Packin'

In order to pack light, I have now made three trips to Target, two trips to Columbia, two trips to REI, two trips to GI Joes, a trip to Walgreens and a trip to Safeway.

I've searched the pharmacy shelves and shoes stores for just the right medicine, shoes, and dozens of other American staples.

The absurdity of all of my shopping hit me as I spent time sighing in the aisles. I was looking for a gift to take to Abdul's parents, who will host us for a dinner in his hometown in Morocco. The typical hostess gift -- a bottle of wine, flowers, a candle -- seemed inappropriate or downright impractical.

So, I called Abdul's wife, Jenna, and asked her for a suggestion. She paused for a second, thinking.

"Socks," she said. "Something nice and warm. It's about to get cold there, and they have cement floors. Oh, and some nice smelling soap. They only sell two kinds of soap there, and one's this paste, it's yuck."

Socks and soaps. She went on to tell me that any gently-used piece of clothing would be nice to hand off to Abdul's sister.

Socks, soaps and old sweaters.

I suspect that if I showed up at an American's house with such practical gifts, I'd either make a great story for the hostess' next cocktail party, or I'd be made to feel sheepish as the socks sat on a bar next to Pinot Noir and brie. I can just imagine myself saying, "I just thought this sweater would fit you, and I'm kinda tired of it after three winters."

I expect I would be treated wonderfully with gift or no gift in the home of Abdul's parents. It's amazing, though, that socks and soaps could foster such a beautiful relationship with otherwise strangers.

I cannot wait to share a meal with them. Bowls full of food, glasses steaming with tea and baskets full of bread. And the socks and soap.
-Amy