Scattered mind; I am leaving in two weeks or so.

…

A place becomes my home when I can come and go as I wish. Slowly I have drawn out the lines to my frame of reference within which I move, step by step getting to know the city.

Here in Casablanca I know the price of bread and the price of a meal on the street. In my phone I have numbers to some friends should I want to hang out. No one is depending on me but I can choose to play if I want. I have my own keys and no curfew. I know the shared taxi routes to the city, the name of the stops and the ticket price. And I speak enough French to order a taxi from the application if the night becomes late.

My favorite restaurant lies in the Medina market but outside of the Medina walls. In the part of the market that is more rowdy and dirty and full: of people, stuff, movement, noise. Life.
The tajine are cooking by the street and the restaurant itself is a tiny room open to the street, a small inner room crammed with chairs and a small upper floor, dark and usually empty, reached by a steep and narrow staircase. I am assuming that the older couple running the restaurant are married. They are both so friendly and warm. I manage to greet and ask for the price in Darija but I don’t understand the answer and they smile and switch to French. I get either a tajine and bread or the bayssara and sometimes ask for a small plate of beans.
Usually I sit by the street and watch the people passing by. Other times I go upstairs and rest my eyes in the dark, secluded and protected from curious gazes. The woman slowly comes up the stairs and does her prayers in the corner.

…

A place becomes my home when I can land in a routine. Here the work is easy and pleasant. I find pleasure in following a schedule made by someone else and I have been explicitly told that I can stay for as long as I want; an added sense of security.

My only sin is buying expensive soy milk from the supermarket. I save it for the evenings: I toast oats, caramelize sugar, mix and sprinkle it all with cinnamon, pour over the soy milk and, if I have it, slice a banana.

I feel most at home once I’ve made my tea and sat down by the rickety plastic table as everyone else has one by one gone off to bed. I’m not sure what exactly I will do or for how many hours, just that I will be immersing in my own words in some way; reading the old diary entries, maybe writing a new one or listening to my voice in a voice note to my self. I don’t know exactly what I am aiming for, other than that I am getting to know my self in the process.

…

Silent mind; I am leaving in a week.

…

A place becomes my home when I find friends and family around me. It’s not just about filling lonely space with talk; I want to let people get close to me. I want to let them change me just as I enjoy slipping into others’ minds and having a look around among their beautiful paradoxes.

I bring a bag of mandarines to my friend at her work. Her lips bright red today and her face lights up, beautifully framed by a stylish hijabi as always. She passionately bickers with her colleague about which of the two Casablanca football teams is better, Raja och Widad.
I ask her if she can teach me to tie my scarf like she ties her hijabi. For a moment she quiets and looks at me. I can not imagine what she is thinking.
“Sure.”
Her hands careful and eyes focused near to my face as she pulls my scarf tight. She twists the fabric under my chin and tells me where I should put the pins.

Her colleague watches us curiously. Her hair is not covered but in a pony tail. I ask them what they feel when they cover, why they do it or not.
“I feel weird when I don’t have my scarf, walla,” my friend says. “But…” She hesitates for a moment.
“Let me show you.”
She picks up her phone.
“I have this other account,” she says while opening instagram and I get a feeling in my stomach that I usually get when I know I am about to enter a holy space.

She shows me photos from restaurants, viewpoints, beaches; an attractive girl having a colorful drink or playing in the waves. Thick black hair well down to her waist. I barely recognize her.
“I do this sometimes when I go to other cities,” she tells me.
“Where nobody knows you?” I ask. She nods.
“Yeah.”
I feel like a guest of honor, tip-toeing into someone else’s secret, looking at my friend’s mysterious smile as if it were a stained glass window in a cathedral, coloring the light as it shines through. I try to express the feeling of privilege I feel for being invited, and she just smiles.
I do not ask her who has taken the photos.

…

Absent mind; I am leaving in some days.

…

A place becomes my home when I can invite the unexpected, open windows in my routine and let adventures spill in; loose my footing and challenge the framework I’ve drawn out.

The great adventure of taking a taxi to a far off hotel for a dance event. I don’t know anyone and I feel out of place, not as pretty as the other girls, full of doubts; the same wild creature, now wearing mascara instead of military pants.
But then I am invited to dance and as I sink into my partner and the beats and the purple light and I remember that this, too, is where I live.

The great adventure of decending into the street market late one night, craving bread. The few remaining vendors are sweeping the streets and packing away their goods. I do not recognize the only woman selling bread but my regular guy has already left. I approach her, ask her shyly in Darija for hobbs and then she smiles, warmth pouring out of her eyes right at me in the dark and chilly night with the bustle all around us. Her hands are careful as she chooses a good one for me out of the breads still remaining on her little table. We chat briefly in our different languages, neither fully understanding nor in a hurry to part ways. When we do, she wishes me well and I feel her heart pour love into mine.

I run all the way back up to the seventh floor, carried by the endless expansion in my chest.

…

A place becomes my home when it takes up residency in my heart; when physically leaving it becomes a challenge.

I have traded my tent and my speaker for lighter versions. Everything I am not bringing I leave on the table by my bed for others to take. When am I leaving has gone from “next week I think” to “Friday, maybe” to “tomorrow I guess;” never cemented, always with the option for fate or my will to make changes.

I have eaten all my food, except for some spices which I give away. I leave the packing for the morning.

…

Open mind; I am leaving tomorrow.

…

(This story told in pictures.)