I was NOT looking forward to this. When I had originally booked my flights, I noticed there was a layover in Morocco, and I thought, yeah, why not! Afterwards, I read a little and learned that Casablanca is NOT a popular destination in Morocco. People get in and get the hell out.
And now, I was traveling alone. This was the only part of the trip I was worried about. I did not particuLarly love my experience of traveling in turkey alone. Although Istanbul is a very secular Muslim city, and nothing happened, i did get followed for a couple of blocks By some dude until I screamed at him, and some dudes gave me a bit more attention than I wanted, sometimes touching me. On the arm, but whatever. I didn't like it. And I didn't really want to deal again.
I knew my parents weren't going to like it, either, but they're nervous when I go anywhere. I told them I'd probably just relax and read on the balcony of the Airbnb. I just want to come home at this point.
Of course, that didn't last long.
The flight got into Casablanca at about 6:30. I go to get my luggage, I am the only one. There's only 4 pieces of luggage on the belt, and everyone else on my flight is connecting to somewhere else.
I have to take the train to the tramway. I miss the train by 10 minutes, and there's only one an hour. The train is dirty and smells awful, like cat piss. I get off the train, and I'm supposed to take the tramway. Yves, my Airbnb host, says to leave the station and take the underpass about 100 meters on the right. "You can't miss it," he says. Well, as soon as I walk out of the station, about 20 taxi drivers rush at me to take their taxi. So I get a bit flustered, and when I don't see the sign for the tramway, I get a bit nervous. So I go into to candy store, and in terrible French, i ask where the tramway is. The guy assures me its in the same direction I was going. Ok, Cindy, just walk like you know what you're doing. Show no fear. I don't even get about 10 feet in, and the teenage boy, in braces, chases after me to help me find my way. He's smiling, and tells me he doesn't speak English, and walks me to the underpass. I instantly get the sense he doesn't want to mess with me. He's just smiling and walking next to me. I thank him, and he waves and runs away.
I get on the tram. I am the only white person on it (I would say tourist but just because no one else is white, and no one has a bag from the airport, that doesn't mean that There are no tourists) And I'm alone, and it's dark now. And I realize I don't need to worry, no one gives a shit about me. No other woman seems to be alone, but also no one seems to care about me at all. This is good news, because I'm still carrying this enormous round pool thing with me and i must look ridiculous.
I fumble around in the dark looking for the apartment. If there are street signs, I can't see them. I finally find Yves and brigittes place, and it's 9pm, 2 hours later than I predicted. This is the problem with not having a working cell phone. I didn't have any way to tell them. They didn't seem to mind at all.
They are a retired French couple, and their daughter is visiting. I instantly go to my room, put the fan right next to my head, and with zero grace proceed to scarf down the tortilla espanola I got at the grocery store in Lisbon before I left, in case I was hungry on the plane. Well, I was starving now and very unadventurous and I tore into that thing, and ate it with my hands, right out of the plastic package. I must have looked like a hobbit. I didn't want to bother anyone for a fork, or a plate, or to impose while they were sitting down to eat their own dinner. I didn't want to make them feel like they had to feed me. Very glamorous, my life. Jazz the cat comes in my room, and is insistent about my friendship. He head butts me, licks my face, lies down right next to me, and I go to sleep.
I wake up about 10am with a renewed sense of adventure. On their information paper, they say that I will have to tell them when I would like breakfast. I decide I don't want any breakfast, I'll just go find coffee. I don't know where to find coffee in the land of mint tea, or if I am even allowed to sit in a cafe and have some coffee by myself. I'm completely fucking ignorant about Morocco. Brigitte has prepared breakfast for me anyway, even though it's after 10am. She's put out a tray of 4 yogurts, a pancake, three rolls, a number of preserves, honey, and lemon curd, cookies, fresh fruit, dried fruit... And I ate more than I should have while Yves gives me the run down of what I might like to do. He tells me I'm very safe, and I trust him.
I put on a linen dress I bought in Spain. It's the most conservative thing I have with me that isn't long pants and a sweatshirt. It almost reaches my knees, and is sleeveless with a twisted t-back. It'll have to do. Except that it's ivory linen, and now I'm in Africa, and it looks like I'm about to go on safari. It's got a lot of zippers and pockets. What I wouldn't give for a hijab right now, I thought.
I take the tramway to the beach. I'm told the beach isn't so nice, but I can walk all the way along the Corniche boulevard until I get to the mosque. The tram ride is about 45 minutes. This tram, although new, is really slow. I get to the first beach, and it's not nice. It's dirty, it's packed, it smells bad, it's already 100 degrees outside. I had no plans to lie on the beach anyway. What does a lady wear to the beach by herself in Morocco? I have no clue. But it's breezy, so I walk along the long boulevard pretty comfortably. Im passing a lot of downmarket looking hotels, with pools with the view of the Atlantic. I think you can get a week pass for about $15. I wish I knew this. One Yelp reviewer is livid that they wouldn't let her swim in her head scarf, so I'm guessing my bikini would have been fine. I keep walking.
One older gentleman in a suit gives me a thumbs up and smiles at me. I don't know what he meant by that, but I guess he approved of me. Later, some dude walked up to my face and said to me, in Italian, that I had a very beautiful face. I guess my tan is coming along nicely. He kept talking until I walked away. One kid walks by me and says "mmmm bonbons et chocolat." It's good to know that even in my 40s, I might have a niche market in Morocco if Justin and I don't work out. Really, no worse than walking around NYC.
I've probably walked an hour, so I stop in the mall that I see. I get a huge bottle of water and an avocado yogurt lassi and I down them both. It didn't taste as much as avocado as I wanted, but it was a very refreshing. I didn't realize how dehydrated I must have been. I don't know how, I've been walking in Africa at noon in 100 degree heat for an hour. Dumbass. I sit at the Starbucks, which has free wifi and doesn't seem to care that I haven't ordered any Starbucks. The mall is next to a fancy new pristine white apartment complex. The beach access there is nicer, although I didn't venture too far in.
I take a taxi to the mosque. The mosque is amazing; third biggest in the world. It's a mosque on the beach... How can you not love that? The ticket guy sizes me up and very kindly sends me to the ladies room bathroom attendant to get some scarves to cover up, and suggests I tip her. I felt badly; in istanbul, they have scarves to loan. I would have come more prepared, even though the best I could've done would be a Brazilian flag pareo. She pulls out two scarves and dresses me, smiling. I get a tour. The tour guide makes a joke that lets us know she works for tips. I am the only one who tips her. The ONLY one. Assholes.
I'm now taking taxis everywhere. No ride has cost me more than $1.75, and they're metered and because Casablanca is not so touristy, they're not big on ripping you off. I get in the taxi and he puts his radio on and the American song is going "What are you gonna do with that big round ass" or something like that and I wonder what this nIce Moroccan man is thinking. I have a pamphlet from hammam ziani, and it takes me 3 taxi drivers before I find someone who knows where it is, even with a map. Even Brigitte, who went there the night before with her daughter, said the taxi drivers couldn't find it either.
I've never been to a hammam. I just knew enough to bring an extra pair of underwear. Cause that's all you'll be wearing, and it will be soaking wet when you're done.
Everyone's speaking to me in French. I go to pay, and they don't take credit cards. I have to walk 20 minutes to find an ATM that will take a card without a chip. Pro tip: do not leave the country without a card that doesn't have a fucking chip. I get the most expensive pAckage, $35. They give me a plastic bag with a small jar of black soap, a scrub poof, a shampoo packet, and a scrub glove. They lock my stuff up in a locker, and give me something to wrap myself up into. A lady brings me to a room, undresses me, tells me to sit down on a marble stool in front of a sink, and she'll get me in a little bit. There were more instructions about what I was supposed to do at the sink In French, but I had no idea what. I think she said "tête" so I rinsed my head when the steam came out through a pipe at the side of the room, through a metal steamer of eucalyptus. I'm the only one in there. I briefly ponder what a torture chamber it would be if I couldn't get out.
A different lady takes me out of there and has me lay on a marble slab table. No pillow. She scrubs me down with the scrub glove. This is called grommage in French, and translates poorly to "gumming." It wasn't very long, and she didn't do it as long as at the Korean place I go to at home. But so far, pretty close to the Korean scrub experience. Steam room, scrub, except here the table is marble and everyone is speaking French. New woman walks in and pours hot seaweed all over me. I understand "tourne" and "a côtée." This is all she says. She yawns a lot and I think that it must be difficult, rubbing naked women in a steamy room in your underwear all day. I want to be friendly with her, but my French is such shit I didn't want her to suffer even further. She wraps me In a large, thick clear plastic tarp on this metal table. I'm afraid to open my eyes because of the seaweed. I'm totally alone and cocooned. I feel like a Dexter victim. This part I don't love, and about 15 minutes later, I bust one arm loose for a taste of freedom.
Girl comes back and yells MASSAGE! and another lady comes to get me. She's great. She shampoos my hair afterwards and I wonder how I'm ever going to get the knots out. I don't even try. She's laughing at me a little because I don't know what I'm supposed to do in the shower. I still don't know but I bet I was supposed to use that poof and black soap they gave me. No matter, I couldn't possibly be more clean.
It's 6:30 and I'm starving. I get a mango and papaya juice at a place, and I'm guessing that this is an OK place for a lady to eat or drink something alone in Morocco. Every cafe I've passed has a long row of men seated outside. I haven't seen a woman eat or drink anything without a companion of some sort, either male or female, the entire time I was here. That doesn't mean that it doesnt happen, I suppose, and I know that since I am a foreign woman rules don't apply to me. I have seen a couple of European women, with knee-length skirts or shorts and sleeveless shirts, but not many. I've also seen younger brown ladies (don't know if they're African, Muslim, tourists, students, or what) wearing sleeveless shirts, but still conservative. I don't know what the rules are here for me, but I wasn't about to walk into a man cafe and get something alone. I don't want to draw any more attention to myself than necessary, and I certainly don't want to offend anyone. Anyway, juice places are everywhere, and my cold, amazing mango and Papaya juice is $1.50. I sit alone, no one cares. Casablanca, exceeding my every expectation. Also, maybe this is an appropriate time to point this out, everyone is really nice. No one has given me any attitude at my shitty French, or my confusion. People seem to be happy to have a customer, and they treat you, like everyone else. This is great.
Yves recommends a restaurant called café etoile right behind the central market. I know it's early for dinner, but I don't care. I hail a taxi and someone's already in it. This has happened a couple of times, and I finally figured out how it works: you tell them where you want to go and if it's somewhere on the wAy, and the person in the taxi agrees with it, you go too. The taxi driver hits a button on his meter, and the meter determines your prices separately. There's a lot of traffic, and it takes a long time, ride is still less than $1.50. I'm so spoiled now.
Earlier in the day, I hailed a taxi with someone already in it. I told him where I wanted to go, and he's having a discussion the lady in it, but at that point I hadn't realized that people share taxis. So I try to tell him "it's ok, I'll wait, thank you!" Because the meter is running, and although it runs slowly this lady is still paying for the discussion. So I say, "ok, j'espere, j'espere, merci" telling him I'll just wait. They kept talking. I shook my hand and walked away and waited for an empty taxi. It took me a day to remember that in Spanish, "esperar" is to wait, but in French, "attendre" is to wait. In French, "j'espere" means "I wish" or "I hope." So basically, I'm begging these people to take me to my destination. I was very embarrassed, almost a full day later. Fucking false cognates.
The restauRant is gorgeous, tiled from floor to ceiling in colorful Moroccan geometry. Each tabletop is hand carved so beautifully and intricately. I am excited to eat something from a tagine, which is the name of the food as well as the container it's cooked in. It's a terracotta (?) plate with a conical lid has a hole on top with the accompanying bread and butter. Positive side effect of French colonialism: there's always bread and butter around. I get the chicken with Preserved lemon and olives. It's AMAZING. I scraped that dish clean. I'm wondering if I need a tagine in my life, and if one would fit in my suitcase. The salad, not so much. It was lettuce, tomato, beet, potato, cucumber, arranged on the plate like the numbers on a clock, with small dollops of mayo on each vegetable. Man, nothing worse than surprise mayo. I forget that "salad" often means "shit covered in mayo." I scrape the mayo off, and put some harissa on the salad as it was otherwise unseasoned, and it was palatable. I wish I had ordered two tagines instead.
I see the tram right down the block so I ask if it goes to wafasalaf. Or at least, I try three times to say that and I think i said "wasafalaf" and "waslafaf" and every other permutation of those letters possible before I just show the word written down on my iPad. I am now doubting that i would ever be able to learn Arabic. Couldn't get that word down in two days. Yes, that's the right direction, he says, and it's a quick 5 stops away.
I really enjoyed my time in Casablanca. I would totally go back.
I get on the train to the airport. I'm across from a Mauritanian guy who lives in Montreal. He has a triple cough and is hacking up a lung in my direction. I give him my remaining halls cough drops, which he happily accepts.
We talk about our travels, and he says, "are you retired?"
Well that's a hell of a way to end this journey.
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