casablanca...

Jane and Whitney (EB's sisters) flew in over the weekend. Since EB had class the morning Jane flew in, and, well, I've basically been adopted as a big brother of sorts, I hopped aboard a night train (for some reason the words 'night train' continue to conjure Bob Seger's Night Moves) to be in Casa by 8 to greet Jane. I somehow got the compartment to myself for a few hours, so I wasn't completely without sleep for our day of fun. The experience of cabbing it from the train station to the hotel was hardly fun. True to their ways, the cabbies all wanted exorbitant flat rates. I argued, haggled, angrily got out of one cab and into another. All over two dollars. It’s amazing how perspectives change when abroad.

We had a great breakfast on the fish pier, haphazardly. We had intended to eat at the restaurant next door, but were early for lunch, so decided to wander around and peek at the morning's catch out on the pier. One thing led to another, and in classic Moroccan tradition, we were waved over to one man's stall, then another, both serving lightly fried fish, shrimp omelets, and, of course, tea. The food was excellent, cheap, and plentiful; Jane seemed satisfied with her first foray into the local grub. We headed for a couple of exhibits, and had a hard time finding the Jewish Museum--not a single person knew where to find it; unsurprisingly the place was empty but for us. EB woke us from a much-needed afternoon nap at the hotel--it was time to eat again before heading to Rick's Cafe (a replica based on the movie's, put together a couple of years ago). Our meal was good, as was our time at Rick’s—nothing crazily out of the ordinary besides the great service at both establishments. EB and Jane headed home early, while I stayed for another round. Joined by nine—yes, nine—other students that made the hop from Fez, we were anything but a small group. If you’ve traveled with me, you know this can stress me out a little bit—I like to be a bit of a loner, or at least do my own thing. So, while such a large group should have been comforting for the eventual walk back through the dark city, it had the opposite effect.

[Traveling in Morocco is rather easy—you supposedly don’t need a passport or identity card to get around the country. Really, the only time you need such documentation is when checking in at the airport or into a hotel]

All twelve of us were staying at the same hotel. Four, including EB, had forgotten their passports in Fez. Here we are at 1am, trying to pull one over on the guy at the hotel. A trip to the police station earlier would have cleared this up, but really, would the hotel make a big fuss over this? The three others cleared it up easily (though time-consuming) enough: a cab to the police station to get some documentation. EB and Jane were long asleep. It was a bit of a surprise, then, when the clerk gave me the third degree and insisted I wake EB. Come on, can this not be taken care of come morning, when everyone is well rested? Moreover, why didn’t you mention anything when the two of them entered in the first place? All moot points, the only applicable point being: wake EB up and get her over to the police station. Bureaucracy is not limited to the developed world.

Getting up at eight o’clock to see whether I could bus it out to Chefchaouen to meet up with friends, just to find out there were no suitable buses, was a bit of an annoyance. As such, I made the best of the day, sightseeing, laying down for a bit by the water, and, of course, eating. It ended up a fun day despite missing the beautiful weather in Chef. Six of us had drinks at a great bar before going next door for a quick, fancy, French meal. And then off to the train station for a late train back to Fez.