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.
