Sunglasses Always Fit

I’m lucky that my schedule as an international teacher allows me to travel a lot, and my income teaching in Hong Kong supplements this desire, and my sometimes dangerously (I like to think comically) low levels of self-preservation skills coupled with a high tolerance for traveling alone and a genuine interest in doing the difficult like I’m in a secret study for how much the human body can take gets me on planes and trains and automobiles and ill-advised hikes quite often.

I couldn’t tell you exactly what’s always caught my mind’s eye about Morocco – I have just always held a fascination for a spot that has been and still is a true melting pot of cultures, languages, and history intersecting. This year, my Chinese New Year break fell over a nine day period. In true Rachel fashion, I was feeling sorry for myself one night in October, found a tour I could go on, booked it without really calculating the 24 hours of travel each way, across multiple time zones. But I knew it would be worth it.

Time crawled between booking and going but then it was Thursday afternoon and I was standing in the freezing cold and starting rain, praying my Uber would hurry up and get me to my favorite country – the airport – where time and rules and currency and fashion are just different. Where drinking wine at an oyster bar in your sweatpants at 8am is not only accepted, but encouraged. 

I made a rookie mistake on this flight – asking for an upgrade and blindly accepting exit row without asking for further information. I got placed in the baby row, next to a GIANT infant who breastfed, who spent most of the flight, depending on which boob he was on, either kicking me or resting his curiously large head in my lap and playing with my hair. Every time his parents would settle him into his sleeper seat, we would have turbulence, which required them to wake him up and hold him, buckled to the mom, until the turbulence was over. Needless to say, it wasn’t my most relaxing flight. I transferred through Doha, one of my favourite airports due to the SPACE and the ART, and then landed in Casablanca. There was a kerfuffle with my transfer pick-up, forcing me to spend an hour outside alone in a freak rainstorm, which I seem to be attracting lately, but then I was there – Morocco. 

And . . . it didn’t look like very much at all. Overall, it gave me a very “huh. Okay.” Grey buildings and despite being told it was a modern city, walking around alone gave me “time to go back to the hotel!” vibes. I wanted to grab a coffee or a sandwich, but all the restaurants by my hotel were men only. I got plenty of stares and whistles despite my very humble self.

My sim card wasn’t working, so from the hotel wifi, I managed to find a Starbucks at the nearby train station and that was my first meal. And second. Then I downloaded some books and got into bed. Because there was just nothing for me to do. And what’s nice about getting older is that I allow myself the space to rest on vacations – I was tired, I was over and yet underwhelmed, and so I just snuggled up with some tea and off-brand Cheetos and let my body and mind get used to being on holiday. 

The next day I had booked a city tour, and there was another guy in the van, who introduced himself as Justin. He was American, in town on business and an employee of the US Department of Homeland Security, to which I asked “should that make me feel more or less safe?” and he laughed. He was a nice enough guy, so I allowed myself ten minutes of fantasizing about how this was our meet-cute until we got out at the mosque we were visiting and I spotted his wedding ring. Sigh. 

Our tour guide, Arafat, gave us lots of great information about the city, the history, the new king and the updates he was giving to Morocco (“we’re only allowed one wife now!”) and forced us into lots of picture-taking, which I was grateful for later. We visited the big mosques, the old quarters, the fake Rick’s Cafe, made wishes at Mary’s Grotto, had traditional snacks and tea. He held an umbrella over me whenever it rained and was a shameless flirt, which was kind of fun from a non-creepy 70-something year old. When Arafat found out I spoke Spanish, he said I could be named Fatima from Morocco and it made it even more fun. He was originally from Tangier and spoke five languages and knew so much. All around great guy. 

Justin and I both loved the history of everything, and the tiny alleys, and the thousands of cats everywhere, so kept getting distracted by that. I had the most delectable lamb tagine of my LIFE for lunch that day. I still think about it sometimes. And then we had a really weird, abrupt drop-off, as he was at a different hotel at an intersection, so we didn’t get a proper goodbye. So Justin, if by some chance, you ever read this, I do hope your name really is Justin, because I can’t remember exactly. And thanks for sharing a van with me. 

In the end, I was glad I only had that one day in Casablanca, because there just isn’t much to it. I got back to my hotel and freshened up to meet up with my tour group – this is always a jumble of nerves because what if is THIS is the meet cutE?! (It never is, but what if it someday is?!) and also, I was about to spend eight close encounter days with these people, which can make or break a trip. 

Our guide was Hussein, a super nice man from the Atlas mountains (most recently in headlines because of the earthquake, which had in fact leveled his family’s home). Everyone at the welcome meeting seemed average, but quiet, and I was pretty tired, so when most headed off to dinner, I went back to my room for a Pringles dinner and a desperate search for warm clothes, because of the aforementioned freak rainstorms I had brought upon my visit to Morocco. 

The next morning we had an early hotel breakfast before a train ride, and I met those on the trip who’d been delayed by the previous night’s storms, so had missed the meeting. I had a brief moment of “omg – that might be – HIM.“ A long-haired, bearded guy had joined our trip, with a deep, commanding voice and a bit of ambiguous ethnicity about him. I tucked my hair behind my ear and checked my breath all in one movement, wondering where my lipgloss was and if we’d be fated to be seated together on the train.

Instead, I was parked next to a septuagenarian from Georgia, a college history professor with a specialty in WW2 battles, specifically those in France, who wore a pageboy hat and couldn’t believe I was from California, had spent significant time in Georgia, lived in Hong Kong, and was soon moving to a different country, one he had, in fact, spent time in, studying government response to earthquakes. We got on like a house on fire (later on the trip I’d help him take his first ever selfie). 

The travel day was spent winding up the coast, stopping to “look” at Gibraltar (too foggy), get pretty lost in Tangier to the point of panic, a visit to the local Carrefour (reminded me of Brazil!) a picnic in a seaside forest, bus rides through town, and then long, winding mountain roads to make our way to the blue city – Chefchaouen. 

But importantly – it was the getting lost in Tangier that completely burst my “could be a meet-cute” moment. Long Hair came with my new friend and I to wander and wonder around Tangier. We found tiny alleys and coffee shops and instagram moments, became unwitting bystanders to a neighborhood dispute where people were waving large planks of wood, and then – insert giant red flag – had to leave Long Hair at a store, because he wanted to buy a dagger. “Okay,” we reasoned, and proceeded to cobblestone our way through the cliffside city. 

When we met back at the bus? Long Hair had bought a SWORD. And a dagger. 

This was the first of many red flags, and so I will die alone. With a full passport. And that’s okay.

Next time – Being in the Blue City of my dreams.