I am writing this on Saturday morning in the Mövenpeck Casablanca, Morocco, in the restaurant having the included breakfast. It is European style with local changes. More veggies and coffee are from a machine. I am always addressed in French, which is lost mostly lost on me, unfortunately, as is my English mostly ignored. It is a grey, damp morning. Looks like home.
I will try to briefly cover my travels. I want to walk outside, get some local money (all of mine was spent on the taxi), and score some tourist trips. Returning to Thursday-Friday.
All the plumbing changes were done at the house for about 1/3 of the cost of the whole trip to Morocco! I sat around for a while, said f**k it, and started to head on Thursday to the airport. It was good as the traffic was slow, but I had five (now six as my flight was delayed an hour), so I enjoyed the trip. I am, and it is hard some days to remember this, retired and have no reason to hurry. I will soon have no income, so I need to be more careful with my money, but I forget often.
Slow, with many Teslas, not sure if to go slow or fast, I was soon at PDX. I parked, again thinking I needed to save some money, and I was not rushed, in the Red Economy lot. I was thinking of all the times I have parked there with Susie for the next trip. One of my favorite pictures is Susie smiling in her blue cape coat (Z has it now) with the luggage behind her in the economy lot.
I took the usually crowded bus to the terminal with the happy, nervous people headed to places. We unloaded, I going last as I am not rushed and retired. I wandered the ticketing until I spotted the understated British Airways desk, checked in, got my boarding passes, and headed through the lines. I was not yet pre-checked, so I enjoyed the long lines and soon managed not to drop my pants during the scan sans belt.
I walked the long hallways to the ‘D’ terminal, noticing I was not tiring, limping, or uncomfortable–I was getting better. I found Deustues and the same waiter I have had for years–she was happy that I recognized her and had much better service than most. I finished the blog at 5ish, having hummus and a beer. I have overlapped a few moments here.
The gate, the last one in this terminal, was not busy for my flight. There, I tried to make some acquaintances. A couple headed on a safari. I would meet again in London as we had to do the same wandering to find our next flight. I had to purchase a Sound Plus to USB-C for my phone (again, from the same guy as last time), and soon was, after a long wait, on my plane in 25A.
I will not make fun of people or complain about people, but my seatmate in 25B was a challenge. She enjoyed too much of the wine, dumped her tray on the floor, and managed to spill wine on me multiple times. It was funny and a mess. At one point, the stewards had to tell me that my music was nice, but everyone could hear it. I had unplugged the headphones by accident. Oops. I try not to be that guy.
I managed to survive the flight with little sleep. I was out of practice sleeping on planes, and my feet swelled in the tight Air Force Ones—they made the wrong choice for a flight. I had taken them off, which meant my socks were damp when we unloaded in London, and I had to cross out of the seats. 25B’s floor was soaked in wine and food.
The walk was long, and I put back on my shoes with damp socks (which are in the bin now). I followed my fellow travelers to Africa to connect to another terminal, and some wonderfully helpful airport folks got us a bus that toured the least appealing parts of Heathrow for twenty minutes, including a work tunnel that seemed to be endless.
We then had to enter by security, and my fellow flyers were surprised that all the wine they had acquired on the last flight would not make it through this process. One opened the bottle to the delight of the friendly security folks and consumed the contents there. The surprised security folks offered glasses and turned down wine to share. Some more Americans added to the stories of crazy American tourists for the security folks!
We waved goodbye as they, happy and laughing, headed to their safari. I walked the length of the glittery terminal, which had high-end shops everywhere. There, I exchanged some money for pounds and Moroccan. I headed to a pub recommended by the guy at the exchange (who thought me nuts exchanging twice, once to pounds and then that to Moroccan- but time would show I was right).
That was an hour of near tears-introducing frustration as the place used barcodes (I learned I had sat in a less service area). “All I want is a sandwich and a beer,” was going through me. On the fourth time I typed in my credit card, I got an order through. I then got a panic message from the bank checking that I was OK with the UK-based use. ‘Yes,’ I texted back–I did call the humans, but the computer-controlled banking still panicked. A worried bus-gal saw I was still there with nothing, pointed out that I could just get a beer, and then found my beer and my food appeared a moment later. All was good again in the world!
The beer was warm (UK!), and the chicken sandwich was fresh chicken and excellent cheese. I properly covered the chips in a local vinegar; perfect! I got internet and my phone working. I even called my sister to check the call, and it was all good. I looked up tipping, and it was confused as I was in a pub with food. I had UK coins and left two pounds. I did not finish the beer, but it was still good to have food in the UK. I saw lots of bangers and mashed (ugh).
Royal Air Maroc had purple seats, purple plastic wear, and a friendly, relaxed manner. I was in an Exit row, but the center guy was heavy and made it a bit cramped. We made it work. I answered many questions, many about the upcoming election, after identifying myself as left and liberal. Soon, the plane was in the air, and my bag moved to an overhead bin as it would not be on the floor in an exit row.
Dinner was served, and I had the beef, surprised that it was not the usual chicken or veggie option of Oregon-based planes, and it was plainly spiced but suggested it holding back and could have been great: A stew of peas and beef. It was a short three hours, and I finally slept. I had my first mint tea on the plane.
It was chaos at the airport. I was told 32 planes had arrived within the hour. It was a madhouse. The lines were long, but they moved, and every station was full, with police and helpful people everywhere. The locals were making it work. Still, my situational awareness was maxing out, and as a single traveler, I was at risk. I moved in the crowds and tried to look like everyone else (except for the cowboy hat and not speaking French).
I finally got out, and the chaos became worse. A man hit a child with a pile of luggage, and there were tears. I walked around that, my situational awareness was pegged, and I looked for a taxi to get out of this. Karma works, and apparently, I must have built up some good stuff as a man appeared out of the crowd. He offered me an expensive ride to my hotel, and I accepted. He walked me through the parking lot to a clean, newish white Mercedes, and I got in. Nobody robs and drives that.
He spoke broken English and hoped I could change to French, Spanish, or anything else. Sorry. We managed to exchange words, and while he was easy to understand, he just nodded when I spoke. Soon, without any issues, we arrived at my hotel.
Everything returned to normal; I was checked in, prepaid, and in room 1203 in ten minutes. I showered off the travel, glad to finally strip off the wine-soaked items, and I even called Dondrea and spoke for a while. The phone, internet, and room are all working.
Soon I was a sleep, and while I know tonight will be a challenge for sleep, this first night I closed my eyes and was gone.
Thanks for reading. Sorry for some typos, but I want to see Casablanca and must dash!
Michael
Room 1203, Mövenpick Hotel Casablanca, Rond Point Hassan II, 20070, Casablanca, Maroc; phone 212 (0) 522 48 80 00.
Alohawild (Michael Wild's) Website 