(Before reading this entry, be sure to back-track to Seville and Tarifa.) 

Picture a small town, cradled by the mountains.  Since this town was originally the refuge of Muslims and Jews hundreds of years ago, all the wall are covered in a peaceful pale blue.  All the streets are full of wirey cats and playing children.  Down each alley there is a different artisan weaving wool, painting a bowl, or crafting a piece of wood.  If you close your eyes and imagine it just right then you'll see Chaouen, Morocco.  If you squeeze your eyes even tighter, and look over in the less touristy part of town, you'll notice right away the pair of American tourists trying to fit in by wearing traditional djellabas, but still looking around confounded and enchanted by all they see.

That's Scott and me you'd be seeing.  And although you might not recognize us in our new garb, the locals still know we're from out of town and constant compliment us on our purchases.  Are they making fun of us?  Did we actually do well?  Or do they just appreciate that we're trying at all?  It's impossible to tell.  In this strange new land, I never know how to read people and I never know what to expect.

Some things I have gotten used to after spending a few days in town: delicious olives, goat cheese, and mint tea (imagine tasty hot analcoholic mojitos) with every meal; people approaching us in French, Spanish, Japanese and English, for every kind of offer imaginable; and the friendliest, most-talkative people I have ever met.  It's definitely taking us a while to get our bearings in this country.  We are learning a few key Arabic phrases at a very slow pace.  We are learning to bargain.  And we are learning how to respect taboos like handling money and food with your left hand (strictly reserved for bathroom activity).  It still seems like an impossible feat thus far, but I suppose that eventually we will learn to get by in culture so foreign to us, surrounded by a language that is much harder to learn that Spanish.

Last night Scott and I were discussing how bizarre and different everything is here as we sat down for dinner.  I ordered the most familiar thing I could find--grilled sole and rice--and Scott went for the Moroccan soup and Moroccan pastilla (a crusty pie full of sweet nuts and chicken).  Throughout our meal, we watched the people waml by our table--locals chatting with their friends, and tourists looking around as confused as we are.  A stray cat came to peer at me with her big eyes, hoping for a snack.  And the children in the table behind us started to laugh at some French joke.  As a sat there taking it all in, enjoying the Arabic trip-hop coming out of the speakers, I started to realize that I'm not that far from home after all.

Of course when I woke up this morning, all that cheese sounded like nonsense, and I remembered just how strange and difficult my day is bound to be.