I've found it!

I've found my place in Morocco. Or at least in the part of Morocco I have been to. It's Oujda, town to steal my heart and get my feet dancing. It was always to be on my list of must stops, in fact it was to be my first, but the guide book went on for so long about the closed Algerian border and how grim everything was, that I thought I would enjoy it better at the end of the trip. But here I am with my first hotel room with carpet (and a steal at only 15 euros), with cosmopolitan cafes lining the streets, cake stalls a plenty, a funky medina, and not the cold two degrees I was expecting. More about Oujda in posts to follow.

I have also had my first conversation in English so expect verbal diarrhoea to follow now the blockage has been cleared...

BE MINE
I just got chatted up by a very young man claiming to be 25. He had been growing bum fluff a long time. He told me he was yet to meet his wife. I said at 25, he should be in no hurry. He was in a hurry that we meet again, tomorrow at 12.30 in front of his scarf shop. Bless, I liked the scarves more.

DO YOU SPEAK ENGLISH?
There was a girl on the train who I was convinced was a Westerner in Moroccan clothing. She was so European in features and so neatly Muslim that I was convinced. When she asked with minimal French to look at my guide book, I was sure she was trying to hide some romantic intercultural liaision. It turns out she is Moroccan, an English teacher and has only been married a year, hence the romantic blushes on her part. She liked my story though.

NOT AL CAPONE, SCABFACE
Due to stress and a lot of colding (I have forgot how to say my English verbs) I am covered in an attractive array of nasal coldsores. Aside from looking freakishly ugly, these are very painful, make sneezing difficult and attract stray bits of tissue and scarf fibre which attach invisibly but make their presence felt with every breath. It's annoying and gross. And they don't have anything as good or as hard to spell as Zoivrax here...

DO NOT EAT IN THE STREET
This is a rule I made myself. Unless I eat in a very pornographic manner, eating a chocolate ball the size of a child's fist atttracted quite a lot of attention when I just did it. A lot of men spoke to me (women tend not to) and as I didn't know what they were saying, I hurriedly hid my chocolate ball and wiped the bits from my face. In contrast however, when I eat proper food, I eat like a Moroccan (avec les mains). Such a thing is apparently worthy of a conversation topic. I have seen many waiters discuss this and when I shoot them an accusational glare, they explain that it's because I eat like them. Yeah but they haven't seen me with chocolate balls.