Is that …?
One thing to avoid doing in Morocco:
I went to buy milk from the hanoot (the small general store located on every corner of every block) across the street today, just like everyday. Instead of finding Abdullah, I found his father manning the store. Abdullah is taking a well-deserved break and went to visit some family in some city some place. Now, I know Abdullah’s father, a spry gentleman in his late 60’s, pretty well. We’ve had conversations about the weather and about the Amzaigh in this region (and about Bush, of course). We’ve joked about the cultural earthquake that would occur if bread suddenly ceased to exist. We have history.
Today sitting with Abdullah’s father was a boy named Hussein. Hussein, I found out, is six years old. Every time I said something, Hussein would chuckle quietly to himself as most children do when I’m in their presence. I guess it’s really funny to see a big white man speaking their language… Hussein seemed liked a great kid; however, I had never seen Hussein so I asked Abudllah’s father if Hussein was his grandson. He looked at me curtly and responded, “No. That is my son, not my grandson.” My face dropped.
This isn’t the first time I’ve done this: I had better not ask next time.