...leads to freak-out

(continued from Casablanca...)

The six of us shared a first-class compartment back to Fez on the 10pm train. We chatted a bit, fell asleep, and were woken at 230am by people trying to get into their (our) cabin in Fez. Dazed, it took us a moment to get off the train. We groggily made our way to the waiting taxis. It was chaos. There were more people than the taxis could possibly handle, and we needed two of them. True to taxi drivers the world round, the first available driver refused to drive to the villa (dorm) because of the distance/fare (too short/too small). His tune changed when more cabs arrived and the crowd diminished, but by then principle wouldn’t allow us to pay him any notice. Gabe, Caitlyn (sp?), and I got into one taxi, and we dropped off Caitlyn on the way to the medina.

[The following will read like an IQ test. Bear with it, as its (and the ride’s) relevancy will become apparent] She handed me a 10Dh coin for her part of the fare (I was too foggy to just shove her money back at her). Gabe and I arrived at the medina, the meter displaying 21Dh. I handed the driver Caitlyn’s coin plus a note worth 20 (30 total). He fished for and produced 4Dh. I questioned him: I expected nine. He pulled out a larger-than-normal 5Dh coin and politely informed me I had given him 25, not 30. I was tired. I was back in Fez, where I could trust the cabbies. I shrugged my shoulders, spun on my heel and left. [You still with me?] Five minutes later, my grogginess quickly being displaced by the knife-wielding vigilance demanded for a late-night stroll through the labyrinth I now call home, I answered my own idiot test. How do I know that I was ripped off? I didn’t have a 10Dh coin anywhere on me: we’d been duped, in Fez, on our home turf. Lesson learned: never, ever, trust the cab drivers, not even on your home turf. Again, nothing to dwell on, I shrugged and carried on.

[Warning: emotional content ahead]

EB asleep in her bedroom, Whitney and Jane in what used to be my bedroom, Gabe and I arrived to a house rife with the resonance of sleep. We hit the sofas and played dead. Except that as hard as I tried to slow down and sleep, my mind was picking up steam. Cab rides with crooked drivers were just the tip of the iceberg. Soon enough, my breath still with concentration, my head was at a flat out sprint: reality had found me. I slept a few winks that night, but only after unease had taken firm grip of my sanity. The following morning, when EB told me her family would be here before the end of March (sooner than I had anticipated), unease ignited and took on new shapes of dread. I was in a predictably pensive and aloof state for most of the day.

[I’m treading new territory here. Heretofore I have written about my experiences, my thoughts, the food, and the people. I’ve neglected to talk about what I’m really going through. In a large part, I’ve completely ignored why I’m here and what I’m feeling (uh-oh: the f-word). I’m not going to back-pedal here and try to fill in gaps: those of you who have been in touch know the gist of my mission (even I know scarcely more than the gist). Those who have not will gather through the context of prior and future posts (keep visiting). My goal is to let you all in a little more than I have, as much as I comfortably can in a public setting.]

Drum roll’s over: I’ve finally begun to freak out a bit, in the simplest and most familiar of terms. My time in Fez is near its end. Not only do I have the relatively abstract dates, but also I now have real, palpable, foreign suitcases exploding on what was just my bedroom floor. I’ve been relegated to the sofa. I will soon have to vacate the premises, what with EB’s family arriving. I don’t have a plan from here on out. My roommates in New York are talking about moving out, so I’m being pulled to deal with my belongings in a soon-to-be-vacant apartment in New York, a town I love to love, yet one in which my time may quite possibly be over. I’d like to spend a few weeks in Israel while I still can, as I fear that once I gain some momentum on a farm or in the kitchen, this blissfully ambiguous life I’ve found myself leading will become terrifyingly apparent (hardly possible, it remains a fear). I want to spend some time on some farms in Europe to see if I’ll love that life as much as I think I will. I want to, I need to, put some money back into the bank...

The list goes on. Perhaps you have or have had such a list of your own, and so are able to put yourself in my shoes. Even better, maybe yours has just started to creep up on you. Regardless, here I am, feeling more alone and out of place than I have felt lately. I'm carefully inspecting paths for silly fear of choosing the wrong one, unable to accept my conviction that they're all equally wonderful.