Author: alohawild

The sun is just starting to set on my last full day here in Casablanca. Originally, I was headed to Rabat today, but I decided against the train ride as it meant arriving early, and the sights there were not much different than those here in Casablanca. I really wanted to walk the city. So I remained in Casablanca.

I did not walk 10,000 steps yesterday, and I woke early, with the jetlag slipping back with less exercise. Today, I intend to make over 10,000 and sleep better (What would Dondrea do?). I was too early for breakfast, so I checked my finances (all good) and read some news before cleaning up and dressing. I had another European-styled breakfast, and I had cheese and shredded potatoes, meaning that at least some of the items were rotated. After years of hotels, I try to spot the rotation–just a game.

With the blog done the night before, I was ready to head out, and I needed some exercise to get over the jetlag. But the cough came back–f**k. The auto fumes or something else had me wheezing and coughing. Ugh! It went on for hours and stopped about 90 minutes later. I walked all the way back to the Old Medina and United Nations Square (where the nightclubs are–They open at 9 and 11 at night, have a dress code, and a high cover). I walked around the area to understand the size and saw that some of it was poor and in ruins–sad. I walked into the shopping area at about 9ish, and most of the shops were still closed. A man with excellent English offers to help me, but I turn him and others down. I walk deeper and deeper, and soon, I am lost in the maze. My iPhone Maps is actually working, and I learned I am stuck in the middle. I followed the path on the iPhone and found the museum to the Medina; I had forgotten there was one. I walk through the presentations (few in English) and even use their restroom (for free!). I took some photos as the presentation on how the area changed was interesting. I walk out by crossing over the patio of the old mosque (one of the oldest ones).

 

 

After seeing it on the Map app, I searched for the Abderrahman Slaoui Foundation Museum, a museum of posters and other items. It is not mentioned in the guidebooks or the videos, making me doubly interested. I need to cross the Old Medina again. This time, I can find my way to the entrance without backtracking, which is the exact place where I started. The place seems to awaken around lunchtime.

Cafe France was a good place to rest; I was already at 8,000 steps. I sat in a chair in the front, and soon, the waiter moved me under an awning (he pointed out bird droppings). I should have stayed in the back, as my situational awareness told me, but I wanted a clear view. I ended up with a parade of beggars and sales offers–my training was right. But soon, I learned the French version of ‘no’ works (the American usage seems to be translated as “please tell me more”). This, with an arm waving them on to the next person, allowed me to drink my mint tea and eat my snack in peace (and not being in the fireline for the pigeons).

Next, it took me a while to find the museum, which is only a block from the cathedral and the park. The Mōvenpick is on the other side of the large park. The Abderrahman Slaoui Foundation Museum is a collection of posters and curiosities plus native jewelry (some impressive gold and gem-encrusted) on five floors. There are, only in French and Arabic, stories of the flags of the area with copies of the original on display (and likely the original in careful storage). The top floor is mostly Moroccan-style sitting rooms. It is a strange but pleasant space. Recommended. The ticket is 60 local ($6).

 

 

I asked for directions and soon found myself at the start of the park. It is so large, the largest in Casablanca, that it starts only a few blocks from the Old Medina and goes within a few blocks of my hotel. I stopped three times and just sat for a while. I finally did the final push (12,000 steps) and reached the hotel (13,000+). There, I rested for a while in my room, 1203.

I then went to the cafe near the hotel and sat there. The staff recognized me and brought me mint tea and a small bottle of water. I read and relaxed for more than an hour. It was fun just to sit and pretend to be a local. We must get these mint tea and coffee places in Beaverton and Portland! There is nothing like a metal pot of tea and a glass cup sitting in a chair and watching the world move by.

Aside: We could remove the pews, put in tables and chairs (with pads), cut in some new glass windows/walls into the side of the church, and serve mint tea while folks sing and the pastor gives a sermon. I bet it would be a better experience, and we would get more converts. Get Min-ty with the Methodists.

There are cats and kittens everywhere. The rodents are definitely controlled, as are snakes, pigeons in the parks, and other unwanted creatures. I saw that the locals bring food for the outdoor cats. I saw the kittens play with some folks, but the cats are mostly standoff. It is a thing here.

I could not decide, so I wanted to try a nice place. I was told, after getting three staff members to translate, I would need a reservation and a dress shirt. F**k that. I ate a burger with a beer, which came with fries for dinner at the hotel rooftop restaurant. Sorry, I can be a brave tourist, except when it comes to taking a taxi to some place to be overcharged and likely poisoned. The mustard and ketchup came in little sealed jars, and I drank the local Casablanca lager. I even risked the lettuce, tomato, and onion. It was sooooo good.

I said goodbye to the folks at my most used dining place. I showed them a map of the earth on the iPhone’s Map app to where I was headed. That impressed them. 1/2 around the earth to the Western USA and the Pacific. I thanked them.

I started to pack. Much is already in the suitcase now, and I have arranged for a late check-out. I need to be out of here by 6PM. Heard from Alex and their family, and we will try to meet at the Old Medina tomorrow before heading back to the States (they are headed to the East Coast and me to the West Coast).

I tried to write this blog, but I started to fall asleep and then freeze. A warm shower worked to get me back to writing. I am fading fast, but I am almost done.

The General Conference of the United Methodist Church voted 93% to approve removing anti-pride language in its rulebook. The church lost 25% of its churches over this change (though many, including me, think the exits were more about money than this issue). UMC has broken with the past. I am so happy; it is about time.

I will reestablish my membership soon; I have already started financially supporting my local church again.

Thanks for reading.

 

I slept well and managed to wake at 7AM with only one interruption, proof of hydration, and there were no dark dreams. I started the blog and wrote for about an hour, not making that much progress, and finally cleaning up and dressing. Today is the suit with the suspenders and the blue sweater vest. I put on the grey suit I bought to wear to Linda’s wedding; it will not clash with the blue vest. Black leather shoes with dark socks. Nothing from the shoe company today.

Breakfast again is now familiar, and I enjoy it; I am having trouble eating it all–a good sign. Less is good. I wrote the blog until almost 10AM this morning while drinking some coffee, sometimes filled by me, and other times the staff, loving the new look, filled my cup. The blog, finally completed, was published, and references were emailed to those who may not use FaceBook or wish to open an account with WordPress to get notification.

The cough that was a minor annoyance the day before was non-stop today, and the albuterol inhaler is just putting a dent in it. It is a day to go slower and hope for an improvement. I sat in the lobby and read for a while.

I dropped off the laptop in my room—in its case, it looks like an encyclopedia book, so I just stuffed it in my suitcase. The staff was already cleaning, so I gave the gal a tip. Earlier, I opened and relocked the safe, ensuring it was not frozen or empty. I will need the passport to get home! All was good, I got my hat.

I walked the four short blocks to the Parc De La Lique Arabe (a classic Moroccan-style park), walked around it, and read my book (more French Canadian murders by Louise Penny, a Chief Inspector Gamache Novel). I did not find walking difficult, nor did my balance seem worse than usual, but I was tired, and the coughing was getting harsh. Something was triggering it.

Putting away the book in the park, I thought how happy I was to be here after all that had happened and to share it with so many on social media, text, and messaging. I am never alone. There were tears as I missed folks, remembered all the cancer treatments, and now the brain tumor and other troubles. Despite the tears, I am immensely grateful for the doctors and medical folks who helped me and knew how to help Susie find her best possible end. There under the sky, with the birds singing, the water splashing, and the smells of plants, I remembered all of this and was truly thankful.

Leaving the park, I have been trying to get up the bravery to sit in one of the coffee places and enjoy their hospitality. I decided to brave it in the nearby Red Coffee. I sat and, as a stranger, was ignored by everyone except the shoe shine guy I first turned down. The waiter finally acknowledged me, and his Arabic and my English-only responses went poorly initially. Tea and a bottle of water I hoped was requested, and soon they appeared, and all was good. The shoe shine guy appeared to be attached somehow to the place, so I waved him to me and soon paid 20 local (I put it out for him, and he agreed quite happy with the amount–yes, I am likely overpaying for everything). I spent another hour and more drinking tea in my tie, sweater vest, dress shirt, and newly polished black shoes. I had another coughing attack, and a gentleman moved his smoking away from me, and then it calmed down. I seem to be allergic to cigarette smoke. Water pipes did not bother me. I will need to be more careful!

I paid 100 local and was offered lots of change. I took only 50, and now the waiter’s English worked. They were happy to serve and hope to see me again soon. I dipped my hat, and they bowed and covered their hearts in response. Yes, I will be back, and 5 US dollars is a good price for a pot of mint tea and a bottle of water. Anything less seems to be taking advantage of Morocco.

I went to 1203 and did some surfing on the internet and reading email. Soon, I called my driver, Radouane, who said he would pick me up at 3 (15:00). I rested for a while and read some more. Finally, the coughing was fading. I had some more Airborne, and that seemed to help, too.

Next, I was outside, and soon, Radouane appeared in his red Petit Taxi and drove me across Casablanca near one of the main train stations. We then entered a plain building and took the elevator to the fifth floor. His family, he explained later, was at a mosque and then the beach. His apartment is half a huge, elegant room with a huge classic rug and has the usual rooms, bath, kitchen, and two bedrooms. We sat in an entrance room with a table, also classic and iconoclastic, if not austere, and I waited while he made mint tea and selected various cookies and cakes to share. “This is your home now,” I was told, and we enjoyed tea together. You apparently pour the mint tea and then pour the hot tea into another glass and back to cool and mix it.

The tea is served in small glass cups. The cookies and cakes were all store-bought but excellent. We chatted, and Radouane was happy to receive comments from people in the USA about his house. I took a few pictures, and he translated some of the news on TV, as well as some of the nature shows on honey production and escargot (snails). I looked incredulous at the camel milk. I was informed it was good but expensive. The same comment was also made about the escargots. Soon, the exhaustion started, and after turning down a visit to the beach, I was returned to my hotel. I was still thinking then of seeing Radat by traveling by train, and my driver would take me to the correct train station if that was my plan on Thursday.

I rested some and then dressed again for dinner, ditching the jacket. Soon, I was on the 16th floor and roof again. There, I ordered tapas and a beer. I called a few folks from the roof. I finished and had to go to my room for the tip; I left my cash there. After returning, I paid the bill (actually signed it to the room and gave a 50 local tip), went to the lobby, and then went for a walk. What would Dondrea do with just 4500 steps? Walk more. I raised it to over 6,000 by walking to the spooky-looking military building. I took more pictures as I think it would be perfect for a cult in Call of Cthulhu adventure.

Kids on skates slammed into me, but I managed to keep standing and avoid more than one contact. They kept going, and I heard what might have been an apology. It being a holiday, the ice cream store was packed, and there were lots of folks romantically sharing ice cream. It made me happy to see so many happy folks.

After that and my close call with the skaters, I headed back to 1203, got more comfortable (including more inhaler use), and started to write the blog.

Thanks for reading!

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.

The sleepy town I was used to has transformed into a working town with traffic and people everywhere. Crossing the streets is now a game of nerve (I let the locals go first and sometimes follow their example with my hand in the air). Casablanca looks busy and hardworking.

Going backward (because I have not done that in a while), I am back in 1203 writing the blog as I wanted to share my day before it gets any later. I also had an expresso for finishing dinner, and that gave me the energy I needed to finish. Yesterday, I was stumbling-tired at this time, and tonight, I am fading, but I am not falling asleep. I did steal a nap this late afternoon.

So before this, I was at the rooftop poolside bar and restaurant at the top of the hotel. The food is good and not more overpriced than anywhere I would find after walking thirty minutes or taking a taxi. The staff has one older gentleman who speaks good English. The hostess tries to teach me French and Arabic, but it is lost on me. She also addresses in the French form, which I am not prepared for, sounding like Michelle. I apologized; it is not her fault that I am a dunce at languages.

I had a Casablanca brand beer and a chicken lemon tagine dinner. When delivered, it was sizzling hot, with one slice of preserved lemon and the rest mixed in and browning. Olives (with pits) were sprinkled throughout. The bread served was fresh and chewy and hard to resist. I made this at home and wanted to compare it. I make it in a big pot and can see the difference in making individual tagine dinners. Also, they use more lemon than I do. All interesting.

It was cold tonight, so I passed on sitting next to the pool. The inside bar is well-ventilated, which is good, as water pipes are offered. The smoke was polite, just an odor, and smelled sweet, not bitter—definitely not the stinking leaves of Portland’s decriminalized smoke. I will likely get some tagine cookware when I return (I will not even try to get some back from here). It was a pleasant dinner.

Moving back to 3, my driver delivered me to the massive mosque, and I stood in line for a ticket for forty minutes. I then crossed the huge courtyard to the entranceway. There, I was reminded to remove my shoes, told that my hat was allowed, and told that I could take photos–a surprise as I had been told in a video that photos were banded. I have been in many cathedrals in Washington, D.C., and Europe, and this worship dwarfed them all. Notre Dame could fit inside!  It is hard to imagine a worship space this large. The decorations were intricate and lost in the size of the space. It reminded me of the People’s Hall in China. While iconoclastic, the decorations were lovely. The top level, hidden by a balcony, showed brilliant white walls from the sides with painted decorations like what I saw in Istanbul. Breathtaking and holy, with the space reminding me of the lines of the Hebrew text that prayers rise like incense to God. I skipped the basement, which I am sure is great but does not rise like the main space.

Before this, my driver (I hired him for the afternoon) wanted us both to have a break. We tried Rick’s, but it was fully booked according to the unfriendly doorman (who, if transformed to black and white, looked like he could be in the movie). I was thinking of the scene in the movie when the French police chief discovers there is gambling (despite collecting his winnings) and closes the place. Switching themes twenty years, I instead had mint tea at Le Gatsby, enjoying the slightly aging Art Deco look and the view of the mosque.

Moving back to just past noon, I walked to the mosque. An older man with car keys told me the place was closed to tourists until 3 and asked me if I wanted a tour. I hesitated and then saw the standard red taxi and the grey-haired driver; there was no ripoff here—this was a great chance for him to make good money and me to see more of the town. I agreed to a price, and off we went. Perfect.

Soon, we were at the lighthouse I had wanted to visit from my last driver. You cannot go inside, which is sad, but I still have some nice pictures. The Atlantic waves break on the rocks nearby. A cat jumped on the storm wall, and I took its picture; it seemed to be posing.

Aside: I updated the Mac OS, and my internet access is now slow, and Grammarly is having some issues.

Next, we stopped at the beach, but only for pictures. I was told that the beach was not used until it was warmer (there were people in the water). I have heard similar illogical statements in other countries. Beaches are not respectable and not accessible during tours. I think the hotels may own the beaches and might object to me walking on their sand for free.

Next, we toured the wealthy area, which was the land of extravagance. The driver drove us by the polo club, where the polo horses were being loaded and unloaded from expensive-looking trailers. I was not expecting to see that. I could follow the location on my phone and felt safe the whole time.

Parking the red taxi and being waved at by other taxi drivers (some of whom saluted my obvious senior driver), we did a walking tour of an Al Muhammadi Mosque with an impressive date of 1355 written on it. I thought it was more modern, but later, I learned that it is the date on the Muslim calendar, and it is also 1934. We then walked through the small passages and soon were in shops and other photo-friendly areas, with my driver suggesting I take some pictures here and there.

The olive market, with no more than ten stalls, was impressive and surprising. There are so many olives, preserved lemons, and other similar products. We walked and walked, and I was happy to retrace some of my steps earlier and learn how many of the streets connect. I am beginning to learn the city’s streets. I took photos of the cathedral and the park and could walk to either from my hotel now.

Yesterday, I noticed a spooky, rundown building dated 1916 and thought it was perfect for a horror story. When in black and white, my pictures would look 1920s. I took more pictures today and learned it is a military building (on Monday, it has flags, unlike the weekend). I think I will still use it for some Call of Cthulhu writing or a Howard story. More to come.

After first saying no, I agreed to use the drive at 10AM on Tuesday. My driver waited for me at the mosque, moving again to the end of the afternoon, and took me back to the Mövenpick Hotel for no charge.

Moving to the start of the day, I woke around 7AM and started the blog. I did not feel tired. It was over 2200 words, so I dressed, grabbed the laptop, and finished the blog at breakfast. Breakfast was at the hotel and was included in the room. Something I would recommend to most travelers is to pick hotels that supply breakfast; it makes the mornings easier.

The food was slightly changed, or likely a rotation you would learn if you stayed long enough (I have learned the rotations on some long business stays). The place was not the quiet dining of the weekend. It was close to a madhouse, with business folks everywhere eating fast and tourist groups finding their way to yet another brunch-styled feeding.

I ate extra and then wrote the blog, which took over an hour to complete. I headed upstairs to 1203, got my coat and hat, and headed out. I walked for hours to shake off the jet lag and tried to do what Dondrea would do: exercise to make you feel better. It did work, and soon, I was feeling more myself. I enjoyed the walk and took lots of pictures and posted some videos while walking. I headed towards the Old Madina and Cafe France (which did not impress me). The rain started, and the Madina was just waking up–it was still early. I was only accosted a few times, which disappointed me surprisingly. I was getting used to it.

The rain got worse. I was getting cold. Then the thunder started. I found the fortifications and cannons, which is also a restaurant, and I had coffee there with little baked goods. Some of the folks getting on a cruise ship were early and had also found refuge and breakfast. I had a few cups of coffee with milk and baked goods. I headed out when the rain stopped.

 

Rick’s was just opening but was “fully booked,” I was told (like later), and I walked to the Atlantic seawalls and the mosque. It was now a sunny, warm day, and I posted more pictures and videos. I met the driver I hired for the day, as I said above.

That takes us full circle.

I hope you enjoyed recounting my walking and riding through the busy Monday version of Casablanca.

Sunday started with me waking to my alarm, as I had the usual jetlag sleep-wake-sleep night. Today, I had a driver and a tour in Marrakesh. It is a two-and-a-half-hour drive to Red City, and I was paying the rate for a group—not cheap, but fitting with my plans of using Casablanca as my base for this trip.

When making coffee, I managed to miss the cup and pour boiling water on the table and floor. I ran to the bathroom and poured cold water on my foot, which was splashed. No injury, but a clear warning that jetlag does not make you smarter! I was also set on not buying another carpet or other items. I wanted some cooking spices and hoped for a tourist-ready set matching what I found in Istanbul years ago. A full-color collection worth a picture, and I have it on the wall in the kitchen.

Aside: I met a family of Americans but chose not to use their names as they are in business, and I thought it best not to share more information about them on social media. It makes the writing sound a bit over-formal and frankly ham-fisted, but I thought it best to protect them. So please forgive that, and know they were fun to travel with.

I had already published the blog for yesterday, so I could grab breakfast and then pop into the van. I brought Dramamine, concerned that breakfast and three hours of bouncing in a transport van could be more than I could take. I also ate a larger breakfast as I was worried that the tour would not have a break except for mint tea and a sales pitch. I eat when I can when traveling, hoping that the exercise of walking on the tours will cover those calories. I found that streets and sidewalks here are made from cobblestones and bricks and, while mostly not unsafe, are not easygoing either.

The staff and concierge were watching for me, and soon, my ride was there at 7:30. I had a black Mercedes van with excellent leather seats that fit ten to myself. My driver, Zouhair, used to live in California, and his English was good and American. While he missed a word here and there, he was easy to understand and was happy to have a friendly, well-traveled American today.

The drive was incredible and maybe one of the significant parts of my trip. Just seeing Morocco, the town, and the mix of olive trees and desert made me excited and happy. Zouhair explained things as we went, and we talked about Artificial Intelligence and other topics that interested him while I watched the landscape and asked him questions, too. We spoke of housing here and his wish to create his own travel agency. The road was new and better than in the greater Portland area. I was not having any issues with motion sickness. Excellent.

I was prepared, but the tour guide was still a bit of a disappointment. He loved to talk endlessly, and his English was unclear. He spent our first hour talking in front of a ruined Mosque, which apparently was one of the first buildings in Marrakesh and appeared to have the remains of a large cistern now exposed to the sky. But few words were spent on the sight.

Soon, we were happy to be moving and walking into the Souq. There were snake charmers everywhere, unhappy cobras, and rattlesnakes to visit and take photos for a fee. Our guide took my iPhone and got a close-up for me. Our guide, I had joined another three people on tour, led us into the chaos of the narrow walkways surrounded by shops and often covered above to keep the desert sun away. It was a fantastic and slightly cloudy morning, which we soon learned to love. It was clear the Souq would swelter in the hot summer. There was little air movement.

The family I joined on the tour: a husband, wife, and daughter who were international living Americans. The husband was on business, and the daughter was celebrating her 20th birthday. The daughter wore Muslim jewelry and spoke Arabic, to the delight of everyone in Marrakesh. I played my role as an unknown family friend to be ignored. Perfect.

We all but ran through the narrow alleyways following our guide and avoided, to our surprise, motorcycles running through the crowd. I was also hit once, with no damage, by a bike that pushed through the crowd less efficiently. My driver told me this weekend was a holiday, and Moroccans love to visit Morocco. The place was overflowing.

We stopped at a Riad being transformed into a restaurant. The former home has courtyards with gardens opened to the sky. Our guide explained that the sound of birds, the water flowing in the fountains (dry today), and the smell of the medicinal plants (including roses) were to remind you of God and the goodness you have while alive. It is, he explained, not a requirement to Believe in Morocco as it is an open country, but the space helps. I could see the practicality of the design and how it would be an excellent place for morning prayers. A workman used a file to cut the designs into the stone to replace some stonework. I did not know it was a manual task to file the stone–fascinating.

We soon returned to our motorcycle-dodging cobblestoned follow-the-leader tour. The shops could have been Istanbul or another Souq. The brasswork of lights and lamps might get more attention on another day when I am not dodging while trying to talk to my fellow tourists and not lose line-of-sight to our guide. I saw more chess sets and leatherwork than on my last visit to a Souq, but there were a few daggers and other dangerous exotic items. We did not see an antique area, just new items. Our guide waved us away from clothing, hats, and other clothing items. “All made in China,” he said with a scoff, saying that these items should be below our notice. I did see python skins, live turtles, and shark egg cases (still in seawater) for sale.

From what I could see, the items for sale were tourist items, clothing (usually soccer or splashy labels), and locally-made wood, brass, or other craft items. The tourists appeared to be a mix of imports like me and a collection of local young people on holiday from Morocco. A friendly crowd that was buying.

Our guide told us it was time to learn about the local crafts, and I nearly moaned when it was a carpet store. We entered another Riad, rebuilt as a carpet warehouse and display store. The gardens and fountains were long gone, and the sky was no longer visible. This one claimed to be from the 1500s, but I would suspect that only the stones in the foundation are that old. Our host saw our interest and took us up some solid but twisting stairs to see the architecture that still survives. The railing was reachable between carpet stacks.

The building’s Riad features showed some age, but it was still lovely and showed, except for electrical wires drilled or torn into the walls at random places, to have been respected. The huge floors were perfect, now covered in marble and stone sheets, for showing carpet after carpet.

If you have any available funds, you should be prepared to pay more than that, and you will soon have a carpet delivered or packaged for easy carrying. It is a beautiful mix of theater, sales, and FOMO that one has to admire. My scowl and silence made me not the victim this time, but the family was already dizzy from the carpet show. I was happy to be a guest on this pitch; I loved every minute now that I was a watcher. I saw the others in the carpet biz notice me and my smile as they began the fleecing, and I was now a co-conspirator as I stayed silent and did not queer the pitch.

The endless rolling out of carpet after carpet and us being asked to handle and even walk on them made it fun to watch. The husband asked me, “How would we get these home?” I just laughed at him and told him they would find a way for him. The wife decided on something, and he apologized for taking my time on this. I again laughed and showed him the picture of my carpet from yesterday. I am not the one paying this time I said with a smile that he thought was funny and slightly worrying.

Soon, our host announced that never before had women bargained so expertly. He shook the husband’s hand for marrying such an excellent woman who thought he got off with just mint tea. But no, he watched, somewhat shocked, as they rolled and expertly packaged his newest carpet. His daughter had cheered on Mom and was excited that Mom got a rug to take home. All those years with Wild’s Furniture have me always enjoy watching Good Pitch, as long as it is not directed at me.

My patience was nearly expended on the next stop. Potions and spices with a sales pitch that I thought awful. I am not a fan of anything homeopathic as I believe the quality control is too loose, and the science is poor (don’t start with me on this). People want this stuff to work, and many report good results. I am allergic to much of it; it makes me cough and sneeze. The male-enhancement appeal also is a fantasy used for thousands of years to sell endless types of mixtures. But they sell cooking spices, so buy three and get one free. I picked the two mixes I could not get at home, and that was it for me. They were about $30 worth and excellent gifts, too. I managed to stay polite.

Aside: I was ignored as a lone male for most of this pitch. Couples were the target for the pitch, with potency and age reduction as the male focus. I remained quiet and politely turned down any mystery treatments. I have surgery in twenty days, and I don’t need some mystery ailment caused by an unknown product in Morocco.

It was now well beyond 2 (14:00), and I was right about eating a good breakfast. I checked and was surprised I had only about 7,000 steps for the day, and I felt guilty that I was not correctly channeling Dondrea’s 10K step goal a day. However, these were hard steps on uneven surfaces with dodging, so I rationalized that I would not have to walk more when returning. We stopped at the same Riad and had a nice lunch. I sat next to the daughter and soon shared my lunch with the family, which came in courses. The daughter passed the small items over, and soon, everyone tried them. Our guide was invited to lunch, unusual, and accepted after multiple requests. I had couscous, while others had excellent meat items in a tagine or on skewers. There was some debate on the size of lunch, but we all were headed back, in separate vans, to Casablanca and thus would likely miss dinner. So olives, bread, and meat items all soon disappeared.

As I was treated more as a guest than an add-on, I picked up lunch for $97, with the family taking the tip for the food and the guide. I was honored to meet them.

It is a long walk out of the Souq, and this is just one of many. The weekday markets are for the locals, and I would have loved to tour one. There are also museums and some historical sights in Marrakesh. Still, with only four hours and the apparent need to be fleeced, the tour ended with our exit at about 4 (16:00). We exchanged some information, but I am a realist about tourists meeting up (and shook all their hands).

My driver was ready, and soon we were on our way. I was a bit tired and full. Getting on a camel, the last part of the trip, was not in my cards. The driver thought it funny but drove by all the camels just in case I changed my mind. See them, I was sure I did not need to ride one. Again, if I was with folks, maybe, but no.

I nodded off a few times on the way back to Casablanca and talked with my guide here and there, but I was sleepy. The two-plus hours quickly passed, and we were surprised to see rain and rainbows in the desert areas. It was an excellent drive again and well worth the price. I tipped the driver well, exchanged contacts (with my realism about that), and paid the driver when arriving at the hotel.

I was soon in my room, and the sun was setting. I rested, and soon, it was night when I woke. I was staggered, and it was best to shower and sleep. Of course, that did not work, as I woke-sleep-woke from jetlag. But for each cycle, I was better. My lungs froze up, and soon, I was using my inhaler. I was either tired or exposed to something that I was allergic to. I recovered, and the wheezing stopped. I managed to continue to slip into sleep and out all night. Rest comes in breaks when traveling–no surprise there.

The usual travel is flying into Casablanca, seeing a few sights, and then off to Marrakesh and other places. I have no regrets about my choices.

Thanks for reading.