Dispatch XXIX

Back in the 1930s, the expatriate writer and composer Paul Bowles thought he was coming to Tangier on a lark. He never left. “I relish the idea that in the [Tangier] night,” he once said, “all around me in my sleep, sorcery is burrowing its invisible tunnels in every direction, from thousands of senders to thousands of innocent recipients. Spells are being cast…” There was something to that. To me Tangier fell in with that small group of international cities that were once entirely independent, a city-state, unencumbered by the nation’s that surrounded it: Trieste, Monte Carlo, Ephesus, Alexandria. Cities like this take on a flavor and confidence that is more cosmopolitan than most. Bowles called it the navel of the world.

Dispatch XVIII

I had been looking forward to this day for years and the idea of finally making it across the Straits of Gibraltar (the Pillars of Hercules to the ancients) had me giddy with excitement. The modern Kingdom of Morocco was created in August 1956, but its roots go far deeper. To me it was one of those fabled countries, a place of mystery and enchantment where men in their djeelabas and and women in their hijabs walked the clamoring markets; where descendants of Neanderthals had migrated from Africa into Europe and Hannibal had massed his armies for an assault on the Roman Empire; where the Moors and Celts, Phoenicians, Portuguese and Spanish had changed and exchanged the fortunes of millions again and again whether it was the caliphates of Islam pouring into Andalusian Spain or Franco raising his fascist army before cutting that nation in two and auguring the slaughter of World War II.