It was a very strange feeling to fall so deeply in love with a place then have to leave it only a day later- at which point we had to ship out on a bus to Mekenes. I very quickly went from being high as the Hassan Tower back to the same worries-I forgot a gift for my host mom, maybe there wouldn’t be WiFi or a closet in the house, god forbid I have to learn how to use a bidet.

But one shitty horror movie and a bus ride with many camel sightings later, we found ourselves in a new center. I feel like the only consistency in my life is mint tea- but, there are worse things for sure.

With our host mom walking us to and from school like we were young, it was easy to also fall for Meknès. Without the hustle and metropolitan exterior of Rabat, Meknès has quickly become a place that seems like a friendly suburb of a much bigger beast.

Here’s to the next 9 days. And if you don’t know the difference between “excitée” and “amusante” in French translation, look it up before you try to tell your 76 year old host mom just how amped you are to be in Morocco.

As we walked to the center from the corner of Meknès, following our host moms more than capable navigation suggestions to “Allez à droit” until we got there, Morgan, and Annie, and I geared up to put our studying and “skits with Ahmed” to the test.

It was our first day of darija, the colloquial Moroccan Arabic, and my language skills were more than a little rusty. Hell I didn’t know if Ieven had the vocabulary to hold up to a three hour long Arabic class.

But, Inshallah, I will never forget what it feels like to love learning a language.

Darija, which I have come to lovingly call “Frarabic”, gets rid of all the complicated grammar rules, adds “p” and “g” letters to the alphabet because of its French influence, and takes out most of the complicated conjugations that make Arabic so difficult.

We talked for hours in class about all the different coffee orders, linguistic and written differences, and how to tell catcallers to go f**k themselves (thanks Ostath Rashid- that’s when you REALLY started to speak my language).

So even when it’s hard, and you can’t think of the words to explain how you feel, what you want, or get where you need to go, remember that “over the moon” feeling of today, and don’t let it go.

2. Thank you to the man in the parfumerie who kindly helped my housemate count her total cost bill by bill when he realized she was unfamiliar with the Arabic numbers.

3. Thank you to the older woman in the middle of the old Medina who sold me a kaftan, who spoke absolutely no French or English but still smiled at my broken Arabic, helped me try it on, and gave me a discount saying, “A beautiful girl learning a beautiful thing. Mumtaza!”

4. Thank you to the little girl in the Medina who said “Bonjour!” and wanted me to meet her new cat friend she had found in the street. She was sad because no one wanted to pet him. After a brief conversation in French, she gave me an m&m because “You like cats too so we’re friends now!”

5. My host mom Zohra and auntie Latifah. Of all the languages they speak, English isn’t one of them, but their never ending patience for our terrible grammar, lack of vocabulary, and strange Frarabic sentences doesn’t go unappreciated. As of tonight Zohra knows five phrases in English- “Good Morning”, “Goodnight”, “Have a good day!”, “Be safe!”, and “Masterchef!”

Thank you for allowing me to become a part of this beautiful life that you have and world that you live in. I hope somehow I can make it up to you.

We found some strange looking cats,

Took picture after picture,

Ostath Rashiid took a load off in an ancient hot tub,

And I finally found a cat that seemed to like me rather than just tolerate me! It was a beautiful start to the morning and just continued with a bus ride of baby pictures, heads up, and narrowly missing a donkey as we barreled into Fés.

Fés might be the most beautiful city I’ve seen. A cultural Mecca of Islamic, Spanish, and Amazigh architecture combined with the profit of the spice market made for mosaics as far as the eye could see and calligraphy that seemed to dance on the wall.

I mostly walked just praising Allah I no longer have to memorize the Koran to get into law school. Fés was clearly the creation of a meeting of the minds, with the winding streets, strange alleyways, and cultural acceptance that drew me to Morocco in the first place. In my total blur of amazement, I also managed to buy a few too many scarves and a tiny backpack, but I will love it dearly.

The pictures do it more justice than I can. Fés, I’ll be back for you.

It’s been nine days of 8-5 adventures, visits to the Medina, trying chocolate croissants in different cafes, my first bartering success story, and finding some comfort in this new and unfamiliar place suddenly feeling like a home. It helps that the water bottle guy at the hanout knows my name.

Yet, at the same time, something still won’t let me feel like my feet are solidly on the ground.

Maybe it’s the carriage rides, tour guides, living out of a suitcase, powdered cold medicine, random marriage proposals, always going places in groups of 6, the lack of blue curaçao, or the water making my stomach gargle.

Maybe it’s wishing that there wasn’t a 6 hour time distance that makes home seem so very far away.

The reality of this whole thing isn’t glamorous, frankly it’s hard as shit on the day to day, but that fades rather fast when you can find the joy in the moments in between.

Annie blowing out her birthday candles in our host moms caftan, with a smile big enough to light up the world.

Latifah laughing with us for hours on end trying to figure out our Arabic homework while Mama Zohra has us taste her food to make sure it is “Master Chef”.

All of the shabaab liking each other enough to put our arms around each other during pictures.

That and so many more memories are what makes this all worth it. With that, it’s time to leave Meknès to start our lives in Rabat- where I can maybe (FINALLY) do some laundry, meet my permanent host family, and settle in for many more couscous Friday’s. Yalla Shabaab!!

I really do feel like a kid though. My mom makes me breakfast and washes my clothes and packs me my lunch in my red teddy bear zip up bag. (Sidenote the syntax of this town will never fail to make me laugh) I can only really communicate with her through short sentences, head nods, and smiles. I tiptoe through the streets like I’m just learning how to walk, and I navigate my new family in the same way. It’s strange to say the least.

All that being said, I found a good trail to run on and bought myself a laundry basket and a plug converter in the souks. I found a gym, registered for classes, got some notebooks, house slippers, and a new book, and every day- per the advice of a former student- I try a new pastry or cookie. Hell I even made a google calendar- so l’d say I’m about one cocktail and a little bit of hope away from being a quasi- adult that can make it in this city. Stay tuned for the official verdict- there’s a drink special on Thursday.

Classes are going well, and it really only took me a day to figure out my way to and from school. Between spending my free time wandering down every street in the medina with purpose, and the rest just plain getting lost (most people use an “internal compass” as a metaphor, but I genuinely think I was born without any sense of direction), I’ve managed to find my way around on the big streets and generally know what direction “home” is in.

I’ve also started to settle into spaces other than my room that I can confidently say are also mine. At café down the street that Katelyn showed us, the waiter has started to shake my hand and clean off what he knows to be my favorite table when I walk in, hell he’s even stated asking if I want my “usual” (coffee nos nos and a chocolate croissant). The tent at the center where Rachel, Mumkin, the new family cat, whatever you want to call her- has made herself right at home alongside me. In the new little neighbor girls, who call me “cute” and give me kisses on my cheek when I leave the house in the evenings- probably because I brought them chocolate and they like the fact that they can speak Arabic like some inside joke that I don’t understand.

There’s also no better place to have found to settle than le Dhow- the hashuma, overpriced bar with great cocktails, French fries, and lots and lots of tourists. I remember looking at my friend Abby when we were taking pictures with the floatie and saying, “If this is the ONE place where I can be obnoxious, then goddammit I’m going to take advantage of it.” It’s the kind of place where you don’t quite know if the glasses are clean, the drinks are usually not actually what you ordered, everyone speaks English, and no one other than students and foreigners would be caught dead. And, you know what, sometimes a place like that is its own kind of perfect.

What me and Rosa didn’t know was that the calamari we ordered after one too many cocktails would be our downfall. We got the food poisoning to end all food poisoning- aka I was literally bedridden all of Saturday. I really thought I would be able to take the Oxvegas mentality of boot and rally and make it to Casa, but it was a no go. Another time for sure. But in the meantime, we went to the beach on Sunday, and even took the trek to go explore the mall- shoutout Koton and the halal McDonalds for making a cloudy weekend a bit brighter. On to next week!

Rachel, the tent cat, has officially made herself at home. She might have ringworm and she definitely still has her claws, but a visit to the vet is in the works. For now, she just eats our lunch leftovers and naps with us.

And, while we plan our overnight to Marrakech this weekend, I’d beg to argue that Rosa and I went on our greatest adventure to date right here in Rabat. Marjane- the Walmart supercenter of North Africa. You see, I found myself in dire need of a fan. Everything here is damp- as in so damp that my towel doesn’t dry between uses- and I started to feel like I was suffocating in my room that doesn’t have much ventilation. I also like instant gratification. So, we took a taxi almost out of the city and into Salé into the strangest mini mall/ Costco hybrid shopping center I’ve ever seen, and I bought myself the only fan they sold- an industrial size, three speed, wire fan. That, and “US Peanut Butter with Chunks”. The checkout lady must’ve thought I was losing it. We almost bought rollerblades for the medina, but that idea was sidetracked by the realization that while we had taxied into the grocery store, we were off the large streets, on the edge of town, relatively far from home in a place where taxis didn’t typically go. So, we walked our way to the nearest roundabout, and stood right in the middle of it until a taxi finally took pity on us two girls and our rather large fan. What a time- and may I just say the purchase was ENTIRELY worth it. Marrakech, here we come!

A real time picture of my fan, just for the shits and giggles.

From there, the weekend went without a hitch, and considering there were 18 of us, I’m impressed to say the least.

Our hostel was run by sweet Hassan, who played the baby shark remix on loop while we got settled and asked us to bring him back a beer. It was flooded, smelt like egg, creaked a little bit, and if you didn’t wear shower shoes you’d probably get ringworm, but it was perfect nonetheless.

From there we made our way out on the town- and goddamn did it feel good to be able to put on some makeup and wear a crop top. The luxuries of a lackadaisical tourist town where most people parade in shorts and tank tops.

The rooftop Kosy Café made for a perfect start to the weekend- finally swapping tagine for tapas and sushi and having probably one too many gin fizz. It’s not something we get to do often, so we savored it for every second- playing cards, hopping bars, bumming cigarettes, and listening to Danza Kuduro while drinking only the height of luxury cocktails- Smirnoff Ice.

From there we made it to 555- less of a club than a casino with multiple rooms and floors- each with its own respective aesthetic. Frankly, I wanted to crawl out of my skin by that point- being ushered around by strangers and asked to dance in every language but English. We went home in a too expensive taxi and got excited for the next day. Welcome to the blurry photo dump of a good night.

Isabel!!

Jo!!

And never forget to look everyone in the eyes after cheers. That’s just how it is.

Replenished with watery coffee and as many croissants as we could handle, we got the ball rolling early on Saturday to see the Eden of a garden that served as Yves Saint Laurent’s backyard (Le Jardin Majorelle). I’ve never seen anything like it- I’ll leave it to the pictures to do it justice because HOLY sh*t did we take a lot of them. But,as they say, “when in Rome!”

What a girl gang. I love these ladies. Kaycee, McKenna, and Ari from left to right ->

We made it to Zara, Starbucks, and took the time to relish in the wealth that Marrakech had to offer. We skipped out on the big Medina- but that’s just all the more reason to come back.

After my first scary encounter in the Medina (which I don’t want to taint this post or the memories of the weekend, but it’s worth noting it happened), we scarfed down some camel burgers at the local art-deco famed Café Clock, and made our way back to trusty Kozy Café to take it easy after Friday night’s debauchery.

The hometown replica of Stevie Wonder (glasses on and a voice to match) sang Tina Turner and Stand by Me while we played Picolo and yelled obscenities in joyous harmony.

To wrap it all up, I got to snuggle with the hostel cat and call Clarke. In conclusion, Chutes and Ladders is the worst, and Marrakech is definitely deserving of a return tour.

With that, we left bright and early for the village. Based on the briefing we were given, I was honestly expecting dirt floors, no running water, and a weekend spent learning what the view down a bucket toilet looked like. I made it through all the stages of grief to acceptance, and decided it was as good a weekend as any to get my hands dirty.

It started with a bonfire thrown by all of yours truly. We collected sticks, made hamburgers and veggies, played soccer, enjoyed some Tarot readings, and made the most of our afternoon in the Cedar Forest of Azrou.

We continued to the Cooperative in Ben Smim- a group of women working to employ themselves by making products out of the mountain herbs they collect on a daily basis- they even worked with the one and only Marjane!

From the women’s cooperative, we were ushered into the warmest welcome I could’ve imagined by what seemed like a tidal wave of kids. They danced with us to traditional music, held our hands, made milwee with us, and played the evening away. I think the ratio of adult to child in the village is literally 1-23. Nothing amazes me quite like the kindness of children- it truly is something even language transcends.

Fun aside, I was slapped in the face by my own stereotype. My host family, on top of being kind and incredibly generous, had running water, electricity, cell service, and a working toilet and shower. We talked and played and ate ourselves sick in preparation for the day ahead.

Nothing wakes you up quite like a 2 hour hike and your friend getting impaled on a Friday morning (sorry Abby). At least there was snow involved!

The truly fun parts of the day started with the nomad family we visited. We ate couscous, raced donkeys, and explored a life different from any I’d ever seen (apparently I didn’t look it though because the father of the family assumed I just had some primordial knowledge of how to ride a donkey).

I’m now fully convinced that IES operates under Newton’s First Law. From the nomad family, we had a block party to throw, henna, tea, a bonfire, and dinner to check off the to-do list.

It meant the entire world to be able to give back a little to the kids who had given us so much in just 24 hours. We did some Cupid Shuffle, painted pottery, saw some scooter tricks, taught some tik tok dances, and learned scooter tricks. My heart has not been that full in quite a long time.

The good energy continued to the tune of everyone together, jamming out to music and joking about Amine’s theoretical relation to the king in British accents. It was only made better by seeing my host father (the director of Ben Smim) and Baba Rasheed drag around whole trees to make a fire to fit all 20 of us. I will say, the marshmallows here are TOTALLY different, but if you close your eyes and reallllly pretend, it felt just like home.

Time to try to not fall asleep face first into dinner, and get to chasin’ some waterfalls tomorrow.

The bus slowly crept through the winding mountains to Wiwan Lake. I don’t know why I had such an exaggerated and fantastical vision of this lake in my head- it truly was just a lake like any other. It was nice to be with friends, feed ducks, and try to find a place to use nature as the bathroom in an open plateau next to the road.

Side note- tea really is made by the water. On Allah I had six different types of tea dependent on the altitude over the weekend.

We got back on the bus and continued our nauseatingly slow crawl to Oum Rabea. Tired, altitude sick, and unshowered, we must have looked a mess when we pulled up to the springs, but woah was it worth it.

We ate traditional Amazigh tagines next to the water and passed the hours watching the rapids splash up onto the hand-woven carpets we sat on, slowly growing less hangry and more impatient to see the falls themselves.

It was more than worth the wait.

It feels so surreal to already be headed back to Rabat after having spent hours in what felt like an Eden. Here’s to the next week in the same town of noise, cow feet, and the medina swallowing me whole- how strange that I feel like I’m on my way home.

A few hours of Medina shopping for tracksuits, a taxi guy that made fun of me for not knowing that a train station had its own word in French (and that it was not, in fact station de train), and sipping on a Starbucks while marveling at the Agdal Gare (HA! Take that cabbie) later...

and we were bound for Asilah- a city about 40 minutes away from Tangier known for its arts neighborhoods and painted walls. It was a welcomed escape- a quiet beach town full of Europeans, sangria, and surpringly more Spanish than Arabic (at least from what I gathered).

My type A personality found a worthy opponent in the fluidity and uncertainty of travel. Our AirBnB was closed for renovation (hence why I hadn’t heard from the guy all week) and so we had to find a guy who knew a guy who knew the person who ran it to guarantee a refund, and THEN find our way way to a hostel and hope they had room for 8. Maybe throwing a Hail Mary and knocking on the door hoping someone would answer was a mistake.

But, in true Bob Ross form, a mistake turned into a happy accident with a whole slew of new characters to be met and a guarantee of a good time. The hostel was run by two German students doing a work away (I wish I had had the balls when I was 17) and the only other occupants we met were Leo (a white-haired and somewhat off-putting but good-intentioned Sweed going through a quarter life crisis) and a studios American who was intent on typing away at his laptop but who loved house club music. We drank wine on the roof and talked about travel \240and had a girls night sleepover and Morgan fulfilled her childhood dream of having a bunk bed that was somewhat interrupted by Annie pushing her mattress from below. I guess everything in life has it’s caveats.

We passed the next day looking at art and meeting cats and trying to bargain with overpriced salespeople who wanted a price that was just as much for the aesthetic of the town as it was for the items we bought. The sound of crashing waves echoed through the Medina and probably made all of us a little seasick (although we were somewhat queasy from the quasi-cooked dinner from the night before). We ate tacos and catcalled men for a change until we absolutely had to walk the empty old back roads back to the damn train (Annie noticed that I’m completely unable to just say the word train on its own- i.e. without being proceeded by a curse word. Something about the damn train just gets me riled up. Definitely the crotchety old lady frustration in me of people not sitting in their assigned seats). The walk to station was so reminiscent of driving Jasmine on the old back roads listening \240to Journey and disrupting the peace around Fortville that it almost hurt- but it did bring a huge smile to my face.

Something about the whole thing set the world right again and made it seem slightly less like a pointless rock hurling through space. Whether it was having my feet on the ground during a trip that I had planned, the girl on the train I taught to crochet, sharing peanut M&Ms and funny stories with a great group of girls, my new pink shoes, or Morgan yelling about how glad she was to be home as we walked up the stairs of the familiar Rabat Ville, I don’t know- but I’m back on an upswing, and I’m sure as hell going to ride it.

ps: I have no idea how to conceptualize this or explain how or why this quote makes me feel the way it does but it’s beautiful and the world needs to see it :)

And then Thursday began with that god damned press conference. Since it was at night our time, we didn’t hear about it until Thursday morning, and then we had to sit in a sickening purgatory waiting for America to wake the f*ck up. Were we getting sent home? What were we supposed to do? I don’t think anyone left the center all day. We just sat, looked at each other, cried as trips and spring breaks got cancelled, and just waiting for someone to tell us something, ANYTHING, while the rest of the world shut down. One by one my friends in Europe were boarding planes home. Not to make it sound like it was the goddamn apocalypse, but we knew everything was about to change.

And that’s how I ended up on a flight out of Casablanca on Friday, right before the King closed Moroccan schools and the center went fully online.

Momma said she didn’t even have time to get to know me. I know it’s sad, but that’s how a lot of people are feeling right now. Unfinished. \240Incomplete. Unsettled.

I’ve talked quite a bit about where I found myself figuring out where home was on this trip, about being uprooted and moved from family to family, about new friends and being alone. I’ve always fantasized about the nomad life that a serious traveler can have- and I’m realizing now that I couldn’t do it, because all I can bring myself to ask for right now is more time, and all I have to hold on to is that I might be able to return after spring break.

So for now, I’ll see you soon Rabat, because I can’t bring myself to reconcile a goodbye right now.