wrapped in jackets and scarves and singing pop songs at the top of our lungs. As we each ended a different song, we immediately started another at the same time - the exact same song, completely unplanned. We got a bit shrill in our excitement over this accidental jinx (think a couple of exitable friends meeting up after a summer apart), and suddenly the truck was swerving to the side of the road, convinced by the noise that one of us had fallen off.

**

It's a beautiful country.

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