Tarifa, Spain, has a resort feel. It's famous for its winds (hence sailboarding, hang-gliding, etc.) and whale-watching and, for your warriors, its 1200-year-old castle. Today, for me, it's famous for its beer and tapas in the sun, its families in the café with me, its sand on my feet (from a spell down at the beach), its baguette/cheese/sausage in my belly (from a spell in the grocery store), its short pants we internationalists all wear (in general, much more skin showing, women and men), its sense of open physical and cultural space--all things I missed in Morocco.
Only 16km, but worlds apart, as the guidebooks say. I do carry a bit of Morocco: a small teapot for mint tea--you're all invited to my place in May--and a small _________ for __________.
Being a Monday, and at siesta time, the afternoon feels sleepy in Tarifa, or I do. Opening Lorca's Poet in New York, I read "Out in the sky, no one sleeps. No one, no one" ("Brooklyn Bridge Nocture", trans. Christopher Maurer). Try to stop me, Federico, after I have one more beer, after I read one more poem.
This is the only one-night stop since I left Regina. Tomorrow, up the road to Jerez de la Frontera, in search of more flamenco.