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Going backward, as I have not done that in a while, last night late, I popped a US Quarter-sized blister on my right foot big toe. It all but exploded, and, due to chemotherapy and diabetes and a hammer-toe issue on that foot, it is somewhat numb; the pain was little. I took some painkillers, the normal off-the-shelf versions, and covered the wound with ointment to stop an infection. Next, I put a bandaid and a piece of medical tape to keep it all in place. I managed to sleep until about 4 when the pain returned, and I was doing the diabetic electrical shock thing. This is when the pain comes and goes. It makes it impossible to sleep as it keeps waking you. The jetlag did not improve this, and I started my data at about 4:30, which is not unusual with jetlag anyway.

This misery will continue for about a day before the healing takes over. I do not expect difficulties, as my feet are not mushy or show poor circulation. It’s just the shocks for a while.

Moving backward, I returned on 5 May 2024 not so much for the Mexican food as to play Dungeons and Dragons one more time before my surgery. I was at Matt V’s house before 5:30 and brought him the London maps from the game 1879, which are independent of the game and are just excellent and newly drawn maps to recreate 1879 London streets. We often play in 1926 for Call of Cthulhu role playing game (RPG), and I suspect the maps will work just as well. I also brought him the spices from Casablanca, and we put some of the burgers in it. The spice did not work as well as a rub, but still, it was cool to try some on burgers. Matt V makes meat and non-meat burgers when we play at his house.

I told stories about my Morocco trip and recommended a multi-city tour to my friends. We also went over the events of my surgery and Susie’s concert in Michigan. Both are less than two weeks away. But, mostly, we played Dungeons and Dragons, Spell Jamming, and 5E.

I play a lawful evil cleric of the concept of war. This ties my hands as I have to play evil, as the debate was a war or an attempt to negotiate with a dark power. My vote should be obvious. The vote went for peace and a scouting mission–being lawful, I accepted the results. We took our space-flying ship (yes, SciFi mixed with fantasy–Tolkien goes Space Battleship Yamato) to investigate after a diplomatic conference we attended went pair-shaped with various blasting rays after an internal dispute exploded (literally). I was drinking coffee, with extra coffee, and still had some trouble keeping it clear in my head. It was fun.

Before this, I rested for a bit and redid some laundry as my permanent press items got wrinkled last night. I managed to get all the laundry done and put it away. Most of my travel items are put away. I cannot find my leather passport holder; I might have lost it. It contains all my inoculation records. Puke!

I had lunch with the Weld-Martins at the newish OG Mexican place near the corner of 185th and TV Highway. I had to park a block away as it was popular today, Cinco de Mayo. I had the chili relleno plate, and Anne had the shrimp, which looked good. Wayne was very unhappy as his meal was late; he had crab-stuffed items. I had my first Diet Coke in weeks with ice. It was great. My food was a bit plain, and I was in Morocco a few days ago, so it is not time to make comparisons! Anne suggests the seafood. Next time!

Before this, I was at church, having risen at 7ish and sleeping well my first night (it is always like that for the first night). I wrote the blog and finished in time to clean up, dress, and make it to church. I had a striped dress shirt under my now-baggy sweater and put, yikes, a stripped pride tie that clashed, and I changed it. I went with a 1980s Structures tie with triangles that matched the color of the shirt and the sweater. This was not a vertigo-inducing combination; better.

Dondrea announced to claps that the inconsistent approach to gay rights had ended in the United Methodist Church, and we are now open to gay marriage, gay ministers, and all of the pride community. Later, we learned that the far-right Christian media is attacking the UMC as having gone hedonist (their word). If you have ever been to a UMC, our idea of going wild is singing hymns that are less than a hundred years old, not serving green jello with shredded carrots, and requiring ingredient lists at a potluck to stop food emergencies. We are still who we were last week.

Aside: I know that some disagree with this, but we, as the members of UMC, have gone this way to be more open, not become hedonists or worse. We are still the same mostly harmless (thanks, Douglas Adams, for those words) version of American Protestants. Please don’t believe the lies; we are still the same boring folks.

Really aside, I love the idea of Hedonist Methodist. So many jokes. It is so Douglas Adams or Steve Martin.

I arrived before the service and gave Dondrea their new scarves from Casablanca and some packets of cooking seasonings. They loved the scarves. I spent much of the service standing in the back, drinking lots of coffee. Sitting was not welcome after my flights the day before.

Pastor Ken gave the sermon today, focusing on the Book of James, just the start. This is the first letter of the New Testament I taught in Sunday school, and I know it well. It is also one of the books used to practice translating Greek to English, as it is well composed in native Common Greek, so I am quite familiar with it. I have also heard from another Methodist preacher that the Book of James is the model of a sermon and preaching. Ken, always the scholar, points out that Martin Luther considered it of less value and put it in an appendix in his translation of Greek to German.

Pastor Ken explores the beginning, which tells folks to expect trials and to have joy from them—a near-self-conflicting statement. Ken explained that he sees this as a promise that God will be with you and help you survive and grow from the experiences—that God actually promises this. And while Pastor Ken went down many paths and expanded on this more, my jetlagged self could only remember the large bullet points.

The morning was wet, grey, and slightly windy. The temperatures did not rise above the low 60s (16-20C). My China rose had flowers, but they were soaked and not standing up yet. There was no local flooding, but some puddles appeared on the roads.

I was doing well until the toe issue. It should clear up soon. I should get to normal sleep when I am headed to Michigan next week!

Be well! Thanks for reading!

I’m sorry this took two days to travel, and I had shorter connections than I thought. It took time to travel through security and find my next gate. I usually had four hours, but the international flights boarded an hour before leaving, and some flights were delayed. It was fun and chaotic. It was not really possible to write.

I also did not edit this with care as it is long, and some miswordings fit this part of the experience.

So much for the theory that exercise would help jetlag. I was wide awake at 3. I rose at 4ish. I dressed at about 5ish and finished packing at about 6 and was at breakfast at 6:30 in the morning when it started. I got a note on WhatsApp (more used in Africa and non-Apple worshippers) that the international family wanted to meet at the Old Medina (Souk) briefly. They were flying back today but wanted to see the Souk and me.

Despite being up most of the night, I was feeling (for now) awake and comfortable. I read and relaxed a bit in the lobby. At 9ish, I headed out in my black jacket, hat, Cthulhu Absinthe brand T-shirt, and tan slacks. I walked over to the large park and walked its length. One of the staff cleaning the park waved, and I dipped my hat, which got a bow and a hand-over-heart response–I am remembered. I get a very positive response from my hat dipping and showing respect to the staff anywhere. The police often smile and salute back.

I cut over to the main road at the end of the park (near the Cathedral) that leads to the United Nations Plaza, which is across from the Old Medina. Instead of risking the streets, there is an underground bypass of the busy intersections, which I used again to cross the crazy roads and light rail mixing and matching. I had managed to be a few minutes early, which I was proud to have timed so well to be early. Soon, the family, just two of them today, met me.

We entered the Souk, and it was just starting to open. We were there about 10. We quickly walked about 1/4 of it and exited on a busy street with many shops and locals. It was a noisy place as Casablanca is less of a tourist town and more people are working for a living. The Old Medina was less of a tourist show (there were no snake charmers, for example) and many more items for the locals. There are lots of soccer for sale. I still notice Nike stuff and look to see if it is real–what I saw looked real.

We stopped at Cafe France, which I used yesterday, and this time, we picked a table not in the flight path of the birds, and the waiter remembered me from last time (I tip well) and was happy to have me back with friends. We ordered mint tea (I ordered a snack as breakfast was back at 6:30), and we talked and enjoyed the world going by. The chaos of the taxis in front of the Hyatt was almost hypnotic as the taxis would stop, cause a snarl that was announced with massive use of horn, and then resolve. It was like a bizarre dance.

My new friends (and readers of this blog) will stay in touch, and they bought. Very kind. They had to head to the airport and return to the East Coast of the USA. After saying goodbye, I headed to the poster museum. I was over 10,000 steps already, and my feet and legs were complaining, so I paused a few times. I have checked, and the book of posters from the museum is expensive for the English version of Abe.com. Here in Casablanca, it is about $45 USA, so I bought one. I also found a key holder and bought that in a nice shop a block from Cafe France. They also had cookbooks, but they apologized for being out of stock of English versions (their collection of other languages was impressive). Their English was good, and they were helpful and not pushy. My key holder was from Disney, broke years ago, was repaired, and is now falling apart. I found one from Morocco that is in the shape of a door here, and I think it will be a fine replacement. The book I managed to slide into the checked bag, and I am carrying the key holder in my carry-on.

I found lunch at McDonald’s. I had been wondering what to do for lunch and suddenly found I was standing near one of these USA places. Why not? It was good and familiar. The mustard packet was French and hot—perfect on fries.

You can complain that I should eat some local-style food instead, but the Moroccans are proud of these places. They should be. It was inexpensive and good.

I walked back, and it became a struggle as my legs and feet were through the Casablanca sidewalks and cobblestones. I returned and packed some more, rested, and cleaned up. I finished the packing, nearly sitting on the one suitcase to close it.

I read for a while and then checked out at 4ish with an extra $60 for late check-out. Some room taxes and the dinner in the hotel a few times gave them something to use my AMEX for. I decided to go to the tea place again and have one last mint tea. I stayed until the Mövenpick sent someone over to let me know the taxi was waiting. It was thirty minutes early.

I made my goodbyes to the hotel and tea guy. Some of the red-jacketed Mövenpick staff came out to see me off. I dipped my hat again, and they all smiled. The taxi guys were unhappy, and my luggage and my person were moved to the taxi first in the line instead of the second one. This driver spoke no English but yelled in something like French the whole way. I laughed as we were cut off, waved into traffic by a cop, and almost crushed. Other events were best seen not firsthand. I cheered him on, and the hand gestures became more pronounced, and his French became more obvious. Might as well enjoy it!

I had to know where I was going in the airport, Qatar Airlines in Terminal 1, and actively assisted once we were there. There still were some sudden lane changes, and passing that again looked more like a racecar than an airport to me. Soon, I was delivered intact. I overpaid the driver. He was grateful. I was happy to be there.

I found the gates to be checked in. There was no online check-in for this one; it was old school. I had to supply my Driver’s License as my passport did not record my address. It took two people to check me in. I was early. There was more security (two bag x-rays and person checks per airport). One is to enter the airport, and the other is to enter the gate. Even on transfers, as I soon learned.

The plane’s loading was strictly by class, something I had noticed before, and we, the unwashed economy, had to wait until all the first and business class were on the plane. The 787 Dreamliner was OK. I was surprised by how small the space I had. My carry-on was put in the overhead bin, and I managed with my phone, coat, and hat. My seatmate spoke no English and was in full make-up and dress. She got up often, but generally, she was OK.

I read a new book and had my headphones on my phone. I all but passed out, and I was so sleepy. After they fed us a good meal, I slept, they woke us, fed us again, let us sleep again, and finally landed. My neck pillow was in the bin, so I used the pillow that was given to me. There was also a blanket. I did not get headphones, but I mostly slept that flight away.

I watched the sunrise from the plane and then got to walk off the plane, after waiting for first and business class, in my socks. I was stiff. This is a tarmac landing, so we get off the plane on the big stairs, and then a bus takes you forever, it seems, to the terminal.

The cement pad was rough and hurt through my socks. The bus ride was short, and I stepped on more rough cement and cement floors. I sat in the first chair near an escalator packed with people from various planes. I also find a men’s room.

This is Doah, and the stall I use is wet; it is actually nearly flooded from the bidet. I managed to not get my pants soaked; I changed shirt and underwear using the emergency pair I keep in my carry-on (it is heavy with spare clothing, food–from the USA: a can of chicken salad with crackers–and my 15″ laptop). I balance on one foot, soaking my socks, and wonder what a terrible end it would be to slip in Qatar, fall into a bidet, and die with one leg in your underwear. CSI Qatar would be greatly confused. I survive and manage not to giggle from my thoughts of the reconstruction video of my death on a CSI Qatar episode out loud, as that may be culturally incorrect in a men’s room stall (in any country). Before stepping further into Doah Airport, I risk a cultural error by removing my socks and putting on new socks in a chair and then my shoes.

There is more security and disassembly and reassembly, but I am allowed my shoes this time. The laptop stays in the bag, too. I am asked again about liquids (not about laptops, knives, food, or anything else—my tiny toothpaste tube is ignored). My memory of the airport is of a mall, a very expensive one, with cars and some interesting places. I would have loved to have had a beer and time to try some places, but I made my next mistake. I go to the gate.

It is a one-way gate with more security and more questions about liquids with some seriousness this time. I manage the assembly and disassembly without issues. There were no restrooms, water, or anything except uncomfortable chairs. I forgot this is European-styled security, and the gate is a secured space with no amenities.

Soon, I will wait with everyone else for Business and First Class, and then we will finally be allowed on the plane. This time, I will be in the back of the plane, 37A, and the seat between me and a nice Indian man (his family has the center seats) is empty! The Airbus 350 Qatar Airlines plane is comfortable, and the legroom is good in the cheap seats, if not excellent. There are also plenty of restrooms. The 787 from Casablanca had me wedged into my seat and was full. I dreaded the 17 hours after a miserable 7 hours on the 787, but the 350 was an excellent ride, more like a busy hotel lobby with food and assigned seats.

The food was good and imaginative. The stewardess says she loves sweats, and I have a strange bread pudding for my first meal. It is excellent, and there are two full meals and one breakfast. Perfect. My seatmate, one over, slept most of the trip, and we used the spare seat for storage and glasses. The beer and wine were free; I had a Stella to remember Susie, one of her favorites. I watched three movies. I slept most of Wonka away as I had enjoyed it in theaters. The 350 Engine noise is problematic; I can barely hear or understand the movies and the staff. The entertainment center allows for pairing headphones. Next time in Qatar Airlines, I will bring noise-reducing headphones.

I manage to sleep–wake–eat–sleep–wake, and I decide, passing the 1/2 waypoint, to watch more movies. I find a French movie and am happy to enable English subtitles. As I no longer have to hear the words, this is a great experience as the sounds work. I cannot recommend La passion de Dodin Bouffant more. I cried often as the story was sad and about someone passing. A great movie is one where one can see one’s life retraced in another story. This is also about cooking in the late 1800s. Please find this one and watch it.

Aquaman was one movie without subtitles unless I wanted them in Arabic, and it really did not need the sound to work. It was a spectacle and, even with my hearing issues, fun and almost campy. It is not as terrible as some other movies, best forgotten, cut from the same overused material, and fun. It was a good one for a flight, and I needed a brain cookie after the deep La passion movie.

The miles and disturbed sleep patterns are beginning to take a toll. I reluctantly gave up my Airbus 350, thinking biz class would have been a kick (next time, if I can get it for less than 1,000 more), and headed into the long hallways of LAX customs. The lines are long, and the directions are fewer than I had in other countries. We, in long lines, all laugh when the customs agents leave us to just one agent for a long line. “Bad luck,” I hear. It was lunchtime, and soon, we had more agents. I clear through with no questions.

I found my bag (you have to grab it and pass through customs with your luggage) with the help of an agent from Qatar dressed smartly in a stewardess outfit, even with a hat. It was hidden behind bags already removed from the track. The silverish metal tag, slightly crumbled, helped.

I am still having trouble with directions and signage, but I manage to follow directions and put my bag on the right track. The bag will see me again in PDX. I help a Korean gal find her way, and she helps me get on the right bus. We are bussed to the correct terminal, five this time, and soon, yes, more security. This is TSA, and the American flags finally tell me I am home. The language is no longer French/Arabic; it is always strange when you first realize you can understand folks again. And, f**k, the shoes have to come off this time, and I manage to reassembly and disassembly. I also helped the Korean gal through the process. She even waits for me as I take more time to reassemble. We discover she is f**ked as her flight was canceled while she was in flight from Doha, Qatar. I leave her with the Air Canada agent as they figure out what to do. I managed to make it to my gate through the usual chaos of a full Alaska Airlines coverage to Portland, and I had only twenty minutes (after the flight was late, customs slow, and the connection required bussing). There is a bar near the gate. I sit and have a locally made (in Oregon) Blue Moon, a light beer. It is not served with a lemon, which I miss; my aversion to fruit that I did not peel is fading now. I have only a $100 bill and Morrocan 500 in bills–funny. I had to use the AMEX and, to the disappointment of the bartender, closed out my tab immediately. Refreshed and happy to be back in the USA, I enjoy the chaos of a gate where you can’t hear the announcements. Another person, like me, had a boarding pass printed many countries ago, and I decided we were in group D and board. He is concerned, and I tell him they don’t actually check. He smiles nervously and joins me, and we board without incident. I almost offered my seat to have dinner and a quiet few hours in LAX–the jetlag speaking to me, but instead wedged myself in a bus-like 737-800 and headed home.

We, like all my flights, were delayed by twenty minutes, and I do remember leaving the gate, but next, I woke to my surprise, already flying–I had never slept through a take-off until now. I sleep a few more times but get some coffee.

I am happy to see the usual friendly, organized PDX with its long hallways, correct signage, bright colors, and good food/bar places. I walk the strange passages from gate C to the joint of the other gates and, finally, the exit. I stopped by a men’s room, relieved that it was clean and not damp, and took care of the business. I am not in a hurry as there are no more customs, security, or other issues to slow me, and I have no more connections. I find my bag without issue and roll it with my heavy carry-on to the Red Economy Lot bus. I had to look at my phone for the first picture of the trip. It is the where-the-f**k-did-I-put-Air-Volvo first picture of the trip, D2 Red, and soon enjoy the bus, one more, and then walk in the blessed Oregon Mist in my hat and coat, so very happy to be home.

Driving and paying the car keep fee ($135) are not difficult. I put on Kink.fm and soon followed the familiar patterns, careful not to let my mind wander, meaning I was actually sleeping. I arrived safe and without any sleep-driving.

Corwin is home, watching me unload my bag and fill the washer. I will have to rewash some of it as it will be a wrinkled mess, but it is best to get this first load done now. Corwin took my suggestion and ordered an excellent pizza from Round Table, which was delivered using my card. I shower and feel clean again.

Morocco was an excellent place to visit. The international American family recommended a tourist trip to multiple cities, including a bullet train to Tangiers (they loved that on their trip), and I agree. But I love a busy modern city like Casablanca, and the beaches are very nice. I have no regrets, and I was not looking for a drinking, eating, and partying experience. I was let go by Nike, decided I was retired, and left the country on the next trip I could arrange. It was a good plan, and I am happy to have executed it.

Casablanca and Morocco are recommended as safe and friendly but try to have some French. When there, find a chair and table, order mint tea with water, and watch Morocco and the world go by. Maybe have a pastry. Tip too much and make them smile.

Thanks for reading.

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.