How am I supposed to answer the question, "How was your trip?" How was what exactly? The weather, the people, the hostels, hotels, dirty beds, bright colors, speedy mopeds, the smells, the history, the....what was it you asked me again?
It's nothing short of strange and beautiful being back home. Being able to walk the streets holding a coffee, getting into my car and driving...anywhere. But still I remain stuck on how to explain why I am tired or emotional, slightly absent-minded or aloof. I have great memories of my trip to Morocco but, unfortunately, it all feels like a dream with hazy details. I seem to have woken up sweating and shaking from a vivid dream that leaves me flailing in the dark for any specifics that I can remember. Just as in a dream, was there a beginning or an end to all of it?
Ask me again about my trip and I'll tell you about the native men trying desperately to sell me a handmade rug to support their family. Or what it was like to see a man in Casablanca wearing a traditional Moroccan robe, a turban, and new Ray Bans. Or getting lost in the walled city for three hours trying to find a way out. Or maybe I should tell you about the Brits I met on the beach or the girls from Belgium who gave me a free place to stay. It's a grab bag of hard working people, backpackers, cultural cuisine, and dusty roads. The lucid stories come and go in my conscious state like hallucinations.
And here I am at home with all the luxuries I missed. The grocery store has everything any human could ever want. The streets are big enough for four cars and void of garbage. I can talk to my family as fast as I can dial, and I can reminisce with all of you about my wonderful, irrational, indescribable adventure. I've been asked several times, "was it worth it?" Of course. I learned so much about a new culture and religion, about a person's desire to make a sale, about the rich and poor, and that passion comes in many colors.
But above all else, I am most thankful for the fact that I now have toilet paper.