Meet The Moroccan Parents

When I arrived in Morocco I was newly orphaned and emotionally detached from everyone around me. Detachment was one of the many ways my fiancé Ayoub said I had changed after my mother died.

It was in the welcoming embrace of my in-laws, Fatima and Aziz, that I immediately felt a comforting peace in my soul. Their constant prayers for my mother and my family were felt across two continents. And without a word or any translations, I knew they understood my pain. From that moment on Fatima and Aziz treated me like their daughter. And it was an acceptance that my heart so painfully needed.

Fatima concentrated on loving me with food. A love language I'm all too familiar. Every visit to her kitchen flooded my senses with aromas as colorful as the spices that created them. Her kitchen consisted of the Moroccan essentials: a clay tagine to make the famous dish of the same name and the metal kettle that poured liquid gold, mint tea. On Fridays, she spent hours preparing couscous. It is a tradition throughout the country to have couscous and Fridays and I quickly learned to look forward to it.

Aziz was a protective father figure. Very protective. He was concerned that I would be taken advantage of because I was American. Of course, this was a fact I couldn't hide no matter how hard I tried. Anyone could see I was American. Aziz told me that nothing gave me away more than my white skin. And for that, he was always instructing Ayoub to keep a close eye on me and never let me be alone. In my "strong-feminist-woman-power" young adulthood, I would've viewed this behavior as controlling. But it gave me permission to relax and let my guard down. I enjoyed the art of just living without having to be on heightened alert as a solo female traveler.

Except for Khawla, my sister-in-law, the rest of my family did not speak English. It was the ultimate crash course in the Moroccan Arabic dialect, Darija. Communication consisted of various gestures, body language and referring to my knowledge of gender roles in an Islamic country. Fatima and Aziz encouraged me to practice my new vocabulary no matter how many times they had to repeat themselves. They were so patient and kind, much like the description of love in the Bible.

"They were patient and kind, much like the Bible's description of love ."

It is because of this love, I experienced complete heartbreak the day I left Morocco. I had no idea I would feel this way about Ayoub's family. I was hoping they would accept me, but to feel this unconditional love was overwhelming. In front of a very humble airport, Fatima cried as Aziz took my hands. He focused on my gaze and told me that they would always be my parents. They wanted me to remember that I have a home and a family in Morocco. In that moment I felt like I was losing my parents all over again, and I wasn't prepared.

Somehow I managed to get on the plane to continue my journey. Tears in my eyes and a prayer in my heart that I will soon return to the love of my Moroccan family . . . Inshallah.

Paris, Je t'aime mais . . .

Voilá, breakfast, lunch and dinner.

Je suis malade. Trés malade.

I had it all planed out: During a 22-hour layover in Paris, I intended to make the most of it: a visit to a museum, a coffee with my brother Nouri, a mandatory stop at Monoprix. And although my luggage was already headed to my final destination, I wouldn't let that stop me from frockling through Paris in the clothes I slept in.

"but nothing could prepare me for what was about to overcome my digestive tract"

When I travel I tend to prepare for the worst. I slightly over pack for health and wellness, but nothing could prepare me for what was about to overcome my digestive tract. A bag of organic gummy bears, a soft drink and artisanal olives later and I'm camped out in the bathroom with the worst case of food poisoning. It was the kind of food poisoning that confuses you. Do I sit or stand over the toilet? It's like, "Which comes first, the poop or the puke?"

It was utterly brutal. More so because my Parisian dreams were crushed with a flush of a toilet. All I could do was rest and drink as much fluids as I could take. Before I knew it, it was time to head back to the airport. Ah Paris, I love you, but on this trip . . . shit happens. Literally.

The Adventures of the Algerican

Preface: The conclusion of  my first trip to Paris.

I see Nouri in the distance, exactly where he said he'd be. As I approach him, his grin reminds me of seeing a friend that you haven't seen in ages. We laugh, maybe because this meeting is extremely strange, but he breaks all tension when he gives me that famous French introduction: la bise. Yes, I have been officially inducted into a french friendship.

He gives me a quick overview of what's planned for the night and we were off. Nouri made sure I was well educated in getting around on my own, sightseeing and eating well. He was kind enough to pronounce every street sign and metro station name to assure that I sounded like I belonged here.

And we made it to the Eiffel Tower in enough time to see it sparkle at the top of the hour. I enjoyed the iconic view while we ate crêpes and drank coffee on the steps of the Trocadéro. It was a scene that Hollywood has duplicated many times before, but this was my life. It was surreal.

"It was a scene that Hollywood has duplicated many times before, but this was my life."

The Algerican and La Tour Eiffel

We sat in comfortable silence when I noticed we were wearing the same shoes. It was my sign that we were meant to cross paths. Nouri casually asks what my plans were for the rest of my trip and offered to "show me around". Never would I have guessed it would include running all over Paris like a couple of kids without parental supervision. Our time together was so effortless and entertaining that I dubbed us, "The Algerican" in celebration of our nationalities, Algerian and American.

Nouri made several guest appearances on my social media which had my phone in a notification frenzy I wasn't prepared for. I could tell he was amused that I was getting so many questions about him. And that was okay in my book because I couldn't imagine being in better company.

For an entire week, Paris was our playground and he was exploring it all over again as I was discovering it for the first time. We were having the time of our lives.

And you are probably wondering what happened with Ahmad. I did manage to leave him a text that spilled out of my heart and soul:  "Thank you for saving me in the only way you knew how. It was you alone that got me to come to Paris because never in a million years would I have come here any other way. I would still be sitting at home making the same excuses I've always made of why I couldn't come. I have wanted to come to Paris for almost 30 years and you got me here, to live a dream and find myself again. For me to discover that there is love in this world for me. Allowing me to live fearlessly. And showing me that taking a risk with my heart is always worth taking. I will forever be grateful."

I wore my heart on my sleeve and came to Paris to see if love was waiting for me. Little did I know love was here this entire time. I fell in love with Paris and Paris definitely loved me back.