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.

Random updates

            Well, it’s been a while. I’ve gotten used to life on campus almost completely by now, and writing this blog didn’t cross my mind until just now. In fact, I think I’m starting to switch over to Moroccan time, something which could have terrible consequences if I keep that habit when I return to the states.

            Just a few things to note. One, I have discovered that my history professor here is even crazier than initially anticipated. Today a student came into class somewhere between five and ten minutes late, and he wouldn’t let the kid come to class. He made the kid walk right back out the door. It was terrifying.

            Also, here are a few quotes of things our professor has said in class:

            “History is not a promenade at the sunset on the coast or whatever.” – Said after explaining an assassination.

            “If you read about Rome, it’s worse.” – His response to our laughter at the above statement.

            “He invented NOTHING.” – Our prof’s thoughts on Machiavelli.

            “You had a lot of plagues, a lot of people died.” – A description of 10^th century Europe.

            There’s another thing I keep meaning to mention but forgetting. There is a cleaning lady in my building who is the sweetest person I’ve met since I got here. She doesn’t speak a word of English, and my Arabic consists of stating that I’m a student and counting to 100 (all the way to 900 now!!). Despite this barrier, she always says hi to me (salaam) and asks me how I’m doing (la baas?). And she’s always so happy when I try to respond, or even sometimes just repeat what she says.

            Well, we’re going to Tangier this weekend, so expect another exciting installment of travel in Morocco!

Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world...

            As I was walking up to my room to finish typing up the entry below, I came across one of the quotes that the RAs had posted on the walls all over the building. This one had fallen off and was lying on the stairs. It says, “Our life’s a stage, a comedy: either learn to play and take it lightly, or bear its troubles patiently.” –Palladas. In light of the weekend we just had, I found this quote to be very meaningful, and I’m keeping it at my desk to remind me that if I can’t laugh at myself, life becomes very difficult.

            This weekend was … well, to put it lightly, it was a whirlwind tour. I’m not even sure how to summarize it, so I’ll just go chronologically and we’ll go from there.

            As late as lunchtime Friday afternoon, we still weren’t entirely sure where we were going. We all gathered in Maggie’s room (Henry had to sit outside the door due to campus rules), and it took us about an hour to figure out we were going to stay in the city’s center in Casablanca. We all had class pretty late, so we figured we wouldn’t get out of town until five or so.

            We managed to leave at the same time as a large group heading to Rabat, so we ran into them multiple times – at the globe waiting to leave, at the grand taxi station, at the train station in Meknes. A petit taxi to the grand taxi station, then a grand taxi ride to Meknes. Then we caught the train headed out to Casablanca, and we were on our way.

            First of all, we were split up because someone (not to name any names, but Brian) bought a first class ticket and the rest of us second class, because they ran out of first class tickets. The three girls (Halcyon, Louise, and myself) wound up in a six-person section. Our neighbors were an elderly gentleman with houses in Meknes, Casablanca, and Paris, and a couple of handsome young Moroccans. In fact, our car got progressively more attractive as the trip wore on.

            At one point, the college-aged kid next to me offered to share his music. After initially refusing, I caved after five minutes of boredom. His selection included, among other things, Beyonce’s “If I Were A Boy” and some rap music.

            We got into Casablanca late, around ten or eleven. After getting an expensive taxi ride to the hotel, we discovered that the hotel would only allow two of us to stay in the room we booked. We tried explaining that we could sleep on the floor, but they were adamant. So the boys and I went to the Hotel Astrid, which actually turned out to be quite lovely. With a three-person room priced at 450 MAD a night, it worked out to less than 20$US per person per night.

            That night we went out to La Bodéga, which was in Louise’s Lonely Planet book. It was a tapas bar, and a great way to make us all feel better after the chaos of arriving. The tapas were delicious, the sangria was perfect, and the basement had a dance floor that was, if I may say, quite bumpin’.

            Our walk back to the hotels wore off the tapas high. We decided to navigate the city at night (terrible idea!) and wound up in a dead-end construction zone with some super-sketch Moroccans heckling us. In the end, we got into two petit taxis and spent 20 MAD per taxi getting back. It turned out we were less than a two-minute walk from our hotels, but it may as well have been two miles.

            In the morning I was considerably more chipper, and we went to the Hassan II Mosque. The tour cost more than we expected, but it was definitely worth it. The mosque is beautiful, and features the tallest minaret (the tower part) in the world. It’s built partially on the sea, and it took several years to build it. Of course, when we went I was wearing shorts, so I had to wrap a blanket around my legs. Apparently it’s too immodest, but luckily they had the blankets available.

            While at the mosque, we met an Australian named Dan. After much conversation, we found out he studied abroad at Halcyon’s college, and he decided to hang with us for the day. He was spending the day in Casa before starting a Morocco tour lasting 3 weeks, after which he was going to start a job. Spending nearly half a day with a complete stranger was a lot of fun, since I love strangers.

            We walked for nearly two hours away from the mosque, and wound up paying 70 MAD each to access the beach. That’s when Dan said his goodbyes. Our whiteness stood out a lot, and we attracted some unwanted attention in the form of some really creepy 30-year-olds. They eventually left, but it was really awkward being openly gawked at.

            After going to the beach, we went to Rick’s Café, of Casablanca movie fame. Of course, they built it after the movie was made, and the movie wasn’t even filmed there, but it was still really very cool.

            On Sunday we went to the Arab League Park for a little bit, and then spent a few hours at the Morocco Mall, the largest mall in Africa. There was a giant aquarium in the middle, and a Marjane (their WalMart), and lots of other things. The food court was ginormous and it was a very different feel from our small town outside of campus, Ifrane.

            On the taxi ride to the train station from the mall, we were about halfway there when the driver suddenly announced that the trip would cost 1000 MAD. Henry and I were understandably furious and threatened to leave until he held up a 100 dirham note. So not only was his grasp of English numbers bad, he was STILL overcharging us. We ended up paying the fee, but weren’t very happy about it.

            The train ride home was more relaxing. Well, kind of. At first we didn’t have any seats because they just sell tickets willy-nilly without counting if the number of people and tickets matches. So I was left standing literally in the door of the car, which was open, until about fifteen minutes in when we found seats.

            After a while a mother and her daughters wound up next to us. The little girl kept looking at us pale foreigners, and I wanted to talk to them but I don’t speak any Arabic or French. Figuring that giving a gift of skill is pretty much a universal communication tool, I began folding paper cranes from paper torn out of my magazine. The little girls were delighted, and I had a good time using my garbled mix of Spanish and French with one or two Arabic words.

            We got to Meknes around 8:30 and had dinner at a little shop right next to the train station. Then we were lucky enough to get a nice petit taxi driver (he used the meter!) and at the grand taxi station we found a taxi ride for a reasonable price, especially given that it was dark by that time.

            All in all it was a crazy whirlwind tour of a trip, and while I’m not sure if I would ever go back to Casablanca, it was definitely an adventure. 

If you want to do something, read the criminal law first to make sure it isn't illegal

            I’m happy to say that things are looking up from now. I feel much better (something I partially attest to having reintroduced corn to my diet – how American!), and class is becoming less nerve-wracking. I’m also starting to get better at the whole Moroccan time thing. Nothing of much interest to report, so just a few observations, quirky events, and the like:

            There is very little corn here. Even in the soda, the high fructose corn syrup is – just sugar. We did find some corn nuts at the campus store, but I never realized until now how ubiquitous corn is in America, as well as how unique it is to America. No one else obsesses over it the way we do.

            While I was sitting in the library one fine late morning, a class let out next to me. The students streamed out in twos and threes, followed by their professor. He was carrying a stack of books, and he wore a KU hat. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t act on this, because it’s whatever in the States, besides which I’m not really a sports person. But I am in Africa now. So I thought, “What the hell?” As he started down the steps, I called out softly after him, “Rock chalk!”

            He stopped in his tracks, half turned, and incredulously said, “Jayhawk.” Then he explained that this was the third time in his entire career at the university that he’d heard KU’s slogan. We bonded over the Midwest, and it was awesome.

            To expound on the whole library thing, the library here is beautiful. The Mohammed VI Library is just behind the campus mosque, and on the outside looks much like the rest of campus – red shingle roofs, windows designed to keep the buildings cool. On the inside, there are stacks of books that you can weave through, and on the second floor the ceiling is beautiful to look at. I’ll have to take pictures sometime. It can’t take the place of Ames in my heart, but it’s definitely a cool library.

            My Legal Environment of Business class is the class where I am the only international student. This is interesting because before class, everyone is speaking in not English, so I don’t really have anyone to talk to or even eavesdrop on. There’s nothing wrong with this, it’s just a different feeling to have no idea what anyone is saying.

            Once the class gets started, it proves to be very interesting. The mixture of topics is fascinating to me, and we move from defining plaintiff to explaining where Islamic law applies and where the civil law system applies. And how the civil law system is composed of articles, unlike the common law system which operates off of precedents.

            So that’s all I have for today; after the weekend there may be more fotos depending on what we end up doing!

And so it begins...

            I’m not particularly fond of Morocco tonight. I haven’t been able to work up an appetite for a couple of days now, and feelings of nausea come and go. The food here is driving me nuts, it’s so different and poorly prepared. I have been drinking water almost constantly but I still feel dehydrated, and I swear I’m not getting enough iron because I’m avoiding the meat like the plague.

            The chocolat chou (spelling dubious) in my hands proved a useful ward against the chill of a mountain night as I made my way back to my room after the Club Fair. At the fair I was able to muster enough excitement to temporarily banish my stomach problems, particularly seeing the Astronomy Club’s posters and such. I’m hoping sleep will help, so I’m going to bed extra-early tonight. I’m not sure how I can focus on academics and travelling when I put so much effort into trying to keep my body functioning.

            Hopefully the next time you hear from me I will have adjusted, but I’m definitely feeling the culture shock tonight. How can the cafeteria bathroom run out of toilet paper? How is that okay? And if food poisoning is as common as everyone says, why has there been no change?

            Hoping things will look better in the morning, Unhappy Camper.