What I learned in Spain and Morocco (not a typical travel blog)

I am sitting in the airport in Malaga, Spain. All around me are normal, bustling airport sounds, but I am feeling different, like I will never be quite the same. Being in a completely new place brings a lot of new feelings and I am grasping for words to summarize what I have experienced and learned here. Vulnerability is the best way I can sum it up in a word. Vulnerability changes a person, and I feel changed.

But just to be clear, as an affluent American tourist with adequate resources, vulnerable is a bit of a stretch. Sounds a bit like a word that a “Karen” might use. I was not really vulnerable in any sort of absolute sense, but the truth remains that I felt that way, so at the moment, I am leaning into that feeling. I have found that vulnerability is like a crack in the rock where a vine grows, or like the small hole in the mighty Moorish castle wall where Linda saw a sapling thriving. Life comes out of broken places. Vulnerability is the crack in the wall that allows good things to happen, so I am going with it.

It started with the flight. Who really thinks it is normal to spend the entire night 30,000 feet above the icy, North Atlantic? In any other century, the thought would be absurd. I just have to hope the pilots have neither suicidal or epileptic tendencies, and hope the ramp guy didn't have a bad night and forget to close the baggage compartment properly. Seriously, we live in such a strange time when "control for the most part is an illusion" as Helen Keller said. I don’t like having my life in someone else’s hands even if everyone else says it is normal.

Me, telling myself that flying is 100% normal.

Final descent into beautiful Malaga, Spain.

The feeling of vulnerability persisted from the beginning to the end of this trip. When you don’t know where to go, what to say, how much to pay, what to eat, how to relate, how to go to the bathroom, or how to get back to where you came from, you are vulnerable. Even when you think you have a plan, like buying something with a credit card last night only to have the clerk repeat something in another language several times before reaching across to pull the credit card out of the card reader for me in a bit of an exasperated gesture. I felt like a child who doesn’t know anything and doesn’t know how to ask for what he needs.

It was tough being in that role, and yet I hope I never forget it. They say, when a heart is stretched beyond its limits, it never shrinks to its original dimensions. I've found head knowledge sinks to heart knowledge when we lean in to vulnerability, so I pushed on! The smell of the leather tanning in pigeon poop, the look on the eyes of the sickly stray cats, my friend Marvin’s embrace of Moroccan friends, the imposing old stone gates and the billions of bright tiles forming mosaics at every turn — these are irrevocably sketched onto a deep place inside of me somewhere. A virtual tour or watching a documentary would not have had the same impact.

The further we went, the more I got the sense of the millions of untold stories, millinea of history, civilizations having come and gone leaving nothing but a shadow of their greatness. Roman columns, pristine Mosques, monuments to the Spanish Reconquista, gold taken from the New World, modern architecture, fashion straight out of Vogue — they were all there. A sensory over load even for this New Yorker who is comfortable with the city that never sleeps. As a lover of history, I was in awe of the depth and length of what I was seeing. A Roman amphitheater made me imagine an aspiring actress who spent her life in hopes of a chance to perform in that space. Now it is all silent. Looking down from the wall above, I thought what it would be like to be a young Moorish soldier looking in fear at the shinny Spanish helmets approaching from the valley. Did his heart swell with courage as he fiercely defended the peripet knowing that his life and that of his wife and children depended on his marksmanship and tenacity?

And the art. It is beyond amazing that every culture no matter how impoverished, developed and preserved its art forms — from the Flaminco dancers in the tiny cave dwellings on the cliffs around Granada to the grand cathedrals, art survived when kingdoms didn’t. Even when people tried to stop it or limit it, creativity persisted. The religious/political Islamic power structure forbad many traditional forms of art, but the artists found a way. Like the Amish (my culture) they created little geometric shapes made by colorful tiles to form a dazzling component to the otherwise plan aesthetic of Moroccan architecture. This eye for beauty, this universal indomitable spirit of creative expression for me speaks of a Creative Designer whose image is embedded in each and every heart in each and every civilization.

As I stood in the Cathedral of Granada near the tombs of Ferdinand and Isabella, I was awestruck at a building that took several lifetimes to build, 181 years to be exact. I marveled at the glamor and the gold and the scale of a civilization so bold and resolute as to organize and execute such a project. Execute is a good word to use because I remember the blood spilled in the Inquisition. I looked at all the gold and thought that perhaps some of it was the gold Christopher Columbus collected from the Tainos under threat of amputation. I was struck by all the myriad dipictions of reverence and suffering — a bit ironic since the sword seems to be the way those leaders actually lived once outside that pious place.

As we wondered outside the cathedral up the narrow little streets that became foot paths, I thought of the rugged people who eaked out a living on the rocky cliffs and still had the spirit to create the Flaminco dancing tradition. A tiny hole in the ground yet somehow they found a way to dance the evening away.

I already mentioned the mosaics in Morocco. Thousands, millions, probably billions of tiny little colored tiles bordering doorways, encapsulating drinking fountains and grand city gates. Who laid all those tiles? What were their hopes for those of us who now enjoy their art? And the camel and goat leather leather tanned naturally, cleaned and dyed with mint, saffron, or poppy to exquisite and handsome colors.

And what can be said of the city of Fez itself with its 9,000 pedestrian alleyways. What were the hopes of those who founded it in the 800’s. When it reached its prominence in the 1300’s, did they think it would last forever? The oldest center of higher learning. What did they envision? Could they have imagined the modern Information Age?

The Moors (not a great term coined by the Europeans) ruled a lot of Spain for 800 years. Today I stood in the chambers of the mighty Caliph at the top of the heavily fortified Alcazaba and imagined the utopia that they probably thought would last forever — fountains, gardens, ornate porticos with a nice view of the Mediterranean Sea. It is like something out of Middle Earth, yet now it is empty, a site for noisy distracted tourists like me who are just as interested in the plans for lunch as I am the fact that I am standing where the blood of a civilization was spilt. A jovial band of middle schoolers pass me by, no doubt on some kind of a field trip. Clearly the attention of their friends was more important to them than the history of this place.

I would be remiss if I didn't mention the naturaly beauty. It was just as lavish and abundant. Mountain peaks, the Mediterranean Sea, gardens enjoying 12 months of sunshine, all of these spoke to me of a vulnerable God who throws out his artwork each day to be seen or not to be seen.

So I come back to the theme of vulnerability. Kingdoms come and go. Impressive self-protective structures were not enough. Buildings erected over centuries explicitly to mitigate vulnerability were not enough. How could I do any better? And is self-protection even worth it? Most times I felt like I was about three steps away from a lifetime of wondering the 9,000 walking allies of Fez, Morroco. Lose my passport, my guide has a heart attack, and I am toast. I would be 90 years old before I found my way out.

Truth be told, vulnerability comes in a thousand little ways all around us every day, mostly in relationships — like when I had to ask my friend, the guide, for every little thing. Doesn’t he get annoyed. Being annoying makes me feel vulnerable. Needing help for hundreds of things a day that would require no thought in my home country makes me feel vulnerable. The good news is that most people I met were happy to help. The world has a lot of good people in it.

That is part of what I learned. I don’t mean knowing intellectually that millions of people live out there, I mean really knowing that on a certain alleyway in Fes there is a man who sells bread every day. His entire inventory could fit in my front door entrance, but there he is. He looks like he hasn’t moved in 10 or 20 years. As you read this, he is most likely still sitting in that same spot. In Grenada, Spain there are a group of high school students who like to walk down the big street near the thrift store. They stop and smoke a few joints. They will be on that block for a while yet. When I am on Fulton St. in Brooklyn, they will still be there and the fountain around the corner will probably still be dribbling its peaceful essence. There are billions of stories going on simultaneously with my story, and they are good stories and sad stories. Their block is to them what Fulton St. is to me. They know every business, they know not only that it exists. They know what it smells like on the corner right after the Spring rain. I learned on a new level of the sheer enormity of the world, the numbers of people with stories no less dramatic, joyous or disappointing then my own. They have lost love, they feel stuck, they are hopeful just like me. I see a lot of people in New York, but this trip reminded me of this truth. We are not islands. We are a tapestry of interwoven yet separate stories.

So why am I writing this to you? Other than just to muse to myself, here’s my point. We all have the choice to observe from a safe distance or to get close. We can learn facts or we can cross the line through vulnerable experiences.

I, for one, spend most of my life avoiding vulnerability, but I have a nice friend who gently invited me to reach my toe across the line. I am glad I did.

Epilogue

Back in NYC, I took a jog this morning down to the river to clear my body and soul. I looked past the Brooklyn Bridge out to the Statue of Liberty. America, what does this country means to me? I admit that a sigh of comfort and rest came over me as I passed customs last night and saw all the signage in English. Something in my gut relaxed at the signs of home.

Lady Liberty keeping watch over NY harbor this morning.

When we were in Morocco a friend alerted me to an internet rumor that folks with my type of citizenship would be deported starting on Monday. Thankfully, it turned out to be just a rumor — though it certainly remains within the realm of possibility at some point. As I thought about my potential deportation, I am sorry to say that I was struck with a wave of anxious thoughts and feelings that ranged from “who cares” to “what about my wife and kids” to “let me grab my stuff and head out into the forest like Harriet Tubman.” Citizenship in a strong country where I feel respected and not vulnerable is a precious thing. It is precious because it is rare. There are many in my community that don’t feel that level of comfort. Most of history includes stories of kingdoms coming and going. There has to be more than that statue out in the harbor. It is not a firm enough anchor for me. I have lived without a sense of vulnerability, but that is not normal. Most people in most of the world, have lived with vulnerability. Living in vulnerability is living in solidarity, empathy, and reality.

As I turned to walk up the hill toward home I ran into a piece of street art I hadn’t noticed before.

Not exactly a sparrow, but I think you can understand my point.

It reminded me of these precious words.

“Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? And not one of them will fall to the ground apart from your Father. But even the hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear not, therefore; you are of more value than many sparrows.” (‭‭Matthew‬ ‭10‬:‭29‬-‭31‬ ‭ESV‬‬)

This is the truth that makes vulnerability a good thing. This is the context where we can choose to lean into vulnerability.

Our son, Liam, was sick for much of the trip. Eventually, we got into a clinic and got some meds. As Linda was filling his prescription, I snapped this picture. Yes, the world is in His hands.