TANGIER, MOROCCO (1988) "A Spiritual Experience"

The waiter wore a white dinner jacket, his hair was meticulously oiled and combed.

[This is an updated version of two early pieces. Don’t forget to hit the LIKE button if you enjoy the piece! And consider becoming a paid subscriber if you’d like to access the entire archives of TRAVELS.]

I had not planned to go to Tangier.  I didn’t even know where it was, to be honest.  But doing the backpacker circuit around the south of Spain you became aware of how close it was:  just 30 miles across the Straits of Gibraltar.  

I met people who had been there.  I met people who were going. I learned that Algeciras was the city where you caught the ferry. 

The consensus opinion among young travelers seemed to be: “Tangier was a shit-hole but other parts of Morocco are incredible.”  Europeans viewed Tangier like Americans viewed Tijuana.  A necessary gauntlet you had to pass through to get to more rewarding experiences.   

As an aspiring writer, my understanding of Tangier was more romantic.  Bob Dylan sang about it in one of his songs, using its mystique to represent a mysterious, unknowable city; far, far away from anywhere a normal person would ever be.  

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Dylan had probably picked up on Tangier from Jack Kerouac, who went there in 1957 to visit William Burroughs.  Burroughs probably went there because of Paul Bowles, who lived there in the 1930s and 40s and wrote the book, The Sheltering Sky which is still considered a classic of ex-pat vice and disintegration. 

I don’t know who inspired Bowles to go to Tangier.  Apparently in Bowles’ era Tangier was one of those glamorous but slightly sinister destination cities, popular among international jet-set travelers.

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With Tangier so close, I considered a visit.  So far on this trip I hadn’t done anything genuinely challenging or exciting.  Nothing that made my heart pound when I stepped off the plane (or boat).  Listening to the reverence (and apprehension) people had when they spoke of Tangier, I sensed it would be such a place. 

This began my life-long rule of always going to places where Jack Kerouac went, even if he didn’t like them, even if I didn’t like them.  Always, there would be something worthwhile.

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I arrived in Algeciras, Spain which was a grimy port city.  I got a room in a sketchy hotel.  My guidebook (and all guidebooks in those days) issued severe warnings about Tangier.  It was filled with thieves and hustlers—professional level—so be on alert. 

For this reason, I left my suitcase in a locker at the hotel, and packed only my barest essentials in a small shoulder bag.

I boarded the ferry the next morning.  It was fairly empty as it was now December.  I had assumed Tangier, which is in Morocco, which is in Africa, would be warmer than Spain.  But being only thirty miles away, it was not.  Also, it was right on the ocean.  So it was actually colder.