There are five or six Arabic phrases still left from my childhood. Not that they necessarily work in Morocco, where they speak a variant of Arabic different enough that mutual intelligibility isn’t guaranteed.
I walk around the streets trying to sound out written Arabic words, doubtless looking like a special needs student. I know maybe half the letters, so on a good day I get two thirds of the sounds for words I generally don’t understand. And yet I find this fun.
The missus was more fascinated by the graphics, especially the moustachio.
