looking for small signs of Poland in Morocco

Out of all things that I don’t write about, one is aspect of homesickness and missing home, family and my country. In my case – the answer is simple. I don’t have problems with this. Although it would be nice to see my family (my parents will visit me in September by the way), home etc I don’t need it very badly. I’m more afraid of coming back to Poland next summer and readjusting to reality there. However, it doesn’t mean that things here I great. There are some moments when I’m really pissed off and I feel like leaving it all – AIESEC, my flat, problems and people here (you can also refer to previous post). Things are sometimes really bad here. Both previous observations (that I don’t want to leave Morocco and that things are sometimes bad here) have recently led me (after discussing with my friend Daisy) to one conclusion – in my case Morocco works as a drug. I’m addicted to the country and I don’t want to leave it even though I am aware that sometimes it is not ok here at all. Addiction? – another thing that I didn’t expect before coming here. There is more and more of them every day…

But coming back to nostalgia about my lovely Poland – I’ve noticed that every little small Polish aspect here makes extremely excited. It was like this when I first spoke Polish after 1 month of being here (you can refer to post “Exciting day” from July, 2nd). It was the same when I was in Polish consulate in Rabat or when I called Polish embassy in Casablanca. Finally, I was really excited when I watched Polsat or TV Polonia (Polish TV channels). The same happened when I saw a word “Polish” on a truck that we were just passing on the way to Shrate Beach (about trip to this beach, refer to “life goes on in Morocco” post – I didn’t mention that truck though). It was exactly “Polish shoe”. I started to scream to others “Look, guys!!! A car from Poland!!! Whoooohoooo!!”. I looked on the car to know from which city it was, what kind of shoes they produced and other information that in Poland would be totally irrelevant. I didn’t see anything Polish besides the word itself. At that moment a horrible thing occurred to me. It was not a “Polish shoe”. It was “polish shoe”. The difference is more than the initial letter. A polish shoe is a waxy cream or paste used for shoes (PL – pasta do butow). I stopped my happy laughter. I was speechless. My mouth was open and I had this dumb expression on my face. I was starring at the truck that we had just passed. Then I sat instead of moving in the back seat like a 9-year-old kid. My excitement just disappeared. “Well” I thought “at least I’ll have a funny story to tell when I’m back in Poland :)”