Pack it up, pack it in. Let me begin...
The movers arrived yesterday and I didn't do anything to prepare for them. I did for all our previous moves. Painstakingly organizing and separating things. But, you know what? It never mattered. Things always got screwed up anyway. And then I'd spent all that time for nothing. This time was going to be different. Of course it was, because in all my moving experience, I have never moved from Morocco before. You might think it's the same everywhere, but I assure you, it's not.
Sure, they had the standard moving accessories. Boxes, wrapping papers for delicate items and the world's crappiest Moroccan tape.
(And if you live here you know this is true.)
We heaped our worldly possessions acquired on our travels into a pile and watched as they slowly swaddled them. (Because nothing in Morocco is rushed.)
My buddahs I bought in Gibraltar were lined in a row like little soldiers. (Right next to the wooden bowls I bartered for dirty towels in Zimbabwe.)
This little Moroccan table was a whimsical impulse buy when I was shopping in the medina with Sara. (Which is going to make a great night stand in the States.)
These shelves (whose stalls are smaller than they appear in this picture) would be great for a thimble collection. (Except, I don't have a thimble collection.)
And my new picture of the king, though the photo is old, taken of a thinner, gayer king. (As rumor has it.)
As they are packing, I'm panicking about what I'm going to do for them for lunch because I hardly have any food in the house and in America, we always feed the movers. But relief, from eyeballing things it looks like they'll be done in about 20 minutes. Which is when one of them announces they need a break and they'll be back in 2 hours after they eat lunch. Really? Two hours? Ok cool, at least I don't have to pay for it.
When they return, one of them is walking up my driveway toward me while putting his pants back on. And now you, like me, are wondering what the hell he was doing outside my gate with his pants off. I'll give you a minute to ponder that one. And if you figure it out, let me know. You know what? Never mind.
And I was right, they work for exactly 20 more minutes. Then they inform me they've run out of boxes. In the states there would be a simple solution to this problem. But in Morocco this unsolvable mystery means they're done for the day. So they load my boxes being shipped by air onto this open flat bed truck. YES. I said OPEN. See.
Leaving me to wonder if I will ever see any of my worldly possessions again...
The movers arrived yesterday and I didn't do anything to prepare for them. I did for all our previous moves. Painstakingly organizing and separating things. But, you know what? It never mattered. Things always got screwed up anyway. And then I'd spent all that time for nothing. This time was going to be different. Of course it was, because in all my moving experience, I have never moved from Morocco before. You might think it's the same everywhere, but I assure you, it's not.
Sure, they had the standard moving accessories. Boxes, wrapping papers for delicate items and the world's crappiest Moroccan tape.
(And if you live here you know this is true.)
We heaped our worldly possessions acquired on our travels into a pile and watched as they slowly swaddled them. (Because nothing in Morocco is rushed.)
My buddahs I bought in Gibraltar were lined in a row like little soldiers. (Right next to the wooden bowls I bartered for dirty towels in Zimbabwe.)
This little Moroccan table was a whimsical impulse buy when I was shopping in the medina with Sara. (Which is going to make a great night stand in the States.)
These shelves (whose stalls are smaller than they appear in this picture) would be great for a thimble collection. (Except, I don't have a thimble collection.)
The iron tree that's actually a coat rack. (That I think might actually be too pretty to hang coats from.)
And my new picture of the king, though the photo is old, taken of a thinner, gayer king. (As rumor has it.)
As they are packing, I'm panicking about what I'm going to do for them for lunch because I hardly have any food in the house and in America, we always feed the movers. But relief, from eyeballing things it looks like they'll be done in about 20 minutes. Which is when one of them announces they need a break and they'll be back in 2 hours after they eat lunch. Really? Two hours? Ok cool, at least I don't have to pay for it.
When they return, one of them is walking up my driveway toward me while putting his pants back on. And now you, like me, are wondering what the hell he was doing outside my gate with his pants off. I'll give you a minute to ponder that one. And if you figure it out, let me know. You know what? Never mind.
And I was right, they work for exactly 20 more minutes. Then they inform me they've run out of boxes. In the states there would be a simple solution to this problem. But in Morocco this unsolvable mystery means they're done for the day. So they load my boxes being shipped by air onto this open flat bed truck. YES. I said OPEN. See.
Leaving me to wonder if I will ever see any of my worldly possessions again...
