Most Relaxing Day Ever

I am currently in Munich awaiting a train that'll take me back to Innsbruck. It's been exactly two weeks since I left on a Sunday night and I am really looking forward to sleeping in my own bed tonight.

My final day in Marrakesh was amazing. I slept in a little, and had a nice breakfast on the beautiful rooftop terrace feeling like Indiana Jones looking over a 1940s Cairo. Then I wandered the souqs for a few hours, snacking on orange juice and the cheap dates and nuts all around. During this time, I stumbled across a very small local looking barbershop. Since our hostel had a lack of hot water making it almost impossible to shave, I was already looking pretty grizzly so I wandered in and asked (or pantamimed) for a shave. The man was a professional; it was my first straight razor shave and by far the closest shave I've ever had. Afterward, I momentarily mistook it for a baby's bottom. Soon it was time for my hammam.

In a culture where running water is not common in households, the Moroccians rely on large bathhouses or Hammams to get a weekly cleaning. I would have preferred to go to one of the ones the locals use to really get a sense of it but I didn't want to go alone and no one in the hostel was willing to go so I chose to go to one of the little more 'expensive' places that cater to foreigners a little more and lead them through the whole process. I soon learned that a traditional hammam involves a very steamy room where one sits, and applies this oily buttery substance to soften up their skin. Then you find a friend (or in my case, the lady working the place) to get some abrasive black soap and a glove that seemed and felt like it was covered in steel wool. You can imagine what came next and through the winces, I could see small pieces of my skin falling to the ground. After a quick rinse or bucketfull of hot water in the face, it was all over and I was left in an invigorating feeling of tingly cleanness. I decided to slurge a few Dirhams and paid for a short relaxing half hour massage afterwards. It being my first full body massage, it was relaxing once I got over the awkwardness. When I left the place, I was in such a hypnotic state, I could barely muster up the energy to get my oily self back to the hostel.

At the hostel, I enjoyed a wonderfully filling 5 course lunch and spent the rest of the afternoon sipping mint tea while lounging in the sun on the terrace like a pampered poodle.

I took an evening flight back to Madrid, spent a sleepless night worrying that I would miss my early train the next morning. Ironically I think the only time I did get sleep, was in the 15 minutes after my alarm was supposed to go off. Needless to say, I made it to the train station in time for my short high speed train to Barcelona.

I really liked the city of Barcelona and would love to go back there at some point. Unfortunately after traveling almost straight for a month, I was ready to be back in my own bed. Also, unlike Lisbon, I was unable to meet any people at the hostel with whom to travel the city so I was alone most of the time. I take that back, I did meet people but it was only last night, the night before I left. It was nice since I had so much freedom and could do so much, but I missed having someone to talk to or to hand the camera to when I see a rediculous photo opportunity (as opposed to the pair of giggling Japanese tourist girls). I did have a lot of fun just randomly sitting places and people watching. I thought the city was beautiful and I think Gaudi is a genius.

The hostel (called Mambo Tango) I stayed at was also really cool but I have been so spoiled by the Traveler's house in Lisbon, that nothing can compete. They also had activities every evening and one of them was watching 'Motorcycle Diaries' which the hostel had said embodies their philosophy. I thought it was really good and felt stupid when I didn't realize it was a semi biographical film about Che Guevara until the very end. The name of the hostel 'Mambo Tango' actually is a refrence to the film and that lead me to wonder if the hostel was run by a bunch of commies. Well at least they had toilet paper.