Marrakech

I'm pretty certain you wouldn't like Marrakech. It's not a place to come to clear your mind. Clearing my mind was ever my intention, keeping it abuzz was more of the plan. Yet it's interesting because as I've moved through the maze of this city today – it's been one of the first times since you left that I thought, "Thank God Ted's not here!" The reason that's come to my mind is NOT because I don't want you here, but simply that I don't think you would want to be here.

It reminds me that no matter how in love we were, how agreeable we were, how much we had in common, and how much fun we always had together – we still were very different people.

I've written a lot about our love. And I've thought about it much more than that. Our love was and is beautiful. It was and is irreplaceable. But, our love was and is not perfect. Perfect does not exist. To call our love perfect would be to discredit what we had and have.

You often referred to yourself as a recovering perfectionist. 

I imagine us in the kitchen. It's after lunch and I offer to do the dishes. As I rinse each dish and place them in the dishwasher, I can feel your gaze from across the kitchen. You're putting away food, but your eyes are fixed on what's happening near the sink instead. In your eyes, I could never load the dishwasher correctly. Alright, so in most peoples' eyes I couldn't load the dishwasher correctly, I'll give it to you. But my way of doing dishes was unacceptable to you. You liked every dish to be completely, well... clean... before putting it in the washer. Once they were loaded, there was this... system... you had. Plates in this spot... facing this way. "If they don't all face the same way, the water won't spray on them and they won't get clean," you'd explain. "Uh huh," I'd answer. I'd move them to the way you liked them, because I knew you were right and moreso because I liked to make you happy. The glasses went in the top... I did that part right. But sometimes, a glass would slip and end up right-side-up. "Sweetheart, do you know how a dishwasher works?" you'd ask. "Kinda," I'd say. You'd continue, "Let me explain. You see... the water comes from here and it..." "MAGIC!" I'd interrupt, "It works cause of MAGIC." And then I'd bump your hip with mine playfully. I'd kiss your cheek and grin mischievously. I didn't really care about how the machine worked. The dishes would get clean enough for my liking even if they were loaded imperfectly. I didn't have the need to fit as many dishes as possible in the dishwasher. We had plenty of extras to use. And if one slipped and turned upside-down, I'd rinse it out and call it a day.

A similar situation went for laundry. You would do laundry more than me. You said it was because you had less underwear and needed to do it in order to have fresh boxers. But then I bought you a ton more underwear and you kept doing the laundry before me anyway. I'm convinced you really secretly loved to do laundry.

I would wander into our bedroom, eyes glazed over from staring at the computer screen for work. "Oh shit! I didn't know you were doing laundry? Let me help," I'd say. You would be folding clothes. I'd start hanging your t-shirts just like you liked them – color coordinated, all facing the same direction, and de-wrinkled from extra time in the dryer. At some point I'd look over at you because I'd realize you'd been struggling with a garment. You would be caught up trying to fold one of my two-layered yoga tops – one of the ones with a built in sports-bra and an additional layer or two over top. "I just...can't... figure out... how to fold this," you'd say, confused. You'd be folding, and refolding, and refolding. I'd grab the shirt from your hand, haphazardly fold it into a half-ass ball of fabric and respond, "Like this." You'd shrug, "Alright..." Just by the look in your eyes it was obvious you were thinking of how wrinkled the top was about to become if I actually used that method. You were right. But then you'd let it go and go back to folding your boxers into perfect sixths and placing them scrupulously on your shelf.

When we checked into a hotel, you would unpack your bag and meticulously arrange it in the dresser provided. If there were no drawers available, you would hang as much as possible and keep the rest folded methodically in your bag. You were the world's best folder. You would have been the GAP's wet dream of an employee. However, you didn't like to iron because you could never get it perfect enough. Therefore, the dry cleaners knew you well. I, on the other hand, explode like a tornado in my suitcase. I'm not messy. I don't leave clothes on the floor. But I have no problem treasure hunting through my bag to find a matching sock or a missing blouse.

So here I am in Marrakech. I knew this city would be intense, so I spent the extra dime for a great hotel that would afford Natalia and I some zen amidst the craziness. That's just the fancy in me (which you and I had in common). We appreciate a quiet space, a safe refuge, and some class. I had this 'thing' where I would stick up my nose at a hotel if it didn't have white bedspreads. "I can't tell if they're clean if they're not white," I'd insist. You'd get it. You wouldn't think I was just being prissy. So here I am in this beautiful hotel that I can barely afford. They provide rose water, fresh dates and figs, cinnamon scented rooms with lavish tapestries, and Turkish coffee delivered each morning. But just outside the rose-tinted glass door of this beautiful sanctuary is a mad and hectic world.

The tangle of alleys here in Marrakech have no logical pattern. I spent my entire day lost and you know I have a fantastic sense of direction. You would have gone berserk trying to figure out how to get to the next destination because of the impossible wayfinding. Mopeds whizzed around corners, crashing, honking, and nearly running over toes, tourists, and stray cats. When it's not a motorbike, it's a skeletal mule trotting alone pulling a broken down wagon. I imagined your anxiety. You liked calm. You liked space. You liked breath. You liked order. You liked cats.

Add to that the hassling venders while trying to make our way through the souks. One after the other, taunting us with the cheapest deal in town. "Free for you!" they'd lie. "This is Berber silver, not China silver," they'd claim while holding a tin bracelet. "It is real amber, not plastic," they'd demonstrate by holding a lighter's flame up to the obviously glass bead. The vendors, though delightful in many ways, have a discerning ability to make you feel important and beautiful one moment, when you're making them a good deal – and then ugly and angry in the next moment, when you don't agree to their barter. Rather than being excited when you make a deal, they pout with disrespectful theatrics as you walk away with your new purchase.You would have been crushed by the dishonesty. You would have been sad that you could not make them happier. Not to mention the fact that you would be completely unimpressed by 99% of the wares they had to offer. I was stoked by the fresh styles, cheap prices, and exciting banter, but I couldn't help but think about your reaction.

I could imagine the scenario if you were here. I'd be in the sixth store selling the exact same argon oil. Like the good Jew that I am, I'd be bartering for the best price, "The guy down the street said 200 dirhams!" "No, no. This is very good price for you," this shopkeeper would respond, eight of the fifty words he knew in English. You'd be patiently waiting near the door. "No thank you. Shukran," I'd say as I dragged you out of the store, using the one of two words I knew in Arabic. Before walking into store number seven, you would say calmly, "Babe. We should consider how much our time is worth. Maybe just pay the cost they're giving you and we can move on to the next thing?" Always so sensible. As the next shop owner started his theatrics by pulling a dried chameleon out of the apothecary jar, claiming it worked as Viagra, I thought about how you want want to support the economy. How you'd recognize that the cheapest price isn't always the best price, because the locals deserved to make profit too.

Despite my effort to cover my blonde hair and be respectful to the Arabic culture, as a young Western woman, I attract attention. The moment I boarded Air Maroc from Malaga, Spain, I witnessed the change in attitude. The flight attendant flirted as he delivered my in-flight beverage. He told me I had a beautiful smile. When I went to the bathroom, I waited for him to be in a distant area of the cabin, because male attention is unwarranted to me these days. When I left the bathroom, he, unfortunately, was stationed by the lavatory door. "You have a very beautiful eye," he whispered in my ear, as I snuck by him, heading back to my seat. Just one beautiful eye, not two. Since we've been here, there have been some good ones. "Can I put a baby in you?" asked one man in an alley. "Do you want a nice massage?" asked another. And others, just clicked their tongues grossly. In all honesty, I've felt pretty ugly since you left. I went from feeling hot and in love to depressed and lonely. The catcalls are not ideal, but still a stroke to the ego. I imagine you witnessing this vulgar attention I've been receiving. You, never jealous, would let it go with a chuckle – but you would still be concerned with the attitude the women here receive. You appreciated women.

The sound system from the mosques for the call-to-prayer would ricochet throughout the medina throughout the day. I could just imagine you cringing as you heard the muffled audio and fuzzy speakers. I thought about how the slightest bit of static on a radio station would drive you nuts. How if I played a song for you out of the speakers on my iPhone, you simply couldn't offer an opinion on the music because you were so distracted by the unacceptable acoustics. For me, the call-to-prayer was incredibly touching. Tears ran down my cheeks as I stood as a witness to the Muslim's diligent service to God. While you were often governed by acoustics, I am governed by sight. The rhythmic bowing was moving and the sense of community was sublime.

This city is not perfect at all. It's mad. Honestly, I don't know if I like it or not. But I do know that I'm happy I get this opportunity for discovery. And in some ways, I'm OK that I'm doing it without you – because it is allowing me to decide for me, rather than for you (however, in some ways, I'm doing that too...). I get to witness the manic frenzy of traffic, back alleys, birds in jars, shoptalk, haggling, and whistles for what they are to me, not anyone else.

But after my day of getting lost, when my anxiety had risen into high gear and I came back to the hotel for refuge – that's when I really missed you. Even though my suitcase would be a mess and you would be organized like a prince, it wouldn't matter. Because in our own imperfection, we would be a pair. We would have a drink together, crawl under the covers, make love, tell jokes, and get ready for a nice dinner reservation – because while there were certain things we didn't have in common, there were many things we did. We loved to laugh. We loved to relax. We loved to fuck. We loved a glass of good wine. We loved to eat something politically incorrect. We loved so many of the same things. And most of all, we loved to fall asleep happy.

Our love was not perfect. We were two parts that made up a near-perfect whole. But not a perfect whole. And I'm glad of that. But it was the closest thing to perfect I have ever experienced. I never woke up a happier woman then everyday I woke up next to you. You are the closest man to perfect I have ever known. The only imperfection I know, is that you are no longer here.