When a travel junkie can’t get her fix

It’s taken this global epidemic to make me realize just how much of a travel addict I am. I mean, like, full on travel junkie, with a huge dose of attachment disorder. Like, the thought of sitting in a Paris cafe, sipping a cafe au lait, turns me on like mad.

Scottsdale, Arizona

Friday Yesterday I spontaneously booked a flight for Doug and I to Phoenix. With all that’s been happening with K___ I just realized life is unexpected and short. Take the trip. Buy the shoes. Spend the money. So...here we are, on my official birthday, at the gate, after getting here rather late, sipping coffee to... Continue Reading →

The Ksar Char Bagh

But I feel as though I have lost an important connection to the energy of Marrakech by being here. I’ve sold out to luxury. I am no longer traveling. Rather, I am entombed in rich idleness.

Atlas Mountains, Imlil

The drive back seems shorter and at parts, we all sit quiet and enjoy the peaceful yellows of the summer tall grasses of the countryside, the blues of the wide open sky, and an almost empty road.

Marrakech, the Red City

It was a voiceless, dark walk back...the deeper you twist and turn into the residential quarters of the medina, the quieter it gets. The evening Adhan can be heard muffled in the distance. The stars overhead are desert stars of the nearby Sahara, vain and bright, having no rivals from light pollution on the ground. They are stars that shine so brightly they pop, like a sky filled with glittering supernovae.

Ancient Fes

Possibly the most well-educated and historically detailed of all our guides, he was also the most pretentious, eventually claiming, after a point of feeling quite comfortable with us, that he was a direct descendant of Mohammed.

Chefchaouen

As he guided us around, speaking English, he smoked a cigarette and pointed to various streets and said, “Take a photo!” He did it so often and the streets all started to look alike that I began to pretend I was taking photos just to appease him.

Tangier

I paid homage today to Anthony Bourdain at the Tingis Cafe in the Petit Socco in Tangier. It's the same place Paul Bowles and Mahbret and other writers sat to drink mint tea and smoke kif.

The Manzanares

I wander down a street where a gypsy woman in black sings a cante jondo, tremulous and pulsating, from a terraza draped in laundry three flights up.

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