We’re still in Tangier. Spent the day around the Cap Spartel lighthouse.
Lighthouses always inspire me. And Tangier itself is like a lighthouse — except it shines in all directions at once. A crack between worlds.
A place where the Atlantic argues with the Mediterranean, where Europe tiptoes into Africa, and time loses its rhythm, spilling in every direction.
Tangier is weathered not from poverty, but from freedom. Its walls have peeled from seeing too much: smugglers and spies traded stories here; poets gambled away manuscripts in poker games. The city is a misfit by nature — too Arab for the French, too French for the Arabs, ultimately belonging to no one, not even itself.
Tangier’s soul lives in that gap — in the smell of fresh mint battling the diesel fumes from the port, in the call from the minaret dissolving into rock ’n’ roll from an open window. Tangier doesn’t choose sides; it is the argument itself — that Atlantic wind carrying Sahara dust onto the tiled roofs of the medina, where it swirls, settles, and rises into the air again.
