Delicately pacing, over a creaky wooden floor no more than 12x14, I debated buying you.

Incense came up through the floorboards – wafted out the windows. My big eyes gaped upon colorful, pointy-toed Moroccan slippers; and bohemian lanterns, and silver-framed mirrors with the smoothest of edges.

“Palm trees. Dates. Fez. The Atlas Mountains.” My little pacing. My little chant.

There you sat, dear one. But I didn’t buy you – as I’d already bought a Spanish journal the preceding day in Madrid. But, turns out I didn’t have to buy you. I left this little hole-in-the-wall shop proud of my practical, prudent, frugal decision. No flagrant spending allowed.

Even if you were the loveliest, bluest, goldest, most authentically Moroccan journal I’d ever seen.

Would your sheets be papyrus? And smell like roasted peas and saffron? Mmmm.

Would I use a BIC pen to write in you? No way. I would purchase an old-fashioned fountain pen, and swear to only do calligraphy.

Thank you, my sister Wendy, for dashing into this little retailer, unbeknownst to me, after I dashed out – and buying me this amazing Moroccan journal. You saw the look of otherworldly lust on my face.

Ever since a girl of thirteen, I have been a fiend for journals. This Christmas, I gasped when I saw this gorgeous stocking stuffer. I have reunited with you!

I look forward to sliding through your crisp white pages – snuggling in your blue sky. My journal #33.

#travel