Beyond Gibraltar...

People on every street. Hords of them. A weird mix of hair-gelled, colorful elegant shirt youth, old men in long dresses, veiled women, boyfriend and hip girlfriend with fancy hairstyle, leather jackets, old women, all walking with determination, talking loudly, and making altogether a moving human amoeba, tentacular and imprevisible, so distinct from the night hords from Spain. Tangiers is as animated as Barcelona, Madrid or Granada ( which by the way holds the record in agitation that I've seen in Spain), but the way this animation work and the extreme heterogeneity of its people makes it utterly distinct, and almsot surreal. Which seems to become the leitmotif of this trip. A feeling of transcending my known reality of temperate continental green, lush landscapes dotted by an Anglo-Saxon or the more northern Latin ( French or communism silenced Romanians) spirit.

I entered it the way I wanted- not with a tour, not with a bus, but running to the ferry terminal with my Moroccan neighbor from the Granada-Algesiras bus, savoring at maximum the time being there, in front of Gibraltar, between Europe and Africa, between the Mediterranean and the Atlantic. We entered the port of Tangiers by sunset, but a disorganised queue was formed for our passports to be checked, occasion by which I started talking with this

... to be continued

the streets may be full, but judging by the population flooding them, Morocco seems to be 80 percent men... Indeed, there are men everywhere, moustache or not, old and young.