WEIGHT: 46 kg
Breast: 2
1 HOUR:130$
Overnight: +60$
Services: Oral, Blow ride, Dinner Dates, BDSM, Trampling
We have love on the brain this week, and everything good that goes with it. Like sneaky getaways to drippingly romantic hotels, like L'Heure Bleue on the sea in Morocco. A report of an illicit affair gone good. But my lover kidnapped me, and we awoke at L'Heure Bleue in Essaouira. The French refer to this town as the Moroccan Brittany. Post-colonial translation: wide beaches with wild winds, furious waves beating a sun-drenched community which remains β rather pleasingly for the those who detest feeling tourist-trapped β self-absorbed.
The beach is better suited for handheld walks rather than nudie sunbathing. Bask in beach bliss elsewhere. Camel ride if you must. Since the beginning of second intifada preceding the Arab Spring, I have had the luck of visiting most of the gloriously oozing, wondrously smelly souks of the Middle East. And Essaouira has the one that has absolutely most captivated me. The souk in disputed and dirty Tripoli in Lebanon, tunneled near its crumbling crusader castle ruins, is a close second.
I am not interested in expertly distressed South Asian wares being sold as antique Middle Eastern trinkets, nor in nifty Chinese finds. I always find the food markets the most compelling. Trip into the Essaouira livestock souk. You cannot ask for it. Just go deeper and deeper β filthy, pulsating, baroque, and heartbreakingly beautiful. You're transported to a place that travel no longer offers us. It's hot, live, animal-shit stinking.
Mothers dreaming up dinner shoving you, bugs biting you. You will worry about the bumps, those suspicious and icky red bug bites. Divine color cacophony, feathers floating by now and again. The experience is not mediated or ticketed. Not canned, not in English. And, no, I did not dare take out my camera. The rest of the souk is kitsch touristy, and rather fun. By the way: no harassment to speak of.
The ramparts around the city are awe-inspiring. I accidentally wandered into a real hammam with no sign, but I speak some Arabic, so it was okay. I left though. It was not for tourists; it was the real thing, where fat Moroccan grandmas get scrubbed, and I was not welcome. These places, with fountains and naked ladies scrubbing each other, like the pre-civil-war hammams I saw all over Syria, are all but disappearing.