I went to Morocco.

It reminded me of everything I miss about traveling through Argentina. It's too easy in Europe. Nobody tries to hustle or swindle (or rape) you. You get culture, sure... and amazing art and architecture, granted. But in Morocco I had a little girl try to convince me to go into a back alley filled with loitering young men she seemed to know. I was told that I was just like George Bush, "fucking up other countries" (which Bush?), by a toothless man when I turned down his offer to take me to a mosque. I heard "fuck you" every time I refused to buy hashish and was assaulted by a baboon that climbed up onto my head when I told its owner I didn't want a picture... but nobody panic-- it was wearing a diaper.

Don't you see Europe? This is what you're missing: adventure.

I ate tough, chewy corn roasted over open coals. I bought a honey pastry for ten cents and pretended I hadn't seen the bee-sized flies stuck to it. I got lost in a market filled with clucking chickens, bright scarves, and motorcycle exhaust. I ran hard bargains and got ripped off; I bought a hand-woven straw hat that everybody but me finds moronic and a necklace for my sister that she'll love until it falls apart. I saw a man with no legs who walked with sneakers on his hands.

I got yelled at for taking pictures, a lot.

I didn't see another tourist for hours.

I sang "Marakesh Express" on landing and takeoff, and (miraculously) nobody laughed.

I felt vaguely unsafe the entire time.

I went to Africa.