We arrived to the crescendo of Morocco: Marrakech. The culmination of all we'd seen in every orifice of the country: sizzling tajines, singing minarets, Berber rugs and bellowing calls through the medina–they’d all made their way to Marrakech, too. Every lesson we'd learned we could apply here: haggling, basic Arabic and Berber, procuring wine. Of course, had we started our trip in Marrakech, we would have said there were bits of Marrakech all over Morocco. Perspective is eve

Everything that happened before and everything that would happen after paused so I could connect the dots and see how, collectively, they all made sense. Life slows down when you’re mindful. On the third night of our trip in Morocco, and our first in Chefchaouen, we procured our first bottle of Moroccan wine, popped it open on the rooftop of our riad, waited for the sun to set, and listened for the day’s penultimate call to prayer to sing out. As if through honey, the movemen

Tangier swarmed and swelled. Winds raced through the crowded city streets, men ogled and catcalled, making us glad we heeded the advice to dress conservatively–despite the humid heat. To the north, we could see Spain. To the south, unknown. We came to Tangier first; as if in order to understand our journey and ourselves we’d have to carry the torch that we unknowingly lit on prior trips to Europe, watch how the flame flickered as it ferried across the Mediterranean and then b