We had planned on going to Fez but once I saw Chef Chaouen I was sold. The hostal owner talked us into staying two days. Chef Chaouen is an established stop on the dirty hippy backpacker circuit, but for good reason. It is beautiful. All of the buildings are painted white and blue. Plus it is small enough and sincere enough, that you can enjoy the overwhelming generosity of people without fearing much worse than a pushy rug salesman.
This is an abandoned mosque on the edge of town. Lower left you see my companions. From the left Ashley, Natasha and Rachel.
One of the things that tends to get left out of the whole Muslim-women-head-scarf debate is the fact that many older men still where traditional robes that don't show much more. (And that at least in Tangier many young women where western dress.)
The town as seen from the mosque at dusk.
Then we went to Tangier, a modern, bustling, diiirty port city, and it was shocking in comparison. I took this picture because I thought the upside down English was funny.
But Tangier also had its photogenic side.
The wall of the Casbah, which it turns out just means fortress, and is not necessarily rockin'.
The Bay of Tangier and the port.Then during Holy Week Johanna and Kelly, my old roomies , came to visit and we headed south for the typical processions in Sevilla. I had this idea that Catholicism had this dichotomy between Carnival and Lent, yet the processions of Sevilla are a solemn Lenten occasion with plenty of party. It can be confusing for an outsider. Once the three of us ended up in this bar packed full of happy drunken people, then suddenly it was empty and everyone was out in the street silently watching a bloody crucifixion pass by. Except for us, we were still in the bar being oblivious and noisy until someone gave us a dirty look.
Jesus.
The Klan modeled their get up on the penitents in medieval processions, the same costume survives here with its original meaning. It can still be weird for folks from the US though.
This one goes out to Lis, and all the other French horn player who had to learn a new instrument for marching band. These bad asses march with French horns.The whole procession environment ended up being a little intense, and we fled to the beach in Cádiz. It was slightly to cold for the beach, and it was the first times any of us had sun bathed, so we didn't realize we were getting burned. I think on the ensuing train ride to Córdoba we went a little crazy. (Obama advisors note the placement of the accent in Córdoba; he's taking a lot of flack here in Spain for mispronouncing it in the big Cairo speech.)
I enjoy a bocadillo de tortilla y pimiento. Spanish omlette and roasted peppers . Yum. I put this horribly embarassing picture of myself so Kelly and Johanna can't get mad at me for the following:
Kelly models salt-water, the best of all hair products. 
Johanna rocks out on an imaginary bass as part of a game. Kelly shouted a character then took a picture of me or Johanna. I sucked; I always just laughed. 
Last night in Madrid we went to a tango show at a Café Central.
