Days before I began my first visit to Morocco, I found myself in Brooklyn, wandering around Bed-Stuy in the fall and hating every first-world minute of it.

Growing up on the East Coast put New York on my radar as a potential future home at a pretty early age. I think that’s typical for anyone in New England who eventually see themselves leaving home for a city. But since then, I had travelled and lived in a slow-moving third world for over two years and suddenly, I couldn’t remember why I grew up wanting to live anywhere so jarring.

I spent a day watching people do nothing but commute. Walking and riding without seeing or looking or talking. Just going to work or going home – to the apartments they could barely afford and don’t even spend enough time in to turn them into homes. 

Unbeknownst to me, I was blocks away from where I would eventually live – while also holding a plane ticket to a country I would also eventually live. It was tricky being anywhere at that time, because I desperately wanted to feel like I belonged somewhere so badly that I would have a mini love affair with every place I went, imagine it as my home, in hopes that it would feel right. Brooklyn just didn’t feel right yet.

The theme of my life at the time was, “Where will I be happy?” versus “What will make me happy?” And which one was more important to me. I think up until that point in my life, the answer was always, “Where.” All I wanted to do growing up was call somewhere other than Delaware my home. I joined Peace Corps just to live in Africa. I used to say I would take any job just to get by in New York. The “Where” was what I wanted, the “Where” was always at the focus of my goals. But, for the first time in my life, I didn’t know where I wanted to be.

When you’re a kid and you get lost or separated from your parents, we’re normally taught to sit tight, stay in one place, wait to be found. I don’t think I learned this lesson. I knew I was lost, and I was going to keep moving until I figured out where I should stop. And so I went to Morocco, waiting for a sign to stop.

One small sign happened in Meknes, the small, relaxed city, a two-hour train ride from Rabat. My American traveling mate, Tom, knew a college friend who was living in Meknes, so we detoured there before I was to venture off on my own to Fes – and it turned out to be a hidden gem. The medina was small and manageable to explore, the food was cheap and delicious. The shop-owners were the most hospitable we had encountered thus far. They were all eager to lead us past the storefront and into the back, serve us mint tea and show us their craft.

In one shop, we found a man making jewelry and trinkets by hammering thin silver thread into iron, creating intricate designs and symbols. We were in the market for carpets which he also sold, so he invited us upstairs into a small room lined with hundreds of piles and rolls of rugs. He poured us tea while we each made ourselves comfortable on a stack, and he pulled out one beautiful carpet after another and told us what story it had to offer. He was an extraordinary salesman. He would lay out a carpet, listen to what we loved about it and then tell us exactly why we should love it even more. Each carpet was filled with symbols, folklore, tradition, and culture. We started the bargaining dance which, since we had spent the last hour deciding we liked each other, was fun and fair – and we each walked away with a carpet we loved.

Meanwhile, a storm was tearing through the medina, and the shop-owner dumped a bag of pomegranates on the floor and invited us to stay until it passed. He taught us how to properly eat a pomegranate, by tearing it open with your hands and teeth and sucking the seeds out of each membrane. He continued to win us over by telling us how many countries he’d visited and how many languages he spoke.

Eventually, the rain stopped and I went downstairs to peruse the iron and silver jewelry in hopes of adding a bangle to my arm. I asked him to explain the different symbols: the Hand of Fatima, the Tree of Life, etc. I picked up a bracelet with the Eye of Solomon on it.

“What’s this one mean?” I asked.

“It will bring you good luck,” he replied as he put it on my wrist. Then he asked, “Are you married?”

To which I immediately stiffened, “No.” And Tom snort-laughed because he knew all I wanted to do was roll my eyes at the typical question every traveling woman is forced to answer over and over.

“This bracelet will help you find your husband!” he said.

“Oh good. Yay. Thanks.”

But the man picked up on my sarcasm, and still holding my wrist he said, “It’s true. He’s already on his way. He’s looking for you too. This will help him find you.”

This makes me melt a little as I think, Ok, well that’s really beautiful.

And then he tells me a story. He tells me that long before we are born and long after we die, we are all stars. And we have a twin soul – a star we are married to in the sky. And when we fall to Earth, we spend that time searching for our stars.

Suddenly, I start to cry. And laugh. Cry because it’s beautiful and laugh because I’m embarrassed. “Shit! Where’s my star?!” I sob.

At this point, we all start laughing and he’s still gently holding my wrist and says, “It’s okay. You’ll find your star.” And I realize, I’m actually crying because of how much I hope he’s right. He’s speaking my truth that I didn’t know was true until he said it.

I bought the bracelet and walked out of the shop learning that what my life was really missing was… my star.

***

The next day, I headed to Fes by my lonesome and lonesome was exactly what I felt. Up until that point in my Moroccan travels, I had been accompanied by Tom, and suddenly I found myself in the country’s second largest city and I felt too intimidated to explore.

I spent the first night in a youth hostel, run by a woman who strikingly resembled one of my aunts – which filled me with a nostalgia that only made me feel more forlorn. When she encouraged me to stay in for the night because there were protests happening outside – I didn’t even ask why or where – I used that as an excuse to sit by her side all afternoon, drinking tea and watching soap operas.

That night, after spending the entire day at the hostel, I snuggled up in a chair outside under a lamp with my journal, feeling indulgent in my comfort, a little guilty for my laziness, and a little lame for not spending my limited time there constantly exploring.

Eventually, an older French woman carrying a violin approached me and asked to sit down near me. I asked her if she was a musician and she said, Yes, but she gives lessons too.

“Like, that’s your job? That’s how you make money?” I asked.

She laughed. “Well, not a lot of money.” She told me about playing in an orchestra outside Lyon but teaching is how she pays the bills. And overall, yes, she manages to get by with just the violin.

She was currently on her way to Marrakesh, where she would join a camel-riding excursion into the Sahara. She brought the violin with her to Morocco because she wanted to hear how it sounded in the desert.

I could feel myself growing envious of her not-so-aimless traveling. What a simple, beautiful goal!

Then she pulled out the violin, ran the bow across the strings, and gave me a private recital.

And the whole time I was thinking, Man, why can’t I do that? Find that one thing and make it my life. I don’t think this woman has much but she’s traveling and doing what she loves and she’s happy and adventurous and carefree. And that’s a lot.

I wanted to figure out how to have what she had. I needed to figure out, what was my violin?

What could I do that would both bring me joy and income? What was I passionate about? What was my fucking violin?

And then it hit me, I wasn’t aimless. At least I could recognize that I was lost. I just needed to stop putting so much emphasis on where I was. What I was really searching for was a reason to get out of bed. Something that made me look the way this woman looked when she played her violin. Something that made me feel excited. Something that I wanted to take with me all the way to the desert.

I had almost a month of traveling ahead of me and I had suddenly learned that it really wasn’t the “Where” that mattered to me. It was the “What” and the “Who.” I wasn’t just trying to find a place to put my body and stuff. What I was searching for was purpose and love.

My violin and my star.