The thing about living in another country is that you will always be an outsider. The language isn't yours. Even when you are fluent, there are tons of nuances and idioms that go over your head. The customs are strange, foreign, interesting--wrapped up in layers of traditions and heritage that you will never fully understand no matter how many questions you ask or how often you participate and try to fit in. It's like dissecting the many (and seemingly unending) parts of a cow in order to understand the whole.
This past month, I had the privilege of first-hand experience in the butchering of a cow (and a sheep) during the Eid celebrations. Eid al Adha (Holiday of the Lamb), or Eid Kabeer (Big Holiday) as my Moroccan friends call it, is a three-day celebration in which every family kills a sheep, and then participates in eating delicious meals together.
Of course, just as each family in the States has their family traditions in how to celebrate Christmas, so it is with the Eid. Some families may sacrifice a goat instead of a sheep. Others a cow. When I ask about this, I get different answers. Everyone has an opinion on the animal of choice, the purpose of the celebration, and the significance of the sacrifice.
Join me as I observe, dissect and participate in this rich piece of my host country's tradition...
September 30- On my way to class today I noticed a few men leading sheep down the street. Some were led with ropes, others hauled in carts. It reminded me that the Eid was coming up and I knew that these animals were being led to their temporary and last homes. Men are also selling piles of hay for families to keep their sheep alive until the appointed day.
October 2- More and more sheep! Sometimes I see men with goats or cows instead. My language teacher said that normally cows are killed for a whole village or an extremely large family. She said others will purchase a cow to show how wealthy they are. My host mama told me they are getting a cow and a sheep this year. I don't think they are wealthy, but her husband just got back from working several months out of country and had his savings.
October 3- I came home from class to find a cow and a sheep tethered in the central courtyard of our home. Hay and water were laid out for them, as well as huge rags to collect any urine and fecal matter. I thought about how every family had the same scene in their houses. Some may keep the sheep in their bathroom. I also know that those who live in apartments keep the sheep in a small room on the roof. By this evening it definitely smells and sounds like we are living in a barn. I suppose I'll fall asleep to moos and baas!
October 4- This morning the cow met her fate. Several extended family members arrived to help (but mostly to watch and take pictures). The butcher arrived around noon. The first task was to get the cow on her side, which took several bodies to bring her down. Her legs were then quickly tied together. The butcher twisted the cow's neck tight and all the men held her in place as the butcher made a quick and experienced slash with his knife across the cow's jugular. Blood filled the tiled courtyard and the women and children got busy with water buckets and squeegees to guide the flow toward the drain. The cow shuddered for several minutes (reaction of the nerves, she was already dead) before she was still enough where the men could let go.
With the cow on her back and men holding the hoofs, the butcher began skinning the cow. He then opened the belly to remove all the innards. There are a lot of innards! My host mama and her husband began to open and clean out each of the seven stomachs, filled with hay in varying stages of digestion. The courtyard was covered with wash tubs and buckets of water to rinse and clean every piece. Next came the intestines, which were the smelliest to clean. The lungs came out with the esophagus, which the 14-year-old son blew into to make the lungs expand. All the other organs were also carefully removed: the heart, liver, kidneys, pancreas. More and more wash bins were filled. The cow looked as if she had nothing left to offer--so thin and skeletal. I felt a bit deceived in how much meat she ought to have provided. But the butcher quartered the cow, and the huge pieces were placed on a tarp in a side room to rest. The butcher's services were over, so he left.
By this time a couple hours had passed and everyone was getting hungry. My mama took a big slice of the liver and began to grill it over coals. She then cut it up, wrapping the pieces in bits of intestine and then skewered them to grill some more. It was a delicious meal.
Then we got back to work, cleaning and cutting up the innards. I believe this work will take a few days to accomplish. My mama pressure-cooked a huge pot of mixed innards and that is what I ate for dinner. It was extremely fatty, but great flavor. I've never been a huge fan of meat, much less fat. I looked longingly at the bread I couldn't eat and wished I could fill mostly up on that like everyone else. But God gave me grace to enjoy my meal. Meat and fat is all I'll be eating this week, I'm sure! We went to bed; most everything was left out in buckets and bins. To be honest, I'm not so worried about refrigeration--it's super fresh meat, right?
October 5- Today, the first day of Eid, we ate the cow's head for breakfast. It was the most tender meat I had ever eaten and quite delicious. The first day of Eid also meant the day to kill the sheep. Family members showed up again, though it didn't seem to hold the same amount of excitement as the day before. It seemed much more routine--everyone knew what to do, the sheep's end was quick and everything was cut and cleaned before I even realized it had started. My mama made a drying seasoning using cumin, paprika, parsley, and tons of salt. She carefully rubbed it over the cow's and sheep's intestines and let them all marinate in a huge bucket overnight. That day we ate sheep liver wrapped in intestines. And more of the innards stew.
I knew that the tradition of Eid stems back to when God told Abraham to sacrifice his son, and just as Abraham was carrying out God's command, God provided a lamb to sacrifice instead. So I decided to ask my Mama about it. She agreed that the holiday is meant to be a time to remember God's provision. But she also said that there are many people who forget that and get into fights when out purchasing their sheep. In a conversation with another friend I was told that the sheep sacrifice is to cover the family's sin over the year. But not everyone views it that way either.
October 6- Another day, another breakfast. This time it was eggs scrambled with the brains. I'd stab a piece with my fork, not knowing if it was an egg chunk or a brain chunk until I chewed. Brains are a bit gamey tasting for me--I wouldn't want to make a solo meal of them. My mama took the seasoned intestines to the roof and hung them on the clothesline to dry. Today we ate a beef tagine. I was grateful for a reprieve from the innards.
October 7- The third and final day of the Eid and almost all the innards have been properly eaten, hung to dry, or placed in the fridge for later. It was finally time to work on the beef quarters that were still on the tarp in my mama's bedroom. Mama and her husband cut and chopped away, sorting pieces to make into tagines or to serve with couscous. The 8-year-old daughter and I were put in charge of cutting up the leaner pieces of meat for kebabs. Fattier pieces were placed aside to bring to the butcher to have ground into hamburger. And other pieces were cut into long strips to be seasoned and hung just like the intestines. We ate a lot of kebabs today, which was so nice! The meat was bagged and placed in the freezer, and we were finally done.
October 9- But not done eating meat! A couple meals the past few days we were fed lamb tagine with prunes--a truly amazing dish that I would be happy to eat anytime.
October 11- It's been a week since the whole meat adventure started. I thought the innards were all taken care of by now, but today Mama informed me that we would be eating the pancreas stuffed with hamburger. While we were in the kitchen she gave me a piece of meat to try. It was soft and just kind of melted down the throat. Definitely pure fat. Later I found out it was the sheep's testicles. Everyone laughed at me and asked if I'd like more. I assured them I was quite content, and passed the plate on--"B'saha" (To your health), I said.
October 12- I made it through the week! My host family was quite pleased that I was willing to try everything. I think they enjoyed sharing this part of their culture with me, and I am grateful that they did. I've learned that we Americans waste too much edible (and delicious) animal parts, refrigeration is (a bit) overrated, the Eid is too rich to explain and understand in just one week, and that I am still a complete foreigner. I'm also super glad that vegetables are back on the menu!
Wednesday, October 29, 2014
Wednesday, October 1, 2014
the pet of fes
Once upon a time there was an old, beautiful city called Fes which was full of community pets. Cats were the most common of these: roaming the narrow streets, playing in the doorways, and constantly getting underfoot. Some people would bring their scraps to feed the strays, others would mercilessly kick and shoo them away. Chickens were also well known by the community, kept in cages for the eggs they produced. Roosters added to the noise, color and bustle of the venders and buyers. And of course, there was the constant flow of mules and donkeys hauling carts and various merchandise, and the occasional calf or sheep being led by his master. Fes accepted, ignored or made use of all its pets. But perhaps the most acknowledged pet--whether loved or hated--was the foreigner, who provided endless entertainment for the Fes residents.
One day, one such pet migrated to the old city. Her name was Kat. Pet Kat was adopted by one of the families of Fes, and quickly taken in by the community. Every day that Pet Kat headed into the streets, she was greeted by many calling for her attention. "Bon jour madam. Hello." "Do you like our city?" "Come into my shop. I have the best price, just for you." (What Pet Kat heard was, "Here, kitty, kitty," and generally ignored such encounters.)
Frequently the young men of the community would attempt flattery to capture Pet Kat's interest. "You're very beautiful. Not just today, but forever." "Very nice." "Are you married?" "Come get a drink with me." Catcalls were never more appropriately named when it came to Fes and its foreign female pets. But Pet Kat knew better, and instead of wagging her tail and getting all excited like puppies do to praise, she would keep her eyes lowered (and tail tucked) as she continued on her way. Inwardly she might laugh at some of the more sappy pieces of flattery, but mostly she didn't like how they treated her; it felt degrading.
And just like children like to imitate animals, so does Fes its pets. Oftentimes when Pet Kat struggled to speak in her host country's language she was met with laughter and mimicking ridicule. While Pet Kat thought she was saying it right, her new community heard "bow wow!" and responded in kind. Fortunately she was able to laugh at herself and keep trying. And most of the residents were willing to correct her and patiently listen to her frail attempts of communication, for which she was grateful.
One time Pet Kat went to a shop for a particular item. The shop owner kindly told her he didn't have it, but suggested a shop nearby. That shop didn't have it either, but a map was drawn for The Pet to guide her to another place. Pet Kat quickly found the store; but it was locked, though the sign said it was open. A young man informed her that the owner would return shortly, so she decided to wait. But then he offered to show her another place. Pet Kat weighed her options and chose to chase the string some more. After a few twists and turns, the store was encountered, but yet again resulted unsuccessful. The boy led her to one more across the street where finally Pet Kat found what she needed. The Fes boy thought he had earned a date with The Pet, but she declined, while thanking him for his help. Pet Kat turned the corner to return home, only to recognize her surroundings and realize that the boy had led her in a big circle from where he had first encountered her. She shook her head at the games and tricks he had made her play, licked her paw and swallowed her pride.
Another day, Pet Kat went to the park for some alone time and to paint. She found the park peaceful and she enjoyed soaking up the afternoon sun. A lady with her sister and brother-in-law and mother came and sat down next to her. "Bon jour madam," she began. As it was a woman talking to her, Pet Kat replied with "Salam alekum." Laughter from all four was her reward. The lady began to speak and ask all sorts of things in Arabic, none of which Pet Kat could comprehend. "Mafemptsh" (I don't understand), Pet Kat kept stating. They just kept laughing, "She doesn't understand!" Pet Kat went back to her painting, but the lady continued poking her with questions. She wanted The Pet's phone number. She wanted to take a photo of The Pet (which she did although Pet Kat had expressly told her no). Pet Kat felt cornered, like a caged animal in a zoo, her fur was ruffled. She slightly turned her back and returned to her painting, ignoring all further pokes and prods. Eventually the family left.
Everyone thought Pet Kat's accent and actions intriguing. It was irresistible to leave her alone; they wanted to be a part of her life. Pet Kat found her fish-bowl life to be extremely exhausting. Being an introverted pet, she would steal away to her room for peace, as a turtle retreats into his shell. There she would rest, message friends on facebook, and write silly blogs.
Pet Kat did find some friends who took a genuine interest in her--like her co-sufferers at her aerobics class (read previous blog), and her home-stay mom. Pet Kat learned and thrived with these people of Fes. She was happy; and if her friends listened closely, they may have heard her purr.
One day, one such pet migrated to the old city. Her name was Kat. Pet Kat was adopted by one of the families of Fes, and quickly taken in by the community. Every day that Pet Kat headed into the streets, she was greeted by many calling for her attention. "Bon jour madam. Hello." "Do you like our city?" "Come into my shop. I have the best price, just for you." (What Pet Kat heard was, "Here, kitty, kitty," and generally ignored such encounters.)
Frequently the young men of the community would attempt flattery to capture Pet Kat's interest. "You're very beautiful. Not just today, but forever." "Very nice." "Are you married?" "Come get a drink with me." Catcalls were never more appropriately named when it came to Fes and its foreign female pets. But Pet Kat knew better, and instead of wagging her tail and getting all excited like puppies do to praise, she would keep her eyes lowered (and tail tucked) as she continued on her way. Inwardly she might laugh at some of the more sappy pieces of flattery, but mostly she didn't like how they treated her; it felt degrading.
And just like children like to imitate animals, so does Fes its pets. Oftentimes when Pet Kat struggled to speak in her host country's language she was met with laughter and mimicking ridicule. While Pet Kat thought she was saying it right, her new community heard "bow wow!" and responded in kind. Fortunately she was able to laugh at herself and keep trying. And most of the residents were willing to correct her and patiently listen to her frail attempts of communication, for which she was grateful.
One time Pet Kat went to a shop for a particular item. The shop owner kindly told her he didn't have it, but suggested a shop nearby. That shop didn't have it either, but a map was drawn for The Pet to guide her to another place. Pet Kat quickly found the store; but it was locked, though the sign said it was open. A young man informed her that the owner would return shortly, so she decided to wait. But then he offered to show her another place. Pet Kat weighed her options and chose to chase the string some more. After a few twists and turns, the store was encountered, but yet again resulted unsuccessful. The boy led her to one more across the street where finally Pet Kat found what she needed. The Fes boy thought he had earned a date with The Pet, but she declined, while thanking him for his help. Pet Kat turned the corner to return home, only to recognize her surroundings and realize that the boy had led her in a big circle from where he had first encountered her. She shook her head at the games and tricks he had made her play, licked her paw and swallowed her pride.
Another day, Pet Kat went to the park for some alone time and to paint. She found the park peaceful and she enjoyed soaking up the afternoon sun. A lady with her sister and brother-in-law and mother came and sat down next to her. "Bon jour madam," she began. As it was a woman talking to her, Pet Kat replied with "Salam alekum." Laughter from all four was her reward. The lady began to speak and ask all sorts of things in Arabic, none of which Pet Kat could comprehend. "Mafemptsh" (I don't understand), Pet Kat kept stating. They just kept laughing, "She doesn't understand!" Pet Kat went back to her painting, but the lady continued poking her with questions. She wanted The Pet's phone number. She wanted to take a photo of The Pet (which she did although Pet Kat had expressly told her no). Pet Kat felt cornered, like a caged animal in a zoo, her fur was ruffled. She slightly turned her back and returned to her painting, ignoring all further pokes and prods. Eventually the family left.
Everyone thought Pet Kat's accent and actions intriguing. It was irresistible to leave her alone; they wanted to be a part of her life. Pet Kat found her fish-bowl life to be extremely exhausting. Being an introverted pet, she would steal away to her room for peace, as a turtle retreats into his shell. There she would rest, message friends on facebook, and write silly blogs.
Pet Kat did find some friends who took a genuine interest in her--like her co-sufferers at her aerobics class (read previous blog), and her home-stay mom. Pet Kat learned and thrived with these people of Fes. She was happy; and if her friends listened closely, they may have heard her purr.
Wednesday, September 24, 2014
awkward aerobics
Pictures of muscle builders posted on a sign indicate the way down a twisting road toward the gym. I descend several stairs to enter at basement level, and using the few Arabic words I know, attempt to express my interest in joining the women's classes for a month. The young man behind the desk responds in French, which is no help to me. "English? Español?" I query. "La. No," he replies. I determinedly repeat my four Arabic words: "Mra´. Shar wahed. B´shal?" (Woman. One month. How much?) Being a smart young man, or because there is (hopefully) only one way those words can be interpreted given the context, he pulls out a registration form and has me fill out the necessary information and pay a 1 month fee of 250 dirham ($25). ¨The class will start in a few minutes,¨ he informs me (or something to that effect, I only understand a couple words). I nod and sit down to wait.
As I wait (I´ve learned that waiting is a quite common activity in this culture and I´m prepared to wait a long while) my mind wanders to why I´ve decided to join a gym in the first place. I´ve always enjoyed staying active, whether it be running, swimming, biking or climbing; and I know that if I go awhile without being active, I become lethargic and go stir-crazy. I already knew that my activity options would be limited during my month stay in Fes. While it is physically possible to go running, I really didn´t want to draw any extra attention to myself, a foreigner, nor did I want to encourage unwanted catcalls or advances from men. As a norm, women just don´t go running outside. Thus the gym. Here again I have limited options. Men and women do not work out at the same time, so this particular gym reserves three evenings a week for women. And currently there is only one class offered. Thus aerobics. I´m skeptical, but beggars can't be choosers.
After only a short wait (literally just the few promised by the young man), a woman enters. And then another. The third to approach speaks a bit of broken English and she encourages me to follow her. We pass underneath a curtained doorway (which has been hung expressly for the women's privacy) into the weight room where the women begin to change into their sportswear. One lady is wearing a tight body suit, another normal sweats and top. One young lady sports a push-up bra and a tight tank top, and an older lady has opted for baggy sweats and headscarf. I notice I´m wearing the shortest shorts though, coming to mid-thigh. Loud Arabic music begins blaring throughout the gym and the ladies begin to shimmy and dance. I can't help myself and begin to wiggle a bit as well. One lady behind me laughs and says (in Arabic which I undertand) to the others, "Look at her now!" I laugh too, but now I'm self-conscious and end my poor dance attempt.
After changing, spraying on tons of perfume and I assume catching up on all the current gossip, we pass through another curtain into a smallish open room covered with floor pads. Some women briskly walk around, while a few run. I start out walking and then jog--the room is too small to actually run. I quickly get tired of the senseless and dizzying circles. Finally our instructor enters and assumes charge at the front of the room by ordering out directions--in French! Un, deux, trois, quatre...I rigorously begin marching in place, lifting my arms above me and to the sides. Next come lunges and half kicks and other crazy marching steps--always marching. One particular marching series confuses me and I can´t seem to get the steps right. My instructor comes over and enthusiastically shows me the steps, all the while explaining in French. I smile and nod and keep attempting. She moves on when she sees relative success. Unfortunately I´m a hopeless case when it comes to the shake-nothing-but-the-hips routine. Next, our drill sergeant leads us through a series of arm lifts and circles (while still marching). I´m sweating now, but I chalk that up to the small room and absolute no air-flow due to the closed windows and curtained doorways.
Fifteen minutes later, as I start to wonder how effective all this really is, a dull ache betrays my doubts and spreads through my upper appendages. How long do I have to keep my arms circling? Some ladies give up. I catch eyes with the woman next to me and we both laugh at our miserable situation. Can we please move on to another exercise? A tingling sensation begins in my fingers--I think I´m losing circulation. Just as I bring my arms down to shake them out our instructor switches to a new repetition. Alhumdu'lla! (Thank God!)
Nearing the end of our hour, the women begin pulling yoga mats from a pile at the back of the room. I follow suit and cool down stretches commence. My mat already smells like stale sweat and I try not to think of how unsanitary this place is as I mimic the awkward poses of our instructor. She is even cruel with our stretches, walking around pushing and pulling on our spread legs to expand even further. I´m glad she passes me by. Finally everyone gives a cheer and claps. We must be finished. I sigh relief.
My broken-English friend, Fatima,* and my "look-at-her-now" friend, Bahija,* lead me back into the weight room where we gather up our clothes and they steer me toward the showers. "Daba doosh" (now showers) they tell me. Hmmm...I hadn´t prepared for this and didn´t think to bring soap or a towel. But in we go into one corner of the bathroom to strip sweaty clothes and bras. Only underwear modestly remains. My friends attempt to converse with me, and they laugh at and mimic my attempts at their language. I´m feeling vulnerable in more ways than one. Then my friends usher me into the shower room where there are four shower heads and several bodies underneath. I get under one and rinse off, careful not to bump any bodies or boobs--a difficult feat as everyone is quite large and the Minnesota space bubble is as foreign a concept to them as a potluck without a Jello salad. I´m surprised at how quickly I adjust to my new situation though, observing the ease of conversation and laughter, and I return a few friendly smiles. I leave the shower and head back to my clothes attempting to shake off as much water as possible. "Next time I´m bringing a towel" I tell myself. But Bahija comes up and offers me hers. Again, I try not to think about the unhygienic possibility, and gratefully accept and dry off. Fatima, Bahija and I finish dressing. "Nshoofu lhamis" (see you Thursday) I say. They laugh. Because they laugh at everything I say. "Insha'lla" (God willing) they respond. I´m glad I´ve made friends. Perhaps I´ll enjoy this aerobics class after all!
*not their real names
As I wait (I´ve learned that waiting is a quite common activity in this culture and I´m prepared to wait a long while) my mind wanders to why I´ve decided to join a gym in the first place. I´ve always enjoyed staying active, whether it be running, swimming, biking or climbing; and I know that if I go awhile without being active, I become lethargic and go stir-crazy. I already knew that my activity options would be limited during my month stay in Fes. While it is physically possible to go running, I really didn´t want to draw any extra attention to myself, a foreigner, nor did I want to encourage unwanted catcalls or advances from men. As a norm, women just don´t go running outside. Thus the gym. Here again I have limited options. Men and women do not work out at the same time, so this particular gym reserves three evenings a week for women. And currently there is only one class offered. Thus aerobics. I´m skeptical, but beggars can't be choosers.
After only a short wait (literally just the few promised by the young man), a woman enters. And then another. The third to approach speaks a bit of broken English and she encourages me to follow her. We pass underneath a curtained doorway (which has been hung expressly for the women's privacy) into the weight room where the women begin to change into their sportswear. One lady is wearing a tight body suit, another normal sweats and top. One young lady sports a push-up bra and a tight tank top, and an older lady has opted for baggy sweats and headscarf. I notice I´m wearing the shortest shorts though, coming to mid-thigh. Loud Arabic music begins blaring throughout the gym and the ladies begin to shimmy and dance. I can't help myself and begin to wiggle a bit as well. One lady behind me laughs and says (in Arabic which I undertand) to the others, "Look at her now!" I laugh too, but now I'm self-conscious and end my poor dance attempt.
After changing, spraying on tons of perfume and I assume catching up on all the current gossip, we pass through another curtain into a smallish open room covered with floor pads. Some women briskly walk around, while a few run. I start out walking and then jog--the room is too small to actually run. I quickly get tired of the senseless and dizzying circles. Finally our instructor enters and assumes charge at the front of the room by ordering out directions--in French! Un, deux, trois, quatre...I rigorously begin marching in place, lifting my arms above me and to the sides. Next come lunges and half kicks and other crazy marching steps--always marching. One particular marching series confuses me and I can´t seem to get the steps right. My instructor comes over and enthusiastically shows me the steps, all the while explaining in French. I smile and nod and keep attempting. She moves on when she sees relative success. Unfortunately I´m a hopeless case when it comes to the shake-nothing-but-the-hips routine. Next, our drill sergeant leads us through a series of arm lifts and circles (while still marching). I´m sweating now, but I chalk that up to the small room and absolute no air-flow due to the closed windows and curtained doorways.
Fifteen minutes later, as I start to wonder how effective all this really is, a dull ache betrays my doubts and spreads through my upper appendages. How long do I have to keep my arms circling? Some ladies give up. I catch eyes with the woman next to me and we both laugh at our miserable situation. Can we please move on to another exercise? A tingling sensation begins in my fingers--I think I´m losing circulation. Just as I bring my arms down to shake them out our instructor switches to a new repetition. Alhumdu'lla! (Thank God!)
Nearing the end of our hour, the women begin pulling yoga mats from a pile at the back of the room. I follow suit and cool down stretches commence. My mat already smells like stale sweat and I try not to think of how unsanitary this place is as I mimic the awkward poses of our instructor. She is even cruel with our stretches, walking around pushing and pulling on our spread legs to expand even further. I´m glad she passes me by. Finally everyone gives a cheer and claps. We must be finished. I sigh relief.
My broken-English friend, Fatima,* and my "look-at-her-now" friend, Bahija,* lead me back into the weight room where we gather up our clothes and they steer me toward the showers. "Daba doosh" (now showers) they tell me. Hmmm...I hadn´t prepared for this and didn´t think to bring soap or a towel. But in we go into one corner of the bathroom to strip sweaty clothes and bras. Only underwear modestly remains. My friends attempt to converse with me, and they laugh at and mimic my attempts at their language. I´m feeling vulnerable in more ways than one. Then my friends usher me into the shower room where there are four shower heads and several bodies underneath. I get under one and rinse off, careful not to bump any bodies or boobs--a difficult feat as everyone is quite large and the Minnesota space bubble is as foreign a concept to them as a potluck without a Jello salad. I´m surprised at how quickly I adjust to my new situation though, observing the ease of conversation and laughter, and I return a few friendly smiles. I leave the shower and head back to my clothes attempting to shake off as much water as possible. "Next time I´m bringing a towel" I tell myself. But Bahija comes up and offers me hers. Again, I try not to think about the unhygienic possibility, and gratefully accept and dry off. Fatima, Bahija and I finish dressing. "Nshoofu lhamis" (see you Thursday) I say. They laugh. Because they laugh at everything I say. "Insha'lla" (God willing) they respond. I´m glad I´ve made friends. Perhaps I´ll enjoy this aerobics class after all!
*not their real names
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