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Born and raised in México, I thought I was prepared for any exotic culture in the world, because the same world considers us beautifully noisy, happy and chaotic. I wasn’t. The conventional thing to do in Mexico is order a taxi inside the airport, go to a good hotel and place yourself in this environment. This was my intentions; a taxi took me to the Riad that I had booked. I never realized I could have saved 195 dirhams in the process by using public transportation or paying 3 euros for the airport bus. With an interesting mix of languages that I hardly understood, the taxi driver explained the route to me, rectangular terracotta buildings, the arid landscape and the earth colours got my eyes in that sunny day. In Morocco, the cities have the medinas at their heart, they are the oldest and most alive part, recognized for having been the original walled city, modern life developed around them, forming layers of narrow streets lined with tall buildings. There I was, in a taxi, on one of those streets, opposite to what the traffic regulations or common sense would have told me, it was two-way. People passed us so close that I, fearful of assaults, kept my windows closed. In a constant flow of people, mostly women dressed in traditional djellabas holding children and shopping bags; the taxi driver yelled, waved, and commented in a rich mix of French, Arabic, and English. He stopped the taxi as close as possible to a wall of a three-floor building, to tell me how to get to the Riad. According to him, I had to walk two or three blocks down in a wide corridor with stairs. He gave me my backpack, and looking as the typical backpacker cliche, I paid him $ 200 dirhams, which would be the equivalent of just over 400 Mexican pesos. I walked down the empty corridor, swaying with the weight of my backpacks, looking at tall, narrow buildings with ornate tiles. I could see, between a translucent curtain of an open door, people talking in a loud Arabic. In the background, I heard the call to pray from the invisible mosques between the labyrinth and reggaeton Latin music, proving to me that there are no borders. Some men leaning against the walls made me feel insecure, because in México that means that you are about to hear a string of sexisms and harassment that makes you look for more people to feel safe, or at least that's what I grew up believing. With fear bubbling in my throat, I focussed my vision to the only point the taxi driver had pointed out. I started out feeling anxiety and unfounded fear for years of avoiding dark, empty alleys and "dangerous neighborhoods." As I could, I identified the door without any hotel signs, it was like any house or building around it. I knocked and my fear increased. What if the taxi driver works for the human trafficking? What if they will rape me? Kidnap me? What if all the stories that my family and I had read are true? What if my worst fears come true? What if I run? But those men can catch me, I would have to leave my backpack, I would have to get into a house, and this is a Muslim country, and I am a woman, scream, ask for help, how do you say help in Arabic? The door opens and a girl asks my name, I answer, still with fear in my throat, clutching my personal alarm, thinking if it was a good decision to have come alone, with no way to communicate. She looks for me on a list and lets me in. After spending a bit over a month in the exuberant and rich Morocco, I learned that fear is not real, it serves to keep you alert, but it is not real. As well, I saw myself as a strong woman, letting go all prejudices of cultures. The world is a wonderful place and it is ready for us to cross the line of fear and come closer ask to him, what’s next?