Among my many travels, I had always been able to communicate with those around me. If no one spoke French or Italian, but perhaps a different romance language, we could get along alright. If all else failed, I was lucky to grow up in a world in which my native language was the lingua franca: practically everyone speaks English nowadays.

When I traveled to Morocco for the first time, I was expecting that my French would do the trick. However, in Tangier, the city I had chosen, French and Arabic are not used quasi-equally as I had anticipated. The hierarchy of languages there is Arabic, Spanish, then minimal French. That was it. No English.

I hadn’t been expecting the Spanish, but on clear days, I could just make out Spain on the horizon. It turns out that whole straight of Gibraltar, geographical proximity to Spain, really affected the language in Tangier.  It was obvious after I pieced it together.

Still, the largest culture shock was not the language nor the food. It was not the city planning or the water that wasn’t safe to drink.

It was the expectations and treatment of women.

I was traveling with a friend during our four days in Tangier and we understood certain things going into it. This was not a place to party, dress immodestly, or even stay out past dark. At least not for us, a pair of women.

We made concerted efforts to be respectful with long pants, tops with high neck lines, and sweaters down to our wrists, despite the warm weather. We explored the stunning white city, wandering the markets, discovering the addicting Moroccan tea, and trading mere cents for the best orange juice I have tasted to this day, squeezed right in front of us on the side of the road.

It didn’t take long to realize that among the busy streets, we were two of maybe twenty women we would see outside all day. We were the only two not accompanied either by children or at least one man. Sitting in a café to take a break, the employees were male, the patrons in the building – packed to the brim – were all male. Plus, we stood out like sore thumbs, with loose, long hair and pale, white skin. The way people stared, you’d have thought we were walking around stark naked. It was quite intimidating.

The only women we saw who were unaccompanied were other tourists (though there weren’t many others) or beggars. In Tangier, the beggars follow you. You do not give them money to help them out. You give them money to leave you alone. Otherwise, they will follow you all damn day. I once saw a child (children were often seen begging for money), kick a man in the legs for not giving him anything. I actually thought a fight was about to unravel in front of us until the child ran away.

On our last full day, we decided to splurge on breakfast. With the conversion, the splurged breakfast for two probably still cost us about 7 USD total. We found a corner café and entered. We had been getting used to the stares at this point: thirty pairs of eyes attached to stout men around their 50s, all following us as we weaved to the counter. Collecting two menus, we motioned that we would be sitting outside.

The outside seating provided three tables in a row along the sidewalk. One was already filled with a group of men, and we chose the final table, leaving one empty in the middle. Glazing over the menu, we wondered at the words: the beautiful Arabic and the Spanish translations that gave us limited clues to each dish. We laughed as we guessed at both pronunciation and meaning.

When the first beggar arrived, my friend and I stared quietly at our menus with resolve. We had learned to not so much as look at the beggars – an inconvenient and difficult concept for both of us to reconcile. So we stared at the words we couldn’t understand, uncomfortable and trapped.

To our great relief and shame, completely ignoring the beggar worked. She moved along to the other patrons outside who said a few words in Arabic that sent her away.

It wasn’t until after our meal arrived that the second beggar approached us. We ate silently, eyes glued to our food, as the beggar rattled off in mixed Arabic and Spanish. Then a voice rose from the other table, gaining the beggar’s attention. The beggar moved on.

At that point, I only suspected, but didn’t say anything to my friend. We glanced at each other as we waited for the check, frustrated and uncomfortable; a third beggar was crossing the street toward us. Before she reached our table, the men sitting outside called her over. My friend relaxed and drank some more tea, but I watched the interaction beside us. A few words were exchanged calmly and the beggar left. Came nowhere near us. Never spoke to us.

My suspicion had been supported. The men were helping us by calling the beggars off, by making sure they didn’t bother us. In a land where women were disrespected to the point of not being allowed to leave the house alone, it was the last thing I expected from a group of men. I now felt protected. As we left the restaurant, I nodded to them gratefully.

On our final morning, before heading to the airport, we decided to visit that same restaurant one last time. A room full of eyes recognized us as we once again collected our menus and went to go settle down outside. As we turned the corner to three empty tables, I was disappointed that we would not have our protectors around.

I was wrong. Within a few minutes of us taking our seats, an entire table of gentlemen from inside – in the middle of a meal – moved to sit outside with that buffer table between us. They didn’t say anything or even look at us, but every time a beggar entered the street, the men kept them away from us. The concept that they displaced themselves to make sure we had help moved me.

This unexpected assistance made me wonder about this culture I didn’t understand. To me, the expectations I had seen of women were offensive and patronizing. This aspect of protection – without question – for my gender brought a new layer, a new depth to the culture’s perspective on women. It was still condescending in my opinion, but there was certainly a level of respect and appreciation for women weaved into it that intrigued me.

That’s the story of how I received aid from men I never spoke to and wouldn’t have been able to understand even I had. So here’s to the world around me. May my expectations continue to be challenged, surpassed, and completely disregarded.