My landlady, chocolate, and Ecclesiastes

My landlady is coming in a few minutes, and I’m dreading her visit. She wants to “see” what things she left in the apartment. “A whole wardrobe full and then some.” I want to say, “Please don’t buy anything else. I think your apartment can be considered ‘beyond furnished’ already.”

But I will try to smile as she pokes through my drawers and makes loud, unfiltered remarks. Maybe I will soothe my shattered calm with chocolate once she is gone.

The other day, I had a thought: Would it work best to be mentally present in only one world at a time? My feet are inevitably in two worlds right now, but does my mind have to be?

Yesterday, I was mentally in the States, shopping online for wedding paraphernalia, acting on a few decisions, buying a wedding gift for a friend, laughing with my bridesmaids about imaginary wedding disasters, and the like. When I needed a break from the screen, I returned to Spain, chatting with a shopkeeper, going for a walk, etc.

Today, I stayed in Spain, bouncing along on the bus to a meeting, setting up final healthcare appointments, and whatnot.

Now I am waiting for my landlady to come peer in my cabinets. Once she leaves, I have a handful of other projects I’d like to get to… after my chocolate, of course.

I’m not feeling particularly inspired to write on my blog. I asked J if he had any inspiration for me. He suggested that I write about Ecclesiastes, but only because he’s preaching through Ecclesiastes right now and that’s what’s on his brain.

I don’t have anything “ecclesiastical” to enlighten you with, but I remembered a poem I wrote many years ago. You may read it if you promise not to analyze it much; I think the only value I had in mind when I wrote it was face value.

"Vanity"
The sun races across the sky
Another day; another try.
The wind circles as it blows
Terrific sound; nowhere to go.
All day trickling streams will stray
To oceans same as yesterday.
What’s the purpose to be me
In light of so much vanity?

…

Well, since I copied and pasted this poem, my landlady swept in, summer dress billowing behind her. She snooped in the cupboards, teetered on a stool while trying to fix a blind that was broken long before I moved in, told me her moderately-unrealistic dreams for the apartment, and took the last payment of rent that I will give her.

I’m glad that’s done. I found that her presence eerily echoed the words of my poem. I could unpack that a little more, but right now, I feel depleted in a way that not even chocolate will alleviate.

J&T: A piece of our story

Besides a detailed account of our few weeks together, I haven’t written much about my relationship with J. It’s not because he has been pushed to the periphery of my life–he has been invading every nook and cranny! But I guess those were the nooks and crannies I once used to write on my blog.

Months ago, a reader asked me to tell our story. So here it is from my perspective…

We met at a wedding, our siblings’ wedding, to be exact. My older brother and J’s younger sister married each other in the summer of 2018.

You’d think that we both would have had romance on the brain in such a setting. Yet, he was based in China and I had just moved to Spain. Our minds were on our respective work, not romance. When I think hard enough, I remember things about him from that weekend–like when I tripped on my too-long skirt and he tried to blame my clumsiness on himself–but I can’t remember what he was wearing the first time I saw him or anything of the sort. He remembers even less than I do.

At the Sunday potluck, we chatted with each other. Our conversation was enthusiastic because, as overseas workers, we could connect in ways that we couldn’t connect with just anybody. He asked to be added to my newsletter mailing list.

I went back to Spain. He finished school and returned to China. I contacted him once about an article I was writing and he sent me some information. That was our only personal contact for five years.

His church became one of my supporting churches for two years. I was delighted because I already knew some of the congregation. I also knew his family. (When our siblings were dating back in 2017, I had made a point to travel to Ohio. Twice. And J was in China both of those times.)

In 2019, he returned to Ohio to finish his Master of Science with the intention of moving back to China. And then the pandemic happened, and he found himself planted Stateside indefinitely. Over the next several years, he made trips to Illinois to visit his sister, my brother, and our mutual nephews. I returned to Illinois as well, for a vacation or a home assignment, but our paths didn’t cross, and neither of us considered that they didn’t.

Then while I was on home assignment summer of 2023, I gave a talk at his church. J and I chatted a little that Wednesday evening, but I did a little chatting with a lot of people and nothing felt unusual. I was at the beginning of a long trip and was dealing with ongoing health symptoms I had become an expert at suppressing. Had I been a little more in tune with my surroundings that evening, perhaps I would have seen that quiet question mark above J’s head. But I continued my trip, clueless.

Still, he said nothing. Not that I was expecting him to have anything to say. In retrospect, it was as if, in my mind, he was married to China and therefore ineligible.

Toward the end of my time in the States that summer, he and his parents came to Illinois to visit his sister… the same day I left for Indiana.

It seemed that God was keeping us apart. And I think, in a sense, He was.

While in Indiana, I found a name for the symptoms I’d had for more than a dozen years, the symptoms that were getting progressively harder to suppress.

I started treatment after returning to Spain. Within a month, I recorded in my journal that I was beginning to feel better. I knew I wasn’t completely healed, but I was on my way. I had lots to be thankful for that Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving was also the time that J, who had been praying for me in the meantime, sensed that the time was right. He emailed me that weekend.

I woke up at 5 a.m. to take the day’s first dose of treatment. As I crawled back into bed that Sunday morning, I saw I had an email from J. I immediately assumed that he was writing to say he was moving back to China and could I please take him off my newsletter list?

Or.

I didn’t stop to ponder; I just tapped the notification and opened the email that would change my life. Stunned, I lay in bed, lost in thought until my alarm went off.

He didn’t get an answer right away; I had a lot to think through. The truth is, as older singles, we both valued our respective single lives. Could this really be God’s next step for us? I knew I would need to mourn that first layer of loss before I responded to his email. Finally, with both trepidation and excitement, I wrote back, mostly with questions he had given me permission to ask: What about China? How did he feel about singleness?

Our initial emails were full of questions as we tried to sort out if forward were the best direction for us.

Deep down, I had a sense our relationship would work out, which was based on what I knew about him, his family, and his church. At its core, that inner sense was: “Of course. Why didn’t we think of this before?”

We wrote back and forth for a bit and then were ready to make our relationship more official around Christmas. Our families were shocked and excited. Our friends were shocked and excited. At last, these two “permanent singles” were dating!

Starting a relationship while 4,000 miles apart wasn’t for the faint of heart, but I’ll skip over those layers for now. One month after our first official phone date and just when I was admitting to myself how much I liked him, J was nominated to become a pastor in his home church. The next Sunday, one man would be chosen by lot and ordained.

He wrote to me on Monday morning, and all I could do was fall on my knees.

We both had lots of feelings that week. We tried phone calls but found we didn’t have a lot of words. Tears came at unexpected moments. I wasn’t mourning; I was overwhelmed. How could I support him when I was feeling so weak myself? What exactly was the new girlfriend’s role?

The events of that week drew us together in ways neither of us could have anticipated. Our relationship deepened to a level we would have said we weren’t ready for. We learned to trust each other.

I watched the ordination over WhatsApp, tears flowing as J was chosen to serve as a pastor in his home church.

Then we picked up and kept going, in both praise and uncertainty.

He came to visit Spain in May. We had 19 whole days on the same continent. During that time, we finished falling in love and seriously talked about a future together.

Three months later, I spent three weeks Stateside, in my home community and his. Right in the middle of our time together, J asked me to marry him. Even though I had known it was coming soon, he managed to surprise me. (Well, he surprised both of us, but that’s another story. 😉 )

Then came the whirlwind of excited decision-making in the week before I returned to Spain. Spain is where I am now. The whirlwind hasn’t stopped and likely won’t as I close down my life here, move back to the States, and plan a wedding.

But I’m surprised to find how much joy is in the whirlwind too.

This message has been approved by J. 😉

I’m packing my bags

I’m packing my bags. Well, to be honest, I’ve been packing for a while now, trying to make every kilo count down to the last gram.

Mom told me the Amazon packages she’s piling on my desk in Illinois make her think of Mr. Grabbit. Toothbrushes, shoes, supplements, etc. Things I won’t have to bring with me.

I’m planning to wear multiple outfits to give myself several sets of clothes for the trip. “I might look homeless when you pick me up at the airport,” I tell J. The layers of clothing, the bulging pockets I stitched to the inside of my jacket, and the supermarket bag I’m planning to use as a carry-on might make me a key candidate for surveillance. Especially since I’m clambering into Chicago the weekend before the Democratic National Convention.

Time is winding down. Less than two more days now. My to-do list is moderate, all things considered. I put “mop the floor” at the top. The dirt on the bottoms of my feet comes off in rolls when I rub my feet together.

Below are a few snippets of summer life here that happen through the giddiness of preparing to see my family, friends, and J…

I love the extra wiggle room of a summer schedule. While most people choose not to cook or bake this time of year, I’ve tried North African bread, North African lentils, brownies with peanut butter and almond flour, and crackers with ground sunflower seeds. I’ve also attempted couscous twice and decided that “moderately close” is as good as it’s going to get for now. Puttering in my kitchen is delightful without the breath of a dozen other tasks at my neck.

I’ve been studying language at the local library. The walk across town in the afternoon sunshine is oppressive, but it doesn’t eclipse the joy of descending to the cool library basement. The summer crowd is sparse and the quiet is so thick it almost hurts until the ink chamber inside a pen rattles as someone write a note or careful feet tick down the stairs. I don’t use the library resources other than the air conditioning and the atmosphere, but it’s always worth it.

Summer has also been a good time to meet up with the friends who remain in Spain, to spend time in their worlds or let them be a part of mine. Maybe it’s English class or breakfast together. Or my little neighbor boys come up for a visit with their mommy to play with Legos, make the floor sticky with melon juice, and watch cookies bake with great anticipation.

While the cookies are still in the oven, I give them a drink of water which they drink with too-long straws. “Do you want one?” I ask the oldest boy, offering a container of dates I have on the counter.

“No,” he says. “I want chocolate cookies.” And he returns to watch them through the oven door, content to wait.

There have been meetings, appointments, and the like. This week is also my week to work ahead on office manager responsibilities in an attempt to keep my absence from being too obvious.

I guess you might say that I’m planning to be distracted for the next few weeks. 😉 Until another day, then…

Everyday insanity

A loud voice burst behind me, and I glanced over my shoulder before I could stop myself.

I recognized the man. I’d often seen him wandering the streets while talking at high decibels. Usually, he wore the same outfit: a too-tight, long-sleeved white T-shirt, tan pants, and a disposable mask.

The first few times I had seen him, I had glanced around to find the second half of the heated discussion. Someone behind him? Someone above, leaning over a balcony railing? But then I realized the other participant was invisible. The man was talking to the voice in his head.

As our paths crisscrossed today, his loud monologue slid into song with one of the most guttural singing voices I had ever heard. It began with the quality of a deep belch and moved into a haunting tune, with an almost flamenco sway. But different.

Captivated, I had to force myself to keep walking.

The church plaza was full of elderly gentlemen with canes and audacious pigeons that only fluttered away when they realized I wasn’t planning to step around them. As I started down the street to the supermarket, I crossed paths with another man. This man was also bellowing a one-sided conversation at an invisible participant.

What distinguished this man from the one I had just left behind? Did that tiny black device nestled in his ear give him license to be publicly lost in his own world?

Maybe it’s just because I’m growing older, but sometimes I find it odd that the things that used to send people to asylums have become part of our everyday lives.

There isn’t much that separates us

The public health clinic was teeming with people. Where was she?

“Over here!” My friend waved me over to a corner of the waiting room. She rushed to explain her health problem, pointing to various body parts while keeping an eye on the door where she was to go as soon as her number was called.

My breathless mind tried to keep up with her Arabic. I was still drumming up passable Spanish vocabulary when her number was called.

We squeezed around an old shopping cart piled high with unsupervised medical supplies and stepped into the consultation room.

“What is the problem?”

I took a deep breath and launched into an unrehearsed explanation. Interpreting between two foreign languages is always a workout for me, and not a flattering one.

The lady at the desk was silent until I paused. Then she said, “You both realize that I’m a nurse, not a doctor, right?”

Actually, no. I had never been beyond the door in this particular public health clinic.

“Look, the only thing I can do is test and see if she still has the infection.” She handed my friend one of those flimsy plastic cups we use at children’s parties for juice or Jell-O. “Urinate in here and bring it back to me.”

Apparently dismissed, we squeezed around the shopping cart and wandered around the building in search of restrooms. Misplaced people were milling everywhere in a warm, concrete facility that smelled of metal and sweat.

We eventually found the almost unmarked restroom, nestled between consultation rooms. Then back down the long hallway we went, my friend trying to hide her cup of pee in a plastic bag she’d dug out of her purse. “There wasn’t any paper in there to wrap the cup,” she said. “I don’t want everyone here to see it.”

We wiggled around the overflowing shopping cart again. The nurse stretched on a pair of gloves, stuck a testing strip into the urine, and told us to wait outside. My friend turned and left, still holding her cup.

“Uh… can she throw away the urine?” I asked.

While I was still verifying this with the nurse-not-doctor, my friend lost her way and, unable to read, ended up in the men’s restroom. There was an unsettled man waiting outside when I arrived on the scene. “This is for men,” he said in Arabic when my friend emerged.

We found seats in the waiting room. As much as I love to people-watch, it was hard to look around without feeling absolutely hopeless. Did anyone in the healthcare system really care about these people?

As we waited, the lady next to us asked if her number was on the screen yet. She couldn’t read; she could only hear the tone and see the digits move without understanding what they meant. I looked at her tiny slip of paper, the kind of ticket you get while waiting in line for olives at the market. It was hard to see that wisp of green-blue and not see my own personalized number on a freshly printed ticket from the private health clinic across the street. My initials followed by 524. Always the same. Always announced over the speaker while I sat in the air-conditioned waiting room.

Her number was 254. The number on the screen was 272. “It’s past,” I explained. By a good half hour, likely. She walked up to the desk and was sent to get another number and start the process again.

Meanwhile, my friend and I were called back into the consultation room. The overflowing shopping cart had been removed and this time we could walk in without yoga posing our way through the doorway.

The nurse told me, “Tell her that she still has an infection, but she needs to finish the week of antibiotics she got yesterday.”

Oh.

That was a piece of information I had been missing. My friend had apparently just been to the emergency room the day before, but wasn’t satisfied with the lingering pain from the infection. As if one dose of antibiotics should have removed her aching like magic.

It was hard to look at the nurse sitting at her desk and not feel absolutely hopeless for her. Was this what she dealt with day after day? Confused immigrants expecting or even demanding immediate fixes without understanding her role as a nurse, not a doctor or a magician?

My friend and I walked toward home. She pulled me into a North African store and bought a bag of fresh figs: big, purple, and sweet. On the street again, she handed me the bag. “I got these for you because you helped me today.”

We sat on the front steps of my apartment building until the hopelessness of the morning faded with chatter and laughter. Deep down, there isn’t as much that separates us as we sometimes imagine.

What’s NOT been happening recently

I was planning to jot down a few of the things that have been happening recently here in my daily life in Spain.

So what’s been happening recently? When I thought about it, I realized that there have been a lot more things that haven’t been happening. In fact, it’s precisely because of what’s not been happening recently that gave me time to sit down and write today.

At times, it’s hard to keep a full schedule in the summer. Most people don’t care to do things during the hottest part of the day, so social interaction hours are limited. Besides that, there are fewer people to do things with at this time of year. During summer vacation when the greenhouses and packing plants are mostly empty and the children are out of school, immigrants pile their cars and vans high with the gifts their families are expecting and return to their countries.

That means that when plans are canceled here in Mytown, the backup plans are a wee bit sparse.

Take today, for instance. I had a full day planned. Actually, several layers planned. A friend had invited me to the restaurant where she works to learn how to cook lentils. Last night, she messaged to say that something in the restaurant was being repaired today and the restaurant would be closed.

All right. My canceled English class from earlier in the week had been tentatively rescheduled for Saturday morning in case my first plans were canceled. “I hope you’re feeling better…” I wrote to my student. And she was, but not enough better to leave her house.

So I reached out to my neighbor. I enjoy when she brings her boys over to play or when I pop down to visit, catching up on the happenings of life. But she was out of town visiting her sister.

That was the point I gave up trying to be social.

It was my week to clean the center anyway. And besides that, the inch of dust glaring at me from the baseboard in my own apartment attested to a month full of Saturdays of half-hearted cleaning around uncanceled plans.

So that’s what hasn’t been happening recently. What about you? Anything not happening in your day today?

A life of perpetual humiliation

I just finished reading Anthony Doerr’s Four Seasons in Rome. Someone discarded it, and I picked it up, curious. This isn’t a book recommendation unless you happen to know that you like Anthony Doerr, but Doerr’s descriptions of life on the outside of a culture cut me wide open. I didn’t know there were words for these “in but not of” feelings.

Apartness and perpetual humiliation are part of daily life for those living overseas. Sometimes we talk about it too much. Often we don’t even acknowledge it but let our frustration become part of the existing barrier, like a thick moss growing over a wall we’re trying to ignore.

We are outsiders, always outsiders, chipping at the barrier that stands between us. And there are successes! Moments when a chunk of the wall falls away and we glimpse the other side…only to find razor wire.

“To be a nonfluent foreigner is to pass through one gate only to find yourself outside two more,” writes Doerr (p. 46). “We are humbled over and over–humility hangs over our heads like a sledgehammer… Oh, you think you’ve been here long enough to barter at the street markets? Guess what, you just spent €8 on three plastic clothes hangers” (p. 76).

After nine months in Rome, Doerr walks into a grocery store and makes an order without messing up a single syllable. “What happens?” he writes. “I get my groceries. No streamers drop from the ceiling, no strobe lights start flashing. The grocer doesn’t reach across the counter and take my face in her hands and kiss me on the forehead.” Instead, the grocer asks about his boys and speaks so quickly he can’t keep up. “…I miss 80 percent of it and sheepishly, stepping down from my throne of fluency, have to ask, ‘I’m sorry, more slowly, please?’” (p. 168)

For some, eventually the barriers do not loom so large or feel so insurmountable. But for many? “I know nothing… I never made it through the gates between myself and the Italians. I cannot claim to have become, in even the smallest manner, Roman” (p. 201).

True. Despite my efforts to integrate into the culture around me, my North American worldview remains mostly intact, placing me decidedly on the outside.

But if we let it, doesn’t living on the outside help us accept who we are? After all, like it or not, we cannot cease being a part of something. Not being a part of the culture we’re living in is because we’re part of another, or even several. Being on the outside can help us identify our own “inside.”

Apartness and perpetual humiliation are hard, but they are also opportunities to learn and grow.* And we need these opportunities to understand ourselves.

So I will try to be grateful. Even as my neighbor gives me a list of what is wrong with my couscous. Next time, it will be better. I can promise.

Doerr, Anthony. Four Seasons in Rome. Scribner, 2007.

*Thank you, J, for your positive spin on life to remind me to keep on growing!

Summer blessings

I could whine about whining mosquitos and the wet that blooms on my back as I walk to the store with the sun burning the top of my head.

Summer is not my favorite season of the year, but today I choose to remember the things I like about summer…

Electrifying cold water descending down down to pool in my belly. Coconut oil that pours rather than being chipped from the edges of a jar and butter that comes pre-softened. The chorus of air conditioners from those lucky enough to have them. Shadows sharp from the bright sunlight. Coolness seeping out of underground parking garages to embrace passersby. People who aren’t afraid of the night because of other people who aren’t afraid of the night. Late morning yawns on balconies and on streets. The long shadows of morning and evening, wide enough for everyone to walk in the shade. The coolness of freshly mopped floors under my bare feet. Open windows, open doors. Always a conversation on the tips of tongues: the heat, the dust, the wind. The perfume of sunscreen–cocounty and sweet– from those in line at the supermarket. Every excuse for a siesta. The lack of hurry from a summer culture who has time to wait. Cars and vans leaving town, roof racks piled high with bundled gifts for family just a ferry-ride away. The lessening, the stealth of quietness that crawls into town as more and more people slip away for the summer. A pace of life that finally matches the projects at hand. And enough time in the day to spend with friends (those who remain).

Part five: Friends and ferries

Click to read: Part one: A palace and a hostel, Part two: A stolen sandwich and art, Part three: Relationship advice and edible puzzles, and Part four: Tanneries and street food

My friend was waiting when our bus pulled into one of the country’s eastern-most cities. Back at the house, we joined her husband and a bubbling lasagna and caught up over supper.

When the guys left to check into J’s downtown hotel, J took my phone–the one with functioning data–in case he needed help getting back in the morning. As he left, I worried aloud. My fears were unreasonable, I knew, with his being a seasoned traveler, but he was blazing a new territory all alone. He told me that I was nervous so he wouldn’t have to be.

As soon as they had gone, my friend and I got down to the heart-to-heart girl talk we’d been waiting for.😀

The next morning, her husband got up early to make the German version of cinnamon rolls, or “cinnamon snails.” After breakfast, we parted ways–the men for a hike, the women shopping. My friend and I moseyed through a shaded market area and even had the privilege of witnessing a fight involving a shattered shop display and two irate shopkeepers. We also meandered through the city and finally found an unoccupied shady spot in the park.

The only thing I bought was a notebook for writing letters. I figured J would approve since most of the letters would likely arrive to his mailbox.

We met the men for lunch in a family restaurant with comfortable chairs. We lingered over the mouth-watering salads, reluctant to move on, even after the main course arrived. Our main course, tride au poulet, was chicken slathered in some sort of sweet sauce and covered with thin sheets of pastry dough. It was delicious, but far too sweet for either J or me. We made a valiant effort, but still couldn’t finish the dish.

bread and small dishes of various salads

After an afternoon rest, we walked to a local park–a dot of refreshing green in the midst of vast brown. We picked up a few foods on our way home for a light supper. I may or may not have eaten more than my share of the maaqoudas (potato-based fritters) because I forgot how much I loved them.

The next morning, we said our goodbyes after breakfast. It had been a short but worthwhile visit. As we waited in line for a taxi to take us to the border city, I was unpleasantly surprised to see that our taxi would be an old Mercedes rather than a newer taxi where everyone was entitled to their own seat. The driver ordered J and me to sit together in the front seat. I attempted to be a good sport, but I could already picture us emerging from the taxi hours later with crooked spines and headaches. J perched himself on the center console and somehow managed to give me the majority of the front seat without interfering with the driver’s shifting. He even dozed off up there!

Our border crossing was smooth, thanks to our blue passports. From the border, we walked to the port and boarded our waiting ferry. We had the perfect amount of time, despite the fact that we had forgotten to calculate the hour time jump once we crossed the border. The ride was 6½ hours, so we had plenty of time both to rest and explore. We did both, but spent most of the time on the upper passenger deck. There, the wind was chilly and the sun bright. As we talked, we stared at the water, mesmerized by the swirling foam the ferry left behind. We even saw dolphins for a few magical minutes.

Soon, darkness was falling. Our ferry pulled into the Almería port and we disembarked into the familiar night air. After only five days in North Africa, Spain was downright homey.

Part four: Tanneries and street food

Click to read: Part one: A palace and a hostel, Part two: A stolen sandwich and art, and Part three: Relationship advice and edible puzzles

I had never used the BlaBlaCar app before. Surely a carpooling app couldn’t be as pain-free as it looked. But it was! J and I arrived at the Málaga Costa del Sol airport in plenty of time. We checked in and zipped through security and border control before parking ourselves just inside of the international gate area to people-watch.

We were some of the last passengers to board our flight. Why rush to constrain yourself to a seat that’s already reserved for you? Our 15 euro flight got us to North Africa safely. After we landed, J and I stayed in our seats rather than smashing ourselves against the other passengers in the aisle. We didn’t even stand up, necks bent at unnatural angles under the overhead bins. (Why do we do this?!)

A man who had been watching us announced to the other passengers: “These are the most intelligent people on here! They waited to get on the plane until the last and they are waiting to get off the plane too!”

As we waited in the customs line, I couldn’t wait and asked J, “What do you think of North Africa so far?” Wisely, he returned that he wasn’t sure if his first impressions were accurate and that he’d rather wait to give them.

We stepped out of the airport and were spat into North African culture where overly helpful taxi drivers swarmed. After hemming and hawing, we agreed to a ride for 150 dirham, 50 dirham less than the initial asking price.

Once we had been deposited in our friends’ neighborhood, I asked the neighborhood guard where the Americans lived. He pointed me to a black gate and told me how many stories up. Americans in that part of the world don’t have much anonymity, and that is what I had been counting on.

We joined the family, catching up on life, hanging out with the children, and feasting on a giant stir-fry for supper.

The next day was our day to tour the city. It was my chance to show J the world that had been mine for 16 months. We passed my old language school and I recalled the hours I had spent exhausting my sweat and tears while learning Arabic. We dropped by my old neighborhood too, even popping in at the little store around the corner to say hello and buy a Snicker bar just because. (We also forgot about that Snicker bar until it became a squished pile in the bottom of our warm and sweaty backpack.)

From there, we snagged a taxi to the old city. I could already feel myself shriveling into a prune. The weather was hotter than I had expected and much drier than either of us were used to. We couldn’t keep up with our water intake.

We descended into the heart of the old city to the renowned tanneries, avoiding anyone who was too helpful. In fact, over the course of the day we managed to disappoint a lot of hopeful shopkeepers, browsing rather than buying. At the tanneries, we stood at the lookout and peered down on all of the action. There was so much to watch at once. J shooed away an over-eager tour guide, preferring to figure things out on his own.

We hunted for a hole-in-the-wall restaurant, but the only one I remembered wasn’t serving lunch yet. So we bought street food instead: neems (fried spring rolls), briouats (a triangular, chicken filled pastry), kalinte (chickpea flan) sprinkled with cumin and red pepper, and olives with lemon and parsley.

We looked for a place to eat our collection, and finally found a sunny spot along the ledge of a fence. But first on our menu was activated charcoal. Three pills before and three after a meal. With street food on a warm day, I got pretty bossy about following the instructions. We took our time, munching and tossing olive pits at the trunk of a scrawny tree in the sidewalk. Even there in that scorching African sunbeam, our repast was delicious.

From my time of living in the city, I had fond memories of climbing up the side of a hill to a set of ancient tombs that overlooked the city. But how to get there? We stopped to ask directions. The shopkeeper gave us some of his life story for free as well as detailed directions, which I promptly forgot by trying to retain everything he said. No matter. We still had Google maps and what was left of my memory. We wound our way up the hill, admired the tombs and the view and then parked ourselves in the shade until my fantasy about a tall glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice overpowered the lure of a shady spot.

We spent a chunk of the afternoon perched on a restaurant’s third story, sipping orange juice, eating tagine, and watching people swirling in and out of the city gate below. Once we had cooled off, we meandered back to our friends’ house, with one last stop to buy an ear of roasted street corn.

The next morning, we envisioned ourselves arriving at the international church on time. Instead, with all of the careful packing that went into the morning–the gifts for a friend’s family, the trusty charcoal, and the Imodium, just in case–I managed to forget my wallet. My wallet which held our only local currency.

“I’m sorry. We don’t have money,” I told the taxi driver. “Take us back to the house.” Obligingly, he made a loop at the next roundabout and waited outside while I dashed up the flights of stairs to retrieve my wallet. Any dreams of arriving at church on time were crushed.

Although the fellowship had changed since I had been there last, it was still charged with a buzzing energy of brothers and sisters in Christ uniting after a long week. After the service, I was able to reconnect with a few acquaintances before we were on our way to visit Chaimae and her family.

I was surprised by how Chaimae’s family remained unchanged. Throughout the day, most of the family dropped by, delighted to meet J and practice their English. They fed us breakfast and then fed us several courses of lunch a few hours later. That afternoon, J got a very long look into North African culture.

Our time in the city was drawing to a close. The next morning we breakfasted on eggs and khlea, a cured beef that tastes like a barn. I hung out in the egg section, but J preferred the barny beef. The guy has an inexcusably tolerant palate.

As we left the city, I looked out the bus window, wondering if I was saying goodbye forever. I felt nostalgic but realized I no longer had a lingering sense of belonging.