#Reasons to travel to Morocco

[delusionalbubble]

Top 10 Most Underrated Cities in Africa

Top 10 Most Underrated Cities in Africa

Looking for the top 10 most underrated cities in Africa? Tourists and residents in stunning and well-known cities tend to have the opinion that the only locations worth living in or visiting are those with larger map dots. Instagram is flooded with images of tourists climbing Table Mountain in Cape Town, wandering through Chefchaouen, Morocco, or posing in front of the Giza Pyramids, but the…

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#best resort in Malindi #Is Africa safe to travel #is burkinafaso a real country #is Durban worth visiting #is Malindi Kenya worth visiting #is ouagadougou a real city #is Sekondi-Takoradi one city #Kigali most underrated city in Africa #Most underrated African cities #most underrated cities in Africa #overshadowed cities Africa #reasons to visit Rabat morocco #things to do in Ougadougou #what is the most underrated city in Africa? #where is Sekondi-Takoradi

[the-garbanzo-annex-jr]

by Elchanan Poupko

For centuries, rabbis around the world get up on Shabbat Zachor and speak about memory, never about violence. Not once in the past 2000 years of Jewish history – and that is a vast record to draw on – was the Biblical account of Amalek used to evoke revenge. It was always used to evoke memory. The imperative to remember the unprovoked atrocities committed against our own innocent communities.

The name of Amalek was invoked to remind us of the ubiquitous nature of antisemitism, the only hate in the world directed against people who are unknown to those seething with hate for us. People like the Houthis in Yemen who never saw a Jew in their life, yet are determined to destroy the Jewish state; Nazis in Germany who traveled hundreds of miles away from home to kill Jews in Belarus, Lithuania, Hungary, and Morocco even though they had never seen or known much about those Jews, that is the kind of evil we speak about when invoking the memory of Amalek.

In our generation, when speaking about that kind of senseless hate, we speak about the Hamas terrorists who woke up on the morning of October 7th and were willing to gable away their lives and futures to murder and burn alive people like Canadian peace activist Vivian Silver, someone who spent her life driving Palestinians from Gaza to medical appointments in Israel’s best hospitals. We invoke the memory of Amalek when we encounter something so evil it defies any logical explanation.

It is appalling to see how many people rushed to the Bible to judge Israel’s use of the memory of Amalek before looking at its use for the past 2000 years, most notably during the Holocaust.

While Germany starved to death and killed hundreds of thousands of Jews in the Warsaw Ghetto, Jews secretly published a newsletter called Kol Hamidbar in which the emaciated Jews wrote: “Many nations waged war against the Jews and did bad unto them, but Amalek, that is something absolutely different. Amalek put the destruction of Jews as a goal, a program, a method; premeditated, in cold blood, sadistically, according to a plan, organized, and with laws… Amalek and their grandson Haman are not satisfied with the killing of individual Jews…they would like to destroy the entire nation and eliminate Judaism.”

These words ring powerfully to any Jew who has seen what Hamas terrorists did on October 7th. The senseless hate that defies any logic or pattern of human conflict is simply unexplainable. The kidnapping of grandmothers from their homes and burning of babies and little girls alive with no reason whatsoever has no other language.

Jews invoke this language of Amalek when we encounter the world’s oldest hate, acted on with cruelty no human can explain. Jews have done so countless times while remembering the Holocaust and also did so while seeing the evils of Hamas on October 7th.

Like Jews after the Holocaust, the memory of Amalek’s unforgivable horrors reminds us of the need to take action. How does that action look? Years ago, speaking to congregants in synagogue, here is what I said as I spoke of the story of Amalek, and I was not the only one:

“The greatest heed to the call ‘Yidden, Nekama – Jews, Revenge’ inscribed in blood in Slabodka, Lithuania, is not going back to that town and place or to those perpetrators; it is that there are today thousands of students in Israel learning in Yeshivas named Slabodka. It is that we are undeterred in leading proud Jewish lives, laser-focused on the future while refusing to forget the past.”

Jewish revenge never looks like the acts of our enemies. We never follow in the inhumane footsteps of those who committed the unthinkable against us. This is true also concerning the horrors of October 7th.

#amalek #amalek libel #jews #revenge #october 7 #hamas #gaza #shabbat zachor

[gothhabiba]

One thing that scares me about learning Arabic is that you have to choose a region that 'you're most interested in' and then learn the Arabic of that region. I feel like I can't, and don't want to, choose a region. I haven't ever travelled to the Arabic world, how am I supposed to choose whether I want to be able to understand the people of Morocco, Sudan or Jordan the most? It's really such a hard choice to make, especially because you have to make it relatively early on in your process of learning Arabic, if I understand right. Would you agree (as all the websites recommend) that it is best then to learn Egyptian Arabic so “everybody understands you“? I don't like this line of thinking so much because I'm coming to learn Arabic less to be understood and more to understand. It's just a hard thing for me and one that has put me off of starting to learn Arabic for a while now.

first of all phrases like "Arab world" aren't really beloved appellations, as many people in these regions are not Arabs and do not speak Arabic. many Moroccans came to speak an Arabic-derived dialect/language at home through a process of cultural conquest and may or may not consider themselves Arabs; others speak one of 3 groups of indigenous African languages. and there are also Kurds and stuff.

I can't speak for all Arabic speakers, but Egyptian Arabic is readily understood by most Moroccan Arabic speakers in part due to the fact that Egyptian teledramas and other programming is widely broadcast. a lot of Arabs (like, West Asian Arabs) make a big deal out of how incomprehensible they find Moroccan Arabic, but the thing is, part of that is probably genuine differences in the language and part of it is probably just racism (since Moroccan Arabic has been dirtied through its nature as an 'African' language yada yada)

I can tell you that I don't have much difficulty understanding Levantine, Egyptian, and Gulf speakers provided the Moroccan word I know for what they're saying is actually Arabic-derived (and not French or Tamazight or Spanish &c.). you just have to take all the vowels and half the syllables out of what they're saying and then you'll usually get it 😭

one thing that a lot of people recommend is learning Standard Arabic, and then learning a dialect from there. this approach is why you'll get people everywhere saying that Moroccan Arabic is the "hardest" dialect (that's nonsense, there's no reason for that to be true; what they mean is that it's the hardest to learn starting from a base of Standard Arabic, since it's allegedly the most different). however it's probably a good idea in general. Standard Arabic would allow you to read; to be broadly understood even if people think you sound like a newscaster; and understand most dialects once you get used to the pronunciation a little.

tl;dr: just pick something and start learning, I think you'll find that different dialects are more mutually intelligible than you might think

#Anonymous #questions

[leveloneandup]

Extra Time: Two World Cup Champs Aren’t Scared of the Dutch

Holland day

So, two-time World Cup champion Christen Press, what scares you about the Netherlands, America’s second-round opponent at this 2023 World Cup? The U.S. Women’s National Team (USWNT) will face the Orange Lionesses tonight at 9 p.m. E.T. in New Zealand's capital city of Wellington.

Press, who won titles in 2015 and 2019 as a forward for the U.S. but recently underwent a fourth surgery to repair the knee preventing her from playing in this World Cup, is mildly offended by this question. “As soon as you say, ‘What scares you,’ I took that as a player,” Press says. “And I’m like, ‘Nothing scares me.” Press, 34, laughs. “OK, go ahead, Tobin …"

As in Tobin Heath, who’s also on this call—and was also on the 2015 and 2019 USWNT World Cup teams (in addition to the 2011 one)—and has also won a pair of World Cup titles, in 2015 and 2019 with the USWNT. Like Press, Heath, 35, has been sidelined due to injury. So I called on the duo—who are among the founders of the lifestyle brand RE-INC, often finish each other’s sentences, and are co-hosting an excellent podcast and YouTube program during the World Cup called The RE-CAP Show—to break down the U.S.-Netherlands matchup.

Heath agrees with Press. She doesn’t find the Dutch all that frightening. “The Dutch are a good team,” says Heath. “They're not a great team in this tournament.” Heath concedes that the Dutch are the best team in the USWNT’s group, which also includes Vietnam—whom the U.S. defeated 3-0 on Friday in the World Cup opener—and Portugal. “Outside of us,” Press chimes in.

“Outside of us, yes,” says Heath.

Yes, U.S.-Netherlands is a rematch of the 2019 World Cup final. But Heath cautions against reading too much into that. “There were a ton of better teams we played in 2019,” says Heath. She and Press point to games against Spain in the Round of 16, France—in France—in the quarters, and England in the semis as much tougher tests. The U.S. won those games 2-1, but shut out the Netherlands, 2-0, in the title game. “We always say our final was one of the easier games for us,” says Heath.

What’s more, the Dutch—who beat Portugal 1-0 in their World Cup opener—are down a superstar. Vivianne Miedema, the country’s all-time leading goal scorer, is missing this World Cup due to an ACL tear. “We don’t have to significantly adjust what we’re doing in order to take care of an individual player,” says Heath. “I don’t think they can do much damage to us.”

The one Netherlands player Heath mentioned in our conversation as a threat to watch—striker Lineth Beerensteyn—is now unlikely to play, because of an ankle injury she suffered against Portugal. Heath notes that the Dutch have a solid aerial presence off set pieces. And the Orange Lionesses could exploit the tendency of U.S. outside defenders Crystal Dunn and Emily Fox to play “inverted” positions—meaning they sometimes serve more as midfielders, moving into more centralized spaces on the pitch, getting involved in short passes on the attack. That strategy can leave the U.S. defense susceptible to Dutch counterattacks out wide. “You are leaving a big area to exploit,” says Heath.

Still, the former USWNT players aren’t all that worried. If anything, this is a huge opportunity for the Americans to make a statement. Germany made its mark, with a 6-0 crushing of Morocco. Brazil cast itself a real threat, with its 4-0 opening game victory over Panama. Spain beat Zambia 5-0 on Tuesday. “There’s a few teams that are like, we’re here,” says Heath. “We didn’t have that game against Vietnam. We can have that game against the Netherlands, if we want. I don’t see there being any reason why we can’t.”

~~~

Parting thought

Since they’ve played in past tournaments, I asked Heath and Press what it’s like for players at the World Cup between games. The U.S. did travel from Auckland to Wellington in the five days between its matchups against Vietnam and the Netherlands. Still, that’s plenty of downtime.

Enough to make you go stir-crazy?

“It’s almost like surrealism,” says Press. “The days are a little gray and foggy. You almost can’t remember. You’re very careful with when you look at your phone and who you even connect with. Or how much you walk. Your whole life is bubble-wrapped. Every second of the day. And then you have to go out and do this incredibly physical and risky and hard and emotionally draining thing. And then you just are bubble-wrapped again.”

“We sit around and talk and try to get a little bit of relief. It's this incredibly difficult experience to explain. You're with the only people in the world that get it. And that creates a bond with every single player I've played with in a world championship that's unlike any other. Because there's this respect. There's this knowingness. You don't even have to say anything and you know what's going on with your teammates.”

“We eat too many meals. We’re really just trying to fuel, fuel, fuel. And we talk and we laugh and we make it to the next game.”

#christen press #tobin heath #wwc 2023 #uswnt #uswnt vs netherlands #article

[dozing-marshmallow]

I looooooooove the chris x wife! reader fic that you wrote!! It got me kicking my feet and blushing 😊 By any chance, could you write a chris x wife! reader going on their honeymoon?

Awww this is such a cute idea, thank you so much, I’m so happy to hear that you loved the last one! ⋆˙⟡♡  I had to get something out on the man’s birthday as soon as I could and this request was the one I was fixated on finishing the most, so do enjoy reading and McLean’s bday ~💗!

CHRIS MCLEAN X WIFE! READER ON HONEYMOON HEADCANONS

Most newly wed couples go to just one location for their honeymoon.

Yet it was very poor of you to think that standard would apply to Chris.

You didn’t realise until he informed you that you were gonna go to two countries per continent(apart from Antartica, cuz what the hell): Barbados and Costa Rica for North America, Brazil and Colombia for South America, France and Italy for Europe, Thailand and (The) Philippines for Asia, Morocco and Tunisia for Africa, French Polynesia and Australia for Oceania.

The only reason why Chris cut it to two instead of four was because he suspected you would get sick of travelling, and didn’t want you to be complaining on holiday.

“Chriiis, we don’t need to, you know!” you’re verbal about your humble take on the honeymoon as Chris made his long list based on the notes he wrote from his and your opinions,“This is all so costly! We could really go to two continents instead!”

“Huh?” he looks at you, confusion scratching into the space between his eyebrows,“(Y/N), this is literally nothing. You seriously wanna spend our whole two months of celebrating marriage in one place like working class people?”

Harsh, but it’s fine because it’s Chris.

Before you left, he took you on a massive shopping spree where it had not even been the beginning of him pampering you with all the jewellery, the swimsuits and the candies.

This guy doesn’t need to book reservations: the best hotels, air BNBs, holiday homes, you name the one you want to stay at the country and baam. Availability opens a door and charm hands over the keys.

He also hired a chaperone for each country, but most of the time, only for the arrival and departure; he wanted more alone time with you.

At this rate, you wondered if he needed to pay to enter the countries asides from paying the fuel and landing runway.

That’s right. You were getting there by his jet -he ended up upgrading- to each location.

Since it wasn’t meant to carry fifteen contestants this time, Chris abolished the loser and first class section in the new version of his plane to be furnished completely into his headquarters.

During each jet ride, you and Chris would review helpful phrases and attractions that would enhance the experience.

“So in France, we will have to remember to say “bonsoir” from 6 PM onwards.” you reiterate.

“That’s doable.” Chris comments, leaning back in his chair.

“And they don’t like smiling a lot.” you add, doing it yourself.

His relaxation ended,“Bummer. D’you think they can make an exception for me? My resting face is a smile.”

They did- in every place.

The honeymoon was an epoch for Chris to meet his fans from all over the world. If you had a dollar for every autograph he signed the entire getaway, you would have enough money to have your own jet.

Weirdly enough, Chris lost genuine pleasure to greet his global admirers and increasingly rushed the interactions.

“It’s okay to be more attentive to your fans, Chris.” you insist, with your head on his bare body, laying around somewhere on the warm Tunisian beach.

“Nah.” he differs with his hand scrubbing sand on your back,“I came on holiday with you, not them. I couldn’t leave you by yourself.”

Aw. You love your husband,“You’re right. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”

He bought you anything that caught your eye. Clothes, hats, rings, ice cream, souvenirs.

Chris had also bought five cameras. He wasn’t letting a single moment of a scenery or pose go to waste.

Be prepared for the day when he eventually gets them all printed out and stuck in fresh albums and wants to reminisce with you.

He took you to the best restaurants, never settling for one less than five stars (maybe four if you persuaded him enough).

“To another exceptional night of our honeymoon!” he raises his glass of happiness.

You copy, both clinking and declaring cheers.

Going back to your accommodation, Chris would have you carried until the first descent onto the fine duvets.

Let’s just say that, by the time you do get back to Canada, both husband and wife’s necks have never been more wine red.

#tdi x reader #td chris #request #chris mclean #total drama #chris mclean x reader #td chris mclean x reader #total drama island chris #total drama chris mclean #tdi #total drama headcanons #total drama scenarios

[roncheg]

So, I fell sick right before the holidays, and as a distraction got into listening to some generic detective audiobooks, which is unusual for me- my listening focus is slipping easily:')

As I progressed from book to book I started having some IDEAS😈

You see, this main character(MC), a very successful Scotland yard inspector, and by author's own account:

is extremely handsome, with slender figure

found a lifelong work partner in another tall, handsome and gruff inspector (surnamed Fox), to whom the MC just cannot help but write long and witty letters even if he is on the other side of the world

while MC is very gentlemanly and flirty and just cannot help but entangle himself with some or other femme-fatale, occasionally he (for some reason) starts to wax poetic about his lifelong work partner to said femme-fatale, it is probably pretty confusing for those poor womenXD

SO as soon as I’ve felt a bit better I started to generate all kind of scenarios and it lead to this-

Inspector x Inspector, lifelong work partners;

Inspector Handsome is a free spirit! He just cannot help himself! He travels a lot! Solves intricate crimes from Morocco to New Zealand! Flirts with beautiful foreign men and women, leaving a trail of broken hearts behind! All the while writing passionately to Inspector Fox about his adventures and how he longs to be home and cozy in their Scotland yard work partnership paradise!

And in the end Inspector Handsome always returns into the embrace of Inspector Fox❤️

#my art #there you are #have a fever induced detective inspector x inspector useless yaoi story #i don't know what to say in defense of my brainXDD #oc art

[adiduck]

MI5 rewrite sentences pls!! I would like to see them!!

LOL sure! Here we have an extension of a scene that you will NOT find in the original movie, for obvious reasons ;)

-

Ethan’s partner throws up his hands and leaves.

Ethan watches him go.

“So,” Benji says, drawing the word out to multiple syllables. “Er. Trouble in paradise, is it?”

Ethan turns to give him a very flat look. Benji throws up his hands, schooling his face into something approaching surrender.

“Not my business, right right right,” he says. “So, Morocco?”

Ethan sighs, and turns back to the plans on the screen. “Morocco,” he agrees.

He and Benji plan well into the night—tickets, and identities, and disguises; travel itineraries and escape routes; plans B, C, D, E, and F, just to have a skeleton in place in case something goes wrong. When they’re finally ready to turn in, Benji can barely keep his eyes open, and Ethan’s partner is still not back.

“Go clean up,” Ethan urges. “Head’s down the hall and to the left.”

Benji gives him a long, long look, and then shrugs, yawning. “Which bunk should I take, then?” he asks.

Ethan smiles, reluctant. “Whichever you want,” he says, and then slips out the door ahead of Benji, in search of a very specific person.

He finds him in the cockpit, sitting in the captain’s chair, arms crossed and eyes closed. In front of them, the Danube stretches out—lighted by moonlight, and the streetlines lining her.

“I sent the plans to your tablet,” he tries, not entirely sure what welcome he’s going to get.

“Hm,” his partner says, keeping his eyes closed. “I saw.”

“Objections?” Ethan asks.

A single open eye—blue-gray, and not Benji’s particular color anymore, either. He’s taken his contacts out, then, Ethan thinks, and carefully makes his way to the second chair in the cockpit. “You know what my objections are,” he says, voice very wry.

Ethan feels his shoulders stiffen again. “I meant with the plan itself.”

A hum, and then the eye closes again. “No, no objections. It’s a solid plan.”

Ethan forces the tension out of his back, very deliberately. “Good.”

A hum. Ethan’s partner opens his eyes again. “Come here,” he says—a suggestion, maybe, or a request.

Ethan doesn’t hesitate, just stands back up and crosses to him. His partner catches his wrist, and then tugs him down until he’s sitting between spread legs, strong arms wrapped around his chest. A kiss is dropped on his temple.

“I’m worried,” Ethan’s partner says, very simply. “About you. This is too personal.”

#MI5 Rewrite #adi is a writer #saintspy #ask game #wip snippet

[archaeologyfjones]

Do you ever travel to other countries to do your archeological research?

"Rarely! When I do I often drop Mattie a visit for academic reasons, and then María as well. Though I say that, she usually prefers to do things on her own, sometimes we get to work together, which is always a treat. I'd have to say my favorite sites have been in Morocco while I work with Asma - gosh, I ain't talked to her much lately. Oh! I've also been invited to the Pedra Furada site in Brazil by Miss Letícia. Some others I've had the honor to work with: Miss Subira and the wealth of sites in Tanzania and Miss Njeri in Kenya. The three of us adore paleoanthropology, though we don't really talk much. I would love to reach out to Tariku to see if there are any opportunities in Ethiopia...but there hasn't been much time."

((I would like to thank @crepegosette for allowing me to namedrop their wonderful Brazil OC, Letícia. All names for Tanzania, Kenya, and Ethiopia were by @peonycats who has some of the most amazing OCs in this fandom. Very wonderful mind! I should have asked before borrowing your names for them and for that I apologize.))

#ask archaeology boy #archaeologyfjones #alfred's field notes #hetalia #hetalia ask blog #aph america #hws america #alfred f jones

[eretzyisrael]

by Eunice G. Pollack and Stephen H. Norwood

Many Arabs stressed that even before "Zionist ... pretensions" threatened the "happy relationship" between Muslims and Jews, it had been disrupted by the imposition of European colonial rule.[13] They informed their Western audiences that Jews had "enjoyed all the privileges and rights of citizenship" before colonialism introduced an "artificial separation" between Muslim and Jew. A Moroccan political leader insisted that for this reason the Jews had "welcomed" the overthrow of colonial rule and the return of "Arabization" and the establishment of the independent Muslim nation.[14]

Contrary to the Arabs' contentions, however, it was the colonial powers that had extended citizenship (e.g., Algeria in 1870), equality or near-equality (e.g., the French Protectorate in Morocco, 1912–1956) to the Jews, liberating them at last from their status as subjugated, humiliated dhimmis, and ending the oppressive jizya, the tribute always exacted by the Muslims. Thus Jews had strongly endorsed the colonial presence, generally embracing modern European education and culture.[15] It was under British occupation (1882–1922) that Jews in Egypt felt safest. Notably, under Islamic rule, it was only the Ottoman Empire that, in an effort to secure European support—and modern weapons—issued an Imperial Edict (1856) that, in theory, extended equal rights to all its subjects. In practice, however, Ottoman governors (pashas) confined themselves to collecting taxes, while local rulers and the populace—for example, the Mamluks in Egypt—continued to persecute, pillage, and impose additional "heavy levies" on the Jews. Thus most Jews not only supported European colonial rule, but feared the independence movements, with the threat of return to their earlier subordinate "social, political and economic" positions.[16]

Islamic Myths about Jews' Inherent Traits

Arab commentators readily dismissed over two centuries of travelers' accounts and investigative reports that belied their claims about the conditions and contentment of Jews under Islamic rule. They simply turned to another hoary myth in order to protect their current fable. The Arabs discarded all the testimony that contradicted their narrative, explaining that it had been derived largely from Jews, whom the Qur'an characterized as congenitally deceitful, never to be trusted.[17]

At times, political and religious leaders conceded that the Jews in Muslim lands had been relentlessly subjugated, relying on another large cache of myths, drawn or extrapolated from the Qur'an, to sanctify their abasement of those they now identified as "the dogs of humanity." Indeed, from the earliest years of Islam, Muslims had understood that "their deadliest enemies were the Jews."[19] They were the only people cursed in the Qur'an, whom Allah had promised "degradation in this world and a mighty chastisement in the next world." Muslim theologians recognized that the Jews were "like germs of a malignant disease where one germ is sufficient to eliminate an entire nation." But, they taught, "the Holy Qur'an ... constitutes the microscope through which we can see the pests and poisons that reside in their minds and hearts." Thanks to Qur'anic lessons on how to subdue the Jews, the Muslims were "the only people on earth to tolerate them" in their midst.[20]

Citing the Qur'an, prominent Muslim educators portrayed the Jews as driven throughout their history to bring "blind sedition ... and intrigue in any land or community where they happened to live." Some suggested that this was likely "why the Israelites ... were so detested by all surrounding tribes."[21] Others explained that "the Jews themselves have not changed" because, "according to ... their false Torah," they "are required to stir war with their neighbors once they have the opportunity to do so." Some added that the Jews often preferred to deploy "conspiracies, plots, intrigues [and] sedition" because they were inherently "cowards and could not openly face their enemy."[22]

Not acknowledging a contradiction, many spokesmen insisted that "the Jews have always been criminal aggressors." Jews claim that they are victims, "subjected [throughout] their long history" to "oppression and persecution" "for no other reason than their being followers of Moses." In truth, "the hatred felt by various peoples ... for Jews was not due to their belief, but their ... unchangeable behavior, always based on exploitation, ingratitude and evil-doing in return for kindness." That is, the "criminal aggressors" only deceptively identify as innocent victims.[23] Educators taught that the Jews are "avaricious, ruthless, cruel, hypocritical and revengeful. These traits govern their lives." They point out that the Qur'an warned that, if permitted, the Jews would "become great tyrants." They conclude: "No good is expected of them unless they live under the aegis of Islam as loyal and obedient subjects." Then the Muslims "will treat them ... tolerantly." "Islamic tolerance is," after all, in complete contrast to "Jewish intolerance and cruelty."[24]

#uncle tom #happy dhimmi #islamic golden age #jews #dhimmis #arabs #zionism

[sonnysonder]

Birds I Like Masterpost

Haiii :3 Sonny here :3333 this is just a list of birds I like a lot, in no particular order, with scientific names and facts and pictures! This will also be updated periodically! Because i'm insane! Enjoy!

Imperial Amazon

Scientific Name: Amazona imperialis

Where????? - Mountain forest areas of Dominica, a Caribbean Island in the Lesser Antilles

Totally Tubular Facts!!

These little guys are the national birds of Dominica, which sucks cause they're critically endangered! There are an estimated 50 remaining in the wild! Decidedly NOT tubular!

They're really shy parrots, usually traveling in groups of three or fewer. They also sometimes flock with their fellow parrots, the Red-Necked Amazons, which are themselves a vulnerable species. Wow, do we need to get our act together!

Imperial Amazons also mate for life, and are very faithful to one another! They may find another mate if their original one dies, but they're more likely to grieve themselves to death! YIKES!

Fruit Doves

Scientific Name (Genus): Ptilinopus

Where????? - Forests and Woodlands of Southeast Asia and Oceania

Totally Tubular Facts!!

I really hope you like these guys, because there's a total of 57 different species of them in this genus! Wowza! There are only a couple pictured above, and as you can see they are very colorful birds! They can come in a whole rainbow of hues depending on what kind of fruit dove they are!

They live in various types of forests, and only a few species can commonly be seen around human habitation. They are also super shy birds, so there is very little known about many fruit dove species, especially for ones in places like the Philippines!

Pictured above, in order, are the Coroneted, Jambu, Rose-Crowned, and Pink-Headed Fruit Doves!

Northern Bald Ibis

Scientific Name: Geronticus eremita

Where????? - Morocco (Mostly), Syria, Turkey

Totally Tubular Facts!!

Yeah, I know this switched up pretty fast, but it isn't just cute birds that I like! With it's tall, imposing figure, iridescent feathers, and neck fluff, I personally think it looks really elegant! And like a vampire! But in a good way!

These birds used to be widespread across the Middle East, Northern Africa, and Southern/Central Europe, but they have been disappearing fast, mostly hunting, and their slow reproduction, which is fair! If I looked like Anakin Skywalker, I wouldn't want to reproduce either!

Nowadays, virtually half of Northern Bald Ibis breeding population lives in Souss-Massa National Park, in Morocco!

But they're also really cool birds in general! They live in barren, rocky desert areas, and nest on cliff ledges! According to local legend in the Birecik area, they were one of the first birds that Noah released from the Ark as a symbol of fertility! Cool, but not very fitting!

Killdeer

Scientific Name: Charadrius vociferus

Where????? - The Americas

Totally Tubular Facts!!

This plover species has a kickass name, and that's not even all it has going for it!

These birds are known for their clever tactics to ward off predators from their eggs and young! When a parent spots a predator approaching their nest, they will drag their wing along the ground, pretending it's broken! This turns the predator's attention to the 'injured' parent instead of the nest! Once the threat is far enough away, the parent just flies away! Disrespectful!

Another tactic they like to use is puffing themselves up, and charging the predator! Though this tactic tends to be less effective for some reason!

But hey, who could blame them? If I were a Killdeer, i'd want to protect my children too! I mean, look at these little shits! Adorable!

(Please let me know if I should do seperate bird posts, like entries, or just have one long list that I keep updating cause idk what's optimal for Tumblr)

#sonny birdposting #birdposting #bird #birdblr #birds #bird facts

[mountinez]

was tagged by the lovely hala @mchiti thank you dear! <3

name: nikka (pronounced nee-ca);

sign: taurus;

time: around 9 pm (in case you want to make my astrological chart, gemini is my asc and sagittarius my moon lol);

fave band / artist: impossible to choose one because different artists mean different things to me at different parts of my life so yeah, i'm cheating here: the killers, milky chance, sufjan stevens, stromae, linkin park and probably twenty one pilots too.

last movie: little bone lodge (took me a while but i finally watched this horror... can't say if i liked it much though);

last show: rewatching 'the umbrella academy' my beloveds of life. this show means everything to me.

when i created this blog: oh idk exactly, it has been quite a while. i guess something something 2013/14? but i've never been active because i was always on twitter.

other blogs: i have one for fics and one for movies and soooon i'll make one for the charles drawings i've been making. already said he is my inspirational muse, right?

followers: had to check but yeah this is the number.

do i interact with all these people? no! do all these people access my blog? also no. it's just a number because i've been here for a while. also i'm sure 50 of those are the porn bots i didn't block yet.

average hours of sleep: it depends but usually 5 hours. my sleep schedule is no good i'm sure.

instruments: i had piano classes when young so i can play it. i also was part of an orchestra during my school days, so i played clarinet and melodica. i think i can still pull both to this day tbh, i never forget.

dream job: well i write for horror games and this is the job i always wanted tbh. i love video games since i'm very young and oh, i might complain but i'm actually very happy. i waiting long years to be selected at this and yeah, dreams come true. but to give an answer, i DREAM to screen write for a movie some day. timothee chalamet, wait for me i'll screenwrite for you kind.

dream trip: i'm quite lucky because i went to mexico and i've traveled through huge part of latin america, so both dream trips for me for family reasons. i still want to go to a lot of places. actually been thinking about some places like morocco and turkey lately, that i've never thought about going to before. but my dream trip for real is burning man. i feel like I NEED to go to this festival. maybe it's not the time yet but one day, one day.

fave song atm: mon23 (1:3) by charles leclerc. well yeah i'm biased ok? what did y'all expect?

tagging: @cherishlaluna @pixeltori @write-the-stars @rossocorsaseb @alfaromeo-and-juliet @charlesluvr @sunshinesebby @mebiselfandi @lizablackthorn @usersewis @ @crimsonicarus @never-looked-so-good @sedicii

tagging some of you for the first time but only if you want, ofc. NO PRESSURE <3

#tag games #hala <3

[bu1410]

Since TUMBLR won't allow to post more than 4,500 carachters I'm obliged to put an additional post in order to complete the report of

Ch. I - August 1975 - Italy - Tunisia – Algeria – Morocco – Spain – France – Italy.

BENALMADENA COSTA - SPAIN Luxurious residence, swimming pool right in front of the entrance to the apartment, we were already looking forward to the two weeks of complete relaxation after so much travelling. We were close to the fence, it was very early, and my friend uncle's family were certainly still sleeping.

''Let's try to guess who owns the clothes hanging out to dry, right in front of the apartment windows'' I told Gianluigi. . Then suddenly something unexpected happens: the door of the apartment opens and an elderly lady comes out, dressed with a nightgown: she didn't look like Mrs. Proserpio at all! We look at each other bewildered:

''Maybe the apartment booked was not available, and the management assigned another one?'' It was my friend guess.....

''Well .......it happens sometimes...'' I reply. At this point we went to Residence reception in order to ask where the Proserpio family is staying. The kind receptionist consults a list and than, with a smile says:

''Disculpa, but Senora Proserpio called me' and canceled the apartment reservation'' -WHAAAAT??

Yes, asi es…….disculpa Senor…. Disconcertion - great - mine and Gianluigi's……….also because August 15th in the Costa del Sol - as in many other parts of Europe is the peak of the summer season. ''Do you have a free apartment for the next 15 days''? We ask hopefully. ''Forgive me, but the residence is complete''.

And this was the phrase we heard repeated from the ''1267 hotels'' where we asked for a room for the whole holiday, along the coast from Benalmadena to Torremolinos and surrounding areas. Desperate, but not defeated, we resorted to ''Plan B'': the tent! We had brought, just in case, the tent purchased a year earlier from Bertoni Camping for the holiday in Riccione '68. And now it was good to have it! We found a campsite but? Worn out! And what do we do? We installed our tent just beside the campsite entrance, so we could use the campsite services without paying a pesetas! In short, a reckless life, just a week, to allow the mid-August crowd to leave and vacate some apartments. We found an apartment just a week later in Benalmadena: a decent residence, but at this point we certainly couldn't be picky. Having found a roof for the day (we used to spent the night somewhere else) we only had to find a place to refresh ourselves in the evening, and once again our lucky stars met us: we discovered el ''Restaurante de Raoul! ''. He was an Argentinian by origin, married to an Italian woman, and domiciled in Biella, Italy. For the summer of 1975 he had rented a small restaurant on the road between Benalmadena and Torremolinos, and delighted the customers in a mix of Argentine, Spanish and Italian cuisine. The female cook was Spanish, and Roul had brought his twelve-year-old son from Italy, but not his wife, since she was managing a Bed & Breakfast in Biella. It was our luck: not only did the cook prepare us timbales of macaroni, delicious fish baked in foil, but we had become friends with Roul: so off to the aperitifs and sangria that flowed like rivers! And at the end of dinners Raoul was always asking us:

What do you want to pay??!!

In short, it was a lucky step from the unfortunate surprise of the Mr. Proserpio's non-arrival and we had few ''dias feliz''. By the way, we learned more about the reasons for Mr. Proserpio's giving up, once we returned home. They had arrived - it seems - all the way to Alicante, where they had had mechanical problems with the Opel Rekord they were traveling with. Hence the (absurd) decision to turn around, return to Italy, and cancel the reservation of the apartment in Benalmadena (did we recover the deposit? No, that was lost too…) Until the end of August nothing special to report, just a quiet life, sea-pool-sleepless nights, big moguls in the evening and revelry chez Roul. Then, inevitably, the day of returning to Italy arrived, and a request from Raoul literally left us speechless: - Guys, you know that I trust you, right? - Yes Raoul… - Well I ask you a favor: my son has to start school again soon, and I instead will have to stay here at least until the end of September - So? - If you agree, could you take him with you to Italy? The car is big, and there are only two of you…. - Well…yes……why not? This will only make us take a detour towards Biella, but in a journey of over 2,000 km it's a small thing in the end…… In truth we had decided to accept, given that, as it was the end of the holiday, money was scarce. So we were counting on the help that would certainly come from Raoul, since he would surely provide his son with a sum of money for a trip of at least 3 days……. (or not?). The moment we start our journey back to Italy, it always brings mixed feeling: returning home, seeing relatives and friends..... but also sadness for the end of the holidays, and the awareness that the easy life of the Saniard's was over. And we'll have to wait a whole year to the next holiday…. We left Benalmadena in the morning (not early because Gianluigi let's say he wasn't an ''early bird' guy) and the first stop was Valencia, some 800 km away, where we arrived in the evening. A drab city then, later the European Community funds and investments for the America's Cup sailing will transform it into a more pleasant place. That evening we choose a typical Valencian restaurant, because it is true that the city was not so nice like other Spain's cities, but the Valencian cuisine is excellent, starting with the famous ''Paella a la Valenciana''. The restaurant is called El Pederniz, typical local cuisine. Great feast of seafood appetizers, cold and hot, then paella para todos, and finally ''Arnadi'', a typical Valencian postre, a mixture of pumpkin and sugar, cooked in the oven and subsequently decorated with almonds and pine nuts. All washed down with excellent Blanco Bodega Reto.

We pay, but we were certain that Paolino (Raoul's son) will have enough money in store to guarantee us a night in a hotel nearby, but..... INSTEAD NO!!! After leaving the restaurant and returning to the car, while we were discussing which hotel to choose for the night, Gianluigi asked the fateful question that we should have asked BEFORE departure: - Paolino how much money did your dad give you? - Nothing…….. - ……….Silence……. - How….nothing? - Yes, says Paolino after a hesitation, Dad said that you would take care of everything…….'' - Machecazzzzzz……………..(Italian bad word) And now we were in the sh*****… if we had known we wouldn't have spent all those pesetas in the best restaurant of Valencia. But than it was like that.... cursing Raoul and sending him all the insults in Spanish we know, I started the car and go out of Valencia, took the motorway again, and then stopped at the first service area and slept in the car. Lucky for us, the Citroen DS19 has a paddle shift and front-wheel drive, so it was equipped with seats which, when lowered, form a comfortable bed. And this is how we slept, and how we would sleep next night too. After a trip in which we spoke little, we then took Paolino to Biella - his mother was very happy to see him again after more than two months of absence. The kind Lady also hosted us for lunch (goodness of her…) after which we set off for the last stage, towards our hometown. (sigh)

Benalmadena - Spain

[averagejoesolomon]

WELCOME TO THE KIDS. God, we are not ready for this installment, I'm so serious. Matt and Rachel are going to kill us all. To say nothing of the upcoming spycraft and general ass-kickery. Thank you for reading this with me. If you're new here, you can read Full Circle in full on Ao3. Enjoy!

Chapter Two

Before Matt boards a plane to New York, he pastes an OTS-issued mustache to his upper lip and switches the passports in his backpack.

There are no direct flights from Washington DC to Moscow. The reasons for this span far and wide, but the most significant factor also happens to be the simplest—sheer distance. At nearly five-thousand miles as the crow flies, there ain’t a whole lot of civilian aircraft that can make the flight in one go, to say nothing of the fact that neither country is especially amicable to the idea of direct contact. As part of a global effort to reduce the friction between two nuclear superpowers, Morocco offers up its services as the geographical and political buffer between the two destinations, its liminal and atmospheric nightlife acting as the ideal backdrop for the world’s transfers, layovers, and delays.

The trip usually takes eighteen hours if flown straight through, but the gin joints can eat into a full day if given the chance. For his part, Matt’s latest trip takes thirty-seven hours.

But he can’t blame the bars this time around because he doesn’t stop in Morocco, and hasn’t since he picked up a Soviet tail in the CMN terminal last spring. For every US intelligence agent flying through Casablanca, there are five Russian officers waiting on the ground with direct orders to identify and apprehend incoming westerners. The behavior has become too predictable. The Soviets have become too prominent. As Joe puts it: an agent in Morocco is an agent in the grave.

So Matt begins with a trip to New York, then London, then Istanbul, where he switches passports again to fly to Dubai, so he can finally make his way up to Moscow. He survives off of complimentary peanuts and ginger ale, stopping only at the occasional newsstand for the latest local headlines and a fresh packet of M&Ms—one of the few candies sold consistently across international borders. Vigilant airport hours are balanced with the relative safety of the sky, and his only sleep happens alongside the low, rattling drone of jet engines in his ear.

By the time he lands in the Soviet Union, he’s already added a goatee and traded his honey blond hair for a bleached wig that more closely resembles his newly assumed Slavic heritage. After deboarding, he identifies the nearest bathroom to the gate and enters the last stall on the left. As instructed by his CO, he runs his fingers along the wall until he finds a ridge in the tile. He carefully peels back a damn near invisible panel, revealing the compartment Langley promised him. There’s a change of clothes. A pair of contacts. A note written on evapopaper: E ibvltn aely ldrm oor we uti I. The key to this particular skip code was already given to him in New York, which helps him decipher the message that a driver will meet him in Lot 2. Thank God he doesn’t need to hail a taxi.

He drops the note into the toilet bowl and watches it melt from the edges inward. After changing into the provided outfit, he silently shreds his old travel clothes to be discarded in various trash cans on his way to the parking lot. Finally, he pops both contacts in, replaces the panel, and flushes the toilet in case anyone is listening. When he approaches the sink to wash his hands, unfamiliar blue eyes blink back at him from where his own brown eyes ought to be.

Between the sporadic sleep and the changing time zones, he has no idea what the local time is, but the dark sky narrows his possibilities to either very late or very early. The weight of travel saturates every muscle, every joint, every step, but he can’t afford to turn off his senses and slip lazily into the night—not in Moscow. Never in Moscow. After five consecutive flights in less than two days, the hard part has only just begun.

The Soviet Union has always been dangerous to western agents, but the capital has only gotten more hostile in Matt’s time as an operative. Last summer alone, ten US informants were executed in the city, including two of Matt’s most reliable contacts. In the following winter, a handful of Russian specialists left Langley for a field mission and didn’t come home. The last time Matt was here, he met with a Circle informant named Omar who offered to talk in exchange for medication not available in Russia, but easily acquired at a US pharmacy with a forged prescription. Omar is dead now, too, and Matt suspects an assassin finished him off before the illness did. These days, Moscow is a loaded spring trap ready to snap at the slightest tick in the wrong direction, deadly enough that even a skilled Pavement Artist stands to don a disguise or two.

Despite the ocean between them, Joe’s voice rings through Matt’s head. It’s always strongest in Moscow, imploring him to pay attention. Notice things. This is the sort of place where it’s best to lean into strengths, so Matt jumps in with the rest of the red-eyed passengers as the mob progresses through customs, down to baggage claim, and toward ground transportation. From his pace to his posture, he strives to put on a seamless Soviet appearance.

When he reaches the lot, he identifies a license plate number he was instructed to memorize, then enters the backseat of the boxy beige Lada. The driver doesn’t look back when he says, “Nice weather we’re having, yes?” in the sort of thick, Russian dialect that only natives can pull off.

Matt replies in his own practiced Russian. “I hear rain is imminent,” he says. “But I seem to have forgotten my umbrella at home.”

Satisfied with the exchange, the driver shifts gears and squeezes out of his parking spot, working his way toward the main city. By now, Matt knows the streets of Moscow as well as he knows the streets of Hay Springs, so he pays close attention to the route, just in case the driver has been compromised in the past forty-eight hours. The two of them do not speak, wary of bugs. They do not exchange glances, wary of pinprick cameras sewn into buttons. Instead, they embrace their existence as total strangers, not eager to leave any impression of an alliance.

This suits Matt just fine. That is, until seventeen minutes later, when the driver takes a right-hand turn away from the city center, then another.

In this business, in this part of the world, two right turns are a surefire signal to any veteran agent that something significant is about to happen, though it’s impossible to predict whether he’s looking at a positive or negative outcome until the moment actually passes. That’s probably why Joe’s voice is in Matt’s head again, anticipating the worst and providing Matt with escape plans. 

The sidewalks look reasonably empty, easy enough to run.

The rear doors appear to be unlocked from the inside. 

If the doors are jammed shut from the outside, Matt’s shoe has an iron wedge embedded in the rubber heel, which will help him kick through the window.

The driver isn’t armed, but if he makes a move for the glove box, Matt’s best option is to choke him from behind.

The little Lada pulls up to an alleyway tucked between high-rise apartments and a seemingly abandoned liquor store. There are no streetlights. No witnesses. The driver shifts the car into park and says, “You exit now.”

Risk assessment is a key component of any covert decision and, in that moment, Matt senses some serious risk waiting for him at the other end of that alleyway. At the same time, he also senses an even greater risk if he overstays his welcome with this native Russian driver who, by the way, has about a hundred extra pounds on him. Matt doesn’t need to be told twice. Hands up, he slowly exits the vehicle and prepares himself for the next piece of this rapidly evolving Moscow puzzle.

The instant Matt kicks the door shut and slings his bag back onto his shoulder, the Lada’s engine grinds into full gear with a squeal of the tires. He has officially run out of CIA instructions, but the good news is that he doesn’t have any time to doubt himself before his next priority makes itself apparent. The bad news is that his next priority should probably be to get away from the knife that was just pressed against his side.

The pointed end of the blade pokes along the muscle just above his hip. It hasn’t cut through his shirt yet, but one wrong move could change that and much more. “This is a nice surprise,” Matt says, sticking with Russian in a rushed attempt to keep his cover intact. “Where are we going?”

The answering Russian is good—excellent, even—but it has the subtle lilt of someone who learned it as a secondary language. “Is that all it takes to best you? One knife to the ribs and you roll over completely?” It’s a woman’s voice, and one of the few commonalities between the CIA and the KGB is the rarity of female agents among their ranks. Plus, the hold on the knife is petite and graceful, belonging to someone who was taught to fence before she was taught to fight. Matt decides he’s not up against a Soviet agent, but this ain’t a friend either. Not yet.

Joe’s voice is telling him to fight, but Matt’s curious enough to say, “In my experience, the person with the knife usually gets to make all the rules.” He continues with Russian, hoping that the woman will respond in kind and give him a chance to identify the accent layered below. “And, by the way, if you’re aiming for my ribs, you’re about two inches too low.”

She doesn’t disappoint. British accent, maybe. Or Australian. It really is impressively subtle. “Bold thing to say to someone with a knife to your side,” she says. “Remarks like that could get you killed.”

Matt huffs. “Maybe one day, but not today.”

She twists the knife a little deeper, pricking a hole in his shirt. “And what makes you so certain?”

“Because if you were going to kill me, ma’am,” he says, “I’d already be dead.”

This is a bit of a risky gamble. Few things make one human want to kill another more than spite, and Matt’s gone ahead and welcomed it with open arms. His mama always did say he had a real way about him, when it came to tempting fate. Thankfully, this particular bet seems to pay off as the knife finally falls away from his torso. The woman grabs him by the back of his collar instead, pulling him deeper into the alleyway. “You’ve taken all the fun out of it,” she says with a sigh. “Come with me. And don’t ever call me ma’am—that much will get you killed.”

This is a joke. He thinks. And jokes are awfully promising in a place like Moscow. 

At the end of the alleyway, another car sits idling. No headlights. No plate lights. Matt can’t know for sure, but he reckons the brake lights are probably cut, too. In the presence of a car designed for a perfect covert getaway, Matt recognizes this moment for what it is—not an attack, but an escape. A high-tech game of keepaway.

In this particular instance, Matt is not an agent. Rather, he’s an asset in need of transportation, and he’s just met his new driver. When this stranger opens the rear door and shoves him inside, Matt knows that she’s putting on a show for potential onlookers. When she says, “Stay down,” he understands that his silhouette can’t be seen driving through the city. It is not enough to blend in—not when he could have a tail leftover from travel, not when the customs office could have bugged his backpack, not when a patrolman might recognize him from another visit into the city and assign a car to follow close behind. Agents have been known to disappear between an airport and a safe house, which means Matt is only safe if he becomes completely invisible. It’s the sort of thing that can only be accomplished with careful timing, meticulous planning, and an appreciation for redundancy, after redundancy, after redundancy.

In other words, this plan has Rachel Cameron written all over it.

He’s managed to avoid the thought for the past thirty-seven hours—and, frankly, for the entire two years before that—but the idea of being in the same city as Rachel after such a long time away has him wishing for a knife to his side instead. Knife wounds, at least, are an isolated pain with one clear source. They can be cleaned and stitched up. Bandaged and healed. This business with Rachel pings around all of his insides, taking turns with his stomach, his heart, his throat, his lungs. Rancid regret rots his brain and radiates down to every last muscle. Laying alone in the back of a stranger’s car, staring up at the velvet interior, Matt gets caught in a loop of all the things he wishes he’d said sooner.

He didn’t expect it to all stop.

He never should have made her cry.

He didn’t think it would last this long.

He lies, sometimes. He’s sorry he has to lie.

He’s doing good, good, good as often as he can.

Matt has always meant to say these things to her, but the longer they went without, the harder it got to call. Now it feels like too much time has passed to say any of it—like apologizing will only serve as a bitter reminder of just how deeply they tore into one another. Like acknowledging it will only reopen scars that have only just started to heal over.

The longer they drive, the more Rachel’s proximity presses down on his chest, squeezing him into the seat. He knows he ought to count the seconds. Track the turns. Try to get some sense of where they’re headed. But Rachel Cameron fills every last available space in his thoughts and, God almighty, she would lecture him straight to high heaven if she knew how distracted he was.

Once he’s fully worked himself up into a tightly wound ball of unspoken mistakes, the tires hit a gravel drive. The car takes an awfully long route over bumpy back roads and heavily forested hills, which is especially impressive given the lack of headlights, before it finally slows to a stop. His driver turns to the backseat, moonlight catching on the curve of her cheek, an icy white steak against smooth dark skin. “Congratulations on surviving your trip,” she says, and Matt thinks it might be an American southern drawl hiding beneath her Russian, with the way her vowels drawl. “You may leave. Your bag, however, must stay until morning.”

Matt sits upright, his silhouette visible to the night once more. “Sure thing,” he answers. “It’s like I said—the lady with the knife gets to make the rules.”

This earns him a subtle tick of the stranger’s lips. Matt latches onto the near smile and vows to turn into a broad, toothy grin sooner rather than later. But in the meantime, he’ll settle for the semi-charmed side-eye she casts his way, just before she opens the driver door. “Bloody Hell,” she says as she exits, finally switching to English. “She was right about you.”

British. Damn. Matt should have trusted his gut.

Wait. 

He bolts out of the backseat and jogs to catch up. “Right about me?” he echoes, falling back into his own American English. “Who was right about me—right about what?”

The Brit’s stride is incredibly long, and would probably be better suited to a runway than barely-used backwoods paths overgrown with weeds. Matt has to quicken his own pace just to keep up with her. “Never you mind,” she says. “This way.”

“Doesn’t seem right,” he tries, “that you get inside info on me when I don’t even know your name—”

“This way,” she says again. “Surely I don’t have to remind you, of all people, that Moscow’s trees have ears.”

Matt has spent a significant portion of his career listening to conversations picked up by precisely placed bugs exactly like the ones she speaks of now. He doesn’t have the heart to tell her the surrounding trees probably aren’t bugged—at least not in the way she expects. The Soviets wouldn’t go to the trouble of tagging each individual tree, only to have an opposing agent uncover them within an hour of arrival. The birds, foxes, and deer, however, are worth a second glance. 

Either way, she’s right. The forest is no place for introductions. Instead, he follows as she hikes toward a tiny cabin tucked between one hillside and another. It appears perfectly plain on the outside, built from cedar logs and a tin roof. Shrubs and pines surround the perimeter, and Matt knows from experience that these are probably prickly and unpleasant, making it difficult for any unwelcome guests to get too close. The curtains are drawn. The chimney is without smoke. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say no one was home. 

They cover their tracks as they go, wordless right up until they reach the door. Mind split in the dozens of different directions demanded by good countersurveillance, Matt forgets to be nervous until the last minute, when the Brit knocks in a unique, four-rap pattern, then opens the door. The cabin’s light flashes into the nighttime forest, so they waste no time stepping inside. 

A new voice greets them. Then again, this voice ain’t really new. Not to him. He’d know this particular voice anywhere, even if he spent years, decades, centuries away. “Grace?”

Rachel Cameron waits for them just inside, seated at a small dining table at the center of a small kitchen. Rachel Cameron has lists, and blueprints, and notes scattered all across the tabletop, the chairs, the linoleum, splayed across kitchen countertops, and taped to cabinets, and stuck to the refrigerator with little black magnets. Rachel Cameron scans one stack of papers with the pencil in her right hand, then another with a highlighter in her left. Rachel Cameron looks up. Rachel Cameron meets his gaze. Rachel Cameron sighs.

Genius. He’s always known the word applied to her, though it strikes him anew. Rachel’s brilliance is better experienced in small doses, when he can slowly acclimate himself to the raw appreciation of it. The last two years have robbed him of his resilience and it’s like he’s seeing her for the very first time all over again.

Except it only takes a single moment for all of their history to come rushing back, filling the room from wall to wall, floor to ceiling, until there’s no more space for words, or gestures, or glances. Rachel looks away first, eyes falling back to a set of blueprints, and Matt follows her lead.

Thankfully, their companion cuts through the silence without a trace of discomfort. “Found your boy,” she says, kicking off her shoes. “He’s cheeky, this one.”

Matt starts to protest with “Oh, I ain’t—” at the same time Rachel says, “He’s not my—”

They both stop, and wait, and wait some more. Neither of them meet the other’s eyes. When enough excruciating seconds have passed, Rachel starts again, and Matt lets her. “Thank you for picking him up,” she says. “I know you were eager to stay in tonight, but—”

“But we aren’t taking any chances with this op,” the Brit finishes. “Understood. Really, Rachel. Though I will say, I was a bit surprised at how easily this one came along with a complete stranger.”

It is as if all of Rachel’s years of etiquette training hit her at once. She brings her fingers to her forehead, suddenly remembering. “Ah, yes, sorry. You haven’t been introduced yet.”

“Not unless you count my putting a knife into his side,” she says.

Matt clears his throat, finally finding his words. “In this business, that’s sometimes the only introduction we get.”

The Brit smiles again. It’s still not the full grin he’s looking for, but it’s closer. “Quite right.”

Rachel studies the pair of them, analyzing something Matt can’t see. She squints back and forth between them, her face twisting into something sour, as though she’s not sure she likes what she’s looking at. “Right,” she says, slowly. Then, clears her throat. “Right, well, anyway. Grace, this is Matthew Morgan. Matthew, this is Grace Harris—”

“Baxter,” Grace cuts in.

“Right,” says Rachel, squeezing her eyes shut, remembering again. Matt’s not sure he’s ever seen Rachel forget anything, and he takes note of the fact that she’s gone and forgotten twice in a sixty-second span. A data point he’ll save for later. “Grace Baxter.”

Grace Baxter holds out her hand to shake, meeting Matt with a far firmer grip than he’s expecting. He feels a couple of knuckles pop in his own hand, and resists the urge to call out. “It’s so great to finally meet you,” she says. 

That’s an awfully interesting choice of words. “Finally?” says Matt.

Grace does not elaborate. “My husband is around as well, but he’s being a good little agent and sleeping off his jet lag while it’s still dark.”

Matt, who hasn’t had more than two hours of consecutive sleep since DC, can’t quite hide the longing in his reply. “Smart man.”

“Outrageously so. It’s infuriating, really,” Grace agrees. “You’ll see him at breakfast tomorrow, but in the meantime we should all probably join him. The last thing we need is four exhausted agents trying to run an op in Moscow.”

Matt has about a million more questions for Grace Baxter, but none of them form quite right in his head. A fog fills his brain, clouding all of his better thoughts, and he reckons Grace is probably right. He’s useless to Rachel like this, and she’ll be the first to call him on it. “Sounds like a plan to me,” he says. “Do you think we ought to run it by the boss, first?”

Grace risks a glance toward Rachel, who has already returned to one of her blueprints. With Rachel’s attention occupied, Matt steals this chance to take her in. Her clothes are worn with travel and her shoulders slump with a need for sleep. Some of her curls have escaped the denim scrunchie holding back the bulk of her hair, falling into her face, and Matt remembers all at once that Rachel never did know how to stop, once she got started.

“Good luck,” Grace scoffs. “I’ve been trying to get her to sleep for hours. Maybe you can talk some sense into her. She’s been planning since the moment she walked in.”

Matt ain’t got any sense that Rachel doesn’t already have ten times over, and he doesn’t dare pretend otherwise. Thankfully, Rachel recognizes this and provides an answer of her own. “I’ve been planning for the past three months,” she corrects, just as she circles something on the page. “I just wanted to get some last-minute changes down before bed.”

Grace turns back to Matt. “You see? Hopeless,” she says. “You two may do what you please, but I intend to get some sleep. Pulling off a fake kidnapping at the edge of Moscow is exhausting work, you know.”

With this, she sends a playful jab into Matt’s side. Only problem is, Grace’s idea of a playful jab is most people’s idea of a full-on elbow to the ribs, and Matt has to catch his breath afterward. It takes all of his might not to let out an unmanly yelp in front of these two women. “Right,” he gasps. “See you in the morning.”

“Thanks again, Grace,” Rachel calls, not looking up from her writing.

With a wave of her fingers, Grace disappears behind one of the two available doors and shuts it with a twist of the lock. Matt realizes too late that her absence leaves just him and Rachel. Alone. Together.

This silence just won’t do.

“Flights good?” he asks.

“Yes,” she answers, scribbling away.

“Abby okay?”

Scribble, scribble. “Yes.”

“You okay?”

Scribble, scribble. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“No reason.” This is worse than the silence, actually. Out of questions and energy stores depleted, Matt decides that his only remaining move is one that has been employed by desperate agents for centuries—a retreat. “Listen, I think I might join the others and try to get some sleep. Unless you need me?”

Scribble, scribble. “Not yet.”

“Great,” he says. “Just point me to my bed and I’ll be on my way.”

Rachel’s pencil freezes mid-sentence. This is Matt’s first clue that something is horribly wrong, followed by the fact that her eyes finally meet his and this time, she doesn’t look away. “No.”

“Um.” Retreat, retreat, retreat. “Okay? I guess I can find it—”

But Rachel is already up, dashing through the sliver of a living room that hosts a single chair, a coffee table, and a throw blanket. When she reaches the second available door in the cabin, blood drains from her already pale face, turning it to an alarming, ashen white. Her voice is hollow and distant when she squeaks out a soft, “No, no, no.”

When it comes to Rachel, Matt is woefully out of practice, but it doesn’t take an expert to see the panic, and Rachel’s panic ain’t built the same way everyone else’s is. The sight of Rachel out of sorts is enough to get Matt’s heart really, truly racing. “Rachel, what are you—?”

She flicks on the light, and when Matt steps up behind her, he’s met with an instant understanding of the situation. “There’s only one other bed,” she says, spinning to face him as she explains. “Abby and I usually share. I booked the safe house when it was going to be the two of us, but between the hospital, and the flights, and coordinating our assets…” Sometimes Matt wonders how loud the inside of her head must be. He suspects she doesn’t realize when her words dissolve between inner and outer monologue. It takes some deciphering to understand her complete thoughts from start to finish. “I forgot. I’m so sorry, I forgot to account for the beds when I switched agents, I’ll take the couch.”

By couch, he supposes she means the ancient loveseat tucked away at the end of the bed. The leather cushions are scratched and cracked, and the silver shine of a spring peeks out from beneath the quilt laid across its back. A grease stain rests along the arm where agents have laid their heads for years and years before. Throughout his travels, Matt has seen more than his fair share of uncomfortable furniture and this one has serious potential to rank among the worst, but this is Rachel’s third strike at forgetfulness when she’s usually a home run hitter. She needs to sleep, and sleep well, and it simply won’t do, for her to sleep on that old thing. “I’ll take the couch.”

“No it’s my mistake, I should—”

“Rachel,” he says, and his hands fall to her shoulders out of habit. Out of familiarity. “I’m sorry, but there just ain’t no way I’m letting you take the couch.” She’s looking up at him with big, brown eyes. They’re glassy, and tired, and he spares Rachel her dignity by ignoring the twinge of tears sneaking into either corner. “She may be all the way in Nebraska now, but there’s no quicker way to get Joy Morgan to Moscow than if I let you sleep on that couch.”

She shakes her head. “Matthew—”

“I’m telling you,” he tries again. “My mama can sense that sorta thing, and believe me when I say she’ll shake down the entire agency to find this cabin and knock me six ways from Sunday, right upside my head.”

“You’re worried that your mother will intimidate CIA agents into disclosing the location of one of their most heavily protected safe houses?”

“You’ve never seen my mama when there’s a matter of chivalry at stake.”

“Matthew, I—” she interrupts herself, this time, freezing when she meets his gaze. “Your eyes,” she says, studying the intimate features of his face. “Your eyes are blue.”

This is outright nonsense, and even more proof that she needs to sleep. That is, until he remembers the light blue contacts. He blinks, as though he might be able to get rid of the color, because everything artificial seems so ridiculous now that he’s in the presence of someone who knows him to his core. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, sorry.”

With that, she studies him more deeply, and he notices the faint lines that have started to form where her eyebrows always furrow, the freckles she’s accumulated along her cheekbones with years of missions spent in the sun, the ease with which her lips fall into a tight, even line. Her eyes bounce between each of his, debating her next words before she finally says, “Why are you apologizing?”

Matt’s breath catches, and he knows this is it. The opening he’s been waiting for. But it’s late, and they’re tired, and they both smell like planes, and airports, and taxis. So despite the desperate words trying to crawl from his heart to his mouth, he settles on something softer. “I think we both know I’ve got plenty to apologize for,” he says, finally letting his hands fall. “But I think we both know this ain’t the time to do it.”

Genius. She’s always been smarter than him in more ways than he can count, and this moment is no exception. She’s smart enough to know that they both need clearer heads. That they both need a moment of quiet. That morning will come and they’ll both be better for it, and that tonight is no place for their usual fights. “I’m sorry I didn’t think about the bed,” she says, barely more than a whisper. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I know you didn’t—”

“I’m not mad at you.”

“I know you aren’t.”

“I’m so tired.”

She has this way of taking small words and making them feel big. Of making them span years, when they shouldn’t last more than a second or two. Rachel isn’t tired, so much as she’s exhausted, and burned out, and lonely, and weighed down—and she manages to convey all of this by simply shaking her head, and folding her face into her hands, and standing in front of him with all of the humility in the world.

He has this way of feeling her when she most needs it, in a way that no one else seems to be able to. Of hearing those great big words tied up in all of her small ones, and trying his best to say the right thing in response. “Let’s get some sleep, then,” he says, as though it’s the simplest thing in the world. “We’ll get some sleep, and when you wake up, you can tell me exactly what all of those crazy kitchen plans mean.”

Despite herself, she laughs. It's a pitiful, mangled thing, but it still counts. “They’re not as crazy as they look.”

And Matt can’t hold back a smile. “Well thank God for that, because they look…” he tries to find a word, but this is much like everything else Rachel does, in that it defies explanation. “I mean, seriously, Rachel, you’ve gone full Doc Brown in there.”

She shoves him, gently, and Matt makes a show of clasping at his chest in faux hurt. “They’ll make more sense in the morning,” she tells him.

“Everything will make more sense in the morning,” he assures her.

And she believes him. “Okay,” she says.

“Okay,” he says.

That’s enough for them, for tonight, for now. It’s all they need. And maybe tomorrow will be bitter and hard at the center of Moscow, working an op that Rachel has given her whole heart to, but right now is easy and safe. Right now, they’re old friends who need each other more than they knew. 

Rachel finds his eyes again, and sighs something that sounds like relief and regret mixed together. “At least let me ease some of my guilt by hunting down a truly outrageous number of blankets on your behalf.”

Matt looks back to the loveseat and knows in his gut that there will not be enough room for more than one blanket. There is barely enough room for Matt, as is. Even so, he smiles at her. “Rachel Cameron,” he says. “I’ll always take any blanket you hand me.”

#Full Circle

[hallucinateonpaperspines]

What if Ashlyn meets RiD Decepticons in the future? Time travel or not, I can imagine how she could mess with them all. No Cons be safe from Ashlyn... maybe except minicons

Steeljaw will learn how terrifying humans can be, just like TFP Decepticons already learned :)

Steeljaw will be having a flipping crisis. It's inevitable.

Honestly, this situation will be even funnier if it’s a time-travel version. I can't go into too much detail for spoiler reasons, but Ashlyn Moore would have done several exploits that have left major ripple effects in the timeline. And then comes past Miss Moore, who is not quite that unhinged yet and fully unaware of anything except some TV show knowledge. She is going to be very, very confused.

When Starscream arrives, armor upgrades and all, and proceeds to cry at the sight of her?

The mini cons that were hunted to be used as a super weapon, why is the eagle calling her Origin?

WTF is MECH doing?!???

Ah, Soundwave is sticking with the original design… not all bad then.

WHAT DO YOU MEAN M IS ON EARTH?!?!?

Ohhhhh, hey Knockout! …. Whose that other con in the distance?

… why is everyone giving up on the deception hunters, and hunting her?

MAKESHIFT IS ALIVE?!?!??!?

Is Earth still getting invaded? Is that a thing? Please, let Decepticons subtly integrate themselves and control the government so they can blacklist Autobots and brainwash the populace... no she is not being sarcastic.

... Why is Doctor Morocco calling her madam?

...

The Vehicons have a union now?

#ao3 author #ao3 #tfp #transformers prime #of timelines and trolleys #ashlyn moore (oc) #what if #the AU may change #but the confusion remains the same #At least she's not hearing voices anymore #Steeljaw is also out of the loop #he's giving these big monologues and Ash is not impressed #and then comes the decepticon allies he's trying to convince #and its the freaking human their focusing on #he's so done

[kaijudirector]

007 Fest - OC Day!

(My little contribution to OC Day! He’s a modified variant of my main character of my original fic. The difference is the latter is far more dour and realistic, not to mention professional and to-the-point. Vic here has a lot of flair and showmanship.)

VICTOR CESAR TORRALBA

SPECTRE operative, working as an enforcer, or hitman for their execution squad. Of a higher rank than most of its foot soldiers, though not part of the squad’s management. Generally, his position is equivalent to an NCO in modern military establishments. Based on reports, he is highly valued as an enforcer for the organization, despite his flair for the dramatic. Draw speed reported at 0.34 seconds. Uses a Ruger Blackhawk that uses special hand loaded .44 Magnum. Reported in: Bahamas, Italy, Istanbul, Russia, Switzerland, Morocco, Uganda, Montenegro, France, Bolivia, Great Britain, Cuba, Japan, the United States, and the Philippines. 

DESCRIPTION: 6’5 and 200 pounds. Slim and muscular. Eyes brown, hair black in a Caesar-style haircut. Hands measured at 15cm. Body covered in scars.

ORIGINS: Born in the Philippines. Joined the Philippine Army in his teens, and rose to the rank of Sergeant. Was the Philippine Armed Forces’ boxing champion. Noted for his aptitude in combat and psychological warfare. Supposedly participated in several brutal repressions of Communist rebel activity. Reportedly involved in a corruption scandal that saw him drummed out. Went freelance not long afterward, before being recruited by Fransisco Scaramanga, who took the ex-soldier under his wing. Later farmed out to Spectre’s execution squad.

RESOURCES: Paid salary by SPECTRE, rumored to be around $10,000. As such, possess various false identities provided by the organization during travel. On occasion, will travel with high-ranking members as part of their security. 

ANALYSIS: Has a bit of a flair for the dramatic, supposedly for “psychological reasons” but when the job calls for it, he will drop all pretenses and do any job, no questions asked. The latter could be used against him. Has a bit of a sadistic streak and holds little moral qualms. Generally easy-going, but when angered, will tend to be violent and requires some restraint. Despite this, he is also reasonably intelligent and has a good grasp of military tactics and operations.

#007 fest 2023 #007fest #teamcivilian #team civillian #original characters day

[umichenginabroad]

Madrid Week 12: I got got (Morocco, part 1)

Hola a todxs! Niko back here with week 12/13/14 of studying abroad in Madrid! Don’t fear, I will not be going on any esoteric rants about time or something this time (except for the fact that I have 45 days left in Madrid, damn). Instead, I wanted to take this blog to write about the experience I had visiting northern Morocco this weekend with a tour group. Spoiler alert, it was awesome, and I’ve had a ton to reflect on. Moroccan culture is unlike any that I’ve experienced in my life (which makes sense, as I’ve only ever traveled in Europe, the Caribbean, and the Americas), and I had the pleasure of being immersed in it while simultaneously meeting new people. Since there’s so much to unpack, I decided to split this blog up into two parts, for the two legs of this trip. Let’s dive in!

Smart on the inside

This trip has definitely been a highlight of my travels thus far, and looking back, I really got the best of both worlds. I went on this trip with a tour group from a company called Smart Insiders, which helps young people in Madrid (especially those coming from abroad) find housing, get involved in community activities, and most importantly, travel. I would not recommend Smart Insiders, or any tour group for that matter, if you’re a serial planner when it comes to travel and need to fit in every item on your bucket list — or someone who prefers to wander a city, choosing what to explore based on vibes alone.

With that being said, I would highly recommend Smart Insiders — or tour group experiences in general — if you fall somewhere in between those two extremes. Traveling with a tour group means that there’s a pretty rigid schedule to every day, but if you don’t mind letting go of the reins and can just ride the flow set by the tour guides, you can have as amazing of an experience as I did (given that the tour company is good. Smart Insiders was).

A month or two back, I signed up for the trip alone. A friend had recommended it based on a trip he took to Spain’s Basque country. When I saw that they had a trip to Morocco, I immediately resolved to sign up. I had wanted to experience traveling in a tour group again after my first time in Buenos Aires (where I met Gaia, my italian friend I visited and wrote about many weeks back!), and Morocco was a bucket list travel destination for me. Given that the culture was so distinct from what I was used to, I figured that it might be nice to have the whole trip planned out for me ahead of time. 

So, I paid a reasonably low price for the group (~200 euros for 3 days of travel, tours, housing, etc), bought the plane tickets fro Air Arabia, and forgot about it until last weekend. Flash forward a month or two, and I was immediately buffeted by an arid wind as I stepped off Plane that had just landed in Tangier. Once we were through customs, I was greeted by a Moroccan man named Saied and a large congregation of around twenty familiar faces from the flight over, mostly 20-something year-old Americans with some Canadians, French, and a Belgian sprinkled into the mix (majority of which were English teachers). Smart Insiders collaborated with a Moroccan tour company to put together this trip, for which the entire itinerary had already been laid out.

We piled onto our little tour bus and started getting to know each other. As we departed towards our first destination, Asilah, I was flashed with deja vu from the bus scene on the way to Iguazu Falls, Argentina. A highlight of that trip was the people I met, and I stepped away from it with one key takeaway: people who like to travel are, almost by definition, open to new experiences. That attitude extends towards their interactions with others. Consequently, I knew that I would meet interesting people this weekend, and if not, I was assured that I could always keep myself company — especially with an entirely new landscape and culture to explore.

Both Worlds

Which two worlds was I referring to in the section above, you may ask? Solo and group traveling.

I came alone on this trip, which meant that I had no allegiances or obligations to anyone but myself and the schedule set by the tour leader. During our blocks of free time on the trip, I could choose where to go, what to do, and who to do it with — and to be honest, I spent most of my free time in Morocco wandering around by myself. Call me fascist or impatient, but I don’t really like the democracy (and associated waiting) that comes along with traveling in a large group of people — especially if they don’t know each other well. 

When I travel alone, I can do whatever I feel like, at my own pace, which was a luxury in the ultra-dense Souks in Morocco. I’ve found that my self confidence in new environments has really blossomed this semester simply because of the amount of weird cultural situations I’ve had to navigate by myself. Without this, I would have never had the confidence to break away from the group, and I’m proud of myself for getting to the point that I could do so comfortably. 

“But wait Niko,” you may ask, “Didn’t you just say last week that traveling with close friends is always better”. Why yes, my friend, I did (might I add, very conveniently, and actually not on purpose). Seeing the world with close friends gives new depth and meaning to the things we experience while traveling. 

I chose to be alone a fair amount on this trip, true. However, the majority of my time spent was with the group. Together, we went on guided tours, shared meals, spent many hours on the bus chatting (and sleeping), rode camels, and more. I can’t say for certain if I’ll meet up with anyone on this trip again in the future (shoutout Gaia again :) ), but I learned something from everyone I met (especially the two french girls on the trip! merci!) that I’ll take with me now for the rest of my life. By the time we rolled up to the airport together on Sunday, I felt that we had all really bonded. I knew almost everyone’s names, and relished in the feeling of being part of the tiny temporal community we had formed — a community which would never exist again, which made it all the more special. If you have the opportunity sometime, join a tour group and go somewhere cool for the weekend! It’s a unique adventure that I think everyone should experience at least once (and it’s soft on the bank account, too ;) ).

Hell-o Morocc-o!

So, now about Morocco itself, the focal point of the trip, which was one I’ve been looking forward to for the entire semester. As I mentioned, this trip would be my first time in Africa, and my first time experiencing a non-western culture. I certainly was not disappointed (sorry about the lame title of this section. I’m embarrassed).

Moroccan culture is a mix of Arab, Berber, African, and European cultures, but to an outsider like myself, the Islamic/Arabic influence came across most strongly. We visited Asilah, Tangier, and Chefchaouen, all of which are located in the northernmost tip of Morocco, bordering the strait of Gibraltar. Consequently, Spanish is a very common second language to Moroccans, after their native dialect of Arabic. More often than not, Moroccans would start interactions with our tour group in Spanish (and oftentimes, we would respond back to them in Spanish, too B) ). French and English are also very commonly spoken, and an impressive number of people I interacted with were fluent in all three.

We started the trip in Asilah, a small town on the west coast of Morocco’s northern tip, known for its quiet beauty and art scene. It was very calm and incredibly peaceful. One of our local tour guides, Hasan, led us on a short route through the city where we took our first look at a Moroccan city. We had lunch (freshly caught swordfish) and departed, spending the rest of the day hopping around different sites in the region: the caves of Hercules, the Cap Spartel lighthouse, and a beach on the side of the highway where we all took our turn to ride on a camel (which I wasn’t a big fan of — more info in the picture description). 

We finished at Tangier, where we checked into our hotel and departed for a group dinner at a traditional restaurant. The food was delicious, and we got a little surprise too. I finished the night drinking some mint tea and eating some flatbread at a little bar in a square. Yum.

In general, the food in Morocco was amazing. I’m a big fan of the Mediterranean/Arabic spice palate (and mint tea, although it was a little sweet to my liking), and that’s all we ate the whole weekend. One mini takeaway that I realized: I think food in America has trained my palate to desire more salt than is used in other countries. In Morocco (and Spain, Italy, at times) I often found the a bit undersalted. There’s nothing inherently wrong with this (or maybe not… nearly 90% of Americans consume sodium at levels which exceed amounts recommended by the 2015–2020 Dietary Guidelines for Americans), but it’s interesting to be aware of.

We spent the next day exploring Tangier’s Medina (historic city center). The streets were narrow, the architecture was beautiful, and the shopping was plentiful and diverse. The shopping district had a vibe that was completely distinct to any I’ve visited before, people were bustling, things were colorful, and every few steps we’d get a whiff of some heavenly spicy soapy or incense-y smell.

We visited a pharmacy (where I picked up authentic Moroccan Argan oil), a textile shop (I got an epic cotton-cashmere scarf), and various shops selling artisan goods and souvenirs (a sick black woven belt, some postcards). Shopping in Morocco has a distinct vibe for one very special reason: none of the items have set prices.

Dance battle in the souk

If you weren’t aware, if an item has no price tag in a Moroccan shop in the Souk (market area), you have to bargain/haggle to get a good price. Crudely and metaphorically, haggling is somewhat like a dance battle, with each dancer attempting to gracefully undercut the other’s bluff with their words, body language, and actions. You can’t make a starting offer that’s too low, because then you’ll risk the vendor laughing in your face (consequently relinquishing all your power). You can’t show too much interest in the product because then the vendor knows that you would be willing to pay a higher price. But you can’t show too little, or you’ll hit a stalemate and they won’t be willing to negotiate further. Maybe it’s like judo or something, using the opponent’s body weight against them, something like that.

Having watched a few youtube videos about haggling strategy on the plane ride over, I was ready to roll when I stepped into a huge artisan shop. Every action was intentional. I found a woven leather belt that I really fancied — but focused my attention towards other items until I was ready to make an offer. The vendor gave me a starting offer of 350 Dirham (Moroccan currency, ~35 euros). I countered with 100 (seems low, I know. you’re supposed to counter with ⅓ of the original price and go from there). After a good amount of back and forth (trying desperately to hide my steadily rising heartbeat and sweaty palms from showing on my face or in my voice while a few other shopkeepers and another member of the tour group watched the battle ensue), we reached a stalemate. I pulled out my ultimate trump card: I started to leave, to show that I I didn’t care that much (I totally did, this belt was sick). He called me back to make me a cheaper offer to keep me around, around 200 Dirham. I said 150, take it or leave it. Deal made. Boom. Great success, and now that belt holds a little more meaning that it would have if I had just picked it off a shelf.

My biggest fail? In a shop shelling scarves. The vendor was hyping me up, saying I must be so smart if I speak so much Arabic (I knew like 4 phrases), where am I from, what languages do you speak, etc. etc. Then I found a scarf. He offered me 100 dirham for a Pashmina scarf (which was not handmade, but beautiful nonetheless), I countered with 30. The vendor pulled out the “he’s not like other vendors” tactic, said that he prefers not to start with a crazy high price, and thus doesn’t have much room to go down. He was a really nice guy, I believed him. We settled on two scarves for 170 Dirham, and I left happy. I proceeded to walk through the Souk, seeing  scarves of the same maker hanging up at a nearby shop. I asked how much for one, he told me 80 dirham. Damn, I got got. The other guy was intentional with every action, he knew what he was doing. Well played bro. 

Haggling like this was exciting, it let me practice a skill I didn’t have, it was totally new. I felt culturally immersed, and got some cool things out of it that I’ll have as a memory. Although at times it was stressful, I kind of wish more people did business like this in the USA. It would be fun.

But simultaneously, I felt a good amount of resistance when I first started practicing the skill. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being incredibly cheap offering a third of their asking price, especially when in theory, I could have afforded it. There’s a lot of nuance with this surrounding the privilege I carry with me when I travel — more on that in the next blog. 

Overall, Tangier has a good vibe. Downtown is very modern, which is in stark contrast to the old-town artsy vibe of the Medina. We left in the late afternoon to Chefchaouen, the “Blue Pearl”, which was my favorite leg of the trip… more on that in the next blog, along with some important commentary/reflection…. Stay tuned!

As always, thanks so much for reading :). Check out the image descriptions for more details, and I’ll see y’all in the next post!!

Salam,

Niko Economos

Aerospace Engineering

Universidad Carlos III de Madrid

Madrid, Spain

[email protected] 

#UmichEnginAbroad #IPEUC3M #NikoEconomos #IPEWinter24 #Spain