Biking in Morocco and Spain

It is time to go. My panniers are packed, the house tidied, the bike shop locked and our passports in hand, and while I am definitely excited for this next adventure, it is now that I always become most homesick. I yearn for both worlds—the cozy, familiarity of home and the eye-opening, startle of bike travel.
On Wednesday, I will board a plane to Granada, Spain. The first night, I believe I will stay in a cave, sans spiders. A nice cave. From there my husband and I will bike for two days, south to the Mediterranean and cross on a ferry to Morocco. We will pedal along the coast from Melilla to Tangier. We will camp or stay in hostels depending on what we find.
At that point, my husband will head home and based on how I feel about the idea of biking solo as a female in Morocco, I will decide whether to head back to Spain and make my way up through the snow covered mountains to the French border, or turn south and cycle down the coast of Morocco to Casablanca.

I am a bit wary about traveling alone in Morocco, because I have heard many stories of women getting harassed, but if I have learned anything on these adventures—it is that you don’t know till you go. Fear is tangy and delicious and floats to the top, making it hard to pay attention to rational thought. On this trip, I will plan my route as I go and make decisions based on what I find, not something I dream up from my living room.

I am excited to experience a culture so different from my own. To see the tapestries, taste the flavors and hear the languages. At the risk of sounding corny, these trips feel like awakenings, and it is time to wake up again.

So, I am almost ready to get up off the couch and peel back this cozy quilt which is covered with a delicious patina of dog hair, baby spittle, sticky Christmas candy and popcorn and see what is out there. Problem is that today, I love this nasty old quilt.

Perhaps that is part of it. To miss, long and yearn is its own pleasure albeit a painful one.