Morocco: A Whole New World

I spent my Halloween getting spooked in a different way this year. In Fez’s oldest market, the Medina, a decapitated camel’s head hung precariously close to my own as a strange form of welcome to Morocco.

Rainy Medina Streets (no decapitated camels in frame– you’re welcome)

I averted my eyes, but to no avail, encountering grotesque sights at every turn. The smell was overpowering, heightened by the dampness of the day, muddy rainwater seeping into my shoes as we made our way through the Medina’s endless passageways. The narrow “streets” were lined with everything imaginable: handcrafted goods, argan oil and spices; electronics and toys; toiletries and medications. Raw meat and animal parts sat drying in the air on one side, while sweet pastries and fresh dates displayed temptation on the other. The overstimulation sent my brain into a frenzy as I tried to process this strange assortment of sights (and did I mention smells?) I was experiencing all at once.

With my head down to avoid sight of the butchers’ torture chambers, we weaved through this market of horrors. Inside the shops, it was a completely different story. We were met by jovial Moroccans in every store, welcoming and eager to show off their goods. In the carpet store, we were treated to a spectacule by a natural-born salesman that made his pitch so fun we almost forgot we were being sold to. Here’s a little-known fact: Moroccans have salesman skills running through their veins. I am not usually so easily persuaded, but there I was spending nearly $50 on argan oil and contemplating a $200 rug for my future home, if that tells you anything.

Moroccan carpet store and quite possibly the best salesman I have ever met.

 

Though I painted the Medina in a harsh (but entirely accurate) light, it wasn’t all a bad experience. As soon as we stepped into the little shops where people display the goods to which they devote their whole lives, my mind was changed. Each carpet that someone labored over for months to get the intricate design just right is a work of art; each hand-painted bowl or piece of silver jewelry became instantly prettier once we knew the work that went into it, and the passion with which they sell their pieces makes up for their pushiness.

Who would have thought that shopping could ever be a cultural experience? But in the Medina, this was a way to understand the ancient traditions, to connect over goods that carried months or years of labor, heart and soul. And though we certainly looked out of place, a giant group of white American tourists with our backpacks and cameras in the middle of this place, somehow in the shops, the differences between us felt smaller, the distance just a little less great.

Ceramist working on tiles in the ceramic factory

In the leather store, one of the shop owners asked me, “Why is it you wanted to come to my country?” There was pride but also distinct curiosity in his question.

“Well, I am studying in Spain and this is one of the trips offered…” I started. But as I responded, I knew this wasn’t the real answer. “I wanted to experience another culture that was different from my own. And I’ve heard a lot about Morocco, but I wanted to see it for myself,” I finally answered.

“Well, what you hear is not all true,” he told me sadly, downcast eyes with painful shame for the way Muslims are often portrayed. “Here we welcome you. We are happy you are here. We wish you peace… We want peace.”

His statement was raw, and it broke my heart. For a moment he wasn’t a shopkeeper trying to sell me a leather jacket; we were just two people from worlds apart forging a connection. A Christian and a Muslim, each sharing blessings in our own ways– he taught me “Salam-Aleikum,” a greeting of peace, and smiled as I butchered the pronunciation.

Ultimately, this is why I travel (or reason #4520, honestly). For me, it’s not just about seeing new cities and checking places off my bucket list; it’s about diving into a culture– even one so foreign from my own. I can’t pretend my afternoon in the Medina was, by any means, sufficient to say I now understand the Moroccan culture. But I can say I learned more from walking through those narrow alleyways and talking with shop owners than my touristy Instagram photos ever let on. And in doing so, it felt a little like I was bridging that seemingly unbridgeable gap between us.

We shared smiles and stories and mint tea, and it felt as if we could be long-lost friends. Not Moroccans and Americans or Muslims and Christians–just people. On foreign soil but under the same sun, finding that our similarities spoke louder than our differences.

Our Moroccan guide leading us through a much more colorful quarter of the Medina after the rain let up.

 

Even the Stains are Bigger Here: My Trip to Texas, Part One

A few weeks ago, I visited Austin, Texas for a workshop at the International Studies Abroad (ISA) headquarters. This is the study abroad company I used when I went to Peru last summer, and since returning, I have been working for it as a Global Ambassador, promoting ISA programs on my home campus.

One of the perks of this gig, aside from getting paid to promote the best study abroad company out there, was this free trip to headquarters in Austin. For three days, I got to learn more about the company, gain professional development tips, swap stories with other study abroad students from across the country and do what I do best—explore a new city! For a trip this short, I came away with lots of stories and memories; here is a look into a few of the best (and worst) moments.

 

Wednesday, July 12^th

I am the unluckiest person ever. In the short, three hour flight from Pittsburgh to Dallas, I managed to sit on a stray chocolate chip from the granola bar I stashed for a snack on the plane, only to realize this two hours in, after it has melted all over the seat of my white jeans.

With my Victoria’s Secret sweatshirt tied low around my waist, I exit the plane and beeline for the bathroom to assess the situation. Ever the optimist, I tell myself it won’t be that bad.

It was that bad.

Do you know what melted chocolate looks like on the backside of a pair of white jeans? Yeah, exactly what you’re thinking. I never knew a single chocolate chip could do so much damage, but when you’re as unlucky as me, it will leave you with a stain reminiscent of a toddler’s poopy handprint on the right side of your butt and hip.

I won’t go into detail of all the distress that ensued (though I am sure you can imagine), but with the help of a ridiculously overpriced Tide-to-Go pen that I bought from the airport convenience shop, I manage to remedy the situation enough that my jeans at least don’t turn any heads. No one seems to notice the damp spot where the stain used to be, or at least if anyone does, they are kind enough to pretend not to.

I haven’t even made it to my destination yet and I am already feeling this trip is off to a great start as my flight gets delayed more and more by the second. It just wouldn’t be a true Vanessa trip if there wasn’t some sort of mishap, and on the bright side, it can only get better from here!

Thursday, July 13^th

I am happy/relieved to report that my Texas trip does, in fact, improve considerably from its rocky start the day before. The southwestern heat and humidity greet me like a warm blanket as soon as I step off the plane, and the people I meet are just as welcoming. The day passes quickly with workshop activities, and before I know it, we have the evening to ourselves. The other students and I head to South Congress Ave. (known as SoCo) to explore Austin. Still full from breakfast tacos that morning and the pizza they treated us to for lunch, I decide to round out this day of healthy food choices with ice cream for dinner. No regrets.

Cutest couple pic you’ll ever see on this iconic Austin wall.

After “dinner,” we all take Ubers to a place called Dance Across Texas. It’s exactly the type of scene you’d expect from a bar/dance dive in Texas, with country music blaring and a large dance floor in the middle, scuffed from dozens of pairs of cowboy boots skillfully scooting across it to the music. It’s college night here, so the crowd is mostly age-appropriate and I don’t feel so out of place with the two black marks the bouncer adorns my underage hands with at the front door.

Within minutes, I feel a tap on my shoulder from a guy my age kindly requesting a dance. I agree (when in Austin, right?) and it becomes immediately apparent that I do not know what I am doing. My partner, bless him, tries his best to teach me the two-step, but I only really managed to get confused a lot and step on his fancy cowboy boots repeatedly.

Despite my total lack of experience, I end up dancing all night, bouncing around partners because that’s just what you do I guess; there’s a whole ritual here where men approach women and respectfully ask for a dance (Northerners, take note), then move on to a different partner once that dance is over, only to repeat the process. It’s all very old-fashioned and formal, and I have more fun dancing with these strangers than I’ve had in a long, long time.

As we arrive back to the hotel that evening and I begin scrubbing off the black marks on my hands and wincing at the blisters already forming on my feet, I can’t stop smiling at my most perfect inauguration into Texas culture.