A Day in Fes:

It took this long, I am ashamed to say, to finally realize the weight of where I am and what I am doing here. Last night, toothbrush clutched between my fingers, I stepped from my small rooftop room and onto the veranda, and it revealed to me infinity. I saw the moon low in the sky, and the bright, roundness of it contrast with the ancient square rooftops it illuminated. I think I gasped. I realized I was in Arabia.

(the moon rises)

We met Sanna at four, she took us to her home, served us tea, and sat us before the television. We watched Arabic music videos. We also watched Usher.
She took us to her small embroidery shop just beyond the meat market. It lies, tucked away with other shops, some with quiet and ancient shopkeepers, others no better than mountebanks.
We sat.
We watched the Moroccans pass instead of the minutes.
Sanna then rose, beckoning us to follow, checking over her shoulder to make certain we had not been lost to the sea of shoulders. We followed through this labyrinth of a city, through alleys I knew I would soon forget, into another Dar where two women and a young girl had already sat down to tea. The television was on, and, for our benefit, they turned the channel to an American movie. Gigli.

Again, we sat. The two older women chatted, and Sanna dissappeared with her friend, leaving the two of us to the sounds of Arabic palaver and poorly scripted dialogue. Soon, the girls returned, and the older woman departed, coming to kiss me. I, however, was not aware of the right-right-left cheek kissing method. It ended awkwardly, but it ended in laughter.
We returned to the shop.

Around 9, the mother, whose name I forget, took us through the market to buy some ingredients for dinner. Chicken. As we waited for it to be cut, a small cat nibbled on intestines at my feet. And, displayed on the counter was a tray of brains. I was thankful for the chicken. We crossed back and forth through the market. The crowd swelled. I tried to remember to keep my gaze down. The sun was now gone, and more men began to ask, "how are you, my flower?"

We pushed our way back through the labyrinth, back to the house. We begged to help prepare dinner. I cut an onion. The jellabas and headscarves came off. Sanna became playful. She told us the Arabic names of each ingredient. We soon forgot.
We ate. We grew tired. We climbed our way to the rooftop, laughed through the unsophistication we now faced, laughed through the unfamiliarity with turkish toilets, and managed to arrive at this moment.
I am in Fes.
I am in Morocco.
I am incapable of comprehension.