Walking back to work through the dusty streets of Rabat, I cross the street to avoid a group of young men a block in front of me. I don't even need to look at them, it happens automatically by now. As I walk past the construction directly across from them, they call to me "Hola....Hola!" Okay, so that wasn't as bad as it could have been, nothing gross, but I remark how I must look differently as they are trying Spanish with me, because I usually get plain English. Still, I can see wolf-like hunger in their eyes as I pass.
I turn the corner and dodge two unsmiling women walking in suits and enter the building where I work. I teach at a small center that prepares Moroccan students to take American standardized tests, and its on the fourth floor of a building overlooking a busy intersection. I wait years for the elevator to take me up to the unlit hallway outside of our rented space. I use the key I grabbed on my way out the door the last time and quietly slide open the door, expecting classes to be in session. "Hola," my boss calls.
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| Me very tired but very happy, a few months back, about to dig into a tagine. |
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