At Nanyuki DEB Primary School, the classrooms may not have the newest technology or the fanciest buildings, but they have something far more powerful…curiosity. Sometimes the best conversations start with the most unexpected questions. In one classroom in Nanyuki, Kenya, a group of ten and eleven year olds wanted to know if I believed in mermaids. A moment later someone asked about Area 51, aliens, and whether dragons are real. Another student wanted to know if I had ever seen Ohio State University. And then, just as quickly, the questions turned deeper: Why do people die? Why do we have different skin colors? They spoke about the challenges young people face growing up in Kenya today. And in the very next breath, someone asked if, when traveling by plane, I had ever seen the end of a rainbow.
Sitting in those classrooms at Nanyuki DEB School, I realized this wasn’t just a visit to a school. It was a window into the curiosity, imagination, and very real concerns of the young people growing up here. A reminder that classrooms everywhere are filled with the same thing, young minds trying to understand the world.
After those questions, the lesson continued. The classrooms are full, desks are shared, and with limited resources, I found myself at the front of the room, chalk in hand, writing on a cracked blackboard. Their voices echoed back in unison, repeating each sentence I had written.
Maybe it’s because I am a visitor, a white woman from the USA, but the eagerness here doesn’t feel limited at all. Hands shoot up quickly. Students lean forward, laugh easily, smile often. They want to know. They want to understand. They want to trace the lines of my tattoos and hear the stories behind them. They reach for my hair, commenting on how “soft” it is. Their curiosity isn’t just about the lesson…it’s about the world beyond it, and about me as a small piece of that world.
It doesn’t remind me of classrooms back home, filled with the latest technology. I haven’t seen a copy machine here, or a computer, or a PowerPoint projector, things that felt standard even in rural China. In many ways, it couldn’t be more different. And yet, the one thing that carries across every border, every language, every system is that same curiosity I saw in those first questions. And a smile really is a universal language.
One thing that did surprise me is that, aside from Kiswahili lessons, subjects like math, science, and agriculture are all taught in English. It’s a reminder of how much language shapes access and opportunity.
Over the years of teaching English in different parts of the world, I’ve learned that what matters most isn’t technology or perfectly planned lessons. It’s your time. A nonjudgmental ear. A kind smile. If you take the time to listen, really listen, not just to respond, the young people will meet you there. They will engage. They will share. And more often than not, they will teach you far more than you ever expected to teach them.
For many families in Kenya, especially those living in remote areas or in deep poverty, access to healthcare is not a given. It’s a challenge. The cost of transportation alone can be enough to keep people from ever reaching a clinic. In those cases, families often turn first to traditional healers within their communities for answers and care.
Adding to that reality are deeply rooted beliefs and widespread stigma surrounding disability. This is not unique to Kenya. It exists in many parts of the world, but here it can be especially visible. Some still believe that disabilities are caused by curses, witchcraft, evil spirits, or even wrongdoing within a family. These beliefs don’t just exist in theory; they shape how children are treated. Some are hidden away. Some are neglected, abandoned, or abused. And in the most heartbreaking cases, some are not allowed to live beyond birth.
Organizations like Sang’ida Foundation are working to change that narrative. As described by the Climate Justice Resilience Fund, Sang’ida is a women-led organization advocating for the rights of children with disabilities, their mothers, and primary caregivers in pastoralist communities across Laikipia County. Founded by a mother raising a child with disabilities, it was born out of a need to challenge harmful cultural norms and create space for inclusion, dignity, and care. In a region already facing drought, human-wildlife conflict, and environmental strain, their work ensures that those most often left behind are not forgotten.
Alongside my time at the primary school, I have visited the Sang’ida Safe House twice. There, I met children whose lives look nothing like a typical classroom experience. Many have been abandoned or hidden away because of severe disabilities. Children who, in some cases, were never given the chance to simply be seen.
We painted together, at least those who were able. There weren’t many words, but there didn’t need to be. The connection came through color, through presence, through sitting side by side under the shade of a tree. Everyone was included. Even those who couldn’t participate in the painting were part of the moment. Just by being there, just by being seen.
And then there is Furaha Foundation, where a different kind of story unfolds.
The foundation provides a home for children between the ages of two and fourteen, while also continuing to support others who have been reintegrated back into their families and communities. Many of the children who arrive here come from difficult circumstances like loss, instability, or situations where care and protection were no longer guaranteed. Factors like poverty, illness, family breakdown, and the lasting effects of HIV/AIDS have left some without the consistent support every child deserves.
Furaha’s vision is to create a space where these children are not only safe, but nurtured. Where they have access to education, counseling, and the opportunity to grow up with the same sense of possibility as any other child.
What I saw there were young people living together, not just surviving, but building something that felt like a family.
During my visit, some of them were gathered around open fires, making chapati for the week ahead. There was laughter, teamwork, a rhythm to it all. They handed me a warm piece, fresh off the fire, and for a moment I wasn’t an outsider observing. I was simply included.
Nearby, others sat quietly reading, or talking and laughing in small groups. Nothing about it felt forced. It felt lived-in. It felt real.
And maybe that’s what stayed with me most. Not just the structure of the place, or even the mission behind it, but the feeling of it. In a space born out of hardship, there was still joy. Still connection. Still something that looked a lot like home. Which, by the way, the word Furaha in Kiswahili means joy and standing there, it felt like exactly the right name.
As I reflect on this first month in Nanyuki, I keep coming back to that word in different forms. In the curiosity-filled classrooms of the primary school. In the quiet presence at Sang’ida. In the laughter around an open fire at Furaha. Different places, different stories, different realities, but all connected by something deeply human. A desire to be seen. To be understood. To belong. And in each of these spaces, in their own way, I’ve been reminded that even in the most unexpected places, joy finds a way to exist and to be shared.
March 1st I arrived in Nanyuki, Kenya, still very much a newcomer and still finding my footing in a new place. Sometimes travel moves slowly, giving you time to settle into a place before it surprises you. And sometimes, just a week after arriving, you find yourself sitting in the middle of a celebration for International Women’s Day with women from the Maasai community.
They had gathered to celebrate empowerment and resilience, sharing stories of strength, change, and hope. I didn’t always understand the language being spoken, but sitting in that circle of women, listening, watching, feeling their energy, I realized I didn’t need to. The joy, the power, and the determination of these women shaping their families, their communities, and their futures spoke clearly enough. In that moment, the language was universal.
It was one of those unexpected gifts travel gives you. The kind where you realize you’re not just passing through a place, but you’ve been invited to witness something important.
But to truly understand the strength in that circle of women, you first have to understand the realities of life in a pastoral community.
Photo Credit National Geographic
A pastoral community is a social and economic system centered around the herding of livestock, primarily cattle, goats, and sheep. These animals are not just a source of food or income; they shape daily life, social roles, and cultural identity. For Maasai women, being part of a pastoralist society often means a life of intense labor and responsibility.
While speaking with a woman I met in Nanyuki, someone who works closely with Maasai communities and runs a safe house for young people with disabilities, I began to understand some of these realities more clearly. Many of the children she cares for were shunned by their communities, sometimes because disabilities are believed to be a curse, and sometimes simply because families lack the resources to support them.
She also explained how the demands of pastoral life affect families. When grazing becomes scarce, the person responsible for the herd (the mother) may leave the community for months at a time, moving livestock to areas with better pasture and water. During those periods, families rely heavily on extended networks of co-wives, relatives, and elders to care for children and maintain the household.
Before I share more about the IWD gathering itself, it helps to understand a few key aspects of life for Maasai women. Their role within pastoral communities is both central and complex. Women carry much of the daily responsibility that keeps families and villages functioning, yet they often have limited access to resources such as land or livestock ownership. Alongside these economic realities, they also face cultural challenges from traditions like female genital mutilation (FGM) to the pressures of maintaining households in a changing world. At the same time, these roles are slowly shifting, as education, advocacy, and community leadership open new possibilities for Maasai women and girls.
It was against this backdrop that the three-day International Women’s Day gathering was held at Storms Resort just outside of Nanyuki. I was invited by Sharon, who works with Laikipia Permaculture. The event brought together Maasai women from across the region and was funded by the Italian Agency for Development Cooperation – AICS through its Development & Health Support program in Kenya, allowing the women to participate at no cost.
Sharon
At the end of the event, Sharon shared with me a document titled Women’s Memorandum of Issues – Sauti ya Mama Workshop 2026. The memorandum was developed/written during the first two days of the workshop by the participants and outlines many of the challenges women and girls continue to face despite legal protections meant to guarantee equality. It addresses Advocacy and Legal Protection, Land and Environment, Leadership and Governance, Livelihood and Innovation, and GBV (Gender-Based Violence) and SRHR (Sexual Reproductive Health Rights).
As the document states:
“Despite constitutional, legal, and international commitments to gender equality, women and girls continue to face significant and systemic barriers that hinder their full participation in social, economic, and political life. This memorandum outlines critical issues requiring immediate policy, legislative, and social interventions to ensure safety, equality, and dignity.”
Reading those words gave deeper meaning to what I experienced that afternoon.
What also struck me that afternoon was the presence of male public officials and respected representatives of the Maasai community. Their attendance and their willingness to sign a document in support of the women’s concerns signaled that the conversations happening that weekend were meant to reach beyond the gathering itself. The memorandum outlined a wide range of issues affecting women and girls.
While the memorandum spans more than twenty pages, a few of the issues it highlighted stood out.
One section addressed “Cultural and Social Barriers to Women’s Land Ownership.” The recommendations called for community awareness and education around women’s land rights, with outreach directed toward men, elders, youth, and the wider community.
Another issue identified was “Low Literacy Levels Among Women,” which can limit women’s confidence and ability to participate fully in community and civic life. Among the recommendations were the introduction of community-based adult literacy programs for indigenous women and stronger support for the education of girls and young women.
The memorandum also addressed the “Exclusion of Women from Decision Making.” Recommendations included implementing affirmative action policies to increase women’s representation and providing training and capacity-building opportunities for women in governance and leadership roles.
Closely related were “Cultural Barriers and Gender Norms” that discourage women from stepping into leadership positions. Cultural expectations tied to marital status and traditional gender roles can restrict women’s participation in public life. The memorandum recommended community education around gender equality and inclusive leadership, along with encouraging greater engagement from men as advocates for equality.
Because women and girls in Narok and Laikipia counties continue to face challenges in accessing quality health services and exercising their Sexual and Reproductive Health (SRH) rights, the memorandum also devoted significant attention to issues related to gender-based violence and reproductive health.
One concern identified was “Myths, Misconceptions, and Cultural Barriers to SRH Services.” Recommendations included community education encouraging safe hospital deliveries and promoting greater use of maternal health services in health facilities.
Another critical issue was “Weak Gender-Based Violence (GBV) Reporting and Justice Mechanisms.” The memorandum called for stronger pathways to justice for survivors through formal legal systems, as well as improved confidentiality and protection mechanisms.
The memorandum outlined the issues and recommendations. That afternoon, I witnessed the voices behind them.
Agnes Ngeno, center, signing the document
In her closing speech, Agnes Ngeno, County Director Gender, State Department for Gender Narok, summed up the purpose of the gathering. She reminded the audience that the theme for International Women’s Day 2026 was “Rights. Justice. Action. For All Women and Girls,” and is a call to move beyond rhetoric. Gender equality, she said, is rooted in fundamental human rights and requires strong legal protections, real justice, and immediate collective action to ensure that no woman or girl is left behind.
She also emphasized that International Women’s Day 2026 is a critical moment to reaffirm Kenya’s commitment to the rights of women and girls. While progress has been made, the world continues to face overlapping crises and an erosion of rights, including the rising threat of femicide. The day, she explained, serves both as a platform to confront systemic barriers and as a moment to celebrate the achievements of women leading the way in areas such as STEM, leadership, and financial inclusion.
Following her remarks, the memorandum was formally signed by representatives present at the gathering: women leaders who helped draft the document, government officials, and male representatives of the Maasai community who voiced their support for the issues and recommendations raised during the weekend.
As the gathering ended and the memorandum was signed, the room shifted from solemn determination to celebration. A cake was brought out, and soon voices rose in singing, laughter, and dancing as the women marked International Women’s Day together. Earlier that afternoon, I had sat quietly among them, listening to voices I could not always understand, but by the end of the day, the meaning was clear. These women were claiming their rights, their dignity, and their place in shaping the future of their communities.
Sitting in that circle, I was reminded that “we are more alike, my friends, than we are unalike” (Maya Angelou). Their stories and strength were both unique and universal. And as Margaret Mead said, “Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world; indeed, it’s the only thing that ever has.” In that room, I saw it happen. Women, steadfast and courageous, shaping the future for themselves, their communities, and generations to come.
Fourteen months ago, I arrived in Morocco with a suitcase, an open mind and curiosity. I knew that living inside a culture feels different than visiting one, but somehow, this one hit differently. I am leaving with neither the same heart, nor the same mindset, nor the same pace.
For fourteen months, I lived inside its rhythms, its faith, its contradictions, its warmth. Yes, some things frustrated me. But somewhere between the call to prayer echoing over rooftops and café tables, tea poured from impossible heights, and conversations with students that always made me stop and think, I began to understand there was something uniquely beautiful here.
I can’t say I’ve changed. Grown, evolved, refined…those feel more accurate. Maybe it was learning patience in taxi rides and “Moroccan time.” Maybe it was not having the ear or the tongue for Darija, and learning humility through that. Morocco is a place that doesn’t rush, even when you want to.
Now, as I pack to leave, I realize I am taking far more than I brought. None of it fits neatly into a suitcase. And yet, somehow, I carry it all forward.
The Soundtrack of the Place
Every place has a soundtrack, but Morocco’s is unmistakable. The call to prayer echoing over rooftops, the hum of scooters weaving through narrow streets, the low murmur of café conversations drifting into the evening air, the sound of tea filling glasses, the clip-clop of horse hooves pulling vegetable carts or carrying passengers in a koutchi, and the voices of early morning street vendors calling out what they are selling.
Over time, those sounds stop feeling foreign. They become the background music of your days. Even when I leave, I suspect a quiet evening somewhere else will feel strangely incomplete…at least until I grow accustomed to the new soundtrack of the next chapter.
Those sounds are more than background noise. They are reminders of something deeper woven into daily life there, faith.
A Deeper Awareness of Faith
Faith in Morocco is not something tucked quietly into private spaces or reserved for Sundays. It is everywhere, all the time, in visible and audible ways, from the call to prayer echoing across rooftops to the stillness of Ramadan. Even for someone like me, who doesn’t follow organized religion, living inside Moroccan culture created a deeper awareness of the role faith can play in shaping a society, a community, and daily life. Living inside that faith in Kelaa also meant learning to move at a different pace.
Patience You Didn’t Know You Needed
Morocco also gave me patience whether I asked for it or not. Taxis leave when they’re full, unless you buy all the seats. Plans shift, often at the last minute. “Moroccan time” is less about the clock and more about the moment. There were times it frustrated me, but eventually I realized the world rarely falls apart because something takes a little longer than expected, even if, in the moment, it still feels frustrating. And truthfully, I never completely got over that.
But that patience and slowing down also means you notice the people and activities around you.
Hospitality That Stays With You
Moroccan hospitality is not a small gesture. It’s tea poured with ceremony, food offered generously, and conversations that stretch long past what you expected. Even when language was limited, the warmth was never in short supply. Being welcomed again and again into small everyday moments leaves an impression that is difficult to describe but impossible to forget.
But being welcomed into a culture also means recognizing the ways you stand apart from it.
The Ability to Be Comfortable Being Uncomfortable
Morocco gave me the challenge of living inside a culture where I didn’t always blend in. A tattoo here, a glass of wine there, habits and freedoms that sometimes made me feel like I was walking just slightly outside the lines. I jokingly called myself the “Queen of Haram,” but beneath the humor was a constant awareness that I was a guest in someone else’s culture. Somewhere along the way, I learned that discomfort isn’t always a bad thing. Sometimes it’s simply a reminder to move through the world with humility and respect.
And perhaps that is part of Morocco’s magic. It’s ability to hold many different realities at once.
The Beauty of Contradictions
Morocco is a place where contradictions live comfortably side by side. Ancient traditions exist alongside modern ambitions. Deep faith shares space with vibrant nightlife in the bigger cities. Chaos and calm often occupy the same street. At first, it feels confusing, but eventually you realize the contradictions are part of the beauty. Not everything needs to be resolved neatly; some places simply invite you to hold complexity without trying to simplify or change it.
As I zip up my suitcase, none of these things will appear inside it. The soundtrack of the streets. The patience learned in waiting. The awareness of faith moving through daily life. The hospitality of strangers. The humility of standing slightly outside the culture. The beauty of contradictions that refuse to be simplified.
These are the things Morocco gave me that I cannot pack, yet somehow, they are the things I will carry with me the longest. Morocco doesn’t fit in a suitcase, but it fits in the spaces you carry inside yourself, and it will never truly leave me.
From Asia to Europe to Africa to small-town America, I’ve seen how different our worlds appear and how alike we truly are. We may cook different meals, pray in different ways, or celebrate under different stars, but what we seek, the connection, the comfort, the laughter is the same. Wherever I go, I find the same joy in gathering, sharing, and belonging. Proof that people are far more alike than different, no matter how far from home we roam.
Sometimes the world feels impossibly vast. It is a mosaic of languages, a myriad of landscapes, and a multitude of traditions. Yet, the further I wander, the smaller it becomes. I felt it in Paris, where café tables held laughter and conversation that was music to my ears even when I didn’t understand all the words. I felt it in Xiashan, that small rural village in China, where I met a girl from my hometown in Ohio. I felt it in Warsaw with the never-ending rotation of flat mates who became like family. It followed me to Bulgaria where I reunited with young people I met nearly twenty years ago. And now, I feel it again here in Morocco.
Everywhere I’ve gone, I’ve been reminded of something that was painted on a classroom building at a school where I volunteered in Bali: Allow differences, respect differences, until differences are no longer different. Those words have followed me across the continents, from cobblestoned streets in Europe to the sand dunes of Morocco, all whispering the same truth as Indonesia’s national motto, Bhinneka Tunggal Ika – Unity in Diversity.
Maybe that’s why travel still feels a bit like Neverland to me. I don’t mean the place where I refuse to grow up, but that state of wonder that doesn’t fade. It’s a way of seeing the world with open eyes and an open heart. Its finding familiar in the foreign. The music changes, the spices taste different, the languages take on new rhythms. But I’m in a world that keeps reminding me to believe in a little magic.
Here in Kelaa, Morocco, I was invited to a wedding. All I knew about Moroccan wedding celebrations was they often start late in the evening and finish at dawn. I also knew I would need a special caftan. Luckily, one of my friends from the school and a relative of the groom, scouted caftans for me and sent photos. All I had to do was go pick it up and pay the rental fee of 100 dirham (10 euro). This includes laundry service. The other amazing thing? They simply placed the caftan in a bag, handed it to me, and off I went. No ID, no paperwork. But I’ve been in Kelaa long enough to know they could easily find me if I didn’t return it.
I was told by Khadija, my caftan finder, that we would go to the wedding around 21:30. As I was getting dressed, I realized I had no idea how to fasten the belt. Fortunately my downstairs neighbor who is my landlord, sent his wife up to help. When Khadija arrived she told me I needed more eye makeup. She had gifted me an Amazigh wooden applicator with homemade kohl which is a black powder consisting of sulfur, malachite, galena and animal fats. I had no idea how to put it on, so she applied it to my eyes and we set off for the wedding a little after 22:00.
When we arrived we were offered a shot of milk in a small silver cup and a date. This symbolizes wishes for a sweet, pure, and prosperous life. By the time we arrived, we had missed the Amariya procession where the couple makes their entrance on elevated platforms called amariyas, carried by the attendants. This symbolizes their elevated status as king and queen for the night. The bride is attended by a negafa, who helps her with up to seven outfit changes, each representing a different region of Morocco.
Stepping into the wedding was like stepping into a living kaleidoscope. The female guests were dressed in brilliant caftans in every shade of the rainbow. The room was filled with pulsing music and women dancing. The men lingered mostly outside chatting, until the baskets of khobz (round Moroccan bread) and plates of roasted chicken started arriving. They quickly made their way to the tables.
I sat there surrounded by people I didn’t know (Khadija was at another table) and whose words I couldn’t understand. As I looked around, I realized how much I did understand…the common language of joy, a shared meal, and laughter. A community gathered to celebrate something beautiful. It wasn’t so different from weddings back home in the USA. It was families crowded around tables, friends leaning close to talk over the music, and generations joining together in laughter. The songs and traditions were different, but the sentiment was the same…love, belonging, and the simple happiness of being together.
Several days after the wedding I had the opportunity to experience the final day of the four-day Tbourida with some Moroccan friends. Tbourida is a Moroccan equestrian performance dating back to the sixteenth century. It simulates a succession of military parades reconstructed according to ancestral Arab-Amazigh rituals. Riders in their tribal costumes charge toward the crowd, the men fire antique rifles into the air as the horses stop just in front of the crowd. The Tbourida in 2021 was placed on the UNESCO list of Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity.
After watching the horses race down the field, we wandered in search of something to eat. We ended up under a small tent where a man was frying sfenj or Moroccan donuts, golden and crisp. We ordered a basket, along with a few hard-boiled eggs, and I soon learned the local trick of smashing the donut into a “boat,” nestle the egg inside, and eat it like a breakfast sandwich. Some women brought us steaming mint tea, and we settled in for what turned out to be a most unexpected yet delightful repas.
Afterward, we drifted through rows of stalls with trinkets and jewelry shiny in the afternoon sun, piles of herbs and spices perfuming the air, and t-shirts swaying in the breeze. We stopped again to watch the next round of riders, their synchronized charge racing down the field. While we stood there, a young boy approached shyly, greeted me in English, and shook my hand as his friends giggled nearby. My friends explained he’d been dared to do it. Just behind me, a man was spinning clouds of pink cotton candy. We ended up buying half a dozen sticks for the boys…a sweet reward for bravery.
As we made our way back to the car, it struck me how familiar it all felt. Between the dust in the air, the scent of horses and hay, and the laughter of children, I could have been back at the Trumbull County Fair in Ohio. Not in appearance, but in essence. The hum of the crowd, the shared delight in simple pleasures like popcorn, cotton candy, and plastic toys that might not last the day but would certainly be loved for the moment. Whether in Morocco or middle America, people gather for the same reason: to belong, to laugh, and to share joy together. The details changed, but the heartbeat was the same.
Beyond the grand celebrations, it’s the smaller rituals that reveal our shared humanity most clearly. In the local hammam, the communal bathhouse, women gather not just to cleanse, but to connect. They talk, tease, share family stories, and laugh in the steamy warmth.
It reminds me of women’s spa days back home, or long lunches that stretch lazily into afternoon. It’s the same comfort of friendship, the same release of laughter that only comes when you’re surrounded by people who understand you.
Across the world, I’ve found this rhythm in a thousand different forms…over wine in a Paris café, in a Warsaw market, sharing dumplings in China, or at a diner in small-town Ohio. The settings change, but the essence remains unchanged. People coming together to share the simplest and richest parts of life.
After so many places, I’ve stopped searching for the line that separates different from same. In Morocco, at a wedding, laughter floated around tables just like it does at family gatherings back home. At the Tbourida, families cheered while children ran past, sticky-fingered with cotton candy…the same sweetness I remember from summer fairs in Ohio. In Europe, too, I’ve felt it at Sunday picnics along the Seine, in the playful banter of summer camp in Bulgaria, and in the quiet joy of people simply being together.
The settings change, the music, the colors, the customs, but the feeling doesn’t. Everywhere, people want the same simple things: good food, good company, and a place that feels like home. I used to think home was a point on a map, but I’ve learned it’s something more like a familiar heartbeat I recognize wherever kindness and connection live.
Maybe that’s the quiet truth I keep chasing. Unity doesn’t erase difference; it celebrates it. The magic isn’t only in faraway places, but in the way every place holds a reflection of home. The more I travel, the more I understand that the world’s beauty doesn’t lie in how different we are, but in how familiar we can feel, even in the most unfamiliar places.
The world isn’t as divided as it looks. Maybe, if we allow and respect our differences long enough, we’ll start to see they were bridges all along. Maybe that’s the true magic of this Neverland of mine, discovering that no matter how far we wander, the heartbeat of home echoes everywhere.
Allow differences, respect differences, until differences are no longer different.
Some stories don’t need an audience. Some goodbyes don’t need to be spoken. And some letters, the ones that write themselves in my head on quiet nights, whispered through thoughts and dreams, are meant only to remind me how deeply I’ve lived.
These are mine. Letters I’ll never send! To the people, places, and moments that shaped me; to the corners of the world that taught me what home can mean.
Dear Warren, Ohio,
I may have started life in Fort Meade, Maryland, but you were the beginning. The backdrop of a small town with the sound of trains that made me dream of elsewhere.
You raised me knowing to go home when the streetlights came on. You gave me an education which made me curious, with a longing to wander, and a family whose love traveled with me long after I boarded my first plane. Even now, no matter how far I go, your streetlights glow in my memory. AND one day, I will come home.
Dear Mom and Dad,
You named me Wendy. A name borrowed from imagination and given to a girl who would one day learn to fly.
You filled my world with books, maps, and National Geographic magazines that made the globe feel both infinite and reachable. You were my first teachers: parents, providers of wisdom, and permissive provocateurs who never clipped my wings, even when you worried where they might take me. Thank you for the gift of curiosity. It became the passport to everything I’ve ever loved.
Dear Mark,
You’ve always been my biggest cheerleader and my best friend.
From the start, you believed in every wild idea I chased, even when it meant watching me disappear across oceans. You reminded me where I came from, kept the laughter alive in the spaces between our worlds, and never let distance dull our bond. No matter how far I roam, knowing you’re in my corner makes every place feel a little more like home.
Dear Tom,
You were the love that taught me how deep connection can go and how fragile timing can be.
We dreamed together once, of places and possibilities, and though the road eventually led me away, part of me was always tracing those dreams we never took. You were both anchor and catalyst. The ache that became my compass. I’ve carried you quietly across continents, tucked between journal pages and border stamps. Maybe love doesn’t have to last to leave a mark. Maybe it just has to open a door.
Dear Paris,
You were my first dream, my leap across the pond, and my first step into the unknown.
You taught me how to take care of myself when everything felt foreign. I arrived with a suitcase and an open mind, and left with stories and a desire to share my Paris with anyone who would listen or travel with me. You showed me beauty, history, the thrill of discovery and somehow, I fall more in love with you each time I return.
Dear Julie,
You were the girl behind the counter at the corner café in Montmartre. The one who always remembered how I liked my coffee in the morning and poured my wine the moment you spotted me walking down the street toward Café Chappe at night. You always had a dining recommendation, and it was always the right choice.
Between my tiny cups of espresso and glasses of rosé, we shared our dreams. Yours was Bali.
I still remember the sparkle in your eyes when you made me promise that if you ever made it there, I would visit. And I did. You kept your promise to yourself, and I found my way to Bali. Then, because of the family I met there during my visit to you, I found my way back again.
Dear China,
You were my test and my teacher and sometimes, you were tough. I laughed. I cried. I stumbled through tones and translations, but learned that kindness doesn’t need a dictionary. I was frustrated at times and decided you were the place I loved to hate, yet hated to love.
From shared taxis to last-minute dinners I couldn’t refuse because someone would “lose face,” to students and friends who became like family. You taught me that humanity has its own universal accent. I still carry your chaos. And, dear Xiashan, I will always consider you my home in the Middle Kingdom.
And because I can’t choose one, to all the Alinas, Alices, Rabbies, Peters, Pauls, and all the Chinese names I can’t remember, you made me fall in love with your country, your culture, and your people. You turned six months into four years and gave me an inside look at a nation that, until recently, had only begun to open its doors to foreigners.
You gave me a language written in characters instead of letters, words and numbers I still recall today, a love of real Chinese food, and a lifelong appreciation for your history. And though personal space was never your strong suit, you filled every inch of my life with color, laughter, and unforgettable stories. I am forever grateful for the time I spent with all of you.
Dear Bali,
You were the soft landing after the chaos of China.
You wrapped me in sunlight, incense, love, and sea salt. You reminded me that healing can be found in water, laughter, family, prayer, meditation, and the mystical ways of the Balian, Cok Rai, the healer who felt what I couldn’t explain. In your temples and in your hearts, I learned how to breathe again…deeply, gratefully, without hurry.
I discovered the joy of simple things: the sound of wind chimes over rice fields, the gamelan at the temple, the call of the gecko, and the sweet scent of frangipani that will never leave me.
Dear Ketut, Koming, Kirana, and Kiera,
You were truly my Balinese family. I fell in love with you on my first visit to Peliatan, near Ubud. You welcomed me as if I had always belonged. You invited me into your home, your rituals, your laughter, your lives.
You included me in daily offerings and temple ceremonies, took me to a Balinese wedding, and before I left, invited me back to participate in Ketut’s mother’s Ngaben, the sacred cremation ceremony. I returned, and you welcomed me not as a guest but as family.
When I left again, I knew I would return, not for days or weeks, but for months. During that time, I learned so much about Balinese culture, but more than anything, you taught me the meaning of belonging.
When I finally had to leave for the U.S., you made me promise to come back. I planned to return in May 2020, but the world stopped turning, and I couldn’t get there. You even planned a surprise for me at the airport: the new addition to your family, little Kinara.
You will always be Bali to me.
Dear Poland,
I arrived just before the world stopped turning. You became my shelter in uncertain times. I was grateful to spend the pandemic within your borders. I went from face-to-face English lessons to online sessions and found unexpected connection through a screen.
I lived in the heart of your capital, where a never-ending rotation of international flatmates kept life interesting, and human, during a time when the world felt paused. Through those encounters, I built deep friendships that carried me through the quiet months.
More than anything, you gave me a new respect for your country and your people. For the way you endured, rebuilt, and kept moving forward no matter how heavy the history or how long the winter.
Poland, thank you for showing me the meaning of resilience.
Dear Valeria, Zeka, Anu, Anil, Tarlan, and Klara,
In the revolving door of flatmates, you are the ones who stayed nearest and dearest. I can’t imagine my life in Warsaw without you in it.
Valeria, the broken tub bonded our friendship as tightly as the repair job on the hole you made.
Anu and Anil, celebrating Nepalese holidays with you and your friends brought such light into the long winters, and I’ll never forget the joy I felt when your son was born.
Zeka, Tarlan, and Klara, what can I say? We had some mad Friday nights. Cocktails, Frank Sinatra and Elvis on the turntable, friends over for those ridiculous games, like Cards Against Humanity, laughter echoing through the flat long after the music stopped and you headed to the club and I headed to bed.
I probably wouldn’t have stayed nearly five years if it hadn’t been for all of you.
Dear Bulgaria,
Your chapter started more than twenty years ago, when four teenagers from Gabrovo came to Warren, Ohio. No matter how often you say, I’ll come see you someday, it rarely happens when decades and oceans lie between.
When I was living in Poland, I received an offer to teach English at Zenira Camp on the Black Sea. It was an unexpected door to my past and a chance to fulfill a long-kept promise to visit those four young people from Bulgaria.
Not only did you reunite me with the teenagers who were now in their thirties by the time I made the trip, but you also gave me a new cast of characters through Zenira Camp and four unforgettable summers on the Black Sea.
You gave me the gift of return and reminded me that some stories really do come full circle.
Dear Hristian, Tony, Pako (Pavel), and Yani,
Our chapter began more than twenty years ago in Warren, Ohio, when I met four teenagers from Gabrovo, Bulgaria, who stole my heart.
Pako, having you live with me and Tom may have been a precursor to why I’m so drawn to homestays. It’s the best way to immerse yourself in a culture.
Hristian, you always made me laugh and still do to this day.
Tony and Yani, so young, sweet, and innocent back then, and now married with children of your own.
I can’t tell you how much it meant to reconnect with all of you after more than two decades. To see you again in your home country (even though two of you no longer live there), to meet your families, and to have you share your Bulgaria with me.
Seeing you all again was proof that time may pass, but love and laughter never fade.
Dear Tanzania,
You were another dream come true. You were my reminder of wonder.
As a little girl, I didn’t dream of sugarplums; I dreamed of epic sunsets behind massive acacia trees while giraffes and zebras wandered the plains. From your rock-strewn earth to your wide-open sky, you gave me awe. The endless stretch of the Serengeti left me breathless. I saw lions asleep beneath acacia trees, the great migration of wildebeest, and a horizon that felt infinite.
I remember the laughter of my small students who found joy in everything, the rhythm and vivid color of the Maasai market, and the sunsets that made time disappear. You reminded me that joy lives in the simple things and that gratitude can be spoken with a smile alone.
Dear Bright English Medium School,
I lived with you at the school. It was a forty-minute walk from the nearest town, if you could even call it that. I sometimes felt guilty eating my chapati, pasta, meat stew, and fresh fruit while you ate porridge for breakfast and rice and beans for lunch and dinner every single day. But I learned that gratitude is often served through food, and I have never met a more thankful group of children.
You were grateful for every moment we spent together. Whether it was chasing a battered water jug across the dusty field and kicking it into a lone soccer goal, or singing songs while keeping rhythm on an overturned pail. We didn’t always have electricity. I took bucket showers with water heated over a wood fire and washed my clothes by hand, hanging them to dry in the Tanzanian sun.
Thank you for showing me so much love, for reminding me that joy doesn’t come from having much, but from cherishing what you have. You gave me one of the most heartwarming experiences of my life and a forever home in my heart.
Dear Morocco,
Our story isn’t over yet. You were never part of my long-term plan, but somehow you became home.
I came for what I thought would be three months, a brief stay, a new adventure. Then I arrived in Kelaa, still recovering from an ear infection, and somehow you wouldn’t let me go. I stayed. I taught. And when another injury and uncertainty found me again, you turned healing into belonging.
I’ll never forget the stillness and silence of the Sahara or the nights in Kelaa when the call to prayer floated through the air and I realized I was exactly where I was meant to be.
Like I said, our story isn’t over yet. But when this chapter does end, know that it was one of the most unexpected and beautiful of them all. A reminder that sometimes the places we never planned to go become the ones that affect us most.
Dear People of Morocco,
Because this chapter isn’t over yet, I’ll save my unsent letter for another time. But if I were to write them now, there would be too many to count.
I could fill pages with stories of shared coffee and tea, of strangers who showed kindness before they knew my name. I could write to the shopkeepers, the desert nomads, the children who shouted greetings while they kicked their soccer ball, and the friends who refused to let me leave until I ate more.
There are so many people, places, and moments that deserve their own letter, enough, perhaps, for a book all their own. For now, I’ll just say thank you for your warmth, your patience, and your endless capacity to make a foreigner feel at home.
PS: And so, for now, I’ll leave this last letter unwritten…
Some letters aren’t meant to arrive. They just need to be written. And with this one unfinished, I don’t know where the next postcard from the edge will come from, or who will become my next Dear So-and-So. But I can feel Kenya calling. It will be another story waiting, another letter unwritten. There are so many people, not only from the road but from home, to whom I could write a thousand letters, but know this: every one of them is already written on my heart. Maybe that’s how I dream by writing letters never sent, to people, places, and moments that made my life a living map of love.
“I alone cannot change the world, but I can cast a stone across the water to create many ripples.” – Mother Teresa
Fatima Ezzahra
We never really know the ripples we leave behind in the lives of others. Sometimes we wonder if the small things we do make any difference at all. Then, out of the blue, a message arrives that reminds us, yes, they do. Sometimes it’s just a passing smile, sometimes it’s a conversation that lingers, and sometimes, it’s a connection that changes you both.
I’m a 63-year old woman from Ohio now living and volunteering in Kelaa, Morocco. Here, at the English School, I meet students from all walks of life. There are students from elementary to adults. All bright, curious, searching, each one with their own dreams and challenges. In February, I met her, Fatima Ezzahra, on an ordinary afternoon at the school in Kelaa. She was 18, a Muslim girl with wide eyes and words that tumbled out faster than I could catch them, I teased her about how much she talked, and she laughed with a kind of sparkle that made me laugh too. Something clicked right there, the in-between space of two strangers from very different worlds.
Later we sat down together to record a podcast. We expected to stumble, to edit, to need multiple takes. Instead, the conversation flowed as if we had rehearsed it all our lives. Back and forth, idea to idea, like a well-played tennis match, laughter woven in between. We finished in one take, surprised at how seamless it felt. Our paths crossed only occasionally after that, but each time carried the same easy rhythm, as though no time had passed.
Fatima ended up studying every language offered at the English School, French, Spanish, Italian, German, and English. Little did I know at the time that this was her passport to the world, an avenue that would help her secure the visa to join her family in Italy.
When new foreign volunteers arrived, she was eager to meet them, anxious to share the beauty and history of Morocco. She would proudly show them her traditions and even teach them a few phrases of Moroccan Darija. When she finally completed her certifications in all the languages, she wrote a heartfelt farewell to the school.
In that letter she said that every volunteer, every culture, every accent had opened a new window for her. As I neared the end of her words, my eyes grew moist. Then came the final paragraph, and the tears fell freely:
“A very special thank you to Wendy. You may not realize how deeply you impacted me, but your words were like planting a small seed in thirsty soil. Today, that seed has started to grow within my soul.”
It made me pause and reflect on how often we underestimate the ordinary. A shared cup of tea, helping with English or Darija, or laughing over mispronunciations. These moments seem small at the time, but they can be turning points, even transformations. What felt natural and every day to me became lasting and meaningful to her. And she, in turn, has impacted me just as deeply. That is the quiet miracle of connection. We teach, we learn, we inspire, often across generations, cultures, and faiths.
Fatima, you have no idea the impact you made on me. From the moment I met you, I knew we were kindred spirits. Your passion for life and all that it has to offer touched me deeply. There is a quote by Ralph Waldo Emerson, “To know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is to have succeeded.” If I have planted a seed in you, or anyone else at the English School, then I will always believe that my time here in Kelaa has been successful.
Not long ago, the time came for her departure from Morocco. She was heading to Italy, stepping into a new life with both excitement and uncertainty. Four days before her departure, she came to see me. Our visit was lighthearted, short, and sweet. No long, drawn-out tearful goodbye, just the comfort of knowing the connection was already woven deeply between us. Before she left, she handed me a handwritten letter, the edges burned, rolled carefully and tied with a red ribbon. Along with it was a pen…simple, symbolic, and perfect for me as a writer. I believe it was her way of saying that our story together was not finished, that the ripples would continue long after the farewell.
Since her arrival in Italy, we’ve exchanged a few short messages. She told me of her ups and downs, of missing Morocco and the familiar streets of Kelaa. Yet, within each note, I could feel her gradually sliding into her new life, her roots from that seed reaching toward new soil.
Unbeknownst to her, these past couple of weeks, I haven’t been able to find the words to write, neither for my book nor my blog. The pages stayed blank. This was after I had already shared some of my earlier writings for my book with her.
Then yesterday, out of nowhere, she sent me a reel. It simply said: I would love to read your book. There’s just one problem. You have to write it. Later that very day, I saw a story she posted about our meeting and connection.
It hit me hard. I have always believed my purpose in this world was to see and to share this life through different eyes. I hoped in some small way I might make a difference, be the change I longed to see. And yet, here she was turning that mirror back on me.
Last night, after those small exchanges with Fatima, the words returned. They poured out too quickly for my pen to keep up.
A couple of things that stood out in her story:
“When I met her, I was standing on the edge of one world, and she on the other. Yet destiny carved a path between us. It was a small encounter in its form, yet immense in its meaning. A meeting that proved the universe is far greater than the geography that separates us, and that hearts need no maps to recognize their kindred.”
“She did not merely read my words-she read me. As though I were an open book resting in her hands. Few possess that rare gift: to see beyond words, to understand the silence, to decipher the tears that have not yet fallen. She was one of those rare souls.
“They say our differences are too many, enough to raise walls between us. Yet, I discovered that differences do not prevent souls from meeting. They may even become the bridge that draws us closer. Similarity might comfort us but difference teaches our hearts to expand. I will never forget her, for she was not just a passerby in my story, but a turning point, an indelible mark upon my journey.”
Her words were humbling. To her I had been a stone cast across her waters, a ripple she would carry into her new life. To me, she was the same. A reminder that the smallest connections can hold the deepest weight.
I saw in her my younger self. The dreamer, the romantic, the little bit of save the world. I feel as if my hopes and dreams will live on through Fatima and all who she touches long after I am gone.
Travel teaches you many things. How to navigate streets and public transportation, how to stumble through unfamiliar languages, how to show respect in different cultures, and that we all smile in the same language. But the greatest lessons I’ve found, come from the people who let you into their lives. We think we are only passing through, yet somehow we become part of each other’s stories.
I don’t know how far the ripples of our time together will travel…into Italy…into the years ahead of her life, but I do know this…they have already reached me and I am changed.
As I finish writing, I realize this story is not mine alone to tell. It belongs to both of us. I’ll close with the last words Fatima wrote in her story:
In her, I saw something of myself, something that made me believe that great encounters are never in vain, that the heart already knows its way home, and that nothing in this vast design is meaningless. Every moment, even the simplest, is but a chapter in a grander story we only understand when we look back and read it once again.”
By the time I landed in Poland, February 3, 2020, I had already lived through years of goodbyes – each one leaving its own ache. Cities blurred into each other, friendships formed fast and ended faster, and I had become practiced in the art of leaving. I thought I knew how to keep things temporary. How wrong I was. China was meant to be 6 months and turned into four years. Poland was meant to be just another stop – Eighteen months, maybe less. But something unexpected happened. I stayed almost five years. Life there unfolded gently. Life in Poland was easy: trams ran on time, quiet cafes where hours slipped by, twenty minutes to the airport and I could be anywhere in Europe in under three hours, and those Friday night deep conversations with people who knew me in a way only time allows. I had roots, rhythms and a sense of belonging I hadn’t planned to find. And then, suddenly it was mid-December 2024, I was in Marrakech, Morocco…a land of heat and dust, where nothing moved quietly. While Poland had been calm and predictable, Morocco pulsed with noise, color, and movement…exhilarating, disorienting, yet comfortably familiar. I had been here before, yet each moment felt newly alive, as if the country were reintroducing itself with every step.
My plan (keyword..plan..because we know about the best laid ones) was to spend around ninety days in Morocco before continuing my travels ahead of a commitment in Bulgaria at the end of June. After some rest and relaxation in Marrakech, I had arranged a WorkAway opportunity near Ouarzazate. I would be living with an Amazigh or Berber family, helping the father build a social media presence for his Sahara tour business and teaching English to his six children.
The Amazigh people are considered the original inhabitants of North Africa predating the arrival of Arabs. Many Berbers prefer to be called Amazigh. Traditionally, many Amazigh/Berber tribes were nomadic within the Sahara Desert. Now, some Amazigh populations have settled in rural areas and rely on agriculture and herding, others maintain a semi-nomadic or fully nomadic lifestyle. The term “Amazigh” means free people in their language. They speak a language called Tamazight, which is part of the Afro-Asiatic language family.
When I arrived at the bus station in Ouarzazate, I was greeted by two of the young girls from the family. With only my limited French and Google Translate to rely on, our communication was strained, but the look on their faces said more than words ever could. They saw me, small rolling suitcase, backpack, and an extra bag in tow, and I could immediately tell something was off. As it turned out, they had walked more than an hour from their home to meet me, and the idea of walking all the way back with my luggage clearly wasn’t going to work.
Sensing the tension, I smiled and said, “No problem, we can take a taxi.” That only seemed to make them more uneasy, until I realized their concern was the cost, which ended up being 50 dirham or about 5 euro. Once I assured them I’d cover the fare, their expressions softened, and we soon set off toward what would be my home for the next five weeks.
About twenty minutes by taxi from Ouarzazate, we arrived at the top of a dusty road in the small village of Tabounte. We unloaded my bags and began a short walk to what would be my new home. The first dirt road gave way to another, narrower one, until we finally stopped in front of a modest, two-story concrete building. One of the girls knocked, and a few seconds later, the door opened…and I stepped into another world.
The Amazigh people live in a way that’s both humble and deeply rooted in tradition. I was about to learn just how simple life here could be. Just inside, to the right, was a large room lined with carpets and low cushions.
Sitting quietly in the corner was an older woman, wrapped in what looked like several layers of clothing and thick blankets. I learned this was the mother of the patriarch Brahim. Though the sun still warmed the afternoon air outside, the house held a lingering cold. One that made her layers of clothing and blankets seem less like comfort and more like necessity.
To the left was a simple bathroom – just a sink and a squat toilet. Further in, to the right, was a large room with a refrigerator and a low table and a stack of plastic stools. To the left of this space was a small kitchen, equipped with a propane stovetop, a sink with only cold water, and shelves lined with spices, dishes and pots and pans. At the far end of the house were two bedrooms: one with a bed for the parents, the other a shared room for four girls, furnished with wicker mats, blankets, and a small wardrobe.
Next, they grabbed my bags and led me upstairs. To the right was a room similar to the one below where the woman had been. To the left was another bathroom, this one with a sink, a squat toilet, and a shower with hot water. Beyond the bathroom was a room with a counter and a propane-fueled oven, which I would soon learn was used daily to bake bread. That oven would become my morning refuge, offering warmth in the chill of the house. Each day, I would join Naima as she baked, sitting near the oven to soak in its comforting heat.
At the end of the floor were two more bedrooms, similar to those downstairs. The room to the left held two single beds for the boys, while the one to the right – with a single bed – would be mine. One more flight of stairs led to a rooftop terrace. Beneath the enclosed section was a washing machine. Outside was a plastic table, two chairs, a web of clotheslines, and a scattering of random toys. I would spend many late afternoons on this terrace soaking up the warmth of the setting sun.
When I arrived, Brahim, the head of the household, was away on a desert excursion. But the rest of the family, including his mother, wife and five of his six children, welcomed me with open arms. With my limited French and the help of Google translate, we managed to communicate. To me, figuring out creative ways to communicate is part of the fun and adventure. The family’s English was minimal, but that only added to the charm of the interactions. I also hoped it was a chance for me to improve my French. Fortunately, Brahim’s brother was visiting from Hawaii and joined us for a late couscous dinner around 22:00 (10 pm). His English made the evening go smoother and allowed for easier conversation. After a meal and a few laughs, I was worn out from the journey. I said goodnight to my lovely new family, already excited for the experience the next several weeks would bring.
After a solid night’s sleep, I woke around 09:00 to the smell of warm, freshly baked bread. Breakfast was simple and satisfying, bread with olive oil, jam, or honey for dipping and a plate of olives served with hot tea. After we ate, we said goodbye to Grandma, who was returning to her home in Zagora with her visiting son.
Once they departed, I watched Naima prepare chicken Tagine we’d have for lunch. She smiled and told me that tomorrow, I would help. As the tagine simmered low and slow, I took a hot shower, washed my hair and headed up to the rooftop terrace to let it dry in the warmth of the seventy-degree sun.
By mid-afternoon, the children returned from school, and we shared the fragrant tagine together. After the meal, I walked around the corner to a little neighborhood shop to pick up a few supplies, and most importantly coffee. I’m not much of a tea drinker. It didn’t take long to discover that in this part of the world, dinner is never a rushed affair, rarely appearing before nine or ten at night. Mornings follow a similar pace, most of the house doesn’t stir before 09:00, save Naima, already up with the dawn to knead and bake the day’s bread, her quiet rhythm is the heartbeat of the household.
The biggest surprise of the day came when Ismail, the oldest son showed up at the front door unannounced. He was on break from his university studies in Agadir and had decided to make the long journey home without telling anyone. Naima’s face lit up and the younger kids squealed and clung to him. There was an instant air of excitement, the kind that comes with an unexpected homecoming. It didn’t matter what plans we had for the rest of the evening, everything shifted to celebration.
By the time I woke the next morning and made myself a cup of coffee, Naima was already deep into breakfast preparation. A bowl of dough sat nearby, soft and rising. The kitchen was filled with the warm savory aroma of sautéed vegetables. Through a mix of French, hand gestures, and the ever reliable Google Translate, I learned that she was making her version of Berber-style pizza for breakfast. When I arrived in Kelaa, I discovered this was basically like the msemen we ate.
The filling was a fragrant blend of grated carrots and other vegetables, seasoned with herbs and spices and mixed with a small amount of sheep fat…something like lard, rich and flavorful. Naima worked the dough into softball-size rounds, flattening each slightly before adding a scoop of the veggie mixture to the center. Then, with practiced hands (I tried and mine were a disaster), she folded the edges up and sealed the filling inside, reshaping it into a tidy ball. Each one was flattened again and placed on a hot griddle to cook.
As each pizza came off the heat, she wrapped them in a towel-lined basket to keep warm. When the last one was done we all gathered around the table. Naima, her family minus Brahim, and me shared another simple breakfast. The flavor was earthy, the bread crisp on the outside and tender within. The joy of sharing a morning meal together made me feel as part of the family.
One of the unexpected joys of life abroad is discovering what breakfast looks like beyond the borders of home…dishes that would never make it to an American table, yet somehow feel just right as the day begins, like noodles in Asia.
It was a blustery day in Tabounte, just outside Ouarzazate. It was a cold, grey Saturday that seemed more suited to staying under a blanket than venturing out. There was a light drizzle and the wind whipped through the alleyways like it had something to prove. Though the temperature hovered around fifty degrees Fahrenheit, it felt much colder and I almost wished I had gloves.
After the younger kids went off to school for their Saturday classes, Naima, her eldest daughter Fatima, and I bundled up and made our way toward the weekly souk. A sprawling outdoor market held only on Saturday and just over a kilometer from their home. If we didn’t go now, we’d be out of fresh produce for the entire week.
The souk was a blur of color and movement. There were rows of vivid vegetables piled on tattered tarps, vendors shouting prices through chattering teeth and the smell of wet earth and spice filled the air.
We selected plump tomatoes, root vegetables still dusted with soil, a couple huge pomegranates, and a large bag of mandarins. For just 145 dirhams (14.50 euro) we gathered more than we could comfortably carry. Our arms ached and the bags bit our fingers. Before heading home, we stopped to pick up a kilo of mixed, briny, spicy olives because no Moroccan kitchen is ever truly complete without them.
Sunday morning began with a welcome surprise. Naima, taking a rare day off from making her own bread asked if I’d like to join her on a short walk through the village. We were off to buy the day’s bread…freshly baked not in a propane oven like we had back home, but in traditional, fire fueled clay ovens tended by women from the neighborhood.
The air was crisp, the streets were quiet and peaceful in the early morning. We arrived to find the women working with ease, their hands moving skillfully as they chatted. Laughter rose now and then, suggesting that a bit of village gossip might be sprinkled in the conversation. Their hands were dusted with flour as they pulled the round loaves from the glowing ovens. The intoxicating scent of wood smoke and freshly baked bread was irresistible.
They welcomed me with warm smiles and invited me to step closer for a better look. I was captivated. Soon, with a bundle of warm bread wrapped in cloth, we walked back home. Naima then scrambled some eggs and we filled the still warm bread with spoonfuls of the mixture. Another unforgettable breakfast and another quiet moment of Moroccan life I knew I’d carry with me.
And just like that, it was Christmas. Not my first where December 25th passes like any other day. I was tucked in the life of an Amazigh home in southern Morocco nestled beyond the High Atlas Mountains and known as the gateway to the desert. I was surrounded by warmth, laughter, and a family that had accepted me into their daily life like I had always been there.
Though they didn’t celebrate the holiday themselves, they hadn’t forgotten it was mine. That morning, Naima handed me a small glass jar of Moroccan saffron and wished me “Merry Christmas”. The bright threads were like strands of sunshine, more precious than gold here. My eyes teared up. It wasn’t just a gift. It was recognition. A gesture of love across cultures.
In return, I planned a Christmas turkey tagine. I’d found a huge turkey breast at the butcher shop a day or two earlier. With Naima’s help, because she knows all the secret herbs and spices, we turned it into something worthy of any holiday table,
I managed to get in a chat with my brother and sister-in-law that helped bridge the thousands of miles between us. That evening, as we scooped the last bits of turkey from the tagine, I looked around the table and smiled. No lights, no presents, no carols…just a beautiful Christmas. Simple. Joyful. Full of heart.
Life in Tabounte was beginning to take on its routine. Brahim eventually returned from the desert and with him came a new sense of purpose. Rather than lazy mornings next to the bread oven followed by breakfast and afternoons on the terrace, I found myself with a few small tasks to help with his tour business, Caravans, Peaks, and Dunes. Social media updates, a bit of writing and odd jobs that made me feel like a proper digital nomad.
Most mornings started the same. I’d join Naima near the warmth of the bread oven. Then after a simple breakfast, I’d head out to the local coffee shop, just an eight-minute walk from the house. It’s not exactly a place that draws tourists, but I was always greeted with smiles, a few curious looks, and even the occasional free refill.
I’d spend a few hours at the café working on my laptop. Sometime after mid-day, I’d get a message from Naima telling me the kids were home and lunch, usually tagine, would be ready soon. That was my signal to pack up and head home.
After lunch, our routine shifted to the rooftop terrace. The house, made of concrete holds the chill of the night air long after the sun has risen. Actually the house never really warmed up and the terrace became our space of sunlight and warmth. We’d sit on the terrace, sometimes sipping tea. While I helped the girls with their English homework, Naima tended to her endless loads of laundry. Hanging everything along clotheslines zig-zagging like a spider web. With a family of eight, the laundry never seemed to stop.
One day I decided to finally do my own laundry. Washed, I hung it on the web of lines and checked it before I went to bed. It was still damp and I left it to hang overnight. Of course, that night, an unexpected rainstorm swept through leaving my laundry dripping. All I could hope for was a breezy, warm, sunshiny day to follow. Lesson learned…don’t trust a desert sky to stay dry.
We closed out 2024 with another turkey tagine and a celebratory cake. The first morning of 2025 dawned sunny and clear so we decided to kick-off the year with a picnic several (I didn’t realize how “several” LOL) miles from home. The day was filled with laughter, games, and plenty of good food. Although we had hired a van to get us there, Naima announced we would be walking home. It was more than I bargained for, but somehow, I made it. Rewarded with a stunning sunset along the way made every step worthwhile…almost…I was exhausted by the time we reached home.
A few days into the new year, I had to leave my family in Tabounte and head to nearby Ouarzazate. A friend was coming to visit me in about two weeks, so I needed to find accommodations and get things organized. He’s a magician, and I also planned to look into possible venues where he could perform. Brahim, not being on an excursion, offered to meet me in the city and show me around. He even recommended a few local spots for me to eat.
I spent a few days getting things in order for Eric’s arrival. Brahim did his best to help me arrange performances at local schools and clubs for his magic act, but it turned out to be more complicated than either of us expected, and ultimately, I couldn’t make it happen. So, I let go of that plan and shifted my focus to something simpler…introducing him to the magic of Morocco, one day at a time.
After a long weekend in Ouarzazate, I returned to my family and the familiar rhythm of life in Tabounte. Days passed quietly, each one mirroring the last in its simplicity. Before I knew it, the time had come for Eric’s arrival. I had rented a modest two-bedroom apartment in Ouarzazate to serve as our home base. His journey would take him beyond the tranquility of southern Morocco. He would also be spending time on his own exploring the chaotic charm of Marrakech and the buzzing metropolis of Casablanca. The contrast between those cities and the calm of Ouarzazate and Tabounte would be striking. We also planned a desert adventure, but that’s a story for another post.
Sneak peak at our desert excursion
I used to think I had mastered the art of leaving. I was skilled in absquatulating or the Irish goodbye. Eleven years of travel had trained me to move lightly, to slip in and out of places without unraveling. But Morocco, somehow, had undone all of that.
My five weeks in Tabounte were meant to be just that…five weeks. A temporary glimpse into Amazigh life, a cultural exchange, a new story to add to my journey. Somehow, between the shared meals, quiet mornings at the café, and the daily rhythm of family life, it carved out a place in me. I arrived as a guest and left as something closer to family. Leaving felt heavier than I expected.
From Tabounte, I traveled to Kelaa. I told myself I would stay through Ramadan, meet my friends, Dawn and Margaret in Marrakech the first week of April, then fly to Paris where I would meet up with my friend Cathy. I would spend 2 weeks in Paris and then continue my journey to yet undecided destinations.
I returned to Kelaa after Paris, expecting to stay for a little while. That while has quietly stretched into more than six months. And now, I should be on the edge of yet another departure, but, back injury aside, the truth is, the longer I stay, the more Morocco wraps itself around me. Friends and family back home say they can sense it too. How this place has left a deeper imprint, as if Morocco is writing a different version of me.
Maybe the art of leaving isn’t about becoming good at goodbyes or slipping away gracefully. Maybe it’s about allowing yourself to be changed and learning how to hold on, even as you go.
And when the time comes to leave Kelaa, that will be Part Two.
In the first part of my blog, Ramadan in Morocco: A Journey of Reflection and Cultural Awakening, what might have appeared as a mere cultural curiosity, has, in reality, unfolded into a profound lived experience, giving valuable lessons in patience, presence and belonging.
What began as an intent to observe, to learn, and to respectfully witness the sacred rituals of another culture that I knew little about, gradually transformed into something far more personal.
The holy month of Ramadan ended on Sunday, March 30, 2025. After fasting the entire month, I was privileged to spend my final Iftar (breaking of the fast) with co-workers from the English School of Kelaa and the staff and young people of the Center for Children in Difficult Situations here in Kelaa. Together – with the support of colleagues and friends on Facebook – Said and I raised funds to provide a beautiful meal for that evening.
After everything I learned and experienced throughout the month, I can’t imagine a more meaningful way to have spent the final night of Ramadan.
That evening was nothing short of magical. Walking home through the warm night air, the crescent moon – the same moon that marked the start of this journey – hung once again in the sky. As the scent of orange blossoms drifted through the air, I smiled – grateful to have been not just welcomed, but embraced. I had been invited into traditions whose depth and beauty I no longer simply observed, but had begun to understand in a way that felt deeply lived.
Yes, the fasts had ended – but something, hopefully lasting, had settled within me.
I didn’t come to Kelaa on purpose. My original plan had me somewhere else entirely- another city, another path. But life, as it often does, unfolded on its own terms. After spending two days in the desert, led by the patriarch of the Berber family from my first WorkAway, followed by a 4.5 hour bus journey over the High Atlas Mountains, a middle ear infection sidelined me for one week in Marrakech. It rerouted my plans and quite literally forced me to pause. It was that pause, uncomfortable and unwell at first, that opened the door to something quieter and more meaningful.
When I accepted the last-minute WorkAway in Kelaa, I had no idea I was stepping into a chapter that would realign me. I thought I was simply filling a void in my travel itinerary – but what I found was a sense of stillness. Life here moved slower. There was time to notice things: the rhythm of the Adhan (call to prayer), the way the light changed in the afternoon, the sweet scent of orange blossoms, the patience it takes to truly listen – to others, to myself.
Stock Photo – Not Mine
I mentioned in part one that in January I found myself two days deep in the Sahara, sitting beside the dying embers of a fire with the moon still hidden beyond the horizon. Out there, the silence wasn’t just quiet. It was deafening. Stripped of noise, distraction, and even the need to speak, I looked up at the Milky Way stretched across the sky like a river of ancient light. In that vast stillness, something inside of me settled.
There was no need to reach or strive. Just breath. Just stars. Just being.
Morocco – and perhaps that night in particular – wasn’t asking me to do anything. It was inviting me to be. To simply exist with what was right in front of me.
Ramadan is traditionally divided into three ten-day sections known as Ashra an Arabic word meaning “ten”. Each Ashra represents a distinct spiritual focus. The first ten days are known as the days of Mercy – Rehmat.
For me, the mercy came slowly.
Those first ten days – especially – the first five – were the most difficult. I struggled to find my rhythm. My body resisted the sudden change in pace and nourishment. Iftar, the evening meal to break the fast, became a daily milestone I deeply looked forward to. After hours without food or water, simply sitting down to sip cool water and taste the first sweet bite of a date felt like a quiet celebration – succulent, grounding, and deeply satisfying.
The exhaustion, in part was my own doing. My sleep schedule was off, and I missed Suhoor the pre-dawn meal meant to sustain you through the long day. Without that nourishment, the fast felt especially long and difficult. Eventually, I found a pattern that worked: a small bowl of yogurt, a few nuts, and some water in the early hours of the morning before falling asleep around 2 or 3 am.
Gradually, something began to shift. My energy returned, and with it came a sense of clarity. I started to understand the “vibe” of Ramadan that so many had mentioned – the quiet sense of purpose, the feeling of unity, the slowing down. It wasn’t just about abstaining from food and drink. It was about intention…following through. About carving out space in the day for reflection, gratitude, and presence.
By the end of the first Ashra, I wasn’t just surviving the fast – I was stepping into its rhythm.
The second ten days of Ramadan, known as the Ashra of Forgiveness – Maghfirah, mark a deepening of spiritual focus. If the first ten days were about finding rhythm and mercy, the next ten called me to open more fully – to others, to grace, to gratitude.
It was during this Ashra that I was invited to my first Iftar at the home of a student. Iftar is more than just a meal – it’s a celebration of faith, gratitude, and community. It’s a moment that transcends borders, languages, and cultures. Each night across the globe, millions of people pause to share food, conversation, and reflections. And it’s not just a practice among Muslims. One of the most beautiful aspects of Iftar is the way it invites others in. Friends, neighbors, colleagues – regardless of faith – are welcomed with open arms.
I was deeply honored to receive such an invitation. My student Hajar, extended her home and her heart, and I couldn’t have been more excited to experience this sacred tradition with her and her family. My colleague Maria and I arrived at Hajar’s home with eager anticipation – and were immediately invited to change into traditional Moroccan garments. Slipping into colorful jellabas and headscarves felt festive and fun, but we had no idea the garments were actually gifts. The gesture of generosity was just the beginning.
Before the meal, we crossed the street to a nearby field where children kicked a soccer ball back and forth and women gathered around a traditional clay oven, baking msemen – a traditional Moroccan flatbread. One of the women handed us some, still warm from the fire. As the golden light of evening began to soften the sky, we stood there, bread in hand, watching the sun lower itself behind the horizon. A cannon blast signaled the breaking of the fast, and moments later the Adhan, the call to prayer echoed from the nearby mosque.
Back at the house, we began the meal as tradition dictates – with dates and water. Then came the feast: tajine, harira, fresh breads, sweet and savory dishes passed with joy and laughter. It wasn’t just delicious, but filled with intention. The kind of meal that nourishes more than hunger.
After dinner, we stepped outside to sit under the moon and stars. The night air was crisp and despite language barriers, the conversation flowed easily. I remember walking home with Maria afterward, the familiar scent of orange blossoms surrounding us. Once again, I felt that unmistakable magic of Morocco – an enchantment that felt like a scene from the Arabian Nights, blurring the line between myth and reality.
That night marked the first of several Iftar celebrations I would be invited to before the end of Ramadan. Each one a window into the soul of a culture that continues to surprise me with its hospitality, warmth and depth.
In the second Ashra, I began to understand that Ramadan isn’t just about personal reflections – it’s about connection. And in that connection, forgiveness doesn’t just mean seeking pardon – it means opening your heart wider to others.
The final ten days of Ramadan – known as the Ashra of Salvation – Nijaat– came upon me faster than I could have imagined. Time, which had been slow and heavy during the first days of fasting, now moved with a kind of lightness.
I found myself more grounded, more attuned – not just to the rhythm of the fast, but to the subtle energies around me: the unspoken kindness in a neighbor’s smile, the quiet reverence before sundown, and the hum that seemed to vibrate throughout the city as we neared the end of this sacred month.
I’ll never forget the excitement in a stranger’s eyes when they learned I had been fasting the entire month. It wasn’t just surprise – it was joy and pride. In that brief exchange, I felt seen not as an outsider observing a tradition, but as someone who had genuinely participated. That moment reminded me that shared experience can transcend background, belief, and language. It was acknowledgement: You walked with us. You felt what we felt. And that connection – unexpected, sincere, and deeply human – was one of the greatest gifts of Ramadan.
As the final days ticked by, the streets of Kelaa pulsed with festive energy. Markets were alive with color and chatter as families shopped in preparation for Eid al-Fitr, the celebration that marks the end of Ramadan.
In a time when the world often feels divided, Morocco – and Ramadan – showed me a different truth: that human connection transcends borders, languages, and beliefs. Morocco gave me magic. Somewhere between the desert stars, the scent of orange blossom, and the sound of a stranger’s voice saying “Eid Mubarak”, I didn’t just come to Morocco – I became part of it. Because the magic I found – the kind that lingers long after the crescent moon fades – is only revealed when we surrender to the present and let life show us where we are meant to be. I came here by accident, but stayed on purpose.
This was meant to be a post about ticking country 42 and my experience in Budapest, Hungary. As I have spent some time over the week since I have been home, home in Warsaw, thinking, it has turned into something more than a review and a number on a list. I belong to a Facebook Group of females over 50 who travel solo.
About a month ago, I received a private message from Hanlie, from South Africa, a member of the same FB Group. She was going to be in Warsaw, and asked if I would like to meet up for coffee while she was in town? Well, this morning, that happened. We had a lovely couple of hours sharing life stories, adventures, travel tips and mishaps, bucket lists, favorite places and experiences, food, you name it we probably covered it. To steal a message I recently received from Maria (I’ll introduce you to her later), “It was a pleasure to meet another intrepid soul.”
I think people often don’t understand the concept of traveling solo and extended travel/life abroad. I hear the questions, “Aren’t you lonely”, “Isn’t it dangerous”, and “are you trying to find yourself”, and I’m sure you can add your own questions here. I have spent the better part of the last 9 years living outside of my home country. I can honestly say, I don’t think I have ever felt truly lonely. As a matter of fact, I believe you meet more people and it’s easier to meet people and have random experiences solo versus traveling as a group or couple.
Life on the road is no more dangerous than life in Warren, Ohio and in some cases, it’s probably safer. Yes, I have had a few of my own “Eat, Pray, Love moments (mostly the eating part), but in reality, it’s just normal life in a different country. Although, it is true that someone’s ordinary might be your extraordinary. Maybe the hardest part of not just solo travel, but travel in general, is the realization that people with whom you have formed a bond, you most likely will never see again in your life.
At this point, you are probably asking yourself what this has to do with Budapest. Trust me, it will all fall into place. First, we must roll back sometime prior to 2006. Before I became a Facebook whore, I was an active member of “Cruise Critics”. A space where people going on cruises could interact with others on their sailing. October 7 – October 22, 2006, Tom and I were embarking on a cruise out of Los Angeles, through the Panama Canal and ending in Fort Lauderdale. On the cruise forum, I met Barb and along with her husband Danny, they would be on the same sailing. We met on board the ship, saw each other throughout the cruise, and parted ways in Fort Lauderdale not knowing if our paths would cross again. We did, however, become friends on Facebook and kept in contact through random comments and likes on each other’s posts. She also followed my move to Paris, then China, Bali, and my current home Warsaw, Poland.
When Tom died in early 2020, Barb went through her photos and found pictures of Tom and me from the Panama Cruise and sent them to me. Over the course of my years abroad, Barb also virtually introduced me to some of her family and friends who also had a love of traveling. Late in 2021, Barb and crew would be coming to Amsterdam to board a river cruise. Earlier in the year she planted a small seed in my head suggesting I meet them in Amsterdam, after all, it would be 15 years since I last saw them.
In November 2021, I booked a berth on a canal boat and a plane ticket to Amsterdam. It was great seeing Barb and Danny again and I got to “really” meet her sister, Kay, and friends, Dawn, Randy, and Diana. What can I say, we had a blast in Amsterdam, and before we parted ways, me back to Warsaw and them on their river cruise, another seed was planted. Their cruise ended in Basel Switzerland, and they would be going to Paris for several days. If you know me, the word Paris doesn’t need to be spoken twice before I have a plane ticket booked. Even if it would be for a mere 48 hours.
A Friday evening in December, at 21:00, I got off the plane in Paris and went directly to Harry’s New York Bar to meet them. Back on the plane Sunday and back home to Warsaw.
Relax…Budapest is next.
I think Barb has figured out that it doesn’t take much to convince me to hop on a plane. The beauty of Europe and living in Poland is I can be in just about any country in Europe in 2.5 hours or less. She told me the crew was taking a river cruise from Budapest to Amsterdam (no, I’m not going to Amsterdam again, I was there 3 times last year). There would also be 2 others going on the cruise that I didn’t know. That’s how I met Rosa and her sister Maria who I quoted above. And that my friends, is how I ended up spending Easter in Budapest, Hungary.
All that backstory probably isn’t necessary, but hey, I’m a storyteller and more people from my past will join later in the post. Chatting today with Hanlie and then parting ways made me think about how many people I have said “goodbye” to. I don’t really like to say goodbye. It seems so permanent. I prefer, see you next time, because as unlikely as it may be, you really don’t know when you may be fortunate to cross paths again. Barb and Danny are proof of this.
Hungary would be a new country for me, and I knew little about Budapest other than it is the capital city. I also realized I could not name one other city in Hungary. Even after googling cities in Hungary, I still didn’t know any. Surprisingly, the capital has a population of 1.8 million and the next largest city only 200,000. I did a lot less research than I normally do and decided I would figure it out once I got there. I rented an Airbnb for 6 days as I planned to work while I was there. I arrived on Good Friday, a day before the crew. I knew in advance that almost everything would be closed on Good Friday, Easter Sunday, and Monday. What else did I know about Budapest? Not a whole heck of a lot.
Landing at the airport in Budapest it is quite convenient to take the Airport Express Bus 100E. I downloaded the Budapest Go app and purchased my ticket in advance. You pick up the bus right outside the terminal. The cost of a one-way ticket is 2200 HUF (Hungarian Forint) which is about 5.85 euros or $6.40.
When you board the bus someone will validate your ticket by scanning the QR code on your phone. The bus drops you at the city center on the Pest side of the Danube at Kalvin, Astoria, or Deak ter bus stops. Getting off at Astoria put me a 5-minute walk from my Airbnb. Since I mentioned the bus stops on the Pest side of the Danube, let me explain. Separated by the Danube, Buda, and Pest form the two halves of the Hungarian Capital. They have been linked by the Chain Bridge since 1849. The Buda side is known for its hills offering panoramic views of the city across the river and Pest is entirely flat. Buda and Pest were once two separate cities and were united in the 1870’s.
After getting settled in my flat, I decided to walk toward the river and see if I could find something to eat. I also wanted to pick up some snacks and a bottle of wine. I was happy to discover that there was a Spring/Easter Market around the main square and side streets. I perused the kiosks and then made my way to the food area. I indulged myself with a massive lamb shank, cooked red cabbage, and 3 giant pickles.
After eating I figured out where the crew would be staying when they arrived the next day and then walked down to the Danube. I people-watched for a bit and tram-watched because I love my trams. I then walked back to my flat and decided I wanted to check out the Ruin Bars I had heard so much about. Funny how I didn’t know much about Budapest, but I knew about the bar culture.
Ruin Bars popped up in Budapest around 2001. They are found in once-abandoned, derelict buildings and unused outdoor spaces. They have been transformed into friendly, chaotic, lively, colorful bars laden with graffiti and eclectic décor. They are also known for cheap drinks. Little did I know when I booked my flat, I would be around the corner from the most famous of the Ruin Bars, Szimpla Kert.
That was my destination for the evening. I had heard tales of long lines to enter, but being relatively early as party-going hours go, I walked straight in. I ordered a glass of wine and walked around just to feel the vibe. I was a bit tired, so I took some photos, finished my wine, and headed home. On the way home I passed a small convenient store and grabbed some instant coffee, water, and some snacks. I was all set for my stay in Budapest.
No rush to wake up, I slept late, made my instant coffee, and then headed out in search of “real” coffee. I found the Blue Bird Café after googling coffee shops. Arrived…the line was out the door, so I continued and found a cool little book café.
Inside, bookshelves covered the walls and cozy window seats, and giant pillows filled the space along with café tables. Finished my coffee, I was getting a bit hungry as it was after twelve noon. I strolled to the area where the others would be staying. On the way, I chatted it up with a guy who was with the hop-on hop-off bus. He directed me to a Mexican restaurant, and I also ended up with a 3-day pass for the hop on buses and river boats.
The Mexican food was so-so. After a bite to eat it started to rain. Since I had time to kill before the arrival of the others, I decided to take advantage of my hop-on hop-off bus pass. I was near stop number one and boarded by St. Stephen’s Basilica in which you can find the right hand of St. Stephen himself. The bus has several different routes and I happened to catch one that completed a loop of the Pest side and then with a bus change I was able to do a loop of the Buda side. A perfect way to spend time on a rainy afternoon. After a couple of hours of sightseeing, I got off the bus about where I started.
By now it was getting close to the time for the others to arrive so off I went to find them. Before I found them, I found another cute little café (it was still drizzling) and had a glass of prosecco to pass the time. They all arrived exhausted after the trip across the pond, but also hungry. We decided a few of us would head out to the food kiosks and buy a bunch of food and bring it back to their 4-bedroom flat. Of course, I suggested some adult beverages as travelers while we walked around deciding on the food…big gulp size Aperol spritz was the beverage of choice. Oh, and if you know anything about European elevators, they are phone booth size.
Silly as we were, we decided to pack 5 people in the elevator. It was a fun opening night, and I won’t tell the story of Danny and the broken table…I left them and the broken table early so they could get some sleep; I passed through the Ruin Bars on my way home and then called it a night.
Welcome to Easter Sunday…made my instant coffee and then grabbed a traveler on my way to meet up with the crew in the square outside their flat. We headed down to the river as we planned to follow the river to the Parliament Building.
Near the parliament is a memorial called Cipők a Duna-parton or Shoes on the Danube Bank. It is a memorial erected on 16 April 2005. Conceived by film director Can Togay, he created it on the east bank of the Danube River with sculptor Gyula Pauer to honor the Jews who were massacred by fascist Hungarian militia belonging to the Arrow Cross Party in Budapest during the Second World War. They were ordered to take off their shoes (shoes were valuable and could be stolen and resold by the militia after the massacre) and were shot at the edge of the water so that their bodies fell into the river and were carried away. Most of the murders along the edge of the river Danube took place around December 1944 and January 1945, when the members of the Hungarian Arrow Cross Party police (“Nyilas”) took as many as 20,000 Jews from the newly established Budapest ghetto and executed them along the riverbank. The memorial represents their shoes left behind on the bank…A very powerful scene.
Being after one o’clock everyone was getting a bit hungry. We decided to take our chances and see if we could eat at The New York Café. Now Instagram famous it is dubbed as the most beautiful café in the world. At the turn of the 20th century, the New York Café was the most beautiful and the most beloved coffee house in Budapest. It was a popular place among writers and editors, in fact, the most influential newspapers were edited there, upstairs in the gallery. After World War II, the once famous café fell into disrepair, and it served as a sporting goods shop. Although the café reopened in 1954, under the name of Hungária, it wasn’t until 2006 that the New York Café was restored to its original splendor. Today, the New York Palace, built in eclectic Italian Renaissance style and opened on October 23, 1894, gives home to the New York Café. The day before during my hop-on bus trip, we passed the café and even in the rain the line was around the corner, but we said let’s go and try. We grabbed a taxi. I ordered a vehicle for 6 people, and we all questioned the fact that they were sending a Prius. When it arrived we all learned there is a Prius+ with 3 rows of seats. Not pertinent to the story but if you could have seen us (we also had mulled wine while we were at the river) trying to figure out how a Prius could take the 6 of us…it was a laughable, memorable moment. Arriving at the café, indeed the line was long, but I have a little tip for anyone who may be reading this and planning a trip to Budapest and the New York Café. Walk to the front of the line, and there is a small sign that says, “fast track”. It points you into the café and for 5 euros per person added to your bill, you can skip the line and we were seated without a wait.
The first thing we did as we perused the menu was ordered some lovely pink bubbles. It is indeed a sight to behold…it is worth the 5 euro…food was good…I wouldn’t say it was out of this world, but the atmosphere made it a perfect place for Easter lunch. By the time we finished a light, leisurely lunch, the others needed to head back to get ready for their 5pm Hungarian Cooking Class which would last about 4 hours. We made plans to connect after they finished, and I went off walking to explore the neighborhood.
I had walked around for about 15 minutes, and I heard the sounds of Frank Sinatra floating out the door of what looked like a cool place. It was Doblo Wine Bar. I peeked in and was drawn inside by the music, the décor, and the thought of some more bubbly. I ordered a glass of prosecco recommended by the bartender and got lost in the classic American music as I sipped. Next, I continued walking until I ended up back at the main square of the Spring Market and sat at another café since it was nearly 6pm, I ordered a meat and cheese platter, and people watched. I then decided to go to the river and take an evening river cruise since it would be a few hours until the others finished cooking. Bad idea! There was a massive line, the boat that was leaving was full, and everyone would have to wait until the next one 30 minutes later. Looking at the line, and hearing the people yelling at the poor guy checking tickets, I decided there was no way all those people could even get on the next boat. I went on my merry way. Walking along the river I caught a most glorious sunset and then stopped off for a coffee. The group messaged me as they were finishing up the cooking class and it was decided a trip to the Ruin Bars was in order.
There was a short line when we arrived at Szimpla Kert but it moved quickly and soon we were inside ordering cocktails. After a bit of picture-taking, a gin & tonic, a long island iced tea, a bit of dancing, and lots of laughing we decided to call it a night. The line to get in had easily tripled as were leaving. What happens at the Ruin Bars stays at the Ruin Bars and I’ll just leave it at that. A good time was had by all even when you end up in a wee street ruckus.
I knew there was no reason to rush on Monday morning as the others needed to check out of their AirBnb by noon and could move into their rooms on the riverboat around 3pm. So I slept late and then headed their way around 11 am. The weather had been cool and rainy since I arrived, but this day looked promising. I remembered a little coffee shop/bar in the square outside their flat, so I made my way and sat and enjoyed a cappuccino while I people watched. I decided not to go up to the flat because somehow with 8 people packing luggage and moving around I figured I would just be in the way. Herding kittens comes to mind. Soon I saw them come out and we got a table in the sun at Marty’s, a nice restaurant in the square.
After a leisurely lunch, it was time to get taxis to take them to the boat. I should probably mention here that the waiter twisted our arms, really, and talked us into sampling some traditional Hungarian Pálinka. Pálinka is a traditional fruit spirit (or fruit brandy) with origins in the Carpathian Mountains, more exactly known under several names, and invented in the Middle Ages. Protected as a geographical indication of the European Union, only fruit spirits mashed, distilled, matured, and bottled in Hungary and similar apricot spirits from four provinces of Austria can be called “pálinka.”
Since the boat was docking there overnight, I went along to see if I could go onboard and check it out. It was the first time I had been on a Viking River Boat…very impressive. I hung out for a while before heading out. They had a night tour of Budapest scheduled through the cruise line and I was going to see if I could get on the evening hop-on river cruise. Plans were to go to the Central Market the next morning. I was successful in getting on the river cruise that was just before sunset, so it was beautiful to watch the city light up. Picked up a pizza on my way home and had a quiet evening in my flat.
Grabbed a tram and headed to the market around 9am Tuesday morning and met up with the others. I bought some spicy Hungarian paprika and a Budapest t-shirt that caught my because it had a tram on it. After the market, we started walking toward St. Stephen’s Basilica.
We had to pass the Dohány Street Synagogue also called the Great Synagogue. It was at the end of my street but unfortunately, I never made it inside. It is the largest synagogue in Europe and the second largest in the world. The synagogue was built between 1854 and 1859 in the Moorish Revival style. The synagogue was bombed by the Hungarian pro-Nazi Arrow Cross Party on 3 February 1939. Used as a base for German Radio and as a stable during World War II, the building suffered some severe damage from aerial raids during the Nazi Occupation but especially during the Siege of Budapest. During the Communist era, the damaged structure became again a prayer house for the much-diminished Jewish community. Its restoration and renovation started in 1991, financed by the state and by private donations, and was completed in 1998.
On the way to the Basilica, we stopped at a small bistro for some lunch. The waitress to me the goulash was almost as good as her grandma’s, hence I had my first bowl of real Hungarian goulash. It was delicious and filling, although Hungarian goulash does not have pasta like I was used to in the States. On to St. Stephen’s where we would part ways and exchange our, “until next times” because with this group it’s not goodbye. They were setting sail later that evening and I was having dinner with friends I hadn’t yet met.
As I said earlier in this post, which has been turned into a small novel, I would be bringing up others from my past along with a new cast of characters, Rosa and Maria being just two of those. Not long after I posted on Facebook that I would be going to Budapest (no comments Mark, I know your opinion of Facebook), I received a message from a woman I had met at a wine tasting in my hometown. Pamela was in Warren temporarily as CFO (I hope that’s right) of our local hospital. Other than a few times at wine tastings, we didn’t see each other around town, and she eventually moved back to Arkansas when her time at the hospital ended. When I moved to Paris, she came and spent the week between Christmas and New Year’s along with her friend Patty. See what I mean by saying see you next time and not goodbye. So, back to Budapest. Pam messaged me that her husband’s brother and his wife lived in Budapest. She even set up a group chat so we could exchange plans. Being a holiday weekend, Matt and Erzsi were mostly busy with family plans, but graciously made time to take me to dinner on Tuesday evening and then an evening tour of the city. We had a lovely evening at Rosenstein. Rosenstein is a well-known restaurant in Budapest serving traditional Hungarian and Hungarian-Jewish dishes. Tibor Rosenstein, currently eighty, started this family-run operation which is located a bit outside the city center and is currently helmed by his son Róbert.
What a lovely evening. I had an amazing wild garlic soup and veal paprika with spaetzle along with red wine. The best part of the evening is passing time chatting with people you just met, yet it feels like you have known them forever. I know I overuse this quote by William Butler Yeats, but it is so true…”There are no strangers here; only friends you haven’t yet met.” After dinner, we took a ride to the Buda side and up the hill to the Citadella which is the fortification located upon the top of Gellért Hill and offers amazing views of the city. It was glorious at night. Afterward, they dropped me at my flat and I turned in because I had early classes to teach in the morning before I checked out.
Over the weekend, I also received a message from another friend in Warren, Marty. His cousin also lives in Budapest. Unfortunately, our schedules didn’t match up because of conflicts for both of us. Naturally, I said, “Well, maybe next time.” There just may be a next time, Budapest is a one-hour flight from Warsaw, and I didn’t get to explore the Buda side of the city and I completely forgot about something my friend in Warsaw, Pawel, told me. Did you know?
The Budapest Metro is the world’s oldest electrified underground railway system, and the second oldest underground railway system with multiple stations, after the originally steam-powered London Underground. Budapest’s iconic Line 1 was completed in 1896. I am so fascinated by trams, I completely forgot that he told me to ride the metro. Even worse, he told me more than once. I did, however, photograph a couple metro station entrances for whatever reason.
It was a fabulous six days in a beautiful city with amazing architecture and history. I met up with old friends and made new ones. I am reminded of a quote from Brooke Hampton that my friend Andree sent me, “I am pieces of all the places I have been, and the people I have loved. I’ve been stitched together by song lyrics, book quotes, adventure, late-night conversations, moonlight, and the smell of coffee.”
Life is good and I am blessed…thanks Pamela I took that from you. Peace out!
When I ended my last post, I said my goodbyes at the Maasai Giraffe Eco Lodge. James and Timan were taking me by tuk-tuk to catch the bus to Wasso Tanzania. It is the same bus that I had started my journey a mere 4 days earlier. You remember, the crowded, hot, dusty Loliondo Coach packed to the gills with people, supplies, luggage, and even a live chicken. The coach makes a daily 8–10-hour trip from Arusha to Loliondo. I would be getting off in Wasso to go to Bright English Medium School where I had volunteered for a WorkAway.
Engare Sero Bus Stop
We arrived at the bus stop in Engare Sero, James had to get back to the lodge, but Timan stayed with me until the bus arrived. Lidia from Bright School had pre-arranged my bus ticket and got me a seat in the first row next to the window and across the aisle from the bus driver. Next to me was one young lady and sitting on bags of rice in the aisle was one gentleman and then the bus driver.
In My SeatMy backpack on the ledge
I’m not sure what was behind the driver, but it resembled a wood or coal-burning stove. Luckily this was a longer-than-normal stop and most everyone got off the bus to grab a bite to eat so I was able to make my way to my seat easily. Timan gave my suitcase to the driver to put somewhere, and I put my backpack on the front window ledge next to several loaves of bread and various other paraphernalia. I took a minute to take in my surroundings and knew I was in for an interesting journey.
After 5 hot, dusty, bumpy hours on the bus, I arrived in Wasso. It wasn’t the most comfortable trip, but it was better than the ride to the Giraffe Lodge, mainly because of my seat position. Also, looking out the window and seeing random giraffes and dazzles of zebras along the way somehow made it almost dreamlike. I messaged the school inquiring if I should get off the bus in this small village called Wasso. Lidia said, “no, stay on and let me talk to the driver.”
Back on the road and about 15 minutes later, the bus pulled to the side, dropped me off, found my suitcase, and I arrived at my home for the next couple of weeks. When I said dusty, check out the photo of my suitcase when they took it off the bus and then after the ladies who cook and clean at the school washed it for me.
BeforeAfter
There were no children at the school as they would be arriving over the weekend to start the new semester. Approximately 200 children live at the school and about 300 attend. I was greeted by 6 other volunteers, representing Italy, France, Germany, and Austria, and shown to my room which I would be sharing with Sara from Italy. There is no running water at the school. This meant we would be taking bucket showers and using pails of water to flush the toilets. The location of the school which is between Wasso and Loliondo, Tanzania sits about 2° south of the equator and at an altitude of approximately 2000 meters (6560 ft) above sea level. Why is this important?
For my bucket showersMy bed
It is important because I arrived with flip flops and one pair of closed-toe Keen sandals, no socks, 1 hoodie from Zenira Camp and I think 1 long-sleeve shirt along with several t-shirts and some linen pants. 2° south of the equator in my mind meant hot. What I didn’t take into consideration was the altitude. The days were warm but breezy and once the sun went down it got downright chilly, even dipping into the mid-’40s (Fahrenheit) at night. This might be a good place to add that along with no running water, there was no heating and cooling system…and electricity could be sketchy along with cellular service. Before you ask, yes I was aware of the living conditions and somehow that actually enhanced the experience.
Stew with eggplant, carrots and potatoes
The other volunteers were busy doing things around the school, but I was given a hearty meal of chapati, potatoes, and a type of stew. After which the ladies who work there insisted I empty my suitcase so they could clean it along with any clothes I wanted to be washed. Everything is washed by hand even though they have a washing machine. They have no running water to hook it up and are hoping that will change in the near future. Next, a young girl showed up with a bucket of hot water so I could “shower” after my dusty journey. Around the dinner table that evening I had the chance to meet all the volunteers and they filled me in on what was happening and what to expect the next day.
One of the buildings of the school
I woke up on the last day of August 2022, to a cool, breezy, partly cloudy day. We would spend the day preparing the classrooms and dormitories for the return of the children.
My world map task
My task for the day was to paint a world map on the wall of one of the classrooms. Others were painting desks and chairs, measuring windows for replacement glass, and organizing the dormitories. Part of the arrangement with WorkAway is that in exchange for room and board, you volunteer 3-4 hours per day during the weekdays. Many WorkAways provide room and board at no cost to the volunteers. At BEMS, we were asked to contribute the equivalent of $5.00, or about 12,000 Tanzanian shillings per day. All of this was funneled back into the school and also helps cover the cost of food for the volunteers. To put that into perspective, the school spends approximately 280,000 shillings per day to feed about 300 children, staff, and volunteers. This is the equivalent of $120.00.
The kitchen for the school. They feed 300+ from here
Whereas the children ate basically the same thing every day (porridge in the morning and rice and beans for lunch and dinner), the volunteers often got fresh fruit (oranges, bananas, watermelons, and avocados), spaghetti, rice, potatoes, and sometimes stew, and always chapati. It didn’t change much over the 2 weeks I spent there. Even contributing my $5 per day, I sometimes felt guilty about the food we received compared to the staff and children.
Sometime over the course of the day, I was approached by Lidia and asked if I was interested in going on a safari to the Serengeti the next day. Since the children wouldn’t be arriving until the weekend, it would be the perfect opportunity. The owners of the school, Baraka and Juliana Eliud also have a safari business, https://astrosafaris.com/.
Not only does BEMS sit 2°south of the equator, but it is 120 km (75 miles) from Serengeti National Park. I mentioned in an earlier post one of my reasons for choosing Bright English Medium School for my WorkAway was its location in regard to the Serengeti. Baraka offers this opportunity to volunteers at a rate much lower than you would expect to pay as a “regular” tourist. Again, after his expenses, (gas, etc.) all the money is put back into the school. On top of the fee we paid to Astro Safari, we also paid an entrance fee at the park, and we divided the cost of entrance for Baraka and his assistant (less than ours as they are residents) between the 4 of us that went. I know many people go on weeklong safaris, but our one day was more than I ever imagined.
Our day started at 05:00. Even though it is only 120 km to Klein’s Gate, where we would start our safari, it was about a two-hour journey over dirt roads and paths. It is an exit or entry point near the northeastern border of Serengeti National Park. Completely remote, it is utilized by those going to or coming from the Loliondo game-controlled area, a rural Maasai territory — with lake Natron on the eastern end. The gate and the route are seldom used due to it being remote and the Loliondo route being uncharted territory. Still, part of the area is a wildebeest migration route.
We witnessed a glorious sunrise and before we even made it to the official entrance to the park, we had wildebeest cross right in front of us. It was still part of the great migration season and seeing herds, properly known as a confusion, of wildebeest, was a remarkable sight.
Near to Klein’s Gate, we spotted a lion (bull) and two lionesses lolling in the grass. We stopped for several minutes just to gaze and then continued on to enter the park. Inside Klein’s Gate, we parked our safari vehicle, paid our fees, and then at a picnic table enjoyed coffee and chapati prepared for us by the school. When we finished Baraka had spoken to the park ranger and we decided to go back to where we saw the lions. Inside the park, you are not permitted to exit the paths designated for vehicles, but the lions were outside the boundaries of the park and Baraka was going to go off-road and see if we could get close to them.
Well, they were still there when we got back, and as promised Baraka got us practically within petting distance. We were within about five meters of the beautiful creatures. They completely ignored us, and we got amazing photos but spent most of the time staring in awe. Finally, we decided, we need to move on as we hadn’t even entered the Serengeti. Little did we know what the day had in store for us.
The Serengeti ecosystem is a geographical region in Africa, spanning northern Tanzania. The protected area within the region includes approximately 30,000 km2 (12,000 sq mi) of land, including the Serengeti National Park and several game reserves. The Serengeti hosts the second largest terrestrial mammal migration in the world, which helps secure it as one of the Seven Natural Wonders of Africa, and as one of the ten natural travel wonders of the world. The Serengeti is also renowned for its large lion population and is one of the best places to observe the prides in their natural environment.
Over the course of the day, we saw many simbas (simba is Swahili for lion) including a pride of about 15 and a mother with 2 young cubs frolicking in the grass. Later on in the day, we had a lioness walk alongside our vehicle for quite a ways. So close I could have reached out and touched her. Leaving the park, the lions we saw first thing in the morning were still there. Then several minutes down the road, we spotted another lioness who appeared to be hunting.
It seemed like zebras were everywhere. I couldn’t stop watching them and photographing them. Luckily our driver had no problem pulling over and letting us just gaze. Also, our guide took some of my photos/videos so I could just watch. It is utterly amazing seeing them wander the savannah of the Serengeti. There were even some that wandered around the fields by the school.
In the vast plains of Serengeti National Park, the annual migration of two million wildebeests plus hundreds of thousands of gazelles and zebras is one of the most impressive nature spectacles in the world. The biological diversity of the park is very high with at least four globally threatened or endangered animal species: black rhinoceros, elephant, wild dog, and cheetah.
You can’t even imagine the number of wildebeest. To see them run across a field is a sight to behold. The 800-kilometer trek of the immense wildebeest herd is the largest mammal migration on earth. It is of the most sought-after experiences for wildlife and nature enthusiasts, the Great Migration is the ever-moving circular migration of over a million animals across the Serengeti-Mara ecosystem. The ecosystem supports two million wildebeests, 900,000 Thomson’s gazelles, and 300,000 zebras as the dominant herds.
We didn’t see that many giraffes up close and personal. But when you are very near you can’t help but be astounded by their size. Vulnerable due to an observed population decline of 36–40% over three generations (30 years, 1985–2015). The factors causing this decline (direct killing and habitat loss) have not ceased throughout the species’ range. The best available estimates indicate a total population in 1985 of 151,702–163,452 giraffes (106,191–114,416 mature individuals) and in 2015 a total population of 97,562 giraffes (68,293 mature individuals). These elegant animals need around 30 to 60 kilograms of vegetables or leaves a day. Since they are quite choosy about their diet, they spend up to 14 hours a day eating. They have plenty of time because giraffes sleep just one hour a day!
We had several up-close encounters with the world’s largest land animal. Although our first sighting was a lone elephant in the distance on a hill. Even from a distance, it looked massive. Our second encounter was when one crossed the road directly in front of our vehicle. All I could do was watch. Which is why I only have a photo of the elephant’s butt. Then we got to be up close with several frolicking with a couple of young elephants too.
Elephant populations in Serengeti National Park have increased from 6,000 in 2014 to more than 7,000 in 2020, according to the Tanzania Wildlife Research Institute (TAWIRI). African savanna elephants are the largest species of elephant and the biggest terrestrial animal on Earth. They are easily distinguished by their very large ears—which allow them to radiate excess heat—and front legs which are noticeably longer than the hind legs. It’s the world’s largest land animal, and seeing one in its natural habitat is simply thrilling.
The buffalo is considered one of the “big five” in the Serengeti. The term “Big Five” originally referred to the difficulty in hunting the lion, leopard, rhino, elephant, and African buffalo. These five large African mammal species were known to be dangerous and it was considered a feat by trophy hunters to bring them home. The Buffalo is among the most dangerous species of animals in Africa, with only a few predators, like lions. It is believed, that there are over 30,000 Buffalo in the Serengeti.
We came across several pools of hippos. The Hippopotamus is a two-ton, amphibious tank of Africa and the third-largest land mammal on Earth (elephants first, rhinos second). These rotund, water-loving behemoths can grow the length of an adult giraffe and can weigh over twice the size of an average sedan. Often found lounging in mud baths of their own refuse, hippos are not to be messed with. The hippopotamus is a name of Greek derivation suggesting them as a “water horse,” but hippos are far from equestrian. In fact, they might just be the strangest and most dangerous animal you will witness on safari, half-submerged sixteen hours a day along rivers in their groups, or “bloats,” of 10-20 hippos.
We spent 10 hours exploring the park. Although we didn’t see all of “the big five”, it was an awe-inspiring experience with the landscape being as captivating as the wildlife. The landscape of the Serengeti is mostly savannah. The savannah consists of grasslands, plains, kopjes, marshes, and woodlands. I was surprised by the diversity of the landscape which seemed to change every 20 minutes. Seeing the iconic umbrella acacia on the open savannah was beyond description. The day exceeded all expectations. Making our way out of the park at the end of the day, watching the sunset, and noticing giraffes behind the trees with the 3 lions still lounging underneath will be forever etched in my mind. Arriving back at the school I had trouble settling down for the night as I replayed the day before falling into an African dream.
Slept in a bit on Friday as there were no kids at the school yet. Sipping my coffee, still thinking about my safari it was soon time to continue work on the classrooms and dormitories. Soon Lidia came around and asked if anyone wanted to go to the Maasai Market. I jumped on the opportunity.
It is a weekly market where Maasai people from villages all over the area including Kenya gather to buy and sell goods and cattle. Currently, about 80% of the students at the school are Maasai. The Maasai are semi-nomadic people located primarily in Kenya and northern Tanzania. The Maasai are cattle and goat herders, and their economy is almost exclusively based on their animal stock, from which they take most of their food: meat, milk, and even blood, as certain sacred rituals involve the drinking of cow blood. Moreover, the huts of the Maasai are built from dried cattle dung. Despite the growth of modern civilization, the Maasai have largely managed to maintain their traditional ways, although this becomes more challenging each year. The ability to graze their cattle over large territories, for example, has diminished considerably in recent years, due to increased urbanization and the declaration of the Maasai Mara and Serengeti game reserves, which were all formerly Maasai grazing land.
The weekend arrived and students began to trickle in. And we kept busy playing with the children and continuing work around the school. One of the current projects going on at the school is building a new toilet and shower room for the boys’ dormitory. I had a chance to chat with the young man who is making the concrete blocks one at a time. He told me if needed he could produce up to 300 blocks per day. He has been doing this type of work for 4 years. The blocks he was working on were for the sewage/septic tank. Maybe because my brother deals a lot with the concrete industry, I was fascinated by the making of the blocks which take about a week to dry. The weekend flew by in a flurry of activity and on Sunday night the children had a small worship service in the dormitory. Monday brought even more children to the school and I was spending my days in the preschool classroom teaching the littlest one’s songs and dances.
Soon the “Hello Friends” song I taught them was heard all over the school grounds. Another favorite was “Baby Shark”….not mine…theirs. Somehow the week disappeared. I want to point out that there are no televisions at the school, and children don’t have cell phones or tablets. Free time is spent jumping rope, kicking a mostly flat soccer ball around the school grounds, and just having fun. My days were filled with smiles and laughter. I had my laptop with me and downloaded several movies.
The next time you think you need a larger television screen, think about these kids (at one point about 60), crammed around my little computer screen watching “Lion King”. I eventually went into the small village and bought a small Bluetooth speaker so they could at least hear the sound a bit better. At the close of every school day, while some were waiting on the school bus, it was the same plea….Can we watch “King Lion”? Yes, they got it backward but every day my answer was, “of course, we can watch it”. Being in a remote area the evenings gave us epic sunsets and chilly nights.
How did the weekend get here? I had Saturday morning classes with the littles. The weekends were also cleaning up time. All the kids who lived at the school, washed their clothes (by hand), and hung them on lines or on bushes to dry. While the clothes were drying, they polished their shoes and played some soccer in between. I took a couple of nice walks on the roads around the school and bumped into some Maasai men tending their herds. I noticed the ground was full of crystal-like rocks, so I picked up a few to bring back with me.
The children put on a worship service Sunday morning complete with empty water bottles on overturned buckets for drums. The singing, dancing, and drumming were as good as any church service I attended.
The next thing I knew, my time at the school was over. If there is one thing I have learned during my travels, it is that goodbyes are never easy. It was time to make my rounds and say not only goodbye but thank you to the beautiful people who had become part of my life, my journey, and my memories these last two weeks. It has been an unforgettable experience. The happiness and love I felt there was almost indescribable, but I think you can see it in everyone’s eyes and smiles and you will understand.
My wonderful host and owners of the school presented me with a lovely letter and certificate but also a Maasai shuka which I will treasure. I was blessed with one last beautiful sunset. I had to be up the next morning at 5am to catch my bus for the 9-hour journey to Arusha followed by an hour taxi ride to my hotel in Kilimanjaro. I won’t be sad because it’s over, but happy because it happened. So, lala salama, and on to the next chapter.
Somehow, after everything I experienced the last few weeks, not only at BEMS but also at the Giraffe Lodge, made the long, hot, dusty, crowded, often uncomfortable bus ride was not too bad. I arrived in Arusha around 2:30 in the afternoon. Max, my driver, picked me up at the bus station in Arusha and it was a bit over an hour’s drive to my adorable guest house, Le Parlour which is near Kilimanjaro. I was greeted by Mama Angela, the proprietor who showed me around and made sure I had hot water for a much-needed shower. My first “real” shower in almost 3 weeks. It was heavenly. She then asked if I would like an early dinner so I could have a relaxing evening. She told me to be at the little red bungalow at 18:00. I was served way too much food…chicken, pasta, greens, veggies, and of course chapati. I told her I liked spicy food so she made sure her homemade chili sauce was there for me. I also met her daughter Eileen, who made all my arrangements to get from Arusha (Max had my name on a placard and whisked me away) to their guest house. I am sipping a G&T and can hear someone strumming a guitar outside. I think it will be an early night with my Kindle. No plans for tomorrow so I will just see what it brings.
After a wonderful sleep, it is my last full day in Tanzania. Eileen and Mama Angela prepared a beautiful breakfast. Chapati with avocado and scrambled eggs with homemade chili sauce, coffee, and freshly squeezed juice. My plan was to just relax and then take a walk. Which is exactly what I did. I will settle for seeing Kilimanjaro from the distance.
I spent the last of my Tanzanian shilling in the gift shop at the airport and then found out I could have a cheeseburger and a glass of South African Chenin Blanc….life is indeed good. Taking off for Ethiopia, our pilot made sure to give both sides of the plane an up-close view of Kilimanjaro. It was an amazing time in Tanzania, but I was ready to get back home to Warsaw.
It really was a lifetime experience and thanks to each and every one of you that followed. Again…count your blessings! Then remember these kids, remember how happy they seemed. I rarely saw them without smiles, they were happy with their meals and thankful for the time the volunteers spend with them. Maybe it is really them that are blessed. Peace my friends.
“Once you carry your own water, you will learn the value of every drop.”
At Nanyuki DEB Primary School, the classrooms may not have the newest technology or the fanciest buildings, but they have something far more powerful…curiosity. Sometimes the best conversations start with the most unexpected questions. In one classroom in Nanyuki, Kenya, a group of ten and eleven year olds wanted to know if I believed in mermaids. A moment later someone asked about Area 51, aliens, and whether dragons are real. Another student wanted to know if I had ever seen Ohio State University. And then, just as quickly, the questions turned deeper: Why do people die? Why do we have different skin colors? They spoke about the challenges young people face growing up in Kenya today. And in the very next breath, someone asked if, when traveling by plane, I had ever seen the end of a rainbow.
From Asia to Europe to Africa to small-town America, I’ve seen how different our worlds appear and how alike we truly are. We may cook different meals, pray in different ways, or celebrate under different stars, but what we seek, the connection, the comfort, the laughter is the same. Wherever I go, I find the same joy in gathering, sharing, and belonging. Proof that people are far more alike than different, no matter how far from home we roam.
By the time I landed in Poland, February 3, 2020, I had already lived through years of goodbyes – each one leaving its own ache. Cities blurred into each other, friendships formed fast and ended faster, and I had become practiced in the art of leaving. I thought I knew how to keep things temporary. How wrong I was. China was meant to be 6 months and turned into four years. Poland was meant to be just another stop – Eighteen months, maybe less. But something unexpected happened. I stayed almost five years. Life there unfolded gently. Life in Poland was easy: trams ran on time, quiet cafes where hours slipped by, twenty minutes to the airport and I could be anywhere in Europe in under three hours, and those Friday night deep conversations with people who knew me in a way only time allows. I had roots, rhythms and a sense of belonging I hadn’t planned to find. And then, suddenly it was mid-December 2024, I was in Marrakech, Morocco…a land of heat and dust, where nothing moved quietly. While Poland had been calm and predictable, Morocco pulsed with noise, color, and movement…exhilarating, disorienting, yet comfortably familiar. I had been here before, yet each moment felt newly alive, as if the country were reintroducing itself with every step.
Down the Rabbit Hole 