I have always strongly believed that the best way to understand another culture's beliefs and values is to study the language in-depth. In doing so, it can even be possible to gain acceptance into their world and perhaps, to use the anthropological term, become a participant-observer in the day-to-day lives of the local population. Here in Fes, perhaps Morocco's most revered holy city, I have realized that this is only possible to a very slight degree. A walk this evening in the medina illustrates my point.

As I enter the medina through Bab Bou Jeloud, the main tourist entry-point along the old city wall, I am able to deter would-be hustlers with some of the Arabic I know. Either I just tell them that "I am not interested", that I "don't want a guide", or even that I "know the ways in the medina". The latter is of course a lie, however, as it would take years of living here to have what might be considered even a fair knowledge of the medina's labyrinthine layout. But nevertheless, since making sure you don't get lost is a big reason a guide will offer his services, this excuse is often the best way to get rid of them.

Walking further into the medina, familiar sights and sounds appear. It often smells like donkey scat, the rainbow-color array of different types of silk, cloth, spices, herbal medicines, and sweets arouse the senses,

and the amount of inhabitants sharing such an intimate space is mind-boggling. Like many major cities of the world, during the day the streets are always packed with people. But unlike say, New York, Paris, or Tokyo, take any given 10-square meter piece of Fes' old city and you are almost guaranteed to see a lot more in the way of everyday life. This is certainly due in part to the fact that houses, shops, mosques, schools, cafes, and restaurants are either crammed right next to each or stacked upon each other on a vertical axis. But there is more to it than this. In the old city, people still buy their meat from the butcher, who either obtains his lamb meat or beef fresh each morning or slaughters his chickens in the shop itself (though the latter is most always sold exclusively from other types of meat). They get their bread fresh from the oven at one of the many bakeries in town. Vegetables are sold in some places. Others might only have milk, cheese, and yogurt. Still others only canned goods, sweets, or spices. It runs the gammut. But most remarkable of all are the specialized traditional crafts that can be found in the old city, with many of these shops probably existing in the same (or nearly the same) location for many centuries. Whether it be a new pair of shoes or satchels from the tannery, a wedding dress fastidiously embroidered in the most beautiful of designs, or intricately-carved wood for a new door or bed frame, Fassis know where to get the top-quality products they need. And it's all here for them in the old city.

The social fabric of Fassi life in the medina is woven together not only by the many stores in town, but also through many other social activities that take place. I saw men drinking tea in the countless cafes scattered about the medina, reading the daily news or discussing the fine points of different Qur'anic verses. I see children playing football in the narrowest alleyways imaginable. And then there are many women too, perhaps

on their way to a friend or relative's home or out to do some shopping for the home. Or they're headed to the hammam, long seen as one of the most important religious and social institutions among both Moroccan women and men. And while these daily scenes of life are indicative of the intimate social connections that exist between medina residents, I myself am as much of an outsider as anyone else.

Sometimes I like to smugly look down upon the tourists who come visit Fes, take a 2-hour guided tour of the medina, and then highttail it to Marrkesh or Agadir to stay on schedule for their 2-week whirlwind tour of al-Maghrib. After all, I have lived here now for a total of almost 8 months, and I am very accustomed to the flow and rhythm of everyday life here in this city of 1.5 million residents. I know what time people get up to pray every morning. I know the customary greetings and general modes of social interaction. And, perhaps most importantly, I can interact with the locals in their native tongue. But despite all this, I am still as strangely foreign to Moroccans as the backpack-toting, Nikon-bearing tourists who visit Fes each year.

Unlike almost all of the tourists who come to Fes, I can at least speak to the people in their language. But I nevertheless remain as much of an exotic curiosity as the tourists, if not more so because I speak some Arabic.

Moroccans are generally quite surprised to hear a Westerner speak Arabic, and when I attempt to string together some sentences the typical question invariably comes up: are you Muslim? It is a fair enough question because the language I study, with some minor differences, is very close to the classical Arabic of the Quran. And when I respond that I am merely interested in learning the language, many people seem rather confused. And some might even canvass me for my religious views (or lack thereof). On the one hand, I feel as though it is somewhat of an honor to be asked to become a Muslim and be a member of their group. In this way I am different than the average tourist, who might only be asked to buy hashish or a carpet. But in the end, I am just like the average tourist because I come away from these interactions being the non-Muslim that I am.

On my walk through the medina today I encountered a group of several men who lectured me on the basic tenets of Islam and scorned my own supposed Christian beliefs. The fact is that I am not Christian. I suppose there may exist a supreme creator and being, but in the end I figure that as long as I live a moral life, I will end up in the same happy place as every other good person on Earth. But when asked if I was Muslim, I did tell them "no, I am Christian". To truthfully tell them of my agnostic, borderline-atheist beliefs would likely have seemed even more preposterous to them. But nevertheless, the dialogue that followed still put me in a rather uncomfortable position. I told them I was a Christian. Then I told them that yes, I do occassionally drink wine (I didn't know the Arabic word for beer and so didn't bother mentioning this- wine just seemed more innocent anyway). I told them that wine is produced to some extent in Morocco too and must therefore not be as forbidden as he seems to consider it. That didn't go over too well with him either. But then I was asked about

my belief in the prophet. I was rather trapped at this point, as I realized that I would have to profess my supposed belief in Jesus as the prophet of all Christians. And so I replied that, yes, I believe in Jesus but then quickly retorted that Muslims believe in Jesus as well. Surely this is true, but Jesus is not seen as the son of God (i.e. having God's blood) among Muslims (as in most Christian sects) and the words "there is no god but Allah and Muhammed is his prophet" is a commonly-uttered phrase among Muslims. And so I was only digging a hole for myself by remarking that although I understand that Christians believe that Jesus is the Son of God, died for our sins, and is now symbolically transmuted into bread and wine for us at Communion, I have struggled with these questions in my day-to-day life. And so after saying this it was obvious that I had just succeeded in portraying myself as a perfect candidate for conversion to Islam. I knew some Arabic and was confused about Christianity. Little did they know though that I was lying through my teeth, and hamdulillah (praise be to God) for that. After my little chat I was asked to come back at some point to drink tea with some of them, but I certainly would never even be able to even find my way back to this place. And besides, even if I went back these men would never see me as well-respected peer. At least not as long as I am a non-Muslim.

Before I left Morocco, I had my camera stolen. The circumstances through which this occurred were rather bizarre, but I can tell you that it was something that bothered me immensely. I had so many memories stored on that camera- probably nearing 1,000. Photos of verdant slopes of dense fir and holm-oak forest (to prove to people that yes, there really is such a thing in the Arab world), me and a Quebecois friend hanging out with all 20 of a village's male population in a one-room cement shack that functions as the town hanoot (small store), and the more trite, yet still charming photos of the twisting alley-ways, ornately-decorated doorways, and white-washed buildings that make up the tourist enclave of Chefchaouen. It was certainly not pleasant to ponder the idea that I'd never see these photos again. And yet I had a minor revelation of sorts as well. I could either mope about the fact that my photos are forever gone, or I can recreate these very images through my own words. I had some great photos but I will now attempt to reinvent them by the stroke of a pen (or in this case 12-point Times New Roman font).

So at the end of May I had spent five days with a Quebecois guy hiking in the Rif Mountains, the northernmost mountain range in Morocco. It doesn't have the commanding 4000 meter-plus mountains of the High Atlas near Marrakesh (the highest peak tops out at just under 2500 meters), but in many ways I think I would find the Rif to be preferable. For one, unlike the bare, tawny-colored peaks of the High Atlas, the Rif are green and even downright lush in the winter and spring months. Being near the Mediterranean, the Rif gets an appreciable amount of rainfall, experiencing damp and, above 1000 meters, snowy winters. The summer is generally, as in the rest of the country, dry as a bone, but it is nevertheless damp enough of the year to give the Rif region an all-together very different appearance. There are more trees here than in any other part of the country. In fact, I'm sure almost all of these mountains were covered in forest at some point in the past. Of course, as in many developing countries, Morocco suffers from deforestation and many of the Rif peaks are only green because of the cash crop- marijuana- that grows oh-so-well in these hills. But nevertheless, there are still appreciable tracts of semi-protected forest in the Rif.  Much of this can be seen in the Talassamtane National Park, named after the eponymous 1967-meter ridge that bisects the heart of the park. Here the tree types are about as diverse as they come in Morocco. There are thick stands of holm oak along mid-elevation river valleys that made me feel for a moment as though I was somewhere in a mid-Atlantic mountain park like Shenandoah. Forests of blue Atlas cedar cling on to the higher peaks of the Rif, with the gnarled, twisted trunks of some of the most isolated, highest-up trees bringing to mind the ancient bristlecone pines of the western U.S. And then there is the Moroccan fir, found above 1600 meters and the relic of a much colder period in North Africa. Some parts of Talassemtane have dense areas of fir of around several thousand acres in size. It has the same, dark aura of mystique as any other conifer forest, and in the Rif is the preferred habitat of the Barbary ape (which is not an "ape" as such, but actually a macaque- a genus of monkey). I never did get to see any in Talassemtane as I was hoping to, but did eventually see tham at a lower elevation canyon about a day's walk north of the park.

It's pretty cool that Morocco has monkeys, but unfortunately it is about the only real interesting mammal in this country. There are still some addaxes and two types of gazelle in the Western Sahara region and jackals in the desert, but more dignified, formidable creatures such as Barbary lions (a sub-species of lion that was unique to mountainous regions of Morocco) and cheetahs haven't been seen in Morocco in over a century. This is unfortunate, but at least offered me some peace of mind when camping in the middle of the dark fir forest.

So the Rif, as you can see, offers the rewards of thick mountain forests that the rest of Morocco is too dry to produce much of. Some parts of the northern Middle Atlas are similar, but there is no doubt that the northern extremity of the country is the wettest part. And while this certainly makes the Rif an enticing place to visit, it receives surprisingly few visitors. The fact that 70% of cultivatable land in the Rif is taken up by marijuana production probably has at least something to do with it. People are either under the impression that it would be entirely unsafe to hike in these mountains, or in the case of Chefchaouen itself they are all pot-heads who can't really be bothered to put a 40-pound pack on their backs and then hike steeply up an 1800-meter pass (the most commonly-used route out of town). And although the term "reefer" was quite probably derived from the word Rif (pronounced "reef"), there is little reason to feel any kind of danger in these mountains. On the contrary, I found most of the few people I met to be quite warm and friendly.

I set out from Chaouen on a rather cool, cloudy day that I would never have expected to see at the end of May in Morocco. Chaouen itself doesn't attain a height above 600 meters anywhere in town, and so a temperature barely nudging 65 degrees wasn't what we expected. But considering that the first 4.3 miles of the trail involved a 1200-meter ascent, I can't say I was complaining. It was difficult, but nothing that I hadn't seen before. What amazed me more than anything else was that the "trail" we were climbing was actually a road. It was incredibly steep in places and was severely eroded in some sections as well. I found it hard to imagine even a Landrover making the ascent on this road.  But seeing how most people drive on paved roads in Morocco, I guess I shouldn't have been to surprised either.

Now I have always found it both utilitarian and simply more enjoyable to hike with a map. Fortunately, the Moroccan Cartography Division, a government department, oversees the publication of a rather detailed series of  1:50,000-scale topography maps of most of the country. What is less fortunate is the hurdles one must jump through in order to obtain one of these maps. The hurdle is Morrocan bureaucracy, and involves a system of equations that must be solved in order to eventually obtain a map. This is quite literally the case, as a chart on the wall at the Department Cartographique in Fes actually features a diagram that depicts multiple arrows criss-crossing each other in a confusing, jumbled mass. I couldn't read it all, but I don't think the most well-educated Frenchman would have been able to either. But that may very well have been the point of the chart- to deter anyone from setting out on the inane quest of getting a Moroccan topographic chart. Now the reasoning behind all of this was beyond me. There of course wasn't any, but I nevertheless at least tried to grasp the meaning of it all. The basic process is supposed to consist of the applicant inquiring about making a purchase at the Topographic Building in Fes. They'll let you stare at the map for a couple minutes, but you can't actually walk out the door with the map until a formal request for it has been sent to the main government building in the capital city of Rabat. This request includes your passport information as well as a written explanation in Arabic or French of why you want to obtain these maps. Frankly, I couldn't help but find these demands to be rather excessive. To begin with, the maps that they sell are quite old. They generally haven't been updated since the 1970s and to use one as a means to concoct some sort of evil plot (lord knows what exactly) would be unrealistic. Moreover, they're at a scale of 1:50,000, which is detailed but doesn't show all the neat little buildings (i.e. ones you can blow up) that are generally found on even more detailed (i.e. 1:10 or 25,000 series) maps. But suppose that the maps really would somehow be a security risk if they fell into the wrong hands. It's not like there aren't other ways for would-be evil-doers to obtain some kind of a map of their intended target. Ever heard of Google Earth? Not only is it accessible to every soul on this planet, but the resolution of its satelite images allow one to almost literally peer into grandma's kitchen to see what's for dinner. And give it some years and we may be there. But not to digress from my point, it is obvious that if any government cares about analyzing security risks and terrorist threats it is the good old U.S. of A. And if I can access an online image where I quite clearly view the roof of the White House, then surely a 1:50,000-scale, circa 1970s topographic map of the Rif Mountains doesn't pose any real kind of a threat to Morocco's security. And that only adds to the absurdity...I want a map of an extremely small section of the Rif Mountains, which I find rather innocent since the area around Chefchaouen is relatively well-trodden by tourists. It's not as though I went up to the desk and said, "okay, give me all your maps of the Algerian frontier...actually, do you think you could just give me the sections where the Polisario is at its most active these days?" And let's just say that my intentions were evil anyway. Would anyone actually reveal this is their letter of intent? (being hypothetical again in a letter to the Cartography Department)..."'to whom it may concern: I would like a map of the entire Western Sahara region because I hear the endless stretch of barren nothingness here is truly the type of barren nothingness that befits an undiscovered paradise in the truest sense of the word.' Sincerely, I.M. Raleigh Teroriste". And let's face it, the strategy involved in the attacks of the last decade haven't exactly been elaborate enough to require the use of any kind of a map (i.e. 1. find a place frequented by non-Muslim infidels and 2. blow it up).

Needless to say perhaps, we never actually did get out maps. Or at least not in time for my very first trip in that general direction back in early April. I went back three different times, only to be told each time that there had not yet been any decision made in Rabat. Each of our (my American friend Kyle and myself) visits to the Cartography Department ended in similar disappoinment. We would arrive at around 1 o' clock and be enthusiastically greeted by a congenial, middle-aged man working at the desk. We would ask if there had been any repsonse from Rabat, and he would tell us that unfortunately there had not. Then we were told that they would give us a call if they heard anything at all from Rabat. Of course, I kind of had a feeling for some reason that this would never actually happen. And so we would return twice more in the coming weeks to see if there was any chance in hell that these maps could be purchased. Our third visit had some real potential (at least for a moment). We were once again greeted by the same man as the first and second visits, whose enthusiastic hand-shake always gave me the initial impression that today was finally going to be day that I was going to spend the rest of my afternoon poring over a map of the Rif Mountains. He didn't tell us we could get the map, but he did say that he would give Rabat a call at that very moment. And so five minutes later the guy gets off the phone and tells us to wait fifteen or twenty minutes. Now the weather outside on this very day was very pleasant and spring-like. It was about 70 degrees, floral displays of white, pink, and purple began to appear from buds on some of the trees, and the normal haze hanging over Fes' congested streets was at a minumum.

I was therefore in no mood to wait. But wait we did. And for quite some time. There wasn't much to do in that room except stare at other maps. I've always enjoyed the raised-relief topographical maps, where one can actually feel every little bump in the terrain with a stroke of the finger. There was one such map of the whole of Morocco on the wall, but I noticed that Mt. Toubkal had about a thousand of its 4000 meters shaved off because of excessive rubbing. I suppose that could be Toubkal in the next few million years. Quite funny really. The other maps in the room were less interesting. If they were maps of places I could go hiking, it would have been worth my while. But I could have cared less about the horribly out-of-scale maps they had of random out-of-the-way places. But I suppose these maps carried no kind of security risk either. After about an hour I was ready to go, but we somehow ended up sitting around in that building for an entire hour and a half, only to be told that Rabat would not allow us to purchase the map. Disappointed, we walked out of the building and I vowed never to return to the completely useless Cartography Department again.

    One month later I was back in the Cartography Department building. I knew I would never get a map from them, but I figured out two different plans for getting the vital information I needed for my hike. In plan A I decided that without actually having to purchase the map, I could just bring paper and a ruler and then measure the distances between vital landmarks and junctions along our route. It would not be as useful as actually purchasing the map, but would certainly assist greatly in route-finding and locating water sources. Plan B was to bring my digital camera and discreetly snap a couple photos of the map, propping the camera up firmly between the tips of my fingers and the palm of my hands. I'm not always sensible but I'm not a complete moron either, so I only half-seriously entertained the notion of it for but a brief moment. Then I came back to my senses. I marched confidently back into the cartography building with a fresh new plan. And a new friend too. This time I went with Tom DeKok, a French-Canadian guy that had just spend the last few months or so working for Doctors Without Borders in Darfur. He was quite an eccentric and quite similar to me in some ways and so I took an immediate liking to him. I know I have always, and will always, continue to try and pave a path in life that is unconventional and yet ever-rewarding in terms of opening up my mind to different perspectives and ideas in the world. And this was certainly the case with Tom. Besides working in Darfur, Tom had had various stints working as a fisherman in the maritime provinces of Canada, a miner in Dawson City, Yukon, and as a farmer at his father's place in Ontario. Though he was interesting and intelligent, his eccentricity belied a rather disturbed individual in some respects. For one, he could be pretty quick-tempered. We were in a taxi ride once and Tom gasped when the guy asked for 7 dirham (80 cents) for the 7-minute taxi ride. I told him it was fine, and then Tom turned towards me and glowered at me as though I was going to be his next murder victim. He said he knew what the price should be and told me sternly to not interfere. I can think of a couple other similar incidents, but I also don't exactly want to paint the worst picture of him- good guy, just some quirks about him. Though he also had some pretty wild ideas about what to do next with his life. He wanted to keep studying Arabic for the next year or more in Yemen (a noble, but certainly attainable goal). But then he also said he wanted to spend the next few years studying to become a doctor. This also seemed to be a good goal but I think if you're starting from scratch it might be more useful to think first about either medical school or gaining fluency in Arabic. It's not as if these endeavors don't take up much time. But I certainly did enjoy his sense of humor and some of his travel stories were remarkable and admirable. In addition to working in Darfur, he also spent some time helping earthquake vicitims in the Northwest Frontier Province region of Pakistan. And then he spent some time kayaking alone on a river in the northern Yukon of Canada. I know for certain there are grizzly bears up there and, depending on how far north he was, perhaps even polar bears. I can definitely say that I wouldn't attempt such a journey on my own.

And so, as I was saying, the initial part of our trek into the Rif Mountains began with a rather gruelling climb to an 1800-meter pass. At the top of the pass we stopped for lunch in the middle of the first real forest that I encountered in my (up to that point) nearly four months of living in Morocco. It was a forest of Moroccan fir trees and as I approached a clearing at the top I caught a very quick glimpse of an animal darting off into the trees along the left side of the road. I realized that it was a dog, especially since we'd see at least a few more in the coming days. This is something that is very typical of Morocco- there are stray dogs everywhere. I'd often think that I finally found some solitude in a country that is relatively thickly-settled (at least in the north of Morocco), only to find some stray dogs running around in a remote canyon or isolated mountain-top forest. But there is no reason to fear these dogs because it is they who generally are quite scared of humans. Most Moroccans have no problems throwing stones (both small and large) at dogs and I can't think of how many times I have seen this happen. Because, except maybe in cosmopolitan Casablanca or Rabat, dogs are generally viewed as filthy pests and are thus given no respect whatsoever. And admittedly, most dogs in Morocco are generally rather sickly-looking mutts. But although this can be rather sad, at least the chance that a dog would ever attack is quite slim. Just pick up a rock (you often times don't even have to throw it) and the dog will probably run away.

The pass ended up being a nice spot for lunch. But we didn't linger for too long because the weather was making a turn for the worse. The skies had been overcast all morning, but now a swirling mass of gray clouds was descending right on top of us. It was a little disconcerting only because the temperature suddenly dropped a few degrees and it signaled the real possibility for some cold rain, but it was also a sight to behold.

We could watch the clouds actually creep upwards along the side of the mountain that we had just climbed, and then they would dissipate into tiny wisps of cloud on the other side of the pass. That meant that the more ominous-looking skies stayed at bay, and it didn't actually rain much until later that night. And even then it wasn't particularly heavy.

We spent our first night camping on the edge of a village called Afeska. It wasn't much of a town considering that there were only 9 houses in it. And apparently almost everyone in the town was family in some way or another. Or at least that is what Mohammed told us, a teenager who sold us some bread, tea, and lentil soup for what I considered to be a rather hefty sum. Though it certainly could have been possible, since it is commonly acceptable among many Muslim Arabs (if not encouraged in some families) for cousins to marry one another. Before going to sleep, we had quite a nice campfire going for a while. Cobalt grey skies fading to

black, towering cedars brightly illuminated by a warm, orange fire glow, and a distinct damp chill to the air that beckoned rainfall are what I still remember from sitting around the campsite that evening. Yet I also remembered a less romantic image of that evening, though one that I'd chosen to forget as well. At one point earlier on in the evening just before dusk, we noticed a man walking along the small dirt road that passed alongside our tentsite. At this point Mohammed was still sitting with us, and he seemed somewhat surprised to see this fellow walking by. He didn't say hello or anything, but just walked right on by without even looking our way. I didn't get a real good look at the guy, but could tell instantly that he was neither Berber or Arab. And then we were told by Mohammed that this guy was known as "al-hisbanee" (the Spaniard) and had spent the last year or so just wandering this area of the Rif Mountains. Due to my limited Arabic I couldn't get much more information about him than that but it certainly didn't give me the most comfortable feeling. He had a pretty grizzled appearance- long hair and in need of a shave but more creepy was just the question "what the heck is he doing here?". Maybe he came to Chaouen a year before, only to end up spending all his money on dope and thereafter unable to pay his way back home to Spain. At least, I was hoping there wasn't more to it than that and in any case felt glad to not be camping alone that night.

 The next day we entered a village (Imezzar, about 3 miles past Afeska) and a couple of Berber men waved us over to them. We were hoping to ask them about the possibility of purchasing any food in their village, which I managed to do with the little standard Arabic I knew at the time (still only a little now too, but more than before!). We were told that we would have to wait for the village shopkeeper to return from his afternoon prayer, and waited around with these Berber guys for a while. The longer we sat though, the more men gathered to figure out what the heck we were doing in their small village. I felt a little intimidated, yet even more determined to communicate with these people as best as I could. I managed to ask them about their jobs, and they told me that most of them didn't work. And even those who had jobs said there wasn't much to do until the marijuana crop was ready to be harvested. In some places the hills were completely covered, and it made me think of Freddie, Jarra, and all of his buddies who would have probably had a heart attack upon seeing all the pot growing everywhere. And seeing that I'd only noticed about one or two women walking around, I asked about the male-female ratio in the village. Unfortunately for them, there were apparently only a handful of women in the village and they told me it was necessary to go to other far-away villages to find wives. After enough sitting around, eating bread (we were offered a huge fresh loaf for no money), and talking about soccer teams (which I knew nothing about), the shopkeeper showed up. We ended up walking down the hill to a small, whitewashed concrete dwelling. It must not have been unlocked by this guy for quite some time, because as soon as the padlock was removed from the door the entire one-room shop was filled with these men that had been talking to us. They crowded around the shop on the half-broken wooden benches along the walls, curiously waiting to see what we'd buy from the small selection of foodstuffs and supplies. We bought some old cheese (not very good), some cans of sardines (better but not great) and some chocolate (actually pretty good- we shared it with the Berbers).

In Chefchaouen after some new adventures on the way here. Spent last night in the city of Sale, basically a suburb of Rabat that is separated from the capital city by a wide, tidal river. There is actually a campsite there, which is rather strange given that one can quite clearly see the downtown skyline from it. But the decision to camp here turned out to be a good one, with the exception of a minor incident in the beginning of the evening. After arriving at the campsite, I walked towards the very small stretch of sand that is Sale's beach to get a bite to eat. As I debate between the options- chicken or kefta (I opt for the latter)- a youngish, clean-shaven Moroccan man looking like he's nearing 30 approaches me. Now having lived in Morocco for almost a half-year at this point, I've developed a rather acute sixth sense for people in this country. There are the friendly, inquisitive type who simply want to practice their English and genuinely welcome me to their country, and then there are those who hide behind the veneer of whole-heartedly welcoming me to their country while concurrently scheming to rip me off for all I am worth. Even with the first glance out of the corner of my eye, I could tell right away that this guy was in the latter category. Here is the dialogue that followed...

drunk man: hello, how are you? (this kind of forwardness in Morocco often means that ulterior motives are involved- but for now I decide to roll with it anyways. No real reason to be rude just yet).

me: (sighing ever so slightly but not noticeably so) Everything is well. And you?

drunk man: My father owns this cafe. (that was about all I understood from our entire 7 or 8-minute dialogue. What followed was mostly garbled speech as far as I could tell but he was at least coherent enough at times

for me to know that he's a sketchy bastard).

me: oh...okay...

drunk man: I am drunk and have been drinking all day.

me: (having already gotten a whiff of his odorous breath and seeing him stagger slightly) Yes, I know.

drunk man: (proceeding to interrupt me as I order my 20-dirham sandwich) It costs 30 dirham.

drunk man: sit with me in the cafe. (I am getting rather fed up at this point but, perhaps because of the beautiful sunset over the ocean underway at that very moment and my subsequent good mood, somewhat half-heartedly accept his offer)

me: okay.

drunk man: buy me a sandwich.

me: (now the sun has just set and I'm angry) speaking in audible Arabic to make my point clear I will not buy you a sandwich. And tell me, why did you tell me that the sandwich would cost 30 dirham. Even 20 dirham was too much.

drunk man: 10 dirhams would have been for the fries as well.

me: fries are never more than 5 dirham in Morocco no matter where you go. (I get up, offer up a firm ma'a salaama, and turn to quickly walk away as a bewildered waiter approaches and probably wondered what the heck was going on)

Unfortunately, interactions like this are not uncommon for me in Morocco. To be fair, however, neither are the positive interactions I have on most days. But unfortunately, the lasting impressions of the latter are often stronger. This country continues to amaze me everyday. Sometimes in good ways, sometimes not. But there's certainly never a dull moment to be had.