City of Casablanca
The flight into Casablanca was a complete disaster. Everything that could go wrong, did. The plane was late due to “significant mechanical errors;” not the best thing to hear before boarding. Once on board, I switched seats with a man so he could sit next to his wife. His seat was in the exit row, with significantly more legroom (a blessing for a 6’+ guy like myself), but it was in the middle seat between two gals in hajibs. Trying to be a gentleman, I tried to compress my broad shoulders from overtaking these two girls’ personal space. The three-hour flight turned into four hours for some reason—air traffic maybe, who knows.
Graffiti around Casablanca
We arrived in Casablanca at 2:00 am. After breezing through immigration, I sat and waited for another hour before my bag finally came out. Once it did, I was out the door and jumping into an overpriced taxi (I’ve gotten used to this from airports). However, before I did, a group of scraggily-looking Europeans with backpacks came slobbering up to me begging to share a cab into Casablanca. I looked at them for a moment and remembered all those times when I was in their shoes and had to figure it out on my own.
With one foot in the backseat of the cab, I look at them and said:
“Sorry boys, I’m a lone wolf. You’ll figure it out.”
I watched their sunken faces disappear as we sped off into the Moroccan desert. The sky was dark, but the half-moon pierced through the cayenne-red clouds that churned ominously above the desert horizon. It was hot outside, but desert oasis hot. The highway was lined with tall streetlights that ran on until they merged itno a single beam of light guiding us into Casablanca.
Casablanca, Morocco
Casablanca is like any other city I’ve been in recently. There are shanties outside the city, tall buildings in the center and a variety of shops and restaurants that line the sidewalks. We passed a restaurant called “O’Tacos.” Underneath the name it said “Traditional French Tacos.” You try and figure that one out.
The hotel wasn’t too bad, but wasn’t too good. The room was giant and had a kitchenette and a view looking out toward the Hassan II Mosque and the Atlantic coast. The shower was just a shower faucet that was attached to the wall of the bathroom with a drain underneath it. It wasn’t ideal, but I’ve been in this situation before. A quick shower and I was in bed, watching Arabic soap operas, trying to fall asleep.
About 30 minutes later, the doorbell of the room rang. A voice outside said, “Service. Open the door please.”
Hassan II Mosque. Also home to the oldest university in the world (older than Oxford)
It took me aback for a moment. I didn’t order anything and it was 4:00 in the morning. This was probably an attempted robbery. I went up to the door and politely told him through the door, double-checking the deadbolt was locked, that I didn’t order anything and I was sleeping. He grumbled for a few minutes outside the door and then disappeared. I went to the bathroom and locked the ajar window, grabbed both my knives and went back to bed.
I was finally drifting off to sleep when the obvious, but completely overlooked, happened. Morning prayers blasted over the loudspeakers from the nearby mosque. I had experienced this every day when I was growing up in Indonesia, but for some reason had completely forgot. They only last a few minutes, but it snapped me back to the days of my youth. Allah Awakbah (God is great).
Needless to say, I slept in, but was out of the hotel by 11. I had only a few hours before I headed off on the train to Fes, so I wanted to walk around as much as I could. I left my bags with the concierge, grabbed my camera and headed toward the Hassan II Mosque.
I love going to see mosques. There is such unique architecture and decorations that differ from the churches I have seen across the world. This was no exception. It was extensively domineering and with such detail. I marveled at it for an hour, snapping pictures as I walked the grounds. From there, I went to the coast to see the Atlantic, but I didn’t have time to stick around.
While riding the train to Fes, I have to laugh a little about that old Bogart movie “Casablanca.” First off, it was filmed in Hollywood and there was only one Moroccan actor in the entire movie. It painted this third-world chaos in the thirties (and it may have been that way then). But now, it is just another modern city, a beautiful one at that. So as the train pulls out of the station, all I can say to Casablanca is “Here’s looking at you kid.”