The Three Stooges and me in Cochem. They were pretty hip—for 12-year-olds.
My home away from home, working and sleeping and digging life among the books
Not sure what’s cracking me up. It’s just a donkey cart in Alicante, Spain.
Sitting in front of a Moorish castle somewhere in Andalusia, Spain (Alicante?)
At the Generalife in Granada, Spain. I’m not sure what book I’m reading, or if I just used it as a prop to look smart.
Aussie Geoff (with camera, of course) and me waiting for the ferry to Ceuta and onward to Morocco. That’s the Rock of Gibraltar behind us.
Mysterious Volubilis, a Roman settlement in Morocco. In the 1970s, there were no fences or guardrails. You could roam through the ruins at will.
Everywhere I go, including Fez, kids follow me. I’m the Pied Piper. After this photo was taken, the three-year-old boy in red sweater lit up a ciggie and puffed away.
Didress, our guide in mysterious Fez, at the “donkey garage.”
Mal and me inspecting piles of leather at a tannery in Marrakech.
In front of a medressa (Koran school) in Marrakech.
With the old men in their djellabas in Marrakech. (I’m on the left. But you knew that, right? Right?) The Katoubia Mosque is in the background.
Trying to be Byronesque on the backroads of Morocco’s Anti-Atlas Mountains.
Eyeless in Gaza? No, shirtless in Ourzazate.
Geoff and me searching for Peter Lorre and Rick’s Café Americain in Casablanca. (That’s Mal’s finger on the lower horizon.)
Why we stopped to see another camel, on the road to Tangier, is beyond me. I hate camels. They’re shifty, untrustworthy liars.
Mal and Geoff unpacking the Citroën at the campsite in Dos Hermanas, south of Seville, just before disaster struck.
A typical last-minute campsite. This one was on the hillside just above Trouville, France.
You might not think a djellaba works in London, but the hippie on the far right seemed intrigued.
The White Cliffs of Dover—a suitable backdrop for leaving England.
