After my dear friend Rachel (see side bar - Brown Bread Ice Cream) listed me amongst an interesting array of politically motivated writers I felt the need to produce something fantastically poignant. The problem is, as a Caucasian girl living in Canada I haven’t had many poignant moments, except when I travel…ah ha, here I go…the travels of the pale skirt (skirt cause I’m a girl, pale because I am seriously British by complexion).

Part 1. Morocco

Morocco is a country of contrasts with landscapes varying from endless sand dunes set against a bright blue sea, to flowering mountains full of crisp, moist air. Likewise the experiences of a pale skirt vary from place to place

(note to reader, when the wind picks up in said sand dunes, which it does quite often because of said blue sea, run or you’ll be cleaning sand out of your ears for three months)

In the big cities: the pale skirt is just one of many people pounding the pavement, way too busy to take notice of anything or anyone. Here the pale skirt is treated as a client in a restaurant, as a fare in a taxi, and as a speed bump if she’s not careful enough crossing the road.

On the train: the pale skirt is simultaneously an object of curiosity and pity. “A pale skirt all by herself, why the poor dear must feel so alone, or else she’s insane. Perhaps we should keep the children away from her, but alas no, we cannot bear her suffering, let’s take her in.” Yes, like a wounded bird pale skirt always got on the train alone and got off with someone taking her in hand, spending a whole day showing pale skirt their city, taking her to the school where their children study, then sending her on her way with a full stomach and a fuller heart.

In the small towns where pale skirt doesn’t live: pale skirt must be American, therefore stupid. Ah yes, the number of times pale skirt was treated to the whole, ‘don’t I get a kiss goodbye, it’s the way we do things in Morocco’, ‘come sit closer, women and men always sit close in Morocco’, ‘I’m giving you a good deal by only charging you $5 for the apple, that’s very cheap for Morocco.’. Admitedly, the small towns that pale skirt visited for work were off the beaten path so the whole pale skirt’s a tourist and very lost thing is pretty understandable. But I wasn’t a tourist (although sometimes I was lost) so the, ‘Morocco way’ spiel got very old, very fast.

In the small town pale skirt calls home: pale skirt stands out, she is the only pale skirt and the town is small. Everybody knows her name and try as she might she never gets to walk to work. For everyone knows where pale skirt works and before she walks two blocks somebody stops to pick her up and drive her in…even if it means kicking someone else out of the car or turning around and driving back the way they came. Pale skirt is expected to be the perfect guest in her home town, she is far from home and alone, she must be very brave, very smart, very adventurous…pale skirt is very humble in her home town because she can never be the flowing ball-gown they think she is…she’s just a pale skirt after all.