A year ago, when I arrived at Morocco’s hidden gem, Chefchaouen, I was halfway through a month-long, solo trip from Morocco to France. I took a bus from the capital city, Rabat, that was full of backpackers who, despite the fact that they were mostly just looking to get stoned in the mountains, all seemed better equipped than me to travel. I didn’t call myself a backpacker. I didn’t label myself at all. I was just traveling, seeing places and proving to myself that I could be alone.

Before Morocco, I had been living abroad for about two years as a Peace Corps volunteer in West Africa and I was delaying the inevitable confrontation with America and Americans that was due to happen at the end of the month. My post-third world stresses weren’t ready to face the first world perspectives awaiting me back home. So, I sought refuge with the in-between – the developing world. I thought, This is Africa but it’s basically Europe, so I’m going to be just fine. I needed reassurance from a kinder environment that I was going to be okay. I was going to transition out of the third world via this mountain-bound bus, and I didn’t need anyone.

Yet, I felt my heart and soul tethered to all the people I left behind. My friends, my students, my Peace Corps family. I couldn’t think of them without sighing and thinking, Why don’t they need me as much as I need them? I used to feel that way for my American family and somewhere over the years, I had lost that too in Sub-Sahara Africa. When your head is drowning in a self-provoked loneliness, the only way to dull the pain is to prove you don’t need anyone but yourself.

But the Moroccan stint of this vacation was proving difficult to explore my independence. I was quickly learning on this trip that no one is ever really alone. I learned this the moment I stepped off the plane in Casablanca. Just getting from the airport to Rabat consisted of swapping stories with a fellow Returned Peace Corps Volunteer to pass the time in the customs line; a random Moroccan dude guiding me through the necessary hurdles on my train transfers; an old lady sharing her snacks on the steps of the train station in Rabat and telling me how much I should pay for a taxi to the hostel; the people at the hostel letting me use their wifi and keep my bags there – free of charge – while I waited for the friend I was staying with to get off work; and then another random RPCV who showed up at the hostel and offered to entertain me and show me around the city while I was waiting.

I spent that entire day depending on the kindness of strangers and, at first, it felt like failing. I told myself, “No, I don’t want help. I can do this on my own.” But I quickly realized how rare it was to be the kind of person who’s willing to make fast friends when necessary and let strangers help me. I was constantly having to let my guard down, force myself to talk to people and trust them. But most times, I just felt so lonely that I would find myself searching for someone, anyone, who would pay attention to me, if even for a second.

I was feeling particularly lonely when me and the backpackers pulled into Chefchaouen late at night and I was the only one who seemed to not have a plan nor a companion to suss that out with. Aside from tourists, there were a few Moroccan university students on my bus heading home for a long weekend. One of them offered to help me find my hotel and I immediately thought of Fes, where I had made a bad judgment call on who I could trust.

I spent almost an entire day in Fes not knowing where I was – wandering aimlessly in the medina. The medina is generally the oldest part of a city. It’s walled-in, full of vendors and tricky to navigate. Fes’s medina is known for being the largest in Morocco, so naturally it’s a tourist trap full of people trying to swindle you and verbally harass you if you look remotely out of place… or female. So after many hours of dodging creepers and trying to pretend it was an adventure when, in actuality, I was near-panic the entire time, I came across a loud group of teenage boys. It was obvious I was lost – I was on the residential side and no where near where all the tourists were taking pictures and buying trinkets. They started shouting at me in a combination of Arabic, French and English, and I immediately fast-walked down a dark alley to avoid them. I made a few bad turns and ended up at a dead-end street surrounded by men eyeing me borderline viciously.

I only spent one anxious moment there before I heard footsteps run up behind me. It was one of the shouting boys. He put his hand on my shoulder and said to me in English, “Don’t go down there. They’re not nice.” He grabbed my arm and pulled me back down the alley we had come from.

Then he offered to escort me to a big mosque where I would find my traveling companions – the ones I invented that would definitely be looking for me if anything bad happened to me. I had misjudged him, he was obnoxious but harmless, and he took me where I needed to be and left me alone without another word.

When we got into the beautiful, blue Moroccan mountain town late that night, I contemplated this university student offering to assist me. Was he a kind stranger like the ones I met my first day in Rabat, or a young kid like the one in Fes who just wanted my attention, or was he a bad person looking to follow me to my hotel and make a pass at me or worse? I decided against the latter and shared a taxi with this young stranger. He helped me find a hotel, unloaded my bag from the trunk and left without saying goodbye. I watched him leave, wondering why he didn’t want to stay and talk with me.

***

A friend of mine told me to go to Chefchaouen because, “It’s a special place.” No elaboration needed – I wanted to find out for myself why. And there was something about it that certainly felt distinct but I couldn’t put my finger on what it was. Maybe it was the cold mountain air mixed with second-hand hashish or the gorgeous mountain view surrounding us or the sky blue paint blanketing the town, but something about this place made me feel lighter. Maybe it was the altitude.

The hotel I stayed at was nice but a little over my budget. So I spent my first morning in Chefchaouen searching for a cheaper place to stay. I found tons of fellow travelers and asked them where they were staying and within an hour I had moved to a new hostel in the heart of the medina. After I moved in, I realized all the travelers that were staying there were in the midst of checking out and that I was now the only patron. So, I immediately locked my things in my room and went out exploring.

Chef’s medina was absolutely wonderful, especially compared to Fes. It was easier to navigate. The people were kind, not creepy. It was clean and brighter. I was floating around on a cloud of contentment that I hadn’t felt since I started traveling. I was wearing a huge, goofy smile and a beanie. It was cold and I didn’t pack accordingly. I hadn’t felt this cold in over two years. I was wearing three thin sweaters and my socks weren’t quite thick enough, but it didn’t matter. This place was untouched by time and I was a part of it. I belonged there.

I spent the morning shopping and roaming. I bought a pair of knit gloves and made the decision to stay in Chefchaouen twice as long as planned. I texted Tom, my friend from Rabat who was meeting me in Tangier in a few days time to see me off, to let him know my plans had changed. “I don’t think I’m leaving this place,” I said simply.

Eventually, I came across a small art gallery. It was covered in blue paintings and caught my eye as I was passing it.  The guy inside the gallery saw me doubling back and met me at the doorway accompanied by a small dog. He was the painter and the gallery was his masterpiece. He was wearing a track suit and spoke impeccable English. His voice was deep and throaty and his accent was unmistakably American. He insisted he was Moroccan but had acquired the accent by living with an American woman for close to seven years. I walked around the gallery, considering each blue creation, while his dog, Jolie, followed me around with her tail wagging. He invited me to sit down, spoil his dog with a belly rub, and drink mint tea with him.

By the end of tea, I was pretty attracted to this guy. He was not terribly good-looking, not handsome at all really. His voice and his art were the sexiest things about him. But he was the first Moroccan man I had spent one on one time with who didn’t give me a bad vibe. He was friendly and engaging, and I felt comfortable and relaxed. I spent that time over tea contemplating how old he was and whether or not that was too old for me. I decided he was between forty and fifty years old.

We talk for what feels like hours. Customers come and go, and I just keep sitting. They buy paintings without perusing and we talk about them after they leave. How they just buy things to buy things and they don’t even care about his art. He says, that’s why most of his favorite paintings are hung in the back of the gallery. He wants those to go to people who take the time to search for them.

We switch to drinking beers, and suddenly we are friends, not strangers. He offers to give me henna– better than that crap you’ll get on the street, he says, he’s an artist after all. He insists I stay for lunch and learn how to prepare a tagine. He sends out a scraggly boy to go buy all the ingredients we need, while I sit there like I belong, as if preparing meals together with this painter is something I do regularly. He invites me to come the next day and take a free painting class with a bunch of American university students. He suggests other places to visit when I leave Chefchaouen, if I ever leave. He tells me how he once came to Chef temporarily and how he’s now stuck there because of how inspired he feels. He starts crumbling a bead of hash in his palm and says, “Inspiration.”

Then we share a joint, and suddenly we’re more than friends. I’m beautiful. I have a great body. I have remarkable features. I’m inspiring his art with my great body and remarkable features. He massages my shoulders and whispers in my ear that I could live in Chef. I could stay here forever. He’s standing behind me and kissing my neck and saying things and I’m dazed. My eyes are closed and my head leans to one side as I vaguely consider these things. Could I? I could live here. I would live here. I would live here and not tell anyone where I am. At least for now. I would stand up Tom, who’s meeting me in Tangier, and it would be ok. I would stand up the friend I’m meeting in Lyon in a few weeks, and it would be ok. I would miss Thanksgiving with my family for the third year in a row and it would be ok. I belong in this beautiful mountain town that’s untouched by time.

The painter takes my hands and guides me to a cushioned bench behind a wall. We’re hidden from the view from the open doorway as he pulls off my beanie and remarks how sexy my short hair is. He lifts my legs up so that I’m lounging across the bench and he’s hovering over me. I bury my face in my hands as I think, Could I live with a man? This man? This painter? Who makes me feel like I belong somewhere and who has started testing the limits of how far up my leg his hand can go? I sit up, too quickly, and the room is spinning. He looks me in the eyes and offers to take me into the mountains for a night of lovemaking. His lip is quivering as he says these words and I finally see him clearly. He’s nervous. And suddenly I feel like I’ve done something wrong. I feel sorry for him.

Finally, I just kiss him, like I mean it, and my whole world comes into focus as I think what a terrible person I am because I know I mean nothing and I should have stopped at tea. I let him kiss me and run his hands all over and I feel my eyes well up with tears. I finally pull away, ending our bizarre make-out session, and he says, “God, I love American women.”

The pity I felt moments before goes fluttering out the window and is immediately replaced by regret. I say, “I’m giving you the wrong idea. I like this attention but I don’t want it. It’s not why I’m traveling. It’s not why I came here.”

The thing is, I can’t figure out what I am doing there. I just wanted a friend. I wanted to pet Jolie, the dog who likes me. I wanted to feel comfortable with a Moroccan man. I wanted to learn to cook a tagine.

And he says he understands but he doesn’t. He wants to keep kissing, holding my hands and telling me I’m beautiful, but I pull away apologizing. I pull my beanie back on and put my guard up as well.

He stands up and insists I stay for lunch still, even though lunchtime has long since passed. He calls for the scraggly boy again to go out and buy the ingredients. I stagger into the kitchen, following him into the back of the gallery and say, “I thought he already got the ingredients?” And he just shrugs and smiles and wraps his arms around me, backing me into the counter. I turn my back on him so that we can’t kiss and he wraps his arms around my waist. I sigh impatiently, and then I cringe as one hand slides down my pants and the other gropes my chest through my three sweaters.

And that’s when I realize I owe him something. I’ve let him go too far already. So I take his wrists and gently pull his hands off my body. I turn to him and apologize one last time and walk immediately out of the shop without another word, feeling like a terribly confused, slutty tease – feeling unsure of whether or not I’m owed an apology as well.

***

I bunkered down in a coffee shop with wifi, and sent messages to a few friends about how lonely I felt. I decided to stay in the shop until my buzz wore off and it doesn’t take long and I wondered if I was ever actually high. Maybe it was just the altitude.

Afterwards, I wandered the streets some more because what the hell else was I going to do in a city I had never been to all alone? The cloud I was riding just hours before had turned darker and was weighing heavily overhead. I didn’t feel like exploring. Exploring was just walking, getting lost, asking people for help and being alone.

And suddenly, I felt so homesick and sad, I thought about getting on a bus the next day. I started to get choked up by how weird I felt. I thought about the artist groping me and felt a little sick. I thought about the sex I wasn’t having that night and felt lonely. Suddenly, I laughed and mumbled to myself, “That was probably the weirdest fucking thing you’ve ever done.”

The sun starts to set and I hadn’t done any of the things one who visits Chefchaouen is supposed to do. But I just want to go back to my hostel.

I can’t find it, so I keep walking around until I find a tourists’ information booth and ask the man there for help. He invites me inside the booth, and I immediately make a mental note to not make-out with this man too. While I’m there, three American dudes come up and ask for directions to their hostel. They look like the group of well-equipped backpackers who arrived on my bus. They all have huge bags and one of them has a bike.

I left the booth, walking in the opposite direction of the three dudes, and headed back to my hostel. When I arrived, I noticed I was still the only patron. I sulked into my room and sat on my bed, fighting the urge to cry. Where were all my traveling mates I was supposed to bond with? Were they always going to be something I invented– someone who would notice if I didn’t return to the hostel? Someone who would care if I had never left the art gallery? I grabbed a half empty pack of stale cigarettes hidden in my bag and went to the roof. Traveling with cigarettes was a trick I picked up early on– having a lighter is a good way to make friends and smoking when I was alone made me feel like less of a loser.

So, I went to the roof, lit a cigarette and stared down at the people navigating the narrow medina streets. I see the three backpackers with the bike and realize they’re still lost. There’s three of them yet none of them must see the obvious signs leading them to their hostel that I had noticed on my way back from the information booth. Then, I get an idea. I put out my cigarette and go to the backpackers’ hostel.

I find it easily. I ask the guy at the desk if there are any beds available and he says there aren’t that night but I could stay the next night. He lets me look around and I go up to the roof.

There are six drunk Australians there, sitting around on mattresses, passing around a bottle of cheap vodka. I introduce myself and tell them there’s no one at my hostel and that I had come there looking for people to hang out with. One of them says, “Aww, that’s so cool!” even though I feel like a loser.

They tell me to have a seat and pour me a oversized shot, which I sip slowly until one of them says, “We’re sharing that glass, mate,” and I down it in a few gulps and have to focus on not letting it come back up. Maybe these were the people I was supposed to meet – they’re friendly and laughing – would they wonder about me if I didn’t come back to the hostel after a night of lovemaking in the mountains? But I somehow found that doubtful.

These backpackers, like the ones on my bus, were a different breed of traveler than I. We were similar in the sense that we hardly ever factored food into our budget yet alcohol was usually worth any expense. We both normally opted for the cheaper sleeping arrangement, though I wasn’t quite adventurous enough to shiver myself to sleep on the roof with the only thing separating my mattress from a roof party and the cold night air being a curtain. They were all younger than me by about three or four years and they moved in packs. Some of them, like me, were funding their own adventures and were surviving like the homeless – and I thought, had we been in the States, they very well could be homeless. But I suspected most of them were still in college and were using their parent’s frequent flyer miles to fund a Euro-trip that had literally gone south. In my brain, I was better than either of them, though I’m not sure why.

Finally, the three dudes with the bike show up and recognize me as the girl who works in the information booth. I correct them and tell them straight out that I basically followed them to their hostel. They laugh and call me a stalker. I say it’s because I was looking for a new place to stay, which was a lie – I had already paid at my nearly vacant hostel.

They invite me to tag along to dinner, even though I am indeed a stalker, and I accept. They are all very sweet guys and all fairly cute in the traditional American sense – even though two of them turn out to be Canadian. I’m thinking about the free tagine I never got to eat as they all order food that’s a bit out of my budget. I have bread and jam in my backpack back at the hostel, so I lie again and say I’ve already eaten and just order mint tea. I ask them questions about their travels and no one asks about mine, which I’m grateful for, not wanting the opportunity to have to explain to anyone what I did that day. So, I just casually sip my tea and mime a social person. After dinner, they invite me to come back to their hostel and hang out with the drunk Australians. The one with the bike comes off as slightly awkward – like me – and I realize that I’m sort of into him, so I politely decline. I think to myself that, this time, it’s probably better to stop at tea.

Originally written October 2015