Morocco: Getting There is Half the Battle!

I should really start blogging about my Moroccan experience, don’t you think? So, here goes…

Technically speaking, my journey began on 7 March 2012. I say this because I woke-up at about 8 AM that morning so that I could start working on some last minute things (like, you know, packing and figuring out how to get to Stansted Airport from where I’m living), and I didn’t go to sleep again until the 9^th. But more on that later...

Nerves prevented even a brief nap prior to heading out for the airport, so that when I arrived at Stansted at about 3:30 AM on the 8^th I was already tired. Nonetheless, I successfully checked-in, passed through security (after being told to throw away my hair gel for security reasons), and worked my way onto the plane for a 6 AM take-off. 

(Yes, I’m one of ‘those’ people who gets to the airport at least two hours prior to a flight—this is, in part, due to a bad experience coming back from Ohio once wherein I almost missed my flight and lost a Whoopie Goldberg action figure while rushing down the concourse…but that’s a story for another time.) 

For the record, sleep did not come on the airplane either. Again, nerves were a factor—but this time there was the added ‘bonus’ of screaming, kicking children in the seat next to me and Ryanair’s insistence on promoting their ‘buy on board’ program over the P.A. system. Whatevs.

At any rate, about 4 hours later the plane was descending toward Marrakech. I was able to snag a few photos of the African landscape before one of the stewards snapped at me to turn the camera off. (I guess I missed the announcement that all electronic devices had to be turned off). Sadly, this means that I was unable to capture the most amazing image that I saw on the way in: the Atlas Mountains stretched out alongside Marrakech. Nonetheless, I love the photos that I was able to get, one of which you can see below:

The Moroccan landscape near Marrakech.

Upon arriving at Menara Airport I breezed through customs, and quickly made the switch from Euros to Moroccan Dirham (DH). Yes, I know you shouldn't convert money at the airport, but it's almost impossible to find someplace that will 'legally' convert to Dirhams in London—

As a quick side-note about the money: I sucked at using it effectively, namely because I was always having to convert prices in my mind into Euros and from there into US Dollars. This shouldn’t have been as complicated for me as it was—especially since 1€ = 10DH—but I was working on very little sleep the entire time! And this was on top of having to haggle over most prices, which I’m equally inept at. So don’t judge me when I start discussing some of my…less advisable financial decisions in a bit.

—At any rate, despite the fact that breezed through the arrival and visa process really quickly, it actually took me about 30 more minutes to work up the nerve to actually leave the airport. 

Yup, you read that right. 

In fact, I was so intimidated at that point by what might happen (I foolishly watched the AbFab ‘Morocco’ episode an hour before leaving for the airport) that I legitimately contemplated never leaving the airport.

What did I do during those 30 minutes you ask? Well, first I walked around the shops. And then I made my way out toward the taxi stand…but chickened out and circled back. Next I found a place to get some food and a map (which I never used). Then, finally, I made a second attempt at getting a cab. This second attempt at grabbing a cab was a bit more successful. 

However, all of the cabs were being coordinated by a single man who, after finding out where I was going, set the price at 200DH (20€; $40). This might not have been a bad price…if I was going more than 6km. Nonetheless, I was tired and lost, and so I agreed. (For the record, I tried to talk the driver down while en route, but to no avail—he wouldn’t go against the other man.)

The ride toward the hostel wasn’t bad. My driver was moderately fluent in English, and was able to point out sites as we drove around, and the contrasting imagery of brown buildings, palm trees, and distant snowcapped mountains was incredible. 

Two things worth noting about the ride, however:

(1) The road was clearly divided between incoming and outgoing traffic…but there weren’t any (visible) sub-divisions, meaning that each side had about three lanes’ worth of traffic (cars, buses, motorbikes, pedestrians, and donkeys with carts) weaving in and out amongst each other. That was a bit disconcerting at first—but I can honestly say that I didn’t see any accidents, and it all somehow worked.

(2) As we pulled up at one of the only stoplights between the airport and my hostel, and the driver was pointing out the wall surrounding the medina quarter (the older, fortified section of Marrakech, in which I was staying), there was a tremendous explosion!

Yes, explosion!

It was so jarring, that the driver and I both dropped in our seats and covered our heads (and probably loosed an explicative or two)…only to realize a moment later that we were stopped next to a construction site using dynamite. Sigh. Some kind of warning would have been nice, but at least it added an interesting side-story to the start my adventure. 

[NB: This is not my photo!]

Following that bit of excitement, it was only a few more minutes until the cab pulled to a stop. Now, we weren’t quite at the hostel yet, but cars are not allowed into the medina because the streets are so narrow and densely packed. 

But, I was prepared for this, and had directions from the hostel telling me how to get there from the drop-off point...

Unfortunately, the cab driver had other ideas, and whistled to a friend of his that was ‘conveniently’ standing not far away.

My driver told the man where I was going, and instructed him to take me there. I was also prepared for this eventuality, though, having read on another traveler’s blog about a similar experience that wound up costing them over 200DH. So, after paying for my cab and grabbing my bag (before the second man could throw it into his cart), I told UnwantedGuide-Man that I was not in need of his services and that I knew where I was going. 

But UnwantedGuide-Man nonetheless took the lead (headed in the direction which I knew I, too, had to go), and kept telling me that his services were free and that he would just show me where to go. No charge. 

(Sounding familiar? Perhaps you’re finding this reminiscent of my experience at the Basilique du Sacré-Cœur? Me too.)

In hindsight, it’s probably good that UnwantedGuide-Man was there, because even with directions I would have probably gotten lost. At the time, however, I was merely annoyed by his presence because I knew where this was leading (in both the actual and metaphorical senses). I kept telling UnwantedGuide-Man that I really didn’t need his services, and that I didn’t have the money to pay him.

‘No, no, no—it’s free! Come, come…’

M'mm-hmmm.

Sure enough, 5 minutes later we were standing before the door of my hostel and he was demanding 200DH. 

Regretfully, the entrance to my hostel was tucked into a very tight, very dark alleyway, and in that moment I was pretty intimidated since there was no one else around, and UnwantedGuide-Man was very physically imposing—also, it was taking forever for someone to answer the hostel’s door. I reminded UnwantedGuide-Man that I didn’t have the money to pay, but he kept pushing. Eventually, I (very reluctantly) parted with 100DH as a means of finally getting rid of him…and of course, the door just so happened to open at that exact moment, too. Funny that.

So, there you have the beginning of Moroccan experience—it gets a lot more fun and a lot less extortiony soon, I promise!

Paris: The First Night!

Now, this is where I was really nervous! 

Not being able to speak or read the language, and having to immediately acquaint myself with Paris’ metro system had caused me no small amount of trepidation in the days leading up to the trip. But, I have to say, it was much easier than I expected (thanks to the directions sent to me by the owner of the hostel where I stayed). In fact, I’d almost be willing to say that Paris’ metro system is somewhat easier to get around on simply because it’s so comprehensive—it never took me more than twenty minutes to get somewhere, even all the way across the city. 

 

 Of course, that being said, it is certainly no where near as aesthetically or clean-ally pleasing as, say, DC’s or Chicago’s metro. (In fact, I might even go so far as to say that New York’s subway is prettier and cleaner than Paris’.) As I explained to Nic upon my return: graffiti tags—and not the interesting kind—were on every possible surface, everything seemed coated in a charcoal-grayish film, and one had to travel down these long, creepy (and often deserted) tunnels to get between one train line and another. Oh, and the tunnels often featured multiple copies of the following movie poster:

Except the writing was in French, making it even scarier!

Do you have any idea how freaky it is to walk down a long tunnel—when you’re already feeling like any manner of goblin or ghoul or rapist could strike you at any moment—and suddenly you find yourself flanked on all sides by multiple images of a nun with milky eyes? It’s friggin’ TERRIFYING!

But, enough about the Paris metro and creepy nuns. The important part is that I mastered that beast, and with the exception of one early-morning occasion I navigated it successfully multiple times during my holiday.

 

So, eventually I made it to Giovanni’s Room, the hostel where I stayed all three nights. Now, let me preface all this by saying that Nic is the one who found this particular gem of a location, not me! 

At any rate, Giovanni’s Room—named after James Baldwin’s controversial 1956 novel—is a hostel accessible only to gay men under the age of 35. It consists of one bathroom, one kitchen, and four beds (one of which is used by Gio, the over-35 proprietor.) Without going into too many details about this—I’ll let your imagination do the work for you—the owner tried (and failed) to encourage a certain stereotypical, 1970s-era gay atmosphere. This included the sale of poppers for €10.

But, the hypersexed atmosphere aside, I won’t complain. 

In all honesty, Giovanni’s Room was clean, it was safe, and everyone was very (platonically) friendly. Oh, and perhaps most importantly, it was within my budget, unlike most other Paris hostels. Also, it was nice to meet other travelers—one young man from China and another from Columbia—with something in common, even if it was simply the gender and sex we’re attracted to. (It was also quite amusing trying to communicate amongst ourselves, with what little bit of Spanish I retain and what little bit of English the other guests possessed.) And, finally, the owner really was an excellent ambassador for the city itself—his full-time job is as a tour guide, and so he was able to tell us the best ways to get to each of the places we wanted to go, and how to avoid scammers and crowds and whatnot.

By the time I checked into Giovanni’s Room, it was about 6:30 PM. But, I was excited to get a taste of Paris, and so I asked the owner where I should start, with the caveat that I didn’t want to go to any of the places already scheduled for the upcoming days. His recommendation (no surprise) was Le Marais, Paris’ answer to Boystown. 

So, I hopped onto the metro and made my way to Rambuteau station. However, once I was the in the area, I chickened out—insecurities and a general distaste for bar-culture have often kept me away from such experiences. But that’s okay, because there was plenty more to do!

Almost immediately upon stepping out of the metro at Rambuteau one finds him- or herself confronted with the towering Centre Pompidou! This was a quite a pleasant and unexpected surprise for me! 

To be clear, the type of art one finds at the Pompidou is not really my cup of tea, so that’s not why I was excited. Rather, it was because of the Pompidou’s connection to The Young & the Restless (one of Victor Newman's wives, Sabrina, was scripted as a curator at the Pompidou).

If only I still had my mustache, I could have done my Victor Newman impression: 'I will crush you!'

 Nonetheless, I went inside as far as I could without a ticket, and was able to tour the bookstore and gift shop, as well as make it up to the first floor before I was finally confronted with a ticket checkpoint. (At that point I beat a hasty retreat.) I have to say, though, that I legitimately loved what I saw, and want to go back one day with Nic! 

After leaving the Pompidou, I started walking in the general direction of the Seine…or so I thought—turns out I was actually walking east instead of south. But this bit of misdirected walking also contained an unexpected surprise: the dazzling (and I mean that in the truest sense of the word) Hôtel de Ville. 

This magnificent building is festooned with an array of flashing, sparkling lights that photos simply cannot do justice to. It also happens to be whence Paris’ mayor conducts business. (By the way, Paris’ mayor since 2001 is Bertrand Delanoë, an openly gay socialist!)

Sadly, at about this point, it started raining pretty heavily. So, I settled in to a nearby restaurant—the Café la Comète—and enjoyed the ever-fancy and sophisticated plate of Croque Monsieur (don’t worry, my eating became much more adventurous the next night).

Unfortunately, the rain had actually gotten worse by the time I was done. Regardless (and after a quick consultation with my map), I bundled up and dashed down the road to the Seine (finally), and caught my first glimpse of the Eiffel Tower at night. Sadly, those photos didn’t turn out—but here’s one a couple that I snagged the next night (but still had to doctor a bit) from the same spot, so you get the gist:

 

The Pont au Change

The Eiffel Tower as seen from the Pont au Change.

 

Well, that concludes the exciting(?) tale of my first night in Paris. Pretty uneventful, eh? But give me a break—I’d spent over eight hours on a friggin’ bus, and been up since 4:30 AM. The next couple of days were a bit more exciting…

But you’ll have to wait a little longer for those stories…

 

Here I am, London!

So, here I am.

London. The United Kingdom.

January 14, 2012. (Or, as the Brits might say, 14 January 2012.)

Okay, okay…it’s technically the 15^th at this point. But you can’t blame me for being confused—it’s been almost 48 hours since the last time I slept, but I wanted to get a lot of this out now, while it’s still fresh in my mind.

At any rate, my journey abroad began in earnest yesterday (today? two days ago?), 13 January 2012, at around 12:30 PM. With two large suitcases, a laptop, and my book-bag, Nic and I sat out for O’Hare. I was a mushy mess for most of it, but I did provide Nic with the…uhm, awesome (can I call it that?) pre-trip interview you can find linked here…

Who's This Handsome Traveller?

Okay, so maybe it’s not the best video in the world—but I think I looked cute in my little traveling hat. (By the way, did you catch my Anderson-Cooper-like nervous giggle around the 1:00 mark?)

Shortly after the video we made our way to the TSA security area and said our goodbyes. Pandas everywhere were weeping. It was pretty sappy, so I won't go into it too much here. 

And after that it was a matter of simply waiting for my plane…

And waiting…

And waiting…

And waiting…

It turns out that, thanks to the blizzard-like conditions on Wednesday, numerous flights in and out of O’Hare were delayed. Including mine. We didn’t actually take off until about 5:30 PM CST. Now, if I had been scheduled on a direct flight to London this would not have been a problem—but I had a connecting flight in Toronto at 8:30 PM EST.

Even then, I wasn’t too worried…

Until I learned that I would have to go through Canadian customs, collect my baggage, and then make my way all the way to the opposite side of the airport, recheck my baggage with British Airways, and then go to the proper terminal...

And then BA informed me that American Airlines had not given me the proper receipts for my checked baggage, so there was a chance I would have to pay again. (Fortunately, a call was placed to a supervisor and BA allowed me to just give them the copy of my receipt from AA.)

A long, tense story cut short: I made it on to the BA flight as scheduled, and we took off for London at around 9:30 EST. That flight was fairly uneventful, other than a baby who cried and cried the whole way, preventing any chance at sleep. Oh, well—I can sleep when I’m back in the States, right? Oh, and I got to enjoy a Canada Dry ginger ale while flying over Canada. It amused me… Clearly, I was already sleep-deprived.

At around 9:30 AM GMT my flight touched down at London’s Heathrow Airport. I was a bit worried going through customs because I had received conflicting information regarding the visa application process, and so I feared there was a chance I would be deported before I even had a chance to do anything deportation-worthy. Fortunately, the agent didn’t seem fussed, and actually commented that I had provided too much information—that all I actually needed (for the length of time I’m staying) were the letters from Columbia and UEL.

Within about an hour of my arrival in London, I was safe and secured in the home of our (mine and Nic’s) friends, KG and MM—they’ve been kind enough to provide me shelter from the elements until I conquer Buckingham Palace and make it my summer home… I mean, find a suitable (cheap) flat somewhere.

The rest of the day was pretty much a blur—I’m terribly jetlagged (hence the boring post here, which you probably stopped reading eons ago, meaning I can just say yadda yadda yadda shapoopie and no one would notice). I have already discovered two awesome shows, however. The first is called “Come Dine with Me” and the other is called “Borgen” (a subtitled import from Denmark). And, before I sat down to type this, I chatted with Nic and the Fish through FaceTime for almost an hour, which was wonderful!

FaceTimin' it with the Family!

And on that note, I need to grab some sleep.

Until next time…