From the hotel. Nov 17 Parte II

November 17
5:00pm

This morning Carly and I moved into our new home: room 14 at Hotel Central, next to the massive Hotel Balima (which has good café au lait) and across from the Gare Rabat Ville train station.

The room is dingy and old; the floral print bed-covers and drapes are faded and look to have more years that I do; there is no toilet seat on the toilet (the toilet bowl doesn’t allow for the most comfortable bathroom time, but that’s alright). We have two beds: I took the twin, Carly the full. We have a beaten up old table and two chairs. We have a dilapidated boudoir with two side doors and one large middle section. None of the doors close. This is what our budget allows us.

Enough about the not so wonderful aspects. Despite its filth and age, I love this room. It is on the corner of the hotel, so we have huge windows on two walls. The light is lovely during the day. Carly and I moved the table and chairs one large window and named it our “breakfast nook”. We moved all of our clothing and toiletries into our own sides of the boudoir; we put our belongings in the rickety nightstand and in the bathroom. Carly put pictures of her friends and family along the mirror on the boudoir. I put my spare change in the desk drawer, and my chapstick and hand cream in the nightstand. We’re lounging on bed and chair, respectively, enjoying the fact that we are finally in our own space.

After two and a half months of having no space to call mine, I felt liberated and ridiculously happy when I put my toothpaste and face wash on the counter in the bathroom. I put my books in my nightstand next to my bed. My stuffed owl (with a sordid name not to be published here) is relaxing on my pillow. My side of the room is a little messy. (Yes, Mom, I did keep everything in the Ayad family’s home neat and tidy, and there was “a place for everything, and everything in its place.” It was downright oppressive). It’s so nice to make a mess. It’s nice to listen to my own music (Nickel Creek, currently) while typing, and not have to compete with Yassine’s Moroccan hip-hop or answer Zainab’s insistent questions. I love my Moroccan family dearly, but I am SO happy to be on my own. SO happy.

It’s peaceful to come home to my own place, where I don’t have to struggle to communicate, or eat when I don’t want to eat in order to please my mother or sister who has worked hard to make the food. I’m going to eat peanut butter and bananas, drink juice and Coca-Cola Light, when and if I want. I’m going to go to cafes whenever I want; I’m going to be at internet cafes past 7:30 at night, and I will come home to my cozy room at the hour I choose. No more 8:00pm curfews.

Oh, how I’ve missed the freedom of the American college life. I have a dorm room in downtown Rabat!

I never appreciated my ability to live a private life and do things when and if I want to until I moved to Morocco. Moroccan hospitality and tradition doesn’t allow for privacy or personal desires.

I have my liberty back! WOO HOOO!