I’d imagined (feared? hoped?) that crossing the Straight of Gibraltar by ferry would go something like this:
But there was no lumpy Talos, or any hunks in mini-togas…or really anyone at all.
I’d been warned that I’d be hopping on that boat, and then crammed into a train, with half of Spain’s Moroccan population – who would be heading home for the after-summer break. But on that Sunday morning it was just me and the dude with the headphones.
Welcome in Morocco!*
*the phrase that would be shouted at me by a smiling man in a passing vehicle at unexpected moments throughout my three months in Morocco, often, happily, right when I needed a little pick-me-up
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