Saturday, June 25, 2005


Morocans are a testy bunch. In their markets, if you touch something, be prepared to haggle to an acceptable price and buy it or get screamed at by the owner in a melodic mix of French and English. It is amazing what words foreigners learn first. A man with no grasp of whatsoever of an English sentence can nevertheless go head-to-head with your typical sailor in a cuss-fest over a carved wooden box.

On the train from Tangiers to Marrakech, while making my way to the bathroom, I accidentally kicked a woman's chicken. I heard her mutter under her breath, "une varicelle sur votre aîné"--a pox on your first-born. Yesterday afternoon, David developed a rash of red bumps from head to toe. They persisted, and worsened overnight. coincidencece? You decide.

Jaime called the Doctor who asked us to bring him in. After thorough examination that consisted of asking me a bunch of questions that the nurse asked me, the doctor concluded that it is a delayed allergic reaction to the antibiotic we've had him on since his last ear infection and bronchitis.

I could have kicked that chicken out the window.

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