Love . travel . write . eat
I guess some people think you're not a "true pilgrim" unless you are martyring yourself under the weight of a 50-pound bag. I actually martyred myself twice under the 50-extra pounds I gained with each pregnancy...
By the time Kate could remember, he’d already begun drinking gin and tonics and selling copy machines, and sometimes going out on deep sea fishing boats when business was slow. And on days when he was out of work, and her mother couldn’t take it anymore, she’d say, “Everyone out!”
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.
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 →
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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