She who roams by the cemetery
I don’t know whether the woman who roams by the cemetery is Romany, but she is very much lost.
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Travel
The purples of Ronda
We discuss whether or not to distance ourselves from other tourists, without having the language to validate what in other times, would be labelled a prejudice.
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With a bit of perspective
Nothing seemed especially different that day, except perhaps the dissonance between the honeyed glow of the sun in people’s smiling faces and the intuition none of us could afford to be complacent.
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Annulé
The odd car careers around the twist in the road. Another slows hauntingly, to check whether I’m a ghost.
From sardines to sang froid
As gusts swirl, the mastheads clamour for attention, like the percussion section in a school orchestra.
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Côte Vermeille
For now, the Côte Vermeille is dank. Spring is meant to arrive soon, but winter is haunting us too.
The world is a narrow bridge
We quickly clambered on board, punched the holes in our tickets and waved goodbye, the salmon-pink sunset enveloping his family as they faded into the distance.
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A personal reflection on Jewish Morocco
The trip was a poignant poem to Morocco’s Jewish past. Sadly, there might not be so many people in future to recite it; who can remember the history first-hand. For now, there are Berbers, like Omar. He told me to go home and spread the news of this place and how for generations, Jews called it their land.
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My 2010s? I like getting older.
It was December 31st 2009. My friend tolerated watching Jules Holland on the TV (I had just experienced a difficult break-up). I felt quite the grinch.
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