Marrakech.

Um, yeahhh.

"How was Marrakech?" they keep asking. And I keep opening my mouth, as if to respond. And as I wait for my brain to catch up to my mouth, I realize I've been standing there for a full seven to ten seconds, saying "Uhhh..."

And then it laughs. My brain laughs about Marrakech. I don't laugh out loud, because I don't want people to get the wrong impression, like I think Marrakech is amazing, or awful. So I stand there, saying "Uhhh...," and inside, I laugh.

I can tell you this about Marrakech. If nothing materializes in the outside world, I can always go back and become someone's third wife - become a henna artist, drink the world's best orange juice and mint tea everyday, and possibly never take a shower again in my life. I mean, it might not be that bad. Maybe I could take up the berber guitar while I'm at it.

Well, for now I'll file that option under "Plan D," right after God's perfect will for my life, being a staff writer for 30 Rock, and being an eyebrow model.

In reality, Marrakech is as much of a sensory overload as is our very decorated ryad:


Alexandra (my savvy Belgian friend) and I arrived early Saturday morning at our ryad. I hadn't slept the night before, Alex had barely slept; but we knew we wanted to just barrel through the first day & sleep really well that night. So we ate our delicious complimentary breakfast: breads, jams, cheeses, hard-boiled eggs - very Frenchie. I had the best coffee I've had in a very long time. It was full-bodied, chocolatey, slightly nutty, with no acidic aftertaste. Yum!

After breakfast, we were naïve enough to think we could survive the souks on no sleep.


We barely came out of this certified UNESCO World Heritage Site alive. I certainly got an F--- you from a vender whose instruments I wouldn't buy. It wasn't so nice. When we finally found our way out of the maze of souks, we had our first life-changing glass of freshly-squeezed orange juice. There would be more orange juice to come.


When we finally returned to our ryad in the late afternoon, the incredibly hospitable staff prepared some moroccan mint tea for us, which we enjoyed on the rooftop terrasse.


The next day, we met up with David Way. He has worked hard to overcome the centuries of discrimination and oppression leveled against his people group (lefties) to become a successful world traveler and iconic photographer. Kudos, David!

The three of us decided to catch a bus and find some camels to ride. We did. I don't know which dismount was more startling and unexpected: the sweaty bus or the smelly camel. Anyhow, after the camel ride, we attempted to visit a palace. The map lied about the palace, and we didn't make it inside. But on the plus side, we acquired a few Brazilians. Adding to my small repertoire of Portugués.


We had wandered through a few unnecessarily narrow paths (streets?) and were lured into the gorgeous blue courtyard of a Jewish synagogue by a young kid. At this point, I was so wary of being conned that I hung back for a few minutes, waiting for the kid to demand money. I was wrong, thankfully. Later we shared a very communal dinner overlooking the swirling, amoebic mass of stalls in Jamaa el Fna Square.


The next day we finally made it to the palace. It was fun.


For our last night altogether, we braved the stalls in the heart of the square. It was the best couscous I have ever had in my life. And we may have dissected a Moroccan sausage, out of sheer curiosity.


Alexandra... my partner in crime and haggler-extraordinaire:


Ah, Erasmus. Life's rough.

Merci, Alex, for the great times, for balancing caution and adventure, and for speaking French. Someday you will be a highly successful business woman - and maybe I'll be your filipino girl!