fourre choco

A few days ago I made the 12 hour trek from Chefchaouen, Morocco to Madrid, Spain (walk, bus, taxi, ferry, taxi, train, walk). It was, to say the least, a long day in terms of time in transit, narrowly catching the one-and-only 5 hour train from Tarifa to Madrid, and simple sadness about leaving Morocco behind.

Madrid was a bit difficult for me; if felt much to comfortable. Of course, I still saw and felt the differences from Any City, North America, but it was too familiar none-the-less. The streets were wide; the people individualistic; the hair blonde, red, brown, black, and uncovered; the toilets Western; and the sunglasses expensive, legitimate. I found myself complacent to see the architecture, partake in the nightlife, attempt to communicate in Spanish, and connect with anyone. I technically could have smiled at anyone without harassment, but I didn't. Instead, I walked, I wove, I camouflaged myself into my surroundings.

So after Ben left, I left; the timing of Madrid just wasn't right. After heading west, I now find myself in Porto, Portugal sharing meals with fellow travellers, walking through hordes of partying university graduates totting brightly-coloured top-hats and canes, reading in parks and on beaches, tasting and purchasing port wine. The sights, however, will have to wait.

Pictures from Chefchaouen and Essaouria, Morocco.