Bohemian Rhapsody

Everyone I know who's moved from Morocco does it and I am no exception. A last minute panic has set in and I feel the need to shop for all thing Moroccan. As if I can take a piece of Morocco with me by doing this. Who am I kidding? I want pieces of Morocco. You know, brightly painted tables, antique carved doors, protective hamsa necklaces and patinaed metal lanterns. I want them all. But can I possibly get it all before the movers come to pack it all up to go home? The amazing race has just begun.

Last week a friend of mine was talking about what was on her amazing race list. And she mentioned the one item her daughter wanted to get before they left Morocco. Faith and I guffawed as she told us. With a mixture of sheer disbelief mixed with a bit of horror I muttered, "That's ridiculous! Are YOU kidding me?"

When Faith and I went to Essaoira we saw them everywhere. And we mocked them everywhere. Until the last day of our trip when we saw them in a whole new light. Stripes. She mentioned casually that with stripes it kinda worked. I was thinking the same thing, but I treaded cautiously unsure if this was a setup for more mocking. I think we were both serious. Or at least I was. Somehow their hideousness had grown on me. But we were leaving our beach vacation and headed to Rabat where I was positive they didn't sell them.

Back in Rabat, Craig and I headed to the medina. There were prodigious ancient doors and picayune chairs.

Sleepy stray medina cats.

And then there they were. Harem pants. Otherwise known as, MC Hammer pants, Turkish trousers, aladdin pants or 7 day pants, because you have enough room in the crotch for about 7 days of crap. Depending how much fiber you have in your diet of course. Craig was both shocked and horrified. Which of course I understood, because I felt exactly the same a week ago. But I bought them anyway. I justified my purchase explaining that I can use them for belly dance.  Which gave him the assurance he needed to believe he'd never see me in them. Ever.

But guess who took this picture.  Bingo.  Craig.  Turns out, all that mattered to him was he could still see the silhouetto of my ass...
Scaramouche, scaramouche, will you do the fandango?
Thunderbolts and lightning - very very frightening me
Galileo, Galileo, Galileo, Galileo, Galileo Figaro - magnifico-o-o-o

Ok, so I probably pulled off Bohemian Rhapsody as well as I pulled off those pants. But that's not the end of the story. When I take off my Moroccan MC Hammer pants, I see the label.

And I realize, I could've bought these pants at any head shop in Anytown, USA. And if I just put on a croched hat and some funky beaded jewelry and stop shaving my arm pits and wearing deodorant (wait, I already do that)....

Oh my god, I'm going to fit in perfectly in Manitou Springs when we get back to Colorado!