Conservation of 'Stuff'

The ultimate show of "my teacher is pleased with us" is to let the students have 'free time.' Don't let the misnomer fool you; 'free time' actually means 'playing soccer,' and free time requests were pretty frequent even in the dead of winter. Today, students in every class immediately began the mantra, "Miss, isn't it sooo nice outside!" The request is regular enough that it doesn't even need to be stated any more. In illustration of the amazing days here, 3aisa was heard to respond, "Don't tell me it's nice outside! It's not winter any more, it's ALWAYS nice outside!"

I recall an American Indian fable about beavers who were gambling; they bid their own soft pelts, because, once given away, they could simply flop their tails in their pure lakewater and grow new ones. Even as a kid, this bothered me because of the clear lack of concern for the conservation of stuff-ness. Stuff can become other stuff, but it can't appear out of no where (I hear adults actually call this Conservation of Matter or something), but spring in Morocco also seems to disregard this Conservation of Stuff.

The once bare streets of dingy cobblestones and dirty gutters now teem with bright silk-clad women and noisy soccer-ball-toting children. Every curb is lined with Moroccans stopping to 'save time' by pausing in the midst of all varieties of errands. Pairs of women sit with groceries, on their way to make cous-cous at home. Children sit with pilfered bottles of water or some small found treasure; they huddle together in secrecy over piles of torn up cookie labels, smacking the pile and claiming any that flip. Men sit and watch the world, on hiatus between watching the world from this cafe and watching the world at the next restaurant. Every space on every curb is full.

In the middle of the sidewalk on the big boulevard is a cross-hatching of grates that occasionally spouts water in a 10x10 set of fountains. I keep waiting for it to surprise an unsuspecting passer-by, but I have yet to be rewarded. The fountain turned on yesterday and seemed to spawn children the way the lake-waters may have spawned beaver-pelts. Children ran underfoot, and other smaller children ran under their feet. Older teens sometimes braved the bustle to have their pictures taken with the fountain; in particular I saw one girl, we'll call her Khadija, in a red velvet djellaba, tiptoe between the fountains and turn to smile at her friend with the camera. At just that minute, two little boys in traditional clothing (white and yellow djellabas - who let THEM in the fountain?!) ran past, smacking each of the spewing fountains and sloshing water over Khadija. I expected trouble for them. Khadija shrieked, then turned and started chasing the boys! They did a full ring around the rosy before she brought them back to their mother, who was sitting next to me. Khadija caught my eye for a second as she flipped her hair back to its perfect style, and nodded, before returning to her stunned friend.

The sunshine brings out the best in everyone.