The Visa Lottery

I met Anass while watching a soccer match. Daniel and I were sitting in a cafe just down the street, and we had grown a little bored with Barcelona's insuperable lead over Zaragoza when a Moroccan guy sitting behind us struck up a conversation with us. In typical Moroccan hospitality, he offered us help with whatever we needed and insisted that we get together to do something.

The weeks drifted by and we didn't do much more than exchange greetings in passing. But last Monday we finally got together and chatted in Arabic and English over coffee.

He asked for help with the United States visa lottery. Every year the United States gives work visas to tens of thousands of foreigners from countries that traditionally do not immigrate to the United States. All that is required is a photo and personal information to apply.

When I arrived, Anass led me into his parents' apartment in the building right next to my apartment. Unlike our apartment, theirs was extremely well furnished. Carpets covered the tile floor from wall to wall. A large screen TV hung in the family room and three sets of Moroccan couches covered the three main rooms, broken only by waist-high walls. On one wall was a picture of Mecca. A few bookshelves near the entrance to the kitchen were separated by a picture of a boy reading the Koran, in the same sort of light-intensive kitsch that Thomas Kinkade produces.

He introduced me to his mother, and she immediately started to speak to me in French. Anass reprimanded her, telling her that I spoke Darija. So I stuttered through the basic formalities and we sat down to do the visa application. Among other things, the photos are required to be 600x600 pixels. So while I tried to change the photo's size, his mother brought us Moroccan tea and pastries.

I finally got the picture to the right size and we entered the rest of his information without a problem. While we were working, his father came home from work and said hello. He then took out the prayer rug and started doing his prayers directly in front of us.

After I finished, I got up intending to go, but Annas' mother insisted, "No. Stay for dinner." Since it's rude to decline when a Moroccan extends hospitality, I quickly consented.

As in so many households the world over, the TV was left on during the meal. The coverage was of the Hajj, the pilgrimage to Mecca for the Eid al Kabir. The two big items of news were that Obama's Kenyan grandmother was in Mecca this year and that heavy rains were causing problems.

Dinner was Moroccan country hare, shot by father cooked by mother, seasoned with teeth-breaking pellets. With the exception of the pellets, it was quite good.

At the end of the evening, the family invited me back for Eid al Kabir. And because it's rude to decline when a Moroccan extends hospitality, I quickly consented.