I’ve been back in the U.S. for over a month now, and it’s hard to believe that I spent that same amount of time in constant motion. I met fellow travelers in Europe who had been trekking for as long as two years at a time, which sounded less and less enviable every time I strapped on my 13 kg backpack.

Southern Italy provided a slow-paced ending to our hectic journey, as well as the opportunity to see (more or less) my ancestral lands. Part of my mother’s family came to America from Terranova di Pollino, a small, poor village in the middle of a national park. As such, this Basilicatan town is difficult to reach without a car, so we compromised and set our sights on Matera (also in Basilicata) and Bari (in Puglia).

I’ll spare you the history of Matera’s biggest — and perhaps only– tourist attraction, the Sassi (which you can check out briefly here). Suffice it to say, it’s a mess of old caves that people lived in for centuries. Cows stood on a parallel cliff as we explored this rocky ancient city, their bells the only sound to penetrate the stone-fortified solitude. The smell of tomato sauce (properly known as gravy, thank you very much) wafted out of windows while locals prepared their afternoon dinners. Josh said he liked to imagine my own, modern family living in one of the old caves, which makes for a humorous juxtaposition, until you notice the local teens, decked out in designer jeans (with the ubiquitous Tektonik haircuts), living in what looks like a Biblical village.

(On a related note, Mel Gibson’s Passion of the Christ was filmed here for that very reason.)

The infamous Mediterranean midday siesta proved to an obstacle in Matera, in a way that it never was in our previous travels. More specifically, everything closed from approximately 1 p.m. until 6 p.m. and our hotel (perhaps more accurately described as a bed and breakfast located on the second story of an office building) didn’t even get MTV Italia to distract us from our growing hunger. Luckily, once night fell — and no sooner had we polished off our homemade five-course meal — than the hotel owner, “Il Professore,” bounded into the kitchen, proclaiming, “The night is fresh! Let us go to the Sassi!”

Josh, two very pleasant Canadian women, the Professore’s 2-year-old son, and I piled into the owner’s car just as torrential rains began to fall. “We will be like the pilot who flies into the storm!” Il Professore assured us. Naturally, this was one of the most enjoyable (and comical) nights of the entire trip. We watched lightning strike the hills in the distance of the ancient city while Il Professore force fed Josh a “typical” and highly alcoholic local wine. He then took us to a bakery in town (circa midnight, mind you) where the bakers were beginning their all-night shift and brazenly disregarding all “No smoking” signs.

Il Professore had insisted that Bari was an ugly city and was quite sorry that Josh and I were determined to go there. He was wrong, perhaps influenced by regional rivalries. Bari is a port city divided into two main parts: first, a modern commercial area with tree-lined avenues and expensive boutiques; second, the old city constructed almost entirely of white stones.

We lived like kings, eating the freshest seafood the area could offer. Our hotel room was “country-style,” with a frescoed vaulted ceiling, beneath which we recovered from our non-stop travels and watched soccer. But, after two days and a train ride longer than I’d like to remember, we were back in Rome, where we said our goodbyes to Europe. The flight home was a short seven hours (side note: watched the beginning of P.S. I Love You on the plane, and despite what I may have said in the past, would quite willingly watch the end) and that was that.

To say Josh and I aren’t going to play “The Boys are Back in Town” at least once when we’re reunited in D.C. would be inaccurate.

Josh and I just arrived in Rome, via airplane and ahead of schedule, which should probably be explained before I launch into tales of our wacky exploits.

You know what’s the wackiest exploit of all? Getting all your things stolen in the Brussels train station. Being avid fans of humor, Josh and I naturally chose this route, though I should clarify that when I say “all” my “things,” I mean, my passport, wallet, camera, and both of our rail passes. So, there we were, circa one week ago, stuck in Brussels, all our travel plans dashed. I was assured that my loss was in fact the third robbery in that particular section of the train station in two hours; reassured, we went to the American Embassy in Brussels (which was surprisingly efficient) to replace my passport. I’ll say this for America: as long as you have money (approximately $107 in this case), the government will take care of all your problems in approximately one business day.

Travel plans derailed, after the break…Long story short, we were trying to get from Amsterdam to Basel, Switzerland; this involved many train transfers and, unfortunately, workers’ strikes put some trains behind schedule, leaving us stranded in Brussels. As we were feverishly calling hostels looking for free rooms, my small backpack was swiped and with it, our previously humorous avoidance of Brussels.

As I wrote, and as Josh and I repeated again and again, Brussels is a brutal city. It’s pretty ugly (this article tries to prove it’s not, and I’ll concede some of the points), and the weather wasn’t welcoming either. Still, it was a good place to relax and watch reruns of mediocre American TV shows. I got over my losses quickly and we booked a flight to Rome, where we stayed for a couple of days before heading to Matera and Bari in southern Italy. I’ll write more on our experiences there in the coming days. For now, enjoy this gem from the aforementioned e-mail:

As for other wacky exploits, Josh keeps on encountering pigeons he wants to kick, and we had lunch at a place called Ciabata Mania today. After woefully losing all my bobby pins in the aforementioned theft, a kind stranger handed me a container of perhaps hundreds of bobby pins, as though from heaven, the other day. Josh is displeased by rumors that he has gained weight, though I can’t positively dispel the rumors, as his hostel beds have all been suspiciously creaky.

Sorry, Josh. He really has remained quite fit, seeing as we walked perhaps hundreds of kilometers a day. (I could never quite understand the metric system.) Luckily, this trip allowed us to rediscover disposable cameras; evidence is on Josh’s flickr account. My disposable camera photos are coming soon.

I cite this incident to stress that Josh and I are an organizational powerhouse, and not until we were confronted with the possibility of being late for a movie whose major plot point involves a walk-in closet did we find ourselves feeling unprepared. Though I’d like to catalogue everything we’ve done (and we’ve done it all well, as Josh’s very short ”money wasted” list can attest), I hope these highlights will suffice.

It was in Madrid that I fell in love with pork products, all over again. After months in a Muslim country, an exotic world was opened up to me, particularly in the form of the largest sandwich I’ve ever seen (consumed with the help of Josh and Molly, a friend from D.C. and current Madrid resident). I visited the Prado, the city’s artistic pride and joy, based on the very morbid advice of Arthur Frommer (circa 1965) that I would have no choice but to kill myself if I missed this museum. I must respectfully disagree with Mr. Frommer and say I enjoyed seeing ”Guernica” at the Rena Sofia more. We stayed with relatives just outside the city; their hospitality and large back catalogue of The New Yorker were just the send-off we needed.

We arrived in Barcelona via the most luxurious train of my life (flat-screen TVs, sliding doors, complimentary candies — the future is now). I think I can say upfront that Barcelona, though architecturally beautiful, was a letdown; unlike Madrid, it seemed more like a tourist city than a real city. Nonetheless, we accomplished many noteworthy things here: we sat on the longest bench in the world (I’ve been as bold as to also call it one of the most comfortable stone benches in the world), we accidentally attended a portion of Catholic mass (which was cleverly disguised as a free orchestral concert), we stumbled upon a Modernist street fair (Modernists apparently make great artisan goods), and we basked on the beach near the Olympic village (which resembles downtown Bethesda, Md).

The cloudy and occasionally rainy weather that plagued us in Spain followed us to Nice, on the French Riviera. The city and its yacht-lined coast lived up to the hype, fortunately. Moreover, we couldn’t back down on our promise to visit Monaco (whose existence we naturally questioned), so off we went. There, I learned about the Grimaldi family in a hilarious and seemingly mandatory audio tour at the Royal Palace; I saw Grace Kelly’s tomb at a nearby church. We arrived in the aftermath of the Grand Prix, so the city (principality, really) was littered with tires and bleachers. However, I can assure you that every helicopter pad and casino lawn was spotless.

Despite hitting the obligatory tourist stops in Paris, it was perhaps the least touristy experience in all of our travels. That is, Barcelona was all barcrawls, and the anglophone was ringing off the hook in the Riviera (as Josh may say). I needn’t go into detail about the wonders of Paris, I’m sure. However, beyond the obvious delights, my greatest pleasure here was the cheese; it felt great to not only taste amazing, unpasteurized cheese, but to also know something about it. (For those not in the know, Josh and I sell cheese at Cowgirl Creamery in D.C.) My greatest regret? Not seeing Tektonic dancing.

I’m going into the second half of my voyage now, quite a ways through The Agony and the Ecstasy (Josh is plowing through Don Quixote). I have a bit less money than I started with (1960s Frommer was wrong again when he said you can get by on $5 a day), and I have many photos quickly filling up my camera’s memory card (Josh lives in constant fear that I will make good on my threat to delete his photo of Foucault’s pendulum from the Pantheon.) Mostly, I’m enjoying our hostels and loving their crazy characters.

Currently, we’re staying in the heart of Amsterdam’s red light district. In the middle of this frat boy’s paradise, I’ve oddly enough found the most relaxing leg of the journey — maybe because there’s nothing in Amsterdam I feel like I really need to see. Still, it’s a calm, laid-back city that’s giving me some much needed repose.

Josh’s blog also provides some details on Madrid. And, in the spirit of epic journies, check out my friend Greg’s blog for a hilarious blow-by-blow of his current U.S. roadtrip with the band The Jonbenets.

From mid-May through mid-June, we’ll be traveling throughout western Europe by train, staying in hostels and with friends. I guess you could call it the stereotypical European backpacking adventure, but better dressed (Josh bought an entire suit in Morocco, after all), with a reading list (I just started Irving Stone’s The Agony and the Ectasy, in preparation for some great museums and in recognition of my childhood appreciation for historical fiction), and with a stop in Monaco (god willing; we might have to forego Monte Carlo if we want to visit my long-lost family in southern Italy. Thoughts, Josh?)

That said, our tentative itinerary includes stops in Madrid, Barcelona, Paris, Amsterdam, somewhere in Switzerland (suggestions, please), Monte Carlo/Nice, Rome, and southern Italy (specifically Basilicata, if possible). We may try to work in more stops in France.

Anyway, what I’m really getting at is, I need your help: any advice or contacts would be appreciated. I’ll even send you a postcard.

I’ve always been skeptical of people who say things like, “I can’t speak Spanish, but my parents do, so I understand it.” They’re clearly lying, right? Wrong. I finally know what all these pseudo-Hispanophones are getting at, as I recently realized I understand an extraordinary amount of Arabic, though I am barely competent at counting.

By some miracle – probably Allah-related – I occasionally follow interchanges, if not entire conversations, in Arabic. Maybe my newfound auditory proficiency is due to the fact that Moroccan Arabic borrows so much from French, but I’d like to think that it’s because my subconscious sorely misses eavesdropping.

Either way, Arabic is beginning to make sense. (I will surely regret making this statement. An oft-quoted fact by members of my abroad group is that native English speakers can master three Romance languages in the time it takes for them to master Arabic.) Maybe I’ll be able to speak it one day.

Cultural lessons, after the break.

This is just one Moroccan mystery that my fellow abroad students and I are desperately trying to unravel. Here are some other issues that have plagued me, in bullet form:

• The douchette. Yes, this is a real thing, though my French dictionary assures me that a “douchette” is a bar-code scanner. Au contraire. The douchette is a like a bidet, if a bidet were a hose attached to a toilet. As far as I’m concerned, the douchette (as well as the bucket of water that you’ll find in bathrooms where douchettes are lacking) involves far too much hand contact to truly serve a sanitary purpose.

• The public sector. In Rabat, there are almost-daily protests outside parliament, staged by university graduates who cannot find jobs. Except, there are plenty of jobs – in the private sector. They say that, when they enrolled in university, the government promised each and every one of them a position in the public sector. I ask: Why do people who are so well-educated, who have enough initiative and conviction to protest the government (which is pretty daunting here) want public sector jobs, where they’ll sit behind the same desk for the rest of their lives, contributing to the very corruption they’re currently fighting?

• Alcohol. As I previously mentioned, alcohol is prohibited to Muslims, who make up about 99% of Morocco’s population. Still, most supermarkets have an ominously titled “cave d’alcool,” and bars are crowded with locals, enjoying libations and slurring the words to “It’s Raining Men.” In fact, I could make a whole other list of illegal and borderline-illegal things I’ve seen people do here. It’s like the society is built on Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell (without the gay part).

• Change. As in, money. It’s illegal to take Moroccan dirham out the country. It’s a fairly stable currency, and I can only guess that this law is supposed to keep bills in circulation. Well, it must not be working because no one – restaurants, stores, cab drivers – ever has change. In fact, the best place to break a bill is often the bus, a fact which has made me doubt everything I thought I knew about life.

It’s bewildering to be in the midst of all this ambiguity, so I want to end this post with something we can surely all understand: another great performance from Star Academy.

It says of Ravenstahl’s renegade history:

In October, Ravenstahl borrowed an SUV that had been purchased by a federal Homeland Security Department grant and used it to drive friends to a Toby Keith concert. When confronted, he paid the city for use of the car and apologized. But Ravenstahl also said he planned to keep going to concerts and bars, because “that’s what 27-year-olds do, and I shouldn’t be any different.”

Is Pittsburgh the new Party City, USA? Also, the article takes a great turn when it makes this offensive (though probably accurate, I’m embarrassed to say) statement about Pittsburghers’ priorities:

His youthful good looks have helped make him a sort of crossover celebrity — the Britney Spears of Pittsburgh, his spokeswoman says — who faces incessant demands for interviews and appearances unprecedented for a Steel City mayor. Seeking privacy last year, he made what this city considers the ultimate sacrifice: Ravenstahl temporarily stopped attending Steelers games and watched from home instead.

Well, I’m glad to know America’s still America. See you in June.

Last week was spring break, which I spent recovering from some vague but persistent illness and celebrating the Prophet’s birthday (both involved partying).

To kick things off, I had my hands hennaed in perhaps the most leisurely manner possible. The ladies of my host family gathered in an apartment for what may have been nine hours. We took tea twice, nibbled on cakes and cookies from the family bakery, ate a three-course dinner at approximately 11 p.m., and at some point, each of us spent about ten minutes getting our hands hennaed. I sometimes lose patience with the pageantry that surrounds so many Moroccan activities; nothing is hurried, and everything is accompanied with food.

And maybe I’ve been too hurried lately (I realized recently – despite my best intentions to be leisurely – that I accidentally walk an extraordinary amount in this city.) because I was alternately sick and not sick for days leading up to break. My symptoms were too vague for my quirky French doctor, who suggested that I’m just one of those people who “ne supportent pas” changes in barometric pressure. Still, she prescribed me some allergy medication and strong Ibuprofen (because we were both convinced Americans hardly use aspirin. Maybe not true.). They seemed to do the trick.

But whether it was the meds or more hospitable barometric pressure, thanks to god I got better because spring break is certainly no time to be sick. After realizing that airfare to Tunisia is not cheap and that Marrakech, conversely, is only a train ride away and home to the largest disco in Africa, my friends and I knew where we had to go.

Marrakech clubbing, after the break.

Our trip was riddled with setbacks from the start. The Prophet’s birthday and Easter fell inconveniently close this year, sending both Moroccan and European tourists into the Disneyworld-esque embrace of Marrakech. This made it a challenge to find a hotel; we ended up staying in a barebones riad, which seemed to employ an old man in a hooded djellaba who consistently frightened us by following us into dark corners of the medina late at night.

When I say Marrakech is like Disneyworld, I’m speaking mostly about the Djemaa el-Fna, the large, open square in the middle of the medina. The square, famous for snake charmers and general “Moroccan magic,” is mobbed with tourists, and the surrounding restaurants and souks are clearly geared towards them (i.e. overpriced with surly service). You can even take carriage rides around the city, which makes Marrakech smell a lot more like urine than Disneyworld. Even grosser is that Club Med is practically inside the medina.

Needless to say, we wanted to get out and see if Marrakech’s ville nouvelle was any better. Unfortunately, it’s a 30-minute walk from the medina (again, a product of the French protectorate), and we made the trip on foot each time, refusing to pay the cab drivers’ unfair prices. All of this compounded to make us thoroughly annoyed with Marrakech within hours of arriving.

However, once the sun fell, our irritation gave way to pure delight. Marrakech is the nightlife capital of Morocco, and, as my host family told me, it’s the kind of city where you should wait until evening to go out, party ‘til the wee hours and spend the next day sleeping it off. (My host family is perfectly suited for me, by the way.)

And nightlife was Marrakech’s saving grace. During our two nights in town, we checked out a casino – which was pure lavish tackiness, though we enjoyed the low-budget floor show – and three opulent nightclubs – where the less formal floor shows consisted of belly dancers, upscale prostitutes, and wealthy Europeans, respectively. (I should note that prostitutes are present in practically every Moroccan bar and nightclub, so don’t let this color your opinion of the type of places I frequent.) We danced until 4 a.m. and mingled with Morocco’s clubbing elite (a category of elite that seems woefully under-photographed in relation to the quality and/or corniness of their outfits). Also, we discovered the plushest 24-hour pizza place, possibly in the world.

The most extravagant clubs have high cover charges, expensive drinks, and it can cost about $300 to reserve a table (which includes a pricey bottle of something, occasionally presented with sparklers or some sort of flames; non-traditional Morocco is no less fond of pageantry). Because Muslims technically can’t drink (though this law seems to be rarely enforced in Morocco) and these costs are well above what many Moroccans can pay, the clubbing crowds are self-selective.

So, everyman’s Morocco this wasn’t. But when it comes to spring break in Marrakech, go big or go home, as I always say. I’m still not sure what my opinion of this city is, and I’ll be back in about two weeks with the study abroad group. I’ll take more photos then and check out the tourist sites. I hope to come away with a better impression.

Like so many Moroccans, I am currently captivated by the Lebanese reality show, “Star Academy 5.” (And I can only imagine that the previous four seasons were just as gripping.) This show – which I have perhaps inaccurately described to some as the “American Idol” of the Arab world – is not only a singing competition, but also an acting and musicianship competition that maybe involves trivia questions or least a lot of text messaging and Pepsi product placement.

Despite only speaking Arabiya shwiya (a little), I’m generally able to follow the plotline. The contestants live together under constant surveillance in a “Big Brother”-esque house in Beirut, where they rehearse under the guidance of their stern but loving professors. Each week, after an over-the-top musical spectacular (This week, a really inspirational pop group named Hot Banditoz was the special guest), someone is eliminated.

The contestants come from all over the Arab world, and being young and hip, they often speak in French or English, which is of great benefit to me. The only full sentence in Arabic I’ve been able to pick out so far was “Coulle pizza, habibi” (“Eat pizza, boyfriend”), which says just as much about Moroccan culture as it does about my Arabic textbook.

Speaking of diversions, my status as a minor celebrity was certainly elevated this week. Based on a flier calling for “American and European-looking extras between the ages of 18 and 40” (Never have I heard a more accurate description of me.), I found myself working 12-hour days (granted, only two) for an American (maybe British?) movie about Iraq that’s being filmed near Rabat.

Pros and cons, after the break.

Several things sum up this experience for me. First, the bad:

1. I had to wake up at 4:30 in the morning and didn’t get home until 7:00 at night.

2. I got horrible sunburn standing around on a Moroccan airbase. Movie magic will turn it into Iraq, I guess.

3. I had to wear the frumpiest “preppy American outfit,” as well as a Kevlar vest, to look the part of a civilian/journalist. Luckily, I was told to act like I had been “waiting for hours” at the Baghdad airport, probably searching for answers to difficult questions. For instance, why was a passenger plane – covered in what I can only assume was algae – named the African Arrow sitting on the set? (Legend has it that a wealthy Saudi flew this plane to the airbase and left it there. For who knows what reason, no one has taken the time to move it. Also, it might be haunted.)

The good:

1. The film company fed the extras well, and they served bacon for breakfast. This unapologetic consumption of pork was certainly hshuma (shame) and I daren’t tell my host family.

2. I got to meet Matt Damon and talked to him about how learning Arabic is hard. He was pretty nice. Also, if editing goes my way, I should be in several shots, pretending to talk with my fellow “journalists,” while Damon (as a soldier) walks by, saying what I can only assume were important things.

3. Making money.

All 11 of the Americans I study with acted in the film, and we met a lot of interesting people – from a lot of different countries, including actual American and British soldiers – among the other extras. It was disarming to hear so much English in one place; for the first time during my stay here, I couldn’t assume that most people were multilingual.

But more than the language aspect, the film was a bizarre cultural experience, as one of my friends remarked. That is, the American and European extras were largely playing American soldiers, and the Moroccan extras were largely playing Iraqi civilians in traditional dress. Or better put, we were all playing stereotypes.

Still, I’m eager to see this movie, which is supposed to come out at some point in 2009. I think I’m strikingly believable as a journalist.

(Also, I was in Asilah, Chefchaouen, and Tangier this weekend. Asilah was beautiful and tranquil, but the other two cities – because of their proximity to Spain – were a bit too touristy for my taste. I have photos here per usual.)

Just over a week ago, I visited Fez with the abroad program. The twelve of us traveled by bus through the Middle Atlas, stopping briefly in Meknes, Ifrane, Volubilis, and Moulay Idriss. The stress of being in close quarters with a packed schedule seemed to get to everyone and, by the time we returned to Rabat, nearly half of us had colds (which, I suspect, was only exacerbated by our stroll in the rain through Volubilis’ ancient vomitoriums).

Perils aside, I wasn’t let down by Fez. Fassis have a reputation among their fellow Moroccans for being eccentric (I’m not sure I saw definitive evidence of this.), and the city itself has a reputation for being Morocco’s religious and traditional center.

The latter reputation manifests itself most in the medina. Like any large North African city, Fez has both an old medina (built just after the coming of Islam) and a ville nouvelle (built just after the coming of the French). At the edge of the ville nouvelle, next to a vast no-man’s land that divides the two areas, sits perhaps the largest McDonald’s I’ve ever seen. Café McDo’s seems to be a geographic reference point in Moroccan cities. I still cringe every time I have to say it to a cab driver.

Fez vs. Rabat, after the break.

As promised by every guidebook ever, Fez’s medina is huge, with narrow winding streets and dark corners. We stayed inside the medina in a beautiful rihad that was decorated with traditional Moroccan tiles and intricate woodwork. I think we were too distracted by the heating and hot running water to really comprehend its grandeur. Upon entering or exiting the rihad, we had to walk through pitch-black passageways (where people like to hang out, for god knows what reason) in order to reach the medina’s more commercial areas.

Now, Rabat’s medina is concentrated around two main streets, with many small side streets; it’s hard to get lost if you just pay attention because the main streets are wide-open with easily recognizable landmarks. Shopkeepers aren’t pushy, and their most precious goods aren’t spices, but Dolce & Gabbana jeans. Furthermore, there’s an actual mall inside the medina.

But anyone can tell you that Fez is not Rabat. In Fez’s medina, there are real hazards. You can get winded from walking up the hilly streets; you can get run over by mules carrying wool; you can asphyxiate from the smell of animal skin emanating from the tannery; and you’ll most certainly be harassed by shopkeepers and tour guides.

(You may also be sprayed with animal blood in the meat district.)

In Fez’s medina, the buildings are so close together, the sky’s hardly visible. It’s like the outside world is closed off. To say going to Fez is like going back in time would be a cliché and probably not what I actually took away from my visit. Modern things indeed exist in the medina. Rather, the space is a huge concentration of people and goods, like its own condensed world that you really never have to leave.

Of course, we did leave, and none too soon. We were sick and it had started to rain. The bus ride, which I estimated took much longer than necessary, took us over bumpy highways that cut through the preternaturally green countryside. The places we visited that weekend – dead Meknes, European Ifrane, traditional Fez, Ancient Roman Volubilis, and small town Moulay Idriss – were certainly a (welcome) change from Rabat. Still, when our bus pulled into Agdal (mere steps from the McDonald’s), it felt good to be back.

I take classes in Agdal, Rabat’s chic, modern neighborhood, which sits far outside the city’s old walls. It’s a nightlife hotspot, which you wouldn’t know from walking around on a Saturday night, but the bars and restaurants are always packed. And god knows the McDonald’s is the place to see and be seen (Could it be the new McArabia sandwich?).

Since my 20-minute bus ride doesn’t allow me to go home for lunch, generally the biggest meal of the day, I’m slowly eating my way through Agdal.

Lot of chicken, after the break.

Perhaps it was Wednesday that I became acquainted with Atlas Chicken – I can’t remember the exact date because my mind is clouded by thoughts of rotisserie chicken. It should be known that the chicken-rice-fries combo is pretty standard fare in a lot of lunch places. However, several things set Atlas Chicken apart.

First, the menu: quarter-chicken, half-chicken, or whole chicken. (For the record, between three people, we ate one and one-quarter. “Was it enough?” is the question that plagues us.) Second, the wait: that is, there was no wait once we ordered; they have about 50 chickens cooking at once. Finally, the victory lap: the crowning glory of this restaurant is what I can only describe as a golden basin in the middle of the dining room floor, where patrons wash their hands after eating their fill; napkins are available, but they are rough and inconveniently located, as if to shame those diners who seek them out.

This satisfying lunch was not an isolated experience. I’ve eaten well since being in Morocco, though my sugar and butter intake is probably at an all-time high. Pastry shops are omnipresent and sell both Moroccan and French-style desserts. The wonderful thing is that the one-dirham pastry you buy in the medina is just as good as the seven-dirham pastry you buy in Agdal. (Seven dirham, by the way, is just under $1.00. As a friend has remarked, one dirham is practically a negative quantity.)

Some of the Moroccans I’ve met have the impression that Americans either eat far too much or nothing at all. I hear about young Moroccan women – slim, but healthy – trying to gain weight. A lot of them can’t comprehend Americans’ obsession with weight loss. Still, I think it should be easy to gain weight here. Fat is generally left on the meat, sugar is added to everything (including the super-sweet traditional mint tea and, more distressingly, ketchup), and buttermilk is a common post-couscous beverage.

Furthermore, bread has never been more central to my diet than it’s been in Morocco; the families I know all buy several flat, round loaves daily to accompany meals, and they use the bread in place of forks or spoons, particularly with dishes like tajines.

However, I sleep easy knowing that I – perhaps unlike so many Barbary pirates – will not develop scurvy during my stay. The medina and the city’s other outdoor markets are full of oranges, and orange juice is a mainstay on restaurant menus (unlike, for example, soup, which I find myself craving in times of distress).

The fruit here is generally delicious, and I think my host mother was amused when I told her how good Moroccan strawberries are; she replied that they’re out of season and will be fit for consumption in several months. I can almost hear Moroccans wondering, “What do Americans eat?