Fate at #6 Stall in Marrakesh

Happy Easter! Said no one. Sunday is just another day here, where just north of us in Spain, the Catholics are going crazy with their parties and palm-filled cathedrals.

Derek was feeling poorly so he became obsessed with orange juice, which constituted his breakfast (he passed on the bread when he saw a bird sitting on it). I had a ridiculously cheap "crepe" with honey made on a flat, well-oiled stovetop just down the road. Then we navigated through the very complex souks, dependent on Derek's Eagle Scout sense of direction, to the Ali Ben Youssef Medersa (Koranic school). We soon realized the guidebook's advice about getting there early was not a loose suggestion - the place was jammed with tourists.

The 14th century school had taught 2,000 students over the years that it was active as an educational institution, with the students living in the small chambers surrounding the central courtyard. Some rooms were quite nice, and others were tight and oddly shapped, as students got nicer rooms each subsequent year in the 3-year program. The tiny cells each had a window, but nothing else. The incredible tile work, Islamic calligraphy and Palm motifs were created in the Andalusion style when Sultan Abdullah el-Ghallib rebuilt it in the 16th century. Derek and I enjoyed taking pictures of one another from the windows in the upper chambers across the courtyard.

Right outside the Medersa is the mosque by the same name (which we cannot enter due to our not being followers of Islam), and is the oldest in Marrakesh. On our way to the nearby museum, we spotted the oldest monument in the city (and the only intact example of Almoravid architecture in all of Morocco, according to Fodor's), the Qoubba Almoravid. It's a 12th century "masterpiece of mechanical waterworks" that was used to clean one's self up before prayer, and contained systems of showers and toilets. It was closed, so we couldn't walk around inside.

Qoubba Almoravid

We visited the Museé de Marrakesh to enjoy the central atrium (the exhibitions were not enticing and did not contain English translations) and incredible architecture. There is no lack of attention paid to any of the ceilings, and beautiful tiles cover every wall. We found a passageway that led to a dark, undeveloped corridor that we got a kick out of.

We made our way back to the Djemma el-Fna at the center of the marketplace where henna artists, snake charmers and bush dentists (who extract teeth, yes, teeth piled on the ground in front of them - we didn't feel we should take a picture of it since we were not sure until later what was going on) were out in full force. We bought a pretty tile for our collection from a souk....each country we're visiting on this trip heavily uses painted tiles in their decorations, so we're collecting one to represent each country and framing it as our souvenir. We shopped for a pashmina or two, a tea pot, tiny beaded shoes (for Derek's mom, who wants to frame them - really clever idea), earrings, and ras el hanout, a Moroccan spice mix that contains a dizzying number of spices and literally translates to "the head of the shop" because it contains traces of, some say, 35 spices).

Then, fate showed itself in a big way...We had missed seeing the sunset and had forgotten to eat, being so caught up in the Berber ways of haggling, and decided to wander through the food stalls. It was dark, and we were immediately hit once again with the calls of each food vendor, coaxing us to have their food. My reply that I had already eaten seemed to work most of the time, but not on one vendor, who told me that my boyfriend was too skinny and clearly hadn't eaten enough. Clever guy.

Derek told him that he was my husband (easy to confuse since I don't wear my wedding ring when I travel), and heard his name called out from the #6 stall. There's no one here who would know his name. The only people we know are hours away in Casablanca. But they weren't. They were sitting at the #6 stall and had recognized Derek's voice - none other than Fatima and Larbi!

There is no more unlikely a scenario than the one that we found ourselves in. We should have eaten hours earlier, and usually avoided the food stalls because it was crowded and loud, and we're not as familiar with what to order, and pricing, etc. They are avid soccer fans, and had learned that there was going to be a big game between Marrakech and Casablanca (who they support), and had taken a train down last-minute, without even knowing if tickets were available, to support their team. Exhausted after the game, they were going to retire to their hotel room, but the market beckoned from the cab, and, knowing they wouldn't be able to motivate themselves to go out later, stopped the cab and found a good food stall amongst the hundred or so available, and amongst throngs of people. It's high season here, before the weather gets too warm, so people are out in droves. We should never have seen them again this trip, but here we were, hugging them and sitting down once again to enjoy a meal.

After dinner, they showed us the babbouch stalls where we managed to chew up a snail each, pulled from its shell with a toothpick. They are cooked in a very savory, distinct broth,  so much so that we could identify the stalls throughout our travels by their smell before they ever came into view. Then, they showed us gatherings of musicians in the marketplace who played Gnaua music, an African-Moroccan fusion with drums and singing. Then, we parted ways, sure that our assumptions at not seeing them again in Morocco were not very accurate, as fate has a way of upending assumptions like ours.

Marrakech

It's Saturday, April 19, and we find ourselves at the halfway point of our trip. We awoke from our broken sleep to see that we were coming up on Marrakech! At the train station (which is remarkably clean), we booked our train tickets to Fez in 1st class (with the thoughts of second class fresh in our minds (295 €). We were having some communication issues (since we don't speak Arabic or French) and had to change our ticket once with scowls from the ticket counter, and were shooed away from the breakfast counter even after we purchased croissants because they were reserved for table service.

We haggled with the taxi driver, agreed on a price, and were taken to the medina, the part of the city that is surrounded by high walls and entered through "babs," the gates that let you enter. We wandered through the dark alleyway where we were dropped off, a little out of our element. We were looking for Hotel Sherazade, which came highly recommended by our guidebook. In the early morning hours, where few shopkeepers open and beggars were not uncommon, it took Derek and I a few minutes to get our bearings. After being hassled by people hoping to make a few Durham by "guiding us," a nice young man saw we were struggling with our limited map and offered to advise us for free...what welcome news!

We got the last room available (since we didn't call ahead) and lounged on the roof top terrace until our room was ready. There was a miserable cat on the other side of the wall, stuck on the ledge, making mournful crying noises repeatedly. We don't know much about cats and assumed that since it had gotten up, it could get down, and was just being lazy since it could hear us on the other side of the wall. Later, a rescue team made up of a concerned French customer and three men from hotel staff came to jump over the fence on the third floor on a tiny ledge to pass the cat over. Guess it was actually in danger...whoops.

We were so tired from the night train that we slept all afternoon, and so tired of travelling that we determined to toss out our planned stop in Chefchouen. When we woke up and walked into the main square down the street (called djemaal el fna) was in full swing. Somewhere, a song was played over and over on loud speakers - we found out later that it was the popular song of the year, and by the end of our stay could hum the whole tune, unsure whether we liked it, or never wanted to hear it again.

We dropped our laundry off to be cleaned nearby; they were ironing with giant hot ironing boards that closed on themselves like a tanning bed. We bought water (you can't drink the tap water here) and had vegetable couscous at a nearby stall.

We moved out to the square and rounded the "souks," the stalls set up in tight, twisting rows full to the brim of scarves, lanterns, earrings, leather bags, camel toys and miniature tagines, piled on one another in a hundred different colors for 10 Durham (a little more than $1) - a tourists' dream world. But I know better. Like a lion stalking its prey, I priced a few items, looked over the buffet, and planned for tomorrow when I would come ready to play the game.

There are two types of barterers - the Tourists, and the Berbers. The former is known for paying the first, or second, price offered, usually justifying their lack of bartering by reasoning that the price they paid was better than they could get in the states, or that these people need to make a living and they're happy to pay a bit more than they might be able to get through haggling, etc. They come away happy with what they bought for the price they pay, and the seller rejoices in the mark-up. Everyone's happy, good for them.

The Berbers are the indigenous people of Morocco, and they are known to drive a very hard bargain. They have gained a tremendous amount of respect for holding their ground and getting the best price, every time. If you are this kind of barterer, you know it, there's no confusion...the seller will usually tell you as much, some 10 minutes into your back and forth discussion over the price. These barterers don't care if they don't get the good itself at the end of the exchange - or at least are very good at making the seller think that. It's a game, and one that is not only accepted, but encouraged, in these kinds of markets. You are one or the other, there is no third option, and I am a Berber. Shopkeepers usually shove my merchandise in the bag with disdain, and I only smile long after I leave. Don't feel too badly for them, though...they usually chase me down the street to finish the sale, and for those who don't, both of our pride is worth more than the exchange. Everyone still wins.

We watched the sun set from a terrace restaurant (when you enter a restaurant, if you look like a tourist, you're pointed upstairs. Everyone else sits downstairs. Odd sort of segregation) with our overpriced mint tea. We wanted a picture of the market at night, but there were dozens of other people taking (or, rather, attempting to take - people don't seem to understand how cameras work in the dark) selfies, so we passed on shoving them aside.

Another miscommunication happened when we bought the tea downstairs and then took it upstairs...and that "refill" and "self service" are phrases that mean something other than they meant. Awkward.

Getting Medieval on Fez

Let me be clear- I love my God, my family, and my country.

But I really love hotel breakfasts. 

That's right, those cheap breakfasts hotels serve you as a complimentary end to your brief time together. Wandering downstairs, getting some coffee, orange juice, then the joy of discovery as you find what food is on offer... it's the best. And the Hotel Perla delivered in spades with a lovely breakfast in their downstairs restaurant section with a gourmet cafe con leche and a variety of breads. This included the chocolate croissant, the highest state of croissant-ness. 

A flavor that surpasses even the pan y chocolate lies behind these gates, however. We would discover it later today, exploring the Old World Medina of Fez.

But first, as is usually the case with Kendra, the fun must be preempted by responsibility. 

We wandered back over to the train station and got our 105dh tickets to Tangier, getting the 7:10 departure in order to make the 1pm ferry in Tangier to Tarifa. We then caught a 10dh taxi to the Bab Bouijloud gate, our gateway into the Medina. "Kdhm l'khoontoor" 'use the meter' we asked/instructed our driver.

The Bab ("Gate") Bouijloud is, per the guidebook, one of the most famous of the Medina's 13 or so, but was built ~1,000 years after the others around 1913 so Kendra and I declared it to be less cool. Its other side is green, the color of Islam.

Apparently it's common to get a guide, or be on a tour, rather than risk the certainty of getting lost in the maze of this medieval marketplace. We're glad we didn't and don't think you need one; the most fun was in wondering around, and the slope of the marketplace (go uphill to get out - it's a bowl shape) as well as signs leading back to the Bab Bouijloud, made it simple to guide ourselves. The sellers were also more relaxed than Marrakech, making a guide's presence as a deterrent against fake guides and sellers less necessary. 

The Medina is described in all the guidebooks as a marvel of the world, unchanged since medieval times; a true old-world marketplace. Leather products, rugs, and ceramics dominated, but there was still a wide variety of goods on offer, from freshly-hammered copper pots to bird shops.

The typical awesomeness of a Moroccan marketplace was in full swing here. Better than the touristed and chaotic medina of Marrakech, here craftsmen and women were plying their trade in and alongside their stalls.

This nice man sold us a beautiful tile. He showed us a picture of his father and told us all about their shop. Blue and white are the colors of Fez. Interestingly, each Moroccan city has its own colors - white for Casablanca and red for Marrakech, 'the red city.' 

Unofficial guides are still a problem in the medina, though. Cast a glance at your map, pause for a minute, or even simply be Caucasian and you're at risk of being offered their services. Not the best idea, as guiding must be official in Morocco, and unofficial guides often simply take you to businesses where they get a cut. We had one such young man avail us of his guiding abilities, following us down the narrow calle and even asking us to "open up our hearts" and help him out by agreeing. We continued to politely decline, and he finally concluded, "I think you are not American. Maybe Chinese, your hearts are hard." It was a sad and universal theme that Moroccan merchants only liked you as much as you paid them; turning from enthusiastic to solemn to noticeably angry as Kendra's Berber-esque bartering skills reduced their profit margin to zero. Such is life, and business, in the medina.

Quiet settings are interspersed between the frantic, making for a pleasantly tumultuous experience. 

That would be our only sour experience today, however, as every turn and alley led us to a completely new adventures. We had no itinerary, but actually  managed to stumble upon most all of the major sites, and even more enjoyably, many off-the-grid ones.

Come around one corner, and a chance opening of the gate permitted a rare view of the literal kaleidoscope of color inside the Mosque Al Qaraouiyine (all but two mosques in Morocco are closed to non-Muslims, so this was a treat)

Around another corner, and we stumble upon a small leather tannery. Above, they are dipping sheep hide in lye to separate the hide prior to a dip in a vat of pigeon droppings.

Down further and around several curves, we happen upon the Terrace of the Tanneries, and climb up several stairs for a whirlwind tour of the view from our sales guy/impromptu tour guide. 

A UNESCO World Heritage site, this is one of the oldest, with nine centuries of family history connecting the workers. The leathery tannery process is fascinating. They begin by taking a hide (sheep and camel being better regarded than cow and goat) and dip it in the white liquid lye.

Then it's transferred into tubs of pigeon droppings where the natural ammonia softens the hide. After washing, it's rubbed with olive oil for smoothness and waterproofing. Then, it's dried on the roof for three days, and dyed with natural dyes - sandalwood for brown, safran for yellow, poppy flowers for a deep blood red. The process is all natural without any machinery. 

Down further still and we soon happened upon the Place Saffrin, where an equally rich history was testified by every bang and gong of the bronze and copper smiths.

At the bottom of the medina, we found ourself in the peaceful Place Rcif, and hiked up some steps to get our bearings on the map.

A chubby-faced boy of about ten wondered over and sat down next to us. "Place R'cif," he offered. "We know," we told him sweetly, pointing to our location on the map. "Mosque R'cif," he offered up next, pointing to the Minaret. "Yes thank you, we know that as well," we replied again, and walked down the steps. "One dirham," he called out behind us, his uncertainty evident in his tone. We smiled and kept walking, a future guide of the medina in the making. 

With the sun overhead we stopped at a cafe alongside the Bab of the R'cif area for some mint tea. We've rapidly adjusted to this wonderful Moroccan tradition, and it was nice to order a "brread a'tay" (pot of tea) and sip the sweet minty liquid in the shade. 

While we were looking at the also-overpriced food offerings, a charming young Moroccan man offered that we "shouldn't eat here, notice all the locals are just drinking. This is just a drinking place," and he had an awesome suggestion for lunch. We got to talking, and it turned out he was a proprietor and guide for the touring service babafrica.com (Bab again meaning gateway). We liked him, and since we'd gotten to know him naturally (being aware of the false guiding touts that are in the Fez area, every visitor needs a very healthy dose of skepticism for all offers), made plans to go to Moulay Idriss, Volubilis, and Meknes with him the next day. Turns out it was an excellent decision, and we had an amazing time. Please see our entry on the day next up in this blog. 

But that was tomorrow. Now we wanted dinner, and we needed to find the best kebabs in town. At our new guides' suggestion, we went from the tea place back through the gates into the main square of Place Rcif, and through the arched entry in the wall, then turned left and walked about fifty meters. A few stalls on the left after "the place with the mounted camel's head," and across from the shop selling ba'bouch (snails as a snack), we found Mister Ayachi.

Oh Mister Ayachi, you magician of the grill and master of the kebab. We will always remember our fleeting moments in your amazing restaurant. He was not only a gracious host, but was something of a showman, plopping the final chicken piece in his mouth like a Hibachi chef. The first bite of beef? ...have you ever tasted something so good that it hijacks your senses and your brain diverts all energy towards focusing on the wave of flavor? That was this bite. We spent 60dh on our two ample sandwiches and didn't even need dinner. Best 60dh we spent this trip. 

Now wandering back uphill, we came across a Medersa that seemed devoid of any people. We payed the 10dh each and wandered in, shocked to find ourselves the only occupants. Though not quite as ornate as it's medersa-counterpart in Marrakech, the experience was so enhanced by our solitude that it greatly eclipsed the other, and we were thrilled to wander the chambers and hallways on our own.

Now wandering back up the hill towards the Bab Bouijloud, we saw a sign for a pottery shop. "We already went that way," I told Kendra. Her reply of "So?" had me convinced, and we went off in search of the pottery shop. I'm exceedingly glad we found it, as on arrival, a young woman guided us back into a virtual labrynth of pottery, each room covered in beautifully-painted, ornate ceramics.

When you visit, find this place, on an alley off the main road down from the Bab Bouijloud.

Rooms and rooms and rooms of gorgeous pottery

Inside we would meet one of the artisans, Lajaj Ali, and we had a wonderful conversation with him. He was a gracious host, teaching us about the pottery and even about the house, which was 300 years old. Inside the large inner chamber, balconies faced inwards by design, he told us. Previously balconies were outside the house, facing the street, where the women of the home were able to gaze upon the world. But the world could then gaze upon them. Jealous husbands then had balconies made inside, to keep their wives to themselves. 

Lajaj had himself been a worker in this Moroccan mansion-turned-art-gallery for 22 years. He very kindly invited us to share in his afternoon coffee, which we happily accepted. While Kendra drank tea stuffed with mint and I had yet another delicious cafe con leche, Lajaj shared with us how 20% of visitors don't accept his offer, suspicious of him as a salesman or, more unfortunately, as an Arab. Given the hospitality we've received from our Arab friends, it is a sad fact indeed; the world is in dire need of Arab hospitality. 

Kendra and I finally chose a candle holder sporting the brilliant blue and white of Fez, and we're happy to see the initials of L.A. adorning the bottom. Lajaj himself had painted it! 

We then left the market, but not until Kendra deliberated on a pair of 5dh (~60 cent) earrings. A shirt taxi ride and we were back at the hotel, body and mind fulfilled by a crazy day in the Medina of Fez.

Spain to Morocco: A Lesson in Berber Hospitality

Seville is so charming you almost wonder if the whole thing is a practical joke. No city could be so beautiful, with food so delicious, nor be occupied with a people so attractive and pleasant. There has to be a downside, you reason, and it turns out there is one: navigation. Fourteen years of higher education and a detailed city map between Kendra and I and we STILL got lost en route to the Prado San Sebastian bus station for our trip to Tarifa. Spain is not a bad place to be lost, it turns out, and we did manage to snag breakfast from a patisserie, downing delicious cream-filled bignettes, chocolate croissants, and leek quiche on our unplanned tour of the city.

The city, normally gorgeous, was littered with garbage and the street-sweeping crew was out in full force. Apparently we missed the most epic party of the week the night before, and now the whole city was turning out in their best clothes for a massive procession! We were salmon flowing against the stream as we made our way to the bus station. Semana Santa is, without doubt, an activity for the bucket list.

The trip south was pretty, though not nearly as remarkably so as southern Portugal, with exception to the stunning area just outside Tarifa.  We were using a 2010 edition guidebook for the Europe part of this trip, and it turns out that was a mistake. For the ferry crossing to Tangier, Morocco, you want to cross from Tarifa, Spain on the 35 min passenger ferry (by FRS or Inter-Shipping), which costs you either your firstborn child or 65€ roundtrip. Algeciras is now the commercial ferry port, and connects to its Moroccan commercial counterpart of Tangier-Med that's still a ways away from Tangier.

 (Note: Algeciras does, however, link to Ceuta, a Spain-owned portion of Moroccan, er...North African land near Tangier).

So we made the spontaneous (and correct) decision to get off early in Tarifa and catch our ferry from there. Described as a kite-surfer's paradise, the town definitely looked it, and had numerous shops catering to the industry. The port area was decent, however, and had a nice stone fortress we would've liked to explore. Instead, we sat at Olla, a restaurant with over-priced but delicious vegetable pasta, and used the wifi to plan out how to arrive in and navigate Tangier and Marrakech. 

We also typed up Kendra's allergy to seafood and nuts in French and Arabic, which was really helpful as we'd show it to waiters and shopkeepers numerous times during the trip. Add the many stray cats and bee-covered sweets to the mix, and it's clear that Morocco is aiming to take Kendra out.

The high-speed ferry lived up to its name and put its hydrofoils to excellent use jetting across the straight. Walking towards the front, we randomly crossed to the opposite side of the ferry and sat next to a nice Moroccan couple. We would've never guessed it at the time, but this would be one of the best moments of the entire trip. 

The couple, Fatima and Larbi, were actually Moroccan-Americans living in New York who were visiting Morocco and had spontaneously jumped up to Spain for the day. Getting to know them better, they spent half of the ferry ride walking us through Morocco and helping us shape our itinerary. They also gave us their contact information should we need any help while in-country. "What wonderful people!" we thought to ourselves. Little did we know, it would soon seem strange to write about them so impersonally as I am now, because they'd basically become our Moroccan family...

Exiting the ferry, tourists are met with a mob of unfortunately pushy touters, wanting to "guide you," change your money, or simply extort you in some fashion. Fatima and Larbi hung with us and acted as a Moroccan shield from them, then guided us down along the port walkway (about a half mile) to their friends at a nearby restaurant, Al Boughaz. This would be one of many lessons from them - make friends while traveling. Friends can help you when in need, and give you the opportunity to extend grace to others. Their friend Adil, the owner, directed us around the corner and up a steep hill to the nearest ATM where we could withdraw money, instead of having to deal with the hassle of exchanging money back at the ferry. They then invited us back to the restaurant (all of this walking and time during their limited vacation, of course), for some mint tea and maybe a snack at the restaurant.

Little did we know, the snack turned into a seafood feast with mint tea, bread, fries, salad, and giant platters of shrimp and fish. The salad is very unique, as it contains no lettuce, and instead has stripped lunch meat, boiled potatoes, olives and beets. We had a blast chatting with them and learning more about Morocco and their lives. We learned about how they left Morocco when they were recruited by Disney as cultural liaisons for Epcott (awesome), how Fatima makes a mean couscous, how Larbi takes his mint tea (no sugar), and so much more.

Just simply sharing tea with them was wonderful. Hundreds of years ago, a British ship hit a snag and was forced to pull into Morocco's port, selling its tea to the locals. Soon, mint was added and it became inextricably Moroccan, with mint tea time as Moroccan as a post-Tapas siesta is Spanish. The tea is served traditionally very sweet, and to order a pot of it, you say "bread atay."

With the sun beginning to set, Fatima and Larbi continued to astound us with their thoughtfulness by not only covering the meal ("We invited you as our guests") but also dropping us off at the train station via their hired driver! We met them as fellow travelers, but left considering them as though family, truly blessed by their generosity. 

The night train no longer had first class tickets, a tragedy if one plans to actually sleep, so we opted for second class, knowing painfully well what waited ahead. Sometimes, you have to be uncomfortable to greatly enjoy yourself.

We discovered that the train was loading early by mere chance (no announcements), and found two seats on a plastic bench in a green-lit coach. Our restless night was full of incredibly loud announcements on a speaker system in French and Arabic, being awoken multiple times by the ticket checker, freezing cold air through paper-thin windows and repeated crying or cell phone ring tones and the subsequent loud talking. 

Derek, attempting to rest

Since we've done this before, it was like dropping into a trance - if you're new to this, you might consider delaying until better seats are available. Needless to say, you need ear plugs, eye covers, a blanket, and a serious amount of patience to come through in one piece, and we had almost all of those things...you can come to your own conclusions about how we felt in the morning. But no matter - we were in Marrakech, and the gateway to Africa was open wide.

Sevilla Romantica

When I woke up the next morning, my operational tendencies kicked in and my stomach knotted. Derek told me it was 10:30, and when I realized we had only just barely been able to reserve this one room the night before, we rushed down to reserve it again and found, as I feared, that they were fully booked. Once again, our lack of planning caused Maslow's hierarchy of needs to focus our every atom on finding a room in a fully booked city, with no phone or internet, where we easily get lost. We wandered down the street with our bags, kicking ourselves for having been so caught up in the romanticism of Sevilla that we may spend the night upright on the street until dawn.

The first place we stopped, Pension Bailen, told us that they "kind of" had a room. We were intrigued, so we marched up the stairs to the roof to see what was in store for us. A sort of painted shed with a bed and a sink were there, and for 35€ was easily the last "room" in town. We took it (better than sleeping on a street bench, if only barely), only to pass another couple with bags coming in the door for the same reason, just as we left. This reward system for not planning is new to me...it seems that we are always able to find what we need, even when it seems impossible.

Now, for chocolate and churros! I'm a firm believer that donuts are, all on their own, a wholesome breakfast, and always despised that my mother required us to eat a banana to "balance" them. So, when we stumbled on Picatoste and had a giant plate of piping hot churros dipped in mugs of hot liquid chocolate for 6€ (yes, they had a machine that dispersed liquid chocolate like coffee, and when I find out where they manufacture them, I'm most assuredly breaking in and keeping the lot to myself), we were ecstatic.

We got helplessly lost on the way to The Cathedral, so far gone that we almost fell off the edge of the city map, and when we found it, were dismayed to not only find it stuffed to the gills with tourists, but also learned that it would close, due to the holiday, at 2 pm. So, we decided to hit it up on our way back through next week and wandered around the Jardines (gardens) de Murillo to the Monumento de Christobal Colon (we call him Christopher Columbus), where King Fernando and Queen Isabel met him on his return from the New world.

We bought our bus tickets to Morocco to leave the following morning to Algeciras (32.95€ - don't do what we did, go to Tarifa...more to follow) and then went through Barrio Santa Cruz, a twisting, narrow neighborhood known as the "Juderia" because the Jews were forced to live there during the Inquisition. The nearby Parque de Maria Luisa was next, with its expansive botanical gardens and Moorish tile fountains. Inside the entrance, we came across the massive wonder that is the Plaza de España, which was built in 1929 for a world exposition. If it had one, my camera would have turned me into it's union rep for overworking it - Derek was less than thrilled at the time with having to wait for me while I ran around looking for the perfect light, but the pictures justified the delay. See for yourself...

Then, back into the labyrinth barrio for tapas at Bodeguita la Parihuela - melted cheese toast and meatballs and the famous potato "tortilla" (basically potato pie). Every eating and drinking facility is papered with Semana Santa posters, from the current year and years past, showing in up-close detail each mournful float. You can drink the tap water here, so we refilled our bottles in the sink and passed on mid-morning alcohol (as much fun as that sounds). We got lost again, this time very much on purpose, and had excellent Sangria, cinnamon stick and all, on the street outside El Rincon de Murillo cafe.

Since this is Maundy Thursday, all if the Spanish women dress in all black, with high-sitting lace veils, panty hose and fancy handbags. They must be roasting with the heat, but they smile, usually escorted by the arm of a well-dressed man, moving from one cathedral to another to confess, collecting colorful ribbons at each place to pin to their blouse.

Derek is not one to pass up gelato, so a slight misunderstanding between us meant we had a gelato dinner, ordering more than I had realized, and as we sat die to finish it on the steps across from the entrance to The Cathedral (it was easily 7 pm), we noticed that people were not only still being let in (we were told it had closed 5 hours earlier), but that they weren't paying to go in (unheard of). We shoved down our gelato, a tragedy in and of itself, to slip in with the others before they realized their mistake and closed the doors. We were completely taken aback when we realized that, being in the right place at the right time, they had in fact closed early but 're-opened just for one hour because inside the church I'd where ALL OF THE SEMANA SANTA FLOATS pass through to have their candles lit. Christopher Columbus' remains are supported by four heralds in the entryway, symbolizing the four ancient kingdoms if Spain United by Fernando and Isabel.

I'm not proud to say that I had given up on seeing the cathedral, and was wearing a skirt (highly frowned upon). Being more embarrassed for my lack of respect than really thinking clearly, I managed to change into jeans in a corner with the world's largest crowd around me, in a VERY revered place. I'm talented in that regard, but clearly wasn't smart, seeing how my actions, if observed, would have been much more scandalous than the skirt itself. But they weren't. So, I win.

We had a nice dinner on the sidewalk (we always opt to eat outside, with so much to see) at Mesones del Serranito of garlic shrimp and fried cod. Our waiter was phenomenal. Derek was pooped on by a bird (in his hair and on his shirt) and had to excuse himself to clean up while I laughed at his expense.

Back in our room, feeling like our bodies must have aged 40 years in a day, we sat down to rest our sore backs and tired feet...only to have our little closet bed collapse below us.

And so ended our adventure in Seville.