One Big Happy Family

The family at the beach, minus me and Yassine. From left to right, Mama Rachida, Rihab, Robin and Papa Hamid

Living with my host family is very different from life at the Parnass household, but when it comes to family vacations, the two are remarkably close.

At first, I couldn’t tell. On the morning of the trip, Mama Rachida and Rihab calmly primped, while Papa Hamid brought the car around. Where was the timetable? Where was the yelling? No one even argued about what to put on the radio. How refreshing!

My chronic travel-induced narcolepsy hit the moment I set foot in the car, and I didn’t wake up until we hit a rest stop. Getting out of the car simply for a cup of coffee? My roommate had never heard of such a concept, but it fit perfectly with my memories of Dunkin Donuts coolattas in the backseat — the only difference being that here, we sat around at the cafe for a good 20 minutes before we got going again.

At our destination, we wandered the fish market, posed for pictures in front of the skyline and drove around looking for a parking space — all not unlike a Parnass family trip to Maine. There was no restroom at the beach, so we changed into our swimsuits in the car, doing our best to hide from guys peering in the windows. Flashback to childhood, though then I was usually changing for dance class on the way back from the lake.

The sand was hot, the water was cold and the waves were mild. Papa Hamid and Mama Rachida left the three girls to go in the water; like my real parents, they weren’t interested in swimming. After the beach, we changed at a bathroom that actually topped my other experience for most disgusting Turkish toilet I’ve ever encountered. Lunch consisted of fried fish, fresh bread, French fries, salad and coca cola. Then we were back in the car, and I was out like a light.

Don't worry, this was posed. Driving in Morocco is NOT on my to-do list.

But ten minutes down the road I crashed into consciousness to loud music and the car violently lurching from side to side.

Turns out the road Hamid picked had a scenic view and more potholes than tar. After 20 minutes of jerking along at a snail’s pace, Robin identified this as a metaphor for the third world. Everyone except her was praying that the car – a BMW with at least a decade of hard Moroccan driving – wouldn’t just give up and keel over at every new bump. First a large truck carrying wheat passed us. Then it was a kid on a donkey. Finally, the sun-tanned boys on foot walked right by our car. By that time, I was in hysterics, trying to stifle my laughter.

As it turned out, the road led us to a shopping town. It’s a great place to go if you’re looking for off-brand pesticides, neon green lingerie or pajamas that say things like, “You are my luck best friend,” but Rihab wanted skinny jeans. We spent three hours watching on the sidelines while she went from store A to store Z and back through the alphabet again. By the end, she had a pair of jeans, and Robin, Hamid and I had a sincere desire to get back on the road.

We didn’t stop on the way back. As night fell, Robin and I became engrossed in our own conversation. I only tuned into the host family when I heard Rihab raise her voice. The gist of the conversation as I got it was that Rihab had asked for a new present – pajamas, I presume. This erupted into a full-scale fight, complete with yelling and tears.

It was then that I realized, no family is exempt from day trip disasters. Putting any group of blood relatives in a car together will always lead to all-out warfare after a while. It’s not an issue to work on but merely a fact of life. The moral of this story is that now I miss my bilingual, frozen-dinner eating, backseat driving, Dunkin drinking family more than ever. Good thing they’ll be here one week from today.