Today I went for a hike with some friends. We went up the mountain outside my window, the one that gives me great sunsets that infuse every corner of my house with specks of gold and ruby and amethyst. The mountain that is often the first to greet me when I wake up in the morning. The mountain that welcomes me when I come home from walks in the city, waiting in the lap of this Mediterranean valley like an overprotective parent. Today, I climbed up this mountain and I sat on her shoulder and looked back at my home, or my house, or whatever it is that I have after living here for nearly three months. I had to remind myself where I was, where I am. I am in Morocco. That tree over there is Moroccan. Those goats are Moroccan. I could accept where I was, but I suddenly couldn't remember how I got here. Why am I here? What events brought me to this place, this town, this mountain? What am I doing here? I ate a tangerine. I ate another. Life is good here. I have made a lot of baby steps. But now I think I am ready for more. I'm ready to climb.
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