Little Travels #1

Hate to say it, I'm a homebody. Wherever I go, I'll find a way to nest. You could drop me in the middle of the forest and I'd arrange the pine needles just so, then refuse to move. (Actually that sounds pretty cozy.) I like the idea of home, knowing that it's there, having a place to call my own.

I guess I'm just a huge fan of the mundane: morning coffee, evening walks, grocery shopping, sleeping in my own bed. I don't need much to make me extraordinarily happy.

But the mundane can get tiresome too, especially when simple tasks take so much effort due to language and cultural barriers. It's important to take a break every now and then. These are some little trips I've taken. I learned something each time I left and was always happy to come back to my precious, pretty mundane joys.

Essouira

   

At the end of September, three other Fulbrighters and went to Essouira for the weekend. We got there at night and it took us a while of wandering around in the medina to find the hostel where we’d be staying. We finally found what we thought was the place, knocked on the door and asked the guy who answered if it was the “Surf and Lounge Hostel.” He shook his head. We apologized and turned to go when he said, “Are you guys kidding?” He pointed at the sign. “It literally says Surf and Lounge Hostel on the door. Come in.” We walked in where an assortment of travelers were eating Sushi Tajine and Spanish Frittata. It was warm, there was wine, people were talkative, trees grew in the middle of the sitting area. It cost $5 a night. The whole weekend was similarly dreamy.

Milan

In order to maintain my tourist visa, I have to leave the country every ninety days. While we were in Essouira, Nathan and Acacia saw flights online to Milan for fifty euros and they snatched them. But by the time we were set to leave for Milan, I was having financial trouble – my money from my American account wasn’t transferring to my Moroccan account and I had very little actual money to my name. None of us knew any Italian. None of us had any working knowledge of Italian culture. In Morocco people assume I’m French or American, when I’d prefer to practice Darija. In Milan, people assuming I was from there, approached me in Italian. It was odd, having spent so much time studying Morocco's languages, to be dropped in a place where it could get you nowhere. It made the work feel irrelevant, like having the wrong currency in my wallet. 

But it was so wonderful to just walk around. I loved looking at what people were wearing. I gawked at couples kissing in public. It was grey and rainy and I was broke and ignorant but somehow it was absolutely wonderful.

On Saturday we gave in and went to a nice restaurant with heated outdoor seating. Our server happened to be Moroccan. He asked where I live in Morocco. I said, Rabat. He asked where in Rabat. I said, Hassan. He said, where in Hassan. I said, by Place Pietri. And where else would his parents live except in Morocco, in Rabat, in Hassan by Place Pietri? I spoke my minimal Darija to him and later a platter of pizza, bread, prosciutto and olives appeared before us. We looked across the restaurant and he put his hand on his heart, the sign in Moroccan culture for sincerity.

Morocco follows us around and looks after us like a guardian angel. Maybe there's no such thing as having the wrong currency after all. Maybe nothing is irrelevant.