The Unthinkable Posting The Unspeakable

So, here goes on the old travelogue:

From bliss to blistering...Heathrow Airport cabbies even scummier than other cab monopolies - screamed at for terminal confusion...tricked out pool on the Barcelona skyline...Captain Birdseye might have renounced farmed salmon, but he's alive and well in Barceloneta...Goliard, the Catalan love-child of Clinton Street, was more fun...Gaudi shards litter the streets of the classier neighbourhoods...and the peculiar Catalonian bank keeps his legacy alive at La Pedrera...while the flag carrier engages in rude and wretched behaviour with our reservations...order is resumed, though our luuggage goes on an adventure...Fes is dusty and cramped, like the basement at the Delancey...but it is rather sleepy...and the Sofitel is rather divine...CHARLOTTE RAMPLING IN THE HIZZLE...well, by the pool, and it might just be Helen Mirren...the googling, it sez Rampling is there (French required, you dirty little sans culottes)...Mohammed the carpet pimp, he earns his pay, Amin the train huistler, he is bang out of luck...the Nouvelle Ville shines...and we go to Marrakesh, where the streets are wider, but the pimps are more persistent...Amin commutes between the two, maybe he is a new breed of pimp...we get the carpets retail this time round...and get pimped a Riad dining experience by the owner...the streets are wide enough for thugs on scooters...we are merely dazed...but Essouaira is relaxed, covered in hippies, kids, expats and drinkers...and the Medina is so small that no guide is required ever!...the grilled fish is good, yet the salad, it haunts me still...Marrakesh has become more intimidating in our absence...the food this time is excellent, but the scooters they plague us still....a poor but dishonest taxi driver gets it in the neck...and we return to Barcelona, and Casa Camper is in fact in the campest part of town...and Restaurant ES has the bestest campest waiters ever...and then we went home.