Last night, I had doughnuts for dinner.

This was not my choice.

Yes, doughnuts are a tasty treat. They are sugary. They are fried. They go well with coffee and make a nice afternoon pick-me-up for crappy afternoons that require improving. However, they are not dinner. At least not in my book.

But, for the last, 4 days, I've been living with a Moroccan host family in Agadir, and thus I have little to no control over my meals.

Let's start at the beginning. Ever since April, when I visited a wonderful organization here in Agadir, I've vowed to return in the summer and begin an internship with them. June was pushed back to July, July to August. Truthfully, I was beginning to enjoy the routine of my life in Rabat, but my lease ended at the beginning of August and forced me to make a choice. Weighing the pros (a chance to do in-depth, one-on-one interviews with single mothers; a change of pace; exploring southern Morocco) and the cons (moving my massive amount of things; finding lodging; finding Arabic classes; stepping (leaping) outside my comfort zone), I decided that I would seriously regret not seizing the opportunity to challenge myself.

Once that decision was made, it was time to make some more. Most pressingly, where to live. Finding an apartment is a hassle, to say the very least. Especially alone. Especially as a foreigner. Especially not knowing the city. This was not for me. What I really wanted was a homestay, but with no contacts in Agadir it would be difficult to find one.

Meanwhile, I looked around online for Arabic classes in the area. I found the website of the local university's Arabic as a Foreign Language department, and called to see if I could work out some private tutoring. The man who I spoke with, Abdelsalam, was extremely nice and helpful. When I inquired about arranging a homestay, he suggested I stay with him.

This was a MAJOR RED FLAG. A random man in a city 10 hours away (marital status unknown) offers up his home to a young foreign woman. I mean, really.

But as we corresponded in the following weeks, I learned more about him. Yes, he is married. Yes, he has 2 children. Yes, he has hosted students before. Granted, these things don't preclude sketchiness, but they did assuage my nerves a bit.

Finally, it was time to move. Abdelsalam was speaking at a conference in Fes, and had offered to pick me up in Rabat when he passed through on his way home so that I wouldn't have to take all my junk on the train/bus combo to Agadir. Again, I am not stupid enough to get in a car with a strange man for hours upon hours. He said his family would be with him, and, if they weren't, I was prepared to bolt.

The day I was supposed to leave Rabat (also, the last day in my apartment), I received a call from Abdelsalam, saying his father was sick in Fes and he'd be delayed a bit. Perhaps the only notable thing about this was that I expected things to go smoothly.

So, I was homeless. Fortunately, I have wonderful friends who provided me with both emotional and material support. My friend Gabi, a non-Fulbrighter working in Rabat, offered up the spare bedroom in her beautiful apartment, which I gladly accepted. Serendipitously, her apartment is only about half a block from my old apartment, and both buildings have elevators, so I was able to move my belongings with minimal hassle. I settled in to her place and waited for Abdelsalam to let me know when he would return to Agadir.

Nearly a week later, I received a call from Abdelsalam. They'd returned to Agadir, and so I could move whenever I wanted. No ride. I had to move my stuff on my own. Crap.

It would have been impossible for me to board a train and transfer to a bus with all my belongings, and so I used the extremely efficient, extremely reasonably-priced messenger services the train company offers. I sent 33 kilos for 120 dirhams (15 dollars). Why don't we have things like this in the US?

With my large suitcase out of the way, I was prepared to board the train the following morning. I bid my farewells to my wonderful roommate-for-a-week Gabi, and was accompanied to the train station by Jackie early Thursday morning.

In order to get to Agadir from Rabat, you must first take a 5 hour train ride to Marrakesh, the train's final stop. Then, you need to cross the train tracks in Marrakesh and take a bus operated by the train company to Agadir, another 5 hours or so. When I arrived to Rabat's train station, the vendor informed me that the Agadir portion was full, completely full all day.

Dejected, I weighed my options with Jackie. I could buy a ticket for tomorrow and spend another night in Rabat. I could go to Marrakesh and make my way by grande taxi. Or I could go to Marrakesh, spend the night with my friend Rachel, and set off the following morning. I decided on the later, and set of on my voyage, mentally waving goodbye to Rabat and the six months I spent there.

Once in Marrakesh, I met Rachel and was whisked away to her beautiful apartment. Among the Fulbright community, she is known as having a taste for the finer things, and she didn't disappoint, taking me for wine and an appetizer buffet at Grand Cafe de la Poste, followed by a dinner at a restaurant I could have sworn was in San Fransisco. Or course, she knew everyone everywhere we went. Of course, she was effortless fabulous. And, of course, I was sweaty from the train and wearing an faded skirt from Old Navy. Typical.

When we returned to the her apartment, I met her roommate Iman, whose family lives in Agadir. Iman would be bumming a ride to Agadir the following morning, and offered me a ride as well. However, the driver wanted to leave at 8:00 am, too early for Iman, so it was just me and this random friend of a friend of a friend, cruising to Agadir. After the experiences I'd had so far, I couldn't help but go through a laundry list of things that could go wrong on the final leg of my voyage.

As it turns out, I had nothing to worry about. Dunya is extremely friendly and kind. She studied in Switzerland and speaks fluent English. And she brought her dog along for the trip! We chatted and shared a thermos of coffee as we drove the winding road from Marrakesh to Agadir. Occasionally, she would talk on her phone (sometimes two at once), steer, and shift the gears all at the same time, which sent me into a state of panic, but mostly I felt safe in her hands and happy to have avoided the bus.

About 4 hours later, we arrived at her family's house, located on Agadir's bustling corniche. It was Friday, and so I had couscous with them. On the road, we'd called Abdelsalam and arranged a meeting time. Dunya had pronounced him "nice-sounding," and told me if he seemed weird when we met him, I could stay with her family until I found something more permanent. Thank goodness for protective Moroccans. And so, I was picked up by Abdelsalam (after Dunya gave me a wise nod of approval), and driven to the house of my new host family.

The family consists of Abelsalam, a university professor, the mother Fateeha, an office worker, a 9-year-old daughter, Kawtar, and a 12-year-old son, Anaas. The house is nice and fairly spacious. I have my own room, although I'm fairly certain I evicted Kawtar. She doesn't seem to mind though; I filled my iPod with Hannah Montana and she's been stealing it ever since.

By Moroccan standards, they are great about giving me personal space. Unfortunately, they adhere to normative Moroccan ideas about feeding guests. For example, the day I arrived, I'd just eaten couscous with Dunya's family. I told them this, and they promptly presented me with a beef tajine, insisting that couscous is digested quickly and I'd be hungry again soon. I've gotten better at refusing second portions, but I have no control over what's put in front of me, hence the doughnuts last night.

All in all though, it's been a great experience so far. I am well outside my comfort zone, but I don't regret making the decision to move. Soon, I will start my internship, and with that comes the chance to do interviews. And so my research is moving along. In the meantime, I'll keep studying Arabic, keep reviewing for the LSATs, and, hopefully, we won't have doughnuts for dinner again anytime soon.

Najib: Muul a-Taxi/Guardian Angel

As I write this entry, I'm sitting in the international terminal of JFK, awaiting a flight back to Casablanca. As many of you probably know, I returned to the United States for the holidays; it was a wonderful break filled with friends, family, and all the American culture (read: beer, pizza, and Chinese food) I could soak up. But I'm not going to tell you about how much fun my vacation was. Instead, I'm going to tell you a story that should restore your faith in humanity.

Let's start at the beginning.

Fellow Fulbrighter Susannah and I booked the same flight from Casablanca to New York. The flight departed at 11:30 am, which meant it would be difficult/impossible to leave from Fes in the morning and make our flight on time, since Fes is a good 4 to 5 hours from Casa. So Susannah and I decided to spend the night with friends in Rabat, only an hour away from the airport, and to get an early start in the morning.

After a fun girl's night filled with junk food and a terrible movie ("The Women"- don't see it),
we rolled out of bed at 5:35 am, and left the house with our 120 some-odd pounds of luggage at 6:10, hoping to catch a cab to the train station for the 7:00 am train from Rabat to Casa.

When we exited the apartment, It was pitch-black and freezing cold. As we trudged along the sidewalk that runs next to the beach, it became glaringly obvious that no taxis were passing our way. After about a mile and a half of walking, I was close to crying tears of frustration, and my arm muscles were shaking from dragging so much stuff. Why do I always overpack?!?

Just as we were about to admit defeat and resign ourselves to the 7:40 train (which wouldn't be a total disaster, just a little more stressful), an unmistakable blue taxi emerged out of the fog like a beacon of hope and miraculously stopped mere feet from us to let of its sole passenger and pick us up.

With a taxi secured, we made our way to the train station, chatting with our driver in Arabic along the way. I noted with happy surprise that our muul a-taxi (taxi driver) had turned on the meter. Generally, taxi drivers in Rabat don't object to using the meter, but when passengers have many heavy bags it's customary for the driver to charge a higher fee. When we arrived to the station, our driver only asked for the metered fee. Pleasantly surprised, we insisted that he take a tip, and we made our way down to the platform.

We'd arrived at 6:45 am, in time for an earlier train to Casa at that time, and so we loaded our luggage onto the train, content with ourselves for making it so far, so good.

But, holy crap.

As we transferred our bags from the platform to the train, I did a mental check of our many possessions, and realized that Susannah wasn't carrying her small purse, which contained her only true possession of importance- her passport.

Trying to keep calm, I asked,"Susannah, where's your purse?"

Her face crumpled. I could see her entering panic mode (rightfully so). We needed a plan- Did she remember having it in the taxi? Yes. Okay, great. At least she didn't drop it somewhere along the sketchy beach sidewalk. But what to do now?

I waited on the platform with all our bags while she ran upstairs to scope out the situation. Nervously chatting with the station's employees, I ran through possible scenarios in my head. None of them were good. If she didn't have her passport, there was no way she could make our flight. Period.

But then!

I saw Susannah coming down the escalator, purse in hand, just in time for the 7:00 train.

You see, Najib, our taxi driver, noticed the purse immediately after we exited the taxi. He was planning on taking it to the police station, but when he looked in the bag, he saw the passport and airline tickets and realized where we were headed. He decided to return to the station, where he was able to give Susannah her purse back. Najib was truly our guardian angel that morning, and I will think of his kindness every time I'm on the verge of cursing Moroccan men.

And so we triumphantly boarded the train and made our way to Casablanca, where we caught our flight to the United States to experience what can only be described as reverse culture shock. And now, three weeks later, I'm prepared to go through it all again. While my jaunt to the United States was fun, I'm ready to dive back into my studies and experience the emotional roller coaster that is life in Fes again.

Huzzah for harira!

If you travel to Morocco with the hopes of stuffing your face with couscous, the most famous of Moroccan dishes, you will be sorely disappointed during the month of Ramadan. Since I’ve been here, I’ve dined on couscous exactly twice, both times in restaurants that cater to tourists.

For those of us who are used to Near East’s three minute boxed couscous (a noble variety), it’s hard to fathom how labor-intensive the dish truly is. Moroccan couscous, traditionally served on Friday, can easily take three hours to prepare: The couscous is stewed in broth and then served with vegetables and/or meat. While I have a soft spot for the boxed variety, to compare the two dishes is truly an insult to the latter.

Anyway, couscous isn’t eaten during Ramadan because the fast is usually broken with other dishes, and, once an afternoon has been devoted to preparing a special Ramadan meal, the last thing people want to do is hunker down and make couscous.

So, what do Moroccans eat during Ramadan? Traditionally, the fast is broken with a sip of water or juice and a date. Harira, a delicious flour-based soup with lentils and spices, is served at every meal, as are hard-boiled eggs (accompanied by cumin and salt). Bread is a must, from plain wheels of white bread to delicious baghrir, the Moroccan equivalent of crepes, which are served with jam and happy cow cheese. Sweets of every shape and kind are ubiquitous – I’ve yet to develop a taste for super-sugary pastries, but maybe it will come with time. Of course, strong coffee and mint tea conclude the meal.

Even though I’m not living with a host family, I’ve still had several chances to break the fast with Moroccan families and take advantage of the famous Moroccan hospitality. Our landlord invited us to his apartment for Iftar, which resulted in a hilarious conversation with his mother about 1980s hair; a fellow Fulbrighter’s host family had the whole gang over for Iftar; and, in perhaps one of my most random experiences in Morocco to date, my housemates and I were invited to Iftar at the home of a nice young man who may or may not want to marry one of us as part of a plan to expand his business to the United States. In Morocco, it’s not strange at all to invite nearly perfect strangers home for Iftar. In fact, it’s rude not to.

I’m always grateful for any opportunity to get out of the house and have a home-cooked (free!) meal, and breaking the fast with Moroccan families inevitably leads to some interesting cross-cultural interactions. To many Moroccans, overfeeding their guests to the point of discomfort is a point of pride. Maneuvering this situation is difficult enough when it’s not Ramadan, but during Ramadan it’s even more difficult to get out of that second or third bowl of harira, since families assume that I’m as hungry as they are. Which I’m not, since I’ve eaten regular meals all day. But, by explaining that I don’t fast, I’m opening up a whole new can of worms. If I’m not Muslim, what am I? (One memorable interaction with a cabbie: Him- “Are you fasting?” Me- “No.” Him- “You are Christian?” Me, emphatically- “Yes!”) Maybe, they suggest without a hint of judgment, I should try fasting. Just to see how it is.

Maybe I should. Everything in Fes seems to run on Ramadan time- The city is eerily quiet when I head to school at 8:30 am, frantic when I leave school at 5 pm, and chaotically exuberant when I try to sleep at midnight. But then again, our class schedule shows little consideration for Ramadan time, and the thought of fasting through 6 hours of class is daunting at best.

And so I sneak snacks at school, continue to furtively drink water, and count down the days until eid al-kabeer, the end of Ramadan, when the city will come alive during the day again. And, in sha allah, I'll be able to get some halfway decent internet again.