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.

 

Roman Holiday

In Rome, Meg and I learned that traveling is not always glamorous. In fact, it is rarely so.

The whole week, I’d never had so much fun and simultaneously felt so physically wretched. Don’t get me wrong– as any traveler would tell you, it was all 100% worth it. No sleep, different eating habits, stress, sun and living in constant motion are the name of the game, but they can wreak havoc on your body.

So by our last day together, Meg’s and my Italian adventure was taking its toll on us. Waking up at 4am to drag our over-stuffed suitcases through the cobblestone streets to the train station didn’t help the situation, nor did the tight time schedule we placed ourselves under in the first place. I am a firm believer that days shouldn’t start in the middle of the night, but when you only have a few hours to see a city like Rome, sacrifices must be made.

I am by no means a travel expert. But if I could give one piece of advice, it would be to not try to see Rome on less than 4 hours of sleep. Doing so just might lead you to a 9am meltdown outside of a Vodafone store, an accidental nap next to the Trevi fountain and a hysterical fit of giggles on the Spanish Steps. You’re also going to look awful for every single one of the touristy pictures you’ve been so meticulously planning out in your head for months, and there’s only so much a travel compact and lip balm can really do for you.

Traveling is not all picture-perfect, take it from me. But those very real moments in Rome are some of my favorite memories from the trip. Delirious and drunk off house wine, sunshine and sleeplessness, I think we could both feel the memory that was being made at that very instant. Maybe this wasn’t what we imagined it would be. Maybe we were too overwhelmed to fully appreciate the place we were in. Or maybe Rome was better this way, unguarded and real. Imperfect, overcrowded and beautiful.

By some miracle, we made it back to our Airbnb that night for a much-needed siesta. Later, we found ourselves better rested and sitting on another set of steps in front of a quietly impressive church. With a bottle of red wine we bought in Chianti, we toasted to our journey together and the separate adventures we were about to begin. There was an indescribable sense of contentment; the lights of the church and the sounds of the fountain and kids playing on the piazza felt like a scene captured from a movie.

Moments like these aren’t the ones you travel for, not the reason you get on a plane and take a trip to Italy, walk for days, lose sleep and spend too much money. But they are the moments you remember years later, the ones conjured up when you hear Roma or taste a specific type of red wine or the air feels a certain way and there’s a smell or a sound that brings it back randomly. They are the moments for which you don’t have an Instagram-worthy photo or a ticket as a souvenir, but the ones your head replays again and again like a favorite song.

Maybe we were still just delirious that night—not by exhaustion or wine but from the experiences and memories our brains hadn’t begun to process yet. All I know is that I will forever remember a lot from this short trip, but our little evening in Roma under the pizza pie moon on the steps of the piazza will forever be the memory lost in time that I will recall when I think of Italy.

And now for your enjoyment, the progression of our delirium throughout Rome… 

The Flavor of Florence

Italy, oh Italy. Where do I begin?

Was it everything I’ve dreamed of? Yes, and no. My week in Italy, while amazing, was just a taste. A tease. The mouth-watering aperitivo to a filling main course that has yet to come. Because, of course, I will be back. One week was hardly enough to satisfy my hunger for the country that has occupied my dreams for years, but for now, it will do.

I didn’t ride a vespa through the streets of Rome and I still only know about 10 words in Italian (almost all of them food words), but my visit to the land of pasta and vino did not disappoint. With my best friend by my side, I experienced the dolce vita in Florence, Italy’s beautifully historic cultural birthplace, and Rome, the modern metropolis buzzing with energy. We got a literal taste of Tuscany with a tour through Chianti, sampling the prides of the region—wine, oil and vinegar—against a pale gray sky and the sweeping hills lined with vineyards. We embraced the local culture (as much as two American girls who don’t speak a lick of Italian really can), ate delicious food, swam in the Mediterranean, made new international friends and learned from the locals.

We began in Florence, the city of Galileo and Brunellesci and DaVinci. So much of the Italian culture was born here, amidst the cobblestone streets and stone buildings, and that history is tangible, even now. The capitol of the Renaissance that shook the world with its advances in science and art has never lost that awe-inspiring quality. From the top of the Giotto bell tower, the view of the city (and the 400+ steps to the top) left us breathless. Below, the copper-colored city felt like ours for just a moment—like we could reach out and grab the brick bell tower in our fists, as if every little terrazza garden could be our own. And in the center of the whole impressive grid sits the pride and joy of Florence: the Duomo.

If you’ve never seen the Duomo before, the best way to experience it for the first time is to stumble upon it accidentally. This may not seem possible for such a massive architectural landmark. But, somehow, the magic of Florence allows for one to be walking towards it, obliviously eating their gelato, and be astonished by its grandeur at the turn of a corner where the Duomo sits illuminated by the midday sun.

At least, that’s how it happened for Meg and me. Running on less than a few hours of sleep, we were determined not to miss a second of our Italian adventure, so we walked off our Italian snacks with a self-guided tour of the city. The hot sun and our fatigue made for a surreal first impression of Florence. As we sat on oak barrels outside of a little wine counter sipping cheap glasses of vino della casa and watching the flow of people and vespas pass by, I realized for the first time this was not just fantasy anymore—this was real life. With the vino and the sun warming me, I felt a dreamlike contentment. Like déjà vu, the blurring of dream and reality into one.

I always knew I’d make it to Italy eventually. The frustration of every failed attempt and bursting of my inflated hopes was carried away in the Tuscan breeze once I finally arrived. With Meg by my side, I knew now why I had to wait, could see as clearly as the Duomo in the distance how God carefully scripted this part of my story.

Italy was everything I have dreamed of and more because I got to experience it all with my best friend. Even instances of fatigue, grumpiness, confusion and hunger were memories in the making. Minor outbursts of stress quickly turned to laughter between the two of us, knowing we’d still be laughing at these memories for years to come.

 

Next stop: Rome! Click here to read the next post.

 

      

Discovering My Travel “Why”: My Trip to Texas, Part Three

In this final episode of my adventures in Austin, I spend Saturday solo exploring, meet my YouTube yoga role-model and discover the real reason I travel. Read parts one and two first!

 

Despite being exhausted from such a busy couple of days, I refuse to waste time on my last day in Austin, so I wake up early with every intention of fulfilling the few short hours I have before me. I have a full list of activities/landmarks scheduled for the day, but my only set-in-stone plan is a yoga class at Practice Yoga Austin with Adriene Mishler. (I have my quirks, I know.)

A little backstory on this: I am not a yogi by any means, but I really started getting into yoga about a year and a half ago when I found a YouTube channel called Yoga with Adriene, and since then, I have avidly followed her videos and blog.

So, when I realized I would be in her hometown, I knew I just had to visit her yoga studio and attend a class. I was even more excited to find that the one class a week Adriene teaches is– you guessed it– Saturday! Tell me that’s not fate.

As I approach the studio on East 6th, I see Adriene enter the door and my heart leaps like I just saw Taylor Swift on the streets of New York and not a yoga instructor with a YouTube channel (and 150k subscribers) entering her own studio. The excitement is real.

Before class starts, I am standing awkwardly in the crowded waiting room of the tiny studio when I hear a familiar voice behind me say, “hey girlfriend!” I turn around to a sunny Adriene, arms open for a hug as she greets me warmly like we are old pals. I’d like to say I play it cool in the presence of my yogi idol, but I’m pretty sure my side of the conversation goes a little like this:

Sporting that post-yoga sweaty “glow” (and only slightly fangirling at this point)

“Hi. Hello! Oh my gosh it’s so nice to meet you! I am from Ohio and I watch your videos all the time I just love you so when I knew I would be in Austin for a few days I just had to stop by for one of your classes! I am so happy to be here!”

I may even take a breath between all of that, but that’s not likely. Basically, I totally fangirl over this poor woman, who takes it graciously with a warm smile and welcomes me into the packed class.

Now I don’t want to get overly spiritual here, but this hour of yoga is truly something powerful. As our instructor’s voice guides our bodies through motions and invites our minds to find a meditative state, I close my eyes and feel the overwhelming sense of gratitude.

It was no coincidence that my only free day in Austin was the only day Adriene teaches a class. In that moment, I feel that I am there for a reason, however slight it may be, and a deep thankfulness resonates in me as I let go of everything else on my mind. My brain tries to forge ahead of me with the next task I need to get done or item to check off my list, but I return to this sense of divine contentment, thanking God for the simplicity of this moment, this body, this life.

In this tiny room, 40 strangers move through the practice, mat to mat, each in their own worlds yet taking up the same space, breathing the same air. Together we inhale and exhale, creating a steady rhythm with each breath cycle, like an ocean tide– in and out. Eyes closed, I feel the sensations of my movements, the pulsing of my heartbeats and I swear I see light and colors dancing behind my eyelids where there should be only darkness.

I know it sounds crazy, but something happens on that mat, and I will never forget my first true yogi moment.

Somewhere between warrior one and downward dog, Adriene promises us a “glow,” and while I am not sure the sheen of sweat and wisps of frizzy hair I was sporting upon completion of the class really counted as a “glow,” I leave the practice feeling lighter than I have all week– maybe all summer– certain the glow of my soul is visible even through the sweat.

The rest of my day is spent ticking items off my list of Austin attractions. My first stop of the morning is the Hope Outdoor Gallery, a fancy name for a public graffiti park and a true hidden gem, in my opinion. The Lyft driver skeptically pulls up to my destination– an overgrown plot of land set on a hill west of downtown–  and lets me out with a small shake of his head.

Looking around, I could see why one could mistake this site for a dump; I am skeptical myself at first, taking in the scattered mess of doodles spray painted on crumbling walls and half-hidden by weeds. But it only takes a few minutes for me to realize the beauty that is hidden here in this over-sized sketch pad of Austin’s arts community. Artists and amateurs alike can bring their own supplies to contribute to any open space on the surfaces of this public gallery. That morning, I spy at least three, working with laser focus to make make their own mark– to leave a piece of themselves on this collective canvas like a giant “I was here” note.

I weave through this grown-up playground, taking in everything from movie quotes to political satires to mythical creatures. I hike the short dirt path to the top of the park where the real work of art is a perfect view of the Austin skyline. I don’t know why this view isn’t on every single Austin travel guide, but it should be, and I feel a sense of pride at finding it as I allow myself a quiet moment to take it in.

The gallery is an unexpected highlight of Austin, and I end up spending more time there than anticipated. Already the sun is hot, beating down on my shoulders as I move onward with my itinerary toward the Capitol building downtown. Along the way, I stumble upon an entire block of streets closed down for a farmer’s market, so I take a short detour to walk through the rows of fresh produce and local goods.

I continue my leisurely pace through the city streets, taking in the sights around me and allowing my feet to be guided by the glimpse of a colorful mural in the distance or an interesting storefront I feel like checking out. Though I love sharing experiences and making new friends in neat places, sometimes nothing beats the thrill of exploring solo with only my own curiosity and zest for adventure as company.

With no real schedule to adhere to, it’s a nice change from my constant motion, and I begin to realize that I will never finish all the things on my list for the day. But as I visit little boutiques and quietly observe the happenings of city life around me, I come to understand that it’s never about the list anyway.

This, right here, is what traveling is all about for me: it’s keeping your eyes and ears open without saying a word; it’s stumbling into a farmer’s market and meandering through, sampling fresh figs and honey; it’s window shopping and veering off your path for the perfect shot of a sight in the distance; it’s talking to locals and chatting with tourists; it’s letting your feet and mind wander, feeling both entirely there and entirely elsewhere all at the same time.

These are always my highlights–the reasons I travel. If I’ve learned one thing, it’s that traveling is less about a list of attractions and more about the little spontaneous things you encounter along the way– obscure spots you learn of from Uber drivers and locals whose paths you cross en route of your destinations. Those are the things you can’t plan for, but can always count on, wherever you go.

More than anything else, these little experiences in a foreign place are not just what I travel for, but what I live for.