As our trip draws to a close I’ll take this opportunity to pass along some miscellaneous tidbits we’ve learned, observed, and been the cause of along the way:
The amount of liquid Laynni consumes is entirely dictated by the proximity and attractiveness of the nearest bathroom facilities. Needless to say, she’s usually thirsty.
Ironically, while the mint tea (or Berber Whiskey – ha ha) tastes somewhat like toothpaste, it actually contains 2 cavities per pot.
When a major city has only one bar tourists will pay $3 for 1/2 a beer, say “Merci, Monsieur” and ask for more.
There are no laundries, only the occasional dry cleaner, and of course the closest river.
Pay with a 200dr note for a 160dr hotel bill – no change, Monsieur? 100dr for a 80dr restaurant bill – no change? 10dr for a 5dr bottle of water – no change? 5dr fr a 2 1/2dr glass of orange juice – no change? At least I can appreciate the consistency.
When you start a conversation in French most people assume you are capable of continuing it.
You don’t get your bill at a restaurant until you ask for it and can feel free to sit for hours after a meal if you choose.
Sidi Ali (pronounced Seedy Alley) doubles as both the name of the bottled water and the location it is normally purchased.
After holding out for nearly 3 weeks Laynni finally succumbed to the Henna Trap, getting her ankle done in a process socially equivalent to having your hair braided in Mexico.
Morocco is the first country where we’ve seen both sit and squat toilets within the same bathroom, leaving you free to proceed wherever your specialty lies. Or experiment and fail miserably, if you so desire.
In Morocco, the moustache is still king.
If the snake was really as dangerous as they say do you think they’d keep taunting it when no one is around?
Just as raising your voice can sometimes overcome a language barrier, so it appears to be the way Moroccan men “win” their conversations. Although, apparently, the odd slap is sometimes needed to put them over the top.
Experts are investigating the possibility that all Arabic music could, in fact, be just one long song.
Once it reaches the point where you are wearing a street performer’s hat you better just accept the fact you’ll have to pay something.
We’ve learned that, although meals often take a surprisingly long time to arrive, using the phrase “What are they doing, killing the chicken?” isn’t as funny when it’s not rhetorical.
It’s easy to get through the souks without any hassle – as long as you don’t enter any shops, stop, point, move your head from side to side or lift your eyes from the ground.
If you think you’d find it strange to see an entire dead sheep loaded into the baggage compartment of a bus along with your backpacks, imagine what you’d think when you felt it kicking the floor under your feet.
Why is it that people understand that you must learn to play guitar, yet believe that anyone can play drums with their hands?
Laynni’s haggling skills have improved by leaps and bounds over the past couple days and she’s even developed her own signature move: a horizontal slash! of her hand combined with an I-mean-business frown and an authoritatively spoken “Final Price!”. So far I’ve stuck with the idiotic chuckle.
I thought I knew what top-notch entertainment was all about until I experienced the Essaouira travelling restaurant band featuring:
The foot stomper, the 6-fingered lute player, and, last but not least, the guy playing the pot on his head with a stick.
So ends our Moroccan adventure, assuming everyone remains healthy and upright during the flights home. We’ll see you all soon.