The Things I Do Not Know

My plan for my last few days in Morocco was to visit all the places I hadn’t, say good-bye to all the friends I’ve made, and have some experiences that would help me wrap up, perfectly and succinctly, all the various observations I’ve made about this country thus far. Instead, I got a stomach infection. As such, I’ve spent the last three days mostly confined to my bed. After three days of being unable to eat more than two pieces of bread at most and waking up the fourth day with a fever of 100.1 I decided – well, my mother decided – that it was time I visited a health clinic. I now have at my disposal a lovely little invention called antibiotics as well as stomach soothing medicine that, when poured into a “half-glass of water and stirred vigorously”, is more than vaguely reminiscent of watery mud. Thanks to the combination, I was actually able to walk out of the house today to meet my friend for a good-bye tea, of which I even managed a few sips, at the beautiful little café at the Oudaiyas. On the walk to meet Chakib at Rue de Consuls, I started mulling over what I would write in this, my final blog entry. I was thinking about it as I instinctively walked left when rounding the corner in the road, knowing he would be leaning against one of the cars parked there. It was on my mind as I veered sharply into a small, dark blue alley in the café, knowing that it would lead to another, hidden section of the place, with a view even more beautiful. I was thinking about this entry as I said goodbye to Chakib, automatically leaning in to kiss both his cheeks Moroccan style instead of awkwardly going in for a hug. On the way home, as I took a back way on the outskirts of the medina so as to avoid the sounds and smells of the market – something my stomach just wasn’t capable of dealing with at the moment – I searched my brain for something cathartic enough for a FINAL ENTRY. I just couldn’t stop thinking about it, even as I was extra careful not to step on the loose cobblestones in the street – they inevitably douse the bottoms of your jeans with water – and to wave to the fruit guy, who always gives me a good price. It was when the fruit guy waved back that it hit me. I know this place, I thought. I know where the short cuts are, where to buy the best fruit, and how to avoid getting splashed with water. Overjoyed at my discovery and ultimate blog topic – Knowing a Place – I made an automatic right onto my street and looked around, preparing to take it in for the last time. It wasn’t my street. Not even close. There is no way there have been that many shoe sellers on my street without my noticing. I backtracked to the main road and realized that, while I knew which road I was on, I had no idea where my street was. Did I miss it? Had I not gone far enough? Well. So much for Knowing a Place.

I got back home easily enough. I just hadn’t gone far enough down the first time. I took a right by the first mosque instead of the second. I’m glad I did. It reminded me why I love to travel to new places. Coming to Know a Place is a wonderful feeling, but one of the most amazing things about being in a foreign country is all that you don’t know. I’m writing this post with semi-dried henna on my hands. I didn’t realize two things about henna. The first is that it is actually clay like and thick, drying like small lines of mud on your hand. The second is that you leave it on overnight and then wash it off in the morning. I’m pretty happy with my decision to leave the tips of my fingers clean. It allows for typing. Eating, on the other hand, I’m not so sure about. I guess I’ll find out tonight.

And that is, I think, where I will leave things. I can find no conceivable way to wrap up an experience from which I am still learning. And so, with henna on my hands, an infection in my stomach, a suntan on my face, and whole lots of pictures on my camera, I leave this country knowing only that I will one day come back.