Louisiana is such a place.

The Mississippi Coast had been beautifully built-up, with stately, sophisticated mansions poised along the coastal road. We crossed into Louisiana at the Pearl River Wildlife Management Area, and, after driving past hand-painted signs advertising swamp tours (guaranteed alligator sightings!) along the bumpy back country road, we emerged onto a series of bridges connecting tufts of land so small and flat and moist that I wasn’t sure they wouldn’t sink if I stepped my two feet out onto them.

Along these bayous, each ramshackle, brightly-colored home sat atop high pillars to elevate it from the flood waters that passed with assured regularity. Instead of address numbers, the homes, too, boasted hand-painted signs of equal brightness with the most creative, funky, and downright crude names. There was a definite holiday feel here and, between the sea views and the home names, our eyes and spirits were thoroughly entertained. 

Louisiana continued to unfold its scenery for our visual pleasure.  Pure-white ibises fishing alongside local fishermen on the side of the road; moss and vines growing on every inch of free space the trees could spare; and throughout, water, water everywhere.

Houses on stilts all along the Gulf of Mexico.

Moss grows on everything in Louisiana.

A swamp walk!

It was clear we were in a unique place, and, US-visa-almost-running-out be damned, we were going to visit!

Our first stop was a plantation tour. We’d been driving along the Mississippi River road, trying fruitlessly to catch glimpses of its milk-chocolate water. This entire stretch of river, from Baton Rouge to New Orleans, had at one time been sugarcane plantations parcelled off into long, narrow strips, each plantation with a small tract of river access for ease of goods transport. It was incongruous to drive along this seemingly-innocent byway and imagine all the cruelty that had taken place here. We felt it was necessary to learn more – to viscerally grasp it, if but for a moment – so we forked out the $50 to visit one of the many plantation tours available.

We chose the Laura Plantation because our guide book said it was the only tour that didn’t skimp on details of the slave population. We opted for the French-speaking tour for Bruno’s sake (though I was secretly hoping to hear some Creole or Cajun French – it was just a young Parisian, hmpf!).

We were led to the main house, which was surrounded by those quintessentially southern live oak trees (which might be my new favorite tree!), and told that this was one of the few Creole plantations, meaning that its house was smaller, less ostentatious, and much more brightly-colored than the stereotypical plantation home.

Visiting the Laura Plantation near New Orleans.

The main house of the Laura Plantation, with its beautiful live oak trees.

Throughout most of the tour, we learned about the four generations of the proudly Creole Duparc family that lived in this home and ran the plantation in the early 19^th century. Though it was interesting to gain some historical insight into Louisiana life two hundred years ago, I felt that the slaves were only mentioned as incidental parts of the white family’s narrative. Near the end of the tour, we were led to a few remaining slave homes, where we were told about the financial worth of slaves (determined by their age, health, and how much of a “flight risk” they were) as well as what happened post slavery (the slaves often continued working for their previous masters, earning a pittance, which, after paying for room and board, often left them indebted to their employers). While we learned about the personal details of the Duparc family in gossip-like detail, we learned about slaves merely in the abstract. The tour felt like an opportunity lost to make amends.

A view out onto the slave quarters of the Laura Plantation.

Listening to our guide tell us about the Duparc family.

We traveled on toward Lafayette – the heart of Cajun country. My family home is located in the heart of Acadia in Canada, so I was interested in learning more about the branch of Acadians that ended up in Louisiana. In particular, I wanted to hear their music and listen to their French. My research led me to La Poussière, an authentic Cajun dance hall in the blink-and-you’ll-miss-it town of Breaux Bridge. Not only is Breaux an Acadian name I hear all the time in New Brunswick (though with a different spelling), but the Sunday afternoon music was perfect timing for our early-to-bed baby.

Alas, la Poussière was not to be. As a dance hall serving alcohol, they enforce a strict 18+ policy. We were already parked for the night at the municipal park in the nearby town of Parks. It turns out we had arrived on the night of Trunk or Treat, a new spin on Halloween where locals congregate with decorated car trunks and pass out candy to dressed-up children. Phoenix and I wandered around looking at the costumes and decorations as the entire town came together to celebrate. We were chatted up by quite a few locals (having a baby is a great ice-breaker!) and even met the mayor. The best part was to see the black and white population (which I’d put at about a 50/50 split) integrating so jovially. After the history we’d come face-to-face with at the Laura Plantation, that seemed like a miracle.

Trunk or Treat in Parks, Louisiana.

Anyway, while chatting with a few Parks locals, I was told about the nearby Vermilionville Historic Village (Vermilionville was the original name for Lafayette). They, too, offered Cajun music on Sunday afternoons, with a bonus of getting to visit a Cajun historic village. Perfect!

Alas, the Cajun music there was not really to be, either. First of all, it wasn’t Cajun music – it was Zydeco (I actually only learned this after the performance!), and secondly, it was way – way! – too loud for us to enter the dance hall with a baby. Bruno and I took turns peeking our heads in and observing the scene while the other stayed outside with Phoenix. What I saw were some serious cowboys doing some serious dancing! I mean, the whole shebang – cowboy hats, boots, and belts. We could have been in Texas. And there was no shyness to the dancing at all. The floor was packed, men twirling smiling women, and the whole body of dancers spinning counter-clockwise.

Zydeco Sunday afternoon music and dancing!

The crowd is having a mighty good time!

A whole lotta cowboy!

Again, I was impressed with the jovial mix of races. I’d expected only white people – Cajuns, as American Acadians, would logically be white. But, first of all, this was a zydeco band – explained to me as a slower, more bluesy Americana music – and secondly, race and culture in Louisiana is a thoroughly confused, muddled affair.

At the Laura Plantation, we’d learned about the term creole. During the time of the Duparc family, a Louisiana Creole person had to be three things – French-speaking, locally-born, and Catholic. Originally, the term was used casually in Louisiana, but by the time of the Laura Plantation, being creole was a rather bold political statement, an important distinction from the newly-arriving Americans. Créolité wasn’t determined along racial lines, and still isn’t, as it now loosely encompasses the descendents of those early creoles along with the Native Americans, Africans, and Cajuns that got thrown into the cultural mix.

Identifying Cajun-ness is equally muddled. While the term originally identified Acadians living in Louisiana, it’s now a broad cultural term that references both relatives of the Acadians and basically anyone else who wants to use the term.

The cultural melting pot of Louisiana is so melted it’s basically just a big, yummy, pureed soup. Even though I am Aristotelian in my love of categorization, I find that fact mostly beautiful. Except when it came to finding an actual Cajun person who could speak to me some Cajun French. I so badly wanted to hear Cajun French – probably because of my love of Chiac, the Acadian French.

We wandered around the Cajun village, visiting old homes that had been restored and transplanted here, and learning a little bit about the history and lifestyle of the first few generations of Cajuns. Though not nearly as well done, the historic village was reminiscent of Le Village Historique Acadien, and it was interesting to compare the lives of the Acadians and Cajun people. Many elements were similar – both peoples reaped their livelihoods from the earth, were deeply religious, were persecuted by the majority English population, and engaged in hobbies like hand-knitting, dying and sewing clothing. But it seemed to me that the Cajuns had fared better than the Acadians. They seemed less poor, with lives less bleak. Perhaps it was the weather, the wealth of the soil, or the economic opportunities available in Louisiana.

Learning about Cajun life at Vermillionville.

Judging from this house, I think the Cajuns fared better than the Acadians.

Phoenix actually fell asleep during a tourist visit… it’s a miracle!

Steve, the only French-speaker I found.

This photo is mainly to please Bruno’s mom, so she sees that he, too, came to Louisiana. But for reals, look at Phoenix!

But perhaps that is also why their French culture was so diluted. In the entire village, I found only one old gentleman – Steve – who could speak a barely-passing French. I’d expected to struggle to understand the Cajun accent, but I hadn’t expected it to be because he spoke it with such an Anglophone tongue. For better or worse, it seemed the Cajuns had been swept up into the Louisiana world of the Creole.

A few quintessential Louisiana elements were notably missing from our visit. First of all, we didn’t see any alligators, though we did come face-to-face with plenty of giant mosquitoes. Secondly, we didn’t taste any Cajun food (anyone who has seen Phoenix eat understands why we don’t feel like venturing to a restaurant at the moment!).

The only alligator we came across in Louisiana!

Would YOU go to a restaurant with this guy?!?

More importantly, we didn’t visit New Orleans. (WHAT?!?) We were actually camped only about 40km from the French Quarter, and I’d been contemplating a visit. Truth be told, I was conflicted. RVs aren’t conducive to city visits, and I wasn’t sure how we would do justice to New Orleans on a day trip with a baby. (I’ve been known to turn down short trips to epic places – like Amsterdam – before in favor of doing it right at a later time).

In the end, my health decided things for me. I developed such a nasty flu that I was bedridden for two full days. I hadn’t been sick in over a year, so I took it as a sign – New Orleans wanted me to do it right.

So, mark my words, friends: I will be back to Louisiana one day. Maybe with a few girlfriends, or on a romantic adults’ only trip with Bruno. It will involve much late-night dancing in New Orleans, an alligator-filled swamp tour, and as much sampling of Cajun/Creole food (what’s the difference, anyway?) as a vegan can taste. Louisiana has been so confounding and confusing that my curiosity is officially peeked. Oh, Louisiana!

My parents came to this spout of land on the eastern tip of Canada almost 40 years ago, just a few months after their wedding and long before I was even a thought on their minds.  They spent a rainy few days driving the coastal route around the peninsula, trying to glimpse the spectacular ocean views and to stay warm and dry in their pop-up tent.

Perhaps it’s no wonder they never took my brother and I there during our childhood.

But something about this lobster-claw-shaped peninsula called to me.  I think it was just far enough away from home (in New Brunswick) to feel exotic enough to venture to, yet also close enough that I would be ashamed of myself had I missed it.  We were on a home-coming trip of sorts this summer, after all, with our two-month cross-Canadian road trip.

We began our coastal tour of Gaspé in Matane, on its northern coast, after crossing over the mighty St. Lawrence River in a ferry.  Although I have no recollection of ever seeing photos of the peninsula, what lay before me was exactly as I’d seen it in my mind’s eye – forested cliffs tumbling into the sea, interspersed by protected fishing towns.  Unlike for my parents so many years ago, the weather chose to cooperate, and the scenes before us looked all the more charming in the summer sun.

Bruno and I spent a few days driving slowly along the coast, stopping in quaint towns, at revealing viewpoints, and along beaches to soak up the summer sun.  The road would veer up and out toward the sea before tumbling back into a cove sheltering a little town.  The in-and-out rhythm was predictably pleasant, but around each turn lay a new striking vista.

One of the many picturesque views from above of the Gaspé Peninsula.

I took advantage of hours in the sun along hidden spits of beach wherever possible.

A great example of what the coastal road was like along Gaspé’s northern side.

In each cove, surrounded by hills and sea, was a little fishing village protected from the elements.

When we reached the tallest lighthouse in Canada – not the first or last lighthouse we’d see in Gaspé – we knew we had reached the climax of our cross-Canada road trip – Forillon National Park.  Months ago, on a recommendation from my mom, I’d reserved three nights at one of the park’s campgrounds.  Bruno and I have never done this before, but what with Canada’s 150^th and it being the height of summer, we thought it might be wise.  This, though, had the effect or keeping us on a sort of timeline throughout our road trip, as it was impossible to forget that we needed to be at Forillon by July 17^th.

The park was well-worth the effort.  Of the four Canadian national parks we’d visited, Forillon was my favorite.  Our campground was located just behind an absolutely stunning pebble beach, where one could chance a whale-sighting in its blue waters, gaze at the sheer cliff of the peninsula, or even encounter wildlife while chilling on one of the park’s red Adirondack chairs.

Cap-des-Rosiers lighthouse, at the entrance of Forillon National Park.

The beach nearest our campground at Forillon National Park.

The adorable – and not at all shy – porcupine I encountered along the campground beach path.

Besides its stunning coast-and-cliff views, Forillon offers several worthy hikes.  We chose two.  The first led us up a very steep 2km-long path to Mont St. Alban for a 360-degree view of the park from a tall wooden platform.  Well above the tree line, we could actually see the full shape of the very tip of the peninsula, called Land’s End.

Our second hike took us to Land’s End, where yet another lighthouse awaits.  Bruno claims the *true* Land’s End is in Patagonia, Argentina – and Canada’s is truly in Newfoundland – but the name was still enough to persuade us to do this hike.  More than the views from Land’s End itself, we enjoyed getting to see so many whales in the Baie des Chaleurs along the way.

The aerial view from Mont St-Alban.

The narrow tip of Forillon National Park, called Land’s End.

Enjoying our hikes!

At Land’s End.

What was probably most surprising about Forillon National Park is that, in addition to its scenery and hikes, it offers an interesting slice of history.  This was a first for us at a national park in Canada, and I really felt that it added a lot to the park’s offerings.

I’m talking about the Grand Graves Heritage Site.  Grand Graves was an old cod fishing village that has been preserved and restored by Parks Canada.  Some of the homes show the simple and hard life of the family that once lived here (Bruno recognized many household items from his grand-parents’ childhoods in France); one building teaches us about the fascinating cod fishing industry that this village was founded upon; another recreates the town’s general store; upstairs details the life of the fishing families throughout the seasons.  A final building illustrates all the groups of people that have inhabited this point of land, and somewhat atones for the process of forced resettlement that occurred when the land was desginated a national park.

A preserved home in the Grand Graves Heritage Site.

Grand Graves General Store.

The old lighthouse at Land’s End.

As we drove out of Forillon National Park, the landscape became flatter and less dramatic, yet somehow more familiar.  Just beyond the bay, I could see my home-province of New Brunswick, and around me it looked as if we were already there.  Part of me wanted to simply rush home.  Yet there was one more must-see site in Gaspé – le Rocher Percé.

As one of the world’s largest natural arches in water, Percé Rock is one of Canada’s major landmarks; funnily enough, I had never heard of it.  I must have been the only one – it seemed all of Quebec was in Percé to visit this hunk of stone.  Apart from Tadoussac (Quebec’s whale-watching-central), Percé was, the most touristy place we visited during our entire Canadian road trip.  After having spent such peaceful days in Forillon’s wilderness, it was a little too much to handle, but we did stay long enough to capture a few views of this picturesque rock from a few different angles.

Approaching Percé Rock.

One of the world’s largest natural arches in water – a ship can actually fit through!

I think people come to the Gaspé Peninsula to visit a place that holds a unique place in Canada’s story.  It is part of the [equally unique] province of Quebec, yet its history stands apart from the rest of the province.  Its coastal road hugs the coastline, and (on the northern side especially) you are literally stuck between sheer cliffs and water.  Located at the very tip of continental Canada, it has that “end-of-the-road” feel to it.  The Gaspé Peninsula calls out from afar to curious travelers, but you truly have to want to come here to be here.

We heard the call and came.

And we’re glad we did.

I’m not quite sure where this bias came from.  Perhaps it was one bred subconsciously into more self-proclaimed civilized, worldly Canadians.  Maybe the idea bled over from my years spent south of our border.  Or perhaps it developed from the images of farmers tending to endlessly flat corn fields and ghost town-like villages that I recall from childhood road trips our family would take when we lived out in Calgary for a few years.

Whatever the reason for the bias, I’m now ashamed of it.  I’ve now been to the Prairies, and I’ve been proven wrong.

Things started out much as I expected in Saskatchewan’s Grasslands National Park.  Bruno and I had driven past those endless fields of farmland to get to the park, and once we were inside, there didn’t appear to be a lot to see.  In the campground, we were surrounded by gently rolling green grassy hills without a single tree – or geographical landmark – in sight.

The vast, seemingly-featureless Grasslands National Park (and its red chairs – every Canadian National Park now has them!).

I dove into the literature provided by the park to try to gleam any insight that would illuminate its value for me.  I learned that the entirety of Grasslands National Park has been purchased over time from retiring farmers (I’m assuming that farming in Saskatchewan is a dying trade, as it is in much the rest of North America) and slowly rehabilitated to its native grassland ecosystem.  Because of its historical desirability as farmland, there exists almost no native grassland in North America – all but a fraction of 1% of tall grass prairies remain, for example.  Yet it’s an important ecosystem because they are natural carbon sinks, an integral part of the Carbon Cycle.

As I read and reflected on the rarity of this ecosystem, I began to notice that I wasn’t alone.  The ground around me appeared to be moving.  Little heads popped up out of holes in the earth.  Our campsite was in the middle of a giant prairie dog colony!  In twos and three, the prairie dogs emerged, as curious about us as we were of them.  We were surrounded!

Look at those adorable prairie dogs!

They’re very social creatures and well-known for the way they stand up on their hind legs.

Sock stealer!

It didn’t take long for the prairie dogs to become our form of entertainment at Grasslands National Park. We heard them chirp – they sound more like birds than dogs to me – as they argued with family members or called attention to one another from a distance.  We saw them chase one another, and fight, and alert one another to dangers in the sky – and of course, we watched them stretch their bodies upright on their two hind legs.  These creatures of the prairies are addictively adorable.

I think the prairie dogs helped me get into the rhythm of the grasslands.  Over the next few days, I slowed down and took in the quiet, subtle beauty of my environment.  I listened to the birds and stared at the clear night sky.  I basked in the already-hot late-spring sun and soaked in the sheer peace of the place.  Bruno and I went for a hike and ended up, for a good while, on parallel paths with two coyotes.  We visited the small group of resident bison that had once been so plentiful on these plains.  It may have taken longer than in other places, but we definitely left appreciating the value and beauty of Grasslands National Park.

Hiking through the grasslands.

We hiked side by side these two coyotes for a good long while.

We got into the slow, simple beauty in Grasslands National Park.

We traveled toward Regina, Saskatchewan’s capital and one of the few of my country I had not yet visited.  Again, I wasn’t expecting much from our transit – more flat, monotonous agricultural land dotted with more dull agricultural towns.

Indeed, the one town we did make a point of visiting on the way to Regina – Gravelbourg – was underwhelming.  We stopped here because Gravelbourg is a small francophone town in an otherwise heavily Anglophone province.  We wandered up the single main street, past a very Canadian-looking Le Café Paris and a pleasant old post office.  Bookending the street were the cathedral on one end and a grain elevator on the other.  Yet, we didn’t hear a single word of French, even though we popped into almost every open business – which amounted to the bank, the grocery store, and the hardware store.  There was a francophone school on the outskirts of town, but there are plenty of those in even the most Anglophone cities.  It appeared the Frenchness of Gravelbourg has been swallowed up by the dominant English.

Regina, too, was rather uninspiring.  It had a nice enough park along a man-made lake and a significant aboriginal population which made for a diverse cultural melange, but it was mostly difficult to believe this was a provincial capital.  Its downtown was insignificant, its supposedly-hip warehouse district a single string of country-music bars.

Gravelbourg, an old Francophone town surrounded by the Anglophones of Southern Saskatchewan.

The grain elevator at the end of Gravelbourg’s Main Street (and every other town in Southern Saskatchewan).

Literally the only photo we took in Regina, Saskatchewan’s photo, a very lovely Wascana Park.

Rather, it was in unexpected places in Saskatchewan that I found the pleasant surprises.  It was in the friendly lady working at the post office who chatted with me for twenty minutes when I asked where I could drop off my recycling.  Something about being able to have a lovely conversation with a stranger who should have been busy working gave me an appreciation for the slower, people-oriented rhythm of the Prairies.

It was the farm fresh produce for sale on the side of the road.  We pulled into a farm where a Dutch couple and their elderly mother were enjoying a late-morning tea with bread and cheese on the veranda in the sun.  They sold me the eggs from the hens that were plucking away at the open grass not ten feet away, surrounded by a handful of happy-looking goats and sheep.  Undoubtedly the cheese they were munching on came from those animals, too.

And it was the wildlife we sighted while driving along the bumpy country roads – and I’m not talking about cows, though we saw those, too.  We saw a fox with a cute bushy tail, and as many pronghorn sheep as we’d seen in Yellowstone National Park!  I didn’t know that pronghorns lived this far north, or that these plains could make for such wildlife-watching!

Pronghorns along the side of the road!

I even started to appreciate the ubiquitous agricultural landscape of the Prairies.

I was beginning to understand that, even though the images I may have had in my head about the Prairies were accurate, there was something about this place that offered more than may meet the eye.

Then we entered Manitoba, and even my mental images of the Prairies no longer corresponded with the reality before me.  The landscape became hillier.  There were lakes and marshlands, and trees – forests, even.  When we camped by two tree-covered lakes in Riding Mountain National Park, I was forced to concede that the landscape of the Prairies was far more diverse than I’d believed.  The beauty here was more obvious, but just as quick to miss if you didn’t look carefully.

The landscape gets greener, hillier, and lake-ier.

Simple beauty that you can miss if you don’t look carefully.

It was perhaps Winnipeg, Manitoba’s provincial capital, which was the most surprising of all.  It had everything one could ever need in a city – history, natural beauty, interesting architecture, and diverse culture.  In the middle of scattered towns and farms lies a truly cosmopolitan place.

Manitoba is Canada’s “gateway to the west”.  Its heart lies at the fork of two major rivers, the Assiniboine and the Red River.  These waterways were the highways of old – it is where the First Nations people traveled, hunted and traded, and where early Europeans set up forts and trading posts (including the infamous Hudson’s Bay Company) after canoeing all the way from Montreal.

Nowadays, The Forks is a mostly-pedestrian green space showcasing markets, festival grounds, and the imposing new Canadian Museum for Human Rights.  The morning we visited there was a very cute kids’ highland dance competition in the courtyard outside the Forks Market.

The impressive-looking Canadian Museum for Human Rights.

A super-cute Highland Dance competition we stumbled upon.

Bruno and I spend a solid day wandering around Winnipeg.  We took the pedestrian bridge over the river to St. Boniface, Winnipeg’s French quarter.  Here, we actually heard French spoken everywhere, and we saw the tombstone of Louis Riel, the Métis resistance leader who eventually founded the province of Manitoba while advocating for the rights of the Métis.

We wandered around the Exchange District, an area of old brick warehouses with old painted façade signs built prior to WWI, during Winnipeg’s boom, which now house trendy art galleries and restaurants.  We sat in the sun on the grounds of the impressive Legislative Building before passing through the hip, young, student-oriented Osbourne Village for a bite to eat.

A day in Winnipeg gave me an overview of the history of the entire region – the aboriginal origins, the arrival of the Europeans, the westward settlement, the effects of the war, and the incorporation of the province into the new country of Canada.  I wasn’t expecting any of that from a humble Prairie city.

The Cathedral and cemetery in St. Boniface.

An old convent where sisters who’d kayaked from Montreal (!) set up shop.

Pre WWI brick buildings with old painted signs in the Exchange District.

There was much that was surprising and unexpected during our time in the Prairies.  It may not be the most obvious destination for a traveler, and admittedly, you do have to dig a bit harder here to find the beauty.  But patience and hard work are rewarded with its endless blue sunny skies, its refreshing gusts of wind, its barely-rolling plains, its peaceful, wide-open spaces.  Here, in the Canadian Prairies, there may be no flash or pomp, but the slow, simply, friendly rhythm of the region unfolds itself to the willing observer.

If I’ve only recently learned that the Prairie Provinces aren’t the armpit of anything, I can’t wait to see what else I learn as I continue traveling through my own country.

What was probably unusual is that the thing my fifteen-year old self remembers most of that family trip (apart from the giant crush I developed on one of the emcees) was the day my family ventured off the resort to explore the town of Puerto Vallarta.

Fast-forwarded more than half a lifetime later and here I am, for a second time in Mexico, having my senses utterly overwhelmed again by the traffic, dirt, taco stands, street dogs, garbage, potholes, and staccato Spanish of another Mexican town.  After spending over a year in Europe, Canada, and the United States, Mexico has come as a shock – even if it is just Mexico-light, as they call Baja California.

Images of Baja California.

I am happy we’re living in a small village rather than in the larger city of Ensenada.  Here, on the two main streets of Chapultepec, are every essential element of a Mexican town – the panaderia (the bakery, where many varieties of pan dulce, or sweet bread, are sold); the tortilleria (Mexico’s true corner bakeries, where one buys tortilla shells of all varieties); the michoacana (the ice cream shop, which sells gorgeous artisanal popsicle-like ice cream bars in additional to regular cones); and several informal taco stands on the side of the road (some with bar stools), where locals pop in between meals for a quick fix.  Taco stands, I learn, are Mexican fast food.

A Mexican bakery, serving mostly pastries.

The tortilla shop in Chapultepec, where I could by about 30 corn tortillas for $1!

The ice cream shop, where they do really nice artisanal creations.

Taco stands, which are more like outdoor taco bars, on every corner.

My first tacos in Mexico!

Chapultepec is an unintimidating [re]introduction to Mexico.  The locals treat me with that perfect mixture of indulgence and indifference.  I am not gawked at, pestered, or otherwise made to feel like a foreigner; yet, as I test out my basic Spanish, the locals decipher and decode my broken sentences, somehow making sense of my attempts to communicate.  It’s an encouraging atmosphere, and I quickly feel at ease.

I venture into Ensenada a few times, mostly to purchase fabric or foam for our bus conversion.  I hitch a ride in with Bruno then hop on a minibus into the center of town.  It is exhilarating to once again be using public transportation in an unfamiliar country.  I feel empowered and emboldened.  How could I not?  If you brave it, it’s actually so simple to take a minibus in Ensenada.  All I must do is walk to the nearest main artery, hail down any approaching bus– of which there is at least one every minute or two – then pay 10 pesos (about $0.60) and I am off toward the downtown bus terminal.  All buses point downtown.  It’s getting home that is slightly more complicated.

The center of Ensenada is a small grid of commercial streets.  There are no skyscrapers, large malls, or impressive sites.  There is only a church whose steeple rises above the rest and sets itself into the forefront of the populated hills that surround the city; taco stands on each corner, most of them selling fish tacos, which were supposedly born here; and a large harbour where commercial boats and cruise ships anchor.

One day, on a promise to myself, I wander down along Ensenada’s coastline.  There is a small promenade, a marina for smaller boats, and, further up, tourist restaurants and gift shops.  I am here early – and on a day where no cruise ship is docked – so the area is pleasantly quiet.  As I veer a block inland, I find myself wandering down the street that cruise shippers likely visit – it’s filled with pharmacies advertising cheap Viagra, curio shops selling ponchos and sombreros and Day of the Dead skeletons, and roadside bars promising cheap tequila and delicious margaritas.  This place is nothing like Chapultepec – nothing, even, like a mere street over in Ensenada – and, when a local notes to me, in English, that I arrived “too early,” I thank my stars I haven’t, and decide it’s time to head back to Chapultepec.

Ensenada’s waterfront promenade.

I like the name of this boat!

The tallest building in Ensenada.

So many pharmacies near the pier, all of them advertising cheap viagra.

Besides, Chapultepec is where I have a new friend.  I meet Lethy at the local hardware store.  She is the only employee that can speak English, and my questions about the availability of certain materials quickly turn into friendly conversation.  Lethy tells me that she has 90-minute lunches, so if I ever felt like popping by for a bite, that would suit her well.  I take her up on that offer a few days later, and again a week after that.  We sit inside restaurants and order enchiladas and chilaquiles (nachos) and chiles rellenos (stuffed deep-fried peppers) and talk for hours.  Lethy practices her mostly-forgotten English and I get to have a new local girlfriend.  It’s wonderful.

My new friend, Lethy!

The hardware store where she works.

A food stall we went to for lunch.

Yum yum!

Chapultepec is also where I do most of my business.  It is where I find a tailor to sew curtains for our bus and an upholsterer to cover our foam dining room cushions, and where I try to find a carpenter to do a few more small pieces of wood furniture for us.  I’m not successful on that last count because their services are a lot more expensive than I expect.  The same is true of the tailor and the upholsterer, but these are essential services that we cannot do on our own.  I learn that, because of the proximity to the United States, this part of Mexico has a skewed economy.  Most skilled workers are employed in exporting businesses, so there is a short supply of local carpenters and tailors.  This shoots the price up, making their services attainable only for the upper middle class in Mexico.  We barely qualify.

Thankfully, fresh produce is more in the price range I like to pay.  I take advantage of this at my favourite weekly event – the Chaputepec farmer’s market.  I love local markets no matter what, but this one is particularly pleasant.  The market isn’t large, nor is it overly chaotic, but it has a laid-back yet bustling atmosphere.  Every week, I wander past the stacks of used clothing, local produce piled high, and ready-made foods and drinks.  I pick up stashes of veggies for great prices – most notably nopales, or cactus, and chayote, a small pear-shaped squash – and make friends with some of the regular vendors.  I discover aguas frescas, (falling in love with jamaica, the juice of hibiscus flower, which I had obsessively drunk in Senegal twelve years earlier, though there it went by the name bisap).  I try an empanada stuffed with squash flowers, coconut pieces smothered in a spicy and sour sauce, and tamales dulce stuffed with pineapple.  I listen to the mariachi groups and wander past the old men in cowboy hats and the scores of Chihuahuas.

The Chapultepec weekly ,market.

Look at all that produce! I took a bunch of pics of this mother/daughter team and printed them out for them. They were super happy!

Nopales (cactus) for sale!

Some of the mariachi groups at the market.

The aguas frescas for sale. So refreshing!

My vegetable stash one week. About $6!

The Chapultepec farmer’s market is the height of my time in Baja California.  It’s the best opportunity I have to be exposed to the culture, food and language of the region at a time where most of my energy is being spent on our bus conversion.  It’s where I catch my breath from all the work we’re doing, where I feel like – just for a moment – I am doing the place we are temporarily calling home justice.

Five market days come and go and it’s time to leave Baja California.  There is so much I haven’t discovered here, so much still to learn, to taste, to see.  It’s the same feeling I had all those years ago, when my family wandered around the dusty curio shops of Puerto Vallarta.  In both instances, Mexico gave me a little taste, and left me wanting more.

First, you must eat a lobster.

Next, swim the channel at our beach.

And last, slurp a raw quahog.

So, it wasn’t a surprised that Bruno, upon arriving at my parents’ little home on the beach in early August, was presented the mission of becoming an Honorary Maritimer.

Welcome to the Maritimes, Bruno!

This, of course, was not his purpose in being in the Maritimes.  It was to meet all the family and friends I hold dear (so that everyone would finally believe he’s real!) and to get to know why this region of the world holds such a special place in my heart.

And so, we took Bruno to the nearby tourist town of Shediac.  Situated directly along the Atlantic Ocean and boasting the warmest waters north of South Carolina, Shediac is the [self-proclaimed] lobster capital of the world.  A giant lobster statue, which my brother and I used to climb when we were kids, sits at the edge of a bay to memorialize this fact.

Shediac is also the original home of the Chiac vernacular.  Chiac is the fascinatingly incomprehensible old French mixed with a bit of English and a few made-up words that is spoken by the Acadian people of the region.  Much to the dismay of my mother, Bruno was excited to hear Chiac spoken and to learn a few phrases.  We took him to the Shediac Sunday Market so he could wander around and soak up the local language.  He didn’t understand much.

At the Shediac market.

Under the Talking Tree at the Shediac Market.

Shediac, the lobster capital of the world. And the giant lobster.

A priceless family moment in Shediac.

A couple weeks later, on August 15^th, we ventured into the larger city of Moncton to witness the tintamarre performed every year for the Fête des Acadiens.  The Acadians are a proud people, mainly because they are a marginalized minority with a different history and culture than the dominant Canadian one.  Every year, they parade down main streets around the province, making as much noise as possible with kitchen utensils and home-spun instruments, dressed in the French colours of blue, red, and white, but with the yellow stars that demarcate their flag as not-France.  Anglophones, we exist, their noise seems to say.

The Moncton tintamarre was small compared to the internationally-recognized one in Caraquet, in the Acadian Peninsula further north.  But Bruno enjoyed the experience, as well as the big concert along the muddy Peticodiac River that followed.  In an act that is unlike him, he was the last to want to leave.

The tintamarre arriving in Moncton.

The concert for the Fete des Acadiens.

The heads that are always a part of the Tintamarre but that are more prolific up north in Caraquet.

The family watching all the action for the Fete des Acadiens.

Isn’t it strange how there can be places so close to home that you want to see, yet you can spend an entire life not seeing them?  And isn’t it wonderful that, when a visitor comes to town, you finally go and visit those places?  This was the case on two occasions when Bruno came to the Maritimes this summer.

Our first never-before-seen visit was to Johnson Mills to watch the migration of the semi-palmated plovers and sandpipers.  After spending their summers in the Arctic, these birds migrate to South America, stopping over in New Brunswick to fatten up on crustaceans before their 72-hour nonstop journey south.  They choose Johnson Mills, and a few other sites in New Brunswick, because the unique union of mudflats and the highest tides in the world make for excellent feeding.

The birds arrive in early August in three waves – first the mothers, then the fathers, and last, the newborns (who have just learned to fly).  During the week that all three groups converge, there are 100,000 birds at this one site alone!  When the tide is high and the birds cannot feast, they fly around in a single united drove, swaying this way and that in the sky as though a well-rehearsed dance recital.  They are, of course, exhaustedly awaiting the return of the beach as they desperately avoid the ever-present falcons.

Bruno was, of course, in his absolute element watching the birds, and I was thrilled to finally witness this most-impressive performance of Nature that occurs in our humble little corner of the world.

The shorebirds dancing over the Bay of Fundy on the migration south.

It’s quite the crowd!

The wave trying to escape the approaching falcon (see upper right-hand corner).

Finally the tide is going down and the birds can settle on the beach.

Watching this amazing spectacle of Nature.

Our second visit was to Halifax, Nova Scotia.  The unofficial capital of the Maritimes is only a three-hour drive from my home, but I hadn’t been here for tourism purposes since I can remember.  Bruno and I needed to come here to pick up our Toyota camper van after her ferry ride across the Atlantic, so we opted to make a trip of it.

Mom and dad came along for the day and acted as tour guides, as they had lived in Halifax for years as nearly- and newlyweds.  They showed us the funky shopping main street, the citadel on the hill, and the historic properties and beautiful pedestrian walkway in the harbour front area.  We wandered in a small Victorian park as well as a large one at the edge of the peninsula, admired relic boats parked along the harbour, and read about the maritime history of this all-important port city.  Best of all, our personalized private tour guides showed us the area around my parents’ alma mater, the University of Dalhousie, and some of the pretty homes and viewpoints in that non-touristy, residential part of town.

The view of the Halifax harbour from atop the Citadel.

Some of the funky colors of Halifax.

Checking out the boats along the harbour.

Traffic in the harbour.

The historic properties.

Aww, mom and dad!! :)

A family day in Halifax!

While mom and dad drove home that evening to New Brunswick, Bruno and I got a Bed & Breakfast for the night so that we could pick up our beloved Totoyaya the following morning.  I dragged him to a vegan restaurant I’d found online called EnVie, and this place absolutely blew my mind!  We shared three dishes that were so tasty it was hard to believe there weren’t meat or dairy products in them – a charcuterie platter with almond “brie”, sundried tomato and “goat’s cheese” spread, seitan (fermented soy), tomato jam, and fermented onions; coconut “shrimp” made with king oyster mushrooms; and the creamiest “ricotta” ravioli I’ve ever had.  The meal was so good it almost overtakes picking up Totoyaya as the highlight of our time in Halifax!

Our charcuterie platter at EnVie.

Food porn, as they say.

Coconut “shrimp,” amazing.

As I showed Bruno around my dear Maritimes, I realized how badly I wanted him to like my country.  It was the first time we were in Canada together (and Bruno had only visited British Columbia briefly eight years before), and I found myself emphasizing Canada’s qualities – like its safety, large spaces, and friendly people – while excusing its flaws – rigid rules, cost of living, ugly overdevelopment.

I also found myself acting as a sort of accidental interpreter.  I showed him the denominations of our funny, fake-looking money (who calls a coin a “loonie,” anyway?); I explained driving etiquette and road rules to him; and I clarified the country’s policies on things like sales tax and tipping.

It’s the first time I can remember being tour guide for Bruno – until now, we’d only ever visited places he’d been to, or that we were both seeing for the first time together.  Being Bruno’s tour guide painted seemingly regular things in a new light, so that even a bike ride along cottage country lanes became a cultural experience.

In fact, I began to see “culture” everywhere.  Seeing Canada from Bruno’s eyes was like seeing my culture from the outside, and realizing – for the first time in many instances – how many things I’ve always seen as normal are, in fact, cultural.

Take, for example, our family reunion at Walton’s Beach, near the bridge to Prince Edward Island.  This is a tradition that my dad’s side of the family has been doing for as long as I can remember, so for me, it’s a normal yearly family gathering.  For Bruno, though, everything about it was cultural.  The gathering took place in cottage country, a concept almost every middle class Canadian understands.  Going to a cottage, for a Canadian, means going to a rustic second holiday home of a family member or friend, usually along some body of water (in New Brunswick it’s usually the Atlantic Ocean), but also occasionally in the forest or in the mountains.  At cottages, people do leisure activities that range from going to the beach, doing water sports, playing board games (on rainy days), and having barbecues and bonfires.

At the beach with family in cottage country.

Family beach time!

Bonfires are a cottage country tradition in Canada.

Our family reunion at Walton’s Beach was no different.  And while Bruno could relate to the idea of sitting on a beach in the sun (for they do this in France, too, though definitely not all around the world), it was a big culture shock for him when we played our annual baseball game.  Bruno had never even put on a baseball glove!  There wasn’t much time to explain the rules to him because the boys of the family wanted to get down to business, so we stuck Bruno in right field and were ready to yell out to whom he should throw the ball should he catch it (telling him which base to throw the ball to would have been lost in translation!).  The ball didn’t go his way, but he still had to bat and run the bases.  Though his stance and swing were funny to look at, he did hit the ball, and then counted on his teammates to tell him when and where to run.  I think he played the entire game without understanding a thing.

The post-ballgame barbecue was no less cultural for him.  French people have grillades, where they stick high-quality cuts of meat on tiny round grills and serve them as the second course in a long multi-course sit-down meal, with wine bien sur.  Our Canadian barbecue amounted to patties of ground meat (or fake meat) char-grilled and thrown between cakey buns, served on paper plates with buffet-style salads on the side and eaten at random picnic tables and camping chairs strewn out behind the cottage.

Our family at Walton’s Beach.

Our annual Walton’s Beach baseball game, and Bruno’s first.

Walton’s Beach taught me that my idea of “normal” is nothing more than Canadian culture in action.

During Bruno’s month in New Brunswick, he experienced Canadian culture on a daily basis, not least of all at the dinner table.  Bruno had his first ever brunch of pancakes with maple syrup, fresh berries, and hash browns; he tried his first ever smore (and roasted his first every campfire marshmallow); and he had his first ever poutine (fries smothered with cheese curds and gravy).  He also sampled the region’s delicacies – deep fried clams, lobster, and quahogs (which he loved so much he slurped half a dozen).  I was impressed that Bruno dug right into the cold (but cooked) shelled lobster with his bare hands, adeptly tearing into the shell and finding even the small, hidden bits of meat (like in the cheek and the tail fin) – for though French people eat langouste (which is similar to, but much less tasty than, lobster), they almost always serve it de-shelled, warm, and as part of, rather than all of, a meal.

Bruno’s first poutine.

Bruno’s first lobster.

Bruno’s first quahog.

Bruno’s first smore.

Was Bruno a Maritimer hidden in a Frenchman’s skin?  Most visitors manage the lobster only with help, and swallow the quahog with their noses plugged, and only to complete the final challenge and become Honorary Maritimers.

It was swimming the channel, the most difficult challenge for him, that showed Bruno’s true Mediterranean colours.  The first few times he had an opportunity to swim, he declined because he wasn’t warm enough.  One afternoon, though, when the wind was down and the sun was out, with an audience of only two, Bruno finally shimmied his way into the water and made it across the channel!

Bruno attempting to swim across the channel near our house as the third challenge given to those seeking Honorary Maritimer status.

He did it! He made it! Bruno is an Honorary Maritimer!

That day, Bruno may have exposed his non-Maritimer-ness (for what true Maritimer would scoff at the weather in August?), but he did prove himself to our family and friends.  He became an Honorary Maritimer.

And this Maritimer wife couldn’t be more proud.

He Reconnected with Old Friends, Too

A few days after we parted ways, Bruno received some visitors that are very well-known on this blog: Josu and Ana, our Basque overlanding friends!  They’d spend the last nine months or so remaking and homologating the cell on the back of their Toyota Hilux and were finally hitting the road with their new beauty!  They were en route to Iceland for the summer, and so stopped in at our house along the Mediterranean for a visit.

It turns out it’s a good thing they did because they had a bit of a hiccup to their grand departure and needed to do a few days of mechanical work.  Once that was fixed, Josu and Ana guided Bruno into the first couple of nights of his own overland [re]departure, and they camped and hiked around Lac du Salagou near Clairmont-l’Hérault.

Josu and Ana parked behind Totoyaya at our house in the south of France!

Totoyaya and Josu and Ana’s new camper van parked at Lac du Salagou.

Josu and Ana spent 9 months building a new, bigger cell for the back of their own Toyota. I think they’re super happy to finally be on the road with it!

Lac du Salagou, where Bruno, Josu and Ana camped.

And hiked.  I’m sad I missed it!

He Gave Totoyaya a Makeover

Lac Salagou is close to some of Bruno’s France friends, so Michel and Béa popped over for a visit.  Somehow the discussion came up that Michel knew a guy who could repaint the facade of our camper van, Totoyaya.

And so, Bruno made his way to the nearby village of Nébians, where he set up shop in the garage of Michel’s neighbour.  It took Bruno a few days to detach various items on the façade of the vehicle, strip the paint, and cover the areas he didn’t want painted, and then another day to paint.

Then, he headed back south, to St-Thibéry (about twenty whole minutes away from our house in Agde!) to get the front of the vehicle repainted by a friend of Bruno’s father.

I guess Bruno had a bit of a false start to his own departure.  But, my goodness, did the work pay off – Totoyaya is an absolute beauty now!

Totoyaya getting ready for her paint job.

Hanging out in the village of Nebians.

Bruno’s hard at work stripping paint, but not too busy to snap a selfie for me!

The painter friend hard at work.

The second paint job at the second location.

Isn’t she a beauty now?

He Discovered the Wonders of France

It had been over three months since Bruno had lived in his camper van on the road, and during the interim, life had been stressful.  The thing he wanted most of all during his time in France, then, was to slow down and reconnect with nomadic, overland living.

He’d been worried France would be jam-packed in its touristy high-season, so he was very pleasantly surprised to be able to find such peaceful campsites.  Bruno managed this by traveling inland rather than right along the coast, and by sticking primarily to farms and nudist campsites (family-oriented, of course!).

I received loads of photos through What’s App those first few days on the road.  Bruno was obviously very happy to be sleeping among trees and birds with nothing more to do than swim in the campsite pool, cycle around the villages, and read books while sipping on red wine!

One of Bruno’s first campsites. Just like he likes them.

Another campsite along the way.

Tough life.

Real tough.

What’s more, Bruno was pleasantly surprised by the natural beauty and architectural charm of his country (especially Rocamadour, voted 3^rd most beautiful village this year by French people).  Bruno’s always been a bit down on France, but driving northward through the center of his country showed him that France does, in fact, have a lot to offer.  I think he began to understand why it’s the most-visited country in the world!  I think his trip may just have convinced him that France is a worthwhile country for us to visit together someday!  Score!

Some of the lovely sights of France.

A beautiful church in the north of France.

Wow! So cool.

Rocamadour, voted France’s 3rd most charming village by French people.

View from below.

View from above.

He Lived it Up in the Hotels of Belgium

Bruno’s destination during this road trip was Belgium, a brand-new country for him (which is so, SO rare – the last was Djibouti in late 2014 and the next one will likely be 5+ years from now!).  We had made a reservation to board Totoyaya on a ferry from Antwerp to Halifax.  I think Bruno could easily have spent his entire summer roaming around the farms and villages of France, but he had a date with a port.  (I’ll talk about the ins and outs of our shipping from Europe to North America in my next post.)

Once Totoyaya was safely dropped off in Antwerp, Bruno moved himself into a hotel and became a tourist for a week.  He spent a few days in Antwerp, itself, while waiting to hear that all had gone well with the ferry’s departure, and then he moved himself to Brussels for a few nights while awaiting his flight to Halifax (and me!).

Bruno didn’t do nearly as much tourism as he would have done had I been there, but he did take a bunch of photos of beautiful buildings for my benefit (and yours!).  He enjoyed the architecture a lot and the food well enough.  What he didn’t enjoy so much was the heavy security everywhere and the obvious fear with which people were living their lives on the city streets.  While he completely understood the need for the high security alert, he felt it created a profoundly sad and negative vibe to his experience of Belgium.

A few shots of Belgium. I have no idea what they are, but they’re pretty!

I know THIS one! Little Man Pee!

Brussels has a heavy security presence right now.

People are still out and about, but Bruno sensed a palpable caution.

Bruno arrived safe and sound in Halifax on the evening of August 2^nd, and into the arms of his happy awaiting wife!  Reunions after six-week absences are oh-so-sweet!  I’ll surely be blogging about Bruno’s introduction to Eastern Canada over the coming weeks, but right now I’m a little too busy enjoying having Bruno here to write!

Of course, anyone who knows anything about Spain knows that it is anything but sterile.  But I was looking at Spain with Negative Nancy goggles on.  It was hard not to – after spending three months in such a fabulous, exotic, interesting, and alive country as Morocco, almost anywhere would seem boring.

Plus, we were on the Costa del Sol, one of Spain’s number one tourist destinations and a coastline reputedly so overbuilt with resorts and casinos and clubs that one would have to look hard – really hard – to find even a shadow of Spanish culture amid the generic architecture and modern, could-be-anywhere culture.

If it weren’t for the climate, we would have skipped this coastline entirely.  But, it was early March, and we didn’t fancy coming face to face with the late winter in the rest of Europe.

It appeared we weren’t the only ones thinking along these lines.  Andalucía has literally hundreds of campsites – most of them like all-inclusive resorts – dotting the coastline, and all of them were filled to overflowing with retirees.  Seriously, the campsites here made those in Morocco seem empty.  Apparently the south of Spain had become the new winter migration spot for European retirees scared-away from North Africa by the media.

So now, we were in the Cancun of Europe with almost all of its snowbirds.

Fresh off the boat from Morocco, Spain sure does seem sterile…

And crowded.  And this was one of the “good” campsites.

Picasso and Flamenco in Málaga

With my sunny attitude in tow, Bruno and I stopped in Málaga, the largest city on the Costa del Sol, and the birthplace of Pablo Picasso.  It was indeed for the Picasso Museum that I had dragged Bruno into town at all.  I’d discovered, years ago in London, that I liked Picasso – that I “got” his work in a way I rarely manage to grasp with artists.  This museum boasts almost 300 works unseen anywhere else.

I soon learned why.  Almost all of them were donated to the museum by members of his family, and almost all are unsigned.  Picasso could do a sketch in a matter of minutes, and often paid for restaurant meals with a doodle.  That’s what most of the works in this museum seemed like – doodles, studies, or exercises created by the artist and stored away, never intended to see the light of day.

Uninspired, Bruno and I wandered the historical district of Málaga, a fairly large pedestrian-only chunk of town.  We looked at old decorated churches, wandered down small alleys, browsed restaurant and café menus, and window-shopped on wide boulevards.

The beautiful cathedral of Málaga.

The big shopping boulevard in the historical district.

In other words, we did what we always do as tourists visiting any city.  And it was getting old.  The truth is, unless you have time to stay longer and dig deeper, European cities kind of all look and feel the same.  You don’t really get much from the experience of wandering around for a day or two.  You get photos, sure, and you get to forevermore name-drop all the cool cities you’ve been to, but that’s more or less it.

At lunch that day, we sat at the large terrace of Málaga’s infamous El Pimpi Bodega and gazed out at the nearby Roman amphitheater as we munched on the tiniest meal that 25 euros has ever bought me before.  At least we’d always be able to say we’d eaten in the same restaurant as Antonio Banderas.

Lunch at El Pimpi’s, with the Roman Amphitheater in the background.

Antonia Banderas was here.

If there was any saving grace in Málaga, it was the flamenco performance we attended.  I’ve been fortunate to see flamenco several times on giant stages in North America because I’m a huge fan of the late Paco de Lucia.  But there’s something about witnessing this sensual dance on the land where it was born that feels even better.

There were no authentic flamenco performances until the weekend, but I found a tiny restaurant called Vino Mio that does a dinner performance every night.  There may not have been enough space for more than a single dancer, accompanied by one guitarist and one singer, and they were truly only an average group, but it was still really fun and I didn’t much care that I’d fallen into a tourist trap.  (I’d had just as much fun at the tourist-trap Fado performance in Lisbon).  The performance was enough to make my Negative Nancy goggles fall off and remember to enjoy whatever the Costa del Sol had to offer.  I was in Andalucía, after all, the most infamous region of Spain!

Flamenco dinner performance at Vino Mio restaurant in Málaga.

It might have been a tourist trap, but I still had a blast.

Olé!

The Pueblos Blancos of Andalucía

Andalucía’s pueblos blancos are villages of whitewashed walls and red tiled roofs.  From afar, these totally white towns, perched on green hills overlooking azure seas, look like they should be part of Khaleesi’s kingdom (from Game of Thrones).  Close-up, they are just as charming; in fact, Frigiliana, the pueblo blanco Bruno and I visited, was the first town in Spain (including my two months in Northern Spain last fall) that aesthetically wowed me.

Frigialiana was totally charming.  The small alleys were paved with carefully-placed stone mosaics, and as you weaved up the stairwells, you passed perfectly-restored old village homes.  They all had tasteful doors, pots of blossoming flowers, cute window shutters, and antique tools on decorative display.  And once you reached the top of the hill on which the village was placed, you had a view of the hills and sea that definitely inspired deep breaths full of whimsical reflection.

Frigiliana was also, however, totally touristy.  There were more shops and restaurants than private homes, and all of the shops sold artisanal chocolates, natural soaps, and hand-crafted artwork.  I found myself wanting to buy stuff, wanting to spend money, and I sensed that uncomfortable ball of dissatisfaction lodge itself in my gut when I realized I just couldn’t buy all that stuff.  Spending most of my time, as I do, in nature, this is a ball I’m fairly unfamiliar with, and I didn’t really appreciate its entrance-on-scene.  I’m glad I fought against my consumer desires, however, as I soon realized that all these “unique” artisan products could be found in every single tourist village along Andalucía’s coast.

Frigiliana, one of Andalucía’s pueblos blancos.

A panorama from the top of Frigiliana.

Totally charming, if totally touristy.

A few days later, when Bruno and I were driving through the Sierra Nevadas, we stumbled upon more pueblos blancos.  I’d dragged Bruno to these mountains – where night-time temperatures were still falling well below zero – for the simple reason that I’d loved a beer by the same name in college.  I hadn’t expected this mountain range to be so rocky and arid – an effect of its proximity to the Tabernas Desert – and I especially hadn’t expected to see more sparking white pueblos standing out in the dull, earth-toned landscape.

The best pueblos blancos that we encountered during our drive through the Sierra Nevadas were three mountain villages – Pampaneira, Bubión and Capileira – in an ascending line along the edge of the Poqueira Gorge.  With the snowy peak of Mt. Mulhacén behind, they make for a dramatic panorama.

I especially liked Pampaneira.  It was perched on the edge of the hill looking out onto the gorge and the mountain like seats in an amphitheater surround a stage.  In the center of the streets was a sort of open-air drain used to collect and direct the flow of water from the top of the village to the bottom.  On the rooftops were thin, tall chimneys that looked like an army of men wearing cowboy hats.  And to top it off, there was a tiny local market where I was able to buy fruit and vegetables.  Even though I couldn’t bargain for prices, it felt good to buy my produce in open – albeit chilly – air.

The triple towns of Pampaneira, Bubión and Capileira in the Sierra Nevada Mountains.

Open-air water drains.

Cowboy chimneys.

And a little local produce market! I love Pampaneira!

The Mediterranean Coast

As I mentioned before, the Costa del Sol, was incredibly built-up.  At times, all we seemed to drive past was hotels and apartments, resorts and holiday villas, bars, restaurants, and kitsch tourist shops.  This theme continued throughout almost all the Mediterranean Coast of Andalucía.  I read later that over 70% of tourists to Andalucía congregate around the coast, so despite being disheartening, the infrastructure makes sense.

The vast majority of the Mediterranean Coast of Andalucía is this built-up (or more).

Nonetheless, it was a pleasant surprise to occasionally find a few Parques Naturales along the coast.  The first we stumbled upon accidentally after our visit to Frigiliana.  The monstrous buildings of Nerja suddenly gave way to foliage and rugged cliffs, and a dirt track veered into a small parking area at the edge of a cliff.  A few camper vans were parked here, and we chatted for a while with an English couple that had a very cool vehicle and had been camping here for several days.  It turns out they knew Phil and Angie – what a small world is that of overlanders!

We spent a very lovely 24-hours in this parque watching the sunset, eating dinner with the view of the water from our back window, walking along the tiny secluded beach, and having a lunchtime picnic at the edge of the cliff.  We’d have stayed longer, but bush camping is apparently illegal in the Parques Naturales, and we were all photographed and shooed away with a warning by a park guard.

Enjoying the stunning location of our bush camp in a parque natural we stumbled upon.

The very nice English couple we met, and their very cool overland vehicle.

Not a bad spot for a wee lunch!

A few days later, we visited Cabo de Gata-Níjar Parque Natural, the largest coastal protected area in Andalucía.  The arid, hilly landscape reminded me a lot of Morocco, actually, and it was a wonderful breath of fresh air after endless kilometers of man-made scenery.  We would have loved to bush camp there, but after our warning at the previous parque, we opted for a campsite.  At least we got to take advantage of the coast with a nice long afternoon walk on a marked hiking trail departing from the campsite’s little private beach.

Cabo de Gata-Níjar Parque Natural.

Our hike along the marked trail. Landscapes looks like Morocco, eh?

Ok, not ALL of our hike was on the marked trail…

All Things Andalucían

Andalucía is reputedly one of Spain’s most interesting regions.  It has a complex history involving the Moors that shows itself even today in everything from its architecture to its name.  It is the source of such infamous Spanish symbols as flamenco and bullfighting.  And it encompasses cities like Seville and Granada, the highest mountain in Spain, and coastlines along two major bodies of water.

My experience of Andalucía was far from complete – I didn’t experience bullfighting in Seville or visit the mighty Alhambra in Granada; I didn’t sun myself topless along the Costa del Sol or visit the Mosque of Córdoba; I didn’t get to sample much tapas (more on that in a future post) or see first-rate authentic flamenco.  I didn’t even really learn much about the history, culture, or people of Andalucía.

What my experience in Andalucía was, however, was an apt and honest portrait of the great, average, and less-than-amazing moments that traveling full-time around the world involves.  Travel isn’t all breathtaking inspiration and dramatic mishaps – just like regular life, there are plenty of just average moments in between.  Our time in Andalucía was a mixed bag.  It might not make the best blog entry, but then again, at least it’s a true one.

After almost two months of continuous guests – Christmas with my parents, a 14-person family reunion, a camper van adventure in the desert with mom and dad, and my friend Sahnah coming for a visit – doing nothing felt absolutely and totally amazing.  Don’t get me wrong, I loved all the visits we received here in Morocco; but now, I was exhausted!

And so, parked at a campsite along the edge of a palmeraie in the dusty Moroccan town of Tata for six glorious days and nights, Bruno and I rested.

The southeast of Morocco is the perfect place to get back into the flow of slow travel – the entire vibe of the region is slow.  Towns are few; scattered between are wide expanses of hammada, stark rocky mountains, and oueds (dry river beds).  In the towns themselves, the few people are friendly, unhurried, and approachable, and there are no must-see sights and activities.

A barely-visible town in a palmeraie after kilometers of empty hammada.

Hammada like this.

Rugged rocky mountains.

Quiet towns.

In other words, there was nothing to get in the way of our plans to do nothing.

There’s so much more to Bruno and my life on the road than our tourism.  As I mentioned in one of my This Overlanding Life series posts, the reason we don’t get travel-burnout is because we make enough time for down time.  I’m not talking about the time we make for work stuff – like cleaning the house, doing laundry, blogging, vehicle maintenance, cooking, or researching future destinations.  I’m talking about the quiet moments, when Bruno and I are sat at a campsite, looking out at the view before us with a good book in our hands; when we’re having a lunchtime picnic parked along the coast before continuing on to our destination; when I’m listening to a podcast while leisurely cooking dinner; or when Bruno’s sat outside doing nothing more than listening to the birds and watching the wind rustle the leaves of palm trees.

Watching a lovely moon.

Cooking up a storm.

Even laundry is fun in a relaxing environment like this.

In Tata, we did a lot of all of that, and it felt good.  As our energy levels rose, we ventured into town with our bicycles to pick up fresh produce in the local market.  We ate lunch at a roadside restaurant, and I sat for an hour photographing locals walking up and down the middle of the town’s main boulevard.

In some regions of the world – places where there are long lists of must-see sites and charming towns and trendy cafés – I struggle to allow myself the downtime I need to feel balanced.  It’s so much easier to keep a relaxed travel pace in the desert of Morocco.

Hanging out with our friendly restaurant manager.

People walking past our restaurant on the empty main street of Tata.

They even walk by ON the main street.

Cycling back from Tata to our quiet campsite after lunch.

***

When Bruno and I arrived in Morocco and our vehicle was given a six-month stay on our customs document, we had begun discussing prolonging our three-month tourist visa.  It made sense – we wanted to visit the Saint-Exupery Museum in Tarfaya, at the southern tip of Morocco proper, and we didn’t want to return to Europe’s winter too early.

Once we actually started to look into the process, however, we decided against extending our stay.  Tourists are given a three-month entry at the border, and must get a visa extension at the local police department.  You must provide several passport photos, proof of funds, and a letter of attestation from a Moroccan.

This letter was the sticking point for us.  Many campsites are willing to provide this letter, but you must remain at their campsite for 15 days while the documents are at the local police department.  We didn’t want to be stuck in one place, and the timing of this forced confinement wasn’t right, anyway.  We briefly contemplated other prolongation options, like popping over to one of the Spanish enclaves on Moroccan soil, but both Ceuta and Melila are at the northern tip of the country, whereas we wanted to go south.  Bruno likes uncomplicated things, and in this case the most uncomplicated thing was to leave when our three-month visa expired.

Initially, I was very disappointed by this.  Here we were in Tata with over 1,000km to the ferry back to Europe, and only ten days left in our stay.  I wouldn’t have time to do an off-road desert crossing, to trek in the mountains, or to visit the imperial cities of the north, all things I’d envisioned doing with my fourth month in Morocco.  Worse yet, I’d have to stop doing nothing much sooner than I wanted to!

But the tides were changing in this country I’d come to love.  The wind was picking up something fierce – it had been so bad along the coast that we’d come inland; and now it was so bad here that we spent two full days literally cooped up inside Totoyaya with our windows closed!  The last time I’d experienced wind so strong it dictated plans had been in Luderitz, the windy city of Namibia.

Furthermore, the country was being invaded by retired camper vanners from Europe, come down to escape the winter.  We’d noticed a drastic difference after our family reunion in Taroudant, and especially as of February.  Suddenly, it was hard to find an empty space in a campsite built for 300 vehicles!

One of the reasons we stayed so long in Tata is that we’d managed to find a campsite that was relatively empty (meaning that our neighbor’s living room wasn’t immediately under our bedroom window).  Later, on our penultimate stop in the country, we camped at a municipal campsite where we’d refused to stay on our way down in December because it had been full of camper vans.  Now, though, we stayed four nights.  It was just as full as a few months before; it was our standards that had changed.

It’s so windy you can see the dust blowing from the Sahara onto the road!

Our “empty” campsite in Tata. All things are relative.

***

From Tata, we hightailed in north to the border, stopping for a few days when a campsite was empty-ish, and continuing on when it wasn’t to our taste.  On one day’s drive, we managed to catch the 4L Trophy, a car rally for young Europeans.  Rallies aren’t my thing, but the daughter of one of Bruno’s childhood friends was participating in the 4L Trophy and Bruno had been following their journey for days.  When the first cars passed us, we parked on the side of the road, set up chairs on the roof, and waited for Matilde’s green number 691 to pass.  Boy, was she surprised to see us!

Bruno on the roof photographing the 4L Trophy rally.

The 4Ls coming down the road!

Finally we catch sight of #691, Mathilde!

Super surprised to see us, she and her co-pilot and friend stop for a quick chat on the road before racing on. They would finish the race in the top 100!

It had snowed in the High Atlas Mountains – a snow the locals had been waiting for since December.  It was amazing to see white snow before us when a day or two earlier it had been sand dunes.  Though it was pretty to look at, we didn’t linger too much – just long enough to catch a very brief glimpse of the Barbary macaques, an endemic and endangered monkey that lives in the mountains of the Magreb.

Our first glimpse of snow in the High Atlas Mountains.

I tried playing in the snow, but it was more like ice!

A Barbary macaque, an endemic and endangered monkey.

Before we knew it, we were in Assilah, the first Moroccan town in which we’d stopped three months before.  I found it fitting that we’d finish our trip to Morocco in the same place that we’d begun it, just as my parents had done in Marrakech. I walked into the bathroom facilities and remarked that they looked a lot cleaner and more modern than I’d remembered – and that was the moment that I realized exactly how much I’d experienced and learned about Morocco since last I’d been here.

This made me feel nostalgic, even though I hadn’t yet left Morocco.  There was so much I was going to miss – the incredibly hospitality of the Moroccan people; the affordability, comfort, and accessibility of accommodation (I hadn’t expected campsites here to have electricity or water, but they always did!); the delicious and complex foods; the beauty and sheer variety of landscapes; the local markets filled with amazing (and cheap!) produce; and the fascinating and exotic coastal medinas.

Bruno and I spent one final day of tourism in Assilah’s medina.  We entered through an old arch gate into the medina’s square and caught a throng of children heading off to school.  We picked an alley at random and allowed ourselves to get lost in the tangle of streets.  The perfectly whitewashed walls were accented with sea blue and other pastels; the rounded doorways were detailed in traditional Moroccan style; and there were brightly-painted murals at regular intervals.  Women, dressed in bright fabrics from head to toe, smiled shyly at us; seagulls squawked overhead; and the sweet fragrant aromas of tagine beckoned us to enjoy one final Moroccan meal along the outer wall of this ancient city.

Assilah’s medina was the perfect end to an amazing three months in Morocco.

The fortified ancient walls of Assilah’s medina.

I love the doorways in medinas. This one isn’t typical of Moroccan architecture, but it’s somehow lovely anyway.

I love these narrow, colorful alleyways!

Murals everywhere!

And tiny secret passages into courtyards!

***

We’re headed back to Spain next.  We’ll spend time along its Mediterranean Coast, soaking up the sun and popping in and out of cities like Barcelona and Granada.  I’ll get to witness flamenco dancing, eat a bunch of tapas, and practice my Spanish again.  I’ll be able to dress the way I want and sit at cafés without being the only woman.  I’ll be able to blend in again.

But right now, I just want to bargain in Moroccan Arabic in a local market for the veggies I’m going to use for that evening’s homemade tagine.

Bruno and I spent just under two weeks traveling from Tangier Med, our port of entry into Morocco, to Taroudant, the meeting point for our family reunion.  Unlike most overlanders, who head straight for the fascinating and challenging Atlas Mountains, we opted to take the coastal route south.  We’d had enough of cold weather in Europe and didn’t fancy dealing with possible sub-zero temperatures.

After our failed bird-watching adventure in Moulay Besselham, we headed for El Jadida, a colonial Portuguese coastal city with a small 16^th century medina.  A medina is an old city, often surrounded by high walls, or ramparts, that were used as fortification.  Medinas are a common feature in Morocco; El Jadida was my first.  We entered the medina through a tall gate and entered its maze of alleys.  This, I’ve since learned, is the charm of a medina – wandering aimlessly around, and getting lost in, its alleys.

Wandering the alleys of El Jadida.

Me too, me too!

Until now, the only fortified old town I’d ever visited in Africa was Harar, in Ethiopia, but El Jadida was thankfully much more pleasant to wander around in.  The locals here left us entirely alone, except to reply to my own friendly greetings of Salaam Alekum.

Since I’d just visited Portugal a few weeks before, I naturally also compared El Jadida’s old town to the ones we’d seen in Portugal.  Here, too, there were ceramic tiles on the floors and walls inside old wooden doorways.  Here, too, were pastel colors of blue, orange, pink, and white.  But the paint was chipped and faded, the walls crumbled, and the clothes hanging on lines were djellabahs and headscarves.

We popped into one open doorway, which was in fact a communal bakery.  In the corner a fire blazed in a mud-brick oven, ready for the women of the medina to appear with their family’s round, uncooked bread on trays.  Through another doorway was the ancient Portuguese water cistern, rediscovered by accident a hundred years ago, and used as the location for the riot scene in Orson Welles’ Othello.

Ceramic tiles, and a woman with a face tattoo.

Crumbling walls and djellabahs.

The wood fire oven of El Jadida’s communal bakery.

The old Portuguese water cistern.

We climbed up to the ramparts and viewed the city from above.  Fishing boats from the nearby pier bobbed in the water, the seagulls hovering around them.  On the opposite side lay the new town for which El Jadida is named (“the new one”).  We descended the ramparts and wandered that way, entering by chance the souq, or market.  There were stacks of fresh produce, animal-print robes and leggings, an incredibly variety of different round breads, spices, olives, dates, and dried legumes stacked so high it seemed against the forces of gravity.  Bruno and I bought a few food items for prices that did not seem to require bargaining.  Then we wandered back to our campsite along the corniche at the edge of the city beach.

Standing on El Jadida medina’s ramparts, looking out at the Atlantic Ocean.

And now, from the ramparts, looking down at El Jadida’s new town.

Dried goods for sale in El Jadida’s souq.

South from El Jadida, the road hugged the coast, offering stunning views of cliffs, lagoons, and long stretches of sandy beach.  The land bordering the coast was a patchwork of agricultural fields and rocky pasture for goats.  Further still, the road veered inland, through forests of prickly argan trees and arid brown hills that looked more typically African than what I’d seen so far in Morocco.  When we re-emerged at the coast near Essaouira, we came upon tons of surf spots and manicured beaches.  It wasn’t quite swimming weather for me, but it was perfect for toes-in-the-water beach walks.

A patchwork of agricultural land along Morocco’s Atlantic Coast.

Coastal pastureland for goats.

Further south, argan trees and dull brown earth.

One of many surf spots along Morocco’s Atlantic Coast.

Essaouira was, by far, the most touristic place I’d visited so far in Morocco.  There were camels, decorated in colorful robes, sat on the long beach waiting to offer tourists rides along the sand.  Essaouira’s medina, which was much larger than El Jadida’s, was brimming with multi-colored tourist shops exhibiting shoes, ceramics, carpets, spices, bags, sweets, CDs, traditional medicine, and much more.

As I sat at a trendy tourist restaurant in a square sipping on tea and devouring a delicious plate of vegetarian Moroccan food, I pondered the discomfort that I felt in this tourist town.  On the one hand, the glitzy items being sold in the shops piqued my curiosity.  On the other hand, I didn’t like the false-friendly invitations to look in each shop.  On one hand, I was happy to eat vegetarian food, so hard-to-find in Morocco, but on the other, I was paying ten times what I’d paid at local restaurants so far.  The snake charmer baskets, genie lamps, turban-wearing men, and musicians playing old instruments in front of our restaurant all seemed so contrived; the young Western tourists all sported expensive “cultural” clothes with perfectly-coiffed bed-head; and I realized that I prefer a totally ugly but authentic modern Moroccan town to this.

Once I realized that, I got my zen back, wandered around happily, and played along with the shopkeepers.  I appreciated the everyday scenes around each new alley.  I haggled for local prices on fruit and vegetables.  I admired the towers of spices and olives.

Camel rides for offer along Essaouira’s beach.

Tourist kitsch for sale everywhere in Essaouira’s medina.

A woman getting water from the fountain in the square where I ate my yummy vegetarian tourist lunch.

Isn’t this against the laws of science or something?

Bruno and I wandered to the fishing port just outside the ramparts.  It was positively bustling.  Small blue fishing boats were tied up and bobbing in the water in front of the castle-like Skala du Port.  On land, fishermen were displaying their day’s catch – an incredible variety of seafood, from fish and eel to squid, sea-urchin, mussels, crab, and shark.  We sloshed through puddles of stinky seawater and seafood-guts under such a cloud of seagulls that I covered my head with my scarf to protect it from incoming projectile poop.

To relax after the chaos of Essaouira’s medina, port, and souq, Bruno and I opted to try out a hammam, a Turkish-style bath that I’d not gotten to try out when we were in Turkey this spring.  Almost every Moroccan city has at least one public hammam, where locals go to scrub themselves with hot water and savon noir (black soap).  In some touristic places, you can also do a private hammam at a spa; this is what we did.  Bruno and I were led into a hot, steamy room covered in tiles.  We were laid down on hot cement blocks near a bath of water and, over the next hour, were splashed, soaped, scrubbed, washed, rinsed, repeat.  After, we shifted rooms and got a one-hour relaxation massage.  By the time we emerged from the spa after sunset, I was walking on clouds.  I’d never felt so clean, so pampered, or so relaxed in my life.  It won’t be my last hammam in Morocco, that’s for sure.

Blue fishing boats bobbing in front of Essaouira’s Skala du Port.

Just a few of the many fresh catches of the day at Essaouira’s port.

I had to cover my head to prevent seagull-poop-on-hair. No wonder I needed a hammam after!

Before we knew it, we’d reached Agadir, Morocco’s premier sea-sun-sand destination, and one we would soon visit with my parents, who’d soon be flying into Morocco.  It was time to leave Morocco’s Atlantic Coast.  We’d leave with a plethora of experiences and, more importantly, an expanded vocabulary.  For with each vocabulary word I acquired, I increased my understanding of this most-complex, and most-intriguing, of countries.

Welcome to Morocco!

It’s absolutely astonishing how much a simple 90-minute boat trip can transform one’s surroundings.  The ferry ride from Spain to Morocco pulls me from the ordered world I’ve known for the past six months into a bustling, chaotic onslaught of sensory experience.  I think there is no other ferry ride in the world that can unite two such vastly different realities.

Even though it’s my first time in Morocco, the country feels somehow familiar and I’m quickly set at ease.  The run-down campsites feel much homier than the impersonal mega-campsites of Europe.  The makeshift stalls set up on roadsides make me sigh with happy homecoming.  The muezzins calling the faithful to prayer tug at my heart strings.  And the markets full of fresh – and cheap! – produce make me salivate (and over-buy).

Admittedly, I’m initially shocked by the absolutely nut-case drivers and the amount of garbage everywhere.  But each bump or jolt as we drive down roads in various stages of disintegration jogs my memory.  We’re back in a region of the world that we know well, and it feels good.

Morocco may be on the African continent, but it is anything but typically African.  Morocco is a Muslim country, and it has just as many Middle-Eastern influences as African ones.  Arabic script dominates street signs and shop entrances, and the spoken language (a dialect of Arabic called Darija) is shouted in markets and whispered in alleys.  Men dress in the loose-fitting robes worn in all Muslim countries, though their djellabas sport pointy-tipped hoods that look bizarrely like KKK hats.  Women cover their heads and bodies, but instead of dark, dull colors, they don bright, decorated fabrics, and sometimes cool cowboy hats with tassels.

Cool djellabah, right?

Well-covered women like this are a minority in Morocco.

You couldn’t get me to the produce market fast enough!

Morocco also displays European influences.  The flat, brown-tilled landscape of the north looks more like Spain that Africa.  You can get seafood tapas in many mid- and upscale restaurants.  And some of its medinas, or old walled cities, were built by Europeans – one, El Jadida, still displays its old Portuguese tiles, and another, Essaouira, bears strange similarities to Bretagne, France.

Of course, once you look a bit more closely at the disintegrating façades and chaotic markets, you know you’re no longer in Europe.  And once you see past the typically-Muslim male-dominated society, you spot female police officers, read about women politicians, and see more long-flowing hair than on the entire Arabian Peninsula.

What I’m quickly learning is that Morocco is much more complex than its initial familiarity makes it seem. I’m pretty excited to get to know it over the coming months – and to share my experiences with my wonderful readers!

Our first afternoon in Morocco, we drove 80km to our first campsite in Assilah.  My navigating brain must still have been in Europe-mode, because I had Bruno avoid the toll-way in favor of a more scenic route.  Big mistake – those 80km took us almost 4 hours, and we arrived in Assilah at dusk.

The following morning, we continued our transit south, stopping briefly at Lixus, a hilltop of 4,000 year-old ruins right on the side of the route nationale.  We stretched our legs as we climbed up the hill, past badly-ruined, mostly unexcavated remnants of Carthaginian and Roman public baths, an amphitheatre, and salted-fish factories.  The mosquitoes from the nearby marshlands were out in full force, but at least we got to see some workers excavating the ruins and the skyline of the nearby modern town.

80km – 4 hours of driving.

The ruins of the ancient city of Lixus, with a modern skyline in the background.

The view from the top of the hill at Lixus.

Our first true stop, later that day, was in Moulay Besselham, my only must-see town between Tangier and Taroundant (where our impending family reunion would take place).  This fishing village is right on the edge of the Merja Zerga National Park, a lagoon of international importance because it’s a key stopover point for migrating birds.  I wanted to visit because winter brings the largest flocks – herons, ibises, spoonbills, plovers, egrets, and of course, flamingos.

As we approached the town’s two campsites, at the edge of the lagoon, we were hounded with touts.  Boat tour!  Sunset boat cruise!  Bird watch on my boat!  We were approached so quickly and by so many guides that I felt like a fish being fought over by a flock of seagulls.

I hadn’t been touted in several months, so it was a bit overwhelming.  It was also disappointing and frustrating since this was my biggest concern about traveling in Africa again – the inability to blend in and the undesirable interactions that that can create.

Once we were safely in the campsite, we looked at the map and tried to determine another way of entering the lagoon.  There wasn’t, however, a road that would bring us anywhere closer to it than we already were.  The next morning, we tried walking as far out along the edge of the lagoon as possible, but it was muddy and we didn’t get very far.  We spotted a few herons and ibises, but nothing we hadn’t seen in the previous weeks driving through southern Europe.

Practically my only photo of Moulay Besselham. I have none of the birds we came to see…

The other non-bird photo of Moulay Besselham.

Initially, I felt irritated that the locals couldn’t organize themselves in a “European way” that was more according to my sensibilities – like opening a stall or shop, advertising, and waiting for people to come to them.  Then, I forced myself to understand things more empathetically.  Morocco is a huge tourist destination, especially for retired Europeans in camping cars.  The last time Bruno was in Morocco – in 2004 – he remembers little but row-upon-row of camping cars in campsites all along the coast.  Since last year, however, the campsites are practically empty.  People appear to be scared to visit Morocco, perhaps because of instability in North Africa or the recent terrorist attacks in Paris.  I’m guessing the locals of Moulay Besselham had become used to supplementing their meagre fishing income with boat tours for retirees and that now they must feel like their very livelihood is at risk – hence the aggressive touting.

Still, we opted not to take a boat tour into Merja Zerga National Park, but the insight made me just a bit more zen each time we left our campsite to walk into town.

I’m guessing it’s a zen I’m going to have to call upon often as we drive through Moroccan traffic jams, negotiate fair prices in local markets, catch whiffs of foul-smelling odors in towns, squat in dirty Turkish toilets, and of course, get touted at least a few more times.  It’s a zen I haven’t had to call upon much during these past six months of easy-travel in Europe.

But it’s a zen I’m more than happy to bring with me on our bumpy ride through Morocco.