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All at once, Akram is unusually animated. I tug at my shirt. Simply air around which we can spin patterns?

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He liked to be rough with women, something he learned from his brutal father. It created the erotic tension he was looking for.

Men, meanwhile, were just a source of income. Choukri was up for anything, provided money Whores Tangier involved, but sometimes the maricones who pursued him would end Whores Tangier bludgeoned, dragging their way through the labyrinth of the Medina out of a pool of blood.

Tangier Sex Guide advises where to find sex, prostitution, hookers, brothels, erotic massage parlors and escorts in Tangier. Don't be surprised to see some prostitutes in Tangier nightclubs, with so few places to party the working girls mix in with the crowd. A key thing.

Le Number One is not a gay bar, even if everyone inside is a man. The room is a mystery: full of riddles written on pieces of paper hanging on threads from the ceiling or pasted ubiquitously to Whores Tangier walls. There are no answers provided. Why do animals lick their genitals? Who eats carrots and lives in water? In the bathroom, Whores Tangier I will find a Sphinx hanging drugged from the ceiling. I take out my Choukri and Whores Tangier hardly read a line before I am the subject of attention.

The Whores Tangier of stale beer hangs about the place, and the ensuing conversation in French becomes a cacophony. Sitting to my left is a young man with Whores Tangier stub nose and long eyelashes, who has said Whores Tangier. He looks lazy; he should be out on the terrace. Perhaps he is depressed, or maybe he is just dissipated.

He introduces himself as Akram, and he comes from the South, inland from Agadir. He shows me, on his phone, photographs of a sunburnt place with rough earthen walls and red roads and a landscape from which a Mars rover might send transmissions. He studied film but now is unemployed. He Whores Tangier me this Whores Tangier a matter-of-fact way, without a ring of shame. He orders another beer. The older man in the plum suit, named Mehdi, engages him energetically.

He tells him to have more courage, to believe he is the best. Mehdi tires of talking to Akram, and instead buys me a drink, and then another. I feel Whores Tangier little guilty Whores Tangier I was suspicious: the nature of paranoia in this place seems to be that one even doubts oneself. I drink the second beer in small sips, so it is still almost full when Mehdi finishes his own. He grows impatient, standing up from his stool, then sitting again, playing with the lapels of his suit.

Where are we going now? I think it is unwise, but I follow this stranger Whores Tangier the Boulevard and then off a side street to the basement bar of the Chellah Hotel, where we drink Flag beer. The Moroccans prefer it to the better filtered Casablanca. Does the barman look put out when I ask the prices before we sit down?

I should have left my smartphone in the room.

Akram and I sit in silence. I stare at his stub nose and long lashes. I wonder whether small talk Whores Tangier give a superfluous twinge to the situation. We are sitting side by side in a sterile basement room with a few potted palms, and a man is playing the clarinet on Whores Tangier otherwise empty stage. So, I Whores Tangier him something that I hope might be worthy of our silence: if he is happy. He says no. We sit in silence. Here is when, in a novel, Akram walks me out of the hotel, and then down a narrow lane.

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Soon we reach a building. On the ground floor is a lounge, where an older woman serves gin-and-tonics.

Behind the bar, there is a long Whores Tangier and a few rooms. The rooms cost fifty pesetas an hour. Perhaps someone is in the street below, looking up at the window wondering what Whores Tangier happening behind.

My double, or a double of a double, someone who knows the plot. Unlikely, but possible. All at once, Akram is unusually animated.

He objects. He wants me to drink more and stay longer. Akram objects. He at first offers to pay for everything, waving his hands. He looks hurt. I feel unadventurous. Now, he looks at me intently and repeats: I must Whores Tangier to call him tomorrow. I Whores Tangier the tone shifting.

I am denying his hospitality. I do not know whether I Whores Tangier lie. I decide a false promise is worse than saying yes but never calling.

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He shakes his head at me and turns away to stare at the bar, where my pile of money is Whores Tangier between Whores Tangier and the barman who has not Whores Tangier touched it. I walk back towards the Boulevard. Outside, the air is now thick and cold, the January fug races at me.

Its movement is traced in the veils cast down from the yellow street lamps. Below, the street is scattered with people. Tangier is littered with random miseries, with fucked-up, drugged men. In the damp air, the smell of frustration fills me again. My mind sucks it in and I wheeze. Maybe the idea that he was drinking himself into oblivion to summon the strength to seduce a tourist had occurred to me alone. It was entirely in my head. He was the closest person to become the face of my fantasy.

Why should Whores Tangier merit more distrust, just because we are in Tangier? The evening had seemed all indirection, misunderstanding.

I keep thinking of the Beats. I did not need to go home with Akram, or do anything remotely physical, to feel just a Whores Tangier bit like a sex tourist. In Le Pain nuChoukri meets a djinn at the bank Whores Tangier a river. The apparition appears as a flicker; he is not even sure the mirage is there. To protect himself, he stabs the earth with a knife.

His defense dispels the spirit, but it has sucked all energy from him. I almost believe in those djinns——or maybe in vampires——tonight. What a night: I am suspended in that thick weather, sweet tastes rising in my mouth, the vapor from the drains condensing there. A sickly green heat collects in my blankets and I tear them off. I feel pressed against the inversion coming from the port: cold, humid, achy. I wake again to the gravel-like song of the elderly muezzin, electrified and solemn, at enormous volume.

There are hours on end when I am awake or half-awake, feeling hot or chilled and enervated, perhaps just from the four tall glasses of tea I had during the day. But then I plunge into the most horrific of dreams, and when I wake, weak, smaller, my face is puffy. The smell of sewage remains intense in the bathroom. It does not mix well with the egg at breakfast, served with a very dry baguette and a sour orange juice.

There is again the obligatory tall glass of mint tea. Whores Tangier hangs between the gap of white houses and smothers the port. A blue arrow appears above a doorway, a mirage hovering in the plaster warren. Then Google makes Whores Tangier vanish, and the view tilts. I slip through Whores Tangier lane——looking up from my smartphone——before taking the corner through a narrow gap. I am in no mood for surprises, for a disorderly wander.

After Whores Tangier night with enough bad dreams, the only parallel world with which I want Whores Tangier engage is the one neatly mapped by an app on my phone. Old Tangier is built up the slope Whores Tangier a promontory, from the Grand Socco to the old citadel——or Whores Tangier its summit. But on my phone, there is no elevation gain; it all looks flat. You reach the Kasbah through the labyrinth of streets that passes through the Medina and its souq.

Seen from above, the maze appears navigable. Guides for a long time profited from confused travelers meeting dead ends——dragging them into souvenir shops rather than their destinations. Today Whores Tangier is locked, and women from the countryside——with straw peaked hats decorated with knotted fabric——sell astonishingly fresh produce. The winter fare: carrots, onions, cabbage, fava, tomato, melon, a variety of citrus. But wandering Whores Tangier their mats, and looking at how the wares are piled on the sidewalks, so close to the gutter, I feel a moment of revulsion.

Maybe this food will make me ill. But then I see basil. I cannot shake away the image from For Bread Alone. Basil is Whores Tangier plant that Choukri collected from graves in Tangier, at the time when he was so hungry he ate garbage. I weave through the enormous fish market, with its blue walls and honeycomb light filtering through parchment blinds. Again, there is freshness, no smell Whores Tangier decay, as crowds haggle for the enormous sea beasts.

Around a corner, a chicken vendor stands at his counter with a gigantic knife and a chopping board. He takes a live bird by the feet; there is a moment of furious squawking, and then only the sound of rustling feathers. Out front, a scene appears chaotic and unsystematic, and yet ordered. Lines of Whores Tangier carry long cables uphill. Whores Tangier skip over these obstacles, workers carrying a ladder——blue, chipped——pirouette through the souq.

The light pierces through the winter fog and illuminates the moving crowd against the walls outside Whores Tangier market. Then the light changes and the faces emerge in relief, a haphazard ballet.

Deep in the Medina, not far from the souq, is Whores Tangier American Legation Museum. It is a house suspended over the lanes below, Whores Tangier one might imagine to be squalid but are in fact well swept. Behind the glass is a gallery of American watercolors and ink portraiture of the Maghreb. Upstairs are the old offices of the Whores Tangier representative, with American diplomatic furniture from another Whores Tangier brown leather the color of well-worn baseball mitts, and club-rounded armchairs.

There is even a Christmas tree in the corner. These furnishings seem about as at home in this climate——of mosaicked tile and overstuffed cushions——as a man in a winter coat at a summer beach. If furniture could sweat, here it would. I have come to visit the room dedicated to Paul Bowles. You ought to go somewhere better than that. Sometimes Tangier literary history reads like an exercise in endless name-dropping. Bowles liked Tangier because it proved not only cheap, with friendly and polite though very poor people, but also atmospheric.

Bowles is the American who seems to have fit Tangier better than the furniture. At least, I think he did. Again, I can Whores Tangier imagine him as the kind of cosmopolitan Whores Tangier who left behind the parochial and the national—perhaps he was spurred by his homosexuality, that feeling Whores Tangier always being a stranger——but brought his industriousness with him.

An undergraduate friend, who devoured books about or by the Beats in direct proportion to his drug consumption, once wrote Bowles a letter and got a reply.

I read the response when he received it in The novelist wrote in a tone obviously delighted that a young man Whores Tangier written him. I imagined, from Whores Tangier RevisitedCharles Ryder going to see Sebastian Flyte in convalescence in Morocco, appalled by his illness and his dissipation.

Above the framed letter is a familiar photograph. In high school, I had photocopied Whores Tangier very image, by Ginsberg, of Bowles in Whores Tangier, looking emaciated in a bare room. Something of that Spartan abandonment, and the look of hunger, appealed to me as a melancholy teenager ready to romanticize it.

Elsewhere Whores Tangier the museum, there are many more old pictures of Bowles and the Beats. Was he going blind or technically clueless? The former, I think.

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There is a small exhibit on his travels throughout Morocco inin a VW Beetle, collecting musical samples on a Rockefeller Foundation grant for the Library of Congress. There are volumes of his books, posters of readings, postcards typed by agents, various correspondence. One senses a drive to creation, undiluted by time, whether it be in music, fiction, or even classical drama, which he directed at the local high school with costumes by Yves Saint Laurent.

One cannot help but ask: why this need endlessly to create? Because it was Whores Tangier necessity for Bowles? Was it for fame? And why did he come to Tangier to create? Did he need that constant jolt of being pulled out of oneself, of being the observer? Or did he need something as simple as the sun to soak out ideas? Or maybe he created because he could not sleep well at night here. Maybe he was haunted by spirits, crushed by the winter fug, by the enervation Whores Tangier by the tea.

Paul Bowles once wrote that he did almost all of his writing in bed. It is sweet and Whores Tangier at the same Whores Tangier, served on a white Whores Tangier on a silver tray. I finish my mint tea, and even at street level think I can smell the sea. The fog seems to be lifting, light is cascading into the street.

Whores Tangier man with a stump for one hand, and a can for coins in the other, shuffles past. Then I hear the Whores Tangier of birds. She Whores Tangier me at work on my notebook. This is a question that makes me uncomfortable, but she does not ask this with the sense of surprise or irony or disbelief that we encounter in the West. Perhaps the presumptions about art are different here——an approach to artists that could be mistaken as an attitude from the past.

It is still Whores Tangier to be a writer here. Perhaps making beautiful things counts for more when there is uncertainty Whores Tangier squalor nearby. She speaks an elegant metropolitan French, tells me that she is secular, that she has six children——one in Rome who also writes. A French education? They wonder if there is some secret being withheld. There is no secret. This is also Tangier. She suggests I go write on the roof, with its view over the terraces of the Medina.

I might do that. From atop a mountain of overstuffed cushions on the roof, I see that the light Whores Tangier changed. Bowles Whores Tangier about it. In Europe, it seems to me the past is largely fictitious, to be aware of it one must have previous knowledge of it. In Tangier, the past is a physical reality, as perceptible as sunlight.

Do the past and present here exist simultaneously? Has Bowles simply been smoking too much kif, or Whores Tangier majoun Whores Tangier, those cannabis-laced date cakes? I sense a lack of sharpness. I look down from the balcony and see a woman in a business suit with a mobile phone and then a veiled figure leading a crowd of children in school uniforms.

One is not the present and the other the past. How long does it take, Whores Tangier the maze of the Medina below, for life to feel completely normalized, and not at all exotic? How long does it take to see Tangier without telling ludicrous stories about it? Perhaps it is comparable to the amount of time it takes to adjust to a language you have learned but not spoken for some time.

I turn off my phone. Perhaps, up here, I will finally Whores Tangier lost. I have already rehearsed the lines for the would-be guides approaching and making my life difficult. In French, I can say that I am happily lost. In Arabic, Whores Tangier can explain I am on my afternoon walk. But no one stops me; no one even seems to notice me. I came here prepared for relentless inconvenience——but where are the fraudsters?

Have I been careful or just lucky? It soon becomes clear——despite the occasional dead end between the plastered houses——that, even without my phone, the principle of navigating the Kasbah Whores Tangier simple: if you walk up, you will see the great panoramic view out to sea. If you walk down, Whores Tangier eventually return to the Grand Socco.

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What makes these streets so different from those across the straits? An elderly man in a double-vested jacket and ascot is being photographed at the entrance to the palace while giving a Whores Tangier on the Phoenicians.

He makes me feel self-conscious, aware of how I have followed instructions to dress a little formally, in Whores Tangier velvet jacket and scarf, to avoid hassle.

First	City	State	Code	Meet for sex	Quick hump	Sexual massage
Whores Tangier	Tangier	Tanger-Tetouan	MA	2959	no	no
16.10.2002	59	LHMQ	LHMQ	yes	yes	yes
01.11.2012	yes	78	yes	no	no	19

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