Yeh/La: Tangier, Morocco

I woke up on Saturday morning ready to leave Tangier: I had accidentally left my toothbrush in a bag left in Spain, I had been living and sleeping in the same clothes for 48 hours, as well as still feeling jarred from being in Tangier, anyway.

When I left my pensión and began walking through the medina, though, the place did not seem so intimidating anymore. Shops–and their owners trying to make a deal–were not yet open, and people were preparing for the day by washing storefronts or sipping on tea. The weather was perfect and, unexpectedly, I wished I had more time to spend in Tangier.

It is a wholly foreign place, and I believe that to be true no matter your background because it is a mutt of innumerable cultures. Offers of hash and women are neighbors to devout Muslims making their way to the mosque. The city sits far removed from the rest of the Arab world and is too dissimilar to be considered purely African or a majority European. It is an island; a bastard.

While the streets have widened since Twain was here, it is still a dizzying place where you grow a callous to the blind beggars in robes, the smells of spices coming out of the stalls, and the freshly splayed bodies of fish being sold on the pavement. The most peculiar sight becomes the other Anglos. “Why have you come here,” you think, but then you go back to wondering the same thing about yourself.


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