Part 4

Seville 31 MAY

Before departing Córdoba I had yet one more little day-trip planned. I did not want to leave Spain without having seen Seville. A friendly Spaniard at the Madrid news kiosk, where I usually bought my Herald Tribune paper, told me what to watch for on the schedule and which trains don't require a surcharge. I caught one of those surcharge-free trains and about 90 minutes later, I arrived at the nice modern railroad station of Seville without a clue. I walked around the station to get an idea in which direction I should be going. There were taxis, but I had no intentions of being given the grand and expensive tour by some over-eager enterprising cabbie. I saw some church spires in the distance, picked the largest street leading from the station and walked. After a few minutes I saw part of a preserved Roman aqueduct in the center strip of the street and decided to go right at this intersection. The street beyond looked promising, and I think there was a sign indicating some Roman villa. Interestingly, that direction was the opposite one from where I remember seeing the church spires. The alley opened on a green park-like plaza and there was the Roman town-house. Past it I noticed the twisty, colorful, narrow maze of alleys I've read about being part of the old Jewish town center. I immediately lost all sense of direction, but just pushed on and enjoyed the spectacle of colorful, balcony and flower-decorated facades. Stopped for some coffee con leche, in a small old local restorant and coffee shop, and some directions and a needed break, and then followed the distant sound of music. What seemed to be a military marching band was near a huge cathedral that had, as can often be found in formerly Islamic Spain, a minaret converted to a bell tower. The place was absolutely mobbed with mostly German tourists and Spanish locals. I made it to the cathedral in time for the rather bizarre spectacle. Pushing through the throngs of people into the dark, cool, cavernous interior, I was rewarded with a troop of goose-stepping, wild-eyed, rifle-toting Arab-looking Spaniards who were for whatever reason marching all around the inside of the cathedral to then return to the vast square outside and disband. The leader was actually rolling his eyes. It was apparently some kind of local militia. It was a totally off-the-hook experience. The Spaniards thought so too and applauded wildly. The cathedral interior was a mix of beautiful carvings, old paintings, great glass and some obvious neglect. There were signs of on-going reconstruction and conservation efforts. The Jewish population, that thrived under the Umayyads caliphs, were ousted from Spain, robbed or killed after the Christians re-conquered the country. The square around the cathedral is surrounded by lovely old houses and a center for tours from all over the world. I noticed several Japanese tour-groups with their leaders holding up the traditional little flag so that all members of the tour may always identify their guide. After that it was time to visit a couple of museums and then I took the opportunity once more to get lost again. After some time, asking directions from well-meaning people, whose answers I did not understand, I found myself in a square not far from another big church, where there were several bus stops. I ran from bus to bus, asking for the railroad station ("estacion?") and one of the bus drivers pointed me to the correct stop. Piece of cake. One of the final recollections, while roaming the colorful old alleys of central Seville was the lovely sound of a Spanish guitar drifting sweet but powerfully from one of the balconies above me.

An email:

Hi Tom,
Today I went to Seville. Great place and the old Jewish Quarter lived up to my expectations. The center of town is occupied by, what else, a huge cathedral that seems to be the normal mix of Moorish and Mediterranean architecture. When I got there, some wild eyed Spaniards in uniforms were, of all things, goose stepping into the church. Quite a goofy show, but it seemed to delight the crowds. The column and marching band entered the huge cathedral and then marched around it. Very surreal IMO. The Jewish quarter itself is all twisty and lovely alleys with many hidden architectural and garden delights. Great place to wander around for a few hours (were it not for the infernal heat). Between the heat and the allergies, I might as well have stayed in inner California or Arizona. Wisely I traveled with a bottle of anti histamines.

I left Seville in the afternoon, when things were getting too unbearable and returned to Córdoba and had lunch at Burger King (chicken sandwich). I must say in my widely traveled opinion, the Spanish women are easily the most voluptuous females anywhere. Boobs are a big item here, even on skinny girls. However, more often than not, while they have little waists, the butts are in tune. Since no-one seems to be looking to make their boobs smaller, butt and thighs cellulite removal and liposuction are major topics here, and all manner of legit medical and dubious means to that end are offered. Knockout figures and often exotically beautiful faces would be total head turners anywhere in the world. Here they are the norm. Pretty neat. What is not neat is to see how many of the young ones are smoking.


It's June and I've been on the road for two months. Trying to leave Córdoba to take the train to Algeciras to ferry from there across to Morocco was not easy. I got to the station at 0725 to catch the 0805 express, but it wasn't on the day's schedule. Confused I went to the information window but only got yelled at by some fat older Spanish railway bureaucrat. I finally figured out that the train I wanted only ran on Saturdays. Also, because mainly tourists ride the train to Algeciras, there is always an eight dollar surcharge, even though it is not a AVE high-speed train. Ever greedy, Spain is already the largest subsidy recipient of the EU, they now try to block the entry of the Eastern European states, for fear that they might have to make do with a lesser amount of free money. I finally got on the train (after going back to the window to purchase a surcharge ticket) and as usual went to a non-smoking car. As soon as the train started moving, some idiot lit up a cigarette. I thought I was going crazy. Being already in a somewhat sour mood, I told the guy to get the hell out of the car, pointing at the no-fumare signs and symbols. He started to argue and I stood and pointed to the door. He muttered and left, followed by his corpulent wife. I got a round of applause by the rest of the people and felt a little better. The ride took me through a hot, hilly landscape, dotted with white-painted villages and signs of devastation of a not too distant conflict. Running roughly parallel, from time to time I could see a modern highway not too far away. I helped a couple of young American girls, exchange students, who had fallen asleep across from me (I must have that effect on young women these days) and missed their station. Luckily I had a schedule that showed the train from Algeciras, going the other way, just about 30 minutes later. I got them off at the next stop in the middle of nowhere, and set them up on the opposite platform. After a while of riding on, I saw the other train going their way and knew they'd be ok.

Algeciras - End of the line.

There is nothing beyond Algeciras except for the sea. The train dead-ends there. I went into the small station area and immediately purchased my round-trip tickets to Tangier from one of the two agents there and was, upon showing my EURAIL pass, offered the appropriate discount. Also, buying the round-trip ticket here would be less hassle and is a little cheaper. Then I walked down the road, right across from the station to the ferry terminal. It's about a good 15-minute walk, carrying the 55-60 lbs pack. No shade either. Algeciras looks fine once you get to the harbor. There is a nice beach-front and crossing the busy ocean-side road, hanging left takes you to a large harbor installation and in the distance a modern ferry terminal. It was still another five to ten-minute walk to get to the end of the pier where ticket, luggage, and passport checks would take place. Then I was on the ferry. Being kind of surprised that I had at last arrived here. Here I was, just about to cross the Strait of Gibraltar on the way to Tangier, Morocco. Tangier, once the place of intrigue, legend and mystery, and the actual site for the movie Casablanca. They changed the name in the movie, because they thought that Casablanca sounded better than Tangier. I rushed to the deck to catch a glimpse of the "Pillars of Heracles", the Rock of Gibraltar and the divide between the Mediterranean Sea and the Atlantic Ocean. There it was, just like the pictures always showed it. Then I settled in, below deck, for the relatively boring two-hour ride. I snoozed some, got some strong Moroccan coffee. Chatted with the pretty Moroccan Arab girl behind the counter, and just enjoyed the ride. Suddenly, there, on the horizon was the coast of Morocco. Small villages, minarets, and fishing boats were visible in the distance. I felt like the only real adventure on my trip was about to begin. I mean, what's Europe? It's just like anywhere in the Western world. Nothing difficult or alien about it, and having been to Asia and Central Asia, Europe appeared rather tame by comparison. This, however, was far more promising to me.

A link to pictures and Moroccan travel tips

Tangier 1 JUN

The clutter of buildings on the hills of old Tangier and the distant hotels along the shoreline were beckoning as we pulled with a long swooping turn, seagulls all around us, into the harbor. While on board I made the acquaintance of a young Canadian couple who were traveling from Spain on a weekend package trip to Tangier. They were going to stay at a place called Solazur Hotel. Since I had no reservations for anywhere in Maroc, I decided to check that place out as well. Besides, mistrusting cabbies in general, I was looking for another option to get into town. Listening around, I heard some people discussing that there would be busses from the Solazur to to pick them up. The Canadians had planned on taking a cab, but I told them about this and steered them past the mob of taxi drivers to the line of busses. I figured I'd just pretend to be part of the package tourists and let the bus take me there. Hotel people carried my backpack into the baggage storage compartment (who was I to complain), and I and the Canadians climbed aboard. The guide had everyone fill out paperwork, which I pretended to do and then tossed, and then the busses slowly took off. The Solazur is a large concrete structure that sits right across from the beach, some reasonable distance from the town. I liked that location. I went to the counter, while the package tourists were being rounded up and processed. I told the clerk, who spoke excellent English that I wanted a room for a few nights and, since I was not part of a package tour, ended up paying $5 more than they did. My room overlooked the beach and had a great view of the harbor and Tangier off to the left. I was extremely pleased. Especially, when I found out that the package tourist, for their $5 dollar savings, had back-alley dumpster views. I changed and immediately started walking in direction town. I actually was looking for a working cash machine, to get some local currency, and ended up on Mohammed V avenue that lead me way into town. I was totally fascinated. The streets, as I was getting closer to the town center, got more and more packed with pedestrians. It was Friday and for the Moslems a day of prayer and recreation. Everyone was walking the town. I was thrilled by the variety of dress. As many were wearing the traditional, lovely Moroccan cloak, the hood usually just hanging down the back, dark-eyed faces typically uncovered, as were wearing Western-style clothing. The women were exotic, Mid-Eastern types, though, after a while it became clear that many of the same genetic types were to be found on both sides of the Strait. The reason, of course, was that these people were created from the mixture of Spanish and North-African populations that arose in the course of the 700 years of Moslem occupation of Spain. After I got back to the hotel, with local currency (Dhirrams), I ran into my now freshly changed and somewhat disgusted Canadian friends. They, as I, were looking toward the circus in the dining area and bar, where schmaltzy Italian songs were sung and Moroccan guides were trying to get the assembled visitors to plan the next day's group-activities (under their paid-for guidance, of course). The guides discouraged them from going out in the evening, and most of the largely older tourists eagerly agreed to stay in the hotel area and eat and drink there. I told the Canadians that I'd be happy to take them for an interesting walk into town, if they were up to it, and they enthusiastically agreed. I retraced my steps and they were very grateful at having escaped the "processing". We ate some Moroccan food in a small restaurant and thoroughly enjoyed the local scenery and ambiance. I took them almost to the center of town, where, next to the Café De Paris, the winding steps descended into the now quiet Kasbah. Since it was late and quite dark by then, we headed back to the hotel. The two thanked me profusely to have given them this special evening away from the organizers. I considered it my good deed for the day.

An email:

Hi Lisa,
I will do a lot more local eating in the next five days, and then it's back to Spain and on to Southern France. I have great expectations from the local quisine, which is to be the REAL Moroccan food one hears so much about.
Oh, in Casablanca I had the good fortune to find myself on an airport bus, they have all kinds of vertical and horizontal rails. When the passengers unloaded to get on the aircraft I gave a "wait" signal to the driver and quickly did 11 pull-ups. He cheered me on and gave me the thumbs up signal when I got off the bus to get on the plane. Other than that it's my 50 push-ups a day to hold me until I get back to Madrid. It's around 40° C here, whatever that translates into, but Arizona-dry. Constant water consumption is an acquired survival technique here. Even the natives run around with bottled water.
The smells and sounds of the souk are calling me, and I have to sign off.
Oh, did find some fabulous old curved knives. Awesome workmanship. One done by the old Jewish craftsmen around the turn of the century. Prices are steep. Asking was around $320 for that and $400 for one with amber handle that dates from the fifties and was made for some rich person

The next day after a jog on the beach and a nice breakfast, I set out to explore town. The markets were busy and crowded and the experience was all I expected it to be. I found myself in back-alleys, where I was stared or smiled at, and where no foreigners ventured. I chatted with cops, tried to get into the old Moroccan US embassy, the first foreign embassy of the US. I found it, not an easy task, but it was unfortunately closed. I bought and sampled fruit and just had a whale of a good time. From time to time I would see groups of tourists being herded through the areas by their guides. Tourists who would stare at me curiously, since I simply wandered the streets and alleys alone, without a care in my mind. I went to the noisy and crowded indoor market to get some yogurt and then found an Air Maroc office, up one of the side-streets, near the town center (Café de Paris) to buy the plane tickets for my flight to Marrakech.

I had the overall impression that, in spite of much modern construction, the Arabs do not seem to take to city life too well. There was much confusion, traffic was maddening and seemingly unregulated, in spite of cops present everywhere. Banks were guarded with submachine gun-equipped uniformed guards, and many places, in spite of being relatively new, were already falling into disrepair, or at least were very poorly maintained. On the other hand, the sounds of the Arabic language, the periodic call of the muezzin reminding the faithful to pray, and Arab music blaring from radios and stores, as well as the smells of Jasmine and the flavor of sweetened mint tea and strange foods all combined to make this for me an unforgettable and truly magical experience.

Marrakech

The morning of my flight to Marrakech I had the Solazur hotel lock up my large backpack, and made a reservation for my return stay (got another ocean-view room). Next I ran on the beach, all the way as far as the distant sewage spill, past four or five huge new beach-front hotels under construction, and then waited for a cab. I told the hotel people that if they want to attract more Western clients, they need to clean up the beach and the water first. A very gabby, but informational cabbie drove me to the airport and through the misty early morning countryside. At the higher altitude it was cool and usually remains bearable enough that the king has a summer palace in the area. The airport procedure was minimal, and the flight, in a modern Boeing 737 to Casablanca, short. Casablanca, from the air, was a huge sprawling city. More modern and more bland (and from what I hear, much more boring) than Tangier. I did not bother to make time to venture into town, and just caught the next outgoing flight to Marrakech. Upon arrival at Marrakech I quickly found out that the cab fare from the airport into town is a non-metered standard. It is what it is, no bargaining. Pay it or find yourself a donkey or camel. I got to the well-recommended Hotel Ali, where I wanted to stay, but it was full. Not a problem. I went into the crowded, hot, and friendly Internet cafe in the back, and the nice young guy who was running it, Abdel Fattah Achraf, told me where there was another place, just down the street in back of Hotel Ali (Rue Bani Marine), a few doors down to the right. He was right. Hotel Arset El Bilk. It was old, inexpensive, and had a better restaurant than Hotel Ali. I know, I tried the same meal in both. Anyway, I'd stay there again. Keep in mind, that it was just the beginning of summer and things had not yet reached peak temperature. This little place was not air-conditioned, and many travelers could not put up with the Moroccan heat at night. Early, the next morning, looking out above the nearby roofs, I noticed that some tourists had opted to sleep under the cool night sky on the rooftops rather than in their rooms. Rooftops here are usually flat and I think not just foreigners end up sleeping there. Well, I had some great chicken tajine, my first good meal since Spain, and the usual and utterly delicious mint tea at the hotel restaurant. I think I'm getting addicted to that stuff. Breakfast and one of the main meals, lunch or dinner was included with my room rate. However, I had to pay $3 a night extra for a TV. Within a few minutes, a couple of employees carried a large TV into my room. All was well in Marrakech. I just figured out, that by the time I returned to the US, I will have spent about $200 on postcards and postage. After a little nap and a lengthy conversation with Abdel Achraf, and some Internet assistance that I provided, I headed for the noise and excitement of the infamous Djemma El Fna. The old central square of Marrakech. The place was absolutely packed and over it all was a cloud of smoke from the many cooking fires. The air was thick with smells of foods, spices, and the wail of native music. People were streaming into and out of the plaza in every conceivable conveyance ranging, to horse drawn carriages to donkeys and Mercedes cars, though most were on foot. The only way to enjoy the incredible diversity of the gathered merchants and performers. The style of dress was no less varied running the full gamut from Western clothing to the fully shrouded conservative Moslem cloak and veil. The Berber country folk were there in force, and that made things visually interesting. There were some European tourists in the crowd too, but this square had been the center of attraction for locals and nearby desert dwellers for centuries. Back then there would even be public beheadings and punishments in addition to the market activity and festivities (No action flicks back then and no TV). The din of thousands of voices mixing with the cries of the touts and merchants in addition to the aforementioned sounds and smells were an experience to boggle the mind. There were snake charmers, who, to the sound of their flutes, soothed cobras that had been excited previously, though taps on the head, to display their flared necks. There were musicians and dancers, acrobats, magicians, and shamans too. There were cures for everything for sale by strange Berber medicine men, who were surrounded by jars and dried carcasses that would have made any Medieval warlock or witch, proud to own. There were countless food and orange and grapefruit juice stands and amids all of that the most colorful water sellers I have ever seen. Not that I would have touched their water, short of dying of thirst. Adjoining the plaza is also a neat covered bazaar. It has the slatted roof, to provide shade, but also let thin shafts of light illuminate the relatively dim alley ways. Here you can purchase guaranteed genuine, according to the merchants, old Arabic knives - naturally, all of them fakes. Carpets from Fez, purportedly handmade, spices, sweets, furniture, slippers, and anything a villager or nomad might want to come to town to buy. I went there more than once to realizing that this was the old Arabic world, as I had imagined it. Leaving the jam-packed plaza after some time, I followed the crowd, promenading down one of the wider streets, eagerly people-watching, and then headed back to my hotel. A little more time here would have been most agreeable, but my schedule was largely determined by flight and hotel reservations I had made for the remainder of my European adventure. Had I had more time, I would have taken a tour to the great oasis in the Atlas Mountains and the famous waterfalls there. Alas, after some local sight-seeing to the old city gates and a grand old, nearby-mausoleum, and a second trip to the Djemma El Fna and the adjoining market, I was on my way back to the airport and a flight to Fez. Too late I figured out that another little treasure was being collected by locals in the mountains and sold in shops around an old mausoleum, fossils. They were the real thing, but at the time I was not thinking (clearly?) and did not bother to get any of them. Postage was not cheap, and carrying everything in a backpack was a serious limiter in itself. However, had I thought things through, I would have taken the items to Tangier and had my antique dealer ship them with the awesome dagger that I had him send to the US.

An email:

Hi Cherie,
Did my sightseeing this morning. My stomach is holding up fine. Had a moment of worry when things got rather "burbly" in Tangier and thought that I'd bought it, but am fine, eating excellently in local places and not worrying too much about things. Anyway, it is virtually impossible to eliminate exposure. Dishes, silverware, showers all involved local water. All my travels so far, be it the Far East or here never resulted in any more than a rare stomach ache, very short lived at that. What happened it Buchara (Uzbekistan) was definitely out of the ordinary.
Went to the city wall and admired the old gates, then followed some tour groups in to the lovely and impressive mausoleum. I did a walk around the 8th Century mosque built at the time of glory when the Moslem nation extended all the way across Spain and North Africa to Damascus and beyond. Good stuff, but now the temp is creeping toward the high 90s low 100s and things are starting to slow down.
The Djemma El Fna, the assembly of the dead, the great open square near here is pretty dead in the day time, but last night it was an incredible place to behold. I had crashed, as is custom for all good Mediterranean people. Had a honeydew melon as an afternoon snack and then hit the plaza. The melon incident was pretty funny too. I saw the old toothless melon seller from the lobby of the hotel. Loud arguments between buyers and him. Everyone was naturally challenging price and quality. I stepped into the act and reached for a melon (one that I noticed had been approved by one of more of the potential clients). I asked "combien?" and a huge yelling match, none of it angry, just Arab norm, ensued. The answer was 10 durrhams. I complained. Got nowhere. It was not important anyway and the hotel lady, who I quickly consulted said it was pretty close anyway. Next I said "bien?" pointing at that melon at it was immediately extensively snuffled upon and considered of good quality (Futurerama's Dr Zoiberg would have been proud of the snuffling event). On to the Assembly of the Dead. The place since time immemorial had been the site of bizarre entertainment, when the beheading took place there and the head would be exhibited there. Not so grisly today, but nonetheless bizarre. When I turned the corner I could not believe the din of thousands and the smells of dozens of kitchens and diesel stench of hundreds of mopeds and petit taxies. It can not be described and must be experienced. I dove into the whirlpool of moving objects, people and vehicles moving simultaneously into and from every direction. The din of Arabic bands, tinkling of bells of fully hooded dancing girls, the high flutes of the snake charmers, yells of the touts of many products and dishes, shouts of tumbling artists, exclamations of story tellers, all combined to a mind numbing incomparable avalanche assaulting the senses. I spent a few hours there. As soon as they se a camera pointed at them, they race at you to request a bakshish. The hands here are always out. Paying a small amount for the "service" is obligatory. They are the entertainers, we are the entertained. SO it goes. I don't think anyone from our culture can handle this more than a couple of days. That is the fame of Marrakech that makes it an attraction for Europeans and Moroccans alike. There is more, but that requires more time and outings into the greater Atlas Mountain region.
Well, I shall brave the Djemma El Fna once more tonight and early tomorrow fly off to Fez.

Another email:

Hi Cara,
This message reaches you from the edge of the Atlas Mountains in distant Marrakech. I decided that having come this far (Tangier, Morocco), I would have to spend two nights in the deep desert and see this ancient city. I flew here from Tangier and in two days will fly on to Fez, even older and more colorful. As you can imagine, it is very hot here. Walking takes most of your energy; exercise is pretty much out of the question. Since I stayed on the beach in Tangier, I managed to start the day, yesterday morning with a wonderful beach run. These guys have a long way to go until they become a world class resort. The property and environmental management seems to overwhelm them. Tangier is the city that was. It had a great story, but its glory has faded. It is turning into a commercial center and a huge impersonal city. Of course, that's only true for the outer parts away from the souk. I had a wonderful time cruising the narrow alleys on my own. Dipping in and out ancient gates that led to even more hidden little shops. This morning I had to get up at 0530 to get the early of the two flights to Marrakech via Casablanca. So no time to jog and too little sleep. It was Saturday, and the natives were restless and racing their mopeds and cars drunkenly most of the night. Tangier has many characteristics of Spain in its population and food. After all, the Arabs owned Spain for around 700 years, and customs and genetics flow both ways. Here, far from the rest of the world (11 hours by train), the old Berber culture is a much stronger element. Can't wait to hit the famous Town Square, which I will do in a few minutes. It is famous throughout Northern Africa for all of the crazy events and excellent food offered there. My room in a little dumpy hotel costs me 12 USD a night and that includes breakfast and dinner. A far cry from the place in Tangier, which is a clip joint for package tourists. They also served breakfast. All fat croissants, breads, OJ, butter ( I couldn't believe the amounts of butter the package tourists were consuming). I as usual, took my intestinal health in hand and ate around town. Now waiting for the other shoe to drop, but so far so good. Maybe my Uzbekistan experience hardened my body? Hope..hope!

Another email:

Cherie,
I may have gotten zapped. I just had an orange juice, and there was an ice-cube in it. If I survive this I will be definitely ok. Nothing will bother me then. That's how it was in Vietnam and Cambodia. I drank ice-coffee there every day. Here I was just moments ago sitting outside of a big restaurant (all men), the mujaheddin called for evening prayer, but no one prayed. Instead we were watching the foot traffic parade by. Anyway, just decided to quickly check mail prior to getting some dinner with my Moroccan Internet-shop buddy here.
I don't know when I will get back on the net between now and Madrid. So be prepared for a four-day hiatus. Until then be well.

Fez

Fez, I believe, is Morocco's oldest and definitely most colorful city, as well as that country's center of arts and crafts. The city is basically three adjoining towns. The old walled Medina, towered-over by an old fortress, the old university town and an adjoining more modern part, and a new town spreading its tendrils of dwellings toward the modern airport. Refusing to take a cab for $12, I took the public bus. Cab drivers would come by and tell me that the bus would not get there for a long-long time, but I had a book, held it up to them and smiled. When the bus came, it cost just 30 cents to go to the center of the new town. It quickly filled up and I stood to let a woman and her child sit, which resulted in many friendly smiles from passengers. A young girl, in very broken English told me how many more station I needed to get off to reach Mohammed V avenue. In Saudi Arabia, or some other more conservative Arab country, this would have resulted in her being publicly yelled at or worse, but this shows you that Moslem nations can be moderate, and by our standards quite "normal". Mohammed V, being the name of the King's revered father, every city has a Mohammad V avenue. It's always the main street and a great way to orient yourself. Also, it is typically known to every bus driver and native resident. Most of the city's activities and shops can be found there as well. Got off at a place nearby, stopped for a snack and some mint tea, I told you I was addicted to that stuff, and set out to find my hotel. A British sounding foreigner directed me the rest of the way.

Unexpectedly, the environment around Fez is very green. Even in town, there were lots of trees and some parks. Most of the countryside was fields and looked very much like southern California. There were even pine trees to be seen. Morocco is place filled with delightful and often surprising contradictions.

Well, I did another one of my stubborn explorations there. The incredible Medina of around 9000 interlocked alleys beckoned. Some are so narrow that they nearly touch your body on each side, and I vowed to get in and out on my own. It really is not too difficult as long as you stick to the main passage. There are certain paving stones used on the main passage through the town and following them, you will at least arrive at the old central mosque. From there it is sort of hit and miss, but after a few tries I had it figured out. The previous day I had taken a bus from the main station, No. 19 to the center plaza of the Medina. There I found myself totally frustrated by "guides" who incessantly pestered me to have them guide me through the maze of alley ways. I refused and finally went back to the bus stop. However, after a short time I noticed a guided tour entering the Medina through a different gate, and I tagged along, trailing behind. That took me to the most notable sight of Fez, the leather tanning vats. While following them, I also went into a Moroccan robe weaving shop, and of course, took the opportunity to buy fruit, in the market. The leather here must be the finest in the world. It feels soft as silk. They tailor anything you want for you. This neighborhood is also where the excellent carpets are woven, and I have a couple of them right here in my apartment. The next morning I got up real early and went straight into the Medina, from the uptown side, near the university. Virtually all shops were still closed and I had the run of the place, no guides and definitely no tourists were about. I followed the slightly different pavement to the central mosque and then followed some women who looked as if they were going to work. Sure enough, I arrived at the bus stop of good old No. 19. By then the same "guides" were there, waiting for the arriving tourists, and they were amazed to see me walking into the square, obviously alone and unguided from the Medina. I received respectful nods and greetings. That's it. No more pestering, no more pursuits. Amazing! I then returned the same way I had come and got back to the main tourist area, just as the first of the busses started to pull in to disgorge their excited and well herded flocks. I even bravely ventured into some of the narrow side-alleys on my own. I did it my way and loved it.

Just outside of the Blue Gate, the main access to the old Fez medina, there, behind a part of the old wall, you find the university park. When I went there to relax, there were a couple of hundred students loudly reciting various subjects, while wandering around the park or sitting on benches, apparently preparing for some major exam.

The following day, after spending much time of the late evening in the local Internet place, I went via petit taxi (the little ones are cheap) to the Medina again, but stopped to lunch at one of the local places. An older French guy, traveling alone, appearing totally acclimatized, gave some tickets to some of the local people who owned that restaurant. He knew them and we spent some time comparing notes. I ended up getting invited to ride with them to the city of Meknes, a couple of very fast road hours away.

You know, life is hard for people in this country, and the harshness is passed right on to their animals. They brutally beat heavily laden often underfed donkeys. Though, to be fair, on rare occasions I have also seen some very well maintained animals. Cats and dogs receive the same rough or dismissal treatment. I could no more take pictures of these abused animals than I could take pictures of the human debris of all ages, that one could see begging everywhere. I constantly got rid of any small change I had. Some of these sights can bring you to tears.

Meknes

Meknes was a totally unplanned and unexpected sidetrip, courtesy of my chatting first with a restaurant waiter and then with a long-time French resident of Fez. After all was said and done, an invitation to a concert at Volubulis, a huge old Roman city, which by the way was featured in the movie "Patton". I had hoped to somehow make it there, but simply could not schedule it in. Sometimes you just have to be lucky. The Frenchman was not able to make it, and I took his place. I rushed back to the hotel, changed, got some cash, and rushed back to the Blue Gate. Two passenger cars, filled with grinning Moroccans were getting ready to go. Those tow mad drivers practically flew through the lovely landscape. Enough traffic, to provide a few puckering close calls ("Inshallah" God willing is often intoned here). The region looks retty much like the San Joachin Valley, with the Mexicans replaced with Moslems and instead of churches, mosques everywhere. As we got closer to Meknes, the traffic got thick. We made a stop, and while I was sitting in the car waiting, the guys were out shopping somewhere for food and drink. A Moroccan girl walked by, waved and smiled, and later two more did. Meknes is surrounded by spectacular walls and lovely gates. Once inside, we found a parking place, tipped a local to guard the cars, and then eased into the huge mob. The town, its squares, all packed with people. There was a carnival and a huge market outside of the walles. I was told that today was the celebration of the Prophet's (Mohammed) birthday. Thousands, no tens of thousands of people showed up. We put up with the incredible crowds, yelling, hawking and worked our way up toward the central mosque. Being the Prophets birthday, that's where the action would be. Drums, flutes, shamans, seers, henna tattoos etc. When we got close, but the mosque was ringed by police, letting people in a few at a time. No chance for a non-believer to slip in. We turned back and stepped aside to let a crowd of drugged-up frenzied dancers pass. In the marked we ran into a Jewish girl, an acquaintance of the waiter, who knew her from bringing tourists into the Fez Medina. She was guiding a small group of Amercan tourists around. After a while we needed to get back on the road to Volubilis.When we finally got there, after an amazing ride to a landscape of deep valleys and mountain or hill-top villages, we arrived. It was late and the sun about to set. We missed the concert, and the band was packing up. However, here I was in Volubilis, looking at what remained of one of the largest Roman settlements in Northern Africa. Volubilis, like most Roman building sites everywhere, too had been ravages, less by time, than by humans who used it as a stone quarry. Little remained. Had the mad Sultan of Meknes not used the once fabulous ruin as a source of marble for a new palace for himself, this might have been one of the most spectacular of all Roman ruins. The not very popular sultan managed to kill about 49,000 Moroccans in the brutal building process. However, the palace was never finished (I think he was deposed, killed, or a war occurred), and once glorious Volubilis was demolished for good. Can't blame him for the latter, the same had been going on all over Europe, and even the Romans themselves demolished Greek temples and palaces to bring the materials to Rome for their own building projects. So, as it was, the sun just dipped to the horizon and I got a few shots of some pillars jutting up with the inevitable storks nesting on top of them. After that things happened in a tired blur. We raced through the night back to Fez, stopped for gas, and then, after thanking those guys profusely for the great and unexpected trip, I grabbed a petite taxi back to the hotel. I did kick in $30 for the trip. It was an unsolicited share, but apparently well received and to me negligible for what I was allowed to see and experience.

An email:

Hi Tom,
I had reserved nothing in Morocco or in Madrid, or the rest of Spain, but the remainder of the trip, until August, is booked. After that, outside of Rome and Athens I have nothing booked, because the vacation time is over, while right now it has not really begun. Got up at 0530 this morning. Sometime last night, it never seemed to cool down much this time; I woke up to the distant very melodious chant of a muezzin praying from a mosque. Not the usual loud challenge, but soft and almost like a Gregorian Chant. Had a pound of cherries last night and thought that I might have caught the "bug". Took a precautionary Immodium, but all has been fine. I headed into the Medina around 0700. Too early for the touts to be out and about. It was a good move. I was in control and I like it that way. I walked all the way to Plaza Sepharine, where I got off bus No. 19 yesterday. Once there the same "guides" who were so persistent yesterday showed up again. Since I had walked the passages myself, all I got was a respectful "bonjour" and that was all. No annoyances whatsoever. Found my way back, exited the Medina and spend some time reading in a public garden/park in great need of repair, where a lot of university students were walking around, mumbling, reading, or reciting stuff they had to learn for exams. By now it is already way too hot to go on, so I will grab a quick bite to eat and get ready to exit stage left. Today I will add the Moroccan train system to my store of experience here. I expect it to be slow, but ok. A far cry from Laurence of Arabia's open-windowed cars. This has been a virtual news blackout for me. Anything might have happened and I would be unaware. The only newspaper that I was offered on the airplane, when I asked "English?" was an Arab paper written in French and heavily preoccupied with current religious events. In honor of the Prophet's birthday, the Moroccan King is receiving all kinds of Moslem dignitaries from all of the Arab nations . The Palestinian "brethren" got a lot of favorable press too, but from what I can tell locally, talking to people, they don't hold them in particularly high regard, though, no less than we, want a resolution of that mess. Saddam is considered very sick in more ways than one, though it is not forgotten that the US backed him, and effectively made him, during his 9-year war with neighboring Iran. TV is either Moroccan, French (movies - usually American movies translated into French), or Nile TV. Obviously the latter is from Egypt and also gives the heroic struggle of the Palestinians much coverage, though like most Arab nations, seem to do little about it, except hope for the conflict to end. One show was actually in English with Arabic under-titles and called "Reality" TV". Some adventure stuff. Some of you might be familiar with it. News for me stops there. I am looking very much forward to getting back to Paris, be it for just one night (the last night this trip), where I can watch CNN. Oh, they are huge Soap opera fans here. It seems to be a global "disease". In England they were excitedly watching some people who had TV cameras in every room of a house and were by now oblivious of being on camera. Public voyeurism to the max.

Another Email:

Your address just bounced, Cara. This is a retry:
What a day it was. Got up at 0545, showered ate and took off into the cool morning to the Marrakech airport and shortly thereafter took off toward Casablanca. The plane to Fez was about 90 minutes late. Arrived in Fez aboard a turboprop commuter aircraft and just missed the bus into town. The cab drivers ($12 trip) cheered. I told them I'd wait for the next one in the air conditioned terminal and they laughed and said it would be an hour. "Right" I thought and cut that one in half. Sure enough, after 40 minutes there was a bus (30 cents). Got into town and with my pitiful French managed to get to my hotel, even though half the population, including a cop, were confused about the names of the two main streets. Finally I got there. Rested a bit, took the only shower I had been taking for days now, a cold one, and grabbed a petit taxi to the Medina to get a bite to eat. When there, told a sour-puss waiter to cheer up. Some time later, after I was in a conversation with the waiter, a Frenchman showed up, who apparently knew the waiter well. He gave him some tickets for a music performance in Volubilis, the huge Roman ruin that was featured in the movie "Patton" with G.C. Scott. Suddenly the waiter said to me "do you want to go?" Hell yes I wanted to go. I thought cool, that's a place I would not be able to visit, however hard I tried in the short time here. A half an hour later we were on the road. I made a $30 contribution, purely voluntary, and we zoomed through the Moroccan landscape. Pretty much like the San Joachin Valley, with the Mexicans replaced with Moslems and instead of churches, mosques everywhere. We got to an old capital town named Meknes. It has a huge system of old walls and gates, but right now the whole town is clogged with people. Tens of thousands are there from all over Morocco to celebrate the birthday of the Prophet. There must have been about 10 foreigners in the crowd of many 10s of thousands of Moroccans. I was being embarrassed by Moroccan girls, some shy, some not so shy, pointing me out and then smiling at me. My Moroccan buddies were shocked (no, jealous). We put up with the incredible crowds, yelling, hawking and worked our way up toward the central mosque. Being the Prophets birthday, that's where the action would be. Drums, flutes, shamans, seers, henna tattoos etc. When we got close, but the mosque was ringed by police, letting people in a few at a time. No chance for a non-believer to slip in. We turned back and stepped aside to let a crowd of drugged up frenzied dancers pass. Made it back to the car and proceeded to Volubilis. The place, near a city that seems to hang on the side of a cliff, was just as I knew it would be. Little remained. The mad Sultan of Meknes of the past had used the fabulous ruin as a stone quarry for a new palace for himself. He also killed about 49,000 Moroccans in the brutal building process. The result, the palace was never finished (I think he was deposed or a war occurred), the Volubilis was destroyed for good. The sun just dipped to the horizon and I got a few shots of some pillars jutting up with the inevitable storks nesting on top of them. Then we, me dog tired by then, sped back into the night toward Fez. The Medina (old town) of Fez is one of the most complex system of approximately 9000 alleys interlocked as only the Arabs could build them. Alleys, some so narrow that my daypack scraped both sides. On top of that the heat, though less in the narrow passages. This is the city of craftsmen. Inlay work, handmade rugs, metal and wood products all come from here. I saw the incredible tanneries and some of the cloth weaving places. Bought some rugs and swore I'll be back to get a few other things. Besides, the are the lower Atlas Mountains yet to see. I had lunch in a traditional Moroccan place. Ordered some Couscous no meat (I wanted to stick with something I knew), this was already four cups of mint tea later. They do make the most memorable mint tea in the world here. In came the dishes: pea soup, black olives, bean soup, bread, and a large plate with what looked like a "disassembled" couscous to me with some added neat stuff. Ate all of it merrily and leaned back fat, dumb and happy (yes, that's me), when the main course arrived. I nearly fell from my cushions. I managed, luckily there was no meat to contend with. After that, Mocha, fruit dessert: cherries and honeydew melon, surely much snuffled and argued over, and absolutely delicious. Then they had the nerve to push little cakes and I said, "enough"! I already went to the station to buy my train ticket to Tangier. I will leave here at 1330 and arrive in Tangier (Tanger, whichever - everything here has two names anyway) 5 1/2 hours later. If I can get to the antique dealer for the knife that evening, I will depart Tangier on the first Ferry the following morning, if not "Inshallah" as is so frequently invoked here, I will go later in the day. An early departure would allow me to push straight to Madrid, and I'd like that (the gym).
So it goes. I hope I am hot boring anyone with this stuff.

Tangier

The next morning, having slept well, getting by now used to the muezzin's call, which only added to the exotic atmosphere of my stay, I prepared to depart Fez. I stopped by the great Internet place, just around the corner from the hotel, and had breakfast in the hotel's breakfast area. For the next leg of my journey, back to Tangier, I had decided to give the Moroccan rail system a chance. Actually, even before Fez, I had made the decision to take the train in Morocco at least once. The trains are inexpensive and were surprisingly nice. I bought a first-class ticket to Tangier and had an entire air-conditioned compartment to myself. Buying the ticket was easy enough and the schedule was simple to figure out. I saw the train, jumped across the tracks (nobody cares) to get to it and boarded a first class carriage. I had expected some open-windowed Laurence of Arabia-vintage contraption, but these were as good as anything I've seen in Europe (not including the bullet trains). I had a compartment to myself and stretched out to sleep, in air-conditioned bliss, part of the way. The ride took me back to Meknes and from there to Tangier through a landscape that varied from desert to green fields and finally lush and green coastline. Except for the architecture, it might have been Southern California. Back in Tangier, one has to take a cab to town. The train station has been moved many miles outside of Tangier. I haven't got the foggiest idea why that is. So cabbies rule the day and swarm the place, every time a train pulls in. I shared my cab with some other backpackers (a couple from somewhere in the US, I forget the town). Since I knew parts of Tangier, I got them to where they were going and then had the cabbie take me to the Solazur. I retrieved my luggage and was housed in another ocean-front room. Here I took my first hot shower in six days. I immediately went back to the center of town and made my purchases from what I considered the best shop in town. It's a fabulous antique store, where most people I know would spend hours looking through treasures from all over north and south Africa dating from modern times to things hundreds of years old. While in the store I'd meet people who flew in from all over to shop here. The place is called Bazar Tindouf and owned and run by Mr. Mohammed Tamli Soussi. It's on Rue Liberté, which leads from next to the Café de Paris to the Souk (the Kasbah). I trusted this guy (after recommendation from some of the visitors) to mail hundreds of dollars worth of things to me, and he certainly did. Right next door, for those who want to purchase a genuine Moroccan robe, is a clothing place run by a good friend of Mohammed Soussi. The robes range in price from 450 - 1500 dh. I felt that I was in excellent hands. If you go to Maroc, don't fail to stop there. Most of the junk you buy all over the country is newly produced stuff made to look old. He carries that stuff too, but immediately points out that it is newly made. Knowing knives and swords, I recognized that right away, but appreciated his honesty.

Earlier, I remembered talking to the ticket agent at the Air Maroc office. At one point he waved his hand in direction of the Medina and sadly said, "Tangier was". I wondered "was what?" Then he nodded and said, "Marrakech is." Then I got it. Tangier was the city of stories and mystique, but that's all in the past now. Modern society is taking over and it is becoming just another big city. Marrakech is attracting most of the tourists these days and still retains much of the charm of old Morocco. Well, I still like Tangier a lot as well. Not being in the mood for anymore Tajine or Couscous, I went to the great McDonald's high above the medina, that overlooks the city and the bay. Great place to watch Moroccan people too. The next morning I managed to get a final beach run in, and haul my butt (via shared cab) back to the ferry terminal. There I met up with a guy (Crusty) who fell in love with Morocco and who takes small tours into the inner country, even beyond Marrakech, in a couple of large and well equipped vans. A great trip, according to the happy returning visitors. It's not a luxury trip, but more of an adventure tour. He had crossed back and forth between Tangier and Algeciras 5 or 6 times already, and was on his way to pick up the next tour group. The groups are quite small, eight, I think being the maximum. While departure was scheduled for 0700, Crusty told me that the ferry would not leave until about 0915. He said they would allow the local fishing fleet to depart the harbor unimpeded first, before getting underway. He was correct. We cast off around 0916. We overcame some minor hurdles and then were safely back aboard, feeding bread to the fish and seagulls from the top deck, and watching the first ferry of the day from Algeciras come out of the mist and pulling into the Tangier harbor. After Tangier had receded into the distance, I went below to sleep. The return trip to Algeciras and the train ride from there to Madrid was easy and comfortable. I noticed from the corner of my eye that two chatting mothers, diagonally from me, who were breast feeding their babies. I saw an old Roman aqueduct, quite large, in the distance at one time, and then a valley, made spectacular with a fast running narrow river, often rimmed with bright and colorful oleander that turned the whole valley into an explosion of white-water and splashes of mostly bright red color. Very, very pretty! Near Córdoba I saw a huge castle on a rocky promontory jutting into the sky. Then we found ourselves stopped for about 30 minutes while some problems were resolved. Apparently, some train had hit something and other trains had to wait. Nothing new there. That happened to me in England as well, while taking the "Flying Scotsman" Express to Edinburgh. In time we moved on and I found myself wandering through Madrid to find a room for the night. Let me say this, " never go to Madrid without a reservation". You can spend hours walking until you find a room, especially on weekends. Well, luckily, after more than an hour walking through the night, from hostel to hostel, I did find one that had a small room available, and then spent another couple of days there until my flight back to Paris. Morocco and Spain now safely behind me.

Notes: Bring Pepto Bismol tablets. I met a lot of foreigners, including Crusty's group, who got sick. I didn't, but I paid up front in Uzbekistan, where I had gotten violently ill. My ample supply helped lots of folks there. A man my age and three younger Australian girls were traveling together by car. His advice was to lease a car in Europe and then ferry it across and have total freedom here (I think it was a new Peugeot diesel). A young French couple told me the same. The Aussies all got sick, the French did not.

Tips are about 1 dh or 10%. They will always ask for more, and sometimes yell courses at you. Don't let it frazzle you. The snake handlers in Marrakech wanted 200 dh. I gave them 50 and told them that they did very well. After some loud arguments they smiled and were satisfied. You just have to be tough and know what a dh is worth over there.

Watch the water. If you buy con-gas (with gas i.e. carbonation) it will definitely not be a refill. However, most places have them shrink-wrapped anyway, and that's safe.

When bargaining, with very few exceptions, shoot for 50% of the initial price. It's fair to all. Some do a little better, most foreigners do much worse.

For allergy sufferers, be sure to bring your antihistamine tablets. I did. The locals suffer the same way we do. People are selling Kleenex or other tissue all over the place.