By ahblackwell
I'm leaving Morocco, today. I'm in the airport now, and my friend Netta just left for her flight. We traveled together from Rabat to the airport in Casablanca by a Grand-Taxi that picked us up at five in the morning. I only slept for about two hours, if even. After one last couscous lunch with my host family, one last Uno game with my little host brother, and one last long afternoon at the beach with friends, we finished packing and got a slice of pizza in the medina before all gathering in one of our rooms to spend a last bit of time, together. At three in the morning we woke up to finish getting ready, and then I went downstairs to send off a large group of people heading for the Rabat airport. It was a sad goodbye. Those of us who remained waved farewell as the van, full of our friends' tired and sullen faces, pulled away. I decided to travel to Casablanca with Netta to get her flight early in the morning, despite the fact that my flight won't leave until around noon. When we got to the airport, we watched the Moroccan sun rise from the parking lot before heading inside checking her in for her flight and grabbing a café au lait. Now I am just people-watching and waiting to be able to check in for mine.
The past week went so quickly but was packed with a combination of both wonderful and difficult moments. Many of the difficult moments included dealing with the normal trials and tribulations of Morocco (such as street harassment) in the new context of, "I can't wait to not deal with this, anymore," and also the many number of goodbyes I've had to say, this week. Nevertheless, the week was wonderful.
Presentations for our independent studies went very well and I was proud of everyone who presented, including myself. Talking about my work with my classmates and my project advisor made me realize how much I have learned this semester, both about the subject of my project and about my own abilities as a student and a researcher. The feeling was incredibly rewarding.
On Thursday evening, we all got dressed up in Moroccan garb and went to our school building, the CCCL, for a Moroccan-style cookout that Brahime, the CCCL's cook, prepared for us on the terrace. I wore the ensemble that my friend's host mother made for me - a red skirt trimmed with intricate red and gold embroidery detail and a little matching jacket that stops at my ribs so that the detail of the skirt can be seen. We munched on grilled kabobs and watermelon and talked with our academic directors as the sun set around us. Seeing everyone in our Moroccan clothes in the same place that we all first met made me realize how full-circle we had come during the duration of the program. The evening was beautiful.
I said goodbye to the CCCL at the first point where I first fell in love with it -- the terrace on the second floor that overlooks the courtyard, below. Leaning with my elbows against the railing, straining on my tip-toes to peer over the edge, tears came to my eyes as I whispered, "B'salaama" to the darkening courtyard below. I will never forget the magic of the CCCL; it's tiled walls and stained-glass windows, hidden by the noises and the smells of a busy Moroccan medina, will always be with me.