I know what you’re thinking:
it must be a slow news day if she’s writing another entry about a Moroccan kid.
That reasoning is accurate, though I don’t mind the slow days so much anymore. At the beginning, slow days were tedious, offensive and proof that I wasn’t doing something right. Life’s not supposed to be this slow.
Now, however, I embrace the slow days. I catch up on emails and paperwork, write letters and listen to music. Also, as of late, I run.
I wake up early, warm up, stretch out, and run down the road that leads away from town.
And that’s how I started this morning: I woke up early, warmed up, stretched out and laced up. I ran out to the King’s face (this is not a joke, there really is a King Mohammed VI billboad on the road I run on), and then turned around to head back. I was less than a kilometer from home when I came up behind two women and a small boy, maybe six or seven years of age. I gave them as wide a berth as the sidewalk would allow, and I ran past them.
Then the women started shrieking.
As I started to turn around to see what the issue was, I felt a presence next to me. I looked down at my left side, and sure enough, the little boy I had just passed was at my suddenly side.
He ran to catch up with me!
The ladies he was with were horrified; it’s one thing for foreigners to do weird things like run aimlessly, but it’s another to have your son follow suit. He stopped running as soon as he realized that he had been caught…
but it was too late, for I had already died of cuteness.
