Across the pond again

            As I sit here in the hotel from which Ignatzia and I will ultimately leave to go to the airport, I find myself wondering where all the time has gone. Four months are not meant to pass by so quickly. And the time between finals and leaving was so sudden that I was still in academic mode and didn’t realize that we were all saying goodbye until people were starting to leave.

            Our goodbyes began the night before, when a large chunk of people all left campus at the same time. Those of us who were leaving later gathered around them and their cumbersome luggage. It hadn’t hit me yet that they were actually leaving, so I was able to chat easily with them all, joking and shivering in the 1 a.m. chill. The grand taxis and AUI’s bus showed up all too quickly, and we loaded everyone up and said more goodbyes. It was only when I saw their various forms of transport driving down the road to the main gate that I realized this was the last time in a long time that I would ever see these people, and most likely the very last time to see them all together like this. I held back a bizarre urge to run after them and climb into the taxi, luggage or no.

            The two Maggies, Badr, Paul, Alex Congram and I were left standing at the roundabout. We walked back and spent a solid half-hour looking at the bright constellations and talking. I went with Maggie Laush to her room for a time, but I had to leave in less than three hours, and was hoping to snatch a little sleep.

            After one hour of sleep and a painless checkout process, I thumped my luggage down the first flight of stairs and waited for Ignatzia. Then we both struggled down the last flight and wrestled our luggage to the roundabout, where our cab driver was waiting. The taxi ride was interminable in my eyes, but at long last we made it to Meknes and caught the train to Casablanca not five minutes before it left. With such a smooth transition, we were on our way.

            The train ride passed a little faster, and in Casablanca we were able to get a petit taxi driver who didn’t screw us over too much. He put Ignatzia’s luggage on top of the car, which made us both a little wary, but the little box thing on top of the taxis held the luggage well. We dropped our stuff off at the hotel, had a little breakfast, and promptly napped for two hours. At noon, we left the hotel with the mission of reaching the mall and changing over some of Ignatzia’s currency.

            The mall was easy enough to get to, though catching a taxi was a bit difficult. We had lunch in the food court and met Ignatzia’s friend there, who had Alessandro with her of all people! We all hung out for a while, and then Ignatzia and I went to get pedicures before climbing onto our planes the next day. We had yet to find someone who would change her currency into US dollars, what with none of the banks in the mall wanting to handle that exchange.

            Leaving the pedicure place, we realized that night was falling quickly and tried to hail a taxi. And tried. And tried. And tried some more, then walked some, then tried. I would continue on this vein for a while, but I think you get the message. We gave up for a while because Ignatzia’s friend told us it was rush hour and not to expect a taxi for at least another half hour. We window-shopped some, then ate some food, trying to puzzle out how to change Ignatzia’s currency. We thought that perhaps the currency exchange in the airport would work, if only it was open. Her flight left so early we weren’t sure.

            At long last, we caught a taxi and made it to our hotel by 8:30 or 9. Our taxi to the airport was leaving at 4:30, so it was another mostly-sleepless night for me. The taxi took us to the airport fairly quickly, and once there we ran into none other than Tim Corey! He was on the same flight as Ignatzia.

            At the airport, Casablanca seemed to be slowly loosening its grip on our fortune, because Ignatzia was able to check her overweight luggage with no problem, and got her money changed in such a hassle-free manner that I couldn’t help but wonder if we were in the same city still. Ignatzia and Tim had time to eat a quick breakfast, and Tim saved my life by loaning me some Moroccan Ds to get me through the day. My flight didn’t leave until 6:20.

            After saying goodbye to them, I made my food-for-the-day purchases and maneuvered to the chairs. I couldn’t check my luggage until 4, so I had a long wait ahead of me. I managed to while away the hours on my computer despite no internet (loading episodes in advance was a genius move on my part), and I alternated with people-watching to pass the time. At long last, I was able to check my luggage and walk through Casablanca’s “stellar” security. The security people were incredibly friendly, though, and the guy who stamped my passport laughed at my pitiful excuse for Arabic. A hurried “ma-salaama” over my shoulder, and I was away. Into the airport.

            Only to wait another two hours. It was here that I began to meet the first in a series of fascinating people during my trip home. The woman I met, who had her young son with her, was French and Moroccan, living in Casablanca. She spoke Arabic and French, and was able to converse with me in Spanish. We talked about the culture of Morocco and how different it is from Europe, and her son kept speaking to me in French, which I did not understand.    

            We boarded the plane and took off only about 40 minutes late, which wasn’t too bad all things considered. As time passed on the plane, I kept wondering when we would get food. All I’d had to eat the whole day was two small bags of chips and a sandwich, so my focus was understandably very one-track. I’m ashamed to admit that I got very upset when I convinced myself that they wouldn’t feed us, and when the food did finally arrive my outlook on life improved dramatically.

            Only to be crushed again. On arrival at Charles De Gaulle airport, I learned that their airport actually shuts down at night, something I didn’t think was humanly possible. With nowhere to stay, I got some half-hearted directions from the security guy, and found my way through the empty, vaguely threatening halls of CDG and ended up actually leaving the secured portion of the airport. I found a closed café, where various people were curled up on the couches sleeping. It had an outlet, a chair, and wifi I could buy, so I deemed it worthy of my ten-hour stint in CDG.

            One of the random dudes sleeping there asked if he could charge his phone off of my computer, and I obliged because I was hogging the one visible outlet. He went back to sleep and I spent the night watching Midnight in Paris, which gave me a far different impression of Paris than my own real-world experience. As the night wore on, a security dude came along with a muzzled drug dog. They found something a fair distance away from me, if the snarling and snapping was any judge. Other than that, the only bother I got was someone asking to see my boarding pass, after which they left me to my own devices.

            Around 3:30 or 4 a.m. some cleaning folks came around to the café, and I was asked to move. The one socket I had found was actually behind the counter where the espresso machine was, and I suppose they wanted me out of that area. So I moved to the couches, and when my computer inevitably died, I wandered back and forth in the lobby of the airport. It was there that I came across three Spanish people, and when I heard them speaking Spanish I decided to talk to them.

            One of the guys was Venezuelan, on his way home from China. He’d also not slept in more than 24 hours. He was with a couple from Spain, on their way to Bolivia after 8 years of not traveling. I told them all about Morocco, and we had a grand time. As the lights came on in the airport (which was an interesting thing to witness), I went to stand in line to enter the secured area. There I found myself in line with two UK businessmen, one Scottish and the other I’m not sure what. They were obviously well-versed in travel, and we exchanged pithy one-liners about French work ethic and unions and such. It was a grand time, and before long we were through the line and into the secured area.

            The terminals were much nicer than the café, and I was deliriously happy. I was able to buy breakfast and sit in a cushy chair with a handy outlet. Watching the West Wing in a Paris airport at 6 a.m. felt almost like politics. While waiting for the flight to Chicago, I spent some time with an a cappella group from Northwestern, who were on their way back from a tour in South Africa. Kinda cool.

            The plane to Chicago was Delta, not Air France, which was a disappointment but they fed us twice so I can’t really complain. The movies weren’t very good and we didn’t have any options, so I tried sleeping (and failed) and talked to my neighbor, who was a college grad from St. Louis working and living in Spain doing psychology research/experiments. At this point my brain was fried, so I didn’t even try to speak Spanish with him because I figured I would make myself look stupid when I couldn’t even come up with simple words.

            That flight felt like forever. But from around the time we flew over Canada to our descent, I could feel excitement jittering in my veins. America! We landed in a wonderland, which most people know as Chicago. The lights were bright, snow was on the ground, and my crazy, indescribable, life-changing experience had finally drawn to a close.

            Customs had an incredibly long line which actually moved fairly quickly. The guy next to me turned out to be on his way home from 6 months in Amman, Jordan. After a bit of confusion on my part (I thought he said Oman, how embarrassing!), we got to talking about the Middle East. He was more smartly dressed than I, wearing a suit and whatnot, but I’m pretty sure I sensed from him the same respect I always give to strangers that seem intelligent. We talked about Arabic culture (apparently there were only 3 guys in his program, and he had to ‘play chaperone’ fairly often, ha!), and our aspirations for the future. He wanted to live in Amman or somewhere else, or teach English. He was fluent in Spanish, French, and Arabic, which made me all the more determined to add at least one more language to my repertoire. Once we’d all gotten through customs and claimed our luggage, he and I parted ways. I also got a sense of camaraderie from his casual two-fingered salute goodbye.

            After the painless process of customs (and that’s actually not sarcastic!), I checked my luggage with United. Another fairly painless process, though I wish I could’ve gotten an earlier flight.

            In O’Hare I made fast tracks around the terminal, sniffing out food places. I settled for a burger joint, and sat there eating my giant American burger listening to a jazz band play Christmas songs. It was glorious.

            The happiness wore off after about three hours, though. My flight was delayed a further two hours. I found two girls from my program at AUI in Chicago, and came to the conclusion that it really is a small world. We hung out for a bit, and then Elizabeth had to catch her flight. Anna and I walked down to where my flight was originally scheduled to leave from and watched Stargate. Then my flight was changed, and I walked partially back with Anna. She left for her on-time flight, and I was left to contemplate my life as I waited some more. I tried to get onto standby for an earlier Kansas City flight, but it filled.

            At this point, I knew when to give up. I went to the bar and ordered a beer, and spent a half hour talking to these two older guys who were also waiting on delayed flights. Turned out one of them was an engineer working for an oil company, coming back from West Africa. We talked for a while about the US dollar, culture in West Africa, and Morocco. It was really relaxing after all of the stress of flying.

            After that, I got onto my plane to KC without any further troubles, and slept for that whole plane ride. I was still really sleep-deprived when I landed, but adrenaline kept me going. My dad, sister, and brother were all waiting for me, and in my sister’s hands was a glorious Jimmy Johns sandwich. I ate the sandwich happily as we waited for my luggage.

            So that’s it for me, folks. It’s been a crazy ride, but I’ve come full circle. I still haven’t fully processed the fact that I’m home, and things are still weird to me. I may put up one more post later, about all of the things in America that I find strange. Until then, Merry Christmas and Happy New Year! I can already tell, it’s going to be a fantastic year.

Two Sides of the Same Coin

            These past two weekends were spent in Ifrane, and the juxtaposition of the two weekends is so absurd that I thought it would be good to put them both together.

            Last weekend, for the last weekend in November, Eli and I decided to go exploring the town we’ve been living in for the past three months. He knew a path to the park in town from his first week here, and we followed it past some scenic bridges and various pools of water. We came upon the park and spent a solid twenty minutes walking through it.

            The park was ridiculously green, with streams of water cutting through the trees and stone tables and benches, occasionally running over the stone-and-dirt pathways. This limited our choices more than once, and we found ourselves being herded by the rogue former precipitation, moving deeper into the park. After crossing by some large lake-type places, we made our way towards the exit on the other side. As we did so, something odd happened. We were on one path, and the exit was tangential to us. We had two choices – backtrack and follow the path to the exit, or cut through the glass. We both made the same hesitation, almost stepping to the grass, before WITHOUT DISCUSSION both silently making our way along the path. AUI has taught us well – when I get home, I’m afraid I’ll be conditioned not to walk on the grass. Haha.

            After exiting the park, we walked into town, going to the restaurant that one of the professors who’s lived here for 18 some-odd years recommended. It’s called La Paix, and we had some delicious food there. Brian and Halcyon met us there, and we returned to the park for Brian to show us the spring water he’d found earlier in the year.

            Of course, we forgot to account for the floodwaters. The path to the spring was blocked by water. From our side of the stream, three guys smoking weed lazily watched our frustrations and attempted solutions, and on the other side two farmers keeping one eye on their grazing cattle (yes, cattle!) used their other eye to silently laugh at us silly white people.

            Brian backtracked upstream and found a narrow enough place to cross (us having all decided that fording the river, Oregon Trail style, would be bad news). We filled the water bottles we had brought at the spring, which looked like something from a movie set. Then we set off to make our way out of there and go to the marche. Unfortunately, once again water proved to be our foe, and we were stuck again. Eli managed to cross the river on a precarious rock perched in the middle of the water, only to start berating us all for not following his perilous path. We scoffed and stubbornly followed the river upstream, Eli matching our pace on the other side.

            After nearly giving up all hope on finding a way, we found a multi-jump path. From a tree and the dirt its roots held, to an island, to a rock on the opposite bank. By juggling our backpacks and bags (and eventually tossing them to Eli up the hill) we were able to jump unencumbered. Halcyon went first, and as the shortest also had the hardest time of it. I over-jumped the first, but managed to reach the rock without trouble.

            That night we made egg burgers with our supplies. Despite cabbage instead of lettuce and dealing with getting permission for cooking in the kitchen in building 38 (always a hassle), it was glorious. It was a good weekend.

            Fast forward to this most recent weekend. It started snowing in earnest while we were in History of the Arab World, between 10 and 11 in the morning. As we left the frigid, unheated classroom building, people alternated cries of dismay and whoops of joy at the sight of the flurries. I sought shelter in the café with Eli, where we both growled angrily about our hatred of snow. Eli, through the course of the weekend, would switch from saying, “I hate everything” to “I love nothing,” which was widely regarded as a more positive statement, even though it says essentially the same thing.

            Friday night we spent holed up in 38 again, watching Stargate (hooray!). As Eli and I walked back, it was still snowing. The next morning, Ignatzia and I woke up only to find that our front door was COMPLETELY BLOCKED BY SNOW. I’m not talking an inconvenient amount of snow to walk in. I’m talking human-sized pile of snow. The roof is designed in such a way that the snow slides off of it, collecting in the ideal location of RIGHT IN FRONT OF THE DOOR. Whoever’s design that was should’ve known better.

            But I digress. Ignatzia and I spent a large portion of the morning carving out an igloo/cave, something that proved difficult given the fact that neither of us had gloves. We made do, and I must say it looks fairly impressive. Pictures on Facebook to follow.

            At around 3:45, I met Brian, Louise, Maggie L. and her roommate, Eli, and Halcyon at the globe to walk into the marche. What normally takes maybe twenty minutes or so turned into an hour-long journey. As I alternated the lead with Louise, I felt a bit like we were leading an expedition into some unknown, icy land, and everyone we met was a comrade in our shared hell. After a stopover at the ATM in town, we threaded our way through a path made by previous footprints.

            We walked through an area of town lined on both sides by trees, now covered in snow and icicles like precious jewels. I passed two old women making their casual way on top of the packed snow, and realized how picturesque the town looked in the snow. In reality, however, it was miserably cold, and while entertaining, by the time we reached the marche we were all flat-out exhausted.

            Everyone separated to buy their chosen foodstuffs to cook for the night, and before too long we had reconvened in the meat aisle. Standing next to the strung-up chickens, we counted heads and were on our way, with Henry promising to catch up later.

            The journey back was in some ways worse, because by now it was starting to get dark. Eli and Halcyon tried hitchhiking and were unsuccessful, but in the attempt fell behind. In an effort to catch up, they took the shortcut through the park, but realized about halfway through that the path ended in a pile of knee-high snow. We watched them come lunging through the park, Eli screaming angrily every now and then. After they made it back onto the road, we took a mini-trek back to our separate dorms and met up in building 38 once more.

            With homemade macaroni and cheese, eggnog, mashed potatoes, green beans, garlic cheese toast, and Home Alone playing on a laptop, we managed to while away the hours. It was a great night, and we had a lot of fun.

            After most people had left, Paul, Maggie, Badr, Nic and I stayed up to watch some entertaining Youtube videos. All in all it was one of my favorite weekends here, even if we stayed in town (and also had to stay in town because we were snowed in).

            That Sunday I went with Maggie, Eli, and Taylor into town to do work at the Forest Café and watch all of the tourists that had suddenly appeared in town. The traffic was backed up halfway to Fes, and there were people frolicking in the snow like they actually ENJOYED the stuff.

            When I look back and compare the two weekends it’s crazy to think that they occurred in the same town, and within days of each other. The weather here goes from one end of the spectrum to the other, and if you travel even to the nearby city of Fes the frigidity of the air completely vanishes. I have 17 days left until I get home, and only 16 left in Morocco. I don’t know what happened to all the time.

The Loudest Silence

            “You know, it doesn’t even feel that late,” I remarked to Dr. Shoup as we all put our shoes back on, getting ready to leave the second zawiyah, Sidi al-Ghazi.

            “You’d be surprised how many students say that,” Dr. Shoup responded, not seeming at all surprised.

            The weekend had a rocky start, with Maggie calling me at 1:16 asking where I was. “But we’re leaving at two,” I said confusedly, already half out of my seat in my room.

            “Didn’t you get the email?” she asked over the background din of the bus. “We were going to try to leave earlier.” I learned shortly that we had been given one of the slower buses for the trip. If I wasn’t quick, I’d miss my chance to see the Tafilalt Oasis, the largest oasis in North Africa after the Nile River Valley.

            After calling Kaitlyn and making my way quickly to the bus, the trip vastly improved. Luckily I had packed the night before, so I was able to enjoy the scenic drive south through the Middle and High Atlas mountains. The bus was raucous with high spirits, and time passed quickly until our first stop in Midelt, roughly halfway between Ifrane and Erfoud. Here’s a glimpse at my thoughts for that first leg:

            My eyes follow the course of the river that runs parallel to the road, carrying fresh melt water from the recent snowfall. I can’t help but grin at the rush of water over rocks, the way it spills and falls and swirls in ever-changing patterns. As I watch, the stream twists and turns and disappears from view, tucked between two craggy pieces of rock. There are intermittent flocks of sheep, and even the rare herd of cattle.

            We’ve transitioned from low rolling hills dotted with foliage to high, snowy peaks in the distance. We’ll be passing through them within the hour. I wish I could show them to you. My camera won’t quite bring them into focus, as if disbelieving at their enormity. The dappling of white snow and dark ground is alluring and in some way heartbreaking to see.

            Midelt is the most gorgeous town I’ve seen. The streets are clean and well-maintained, with a fountain with a giant apple (of all things!) marking the center. Their minaret is beautiful, edged in dark green, and the buildings are fascinating. We even passed a Court of First Instance, which I learned about in class.

            We stop at a hotel on the edge of town for tea and a bathroom break, where we find a map in the back of the lobby-esque area of southern Morocco. Dr. Shoup seems to know every town on the map, and even the other professors traveling with us are fascinated. The communications professor from Germany, who I’ve known since we both found ourselves in IT begging for wifi, talks with me for a while. Then we’re back on the bus for the second half of the journey.

            Night falls when we’re still two hours or so out, and the transition from mountains to desert occurs without us noticing until palm trees start to loom out of the darkness, ghostly pale in the darkness. At the hotel, we have a dinner of bread, beef tajine, and fruit of the season, including delicious bananas and tangerines (orangellos? Mandarin oranges?). Kaitlyn and I fall asleep more or less right after dinner.

            The next morning, we’re on the bus by 8:30 after a quick Moroccan breakfast, and making our way through the town. We stop first at what initially appears to be a barren expanse on the side of the road. Dr. Shoup walks purposefully over to a hole dug into the ground, which we soon learn is one of a series of wells. Dr. Shoup explains, as we all stand cautiously on the edges of the well, that an oasis is, contrary to popular belief, manmade. They dig a series of wells to carry the underground water from its shallowest point into the oasis, where it is brought up to the surface and used for crops. Of the 300 or more wells that originally fed the oasis, only 50 or so are still functioning, leading to a significant drop in the size of the oasis. A major problem is modernization, with the government trying to switch to a more modern concrete system. Unfortunately, in the summer an open-air concrete canal means that water retention is minimal, particularly compared with the traditional earth system.

            We then proceed to walk through part of town, where Dr. Shoup shows us the rammed earth buildings, which are far more effective for heating and cooling than the more ‘modern’ designs. We also see what happens to a house when not maintained, as the walls fall apart and turn back into earth.

            At the area near a water well for the town, we’re nearly plowed down by a flock of sheep. As we all stare dumbly at the flock, I ask Shoup almost casually, “Shouldn’t we move out of the way?”

            “Yes we should,” is his nonplussed reply, and we split to the sides as the sheep baaa their way past.

            Then someone who recognized Dr. Shoup comes out of the complex, and after greeting him invites all 25+ of us into his home for tea. Logistically this proves somewhat challenging, but it all works out and we’re on our way after about half an hour. Then we investigate a dam, which is completely dry but has in the past apparently washed away the bridge when it floods.

            We also stop by a Royal Qasr, Qasr al-Fada’, which is like a big palace sort of building for the governor. It was built in the early 1800s and is inhabited by the descendants of the original household, one of whom knows Dr. Shoup. Once again, we’re offered tea, this time after touring the palace and being lectured on its history.

            Our last stop before lunch was to the ruins of Sijilmassa, which served as the terminus point for trans-Saharan trade. The place is falling apart, but as we stand in the remnants of the mosque Dr. Shoup tells us that in its heyday almost all gold passed through Sijilmassa. Sijilmassa coins have been found as far as Korea, and in fact most European countries could not afford the gold which came up from Mali through Sijilmassa.

            After lunch, which was a tasty chicken tajine, we went to the fossil museum, which is the only museum on fossils in Morocco and is privately owned by Ibrahim Tahiri, who is a main exporter of fossils to Europe and North America. Trilobites are the staple of this museum, but there are also articulated skulls of Tyrannosaurus Rex, footprints and fossilized marine life.

            After the museum we went to the Rissani Suq, where once again Dr. Shoup seemed to have multiple contacts. He brought the boys to a djellaba store, where they spent enough time to be offered tea. Again. We explored a little bit, finding scarves and other items. Dr. Shoup led the French students and myself to a store closer to the main road as it got closer to time to leave for the first zawiyah, and I found a beautiful bracelet that I bargained down using all of my hard-won bargaining skills earned over these past months. The suq was quieter than big city suqs or madinas, probably because it was nighttime as much as the fact that it was in a smaller city. I finally felt comfortable in a suq, which was fantastic.

            We left for the first zawiyah, Sidi Habib al-Ma’ati, and arrived in a more or less timely fashion. At the first zawiyah, the headache that had been threatening since the fossil museum arrived with a vengeance, and I was barely able to pay attention to the conversation with the English-speaking Sufi, who we learned taught English there. They offered us peanuts, almonds, and dates grown from their own date palm, their main source of income. The Sufis chanted some, and we talked over several rounds of tea or milk (traditionally served with the dates), but all too soon we were on our way to the second zawiyah.

            The second zawiyah, Sidi al-Ghazi, was the zawiyah that hadn’t agreed to place itself under governmental oversight. This meant that they did not receive government funding, but they seemed to be doing fairly well for themselves, in my opinion. The Sufis offered us this really tasty bread with vegetables, some sort of cheese, and lamb (maybe?), which went a long way to clearing up my headache. Said and I sat next to the bus drivers, and we ended up bonding with them a bit as we stumbled through our broken Arabic until Said gave up and switched to French. Since my French is worse than my Arabic, I turned my attention to the rest of the room, which was beautifully furnished and lined with us AUI students.

            The main Sufi guy began with a Quranic verse, where he was joined by another one of the Sufis. Afterwards, Dr. Shoup explained how ties to this style of harmony can be found in Baptist hymns. There was some more recitation, and some recitation of Sufi poetry, and we had dinner, which was by far the best food I’ve had in Morocco to date. The chicken was absolutely delicious, and we ate in the traditional Moroccan way, with our hands and bread.

            After eating, the Sufis brought out a few drums and began again with the poetry. This time we were encouraged to sing along with the chorus, which was easy to pick up. The boys playing on the drums had a really good sense of rhythm and were very good at it

            One of the men got up during the fast paced section of the poetry and began dancing in the middle of the room, really just jumping up and down and moving his arms up and down as he hopped his way in a circle. Once he even stood on his head, and Nick joined in. Thereafter, when the poetry would grow fast-paced the Sufi man would invite Sam, Nick, and Brynner up to dance with him. Elizabeth joined in once, and a brief look of alarm passed over Dr. Shoup’s face. But nothing happened, and it ended up working out.

            We left a little after midnight, as the Sufis on the drums and singing grew tired and we all remembered we had a 4 AM wakeup coming our way. Some chose not to sleep, but Kaitlyn and I grabbed nearly 2 full hours.

            The company providing the 4X4s didn’t bring enough for the number of us, and we had to wait for an extra vehicle, which turned out not to matter. As we were driving along in the pre-dawn darkness, our driver (dressed to cater to the tourists, of course) received a call, and we turned around. I figured someone had lost their way, but it turned out to be worse than that. One of the vehicles had hit a rock and shredded the right rear tire. As we watched, another one of our 4X4s pulled up, and we piled people into the two cars.

            “We can go on the roof?” Sam asked eagerly, gesturing to the roof of our 4X4. Our rider grinned with his eyes and nodded.

            “Of course; yalla!” Sam and Nick let out whoops of excitement and scampered up like two monkeys.

            “Wait, what? Really?” I couldn’t believe that they were ok with this after all the fuss about the number of people in the car. Of course, now that we were away from the roads they didn’t have to worry about being pulled over, but really!

            We drove the rest of the way to the dunes, and I would roll down my window and ask the boys how they were doing.

            “WHOOOOOOOO!”

            They were fine.

            We got to the dunes to find camels waiting for us, resting on the ground with their legs folded underneath. We got onto the camels, and without so much as a “by your leave” the guy holding the halter had made a noise with his tongue, and the camels lurched to their feet.

            A camel doesn’t walk at all like a horse. They walk in a swayback sort of movement, which is scary when you’re going downhill. Most of the men were in “Tuareg” outfits for tourism, and for the first half hour or so all we could see were the dark shapes of the camels spread out in a line as we made our way to the spot from which we would watch the sunrise.

            Sitting down on a camel is actually terrifying. Both times I screamed and laughed, because it feels like the world is falling out from underneath you. Kaitlyn and I lived, though, and we followed our guide up the dune, which is difficult to climb if you don’t walk properly, distributing your weight evenly through your foot.

            As the sky lightened around us, we sat on blankets and contemplated how fine the sand was, and how surreal the landscape was. The sun peeked over the horizon, but I was walking through the dunes to where the communications professor had gone. Just one dune over, and I found myself in the midst of the loudest silence I have ever experienced. I was going to talk to the professor, but instead stood and shared the silence with her. You could hear the guides and students talking from behind, but the hill of sand seemed to absorb the sound, making it fade into insignificance. We were just on the barest edge of the dunes, but looking out at them it felt like they stretched out forever, beyond the horizon.

            On the way back on the camels, I found myself feeling very rooted, and my worries about the future are greatly lessened. Before I would worry over finding an internship or a job, and about being ‘productive’ enough with my life. Now I don’t worry about it as much. I will find a way in the world, and worrying about it wouldn't change anything at any rate.

            We returned to the hotel and packed up. I wound up on the van, which left at the same time as Dr. Shoup’s car as the bus waited for stragglers. This gave us time to stop at a couple of places. One place was marked by a huge spout of water, which was capped by the locals and caused more spots to bubble up as pressure pushed the water out of the earth. It was poisonous though, with heavy metals like mercury rendering it undrinkable.

            The next stop was where we waited for the bus to catch up with us. The view, a sudden and breathtaking drop off of a cliff, was a nice farewell to the warm south. We were heading back to cold and rain, and possibly even snow. At that stop there was a shop set up underneath a big tent, where we could buy products from a nearby women’s co-op and postcards and coffee. The bus caught up, and we were in Midelt in time for lunch, where I had the best couscous I’ve had in Morocco thus far.

            The remainder of the trip home is fuzzy to me, because I was actually able to nap for most of it. I remember waking up to see that fog and rain made it impossible to see more than a few feet in front of the van, but our talented driver got us back to AUI in one piece.

            It makes me sad that I found this piece of Morocco so close to leaving, and this was definitely my favorite trip to date. It was also really nice to travel with the friends I’ve made that I haven’t had the chance to travel with yet.

            The trip renewed my enthusiasm for travel, and I’m going to try to make my way up to Rabat before leaving in December. Time has flown by this semester, even more so than it does at home. By the time December 20^th rolls around, I don’t think I’m going to want to leave.

Take the train from Casablanca going south...

            Sorry it’s been a while since I wrote – I was going to write up for our trip to Marrakesh, but since I got food poisoning while there it took me a while to work up the energy to write this. And as soon as we got back I had a paper due, and then it was my birthday, and it’s been one thing after another. So here’s something to quickly bring you up to speed:

            There was a ‘long’ weekend recently. I put the quotation marks because we only really had Tuesday off, for the Green March, but we all took Monday off as well to make it a four-day weekend. Luckily one of my professors was at a conference in Beijing, so we didn’t have to worry about making up that class.

            We left for Marrakesh early Saturday morning, taking the train that by necessity curves up through Casablanca and Rabat first before sliding into the southern part of the country. Because of this, the trip took some six-odd hours. We arrived at two thirty in a haze of heat, much to the delight of us mountain-bound students.

            Right away we could tell that this city was very touristy. The taxi drivers all cited outrageous figures at us, more outrageous than usual. We were able to get one for a more or less reasonable price, and set off in a sketchy white van (yes, we willingly climbed into an almost-windowless white van). Marrakesh is the city that everyone thinks about when they think about Morocco, with its pale pink buildings and warm, almost tropical feel.

            The petit taxis in Marrakesh are all an unflattering tan color, but other than that what I noticed the most was how sprawling the city is. We made our way to our hostel, which turned out to be the best part of the trip, particularly when Maggie and I spent a large portion of our time sitting on the terrace staring at the awning and playing with the turtles.

            The hostel entrance was a wooden door tucked inside an alley, easy to overlook. All of the staff were utterly fantastic and accommodating, letting us use their kitchen and cooking breakfast every morning.

            Our room was on the second floor, with four bunk beds (eight mattresses altogether) and a bathroom. There we met these kids from Rhode Island, Liam and Max. They had just flown in from the frigidness of Sweden, and were spending a few days in Marrakesh before doing a Sahara/Essaouira trip and making their way up to Spain.

            We explored a little around the giant square, which was filled with orange juice stands and women offering henna, men with monkeys on leashes (depressing) and men playacting at snake whisperer. We walked around the madina and found food, and in general had a good time.

            We got back to the hostel and spent most of the night on the rooftop terrace with the boys, drinking and swapping stories. We went to bed as the boys stayed up to discuss politics with a German couple.

            The next day we went to a garden thing in a different part of town, which was very cool. The other girls could tell you more about it, I’m sure. All I remember is that it was beautiful, and created by some guy who liked importing plant species. Afterwards we hung around the area, shocked by the prices of the touristy places. Then we went to get food at the grocery store to cook dinner.

            We also went to the Madrassa, the historic Quranic school. This was one of my favorite parts of the trip, because the architecture was absolutely beautiful. The rooms that the students lived in were austere to say the least, and as I walked through the halls I could picture the students walking through the halls, pondering great theological questions and discussing the nature of the Qur’an at mealtimes.

            That night Louise and Halcyon made stir fry, which was absolutely delicious. Unfortunately, its fate was not in my stomach, and that night I discovered the food poisoning that Maggie had come across earlier.

            The next day, Maggie made the smart decision of staying in the hostel, while I thought I’d be okay going with the other three to the Palais Bahai. The walk literally felt like a walk through hell. I was in hell, I mused to myself as I stolidly put one foot in front of the other, trying my best to ignore the insistent pestering of the street merchants and the leering calls of the teenaged boys and young men that seem to occupy every city center.

            The Palais was cool, but I ended up never leaving the central room, having found a place to sit. We took a taxi back, got gelato on the way to the hostel, and I promptly collapsed as soon as I made it up the steps to the terrace. The turtles were sunning themselves, and I grabbed the baby one and watched it crawl on the table. Maggie was feeling much better after a nap, so I decided to follow suit.

            The other three girls went on short shopping trips in the madina or made food, and the next day we took the 9 o’clock train home instead of the 1 o’clock.

            I would like to take a moment to explain to the folks back home part of why our experience in Marrakesh was not all it could have been. For one thing, two of us got food poisoning, and two more felt some affects when we got back on campus that week. For another thing, we were five girls traveling without any guys.

            You would think this wouldn’t be a problem. Five capable, college-aged girls, fully responsible and more or less travel-savvy in Morocco after living here for two and a half months. What could go wrong?

            The harassment in Marrakesh was the worst that we have come across in Morocco thus far. Shakira, Lady Gaga, Spice Girls, and Kim Kardashian were the most innocent. Far more aggravating, and less inventive, were when the guys would simply call, “Big ass!” or in some instances walk up to one of us and say “Fuck me”, as happened once in a hair-raising and offsetting instance. Then there’s the clicking of the tongue, calling us like cats. Of all the things in Morocco that is the one thing that bothers me the most. I understand that it’s a different culture, and that all of Morocco is not the same as the touristy madinas, but that doesn’t make it ok with me.

            Rant aside, since then my outlook has brightened considerably. I know it sounds like I’m hating on Morocco, but every time I start thinking I’m ready to go home something happens to change my mind or give me pause. I’m able to make myself understood in four languages now, fluent enough in Spanish to give me hope for the others. Strange acts of kindness in everyday settings – from my roommate, or the guy who sells almonds and hot cashews at the marche – remind me of how it feels to fall in love with this country. For all of its flaws, which I’ve seen more and more of after being in the class of a veritable expert on Moroccan society, I’m definitely going to be sad to leave this place.

            There’s something about the people here that makes me wish America weren’t quite so technology-oriented. With face-to-face communication so undervalued and “inefficient” in American eyes, I’ve come to appreciate the emphasis the Moroccan people place on network maintenance and socialization. That ties in with the whole time sense thing. Being on time isn’t as important as catching up with a friend, which isn’t necessarily bad, just a different hierarchy of importance.

            This upcoming weekend we’ll be traveling to an oasis town with Dr. Shoup, the one who seems to know every merchant in a five-mile radius and has an anecdote for every situation or statistic. When we come back, we’ll have exactly thirty days until finals are over. I’m not sure where the time went.

Bookstores and tapas and Guinness - Oh My!

            It has been spitting rain here in Ifrane for the past two days, with no signs of letting up for at least another three more. It was a rude awakening to return from Spain to this nasty weather, but my room is cozy and warm and I have my Chefchaouen blanket to keep me warm. J

            As a special Halloween treat, for your reading pleasure – here’s the account of our trip to España! This is the story of how I fell in love with Granada, realized how much Morocco has changed me, and lost a memory from a different time.

…

            It was dark when we left campus. The sidewalks were eerily quiet, with almost the entire school population gone for Eid. Even the café was nearly silent, the two workers unlucky enough to be stuck with the last shift waiting impatiently to close.

            I walk down the long path to the university’s gates, my backpack heavy on my shoulders. It’s Wednesday night, and we’re supposed to make the 9 o’clock ferry tomorrow in Tangier. Our train ride starts at 1:35 in the morning, and already I can tell it’s going to be a long night.

            Two taxis wait for us at the gates. Well, at first there were no taxis. Then one arrived, and the driver conversed with the security guy at the gate. After another ten minutes or so the other taxi driver pulled up, and we were on our way to Meknes.

            After this first in a series of many steps on our way to Granada, we arrive at the train station in Meknes. Some of us sit down outside the station while others get some food. As we sit there, I can feel a sense of anticipation building, not just in me but in everyone. We’re all ready for a break from Morocco, a time spent in a country with bacon and cheese and a culture that feels more familiar. The feeling of waiting is pervasive

            The ferry took an hour and a half to arrive, and while it should have arrived at 9, by the time we were under way it was past 11, and when we got to Spain we discovered that they haven’t switched out of daylight savings (or into, I can never remember which), so instead of being 1 it was actually 3. It kind of put a damper on everyone’s mood, but we got to Granada before midnight, which was good.

            The ferry itself was huge, bigger than any boat I’ve ever been on. Two freight trucks, big eighteen-wheelers, were loaded below, along with various cars that lurked unseen in the ferry’s belly. Our only indicator of their existence was the insistent wailing of a car door alarm, which Maggie and I at first mistook for some sort of seagoing warning bell. I half-expected a grizzled Spanish sailor to step on deck, grimly holding a harpoon. But we were safe, aside from a bit of mockery from the kitchen staff as they laughed at the two American girls crazy enough to be on deck in this kind of weather. The rain let up as we drew nearer to Spain, as if the sunny aura of promise had pushed away the clouds.

            As with many moving objects (trains, planes, automobiles), I instantly fell into fascination with the whole process, and dreamed aloud about working on a boat. My sealegs found their way to me quickly, and the adrenaline in my system plus traveler’s paranoia once again kept me from sleeping.

            Maggie and I set about exploring the boat, even venturing onto the rain-soaked deck. We duck back inside, laughing, and someone from the kitchen gives us a funny look. “Está lloviendo,” I point out helpfully, and he laughs.

            “Quereis dar un paseo?” he responds, and after a few minutes of similar quips we go back downstairs.

           

            The hotel lobby, as Paul so kindly points out, looks a bit like the hotel from Inception. The style is modern, sleek, and vaguely familiar, and the staff are friendly and bilingual. We are able to add a bed to the boys’ room without much trouble, and that first night as we set down our things it seems surreal. A bathroom of our own? Complementary soaps and towels? We take the bus into town and get off at a central-looking bus stop in the pouring rain. Ducking from shelter to shelter, we took a promising-looking street, and eventually found a tiny little Italian-esque restaurant.  

            Our first meal in Granada can only be called triumphant. Cheesy goodness, bacon everywhere. We were bewildered by the tapas at first, and had to ask the waiter to make sure it wasn’t someone’s food, arrived early. Refreshing beer (not Speciale!) and lasagna is the perfect way to end the night. We tip generously, not knowing that tipping isn’t really a thing in Spain, and find our way back to the hotel with such ease it feels as if the stars are lining up for us.

            In the morning Mary Grace and I snag the last thirty minutes of breakfast at the hotel, another delicious affair.  We meet the boys at around 11 and we’re on our way, off into the city.

            We begin by simply wandering around the city. We cross the river and get off at a promising stop, first stopping at a grocery store, the Mercadona, to get Paul some much-needed caffeine. The grocery store is an interesting setup, stacked with an inclined slidewalk (flat escalator, folks) to maneuver from floor to floor. The selection is practically Marjane-quality, and I think that if this is what a small grocery store has to offer, then perhaps I would like to live in Granada one day.

            We walk down the street, two of us purchasing umbrellas along the way. Our general direction is towards the Alhambra, although merely wandering the city seems like a good way to spend the day. It’s nice to see tall, modern buildings again, even seen through a veil of gray skies and rain. Side streets duck into small areas you wouldn’t expect to find in cities in the states.

            As we approach one of the plazas, I notice the structures ahead look oddly like – could it be? No way. Yes! They are!

            It’s an open-air bookstore. Various booths, ranging from twenty to forty or so feet long, with awnings to protect the vendors and their precious supply of books.

            I murmur something about being right back, and march right up to the nearest booth. What a wonderful idea! Even in the rain, I’m enjoying this. I end up buying a book of Pablo Neruda’s Los Versos del Capitan.

            Another spell of walking, trying in vain to find a bank that changes Ds to Es (dirham to Euro), and searching halfheartedly for the Tourist Office, which was supposedly near said bank. We instead find a tapas bar, recommended by the lovely Nora Peterson. La Bella y la Bestia, where we have beer, wine, and of course some tapas. The woman who waits on us is friendly and has a Spanish accent I struggle with, but we find out that she’s fluent in Arabic. She’s delighted to learn that we’re students on holiday from Ifrane, and we spend a solid hour there, watching Pink music videos with one eye and drinking in Spain with the other.

            After that, we continue making our way in the general direction of the Alhambra, which we eventually find and begin to explore…

            “Would you guys be game?” Mary Grace is excited and looks at us hopefully. We exchange glances briefly, and agree almost at once to the photograph. It’s completely touristic, but we can’t quite help ourselves.

            We dress ourselves in stereotypical clothing, wearing bangles and fake fancy clothes. I hold some sort of musical instrument, Mary Grace a pot of tea and a tea glass. The boys are all given various weapons to hold.

            After indulging in that brief moment of tourist-induced weakness, we continue our travels through the Alhambra complex, gaining entrance to the gorgeous palace. Fountains are the center of attention in many of the rooms, and stories carved out in Arabic line the walls. There really are not enough words in the English language to describe the place, so you’ll have to check out my pictures on Facebook.

            After our Alhambra trip, we took the crowded bus (misnomer, it was actually a big van converted into a bus) back into town. Paul mentioned seeing a place called Hannigan and Son’s from the bus earlier that day, and by some mystical Irish sense manages to find it almost instantly.

            It feels like coming home, walking out of the spitting rain into the warmth of the Irish pub. A round of Guinness from the bartender, who we later find out is Rory and a hilarious individual. We spend a good amount of time talking with Rory, enjoying the pub, and talking with the Irish girl next to us who’s studying geography in Granada. Tapas arrive (potatoes, for this IS an Irish pub), and we order wings and nachos as well. The wings turn out to be heavenly, the nachos equally so, and after leaving Hannigan and Son’s we begin to barhop our way back to the hotel.

            Each bar has its own specialty of tapas, from slices of jerky-like ham or something, to bread with chicken and tomato slices. We end our night at the restaurant next to the hotel, and talk to a group of Madrileños on vacation for the weekend. Before too long, we’re talking about national identity and the state of the youth today (it always comes back to that, doesn’t it?). And something incredible happens. I switch over. Now you have to understand, I’ve never been to a Spanish speaking country before – never left the States, in fact. So the fact that I was speaking in Spanish and thinking in Spanish too was something completely amazing and unfathomable. I ended the night on a high following such a success.

            We’ve decided to move to a hostel in town tomorrow, somewhere in the city center. One promising hostel was the Hostal Atenas, located on the Gran Vía de Colón, one of the main roads in the city. Hopefully it will be equally as enjoyable as the hotel.

            The elevator in the Hostal Atenas squeaks when it moves, and barely fits four people. Within its stairwell is another hostal, which is really quite confusing, but we find our room with minimal hassle. It hasn’t been cleaned yet, but we dump our stuff and proceed into town, walking down the Gran Vía de Colón towards the Burger King. Yes, Burger King. Tim’s heart was set on it, and we were all a little excited on the inside to be having some good old fashioned American fast food. Already we’re starting to understand the city, and navigation isn’t a problem when every side street leads to a main road we recognize.

            The Burger King here is exactly like the one at home. Well, almost. It’s also connected to a Haagen Dazs, looks like an upscale sort of place, and sells beer. Following the Burger King, we try to visit the cathedral, but it’s closed until four. We wander instead, finding some side streets that feel suspiciously like Morocco. Within this tangle of streets is a square, where we find some ice cream and sit contemplating the statues, the apartments above the restaurants, the fearless pigeons.

            Estoy enamorada de esta ciudad, I think to myself. Already I’m reluctant to go back to AUI, trying to come up with reasons to stay an extra day, or two, or seven. But I know that if I am to come back, it will have to be another time.

            We visit the cathedral, which is absolutely gorgeous (again, pictures are on Facebook, check ‘em out!). Afterwards we return to our hostel, where some lay down for a siesta before dinner. Tim and I explore some more of the city, getting completely lost and then finding our way again. It’s something that would have, two or three months ago, freaked me out completely, but after two months in Morocco I feel like I can handle most things thrown my way in Spain. After all, I speak the language, have Euro for a taxi if need be, and I feel comfortable walking around alone, or almost alone. It’s great.

            We end up in the alley we were in earlier that day for tapas, at a place called Nuevo Restaurante. After paella and chicken I’m pretty full, and we’re all wondering where Paul has gone off to. He had texted earlier, saying he found another Irish pub with rugby on, and we haven’t really heard from him since.

            Just then, he comes walking into the restaurant, nonchalant as you please. He explains how his phone ran out of minutes, and he found the restaurant almost by happenstance and with quite a bit of running about the city.

            After finishing dinner, he re-finds this new Irish pub with some innate sense of direction, and we spend some time in what turns out to be the local ex-pat hub. Paddy, the owner, talks to us for a while about how great it is that we’re studying abroad, traveling, etc., and we talk to some girls next to us about Morocco. It was interesting to hear what they’ve heard about Morocco, having lived here for a while. They were told it was dangerous to come here, and sitting in my dorm room I can’t help but chuckle a little. I mean, yes the cities are dangerous if you’re dumb about it, but really it’s a great place, and we encouraged them to try and visit if they could.

            A few tapas hops later and we returned to our hostel, with plans to take the morning bus out of town. Of course, as we arrive to the station, we discover to our chagrin that the tickets are sold out and we will have to take the 12:00 bus instead.

            The bus ride to Algeciras is bittersweet, even more so as I look back on it because it was the last time spent with my Nook. The Nook, which I got in freshman year, has seen me through many a travel, and its fate was tragic but perhaps meant to be.

            As we climbed onto the ferry, I realized with a bolt of dread that I had left the Nook plugged into the wall in the waiting room. I ran desperately towards the exit, only to be stopped by the ferry staff. They said they would radio someone to look for it, but we left port with no word, and arrived in Morocco with the same lack of response. They told me reassuringly that they would email me if they found it, but in my heart I knew that it was lost forever. It was a relic from my past, one of the first things I bought as a newly-independent college student. It threw a bit of a damper on the weekend, but overall Spain was a fantastic experience, and I would love to return.

Cathy vs...

            “Shit.” Aggravated, I continued to rub at my eye as Taylor looked on with concern. Whatever was in my eye, it distracted me from our beautiful surroundings, frustrating me to no end. As we walked through the streets of the medina in Chefchaouen, we took shelter in a café as it began to rain. I batted irritably at my eye, resigning myself to dealing with it for the rest of the day.

            We set off on our trip to Chefchaouen bright and early. Ignatzia and I were ready to go at 6:10, and by 6:15 had called both of the boys, waking one of them up in the process. It was yet another narrow victory, this time making it from the taxi to the bus station with barely enough time to board. Luckily, the bus had been a few minutes late, and we were on our way to Chaouen.

            The bus was almost completely empty, giving us all free reign to choose our own seats and stretch out in the early morning sun. I napped for maybe an hour, but then the whole ‘morning person’ thing kicked in, and I alternated reading from my book and watching the countryside.

            As we drew closer to Chefchaouen, the terrain grew increasingly rugged as the Rif nudged into view. We passed a forest of pine trees, and mundane tasks such as a land surveyor and people going into town, donkeys loaded down. A small cemetery was tucked in between two hills. The final approach to Chefchaouen had me staring out the window, book completely abandoned.

            Disgruntled mountains buried their heads in the clouds, grumbling like old men in djellabas. Their sides were spotted with scrubby bushes and scraggly trees. It wasn’t raining in Chefchaouen yet, but we had passed rainclouds on the way and it was clear that it would be raining by afternoon.

            The town itself was like something out of a movie. A lonely mosque stood watch over the town, separate from everything else. The buildings were almost entirely in various shades of blue. The edge of town was marked by a bizarre sight: a door and a piece of a wall, standing alone. The house the door had once been a part of was gone, but the door and its jagged wall still stood.

            As soon as we got off the bus (after some miscommunication with the people getting ON the bus), a man immediately approached us to tell us about how wonderful the Hotel Souika was. Fortunately, we’d heard from friends who had already gone that this was a good place to stay. We followed the man up a steep hill and past some beautiful murals, winding our way through the medina. We eventually came to an entrance leading to a beautifully tiled lobby. The door was beautifully made, a deep blue, and the staff were friendly. For 60 dirham each (about $7), we were able to get a room for four. The hostel had various gathering-places, and books left by travelers were stacked about.

            That first day, we went to the medina, where my eye became irritated by something. Despite this, we had a great time walking around the medina. Everything was in soothing shades of blue, and the merchants weren’t as aggressive as in Fes. When it rained we stopped for coffee and tea, and thereafter continued to wander the medina. We found a small shop recommended by friends who had gone before, where we got wonderfully warm blankets and some awesome shoes.

            Upon returning to the hostel, we ran into three travelers – an Australian, a Dane, and a Japanese woman. We went out to dinner with them, and had tea on the top floor of a restaurant in the middle of the medina thereafter. It was really fun getting to know them, and I discovered that I remember more Japanese than I thought I did!

            That next morning we woke up early to go climb around in Akchour, just outside of Chefchaouen. After a taxi ride through some more gorgeous countryside, we set out to find a waterfall. First, however, we had to evade the obnoxious “tour guide,” who insisted that the path we were taking would not lead to God’s Bridge, waterfalls, or anything of value. Of course, for the low price of 100 Dh, he could take us to the best sights! Imagine our luck!

            After losing some time dealing with that guy, we took the path towards God’s Bridge. Of course it was there, despite the guy’s insistence that it was not. We reached God’s Bridge after maybe forty minutes, perhaps taking a bit longer because Nic had to climb every climbable rock along the way, and I had to stop sometimes because hiking is not my forte. But we made it to the bridge, and stopped to eat some baguettes with cheese. We decided to retrace our steps and take a different path, this one leading to the waterfall.

            The waterfall path felt like something out of a tropical forest. We ducked under foliage and walked side by side with miniature rivers, often stepping over them. It took  a while, but we found a waterfall of sorts with a swimmable area. Nic went ahead to try and find the bigger, cooler waterfall, but the rest of us stayed behind to mess around where we were.

            The water was absolutely FREEZING. I’m talking, lung-constricting, can’t-feel-my-feet, why-did-we-decide-to-do-this cold. It was gorgeous, though, which made it worthwhile.

            After a brisk walk back to meet our taxi driver, we found out that he’d broken down with a flat, and ended up waiting some twenty minutes for him anyway. So much for our haste. Luckily we were able to get back to Chefchaouen, check out from the hostel, buy some food, and make it to the bus station with plenty of time.

            The bus ride back was the bumpiest ride I have ever experienced. I don’t think it could have been more uncomfortable if the bus driver was trying (and I’m not convinced that he wasn’t!). But, as should be clear, we made it back alive, and it was one of the best trips I’ve had so far in Morocco.      

            We’re going to Spain on Wednesday night, and will be spending four or five days there, mostly in Granada. Expect more after that!

TOHO

            “And now for some dictation.”

            The room lets out a collective, almost imperceptible groan of frustration. Fingers drum the tables, anxious knees jiggle out a rapid drumbeat as everyone obsessively checks the time. Finally, five minutes late, we are let out of class.

            We all bolt to our separate tasks – Louise to close her window, Kelly to buy snacks. I make a beeline for the main gate, where our grand taxi is supposed to be waiting for us. We’re all tense and aware of the ticking clock over our heads – if we miss the 5:40 train, we’ll be stuck in Meknes until the next train. At 1 AM.

            The taxi ride is uneventful until the last 15 minutes or so. We call ahead – the others have bought the train tickets, so if we don’t make it we’re also out three tickets. On the way we hit traffic, as well as every possible fucking red light on the way. Against all odds we make it to the train station, where Paul stands waiting. We tore out of the taxi like bats out of hell, shouting our thanks over our shoulders. We sprint through the train station and down the stairs, where officials are gesturing for us to hurry the hell up. At this point I’m laughing hysterically, at the situation and our own audacity in thinking we could cheat the system. Clambering aboard at the last minute, we took a moment to savor the triumph of making the train.

            The train ride was thereafter fairly uneventful, and we got into Tangier at 9:30, far earlier than expected. I had called ahead and spoke to the Hotel Mamura, so they were expecting us. The train station in Tangier was beautiful, reminiscent of Spain more than anywhere else. As Paul commented, it was easy to see why part of the Bourne movies was filmed there. Outside the station, with a carnival occurring nearby, we were fortunate in finding two taxis to take us to our hotel. The driver of my taxi spoke Spanish, French, English, and Arabic, and gave us his phone number to use during the weekend after showing us the way to our hotel.

            We walked down the beach street after stowing our stuff, and ate at one of the restaurants/cafés/beach clubs. It was quite delicious, but since there were eight of us the service took a long time. In fact, everywhere we went to sit down and eat proved the same.

            The next day, we had breakfast at a nearby café and went walkabout through the medina. Compared to Fes, the medina in Tangier is a dream. Most, if not all, vendors spoke Spanish and English, and the streets were wider and cleaner. The vendors weren’t as pushy as the ones in Fes, and were in general pretty friendly. I was able to get most of my Christmas shopping done, though it did deal some heavy damage to my bank account. We found our way to the Kasbah and looked out across the water. It was too hazy to see Spain, but we had a gorgeous view nonetheless. We explored a bit, but were called back when an official told us we were standing in a condemned building that was in the process of falling into the ocean, and he recommended that we get to safer ground. Nearby was the Salon Bleu, where we had lunch on the roof and had fun with a street cat that had managed its way up the spiral staircase to look at us with big eyes.

            After eating we made our way back to the hotel, where we changed into swimsuits to go to the beach. The beach was walking distance, and we walked past a few camels before finding a place we felt comfortable in. There were some other women around, and the atmosphere was far removed from that of Casablanca. There was even a lifeguard, who asked us in a mixture of Spanish and French if we could swim, and reassuring us that he and his surfboard would save us if not.

            The water was freezing. Which makes sense, given the season, and the Atlantic is always cold. We got used to it quickly, and spent a good three or four hours on the beach. Halcyon and I combed the beach, and were amazingly successful. In fact, a random Moroccan dude saw us collecting shells and gathered some to give to us. Completely random, but he didn’t harass us at all, and I was thankful for that. I collected quite a few pieces of sea glass to bring home.

            After the beach, we recollected ourselves once again to go out, this time to the 555 Beach Club. We had dinner there, which was made a little hectic by the Barcelona vs. Real Madrid game. The food was good, though, and the club was interesting. The floor lit up, and the bass was loud enough that you could feel it in your sternum.

            The next morning, we called up the taxi driver and went out on a winding tour that ended in the Hercules Caves. First, however, we had to drive past the place where the Atlantic and Mediterranean meet, and past several palaces owned and (rarely) inhabited by various princes, Kuwaiti, Saudi, and other. One Saudi prince, our Spanish-speaking taxi driver informed us, had his own private plane to take him between Tangier and a small town on the southern coast of Spain, I believe Maravilla or Málaga. The plane apparently has a pool inside it. No big.

            The Hercules Caves were beautiful, and we took a lot of pictures there and clambered over a lot of rocks. Thereafter we had the taxi drivers take us to the Gran Café de Paris, where we ALMOST had coffee and tea in the famous café. Instead, we went back down to the Grand Circle and had lunch. Paul and I were prepared to stop at the burger place, but the others travelled some twenty feet further to get some Moroccan food. I must say, I stand by my choice. I had a cheeseburger with egg on top of it, and watched the guy make it in front of my very eyes. He mixed onions in with the egg, and conversed with me in Spanish all the while. It was wonderful.

            Then we made our way to the train station, where we spent a couple hours chilling before catching the train. Some coffee and ice cream put everyone in a good mood, and we ran into some other kids from school. They were just returning from Spain, and happened to be catching the same train as us.

            The train ride home was a bit confusing, because we had to change trains halfway through but didn’t know the train stop name, and got separated on the first leg of the journey. Maggie, Paul, and I wound up with the kids returning from Spain, and reunited with our travel buddies on the second leg of the journey, where we switched from second class to first class (air conditioning is a beautiful thing, people. Treasure it). We got off the train and had some quick chawarma in Meknes before taking a couple of taxis home.

            This is a very bare-bones description of the weekend, and I could go on for hours about how much fun Tangier was. Now I’m psyched for our break in October, when I’ll be traveling to Granada and have even more opportunities to speak Spanish. So far, this semester is passing far too quickly, and I don’t know if we’ll have enough time for all of the awesome things we want to do. One way or another, it’s going to be a grand adventure.