Well, well, well, where do I start?! How about the first of the year!
We left Paris for Tangier, Morocco, flying Europe’s budget airline, RyanAir. And by budget I mean they’ll squeeze every extra dime out of your overstuffed carry-on bag and have the gull to offer sleep deprived, New Years day travelers $15 shots of 5hr energy drinks. Also take note, if you ever find yourself in the mother of all pickles, the kind that requires you to hi-jack a passenger plane, do it here, where the lifeless ticket agents are also security screeners and stewardess’ too!!!
Despite the deck being stacked agains us, we did actually make it. Upon arrival we couldn’t face another big city right away, so opted to take a grand taxi (which is an old 1980’s mercedes 240D) to Assilah, a sleepy beach town 45km south of Tangier. As we swerved past donkey carts and old Honda motorbikes, cruising down the coastal highway, the rush hit. It’s the feeling you get of having absolutely no idea where you’re going, what you’re doing, and how the hell your driver is going to clear this black-smoke sputtering chicken bus before he has a head-on with the lumber truck whose lane you are very much in right now. Ah yes, the good rush.
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For a first introduction to Morocco, Assilah is a perfectly civil, easy-going place. Our taxi drops us at the gate to the medina. The medina is the old, walled section of each city in Morocco, many have foundations that date back over 1000 years. We are immediately overtaken by the town tout, unofficial guide, who will take you wherever you need to go for a few dirhams, but only after trying to talk you into whichever hotel pays him the most. We’d be utterly lost without his guidance though, and follow him through tight alleyways, past herds of feral cats and restauranteurs beaconing our business. Arriving at our chosen hotel, our tout disapproves (he must not be in on their cut) and assures us that this is where the sluts go after the disco; perfect, I brought earplugs for that.
I’m pleasantly surprised by the weather, I’d expected it to be a bit more chilly, but days are in the 60’s, although the nights are still cold. We have vegetable couscous, pickled beets and moroccan soup; a delicious, garbanzo broth with a couple bits of spaghetti noodles waiting at the bottom. We can’t see the sunset from this side of the red-mud medina wall, but the swaying palm trees and carts of sticky sweets make up for it.
Dumb luck must be traveling with us, because the first shop we stop in happens to be owned by perhaps the sweetest and most mild man in all of Morocco, Omar. And wouldn’t you know, it’s a carpet shop, just what Courtney and I came here for. Now I’m not being sarcastic; those of you who don’t know what we’re up to, the short story is that we’re traveling the world for the next couple of months buying up everything that strikes our fancy for our little pipe dream, an international home decor and design store called Delyea Navone. I can’t give you too many details, the cat’s still kind-of in the bag, but after several glasses of sugary mint tea, the only beverage in Morocco, and hours of oh-ing and awe-ing, we’d made our decisions and sat in front of a stack of carpets bound for the US.
We spent the next day wandering around the medina. Green doors indicate a mosque, while most doors to homes are painted in various shades of blue and turquoise, in perfect contrast to the white stuccoed walls. Away from the main square area, where all the life is happening, it’s a quiet mosaic maze. Pairs of women disappear silently around corners, leaving the faintest impression of a bright purple or leopard print head-scarf. Climb a set of stairs and you’re looking across the Atlantic; fishermen dangle their lines thirty feet to the gentle surf below.
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Back in Tangier we hire a taxi to take us to Cap Spartel, where the Mediterranean meets the Atlantic. We stop along the way to play tourist and have a quick camel ride. It was worth it just to see the three babies misbehave and run away from their handler; grace was not granted these lanky, knobby animals, or at least not in the early years. Tangiers is big, loud and pulsing with tourism, not quite our scene and I’m glad to soon be on a train headed south for Fez.
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