In Fes, it’s not that it’s not the coldest place I’ve ever been. It’s that it never warms up. There’s a radiator in our room, and it is somewhat effective, but it doesn’t really heat the room to the point where the towels will be dry when you use them the next morning. It’s also raining most of the time, and you know how dampness affects temperature.
It has us wondering, will we be missing this weather when it’s 100 degrees (F) in Buraimi?
Probably not. As much as I like the cold, I never took into consideration the cold in other countries. Where central heating is not available. Where blankets are one to a person. And where driers are a novelty.
Though I am calling this series of blog posts My Year in Arabic, these first 6 weeks in Morocco will be more of an exercise in remembering any French from my undergrad years. The language on the ground is a hybrid of French and Arabic – which we have dubbed “Frerabic.” It’s another mark against sending business students to Morocco for Arabic immersion – not only does the colloquial Arabic differ greatly from the Gulf Arabic spoke in areas like Dubai, but all the locals you interact with speak French.
Montaz! Très Bon! Take your pick.
The story on how we got here is 2 day journey on an unanticipated path and 12 hours of delays.
The new year provided a foggy morning for San Diego’s Lindbergh Field and led to the cancellation of Terminal 1’s first flight of the day: Frontier’s 6:20 to Denver. Our flight. After getting our check-ins as close as we could to 50 lbs. (to avoid a fee of $125), United re-routed us to Chicago O’Hare and then to Frankfurt. We had a last breakfast of Starbucks/McDonald’s with Miriam’s parents waiting for the new flight and then said goodbye to California for at least a year.
When we heard that we’d be flying to Frankfurt, we held out hopes that the flight would be administered by Lufthansa, and kept hoping until the United plane pulled up to the gate in Chicago. We were apparently bumped up to Economy Plus for our troubles in the morning, so the extra leg room was nice – especially when the plane taxied out, then taxied back in and sat at the gate for 2 and a half hours due to a faulty A/C unit.
Once across the Atlantic, we were glad to have our next flight still available, though less enthused to see it 35 minutes late.
Taking off from Frankfurt, we were pretty much resigned to the fact that we would miss our next flight (to Fes). So we got there, unloaded into a bus that took us to the terminal, and Miriam hit up the restroom. As she came out, a man with a walkie talkie calls out, “Fes?” We look at each other and then respond, “Fes!” And he motions for us and starts running down the terminal, and we follow suit. We might just make our next flight! Of course, we’re in Terminal 2, as we came from an international flight, and we’ve got to get all the way over to Terminal 1 (for domestics). So we’re running and running, and he keeps beckoning us with “Fes, Fes.” We hurry through a security checkpoint (no line) and just as we reach the gate, there’s some chatter over his walkie and then he slumps. “Sorry,” he says. “Gone.”
The walkie man leads us back the way we came (back into Terminal 2) and leads us to a counter for Royal Air Maroc. We stand there, catching our breath, as he makes arrangements for us for the next flight out, at 11 pm – it was currently 5:40. He gives us our tickets and a voucher for a free meal at Baab al Maghreb (Door of Morocco). We now have 5 and 1/2 hours to kill.
We trudged towards the passport check. One bit of good news we received was that there was no charge for a visa. Once our passports were stamped, we headed down some escalators to the baggage claim area. This was a real sight. It seemed to be all locals, returning from who knows where, all with carts and carts of not just baggage, but large sacks of what seemed to be food stuffs – grain, spices, etc. And around the corner, at the exit, whole families were waiting to receive their returning relatives with tears of joy and open arms. You may think I’m painting the scene more dramatic then it was, but, there were police there to make sure people didn’t storm through into the baggage area to embrace the exiting travelers. It was like nothing you’d ever see in the States. Even before 9/11, I don’t think you could get Americans to give you a return reception like that. And as we finally pressed through the crowd, I said to Miriam, “Damn, we need to get some Moroccan friends.”
We found the restaurant and I got my first Coke Light since our Turkey trip. (The voucher we received from Royal Air Maroc was good for a special off-menu chicken, rice and veggies plate.) We hung around the restaurant for a while and then meandered into Terminal 1, through a small security check (Miriam set off the metal detector, but the guard just pointed to her watch and waved her off), and then sat down as the first ones at our gate. We each did a little bit of wandering and had plenty of time for a game of Scrabble. Once again, we were put on a bus to meet the plane out somewhere on the tarmac. The plane was mercifully empty (at least in the back) and Miriam and I were able to put a seat between us (we could have even had our own rows). We ended up leaving late (yes, once again), as the plane waited for a couple more people. But the flight was incredibly short – I’m guessing it was no longer than 45 minutes, like a San Diego/LA flight.
As we exited the plane, twice someone looked at us and said to us inquisitively, “Fes,” like maybe we didn’t realize where we were getting off. But we smiled and nodded, “Oui, Fes.” Our passports were checked again as we entered the small and empty terminal. We waited by the baggage claim, hoping that our delay actually put us in step with our luggage (if we couldn’t make it from Casa flight, no way our luggage could…if it was even on that plane from Frankfurt). There was a bunch of luggage sitting in a corner, and as we perused over it to see if ours was possibly there, we noticed 2 cats just lying on a bag. But I don’t think they went along with the bag – they were just two local strays that found a soft, warm place to sleep. They gave us dirty looks as we passed by (as if to say, “Don’t dare bother us.”). After a couple minutes, the baggage started coming out and there was our silver babies! I heaved them from the carousel and after a cursory check of our larger case, we where ushered to a taxi (an old Mercedes) and driven through the night (we landed around midnight) to the Hotel Olympic.
