Lessons
I have started Arabic lessons at a language school in Marrakech. I walk to school. It is thirty minutes.
I walk down the four flights of steps in my stairwell, through the courtyard between the buildings of the residence, past the stray cats and the playing children, past the guard who waves hello and the motorbike repair shop, onto Ave. Asharaf, past Les 2 Freres bistro and Cafe R&M, across the street and along the barren dirt path to the light at the N7.
I walk along the busy boulevard, past the men with their carts of melons and plums for the market, along the lots of construction equipment, broken glass, and plastic bottle caps. I pass the women in their hijabs and caftans, with their children in their arms and their eyes cast down walking in the opposite direction; past the cars, taxis, motorbikes, and bicycles, without shade of any kind except my straw hat, until I turn onto the N9 at the roundabout by the McDonalds.
I pass the patisserie and double back to pretend to scan the eclairs, tarts, cookies, and other treats inside just to bask in the air conditioning for a time. It is 104 degrees Farenheit this afternoon. Out again past the cafe, the boucherie, the pharmacie, and down the side street by the hair salon, into the neighborhood of my school; past the sand-colored villas with their zinnias, bougainvillea, and orange trees; past the guard who nods hello, and into the cul-de-sac, to #102.
I push open the heavy iron gate and walk up the two flights of steps into the school. I sit at the little metal table in the tiny shaded balcony to rest before my lesson, drinking the last of the cool, bottled water I have brought. I begin to pat myself down with my scarf, the sweat having rolled into the creases of my elbows and behind my knees and trickling down my back and along the waistband of my skirt. I am aware that I smell of sweat and dirt and pity.
All during my lesson, I am embarrassed at my own smell and feel sorry for my lovely teacher, Saida, somehow so cool in her caftan and hijab despite the heat and the lack of air conditioning in the school. I wish I could apologize to her in Arabic.
I walk down the four flights of steps in my stairwell, through the courtyard between the buildings of the residence, past the stray cats and the playing children, past the guard who waves hello and the motorbike repair shop, onto Ave. Asharaf, past Les 2 Freres bistro and Cafe R&M, across the street and along the barren dirt path to the light at the N7.
I walk along the busy boulevard, past the men with their carts of melons and plums for the market, along the lots of construction equipment, broken glass, and plastic bottle caps. I pass the women in their hijabs and caftans, with their children in their arms and their eyes cast down walking in the opposite direction; past the cars, taxis, motorbikes, and bicycles, without shade of any kind except my straw hat, until I turn onto the N9 at the roundabout by the McDonalds.
I pass the patisserie and double back to pretend to scan the eclairs, tarts, cookies, and other treats inside just to bask in the air conditioning for a time. It is 104 degrees Farenheit this afternoon. Out again past the cafe, the boucherie, the pharmacie, and down the side street by the hair salon, into the neighborhood of my school; past the sand-colored villas with their zinnias, bougainvillea, and orange trees; past the guard who nods hello, and into the cul-de-sac, to #102.
I push open the heavy iron gate and walk up the two flights of steps into the school. I sit at the little metal table in the tiny shaded balcony to rest before my lesson, drinking the last of the cool, bottled water I have brought. I begin to pat myself down with my scarf, the sweat having rolled into the creases of my elbows and behind my knees and trickling down my back and along the waistband of my skirt. I am aware that I smell of sweat and dirt and pity.
All during my lesson, I am embarrassed at my own smell and feel sorry for my lovely teacher, Saida, somehow so cool in her caftan and hijab despite the heat and the lack of air conditioning in the school. I wish I could apologize to her in Arabic.
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