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Strange Men in Foreign Places
I wanted so badly to be the kind of girl who thrives under the microscope of male attention
Morocco and I misunderstood each other from the start. I met him on a swing set in Southern Spain, one that overlooked the sea, with poles anchored in the sand. He sat down on the swing next to mine and began speaking in rapid-fire Spanish, none of which I heard through my headphones.
Mistaking my inability to hear him for a lack of language skills, he cobbled together his best English, introducing himself as Morocco, intending to say where he was from. But the damage was already done — I would call him Morocco from then on. Pulling from the word bank of our mutual languages, we were able to convey our stories: I was studying abroad for the summer; he was in Spain looking for work. He was older; I was 15.
We’d meet on the beach as the sun went down, swing lazily side by side, and talk. Sometimes, he’d find me in tears, and ask what was wrong — I’d wipe my eyes and shrug. He never pushed me for a reason. Maybe he thought I was homesick.
At the time, I was studying abroad, living with a Spanish family. The host mother kept the house running and volunteered at the local school. The daughter worked long hours at a bar. The son was gone a lot, visiting his girlfriend in…
