I never sleep before traveling. I take for granted that
something drastically different is about to happen and I lean into it, like a
gift. I pack with ease. I take a rest and stare at the ceiling. I convince
myself of the elasticity of time and space that’s about to take place. I won’t
sleep now, I think; I’ll sleep tomorrow or the next night or I’ll push through
and then sleep for two weeks straight. Anything is possible when you’re about
to travel.
When I went to print my plane ticket, I realized it
coincided with ftour. As I walked around Hassan, the streets emptied. The shops
closed. My search for a printer turned into an inadvertent stroll. Just me and
the lowering evening. Traffic lights changed for no one. My heart alternated
feeling like a balloon in my chest and a stone in the sea.
I went to give a thank you gift to the concierge who works
in my building. I was knocking on his door, and then – how so often happens – I
was sitting at his table. His wife was patting my hand. I was eating braywatt
and chebekhia and drinking tea. His little sons were pretending to be lions
around my feet.
It takes so long to get from the hallway to the table in
some places, and others no time at all.
At last, I went to my old host family’s to say goodbye. They
hugged and kissed me in the doorway. I couldn’t imagine going out of it,
leaving them there. How had I not always known them?
It’s a wonder to form attachments. The well of tears refills – for better and worse. Tomorrow I’ll be home, and that sounds as
foreign to me as Morocco sounded a year ago.
And it hasn’t even begun to come together, to coagulate.
But a few things are clear as day. What affects me on a deep
level, is and always will be people. What I’ve learned from the people I’ve met
this year is that there is no limit on how many you can draw close and share
life with. It’s like after clutching a cup of water your entire life, you see the
ocean for the first time.
There is so much tea. There is so much chebekya. There is so
much room at the table.
