... in Fez, Morocco

Before this summer, I had never left the United States. And while I might have liked to start my foreign travels gradually, say, with a trip to London or Paris, I instead flew straight from Reunions at Princeton to North Africa, arriving in Fez at 8 a.m., armed with an Arabic-English dictionary I barely understood, a few travelers' checks and two enormous black-and-pink polka-dot suitcases. Reality hit me as I stood in the airport, attempting to sound out the Arabic signs and figure out what in the world they said. Thankfully, there were a few other Americans heading to the same program, the Arabic Language Institute in Fez (ALIF), because had I not hopped into their car, I might still be standing in that airport. Before arriving in Morocco, I had planned to live in ALIF's dorm for the summer. I'd live with other Americans, stay around the more modern areas of Fez and have a Western toilet and shower. When I walked into ALIF's garden and met the student director of the program, he laughed when I asked for a room in the dorm. "The villa filled up a week ago," he chuckled. "I'll find you a home-stay instead. Is Medina Qadeema [old city] alright?" Since all I really wanted was a place to sleep, I agreed. So there I was, still waiting in the villa's garden, waiting anxiously and clutching my passport, until finally, as the sun crept lower and lower, the director announced that my host family was there to pick me up.

The first member of the family I met was Marwa, my adorable 8-month-old host sister. My father, Simo, was barely 26 years old, and his wife Ghaslan was even closer to my age. Thankfully, Simo knew a few key English words, and we patched together a conversation using his English and my terrible Arabic. As a security guard at ALIF, he would spend the night at the villa, so Ghaslan and Marwa would be my only company in my new home. We piled my enormous suitcases on top of a red Petit Taxi, said goodbye to Simo and drove off. My first taxi ride was a great preview of the hundreds to come. There are no lines in the middle of roads in most of Fez, and what would be considered a two-lane boulevard in America quickly evolves into a four- or five-lane highway in Fez. It's a genuine example of survival of the fittest as pedestrians dart between cars while motorcycles perpetually race enormous trucks.

Our taxi stopped in Rcif, my neighborhood in the medina, and I just barely grabbed my second suitcase from the roof of the taxi before the driver sped off in a cloud of dust. As I stood there staring at a mix of rundown buildings and a maze of cobblestone paths, I realized that I was the object of attention of about 400 pairs of eyes. As it turned out, our taxi stop was also home to one of the largest populations of beggars in Fez. I stood still, dumbfounded and awkwardly aware of how different I must have looked until my host mother, baby Marwa on one hip and the larger of my two bags in her other hand, beckoned for me to follow her. I quickly grabbed my other suitcase and followed her through a labyrinth of paths, winding down deeper into the medina. This part of Fez, as it turns out, is famous for being the largest car-free commercial area in the world, which translates to its residents having to walk. A lot. En route, we saw hundreds of stray cats, donkeys and horses and smelled the awful, pervasive stench of feces. After about 10 minutes, we finally arrived at my family's "alley" and ran into my host father's brother, who helped carry my gigantic bags up three flights stairs in the heat and humidity to my host family's apartment.

Our apartment was small but beautifully decorated. We had a panoramic view of the entire medina, from the hamam just outside my home to the University Al-Qarawiyyin to Fez Jdid (the new city). There was a small bedroom for the parents, an even smaller kitchen area and a three-foot-by-three-foot squat toilet and bucket shower. My room was part of the living room, with just a curtain dividing me from the frequent visitors and relatives who stopped in for afternoon tea. Since being by oneself is not commonplace in Moroccan culture, my host family - or its guests - would often just pop their heads around the curtain to see why I wasn't out visiting or watching television with them. Needless to say, I sat through many a dramatic Egyptian soap opera and allowed my host father's little sister to braid my hair countless times to prove that nothing was seriously wrong with me.

Over the next six weeks, the old medina became my home. I learned to veer left at the spray-painted sign for the public telephone and then make a quick right at the man selling fresh loaves of bread. The shopkeepers, the neighborhood kids, these were my friends, the ones I greeted on my way to and from school, the ones I played soccer with on the roof of our apartment building after class. And believe it or not, that tiny apartment became as much of a home to me as my own home in Louisiana. I felt such a sense of relief upon arriving safely there after traversing the medina at dusk or after weekend trips. Greeting my host mother with a kiss on both cheeks was like greeting my own mom after a tough day. Upon my return to the States, I even found myself missing our squat toilet and bucket shower, my host mom's delicious cooking and my parents' constant entreaty, "Kul! Kul!" ("Eat! Eat!")

Now that I'm back in America, I'm so happy to be home. While in Morocco, I missed the freedoms and convenience of America, my friends and family, the weather, the language. But Morocco will always hold a special place in my heart, cliche as that may sound. I miss the markets and the winding paths that I used to get lost on. I miss seeing camels walk down the highway. I miss the laidback atmosphere of the city, where a three-hour lunch break is commonplace. But more than anything, I miss my host family. They welcomed me to their country and took care of me as if I were one of their own. I may look nothing like them, I may believe in a completely different religion, and I may embrace an entirely separate culture, but they gave me hope for humanity and for a world where our differences might be overlooked, and for that I will forever be grateful.