Last Sunday, as you may have noticed, was Mother’s Day. The fact was brought to my attention by the internet, as with so many other things. I lost no time in pointing this out to my family. I know mothers who despise this holiday as false, a time when people feel forced to buy flowers, chocolate, cards, make their mothers breakfast in bed. I say I will take what I can get. So they feel forced to do it? Great. No worries here. It’s not like I’m getting chocolate and flowers without this.

The problem was that the morning was really busy, and then we got trapped downtown. May 10th was the day of the Rabat half-marathon, and the planners in their wisdom had blocked all the main roads to get out of downtown, through those enormous thick city walls. We ended up trapped, pointlessly driving 10 miles out of our way (I was sure there was another road across the valley from Salé but I was wrong), only to come back and find that the roads were open but full of people trying to jog. We wove through crowds of marathoners, in awe once again of the planners of this event. Surely they might find a compromise, where one road would remain open and the marathoners wouldn’t have to compete with cars for the road? But then, where would be the sport in that? we realized, as we swerved around a red-faced, sweating man who was just trying to cross the four-lane thoroughfare.

We were in a hurry because we’d arranged to meet friends at the beach. We finally got our own car, and that means Donn has been able to make surfing once again a regular part of his weekends. We got to the beach after everyone else but that was okay; come on, it’s the beach.

Almost the first thing I saw, besides the sun sparkling on the waves, were the puppies. There were 3 adorable puppies needing a good home. Needing, I tell you. We didn’t end up bringing one home, but it wasn’t for lack of trying on the part of the twins, let me tell you.

Donn and Abel went surfing. The rest of us boogie-boarded. The current was strong and relentless, with a fierce under-tow, but the whitewater was fast enough to give some really fun rides.

There were lots of Moroccans at the beach. We saw some horses (mercifully under control this time) and a group of men playing soccer (football!) on the hard-packed sun. Most Moroccan men were in swimsuits. Moroccan women fell into one of two groups; one group were in teeny-tiny bikinis, and the other frolicked in the waves fully clothed. Neither group actually swam, although that might have been thanks to that ferocious current.

Yeah. I wouldn’t want to do that either. And no, I don’t know what they did afterwards, if they sat in their cars and dripped all over the upholstery, or if they somehow managed to change. I imagine the former, since I didn’t see any modest changing huts, and I can’t imagine a woman who goes swimming in head-to-toe clothing being comfortable changing behind a towel held up by a friend, or between two car doors.

Is it getting too late to post this? Never mind, here’s a gratuitous cute-puppy picture, which will make you forgive and forget all:


Also, a picture of my new couscous platter, just because, even though it doesn’t really fit with the rest of this post:


And here’s Abel, on our balcony, my little shaggy surfer dude with his Very Own Surfboard (it’s Donn’s old one, broken in half and repaired) in the background.