post from my personal travel blog: resquipedalian.wordpress.com

1. Arriving in Morocco was a crash course in culture shock. The airport a sticky sea of unfamiliar
languages and silent customs officials; the city a chaotic cluster of anachronisms — scrawny
donkeys lugging carts of oranges and bricks, a new Mercedes cutting through medina-crowds,
snake-charmers; rooftop-terraces bristling with flowers, wicker awnings, satellite dishes.
I found I could only handle the city in short spurts: breathe, then step out into the onslaught and
feel the tension spread. So much to stare at, but you can’t actually stop and stare because then
you’re sucked into the screaming-bargaining-begging-luring-questioning of it. I made a few
circuits of the main square (D’jema el-F’na) before getting lost within the twisting walled streets
of the medina on the way to my Riad (unable to stop and look at a map because to do so would
be to set off a “TOURIST” beacon for miles, not that my clothing and single-woman status
weren’t sufficient for that).

2. I went out again at dusk: the square transformed, dust and smoke and music permeates
everything, colorful hats, children wandering through crowds with trays of doughnuts, henna
artists, stands that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere in a space that hadn’t previously
existed.
Eventually I was lured in by an offer of free mint tea: he was being friendly; I stupidly-honestly
told him I was alone and then didn’t realize what was happening until he had poured a third glass
of tea and asked to take a picture of us together. Three glasses later he was inviting me to his
family’s house in the mountains. Part of me was tempted, as he’d mentioned his brothers and
sisters and that didn’t sound like something a predator would do . . . but for once
caution/common sense won out. I managed to escape without promising to come back: ‘Maybe,’
I said; ‘Promise?'; ‘Maybe.’
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