I’ve often thought that you can tell a lot about a country, and it’s people, by the cuisine. After a few weeks in Morocco, this is definitely true, especially when it comes to the sweet mint tea served everywhere.
Essaouira, nestled on the west coast of Morocco has drawn writers and musicians for countless years. Hendrix spent a lot time here in the sixties enjoying the narrow alley ways of the medina and vibrant nightlife. It’s one of those cities that only gets better with age.
The Sahara is a harsh and desolate place. The sun bleaches the color from everything. Yet it holds a unique beauty all of its own. In some way it also makes you realize, and appreciate, just how much color there is in the rest of the world.
Yesterday I spent hours getting lost in the twisting streets and tantalizing history of Meknes. Once the capital of Morocco, Meknes instantly grabbed me by the neck dragging me into her exotic interior.
It’s an overcast morning in Casablanca, Morocco. The sky is brooding. Thick steel clouds weigh heavily above me. I sit at a small cafe, opposite Gare de Casa-Voyageurs, the central train station, watching the city wake.
The weather shifted from hot to humid. My clothes clung to me like a scared child clings to their mother. The bus weaved back and forth on the cliffside drive in a hypnotic dance. Corner after corner we caught glimpses of the Mediterranean sea, sapphire blue waters glinting in calm, inviting bays. Our destination for the next few days was the small costal town of Kas.
Istanbul is not what I expected. I say this every time I travel somewhere new. That's the beauty of travel, it's never what you expected, but often what you need. I arrived late last night, my bed called me like a siren. I succumbed to its embrace.
