There's no place like home

Whenever I feel homesick, I head to Rabat, Morocco's capital.  I spent my Christmas break there and with every trip thereafter, I have come to appreciate the familiarity of the trip more and more.  Wake up before sunrise, make coffee during the call to prayer,  throw on some clothes and head out to the bus station.  Find my window seat, plug in my i-pod and fall asleep gazing  at the sun rise over the Rif Mountains.  Dozing in this way, I am semi-conscious of the changing landscape as we move through the mountain pass on the Mediterranean to the flat lands on the Atlantic outside Rabat.  We make two stops; one in Larache to pick up more passengers, the other at a rest stop about an hour and a half outside of Rabat.  I order a coffee with milk from the same busy water and swat the same flies that buzz around my head.  Back on the bus and revived by the coffee and excitement of a prompt arrival, I read, or gaze at the yellow fences that indicate our proximity to Rabat.  The same McDonald's billboard reminds me I'm hungry, but soon we arrive at the station, and the journey's almost done.  I wait on the long dusty road outside the station.  I flag down a cab. "Aghdal, Jama3 Badr."  "Abtal?" the taxi driver asks.  "Iyeh," I respond, in the Tetouani way.  We chat about the weather, I pay 13 DH and walk in the late morning sun to my friends house, looking out for the street cat we call the "Simeon" for it's ugly, ape-like appearance.  The same rickety elevator, the same broken glass, door bell rings, then welcome words. 

It's nice to know home doesn't stay home when you're away.  If you're lucky (and I guess I am), you can find it anywhere.