Our holiday started in March with a jetlagged 48 hours in Frankfurt and Madrid on the way to Casablanca in Morocco. It was interesting to stop in Frankfurt instead of just passing through. The city is not too big and is walkable, but by the time we’d arrived there after our flight with hardly any sleep, we were delerious with fatigue and too tired to really appreciate it. We went to a nice art gallery for lunch and asked in German if they had a table at the cafe (making an effort with the language). Upon hearing the reply in…
Author: Isolde
Isolde
After extensive travel for short periods both inside Australia and overseas, I took a break from my health policy job to travel for two months in Spain, Portugal and Morocco and live for four months in France, three of those in Paris. I'm currently living back in Australia with Steve and our twins Rhea and Lara.
Monday, twelve thirty, Serviers (population about 200), Southern France. We were at the only restaurant in the village – the only commercial centre in the village too, there are no shops. We were met at the restaurant door by an older man, perhaps sixty, portly, greasy hair, and wearing a chef’s uniform minus hat. – What do you want? he asked, barring the way with his body. Me, defensively: – We have a booking, we booked yesterday. He looked sceptical. – A booking, you say. Then I’ll have to let you in, I suppose. Past two dark roomfuls of tables…