There was a group of Americans at the tapas reastaurant where we I ate with two girl friends on a Saturday night. I had grown accustomed to not hearing my native language around me and gravitated towards their words. I knew they must be part of an organized group, perhaps a conference or fellowship of some sort. On my way back from the bathroom and after a second bottle of wine, I stopped by their table to ask. “Cultural solutions” they explained “volunteer work, education, outreach, that sort of thing.” I was homesick. One girl was clearly from the south “I want to marry a Moroccan” she explained with tales about some gardener. She was the most obviously drunk of a group that had shrunk down to about five.

Another girl was more level-headed, and another, who is the one I would like to imagine as myself: a sober-minded late-nighter, beautiful, tattooed, and intelligent. I kissed her head at some point for some observation, some remark I took as a sign of her intelligence and consequent loneliness. [This gesture (kissing someone on their head) is more normal in Morocco than America.]

One man in the group was Canadian “bring some hot girls with you next time.” I told him he didn’t want Moroccan women because they were too smart. When he quoted me back, I recanted: “Moroccan women are too complicated, I mean. American women are more accommodating than Moroccan women. You are better off with an American.” Perhaps he is destined to hook-up with the drunk Southerner in the group, who he made eye contact with as he repeated back my insult to her intelligence (I can’t help it. The passionate Moroccan gardener? Give me a break.). His trying to hurt her only confirms my point.

The other male, who looked Indian, told me he was from NJ when I asked. “What are you doing here?”
“Wasting time.”
“Don’t let him fool you” the Canadian chimed in “he’s a doctor.”
They said they would be in the same spot almost nightly for the next week or so. I told them my email address and said I would be back to see them, which I won’t.

I drive a home – a place we rented by the beach. I kept my eye on the KMs per hour and pulled haphazardly half way into the driveway, tired of myself and all the things I have to say.

The garden smelled like jasmine. I look for the plant of the smell, but I only find ivy. I’ve heard the smell is jasmine, but I have no reference in my American life, so to me the smell is nighttime in Morocco.

The stars are out…not desert stars…not DC stars either. Some compromise. I hear the ocean beating against the rocky coast of Harhoura. How is it that the rocks have remained?

In the day, it seems the horizon, the ocean, is above my head, that it will overtake me…overtake us all and the simple plastic furniture on the terraces of homes along the waterfront. I watch the waves when they seem higher than the rocks. But they break before them. At night, it must be high tide, when the pools form, cesspools as my husband calls them, where children play, guarded by cloaked women, where men fish.

The other night, I saw a man, fifty-ish, riding home on a motorbike, balancing a ridiculously long blue fishing pool between his legs. It seemed it should overtake him. He seemed content. “Moroccans love fishing” as if the love of fishing alone would protect him. These simple pleasures are why I love Morocco.