Morocco Road

On "Toxic Waters"

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher Molitoris) — Sun, 13 Sep 2009 20:25:00 +0000

Tiredly perusing the Sunday edition of The New York Times after a full day of surfing off Morocco's coast, my eyes quickly caught the caption "Toxic Waters," followed by a searing and well researched report by The New York Times concerning the current state of our nation's water supply.

The Clean Water Act, and a host of both federal and state laws are supposed to address the dumping of contaminants in our nation's water supply, but The Times is quick to point out that not only are the laws on the book not enforced, the Environmental Protection Agency and state regulators neither have the political support nor the funds necessary to do their job, and to do it correctly.

The result is toxic water.

Please check out The New York Times project "Toxic Waters" and the lead article "Clean Water Laws Are Neglected, at a Cost in Suffering," summarizing their findings.

An interesting feature in the project allows you to "Find Water Polluters Near You."

I have provided some excerpts from The Times report below:

"An estimated one in 10 Americans have been exposed to drinking water that contains dangerous chemicals or fails to meet a federal health benchmark in other ways."

"Those exposures include carcinogens in the tap water of major American cities and unsafe chemicals in drinking-water wells. Wells, which are not typically regulated by the Safe Drinking Water Act, are more likely to contain contaminants than municipal water systems."

"Because most of today’s water pollution has no scent or taste, many people who consume dangerous chemicals do not realize it, even after they become sick, researchers say."

And what of the solution?

Well, aside from more socially conscious businesses who are unwilling to dump toxic chemicals into community waters, more resources, and actually following through with regulation and penalties, we need public pressure to enforce laws, create new ones, and clean our water supply.

I encourage everyone to contact their elected officials and voice their concern about the state of our water. We drink it every day. Think about it.

On 'Going Home'

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher Molitoris) — Sat, 12 Sep 2009 12:43:00 +0000

There comes a time in any journey, when the traveler begins thinking of home. In J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings, for example (and please indulge me), home beckons Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee throughout their uncertain quest, but always serves as their ultimate destination, providing clarity and a sense of purpose.

I often relate my own adventures to that of Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings for this reason, and not because I have a similar epic task bequeathed upon me—to destroy the evil embodied by the Ring of Power thereby saving humanity.

Our heroes often reflect on their separation from home. Sam, in a memorable exchange in the film version of The Fellowship of the Ring, remarks to Frodo after first leaving the Shire, “If I take one more step it’ll be the farthest away from home I’ve ever been.” Our friends are always mindful of their distance from home.

They also long to return. Sam, throughout the journey, brings Frodo out of deep and dark thoughts, with memories of home. Sam never loses sight of the company’s ultimate task—to destroy the Ring, and to return home. Frodo, on the other hand, his mind clouded by the power of the Ring, comes to a realization that home might not be their final destination. Upon leaving the valley in the Shire where he has lived his entire life, Frodo comments quietly, “I wonder if I shall ever look down into that valley again.”

In my own travels, home has always been the ultimate destination. No matter where I have traveled on my own ‘epic’ journeys in the past, whether on a service trip to El Salvador, trail-maintenance along the Appalachian Trail in Tennessee, a ROTC Leadership Training Course in Fort Knox, Kentucky, and most recently (and for the longest stint yet), a Fulbright research grant in Morocco, I have always endeavored to get there, and come back.

Although, either through choice or fate, some travelers will not arrive at the same ultimate end—home. I have met quite a few people this past year who have left home, without a plan to head back. Migrants from sub-Saharan Africa, who have made it to Morocco, will eventually attempt to start anew in Europe. Their experience is akin to the migrants from Mexico, Central and South America, making their way to the United States. Peoples have made similar journeys throughout the course of history.

The Mother of Exiles in Emma Lazarus’ “The New Colossus” cries, “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore.” The huddled masses depart from their homes, but do not forsake them—their memories and traditions are reborn in the United States of America.

Some have made traveling an end in and of itself. And some still, like Frodo and Sam, must leave their respective roads to fate.

The Road goes ever on and on

Down from the door where it began.

Now far ahead the Road has gone,

And I must follow, if I can,

Pursuing it with weary feet,

Until it joins some larger way,

Where many paths and errands meet.

And whither then? I cannot say.

But whether or not one chooses home as the ultimate end or not, there is something special about the first step backward. A feeling that overcomes the traveler, knowing that no longer will she look ahead, but down the road just traveled. After smoke and ash have cleared, after completing objectives (or not), and after countless miles in the opposite direction, one thinks, “Home.”

I have chosen the title of “Going Home beta” for this blog because I want to channel this feeling and understanding in my writing. That we all have a home, and at home, we serve a purpose to our family, our friends, and our community. “Beta,” not necessarily because I am testing this theory, but because the real test comes when we finally return home, to face what we have left behind, and to begin again where we left off.

The English Jesuit, poet, and martyr, Robert Southwell writes in “I dye alive,” “Not where I breathe, but where I love, I live.” This past year, for one, has given me the clarity to know where I call home. Where I love. And where I live.

Introducing Going Home beta

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher Molitoris) — Sat, 05 Sep 2009 16:30:00 +0000

With a couple months left here in Morocco, and a dearth of published (and unpublished material) on chrismolitoris.com, I have decided to refocus--or rather broaden--the message of this blog.

Morocco Road has always been about the life of one lucky Fulbright grantee here in Morocco, but over the course of this past year (September 7th marks my one year Moroccan anniversary), I have had the good fortune of traveling not only within Morocco, but to places like Jordan, Israel, Palestine, France, and Spain. I never imagined I would sit atop the fortified walls of old Jerusalem or hike portions of the Camino de Santiago.

This past year has truly been a magical, life-changing experience, made richer by friends and family who have joined me on my way. And especially by those who have supported me at home.

But, as the reader might have noticed, my adventures may not be evident, given what I have written on Morocco Road.

Where are the misadventures in Jerusalem and Palestine? The trek through the ruins of Petra in Jordan? The quest for personal discovery along the Camino de Santiago? France? Spain? And, rather, my work here in Morocco? Some might question whether or not I am actually working in Morocco. Yes. I am.

Going Home will be a new attempt at telling my story. But not just the Moroccan tale, and not just of my travels around the world. In fact, I am moving away from the travel blog model.

In Going Home, I will recount my travels, but more importantly, that which has motivated me over the course of this year, especially through long and and sometimes unpromising journeys. And in this retelling, I hope to define (largely for myself) what I stand for -- my worldview -- through a process of probing self-reflection.

Welcome to Going Home.

We are all heading somewhere. I am going home.

First Impressions of Israel

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher Molitoris) — Wed, 24 Jun 2009 12:30:00 +0000

Jerusalem stone. Everything dressed in Jerusalem stone. The smooth, pock-marked sandstone. A city ordinance requires that any new construction use Jerusalem stone. To keep up appearances. The authenticity of this ancient city. The home to the children of Abraham--Muslims, Christians, and Jews. Warring brothers who have yet to find peace. Built this city using Jerusalem stone.

Amman, Jordan.

Liz, Stephanie, Vivek, and I climb into the Jordanian equivalent of the Moroccan grand taxi. French is rarely spoken here. We circumnavigate the traffic circles of Jordan, and finally reach a snaking road, hugging the cliffs outside of Amman, to the King Hussein Bridge border crossing. This way, there are no police, our driver informs us.

The mountains swallow us. We delve deeper and deeper into the earth. In between bouts of sleep, I see shadows on the hilltops at midday. A falcon tracks our path.

We pass through the Jordanian side of the border with very little problems, save a leaky toilet and MSG in the pretzels. I have not had a pretzel since I left for Morocco. Now the baked faced stares blankly back at me--a foreigner, entering a strange land.

“Why are you coming to Israel?”

“Tourism.”

“Why were you in Jordan?”

“A conference. I am a Fulbright researcher.” I pause. I am not making my point clearly enough. I smile. A guilty smile.

The pretty girl with blond hair tied back into a bun. I notice a pair of silver earrings. She cracks a smile, breaking the confused tension I have created. She thrives off of this stuff. Dressed in tight fitting fatigues, pants pulled low. A sidearm. Rifle. I smile back. Maybe I smile too much. I am actually enjoying this.

She can tell.

She moves on. “Can I stamp your passport?”

“Well, no. I...”

“Why?” She is offended. A little distrustful now. Maybe I have been smiling too much.

“I might travel to Lebanon.”

“Why?” Why would you ever consider going to Lebanon?

“Who?” Who do you know in Lebanon?

“Why?” Why do you study in Morocco?

“What?” What do you study in Morocco?

“Water,” I reply. She thinks for a moment.

Disarmed. “Oh, we don’t have any of that here.” She giggles.

Take this paper. Fill it out. Wait.

Mohsin and Vivek join me. We ink our respective papers. Contacts. Aliases. Addresses. Numbers. Family. We wait. Stephanie and Liz wave to us from the other side. They are leaving.

The pretty Israeli comes back with my passport. A few quick questions. Loud stamps on random papers. A quick smile. I smile back. Maybe I am smiling too much. Should I be enjoying this?

Welcome to Israel.

The baggage handler is Moroccan. We trade a few words. He has family in Orlando. This happens a lot, he explains. Travelers separated at the border. Brothers from brothers. Sisters from sisters. Walls. Barriers. Security fences. Cameras. Fences and queues. Guards and rifles. Questions. Papers and stamps. Jerusalem stone.

El-Jadida. A little too quiet.

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher Molitoris) — Wed, 17 Jun 2009 12:36:00 +0000

The phone is ringing. I open my eyes and take in the penetrating blow of sunlight at eight o’clock in the morning. I fumble through the folds in the damp sheets, searching for my morning wake-up call.

It’s Andrew. “Are you awake?” I answer in the affirmative, trying to mask the grogginess from the effects of a late-night bout with the interweb [internet].

“Get over here. I’m eating your breakfast.”

I boil water. Wash my face. I can not find my bathing suit. Maybe the guy who does my laundry skimmed it from my previous load? Why would he want my bathing suit? Then again, I can not find either of the two. Bathing suits must go for a high price on the Moroccan street.

My thoughts drift to my last beach experience, and my attempts at explaining the phenomenon of girls dressed in skinny jeans, tight shirts, hijabs, and djellabas, bathing in the waters of Sable d’Or. Young girls stripping down to their lingerie, choosing to keep their clothes dry. Boys gawking from a distance. Approaching, only to be rejected--time to get some new material.

I finally find what I am looking for lodged in an errant pile of clean, folded clothes mangled in the mess of my sleeping bag--won’t need that anytime soon.

I pack a bag, filling it with only the essentials: sunscreen, John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath, a multi-colored beach towel, and an Electric City frisbee disc. I will need something heftier than my standard beach bag--plastic, borrowed from Marjane.

Over a breakfast spread of figs, strawberries, croissants, and Andrew’s syrup creation, Andrew and I discuss logistics.

“El-Jadida might be a decent spot,” Andrew suggests. “Then again,” he contradicts himself, “Lonely Planet is like an inkblot test. You’ll always find what you are looking for, until you get wherever it is you are going.”

El-Jadida. Sounds positively charming. Quaint even. And since Jaci and Caroline are taking the car to Essaouira, we should hit a town on the map normally out of Rabat-proper and the bus of the people, complete with glue huffers and the restless Moroccan youth bound for the Temara plage.

View Larger Map

We navigate the city route, Andrew reluctantly handling the map. Caroline masterfully maneuvers the neglected Dacia. Broken glass. A Mercedes SUV careens into the guard rail. We have little warning. “Gun it,” shouts Andrew, as we squeeze by the eighteen-wheeler to our right. We take a collective breath.

Thankfully the air-conditioner works. It is unbearably hot and humid since the shurgi, the hot desert wind from the Sahara, blew in last night. As we cruise the coast, Radio 2M provides us with the soundtrack to our adventure.

Rabat. Temara. Mohammedia. Casablanca. What are we thinking? Jadida, you better be worth this trip. And the uncertain return by train, grand taxi, bus, or foot (worst case scenario).

We casually observe our surroundings. A stretch of beach, vacant and decaying hotels, villas under construction, snack shops promising fresh fish, and a crumbling bastion of Portuguese history--Mazagan. A little too quiet.

Andrew and I stroll through the lazy streets. Moroccan crafts. Andrew stops to marvel at a blue rug. We find our way to the ramparts and peer over the edge of the fortifications. Green algae covers the entrance to the old Portuguese port. Fishing vessels crowd the waters below. Nets, piled on the docks, waiting for the freedom of open water. Larger boats, some rusting from years of neglect. Shipwrights slowly piece together others.

El-Jadida, or Mazagan, as the Portuguese called it, reeks of history. Canons rust from defensive positions. The walls of the Church of the Assumption crumble. The Jewish synagogue, abandoned. The rampart bastions, a convenient space to relieve oneself. Andrew and I step out of one of the bastions, Bastion de St Sebastian, having consulted the map, we carefully climb down a series of steps, avoiding cracks and feces. Obviously someone has missed the mark. Or couldn’t wait. A line has formed. We round the corner, a young, shirtless boy dirtied with the fine brown sand, enters the the lookout.

We wait at the locked door to the Citerne Portugaise, an underground water reservoir once fed by a series of gutters. The Portuguese created a network of these channels. We pay the ten dirhams to enter. An old, weary Moroccan guides us down a series of steps into darkness. My eyes strain. It is difficult to focus at first in the black. A dank, moist smell rises as we descend. I notice a series of arched columns, supporting the ceiling above. Bricks line the floor and the wall. From the center, a single shaft of bright white light illuminates the cavernous chamber. Quiet. An inch of water collects on the floor in some places of the cistern, once filled to the brim. Green algae collects on the floor around the light. A sharp contrast of colors--black, green, white.

We make our way to the beach, having seen the neglected UNESCO World Heritage site, including the pentagon shaped minaret of the mosque. We cross the road, which has replaced the tepid moat that once surrounded this island fortress. We find a decent snack shop just off the beach offering fresh fish. We order too much. Calamari, shrimp, fish, friend, and salad. Our hands are a mess with grease and salt as we dissect the carrion, carefully removing the hair-like bones from the meat. Andrew dismembers the shrimp and seasons it with lime.

“Want an eyeball?” I offer.

“Corona would be nice.”

Our appetites satiated, we move to the beach, crowded and dirty. We pass a small carnival on the corniche, complete with a ferris wheel. Ghostly abandoned buildings, once hotels, dot the coast. Puccini, a swank lounge with a stocked bar, detains us. Held prisoner, we suffer through air-conditioning, a round of Heinekens (the Flag Special is warm), and the soulful licks of Eric Clapton.

Without the requisite time, we depart and find a spot of cleaner, coarser, whiter sand down the coast, just outside the Ibis Moussafir. The overcast sky darkens. It’s 5:30, but it feels as if the sun is about to set.

I awake from a brief nap. Andrew is talking. He is comparing a mouse to the universe, trying to illustrate the comparative size of a neutrino. He is reading Christopher Potter’s You Are Here: A Portable History of the Universe.

It’s time to go. None the tanner, we pack our bags and find a taxi that take us to the train station far outside town. Thankful we didn’t try to walk (in the wrong direction), we pay our driver fifteen dirhams. And we wait.

The sky darkens. The smell of rain, and then a brief drizzle. We talk about the digital age. About our respective blogs. String theory. I peer into my open book. The Joads are readying their Hudson Super-Six for California. They have just slaughtered their swine for salty sustenance on their travels.

Swine Flu, or Influenze A (H1N1), has finally reached Morocco. A Canadian introduced it on a flight from Montreal to Fes. Apparently the thermal imaging cameras I observed at the airports failed to detect the three or four degree variation of the body’s core temperature indicating a fever. Nevermind the presense of H1N1.

Andrew’s mouth is wide open. “Did you know that...?” No. I never knew a neutron star was that dense.

The train to Rabat is three hours.

Jon does Morocco

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher Molitoris) — Thu, 07 May 2009 22:51:00 +0000

I must admit, before beginning my sojourn, I had little knowledge of the workings of Morocco, or for that matter, any Arabic state. My limited research included very heavy doses of the movie Casablanca and the three paragraphs available on the American Express travel website. In addition, I am in debt for Chris' hospitality and the time he spent guiding me around parts of the world I did not even know existed, even if I did have to spend some time experiencing the acquisition of interweb from Maroc Telecom.

I was amazed when we arrived in Morocco. We stepped into a gleaming airport, with electricity, running water, and people wearing western clothes. Not one sand dune or camel was in sight, and, to my surprise, Moroccans enjoy a modern train system and a rather modern transportation infrastructure. This was not the last time I learned something new in Morocco, and I have detailed some of the things that surprised me the most below.

One of the amazing things about Morocco is the absolute ordered chaos by which people move through the cities. I found it to be somewhat over-stimulating to walk through the streets, especially when, on my first day in this foreign land, Chris supplied me with an English guidebook (street signs are written in Arabic) and a promise to meet me at a certain cafe in several hours. After memorising the map so as to not stand out as a foreigner (because my distinctive aryan looks and grave deficiency in both common languages spoken there wouldn't give it away,) I stepped into the public realm in Rabat, werein I promptly found myself inundated by a symphony of diesel engines, honking horns and yells. Despite the seeming chaos engendered by a lack of formal rules, things move in a rather orderly fashion, because each driver, bicyclist and pedestrian gives and takes to a degree that all parties involved will benefit. It is an excellent example of the ordered chaos that ensues when all written and formal rules are eschewed, such as in the notion of shared space, a controversial modern theme in urban planning. Additionally, to some degree, this symphony reminded me of Levinas' notion of "violence," which is to say that one recognizes and respects another's vulnerability, and as such there exists a mutual moral obligation between parties. This tension of give and take is truly the unspoken law of this land and meters this symphony of movement. In this sense, the only rules of the road really are the recognition that all parties have to benefit. This is not to say that there is a great feeling of charity on the road; in fact, pedestrians and bicyclists must assert some force in order to contend with a Volkswagen Polo by stepping off the curb and either glaring at the automobile (not the driver, though) or simply mustering a healthy dose of gumption and stepping out in the hope that motorists will cede the path to s/he who is on foot.

Contrary to the absolutely foreboding nature of moving through Moroccan public space, Moroccan hospitality is very generous. Moroccans tend to live life less rigorously scheduled than we do (or than I do at least), so it's a rather common occurrence for a Moroccan to experience an unscheduled visit from a friend or relative. In such instances, Moroccan custom requires that the visitor be treated to a meal and, if necessary, a place to sleep for the night. Stateside, we practice the notion of pretending to not want our hosts to go out of their way when we visit, and that is considered proper manners. In Morocco, one does not get much mileage out of such actions and it is considered poor manners for visitors to not participate in the hospitality offered to them.

What I found through my several experiences of "dropping in" on Moroccans is that this can often mean that one's host attempts to cause your untimely demise through overfeeding. It's a sign of hospitality to pull out the gustatory stops, and it's an even bigger sign of appreciation to eat nearly everything put before you. In one instance, I sat in a Moroccan home, communicating via hand signals and my somewhat unscrupulous interpreter, and was treated to a large portion of heavy soup, bread and chicken until I was sure I would explode, only to find I had survived only the first course of several. Not wanting to disappoint, I attempted to eat just a little during the subsequent course, but that proved futile as my Moroccan host piled food in front of me. After this orgy of consumption, we were to spend the night. In Moroccan culture, this does not mean sleeping on the couch, which I expected and to which I was not averse. Rather, this means being treated to a bed, oftentimes given up by the host or host's family if an extra does not exist. This is considered good manners by the host, and the acceptance of it is considered good manners by the guest.

In this vein of being with others, Moroccans do not share the same notions of personal space espoused by westerners. Had I not been informed of this prior to my arrival, it would have shocked me. Men in Morocco do not adhere to the western notion that being within one foot of another man is unmanly. It was quite strange to see two men walking down the street, engaged in conversation, with one man holding the elbow of the other, in a sense, indicating that he is present and that they have combined personal spaces. In addition, greetings between people in Morocco are much more physically close than those of westerners. No matter the gender of the greetants, Moroccans generally will clasp the upper arm of each other and kiss the air next to the ear on either side of the opposite person's head. This is, to a degree, a strange practice at first, but upon closer examination seems to allow the other person to breech your personal space much more than a clasped fist between two people does.

Certainly, this list of surprises is not exhaustive. In my travels through Morocco I not only gained an appreciation for another culture, but another way of life--one in which nothing is rushed, especially the pace of life itself. Life's pace is a deliberate "little by little," which causes some strain (e.g. Maroc Telecom), but is a comforting change from western life.

Jonathan L. Beech is a recent graduate of The University of Scranton, with degrees in Philosophy and Accounting. He currently serves as a tax consultant to hedge funds at Deloitte, an international consultancy. He will begin a Master's program in Real Estate Development at the University of Maryland in the Fall. He visited Morocco in January 2009.

Water, Governance, Women, and Empowerment in Morocco's Rural Communities

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher Molitoris) — Mon, 20 Apr 2009 10:11:00 +0000

This past weekend the Moroccan-American Commission for Educational & Cultural Exchange hosted the Sixteenth Annual Maghrebi Area Studies Symposium for U.S. Fulbright Grantees at the Tour Hassan Hotel in Rabat, Morocco. Fulbright Scholars and Research Grantees presented their experiences and research to-date here in Morocco.

I had the opportunity of closing the program (after a series of food-borne illnesses), and spoke on my proposed research: "Water, Governance, Women, and Empowerment in Morocco's Rural Villages." This research proposal will hopefully give me the opportunity to visit rural communities throughout Morocco in order to gain insight on rural decision-making structures and the roles women have in water and sanitation in rural areas.

Here is an excerpt of the paper I submitted to the Symposium:

The acquisition and sustainable use of potable water does not begin simply by digging a well. Nor does it end with the safe disposal of waste water. In fact, many intricate factors, such as the role women play in water acquisition, affect the delicate cycle of water-use. Women in many rural Moroccan communities are responsible for health, sanitation, and the acquisition and use of water, but are rarely involved in the decision-making structures that create, implement, and govern water resources. The UN’s Human Development Report 2006 states that proper sanitation in water and facilities has lagged behind because men give less of a preference to sanitation than do women, and this neglect is reflected in current development policies (120). If women’s concerns were more valued in the policy process, the prioritization of spending within development policy would change significantly.

Over the course of my Fulbright grant, I will conduct research on the decision-making structure at the rural-community level in Morocco and address the adequacy of input women have on policy relating to the acquisition of water and sanitation. I intend to provide a picture of the cycle of water in the rural Moroccan community -- from the well to waste water -- working with the National Office for Potable Water in Morocco (ONEP) and the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) Chair, “Water, Women and Decision Power.” Furthermore, I will address various governance and reporting structures, including the national government, non-governmental organizations, and village councils, and evaluate the influence these entities have over water policy and water use. I intend to show that the empowerment of women in village governance is essential to improving not only the efficiency and sustainability of the water-cycle, but also that the effects will move beyond the realm of water and benefit society as a whole.

To view the presentation in its entirety please visit my page on YouTube or subscribe to the Morocco Road podcast.

Over the next couple weeks you will see an ever increasing amount of content on Morocco Road, especially concerning my research here -- and not just the trials and tribulations of life in Morocco.

Stay tuned for more! And be sure to subscribe to the RSS/Atom feeds to ensure timely updates to Morocco Road.

A water source in Essaouira, Morocco.

VOTE: Decide My Next Haircut - A Coiffure Crisis

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher Molitoris) — Fri, 20 Feb 2009 00:00:00 +0000

I apologize for the inanity of this post, but my hair is long and cumbersome. I thought I would let it grow out, and do the Moroccan vagabond look, but it just does not seem to be working for me. A number of people have told me a number of times: "Please get your hair cut."

It has gotten to the point where it is too long to do anything with, and too short to even put it in a pony tail (hmmm). (Again, I am sorry.) If you had a chance to browse some of my latest photos, either on Picasa or on facebook, you might have noticed how I have crafted my hair into odd shapes.

Here is one of my personal favorites:

Courtesy of Elena Chopyak.

My friends call it "the unicorn." And for awhile, I even responded to "Unicorn boy." My Moroccan friend, Saad, still calls me that. Needless to say, I no longer respond.

Then there is the current style:

My birthday theme party: "Dress like Chris." Note: Jess' shirt has a heart with 'Blythe' written on it. Courtesy of Jess Newman.

I have "borrowed" two hairbands from two female Fulbrighters in Morocco. Meher, because I needed something to keep my hair out of my eyeballs when we went running -- she didn't want the elastic band back. And Rachel, whose band I currently sport. She "borrowed" my white Sigg water bottle and then left it on a train. So I thought I deserved her band. She also gave it to me as a birthday present.

But the banded-hairstyle just isn't doing it for me these days. For one thing, it doesn't go too well with a tie. Unless I do this:

Courtesy of Jess Newman.

But then people call me "hippy." (Saad).

So in an effort to resolve this coiffure crisis, I have engineered a poll to determine my next hairstyle. But there is a catch: YOU have to decide my next hairstyle. That's right -- YOU!

So vote for your favorite style. Vote because it is your duty. Your moral obligation. Your chance to get back at me for not cleaning the dishes, or for forgetting your birthday. Vote!

The Official Rules:

Vote using the poll on the right side column of chrismolitoris.blogspot.com
Voting begins Friday, 20 February 2009 at 12:00am.
Voting ends in two-weeks: Friday, 6 March 2009 at 12:00am.
I will post the haircut results... maybe we can even do video, circa Kristen Peterman's "Take My Breath Away, Maverick".

Choose from any of these previous versions of Chris:

Do you miss Ballot #1: The Maverick/Rock-Star/John-Gownely's-Twin Chris?

Courtesy of Blythe Golosky.

Or what about Ballot #2: Getting Down/Getting Dirty/I-Learned-It-All-from-J. Miller Chris?

Courtesy of Blythe Golosky, Ryan Molitoris, and Abbey Arwady.

And then of course, Ballot #3: Morockin' in the Free World:

Tour Hassan, Rabat, Morocco.

Alright, alright. And to appease my parents and possibly Blythe, I will even throw in Ballot #4. I consider this one the Safe Candidate/Oh, Isn't-He-So-Handsome-with-Long-Hair Chris.

Courtesy of Blythe Golosky.

Now let's see how this goes. Feel free to post your comments and to vote as much as you want. Maybe this will go viral?

The Interweb cometh. And then it goeth. And then it cometh again.

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher Molitoris) — Tue, 17 Feb 2009 17:06:00 +0000

As a Fulbright, I can not live without certain necessities. The top three:

The stipend.
Shelter.
Interweb (commonly referred to as ‘the internet’).

Food? Debatable, especially considering my culinary abilities. Clothing? How cold can Morocco get? Right?

The stipend and shelter come easily.

To access our monthly stipend, all I do is enter a 14-digit alphanumeric code into my top-secret Fulbright decryptor ring to uncover another 48-digit alphanumeric code, which I deliver to the ‘banker,’ at a predetermined time and location. I then exchange a ‘challenge’ and ‘password,’ confirming my identity and giving me access to a key that self-destructs within 24-hours unless I unlock a door hidden deep within the quaint and charming medina of Fes. Then I get my money.

As for shelter, I usually hedge my bets on the fact that there is at least one other Fulbright out there who has his or her respective housing arrangement in order. Right now, I am lucky enough to be one of them. Plus, Moroccans are extremely hospitable.

The internet, however, is by far the most inaccessible, unreliable, and intangible of life’s necessities here in Morocco.

The Interweb Cometh

To acquire the interweb here in Rabat, the numerous Maroc Telecom salespersons I dealt with required me to furnish:

My residency permit (the receipt, in my case).
A copy of my housing contract.
My precious time.

If you too desire the internet from Maroc Telecom, you might also be required to furnish, on top of the latter requirements:

Your passport -- because one form of identification is never enough.
Two passport size photos -- because they may need copies of your beautiful face.
A copy of your grandmother’s birth certificate -- just because it would be practically impossible to get this document in a reasonable amount of time. (And hey, why not?).

After I established myself as a suitable and legitimate client, my housemate, Ryan, and I browsed the various Maroc Telecom interweb plans. We decided on a speed of 2 Mb, or as we say, “Jouge mega.” (With emphasis, please). Some of the other Fulbrighters settled on 1 Mb (wahid mega), or even 512k like our friend, Sam... please.

Ryan and I require raw internet power to navigate that galaxy out there, and we will not be cruising at 512k in a world without speed limits. Unfortunately, we could not afford 100 Mb (mia mega). “But let’s be serious here,” Ryan and I wondered, “is 100 Mb even possible?” We doubted the fact that we would even receive 2 Mb.

Realizing our significant purse constraints, Ryan and I decided on the economical -- yet practical -- 2 Mb. And following a series of negotiations at various Maroc Telecom offices across the city of Rabat (because what else did we have to do except take taxis around Rabat all day, dragging my friend Jon with me on his first visit to Morocco), we acquired the internet.

To emphasize the importance of this moment, I will simply write it again, in caps.

WE ACQUIRED THE INTERNET.

But even then, that world beyond the misty shores of Morocco remained inaccessible. We had the means -- we had acquired the internet -- but we had yet to harness its awesome power.

Still waiting for the cometh part...

So there we were... waiting. Sorry I can not paint a more elaborate picture in prose, but there was not much to our house yet aside from the mold or broood growing on the walls, and lets face it -- we could not decipher the interweb.

It might be helpful to think of our situation in terms of ‘The Matrix.’ Ryan and I, respectively were some version of Neo. We needed our Morpheus to teach us the ways of the Matrix. Maroc Telecom -- the Agents.

Our Morpheus appeared in the form of a chatty Maroc Telecom technician. He, in fact, was a sub-contractor, so do not confuse him with an Agent. Our loquacious friend simply dragged a line off the roof and shoved it through our window. After that maneuver, we were supposed to have internet.

“It will come in three days,” he said.

Contemplating the biblical significance of this prophesy, I waited, staring at the light indicators on the XAVI X8822R+ router. And in three days -- nothing. Not even a blip. Why would there be? It would not be that easy we gathered. So we were forced to decode the mysterious blinking lights on our router. Of course, the manual was in French, and I could not track down one single hit on Google referencing "setting up a XAVI X8822R+."

Ryan and I joke now, but we considered our struggles to acquire internet a gift. In fact, Maroc Telecom should consider a new advertising strategy:

Sign-up now for a 1-year subscription to the interweb, and get 2-weeks of French lessons free... as you attempt to set-up the interweb with our crack tech-support staff.

Then one day, the interweb came. I had finally decoded the blinking lights using an alien artifact I had uncovered in some Roman ruins nearby. The key was in opposites. Apparently, green on the XAVI means: “Le lien ADSL n’est pas prêt.” or “Sorry, no interwebs.” Red, on the other hand, signifies: “ADSL ON et PPP ON” or “Inerweb, go!” Let’s not try this with traffic lights.

And then it goeth (as in: it goeth away)

For awhile (two weeks max), Ryan and I were cruising in internet paradise. I was staying on top of emails, reading the news, downloading episodes of ‘The Office’ and ’24,’ and Skyping my family (especially my father, Michael, who has always dreamed about being included in one of my blog entries) and Blythe. We even stopped bumming internet off of our friends. Now we stopped by solely for the enjoyable conversation. Yes, yes. Life was good. That is, until the rains came.

With the rains, came static in our lines. And when the static cometh, the interweb goeth. No amount of pleading with Maroc Telecom could change our situation. For awhile, we tried to deal with it, thinking maybe, just maybe, some sort of thing would click at some sort of place critical to the internet infrastructure and our internet would marche -- to borrow from a French lesson -- once more.

So we waited. And waited. Kain, in Darija, meaning “there is,” and Mkainsh, meaning “there is not,” came to signify the status of our network connection. At one point, we even attempted a séance to call forth the internet. But we only conjured the specters of some Corsairs --think the real Capt. Jack Sparrow.

The Séance. Pictured here: Apple's Time Capsule. Thank you Mr. Jobs.

Sometimes, Ryan liked to joke. Or sometimes Ryan, the luddite, misinterpreted his connection status and would shout: “Kain, kain, kain! For the love of all that is good and beautiful in this world: KAIN!”

I did not appreciate this. There was no interweb. Mkainsh interweb. And there was no hope. Mkainsh hope.

Then one day, after the week of rain had subsided, I went to the roof, where I noticed something quite disconcerting. The line that carried our internet and phone connection had been spliced at various locations. At these splice points I noticed that whomever had spliced, had failed to weather-proof the lines. There, on our roof, lay bare and unprotected copper wires, green and cracked with oxidation.

Ryan, with an improved understanding of the French language, called Maroc Telecom that day. And within two days consisting of technician door tag, a not-so-chatty gentleman arrived at our door:

“L’oxydation,” he deduced grimly.

“Is there hope, sidi?” Ryan asked.

“Do you have scotch?” the technician replied.

We looked at him suspiciously. But then he began the operation with the white masking tape I handed him.

And cometh again

I travelled down to a section of the medina later that day. Ryan and I call it ‘Home Depot.’ I purchased ‘scotch électrique’ for 6 dirhams and redressed the wounds of our recovering patient.

Frankenstein. It's alive! It's alive!

Later that night, I sat in my bed watching ‘The Office.’ “After all of this,” I thought, “we have finally harnessed the power of the interweb galaxy. Alhamdulillah.”

"Mkainsh...."

Lazy Sunday

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher Molitoris) — Wed, 11 Feb 2009 19:55:00 +0000

A collection of photos from a lazy Sunday on the beach. Or, when spring happened.

Home and back again.

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher Molitoris) — Mon, 19 Jan 2009 20:52:00 +0000

I have experienced anxiety about many things in my life. Not writing a blog entry since Thanksgiving for one, but also traveling home for Christmas, waiting at JFK during a snowstorm for my ride, seeing family and friends, dealing with the expectations of a new year, and finally, saying goodbye and flying the red-eye back to Morocco.

These past four months, in and out of Morocco, have passed quickly. Time seems to speed up even more around the holiday season. Time with friends and family becomes a memory almost before the completion of the experience.

I recall some instances back home, around Christmas or hanging out with Blythe, experiencing a moment--and even before this moment had passed--being able to step back and see myself, almost from the perspective of a third person.

At times these out-of-body-experiences seemed rather unnerving. But they all supported the feeling that I had left for Morocco even before I arrived back home for Christmas. I am not questioning the fickleness of the space-time continuum, but with my date of departure set for January 5th, it became difficult for me to live in moments, for I always perceived the continuum.

Like waking up from a fantastic dream, you have the vague and hazy notion that you have just visited some spectacular heaven-on-earth. And when I awoke, I was back in Morocco. Not to say Morocco is the opposite of heaven. It just has more paperwork.

Happy Thanksgiving! Eid al-Shukr!

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher Molitoris) — Fri, 05 Dec 2008 14:17:00 +0000

It's hard to believe that it's Thanksgiving again. Or rather, slightly thereafter! Time has been passing so quickly here in Morocco, and in only a matter of weeks, Christmas will be upon us once more. And without any real set schedule, and just plenty of time to ponder, I find it difficult even to count the days as they pass here in Rabat.

But to everyone reading this, I hope you had a very wonderful Thanksgiving! I spent most of the holiday in the ancient city of Fes, with friends and my Moroccan family. Arriving on Thursday afternoon after the three hour train ride from Rabat, Fes greeted me with a chill and a sudden rainstorm. Unfortunately, this would be the weather for the next couple days--bone-chillingly cold. But most of the days were spent indoors, thankfully, and most of the houses were warmer than the air outside--most of them anyway.

Ryan, Jacqueline, Andrew, and Addie graciously hosted me for Thanksgiving. They live in a beautiful 14th century dar, complete with a grand open courtyard. The grandeur of the courtyard, however, facilitates the mingling of the insideness of the house with the outsideness, and this is not a very good combination for winter in Fes. In fact, when it rains in Fes, it also rains in Ryan, Jacqueline, Andrew, and Addie's dar. Just one example of why I think every Moroccan built their house in the summer. And by the time winter and the rains came, they all had puzzled looks on their faces, thinking maybe, "Oh yeah, forgot about this."

For Thanksgiving, the Fulbrighters gathered at Sam's dar, where Sam, Jacqueline, Andrew, and Ryan combined their culinary prowess and produced a meal that not only stuffed me, but also made me feel at home. Every Thanksgiving, our family has the ritual of eating too much, and then sleeping it off. Tryptohan. Really, the only things I missed in Fes were American football and, well, family. But friends help a lot.

And now, for the menu:

Starters

Warm mulled apple cider with rum

Sam's famous artichoke dip

Assorted cheeses and fruits

Main

Roasted turkey with gravy

Spiced quince compote

Camel sausage stuffing

Garlic mashed potatoes

Roasted butternut squash

Dessert

Apple and quince crisp with rum raisins

Old-fashioned pumpkin pie

Chocolate-covered oranges

Pretty fantastic actually. The camel sausage stuffing was excellent!

For a wonderful description of the meal itself, and the preparation that went behind it, check outJacqueline's blog.

And thanks to Ryan Farha, we have documentation of a successful evening.

Thanksgiving, as I look back on it now, was a tremendous success. It was good to get out of Rabat for a little bit and visit with friends and my Moroccan family.

Next big holiday: Eid al-Adha! I'll be heading to Marrakesh this next week, so I will keep you posted.

And then... home for Christmas!

Shwia bi Shwia: Life in the Oudayas

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher Molitoris) — Fri, 21 Nov 2008 00:51:00 +0000

Shwia bi shwia—the progression of life here in Morocco. It seems that some days have their ups and others have their downs. I have had a couple down days recently, but the days are trending up.

The dar (house) is a reflection of my roots here in Morocco. It was the same back in the States. When my room was a mess, or I lacked clean clothes or food to eat, my days tended to be tougher.

When I return home, I need a safe place, a retreat—a fortress of solitude. And for awhile, I did not have too much of a fortress, and I lacked the appreciation of solitude.

Upon entering my dar, you might notice that there is not much too it. At first, it came completely unfurnished, aside from a gray table and two crate-like supports for a mattress. These were the tough days. But I did have running water, and it became hot when I needed to take a shower, that is, if I succeeded in not blowing myself up first, trying to light the heater.

Yet gradually, the furnishing process has come along. I have had the good fortune of having a tutor, Lala Assia, who has helped me acquire three Moroccan couches and a cabinet for my stove. I also have acquired a mattress, a refrigerator, and an assortment of kitchenware and other necessary knick-knacks.

And this past Monday, with the added expertise of my friend Stephanie in the kitchen, I was able to host my first dinner party—a lot of good food and fantastic company. And although we basically planned it at the last moment, dinner went off without a hitch.

Although, there was plenty of opportunity for mishap, including the uncertainty of the stove and butagaz connection, which I completed. And while purchasing the meat for the Ragu we were making, I almost bought one kilo of horse meat, before the gentleman I was ordering from kindly pointed to the large painted horse on the sign above his shop, and the unmistakable French word: “cheval.” I still wonder what horse meat would have tasted like.

This past Wednesday night, with the recipes from a cookbook my grandmother and grandfather provided me, I made the best tomato bisque I have ever had in my life. I am basically cooking every meal now, which is really cheap since vegetables are so inexpensive here.

And little by little—the dar is coming together. I am securing and furnishing my fortress, as well as establishing a sense of peace that comes with solitude. And getting work done, of course.

A Much Appreciated Package

After recounting to my mother one afternoon on the struggles of acquiring cheap, yet comfortable sheets and towels here in Morocco, I receive a care package in the mail containing an assortment of sheets and towels for my dar. I pick up the package and immediately return home, lugging the bulky brown broken box into my bedroom, ripping ravenously at the tape. Although of the ordinary, the contents surprise me. I am not expecting a load of sheets, and the thought of my family sending me sheets from America makes me laugh.

One of the hidden gems in the package—something that my family failed to claim in customs—is the smell that accompanies the linens. When I open the box, I have the impression that I have just released something magical into the air. Something—a smell, a fragrance—that is not immediately distinguishable, but conjures memories in my mind. I feel the toxins of home and I am already infected.

I quickly grab the big white blanket that my mother has enclosed, and shove my face into it, almost suffocating in the odor. Through the fabric softener and the detergent I catch a glimpse of it all. My grandmother toiling over the laundry. The sun refracting through the bay windows in the kitchen. The neatly pressed sheets and towels on tables and chairs. It is all there before me as I push my face even deeper into the blanket, feeling the stitching imprint the tattoo of an afternoon nap on my cheeks. I breathe in deeper, taking in the air from home. I suspend time. I am home again. Then I need to exhale, having expanded my Morocco ravaged lungs to their capacity. I let the air out. Exhaling slowly. And I am back in Morocco.

I take the usual extra care that I have acquired making beds for a month at Fort Knox two summers ago. Carefully piling each sheet, folding the corners into each other, I tightly mold the fabric to the bed. Sometimes I succeed at performing this task so well that my feet fall asleep near base of the bed where the folds are the tightest.

When I finish, I look at the bed. The neatly folded sheets overlapping each other and bound tightly. One of the more perfect jobs I have completed in awhile, I think. I have plied all I that I have into this bed, hiding the mysteriously uncomfortable Moroccan mattress. But it still feels incomplete. I am missing a critical step. I take another deep breath, and look at the bed. Then I realize—there is one more step—but this step was never mine.

Blythe, having been in a relationship with me for a year, undoubtedly had seen me complete this chore countless times, always humorously watching me enamored in my task. And always, after I had completed the makings of a perfect bed, she would look at the bed, look at me—then like a little kid amassing the force and velocity to complete the perfect cannonball, she would spryly launch her attack on my masterpiece, catapulting herself into the folds of the bed, releasing the tension that the sheets held, messing the pillows, and perfecting the perfection.

I look at the bed, close my eyes, and dive in. It is imperfect, but I am happy. And for the first night in Morocco, I sleep soundly until the call to prayer, content and reminded of friends, family, and home.

Address in Morocco

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher Molitoris) — Thu, 06 Nov 2008 13:48:00 +0000

Please feel free to send me correspondence at this address in Morocco:

Christopher Molitoris
Fulbright
Moroccan-American Commission for Educational & Cultural Exchange
7, Rue Agadir
Rabat, 10000 MOROCCO

I hope to hear from you soon!

The Election Eve

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher Molitoris) — Mon, 03 Nov 2008 12:20:00 +0000

Like many Americans here in Morocco, I have been very anxious with regard to the election tomorrow. So much rides on who we elect for our next President. See Tom Friedman's article in the NYT for a seasoned opinion.

And like many Americans both abroad and back in the States, this anxiety has translated into inactivity. Or a sort of constipated nervousness where I need the days to pass as quickly as possible. Larry David, the Seinfeld guy, says, "I can't take much more of this... I'm at the end of my rope. I can't work. I can eat, but mostly standing up. I'm anxious all the time and taking it out on my ex-wife, which, ironically, I'm finding enjoyable."

It's the same for me here in Morocco, but I feel even more disconnected. And I especially miss the commentary of the media's talking heads. It has been so difficult for me to interpret the current state of world affairs without them!

But only a few hours to go, and the Election will be in full swing. Usually on election day, I like to wake up early and step outside. It's best right after sunrise. The air is cool, crisp, and damp. Dew glistens on the grass. The sun's light refracts in the water droplets as they slowly evaporate. It's at this point, right before the polls open, that if I take a deep breath--the deepest I can take-- I can smell Democracy.

Tomorrow, ask your neighbor, your co-worker, your friend: "You smell that?" To which they will probably shyly back away, responding with either: "What?" or "No." But remind them that tomorrow, we all will be able to breath the sweet scent of Democracy.

Given the positioning of the jet stream, and favorable Atlantic winds, I will surely catch a whiff. And so I will sit and wait, and wait.

The five hour difference does not help.

And here's where I will be waiting... more to come.

The Scranton Connection

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher Molitoris) — Thu, 16 Oct 2008 22:12:00 +0000

I haven't posted in awhile, but certainly not due to lack of content. Fez has been an amazing experience, and I am almost sorry to say that I will be leaving soon for Rabat, where I will begin what I have deemed "Stage Two" of my adventure here in Morocco.

A Quick Update

Stephanie, Jess, and I didn’t make it to Aroobiya, unfortunately. We had a number of complications regarding transportation, and a lot of the routes were shut down for Eid. We ended up going to Rabat, where we spent most of the post-Ramadan vacation. Check out the pictures.

I am in the process of looking for a guitar so I can jam out. So far it's been a challenge. You could probably purchase anything you have ever dreamed about in the Fez Medina, but you just have to know where to look and whom to ask. In the case of guitars, oddly enough, it seems as though you can go to just about any seller of carpets or trinkets, and they are bound to have a few in the back.

I have come across two varieties: Moroccan and Spanish. But still nothing that can hold a tune. So I'll take my search to Rabat, where apparently I will have better luck.

The Scranton Connection

Fez has taught me many lessons about my limited experience of Moroccan culture and the eerie Truman Show-esque aspect of life in Morocco.

It never ceases to amaze me how many different people I meet, and how we always have something strangely in common. On a tour of the medina early into my stay here I happened upon a carpet shop where artisans were crafting an assortment of fabrics.

I had just arrived with a group of Fulbrighters, when I started making small chat with another gentleman in the shop. He was in the process of taking a study-abroad group through the Medina, and he asked what the composition of our group entailed. I responded that we were mostly composed of Fulbrighters, and others learning Arabic in Fez. Here's a summation of our conversation:

Tour guide: I was a Fulbrighter too!

Chris: Oh really. That’s pretty crazy.

But this coincidence doesn't really phase me. And at this point too, I think maybe this seemingly harmless tour guide might be one of Fez's notorious faux guides, who have concocted their own elaborate back-stories to lure tourists or wayward travelers into some commissionable service.

Tour guide: Yeah, but I had my Fulbright in the United States.

Chris: Great! Where was it?

This is where the really store can come out. The chance to find the wrinkle in a false background.

Tour guide: Believe it or not… Of all places, Scranton!

Chris: …

I quickly glance over myself, looking for some revealing piece of evidence. The shirt I am wearing maybe… No. Maybe a bag tag… None. And so with a apprehensive grin, I continue.

Haha. Really. That's unbelievable! I just graduated from Scranton. The University of Scranton. I took Arabic there as well.

Tour guide: Yeah, I taught Arabic there!

And it turns out, he was not lying. My friend, in fact, had a Fulbright grant to the States, where he taught Arabic at The University of Scranton. I just wasn't studying Arabic at the time.

It's funny how no matter where I go, or who I meet, every day, there are constant reminders of home and of Scranton.

The Office is probably the biggest culprit. I have resorted to purchasing a season's pass on iTunes, and downloading a new episode every week. For the season premier, I even arranged to have a Skype session with my friend Kristen, who is currently working for FEMA in the Midwest. But something about a state of emergency kept her from joining the session at 1 o'clock in the morning, Moroccan time.

But The Office has kept me in touch with a lot of friends, both here and back in the States. And I have definitely made use of the ol' "That's what she said!" on a number of occasions. Too many.

Stephanie, to me via text, after I missed her puttanesca, a spicy Italian pasta staple:
Wow my puttanesca kicked ass. Spicy enough to make your lips tingle and so savory you'd beg for more.

…

Need I say more.

The election has also been a favorite topic of discussion. I was quick to inform everyone here on the importance of Scranton in this election cycle, especially it's key to winning the Keystone State.

Hillary Clinton and Joe Biden are also natives of Scranton. I can't believe you didn't know this!

Am I MacGyver?

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher Molitoris) — Thu, 16 Oct 2008 22:05:00 +0000

Proof that I am not always prepared.

Ryan and I went on a trek through the Medina. I did not have rain gear. If you look closely, you can see that I am actually standing in a river that is flowing through the street. I am, however, breaking in my new hiking boots in this picture, which are water-proof. (Jess would probably also argue that they are wind and fire proof. I don't even know what that means.)

Check out Jess' blog for an interesting story on my preparedness.

Going Up the Country

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher Molitoris) — Tue, 30 Sep 2008 17:35:00 +0000

Heading out to Aroobia ("the country") for the Eid! The family, Jess (the newest arrival), Stephanie, and I will be heading north via grand taxi (and then donkey) to reach our destination somewhere around Ain Aicha.

View Larger Map

I'll be posting the adventure! Stay tuned.

Trek to the Merenid Tombs

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher Molitoris) — Sun, 28 Sep 2008 17:19:00 +0000

I took a trip to the Merenid tombs this afternoon with a group of friends. Walking from Bab Boujeloud, we followed the perimeter wall of the Medina Kadima, and eventally summited a hill on the outskirts of the city. The view from this vantage point is amazing, and I could see most of the Medina Kadima.

Take a look at what I saw.

Bad action movies, and other cross cultural connections

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher Molitoris) — Tue, 23 Sep 2008 14:08:00 +0000

Although researching the way in which the lack of water effects the lives of Moroccans living in rural villages is certainly an important aspect of my Fulbright research grant - considering this topic is my research proposal. I would not rank research as my sole purpose in Morocco, nor even my highest priority.

In fact, just being in Morocco and counteracting the stereotype of the typical American is tough enough.

Consider what I am up against: American action movies. Bad ones.

In this grouping of bad American action movies, I do not classify movies like iRobot, The Recruit, and The Matrix. I have seen these three particular movies in Morocco over the past couple days. These are fine movies, with sufficient plot and ample bang. I actually enjoyed watching them over dinner and late at night. My Moroccan family seemed to enjoy them as well. And I felt proud when they asked me if I had seen The Matrix. "Of course I had," I responded in Darija. These movies deserve the title of the "American Action Movie." (The Recruit is borderline, but actually had a plot with some considerable twists. I am fairly certain a monkey did not write the script).

But what about a movie such as Legion? Ever heard of it? Right. I had not. And if you did, I feel your pain after you made the realization that you would never have that hour ever again.

What troubles me more, other than knowing that a movie such as Legion exists, is that it garnered the prime Sunday night "action movie" spot on MBC, a major network broadcasting to the Arab world. If cost is an issue, our next President should subsidize American movies to foreign countries, for the sake of our national security.

Legion, without getting into the upsetting details, concerns a futuristic war where American ex-soldier, ex-cons are given one last chance to gain their freedom by embarking in a suicide mission. But nothing is what it seems... and the soldiers end up battling an unkown beast (a genenitcally engineered lizard soldier) until the last man stands...

Wow.

We have much more to offer than Legion. And as the state of world diplomacy goes, specifically U.S.-and-the-rest-of-the-world-relations, we can not afford the setbacks that movies like Legion create. Our founding Fathers and Mothers sacrificed too much.

* * *

With these facts in mind, here is where I find myself a couple weeks into the Fulbright:

Trying to learn a new and intriguing Arabic dialect, Darija, while attempting to retain FoushHa, Arabic's Shakespearean English equivalent.
Living in a totally new and exciting place, with a host-family complete with different beliefs and expectations - especially concerning how much food I am capable of eating.
Prepping for the research end of the Fulbright, scheduled to begin in a couple of months.

And on top of all this, I have to fight the stereotype of bad American action movies. This is a tall order for any civilian diplomat to fill. Thank God I have a solid Jesuit education.

So what is America's saving grace?

Sometimes its the simplest things that can make all the difference.

For instance:

Mahna Mahna has gone a long way in improving my relations with my host-brother, Driss (Drees). But if we could only answer the question of the ages: "What is a mahna, mahna?"

Until then, my host-brother Driss would like you to reflect on Akon:

Maybe we all have to realize, we're just lonely.

-Sidi Lonely

From Bab Boujeloud to Bab Rcif: A Journey Through the Medina Kadima and Through Time

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher Molitoris) — Mon, 15 Sep 2008 17:48:00 +0000

Check out the adventure!

My First Ramadan

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher Molitoris) — Fri, 12 Sep 2008 13:31:00 +0000

Following my first crazy day in Fez, I have the opportunity to meet my host family—the family that I will be living with in Fez for the next five weeks. The eldest son, Lutfi (17), meets me at ALIF and proceeds to guide me to his home. We pick up a petit taxi near the McDonald’s (Macdough) and take it to Bab Ziat, a section of the Medina Kadima known for its “quieter streets.” One way, the petit taxi costs about seven dirhams.

We snake our way through the tiny streets of the Medina. Like man fortified medieval cities, Fez’s Medina Kadima (Old City) has streets and passageways that form a labyrinth meant to confuse the invader. Today, they serve to confuse foreigners like me.

Along the route, Lutfi points out interesting landmarks, insisting, “You will remember the route, yes?” I assure him in French, our lingua franca, that, of course, I will remember.

After a series of even more dips and turns we arrive at the home of Lutfi— a front door that leads to a stairwell, which we take up a series of flights to another door, where we enter.

Immediately Driss greets me. From the beginning, we all find humor in the similar pronunciation of our two names: Dreees and Chreees. Driss is twelve years old, but he informs me that he is thirteen, since his birthday, on September 30^th, is so close anyway.

I meet the rest of the family, Abdul Hamid, my host-father; Fatima, my host-mother; and grandmother. They immediately offer me food and drink: bread and a jelly-like spread with butter, and of course, Moroccan mint tea with sugar. Everything in Morocco is filled with so much flavor, and so much sugar. Sugar with tea, sugar with coffee, sugar on a myriad of assorted slimy sweets. Sugar is an important staple in the Moroccan diet.

Before I partake in my snack, I ask Lutfi if eating is alright, considering he and his family have been fasting all day. He insists that I eat, and continues to spread jelly on my bread for me, as I consume more and more. Already, I have eaten breakfast and lunch. This mid-afternoon snack is certainly not necessary to quell any hunger pains, but is part of the Moroccan custom of hospitality.

Moroccans are known for their hospitality.

After unpacking most of my belongings, I acquaint myself with my new home. The home is basically one large room, lined with couches along the walls, meant for lounging, conversing, and sleeping. It looks as though fifty could sleep here comfortably. Attached to this central room are two smaller rooms that serve as bedrooms. One appears to be a master bedroom, and the other, a guest room. In Moroccan culture, and certainly Muslim culture, the duty of hospitality extends to every friend and family member. In most cases, friends and family may just arrive at a home, and at this instant, it is the duty of the host to take care of their guest. It is considered rude in most cases to call ahead and announce a visit. So in a sense, unexpected visitors are expected.

In most Moroccan homes, there is a room set aside for guests only. It is kept clean, and rarely used—unless of course, like many Moroccan homes, guests are always present.

The requirement of a guest, upon visiting, is to stay for at least one hour, where tea and food are usually consumed, unless it is Ramadan. Guests may often stay for dinner, then the night, and then for lunch the next day. Friendly visits can take hours, or even days. And although I have only been in my host-family’s home for a few hours, I already feel at home, and am already stuffed with food. A good sign.

That night, over Al-ftour, the breaking of the day’s fast, we consume a traditional meal of harira, a tomato based soup. The fast is usually broken first by eating a date. Throughout the meal, I am constantly prodded by every member of the family in French and Darija, “Eat, eat.” Not knowing how to refuse, I fill myself beyond any known boundaries of previous consumption. Only to find another dish. I stare at this food in disbelief, and force myself to eat more, wary of offending anyone.

We finally break from the meal. Lutfi and I take this opportunity to walk with his cousin to the Ville Nouvelle, where we meet his other cousins and drink tea, coffee, and soda. Café time is largely spent killing time, and we sit and speak, but mostly watch and listen.

We return home in a petit taxi a little after midnight, where I am greeted again by what appears to be dinner. The same practice ensues again, “Eat, Chris, Eat.” At some point during dinner, I agree to try Ramadan—to fast throughout the day. Again, not knowing what now lies in store, I finally retire to my room around two o’clock, and drift to sleep, the sounds and smells of the Medina Kadima all around me.

Driss wakes me at four o’clock in the morning. I groggily get up and proceed to breakfast, where I again gorge myself, even though I can barely force down any more bread. I especially have trouble consuming a yogurt like substance that tastes like soured milk. I force myself to finish it, and then try to go back to sleep. But I can’t. I wonder why. During the course of a twenty-four hour period, I consume over six meals, three of which consist of new foods, which my stomach finds suspicious.

I can’t fall back to sleep. I wait for morning to break and get ready. Lutfi guides me to the gate, Bab Ziat, insisting that I “remember the route.” I take a petit taxi to ALIF, and whether by grace of God, my own will, or the weakness of my stomach, I fast the entire day. And probably could have at least one day more.

The Road to Fez

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher Molitoris) — Wed, 10 Sep 2008 18:50:00 +0000

After three days in Rabat, we have left the comfort of Hotel Majliss for a six-week crash course in Moroccan culture and language at the Arabic Language Institute in Fez. Leaving Rabat, it is amazing to see how each city has its own distinct personality.

Fez has a special place in Moroccan history. Although Rabat currently serves as the seat of Morocco’s government, and Casablanca holds the position as Morocco’s most bustling commercial city, Fez represents the heart and soul of Morocco. The oldest of Morocco’s imperial cities, the Medina Kadima is the largest living Medieval city in the world, is designated a World Heritage site, and has a population of over one million. And because of all these factors, including growing tourism, Fez is changing every day.

Upon arriving in Fez, we were briefly briefed by the director of ALIF, and were then let loose on Fez. My friend Jess and I travelled to the Medina Kadima, in the attempt to find some food to eat. Since Ramadan is well under way, we knew, of course, that lay before us. But we received a helpful tip from a flyer at the school, about a restaurant called Café Clock, that apparently was serving lunch during the day. With nothing more than a nearby landmark, the Madersa Bouaniana.

We proceeded to walk down the expansive main road in Fez, heading in the direction of the Medina. When we were approached by a couple faux guides. The Fez faux guides have interesting stories. Most can speak varying degrees of English, French, Italian, German, Russian, and really anything a tourist might throw at them. They learn it themselves, through television or through websites. They walk the streets of the Medina Jadid, looking for foreigners who are looking for a familiar tongue and a friendly face. They offer tours of the Medina, “for free,” but often expect a few dirhams in return. They also receive a commission on any purchases a tourist might acquire with their help. This is their living. Most of them are friendly Moroccans, just trying to make some money. And for Jess and I, a pretty good indicator about how much we stick out in Morocco.

Jess and I eventually discovered Café Clock, located in back alley in the Medina Kadima. Operated by a couple Brits (je pense), Café Clock seems to cater to the local ex-pat community, as it’s not the easiest place for a tourist to find. The food is a little more expensive than the street fare, but the wifi is free , and its peaceful location is a welcome respite from Moroccan life.

After Café Clock, we returned to the Villas near ALIF, ready to jump into the next step in this journey—meeting my Moroccan host family.

Hanna, Ain't No Stoppin' US now! Morocco bound. And down on the ground.

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher Molitoris) — Mon, 08 Sep 2008 22:08:00 +0000

The day has finally come, and what happens to blacken the sky on an otherwise perfectly glorious week for weather? Hanna. Now a tropical storm, but nevertheless, enough to drop the ceiling over JFK and enough to cancel all incoming flights. Good thing the Molitoris family and Blythe provided me with a ride, dodging lakes on the Cross Bronx Expressway. But we made it. And the flight departed on schedule. Others were not as lucky.

Royal Air Maroc 201 landed in Casablanca slightly before 8:00 am local time (4 hours ahead of Scranton, PA) with a couple Fulbrighters on board. After the formalities of the baggage pick-up and customs, we met our friend Mustapha, who graciously directed us to a waiting vehicle, which eventually--after the hour drive--deposited us at the Hotel Majliss, Rabat. After a quick shower and a change of clothes, those of us still awake took a brief jaunt around Rabat, mostly lead by the knowledgeable Rachel (pronounced Ra-shell).

I will eventually post a photo story of Rabat, but at the time I did not have the camera with me. I am in Rabat until Tuesday, and off to Fez on Wednesday.

So on this Monday I wound my way through the streets of Rabat, dodging traffic and trying desperately to get a sense of the city that I was experiencing for the first time.

Traffic, at first proved to be the greatest challenge. Especially when crossing streets, it seems that pedestrian and vehicular safety is derived from the insecurity in not knowing what might jump out onto the street next. Although Moroccan drivers seem to barrel down the narrow streets of Rabat, it seems to me that they might be more aware of their surroundings than the drivers of the Electric City, i.e. Mulberry Street's pedestrian crosswalks.

The highlights of the day definitely included navigating the corridors of the Oudaya and walking to the Atlantic ocean. We picked up a few supplies at the kasbag to break the fast later at the hotel: bread, bananas, grapes (seeded), sugary delicacies, and an avocado. We were given black bags to carry our food.

During this holy month of Ramadan, Rabat seems so peaceful--at least during the day. So the four of us made our way down to the shore, marking the first time I had seen the Atlantic from this side.

I looked closely, and I could almost see home.

Morocco Road is live.

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher Molitoris) — Fri, 15 Aug 2008 01:23:00 +0000

It seems as though most of the functionality is live now for Morocco Road. In the next couple weeks be prepared, as this site will become rich with content--describing, to the best of my descriptive ability, my journey to the country of Morocco and my adventures there.

Stay tuned to chrismolitoris.com for updates.

Now, back to the olympics. Go May-Treanor/ Walsh!

Sent from my iPod.