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My arrival in Morocco brought out my desire for the ultimate, if not temporary, souvenir: a henna tattoo. We started our trip in Marrakech and I continuously searched the crowded souks for the right spot, but all the places seemed too touristy. After leaving Marrakech we travelled between small, rural villages and I was certain I had missed my opportunity. We no longer saw souks, crowded with spice shops, antiques, cobras, fortune tellers, rugs, and most importantly henna tattoo artists. Our driver Aziz knew that I had wanted a henna tattoo, and came to my rescue. We had stopped in a small town to have lunch and Aziz found a local man to show us around. To my surprise, after lunch and touring, Aziz said the man would take us into the medina to get henna tattoos, if we still wanted. I knew this was the chance I was waiting for, it just felt right. I consulted my travel companions and once in agreement was ecstatic to jump at my final opportunity. Off we went, following the local man and Aziz down the narrow streets. The medina was covered, which made the streets dark and cool, with mottled light shining through cracks - a welcome contrast to the bright, hot, open spaces of the village. Children were running in the streets laughing and playing, and seemed curious about us, though apprehensive. After a short walk we entered a home, though it was nothing like the houses I knew in America. The house consisted of one large open room, with a concrete floor covered with mats. Decorations were sparse and there was little furniture save for an archaic tv playing something fuzzy in black and white. Inside were three women: a mother, a teenage daughter, and a small girl, no more than three years old. After explaining why we were there, Aziz and the local man disappeared. As the mother prepared the pungent henna we sat in silence and our language barrier became apparent. Once ready I communicated through gesture that I wanted to have the henna on my hands. I was mesmerized by the design and technique the teenager was using, and impressed at her skill level for her age. Completely entranced by the design coming to life on my hands, I was surprised to feel something in my lap. I looked down and to my delight the little girl was sitting right next to me and had put her hand in my lap. I felt special that she had chosen me, out of all of us, to be her new friend. I only learned the little girl’s name when I heard her mother call for her, “Miriam.” While I was having the henna applied the mother made mint tea. At this point I became slightly jealous of my companions whose hands were not covered in drying henna, because they were able to enjoy the tea. It is customary to be served mint tea by your host in Morocco, and a ceremony not to be missed. Everything from the taste of the tea to the presentation is wonderful. Feeling comfortable in my setting and not wanting to be left out I pursed my lips a couple of times towards the mother, indicating my desire for tea. I realized what a faux pas I had made, but was relieved and delighted when she brought a cup of tea to my lips and let me take a couple of sips, just as my mother would have done. This experience was my favorite part about my trip to Morocco. We were all completely different in age, looks, background and religion, but sitting together getting henna done, with my new friend by my side felt so natural. The henna design was not in expert form, however the time spent together was. I could not have been happier with the experience. At the end of our nine day adventure we were at the airport waiting to board our plane home. I was almost in tears telling my friend, “You can go home, Giulia, but I don’t think I should.” The hospitality in Morocco rivals no other place, especially at Manzil al Miriam, or Miriam’s House.