Ferry

We’re on the ferry to Tangiers, crossing the cusp of the Mediterranean, the rolling swell pushing out into the Atlantic. It was another connection that we barely made, setting off from Seville with what we thought was plenty of time, but arriving at the ticket office in Tarifa we were told the 3pm ferry was weighing anchor in 5 minutes, so we should get a move on. For the second time we were panicked when the ticketing agent asked for some official sounding aspect of our motorcycles, as we were confronted with the propect of our hastily prepared arrangements of motorcycle ownership and insurance being put to the acid test. This was mostly because they were asking in foreign languages. If they had merely asked for our rego number, they probably wouldn’t have provoked the surprising response of panicked and furtive looks, much sub-audible mumbling and, in the French case, a denial that we had registration numbers....