From Regret to Joy-48 hours of Surprises in Marrakesh

As my mother reminded me on the phone Saturday night, hindsight is 20/20. Mine feels painfully crystal clear, perhaps 20/10? Sort of like I gained freakishly good eyesight and can now see everything in a more vibrant color scheme than other humans. What does this hindsight tell me? Put simply, I should have listened to my gut. I had arrived at the airport nearly five hours before my flight and had been twiddling my thumbs for the entire time. As the boarding time grew closer, I felt increasingly off but couldn't put my finger on the reason. I had been watching the airport system, listening to the announcements and even in my fatigued state, was confident that I knew how it worked.

It was only after the boarding time had passed without announcement that I knew something was really off. I wasn't surrounded by other passengers, everything was shutting down and I hadn't heard an announcement for nearly an hour. I kept telling myself not to be paranoid, there is only one terminal, and there is no way I can be missing anything - I was wrong. Had I listened to that gnawing fear, I would have gotten on my flight without delay and arrived in Seville an hour later. Sadly, I was ten minutes too late and the staff was unforgiving. Twenty minutes later, I had my backpack on and was $200 poorer after purchasing a brand new flight. Shock, frustration, anger.

At this point, it was nearly 10 pm and I was faced with getting back to the hotel by myself. I immediately found a taxi and traveled back into the city, anxious to get into bed and communicate the night's events with my family. Returning to the hotel where I had stayed the previous evening, I was shocked to learn that it was full. Considering I was one of three guests the night before, this seemed alarming. No matter, there were several hostels on the same block and surely one would be free. Wrong again. Sunday morning was the world famous Marrakesh marathon and everything was booked. How I long for the ease of apparition (thanks, Leah!)

At the final hostel, I was offered a bed on the roof or in the lobby. At this point, I really didn't care. After an hour of conversation with the owners and my family, I settled into my tiny mattress behind the reception desk. This is not where I had expected to sleep and I just wanted to shut everything off and make it all go away. Cruel reality and boisterous guests kept me awake for the majority of the night, but I still managed to get a few bad dreams into the mix.

Left to my own accord, I may have stayed in a private room and felt bad for myself the following day. As I had no room of my own, I merely got dressed and started talking with the nephew of the hotel owner. From my lobby room, I witnessed the bartering techniques of deaf Moroccans and the hospitality of the owner's family. Over breakfast and tea, I was complimented on my Darija and enjoyed the company of the owner's English-speaking nephews. Instead of wallowing in regret and self-pity, I thanked God for this family who let me sleep on the floor and fed me the next morning. It's good to be reminded of why I love this country, even when my heart is in Seville.

Sunday morning, waiting for the cleaning staff to work on my room, I met three British men on a week holiday in Morocco. While they were only in town for the afternoon, we spent the time exploring the mosque El-Fna, witnessing the end of the marathon and wandering through the Medina. I found the men to be engaging, intelligent and most importantly, interested in daily life in Morocco. During our hours together, I was able to share the things I love most about this country as well as the routine difficulties of being a woman in the Arab world. Spending the afternoon in their presence, I was reminded of my love for education and cultural exchange - I feel high as a kite when I get to explain the intricacies of a culture to others.

After subsisting on nothing but peanuts, Chebekia, oranges and coffee throughout the day, I strolled into the Medina for a Moroccan meal among the tourists. Almost immediately after being seated, I was joined by a family practitioner from North Wales and roughly ten Swedish women who had just completed the marathon. They had all arrived in Morocco within the last 24 hours and were enthusiastic about the prospect of a few days in the country. Once again, I shared my work and my love of the country while offering them tips to enjoy their stay. After a day of culture-induced adrenaline, I collapsed into bed physically exhausted but emotionally and mentally elated.

Today I am once again preparing to travel to the airport and try to board a plane. While the past 48 hours in Marrakesh were not in my plan, I know that I stayed for a reason. Sharing my experience with passing tourists, the good and the bad, allows me to process my time through a different lens. I leave Morocco a little bit poorer, humbled, and dirty, but with the knowledge that my last ten months has been well spent. Tonight's arrival in Spain will be all the sweeter. Inshallah.

I Don't Think We're in Kansas Anymore.

Dave had missed his flight. Making my way from Charles de Gaule airport to our apartment, I wasn't thrilled about the solo hour long metro trip at 5 o'clock Friday or the obligatory return trip at 5 am the following morning. The metro was packed, I carried a large bag and it was first my time being truly alone in a big city since the incident last August. Sweaty and exhausted, I stumbled into my temporary home where I was shown the surroundings, given the key and complemented on my French by the apartment owner. Jacky was polite, kind and most importantly, didn't invite me over for dinner or express his sadness that I would be "all alone" for the next twelve hours. Deep breath, I am not in Morocco anymore.

Shortly after I had settled in, I wandered over to the local grocery store where I spent nearly thirty minutes taking in the array of cheese, wine, beer, frozen foods, ice cream, cereal and almond milk which was all available for purchase from the friendly market owner. After a friendly and easy exchange in French, I made myself a simple and comforting sandwich full of items not found in Tazarine. Sliced bread! Hummus! Tzatiziki! Baby tomatoes! Spinach! Wine! Well, not on the sandwich, but still important. My body tensed as I heard a neighbor walk by, ready for the imminent knock on the door and intrusion into my solitude. Another deep breath, I am not in Morocco anymore.

Following a hot shower (!!!) and a TV marathon, I fell asleep for a few short hours before waking unexpectedly at 3 am. Was it stress? Was it excitement? Was it hunger? For whatever reason, my body was done sleeping and ready to get back on the metro to the airport. Later that morning on the steps of Sacre Coeur, delighting in a second breakfast of croissants, quiche and mulled wine with Dave, I realized that my shoulders were starting to relax. It wasn't until that moment when I discovered my actual level of stress in Morocco.

As much as I love my town, my work, and my community, I feel a never-ending sense of duty, obligation and discomfort. My life is full of "shoulds." I 'should' stay in site over the weekend, I 'should' go have lunch with this family I've been avoiding, I 'should' finally start classes at the Dar Taliba, I 'should' study more Tashelheit, I 'should' do this, that, and everything. I expect myself to be a completely balanced wonder woman at all times: learning three languages without fatigue, visiting families I have nothing in common with on a daily basis, and competently teaching English grammar, theater, dance and music which I have never been trained in. Metric's lyrics play over in my head, "Is it ever gonna be enough?"

On this last weekend of January, with no cell phone and no connection to work, I took a deep breath and decided to simply soak in the beauty and wonder of Paris. Tazarine was waiting, work was waiting, the "should" feeling was waiting, but this week was free. Another glass of mulled wine and ten days with a fantastic man? Don't mind if I do!

Christmas in the Olive Groves

Christmas is my favorite time of year - period. I love the carols, decorations, parties, food, snow and celebratory atmosphere. I start listening to my 27 hour Christmas playlist in mid-November and will hear nothing but Amy Grant until the New Year. Driving through a winter storm on the way to a Christmas party is my ideal Saturday night: the friends, warmth and love on the other side of the drive make it worth the effort. Despite my freezing fingers and toes, I always feel internally warm during the holiday season.

This year it was slightly more difficult to get into the spirit of things. I frequently played my Christmas playlist, but it rarely felt appropriate. I watched "Love Actually" and "Elf" which made me cry more than get me in the mood. I even taught Christmas traditions to my classes, but I still felt far away. Spending Christmas in the desert is simply not normal for me. I found the last week in site particularly difficult; the combination of being far from home, general fatigue from work and anticipation of an extended vacation made every day feel long. As much as I love my Moroccan home, I was ready for a break.

After a long weekend of classes, cleaning and saying my goodbyes, I collapsed on the CTM on the morning of December 23. Arriving early in Ouarzazate, I spent the day singing Christmas carols and reminiscing about Christmas past with Susan and Emily. Wearing winter coats and gloves in the kitchen, we powered our way through delicious Christmas treats and tried our best to remember the lyrics. After a short night of sleep, we dragged ourselves onto a morning bus to Beni Mellal.

Morning yoga

Roughly eight hours later we arrived in the center of Morocco where Leah (our host) and Elizabeth met us with a bag of Christmas cookies and cheer. We jumped in a taxi to Leah's site, a few km outside of the city, and prepared for Christmas eve. The apartment smelled like ginger, molasses and love. Leah and Elizabeth had spent the better part of the day baking and preparing for our arrival, including decorating the apartment and hanging up stockings. After mulled wine and cookies we snuggled into our beds. Despite my headache (exhaustion, stress, lack of normal nutrition), I was grateful to be among friends.

Christmas morning we rolled out of bed, devouring countless date balls and cookies before morning yoga. Upon Leah's return from class we made pancakes and poured on epic amounts of the real maple syrup so rarely found in Morocco. We opened stockings, took pictures and eventually went on a walk around Leah's site. Despite being far from home, I felt loved and happy with my Moroccan family.

All snuggled in for stockings

On our final day in Leah's site (Boxing Day), we were invited to visit the olive groves of Leah's host uncle. After a morning kaskrut (snack/tea time) of freshly baked bread, freshly pressed oil and honey, we wandered through the groves. After three months in the south, seeing mountains, grass and animals was enough of a treat! We learned how to shake out the olives from the trees, explored the countryside and surrounding groves before finishing off with lunch. As we exited their home, Leah's family offered us each a liter of olive oil - such an amazing gift - not to mention the tastiest oil in the world!

At the Olive press

Host uncle's olive groves and bee hives

We finished our day with a trip to the olive press. After a final night of relaxation, we said our goodbyes. There was no snow, minimal decorations and no one else in the city celebrated the holiday; however, I celebrated a unique and magical Christmas with my fellow volunteers and lovely Moroccans. So grateful.