Day 138 (18 Days to Surgery) Last of April 2024

I rose wide awake at 6ish and had managed to sleep until 5ish, meaning that the jet lag was letting go, but I was still not there yet. I had written the blog the night before, worried that jet lag would slow me or a travel-related illness. But instead, I was up early and feeling better. I was soon dressed and enjoying the Mövenpick’s hospitality. I saw the sunrise as I ate breakfast.

Breakfast was less chaotic and even sleepy. The steam trays with lids contained the same items in different orders; there was no rotation, after all. The food is split between tiny sausages steamed and rendered of fat–the best way to cook them, I think, or little meatballs (minced meat) with grilled vegetables: Squashes, peppers, and eggplant. I take the hot food. I also added local yogurt, which is my best defense against cough and other unpleasantries. Two are near cream cheese thickness. I add some cold cuts and sliced cheese to make a large plate.

Today, I got my own coffee from the machine. Usually, the staff asks me to get coffee, but today, they seemed more sleepy and disorganized. I ate my lunch and decided to walk a bit this morning. I needed to get more cash; the trip was a cash-spending trip, and nobody wanted credit cards.

Returning to my room, 1203, I get my coat and hat. It is cool this morning. The streets and sidewalks are busy again. This is a working town and not one that wakes late and stays up late. I soon found an ATM that said my card was broken; I was relieved when it returned my card (I have a small pile of $100 USD locked in the room safe with my passport, but I would prefer to hold that in reserve). Soon I found another bank ATM and that one worked the usual way. Except I tried to use the screen keypad instead of the one connected to the machine. I got my card back, relieved, and then understood my mistake (idiot!) and did it right. There are at least four ATMs within a minute’s walk of the hotel, and banks are everywhere. It’s far better than in NYC or Portland. I also got a decent exchange rate this time. Whenever I use my card at the ATM, I get a $2 charge in the USA for foreign transactions. Any ATM charge is refunded to me by Morgan Stanley. Happy to get my first 2,000 steps in, I return to the hotel and sit in the lobby.

Radouce is my driver, and we will meet at 10AM for another day to cover Casablanca in his Red Petit Taxi. While I read my French Canadian-based murder mystery, the flight crew who rest at the Mövenpick between flying sessions assemble. The pilot heads to the baby grand piano in the lobby (next to the movie poster of Casablanca, the movie) and plays jazzy and fast music. He winks and sings along while the aircrew smile and clap. More of them appear. I imagine John Nilsen here, too, playing. A very friendly but professional hotel.

I tip my hat to all the staff, and they salute back. I am obviously not the usual business traveler. The concierge checks in with me, his gold-crossed keys on his uniform, making him stand out. He is happy I am well and safe. I am reminded that I have his personal phone number and may use his services anytime. I thank him again.

Five minutes before the agreed time, I stepped out, and Radouce finished his cigarette and waved me to his car. Yet another Petite Taxi. I get in, and there is no price to be negotiated (we are friends, and I will set the price). He drives to the beach. We travel past the beach food joints and the most perfect McDonald’s on the Atlantic with huge glass windows and outdoor tables. We stop, and I am delighted at a slightly rundown but proud hotel, Hotel Bellerive. We sit outside under an umbrella, and Radouce buys us coffee and a small water bottle. There, he smokes, and I drink coffee and look and hear the Atlantic waves. We just sit there for forty minutes, enjoying the moment. This is not the usual tour, and I could not be happier not to turn down some carpet dealers.

This is a very informal trip, and we are brothers now, according to the driver. We reach the expensive mall, his words, and walk in to see the two-story aquarium filled with sharks, rays, and other pretty fish. Knowing aquariums, I can see there are no live coral, crabs, or other invertebrates (copper is used to treat these tanks and will kill anything like that; it keeps the large fish safe). Still, it is amazing and a surprise.

I took a picture at Nike and sent it to my old boss on his phone (my new phone has no Nike info, and my Nike Phone left home and will die on May 7); we shared numbers after my sudden retirement from Nike (as I call it). I told him my driver and I were taking a new job at the Nike store here in Casablanca. Later, Brad says I need to get that camel ride done. “It would be epic!” he sends me. Maybe I will find a way.

The driver turned down more fares as I was his guest today (a Petit Taxi (red) allows for multiple passengers, short trips, and a reduced fare, about 50 local—5 dollars). Soon, we were parked at the public breach. I tried to use some French words, which mostly confused Radouce. He was not sure what language I was speaking, and I returned to my American English (which he thinks, I can see, is not really English either). We managed to walk on the breach, and he was smoking. I managed to touch the not-too-cold Atlantic, and only one shoe dampened when the Atlantic came fast to me. While the temperature was nearer 70F (21C) and the water was not cold, it is not yet beach weather. There were a few hardy swimmers, but more were fishing and walking on the rocks. The public beach was neat, and the sand not as fine as Oregon’s, I noticed, and yellow like deserts from movies. Oregon beach sand is sticky like mud and grey and fine. Soon, we returned to the taxi, crossing four lanes. I am better at traffic now (braver), but Radouce still almost holds my hand.

Next, my driver takes the Petite Taxi to the same lighthouse I saw yesterday, but this time drives into the enclosure for an even better photo. Not stopping and not having access to the light, it was still fun. Next, he parks on the spit, and I get an excellent view of the great mosque from the opposite side of the small bay it was built along. We do the comic pose of him holding up the tower. Radouce is amazed by the clarity of my phone’s photos–it is the newest Apple (not a Nike phone, but one I acquired as I was facing layoffs and wanted my own tech).

This was followed by a mad dash all over Casablanca as my driver wanted to show me everything all at once. I was bouncing along in the back seat, and he would park. Then, we would jump out and walk to the next vision of Morocco. The fish market, a request in poor French, “Yes, Fish Market,” was his response once I stopped using French or what I think was French. I asked permission to take a photo, which usually got a pose and a smile. Apparently, there are few tourists mixed in with locals.

The market was filled with fresh fish with bright eyes and no serious odor. Some huge cooked crabs looked one step from a horror movie. Bags of clams and other smaller options. Flouder and smaller (and bony fish) were the focus. This was not a rich man’s market but a very local affair. The turtles, alive and on ice, did startle me, but my grandparents used to eat them in the USA. There was a greater market, not the Central Market I have read about, but some smaller local places with fruit and restaurants. If I lived here in an apartment, I would be living off of my own cooking of fish and fruit. Oh my, that would be amazing.

More bouncing around in the red taxi as the roads inside these hidden tracks are well more local and not prepared for tourist buses or cruise ship visitors. The Jewish section is plain and hidden behind the tourist shops. They are gold traders, I am told. The doors to the synagogues are easy to spot. I take no photos as a sign of respect, and my camera records the exact locations of pictures; it is best to leave those folks safe and in my memory only.

Another view of the mosque, prayers are starting, and we hear the call, and soon, a tour of French-styled buildings is another thirty minutes of traffic and bouncing. It is getting to be too much. Four hours of traveling less than a few miles. But I love seeing everything. The cloth and embroidery stores (that is where the cloth for the pillows comes from) remind me of my travels to China with Susie (the cloth is still in a drawer, unused). Radouce assures me it is all from China and points to the boxes being unloaded and marked with Chinese characters, “Not Morocco, China.”

“Fish,” I agree with Radouce for lunch; my French poisson is not helpful. We then drive out of the center of Casablanca and the tourist area to a small arcade of shops. I am almost to a ring-like road that defines newer Casablanca. I have been watching Maps on my iPhone, which is completely accurate so far. I know exactly where we are (not necessarily where we are headed) while in the taxi. Snack Amine is a local place, and Radouce suggested a cold salad, but I demurred, not wishing to risk it. Fried fish, looking like an American church fish fry take on the fish market, was dinner/lunch. I washed my hands, and to the smile of the lady washroom attendant (she stays outside), I paid a coin. Always having a local coin to pay-to-pee was something I learned long ago.

This is served family style with Maryland-like brown paper for bones. Everything is hot, and heads are still attached, but all are properly gutted and the gills removed. The food is wonderful. The calamari is not overly fishy and chewy. The fish is sea bream (which means, to most here, anything they caught today–I later learned–not the formal version) and includes small shrimp, flounder, and smallish fish all covered with a light flour batter and deep-fried. Yes, my American Midwestern church dinners come to mind, and I pick between the bones to find excellent white fish. There is lots of bread and heated sauces to dip the bread and fish in, reminding of a mild New Orleans sauce but served here steaming hot.

I eat slowly, and Radouce pushes me more. I laugh and push some back. He smiles and keeps eating. He mixes bits of bread, sauce, and fish in the sauce and then eats. It is a great shared lunch, and I bought it for 200 locals, including a tip (about $20), cheap for two.

Time for us both to rest. Radouce insists I come to his house as a guest on Wednesday, and I try to resist. We agreed I would call him, and he would get me, and we would have tea together with his family. We checked, and my call went through to him. I bought the $100 travel package from the phone company, which has served me well. Evan’s suggestion; he used to work for a phone company call center.

I am resting now and have decided not to write a blog or do much more. No need for more food today. So, I have a few cookies (I always have some). I heard from Dondrea and a few others by text; everyone loved the updates during my day. I am at 9500 steps. What would Dondrea do? I walk to the park, watch the sunset there, and walk back. 12000 steps for Tuesday; better. I am still trying to lose inches, but they come off slower now.

I write and revise a Howard story. I wanted to do some work here, and instead of trying the bar or a night scene, it is Grammarly, and I will be working until after 10. I shower and prepare for bed with the hope that the exercise will reduce the jetlag. I sleep the night, only waking once to prove hydration (a ritual I am familiar with). This time, the nightmares about the upcoming surgery stay away. I sleep and only dream (I have only a vague memory) of riding around in a taxi and endless fish options.

Thanks for reading.