First of all, a shout-out for those of you who leave comments. I read every single one and they mean the world to me. I'm better at responding directly to emails, but know that I love feeling connected to all of you.

Feeling connected is important, because I really don't feel connected to much of anything anymore. Thinking of life at home is like a distant memory. I've only been in-country about four months, not even, but for some reason, it feels like a lot longer. Even training feels like something from long ago.

I think a lot of that has to do with linguistic isolation. I really don't speak Tamazight well. I'm doing okay when you look at the people in my group who came over with me, but I still have a hard time communicating rudimentary ideas often, or understanding what other people say to me. Many hours of my day are spent in silence or not understanding what's going on around me. I have so long to think and read and think and read and sit and rest and think that I sometimes feel like I'm just bumbling about, floating away. I'm not a part of life in Tamazitinu, but I'm not really that connected to things that are going on at home either. Sometimes I read comments on peoples' facebook pages or myspace pages and marvel that things are the way they are back in the States. Not everyone is sweating through the nights or worrying about housing, or wondering what an impact Ait el Harj is going to make on life during the summer. No, people are in school, people are working normal or abnormal hours, are living in apartments, can drive a car to wherever they want, whenever they want, they don't need to report their whereabouts to anyone. The head of the police (gendarmes) in the area doesn't know your name as soon as you walk in the door.

It's strange. People know me. I stepped off the bus in the Provincial Capital last weekend-- and this is four and a half hours away from Tamazitinu -- and two men, about my age called my name. I don't remember ever having seen them, but they knew me from my town. It's interesting, but frustrating, because I was wearing clothes that are fine for a big city but not so okay for my town. Yes, that does mean if you come visit, you have to dress appropriately when you're in my town. Sorry.

That all being said, I'm doing well, I suppose. I don't know if you can call it well or not, but I'm not dying or thinking of coming home. My biggest stressor and worry is housing and that is going to be a concern until it's resolved. The short of it is that I should know within the next week where I will live to start the process and paperwork, and I really have no idea what's available and the options are unclear. If I type out the whole situation, it'll get me worked up, and I guess nobody probably wants to hear the details anyway, so I'll leave it at that.

So, I'll talk a little bit about Ait el Harj. I've talked about immigration at Tamazitinu before. It's crazy. People are coming back from their jobs in Spain or France or other places in Europe for the summer. I have never, ever realized the sort of complexities of immigration. When you see the differences between the houses of people who work in town or domestically versus people with family members abroad, it's stunning. (Incidentally, the two houses that may or may not be available for rent fall into each of these categories). They come, with their Western European fashion, their cars, their Europop, and celebrate weddings, bring suitcases of new, beautiful clothes from Europe and hand them out to family members and friends alike, and just vacation at home.

The most interesting moment was seeing a ten year old girl who has lived her entire life in Montpellier. She's a French citizen, speaks flawless French (and Tam and Arabic), and yet, is perfectly at home in Tamazitinu. Her little sister is afraid of the flies.

I had lots of friends who were first generation Americans growing up, and never really thought much about what it'd be like for them to go back to India or Mexico or China or Taiwan; but now I'm seeing it, firsthand, from a sort of odd position myself.

I have to admit, it's fun speaking French and Spanish to people, but I'm a bit intimidated by them as well. Will they be angry or insulted that a volunteer is there to "help" their hometown? Will they be allies because they know where I'm coming from but are more trusted in the community than I am? Will they just ignore me? So far people seem to be friendly and helpful, but I can't help but wonder.

I'm also failing miserably at navigating the "losing face" principle. I tend to think people are honest in the same way we tend to be in the US: honest and direct. If something won't work out, we won't say that it will. There's no shame in saying no, in not inviting people over, for not making a promise you can't keep.

In Morocco, and this is just a cultural pattern, of course, not a rule of thumb, people wil sometimes say things to not lose face or to smooth over problems.

If you read my Site Visit entry from May, you might remember the problem with the mudir, or the principal of the school. Well, I thought that was over. I still haven't talked to him, because nobody's introduced us, but a few people said it's not a problem and I took it at face value.

Until last week. After going to a party for an Ait el Harj person who's come back, and adorning myself once more with saffron and perfume, I went with my hostmom to the madrasa for a continuation of the party. My spirits were high: I love parties here and was anxious to see what would happen at this venue.

Halfway into the schoolyard, my mom stopped short. "Oh. The mudir (principal) is here. Problem. Go back home."

What?!

Crushed, I walked back home and tried not to cry. I thought it wasn't a problem. My hostmom repeatedly told me "mashi mushkil" both during site visit and since I've been back. The Association President told me it wasn't a problem. I had a fabulous dinner with five of the teachers who seemed to like and respect me, and now, two months later, I hear there's still a problem?

I asked my hostmom a few hours later, "I don't understand. What is the problem? Why couldn't I go? I thought there was no problem with the mudir."

She looked me in the eyes and said "Oho. Mashi mushkil." There is no problem.

It's because of cultural patterns like these that make me really worried about finding a house.

I also can't help but wonder what other people in town are saying about me. I haven't really gotten any anti-Americanism from people here, not my entire time here. But last Thursday, as I was walking home from the sbitar, I was called over by a group of kids. Kids can be very useful friends or very brutal enemies (I've heard countless tales of PCVs being pelted with rocks on a daily basis by more antagonistic children), so I decided to go over.

The encounter started nicely... then the questions kept coming. "Do you like Tamazitinu? Do you like America? Which is better?"

I gave my classic answer: there are things better in America, there are things better in Tamazitinu. Then it started.

"No. America is bad. Mirikan ixxa."

"Why?"

"Iraq!"
"The war!"
"Iraq is BAD!"
"The war is BAD!"

Hmm. These kids were all under ten. This sentiment and these ideas had to be coming from somewhere, most likely parents; the same parents who are inviting me to tea and being very friendly. Interesting thought to ponder. I'm not ready to draw any conclusions yet, but it's certainly an interesting thought. That being said, most Moroccans I've talked to definately can separate the actions of the US Governement from the heart and intentions of the American people.

In general, though, the people in my town are great, despite the housing trouble. When I cried about it (yes, I do cry at site occasionally), my next-door neighbor who I really consider to be more of a hostmom than my real one, saw me and when I explained why, she told me to stop because crying was bad...and then proceeded to cry herself because I was crying.

This sounds like a negative blog, and probably seems like I'm having a miserable and stressful time. I'm not. I'm stressed, but I also am relaxed. Out of necessity, with most things, I've developed a sort of an enshallah attitude: If God wills it. Will my tobis to site be full and I'll be stuck in my souk town? Hopefully not, enshallah. Will I never be able to work with the school because of a stupid action I took, trusting a town women's urging for me to take pictures during site visit? Hopefully not, but if so, so be it. There's plenty of work for me to do outside the school. I just hope that one action doesn't make it impossible for any PCVs to ever work at that school. Who knows. Maybe the mudir will be transfered, or maybe I'll meet him one day and smooth things over. Enshallah.

But I know I need out of my hostfamily's house ASAP, if for no other reason, to keep from eating meals of pure carbohydrates for breakfast and a very late dinner. It's rough on this former Weight-Watcher to eat nothing but bread and jam for breakfast, overcooked vegetables with bread (or if I'm really lucky a salad, eggs, or beans) for lunch, sugary tea all day, and a pure-carbohydrate meal for a late dinner, usually at 9 or 10 at night. There are so many fresh fruits and vegetables, all organic, mostly grown in the fields a five minute walk from my house, available, but people don't eat a lot of them. I will eat well on my own.

The bread is growing on me though. At Tamazitinu, they really grow the wheat, pick it, grind it, knead the bread, and bake it on a family by family basis. It's not amazing, but warm, with a bit of olive oil or argon oil, sometimes it hits the spot.

Speaking of food, I guess I'm losing weight too. Even the head gendarme told me today it was good and that I should continue losing weight. Thanks, buddy. I appreciate your insight. He also said not to eat at night. Wish me luck with that one.

Good things: Right now my favorite word to teach people in English is "alfalfa." It's close to the Tam word (lufsa), and it cracks me up that the first word that some people at my site learn in English is alfalfa. And then I talk about how I eat baby alfalfa on bread with cheese and tomato and mustard and cucumbers and they think it's the funniest thing. Alfalfa is grown here as food for sheep, and during the winter, one couscous dish. Of course, I do teach other words, but it keeps me giggling when I walk through the fields with some of my young friends especially and they point to a quadrant and say "Alfalfa."

I also sing to my little 5 year old host sister sometimes: I sing "Maria" from West Side Story but I subsitute her name for it. It's hilarious hearing her try to sing it back. I love the kids here. There are three kids 2 or under who know my name and I LOVE IT. Hearing them say "Katy" (or Kayyyyeeeeee, as is the case with my 1 year old sister) just cracks me up and warms my heart.

One of the next-door neighbor women and I are getting to be friends, I think. She'll call me out to the aloo (alleyway) at night to chat with her family, and we went on a walk to one of the neighboring big hill/small mountains alone one day. There's also a wonderful old woman who I like a lot.

She went into my souk town also today on my tobis, and invited me to coffee as soon as we got off. As nothing is open at 7 am, I gladly agreed, so five Berber women in their traditional wraps and I walked into a cafe and we drank coffee and shared bread and eggs. Afterwards, we walked around women's souk until my PCV friend in town called and I met with her and drank more coffee at "our cafe." I loved the looks I got from people when I was walking, hand-in-hand with the woman who is old enough to be my mother, speaking Tamazight. I certainly didn't get any catcalls, for the first time ever.

There are a few houses that I feel like I could just pop in for tea, uninvited when I have my own place, and that makes me happy. I also have the most fancy new beautiful bike that I plan on riding when it gets cool at night and my sunburned legs aren't as painful.

I'm now listening to All Things Considered online. I miss NPR.

And wow... I've spent 4 hours online today. That's a LOT.