You say Morocco, I say Maraca.

I left for Morocco on Friday afternoon.  I wasn't really planning on going to Africa this year, but the stars were too well aligned not to go: the flight to Marrakesh is one hour, I could fly Ryanair (cheap, cheap), I had a travel companion and I no longer have to work on Fridays (that's right, people, I have 4 day weekends, every weekend). Top all that off with a half marathon and you've got yourself a tourist!  It's like one of my favorite sayings goes:  Opportunity does not knock and then knock again and then leave a note saying, 'Sorry I missed you'.  And so I went with two main purposes: to run a half marathon and to go to another continent.  I really knew nothing about the city of Marrakesh or the country of Morocco, except what I've heard from Spaniards. They told me that although Marrakesh was a touristy city, it was beautiful and a great place to visit.  They also joked that I should be careful of men trying to trade me for camels.

Me or the camels?  Which would you prefer?

They await your call.

My journey started on Friday morning.  Since a taxi to the airport costs 50€ and the buses to get there cost 3,40€,  I chose to take the buses and a little more time to get there (I'm on a budget).  So I left my house about 9 AM, walked through town to the bus stop.  Took the bus with my suitcase to Sevilla.  Walked about 10 minutes to the airport bus stop.  Got on the airport bus and got to the airport about 10:30.  I was a little early, but at least I know now how long it takes to get from Alcalá to the airport.

I took Ryanair and they don't have assigned seating, so it was good to be there early so I could get a window seat.  The boarding process took an hour (or so it seemed).  The people that sat next to me were Spanish and were talking/arguing the whole flight.  Their incessant bickering made for a longer flight.  There must have been a momentary silence though, because I remember drifting off and then a second later the phrase 'I wanted the window seat.' cut through the silence.  I had to bite my tongue to keep from telling the trophy wife beside me that: A. I was trying to sleep B. I could understand her when she whined in Spanish and C. if she wanted the window seat she should have gotten on the plane earlier or used her husband's money to buy a ticket on another airline where she could choose her seat instead of spending the money on collagen in her lips.  But I tried to look at the bright side: I could understand her.  If she were speaking in German or Arabic or Chinese her words would have been just sounds and I wouldn't have been annoyed at all, right?  It feels like a redneck-style joke:  You might be on the verge of becoming bilingual if people can annoy you in two languages.

When we got off the plane in Marrakesh, we all had to fill out a customs form stating basic information like your name, date of birth, country of residence, passport number and hotel/address in Morocco. People were spread out in the 'lobby' filling out the cards.  It was pretty chaotic.  I couldn't tell who was waiting in line or where the lines were.  I got in what I thought was a line, but soon realized was just a group of people filling out the form, I finally found where there was a person inside a booth stamping passports and got in line.  But I got in the wrong line again because this line had a group of Spaniards near the front.  One of them was at front of the line ('holding the place') while the other five were filling out their cards next to him. As the other five finished up their cards, they stepped into the front of the line.  Meanwhile, the line was growing behind them.  After the 4th person butted I had to say something, so I said, 'Pardon me, but there's a line.'   The most recent butter said, 'Yes, but we are all together.'  I said, 'Well, you all have to wait in line like the rest of us.' She restated that they were all together and trying to get their passports stamped together. Again I had to bite my tongue to keep from saying exactly what I was thinking which was that if they wanted to get through the line together, they should all fill out their cards and then proceed to the BACK of the line.  Their 'one person fills out the card and holds up the line while the rest finish their cards' idea was NOT an appropriate approach to getting through customs without a black eye.  I was already annoyed by the non-stop talkers on the plane and this situation was adding fuel to the fire.  The lady ended up letting me (the loca American) go in front of her and re-entering the line just behind me.  I know that if they hadn't been Spanish I wouldn't have said anything, but since they were I felt comfortable imposing the 'American Rules to Waiting in Line' on them. And, as I said, I was fired up from Lucy and Ricky bickering the entire flight.

So I got through customs, got my suitcase and went to get some Euros changed to Dirham.  The line wasn't too long, but my 'friends' were causing a ruckus with one of the tellers there too.  I got in another line.  I really didn't want to be arrested in the airport.  

Then karma came back to bite me (for being so crabby) because my transportation from the airport to the hotel was nowhere to be found.  I paced around the (small) airport lobby and saw no one related to my tour group.  I asked at information and they said, 'Oh, look over there.' (referring to the people standing by the exit door holding up signs with people's names).  I insisted no one was there for me, and so she told me to wait, that someone would be there.  No one came.  I asked someone else and they told me to go to information.  Information told me someone would be coming.  After an hour and a half I asked again.  One person at the desk told me to call.  I explained that I didn't have a phone.  She said something about outside.  I didn't understand.  The other person at the desk said, 'upstairs'.  So I got the idea that a payphone was either outside or upstairs, but I couldn't see it in either location.  So I kept waiting.  I knew that Mary's flight was getting in at 4:30 (and mine had arrived at 1:30), so if I waited long enough someone might show up.  After pacing for 2 hours three representatives from the tour group finally showed up.  The man asked where I had been because my flight was supposed to get in at 1:30.  He said there were two other girls on my flight that came out but I never did.  I wanted to blame the Spaniards, but I didn't.  I bit my tongue again and was just thankful that I would be getting to the hotel soon.

The hotel was quite close to the airport- maybe 10 or 15 minutes driving.  I checked in, dropped off my bags and waited for Mary to get in.  She ended up never coming in that night.  But the time I got the e-mail from my parents saying that her flight was cancelled, it was too dark to leave the hotel.  So I caught up on some sleep.

The next morning, I enjoyed the (free) continental breakfast, where I dined on lukewarm boiled potatoes, lukewarm hard-boiled eggs and hot water (I wasn't sure if I could drink the tap water or not). Then I headed to the market/city center.  I'm not sure exactly what time it was, but I think it might have been 9 AM when I was there this day.  There weren't very many people around quite yet and compared with the afternoon it was a ghost town.  

The market- bright and early before the crowds arrived.

The Atlas Mountains are in the photo- look closely.

Anyway, this post is getting longer than I anticipated so I'll try to paraphrase the rest of the trip.  Mary arrived on Saturday and we went back to the city to buy bottled water (which, by the way, costs 13 Dh in the main market (1,30€) and only 7 Dh (70 cents) just a block off the main square) and walk through the market more.  She bought a copper plate at one of the shops.  We had to haggle with the man about the price, but she finally settled on 200 Dh (20€) and my pen.  The man said he wanted my pen 'for his children'.  I'm not sure how he knew I had a pen in my purse or why his children wanted it, but it was part of the deal, so we went with it.

That night we went out to dinner at a restaurant on a main street where I had a butternut squash soup and a vegetable omelette.  We ate outside and it was a little chilly, but not unbearable.  Then we went back to the hotel to rest up for our big races on Sunday.

The races started at 8:30.  The start line was less than a half mile from our hotel, so we didn't have to leave extremely early.  This was especially good because there were no port-o-potties or other bathroom facilities available at the start.  And it never fails that I soon as I am behind the start line I have to go. By the time I returned there were so many people packed behind the starting line that I couldn't get on the street much less find Mary again.  We were packed in like sardines and since it had rained the night before there were giant puddles on the street and thus even fewer places to stand.

The weather was perfect- about 50 I think and the course was nice and flat.  The half marathoners and full marathoners ran together the first seven miles and then split at a fork in the road.  We ran back through the city (the first part was more parks and back roads, as I remember). I remember running through intersections that were just packed with people in cars and trucks and motorcycles.  There was no honking though.  They were just sitting quietly.  The crowd of spectators was also very well-behaved.  For the most part they just observed the race.  I heard little clapping or shouting and they were very respectful of the runners by staying on the sidewalk rather than crossing in front of us.  At one point (mile 10 or 11 if I remember correctly) there was a concrete divider in the road. We were running to the left of it and a man with a donkey hitched to a cart was standing to the right of it.  He appeared to be just watching but for some reason a police officer on our side of the divider was yelling at him.  I would say that perhaps the police officer was concerned for the safety of the runners, but that would assume that this was the first and only donkey on the course.  That is just not true (and I'm not making a joke about some runners/spectators being asses here, I'm truly saying that that wasn't the first donkey (animal) on the course). 

After what felt like forever, I finally finished the race (in an average time for me) and proceeded through the finish area to pick up my medal and water/oranges/dates.  Once again I found myself in the role of Canned Sardine #344.  There was a lot of pushing and shoving to get to the front of the line to get the goodies.  When I finally made it to the front of the line, I got my water and food and turned to let others in.  Instead of easily sliding out of the pack, I met up with the force of a hundred sweaty, smelly, thirsty, hungry runners pushing me backwards, into the medal fence dividing us from the people handing out the food.  I started panicking a little bit and feeling quite clostrophobic.  I didn't want to be the girl that finished the race but tragically never got a chance to rehydrate.  So I did what our ancient ancestors would have done: I made a growling noise and pushed my way through the crowd.

Happy to be alive and hydrated after the half marathon.

Safely out of the crowd and back at the hotel, I freshened up and went back to the start line to watch Mary finish the full marathon.  As 3.5 hours turned into 4.5 and then 5.15, I began to get worried.  I thought maybe I missed her (since I was partially distracted by a Moroccan man who wanted to be my penpal), so I went back to the hotel to find her.  She wasn't in the room, but on my way out of the hotel, I could see her coming down the street (the race ran right in front of our hotel).  I booked it towards the finish line to take my place as the photographer.  Apparently somewhere along the course there was another split and Mary didn't notice this second one, so she ended up running an extra 4.4 miles.  That is what took her so long.  It is now a question I pose to you:  What would you do if you were running a marathon in Africa and you went 2.2 miles out of your way before you realized your mistake?  Would you run back to where you took the wrong turn, would you quit, or would you just cut it short and run to the finish line from where you were?  Remember, there are donkeys on the course.

After she finished, she still had energy so we walked around the old town.  We went to the souks, some tombs and to see the old city wall.  For dinner we went to a restaurant called Red House that was recommended by the hotel.  It wasn't Moroccan food, but it was delicious.  I had chicken with a coconut milk curry sauce and white rice.

The tombs.

I bought two postcards at a store in the market area.  I then tried to find a place that sold stamps.  Impossible.  The post office only had envelopes (it was Saturday so maybe there were just limited supplies).  The shop in the hotel had stamps, but the store clerk refused to sell us stamps unless we bought postcards in her store.  Since we already had the postcards we declined her proposal.  However, when we could find no other store or post office that would sell us stamps either, we were forced to make a deal with her.  Mary bought two postcards and got two stamps and requested that she didn't put the stamps on the postcards she bought there.  The clerk agreed and finally I was able to send the postcards.  I don't want to ruin the surprise, but if you have lived in the same house since 1947 (or even December of 1946) you might find a Moroccan postcard in your mailbox sometime soon.

I got up early and ran a few miles in Morocco while I had the chance.  As I was in Africa I headed out in shorts and a t-shirt.  During my 4-mile run, I realized that I was freezing.  Then I saw the temperature displayed:  6°C (43°F).  I guess I haven't lost my Midwestern/Northern toughness after all.

I made it to the airport nice and early, checked my bag, traded in my Dirham for Euros, went through security and waited to leave.  There was a group of Americans in line to board the plane who were in Spain living at the army base with their husbands.  They had also come to Morocco for the weekend to run the half marathon.  We were talking for awhile and I heard the Spaniards behind me say, 'Why are there so many English people on this flight?'.  Not long after one of the Americans came back to the line and told us that the flight was delayed 2 hours.  We left the line and I heard the Spaniards saying, 'What's going on?'  One of them left to check the flight board.  I told them that the flight was delayed 2 hours.  They thanked me and also sat down to wait.

When we finally did board, I saw my friends from the previous flight (Lucy and Ricky) and I decided that I would do everything in my power to make sure they did not sit next to me.  When two younger people sat down next to me I breathed a sigh of relief.  And when they reached into a plastic bag and pulled out a six-pack of Heineken I knew it was going to be a great (one hour) flight.  The man offered me one, but I declined.  He asked me (in English) how I liked Morocco.  I said, 'I'm glad to be going back to Spain.  And you?'  'I'm from Morocco.' He responded. (Once again karma slaps me in the face.)  It ended up that he is a Moroccan that now lives in Spain and owns a store in Barrio Santa Cruz (super touristy area near the famous Catedral in Sevilla).  He gave me the name of his store and told me to stop by sometime.

When we got off the plane I saw something I don't usually see at baggage claim: my suitcase.  It brought a tear to my eye.  I wiped it away and went to the bus stop to make the two-bus trip back to Alcalá.