The Tour Hassan, where I was attacked by several henna wielding women. When you tell them you don't want your name written in Arabic on your hand in henna, thank you very much, they roll up your sleeve for you and do it anyway, because "you so beautiful". And then when you don't pay, you have to figure out how to wipe it off using that scrap piece of paper you happened to have in your bag. The result looks a lot like jaundice.



The cemetery below the Kasbah. Rain in the distance. The dark blue line between the water and the sky is actually water. It is the point where the clear water meets the murky river runoff.












My gimbri playing friend. He swung his head round and round while I took the picture so I could capture the tassel on his hat.











The view from my stony patch of sunlight in the Andalusian garden. I spent an hour here pretending to read but really watching various children scramble about the garden, throwing seeds at each other and somehow appreciating the beauty more than most of the camera toting tourists (guilty as charged).