Morocco is ornate doors and detailed windows around every whitewashed casbah corner.
Morocco is dusty salmon-colored buildings against a snow-capped mountain backdrop.
Morocco is a seaside cemetery whose graves all face the same direction.
Morocco is boys playing soccer in the street.
Morocco is a woman in head-to-toe orange waiting for the train to Marrakech.
Morocco is cups and cups of steaming mint tea and platters of sticky almond pastries.
Morocco is waking up at 2 a.m. with food poisoning from the camel burger.
Morocco is wandering defiant and lost for hours in the maze of the medina and sitting down defeated with tears in my eyes before mom engages a hunchbacked man in a ragged pink shirt to lead us to the medersa.
Morocco is intricate zellige and delicately carved stucco.
Morocco is raw leather baking beneath a hot sun while I hold fresh mint to my nose to suffocate the smell.
Morocco is “Bonjour mademoiselle. Just one quick look in my shop, mademoiselle. Regarder, c’est gratuit, mademoiselle.”
Morocco is a mosque I peer into but cannot enter.
Morocco is walking freely among luminescent Roman ruins.
Morocco is a taxi ride without seat belts whose price I had to haggle. Wild and chaotic.
Morocco is the faint outline of Spain across the Strait of Gibraltar. Blue and tranquil.
Morocco is “I never want to leave.”
Morocco is “I feel so foreign I can’t wait to leave.”
How do I wrap my mind around you?
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