mi casa es su casa

Towing a wagon full of camping supplies, maps, bike tools, and an e-reader nook, my first ever couchsurfer rolled into town yesterday afternoon. A native of the Catalonia region in Northern Spain who just finished his bachelor’s degree, Raimon figured that now was as good as ever to travel. He and his Specialized mountain bike are making their way from Barcelona to Senegal, an endeavor so audacious I couldn’t say no when he asked me to host him. Knowing (and being incredibly jealous of) his need to carbo-load for the miles ahead, I made a huge pasta dinner. He had brought three different types of jamon and chorizo and used it to make a Spanish appetizer (though he identifies first as being Catalan). I asked him what the differences between the types were he replied “different species” which I think meant different spices. Other than that, his English is quite good. Tonight we will meet some friends for a jazz show in Rabat.

I have heard murmurs of more protesting in Rabat and Casablanca tomorrow. There were a few movements in Fez and smaller towns yesterday, coinciding with the regional day of agitation in solidarity/recognition of the start of Egypt’s manifestation and the ongoing turmoil in Libya and elsewhere. In Kenitra there was an outbreak of a different kind. This morning, a popular Arabic tune transformed the women’s floor of the gym into a dance floor. Women everywhere stopped their elliptical machine, their free weights, or their stationary bikes to join the hip swaying, shoulder shaking, revelry.  A fly drawn to the light, I couldn’t resist. When the dancing subsided as naturally as it began, the ring leader/trainer approached me and offered to teach me next Tuesday morning. So, either she was blown away by my belly dancing skills and wants to help perfect them, or more likely, I was so embarrassingly graceless that only private lessons can cure me of my inelegance. In any case, my danse orientale lessons should be amusing.