It’s The Unexpected Things That Touch You The Most

Once upon a time, I gave the link of my blog to someone in passing. (Okay, okay, it was quite recently, but that doesn’t sound as good.) This person promised to read it, but on one condition.

Seeing as the passing of the link came over a social media site, I did not know the condition right away. I expected it to be something funny or odd, like put this phrase in your next post or read something I wrote about one of my travel experiences or throw me a shout-out.

Instead, the request made me cry a little bit.

Granted, I’ve been doing that more and more frequently as of late, but still. It wasn’t funny or silly or anything that I thought it would be. What it happened to be was very sweet and genuine. (For the record, it was the good kind of crying, and I laughed some, too; it wasn’t as though it was depressing.)

And so, to the person who gave the condition, I know I’ve already agreed. However, I’m sticking it here anyways, because this seems more durable than a quick replied message:

I promise. 

I know your condition might not manage to come about next year, or even the year after, or maybe a while longer than that, but I promise.

And hey, maybe I’ll throw in a shout-out in a future post anyways. ;) 

We’ll Always Have ... Madrid

Wait, I thought it was Paris. 

(Pardon that one, please; I didn’t have a fun title.)

Anyways, I HAVE MY FLIGHT INFORMATION! (Now that I think about it, that probably could have been my title. C’est la vie.)

If you spend a lot of time in close proximity to me, you know that I’m freaking out all over again. If you don’t—well, you just found out. In all seriousness, my excitement levels have skyrocketed, so that my excitement-to-nerve ratio is currently around 100.000:1* (numbers subject to change abruptly).

My initial assumption about flights was that I would fly to NYC for the PDO (Pre-Departure Orientation), and then my group would fly from JFK to RBA (Rabat-Salé Airport). Boy, was I wrong. (You know what they say about when you assume…)

Instead, I’m going to Spain.

Sort of.

My group flies out of JFK, and we have a layover in Madrid. So we will be spending time in Spain.  If you count the airport.

From there, we fly to Casablanca, and I suppose we will eventually get to Rabat. Somehow. See, that’s where the info ends. Maybe we have our in-country orientation there, or maybe we’re touring there for a few days before we meet our host families. Which would be absolutely amazing.

Either way, I’m still flipping out. 

Funny Societal Facets

I have no clever/mildly clever/in another language hook today. Sue me.

First, I would like to start out with a positive:

Dear Eye Doctor Receptionist Man,

Thank you for acknowledging that you really don’t know that much about Morocco, instead of trying to fake it while actually just sounding stupid. Also, you knew more than most people do.

Next: Does our society dislike honesty, at least in social situations?

It’s a question that has been bugging me recently, so I’m going to pretend that it is a veritable TOK-moment and expound on it.

The other day, I was asked (by someone that I do not know very well, but with whom I had to make polite conversation) whether or not I was enjoying my junior year of high school.

Now, I have been having a pretty stressful year. (And I had a really good sophomore year, so it isn’t as though I’m prone to terrible years.) It is the first year of IB (so I can only imagine that next year will be even better) and between schoolwork, extracurriculars, and trying to have a semblance of a social life (not to mention trying to schedule in some sleep), I’ve been a little fried.

And so, without a ridiculous amount of drama or any facial expressions or gestures, I answered that no, I haven’t had a particularly good year.

The response was a laugh. I assure you, I said nothing funny. A simple, “No, not really,” was all. And yet, my comment elicited a laugh, but not exactly a genuine one, either.

Perhaps I could have put this on the backburner, or never thought about it again, except that it happened again.

I was talking to aforementioned EDRM, and he asked if I was wanted to be fitted for contact lenses (Really? There’s such a thing as lens fittings?), and I said (again, very seriously) that no, I did not, because I truly dislike contacts, due to the stipulation that to wear them, I need to put things in my eyes.

Again, laughter, and not exactly the genuine kind.

Am I supposed to lie, here? Make light of a situation? Simply answer fine when I don’t mean that at all?

I know I’m getting a little soap-boxy here, but why? Why do we feel the need to lie about the little things? Is it in an effort to be polite?

I assume that it is. We (not the royal “we,” but the societal one) are incredibly caught up in making things quick and easy and polite.

But what is politeness really? Isn’t it a series of lies as well—to act one way when you probably wouldn’t act that way if you had your druthers?

The matter of the laughing also confused me a little. Was it a nervous laugh? And why was laughing the reaction? There was nothing amusing about my statements (and it’s not as though I have some unmentioned comedic timing; when I have humor, it is rather dry, and it does not need to be slipped in at just the right time), so the laugh must have come from some other source, and my explanation seems logical as any. I suppose the answer would become that it was a nervous laugh. This seems to lead to the idea that honesty (even in its watered-down form) was not appreciated in either case.

I just don’t get it. This would indicate that we, as a society, prefer social lies to the truth, and frankly, this baffles me. I mean, in many regions of our lives, society demands that we tell the truth. Yet here, white lies are encouraged. So why? Is it because we care that little about each other that we can’t be bothered to actually listen to each other and take the time to trouble ourselves with what other people feel? That even though individuals may care, society teaches us to be uncomfortable with these truths, so that it becomes reflex to dodge them?

And of course, this made me wonder: How often am I guilty of this same thing? Because if the people around me aren’t above it, there is no way that I am.

Either way, we are conditioned to ask (im)personal questions to fill the space and get rid of the silence (oh, don’t get me started on that as well), and we are conditioned to answer with fine or okay; anything that is quick and easy and comfortable. The laughing became a coping mechanism to cover up the awkwardness that came with receiving an answer that wasn’t looked for.

My head is now twisted around and rotating a little (not quite enough for a spin, but not stable either), and I know that I have only scratched the surface of this topic.

There is a very distinct chance that I am completely misreading people and overreacting. But somehow, I don’t think so.

In any case, I’m getting off of my soap box now.

How do I tie this to Morocco, other than the bit at the beginning with the nice EDRM? I guess I’m interested to see what the Moroccan social conventions and facets are.

Gotta keep it interesting. 

The One-Month-Out Mark

…was not today.

 It was actually three days ago. Oops. That being said, I guess I can say that it is, in fact, the one-month-out mark for my first full day in Rabat. (!!!)

It’s true that I leave the 16^th (Hey, I just realized that even though it’s not the Gregorian one-month-out mark, it is four weeks out today. Eek! ), but since I’ll be at an orientation in New York until the 18^th, my first day is technically the 19^th! I can’t believe it. Four weeks away, and it’s still surreal.

I would try to describe what I’m feeling right now, except that it would be wholly inadequate and superficial. (Total language issue happening. Wait…why does everything tie back to TOK?!? Ahhhhh!)

I’ll just say that it is a roiling pot of emotions, the most predominant of which is excitement, the next of which is fear, followed closely by shut up, fear, it’s Morocco, and finally by but it is the unknown. (My emotions communicate with other. Quite a bit. And my parents wonder why I can’t sleep at night. Stupid internal dialogue.) There are plenty of almost-indistinguishable others, all bunched up tight, but suffice to say that right now, my exhilaration is reigning supreme.

So now, as the date approaches, the really difficult part is left.

Packing.

*Falls over melodramatically.* 

Was there a point to this post? 

Umm, not really? 

The Journey to the Journey

Bonjour, tout le monde!

As funny as this sounds, I did not wake up one morning and think, out of nowhere, “Gee, I think I’ll go to Morocco* this summer.”

*There was one morning where I woke up and thought, “I think I’m going to try to travel to every single country in the world, even if it kills me,” but that is a very different story. The point is, this was not a random happenstance.

I think there have always been little indications that I might one day go to the Middle East. From an early age, I was obsessed with Ancient Egypt. (Don’t get me started on the late 18^th and 19^th dynasties unless you are looking for your ear to be talked off. Seriously. Your eyes will glaze over.) I’m pretty sure I went through an archaeologist phase, or at least that “I-want-to-dig-up-mummies-and-treasure” phase that a lot of four-year-olds go through.

If I think about it, this process began in earnest three years ago (2010), when, on a particularly brutal early-November day, I got in the car, slammed the door, and declared to my mother that as soon as I was an adult, I was moving to Egypt, darn it, because it was just too cold. (I’m from Wisconsin. It gets cold here, if you don’t already know that. See: Stalingrad Winter. Okay, not really, but close.)

The Official Language of Egypt is, of course, Arabic, and I decided then and there that I needed to learn it, because one does not move to a country without knowledge of that country’s language. (It’s part of my Fear-Of-Being-An-“Ugly-American” Complex, also known as the “Americans need to learn foreign languages instead of expecting everyone to know ours” Syndrome. Or, ANTLFLIOEETKOS. I like acronyms.)

A month later, the Arab Spring began.

By January, 2011, it was in full force.

(I would like to note here that any sane person would see revolution and bloodshed and think, “Hmm. Maaaaybe the Middle East/Egypt isn’t the best place to be. Maybe I don’t want to go there." Whether or not you’ve picked up on the hints, it should be explicitly established that I am not exactly your average, sane human being. At the sound of the Arab Spring I thought to myself, “Wow! Arabic is more important than ever! I would still get on a plane to any of those places tomorrow to learn. And surely, by the time I’m old enough to actually move there, things will have started to settle down.” Yep. That’s me using my head. Anyways.)

In February, I got my first book about Arabic.

I’d like to add another note that it is hard to try to teach yourself a language, particularly one outside of your native language’s family. Meaning: I didn’t get very far. Nevertheless, I was still determined to eventually take classes and go to the Middle East. (Yet another side note: finding Arabic classes for kids in their freshman year of high school is practically impossible where I live.)

That summer, I learned that my cousin, Mara, (Hi, Mara!) was also interested in learning Arabic, and we ipso facto became Arabic Buddies, which involved a lot of talking about baklava, and not, perhaps, as much of the language itself as it should have.

As you may have inferred, teaching myself did not get any easier, and between school and extracurriculars, Arabic again took a back-burner in my life. The desire to learn it, however, never went away.

Fast forward to September of 2012. (No need to bore you with my entire life story.)

I had this idea floating around in my head: that I desperately wanted to study abroad. (Keep in mind: at this point, I didn’t even know what want to study abroad meant. I thought I did, but I didn’t, not really.)

Then, two very big things happened in quick succession, as big things are wont to do.

First: I received more information about the NSLI-Y program. A family friend (Hi, Deb!) told my mom about the program because her daughter (Hi, Katie!) was a Turkey alum.

Second (and really, this is probably the bigger of the Big things): I met an exchange student from Yemen (! مرحبا  رماح) who shattered my world-view, and made me realize that this wasn’t a game, but it was something that I had to do. 

There is one precise memory that I would consider The Defining Moment, in which I realized that I had to study abroad, and study abroad in a Middle Eastern country. Those sorts of things really do happen, as it turns out. It’s not exclusive to the climactic comprehension of a protag in novels, or the epic scene in movies where a beautiful montage of scenes fly by as music crescendos and the character experiences the long-awaited Moment of Realization. This happens in real life, sans the overly dramatic music. (Not that my life is a movie. That would be creepy, and Truman-Show-esque, and the TOK moment I’m having right now by mentioning life-as-movies and the Truman Show is soooo not funny.)

Back to the relevant stuff:

After that moment, as I said, I knew that it was imperative I do a study abroad, and it made me that much more nervous about trying to achieve a NSLI scholarship. And so, with bated breath, I applied for NSLI-Y.

And then, after for-ev-er of waiting, I came home on December 18^th to find a surprise in my inbox…that I was a semi-finalist.

So after freaking out, waiting, an interview, a lot of paperwork, and a lot more waiting …

I waited some more.

(We’re in March of 2013, now.)

Mind you, notifications weren’t set to come out until the beginning of April, but I was freaking out. (Yes, I had multiple dreams about NSLI, both good ones and bad ones. The freakouts were invading my sleep. And my life. And my journals. And my parents’ lives. Sorry Mom & Dad. I was pretty much all over the place.)

So March 20^th arrived, and it was the one day that I didn’t check my email instantly upon arriving home. I was supposed to be packing for a Model UN trip, but instead I was on page 16 of Clockwork Princess (intensely emotional book) eating cheese melted on chicken, put on bread, when my mother called, “Genevieve, come here” very seriously.

I walked into her room, saw the computer screen turned at me, saw “accepted,” “Arabic,” and “Rabat” and … started screaming bloody murder. Yep, I am a happy-screamer, people. So after rupturing my poor mother’s right eardrum and checking to make sure that it was not some awful prank, my application process ended.

And here I am, and it still feels surreal, and to be perfectly honest, there are still moments when I start giggling randomly because I am going to MOROCCO!!! Which, if you’ve actually been reading the last 1,155 words, you will know is an absolute dream come true.

It’s been a long journey to the journey, folks.

But it’s been a fabulous one. :+)

Here Comes the IB English Kid...

...to overanalyze everything. It’s what I’ve been trained to do for the past, oh, 17 years. (I jest. Sort of.)

So I figured that the title, From Souk to Nafs deserved a bit of an explanation.

I’m sure a lot of native English speakers are familiar with the expression From Soup to Nuts.

Soup to Nuts: American English idiom meaning, more or less, from beginning to end, and anything to everything.

After a lot (And I mean a lot. See: number of times Edison tried unsuccessfully to create the light bulb) of failed names and general debate about the name of The Blog (as I affectionately—or perhaps not-so-affectionately—dubbed it during the creative process), we arrived at From Souk to Nafs, which is, of course, a play on the aforementioned expression From Soup to Nuts.

Arbitrary Arabic words stuffed into an English expression because they sound the part?

How little faith you have in me.

Haven’t I already told you that I overanalyze? Everything?

(I have.)

So, we have From Souk to Nafs, my lovely blog title.

Some of you may be aware that a souk is an open-air marketplace found in various Middle Eastern countries, for example, (*ahem, ahem*) Morocco.

Nafs is translated as soul, self, psyche, or ego.

We now have a marketplace and a soul, and I’m sure some of you are thinking What the heck? Where are you going with this, Genevieve? And you are perfectly sane in thinking so.

Surface level: What could possibly be more opposite/different than a marketplace and a soul, just as soup to nuts seems rather arbitrary?

My actual reasoning: My exchange is going to encompass a lot, and right now, the possibilities are unrestricted: they can be everything and anything. It can be as wide and diverse as the marketplace is from the soul. On one end, there is the bustling, crowded, lively marketplace with a hundred little vendors. A perfect cacophony of the thrums of life and people and newness. And on the other, there is a quiet, introspective entity that only I can access. A tranquil, reflective part of myself that is removed from the beautiful noise of life. I will experience them both—they are not just symbols—this hub of people and this awareness of my own being. I hope that I will not just experience the flurry of new people and new places. I hope that I will be able to grow, but also ground myself, and discover bits about myself that I have never before uncovered or understood. I have heard that these exchanges change people, and even though it scares me a little bit, I am ready to change, to find those bits of myself, and have a deeper awareness.

And so my journey will take me from what seems to be the active center of everything to the recesses of my own soul/conscious/self/etc and everywhere in between. Soup to nuts, souk to nafs.

Maybe I’m not explaining this right. Maybe this makes absolutely no sense at all. Maybe it only makes sense in my head. But that’s okay.

Because that’s the only place that it needs to. ;) 

In Which I Learn to Blog

Hello, all.

I’m guessing that if you’re here, you’re probably lost*. That, or you’re actually here to listen to me ramble. If the former, hello! (*waves*) I wish you luck in your quest back through the inter-webs. If the latter, you might want to take a minute to consider whether staying is actually such a good idea.

*Which is perfectly okay. We’re all lost at some point. I’d say there’s a fair amount of proof that it is part of self-discovery. For instance: me, right now, trying to figure out how this blogging thing works. I’m sure I’ll feel all the more enlightened and aware when I finish.

Note: You will be subjected to me learning to blog. Think for a second. I’m not going anywhere.

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So, for those of you who have decided to stay (at your own risk, might I add), asalamu ‘alaykum! (I’m sticking with phonetics for now.)

Since it’s just us, now, I’ll get down to it.

My name is Genevieve. (Possibly the most Boring. Introduction. Ever. Congratulations.)

I am going to Rabat, Morocco this summer (!!!) for intensive language schooling, courtesy of the State Department program National Security Language Initiative for Youth (NSLI-Y).

Shameless advertising.

I am PSYCHED, to say the least.

And with an imminent, amazing opportunity full of adventures in an awesome country, on a program that a lot of people haven’t heard of, I just love answering my Number One Frequently Asked Question: “Wait . . . what do they speak there?”

*face palm*

C’mon, guys. Really? *Sigh* Take a look at a map (Everyone should know where Morocco is. Has Casablanca taught you nothing?), find Morocco, and infer from its location. {. . .} Arabic. The answer is Arabic. I am going to be learning Arabic.  

With that settled, I’m pretty sure that the next things people ask during their barrage of questions (in order of descending frequency) are:

1. Really? 
2. Are you sure?
3. That’s really cool!
4. Where are you staying?
5. How long?
6. Are you staying in a hotel?  
7. Do you have your host family?
8. Will you, like, need to cover your head/are they, umm, Muslims?
9. Are you nervous?
10. Are your parents coming?

For those of you who have yet to ask me these in person: Yes; Yes; Not a question, thankyouverymuch, and I know; Rabat (didn’t I answer that already?!?); 6-7 weeks; What? Are you kidding?; No, not yet; Not in theory, since Morocco is relatively Westernized, though I will be bringing a hijab/“Umm”, yes; Well, I am going to a country I’ve never been to, so as to learn a language I don’t yet speak—deduce, please; and No, heavens no!

Glad that’s out of the way. I can now say with 94% certainty that 78% of the questions you might proceed to ask me will not annoy me.

(The fact that most of me is still on Cloud 9, even though it is more than a month after the fact, might have something to do with the lower levels of annoyance, too.)

Now, of course, (since it is a month and a half after being accepted, and a month and a half until I leave) I will be beginning preparation for my adventure. 

And let’s be real here: the thing that I am most looking forward to (other than, of course, the camaraderie of fellow language-enthusiasts, an electrifying new culture, a new family, and the language itself) is food.

Yes, food.

From everything I have read/seen, I am going to die with delight attacking breads, tagines, fruits, and any Ramadan treats. (I will blog about Ramadan at a later date; it deserves a post—or three—entirely dedicated to the religious aspects, Moroccan traditions, personal reflections, and yes, the food.)

Speaking of blog posts.

For all of you who ask, “So, once you get to Morocco you’ll update every day, right?”:

Hahahahahahaha! No. The answer is no. Just, no.

Will I try to be regular about it? Yes. Will I make a valiant attempt to update frequently, maybe even every day so that I remember every detail of my adventure? Yes. Does that mean it will happen? No.

From everything I’ve heard, I will be extreeeemely busy in Rabat, and I will end up deciding that sleep or food is more important. When I do post, my English will probably look more like Morfrarabinglish (<-- Moroccan Arabic, French, MSA, and English. It’s going to be a dizzyingly delightful mix/mess of languages), with the grammar and cohesiveness rivaling that of a two-year-old’s. At least you won’t have to attempt to decipher my handwriting.

(So yeah: I just spent quite a bit of my first post saying that I probably wasn't going to do that much posting. Oh well.) 

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So I guess that’s blogging, huh? Me rambling for a page or two about whatever comes to mind, skipping randomly from topic to topic, with a more-or-less captive audience?

I like it. ;)

Stay tuned (or don’t).

-Genevieve