Following my first crazy day in Fez, I have the opportunity to meet my host family—the family that I will be living with in Fez for the next five weeks. The eldest son, Lutfi (17), meets me at ALIF and proceeds to guide me to his home. We pick up a petit taxi near the McDonald’s (Macdough) and take it to Bab Ziat, a section of the Medina Kadima known for its “quieter streets.” One way, the petit taxi costs about seven dirhams.

We snake our way through the tiny streets of the Medina. Like man fortified medieval cities, Fez’s Medina Kadima (Old City) has streets and passageways that form a labyrinth meant to confuse the invader. Today, they serve to confuse foreigners like me.

Along the route, Lutfi points out interesting landmarks, insisting, “You will remember the route, yes?” I assure him in French, our lingua franca, that, of course, I will remember.

After a series of even more dips and turns we arrive at the home of Lutfi— a front door that leads to a stairwell, which we take up a series of flights to another door, where we enter.

Immediately Driss greets me. From the beginning, we all find humor in the similar pronunciation of our two names: Dreees and Chreees. Driss is twelve years old, but he informs me that he is thirteen, since his birthday, on September 30th, is so close anyway.

I meet the rest of the family, Abdul Hamid, my host-father; Fatima, my host-mother; and grandmother. They immediately offer me food and drink: bread and a jelly-like spread with butter, and of course, Moroccan mint tea with sugar. Everything in Morocco is filled with so much flavor, and so much sugar. Sugar with tea, sugar with coffee, sugar on a myriad of assorted slimy sweets. Sugar is an important staple in the Moroccan diet.

Before I partake in my snack, I ask Lutfi if eating is alright, considering he and his family have been fasting all day. He insists that I eat, and continues to spread jelly on my bread for me, as I consume more and more. Already, I have eaten breakfast and lunch. This mid-afternoon snack is certainly not necessary to quell any hunger pains, but is part of the Moroccan custom of hospitality.

Moroccans are known for their hospitality.

After unpacking most of my belongings, I acquaint myself with my new home. The home is basically one large room, lined with couches along the walls, meant for lounging, conversing, and sleeping. It looks as though fifty could sleep here comfortably. Attached to this central room are two smaller rooms that serve as bedrooms. One appears to be a master bedroom, and the other, a guest room. In Moroccan culture, and certainly Muslim culture, the duty of hospitality extends to every friend and family member. In most cases, friends and family may just arrive at a home, and at this instant, it is the duty of the host to take care of their guest. It is considered rude in most cases to call ahead and announce a visit. So in a sense, unexpected visitors are expected.

In most Moroccan homes, there is a room set aside for guests only. It is kept clean, and rarely used—unless of course, like many Moroccan homes, guests are always present.

The requirement of a guest, upon visiting, is to stay for at least one hour, where tea and food are usually consumed, unless it is Ramadan. Guests may often stay for dinner, then the night, and then for lunch the next day. Friendly visits can take hours, or even days. And although I have only been in my host-family’s home for a few hours, I already feel at home, and am already stuffed with food. A good sign.

That night, over Al-ftour, the breaking of the day’s fast, we consume a traditional meal of harira, a tomato based soup. The fast is usually broken first by eating a date. Throughout the meal, I am constantly prodded by every member of the family in French and Darija, “Eat, eat.” Not knowing how to refuse, I fill myself beyond any known boundaries of previous consumption. Only to find another dish. I stare at this food in disbelief, and force myself to eat more, wary of offending anyone.

We finally break from the meal. Lutfi and I take this opportunity to walk with his cousin to the Ville Nouvelle, where we meet his other cousins and drink tea, coffee, and soda. Café time is largely spent killing time, and we sit and speak, but mostly watch and listen.

We return home in a petit taxi a little after midnight, where I am greeted again by what appears to be dinner. The same practice ensues again, “Eat, Chris, Eat.” At some point during dinner, I agree to try Ramadan—to fast throughout the day. Again, not knowing what now lies in store, I finally retire to my room around two o’clock, and drift to sleep, the sounds and smells of the Medina Kadima all around me.

Driss wakes me at four o’clock in the morning. I groggily get up and proceed to breakfast, where I again gorge myself, even though I can barely force down any more bread. I especially have trouble consuming a yogurt like substance that tastes like soured milk. I force myself to finish it, and then try to go back to sleep. But I can’t. I wonder why. During the course of a twenty-four hour period, I consume over six meals, three of which consist of new foods, which my stomach finds suspicious.

I can’t fall back to sleep. I wait for morning to break and get ready. Lutfi guides me to the gate, Bab Ziat, insisting that I “remember the route.” I take a petit taxi to ALIF, and whether by grace of God, my own will, or the weakness of my stomach, I fast the entire day. And probably could have at least one day more.Read the original post in all its glory.