In 24 lazy, straight hours, I traveled bv bus, boat, and Benz from Barcelona to the Rif mountains in northern Morocco. I'm staying in a gorgeous white and azure washed medina with enchanting Cycladian lanes by which one can easily get disoriented. Chefchaouen, or simply just Chaouen, as it is commonly known, is an old Berber trading post which grew when the Moors fled Spain after the end of their reign and the reconquest of Catholicism on the Iberian penninsula.

After reaching the southern Spainish port of Algeciras, it was a short ferry ride across the straight of Gibralter to an old Spanish colonial city named Ceuta on

the Morrocan coast. Nowadays, it's also an obscure outpost of both the EU and part of the eurozone. It's a small curiosity for me as I've just recently come to realize the farthest reaches of the Euro from French Guiana in South America to Reunion in the Indian Ocean. The rise of the Euro has also come to highlight Europe's colonial past and territorial present in addition to creating the world's largest trading block.

Crossing from, Ceuta across the frontier into Morocco proper was similar to crossing from, the United States to Mexico. Not only did I not get my passport stamped, I didn't so much as encounter the Spanish authorities whatsoever.

After a bit of hassle and hustle, I reached Chaouen and met a few backackers on holiday. We discussed climbing the Jebel viewed from the hotel roof, and did such the following day. It felt great to finally be back into a little light adventure. It brought back memories of visting Pakistan's slice of Kashmir five years prior. It was good to be back.