Dispatches from the surface of the sun

So for the five or six weeks I've been in Rabat, I've been fairly impressed by the moderate temperature. I was under the impression that the climate world be sweltering, Sahara-style, with old men frying eggs on the sidewalk and veiled women fainting from heat stroke as they shopped in the market. But as with many of my preconceived notions about Morocco -- formed mostly from Casablanca and the Bob Hope/Bing Crosby film Road To Morocco -- I was disappointed. With a cool breeze usually coming in from the Atlantic, the heat actually wasn't that bad.

Until today.

Today the thermostat topped off at 41 degrees Celsius. Converting to Fahrenheit, that's (41 * 8/5) + 32 = really fucking hot. Also, the air conditioning at the office decided today would be the perfect day to stop working.

We work in a Moroccan government building that's only about four or five months old. How a new facility can have so many problems is beyond me. We usually get two or three days of running water per week. The elevator regularly stops working, sometimes, maliciously, with people inside of it. And now the AC quits on the hottest day in the entire history of the universe.

Okay, that might be a little overstatement, but it doesn't feel like it. Even the Moroccans are fanning themselves and looking miserable, and these are people who regularly wear giant overcoats and scarves when the temperature drops below 70 degrees. There is a pool of sweat forming in my pants that could drown a small child and I think my tie now officially qualifies as a liquid. It's gotten to the point that I'm even considering wearing a short sleeve dress shirt tomorrow and risk looking like a chump.

Plans for tonight: swim, shower, bask in reliable Hilton air conditioning.

[Ed note: this entry was written at work, but not posted until now due to the absolutely fucking extreme slowness of the office Internet connection. No AC and ~200 bytes per second transfer rates!]