Alien

A very old and dear friend of mine (American) once said to me, over too many glasses of red wine, “I don’t like you very much when you speak French.”  When I asked her what she meant, she replied that she thought I had changed and had become someone completely alien to her.

Alien.  I was thoroughly shaken by that comment.  Is this what happens to someone who has lived a very long time outside of his or her culture of origin? Is there a part of us that becomes odd and unrecognizable to our oldest friends and family as we become more and more competent in the ways of our host culture?  Is there something “foreign” in our outlook and our mannerisms that disturbs our oldest friends and family?

To take it one step further, did something very fundamental change in our personalities when we crossed over into another culture and language?  I am not talking about surface assimilation and I am not talking about getting over culture shock.

This is the question I ask myself:  if I had stayed in the US and not moved to France in my early 20’s, would I be today, at 45, fundamentally the same person with the same character and personality?  Are the changes that come with integration/assimilation so deep that whatever it is that makes me an individual is someone radically different from the hypothetical person I would have been if I stayed home?

It is impossible to test this hypothesis. I did leave and I could not have spent the last 20 years in two places.  But here are a few ideas that I play with.

Deep assimilation into another reality is a radical destruction of the old persona and the gradual reconstruction of a new one that is more appropriate to the context.  Does one ever consciously think that, no, here I draw the line and I will not change?  Yes.  I think this is why immigrants hold fast to their religious beliefs or, in my case, a visceral attachment to the concept of “free speech”.   

Wherever you draw the line, the whole process is very destabilizing to those of us who live it.  It makes me question every single damn day, “What am I?" There are moments I crave the ignorance of those who have never ever left home.  Where is my center?  Where is the part of me that will never change wherever I am?  Every person an individual, says my North American upbringing.  But how unique is the individual molded by culture?

We adapt so well.  It is frightening how quickly we change to suit the circumstances.  

And how we become strangers to our compatriots.

“...the image of a constant human nature independent of time, place, and circumstance, of study and professions, transient fashions and temporary opinions, may be an illusion, that what man is may be so entangled with where he is, who he is and what he believes that it is inseparable from them... Whatever modern anthropology asserts - and it seems to have asserted almost everything at one time or another - it is firm in the conviction that men unmodified by the customs of particular places do not in fact exist, have never existed, and most important, could not in the very nature of the case exist.”

Clifford Geertz

The Interpretation of Cultures

The Flophouse in Morocco - Departure

Just before I left Casablanca I had a very interesting conversation with one of my classmates at EHTC who has been following this blog.  He seemed to be concerned that I was only seeing the positive and that I was missing the larger picture.  He is absolutely right.  One week is not nearly enough to acquire a true understanding of the people, the culture and the country.  

However, I came disposed to like Morocco and I was not disappointed.  Not once.

I also find it terribly ironic (after being warned repeatedly about Moroccan cab drivers) that the first thing that happened to me when I returned to France last night was to get a taxi driver who "got lost" on the way to Versailles.  He actually tried to charge me 100 Euros for a trip from Roissy. :-)

The Flophouse in Morocco - The City

After leaving the mosque the rest of the day was spent on a whirlwind trip around the city.  We passed leisurely through the old quarter on tiny side streets, drove by the port, looped around to see the palace, looped around again and headed for the ocean where I walked along the beach and sniffed the cold clean salty air of the Atlantic.


The Bazaar
I also did some walking around the bazaar.  Mustapha dropped me off at the main entrance after assuring me that I could wander as I wished and that he would be right there if I had any problems.  The bazaar was a grand collection of narrow streets and small shops selling jewelry, clothing and carpets.  Everywhere I went I was met with a "Bonjour" and a "Please come in" wave.  No one seemed offended when I politely declined.  I stopped in front of one jewelry shop and the owner asked me if I was looking for anything in particular.  He ran down the list:  clothing, jewelry, etc.  After I said no to each and every one, he gave me a resigned smile and said, "Tapis volant?" (How about a flying carpet?).

Under Construction
As a general rule of thumb, I measure a people's optimism about their country's future by the number of ambitious public works and private construction sites and a dearth of local people grumbling about it.  Casablanca is definitely "Under construction." I saw plans and sites for:  a new port, a new tramway, a mall, and a train station (future TGV) not to mention many new private houses and apartment buildings.

Mustapha said that much of this is driven by the King who has launched a plan for the modernization of the city and takes a personal interest in his plan's progress.  We were caught in more than one traffic jam caused by work on the tramway and people seemed to be relatively good-natured about the inconvenience.

King Mohammed VI
Most of my impressions about royalty are shaped by the very public goings-on of that family in England.  So, imagine my surprise when we stopped at an intersection and I saw two motorcycles sweep past, followed by a very stylish (but not ostentatious) black car which was apparently being driven by the King himself.  I personally have never met a Moroccan (from cab drivers to engineers) who had a bad word to say about the King who seems to have his people's genuine respect and esteem.

To finish the tour we went just outside the city limits to a hill with green fields and horses and sheep running free.  I could see the whole city - a sweeping panorama with the sea to my left and the city in all its glory.

The Flophouse in Morocco - The Mosque

The day began at 9:30 AM when my trusted counselor and guide, Mustapha, stopped by the hotel to pick me up for a trip into the center of town.  First stop, the Hassan II Mosque, the third largest mosque in the world.

Full disclosure, this is the first time I have ever visited a mosque.  


About 20 years ago I glanced, just once, at the interior of a very small but beautiful mosque in the northern part of the city of Seattle but I did not dare to enter.  So, I had no idea what to expect.  No preconceptions.  Just a sense that being allowed entry to a sacred place was an exceptional honor.

I arrived just in time for the 10:00 official tour of the Hassan II Mosque which, unlike many mosques, is open to the public.


I wish I had had a tape recorder during the visit.  The guide, Mohammed, was exceptionally warm and gracious. I heard more of the elegant French I have come to expect, and he made us all laugh and feel at home as he led us through the main areas and down into the lower levels.  


I noticed as well that he made an effort to single out each person in the group, asking questions or including a person to illustrate a point about the mosque. 


Mine was:
"Madame, do you see the writing in Arabic above that column?  
Do you know what it says?  
It says "Interdit aux blondes" (Forbidden to blondes)."


After we had a good laugh, he smiled and said, "What it really says, Madame, is, 'All this is made possible by God.'"

My writing skills are unequal to the task of doing justice to this extraordinary structure.  I am sure you can find better descriptions in books and on the Net. Here is one. I shall, nevertheless, do my poor best to tell you what I saw and what I felt.


My first thought was: such elegant simplicity and luminosity, such spacious grandeur.  As we moved around the inside of the mosque and approached the walls and the the ceilings, I completely changed my vision and suddenly everything became complex - a dance of intricate, changing patterns repeated perfectly. The grand chandeliers above my head reminded me of Dale Chihuly's work.
  
Three of the four elements, air, earth, and water, were all represented:  the roof that opens to reveal the sun (or the stars), the stone columns and floor, the carved wood of the gallery, and the river that flows down the center aisle.  


And all the technology was cunningly hidden from view in the middle of the patterns that graced the ceiling and walls.  Necessary but secondary - nothing that would distract a visitor (or more importantly a believer) from the visual beauty and harmony surrounding him or her.

I left the mosque with a sense of peace as though some hungry part of my senses and spirit were fed in the brief time I spent there.  I will come back and I will try (if allowed) to visit the grand mosque in Paris when I return home.

Tomorrow: the old quarter the sea and the bazaar.

And a passing view of the King, Mohammed VI...

The Flophouse in Morocco - Purpose

It all started in Tokyo.


I had been dreaming for nearly 10 years of going back to school. But the time was never right.  I looked at brochures, I consulted web sites, I talked to people who had done it, but there was always something else going on at work or at home that had me shelving my dream and soldiering on.  


Then one day I realized that, by default, I was on what Ferriss calls the Deferred Life Program.  This is when you tell yourself the following, "Some day when I get rich/am successful/get promoted/the kids go to college/I retire, I will go back to school/travel more/start my own company and it will be a fine adventure."  


In the interim, of course, you churn in frustration waiting for that magical day when you can stop living your practical, responsible, comfortable existence and do the things you've always wanted to do.   In Tokyo in 2007 I decided to stop dreaming and start doing. 


So I applied and, to my astonishment, was accepted at the Temple University Japan MBA program in Tokyo.  I was having the time of my life when another opportunity presented itself and we moved back to Paris.  But I was not about to give up.  After getting over the reverse culture shock I went looking for another program so I could continue my studies.  One of my professors in Japan suggested the Ecole Nationale des Ponts et Chaussees International School of Management.  I met with the Dean, Tawfik Jelassi, and a few months later I was back in school.  


At the end of 2010 I had only two classes remaining and I thought it would be a shame to finish up my coursework without taking advantage of the fine network of sister schools that ENPC has all over the world.  So I asked to take my very last class at the Ecole Hassania des Travaux Publiques in Morocco (EHTC).  Dean Jelassi gave his blessing and Said Dhaibi of EHTC made all the arrangements.   Monday morning I flew out of Paris and Monday evening in Casablanca I was being welcomed by Professor Stuart Chambers and the participants of the EHTC Executive MBA program.


"The reasonable man adapts himself to the world;  the unreasonable one persists in trying to adapt the world to himself.  Therefore all progress depends on the unreasonable man."
George Bernard Shaw

The Flophouse in Morocco - Arrival

Outbound this morning on the 7:25 Air France flight from Paris and arrived right on time at 9:45 local time.

Woke up near the end of the flight, looked out the window and thought, "I must have taken the wrong flight. This looks like Ireland."

Passed the controls, found a cab and headed into town.  It had rained the day before and everything was green and lush and stunningly beautiful.  And a good 7 degrees warmer than Paris. 


Shared these observations with the cab driver and we started chatting away. I liked his French (elegant) and I liked him (an older courtly gentleman).


Just before we arrived at the hotel the cabbie gently gave me some fatherly advice:  no walking around after dark by yourself in this neighborhood, keep your cell phone and computer out of sight and so on.  Then he laughed, looked at me slyly in the rear-view mirror and said, "Nothing against you, Madame, and nothing against foreigners in particular.  It's just the way things are."

For the advice, the obvious concern and the great conversation I was more than happy to pay the slightly (only slightly) elevated fare when we arrived at the hotel.  

I know a number of Moroccan expatriates through school and work in France and my overall impression has been that these folks are the salt of the earth:  hard-working, hospitable and generous.  My first day in Morocco has certainly confirmed that.



Tomorrow:  Why the Flophouse pulled up stakes and headed south for the week.

Du bas ou du boa

Another offering from our guest poet, Corinne Texier. 


Du bas ou du boa …

Il est étrange de pouvoir comprendre,
Comment une chose aussi transparente,
Dieux, mais que la nature est brillante.
D’un fil, un bas, je vais vous apprendre,
Le secret du boa de soie dévorant sa proie,
Mais quoi ? Oui une jambe, il va de soi.

Pour vous, je vais tenter de révéler,
Je sens déjà les regards sur moi portés,
Enfin façon de parler, juste sur la proie,
Longue, fine et musclée, pour le boa de soie.

Ce voile va sur elle doucement la protéger,
De vos doigts maintenant pressés de toucher.

Débutons notre étude par la mise en présence,
D’un bas et d’une jambe, admirer l’aisance.
Pour apprivoiser ce gant de soie si fin,
La main doit glisser délicatement afin,
Que le bras puisse venir le réveiller,
Et l’air lui aussi, en lui, s’engouffrer.

La position du corps doit être approprié,
Sinon gagez que la chute est aussitôt assurée.
Donc en appuis sur une fesse, jambes croisées,
Le corps en avant, afin que le pied soit touché,
Entre pouces et index, le boa tout recroquevillé.
Ecartons délicatement la bouche géante,
Sur ce délicat petit pied bientôt mangé.

Les pouces sur la peau posée, pour le guider,
Car la cheville maintenant doit être avalée ….

Faisons une pose, il ne faut pas le brusquer.
Comment non ! Dois je vraiment continuer ?
Mais vous êtes peut être fatigué de regarder.
Je ne sais, s’il me faut ainsi tout vous dévoiler.

C’est peut être un divertissement sans intérêt,
Mais sans vous, je ne peux que m’arrêter .....

Voilà qu’un matou, du boa vint s’approcher
Pattes de velours, il tenta par le cou de l’attraper.
Il semblait par la proie totalement hypnotisé.
Mais du repas, il ne devait que regarder.

Sur sa patte, une tape venait d’être donnée.
Le pied doucement sur sa poitrine pausé,
Dans un sursaut, la proie venant le repousser.
Le matou sur le cul venait alors de tomber.

Le boa ne pouvant de son repas laisser,
A ce félin effronté la possibilité de toucher.
Un index, sous son nez venait maintenant frétiller,
De gauche à droite rapidement pour le stopper.

La proie lentement se détendait pour le dîner,
Du festin le boa de soie de nouveau motivé.
De la cheville lentement il pouvait disposer.
Et hop la voilà goulûment dans sa gueule avalée.

Remontant sur la peau, le collier venant se déplier.
Une astuce doit être maintenant vous être mentionnée.
La jambe doit être légèrement relevée et déplier,
Ceci, afin de la cuisse et du genoux soulager.

Dos droit, jambes décroisées pour non courbaturer,
Et surtout du boa ainsi son avancer faciliter.
Cette position permet au poumon de respirer,
De laisser entrevoir leur rondeurs émoustillées.

Concentrons nous de nouveau sur son avancé !
De part et d’autre du mollet, sensuellement remonté,
L’aisance du boa et des doigts est à souligner.
L’intrépide lentement glisse sur la peau satinée.

Mais de la démonstration il faut d’autres invités,
Le matou est déjà par la souris subjuguée.
Le repas pour lui n’a pas encore sonné,
Et une pause de nouveau doit s’imposer.

La rondeur du genou ce voit annoncée …

Allez, osez ! Venez prés du matou, vous installer …

Mais qui voyons nous venir s’installer !
La conteuse rend hommage aux invités.
D’un petit cercle, la proie vient le saluer,
Comme un oiseau sous son nez voleter.

Nous allons donc pouvoir continuer.

Réveillons ce boa car de son dîné,
Il est loin d’avoir encore terminé.
Le genou est pour lui une difficulté,
Car sa bouche s’en voit fragilisée.

En effet, de la colline il doit passer,
De la rondeur, il faut de la dextérité.
La jambe maintenant de soie drapée,
Devant s’étendre et légèrement ce relever.

Vos yeux sur le genou doivent rester,
De la cuisse et l’intimité ne pas regarder.
Ne rester pas comme ceci, bouche bée !
Il vous faut rester absolument concentré.

Donc, de gauche à droite, avec agilité,
Lentement la soie se laisse appliquer.
Mais je vous entends déjà respirer,
Votre souffle par instant vous retenez.

N’ayez crainte, le boa est fort bien dressé,
La proie sait comment la soie charmer.
Goulûment, le serpent en fait qu’une bouchée,
Du genou maintenant il est enfin rassasié.

Les doigts sur la soie de la colline s’élancer,
Sur la pente de la cuisse fine et fuselée.
Attention, il ne faut surtout pas précipité,
Car sur une ronce de vos doigts peu l’accrocher.

La jambe doit absolument le boa retarder,
Et doucement le genou se replier,
Afin que sur le sol, le pied vienne se poser,
Les doigts devant la bouche de soie relâcher.

Car il faut le boa impérativement aider,
De ces mains la conteuse doit vérifier,
Que le boa de soie, sur la proie, soit bien posé.
La conteuse se délecte de pouvoir ainsi abuser.

De part et d’autre, les mains, du bout du pied,
Lentement vont maintenant remonter,
Enfin descendre, le terme sera plus approprié.
La jambe, pour votre plaisir s'est de nouveau levée.

Ecouté le chant du boa sous la peau satiné,
Imaginé comment les doigts sont électrisés,
La cheville, le tibia, et le genou rondelet …

Voilà, le collier de soie est presque appliqué,
Il ne lui reste que la dernière chevauchée...

Souhaitez-vous que je vous narre sa destinée ?

A ce que je vois, nous n’avons plus d’invité !
Mais de votre faim, je ne veux point vous laisser,
De votre attente sans fin je ne peux encore abuser
Bien que vos regards soient de moi très appréciés.

Donc le voici qui de nouveau semble affamé,
Mais de la cuisse, il ne peut d’un coup avaler,
La proie semble si longue et si musclée,
Que doucement, sur elle il lui faut glisser.

La cambrure du dos doit se prononcer,
La tête doucement venir se renverser,
Pour laisser la chevelure dans le dos couler,
Et ainsi la fesse opposée se contracter.

Avec cet appuis maintenant trouvé,
La jambe et le genou dessous se replier,
Afin que la taille fine puisse pivoter,
Et la poitrine à vos yeux montrer.

Maintenant que la proie est installée,
Le boa de soie du trésor va s’approcher.
Lentement le voilà entrain de remonter,
A mis cuisse, il vient de s’arrêter …

Car de part sa nature, il faut le soigner,
Et du temps il va lui falloir à digérer.
C’est pour cela qu’il faut penser à le fixer,
Et de dentelle il mérite d’être couronné.

Il nous faut pour un temps le laisser,
Je dois avant tout vous présenter,
A quoi le boa de soi vient de s’exposer,
Car la proie n’est celle que vous pensez.

Une fine dentelle de la taille va l’attacher,
Et les doigts dans le dos viennent l’accrocher,
De fine lanière le long de la cuisse sont révélées,
Il nous reste plus que du boa, sa bouche attrapée.

Prés du trésor le voici maintenant installé,
Tout lui semble à son goût et de vous apprécier,
Toujours cambrée …

Messieurs ! Veuillez un peu vous concentrer !

De la poitrine et du trésor, vos yeux abandonner,
Car uniquement du boa vous devez vous soucier,
D’une pince sur le haut de la cuisse facilement fixée,
Mais de votre aide en dessous, il me faut appeler.

Le quel d’entre vous aura autant de dextérité,
Et à la conteuse la suite maintenant narrer …

Mais que voici une Ombre bien téméraire,
Tel le boa sa main vient effleurer sa chair,
La conteuse frémie sous cette caresse légère,
Et du boa sa jambe la voilà enfin prisonnière.

La voici maintenant vers son pied se pencher,
Sa main légèrement venant aussitôt s’y poser,
Sa poitrine ronde et ferme de la cuisse effleurer,
Remontant lentement afin du boa bien ajuster.

Sa main remonte, lissant les courbes gracieuses,
Inlassablement, elle se fait douce et capricieuse,
Mais pour vous sa main est une torture odieuse,
Remontant … Et du trésor, effleurant la fleur radieuse.

La voici qui sur le bas de son ventre, la charmeuse,
Ce jouant du boa, elle se veut pour vous capiteuse,
Trouvez vous que sa main est des plus chanceuse,
Mais elle est pour l’instant de votre désir la voleuse.

Un frisson vient faire virevolter sa poitrine.
Est-ce le résultat de cette caresse coquine ?
Ou sur sa hanche cette brûlure divine ?
Mais il nous faut penser aussi à sa voisine.

Et d’un autre boa nous saisir pour bien faire,
Car la nature pour vous les a fait naître par pair,
Et l’autre proie en appel à son jumeau de frère,
Pour que d’harmonie ces boas puissent satisfaire.

Mais le voici qui se voit un peu rebelle,
Qui de sa bouche se refuse à la belle,
Et sur le sol, le voici rampant loin d’elle,
Mais viendrez vous aider la Damoiselle ?

Car il me semble que celui là est assez rétif,
Et de la conteuse, il est peut être craintif ?
Dans ces yeux ne voyez vous pas l’objectif,
Qui de vous sera ... Du boa le plus inventif ?

Corinne Texier