I had planned a holiday I would love to have gone on three or four years ago. Boats, buses and trains, cross-continental, rock pools. The works. I was Very Lucky to have two months of work to see Morocco and Turkey. I had a job, an apartment and good chums worth returning to. I had just turned 29 and still had my health. The sky was my oyster.
Instead, I found myself doubting my abilities to do this again, to haul myself from city to town to important ancient monument, and enjoy it. A year in Seville had made me soft, and the romance of adventure had deserted me. I'm incredulous that I have agreed to undertake this trip and rather hoping the thing won't come off.
I decide to ease in gently, spending a day on the beach in Tarifa, the southern most point in Europe, allowing me to
look out over Africa and get used to the idea.
Tarifa is windy. It screams through your ears and whips up the sand throwing haphazard showers of crushed glass against your skin. Sunbathing is not pleasant. No conditioner forged by the hand of man will unknot my hair tonight, but the pleasure of a breeze is so novel after the airless high 30s of the last month. Tarifa has a very high suicide rate. You either throw yourself into kiteboarding or the sea. The wind is that annoying.
You can choose between a dip in the Mediterranean sea or the Atlantic ocean. If the Atlantic side is grudge-bearingly cold, the Med is positively vindictive. The elements are against me today.
A final tostada by the harbour. It's a good one. There is nothing sadder than a lacklustre tostada. My last bit of jamon before it is replaced by cous cous and long hemlines and covered hair.
It takes just 35 minutes to cross from Europe to Africa. I reread The Heart of the Matter. Tales of ex-pats thriving in foreign climes. In the port of Tangier, Passport Man looks at my passport for a long, long time. It does look suspicious. Four pages dedicated to my undercover work for the Japanese embassy. Countless drug runs to Malaysia/Indonesia. A full page for India. A single day in Macau. He stamps over the top of the 2008 Marrakesh logo and waves me through.
Instead, I found myself doubting my abilities to do this again, to haul myself from city to town to important ancient monument, and enjoy it. A year in Seville had made me soft, and the romance of adventure had deserted me. I'm incredulous that I have agreed to undertake this trip and rather hoping the thing won't come off.
I decide to ease in gently, spending a day on the beach in Tarifa, the southern most point in Europe, allowing me to
look out over Africa and get used to the idea.
Tarifa is windy. It screams through your ears and whips up the sand throwing haphazard showers of crushed glass against your skin. Sunbathing is not pleasant. No conditioner forged by the hand of man will unknot my hair tonight, but the pleasure of a breeze is so novel after the airless high 30s of the last month. Tarifa has a very high suicide rate. You either throw yourself into kiteboarding or the sea. The wind is that annoying.
A final tostada by the harbour. It's a good one. There is nothing sadder than a lacklustre tostada. My last bit of jamon before it is replaced by cous cous and long hemlines and covered hair.
It takes just 35 minutes to cross from Europe to Africa. I reread The Heart of the Matter. Tales of ex-pats thriving in foreign climes. In the port of Tangier, Passport Man looks at my passport for a long, long time. It does look suspicious. Four pages dedicated to my undercover work for the Japanese embassy. Countless drug runs to Malaysia/Indonesia. A full page for India. A single day in Macau. He stamps over the top of the 2008 Marrakesh logo and waves me through.
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