I did not know what a Medina was before coming to Tangier.

As soon as I step out from the ferry I find myself at home, somehow in a familiar environment. The men approaching me do not stress me, the five or so taxi drivers who insist on taking me to Tangier. Instead I smile and ask for the bus, argue with them and laugh at them. They tell me there is no bus. In the end I share a cab with two other passengers from the ferry (a girl about my age and her mother), my laughter and lightness contrasted to their tenser silence, maybe an overwhelm or fear of being ripped off. I notice that I have learned to better shrug off other people’s energies, to remain calm and find humor, but also: I am simply happy to be here. I am placed in the front seat of the cab. I take it to mean that the cabbies like me.

We pass the bus stop twenty meters from the port.

Anyway the road is beautiful, it winds on the hills and I can see by the life on both sides of the road that yes, I am in Africa. The sun is high and I chat with the driver and even though we’re lacking a common language we still manage to laugh together. I ask about his family, how many children he has and their ages. He asks me if I am married and when I tell him that I’m not, he says that I surely must find myself a husband here in Morocco. Jokingly he starts pointing out men for me from the side of the road, men hitchhiking, waiting for the bus or going through the trash, and we both laugh.

I have booked my hostel already on the Spanish side, for the first time in a while sure enough that I will arrive at a certain place and a certain time to go through with a booking of any kind. I step into the Medina through the American door and even though the hostel is literally less than a hundred meters away, I have to receive directions about four times in order to find it. That is just the beginning.

I ring the bell and the door opens. I enter the dark house, a Riyad as I learn it’s called later on. As my eyes get used to the darkness I find myself being swallowed into the richness of the interior: patterned tiles on the floor and walls, glass and brass lanterns, paintings, sculptures and statuettes, books piled on the decorated shelves, cushions on the sofas and carpets on the floor. Somehow a peaceful muchness. I walk up slowly on a staircase winding around a hollow space between the floors and ending in a skylight, so that every floor gets lighter and lighter and the colors more and more bright as I ascend. The reception is at the top floor and I receive the warmest welcome, am assigned a bed (the middle bunk in a three-story bunk bed!) and find myself ready to head out to look around and to find something to eat.

The Medina is “the old town”, the first town, the little piece of current Tangier that was the original Tangier: a labyrinth on a hill. The houses are stacked on top of themselves. They stand so close together that they seem to grow into each other and in some places they have done so, as the street becomes a tunnel and suddenly seems more like a hallway than outdoors. The streets negotiate the spaces left for them between these friendly neighbors and the people move slowly along the steep ups and downs: the men in traditional jackets, the women in hijabs, the children running and playing ball in between. The tourists wandering both faster and slower than the locals, hungry to see yet lost all the time. And the cats; the cats are everywhere. I’ve never seen anything like it, but they don’t look very scabby and mostly seem relaxed, living regular cat-lives, chilling in the crevices and patches of sun.

I move slowly and I get lost properly every time, only able to find my hostel from one specific street and no other (in the following weeks, this will hardly change.) I am held up often by people wanting to chat or sell me things and I find myself talking to a lot with people. I like it; I am not in a hurry and I am always met with smiles and welcome-wishes (this, too, doesn’t change the coming weeks.)

Like this I spend my first days.

In the mornings I wake early, still on the road-schedule, and from the rooftop terrace I watch the sun rise over the hills. Sweet tea and coffee are set out for the guests by the women who start their work early in the hostel. I soon learn the name of the local bread (hobbs; the very same bread offered to me by Hassan some days ago, in another life) and in which corner shop nearby I can find it. To my own excitement I dare the market the very next day from my arrival and return with fresh spinach, broccoli, tomatoes and radishes that I cook in the hostel kitchen on the rooftop terrace. This very regular feat of going alone to the local market in a place where I don’t know the language or the social codes took me one month to manage in Mozambique earlier this year. I could list all the reasons as to why, but it doesn’t matter. I excitedly send voice notes to my friends and tell them, enjoy my meal and hug and kiss my daring heart. In the moments when I am nervous, I remember to walk slower, to breathe deeper and generously allow myself the doubt.

Nadia, one of the women cleaning in the morning is always nice to me. She looks at me quietly and smiles. I know she has a lot of pain in her back radiating out to her leg, she told me this. Still, she is so kind. I wonder if she is like that to everybody and I find myself wishing that I would be like that to everybody: abundantly friendly and calm. What a gift.

For a while I find myself a little passive, a little out of place and insecure. I am waiting for my will to come to me. At the same time as I realize I’m in no hurry.

I do most of my thinking and self-gathering in the mornings on the rooftop. Re-becoming with the day. I can hear the traffic from the city. I can hear that the city is awake but up here it’s only a few birds and me and the two ladies that work here, eating breakfast in the kitchen. Here, I am waiting for my will to come to me. My will to do something, find directions. I find a few. And to not hurry my will, I remind myself that I already achieved part of my goal. I wanted to explore Africa. Now, I am here. I have no time to keep.

In my mind I associate March with Mozambique and I toy with the idea of being there in three months to go to the festival, like every year. At the same time I try to let go of that idea. Three months is not enough of time. I know that.

It took me two weeks to cross Europe by hitchhiking, intensely looking for ways every day. But I want to see Africa more thoroughly than that. I want to find time in every place. I’m playing with the idea of staying for a month in Morocco. Maybe on a farm, maybe somehow on Workaway. Just to get into the rhythm. Just to allow myself a little bit more time to change, a little bit more time to learn, to soften.

The will for this that arises in me is soft and careful. It is not urgent energy, there is no certain direction; the restlessness has settled. Now, my will is not a straight line. It’s wiggly and there are knots; knots of places where I want more time to stay and investigate. Knots like the ones my footsteps create in the Medina as my trail goes from one street to the next, getting lost and getting found, recognizing doors and meeting dead ends, turning back and going on. Knots like in the moment of hesitation when talking to someone before settling what languages that work for us, how we can meet. A little knot of waiting, trying, retracting.

I don’t know what I want. I don’t know what I want, and I try to see it as a blessing. Despite the knot this creates in my conversations when I get the question from others of where I am going or what I will do. I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know. I see their confusion and frustration, maybe, but I will not be swayed by it. I stand bluntly in the moment of silence in the conversation, insisting on not solving anything. In time, it will come: my will and the road and everything. Right now, I am enjoying my own small feats, getting lost in this beautiful city, following the cats and eating hobbs.

…

(This story told in pictures.)