That’s Arabic for “Merry Christmas,” at least according to the Internet, which is always right. We’re in Tangier, Morocco, where they call Christmas “Friday.” I can hear the mid-afternoon call to prayer through the window, and it’s raining so much that some of the streets downtown have turned into lakes, which doesn’t stop Moroccan drivers from attempting to float their cars across them.

Our week in Portugal was extremely enjoyable, in that we spent more time sitting on the couch than we did doing all other things combined, which is exactly what we wanted. It occurred to me that Sophie and I haven’t had any real “home” time (which is defined as some combination of cooking, eating, sitting on the couch, watching TV, knitting, playing video games, and/or surfing the Internet, together, and is the backbone of our relationship) not just since we started this trip in September, but since before we moved out of New York at the end of August. It was hard to bring ourselves to leave.

Nevertheless, we hauled ourselves out of bed at 6am on Christmas Eve for a four-hour drive to Algeciras, Spain to catch a ferry to Tangier. And we made it too, despite Spain valiantly attempting yet again to kill us on the motorway, this time with 35mph winds and a rain storm so intense that even driving at 35 mph I still couldn’t see where I was going. And despite a two and a half hour ferry ride that took four because the churning seas kept making the boat go backwards, and despite us standing around in the carbon-monoxide-infused parking deck of the ferry for an hour before someone bothered to let us out.

Someone eventually did, and we went ashore to find Morocco to be the first place on the trip that really made me feel like I’d stepped into a foreign country. It’s something of an attack on the senses, just like the guidebooks say. The best way I can think of to describe the Tangier medina might only make sense to my New York friends, but imagine walking down Canal St. on a Saturday afternoon in June. Except that instead of bootleg CDs the vendors are selling cumin and nuts. And the street isn’t there so the cars just drive on the sidewalks.

Oh also imagine that you’re walking around wearing a cowboy hat and chaps. That’s about how much we stand out here, which means we’re constantly bombarded by the touts and hustlers trying to find us a hotel or restaurant or to give us a tour. (My favorite so far being the kid who asked us, “Where are you from? New York? Boston? Chicago? San Francisco? Washington D.C.? Miami? Seattle? Las Vegas? Arizona? Ohio?”)

It’s all amazing and extremely intimidating and has made me realize that, despite all the time we’ve been gone, we’re just now starting the hard part of this trip: Morocco. Turkey. Egypt. India. Cambodia. Indonesia. Three months in those places. We’re suddenly not in Europe anymore, and I wish I’d prepared myself better.

Anyway, this will likely be my last post until 2010, because tomorrow we catch the night train to Marrakech, where we’ll be picked up for a drive across the country followed by a three-day trip into the Sahara on the backs of camels. I don’t think the camels are wi-fi enabled. So Merry Christmas, if that’s your thing, and happy new year. We’re thinking about you. Send us a message and say hi.