Pop Quiz Hotshot!

It's been almost two years since I moved to Morocco, and as my biological restlessness clock would have it, it is time to move on. Next stop--Mae Sot, Thailand. While I look forward to challenging work, a warm climate, and pomegranate iced-tea, I look back on the things I've learned during my time in Ifrane. Some things were expected, others, not so much. So, just what have I learned? Well, let's see if you can guess. True or false...and don't look at the answer key below.

1. How to make sushi
2. How to belly dance
3. That I'm happiest in water
4. How to milk a camel
5. Yoga
6. That I wouldn't mind being someone's second or third wife
7. That there are just some things about foreign cultures I refuse to tolerate . . . and I'm okay with that
8. That I'm okay living in a country that prohibits drinking beer outside
9. How to be incredibly accurate with a sling shot
10. Where to find brown sugar in Europe
11. My family is more liberal than they care to admit
12. Enough Darija to make me proud and enough French to make me ashamed
13. To master medium difficulty of Pink Floyd's "Another Brick in the Road" on Guitar Hero
14. To salsa dance better than I ever could in Latin America

If you answered false to 2,4,6,8 and 10...then buy yourself a beer and give yourself a pat on the back. If you got some wrong...then well, I guess you overlooked Morocco's diverse culture of latin dancing and Japanese cuisine. Better luck next time in the Thailand test...you got two years to prepare.

It's my party and I'll . . .

...eat a live cow if I want to. Some like cake, others prefer live livestock, and no, there is no redundancy in that phrase. Yesterday was the the celebration of the Prophet Mohamed's birthday, known as Eid-al-Mawlid. And other than being a day off work, it's a rather important time for families to get together, eat special food, sing, dance, pray . . . and eat a living cow. Now, I wouldn't want you to get the wrong impression. This practice is not characteristic of Islam as practiced by most Moroccans, but rather a Sufi tradition that is honored in celebration of the Prophet's birthday. So each year (this year it fell on March 9th) Sufis gather in a particular city here in Morocco, Meknes, which lies particularly close to where I live, Ifrane, and therefor gave me a particularly good reason to travel to Meknes and check out the festivities. Now, I have to admit that my interests were beyond pure cultural intrigue. No, I was ready to see some action, blood, and all the calamity this celebration is notorious for. In fact, what sparked my interest, was the experience of a colleague of mine the previous year. Here's how his story goes:

• French colleague goes to Meknes with his Moroccan wife.
• Couple takes all cultural precautions by not wearing black, red, or green, the forbidden colors on this particular day.
• Couple goes to Sufi procession to witness their wild dance, self-torture, and of course, rhythmic drumming.
• Tranced, whirling Sufis mistake French colleague's navy blue jacket for black and pounce on him.
• About half a dozen Sufis tear off his clothes, exposing his chest, biting and scratching, eating his black wallet, and ripping the hair off his frantic wife's scull. Maybe they mistook him for the cow.
• Moroccan bystanders break up the fight while the police watch.
• Couple leaves Meknes immediately.
• French colleague shows war wounds to me at work on Monday.

So, you can see why I was interested. But in all fairness, and for PC disclaimer purposes, this experience cannot be applied to all sects of Sufism.

Anyway, so my friend and I went to this same celebration, witnessed the same trancing, dancing, and drumming, but to our dismay, no livestock feasting. What we did see, however, were groups of 30-40 Sufis, whirling around each other in a circle, when suddenly a fight breaks out between two women. One woman actually rips out a clump of hair and throws it into the riled crowd. Then, as if on cue, the entire group stops their drumming, halts their dancing, and makes a sprinting dash towards the mosque entrance. Even men older than my grandmother were running like gazelles towards the arched doors. Later on, we discovered the reason for this hurried procession. They were simply hungry. The live cow that was to be eaten was inside the mosque, and if anyone can empathize with the severity of hunger pangs, it's me. So, next time you're planning your birthday, try to think outside the conventional box of ice-cream cakes and candles, and consider a more carnivorous concoction.

Morocco prepares for the Winter Olympics

SNOW DIVING

A Christmas Tree Makeover

Materials
scrap paper
scissors
colored lights
imagination
and lots of time and patience

Procedure

1. After explaining some general Christmas traditions to your Moroccan friend, convince him that it is also tradition for the guest (him) to decorate the tree as the others judge his character based on the creativity and beauty of his decorative skills. Be sure to emphasize that it's good luck to cover the tree in mustard once finished decorating.

2. Stop being a jerk and messing with a person's innocent cultural curiosities.

3. Using the scissors and scrap paper, make all kinds of paper snowflakes giving eah other creative inspiration by suggesting themed flakes such as "Transylvanian snow", "Christmas in Miami", and "breakfast for dinner" (not sure where that one came from).

4. Wait for your friend to recall his Japanese exchange student friend who taught him to make origami balls in the third grade. Once he remembers, and you have finished two bottles of mulled wine, have him painstakingly teach you.

5. Cover as many of the colored light bulbs with these paper balls until your tree looks like crystallized multi-colored marshmallows have taken over the world and are hovering among the branches.

6. Admire your tree by turning off all the lights, putting it up agaisnt the window, and faring the cold weather to view your pride and joy from outside, noting that you have the best looking Christmas tree in your neighborhood.

7. Hit the guy who reminds you that it is the ONLY Christmas tree in your neighborhood.

8. Make up over a hot mug of buttered rum.

A Lesson in Darija

Darija is the Moroccan dialect of Arabic. It's a combination of standard Arabic, French, Spanish, and some random English borrowings ("nta printk" - you print). Most other Arabic speakers can't understand Moroccans when they speak Darija, but most Moroccans can understand other Arabic speakers.

Shwiya bshwiya (little by little), I have been learning this spoken language in my highly interactive classroom, the local market (pictured above). I have found that the words and phrases that 'stick' fall into one of four categories: extremely useful, humorous associations, untranslatable, or just plain fun to say.

Extremely Useful
skut = shut up
ana mzuwja = I'm married
shuma halik = shame on you
insha'ala = God willing, or "yeah, I don't really want to do that, so I'll blame it on God if it doesn't get done.

Humorous Associations
matar = airplane, but "to kill" in Spanish (isn't it ironic?)
lice = actually French, but means highshcool. It comes from the Latin root "lycos", meaning "a gathering of dogs". I couldn't agree more.
baraka = same consonant as found in my first name (brk) and meaning "gift from god". Coincidence? I think not.
yo mama = dove

Untranslatable
tybtili tqlbi = you're baking my heart, not to be confused with you're breaking my heart.
Rbit ele kbda = You say this when you really love someone and you can't live without them. Direct translation = My liver is for you.
atak'ala mra xaiba = May God make your wife ugly

Fun to say
meshi mushkil = no problem!
yyyyella = Let's go!
xox = peach (the phoneme /x/ is a glotteral stop, or in non-linguistic terms, like hocking a loogie)

As I continue to learn this language, my conversations become richer. However, with this small lesson, I can successfully offend someone, discuss love and marriage, and get from the airport to the school on a dove, eating a peach with no problems.

The mystery of the solo shoes

I apologize if I haven't written in a while. You see, I've been trying to crack a case. A case where there is ample evidence, yet no viable explanation. Wandering around Morocco, and I mean anywhere in Morocco, the market, fields covered in grazing sheep, an international airport, or just in the middle of the road, there seems to be an abnormal amount of single shoes. Yes, one shoe with no pair in sight. And I'm not talking just every now and then do I come across these pairless peddlers. They are everywhere. Once I counted 36 pairs of solo soles within a 50 meter radius. Can anyone explain this phenomenon? Well, these are the theories me and my crew of outstanding detectives have come up with (and by "crew", I mean anyone willing to give me their two cents on the issue).

Theory 1
In Moroccan culture, it is impolite to eat with your left hand. And, upon entering a Sufi center of prayer, you need to step over the thresh hold with your right foot first. Well, maybe all this discrimination towards lefties, has carried over into "it is looked down upon to do anything with your left anything". So, no kicking a soccer ball with your left (or it is preferred with your right), no kicking your sheep with your left foot, no kicking wild dogs with your left foot. I apologize for all this violent talk, but those are the main things I see my left foot being used for here in Morocco. Anyway, what this translates to is that your right shoe is bound to get more worn down than your left, so there comes a time when you just have to give it up and find a new one to match your left shoe still in fairly good condition. Now, upon closer examination of this theory, and by viewing the evidence above, you'll notice that not all abandoned shoes are right footed. So, back to the drawing board.

Theory 2
Upon entering any mosque and most Moroccan households, it is custom to remove your shoes. I mean they decorate these places with the most beautiful hand-woven rugs, so any right minded person wouldn't want your sheep dung covered soles stepping foot on these colorful carpets. So, when everyone leaves their shoes at the door, and is distracted by prayer or tasty tagine, the shoe "shfar" (thief in Arabic) comes and takes one of each pair. Not to use for himself of course because what would he do with mismatching shoes of different styles and sizes, but just to make a statement. It reminds me of my time in Costa Rica where they was a man in my town by the name of Juan Tanga ("tanga" being the Spanish word for "thong"). Juan Tanga was notorious for stealing women's underwear off the line at night. He even got a hold of mine a few times. Who knows what he did with it once he got a hold of it. Who wants to know. But he made a name for himself in that small town and will be remembered for many years to come. So, maybe this was "shoe shfars" MO. But, one major detail stifles this theory. It is clearly forbidden in the Koran to steal and would be highly looked down upon in this culture, even if it was just to be infamous. So, that one goes out the window as well. Onto our last hypothesis, and the strongest yet.

Theory 3
There is a secret society composed of one-legged men and women living in the caves under Ifrane (Ifrane is "cave" in Berber). This society contains people of international importance, as well as humble locals. They leave their shoes all around the country, in city alleys, beside rural rivers, outside foreign embassies, as their form of communicating with other members of the one-legged society residing in other regions in Morocco.

Now, because this theory is so air tight, it has yet to be broken down. And that being the case, we have an even bigger puzzle to solve. What is this secret society's code of communication? Is it the direction the shoes are facing? The size of the shoe? How far apart they are? How expensive the shoe was when it was newly bought? How potent the odor is? Any ideas? My crew and I just can't seem to put our foot on it.

Hammam: Pleasureful paradise or painful primping?

So I had my first authentic hammam experience with my friend Fatima and her sister Meryem. Hammam, for those who may not know, is similar to a Turkish bath in that men and women from the neighborhood gather together in a steamy bath house, scrubbing each other's backs, and gossiping about the days events. In Morocco, most hammams consists of a series of rooms increasing in heat and steaminess as you venture deeper into the hammam. Women enter the hammam, pay their 7 Dirhams ($1), and strip down to their underwear.

In my experience, upon entering the first room, I found women sitting on little stools, gathered around a bucket of water, brushing their teeth idly. We continued through two more rooms of women gathered around buckets of water and henna paste as they scrubbed each other with a coarse rag not much different from sandpaper. We entered the final room of the hammam where there was one large tub with scalding hot water and another with freezing spring water. We each got our bucket and mixed water from the two tubs until we got a temperature we were happy with. Fatima and Meryem laid out their plastic mats to sit on and began situating all their soaps, shampoos, foot scrubs, hairbrushes, and oils around them. As I went to join them, I got cornered by a large, burly woman who brusquely positioned me in a corner and began building a little barricade of water buckets around me. I pleadingly looked at Fatima and Meryem, who were happily scrubbing each other's backs, for rescue. Fatima just smiled and waved her hand as if to indicate, "just go with it!" So . . . I went with it.

The women, whose name I found out to be Amina, motioned me to sit on a little plastic mat she laid out for me. She sat down beside me, straddled her legs and thrust my head onto one of her large, muscular thighs. She gripped my wrists and flung them up over my head. Now, to envision this a little more precisely, it was as if I was a washboard (minus the six-pack stomach) and she was setting up to scrub her laundry down the length of my body. She proceeded to take the sand paper scrub and violently brush it down my forearm all the way to my hips. She did this repeatedly for about 10 minutes until she felt that removing seven layers of skin and seeing my raw flesh glow red was suffice.

It actually reminded me of the time I was in the Peace Corps and I got incredibly sick off of some fruit I ate from a tree. My host mom told me to get naked, made me lie face down on my bed, and gave me a full body rub down with vegetable oil. Sounds like it could be pleasant, but if you could see the size of my mom and her coarse, strong hands, you would understand why her pushing my pressure points with all her might and body weight behind it was a painful experience. Apart from that, that fact that I barely knew the woman and was lying in the bed naked, vulnerable, and ready to be slow roasted made the situation all the more awkward.

Hammam was a similar experience. After she had peeled me from the front, she grunted and literally flipped me over onto my stomach and began the process all over again. She would scrub diligently around my neck and shoulders and then sand my butt until I seriously thought I may be bleeding. I probably would not have permitted the torture to continue if it weren't for the millions of white noodle-like clumps of dead skin all over my body. It was disgusting and incredible all at the same time. And I felt like it had to be good for me, so I endured.

After I thought she had finished with me, she propped me up, grabbed my cheeks with her pudgy fingers, looked at me in the eyes and began cracking up. I think she saw the tears of pain welling up and thought it was humorous. She then took the "brill-o pad" and scrubbed my face so hard that I think she was trying to remove the mole on my right cheek. Thankfully, she was unsuccessful and gave up on the beauty mark after about five minutes. Finally, she slapped me on the back and quickly got up and moved on to her next victim.

I sat their, skin stinging, utterly confused at what just happened and what to do next, and a little angry at my two friends. Then Fatima came up with some green, slimy, henna paste and began to gently rub it all over my body. The cool slime felt so good. I let her cover my entire body as I gradually drifted off into partial unconsciousness, listening to the muffled sounds of women chatting in darija and children splashing in the water tubs. Ahhhhh, it was heavenly and my skin felt softer than anything I had ever felt before. I couldn't stop rubbing my shoulders and thighs.

After we rinsed off with the remaining water in our buckets, brushed our teeth and towel-dried in the outer room, we got into comfy clothes and headed to the hair salon. It was 9 PM on a Sunday night and the salon was packed with other women who had just gone to hammam, painting their nails, getting their hair died with henna, and dancing with the owner of the salon to an Algerian pop video playing on the small TV overhead. I got what little hair I have trimmed and Fatima and Meryem got their nails painted. We had a couple pots of tea at the salon and then went back to Meryem's house to go to bed. I fell asleep, still rubbing my smooth skin and thinking of Amina's painful, yet pleasureful, powers.

Flat Stanley . . . we meet again!

During my Peace Corps years in Costa Rica, my aunt sent me a little man made of construction paper and wearing a crayon colored superhero outfit designed by a first grader from Pennsylvania. This was my first introduction to Flat Stanley, a popular project used in elementary schools to promote cultural awareness and a more global perspective on education. Basically, the little six year old tykes create a Flat Stanley doll and send him to various countries around the world, where the recipient of Stanley then takes some pictures of him visiting that country and sends it back to the 1st grade youngster. I assume then the students talk about the different countries and broaden their worldview a bit. That part is beyond me. However, upon receiving a Flat Stanley in Costa Rica, I soon became aware of my responsibilities as a good host and began planning trips with my unideminsional pal to show him a good time. Well, to make a long story short, during one of our drives through the mountains of Costa Rica, Stan the Man decided to go sky diving out the car window and into the dense, dark jungle. He was never to be seen again, however was reinvented! Yes, he traded in his scribbled SuperStan suit for a carefully colored traditional Costa Rican farmer's garb. Now, after my adventures with this Flat Stanley (and a bit of stressing after his extreme sport venture), I thought my relationship with Stan had come to an end. But nooooo, alas, we meet again! And this time he is even braver, coming across the world to Morocco for a taste of tagine and some desert heat. Well, let's just say my second time around with his guy proved to be more interesting than the first and even sparked quite a bit of interest from my friends leading to a technologically creative "Flat Stanley in Morocco" blog. Yes, if you would like to see more of the country through the eyes of a physically one dimensional, but mentally multi-faceted paper doll, feel free to visit the following site. I promise you will learn more about Morocco than my experience has been able to tell. http://www.flatstanleyinmorocco.blogspot.com/

I miss the snow down in Africa . . .

After a month of vacation, I returned to Ifrane late at night. When I woke in the morning, this is what I saw from my bedroom window.

A Spiritual Oasis

I often find myself in situations where I push the pause button for no more than a minute and think to myself, "Ten minutes ago, would I have ever imagined I would be in this moment?" Of course the answer is always no, and the follow-up question is inevitably, "Where am I?" Well, let me rewind a bit and give you some context.

One weekend, I had decided to join some other professors on a trip to the Tafilalt Oasis, on the outer limits of the Sahara Desert. We had been traveling for hours across barren plains and winding through rocky hills when we suddenly descended upon a lush green valley, bursting with date palms and woven with rivers. It was a true oasis in all respects of the term and a fresh gulp of water for the eyes. Now, what's interesting about this particular oasis is that just a few kilometers down the river, or immediately beyond the dam that is plugging this plentiful paradise is a region laden with cracked, dried riverbeds and entire families meagerly surviving on 5 liters of water a day. Why the drastic contrast? Well the answer is not all that surprising . . . religion.

Apparently, and as explained to me by one of my colleagues, an expert on the region, Sufi religious prayer centers, known as Zawiyats, speckled the area dating back to the time when caravans were crossing the desert from Algeria to Timbuktu. These Zawiyats were places where the community gathered for prayer rituals, where the harvest was collected and distributed amongst families, and where any tribal disputes were settled.

Well, not too long ago ,the kingdom of Morocco asked that these Zawiyats turn over their papers to the government. Most of the Zawiyats did just that and find themselves conveniently located on the green side of the dam, however some did not, and only one of them is barely surviving today. This is where I find myself now, seated among some of my colleagues and Sufi men and children, in the central gathering room, deep in a labyrinth of dirt walls, in the middle of the desert, on a stark black, starry night. The Sufi women are on the roof because they are not permitted in the inner room. There is a circular opening in the ceiling where you can see them occasionally taking a glimpse of their unexpected visitors. Below, we lounge on woven pillows and rugs, sipping cup after cup of mint tea, and snacking on fresh dates and peanuts. We had just witnessed poetic chanting from the Qur'an and were about to see the hadhra, a rhythmic invocation of Allah using drums and dance. Now, you'll get a glimpse of what carried us well into the night.

Just press play.

The Sahara

Some fluff in the muff

We knew something was wrong when the motor of our 97 VW Polo was louder than any beat-up, sheep-carrying, furniture-transporting vehicle on the road. However, what could be the problem? We had no idea . . .

We press on though, hoping it is nothing more than a busted muffler, until we come upon a honey farm on the side of the road, a place where you can not only find, but taste, over fifty different flavors of bee vomit . . . jasmine, eucalyptus, orange blossom, and Italian? Anyway, naturally we stop to stick our greedy little paws in various honey jars before we decide to continue on to our final destination, Chefchauen, home to cheese pruducin' goats and peace plant providin' mountains.

After I gather up my honey purchases from the small store, I walk outside to my three traveling companions, bewildered, observing the the back of the car. I join them, survey the situation, and am immediately aware of the cause of our growling vehicle. It appears that a small, black, furry animal has managed to be entirely sucked up and engulfed by our muffler. So much so, we are not quite sure if it is a cat, a baby goat, or a small child. However, regardless of the unidentifiable object, I jump into action, grab an empty plastic bag from the car, put it over my left hand, and squat down behind the rear bumper preparing myself for what is about to be yanked out. As I wrap my hand around what I assume to be the neck, or some part of the spinal column, I am receiving little moral support from the three members of my audience, two of whom can't stop crying they're laughing so hard and the vegetarian who is about to vomit from the whole scene. But, not one to stop a show, I pull as hard as I can, trying not to rip the muffler off or a vertebrae out of our furry foe. However, I only come away with a handful of charred fur and the final verdict that it's a cat, possibly a kitten, wedged in that pipe. Just as I'm about to jerk out my fifth handful of fur, my support team finally shows up, in true Moroccan fashion, with a woman in a gelaba serving us mint tea on a silver tray. So this is how they handle this sort of thing. Finally the honeyman comes out, takes one look at the situation and politely listens to my friends' desperate explanations in broken French, Arabic, and Spanish. I just quietly sip on my tea while manually shearing the kitten. After the honeyman grasps the gist of what my companions are so exhaustingly trying to communicate, he calmly walks to the back of the honey store and comes back with a young, strapping mechanic, complete with a gray jumper and gloves to match. Now, was is too simple-minded of me to assume a honey farm in the middle of the Rif Mountains probably would not have an on-site mechanic? Possibly so, but regardless of my ignorant assumptions, Sidi Fix It stepped right up to the plate, took off his glove, yanked out a clump of fur from the suffocated feline, smelled it, and declared us all idiots. Apparently, a small kitten sucked up into a muffler looks strikingly similar to a blown out filter. They assured us we would be fine for the rest of our trip and that we were not animal killers (the vegetarian was almost in tears by now).

So, to Chefchauen we merrily arrived, muffler intact, honey stocked, one more vacancy in the pet cemetary and a very important lesson learned: When you think you have some fluff in your muff, just sip your tea and let a professional do the work.

A call to prayer: Chefchauen

Sunset in Essaouira

Please shower with your pans on.

This is what the campus-wide e-mail read this past week, but the message was intended for me. For those of you who don't read Moroccan English, "pans" means "pants", but in this context it is specifically referring to bathing suit bottoms. So, the background . . . well, I'm officially a member of the Al Akhawayn swim team (one of two women on the team), and after a rigorous practice one Monday evening, I hit the showers. Now I won't go into extended detail about my shower routine, but part of it does consist of removing my bathing suit and rinsing out the chlorine. Well, I should have known something wasn't kosher when upon doing this I received a wave of stares, whispers, and 'discreet' pointing from the other women in the shower. Now, I understand women need to cover themselves in public, so that men may not be tempted to lust after them, but I assumed that this rule did not apply to women with other women. And, I assumed wrong. Immediately after this incident, everyone received a strongly worded e-mail asking pool users to shower with their pans on. They might as well have just sent the e-mail directly to me, but reprimanding for any wrong doing seems to be a public event here. So, a word to the wise . . . women, keep your pans on . . . and men, don't remove your pots.

A venture up the coast to Asilah

Some things you are guaranteed to see driving up the coast of Morocco:

1. Roadside stands selling a tasty combination of onions and melons

2. Highway patrol officers stopping traffic to ask for a cigarette

3. Jars of honey carefully balanced upon a tower of rocks

4. A shepherd, staff in one hand, cell phone in the other

5. More honey

6. Flamingos

7. Camels "re-fueling" at the gas station

8. Two men walking along the shoulder of the highway, in the middle of the desert, nicely dressed, and carrying nothing but a silver tray with a complete tea set

The Donkey and the Mercedes: My first impressions

I live in a little town named Ifrane. To those who have visited Morocco for a few days or even a few weeks, you may have not ventured to Ifrane or even heard of it. However, to wealthy Moroccans and many Europeans it is hardly unheard of. It is the summer vacation spot for those who cannot bear the heat of Fez and Marrakesh. It is the destination for those who want to sit in sidewalk cafes sipping mint tea and talking over tajine. It is the hotspot for young, affluent Moroccans wearing tube tops and head scarves. It is a unique little place, somehwhat similar to Disneyland with its manicured lawns (which no one is to walk upon), tidy streets, and even a small train carrying tourists from the central square to the local market. However, walk about five minutes outside of Ifrane towards Fez and you will find yourself in a land similar to images seen in the movie Babel. Rocky, dry farmland, sheep herders living in tents, and Berbers walking alongside their cargo-carrying donkeys.

It should also be mentioned that the university in which I teach sits high on a hill overlooking this little economic oasis and apparently was funded by money given to Morocco by a Saudi King. Apparently a Saudi oil carrier had a little accident off the coast of Morocco, spilling vast amounts of oil along the shorline. Well, the Saudi King dished out money to tidy things up, but the money was never used thanks to the strong Altlantic currents sweeping the mess to someone else's shore. So where did all that money go? Ding ding ding . . . you guessed it! Toward building Al Akhawayn University (meaning Two Brothers University, named after the the Saudi King and Moroccan King Hassan II). So it's no wonder that as I walk down the flower-lined walkways and past the Gucci -sportin' , English-speaking students of this campus, that I have to remind myself that I'm in Africa.

A Soldier's Welcome

Is that a drum or are you just happy to see me?

You can imagine my surprise and utter pleasure when I stepped off the plane and into the small lobby of the Casablanca Airport and was immediately greeted by loud cheering, a band of horns, and a group of Moroccan men in matching green robes and Fez hats encircling me with a little jig. At first I thought they must have mistaken me for Hilary Clinton, but after realizing the caliber of this welcome celebration I think it must have been Julia Roberts. However, my dreams of being mistaken for the "Pretty Woman" were immediately crushed when the dancing circle abandoned me for the next Joe Shmoe to disembark the plane. I'm still not quite sure what or who the huge fuss was for. Maybe it's their job. All I hope for is that my farewell is just as exciting.