Tangier

A five hour train journey took us from Rabat to Tangier. I settled down to listen to my Arabic lessons on MP3 and Katrina got her phrasebook out. This aroused the interest of some of our Moroccan travelling companions, so soon we were involved in live lessons which seemed to amuse everyone in the compartment. Ester quietly stayed out of it most of the time, though I'm sure that, being Dutch, she would have no trouble with all these throaty h's, ch's and r's. One man put huge effort into making these sounds for us, showing where he put his tongue, before collapsing into laughter at each of our attempts.

It's been fun to try a bit of Arabic though, and it certainly causes much merriment whenever I do. The rest of the time I have been trying to resuscitate my nearly expired French. I was quite surprised how many words came to the surface, sometimes even accompanied by a smidgen of grammar, but often after just a few words I get the response, “you're English, aren't you?” which stops me getting too full of myself. However, I find myself shamelessly unembarrassed – old age has made me less shy about flaunting my shabby languages. So what do I find here in Tangier? The language of choice is Spanish. Luckily, Ester speaks that very well.

Tangier was billed as a sleazy port town populated by hustlers, petty thieves and prostitutes. The reality was much more pleasant, the level of hassle nothing but the invitation to buy things I didn't want. The medina was wonderful – beautiful colonial buildings, winding streets (I've a feeling there are going to be lots of these) of cafes, homes and shops, which seemed to bear no relation to the map.

We were on our way to the kasbah when we were befriended by someone who assured us that he wasn't a guide. He proved to be quite useful, so why he had to lie about his role beats me, but there you go. He earned his tip but predictably asked for more. According to him, nearly every house in the kasbah was owned by one movie star or another; I tuned out as he reeled them off at each front door. No doubt a couple were true, but I was just waiting to see the house where Elvis still lived. It was all harmless fun and it certainly saved us from being lost in the maze of nearly deserted alleyways. From the kasbah it was easy to find a route back through the medina by following the tourist shops. If an alley turned out to offer only bucket and mops shops or whatever then we simply turned round and followed the shiny slippers and carved camels till we found ourselves back on familiar ground. At a large open air cafe we sat back and drank mint tea – a delicious blend of green tea and masses of fresh mint – and watched the world go by.