There were a lot of reasons why I decided to go to Morocco. Not all of them made much sense.

As a college graduate about to embark into the “real” world, I suddenly felt a desire to get to know more about this supposed real world by actually going out and seeing it. And if it postponed, even for a short amount of time, the ominous job search that was ahead of me, well, all the better.

I spent three weeks in a country of contrasts, fasting during the Islamic holy month of Ramadan and experiencing as much of Moroccan culture as I could. Oddly enough, this included both public baths and hangouts at McDonalds. I tried to learn what made the people around me tick, and what exactly made Morocco Morocco — the hip clothing chains and restaurants, or the winding, bustling medinas that hadn’t changed for centuries?

Maybe I went because I thought I could relate to this country. Like me, it was inspired by so many different cultures, and like me, it wondered exactly what its place in the world could be.

Casablanca

The cramped, red, Petit taxis swerve and halt, narrowly missing people, motorcycles and other cars as I clutch the door handles and hold on to my pendant of St. Christopher, praying that I don’t die, so that my mother won’t be right. I’m not normally the praying type.

A far cry from the Casablanca of Bogart and Bergman, this city is crowded and exhausting. Whenever I cross the street, or step inside a car, I feel uneasy. Inside this taxi, I am hot and uncomfortable.

I wonder why there doesn’t seem to be any rules of the road, and I’m frustrated at the lack of concern for basic safety.

And then I check myself. The police in Casablanca are everywhere — near the mosque, in the streets. There seems to be a police station on every major block, as my friend points out. The taxi driver says that the police are effective and efficient.

I wonder whether people could say that about the police back home. In “Casa,” there are no murders, no riots, at least, according to my driver. People feel safe.

I’m not quite sure how I feel, but I realize there is maybe more to the grimy city than what meets the eye.

Meknes

“How do you say ... tree?” a little girl asks me in French, taking my hand and leading me further away from the apartment where I’m staying.

When I respond with the English answer, she quickly moves on to the next subject. “How do you say mouth?”

Her name is Fatima-Zohla, and we manage to have an uneven conversation in French, which she is only starting to learn in school. I’ve spoken French for 10 years. She finds my name and hair pretty, and thinks we’ll make good friends.

In exchange for the English words, she tells me the Arabic equivalents, and more. I learn the words for stars, cats, cars and body parts.

At one point she asks, “Allah akbar?” and raises her arms up, before twirling around.

For some reason, I’m touched. “Allah akbar” means God is great, a phrase repeated quite often in Arabic countries. I marvel at this little girl’s faith, already cemented at such a young age.

I look up at the skies and reply, “God is great.”

Fez

I’m confused.

I wait a little impatiently, naked and nearly blind in this room full of other naked women. I can’t ask questions because I’m not sure who speaks French or English, if anyone.

I’m at a hammam, a public bathhouse, wondering why I was so eager to come here in the first place.

I sit on the tile floor, alone, with buckets of hot water surrounding me. Should I be washing myself? I’m not sure, because there seem to be people doing that job for others. I wish I at least had my glasses, which were whisked away from me, but admit to myself that they would have been useless in this steamy room. The only thing I can really make out is that all of the tiles are blue.

A young girl comes up to me; she is maybe 11 or 12 years old from what I can tell about her blurry body. She tells me that she speaks French, and asks if I need anything. I simply ask her what the heck I’m supposed to do.

She explains the process to me, and I feel a little more encouraged. Then, before I know it, a busty Moroccan woman comes up to me, and gestures for me to come closer.

The next 20 minutes are, well, invigorating. My guidebook warned me that this wouldn’t be the relaxing spa treatment customary in Western cultures. I’m scrubbed harder than I’ve ever been scrubbed before, and the experience is a little painful, and a little embarrassing — at one point I have no idea that she’s telling me to lie on my stomach, and we spend a few moments wrestling and sliding around on the soapy floor before I’m in the correct position.

Afterward, though, I feel better than I have my whole trip. What’s more, as I towel myself dry, I realize the beauty of the hammam.

Here, women can be themselves, completely. There is a general feeling of camaraderie with all of the chit-chat, as veils come off, and women are naked, body and soul. I had found it a little difficult meeting other girls in Morocco — I couldn’t seem to find them anywhere. Now, I understand why.

The world of women exists primarily in the private sphere, and it felt comforting to be there.

Agadir

After a stint in the touristy Marrakesh, I am relieved to be spending a few days with a Moroccan family in this beach city. I love the ocean, and I need to relax as my trip winds down.

Right around this time, I follow the news more closely, as word of the financial crisis and the election becomes more and more persistent.

I watch the first presidential debate numerous times. Late at night, live when it first comes on. Later, I watch it again, with the family I’m staying with, and over the next few days, I watch several clips in French and other languages, as it plays on nearly every major international news channel.

And I realize, though it’s no surprise to me, how strongly the entire world feels about the election. I recount the number of times I’ve been asked who I support, Obama or McCain, but it’s not until Agadir that many offer their opinions to me.

One man, at a café, asks me whether or not Americans understand history. He asks if I understand the conflicts in the Middle East, or if I understand that the Iraqi people have nothing because of America. His attitude is off-putting, and at odds with most of the friendly interactions I’ve had with people.

I can only respond that I’m not the president, and I leave him sipping his café and smoking.

After three weeks, I fall into the rhythm of Ramadan, and I feel a little more at peace. I’m not any more sure what my place in the world is, much less Morocco’s place, but I feel like I understand myself, and this country, a little better.

Reach managing editor Arla Shephard at features@dailyuw.com.