Log: Morocco

In Rabat, walls and rooms crumble into sea foam and towers rise on riverbanks. Cats always prowl just around the corner and in the shadowy depths of a worn and tattered grey building, I see a fire burning bright. Every morning, it spits out sweet cakes, hard breads, and cookies onto the sidewalk, to the delight of passer-by's. In Rabat, it rains plastic on the dirty blonde beaches and blue taxis race down perfectly palm-lined avenues. It has taken me a while to figure out how to write here. In the narrow, damp and dusty, streets of the medina, I am reminded of the smell of my great-grandmother's brick house in Bogotá. But once out among the merchants and the motorbikes, my ability to decipher what is before me recedes gently like the sea.

- Andrea