The dust storm brought with it the spring. The sky was devoid of clouds, and the sun shone above the store buildings in downtown Er Rachidia. I watched as children roamed the streets. Because of the protests and the holiday of Muhammad's birthday, the children were out of school. Men lined the streets hawking their wares that were laid out on an old blanket. From down the street, I could smell the restaurant preparing shawarma for lunch. The buses' horns blew continuously throughout the morning as passengers traveled to the surrounding cities.
My coffee had just arrived by the time D_____ showed up. D_____, the Moroccan who is usually used by the new volunteers as a language instructor, wanted to develop an association with me and another volunteer to "encourage cultural exchange and human development opportunities between Morocco and America". This meeting, however, wasn't focused on business.
"I think I'm going to give up on some bad habits." I said.
"Why do you want to do that?" D_____ asked.
"One, it costs money," I began, "And when I wake up the next morning, I usually think to myself, "So, you really paid money for that?""
"Okay," he said, "But are you just going to stop buying it, or are you stopping completely?"
"Well, I'll just have to take it one day at a time," I said, "I've reached a point where I'm beginning to think that it does nothing but bring empty happiness."
"Empty happiness?" He asked.
"Yes, empty happiness. A happiness that doesn't last. It's not the same happiness I seem to experience when I meditate."
"So, you're still Buddhist?"
"Yes, I am."
"Well, think of it this way," D_____ said, "With your habit, the empty happiness goes away after a few hours, but I've seen the empty happiness of religion in followers, but that empty happiness lasts their entire lives."
"So you think it's like the opiate of the masses?" I asked.
"That's a good way of putting it."
Two women passed by; each held the side of a souk bag filled with vegetables. I looked down at my coffee and began to stir. For a moment, the sounds of the street seemed to leave the cafe, leaving only the sound of my spoon clinking against the glass. A man walked by, and D_____ pointed him out to me.
"Hey, that man is like you." D_____ said.
"Really?" I asked, "Here?"
"Yes. Sometimes the children throw rocks at him. When I see it, I usually go up to the kids and tell them that he is human, just like them."
I began to drink my coffee.
"That's one thing I like about America," D_____ continued, "There is freedom. People can believe whatever they want. They can be whoever they want to be."
I looked down the street again. My mind traveled to six years ago. I was on a beach in Florida with friends. We had just left a restaurant when I heard someone shout in the parking lot. Even though the rest of the words were a blur, I remember that word they used. It had since seared itself into my brain. I reached the parking lot just as two men knocked down the third man, shouting that word over and over again. My immediate reaction was to jump in and try to pull them away, but they pushed me aside. I spun around and watched as a crowd had formed around us. Why aren't you helping? I thought as I watched their blank faces, he is one of us. The faces in the crowd remained blank, cold, indifferent, as though they weren't witnessing a beating, but were Romans sitting inside the Colosseum.
I remember the glass bottle I found, and I remember the sound and feeling of it breaking over one of the attacker's head. The most vivid detail that I remember though was their eyes. The look in their eyes wasn't an anger one sees at another human, but an anger one sees directed at a dog that did something bad, or a car that won't start. Their anger wasn't directed at the man as a person who needed to be killed, but as a thing that needed to be destroyed. After I chased them away, I remember looking down at the man. He was now just a pulp; blood streamed down his face, a tooth dangled in his mouth, and his clothes were torn. I remember crying as I held him. I remember being told, you saved your friend's life, and I replied, I don't know him. I remember the look of confusion on some of the people's faces, and I remember the anger welling inside of me, not at the attackers, but at the people who surrounded me that night.
As my mind returned to the cafe on the corner of the street in Er Rachidia, I turned to D_____.
"What is one thing you don't like about Islam?" D_____ asked.
"Are you familiar with Sufism?" I asked in an attempt to alter the subject.
"I knows about them." D_____ replied.
"I like the Sufi. When I read the Quran, it reminded me of Christianity very much. In Islam, mankind is seen as a completely depraved creature, something not worthy of grace, much less life. It is only through God that mankind is saved. Christianity and Islam share this in common, the belief that mankind is inherently worthless without God. In Christianity, this is called total depravity."
D_____ leaned forward and nodded his head in agreement.
"The Sufi are different," I said, "In Sufism, the belief in the fitra is ever-present. It is the understanding that God is the fitra, the source of all wisdom. God is complete fitra, complete wisdom. All living things contain within themselves a piece of this fitra, this wisdom. The seeming depravities exist like shrouds that cover our fitra, but our inherent nature is this holiness, this wisdom, this fitra. In Christianity, this is called the inner light. In Buddhism, this is called Buddha nature."
This is, and always has been, my favorite religion discussion to have with people. Whether people embrace their culture to the point of denigrating others, or whether they denigrate themselves to embrace a Western worldview, I feel that discussing this concept, and the connection that they have with each other, helps people realize that there is no need to unify cultures or religions, nor is there a need of dominant cultures. It is akin to believing that the cultures, in their essence, are like this pureness, and the negative expressions that we find - racism, xenophobia, terrorism - are all shrouds that cover them. The positive expressions of these cultures are present in all cultures, just as the negative examples are found there, as well.
I left D_____, and returned to the Fulbright scholar's house, and imagined what it would be like to alter my memory of the event that occurred six years ago. Maybe there was no attacker, there was no victim, there was no mass of bystanders. There was only fitra and shrouds.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Traveling, Pt. 4
Er Rachidia 4
It was cold as we left the Fulbright student’s house. It was a clear night, and I watched the stars of Orion and Canis Major. It was late, and the only sounds were our shoes hitting the road. I thought back to the dinner. Everyone loved the pizza, so I made sure to limit the amount I ate. Another volunteer had bought a nice cake at the restaurant in Er Rachidia. I knew there wasn’t enough for everyone, so I let the others have it. My friend turned to me as we walked down the street.
“Marcus,” my friend told me, “I am the one who wrote that card for “unconditional”.”
I looked up into the night sky. It wasn’t the fact that someone had written it that bothered me. It was the fact that it won. Everyone at the table looked at me for a moment and nodded their heads before the judge declared “Marcus’ love” as the winner for “unconditional”. Yes, I’m Buddhist. Yes, I tell them about meditation and how my ultimate goal is to be a Bodhisattva. I don’t know why it makes me uncomfortable. Maybe it’s because I don’t see myself as having reached that point yet.
I get angry. I get frustrated. And yes, I do tell myself that anger and frustration are to be utilized in a positive way, and to ultimately be supplanted with love. But to have someone outside of me identify me as having unconditional love makes me feel like I’m a fraud. Have I earned the right to have people tell me that I’m a good person? Do I really express my love and kindness unconditionally?
It’s strange, how one can have such opposing thoughts in a short period of time. In Esaouira, I felt transcendent as I pretended to fly over the Atlantic. In Rabat, I felt as though I was being crushed by the people. In Tinghir, I felt like I needed no one to tell me how to live my life. In Er Rachidia, however, when presented with the possibility that I am a good person, I withdraw.
Conclusion
I’m going to stay in my village. I need to let the men and women there know that just because I don’t match what they think of as a man I am useless. I need to let them know that it’s fine that I clean my house, that I cook and do laundry, that I read and write and sing. I have no right to impose my culture on them, but they have no right to tell me that I am living my life incorrectly. I am who I am, and they can accept that, even if they do so with curiosity.
I’m going to work in Er Rachidia more. I can speak to kids there and teach health lessons. I just met with some and we created a curriculum through May, until my family comes to visit and I visit Los Angeles. By the time my current schedule is complete, it will be down time in this country, and everything will shut down for a few months for Ramadan. By the time I need to make another schedule, I will be close to ending my service. These things will fall into place. I will go where I am needed. If I am needed in Er Rachidia to fulfill goal one, then so be it. If I am needed in my village to fulfill goals two and three, then so be it.
Because there is nothing to be attained, the Bodhisattva, relying on the Prajna Paramita, has no obstruction in his mind. ~The Heart Sutra
It was cold as we left the Fulbright student’s house. It was a clear night, and I watched the stars of Orion and Canis Major. It was late, and the only sounds were our shoes hitting the road. I thought back to the dinner. Everyone loved the pizza, so I made sure to limit the amount I ate. Another volunteer had bought a nice cake at the restaurant in Er Rachidia. I knew there wasn’t enough for everyone, so I let the others have it. My friend turned to me as we walked down the street.
“Marcus,” my friend told me, “I am the one who wrote that card for “unconditional”.”
I looked up into the night sky. It wasn’t the fact that someone had written it that bothered me. It was the fact that it won. Everyone at the table looked at me for a moment and nodded their heads before the judge declared “Marcus’ love” as the winner for “unconditional”. Yes, I’m Buddhist. Yes, I tell them about meditation and how my ultimate goal is to be a Bodhisattva. I don’t know why it makes me uncomfortable. Maybe it’s because I don’t see myself as having reached that point yet.
I get angry. I get frustrated. And yes, I do tell myself that anger and frustration are to be utilized in a positive way, and to ultimately be supplanted with love. But to have someone outside of me identify me as having unconditional love makes me feel like I’m a fraud. Have I earned the right to have people tell me that I’m a good person? Do I really express my love and kindness unconditionally?
It’s strange, how one can have such opposing thoughts in a short period of time. In Esaouira, I felt transcendent as I pretended to fly over the Atlantic. In Rabat, I felt as though I was being crushed by the people. In Tinghir, I felt like I needed no one to tell me how to live my life. In Er Rachidia, however, when presented with the possibility that I am a good person, I withdraw.
Conclusion
I’m going to stay in my village. I need to let the men and women there know that just because I don’t match what they think of as a man I am useless. I need to let them know that it’s fine that I clean my house, that I cook and do laundry, that I read and write and sing. I have no right to impose my culture on them, but they have no right to tell me that I am living my life incorrectly. I am who I am, and they can accept that, even if they do so with curiosity.
I’m going to work in Er Rachidia more. I can speak to kids there and teach health lessons. I just met with some and we created a curriculum through May, until my family comes to visit and I visit Los Angeles. By the time my current schedule is complete, it will be down time in this country, and everything will shut down for a few months for Ramadan. By the time I need to make another schedule, I will be close to ending my service. These things will fall into place. I will go where I am needed. If I am needed in Er Rachidia to fulfill goal one, then so be it. If I am needed in my village to fulfill goals two and three, then so be it.
Because there is nothing to be attained, the Bodhisattva, relying on the Prajna Paramita, has no obstruction in his mind. ~The Heart Sutra
Traveling, Pt. 3
Er Rachdidia 3
We played a game after dinner that night. We placed love themed adjectives in a hat and had to write nouns that best described that adjective. Some of the words included “lust”, “throbbing”, “passionate”, and “fleeting”. The nouns written made it clear that many volunteers had so far been celibate. For the most part, the game was humorous. Then the word “unconditional” came up. I tried to be clever and state that a volunteer’s hair after two years of not bathing was “unconditional”. The note cards were opened, and the room became silent as a card was read.
“Marcus’ love is unconditional,” the reader said.
Tinghir
“The purpose of VSN training,” the trainer said, “Is to use active listening skills to allow the volunteer to come up with a solution to their own problem. Break up into pairs and try to use what we learned. You can use your own problem.”
I walked up to the roof with my partner, and we discussed my problem. I didn’t know what to do in my village. My village is decent, the people are nice, but I haven’t had any major work. After a year of drinking tea, traveling, and socializing, I began to feel like I was useless. For this session, we were to use the three steps to come up with a solution: fantasize any solution, find out which of those solutions is realistic, and then create a plan.
“Well,” the volunteer asked, “What is your ideal situation?”
“I want to move to Er Rachidia. In Er Rachidia, I teach kids. They are different than adults. I can be myself and they don’t judge me. They don’t call me weak or useless. The adults do.”
“Okay, keep going.”
“I want the men to understand me. I don’t hate them, I just can’t stand how they talk about women and prostitutes. I don’t fit in with men.”
“Go on.”
“I want the women to stop feeling threatened by me. I want them to know that I like cleaning and laundry and doing dishes. I want them to know that I feel more kinship with them than the men.”
“Okay.”
“I want to do something with my service. I don’t want to just be a social misfit who drinks tea the entire two years. I don’t want to be useless.”
“Okay.”
I looked out over the roof of the house. Women wandered through the fields, carrying baskets of food. I never fit in with men. It’s a strange feeling to be told that you should identify with certain people, only to find that they aren’t like you at all. It’s a strange feeling, to notice the mannerisms and behaviors, even to the point of voice inflection, and realize that you are not one of them. It is as though there is a glass wall between you and everyone else.
As I thought of it, I became angry. I have sacrificed myself all my life. I sacrificed who I am, how I identify, and every other aspects of my life just so that I could make others comfortable around me, both here and in America. I can’t keep doing that, and if people don’t accept that, then they won’t be in my life.
We played a game after dinner that night. We placed love themed adjectives in a hat and had to write nouns that best described that adjective. Some of the words included “lust”, “throbbing”, “passionate”, and “fleeting”. The nouns written made it clear that many volunteers had so far been celibate. For the most part, the game was humorous. Then the word “unconditional” came up. I tried to be clever and state that a volunteer’s hair after two years of not bathing was “unconditional”. The note cards were opened, and the room became silent as a card was read.
“Marcus’ love is unconditional,” the reader said.
Tinghir
“The purpose of VSN training,” the trainer said, “Is to use active listening skills to allow the volunteer to come up with a solution to their own problem. Break up into pairs and try to use what we learned. You can use your own problem.”
I walked up to the roof with my partner, and we discussed my problem. I didn’t know what to do in my village. My village is decent, the people are nice, but I haven’t had any major work. After a year of drinking tea, traveling, and socializing, I began to feel like I was useless. For this session, we were to use the three steps to come up with a solution: fantasize any solution, find out which of those solutions is realistic, and then create a plan.
“Well,” the volunteer asked, “What is your ideal situation?”
“I want to move to Er Rachidia. In Er Rachidia, I teach kids. They are different than adults. I can be myself and they don’t judge me. They don’t call me weak or useless. The adults do.”
“Okay, keep going.”
“I want the men to understand me. I don’t hate them, I just can’t stand how they talk about women and prostitutes. I don’t fit in with men.”
“Go on.”
“I want the women to stop feeling threatened by me. I want them to know that I like cleaning and laundry and doing dishes. I want them to know that I feel more kinship with them than the men.”
“Okay.”
“I want to do something with my service. I don’t want to just be a social misfit who drinks tea the entire two years. I don’t want to be useless.”
“Okay.”
I looked out over the roof of the house. Women wandered through the fields, carrying baskets of food. I never fit in with men. It’s a strange feeling to be told that you should identify with certain people, only to find that they aren’t like you at all. It’s a strange feeling, to notice the mannerisms and behaviors, even to the point of voice inflection, and realize that you are not one of them. It is as though there is a glass wall between you and everyone else.
As I thought of it, I became angry. I have sacrificed myself all my life. I sacrificed who I am, how I identify, and every other aspects of my life just so that I could make others comfortable around me, both here and in America. I can’t keep doing that, and if people don’t accept that, then they won’t be in my life.
Traveling, Pt. 2
Er Rachidia 2
The pizzas were done. We stood in the kitchen and toasted to ourselves for the beautiful work. As the rest of us prepared to leave, I pulled out the Valentine’s poem I had written a year earlier and reworded to fit the occasion. There was a knock at the door, and the Fulbright student came in. He said he needed to use our oven. We wrapped our pizza, and continued to get ready.
Back in the main room, I turned to the window and watched as Moroccans continued on their daily routine. They don’t have Valentine’s Day here, I thought. And then I remembered that in a few days was the Prophet Mohammad’s birthday. Looking down onto the street made me think of Rabat.
Rabat
Everyone has a balcony in Rabat, but they are used as clotheslines and storage units. Shirts flutter in the wind, rusted satellite dishes rest in the corners, and boxes of things line the walls. At the hotel I am staying in, there is an inner courtyard. people run back and forth through it to get to the other sides of streets more quickly. I sit in what can be described as a hostel style room. The paint on the walls was peeling, and the light above me hummed.
Before leaving, I took a shower. There is not hot water where I live, so bathing is a treat for me, especially in winter. The steam rose from the floor to the ceiling, until the entire room was one massive fog. In that hotel, however, there was no warm; there was only cold and hot. It didn’t matter; I needed to get clean. I emerged from the bathroom, and the fog rose from my skin as though I had just emerged from some other world.
The administration building was across town. I needed a taxi. The thing about riding in a taxi in Morocco is that even if the driver uses a meter, I have no way of knowing the city streets, so I don’t know if he is taking a direct way or a scenic route. After a day here, I had already paid three different prices to get back and forth to the same places. When I arrived at the administration office, I noticed the surveillance cameras at the edges of the walls. A metal door was the only way in. I rang the bell and was ushered in through the metal detector to the courtyard, where I saw a volunteer reading a book on the grass, surrounded by white, purple, and blue flowers. The administration building used to be owned by a lord, or some other powerful figure.
The medical session was successful.
I returned to the hotel and decided to get dinner. I had heard of the many great restaurants in Rabat, but because I was by myself, I decided it would be better to stay near the hotel. There was a McDonald’s nearby, but when I walked in, I could barely move from the mass of people. As I went in further, a very familiar feeling crept up on me. My breathing became very shallow, and it became more difficult to move. I managed to make it to the counter to place my order. It wasn’t until after I received my food that I noticed my hands were white from gripping the counter. I saw only a mass of faces in the restaurant, and wondered why I had to come to such a busy place. I left McDonald’s as quickly as possible, and as I breathed in the fresh air, my pulse finally slowed down, and the color returned to my face. I decided I would wait to explore Rabat until I had someone to enjoy it with.
The pizzas were done. We stood in the kitchen and toasted to ourselves for the beautiful work. As the rest of us prepared to leave, I pulled out the Valentine’s poem I had written a year earlier and reworded to fit the occasion. There was a knock at the door, and the Fulbright student came in. He said he needed to use our oven. We wrapped our pizza, and continued to get ready.
Back in the main room, I turned to the window and watched as Moroccans continued on their daily routine. They don’t have Valentine’s Day here, I thought. And then I remembered that in a few days was the Prophet Mohammad’s birthday. Looking down onto the street made me think of Rabat.
Rabat
Everyone has a balcony in Rabat, but they are used as clotheslines and storage units. Shirts flutter in the wind, rusted satellite dishes rest in the corners, and boxes of things line the walls. At the hotel I am staying in, there is an inner courtyard. people run back and forth through it to get to the other sides of streets more quickly. I sit in what can be described as a hostel style room. The paint on the walls was peeling, and the light above me hummed.
Before leaving, I took a shower. There is not hot water where I live, so bathing is a treat for me, especially in winter. The steam rose from the floor to the ceiling, until the entire room was one massive fog. In that hotel, however, there was no warm; there was only cold and hot. It didn’t matter; I needed to get clean. I emerged from the bathroom, and the fog rose from my skin as though I had just emerged from some other world.
The administration building was across town. I needed a taxi. The thing about riding in a taxi in Morocco is that even if the driver uses a meter, I have no way of knowing the city streets, so I don’t know if he is taking a direct way or a scenic route. After a day here, I had already paid three different prices to get back and forth to the same places. When I arrived at the administration office, I noticed the surveillance cameras at the edges of the walls. A metal door was the only way in. I rang the bell and was ushered in through the metal detector to the courtyard, where I saw a volunteer reading a book on the grass, surrounded by white, purple, and blue flowers. The administration building used to be owned by a lord, or some other powerful figure.
The medical session was successful.
I returned to the hotel and decided to get dinner. I had heard of the many great restaurants in Rabat, but because I was by myself, I decided it would be better to stay near the hotel. There was a McDonald’s nearby, but when I walked in, I could barely move from the mass of people. As I went in further, a very familiar feeling crept up on me. My breathing became very shallow, and it became more difficult to move. I managed to make it to the counter to place my order. It wasn’t until after I received my food that I noticed my hands were white from gripping the counter. I saw only a mass of faces in the restaurant, and wondered why I had to come to such a busy place. I left McDonald’s as quickly as possible, and as I breathed in the fresh air, my pulse finally slowed down, and the color returned to my face. I decided I would wait to explore Rabat until I had someone to enjoy it with.
Traveling, Pt. 1
Er Rachidia 1
Throughout most of January and February, I have been traveling to many different cities for medical and training reasons, so I have been a lonely. My travels have taken me from the coastal city of Esaouira, where I ate a lunch of fresh caught fish and squid, to Rabat, the cultural mecca of Morocco, and from Tinghir, where I was trained as a VSN counselor, to Er Rachidia, where I usually go for souk. I decided to celebrate Valentine’s Day in Er Rachidia at a Fulbright student’s house in Er Rachidia. Two other volunteers and I made pizza for the party, and I decided to form the crusts into heart shapes. As I kneaded the dough, one of the volunteers noticed that I was staring off into the distance. She asked what I was thinking, and I said nothing, but I was really back in Esaouira.
Esaouira
I was told that Esaouira had a Portuguese feeling to it. The streets were narrow and curved to the sides, and the buildings were all white with blue paint accents, faded from the sun. Laundry hung on lines on the roofs, and shutters hung on by single screws and flung in the wind. We had just bought 12 dirhams worth of gellato, which is Italian ice cream.
We sat in the courtyard of the cafe, just outside of the city square, where children ran back and forth as they avoided the seagulls. Just past the railing was the Atlantic Ocean; we listened to the sound of the waves as they crashed against the rocks and citadels. White foam shot up into the sky, and sometimes, young women laughed as they neared the railing. I looked up into the sky and watched as the gray clouds moved west, smooth as waves. I stared so that I couldn’t see any buildings and pretended that I was flying over the Atlantic ocean. I imagined that the light rain that began to fall was the foam from the waves.
Everyone at the table laughed as a cat leaped from the ground to someone’s lap. I immediately saw how dirty it was, but he began to pet the cat. I saw how fat it was, and assumed that it had done this many times before, the result being scraps of food. As we stood up to go, he had cat hair on his coat, but he said it was all right. Two young men in the cafe pointed at him and laughed.
The next morning, I woke before the sunrise. I climbed the stairs to the roof and watched as the sun rose over the city. I turned around as looked out over the Atlantic, where I saw ships arrive with fresh fish. I thought to myself that the only thing between me and America was water.
We wandered the shopping area that day. Tourists haggled with vendors but ended up paying double the normal price anyway. silly tourists, I thought, stop thinking in Euros. Seashell beaded necklaces hung at the entrances to the stores. The smell of potato sandwiches and seafood wafted through the air. We decided to sit in a seaside restaurant and eat there. We chose the fish we wanted, and they cooked it right in front of us. I could tell that the building had previously been used as storage, because the chairs and tables were crammed together, leaving little room for any new arrivals to enter. The amount of grease and oil covering the fish and squid ensured that it would go down quickly. We left the cafe and returned to our apartment.
For the entire time, I didn’t feel like I was in Morocco. I heard so many languages being spoken that I wasn’t sure what type of place I was in, but I knew that I never wanted to leave.
Throughout most of January and February, I have been traveling to many different cities for medical and training reasons, so I have been a lonely. My travels have taken me from the coastal city of Esaouira, where I ate a lunch of fresh caught fish and squid, to Rabat, the cultural mecca of Morocco, and from Tinghir, where I was trained as a VSN counselor, to Er Rachidia, where I usually go for souk. I decided to celebrate Valentine’s Day in Er Rachidia at a Fulbright student’s house in Er Rachidia. Two other volunteers and I made pizza for the party, and I decided to form the crusts into heart shapes. As I kneaded the dough, one of the volunteers noticed that I was staring off into the distance. She asked what I was thinking, and I said nothing, but I was really back in Esaouira.
Esaouira
I was told that Esaouira had a Portuguese feeling to it. The streets were narrow and curved to the sides, and the buildings were all white with blue paint accents, faded from the sun. Laundry hung on lines on the roofs, and shutters hung on by single screws and flung in the wind. We had just bought 12 dirhams worth of gellato, which is Italian ice cream.
We sat in the courtyard of the cafe, just outside of the city square, where children ran back and forth as they avoided the seagulls. Just past the railing was the Atlantic Ocean; we listened to the sound of the waves as they crashed against the rocks and citadels. White foam shot up into the sky, and sometimes, young women laughed as they neared the railing. I looked up into the sky and watched as the gray clouds moved west, smooth as waves. I stared so that I couldn’t see any buildings and pretended that I was flying over the Atlantic ocean. I imagined that the light rain that began to fall was the foam from the waves.
Everyone at the table laughed as a cat leaped from the ground to someone’s lap. I immediately saw how dirty it was, but he began to pet the cat. I saw how fat it was, and assumed that it had done this many times before, the result being scraps of food. As we stood up to go, he had cat hair on his coat, but he said it was all right. Two young men in the cafe pointed at him and laughed.
The next morning, I woke before the sunrise. I climbed the stairs to the roof and watched as the sun rose over the city. I turned around as looked out over the Atlantic, where I saw ships arrive with fresh fish. I thought to myself that the only thing between me and America was water.
We wandered the shopping area that day. Tourists haggled with vendors but ended up paying double the normal price anyway. silly tourists, I thought, stop thinking in Euros. Seashell beaded necklaces hung at the entrances to the stores. The smell of potato sandwiches and seafood wafted through the air. We decided to sit in a seaside restaurant and eat there. We chose the fish we wanted, and they cooked it right in front of us. I could tell that the building had previously been used as storage, because the chairs and tables were crammed together, leaving little room for any new arrivals to enter. The amount of grease and oil covering the fish and squid ensured that it would go down quickly. We left the cafe and returned to our apartment.
For the entire time, I didn’t feel like I was in Morocco. I heard so many languages being spoken that I wasn’t sure what type of place I was in, but I knew that I never wanted to leave.
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