August 15th, 2008
RIsing early, our friend and unofficial guide Mohamed was waiting for us at the cafe outside the Ibis hotel in Fez with a grand taxi that would take us to Volubilis, nearby Moulay Idriss, and then Meknes and back home again all in one day. The trip to Volubilis took a little over an hour, and we found grand taxis to be superior in every way to the petite taxis, which are smaller, less comfortable, and whose drivers are completely without caution. By comparison, our grand taxi’s driver, Hamid Zerheri (GSM: (212) 064-43-68-87, Fez), was an excellent and cautious driver, using his blinker and obeying all traffic laws, but still able to drive in highly energized traffic, when encountered. He also spoke English well, and gave us good information about the countryside and mountains as we drove along.
Upon arriving at the site of this ancient city, we waited for about a half hour while an English-speaking guide was found for us. He proved to be well worth the wait, however, as he was both knowledgeable and possessing of a great sense of humor.
The most striking aspect of Volubilis (a name which means Morning Glory) that could be sensed even as we viewed it from a distance was the sense of permanence. You could feel the weight of the site, ruined though it was from the ages, knowing that future generations would look upon it from such a distance through time that the difference between our own time and that of the Romans might be hazy in their minds. Such is the sense of steadfastness in their architecture that its endurance is beyond question. What do we build that might last even a fraction as long?
The primary industry in Volubilis through its entire history revolves around olives. The surrounding country side looked much the same in Roman times (and even before, for Volubilis was a Romanized settlement, not an original Roman creation) as it does today, with the hills planted with ordered rows of harty olive trees. We were shown countless olive presses with their massive grinding stones, including one working reconstruction.
All the buildings in Volubilis, save for one, were one-story constructions. In the less affluent part of town, they consisted of simple dwellings with two rooms, perhaps 250 square feet in total. The larger, more expensive villas varied in size, but some massive villas with multiple courtyards encompassed thousands of square feet.
It is in these villas that they have uncovered some magnificent works, such as the mosaics (still in place at the site) and bronze statues and decorations (now on display at the museum in Rabat, for protection from thieves).
The most magnificent architectural remnants at Volubilis are the Arc de Triumph and the Basilica. The basillica, we were told, was not a church at all, but a center of government. It was here that councils were held, grievances were settled, and sacrifices were made. Still standing are several Corinthian columns, partially restored from the damage they received in the 1755 Lisbon earthquake (fortunately, an archaeolgist had made some good sketches prior to the quake). Also standing is the more magnificent western arcade of the basilica, next to the forum.
The Arc de Triumph was built to honor Emperor Caracalla’s raising of the town to the status of “municipium” (free city, no taxes), which also made the local Berber inhabitants of the towns into Roman Citizens, a status which all under Roman rule at the time aspired to. The Arch still stands, largely intact, a triumph in and of itself.
The visit to Volubilis has been one of the best experiences of the trip so far.
For more information and dates on Volubilis, go here.
For pictures, go here.
Driving in Morocco is not for the faint of heart. Traffic signals, where they exist, seem to be obeyed most of the time, but they are the exception. Streets rarely run at right angles, though, and often times many come together at strategic locations. Sometimes they place roundabouts at these locations, and I can’t tell if that makes the situation better or worse.
The main problem is that on the road you have a confusion of automobiles (all belching emissions that wouldn’t be allowed from 100 cars in total anywhere in the U.S.) trucks, petit taxis (local taxis, probably the worst offenders), mule-carts, mopeds, dirt bikes, motorcycles (all small engines), bicycles, and even pedestrians (sometimes going with the traffic, not trying to cross it).
Crossing the street itself is a matter of faith. You have to just assume that you will be seen and that they are used to having to dodge you. In fact, you can always tell how long someone has been in Morocco by how they cross the street. If they stop and look both ways and hesitate at all to cross, they must be tourists (and not very experienced ones, at that). The locals all tend to shuffle into the nearest lane, which they consider their property anyway, and then wait for a break in traffic to proceed across. (Note: A break in traffic means any space physically large enough for them to fit their body into, not a stretch of time where no cars are coming).
The lane markings are sort of an inside joke, I think. It is pretty common to see cars driving down the road, strattling these markings. Where traffic is the worst, you’ll have motorcycles, bicycles, and pedestrians on the right, which pushes car traffic in that lane to the left, encroaching well into the next lane. This pushes these cars out across the center line, and the oncoming traffic has the same issue. All-in-all, there is never any fear of a driver falling asleep at the wheel.
Despite the apparent disregard for traffic law, they still have many traffic cops. We’ve seen a few riding around undersized motorcycles, assumedly to pull over offenders. Most often we see them at intersections, roundabouts, or in busy areas in front of train stations and other taxi-heavy areas. Their weapon is the whistle, which they blow when they spot an infraction, waving down the offender in order to haul them to the guillotine (we think).
Traffic cops are not numerous enough to enforce order, so a system of communication by honking has been developed. Whereas in America, honking is often a relatively simple message that takes the place of the common expletive, there is a complicated heirarchy of honking in Morocco. The duration and number of honks changes the message drastically, though it is undoubtedly beyond the ken of any non-native. We have verified instances of honking being used to tell someone that they are about to be passed on the right, that they need to speed up, that it is not there turn, that they are happy to see them, and that the DOW Jones Industrial Average dropped 30 points today.
8/14/2008
Upon arrival at the table, the host took our drink orders and returned promptly with two large glass bottles of Orange Fanta, taking our dinner order in the process. As the crowd began to filter in, we snapped pictures and enjoyed the excellent atmosphere and soda. Soon we were brought a basket of wedge-shaped pieces of bread that had been cut from loaves about 2 inches thick, and 8 inches in diameter (the same as we had eaten earlier in the day with our meal at the Strong-Arm cafe).
Content to munch on the delicious bread, as we were very famished from our day’s perils, we were soon brought Moroccan salad, which came with our meal. Initially I was almost sad to see such a spread go to waste, thinking that most of it would not agree with our tastebuds, but spying a dish that looked almost indistinguishable from April’s favorite ‘pico de gallo’ I was cautiously optimistic. Upon tasting it, she was extremely pleased and the rest of the dishes were all tasted in turn. (The can each be seen in the gallery linked to below. Descriptions follow from left-to-right, starting at the top row and moving down)
The beets in the upper left were good, as far as beets go, and I had a few. April did not care for them. The next dish was boiled potatoes with corn and some kind of herb (April and I both enjoyed this, as it tastes much better than it sounds). Next was some sort of BBQ-like mash of olives, which I thought was palatable and April did not care for. The pico-de-gallo clone came next, a mixture of tomatoes, onions, cucumbers, and cilantro. April and I both enjoyed this one and it got the most attention. Next were the usual olives, which neither of us cared for. Carrots in some kind of glaze followed, which were edible though nothing special. After this was a sort of warm tomato mixture that tasted like a good pizza sauce. Finally came a cooked version of the pico-like substance, but with peppers instead of cucumbers.
As we dined on this, the first Andalusian musicians left, and in came a troupe of traditional musicians from the Rif, singing and playing their drums and shears (yes, shears) with enthusiasm, spinning their large Bendir drums in pairs to add to the spectacle.
After this troupe exited, in came the original Andalusian musicians with the first belly-dancer, who made the crowd a part of the show by having us clap for accompaniment. This was enforced as she went into the crowd and pulled non-compliant patrons onto the stage to dance with her. Despite acquiescence, April was chosen as one of her victims towards the end and waggled her posterior at the crowd. All the while I was nothing but somber, feeling her pain 
After this belly dancer came a French Musician. Despite facing the crowd, none of is his illusions were transparent from the side, as he poured water into a newspaper and made it disappear, made a dove appear from his hands, and extricated an unlucky French woman’s brassiere from her shirt after making it purr and mew like a kitten and mover under its own accord, much to her discomfort.
While he was entertaining the masses, our food arrived: chicken couscous for April and lamb brouchettes with raisined rice for myself. This made it difficult to pay attention to the magician, but we’re sure he violated many laws of physics.
While we enjoyed the main course, two more female singer/dancers entered the stage and provided good entertainment. Next came the final belly dancer, nick-named the “pyro.” Not content to gyrate in scant clothing, halfway through the performance the lights were dimmed and she was brought flaming sticks to enhance her performance. She rubbed the flame across her arms and legs, and held the lit end of the sticks between her teeth as she danced, with good response from the crowd.
After finishing the main course, we were treated to dessert of some soft cookies and traditional Moroccan mint tea (wonderful!) For the final act, four members of the audience were taken in the back and changed into traditional Moroccan wedding attire. They were paraded to the stage with musical accompaniment and the ceremony was demonstrated, involving placing the bride on a large platter which was lifted and rotated in the air several times, presumably to disorient her enough to proceed with the marriage. After this, our guide Mohamed returned and we beat the crowd to the door, bidding the waitstaff good evening and thanking them for the wonderful evening of entertainment, sure to be a highlight of our trip.
8/14/2008
The train to Rabat reminded us very much of that first ride from the airport into and through Casablanca. The “suburbs” here are a far cry from the American concept of urban extension. With a few exceptions, the houses here are dirty, ramshackle affairs with satellite dishes practically duct-taped to the roof or other high-point.
As the train wound through the countryside between Rabat and Fes, taking some 4 hours, we were constantly reminded that we were foreigners here, as we had a hard time figuring out even where our cabin in first class (well worth the ~$4 upgrade) was. As the train went along, we also realized we had no idea which stop was ours, and we had to resort to harassing our compartment-mates to be sure. A friendly fellow in the hallway typified the ‘good Moroccan’ by telling us “no” at every stop that was not our Fez, enthusiastically saying “yes” when it came up. It is these sorts of encounters that at this point were keeping the adventure on track.
As we traveled deeper into Morocco and left the tourist-saturated coastline behind, we felt more and more isolated as English-speakers became nearly impossible to find. Perhaps it was for this reason that we struck up a conversation with a local gentleman, Hassan (the same name given by the guide who showed us the medina of Rabat), when we arrived at the Fez stop who seemed very happy to find some Americans in Fez. Our suspicions were slightly aroused when he promised to wait outside the hotel (conveniently next to the train station) for 45 minutes (or meet us in front in 45 minutes) to show us to a good place to eat. On the way in a very official-looking guide with an ID offered assistance, but we were already soured on the concepts of guides, and didn’t really want to be guided anywhere today.
When we arrived in the hotel lobby (strikingly similar to the one we left behind in Rabat), we were told that the hotel couldn’t check us in until noon, in 45 minutes. Thinking this would sour Hassan’s schedule and rid us of his pressure, we waited in the lobby in front of the doorway to the pool until they allowed us to check in. Once we checked into the room at the Hotel Ibis Fez (almost identical to the Hotel Ibis Rabat room we checked out of that morning, but a bit shorter) we began unpacking our things and noticed Hassan lurking on the street below, apparently wondering where we were. We continued packing and freshening up, and after 45 minutes or so our hunger got the better of us and we went outside.
There was Hassan, sans-Fez, waiting for us in front, overjoyed after having waited nearly an hour and a half for some random strangers he exchanged a few sentences with that morning. I was now quite sure this was one of the “unofficial guides” that our Morocco books warned could be either a blessing or a curse. He tried to convince us that we wanted to see the sites of Fez and that he knew the perfect official guide who was very knowledgeable and spoke excellent English (his own was passable, but heavily accented and hard to understand, especially as he got into full swing during his sales pitch). Insisting that our plan for today was for nothing more than to eat a good lunch and recouperate at the pool, he acquiesced, but led us to “the perfect place” to eat. He brought us inside, praising the cleanliness of the establishment (“the cleanest in the whole city”) and showed us the menu, allowing us to choose if we wanted to eat there with absolutely no pressure at all (“as you wish, as you wish”). Having been greeted by the entire waitstaff, we felt no pressure whatsoever to tell them that after seeing their restaurant and menu (and prices) we didn’t want to eat there.
Nevertheless, we escaped quickly and he showed us a real “cheap” restaurant that was the “cleanest in the city,” only about 5 minutes walk down the street. Here he showed us to the upstairs room (a nice touch, I’ll admit) and talked rapidly to the staff which quickly brought us a menu and some bread. Sitting down with a Coke himself (we never saw him pay) he continued talking with us about the best practice for obtaining eternal paradise, career advice, and advice on love, all the while making sure we felt no pressure whatsoever.
We ordered from the menu, consisting of 3 choices, each for about $9 and enjoyed our sodas with our dubious friend while he made plans for a trip to the ruins of Volubilis we had foolishly mentioned. In the end, as our food came and he continued to harass him, I had to politely ask him to leave us in peace, which he did after writing down on paper his price quote for a guide and travel to Volubilis. We finished eating the lackluster meal of grilled chicken, lamb, and steak with Moroccan salad (largely untouched due to questions of cleanliness) and paid the bill with a small tip (Hassan told us to make sure that we paid a good tip because they don’t get to keep 20% of the tab, like in New York City).
Walking back to the hotel, dejected at being so easily commandeered by aggressive sheistering, we came across a dress shop that we discovered wanted 3000 dirhams for an admittedly nice-looking woman’s dress. We quickly left and returned to the hotel, passing a cyber cafe on the way. Picking up the laptop back in the room, we headed back out to post pictures and blog comments typed up the night before in Rabat.
After hooking into their internet for almost 2 hours (10 dirhams/hr) and getting a copy of the Gimp (over 120 kb/s download speed, not too bad) we were back to the hotel, relieved to have had a chance to check email and get back into communication with the civilized world. We retreated to the room, though, feeling a bit beat-down by the pressure of the hard-sell sharks swimming just outside the lobby door.
Deciding the best course of action was to get some relaxation in, we took full advantage of the hotel pool, which was crowded with Moroccans and French tourists (or locals?) and many children. Nevertheless, the swim provided excellent relaxation and was an enjoyable opportunity to interact with normal Moroccans, who mostly live up to the hype of being extremely friendly and easy-going. They also seem to take great joy in playing with their children, which is heart-warming to witness.
Returning to the room, refreshed, we spent 2 and a half hours getting rats out of April’s hair and washing laundry in the bathroom sink, until our spirits recovered and our stomachs began grumbling. We were about to encounter yet another guide as we could check our hunger no longer.
We checked our only source of trustworthy information, the guides we had brought along and selected a restaurant that was rated very highly, even if it was in the highest price category. Also listed in the description was a belly-dancing show that we hoped would buoy our spirits and salvage the day. We never made it to the restaurant…
Once in the street outside the hotel, we were accosted by a gentleman with a large mole on his face who didn’t know where the restaurant was, so he took us across the street to a cafe where his friend was, who spoke better English. At this point, our hopes were back to an all-time low and we prepared for a fight to extricate ourselves from a hustle. This is where we met Mohamed, who told us that the restaurant we wanted to go to was crap (interpretted: he could get a bigger cut of the tab somewhere else).
After explaining that no one goes to that place, and that he knew of a better place that also had belly dancing, we were suspicious, but agreed to check it out. He had a friend drive us in his Mercedes for 30 dirhams (not a bad rate) to the medina. As we drove along he pointed out sights to us and I told him that I didn’t exactly trust him. Even so, his easy-going manner, good sense of humor, and a genuineness that April and I both detected despite being on guard caused us to gain some measure of trust in him. The taxi let us off at the medina and he got out with us and guided us through the winding labyrinth which would have been impossible to navigate without a good map (which we lacked) and a compass (which we always carry).
As we walked along, he pointed out a few architectural features and gave us the history, but the walk was very short. Turning the corner we abruptly came upon our destination, and as with the Restaurant Dinarjat stepped in and slightly down into a beautiful medina-house. As is typical, only the doorway had any adornment, all this was reserved for the inside.
Once inside our spirits were immediately lifted. The high-ceilinged main room was literally covered with exquisite blue and white zellij tile-work, rich and intricate woodwork, gorgeous stone carvings, and opulent table settings. Expecting to be led to a table, we were instead lead up the stairs, not stopping at the upper balcony but instead continuing to the roof.
Here the cool air and gorgeous view of all of Rabat’s medina was breath-taking. Going still further up from the first roof-landing, we went to another terrace, then still another higher terrace. Finally taking in the medina, visible on all sides in the late evening sun, our spirits were never higher. On all sides you could feel the essence of Morocco, which we had only glimpsed previously in the Rabat souk and Restaurant Dinarjat. But here was that same experience, multiplied manifold and in a completely pressure-free environment. The host of the restaurant took our drink orders, joked with us, and made us feel even more welcomed, as we were the first customers in the establishment for the evening.
With Mohamed, we had the entire roof to ourselves and he drank soda with us as we waited for night to fall and the restaurant to open. Here was the antithesis of our morning guide. Instead of seeking to control us, he listened, and told us about his philosophy, and his real job. He was forthright when we asked about scams (which our guides have been spot-on in preparing us for) and even told us that the sorts of carpets he sells for his real job are the kind you give for a gift to a friend, and last only a couple years. His philosophy on sales is the same one I had when I sold tools. Anyone can tell a lie and make a little money very easily. If you take your time and are honest, you can make much more money and get a customer for life. Finding someone who understood this cemented in our mind our feeling that we were fortunate to find Mohamed.
As the night fell, he pointed out still more of the great works of architecture and culture visible from our staggering vantage point, even posing for pictures with April and myself and taking a rather good one of both of us. As the time drew near for the restaurant to open we were led inside to the balcony area. Taking more pictures, he asked us if we wanted to dine on the balcony (which now looked down on four Andalusian musicians, plying their instruments with spirited expertise). Having been promised belly dancers, I declined, wanting a seat closer to the action.
As Mohamed led us down stairs, he made arrangements to meet us after the show and take us to a taxi that would get us to the hotel (and he promised, not rip us off). April, having gone ahead while I took more pictures of this amazing house, was waiting at the table Mohamed arranged for us—a few feet to the side of where the musicians were playing and presumably where the dancer(s?) would perform. Unable to believe how well the evening was going, I joined her at our table on the stage, snapping pictures like a mad man and looking forward to a great dinner.
What followed will be hard to beat as the high-point of our trip, for it was so wonderful and packed full of experiences that it deserves its own post. If every day had to begin as this one did, I would be happy to take that as a fair bargain for the evening that followed…
Wednesday, August 13th
Slightly more recovered from our jet lag, we began the day with brunch in the cafe attached to the train station adjacent to the hotel. The menu was in french, but “cheeseburger” is apparently “cheeseburger” in any language. For less than 10 dollars we both enjoyed a delicious sandwich with fries and a Moroccan salad.
Fortified by familiar cuisine, we set out to hire a taxi to take us to the souk. A poor parking job by the first suitor (and delay caused by the language barrier) led to his arrest (!?!?!) by a local whistle-powered traffic cop and we regretfully hired another driver to take us back to the medina.
Upon arriving the souk was unmistakeable as rugs and wares were on display on either side of the narrow alleyways. The narrow stalls unrolled into the space vying for the passerby’s attention and money. Nevertheless, the pressure was nearly nonexistant, and first offers were generally within 50% of the lowest price achievable by our rookie bargaining talents (how much better might the prices have been if we spoke Arabic?)
We met a particularly helpful Leather merchant who taught us a few phrases of Arabic while supplementing my hastily purchased pants with a much-needed belt of fine Moroccan Leather. The shops were filled to the brim with beautiful inlaid wooden boxes and chests of burl, ebony, cedar, lemonwood, and other fine woods, wood and stone carvings of animals and other figures, rugs of every pattern and size, metal crafts, jewelry, furniture, pottery, produce, and clothing covering the whole spectrum.
While waiting for a traditional Moroccan gown to be hemmed to suit April, we stepped into a “cybercafe” where the French keyboard befuddled my fingers and we had our first chance to send a quick message to everyone to let them know that we were safe on the ground, since our hotel did not have any internet access as indicated on the website.
Once April’s clothing was complete, we weaved our way out of the medina and walked up the avenue to the Andalusian gardens, where an aggressive henna artist and a cohort employed as a distraction tried to cheat us out of 100 dirhams for forcing her work upon us. 20 dirhams later we entered the serene Andalusian gardens and strolled among the palms and other beautiful plants, soaking up the peaceful environs. We came upon a “boyscout troup,” among which was spotted a “St. Louis Storm” baseball hat. Unfortunately, we didn’t know how to say “We’re from St. Louis in Arabic,” so the poor lad probably thought I wanted to buy his hat.
Another taxi brought us back to the hotel and we relaxed while we filled out postcard and enjoyed some Coca-Cola Zero, Potato Chips, and Sidi Ali (bottled mineral water, safe to drink). After a brief siesta, we left the backbacks behind for a constitutional to explore the area. Wandering around Rabat-Agdal we found another cyber cafe and were able to send off a couple more emails and look up information on how to address mail internationally. Walking around the neighborhood we stuck our head in at several establishments. Finally we found a wonderful computer shop: MicroWorld. We were able to mime and gesticulate them into understanding that we were lacking a working adapter for converting Moroccan power outlets to American-compatible components. They showed us what they had available, but we left dismayed.
While walking back to the hotel I remembered that the end of one of the cords the attendant showed us looked like it might fit into the power block for the laptop. Retrieving the power block, we hustled back to Micro World, just as they were closing and showed them the equipment. A nice gentleman offered us a cord that interfaced with the power block and the Moroccan recepticles “gratis,” free of charge. We were thrilled (prepared to pay whatever necessary to get our computer back up and charging), and returned to the hotel for a quick meal at the hotel restaurant.
The atmosphere was wonderful, as we were the evening’s first patrons, and we enjoyed an expensive hotel meal of spaghetti (April) and chicken breast with mustard-chicken kabob (Brian), with dessert for $30, including tip. Returning to the hotel room we finished addressing the postcards and typed up our overdue blog posts. Now all we need is internet access, which has been achieved if you are reading this now…
Tuesday, August 12th - Casablanca
Once through customs, we were able to trade dollars for dirhams and we purchased train tickets (First Class) to Rabat, up the coast, for about 13 dollars (100 dirhams) each. The first leg of the journey was via a small electric train with several Americans on-board, also in first class (The last we’ve encountered since). Once we reached Casablanca we switched trains to a larger double-decker model, which was packed and we were forced to stand until Rabat (45 minutes).
Rabat
Upon arrival in Rabat, we walked from the train station to the Hotel Ibis, adjacent to the station. With good intentions to make the most of the rest of our first day in Morocco, we brought our belongings upstairs and passed out for about 4 hours. Waking up just in time to explore some of the city, we made it to the medina where we met a character named Hassan, who showed us around the labyrinthine streets. He led us to an overlook where we gazed upon Sale to the north-east, and watched the sun set over the Rabat beach. Leading us through the alleyways he pointed out works of architecture dating back hundreds of years before we urged him to show us to our chosen eatery for the evening…
Restaurant Dinarjat
Set into a featureless wall down one of the snaking paths inside the medina was sturdy wooden door on strong hinges. Hassan rang the bell, to know avail before using the ornate brass knocker, which was promptly answered by a hostess. From there we were led inside the restaurant, set beneath the level of the street outside. The atmosphere was dim, but warm as we were handed off to another member of the staff dressed in a Fez and ostentatious local garb.
We passed by the open-air courtyard which consisted of a fountain on one side, an Andalusian drummer and lutist on one side, and led to two side-rooms on the others. All around the courtyard were wonderful examples of zellij tilework in intricate patterns, and candles and lanterns provided a perfectly intimate atmosphere. We were set in one corner of the courtyard under the overhang at a rose-petal covered table, where we had a view of the rest of the courtyard.
Our befezzled waiter spoke little English, but nevertheless was able to deliver to us delicious Fantas upon request. Before dinner was joined, our waiter brought a rose-scented liquid which was poured over our hands to clean them for the meal. The first course consisted of appetizers of phyllo dough stuffed with spiced meats and fried to a delicious crisp. Before long two tajines were delivered to the table, one with a couscous topped with carrots, potatoes, chickpeas, squash, cabbage, and lamb, the other containing two large bone-in chicken breasts in a gravy with almonds and onions.
It is hard to say which was better, but both disappeared at a leisurely pace over an hour or so, with additional Fantas brought in to aid the mission. When these were cleared away, dessert was brought in to finish the job consisting of a plate of pastries not unlike the appetizers, but instead stuffed with nuts and covered in honey and another dessert which was a squat tower of crisp filo dough, honey, and a delicious cream.
As we finished these dishes the evening drew on, and we enjoyed the atmosphere and entertainment. When the bill was paid, we left and were escorted by a lantern-man employed for just that purpose, to bring patrons out of the maze of the medina to the main avenue. From there a petits-taxi brought us back the hotel for a few dollars.
Monday, August 11th
We almost very nearly did not get to Morocco (on time). The flight from Atlanta took off late because of bad weather over NYC, and so was late arriving as well. What was going to be a tight 1.5 hour layover turned into an almost-not-enough-time <1 hour layover. JFK is not only large, but the terminals were in different buildings, so we had to leave one building then go back through security at the other building. Luckily, this didn’t take very long, but we had to run through the airport after we entered the security line(who told us that our Delta boarding pass obtained in Atlanta was no good, because they had subbed this flight out to Air Maroc). We only just got to the plane in time to board.
Once on the plane, the flight was uneventful, except for a Moroccan woman who got in a loud argument with a man in front of her who was putting his seat back. Musical chairs ensued and all were appeased. Lest we think all Moroccans were pushy, the man behind me introduced himself by telling me that under no circumstances was I to put my chair back (a joke), which I promptly did. We found out later his name was Younes.
Tuesday, August 12th
To pass the time on the flight, April and I dozed and listened to 1001 Arabian nights. The food was actually quite good, and consisted of “Lasagna” (actually cannelloni), salad, brownie, and corn with shrimp. I was offered and accepted seconds of the dainty lasagna.
The flight arrived on time and we parted ways with Younes, who gave us his phone number at his brother’s house where he was staying in Casablanca, imploring us to call him if we needed anything at all.
At the customs line we acquainted ourselves with a very nice woman from California, and her persnickity 4-year-old son Lucas who had had his fill of travel, thank you very much. She was visiting Morocco for her second time for a music festival in Essaouira with her husband.
We passed through customs without incident, and began our Moroccan Adventure…
For pictures from this leg of the journey, check here:
After 7+ hours in Atlanta’s labyrinthine airport, we are happy (April says “THRILLED, actually”) to be bidding it adieu. We’re beat down after our 3AM early rise and are looking forward to a comfort upgrade when we board the plane. Hopefully we’ll get some good rest, as we won’t have long in New York to make the connection to CASABLANCA. From there we’ll take in some sights if we have the energy, then take the train to Rabat for our first night in Morocco. We’ll keep you posted…
April and I invite you to join us on our honeymoon in Morocco. We’ll try to post our thoughts and pictures on this blog as regularly as possible so we can send fewer postcards and save on postage 