The world traveler gig has always appealed to the wilder side of me, but a deep set sense
of anxiety has been its counterbalance as long as I can remember. When my boyfriend told me
that the deadline to apply to spend the fall semester on the Morocco campus, I finally let the wild
streak win over, partially fueled by a medically inadvisable amount of caffeine and partially by
the overwhelming desire to uproot and leave home. I sent in the application immediately, and
only a few days later, I was approved.
Getting to Morocco was the typical air travel experience, something I was somewhat
familiar with, having gone to the UK before with my family. Arrival, catching trains, a
whirlwind orientation, and finally, classes. The first day of classes marked nearly a full week of
having been in Tangier, but most of us had our eyes set on our first free day. No classes, no group
excursions, no nothing to keep us from exploring.
I am, by nature, an artist. A poet, usually, and I often find myself frantically scratching
lines into the notebooks I keep scattered around my life, in my car, in my backpack, on my
bedside table. Life without writing is no life at all, and yet for the last two weeks my pen seemed
to have dried up and left me wanting. My writer’s block was in full swing, and I was desperate to
crawl into bed and take a nap to relieve myself of the mental irritation. Tired, aching, and
desperate for some font of creativity, my first free day seemed to taunt me. I wanted to spend the
day writing, but instead I laid in bed and wallowed in the misery of my sore knees and my
distinct lack of poetry.
When invited out, I first declined. Again and again, I said I was too tired, that I just
wanted to rest. Still, I found myself watching my friends get ready to go out, and the same wild
streak in me that pushed me to Morocco pushed me into the taxi with them when they left for the
marina, where a strip of clubs lay in wait. At nearly midnight, the city was still as vibrant as
daytime, with families in the parks, children on the playgrounds, and an air of comfort and
merriment surrounding everyone as they unwound from the day. The difference from where I
grew up was astounding.
Finally arriving at the marina, we walked up and down the strip until we decided on Snob
Club. A clown on stilts enticed us in, and we found our seats under the strobing lasers and
pounding bass. We felt awkward, a clear group of tourists in an unfamiliar city, but no one there
paid us much mind. As the men behind us stood up to dance to their favorite song, hookah smoke
filling the air, I made my peace with my own internal conflict, whether to play it safe or to enjoy
the ride, and I felt the dam blocking my pen crack.