I must send all of my winter clothes and schoolwork home, but I can’t get a reservation for a company to pick up my luggage so I decide to go to the Fed Ex by the airport. I get to the airport free of charge thanks to a glitch in the system of the Belgian rail network. I ask the information desk where the Fed Ex is, and it turns out that I have a 5km walk after a 10km bus ride. The snow is 3 inches thick at this point and getting really wet with the increasing heat. I take the bus, but the driver doesn’t know where anything is. I walk to a sign I see with the company name, but it is reception for logistics, and it turns out I have walked in completely the wrong direction. I walk to the correct building, and after trying a few doors; I finally get my luggage shipped. It costs me 250 Euro. Western wasn’t content just getting my grades, they actually wanted to see every assignment. I walk back to the bus stop and take the train home to finish packing. I thought that it would take me two hours. It has in fact taken five. I still think I have three hours until the train leaves though. It turns out I read the ticket incorrectly and I have one hour to go to a copy shop, print out my tickets, and get to the train station. I am dripping sweat in the metro by the time I get to the train station.
I make the train to Paris, at the expense of my USB, which is left in the copy shop, and my shave kit. My shave kit I realize on the train also has my malaria pills. Shit. I get to Paris and go to the address my hostel is supposed to be. When I step out of the metro I see a drug deal. I turn around and see another. I am in a pretty rough neighborhood. After an hour of looking (my backpack and computer bag slow me down considerably) I go into a hotel and ask someone. They turn me away. I go to the hotel next door. After they look off and on for an hour they find the place, across town. I get on a bus, which goes by the lame American statue of liberty given to the French. After some walking find the place. They do not have my reservation on file. I pay again. I barely get to speak to my roommates before I fall asleep around 1 am. My flight is at 10 the next morning, and I need to be on the bus by 7:30.
The next morning I wake up at 7 since I don’t have an alarm. I put my pants on and I’m back to the metro. I arrive to see the bus pull away, and have to wait for the next one. It drops me off after the plane is full. I didn’t buy insurance so the next plane to Madrid costs me another 100 euro. I have no money now. I wait for the boarding at 5. I go through security. The plane is supposed to leave at 7, but it doesn’t come. The departure time is moved back to 11. I call my friend who I’m supposed to meet, thanks to a sympathetic francophone but I get no response. He is probably out eating though, as I did tell him I’d be there around 1. I leave a message, but he has no way of calling me back. The flight is moved back to 11, meaning it will arrive around 1:30am. I am very afraid at this point of having to spend a week in the Paris airport. I absolutely have to get in touch with Alex, and I am not sure if I can reach him by phone. For the first time in a long while I am genuinely afraid, I do not know what I can do since I have nothing left in my bank account. I haven’t eaten since lunch yesterday, and due to finals I have had almost no sleep. It is a bad feeling.
The plane is moved back to 11:45 and finally canceled. Everyone goes crazy. Everyone is screaming in Spanish after they make the announcement the plane will not come in French. It takes about an hour for everyone to calm down and for someone to explain to me what’s going on. Then there is a sit in for an hour, which I am a part of because if the airline doesn’t keep their word I am not in great shape. The company says they will put us up in a hotel and pay for whatever expenses we occur. A free weekend in Paris, I think, it could be worse. We all get on busses that drop us off in the middle of Paris. No one else is going to the hotel where we are supposed to be staying. I run around frantically asking people where they are going and stumble upon a 50-euro note. Praise Jesus. I have no idea where the hotel is, so I hail a cab and we go. When we get to the hotel they have no idea what I am talking about. They say there is no way for them to bill the company provided on the piece of paper. After about half an hour of negotiations they say they will bill me for a room. The room is 85 euro and it is 4:30 in the morning. I ask if I can wait in the lobby until the metro starts up at 5, and they agree. They bring me a hot coca, and suggest that I go to sleep in the bar. I walk to the hotel bar and find a very dimly lit room with a loveseat in the middle. When I wake up I get some very strange looks from the staff, which has since changed shifts. I ask where the metro is and get out.
Over the next few days I do all the touristy things, and my Belgian visa gets me into all of them for free. Finally, it was good for something. The Louvre is enormous, and after looking at the Egyptian collection, which is good for me because I just finished the class on Egyptian esthetics, I leave. I see several Van Gogh and Manet paintings at another museum, as well as the Venus on the couch with a black lady or whatever it’s called. I like it a little too much in a funny way I think. Maybe I am not tortured by the idea of beauty enough? I am worn out by around 8 every day, but a few days I push on. I am sleeping roughly 10-16 hours every night. I am so tired all the time. I do make it to midnight mass at Notre Dame, and it is packed. I continually nod off, and the novelty wears off pretty quickly. Christmas day I go to a pastry shop, and walk around like a normal day. Paris is pretty cool. When I first arrived, I didn’t really understand the romanticism tied up with it, but with time it started to grow on me. It wouldn’t be a bad place to live, I could never afford a place to make it worth it, but nonetheless. However, I did have a major issue with one thing. There are 400 free public toilets in Paris. None of them on the seine actually work. This is discomforting considering walking at a very brisk pace will still take one an hour and a half to get across town after the metro has stopped. I was a few minutes from a very shameful vacation when I got to the hostel.
I wake up and leave the hostel with plenty of time to catch my plane this time. I wait in the airport for a pithy 5 hours instead of the marathon 15 for my first flight that was cancelled. However, I am not as disciplined this time, and I buy a sandwich so I can watch the simpsons while I wait.
26/12/09
I am in Madrid now, after a very short flight. I am picked up at the airport by an old neighbor and his chika. She is very nice, and they buy me drink after drink. Madrid as it turns out is a strange city. It is built on sand, so there are buildings that go over 11 stories underground easily. Parking is not an issue, because most garages go at least five floors under. There is no grid to speak of, and so the streets are confusing beyond all reason. Maps don’t even help. Mind, I have been in Brussels for four months. A city generally considered to be terrible. Three solid days of walking through downtown Madrid and I still didn’t have my bearings. However, the concept of the tapas is so beautiful I can forgive the city. That may be the thing Belgian bars are lacking most, just a little snack to go with your beer. Anyhow, since Alex (my neighbor) is dating a Spaniard, we go to a lot of family functions. Christmas leftovers are had for lunch one day. New years is celebrated with a lot of rum. Things are pretty good sleeping on a mattress on the kitchen floor, and the apartment is easy enough to find once I figure out where it is in the first place. I bring three bottles of what I think is the best beer on earth, and a bottle of very nice absinthe. Things go the opposite of how I expect them too. They brood over the absinthe, but seem to think the beer that I have brought was too strong. However, it makes for a great conversation starter and maintainer one night, so I won’t complain that they didn’t like it as much as I did. I see the art museum there as well, it is sort of a blur, since I have been to so many, and it is older art which isn’t really my bag so I don’t recognize any of the stuff the way I did at the Magritte museum. We go to a small town called Segovia at one point, and I really like it there. The people are friendly, the roads make sense, there are aqueducts from the Romans, and the food is fantastic. It is pretty cool. I take the train back that night, and Alex, his lover and his daughter stay in a chalet somewhere. I have a good time that night alone in the apartment even though it takes about three hours to get back on the last train, which is local and stops everywhere possible. (I really like being alone in the houses of other people and I’m not quite sure why. Please, if you need a house sitter call me.) The week with Alex flies by. Which is good, but it’s kind of terrible that when you don’t want to go you always have to, and when you want to leave, you have to keep on going. I think I was right on the edge of outstaying my welcome though, so it’s probably good that I left when I did. The last night I’m there we watch a horrible sci-fi movie and drink the remainder of the old absinthe Alex’s girlfriend had while she is at work. We also have a leg of ham we slice pieces off of when we feel peckish. An entire leg of ham, and it is beautiful. It is one of the best times I have had in awhile. In the morning I get up fairly early to make sure I don’t forget anything. I leave my buff behind (why do I even bother trying to make sure I have everything? I need to just start going.) He is nice enough to make me lunch and put it in a paper bag. Someone at the airport is nice enough to knock my computer over during the security check and while I swoop down to pick it up a guard is nice enough to throw my lunch away.
2/1/2010
When I get into Morocco I notice something immediately. That is the sun. The sun is out, and it is actually warm. I could cry. It is January 2nd, and it is a balmy bright day. The train ride into town is pretty cool. Although, we go by a lot of dilapidated abandoned houses, and shantytowns made out of wavy sheets of metal. They all have a satellite dish though, and it makes me wonder where priorities are. Since I learned the beggars wouldn’t take bread it has crushed my faith in the less fortunate. Seriously though, not a single beggar would take a half of the bread I was eating. Am I really eating things that are below people who don’t have houses? Anyway.
We get to the end of the line of the train. None of the stations have any sort of markings, so I have to figure out where we are. I fall asleep and wake up at the terminus. I think I slept through my stop, but a very helpful flight attendant tells me that I have to transfer at the station. I go to the vaguely indicated cay and wait. The train changes from Porte Casa where I need to go, to Marrakesh. I ask the ticket taker, and he has no idea. There is lots of yelling in Arabic, and he tells me that the next one is what I need. He says that he doesn’t know when the next one will come. “Insh’allah” I reply. He thinks this is apparently very funny. I am asked a lot of questions by two older women, who apparently just like talking to travelers, and they tell me when to get off of the train. I step out, and realize that I will never be able to find my hotel, especially pulling all of my crap. I am bombarded by taxi offers, and I shrug them off initially to use an atm. I pull out 500 diram, roughly 70 dollars. Though, I think the exchange rate I have is really old, and the dirham has moved down since then. I go back out to the zone and the cab offers come again. I ask how much and they say 20 dr. This is roughly half the price of stepping into a cab in Brussels, and I am pretty happy. I probably should have haggled, but oh well. It takes me to the hotel, and the guy pushes a private tour for 200. No thanks I tell him, I’d rather walk around. I get into the hotel and I find some soap. I take a bath in water that could have probably cooked a few crabs. I wash myself until the tiny soap is all but gone, and the water is the color of concrete. It doesn’t occur to me until later that it was good that I didn’t swallow any.
I walk out and go to the first stand I see, since I haven’t eaten anything for a day. It is a kebab. I swore I’d had enough of these in Brussels, but I’m pretty hungry. The menu is in Arabic so I point. I get the kebab, and it is so good. I eat it and towards the bottom I notice there is brain. I look up and see them pull out a sheep skull and replace it with another sheep’s head. But it is so good I have another. Two of those and three teas set me back a whopping $2.00, which is great. I buy some bananas for a few more cents, and go back to the hotel after wandering around and watching some street raï for a while. I have a few names of people who said I could stay with them as I am carrying all my money around with me and the hotel was $20; I’ll call them tomorrow.
The next day I wake up and take another shower. I ask the clerk of the hotel if I can use the phone, and he says it’s fine. However, he has to call the number to be sure I’m really calling someone in Morocco. He screws up the number a few times and then tells me it’s not Moroccan. I ask him to do it again, and he angrily says no. I ask him if he’s sure he dialed the right number, and he says he knows how to use a phone. He gets angry and shows me the redial screen. I look, and I show him the two incorrect numbers he dialed that time. He grumbles and another call is made. This time it goes through. I talk to someone who sounds pretty relaxed, and in a very poor conversation on both of our ends, I tell him where I am. I finally grab a card and tell him the hotel’s address. He says he’ll be there in an hour. An hour later I am in the lobby watching a movie about sustainable agriculture in Québec, fighting off my own desire to sleep. The reception gets a call and there is a lot of yelling in Arabic. “Your friend calls” the clerk says “he went to Ave. 6 Novembre not rue 6 Novembre. He’ll be here in a few minutes.” I wait longer and another movie on people in Columbia who pop wheelies in Jeeps comes on. Finally he comes, and I leave the hotel. When I get to his house, there is a giant spread in front of me. Chocolates, tea, dates, nuts, everything, and I am completely overwhelmed. I meet several members of the substantial household, and they sit around streaining to keep smiling at me. We talk about how I have already been scammed out of some money (cab rides should cost no more than one dollar.) It was a little disconcerting being there. Finally after a lot of really good food they ask me if I’m tired. I gratefully accept the hint and go to sleep. I wake up to a knock at the door. My host has arranged a night on the town. I am embarrassed further, and we go in the car of a friend of his. It is like a flashback to high school. We pick up some girls and we go to a coffee shop. Then we get pizza. However, this made me happy because there was a bottle of really good spicy sauce, with an Arabic label, so unfortunately I have no idea what it was called. Everyone warns me that it’s not ketchup when I cover a slice with it. At one point one of the girls grabs my arm. I have no idea what to do, so I just keep walking with her. We drop everyone off by 11:30 and I am asleep by 12:30 after talking with my host a little more.
The next day he has class so I go out into the city. I see the Hassan II Mosque, which is beautiful, but unfortunately closed. I go into the old medina, and immediately get offers to be guided. I mutter in Russian and walk faster. It is sunny and warm and everyone is wearing a wool coat. I am dying. It finally starts raining and it feels so good. I get back home and have a nap. I wake up and am pulled upstairs by the family for coffee and dinner. Dinner is lamb with dates and it takes me awhile to figure out how to push the pit of the date out with a piece of bread. After dinner my host takes me to a cyber café. We stay for awhile. Apparently MSN is huge in Morocco. He tells me of some places I should visit and I go to sleep.
The next day I wake up and go back to the café, hoping to be able to plan my trip out of Casablanca. I reserve hostels, except for a four day stretch where my host has promised he can talk to some people and get me an already dirt cheap hotel cheaper. Hospitality is done a strange way here. Instead of asking you if you would like something, they just insist you take it. Refusing is pointless. My guidebook/etiquette book said to refuse three times is enough. This is complete crap. It is impossible to refuse. It is impossible to pay for anything if your host takes you out. He talks about the girls the night before. “They were lying about everything” he says. “They’ve never left Casablanca, I can tell. They never lived in any other cities, and they don’t live in a bad neighborhood because they’re living alone.” It is hard to tell what a bad neighborhood is here. It is also impossible for me to tell who is lying, and they seem to lie through their teeth here. They are very helpful though, to the extent where if you ask for directions they’ll give them to you, even if they don’t know the way either. I come back and have another nap. Naps are something that I am learning to love here. Staying for four days seems like too long now. I reserve a hostel for the next day, because it costs 5 dollars and if I skip out and lose the $5 I won’t really care. I am not sure if I will actually stay the next day, but I will have to be up very early for the taxi so I should decide. I should also really buy a gift for the family. I don’t think I’m going to leave tomorrow, but my plans have changed more rapidly before.
I wind up staying another day because I need to get a gift for the family, and they are making less of a fuss over me so I feel more comfortable. I keep asking the only non-veiled daughter if I am staying for too long and she keeps saying that I could stay the month if I wanted too. I think she is lying but I can’t tell. She is the only one who has hinted that she may be unhappy, or that bad things happen in Morocco. My host said that he would reserve me a hotel in Marrakech. When he gets back, he announces that he will be coming with me. When he tells me this he sits on my bed and smashes the boxes of chocolates that I got for the family. At that moment his father comes in and gives me two sweaters. I try to refuse, but kindness is something that is forced here. I force him to take the chocolates, after ten minutes of arguing. Finally I convince him by saying that I will have to throw them away if he doesn’t take them. We go to sleep, which I am grateful for. I have never been more tired than I am here.
When I wake up it is pouring rain outside. We head out to try and find a cab. It is nearly impossible due to the rain, since there are less cabs and everyone wants one compared to a sunny day. We finally jump in with someone else and go. I have to put my pack on top of the car, which makes me nervous, partly because I have packed too much and I don’t want anything to get wet, but mostly because the way taxi drivers go in Casablanca an anvil wouldn’t stay on top of their cars. I strap it onto the roof rack and we go. When we get there it is still on top. The driver did a good job of being careful. I go to an ATM and withdraw 1,500 dirham, roughly $150. Thank you mom for depositing into my account while I was in Spain. I turn round and my host has bought my ticket because we are late for the train. However, it is delayed 25 minutes, so there is not really an issue. The train ride is beautiful. Though we are delayed at several points. Everyone else seems very aggravated. I am okay with it. We get to Marrakech (pronounced mare-e-couche) and after a lot of bickering with the cabby we go to a hotel. A cobra is put on my arm. My host tries to buy a barber’s table. other things happen. It is a pretty tourist city, and other than the souk (bazaar) there is not much to do. I do manage to get a fez hat, and a pair of wayfarers for $4. Hells yes. Even though they are fake I don’t care.
We go to a little town called Agadir. The bus leaves at 2:30 and gets there at 7, so since we are both incredibly tired we go to a hotel. I want to sleep, but since our shower doesn’t work we move to a different room. It turns out we are the only guests and only one of the room’s showers work, but it is a single and they won’t allow us to sleep in a room with only one bed. I am not sure why, but they keep saying it is because he is arab and I am a westerner. Homophobic racism? Who knows. We sleep awhile. After, we go to the beach. I meet someone who emailed me, and my host meets a friend. The person who emailed me turns out to be an English major who wants to practice. She is very nice. Her fiancée turns out to have had a wife. She goes and so does the other girl. We eat and decide to go to Essouaria the next day. We go by bus without incident. My host is getting meaner and meaner about money. I do not really care, but he keeps accounts pretty tight. He also has a charming way of letting me know when it’s my turn to get something. It goes “Farris pay!” I am not okay with that. The town is very nice and much cleaner than a lot of other places. Morocco has huge trash heaps along the side of the road, so some picturesque land winds up looking pretty terrible. The next day I try to get to Meknes via Casablanca where he will stay. The bus arrives at 12 for a three hour trip. We argue with the baggage people who want more than the ticket cost to load our stuff (possibly because I am white, racism is pretty overt here. They don’t like white people paying what the locals do and they don’t like interracial marriages.) The driver comes out and there is a lot of yelling and finally the driver chokes one of the bag guys and throws him on the ground points at us and yells a lot more. I have seen this exact scene so many times at bus stations in Morocco. I am surprised there isn’t someone choking someone else on the flag. We depart and within fifteen minutes the bus breaks down. It manages to pull itself to the next town, where a five year old fixes it. It is smoking by this point. It takes us another 9 hours to go 150 km. This is an average speed of just over 10 mph. The door also doesn’t close so it is really dusty and I feel like the bus is slowly killing me. A friend told me he knew someone who died on a coach. I think that might be the worst way to die. It sucks. Most of us are asleep and suddenly, bang! It is terrifying, and the bus engine stops completely. Someone tells me it was on fire. That could have been bad. Finally they call another bus. We buy some bread and a bit of meat and the butcher cooks us a pretty decent pita over a fire. We get to Casa around 12. I go to my host’s house, where there is now a Quebecoise girl staying. She is pretty unpleasant to be around. I go to sleep.
I wake up and get the train to Menkes. While waiting a kid comes up to me. You can tell when someone is going to ask for money, they just have an air. He starts to talk to me. I tell him in Russian that I only speak Russian. (This is an incredibly useful phrase. Probably the most useful thing I learned in Brussels. Thanks Farwell Affair.) He makes like he is eating and says “I’m hungry” however, he’s wearing jeans, which are very expensive here. I offer him half a round of bread and he refuses. I yell at him in Russian throw a 10 euro cent piece and point to it yelling more. He doesn’t move so I push him out of the seat next to me but he sits down again. I get up and he follows me and while making a fake apology he tries to pick my pocket. He goes for the wrong one and it is embarrassingly clumsy. I shove him off and he falls over, and I briefly get the urge to start beating the shit out of him right there in the train station. I have mace I think, that would hurt like a bitch. Instead I just yell “Voleur!” (thief) and a cop stars to run over. The kid scrambles off. I cannot remember being this upset about anything. It takes me awhile to calm down on the train. When I get off, I am haggling with a cab driver and a guy with a water truck comes by and offers me a ride. He swears a lot talking about the cab drivers, and I get to ride on a few hundred bottles of water. I try to pay him, but like I said, generosity is compulsory here. Meknes itself is gorgeous. There is a park, and I have a pleasant lunch in it. It is a great city, and I meet two girls who agree to show me around. We go to the tomb of an old sultan, which is incredible, like the Moroccan Versailles. I have to be in back in the hostel by 10, so we agree to meet the next day.
That night my hard drive crashed, so I stopped writing. I am not going to write now and try to fill in, as that would be unfair. I hope you have enjoyed the preceding. Bon chance et bonne nuit
