I find it very amusing how a huge chunk of my close friends, who, I must say, travel as often as do, hate the act of travel itself — flying in particular. Think of long hours sitting inside a steel cylinder, breathing the same recycled air with hundreds of fellow passengers, with no cellphone reception. I don’t mind flying. Heck, I love flying, especially long-haul flights! A 14 hour plane ride with a flat bed, no cellphone or internet access, just me, a few glasses of wine, the latest movies and a sleeping pill is my idea of heaven.
I had the same, familiar feeling of being up in the sky when Mr Swedish and I checked into the Hotel Atlas high up in the Rif mountains in Chefchaouen, Morocco.
In the words of Mr Swedish, the hotel was spartan, grounded and had a sense of simplicity to it. I thought our hotel felt like being in the Soviet-era. The friendly guy at reception was also the bell-boy, the concierge AND the manager. He held on to our passports for hours after checking-in for reasons unknown to man.
The hotel had several floors with many, many rooms and we were literally the only people in the hotel, so it was rather shocking why our room was located in the far end of our floor. Also, we didn’t have wifi access in our room. But who needs internet access when there’s a balcony where you can light up a cigarette and look at the spectacular view of Chefchaouen and its medina?
For the first time in ages, I felt truly disconnected from the world. The overall feeling was rather eerie. The silence was deafening, but we didn’t mind. I was in a state of solitude.
And I loved it.
Shirt by Hugo Boss, trousers by Prada, watch by Rolex, sandals by Celine