Three hours west of Marrakech and the air goes salt. Sardines on the grill at the port, four days running. Blue boats, blue doors, blue overalls — same blue, faded the same way. Came home with sand in everything and a small jar of argan oil.
travel
Travel
Slow weeks elsewhere — the table I sat at, the bread I ate, the way the light moved.
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Three days in Tangier
A small hotel above the medina, a balcony over the Strait. Spain in the haze if you squint. Lunch at a tile-floor place near the kasbah — a plate of fried small fish, a glass of something cold, a slice of lemon. The light here is different from Marrakech. Cooler. More Atlantic.
The High Atlas, in spring
A weekend in a stone house in the Atlas. Snow on the peaks, almond blossom in the valley, a tagine slow on the fire. The neighbour came by with bread still warm and didn't stay long enough to be thanked. I keep thinking about the silence up there.
Chefchaouen, in fog
Two nights in Chefchaouen and the fog never lifted. Blue walls, blue stairs, blue doors — the whole town hand-painted into the colour of an idea. I drank mint tea on a wet step at eight in the morning and didn't see another tourist for an hour. I was glad.