“Feen?” Sara asks.

“Qareeb min al-burtuqal.” Near the orange, I tell her,

because I can’t remember the plural for “orange.” We are meeting

our friends, and the fruit stands are the designated meeting spot. Sara nods and smiles instead of correcting me and leads me by the hand through a sea of brilliantly colored kaftans: oranges, pinks, teals, and reds. Clutching my purse and her hand, I stammer “smehli” and “smehili” (the masculine and feminine forms of excuse me) in every

direction as we squeeze through the tangle of clothing, children, motorcycles, and taxis. We stop in front of a row of ten cobalt blue carts piled high with oranges, identical except for the man standing behind each. My sunglasses slide slowly down my nose as we wait for our friends to arrive, and I can feel the back of my neck starting to burn. The chanting beat of a song blares from a nearby stereo, mingling with the calls of dinner specials, jewelry prices, Allah akbar, and Hello American princess. I let my hair down, having forgotten my sun block.

Hot Mint Tea in Julyby Marissa Dearing

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Djemaa el Fna: The Market in Marrakesh

This past summer I went to Morocco to study Arabic and explore Moroccan culture as one of a group of 20 American students. The immersion program, hosted by Legacy International and funded in part by the U.S. State Department, involved intensive Arabic instruction and home stays with Moroccan families in Marrakesh and Rabat. There were side trips to Zagora, the Sahara Desert, Essaouira, Fez, Rabat, and Casablanca, as well as guest speakers, intercultural dialogues with Moroccan students, and community service opportunities. I learned about the program while searching the Internet for an Arabic course, and was entranced by the idea of spending the summer in an exotic location, immersed in a language I had come to love.

Perhaps because my mother is Cuban, our family has always been open to other cultures. When I was a little girl, I became fascinated with the stories I saw on CNN about the Middle East and other Arabic-speaking countries. For the past two years, I have taken twice-weekly Arabic lessons from a tutor in a reading room at my school library. I studied homemade flash cards, pored over Modern Standard Arabic grammar, and listened to Arabic dialogues on my computer.

Although my parents were a little wary of my spending six weeks in a faraway land, they thought it would be a great opportunity to improve my Arabic language skills and learn about a different culture. Still, I was a bit nervous. Would I really be able to communicate with my host family? I redoubled my efforts to absorb as much as possible before the trip. As I packed and exchanged e-mails with other student participants, I couldn’t help thinking: Will I like my host family? Will they like me? Will we connect?

But from the start, I knew that six weeks would not be nearly enough. In Marrakesh, my host family embraced me with open arms and lavished me with food. Their home was small, but beautifully exotic. I loved the room where we shared our meals, a room encircled with couches covered in rich fabrics. We watched movies together, sometimes in French and sometimes in Arabic. I looked on as my host mother wrapped her scarf over her hair, color-coordinating her scarf-pin and heels.

In addition to my host parents and host sister Sara, I met brothers, uncles, aunts, grandparents, and cousins on weekend visits to nearby towns and cities. Over the abundant feasts these visits invariably entailed, I spoke in my still shaky Moroccan dialect and marveled when the relatives seemed to understand me.

At first my host mother, reminding me of my own

mother, drove me to school, afraid that I would be “stolen” if I rode alone in a taxi. Later, I would navigate taxis with ease. We attended school every day except Sunday, in classes held just for the kids in the program. There, we studied not only Modern Standard Arabic, but also the less formal Moroccan spoken dialect, called darija — a mix of French, formal Arabic, and modifications (usually contractions) of formal Arabic. Our teacher was very animated; he moved around the classroom, gesturing and calling on us, encouraging us to speak. Although the pace was much quicker than it had been at home, the atmosphere was relaxed and the students eager.

With Spanish, which I’ve studied at school since third grade, I was hesitant to speak until I was sure I could do it very well. But having class every day and being able to practice my Arabic with people around me made a tremendous difference. I strained to hear and understand all the conversations around me, and tried out the language every opportunity I got. It was nerve-wracking, exhausting, and exhilarating. I spent endless hours at the Djemaa el Fna, the famous open-air market in Marrakesh, where bargaining is an art form. In many ways, it was my language laboratory. Initially Sara did all the negotiating, but soon after my arrival I dove in. Some of my most meaningful conversations were with merchants and shopkeepers, debating politics and global health. I remember one shopkeeper telling me that language makes a world culture, and that America is a

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place where every culture can flourish.

One thing we could always talk about was food. I think I probably ate my bodyweight in Moroccan bread every day, which is dense, delicious, and plentiful. Breakfast went on forever; dinner sometimes began at midnight. The tagines—beef, chicken, lamb, all slow cooked—were ubiquitous. In Rabat, we ate without utensils, sopping up the rich sauces with bread. On Fridays, holy days for Muslims, we had couscous with nuts, chickpeas, and sweet onions, occasionally with sizzling chunks of chicken or beef mixed in.

Feeling adventurous, I ate snails for the first time. They were

a cumin-and-saffron paradise. I discovered dates, harira—a traditional Moroccan soup—and bastilla, made with squab and a great deal of brown sugar. I devoured almond-filled pastries and caramel flans and fell in love with mint tea, the national beverage. I loved feeling the steam of the still-boiling tea on my face as I inhaled the mint. I bought a set of tea glasses for home.

I immersed myself in the rhythm of daily life in Morocco. Time is not as fixed there, and I savored the slower pace. I discovered haunting Gnawan music (a mix of Arabic, Berber, and African influences) and danced on stage at a concert alongside musicians wearing hats

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Top: Strolling through the market, MarrakeshBottom: The Attarine Madrassa School

with tassels that whirled in circles. I was enthralled by the music of Umm Kulthum, an Egyptian singer famous throughout the Arab world.

At school we listened to a talk given by an imam—the religious, social, and political leader of a community—and learned about the Muslim faith. I bought a Koran. I watched street vendors spiral dirty hands with intricate calligraphy, and took a calligraphy lesson (far more difficult than it looks). Everywhere, I waded through traffic, having learned to make eye contact with the drivers.

We dressed more conservatively than at home, although there was a great deal of variety in dress in the larger cities. We saw burkas and skin-tight jeans walking side by side. I bought one of the lovely embroidered blouses I had seen the girls in Marrakesh wearing. On a trip to the Sahara Desert, I donned a jellaba, a long flowing skirt that stretched down to my ankles. Sitting on a camel for the two-hour ride to the dunes, I enjoyed the added protection of a turban.

Led by our Moroccan teachers and guides, we explored the diverse Moroccan landscape, crossing the Atlas Mountains and visiting beautiful cities and villages: the colorful, palm-tree dotted city of Marrakesh, the humid city of Rabat, the blue and white fishing village of Essaouira, the cultural and spiritual jewel that is Fez, and the soft, reddish dunes of the Sahara, which burned during the day and felt like cool iron filings at night. We slept on those dunes, blanketed only by the still-warm desert air. I watched the sun rise from behind an enormous dune and admired colors my camera could never, ever capture. I took hundreds of photos every day and still felt like I missed a million opportunities.

We tutored Moroccan students who were eager to learn English, painted blackboards at a school in Essaouira, and visited children in an orphanage in Marrakesh. I had brought pencils, stickers, and little toy cars from the States, and gave them to the children. They clamored for the goodies. I noticed a little boy smiling shyly at me, and I drew a smiley face on his hand and gave him my pen. Afterward he was beaming. I spoke to the kids with the darija that I knew, but mostly we communicated with hand gestures and smiles. We talked at length with Moroccan high school students, exchanging Facebook and e-mail information. We made friends.

My experiences in Morocco will stay with me for a lifetime. I miss hearing that my eyes are beautiful while wearing reflective sunglasses, and having my conversations leavened with “Thanks be to God” and “To your health.” Answering blind panhandlers with “May

God make it easy for you.” Forgetting the English words for things. Waking up covered in sweat and not looking frantically for a fan. Feeling overwhelmed and excited and ashamed and grateful all at once by the constant and excessive hospitality. Saying thank you more often than blinking. Meaning it. i

Marissa Dearing is a junior at the Maret School in Washington, DC. In addition to Arabic, she studies Spanish, Latin, An-cient Greek, and begin-

ning Chinese. Managing editor of her school newspaper, Marissa also edits the school’s literary and visual arts magazine. In her spare time, she tutors Latino students, enjoys photography and drawing, and practices laido, a Japanese martial art that uses samurai swords.

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