Although it's only been a month since my last trip to the Andalusia region of Spain, the last four weeks of school have overshadowed a lot of the emotions and nuances that I like about travelling. But, sitting in my Marseilles hotel after a short trip from Fes, I'm reminded of many of them and how much they add to my enjoyment of travelling.
First, I've forgotten the discomfort that comes along with waiting in queues with my Moroccan hosts. Sometimes I forget that the country is still developing in a lot of areas; more times than that, I forget that citizens of my host country don't follow the "unwritten rules" of forming and waiting in a line. While in "line," personal things like space are often intruded upon by an elbow, backpack or wandering baby fingers. Because I'm white (possibly), most of these intrusions are not followed by an apology or passive apologetic wave. Instead, they're followed by another elbow or larger carry-on.
When the bell and boarding announcement arrives, a peculiar event occurs. The queue and it's hundreds of human pieces become agitated, anxious and begin to collapse upon themselves in the direction of the aircraft. If there was any semblance of a "line," by the time the second-language boarding announcement concludes, a blob of swarming, buzzing passengers circle around a helpless female 20-something with printed tickets in hand, bludgeoning her until the paper frenzy becomes too much and she opens the floodgates to RyanAir's "first-come-first-choose" seating. Having sprung for the additional five euro "priority boarding" since Spring (that permits me to cut the line and board first), I've declined each time so I can witness this peculiar ritual of the "Running of the Moroccans."
Second, I've forgotten the feeling of disbelief that seems to come over me upon landing at our destination. Thankfully, this feeling doesn't involve the actual landing itself; rather, it's a result of witnessing my co-passengers immediately spring to their feet when they feel the wheels hit the ground as if they can deplane at 50 to 100 MPH. This happened about three hours ago; I saw the phenomenon begin at the front of the cabin and roll it's way back to me in the rear like one of those waves at a baseball game. A mere twenty minutes later (and 19:56 minutes until I stood up), and we were allowed to disembark.
Third, I've forgotten the sense of surprise that inevitably comes when I see the first time change on the airport or bus clock. Today, the first French digital clock I saw was situated above our bus driver's left shoulder and read 21:24 as my Moroccan-set clock told me 19:25. Two hour time difference for a country that's practically due North of us? I think that's a result of early Ramadan but that meant a later arrival than I expected!
Fourth, I forgot that feeling of freedom that - for me at least - comes when I step out of the airport without having a damn clue of where I'm facing, which way I should go or how I should proceed to the next station or hotel. Sometimes, I haven't been too excited about stepping into the great unknown, but since I've started stepping outside of foreign airports in March, it's always felt the same - I may not know exactly where I am or where I'm going, but it doesn't matter: like Kerouac said in "Dark Star Safari," when you're travelling, you're free - not on anyone else's time but your own. I enjoy that.
Fifth, I forgot how much I like navigating the unknown path. I usually get this feeling between the bus or train station and the hotel. What makes it different from being "lost" in the States is I can't just ask the next person on the street for directions because I don't speak their language. This up's the ante just a bit. Tonight, I had an idea where to go based on a few looks at a city map before I started travelling. From the station, I spotted the Notre Dame Cathedral on a distant hill. Knowing that it sits to the South of the old port and the old port's located to the south of my hotel, I headed that direction and - along the way - passed more Arabs sitting at cafe tables than in Rabat (maybe I could ask for directions afterall).
Finally, I forgot how nice it is to shower upright! After moving to Ifrane, I've been subjected to two less-than-ideal showering methods. The first comes at home, where the shower head is mounted on a slanted wall at about the 5-foot mark. I don't mind bending at a 45-degree angle to clean up, but it gets a little old after a couple of slip-and-falls. The second comes at the gym. Though I don't have to contort my body to get underneath the head, the water comes at the push...and second push...and third - and continuous - push of the button. The male population has proven that one-handed showering is possible since the first person tied a bucket to a tree limb, but it doesn't beat the "modern" technology that comes with most European hotels...and the water stays warm for just a little longer.
And that's only between the departure airport and arrival hotel. Tomorrow, I actually get to begin the fun part!
First, I've forgotten the discomfort that comes along with waiting in queues with my Moroccan hosts. Sometimes I forget that the country is still developing in a lot of areas; more times than that, I forget that citizens of my host country don't follow the "unwritten rules" of forming and waiting in a line. While in "line," personal things like space are often intruded upon by an elbow, backpack or wandering baby fingers. Because I'm white (possibly), most of these intrusions are not followed by an apology or passive apologetic wave. Instead, they're followed by another elbow or larger carry-on.
When the bell and boarding announcement arrives, a peculiar event occurs. The queue and it's hundreds of human pieces become agitated, anxious and begin to collapse upon themselves in the direction of the aircraft. If there was any semblance of a "line," by the time the second-language boarding announcement concludes, a blob of swarming, buzzing passengers circle around a helpless female 20-something with printed tickets in hand, bludgeoning her until the paper frenzy becomes too much and she opens the floodgates to RyanAir's "first-come-first-choose" seating. Having sprung for the additional five euro "priority boarding" since Spring (that permits me to cut the line and board first), I've declined each time so I can witness this peculiar ritual of the "Running of the Moroccans."
Second, I've forgotten the feeling of disbelief that seems to come over me upon landing at our destination. Thankfully, this feeling doesn't involve the actual landing itself; rather, it's a result of witnessing my co-passengers immediately spring to their feet when they feel the wheels hit the ground as if they can deplane at 50 to 100 MPH. This happened about three hours ago; I saw the phenomenon begin at the front of the cabin and roll it's way back to me in the rear like one of those waves at a baseball game. A mere twenty minutes later (and 19:56 minutes until I stood up), and we were allowed to disembark.
Third, I've forgotten the sense of surprise that inevitably comes when I see the first time change on the airport or bus clock. Today, the first French digital clock I saw was situated above our bus driver's left shoulder and read 21:24 as my Moroccan-set clock told me 19:25. Two hour time difference for a country that's practically due North of us? I think that's a result of early Ramadan but that meant a later arrival than I expected!
Fourth, I forgot that feeling of freedom that - for me at least - comes when I step out of the airport without having a damn clue of where I'm facing, which way I should go or how I should proceed to the next station or hotel. Sometimes, I haven't been too excited about stepping into the great unknown, but since I've started stepping outside of foreign airports in March, it's always felt the same - I may not know exactly where I am or where I'm going, but it doesn't matter: like Kerouac said in "Dark Star Safari," when you're travelling, you're free - not on anyone else's time but your own. I enjoy that.
Fifth, I forgot how much I like navigating the unknown path. I usually get this feeling between the bus or train station and the hotel. What makes it different from being "lost" in the States is I can't just ask the next person on the street for directions because I don't speak their language. This up's the ante just a bit. Tonight, I had an idea where to go based on a few looks at a city map before I started travelling. From the station, I spotted the Notre Dame Cathedral on a distant hill. Knowing that it sits to the South of the old port and the old port's located to the south of my hotel, I headed that direction and - along the way - passed more Arabs sitting at cafe tables than in Rabat (maybe I could ask for directions afterall).
Finally, I forgot how nice it is to shower upright! After moving to Ifrane, I've been subjected to two less-than-ideal showering methods. The first comes at home, where the shower head is mounted on a slanted wall at about the 5-foot mark. I don't mind bending at a 45-degree angle to clean up, but it gets a little old after a couple of slip-and-falls. The second comes at the gym. Though I don't have to contort my body to get underneath the head, the water comes at the push...and second push...and third - and continuous - push of the button. The male population has proven that one-handed showering is possible since the first person tied a bucket to a tree limb, but it doesn't beat the "modern" technology that comes with most European hotels...and the water stays warm for just a little longer.
And that's only between the departure airport and arrival hotel. Tomorrow, I actually get to begin the fun part!
I've been wondering how you and school were doing, but I love your travel descriptions. I don't do herds well myself. Herd traveling is the worst or possibly herd skiing. I almost hyperventilated when my mom took two fifty pound suitcases to Australia. I like traveling with my daughter who says, "I have my money and my underwear; what else do I need?"
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