Two Years In The Making

I sit down and order my usual, half milk, half espresso. The smell of burning coffee grounds tickles my nostrils. The heat of the patisserie and the sound of people chattering comfort me, a reminder of coffee shops back home. There is a ten-human pileup at the counter fighting for round disks of bread, cookies, croissants and baguettes. The waiter squeezes through a crowd of people to deliver my coffee. It is almost the holiday and the shop is packed. I hear Darija spoken around me and pick up small bits of conversations. My mind refuses to absorb the words on the pages of my book as I re-read them for the third time. I set down the book and I sip my coffee; feelings of excitement, joy and motivation fill me. A high pulses through me as I realize what seems like madness fits together like a puzzle, making perfect sense. I can't say whether the high is caffeine-induced or just that sheer excitement of understanding.

The moment I arrived in town I walked towards a brown awning, the word 'Patisserie' printed across it. I passed a cart full of squawking chickens, cow heads with their tongues hanging out, stomachs and intestines in piles next to the heads. Honking and buzzing motor bikes overwhelmed my senses as I dodged the stream of pedestrians walking towards me in a certain free-for-all. As I reached the patisserie I was welcomed by four Americans sitting around a small round table. They all looked rough, wearing bandanas, tattered clothes, and worn Chaco sandals. They told me to order a sandwich but I wasn't sure how. I tried to figure out what the shop had, how to order, whether or not to pay right away and if I should wait or go sit back down. I didn't know if I should try my minimal Moroccan Arabic or revert to my safety net, French.

After eating lunch, one of the Americans and I walked to the family's home at which I would be staying. I didn't know where to place my belongings, how long to sit, how much to eat, what to talk about. I tried to remember all they had crammed into our brains over the previous two months of training. I shyly introduced myself with what little Darija I had and sipped the overly sweetened mint tea with my new family.

I swallow the last bit of bitter coffee, ask for some eggs, butter and yogurt to take with me, flip my sun glasses down and walk out. People recognize me and say “Asalamu3likum.” I say hello to shop keepers as I pass. I feel confident as I walk back to my apartment.

My cell phone reads 6pm. I walk out the door and across the dirt path to the youth center. I greet each person with a handshake and ask about the success of the activity we did two days earlier. Everyone agrees it went well. I joke about my cultural missteps and joke about quite possibly having forgotten to shake the Delegate's hand in front of a large group of people. Everyone laughs and says, “mashi mushkil,” no problem!

As I crawl into bed with memories of the day, the high returns. This time it's not caffeine-induced. Sharing a sense of humor in another language and cultural context must be a sure sign of truly understanding. I think about my recent commitment to stay in Morocco for a third year, about all that I have learned in the past two years, more importantly the things I have yet to learn. I wonder what it really means to understand something.