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My journey began when a fever dream told me I needed to go to Tangier, filling me with an uncontrollable need to speak my mothertongue, Spanish, again. I felt a pressing urgency to arrive. Although the allure of the night train to Tangier had captivated me, I only had my shoe money after an ATM swallowed my card a day before arriving. I spent half my Dirham on a bus ticket and asked the vendor when it would leave, he responded "Soon," so I rushed to catch a seat. The woman before me was crying, we didn’t understand each other I settled on a universally curative phrase I knew she’d understand. “Chocolate?” she nodded so I walked to the candy stand. I bought every sweet in sight, yet I'd spent only $4. The act liberated me from the ascetic lifestyle I had led until now. I treated myself to a 1Dh cookie and was hooked. After 5 hours of practically evaporating from the suffocating humid air, my appetite kicked in. I disembarked the bus and asked the driver when we left "5 minutes, we're leaving right now." I sprinted to buy a sandwich and made it just in time. It's important to say: I get lost. To say on occasion would be an insult to sailors, simple wrong turns, and well-intentioned map makers. This has never stopped me, in fact, I often find an improvement on my way to my set plans. Fear of getting lost stops people from encountering things they hadn't expected to find. Upon arrival in Tangier I happened upon a tiny corner stand, tucked behind a sheet. A small happy man came out to show me the way, his intricate directions joined by a chorus of input. The crepe vendor to he: "No, no, it's faster to go right, then around!" I didn't care: I had found my cookie vendor. I came here every day after. Giving directions in Morocco is not simply a passtime, it’s a way of life. A collaborative, full bodied effort, and a point of pride. Leaving my hostel, I'd pass the same man every day, who kindly accepted my first rebuff of goods the first time."That's good. Stay healthy!" Each morning, on my way to town, I'd pass the same man on the same corner. He'd smile and remind me, "This way, Miss," his face beaming. There was something to love and admire even in the hash dealers of the city. On my last day in Tangier, I approached the cookie man's stand. He raised his arms up to the sky, his face lighting up. Seeing me again he grabbed the small, familiar package, placing it in my hand. He said "Ya no eres turista, eres Tangerina!" You are no longer a tourist, you are a citizen of Tangier.