We made it to our beautiful villa in Spain, and not a moment too soon.
Morocco is a hard country to visit as a tourist. Totally worth it, but definitely more difficult than any trip I’ve taken before. I’ll get more into that in a post once we’re home.
Anyhow, just as we finally thought we’d at least figured out Marrakech and the Djeema El Fna, Morocco gave us one final fuck you.
That set in on the train at about 4:30am of the 12th of April and didn’t cease for the rest of the train ride to Tangier, or the trans-Mediterranean ferry to Algeciras, or the car ride into the Ronda Mountains to Gaucin, or indeed the rest of the day. And night.
Today, the 14th of April at lunch was our first real meal since the nefarious foodstuffs (not willing to try anything riskier than plain bread and weak tea). Needless to say, our simple homemade pasta primavera and salad (with all fresh, local produce, thankyouverymuch) was the best meal we’ve ever tasted.
In that fateful 36 hours, we’ve thrown up and pooped more times than I can count, in three kinds of transportation, across two continents. We have shared the kind of embarrassing bodily-function moments that guarantee we can never split up now for fear of the secrets getting out.
If we can make it through that, we can make it through anything!