T minus 10 days.

I've managed to pack up my few summer clothes and household goods and vacate the summerhouse the Bookstore Maven so graciously lent me. A bit sooner than I'd anticipated, but it's all good. My new digs at Miz Amy's feel like home -- a very good feeling, considering the nomad I have been and am about to become.

So in the next 10 days, all I have to do is:

* Haul more boxes to storage.

* Pack for two years in Morocco, adhering to the two-bag, 107-linear-inch, 80-pound limit.

* Get upstate for a couple of days with my parents.

* Hang out with the niece and nephews.

* Last-minute shopping (long underwear – ugh!; some electronics and toiletries, and absolutely no more books or iTunes)

* Hopefully another night on the town (Miz Amy and I planning to see Chris Duarte at The Zoo on Saturday night ... anyone with us?)

* Visit and photograph all the places and people (and food!) I love here in L-Town.

* Hoping for at least one more long bike ride.

* Get serious about studying the beginner’s Darija (Moroccan Arabic) lessons before takeoff.

* Archive all of my photos, documents, music from my hard drive.

* Create a photo album to show my American life to my new Moroccan host families.

* Buy overseas property insurance; pay off credit cards; order enough prescriptions to cover my first three months of training.

* Launch new Morocco-specific blog.

* Family dinner the day before Labor Day.

* Farewell party with las chicas (muchas gracias to Miz Amy for hosting).

* Hitch a tear-filled ride to the airport the morning of Sept. 5!


Blegh. Feeling more than a bit stressed about all I have to do in such a short time. Mostly because I’m so unsure about what comes next, and I’m pretty much not in control. But I also know all that must be done will get done, and it’ll be over before I know it.


Next up: Staging.

My Peace Corps adventure begins with orientation Sept. 6-7 in Philadelphia. This is known as “staging,” when I’ll gather with the other new trainees, in Youth Development and Small Business Development, get a basic lowdown on Peace Corps policies and fill out paperwork.

From Philly, we take a bus to New York, then board a direct, eight-hour flight to Casablanca. (Hard to believe my world can change so quickly.) Next, another bus to Rabat, for a few days in a hotel while we get inoculations (hoping I’m already good on that front!), begin to learn about our program sectors and maybe even see a bit of the capital city.

From there, the intensive 11-week training program begins. My Youth Development colleagues and I will move to Azrou, a small city 2.5 hours east of Rabat. At our seminar site we’ll be immersed in language lessons, develop skills for our new jobs, and learn about cultural adaptability, safety and staying healthy. I’ll be living with a host family in order to further practice my language and cultural skills.

But we’ll also spend a certain amount of time in “community-based training,” traveling in small groups to villages where we can start practicing our job skills. That means we’ll be practicing our ability to work in established “dar chababs,” or youth centers. It also means a second host family and a lot of back-and-forth travel.

Throughout the three months of training, I’ll face regular evaluations on my language and technical progress. Sometime in October, I’ll learn my permanent site for the next two years, and I’ll be sworn in as a Peace Corps volunteer on Nov. 20 – two days after my 41st birthday.



Currently reading: "Reading Lolita in Tehran: A Memoir in Books," Azar Nafisi

Currently hearing: "What I Be," Michael Franti

Back from the Southwest.

Sorry I haven't been posting. My mini-vacay in Tucson/Mexico went by in a whir; here's a one-photo synopsis:


That photo is staged, btw ... staged like a fourth Iranian nuclear missile. More good pics on Jill's Facebook page; I'm uploading my pitiful shots to Flickr right now. More to come ...

Tucson was a nice diversion before the Big Trip commences. I can really see myself living there someday ... a crunchy-but-kind vibe, good music scene, surrounded by gorgeous mountains. Almost makes me a bit wistful ... I'm at a stage where I spend a certain amount of time wondering whether I'm on the right path. Natural, I suppose, when embarking on a new path, especially when visibility is hampered on the road ahead and one must navigate solely by intuition.

Jill came and met us for a quick trip to Puerto Penasco. Who knew there was a Mexican beach three-plus hours from Tucson? Didn't hit the road until Thursday evening, but the timing made the drive worthwhile. One of the most amazing sunsets I've ever seen -- not for the sun itself, but for the way it backlit the dramatic clouds cocooning craggy mountains, highlighting organ pipe, saguaro, scrubby cholla and other cacti on nature preserves on both sides of the border.

Next day, after lunch and Negra Modelos on the pier, then bartering for boogie boards in the tourist district, we headed back to the hotel and its neighboring private beach. I'd never been bodysurfing before, and despite the board rash that now covers most of my right thigh, it was totally worth it. The perfect beach afternoon/evening. Cocktails, surf, friends; rinse and repeat.


Back in Tucson, Miz K threw a fantastic birthday bash for herself, complete with live music and the best potluck I've ever attended. Her new friends can throw down the snark with the best of them, and her new beau is an absolute delight.

Now that I'm back in Lincoln I'm feeling a bit overwhelmed. Time to pack up the remains of my life here and say goodbye to everyone I love. The two-week countdown begins tomorrow.

Mexico road trip by the numbers:

Badass bitches in Jillie's Subaru: 3

Cameras: 4

Variety of animal crossing signs on reservation highway from Tucson to Mexico: 9 (ram, cattle, human, prairie dog, deer, antelope, coyote, roadrunner, quail

Actual animal sightings: 1 coyote; many stray dogs; innumerable toads

Skipping CDs mended by a single lick of Miz J's saliva: 1

Boogie boards: 3

Collective post-bodysurfing board rashes: 4 (at least)

Sunglasses lost to Sea of Cortez: 2

Toe rings lost: 1

Jellyfish sightings: 1

Jellyfish stings: 0

Chuck Norris joke books: 1*

*Best Chuck Norris joke: When Chuck Norris has sex he is always on top ... because Chuck Norris never fucks up.

Giant "white pride" tattoos on pretty American boy trying to darken his skin on a Mexican beach: 1 (irony, anyone?)

Successful attempts to talk Mexican police out of traffic ticket without a bribe: 1

Vendors eager to sell me a glass pipe: 5 (only me, btw, not the Mizzes K & J. Por que?)

Peace on a chain.

The Divine Miz Emily, local purveyor of fine imports and my personal guruess, gave me this little pendant that means so much to me at this stage in my life. The front says “Peace” in Arabic; the back has a spiral indentation. Could it be more appropriate for me?


Desert-bound.

Gawd, am I ready to get out of this town.

Luckily, I leave manana en la manana!

This isn't the big goodbye ... just the big pre-goodbye adventure. Goin' down Tucson way to visit Miz K. She, Miz J and I are drivin' down to Mexico for a couple days on the beach at Puerto Penasco. Then a big birthday bash for the K-ladee. Some hiking, I hope. Can't wait to get down there.

Lincoln's just irritating me these days. Know I'll miss it somethin' awful when I'm gone, but lately I've been revisiting old behaviors/emotions/ghosts, and not in a terribly healthy way. Maybe it's all part of the process of moving on? Dunno.


Quote of the day:

Overheard at Jones Coffee:

“But he’s already married. He can’t get married again – that’s bigotry!”

On the Trigger.

Last night was such fun. Korb and I went to see Triggertown at Box Awesome. My darling friend Joellen's darling daughter Terry is the fiddler. And despite having seen them several times now, I only just made the connection between Brad the awesome Community CROPS guy and Brad the badass washtub bass player. They make bluegrass cool. They'll be at the Zoo with the Bellflowers on Aug. 21. Go see 'em ... and buy me a beer!

(photo by proud mama Joellen)


Down on the farm.

Worked my ass off yesterday (when stupid Blogger wouldn't accept my post), volunteering for Community CROPS. No, wait, my ass is still there ... but I did work the skin off my fingers in several places. And it felt great.

Killing myself that I didn't bring my camera. This was my first visit to the farm out west of town. What a cool setup!

For some serendipitous reason, they were awash in volunteers -- five of us. We did a lot of weeding (a LOT of weeding, my favorite activity) ... fixed some drip lines ... put up a snow fence for cucumbers to climb up ... planted a new crop of carrots ... and cleaned up a bunch of miscellaneous junk. I helped an Iraqi newcomer harvest cucumbers and yellow squash. He couldn't speak English, but he gave me an Armenian cucumber -- yellow-green, soft and sweet. No conversation, but we each gnawed on a cucumber, smiling at each other, admiring his rows of bounty. Came home with two yellow squash and a handful of beets. Should be home roasting veggies right now.


Getting closer to Peace (Corps)

Finally got information on my Peace Corps staging, the two-day orientation session before we leave the country. Sept. 6-7 in Philadelphia. I leave Lincoln at 10:55 a.m. on Sept. 5. Seems it's really happening.

We'll be arriving in Morocco just a few days after the beginning of Ramadan. Won't be expected to fast, although it may be difficult to find food during the day. I might give it a try, just to better understand people's sensibilities during this time.

I did a practice pack earlier this week. It's not going to be nearly as difficult as I'd thought to meet the luggage size/weight requirements (two checked bags for a combined total of 107 linear inches and 70 pounds). I still have to cut back some of the toiletries that take up too much space and weight.

It's so funny ...much of the reason I was attracted to Peace Corps was the idea of learning to live with less -- a lot less. To better understand how most of the world lives. But when it comes down to it, I'm having a hard time giving up some silly luxuries: "But I need my facial exfoliant!" The packing guidelines will make some of the decisions for me. And, as my summer is already proving to me, the less I learn to live with, the easier it becomes.

The gang.

Lot of family time this weekend. On Saturday, we all went to Emma's recital for strings day camp. After only five days on the half-bass, she can bow and pick like a pro. Well, a half-pro, at least. Seriously, it was impressive.

On Sunday, I drove with her mom to drop Emma off for her second year at Camp Kitaki. Mama was emotional. Emma was not (see above).

Then we careened back to Lincoln to watch Chip's last t-ball game. Nothing better than sitting in the late-afternoon, 102-degree sun, watching little boys who don't quite get the concept of being tagged out, or of throwing to any base but first.

Afterward, we got ice cream. Ryan goes for the full-immersion style of indulgence.


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Speaking of families, I'm reading the most interesting book. It's an oral history of multiple generations of a rural Moroccan family, told from two viewpoints -- that of a strongly religious Muslim man with extremely traditional views, and that of his cousin, a U.S. immigrant with a modern viewpoint, especially on the role of women in her country and her family.

The book is a quarter-century old (the local libraries have very little available on recent Moroccan history), but I imagine it's still quite useful and reflective of rural traditions and beliefs. The extent of the misogeny shouldn't shock me, I suppose, but it does. (So does the anti-Jewish and anti-"Christian" -- catchall for "western -- sentiment.)

Women are expected not to leave the home -- unless they are doing the marketing or are somehow ekeing out a living when their husbands will not; yet even for that -- for selling in a public marketplace, or working in a sweatshop for pennies, under a male boss -- they are criticized, often even ostracized, within their family and their village. Certainly a woman is never, ever, out in the evening unless she's a prostitute. Women measure their offspring with two numbers -- the number they've born, and the number (usually around half, but still easily six or more) that have survived past infancy. And for their decades of hard work to take care of their family, they're criticized for their wrinkles and paunch, referred to as "One whose face looks like a mule," etc.

I've been wondering how I'll handle the harassment that I'm assured I'll encounter in Morocco. Western-looking women have it worst, but it is common, apparently, for all women to be harassed on a daily, constant basis. Stares, tongue-clicking and muttering when walking by are the best of it; at worst, I can count on being groped (especially in crowded, anonymous places) and even having my hair stroked and pulled (blonde tresses being such an anomoly in rural areas).

My dear friend Meleeska and I have a new tradition of evening walks, after the worst heat of the day, up around the state Capitol. Walking through my new temporary 'hood, just south of downtown, is the only place in Lincoln where I've encountered anything like the harassment that is commonplace whenever I travel. Can't go a block, some days, without a whistle or catcall. This is not a compliment, for those of you who may be thinking it so. It's a misplaced expression of power by those who generally feel powerless. It's uncomfortable to walk on by without "educating" the offender (also known as giving a piece of my mind), but to engage is only to prolong.

Like much else I've been encountering this summer -- the oppressive heat, the bouts of loneliness, the general instability/uncertainty -- I can only take the optimistic view that this is very good training for what lies ahead. As one current volunteer in Morocco, pointed out, such experiences will give me perspective on and strong solidarity with the women I hope to serve.

Haven't heard about travel plans yet, but I expect to be leaving Lincoln a month from today or tomorrow!

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Quote of the day: "When a woman has had a hard life it is said that she has been cursed by her parents or her husband because of some evil that she has done. When a man has had a hard life, it is said that he is unlucky."

-- Fatima Zohra, "The House of Si Abd Allah: The Oral History of a Moroccan Family

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Currently listening to: "Meet Podington Bear"; Coffee Break French.