Mariah had spent the weekend before at a surf hostel in a town outside Kenitra called Mehdia and had such a good time that she took me back. It was the first time I was traveling without anyone connected to the Fulbright Program and it was liberating to just be a "traveler." I didn't have to answer an amalgamate of questions about my schooling and background and area of study; I didn't have to talk of pHd plans or justify my lack thereof. Moreover, my friend knew nothing of Morocco or any of the languages spoken here so my minimal Darija and horrible French made me come across as an old pro. (To be stressed: come across).
At first it was obvious that the other hostel goers had come there to be alone: Philippe from New Zealand, Sonia from Spain, not to mention me. But Adil, the kook of a guy who was running the hostel, would have none of it and, before we knew it, we were functioning as a unit.
After he took us to his favorite spot on the beach and we were all sufficiently frozen, he took us to a little restaurant on the streets of Kenitra. It was frigid. We sat at a table on the street and dipped hearty chunks of bread into harera, a tomato-based soup with garbanzo beans. It was so cold on the street and I was so hungry that I don't know if I've ever tasted anything so good. None of us talked much as we put away the soup; we were clearly sharing the same sentiments. Afterwards we peeled oranges and drank tea. The whole meal came to 8DH, the equivalent of 80 cents.
After buying loofahs in the medina, we went to the hammam - a public bathhouse - where we parted ways with the boys. It wasn't until we were stripped and basking in the heat that we got to know more about Sonia. At the moment she was a yoga instructor on her way down to Agadir for the winter. She had set up her van as a little bedroom that she could sleep and cook in. She told us how she realized over the years that she can't travel more than six months at a time. After six months, she said, she starts missing her family and home; she misses speaking her own language. It was so nice to be around an older woman for a change, whom I felt was speaking my language.
There was a tangible sisterhood in the hammum: old women and pre-adolescents and very very young boys getting clean and enjoying some conversation while doing it. When Mariah and I got up to leave, two large women came out after us, disturbed that we hadn't washed our hair. They motioned to their own shampoo; they were so concerned. Did we have what we needed?
Back at the hostel that night, Sonia said that she had been planning on driving down the coast the next day but she didn't want to spend her birthday on the road at which point everyone - fifteen or twenty guests now - sang Happy Birthday to Sonia and hugged her like they'd known her for hundreds of years.
We shared some smuggled beer and the stories continued. Phillippe told us how he found himself married and living in Texas at the age of eighteen. (Spoiler: it didn't last long). Sonia talked about her long-term relationship with a man from Israel. They had met in Germany on vacation. He moved to Spain for her, but he didn't speak Spanish and was unhappy. They moved to British Columbia but she missed her family too much and moved back. Finally, after a bout of long distance, they called it quits. Oh, places and all the problems they present! Philippe and Sonia, who had been arguing earlier in the weekend over Catalan independence, realized in conversation that they had been backpacking through Nepal at the same time in the early nineties.
The next day the owner and managers of the hostel decided that in, true hostel generosity, Mariah and I shouldn't pay to take the train back the next day when they could drive us for free. While we said our goodbyes, Sonia realized that in true hostel fashion, she had gotten her days mixed up. Her birthday wasn't until tomorrow.
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