A Whole Lot of Normal

Last week I tapped on my neighbour’s door to ask for a bit of flour. Because that’s what you do when you neither cook nor bake, but you find yourself craving cheese sauce, and that sauce needs thickening, and you know your neighbour has flour, because she gave you some the one and only other time you felt a need to cheese things up.

It’s pleasant, having neighbours from whom you can acquire flour twice a year, in exchange for several kilos of peanut and almond butter. It’s pleasant, walking in and being welcome in someone else’s home. It’s pleasant, chatting about how we’re really feeling about this juncture in our lives.

My neighbour and I have both been in Morocco for a year and a half now, and we agree that Year Two is decidedly different from Year One. Year One was all about novelty and adventure. Year Two is pretty much just a whole lot of normal. Even the exciting things (trips to Venice, and the like) don’t seem as blog-worthy as they did last year, because they now fall within the parameters of “normal” as well. What is there to say about a trip to Venice that I haven’t already said about a trip to France or Austria or Bavaria? Just add “gondola” (or, in my case, stand-up paddle boarding), and the story’s done. I got on a plane. I found my hotel. I walked around, saw interesting things, and bought souvenirs. Then I got back on the plane. Ta da! There seems to be very little these days that isn’t just ho-hum-normal, every-day life.

Even living on the edge of Casablanca does’t feel all that weird any more. I don’t (usually) go fetal for six hours after an afternoon of driving in the city (unless a visit to the esthetician is involved – but I won’t get into that). I don’t get stomach maladies from eating questionable goat tagines. I have a hairdresser, a choir, a gym, and a car, and with these basic necessities, what is left to attain?

Well, yes, Arabic. There is that. And French. These two pursuits keep my brain limber and my tongue permanently twisted. Four hours of language lessons a week will do that, even though four is never enough. Not having access to the words you need to express your wishes is maddening. And having access to only half of the words you need is almost more maddening.

But whatever. I’m in Morocco. I’ve been here a while. I have a nice apartment, a handful of friends, and a job I love. Oh, did I not mention the job? The job’s a treat. I get to spend my days singing and dancing with about 400 kids, most of whom adore me, now that we’ve come to an understanding about who makes the rules. I am confident in my role and valued by my administration, and I get to spend all day, every day, being appreciated for doing what I do best. That’s a pretty fantastic way to live a life.

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And so I’m staying, for another year at least. I’m just not ready to go back to the endless rounds of job applications, the political distemper, the icy commute, the winter boots. Yes, I miss drinking tapwater and riding my bicycle in Jackson Park. I miss having central heating and a real piano. I miss my favourite people. But I have people here, too. I have my rollerblades and my hammock yoga. I have a shiny new teapot, a heating pad, and a neighbour with flour to share. We agree, it’s not the momentous life shift that we experienced a year ago when we left our homelands to sojourn here. Our social circles are actually shrinking as people we work with move on to other positions in other parts of the world. I haven’t set foot in a hammam all year, nor had any body parts removed. It’s a quiet, pleasant, day-to-day life, and it’s what a life should be. I’m happy here. I’m content. And I’m staying just a little while longer. Bring on Year Three!

Hammock yoga