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Published: December 22nd 2006
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Whatever second wind I’d found in the desert - a brief revival of my battered spirits that carried me through Meknes - I’m more or less floundering by the time I get to Tangier. It’s been a long month, and suddenly the prospect of unpacking my bags for two weeks in Barcelona sounds as good as a ham sandwich (a Spanish favorite, FYI, that’s been dearly missed). It hardly helps matters that I can see the Rock of Gibraltar squatting across the sea - a bold reminder that Europe, with all its comforts and pleasures, is just a few miles downwind.
In the mean time, Tangier - a place that’s neither here nor there. For the better part of the past hundred years this town’s been in the thralls of an identity crisis. Greedy continental powers staked their claims to it in the 1920s, going so far as to carve and administer it as an “international zone” - an ambiguous bit of packaging that had the latter-day UN written all over it. A rough-and-tumble, transient lifestyle became the city’s hallmark. At its most notorious, the place was packed with more hustlers and low-lifes than a FOX News boardroom.
But with the government aggressively chasing out its seediest elements, Tangier’s lost much of its edge. Of course, I’m not the guy to eulogize the by-gone days of drug-smugglers, pimps, pedophiles and beatniks. But for years, even if it couldn’t quite figure itself out, Tangier was brashly, unabashedly Tangier. Today, even its infamous touts - considered by most to be the best reason to avoid the city - have been swept under some distant Berber rug. All afternoon I’m approached by just a single guy in a tattered overcoat. He gravely warns me that a certain
schwarma stand might give me an upset stomach, suggesting a better option owned by a cousin nearby.
So this is my Moroccan farewell. Trust me, I’m as disappointed as you are. I kill a few listless hours dragging my feet through the medina, where some guys are selling cheap belts and blenders on a spread-out blanket. I stand outside a crowded café to watch a few minutes of FC Barcelona - a team that’s as closely followed in Morocco as a blond in hip-hugger jeans. More people, more faces. Goodbye, goodbye, you strange, marvelous country.
On my way back to the hotel, I give into the wicked voice in my head: I pick up a couple of bootleg DVDs for two dollars a pop. Despite the best attempts of countless spice-sellers, rug-pushers, hash-hawkers and lamp-peddlers, it’s only here, staring down the barrel of these Hollywood blockbusters, that temptation gets the best of me. Yet as I’m snuggled under the covers, ready to indulge in some contraband goods, it suddenly dawns on me that - in whatever modest way - I’m finally one with Morocco.
By taxi and by foot, by bus, boat, train and plane, I make my slow pilgrim’s progress toward Barcelona. I’ll admit, it’s not quite the jubilee I’d imagined. The arrival I pictured in my sleep was part Roman triumph, part
Girls Gone Wild: flower petals littering the streets, nubile young coeds shedding tears of joy. Maybe a few trumpets blaring in the background. What I get instead is a stiff neck, thanks to a rough night of sleep in Malaga, and a sudden dose of holiday homesickness that hits with a wallop . I also get a new pair of socks from H&M, since I can’t remember the last time I did a load of laundry. The girl behind the counter - a pretty wisp of a thing with small, even teeth - is already smiling at the next customer as she rings me up and sends me on my way.
I’ve made all sorts of grave miscalculations in recent days, forgetting, during my Moroccan sojourn, what a big deal this whole “Christmas” thing is. For starters, I might as well include
Holiday Travel Tip #302: Rush hour on the Friday afternoon leading into Christmas weekend is a shitty time to be on a bus to Malaga.
We spend a good hour stuck in gridlock outside the city, each minute being meticulously narrated by a guy on the phone behind me. There’s growing discord as people shuffle in their seats; a noisy toddler - increasingly aware that his screams won’t get us there any sooner - starts to kick his little legs against my armrest.
In spite of it all, this feels like a homecoming. I’ve left little bits of my heart scattered across Spain - in the Parte Vieja of San Sebastian, in the Plaza Mayor of Salamanca, in the narrow, medieval alleys of Santiago - and my heart just about bursts at the sight of a young girl with long, even bangs and a mullet: as much a part of the Spanish landscape as the famous windmills of La Mancha. Though I’d only planned to give Malaga a night, I want to give it days and weeks, just to show my gratitude for welcoming me back into its Andalucian bosom.
I make the best of the time I have, enlisting a French-Canadian from my hostel to do a tapas crawl through the Old Town. It’s like being reacquainted with old friends: the robust
croquetas, so full of gusto; the feisty
chorizo, as piquant as our dearest longings. In just one night I’ve reaffirmed my conviction that life in Spain - a detailed study in the pursuit of pleasure - is as close to happiness as I’ll ever know. And even if I’ll only know it for these next two weeks - bracing for whatever the Middle East might have in store - it’s enough to see these flushed, joyous faces, drunk with Cruzcampo and holiday cheer, parading into an endless string of endless nights.
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