Tell me what you think of when you hear ‘the South.’ I suppose you recall of the war for state’s rights. I would wager you think only of red states. Do you think of fried chicken and ‘good ole country cookin’? Do you consider the world that simultaneously created Ray Charles, Martin Luther King, Booker T. Washington, and Jimmy Carter? Or do you only remember segregation, racism, inequality? Can you picture the rolling Appalachian Mountains? Or do you imagine poverty? Do you remember the glory of the trumpets in New Orleans and the saxes of Savannah? Or do Katrina and Georgia flooding crowd out and dim those beautiful memories?

As talk of flooding precipitates the news, I am reminded of how the North views the world below the Mason-Dixon Line. I am reminded that the only pictures you will see of the modern day South are in times of disaster or outrage. When else will Georgia permeate the news or Northern consciousness? If you don’t agree with me, if you don’t see how the Union is still divided then tell me – why is it that Katrina has become synonymous with New Orleans? Why has a city with so much culture, heritage and vivacity been reduced to a simple hurricane? Why is it that my state, the last of the thirteen colonies, the origin of the Nobel prize winning President, and the home of the 1996 Centennial Olympic Games been overshadowed by some water? Why is it that the vast majority of Americans have only seen the airport in Atlanta, yet do not venture out into the city?

I’m not here to answer these questions, merely to remind people of the beauty of my homeland before the rains came.

You want to know what I think of when I hear ‘the South’?

Sweat Tea and Sunshine. The feeling of sitting around a bar-b-q drinking my Auntie’s half tea-half sugar concoction and arguing over who actually let the hot dogs burn for the twentieth time. (My vote, my dad. I avoided all blame because I wasn’t ever allowed to touch the grill.) I see crowds at Chastain bringing their blankets, grills, and coolers, ready to listen to a concert in the cooling sunset breeze. I see baseball games as the bright lights of Turner Field seem to illuminate even the crowded highway.

Diversity and strength. The place that in a hundred years went from farms and slaves to segregation and cities to diversity and progress. I see a place where racial barriers still exist yet so does the capacity for dialogue. I walk down the street where you can find gay clubs, baptist churches, and Margret Mitchell’s home.

Complexity and simplicity. Coke and Cotton. Olympics and Tara. It is the birthplace of one most iconic American corporations that has stretched the entire globe. There is the city that hosted the world in a 100 year celebration of mutual cooperation through sports. I see fields of cotton, corn, soy, and peaches. I see the classical plantation, where all you want to do is sit on the porch and think about it tomorrow.

Yes there are problems in the South. I will be one of the first to admit that. Racial politics still influence city organization, and poverty in some states seems third world in nature. I just get tired of questions such as, ‘So what was it like, growing up in the South?’ It was amazing. It was challenging. It was beautiful. I went to country fairs in the fall and the spring, and I spent my summers at so many barbeques that I refused to continue until the sauce finally exited my bloodstream. I encountered racism. sexism. homophobia. I experienced hospitality. warmth. generosity.

My rant has been a year in the making. I have met so many people that are so well traveled – they have been to heights of Manchu Picu and the to depths of catacombs. They have shown reverence at the Taj Mahal, and they have partied in Europe such that Baachus would even be impressed. Yet, they have never been to the South. They don’t know what a plantation really looks like, and they never listened to a trumpet calling out to the Southern wind on a beautiful summer day. The closest they have come to southern hospitality is KFC, and they have no idea of the importance of a Waffle House on a Sunday afternoon.

I suppose I don’t understand that. I suppose I don’t understand ‘well-traveled’ Americans who have only seen my city’s airport. I don’t understand why the only time the South is considered is when FEMA is trying to redeem or defend itself. It’s a beautiful place. It deserves more consideration. So yes, my thoughts go out to all of my Southern brothers and sisters as the rains continue to come. But, my thoughts go out to all my Southern brothers and sisters as the clouds part, and  you can again enjoy the warmth of our sun and a cool glass of southern sweat tea.

A year ago today I was walking around the Medina of Fez with my new roommate. We were excited because in 24 hours we would move into our new home and truly begin our life in Fez. I was taking her around all of my old hangout spots because this trip, for me, was like a coming home. I had lived there the year before and every turn produced a wealth of memories and feelings seemingly forgotten. I took her by my old apartment, which was coincidentally the first apartment I ever rented, in hopes of finding the family of cats that lived directly outside. I had become emotionally attached to them, and naively, I had thought that maybe they would still all be alive and well eager to see me again. Sadly, this was not the case, but as I was turning the corner to walk down my familiar street a new little family of cats had taken up residence on someone’s doorstep. One of the kittens, in particular, was quite interested in my roommate and me, and he did not hesitate to walk up to us and make himself known. Little did he know that his then blue eyes had captured my heart and that he would be transported to an entirely new life on an entirely new continent.

That’s how I met my kitten, Marley. He has been my companion over the past year, and despite his craziness, he has been the best cat I think I could ever have. I choose his name without seeing the movie Marley & Me, but it seems that all animals with that name seem to share the same quality: sheer badness yet unbelievable lovableness. Once he got full use of his jumping muscles Marley never let me or my roommates rest. He would be on the counter in a heartbeat and any left out food would be devoured instantly. Lemon juice, tin foil, double-sided tape – none of it worked. He was too smart and too crafty for our tricks. Sadly, counter-surfacing is not his only trick. One of his favorite games is ’steal the pen’ and to this day, I haven’t found half of the pens I left sitting out for just a moment. Another game, of equal interest, is ‘find the q-tips.’ He would knock over trash cans just to get them, and I ended up having to hide my q-tips in the closet just to avoid their demolish by a certain black-and-white somebody. In general, nothing is safe from my playful kitten, and age (or weight) has not seemed to slow him down.

Yet through all of the annoying habits, there is a lovable companion underneath. He has charmed even the most die-hard of non-animal people, and after one night with him, almost anyone is willing to take him off my hands. I guess the thing is that Marley has the big, boisterous character so that even at your saddest moments his big yellow eyes and constant desire to play make you forget everything that could be or ever has been wrong. He got me through some of the loneliest months in Morocco, and he helped my mom forget that her entire family was overseas and that some were in harms way.

Now, as I am starting a new life and trying to again find my place in the world, Marley is here with me. He doesn’t let me sleep alone or get too serious (because who can be serious playing with a fish on a stick?). I still have to hide q-tips from him, and all pens are kept in a pencil bag well out his reach. Trying to ‘Marley-proof’ my apartment is probably one of the most pointless endeavors because no matter what I do something gets knocked over, played with, and then hid. I know this post isn’t about anything really, and it’s not an update on my life, but I think that sometimes we should take the time to just honor and appreciate. I’m always giving my opinions about culture and society, and I know through my own ramblings I forget that sheer appreciation is warranted as well. So, this is just a post about a cat, and a moment for me to share with the world how great my little black and white companion really is.

I did it. I moved from Rabat, Morocco to Atlanta, GA and from Atlanta, GA to Somerville, MA. Safe to say, I’m exhausted. I could sleep for a week and be a very happy person. At times, I feel like my life in Morocco was a lifetime ago, and sometimes, I feel like I left yesterday. I have simultaneous urges to nest and to explore. I can’t seem to stop talking about that country where I felt at home, especially in a city where I feel like I am fresh off the boat. That’s what this post is about – I’m a foreigner, in the US.

It’s funny what going home can do to you. Although Atlanta is always under construction, the city never really seems to change. Peachtree is as long and confusing as ever, and the traffic on 75 could make you never want to drive again. All of the coffee in to-go cups was amazing, and ‘texmex’ is probably the best style of food in the US. I knew every street, and I was comfortable again, in a way that I had started to get comfortable in Morocco. You see, in Morocco, I was finally understanding how to do just about anything. If I didn’t know where something was, I finally had the experience and knowledge to know where to look or who to ask. I knew what the price of bread was and I knew where to get the best coffee and pannini.

I also began to understand the Moroccan legal/administrative system. I was able to switch the title of my bike without hassle, freight all of my belongings to the US, and successfully tell off a police officer who wanted to get a bribe out of me. These things, although seemingly small, were starting to add up and I was beginning to truly feel like Morocco was my home. Then I moved.

Now, I am in Somerville waiting for classes to start. I get lost without my GPS, and I still stand in the grocery store baffled by the high prices and ridiculous selection. I don’t know the shortest route from my house to my favorite coffee shop; in fact, I don’t even have a favorite coffee shop yet. I keep forgetting to stop for pedestrians in the sidewalk, and every time I walk into the store I smile and say ‘hi’ to everyone, forgetting that in the North, silence is golden.

I know all of this again seems trivial, but these little things add up. Just because I can speak the language doesn’t mean I understand 100% of what is going on. Actually, at the present moment in time, I’m lucky to be operating at 50%. That made me start thinking – what is the definition of a foreigner? My first few months in Morocco were spent just like this. I was generally lost and confused, and I was happy when I get one thing done on my to-do list without it taking an act of congress. I think that culture and understanding culture is just like this. Often times, because we are American, we disregard the concept of American Culture. There are ways of doing things here that are very different from Atlanta, and just because I’m American doesn’t mean that I have every city’s culture hard-wired into my brain. Granted, there are overall concepts of American culture, but I can be just as culture shocked here as I could in Morocco.

The problem is, sometimes I think we disregard this concept so much because we forget about this feeling of cluelessness. We have everything at our fingertips – we can use yelp to find the best local brewery and google lets me know the best walking, public transit or driving route to any location. This makes us forget that there is such thing as cultural confusion, and part of that is understanding the little idiosyncrasies that every city has. So, I am going to enjoy exploring on my own and finding the culture of Boston in the same way I tried to find it in Morocco. I am happy to consider myself as a foreigner because there is always something to discover and something new to appreciate. Even if that includes running through a parking lot waving like a mad man trying to keep my car from being towed.

When I went into the office of my program director to turn in my final paper and get my final allotment, the director asked me to think about what I would say to the new class. What my advice would be. What I wished someone had told me a year ago. What I have learned. So, in thinking over the topic, I thought that my last post while in the country of Morocco should focus on that. The advice of a Fulbrighter getting ready to leave and start a completely new phase of her life.

Two words: Just breathe.

In talking to some of the incoming Fulbright Morocco Researchers, I realized that one thing we don’t learn how to do very well as undergrads is breathe. I don’t mean the physical aspect of inhalation and exhalation, that is something our body does despite our mental capability to engage in it. I mean the act of taking a moment to fill our lungs (and our brains) with good, old fashion oxygen (and by osmosis – relaxation.) As a child, all of us were taught how to breathe and count to ten when someone upset us. My question is  why don’t we use that principle more often as adults? Are we above counting to 10? Or do we just not have enough time in our over packed days to appreciate the beauty of the stillness of a moment?

That’s the other thing I want to mention – time. Throw your concept of time out of the window. Throw your concept of productivity alongside it. While you’re at it, just put all of your pre-conceived notions of reserach (even post-graduation life) in a nice big bag and toss it. I don’t mean this just for Mocco, this is a common idea throughout the Middle East. Most things that take 5 minutes in the States will probably take 5 days to do here, and they will most definitely involve sitting down and having tea with at least one person.

Learn that this is a beautiful way to live life. I can’t tell you how much more I learned from those cups of tea than from my formal interviews. In general, people not from the US spend a lot of time eating, drinking, and relaxing. Yes, three hour lunch breaks can be really annoying when you have a to-do list that is 5 miles long. That is why my to-do lists these days usually have one thing on them. In all honesty, I stopped making real to-do lists halfway through the year. It became more of an ‘idea list,’ That way, if I could cross something off then great, but it was just a guideline, not a requirement for my day, my week, or my personal sanity.

There will be days when you don’t do any research. Actually there will be weeks when it seems like nothing is getting done. There will be times when you have a notebook full of nothing but business cards and little slips of paper, yet no ‘real’ information. There will be days when the rain really gets you down and you forget that Morocco is the land of sun. You will stay in the house, make soup, and watch crappy American media. That’s normal. Life is normal. In fact, life is huge. It will take up most of your time, especially in the beginning. Just go with it. You’re an overachiever, the work will get done, just let yourself have a moment. (Maybe 10 moments, if that’s what you need.)

Over the past year, I think I learned more about myself than I did about housing restoration (and belive me, I know a lot about housing restoration.) Fulbright is a cross-cultural research grant, which means that somehow research ended up being second. Even on days when I had three interviews to complete, class to attend, and horseback riding to do, I still managed to learn even more about Moroccan culture and my own culture than anything else. Some days, it was just that I actually remembered the word for carrot at the vegetable stand (it’s khrizo by the way) or that I finally got the joke my grocer kept telling me. Those moments, those little moments, should be cherished throughout your experience. Granted, they’re not big enough to write a report on, and no they wont get you published in the Journal of North African Studies, but they will get you through the day. They will make you smile even its raining, and they will lift your spirits even in its darkest days. Just remember, you’ve got a year of those moments to look forward to, not just a year of reserach. So get ready to go, and even if you have to physcially write it on your to-do list, remember, just breathe.

This post, sadly, will be less about Moroccan culture and more about me. Maybe that’s what the end is suppose to look like anyway – this is technically a blog about me, although Morocco is now intrinsically tied into my identity. I haven’t written much because I couldn’t think of what to say. I’m one of those people that needs a topic – I need to have something that causes me to focus, otherwise I will type and type and type without ever saying anything. Sometimes, if you’re a good enough of a writer, that nothingness can mean something, but for me it’s usually just rambling. So, lacking a topic and being incredibly busy (I moved yet again) have created yet another time gap in my blog. But, as I was thinking of the end (I leave in two weeks) and thinking of how far I’ve come, I realized that I have never really explained why I changed the name of my blog to ‘The Aesthetic of Lostness.’

I originally created this blog to record my first Moroccan experience for my friends and family. It’s a pretty straightforward reason to do so, and that’s the reason the url includes ‘Land of the Setting Sun.’ Morocco was the first stamp in my passport, and I was about as green as they could get it, in terms of traveling as well as blog writing. Read my original entries and you’ll see what I’m talking about. So, when I left Morocco, I also left my blog. I forgot that I had friends and family that I didn’t see everyday, who were still curious as to the comings and goings of my life. But thesis writing, college drama, and trying to survive one last year of undergrad didn’t seem important enough to record. I also just wanted to get through everything as quick as possible – I had no idea how painful return culture shock would be and the last thing I wanted to do was describe my anguish to the world wide web.

Strangely enough, though, I managed through all the insanity to apply for the Fulbright. After the year of craziness (anyone that was at my university from 2007 – 2008 will agree, crazy doesn’t begin to describe it), I received my acceptance letter. I was going back to a country that had altered the way I saw the world, and I realized again, I would want to record my experiences. However, the original title ‘From Atlanta to Rabat: My Semester in the Western Kingdom’ and the original intent: the describe study abroad were no longer valid and quite frankly a little boring.

Plus, I realized that traveling had become a part of me; I realized that friends and family cared about my life no matter where I was; and I realized that maybe even other people who I don’t know would be interested in what I have to say.

So, I decided to make my blog a permanent edition to my life, not just the Moroccan part of it. I knew, though, that the name had to change. It had become a travel blog, not just a ’study abroad’ blog, and I had become a blogger. I googled quotes on traveling and just couldn’t seem to find one that fit me. Until I found the perfect one by Ray Bradbury, ‘Half the fun of traveling is the aesthetic of lostness.’

You see, I am a planner. I can make to-do lists and excel spreadsheets that would put you to shame. I was the type of kid that you could always ask, ‘What do you want to do when you grow up?’ and at any age, I would have a detailed answer complete with a plan on how to get there. I had colleges picked out by age 13 (granted, they changed by 18), but I could never look at the ambiguity of the future without some sort of plan on how to get through it all. Originally, I traveled like that too. I had itineraries and maps and plans and folders. I was big on the folders thing. I would get upset if we didn’t go to dinner at the planned restaurant because what was the point of a plan if we didn’t stick to it? I was obnoxious, to say the least. After about two weeks of study abroad, I realized the error of my ways. You can’t travel with lists. Or plans. Maps are useful though. Folders are kind of handy. I realized I was missing everything because my head was so far in the plan that I didn’t see what was passing in front of me. Plus, I learned that everything will go wrong and a sense of humor is the only defense against lost luggage and lost persons.

For me, this was the hardest thing to learn. This was the biggest change in my personality after Morocco, and it was the one thing I wanted to remember and keep with me. So, I titled my blog ‘The Aesthetic of Lostness,’ so that I would remember how much fun that impromptu trip to Pisa was. How I made the best friends from a night locked out of a hostel. And how run away donkeys make much better stories than folders and lists.

Before I came to Morocco, my various Arabic teachers and Arab friends warned me against the uselessness of learning Moroccan Arabic, or Derija. It was the least known the dialects, and Moroccans (as they said) had perverted the language so badly that it more closely resembled French than its Arab roots. Therefore, I was warned against attempting to learn the language, and as usual, I did not heed said warning. During my first sojourn in Morocco, I decided to add to my class load and take private lessons in Derija. I was already taking 3 hours a day of classical Arabic, but I had quickly learned that my friends were remotely correct – the Moroccan dialect was so perverted that speaking classical Arabic was almost useless.

I mean, honestly, useless. I would have been better off learning French.

Derija is a combination of Arabic, French, Spanish and random pieces from the Berber languages. Ever since the founding of Morocco, it has had a closer relationship with its European partners than its Arab ones. Constant Northern conquest (as opposed to conquest in the Eastern direction) has tied numerous words in Derija and Spanish together, and after the French occupation of Morocco, it’s almost silly to think that French would NOT permeate the langauge. Therefore, my knowledge of standard Arabic quickly rendered me a fish out of water, and I realized that despite the warnings, Derija was quite useful, in Morocco at least.

Plus, it turns out that my original effort was not for loss because I did end up returning to the-country-of-the-useless-dialect. I entered my Fulbright with a foundation in Derija so that after a few months of classes, I was perfectly conversational. I could do my interviews in Derija and I could have perfectly normal conversations with most anyone. So, I thought, ‘take that pessimists! see? this language is useful!’ again, in Morocco.

During my trip to Cairo, I could barely stammer out a few words in Standard Arabic, and evidently my Moroccan accent is now so thick that it was still impossible to understand me. I kept wandering around attached to my friend, who is fluent in Arabic, feeling rather silly and realizing that maybe, I should focus on Standard again, and maybe the pessimists were right.

However, during a recent trip to Europe, I realized that I’ve been missing the point of it all. I wandered into a shop looking for a cheap memory card reader, and while I was asking for this object (in very pitiful spanish, I might add) I noticed that the owner turned and spoke to his employee in Derija. Relived that my attempts at Spanish could now be put aside, I switched easily and comfortably into this seemingly ‘useless’ language. The shop owner, without even blinking, continued to talk to me, only really needing to inform me that they didn’t have what I was looking for. Afterwards, he expressed his surprise and joy at my switch to his mother tongue. In that moment, I had extended a friendly ‘hand’ to him, and although it wasn’t some monumental occasion, I realized that this was the point of learning Derija: to communicate.

Sometimes I think we place a large emphasis on the acquisition of language and less on the acquisition of communication. The point of communicating is just that, and when we stop attempting because we fear it might be ‘useless’ then I am afraid the concept of language in general is useless. Plus, I’ve learned that language, culture and respect all go hand in hand. Yes, maybe there is a finite number of people that I can talk to using Moroccan Arabic, but that is a group of people that I can talk to now that I was not able to before. Plus, as I have noticed, Moroccans are all over the world, and who knows when my useless Derija could get me out of a jam – or at least, out of a high price.

In an effort to keep up readership of my blog, I have been thinking for days on what to write about. I’m trying not to fall into my old habit of write-every-month, but I realized that my general insight comes from something interesting that happens, which then inspires me to write about it. Granted, little things happen all the time, but blog-style interactions are fewer and farther between. However, today, when I was trying to alleviate my new pumpkin seed fix, I realized that merely shopping in Morocco is a bit of an ordeal. Actually, that’s a lie, it takes the stars aligning, a heart felt rain dance, and an act of God to get what you’re looking for sometimes, and that’s if you’re lucky.

Now, I am not referring to the type of shopping that a lot of foreigners in this country do. There are numerous western style stores that sell everything you could need. Comptoir sells appliances and electronics, Marjane is a regular Super Wal-Mart, Acima is a Kroger-type grocery store, and Kitea is a regular Ikea knock-0ff. So, if you want to spend your time in the Ville Nouvelle hopping from cab to cab, then it is quite easy to find what you’re looking for in this country. I, however, continusouly choose what seems to be the ‘harder’ way of doing things.

I have this theory that every Moroccan is hard wired valuable information upon their birth. This information, sometimes inaccessible to foreigners, includes how to tell a good tajine from a bad one and where the gypsy buses stop. Whenever I ask my Moroccan friends to describe where they get this wealth of knowledge, they always shrug and say, ‘Well, isn’t it obvious?’ This answer just frustrated me because I hated going to Acima or Marjane to get my necessities, but no one could seem to tell me where all the Moroccans shopped.

Then, finally, one day, I just shut-up and watched.

In the Fez Medina and my Moroccan neighborhood in Marrakesh, the fruit and vegetable market is fairly obvious. It’s hard to miss the crates of tomatoes and the carts of banans as you’re walking down the street. This was my first foray into Moroccan shopping. You see, unlike most of us Westerner’s with too little time, ‘one-stop shopping’ is a fairly foreign concept to most of the Moroccans I know. Each type of necessity warrents its own store. Therefore, I have a fruit guy. A couple carts down from him is my vegetable guy. They loved that I speak Arabic, and they’re always patient while I try to learn the names of my usual purchases. Down a few doors them is my non-parishables guy, otherwise known as a Hanout. In old parts of the (American) South, I’ve actually seen these stores still in existence, but by-in-large, Kroger has replaced the traditional grocer in Atlanta. At my Hanout, I buy all packaged goods as well as flour, grains, sugar, honey, spices by the kilo or the gram. Some of the newer Hanouts even have refigerators so that I can buy fresh milk, cold water, and various Coca Cola products.

After I finally found my Hanout and my fruit and vegetable guys, I had to learn where to buy everything else. Let me emphasize that every type of good has its own store so plastic house hold items (such as dish racks) aren’t sold at the same store as electronic items (such as ovens or blenders). Red meat butchers do not sell chicken, and dried fruit is also sold in a special store. Snacks are sold at different places then all of these, which was my newest revelation when I went on a search for roasted pumpkin seeds.

It’s funny because I look back to a few months ago, and I was constantly asking, ‘Wait, so where I do buy this’ and ‘where do I buy that.’ It took a while for me to realize that I just had to look around. I am so used to big signs and one-stop-shopping that it never occured to me that the small store right in front of my eyes could have exactly what I need. I was so caught up in downloading this hard-wired information that I rarely opened my eyes. That is what I love about Morocco. This is what I hope to take away from this year. There is such an importance placed on pausing and paying attention. Information is right in front of you if you’re willing to step outside of your normal bubble and just see it.

So I don’t usually write two posts back-to-back, as I just make you endure one ridiculously long entry; however, I felt that the tone of these two were just too different to allow them to be combined. Now, although I want to emphasize that modern Egypt is so much more than pyramids and hieroglyphics, I can’t talk about my trip to Cairo without talking about my crazy morning at the pyramids of Giza.

The reason I call it a crazy morning is because after living in an Arab country for almost a year, you would think that my friends and I would have learned that trying to do something within a time limit is almost impossible. Something is bound to go wrong, and anything that would normally take 5 minutes somewhere else will take about 2 hours when dealing with ‘Arab-time.’ However, we were in Cairo solely for a Fulbright conference, which meant that like it or not, we were on a very strict time schedule.

So, me and four other girls woke up one morning, piled in a cab, and headed off to the infamous Giza site. None of us had a guide book (it didn’t seem worth it for only 5 days in the city) and none of us had any idea what were going to find when we got there. Me and my Americanness excepted signs and guides or at the very least a cohesive map of one of the seven wonders of the world.

Ha, wrong assumption number one.

Wrong assumption number two was actually made by all of us. We assumbed that The Sphinx was large and situated away from the pyramids.

Wrong assumption number three was that the ticket office would inform us if the other sites (museums, descending into the pyramid, etc.) needed a separate ticket.

So, those three assumptions combined created the most interesting and hilarious morning of my Cairo trip.

You see, we entered the site at what appeared to be the largest pyramid and a fairly small sphinx. Now, please note that our cab driver fueled our confusion by saying that The Sphinx was at the end of the site away from the entrance. He, however, did not inform us that there are two entrances. So, our assumption that The Sphinx was far away caused us to disregard this smaller figure and proceed up the hill towards the pyramids.

As we started to walk up the hill, we noticed a very long line. Instantly, we thought of the time and hurried to situate ourselves among the hoards of tourists waiting to get a chance to walk down into the famous tomb. After twenty minutes of waiting, we finally made it to the front. This site required yet another ticket, which could only be purchased at a specific gate located at the other entrance to the site. No amount of bargining or pleading would make the gentlemen at the door let us in. No ticket. No entrance.

Slightly dejected, we decided that we should use our remaining time trying to get out to see The Sphnix instead of waiting in that silly line again. But by this time, we knew that walking on human legs wouldn’t get us there and back in 30 minutes.

So, we decided to go on horseback.

The next ten minutes of our morning was spent trying to make the stable hands understand that all we wanted to do was go The Sphinx and come back. One of my friends speaks excellent Arabic, so it seemed that there was no way he could be confused by our desire. But still, he looked at us with wonder and constantly said ‘You want Sphynix-y and come back?’ After that 10 minutes of assuring him that this was truly what we wanted, he simply shrugged and situated three of us in a carriage and two of us on horses.

And with that, we took off galloping towards the pyramids and away from our entrance containing a ’small’ sphinx. As we rounded the side of the pyramid, our stable hand guides stopped to allow us time to take pictures. By now it was clear that he really didn’t get our time predicament and we hurriedly told him that we only wanted to see The Sphinx. We had no time for taking other pictures. Confused, he agreed, muttered ‘Sphynix-y and come back?’ and took off in the direction we came.

Realizing that he was taking us that ’smaller’ sphynix we decided to just give up. Our time was up and we had to head back to the hotel. Our guide however, didn’t seem to understand our dejection. He merely pointed to the sphynix and said, ‘See? Sphnix-y!’ We descended from our horses, thankful to be on solid ground again, paid the man, and walked off. ‘Oh well,’ we thought, ‘at least we got to see the pyramids.’ We would see the Sphynix another time.

Well, if you can’t tell by now, that was The Sphnix. The sad thing about it is that we didn’t realize this until we got back to the hotel and recounted our exploits to our fellow Fulbrighters. It’s turns out that our seemingly haphazard horseback riding through the desert actually was to The Sphynix-y and back.

Before I start my post, I must give credit where credit is due – my title is not my own. I borrowed it from a friend’s facebook album detailing our recent Egyptian adventure, and although I usually find a lot of entertainment in creating my own titles, I thought his was too perfect to pass up. So, I must thank fellow Fulbright, Sam, for his witty words.

Now, onto my 5 days in the most beautiful dirty city I’ve seen.

Most people (including myself until a few years ago) call to mind pyramids, Cleopatra, and Pharaohs when Egypt is mentioned. Part of me wants to blame my elementary school history education. We always studied history in a chronological order, which means that we spent way too much time on ancient societies so that at the end of the year, the modern world was reduced to a handout or a quick mention. But, I know that this is over-simplifying the issue, and I fear that many of my cousins, who are teachers themselves, would be quick reprimand me on that point. So, I blame numerous sources for our skewed view of Egypt – education in general, the media, and our general desire to live in the seemingly uncomplicated past, when queens were beautiful and adventures were the norm of society.

Well, let me tell you, Modern Egypt, I think, is even better. But this is coming from a girl who loves the city of Atlanta because of its traffic, its urban sprawl, and its constant motion. I am excited in cities where part of me is uncomfortable, and I receive energy from the knowledge that I can never truly know every building or every section. Then there’s always something to discover and there is never a moment when life is boring.

Cairo is a booming metropolis that is home to 25 million people. The traffic is atrocious, and honestly, whoever built that the beltway around the city couldn’t have believed that it would alleviate any congestion. There is a nice blanket of smog covering the city when a sandstorm doesn’t block the sun, and the heat just seeps into your bones because the air is so heavy with pollution and dust. Trash collects on the side of the street, and even nice neighborhoods are not immune from piles of litter and odorous smells. Cabs refuse to put on the meter and there are so many tourists, students, and diplomats that it’s hard for anyone to believe that this foreigner on the street is any different from the next. And yet, I still loved the city.

Honestly, I loved the traffic and the sheer mayhem. The city would never sleep. There was always something to do and somewhere to go and someone willing to take you there. Despite the growing number of tourists and foreigners that arrive to Cairo every day, Egyptians were always excited to talk to me, and even though my accent is now very apparantly Moroccan, they were still happy to hear more Americans speaking their language. For someone with a growing obsession with architecture, Cairo offered an infinite supply of beauty and wonder. Each building was more beautiful than the next and even the most simple mosque was truly a sanctuary – a peaceful escape from the craziness of the world surrounding.

I can remember the moment that I truly fell in love with the city. Sam, the Fulbrighter with the witty title, and I went walking through the one of the oldest parts of Islamic Cairo – Khan El Khalily. We walked to the top of this watch tower and looked out over the whole of the city. I couldn’t even take it all in. I had to pause at each minaret and towering building just to appreciate them individually. That was the moment that I knew I would always love this dirty city.  Because there would always be something to discover. Because each balcony would create a different view. Because each corner offered a new heaven. Because each moment allowed me to reappreacite this dirty dirty beautiful Cairo.

So for two months I have not been able to ride my Moroccan motor bike. Most of that was due to my extended trip home, and since then, the battery has been very dead. However, as I was sitting in a taxi the other day watching some kids whip by I remembered that I was, in fact, one of them, and it finally seemed worth it to bring her out again. So, I brushed off the dirt and dust that had accumulated on ole Sunshine, and I pushed her a few grueling blocks to the closest mechanic.

Now, in Fez, the closest mechanic and I did not get along. He had certain ideas about women on bikes (namely that they should not be on them) and he proceeded to remind me of that fact when I went to him for help. My bike was dead, I still very green to Morocco and motorbikes, and it took everything I had not to break down and cry on the side of the road. The fact that my anatomy is different doesn’t prevent me from owning and driving a motorbike, and it shouldn’t prevent me from finding a mechanic. But alas, it did, and after making a fairly large scene, which included yelling at the mechanic that he doesn’t respect me, I proceeded to push my motorbike the 3 kilometers to the New City. There I found a great mechanic, who was always patient and very willing to work with my limited knowledge of motorbikes and arabic.

You know though, after some reflection I realized that this original mechanic, who I so easily wrote off as being sexist, just didn’t understand how to deal with me. I learned that he had never had a female client before, and what I mistook as a lack of desire to talk to me (he spoke to me through some man at the shop) was his attempt at communication. He thought that if he tried to speak to me, I wouldn’t understand. Ever since that experience I have tried to understand where people are coming from without assuming that I always know the answer. I mean, maybe that guy should have tried to have a conversation with me before he wrote it off as impossible, but maybe I should have tried to calmly explain my frustration instead of assuming the worst. Oh well, we all make mistakes, and hopefully, I have learned and I have progressed.

Now, however, I don’t have that problem in the least bit. You see, Marrakesh is the city of women on motorbikes. There is the highest rate of female drivers in this city, and what I love about it is that driving a motorbike does not correspond with the type of woman at all. I have seen women in burkas with gloves and a small eye-slit driving around the city next to a liberal western looking woman in skinny jeans and high heels. Women are almost equal in number on the road, and whereas in Fez, I stood out, in Marrakesh I am one of the pack.

Although this means that I am theoretically less special, it also means that women seem to have more indepedence in Marrakesh. I have seen them on the street in higher numbers, driving cars in higher numbers, and running shops in higher numbers. According to some Moroccans, women in Marrakesh even speak in a more manly way than any other Moroccan woman.

One of my friends attributes this equality to tourism. Due to the large presence of foreigners in the city and the strength of the tourism industry, women can make more money and garner more freedoms. I agree with her, to a point. My question is does the appearance of equality actually indicate equal standards of living? Just because my mechanic instantly knew how to talk to me, does that mean I am seen equal in his eyes? And should the original mechanic be counted as perpetuating inequality just because he has inexperience with the concept?

These are questions I haven’t really found the answers to yet. I don’t think I have the time to address my project as well as the appearance of equality within society, and maybe I am just being jaded right now. Maybe the point is that this all has to start somewhere, and even if that only means a woman in Marrakesh can drive a motorbike, that is something to be happy about. In that moment she can feel powerful and in control of her destination, and in that moment it doesn’t matter the anatomy of the driver, it only matters that you know how to get the hell out of the way. I mean let’s face it, driving in Morocco is crazy no matter who you are.