He’s so raven

So maybe I missed something not living in Pittsburgh proper, but this exemplary article from the Washington Post informs me that Pittsburgh’s incumbent mayor was, at 26 years old in 2006, the youngest person to ever be elected as mayor in a major U.S. city. Pretty cool, right? Oh, he gets cooler — so much so that I couldn’t really be bothered to pay attention to the main point of this article.

It says of Ravenstahl’s renegade history:

In October, Ravenstahl borrowed an SUV that had been purchased by a federal Homeland Security Department grant and used it to drive friends to a Toby Keith concert. When confronted, he paid the city for use of the car and apologized. But Ravenstahl also said he planned to keep going to concerts and bars, because “that’s what 27-year-olds do, and I shouldn’t be any different.”

Is Pittsburgh the new Party City, USA? Also, the article takes a great turn when it makes this offensive (though probably accurate, I’m embarrassed to say) statement about Pittsburghers’ priorities:

His youthful good looks have helped make him a sort of crossover celebrity — the Britney Spears of Pittsburgh, his spokeswoman says — who faces incessant demands for interviews and appearances unprecedented for a Steel City mayor. Seeking privacy last year, he made what this city considers the ultimate sacrifice: Ravenstahl temporarily stopped attending Steelers games and watched from home instead.

Well, I’m glad to know America’s still America. See you in June.

Go Big or Go Home

Last week was spring break, which I spent recovering from some vague but persistent illness and celebrating the Prophet’s birthday (both involved partying).

To kick things off, I had my hands hennaed in perhaps the most leisurely manner possible. The ladies of my host family gathered in an apartment for what may have been nine hours. We took tea twice, nibbled on cakes and cookies from the family bakery, ate a three-course dinner at approximately 11 p.m., and at some point, each of us spent about ten minutes getting our hands hennaed. I sometimes lose patience with the pageantry that surrounds so many Moroccan activities; nothing is hurried, and everything is accompanied with food.

And maybe I’ve been too hurried lately (I realized recently – despite my best intentions to be leisurely – that I accidentally walk an extraordinary amount in this city.) because I was alternately sick and not sick for days leading up to break. My symptoms were too vague for my quirky French doctor, who suggested that I’m just one of those people who “ne supportent pas” changes in barometric pressure. Still, she prescribed me some allergy medication and strong Ibuprofen (because we were both convinced Americans hardly use aspirin. Maybe not true.). They seemed to do the trick.

But whether it was the meds or more hospitable barometric pressure, thanks to god I got better because spring break is certainly no time to be sick. After realizing that airfare to Tunisia is not cheap and that Marrakech, conversely, is only a train ride away and home to the largest disco in Africa, my friends and I knew where we had to go.

Marrakech clubbing, after the break.

Fun and games

Like so many Moroccans, I am currently captivated by the Lebanese reality show, “Star Academy 5.” (And I can only imagine that the previous four seasons were just as gripping.) This show – which I have perhaps inaccurately described to some as the “American Idol” of the Arab world – is not only a singing competition, but also an acting and musicianship competition that maybe involves trivia questions or least a lot of text messaging and Pepsi product placement.

Despite only speaking Arabiya shwiya (a little), I’m generally able to follow the plotline. The contestants live together under constant surveillance in a “Big Brother”-esque house in Beirut, where they rehearse under the guidance of their stern but loving professors. Each week, after an over-the-top musical spectacular (This week, a really inspirational pop group named Hot Banditoz was the special guest), someone is eliminated.

The contestants come from all over the Arab world, and being young and hip, they often speak in French or English, which is of great benefit to me. The only full sentence in Arabic I’ve been able to pick out so far was “Coulle pizza, habibi” (“Eat pizza, boyfriend”), which says just as much about Moroccan culture as it does about my Arabic textbook.

Speaking of diversions, my status as a minor celebrity was certainly elevated this week. Based on a flier calling for “American and European-looking extras between the ages of 18 and 40” (Never have I heard a more accurate description of me.), I found myself working 12-hour days (granted, only two) for an American (maybe British?) movie about Iraq that’s being filmed near Rabat.

Pros and cons, after the break.

Learning Fassi Women’s Rooftop Arabic

Just over a week ago, I visited Fez with the abroad program. The twelve of us traveled by bus through the Middle Atlas, stopping briefly in Meknes, Ifrane, Volubilis, and Moulay Idriss. The stress of being in close quarters with a packed schedule seemed to get to everyone and, by the time we returned to Rabat, nearly half of us had colds (which, I suspect, was only exacerbated by our stroll in the rain through Volubilis’ ancient vomitoriums).

Perils aside, I wasn’t let down by Fez. Fassis have a reputation among their fellow Moroccans for being eccentric (I’m not sure I saw definitive evidence of this.), and the city itself has a reputation for being Morocco’s religious and traditional center.

The latter reputation manifests itself most in the medina. Like any large North African city, Fez has both an old medina (built just after the coming of Islam) and a ville nouvelle (built just after the coming of the French). At the edge of the ville nouvelle, next to a vast no-man’s land that divides the two areas, sits perhaps the largest McDonald’s I’ve ever seen. Café McDo’s seems to be a geographic reference point in Moroccan cities. I still cringe every time I have to say it to a cab driver.

Fez vs. Rabat, after the break.

On Eating Well

I take classes in Agdal, Rabat’s chic, modern neighborhood, which sits far outside the city’s old walls. It’s a nightlife hotspot, which you wouldn’t know from walking around on a Saturday night, but the bars and restaurants are always packed. And god knows the McDonald’s is the place to see and be seen (Could it be the new McArabia sandwich?).

Since my 20-minute bus ride doesn’t allow me to go home for lunch, generally the biggest meal of the day, I’m slowly eating my way through Agdal.

Lot of chicken, after the break.