Of late, I keep recalling these varied moments from other places. The times I waited for a taxi in Marrakech, hands filled with groceries. I should have kept it simple, dived into the culture around me, and shopped at the local grocery store—what we’d call a bodega back in Brooklyn. Brooklyn, the place where I grew up before we eventually moved to the suburbs. The first place I said goodbye to before leaving the States behind for the first time.
I remember looking down the street again and again outside the large American-style grocery store, about ten minutes from my house—by taxi. At first, there was nothing in the mall but two clothing stores and the grocery store. Eventually, they built a few cafes. Even though I didn’t usually mind eating in cafes alone, it felt a bit awkward there. After going once, I never went back.
There’s an authenticity that some of us feel when we’re alone, a kind we could never feel with anyone else. Maybe that’s particularly true for people pleasers—always waiting to be someone for the sake of someone else, awaiting their cues to figure out what self to be. I’m not saying that applies to me, it’s just a thought I had while writing this and decided to keep in instead of editing it out.
I don’t know what the point of travel is. I know why I went to the places I went—mostly for my studies. But the being and living in the everyday existence, why Allah took me to those places and not others, I’ll never know. Sometimes the taxis would come quickly; other times, they’d take a while. Once I waited so long I had to call a family friend for a ride home. Every once in a while, when the wait was excessive, I’d contemplate walking. It would take a while, but the path was pretty straightforward: a long road down, then a few turns once I reached my neighborhood.
It amazed me how this foreign place became my home. I knew it—eventually—as well as I knew any place back home. But it was always meant to be temporary. The time would end, the taxi would come, and I’d pack my bags to head home.
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