Paris was our second major trip together, and on our way back to the states, Jeff and I had a 12-hour layover in Morocco. The airline set us up in a hotel in Casablanca after an hour of not knowing what was going on when a man greeted us asking if we were who we were while pointing to our names on a sheet of paper. He led us to the front of the customs line, not explaining where we were going, why our names were on a list or really, who he was. In hindsight, it was totally stupid of us to not ask questions and just follow someone we didn’t know in a foreign country who spoke a language I can only describe as beautiful squiggles. But we were young. And infinite.

We giggled ourselves silly behind closed doors in our Moroccan room, spoke about the hookah pipe from Casablanca that Jeff inherited from his grandfather, who we learned loved that city, and marveled at our view of the Atlantic and how different the air felt on our skin. I can’t believe I only gave this image a passing glance 3.5 years ago but outside of our hotel was where this photo was born.

Casablanca, Morocco — AUGUST 2006

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For another fun story about our trip to Paris in regards to a Polaroid we left there for our friends to find, see this post.