Moroccan desperation, Moroccan inspiration

It's been awhile. Like going on three months long while. Though certainly not for lack of potentially inspiring goings ons, I have been thoroughly uninspired. Not uninspired in the "don't know what to write" sense, I'm talking uninspired in the "if I have to look at a computer screen for even two more minutes, I am really going to lose it" sense.

But in the name of historical memory, and proof of life to family far away, maybe I'll just have to get over it and get back on the horse.

The last week and a few, have found this little lady deep amidst the mysterious wonders of Morocco. And while I wish I were referring to breathtaking mosques, heartstopping desert sands and toe clinching medina markets, my frame of reference is rather the cryptic messages of the Moroccan government in the face of hundreds of courageous, hardworking and utterly distraught refugees and migrants.

Work being confidential as it is (or as confidential as it can possibly be when you see that our every email and text message is being handily diverted and read by some "unknown" body), I will spare the details ... except for one that had me laughing all the way home. Just imagine:

You are standing at the front of the grocery store in Morocco. To your left and down the stairs, you have the "alcohol corner", where alcohol is sold only to men, and only at exorbhitent prices. In front and to your right, dozens upon dozens of shoppers porting veils, loose Muslim "street gowns" (forgive my utter lack of proper vocabulary) and Moroccan leather slippers. Blaring on the store speaker system? None other than Alan Jackson's Gone Country.

Viva Rabat.