Bus station, Marrakesh
O Beloveds. Morocco was beautiful to me, and oh what dumb luck I have. Got out before the violence struck up, got out without diseases or debts or death, and all without knowing Al Qaeda had a morrocan branch, or that a I wasn't supposed to drink the water. We did it all wrong, and it all worked out fine: planned the day before, traveled a lot of space in very little time, depended on the kindness of strangers, traveled with them, bought food from the street and the street markets, drank straight from the tap, wore bathing suits on the beach (as opposed to yards and yards of fabric, as the women who truly live there did) and splashed in the freezing brilliant cold. There are so many stories from that wee week we had, of kindness and bribery and sugary mint tea, but I'm not up to writing it all at once. The pictures I've put here: http://parasolparagua.shutterfly.com/action/
as well as those from the Erasmus trip to Barcelona. My Moroccan travel companions were Lizzy, Chase from Reed who writes, ha, a terribly nice British artist named Sam, Mohammad who studied english lit and is a waiter, much like I will be, Rashid whose hospitality we relied greatly on, Nassima who sat by me on the bus and doodled in my sketchbook [neither spanish nor english were among the several languages she spoke), and a Chilean ex-banker named Nicolas in a fabulous striped shirt.
Ta da! More stories later.