#the town not the storm. storm pronunciation is standard

[crumbleclub]

foxybro sprite: pretty tan

SL mike sprite: pretty pale

me: so what you're saying is young mike was always out of the house to avoid the hell that it was to be there

[disgruntledspacedad]

From the character asks:

19 w/ Javi

49 with Ears

Oh also—

What are your characters deepest disillusions? In life? What are they now?

Ah, Javi. I wish I could accurately depict to you guys how I perceive Javier Peña as a young man, before he became so bitter and jaded. Energetic, fiercely idealistic, stubborn, the kind of kid with big plans to change the world.

I think Chucho sums it up very nicely in The Kingpin Strategy.

Javi harbors very strong opinions about the way things should be. He always has. And he can’t help but take it personally when these ideals are ignored, devalued, or broken.

Javi’s first big disappointment in life was the death of his Mamá, Rosa. The Peña family was always very tight, but Javi was desperate to get out of Laredo. He packed his bags and left on the day he turned 18.

This absolutely shattered Rosa. They had a huge argument in the driveway. Some ugly words were exchanged. Javi stormed off furious, and Rosa was heartbroken.

And very angry.

Javi’s always been stubborn, a quality that he inherited directly from Rosa. He didn’t speak to her for almost a year, thinking that if he iced her out long enough, Mamá would eventually come around to see his point of view.

The thing about colon cancer is, it can be pretty insidious. Rosa didn’t seek treatment until it was far too late, and she didn’t reach out to Javi, either. A son should come to his mother, not the other way around.

Rosa passed before she and Javi could reconcile, and this has always been Javi’s deepest regret. A big part of him believes that the subsequent dissolution of the Peña family is solely his fault, and that Rosa’s cancer was punishment for his sins.

Life in the real world was a slap in the face, too. Of course, Javi was no stranger to racism, but moving away from the small town where his father had made a good name was a big letdown. This became painfully apparent in the police academy. Javi anticipated that the bar would be set much higher for him, but he quickly came to realize that often, no amount of hard work or peak performance could make a different. This played into Javi’s rebellious nature and results over rules outlook.

Lorraine was another big blow. At this point in his life, Javi was still aware of his deep desire for connection and intimacy, and he tried to work things out with Lorraine for far longer than he really should have. He felt trapped, both by society’s standards and by an abusive relationship, and when he did finally run, people were absolutely vicious.

Javi internalized all of this vitriol as guilt and shame. It solidified his belief that he is a failure and a fuckup, a toxic human completely incapable of love and unworthy of being loved in return.

The cutthroat, violent culture that Javi is immersed in with his career in law enforcement, and later, in Colombia, has affected him deeply. Javi is a soft-hearted man by nature. He places immense value on human life. Being constantly exposed to the darker side of humanity, seeing first hand the atrocities that men are capable of committing against one another, is grating in the extreme. Javi is bitter and burned out, and with good reason!

And now, we come to Ears.

She crashed into Javi’s life like a whirlwind, turned his life upside down in the very best way. Hannah Aarons is everything that Javi needs and everything that he never dreamed he would have.

He was just starting to get used to the idea that a relationship could be good and that he could be loved when Ears was abducted. Having Ears ripped from him in the most painful way possible, and then encountering obstacle after obstacle in his effort to bring her home has completely shattered Javi’s already shaken faith in humanity. Healing from this is going to take a lot of time and patience, and even then, Javi will probably never be the same.

Don’t worry, though. Ears is gonna be with him every step of the way.

What about voice? Pitch? Strength? Tempo and rhythm of speech? Pronunciation? Accent?

For a woman who is so tiny, Hannah has a remarkably strong voice. It’s lower in pitch than you’d probably expect, though I wouldn’t call it deep, and it carries.

It’s also just a tiny bit raspy, not enough to grate, just enough to notice in certain situations. Javi thinks this is especially nice in the bedroom. 😏

Hannah’s words tend to speed when she’s worked up, and when she’s really, really pissed, she slows down and really punches out her syllables. Hannah doesn’t get angry often, but when she does, she can absolutely eviscerate somebody.

Being raised all over, Hannah doesn’t have much of an accent. But sometimes, when she gets especially excited, a hint of a little southern drawl will creep into her tone.

Javi thinks it’s absolutely adorable.

[rhabakoli]

Infinite White - 8

The text Fenja translates is the letter Gandalf writes about Aragorn (i think to Frodo? not sure rn), per @finnickfoxes request. And since I am a true dumbass, I actually translated it myself, instead of just look it up. But I like my version better anyway. 

Previous chapters here.

Trigger warning: space talk. Anyone disagreeing with me will be blocked. 

Taglist:@dreamwritesimagines @i-am-always-famished @marauderskeeper @superwolfchild-fan @thescarsweleave @cgn-99 @alicedopey @alwaysadreamingoptimist @atlas-of-the-world @finnickfoxes @rmwest9 (i’m just gonna tag u now, scream if you don’t want to) 

**

“So, how’s his family? Did they suspect anything?”, Maeve asked. They were carrying their trays to their usual table, finally catching up with each others lifes. 

“They are nice. A bit touchy. His uncle asked me if I know UNO, and then he kinda… welcomed me to the family?”, Fenja answered and then shrugged. 

“They have quite a low standard to meet. They’d love you.” Maeve gave her a sour look, kicking at her. “You’re lucky my hands are full.” Her friend just grinned cheekily and dodged her half-assed attack. The mensa was filled with chatter, the sounds of dishes clattering and the occasional discussion escalating. “And did they say anything about your breakdown?” Maeve sat across her, cracking open her coke and taking a sip. “No, I don’t think they know.” Fenja halted, then looked up at her roommate. “Well, I think his mom might know. But she didn’t say anything.” Mave nodded and took a bite from her lunch. “That’s good, isn’t it?” Fenja shrugged, gaze focused on her plate. “As long as I don’t have to explain it to everyone, I’m fine.” “I think your man will be glad to do it for you, if you asked.” Fenja carefully tasted her soup, trying not to burn her tongue. Then, as she processed the words, she raised an eyebrow at Maeve. “Who?” “Ragnar.” “Ah.” She smacked her lips together, blissed out expression on her face. “Goddamn, that soup is delicious.” Suddenly, her spoon came up, pointing across the table, almost threatening. “Also, he’s not ‘my man’, where even did you get that from?” “He’s not?” “Nah.” Maeve shrugged, then ogled the bread on Fenja’s tray. “Can I have some?”

**

The lecture hall was packed, every single seat taken. Some poor souls were even sitting on the stairs, eager to listen in and maybe find some validation, and inspiration - who are we kidding, mainly they just wanted to hear that it would be worth it all and it’d get better. Fenja was sitting all the way up, last row, glad to even have found a seat. Half the literature department was here, some journalism majors too. “I heard she’s only doing this, because her husband is a Ragnarsson. Otherwise she’d never have gotten the spot.” Fenja scoffed, as she pulled out pen and paper, ready to take notes. Unfortunately, her neighbours heard her and turned. “You have something to say, honey?” Her eyes grew round, she twisted in her seat and shook her head. “No, sorry, I just misheard. I thought you said she only got the lecture because her husband’s a Ragnasson.” “Well, I did.” The guy leaned his forearm onto the back of his seat, his body angled towards her, chest puffed like a bird ready to dance. His friend mirrored him, twirling her thick long hair around her finger, smirking. “Which doesn’t make sense, to be honest. She’s been holding lectures and seminars even before she’d met him, so implying she’d need the help of a rich man is not only wrong, but also degrading to her, her achievements and other authors and writers that have made it by themselves.” He wanted to throw another comment in, probably just as entitled and ignorant as his first, when Fenja raised a hand to stop him. “I’m not interested in fumbled comebacks dragged from your misogynistic fathers mouth, so, let’s leave it be, yes?” “Listen, bitch-” “You better think of a new beginning for that sentence, because I can promise you this is not going to end well for you. I know for a fact that the dean is quite the feminist, and he does not tolerate such behaviour at all. I’d pull my head out of my bum, if I were you, because your view on the world is growing a bit old, don’t you think?” He opened and closed his mouth, looked like a fish on the dry, skin flushing. His friend was looking on with big eyes, absolutely shocked anyone would talk to him like that. “You will regret this-” He finally found his voice, anger radiating off him. Fenja sighed. “Listen, you educationally handicapped amoeba. I am not going to regret this, even if it gets me into trouble. Because I know for a fact, while I will have to sit through a serious conversation on properly handling my anger, you’ll have to face an angry dean about the way you view women and I bet you’ll get to go to a couple very educating lectures, which I doubt you’ll get credit for.” They now had enough, they were storming off, the girl tutting over him, while he almost rammed into Ragnar, who took a step to the side and watched them go. “Hey.” He gestured over his shoulder, into the direction the two asshats were fleeing. “What was that?” Fenja shrugged and sat properly, facing forward. Some of the professors were gathered by the podium, talking. She tried to get a good view, but a rather tall professor was in the way. Wait. She knew that back from somewhere. Also, that manbun beat her in UNO just last week. Ragnar sat next to her, typing away on his phone, when she poked him violently. He really felt that, even through the fluffy sweater he wore. Gods, did she have pointy fingers. He hastily grabbed her wrist, holding it so she couldn’t attack him again. “What?” “Is that your Uncle?” He followed her line of sight, chuckling. “Yep.” “What’s he doing here?” “He’s teaching, princess. He’s specialized on Viking history and Nordic religions.” He laughed at her face. Her mouth stood open, eyebrows raised and her breath left her with a silent “oh.” “By the way. Auntie asked me to tell you, that she’s in town all week, and I am supposed to drag you to dinner, so you can meet her.” Now, that really got her attention. “What?” She pointed down to the podium, where a small, dainty woman assumed position and straightened her papers. “You mean that auntie? The amazing, famous author/Journalist?” “Yep.” He’d really get himself bitch-slapped one day, if he continued to play down such important, impactful events. Fenja flailed in her seat, almost falling out of it. “You can’t just - what, I -” Ragnar caught her arm, pulling her back up like it was nothing. “Calm down. How about dinner this friday. Whole family will be there.” “Is that supposed to help me? In any way?”, she asked, her tone suggesting how it definitely did not help. “Bear too.” He grinned at her, chuckling at the speed at which her expression - her whole demeanor, really - shifted. “Okay.”

Down at the podium, Gala cleared her throat and welcomed them, introduced herself and explained why she was holding his lecture. Ragnar knew all of this, he had only come up here to deliver his aunts message. But Fenja was so cute, all attentive, eager to soak up whatever knowledge his aunt decided to share. How she sat there, focused, scribbling down notes and questions for later. She did it on seperate sheets, organized and thought-out. He watched her profile, let his eyes roam over her figure, how she was wrapped into a hoodie at least two sizes too big, how she had a foot up on the seat, and an arm wrapped around her knee, leaning into it. How she ran the flat of her thumb’s nail over her lower lip, - left, right, left again - lips slightly parted. He licked his lips, swallowing and then promptly snapped himself out of it. Shaking his head over his creepy staring and suddenly, uh… not-friendly mood, he turned to watch Gala talk about the struggles of writing, writer’s block and solutions that helped in her experience. The lecture took about an hour, with a Q&A session added. Here too, Fenja listened closely, checking questions already answered and noting them down. Ragnar caught himself staring again. He always had felt the need to kinda protect her, keep her close, in his arms, but- oh boy. Oooooh. He leaned back against the chair, crossed his arms and stubbornly stared ahead, until his aunt excused them and everyone was leaving. He’d have to talk to someone about this. Crap. Someone help him. He must have made a sound, because Fenja looked over, concern on her face. “Is everything okay?” “Yeah, I’m good.”

** “Okay, so, I’ve got some examples I need you to translate, please.”  Ingrid laid down papers in front of Fenja and sat. “We’re gonna implement this in the program, we need to get clear on pronunciation and grammar and stuff.”  Fenja looked down at the paper, then back at Ingrid. “That’s your example?”  “Yep.” This whole family, for real.   “Uh, you’re not gonna get accurate, actually used German that way, right?” It’s from Lord Of The Rings. The hell.  “It’s not about that, it’s just an example, a start. It’s about the words, not what it means in context.”  She nodded, then held her hand out for a pen. “You want me to do it on paper?”” Now it was Ingrids turn to shrug. “However you’d like, doesn’t make a big difference.”

It didn’t take Fenja too long to translate it, even when using old German, plush and polished words, to keep the feeling of the original. She caught Ingrid’s attention, as she put her pen down and leaned back in her chair. They were seated in the Ragnarsson library, spread all over the place with school stuff, research, Fenja’s papers for her essays and Ingrid’s paperwork for the Linguae Populi. “You wanna read it?”, the girl asked, and promptly put her chin into her hands, abandoning her work.  “Sure.” Fenja cleared her throat and took a deep breath.   In a sure, but soft tone, she read aloud:

“Nicht alles das Gold, funkelt; Nicht alle die wandern, verloren; Alt und stark nicht verdunkelt; Wurzeln in Tiefe nicht erfroren; Feuer aus Asche entsteht, wie Licht entspringt dem Schatten; Soll zerbarste Klinge nun heilen, Krone wieder auf Königs Haupte weilen.”

Fenja felt slightly uncomfortable under Ingrid's attentive gaze; she raked her fingers through her hair and looked down at the paper. “It's probably not perfect, and certainly not even close to the original translation, but I tried.” The girl stopped her immediately, waving a hand through the air and shaking her head adamantly. “no I'm sure it's absolutely fine.” “Sounded fine to me.”, Came from the door. “Dad!” Ingrid uncurled her legs, bound over to her father like a puppy and dove into his arms for a big old hug. “I didn't know you'd be home today! I thought you had a work trip to Ontario?” Ivar stroked his daughter's head as he looked down at her. “I sent your Uncle instead. Gala has some business there, so he'd have gone there anyway.” Piercing blue eyes fixed Fenja ij her seat, while Ingrid took her fathers free arm and pulled him over. “You speak german?” Fenja nodded, intimidated and shy. “My family came over during the war, and they never let anyone lose touch to their roots. They expect you to be fluent in german.” Ingrid pulled the paper with the translation over and showed him. “That's from Lord of the rings. She's a nerd.” “Then you must like her, no? Two peas in a pod?” He grinned playfully, his calm exterior and the way he bantered with his kid, put her at ease. He wasn't bad, in any way. He was just so… tall, and broad, and had this very hard and cold aura, if he wanted to. They talked for a while. Ivar asked her more about her family, if they came before the war, or if they lived through the harsh times there. Fenja tried to answer, even taught him a couple of words and phrases when he asked for it. Turns out, the big bad Ivar Ragnarsson was a very curious and eager-to-please puppy dog. Now it was obvious, where this part of Ragnar came from. Those two were so much alike.

**

Ragnar was minding his own business, concentrating on his work, as a body fell into the spot next to his and a phone was shoved into his face. “LOOK AT THIS!” He did. “What am I looking at?” Fenja grinned, eyes alight with excitement, her whole body vibrating with restless energy. “That's a photograph of a black hole!” She sounded so proud, you'd think she made it. Without having to prompt her, she started into an extended rant, explaining how and when, how big it was (very), and how she really wanted to go visit it (so damn much), and how it looked like Sauron’s eye (It really did, wow), and ‘what if there is some kind of alternate universe where hobbits exist and the black hole is actually a way to go there, or to look into other universes?!’ “You want to visit a black hole.” “Yep.” “You think it’s a way to an alternate Hobbit universe?” “Yep.” Ragnars eyes were skipping over her face, taking in the scrunched nose as she smiled, the tousled hair from her run over, the healthy color of her face, the twinkle in her eyes. She was so cute, this excited. So open, so warm. It was a glimpse of how she could have been, if her parents had survived; she'd be way less inclined to shut others out. He also noticed how close she was. Her arm was wrapped around his biceps, her front pressed into his side as she leaned against him, essentially hugging his arm, while she was still holding the phone up, her elbow on the desk in front of him, his forearm trapped under hers. “You’re crazy.”, he shook his head.  “That’s my best personality trait, that are you talking about?” “But I’m coming with you. No way you’re gonna survive there. Either you’ll eat yourself to death, or you set one foot there and collide with some monster.”  “It’s settled then.” She let go of his arm, laid her own arms and head on the table, face towards him. “Now the only things left are contact with aliens and society’s realization regarding Pluto’s wrong degradation from planet status.”  Ragnar knew better than to dive into that discussion. She was very passionate about space. Instead, he plucked a hair hanging from her lashes.  “But what if there are no aliens?”  Okay, he was weak. Don’t judge.  Fenja groaned, but didn’t move much. “People who honestly believe that we are the only ones out there, are either very stupid, ignorant, or just plain scared. I can respect scared cucumbers, because that means on some level at least they agree that we can’t be alone, that’s just not logical.”

They fell into a comfortable pattern, Fenja ranting, Ragnar working. Sometimes it was the other way around, sometimes it was almost completely silent between the two of them. It was like a bubble, a safe haven on campus. Other students usually tended to avoid the two of them, because rants could happen just about any time, and those two got really passionate, including flailing arms and sometimes even thrown pens. So, their table was a corner-table, but other than them, there were no others in close vicinity. 

No one wanted to be part of… whatever they had.

**

Part 9

[afrojonathan]

Day 19: Marrakech, Morocco

Marrakech is a chaotic feast for the senses, and I (mostly) love it. I can’t stress enough how insane it is. But first, in the interest of being boring and chronological, let’s talk flights (I think this is what they say in the biz is “burying a lead”).

My 11-hour flight to Istanbul wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought. I didn’t sleep much the night before (by design), so it was pretty easy to just pop on a flick (my second-only movie, in the theaters or at home, since 2017 [the first being Rocketman a few months back]) and zone out. Other than the jarringly loud announcements from time to time, I was able to pass out with a good travel pillow (TRTL v2). The only real issue is my ankles were pretty swollen (this would affect me later).

In Istanbul, I had ~7 hours to kill in the massive airport, but opted to find a comfy chair and sleep for most of it. All the marketing for Turkey did its job, as I was very intrigued to come back for a visit. I thought about it for this trip, but it’s not recommended by the US government. Not sure if things will calm down (crazy dictator), but if so, it seems a worthwhile trip. Again, great marketing!

I wasn’t thrilled to support an airport Starbucks, thinking how I’d rather support a small business...then I realized we’re in a massive airport. None of these are small businesses. I then felt justified my boring globalism choice.

Upon landing in Morocco, I was pleased to see that while it was hot, it was nothing compared to Qatar earlier in the trip (95 vs 115). I got a transfer to my hostel (more of a luxe hotel), and quickly started to realize just how careful I’m going to need to be around the mopeds that seemingly whip out of every nook and cranny. As my brother Garrett said, “you’d think there’d be no way a moped could be here” and, yup, there it is! And it’s going outrageously fast!

I also checked with my driver how my Arabic pronunciation was for “hello/peace be with you” (a salaam alaikum) and “thank you” “shukran”. I got the thumbs up, perhaps out of politeness, but it gave me confidence. 

Once checked in, my first move was to try to find a pharmacy (my mistake was A) losing my hair product and B) not getting contact solution in Cape Town). I dressed appropriately(ish) with long pants and a linen shirt, and off I went into the medina (the crazy markets of the old town). It is pretty chaotic. People beckon you at all times, and you really need to be headstrong and ignore them. One guy kept following/leading me via moped for a few minutes even though I never once said a word to him. It’s rather annoying, but important not to get rattled. 

The pharmacy was closed, and of course, many other people tried ushering me into another store when they heard me ask. I eventually found a barber who sold me some product after haggling, but it turns out it’s not really what I needed. This would not be the first incorrect hair product I bought.

I went back to the hostel to regroup for a second, as it’s really quite an intense and amazing experience (I thought, not yet knowing the insanity that night would bring). I then found a cab station to take me to the “new city” to go to a pharmacy. I haggled the price here, because of course. 

The gentleman spoke very little English, and clearly did not know of an open pharmacy (it was Sunday afternoon, after all), so we drove around for quite a while. He was asking people on the street, and eventually we found one that only had 1 of the 3 things I needed (toothpaste, not contact solution or hair product. I was proud of my miming skills here, as that interaction with the pharmacist was English-free). I got a ride back to the “old city” market area, and stopped at a rooftop restaurant for some Couscous Royal. I feel I may have paid the tourist price (~$10), but it was a peaceful and breezy respite from the markets below. After eating, I was back to the hostel for just a moment before venturing out into the medina at night. This is where the real sensory overload takes hold.

I noted my swollen ankle was bothering me a fair bit, but there’s nowhere really to even sit and pause a moment, The second you take out your phone or stop walking, you’re being harassed. Completely ignoring folks and not making eye contact is super key. I first headed towards a UNESCO World Heritage Site called Djemaa el Fna Square, but on the way, winding through so many streets. Your eyes feast on the colors of blankets, lamps, t-shirts, random toys, etc while your nose enjoys the popcorn, spices, candies, hookah, etc. The medina was so much more crowded at night, which actually made me feel safer. I stood out less in the crowd, and wasn’t harassed quite as much. Plus, at least I was trying to fit in the culturally appropriate dress, versus the tourists wearing shorts, skirts, tank tops, etc. I even at one point saw a group that looked confused and out of place and I said “stupid tourists” as if I’m not one. Yes, perhaps I’m not blending in, but I’m not overtly sticking out. 

Adding to the insanity and throngs of people is the fact that folks are regularly mo-pedding through this all. You think “this place is wall to wall people, no way a moped will try get through this. Incorrect you would be! It could be scary for sure, but you realize the locals seemingly know what they’re doing, aren’t drunk (Muslim country after all) and probably won’t hit you if you don’t make any sudden moves. I did get a wee bit clipped (just an arm hair), and you note many of the bikes are missing a mirror (probably dinged off on a tourist’s elbow). Now, the biggest problem is it seems they rent these to tourists as well, so every so often you see an uneasy foreigner trying to navigate, which throws the whole delicately balanced chaos into unbalanced chaos. I saw 2 minor moped-to-moped collisions, but they seemed relatively unphased by it all. It’s all insane, and they really should not be renting mopeds to tourists. At all. But I imagine if you’re willing to pay, you can get anything. (Including a “drug dealer” who whispered to me that he could get me hashish).

With my valuables wedged in my tight pants pockets, I moved through the crowd with what I thought was a perfect speed. Not so fast that I couldn’t take it all in, but not so slow as to get harassed by the shopkeeps. I made it to the Djemaa el Fna Square, and I’m not sure anything could have prepared me for this.

There were so many brightly lit stands set up in a massive square (so, a very different feel than the narrow, windy streets I was just in, and it reminded me a bit of the madness of Oktoberfest). Merchants and people everywhere. There were street performers banging drums and dancing. There were snake charmers wailing on flutes and men carrying monkeys (I tried to pay them little mind as I believe this is a very bad practice for all animals involved, and if you look too long, you’re being harassed). Men are hocking balloons and light up aerial toys. There are women proselytizing in Arabic and crowds cheering and applauding. In Arabic, whatever they’re saying sounds so violet/guttural to my ignorant ears, but they’re probably just speaking about equality or something. I did my best to be a New Yorker, taking in everything around me without being obvious, even as my senses were being assaulted. Except for buying more (ineffective) hair product. 0/2, and this trend would continue.

At the far end of the square and across a street was a mosque (I think) with a massive tower that was doing the call to prayer. Never sure if it’s OK to take pictures during that time, I was surreptitious with my picture taking (as I was in the medina markets as well). But let’s talk about crossing streets.

I consider myself a savvy and aggressive street-crosser, but this was at a whole new level. People are weaving between fast-moving cars and mopeds, the green walk sign is merely a suggestion (the traffic keeps creeping through the throngs of people), and when the green walk sign goes away with no warning, do NOT be in the street. My sore ankle needed to propel me mere feet away (like, one meter, to use local measurements) from fully accelerating traffic.

I noted all the colorful dressings of the women in burkas, surprised with the fact that the standard black was not all that common. I ended up taking a few surreptitious pictures of these women in front of the tower as well, but tried not to be disruptive. I’m the right kind of tourist! (This is what I tell myself).

Back into the medina to do some more exploring and sneaky picture taking. One man said to me “sir, what kind of spice do you want”, and I wondered why he thought I would want a pile of turmeric, cumin, cinnamon, or anything else. My ankle was really bothering me now, but I was so enchanted by the medina at night. The shops on the outskirts started to close at 9, and this is where it starts to get creepy. If you stay in the well lit and heavily-populated areas, all good. However, it is very easy to take a turn (or just keep walking straight) and end up in a more locals part of the market where you are really standing out. This was not the best, and it felt like a race against time as I was trying to head out and back to my hostel. As you’re walking, things get less lit, and shops are shuddering loudly all around you. 

I felt I had overstayed my welcome, and now people kept telling me it was closed and tried ushering me in different directions. It was getting harder to ignore folks now as they were touching me and trying to corral me towards “the exits”. Perhaps they were well-intentioned, but I don’t think everyone there is “my friend”, as they say. I continued to not talk to people and stormed past them, definitely on high alert as I backtracked towards the populated area, being followed and harassed. This is one thing I learned quickly - in NY, I never try to backtrack, always looking “cool” and knowing where I’m going. Here, you’ll hit dead ends where you shouldn’t be. You need to suck it up and walk right back past the people who are trying to wrangle you.

I made it back to the crowds and action (I could tell because there were people in shorts and t-shirts [damn tourists!]), but realized this was a temporary reprieve. I would likely need to go back to the quieter areas en route to my hostel. The internetz weren’t working, so I couldn’t get directions (instead following along my map as it was tracking my movements, but couldn’t tell me specifically where to go). I tried to really look purposeful with my walking, as any time you pull out your phone “my friend” is bellowed towards you and people try to send you one way or another. I also was kind of limping now due to my ankle, which, too, was unideal. 

I finally navigated (some by memory, though the medina looks so different at night) and some by barely working map back to the hostel, and found myself involuntarily and audibly sigh with relief. I loved the experience, but the constant needing to be on your guard, and the end of the night where I felt a bit helplessly lost was a bit much. Plus, y’know, I had flown 17 hours and had a 7-hour layover prior to all of this. 

‘Zauhsted, I hit the hay at 10:30, looking forward to the insane adventures that Morocco held for me the next day.