As a varsity rower at Wellesley College, my daily schedule is structured around practices and workouts. I didn’t have many expectations prior to leaving for my semester abroad in Rabat, but I figured I could easily find a gym or establish a running routine. Within two weeks of my arrival, however, I learned that not only was my school schedule not conducive to working out, but that gym memberships in Morocco cost just as much as gym memberships in the US: around $30 to $40 a month. When I did finally get the time to go and look at a gym in my area, I was surprised by what I would get for $30 a month.

There were two separate rooms, both dimly lit and very narrow: one had a large open space for dance and aerobic classes, along with treadmills, ellipticals, and spin bikes, and the other was packed to the brim with strength equipment. My friend Emily and I found a changing room downstairs, but there was no guaranteed security in keeping our bags there, so we were advised to leave them with the attendant. Unfortunately, she was gone from her desk just as often as she was at it, so we came with as few valuables as possible and hoped for the best.

Then, to our chagrin, we discovered that the majority of the five spin bikes had no way for us to adjust the seat or handle height. Only two of the three treadmills worked, and one of the two ellipticals: cardio options were clearly very limited.

Why not go for a run? Rabat is not particularly hilly, and we were two blocks away from the ocean, where there is a wide sidewalk that extends the length of the city. Well, first because of personal preference: I like variety in my workouts, and I infinitely prefer spinning to running. The second reason was that within a month, I had already developed a hearty dislike of being out on the street for an extended period of time in Rabat.

As a white woman I clearly stood out anywhere I went in Rabat, a city not particularly appealing to tourists. As a tall woman, I stood out even more: I was regularly taller than most women by at least half a foot, most men by a few inches. All women are subject to street harassment in Morocco, the only difference being what your harassers say. By October, when Emily and I had decided that we had adjusted enough to our routine to add on going to the gym, I was sick of hearing “Ma reine” and “Beautiful, beautiful” whispered and crooned to me as I walked past cafes. I was even more tired of hearing hisses and words that I did not yet understand.

Exercise is a safe place for me, where my endorphins go up and I feel connected to a community. The street was the opposite, so I retreated to the gym.

While the cardio room was typically empty except for Emily and me trying to figure out which machine was working that day, the strength training room was always packed and hopping.

On any given day, at any given time, we would walk in to find six to ten men making the rounds on the equipment. This group included one tall, bald man instructing people on how to best use the machines and the proper technique for certain exercises. He was remarkable for several reasons: he reminded me of my own strength training coach back at Wellesley, an intimidating woman with a no-nonsense attitude; he was taller than me; and he treated everyone in the room with the same level of respect and patience, including the young Moroccan women we saw there.

There were two women who we noticed consistently during that month. These women were tough, motivated, and powerful. They moved from exercise to exercise methodically and with purpose, seemingly at home in an environment that often overwhelmed me. When Emily and I wanted to work on our bench press, but the piece of equipment we needed was occupied by a young man who showed no signs of leaving anytime soon, we asked one of these women for advice. She quickly reassured us that we had just as much right to use the equipment as the young man, and helped us find the vocabulary to address him.

Exercising in Morocco is a question of dedication and resources. The process of finding a gym or another place to exercise where we were comfortable was difficult, and once we found it, we had neither the time nor the money to exercise at a gym for more than a month. But during that month, I saw a phenomenon of Moroccan culture that I had noticed from time to time in separate parts of my daily life but hadn’t seen displayed so clearly and plainly: strong, modestly-dressed women approaching male-dominated spaces with poise, purpose, and confidence in their ability to command the respect they deserved. While I didn’t possess the skills and cultural knowledge of these women, I could admire their strength and learn from their example.