I think the best way to describe my first days in Morocco is to start with a joke. I’ll try my best not to screw it up.
A red-head, a brunette and a blonde were running from the cops, when they spotted a farm and decided to hide out there.
Once at the farm, the red-head ran into the chicken coop. The cops peaked in and she yelped, “cockle-doodle-doo!” so they thought she was just another chicken.
They moved on to check the pigsty, where the brunette happened to be hiding. The cops looked in and she went, “oink, oink” so they thought she was just another pig.
Finally, just as the cops were about to give up, the sheriff kicked a bag of potatoes where the blonde happened to be hiding, and the blonde yells, “potato, potato!”
I’m not sure if that’s how the joke actually goes, but the point is that me trying to blend in, in Morocco, is like the blonde trying to blend in with the sack of potatoes. It’s silly and it’s not going to happen.
I nearly spit out my coffee this morning when the Moroccan waiter at breakfast asked,”How many kids do you have?” and I realized he was hitting on me, and that was the pick up line. Once I told him that I have all of zero children, he asked about my husband, also non-existent, and subsequently asked if I had a boyfriend.
Then he jokingly stated, “100 camels and two tents for you to be my wife.” It was one of those jokes, that you know isn’t really a joke. Like when you meet an attractive stranger and tell them they should just date you and you’re dead serious, but you say, “just kidding,” because normal people don’t do that.
Anyways, I’m not very well versed on camel and tent values, but that seemed like a lot so I was obviously flattered. I laughed along because sometimes, when you’re the blonde in a potato sack, all you can do is yell “potato,” and hope for the best.
