When it rains, it pours.

Well, I succeeded. I've been here just under a week, and I've already made it rain profusely.  I'd like to take this moment to thank my mother for making me buy/bring a raincoat...w/o a hood. That sounded a little mean.  I'll rephrase.  My Moroccan Oomi would never send me anywhere without proper raingear.  Also My Moroccan mother spoon feeds me couscous! How's that Debbie (JK! jk!) 

In all seriousnessness...oh nevermind--the turkish toilet has rendered seriousness a thing of the past.  Basically Rabat is endlessly fascinating and to one who's eyes wander (strabismus lives on!) it's virtually impossible not to get lost in the Medina.  Leading into the residential areas of this walled cavern I like to call Beitee--my home--are various marketplaces that are crawling with live animals and littered with dead ones.  There are also olives, spices, zeitun, sakar, shoes, djalabas, oranges, magic carpets, normal carpets,  surfboards, pirated copies of Will Smith movies, praying men, kneeling men, men without arms,  men without dignity, orphans, rubbish and gems.  

And that's not even the half of it. 

Here's the good news: Moroccans love Obama. It's the start and end of every conversation. MoroccObama indeed.