A Day in Tanager (Post Cards to Myself)
A Day in Tanager
(Post Cards to myself)
This may sound funny, and I’ve done it more than one, and I bet a few of the readers here, have done this likewise: send post cards to yourself, so you get the stamp, and logo of the location you are at! Here are four post cards sent from Tanager to myself in Minnesota, the fall of 1997.
(Post Card One) Here I am, in Tanager, bogged down, hope I can survive the day; the people here drag you down like a ship anchored at sea. I came in from Spain, across the strait. Tanager is full of people. I bought several post cards, I’ll write the out for myself, send them to me from me. Everyone here tries to sell you everything they got, with a hard luck story I don’t understand. I’ve never encountered such pushy people, they follow you down one street onto the next (and wait outside for you if you happen to go into a store) and if you buy something from them, you got the whole street on top of you. I pushed one guy away, heavily and with force, and he got incredible mad. A few of the places that sell rugs, seemed flushed with success, they didn’t use efficient machines to make their rugs, rather human bodies to get the job done, I suppose a little slavery like they do in Turkey, rent the kids out for five years in making rugs. I purchased a small one; the cats and chickens that run about look like skinny eels with legs and feathers and fur.
(Post Card Two) We ate inside the Kasbah, five of us, four from the trip I was taking in Spain, and we ran off to Morocco Tangier (two brothers, doctors from Puerto Rico, we actually had lunch in Seville a few days ago, and I got to know them quite well), and one lady who is alone, and begged me to take her along with my entourage (says her husband is diplomat, and busy at the moment, wherever), and one lone individual, a young thin male, I think he said he was from Canada; it would seem, I was selected to be there leader on this excursion, which was my idea on the bus, and it leaked out and here we are. It is hot, inhumanly hot on these dirty streets, drearily dull. I am not sure what we ate, or what it cost, it was just food, and I am not sick, so thank God for that. I once saw a movie, where the drama took place in Old Tangier, well, it is still old, and looks just like that movie, nothing has changed from the 40s to this year, 1997. My camera is working well. I want to be sure I get these post cards, there is a post office down the road but it looks, or doesn’t’ look appropriate, meaning, I fear they will take the stamps off the post cards and keep it for cash, they do such things hear I understand, but I bought duplicates, and will write them out just in case.
(Post Card Three) A few hours ago, I took a tour of the city, went by some famous houses from the 30s, 40s and even 50s, movie stars used to live in, live here in Tangier, and some still do, can’t figure out why, the sight of Tangier is mystic, and a good deal cheaper than London or New York, but to me it is only good for a day, but any longer, it would be a hard luck story on my behalf, or better yet, as the Army would say, a hard luck tour. People walk around with long, sharp and thick knifes for sale—what gives, I mean, if was not on this tour of sorts, I’d not dare to walk these streets alone.
(Post Card Four) This will be my last post card; will be heading back to Madrid in two days, and out of here, presumably in two hours, back on that tug boat or whatever you call it, it was a bumpy ride over, I dread the ride back. This day, in Tangier, was interesting though, if not ill-omened. I would prefer Paris any day to Tangier, although I did like the gate going into the Kasbah, it had a real Moroccan style to it. Rode a came in the city, actually I sat on a camel and had my picture taken, borrowed a Moroccan s hat, cost me a buck to have a picture with it on. They got you coming and going here. I also like the lighthouse, we stopped by it, checked it out. I think I’d prefer Seville if I had to chose between cities to live.
(Post Cards to myself)
This may sound funny, and I’ve done it more than one, and I bet a few of the readers here, have done this likewise: send post cards to yourself, so you get the stamp, and logo of the location you are at! Here are four post cards sent from Tanager to myself in Minnesota, the fall of 1997.
(Post Card One) Here I am, in Tanager, bogged down, hope I can survive the day; the people here drag you down like a ship anchored at sea. I came in from Spain, across the strait. Tanager is full of people. I bought several post cards, I’ll write the out for myself, send them to me from me. Everyone here tries to sell you everything they got, with a hard luck story I don’t understand. I’ve never encountered such pushy people, they follow you down one street onto the next (and wait outside for you if you happen to go into a store) and if you buy something from them, you got the whole street on top of you. I pushed one guy away, heavily and with force, and he got incredible mad. A few of the places that sell rugs, seemed flushed with success, they didn’t use efficient machines to make their rugs, rather human bodies to get the job done, I suppose a little slavery like they do in Turkey, rent the kids out for five years in making rugs. I purchased a small one; the cats and chickens that run about look like skinny eels with legs and feathers and fur.
(Post Card Two) We ate inside the Kasbah, five of us, four from the trip I was taking in Spain, and we ran off to Morocco Tangier (two brothers, doctors from Puerto Rico, we actually had lunch in Seville a few days ago, and I got to know them quite well), and one lady who is alone, and begged me to take her along with my entourage (says her husband is diplomat, and busy at the moment, wherever), and one lone individual, a young thin male, I think he said he was from Canada; it would seem, I was selected to be there leader on this excursion, which was my idea on the bus, and it leaked out and here we are. It is hot, inhumanly hot on these dirty streets, drearily dull. I am not sure what we ate, or what it cost, it was just food, and I am not sick, so thank God for that. I once saw a movie, where the drama took place in Old Tangier, well, it is still old, and looks just like that movie, nothing has changed from the 40s to this year, 1997. My camera is working well. I want to be sure I get these post cards, there is a post office down the road but it looks, or doesn’t’ look appropriate, meaning, I fear they will take the stamps off the post cards and keep it for cash, they do such things hear I understand, but I bought duplicates, and will write them out just in case.
(Post Card Three) A few hours ago, I took a tour of the city, went by some famous houses from the 30s, 40s and even 50s, movie stars used to live in, live here in Tangier, and some still do, can’t figure out why, the sight of Tangier is mystic, and a good deal cheaper than London or New York, but to me it is only good for a day, but any longer, it would be a hard luck story on my behalf, or better yet, as the Army would say, a hard luck tour. People walk around with long, sharp and thick knifes for sale—what gives, I mean, if was not on this tour of sorts, I’d not dare to walk these streets alone.
(Post Card Four) This will be my last post card; will be heading back to Madrid in two days, and out of here, presumably in two hours, back on that tug boat or whatever you call it, it was a bumpy ride over, I dread the ride back. This day, in Tangier, was interesting though, if not ill-omened. I would prefer Paris any day to Tangier, although I did like the gate going into the Kasbah, it had a real Moroccan style to it. Rode a came in the city, actually I sat on a camel and had my picture taken, borrowed a Moroccan s hat, cost me a buck to have a picture with it on. They got you coming and going here. I also like the lighthouse, we stopped by it, checked it out. I think I’d prefer Seville if I had to chose between cities to live.
Labels: Dennis L. Siluk, Ed.D., Poeta Laureado
posted by Dennis and Rosa Siluk at 11:33 PM
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