Oh Atlanta, I hear you calling….

I spent five weeks in the US with my family. It’s funny because over that time there would have been great things to blog about, like seeing a large portion of my family that I haven’t seen in years, like watching two people simultaneously forgive and love each other, like seeing the joy that an infant can bring, or like having to say goodbye. But of course, when life is that interesting, sadly, a blog seems to be last thing on my mind.

Now, however, I’m back in Marrakesh sitting in my apartment listening to the sounds of the Moroccan streets below me. Mostly they are pretty normal sounds only distinct because of the language spoken. The catering company across the street constantly has trucks pull in and out with a new load of chairs and pastries for yet another party somewhere in the city. The community guardians get together to have tea and talk about the latest news unless someone in their building requires assistance. It’s about to be lunch time, so groups of kids are coming home chattering about whatever it is that middle-schoolers talk about–boys, probably. While I sit here in my apartment, and honestly, think of Atlanta. 

It’s funny what going home for 5 weeks can do to you. For me, I became comfortable again. I started to forget the little intricacies of my Moroccan life, and just fell into the defaults of my old one. I mean, I think that’s normal. It’s hard to be dodging traffic on I-75 and simultaneously think about how hard it is to get change for a 200 dirham bill (financially equivalent to about $20) when paying for a cab. Granted, it would essentially be like paying for a stick of gum with a $20. Still, that’s what ATMs give you! People should have change…

I also got use to things like sweet tea, coffee in a to-go cup, and mexican food. I remembered that I could actually speak a language well, and most people around me aren’t automatically trilingual. I also realized that traffic lights and road lines are not just a suggestion, and most people are actually driving Miss Daisy. It’s funny what you notice when you go home. The big stuff doesn’t ever really surprise me. I know how tall the buildings are and how much traffic there is during rush hour on 285. I could never forget that as long as I lived, but the sound of thunder on a warm spring night or the light of the firefly at dusk are things that I re-experience every time I go home.

And now, back across the ocean, I realize the other intricacies that I had so easily forgotten. I am again awed by the sound of the call to prayer as the sun sets over the red city. I am touched by the kindness of a Moroccan stranger and reminded the joy that a simple (sometimes toothless) smile can bring. And I am again enticed by the smell of freshly squeezed orange juice, sold en masse at orange stands for only 50 cents a cup.

To me that’s the beauty of traveling, or the aesthetic of lostness–the ability to re-experience beauty and to continuously feel that excitement for the little things  in life. It’s what gets me through the day when I miss my family and all that coffee in to-go cups.

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