My life in Morocco...

How is it that I can live in this neighborhood for six months, get to know my neighbors, shopkeepers, butchers, sandwich makers, co-workers then suddenly find myself being hit on by all of them in the same week?

First, a teacher tells me that "I am the most beautiful American he ever saw" (please note the grammar).  Then, whilst doing my laundry, I discover that someone has tossed me a message...in a pen.  Wrapped around the ink barrel and shoved inside of the casing of a pen is a message: "I want to talk with you" and a phone number.  Obviously it's for me; that or the old lady next door to me secretly speaks English.  And then the Soussi guy at the hanout down the street decides to compliment my scent of all things (you have no idea how tempted I was to say odor), and holds my hand for just a few seconds too long.  Not to mention the drunk, two-toothed car guardian, but I'm not his only victim.

Frankly, I'm sick of it.  If I could sneer any more, I certainly would.  I'm doing my best, but it makes me so angry to find that, despite the abundance of scantily-clad Moroccan girls, my ability to speak passable Arabic, and my penchant for baggy jeans and Timberland fleeces, I still get hit on fifty times a day. 

"You are welcome in Morocco."