PARLEZ-VOUS ANGLAIS?!

I have always considered myself a person of above-average intelligence. I'm no Albert Einstein, but I look pretty smart when I stand around most of my friends (especially Rex ...I am Albert Einstein next to Rex). In spite of my amazingly quick wit, handsome good looks and above average intelligence, I was recently humbled. I speak two languages fluently (Spanish and English). Jenny would argue that I also speak the language of love, but this is not that kind of blog. When I took this assignment, I was quick to ask what type of language training I would receive. The USAF sends most exchange instructors to Monterey, CA to attend its language course...that was not the case with me. I asked about Rosetta Stone...no dice with that either. So...I was told I need not worry..."everyone speaks English in Morocco. In fact, many people speak Spanish because it is so close to Spain". That my friends was a lie! Sadly, I totally fell for it. I met my would-be fellow instructors in Dallas, and they spoke English extremely well. One of them was also fluent in Spanish! I was thrilled with the fact that I would not have to struggle upon arriving in a foreign country. Well...I am struggling!

I should have seen the signs on the wall during my first week in Rabat. I think there was a lot of smoke and mirrors being used though. Most everyone at the hotel spoke English (duh..."everyone speaks English in Morocco"). However, when I went to the small grocery store to get a Coca Light, there was not even a hint of understanding from the girl behind the counter. The same held true at the one restaurant I went to every night I was in Rabat (The Coc Majic...I'm not making this stuff up, and no, I don't have to talk to my Bishop about going there). I kept going there because I could literally just point to the one thing on the menu (chicken), and magically (pun intended) it would show up...all without speaking a word of French! The embassy was a different story, and once again gave me false hope that maybe they did speak English in Morocco. All of the Moroccans working there spoke very well. Needless to say, they were the exception and not the rule.

When I finally got to Marrakech, we ate out at a restaurant where one of the guys from the embassy ordered for us. He speaks fluent French, and dazzled us all. Sadly he left back for Rabat after dinner. The next morning I realized I had nothing to eat. I was faced with two options...starve to death in a small apartment, or venture out and face the music. I decided to suck it up and chose not to die. The decision to head to the grocery store reminded me of my time in Chile. We had been there just a few days and Jen was cooped up in a hotel room with three kids and a mini-fridge. We had to buy groceries everyday. It was my first day at work, and I told her to walk across the street to the supermaket and buy a few things. I won't sell Jen out, but I will say that the trip ended in tears. Bless her heart!! She did come back with groceries though...and some emotional scars. Anyway, I share that story only because I can now relate with her how awful that experience must have been.


I do not speak French!! Not a word!! So going into that store was just slightly intimidating. But with a desire not to die in my apartment, I entered the Marjane (a Moroccan version of Wal Mart, except it has lots of birds and cats roaming around inside). I managed to aimlessly roam around for the better part of 30 minutes and had successfully filled my cart with a loaf of bread, some bottled water, 2 Snickers bars, a few liters of Coca Light, a jar of peanut butter and some chocolate pudding. Clearly I was on a health kick. I realized I had enough dairy and grains, but I lacked some good choices from the Deli. I had avoided this moment. I walked up to the counter and asked for a 1/4 kilo of shaved turkey (for some odd reason, I could not find any ham). I might as well have said it in Pig Latin. She had absolutely no idea what I had said. I therefore did the only logical thing...I repeated myself. I half expected her to jump over the counter and smack me at that point. I resorted to then pointing at the appropriate turkey and making a chopping sign in what I thought was a 1/4. I think because I repeated the signal several times, she thought that the total was cumulitive. I ended up with enough turkey to last me until my replacement gets here. Long story short...I didn't bother with any of the other counters where I would be forced to interact with actual people (Instead I picked up a few more Snickers Bars...just in case).

That leads me to my final story. Rex...if you made it this far, you will have wanted to have been standing next to me during this moment in my life. I'd still look much smarter than you, but at best it would be a watered down version of Einstein. With that said, Saturday I finally made it over to the gym. I had long eaten my final Snickers Bar, and felt like it was time to get back in shape. I had purchased a membership to the gym at the hotel. They normally charge a mere $36 per day (only $13,140 a year), but I was able to work a deal and only have to pay about $100 per month!! (why did that sound like a good deal at the time?). My first problem was just getting in the gym. I had made my arrangements with the manager, but wasn't given a membership card, or asked to use my fingerprint or retnal scan...NOTHING! So when I showed up, I had no idea how I would get past the two Nazzi women working the counter. To my great surprise, neither of them spoke English...or Spanish...or the language of love (just kidding Jen, I didn't try that one). Feeling like a complete retard, I went back out to the car and got my cell phone and did what I had done when I needed to fill up with gas and couldn't get anyone to understand me ("everyone speaks English in Morocco")...I called my Moroccan friend and colleague and had him explain what was going on. TOUCHDOWN!! I was in! What more could possibly go wrong? I had a great workout. In fact so good that I felt I deserved to sit in the sauna for awhile. I went downstairs and found the locker room. There were some robes, lockers, showers, and there before me were two glorious saunas. Both were clearly marked with something in French that I had no clue what they meant. I stepped into the first sauna, and it wasn't even hot. I assumed the sign meant "80 degree sauna". I tried the next sauna and found heaven!! It was filled with steam and had some eucalyptus burning as well. I turned up my music and enjoyed being alone! That all changed after about 10 minutes. Who entered you might ask? Yep...a woman...in nothing more than a robe (this I do need to talk to the Bishop about). Needless to say we were both slightly shocked. To make a long (very long) story short(er)...I was kindly asked to leave. The sign? "No Hommes". The translation? "No Men"!