"Ba-BAH, ba-BAH, ba-BAH-- the drums and horns at a nearby wedding party are playing the same rhythm I heard just before we went to bed. We had climbed up on our own roof hours earlier to take a look at the festivities. The terrace was filled with people dancing and musicians dressed in colorful hats and costumes. 
 
I roll over to glance at the clock. It's after 3:00 a.m. local time. I try going back to sleep but the music follows me. I can't distinguish between the end of the party and the dawn call to prayer broadcast from the nearby mosque. 
 
And I thought we Americans liked to party all night long. 
 
There's nothing like a wedding to get Moroccans in their most festive frame-of-mind. Moroccan wedding celebrations can last up to a week for those who can afford it; most last a few days. They are often celebrated in the home and everyone in the
neighborhood is invited. They are abundant with food and music, and the entire affair is intimate and unforgettable.

Tattooing the intricate geometric patterns on both hands, front and back, took nearly four hours.

If you're in Morocco and stuck in traffic-- and King Mohammed VI is not in residence-- you might be caught behind a wedding party. You'll see anything from a string of cars with headlights on to a row of carts carrying the bride and several lambs for the wedding feast. In both urban and rural neighborhoods, the procession is likely to include hired musicians playing drums, trumpets, and hand cymbals, with the guests clapping and dancing in the streets and alleys. In all of the noise, however, it is the bride who commands your attention. She rules her moment like a well-loved royal. 
 
My husband managed to keep our Moroccan wedding celebration a surprise without much difficulty, since he had recruited his mother, sister, and aunts before we left the States, and because I speak very little Arabic. During our entire visit, my in-laws were busy making cookies-- and since they were clever enough to serve some every evening with mint tea, I didn't suspect anything.
 
I had planned on having my hands tattooed; my husband hired a neighborhood woman to do the job. The women of the family turned the tattooing into a slumber party:
helping me choose designs, feeding me cookies and tea as I became less able to use my hands, and dabbing the henna with tea and lemon juice to darken the color. My
mother-in-law, pointing at her own eye, told me that the henna is supposed to keep the evil eye away from the bride and groom. Tattooing the intricate geometric patterns on both hands, front and back, took nearly four hours. Just before bed, my in-laws tied my hands with scarves to keep the henna from rubbing off as I slept.
 
The next morning, I woke with a street merchant's musical call to his customers. My husband winked at me and said, "today we're getting married." 
 
At that point, all the women who had slept on the sofa cushions in the lounge overnight woke up eager to see the tattoos. They untied the scarves at once, scraped the henna paste off, and massaged olive oil into my hands. We all laughed while an aunt comically demonstrated a belly dance in her pajamas. I felt a sense of calm on this, the start of my wedding day. Their companionship, as welcome as Tangier's ocean breeze, helped chase away any lingering worries about what would happen next.
 

I felt a sense of calm on this, the start of my wedding day.

In the afternoon, a small group of women came to the house with two bridal costumes. The first was a heavy green velvet, embroidered with gold thread. The women did my hair and makeup and adorned me with large, heavy earrings, a small tiara, and dozens of strands of beads. The wedding guests were already assembled in the house when I made my entrance. Their voices boomed in salutation: chanting, cheering, and flashing their fingers (which means, "you look chic!").  
 
My husband stood on the other side of the room, his hand stretched out. He kissed my cheek and we sat down on the family's best sofa. My sister-in-law put a pillow under my feet, and guests took turns taking pictures with us, while young girls motioned for me to sit perfectly still with my hands in my lap.  
 
My mother- and sister-in-law served dinner-- harira soup; grilled sardines with diced onions, cilantro and lime wedges; a fish tagine; homemade bread made with semolina flour, perfect for sopping up spicy juices; an assortment of fresh salads; and plates mounded with fresh prickly pears, figs, and cubed melon. Anyone with any room left enjoyed mint tea and an assortment of cookies.  
 
About halfway through the evening, My ladies in waiting ushered me back into the bedroom to change into a second wedding costume. This white dress, a tradition in Tangier, had a lacy overlay. My mother-in-law told me to close my eyes while being
photographed in this dress-- another local tradition. 
 
The celebration continued well past midnight with no one looking at watches or fretting about tomorrow. There was too much in the now to savor. Here I was, the most celebrated woman in Tangier--the queen of the medina.