I was not thinking about selling my postcards when the owner of the hotel behind me asked if I would and how much. I had just spent a lovely couple of hours sketching and chatting with a few of the employees, I had barely started to contemplate which family member would be receiving this latest card in the mail.
The reality of having an address again came to the forefront this week as I started to update my contact details with various institutions. It is funny how the big stuff does not really need a physical location anymore, not with electronic banking, online insurance applications,
My time learning how to snowboard and drawing inspiration from the winter landscape in Quebec’s Laurentian Mountains has come to an end. These past months have brought to the surface memories of snow covered landscapes and life in a francophone community from my childhood in the maritimes.
The ride from Tangier to Chefchaouen was spent crammed into the back seat of an old Mercedes, shoulders twisted, abs engaged, one arm held out, palm flat against the seat in front to keep me front spilling into the lap of the stranger next to me. My initiation into the joys of travel by Grand Taxi was all I had heard it would be – uncomfortable.
I arrived in Tangier after 2 days travel via ferry from Genova, Italy. The boat arrived at a port 40 kilometres outside of the city, Port de Tanger Med 2. Silly me for having assumed I would be able to walk off the boat and continue to my hostel on foot.
