*it is a little late to the game, but I wanted to post about my time in Morocco*
A statistic we heard was that it takes a foreigner an average of 10 years to be invited into an Americans home. We were invited into our neighbors home within the first week! Unbelievable! I can tell you all about what we did during our six week stay in Morocco but what it really boils down to are the locals and their hospitality. Out of those six week, my absolute favorite night was when our neighbor invited us over for dinner. This family was a family of four, a younger married couple with two girls who’s ages were seven and two. I was so excited! I was hoping to be invited into a home to see the way a North African family lives life…and I wasn’t disappointed. Since it’s a late night culture, we came over for dinner at 9pm. When I first walked in our neighbors home, I felt as though I needed to be in a ball gown. The living room (called a salon) was immaculate. The cream rectangular cushions lined the back walls on the seating area. The drapery was cream with huge golden tassels and beads that beautifully hung on a golden rod above an open window. There were also pillows galore. It almost felt as though I couldn’t sit. There was a table in the shape of a hexagon in the middle of the salon. The table was perfectly set, equipped with little towelettes for each of us. Here, a home is an intimate space. It is a space where time is very valued (hence why it was so decorative). The night was filled with great conversation but as time kept passing, we were wondering when we were going to eat. Honestly, it was getting close to my preferred bedtime. I kept reminding myself that we were not on American time and this was all part of the experience. At 11pm, our neighbor came into the salon with the biggest dinner plate I’ve ever seen and it was piled high with all kinds of food. It was a mountain of couscous! It is a typical dish prepared usually every Friday in honor of their holy day. We ate community style out of the dish with all of us gathered together. As I started to hit a road block in my stomach we were insisted to keep eating. Our neighbor would said, “kool, kool” which means “eat, eat.” Moroccans really know how to chow down. When we finally signaled that we were throwing in the towel, we sat and enjoyed each others company. As the night went on we transitioned to the living room where it quickly turned into a dance party with the seven year old and her Mom. They showed us how to dance the Moroccan way. Shortly after, they turned out the lights, turned on strobe lights, surround sound and brought our scarves to dance with. It was a blast! It was a small room and the windows weren’t open. I’m sure we went through a box full of tissues wiping down after every song. As the time kept passing and the songs kept playing, I’d wonder how long they would keep us. By now, it was close to 2am. When was this girls bedtime, I wondered? When all of us girls were worn out, that’s when the family served us tea and cookies. How could we eat any more!? To be polite, I took one. Once I ate it, they came around again with the tray. “Eat, eat” they would say. The husband would refill our drinks without asking, which was great, but we were FULL. After we all had three cookies (at least) and two or three cups of tea, we made attempts to try and wrap up the conversation to leave. It was 2:30am by this time. Our conversations led us to marriage and all of us girls ended up looking at the couples wedding album which turned into looking at the seven year olds photo album of her first birthday. Finally, at 3:30 in the morning, we felt like we were finally free. All six of us dragged ourself across the hall to our apartment, thanking our neighbors for such amazing hospitality, and plopped ourselves on our living room, worn out and grate-FULL for our experiences in Moroccan hospitality.
