I've just spent the past hour or so looking at photos from home. I am homesick. I want to go home.
This is what Fes has done to me. I'm a broken woman. I don't want to be leered at, sworn at, spat at, told I'm pretty or called "fish and chips" anymore. I don't want to be fleeced by one more Moroccan; lost in one more medina; eat any more tagine or cous cous. The love affair with Morocco is over. I'm going home. Or at least to Spain, which is a step in the right direction.
Shall I start from the beginning? I turned 30, quit my job, packed up my flat and decided to learn Spanish. On my way to set up camp in Barcelona for three months, I had a little sojourn through Andalucía and Morocco with another friend having an e2 crisis (e2: end of 20s).
We were having a great time pretending to be 23. Until Fes. Then I wished I'd acted my age and read a guide book before rocking up.
So here's how it started on a lovely Moroccan March day.
We arrived in Fes just after midday on the train from Marrakech. My buddy Bindi and I say our goodbyes to a nice couple we met on the train and leave the station walking confidently toward the road saying, "No, no" to every person asking us if we want a taxi.
Before too long we realise there aren't that many taxis on the main road because they are all driving into the station car park. Remembering our Marrakech experience (OK, the driver may have had to pray for his taxi to start, but at least he didn't rip us off, and we met him in the station car park!) we say: "Oh, well, we may as well get in one of these." And as luck would have it, right at that moment an English-speaking gentleman kindly asks us if we need a taxi. We say: "Yes please."
We start walking toward the road, and I ask: "Where is your taxi?" "I'll flag you one," he nonchalantly replies.
Alarm bells start ringing. >>
This is what Fes has done to me. I'm a broken woman. I don't want to be leered at, sworn at, spat at, told I'm pretty or called "fish and chips" anymore. I don't want to be fleeced by one more Moroccan; lost in one more medina; eat any more tagine or cous cous. The love affair with Morocco is over. I'm going home. Or at least to Spain, which is a step in the right direction.
Shall I start from the beginning? I turned 30, quit my job, packed up my flat and decided to learn Spanish. On my way to set up camp in Barcelona for three months, I had a little sojourn through Andalucía and Morocco with another friend having an e2 crisis (e2: end of 20s).
We were having a great time pretending to be 23. Until Fes. Then I wished I'd acted my age and read a guide book before rocking up.
So here's how it started on a lovely Moroccan March day.
We arrived in Fes just after midday on the train from Marrakech. My buddy Bindi and I say our goodbyes to a nice couple we met on the train and leave the station walking confidently toward the road saying, "No, no" to every person asking us if we want a taxi.
Before too long we realise there aren't that many taxis on the main road because they are all driving into the station car park. Remembering our Marrakech experience (OK, the driver may have had to pray for his taxi to start, but at least he didn't rip us off, and we met him in the station car park!) we say: "Oh, well, we may as well get in one of these." And as luck would have it, right at that moment an English-speaking gentleman kindly asks us if we need a taxi. We say: "Yes please."
We start walking toward the road, and I ask: "Where is your taxi?" "I'll flag you one," he nonchalantly replies.
Alarm bells start ringing. >>
