knowing I'm on the street where you live

"We like big women here...like onions," Aziz said, gesturing a large curve with his hands. "You know, we feed them couscous to get big." He went on to tell us that girls buy pills at the store to help them gain weight. I'd like to write that infomercial.

**

"You want space cakes?" The man was pointing to dubious looking brownies, sandwiched between various other goodies. "They will give you 15 minutes of happiness."

**

"I will give you the entire store for one kiss." This was a younger man. I was starting to wonder if all their English was sales terms and pickup lines.

We politely declined the offer, claiming a boyfriend and a husband. He figured out the husband was fake when Emma tried to switch her ring to the proper finger in front of him. The boyfriend he didn't seem to find problematic.

**

Will's apartment is on the side street of a row of nearly identical looking unfinished cement buildings. He says the stretch of buildings occasionally gives him a surreal "am I in a video game" feeling sometimes. As we arrive outside, pulling our two suitcases, backpack, grocery bags, bulky coats and ukulele, he stops us before we enter.

"I have a no dirt policy," he says, staring at the bags we have dragged through the dirt and rocks for the past ten minutes.

"Seriously?" I want to laugh at this point. The idea of fighting the all consuming dust and dirt of this country is...laughable.

"Yes," he is barely listening to me, staring at our suitcases and working out the problem in his head.

"What do you want us to do? Hose them down?" Emma says. She is joking.

He looks at her thoughtfully. "Maybe something similar."

Em and I go inside and leave him to figure it out. It has been a long, hot day. Our morning was spent shopping for groceries he might not have easy access to: peanut butter, tapenade, corn flakes, etc. Then we rushed around town looking for the grocery store we had actually meant to use, hurriedly asking locals in French and then following their hand gestures (their replies got a bit complicated for my rusty language ability).

Deciding to split up and save time (needing to make a 3.5 hour busride; only one a day), Em went on to the store while I went to pack and check out. 20 minutes later, she returned, out of breath, to where I stood at the front of the hotel.

"You have the key, I couldn't pack," I informed her.

"You have the money, so I couldn't buy anything," she returned.

Fail. We went into fastforward mode and completed our errands, making our bus with 20 minutes to spare, and managing to not lose the everpresent ukulele.

The uke was a Christmas gift to Will that arrived two days after Christmas; one day after his departure from Sweden. Our holiday turned into a quest to deliver the ukulele unharmed. After nearly leaving it on several buses and listening to it jolt around on various truck, taxi and bus rides, we finally united it with its owner.

**

"Are you doing your best?

Are you even trying? Your best, Will, your best. Look back at the best you had to give.

And don't forget your sense of humor. Please."

These are bold, black words, printed out and hanging on his wall.

**

As we hopped into a taxi, Will and Emma in front, I in the back with three random women, Will turned around from the front seat with a big grin on his face and enthusiastically announced something to the women.

"What did you say?"

"I told them you were my sisters." Sweet, right?

"Do you know them?"

"No, but I didn't want them to think you were hookers." Less sweet.