FROM MARK:
Well, our too-good-to-be-true EasyJet flight deal from Madrid to Casablanca came to be.... true! Yes, without hitch or problem we placed the wheels of our plane on the Moroccan tarmac at precisely 13:50 on May 29, only 10 minutes late. We slid through customs and picked up our bags with ease. With nothing to declare we walked through a line of people all waiting for their loved ones. We were apparently not in the looks for a Moroccan loved one, as eyes quickly glanced over us after some initial looks of disbelief. Dani had e-mailed our hotel just before we left indicating that we'd take a room and we'd also like their pickup shuttle service from the airport, so we scanned the signs only to find names of which we did not recognize. We had no idea if they could actually pick us up, but we had high hopes. We set a plan in action, which included getting local currency and then calling the hotel to check the status of the ride (we've heard things can be customarily late). We once again scanned the taxi driver signs for good measure and then proceeded to make the call. Luckily the gentleman spoke English, as my Arabic is lacking. I asked about the ride and he requested that I call back in 10 minutes... I think, or someone would be there in 10 minutes? Both his English and my clarification skills obviously needed some improvement. I realized this when I had to convey the not-so-clear message to Dani. So, we sat down and rested for a while and then I decided to give the hotel another call. This time he had solid news. He said that his driver could pick us up in one hour. I kindly declined the offer and we decided to catch the economical train into the city (much less than a taxi) only to find that the 15:00 train actually left at 15:00 on the dot. We watched it's taillights disappear. The next train was at 16:00, and we were now tired, hot, and mentally fatigued after less than an hour in Morocco. Dani was feeling a little dizzy from the flight too, so the last resort was a taxi. Keep in mind that up to this point we've gone everywhere and done everything via public transportation, so relying on a taxi was just a shift for us. Don't get me wrong, taxi's are great and serve a niche, but we enjoy traveling as economically as possible--it just makes things more fun. We accepted our mini-defeat and tried to think of the efficiencies as we entered the airport taxi area where a guy walked up asking if we needed a ride. I wasn't sure if he was just some guy off the street or not, as he held an "official as can be" looking piece of brown paper which looked to be torn from the bottom of a brown grocery sack. So, we chose honesty and said yes and I guess the paper was official. He guided us to a line of old, white, Mercedes with a small group a men sitting in a circle beside them. Several immediately rose, we showed them the name and address we had written down of our hotel, they exchanged some words and we were off in an official taxi. Our driver slowed by another taxi and said something in Arabic and then kept going. The national language in Morocco is Arabic, which I can not read, speak, or comprehend verbally a single word. I'm still working on thank you, which I believe is pronounced "Show-krahn". I enjoy languages, but wow, this one is a doozy. Oh, the second language of choice is French, followed by Spanish. Our fourth place English is a bonus if we get past hello. We were toodling along fine when the driver once again slows by a gas station and honks. Maybe he's just a really nice guy and likes to wave at everyone? Another white, old, Mercedes pulls up from the pump and before I could decipher the situation and come to my senses, we were shuttled into another vehicle of similar character, however, without taxi markings that I could see. As we picked up speed you'd think that at this point you would jump out of the car and just take the roll versus waiting for the endless possibilities. Once again, we chose to sit it out and be mindful of open fields and dark alleys.
After we showed the new driver our hotel information he indicated with complete assuredness that it was no longer operational. That's strange, as we had just spoke to someone at the hotel about a ride. The second lump in my throat began to form. The seats were springy and the black vinyl was warm in the naturally air cooled car. I started taking note of the general direction we were headed and making mental notes of the car's description. We had about a 1/4 tank of gas; good, he couldn't drive us too far if he had ill intentions. Wait a second, didn't he just pull out of a gas station? Maybe he didn't intend to take us very far. His inky black hair had specks of gray and his mustache was bushy and tapered down to the edge of his lips.
Then, silence. Silence has to be the worst form of torture when your nervous or on edge. Think of the sound of your front door opening at 2am in the morning. Then, think of hearing nothing more as you listen with everything you've got. Wouldn't it be more comforting to hear someone say, "Hello there, I'm sure you just heard the front door open, please don't get up as I'm going to rob you." You could respond with, "Thanks, I'll stay right here and you take what you want." At least everyone is on terms. When you hear the front door "just" open followed by a pure silence, you start coming up with scenarios. My mind was racing at this point, and the "silence" endured.
Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes passed. The Arabic music played in the background. I tried to tell if the car was a legit taxi. He had a box of tissues in the rear window. The seats seemed moderately worn. We knew the airport was well outside the city, but we didn't know exactly how far. I watched for road signs and indications that we were headed towards a major metropolitan area. We passed houses with blankets for walls and saw kids playing make-shift soccer in dirt fields. One gentleman in a suit rode an older ten-speed style road bike; he was in his 60's and carried a cane.
Buildings soon grew larger and we were definitely entering a city. At this point my nerves finally eased and I figured heck, if the worst is coming, then I mise well enjoy my last few minutes in the back of a taxi. Dani smiled at me and I gave a true, honest smile back. I was happy to be next to her and glad to be in Morocco. Well, kind of glad to be in Morocco. We finally pulled up to the hotel and I was so glad to see it that I paid and gave the driver a tip (mostly because we were alive), and we proceeded to our room. *Dear taxi driver: sorry for not trusting you (if you happen to be reading this), I think you're nice and all, but I was just a little worried for a while; maybe you'll understand now. Maybe next time we can talk a little more.
5/29/2008
Casablanca...
FROM MARK:
Well, our too-good-to-be-true EasyJet flight deal from Madrid to Casablanca came to be.... true! Yes, without hitch or problem we placed the wheels of our plane on the Moroccan tarmac at precisely 13:50 on May 29, only 10 minutes late. We slid through customs and picked up our bags with ease. With nothing to declare we walked through a line of people all waiting for their loved ones. We were apparently not in the looks for a Moroccan loved one, as eyes quickly glanced over us after some initial looks of disbelief. Dani had e-mailed our hotel just before we left indicating that we'd take a room and we'd also like their pickup shuttle service from the airport, so we scanned the signs only to find names of which we did not recognize. We had no idea if they could actually pick us up, but we had high hopes. We set a plan in action, which included getting local currency and then calling the hotel to check the status of the ride (we've heard things can be customarily late). We once again scanned the taxi driver signs for good measure and then proceeded to make the call. Luckily the gentleman spoke English, as my Arabic is lacking. I asked about the ride and he requested that I call back in 10 minutes... I think, or someone would be there in 10 minutes? Both his English and my clarification skills obviously needed some improvement. I realized this when I had to convey the not-so-clear message to Dani. So, we sat down and rested for a while and then I decided to give the hotel another call. This time he had solid news. He said that his driver could pick us up in one hour. I kindly declined the offer and we decided to catch the economical train into the city (much less than a taxi) only to find that the 15:00 train actually left at 15:00 on the dot. We watched it's taillights disappear. The next train was at 16:00, and we were now tired, hot, and mentally fatigued after less than an hour in Morocco. Dani was feeling a little dizzy from the flight too, so the last resort was a taxi. Keep in mind that up to this point we've gone everywhere and done everything via public transportation, so relying on a taxi was just a shift for us. Don't get me wrong, taxi's are great and serve a niche, but we enjoy traveling as economically as possible--it just makes things more fun. We accepted our mini-defeat and tried to think of the efficiencies as we entered the airport taxi area where a guy walked up asking if we needed a ride. I wasn't sure if he was just some guy off the street or not, as he held an "official as can be" looking piece of brown paper which looked to be torn from the bottom of a brown grocery sack. So, we chose honesty and said yes and I guess the paper was official. He guided us to a line of old, white, Mercedes with a small group a men sitting in a circle beside them. Several immediately rose, we showed them the name and address we had written down of our hotel, they exchanged some words and we were off in an official taxi. Our driver slowed by another taxi and said something in Arabic and then kept going. The national language in Morocco is Arabic, which I can not read, speak, or comprehend verbally a single word. I'm still working on thank you, which I believe is pronounced "Show-krahn". I enjoy languages, but wow, this one is a doozy. Oh, the second language of choice is French, followed by Spanish. Our fourth place English is a bonus if we get past hello. We were toodling along fine when the driver once again slows by a gas station and honks. Maybe he's just a really nice guy and likes to wave at everyone? Another white, old, Mercedes pulls up from the pump and before I could decipher the situation and come to my senses, we were shuttled into another vehicle of similar character, however, without taxi markings that I could see. As we picked up speed you'd think that at this point you would jump out of the car and just take the roll versus waiting for the endless possibilities. Once again, we chose to sit it out and be mindful of open fields and dark alleys.
After we showed the new driver our hotel information he indicated with complete assuredness that it was no longer operational. That's strange, as we had just spoke to someone at the hotel about a ride. The second lump in my throat began to form. The seats were springy and the black vinyl was warm in the naturally air cooled car. I started taking note of the general direction we were headed and making mental notes of the car's description. We had about a 1/4 tank of gas; good, he couldn't drive us too far if he had ill intentions. Wait a second, didn't he just pull out of a gas station? Maybe he didn't intend to take us very far. His inky black hair had specks of gray and his mustache was bushy and tapered down to the edge of his lips.
Then, silence. Silence has to be the worst form of torture when your nervous or on edge. Think of the sound of your front door opening at 2am in the morning. Then, think of hearing nothing more as you listen with everything you've got. Wouldn't it be more comforting to hear someone say, "Hello there, I'm sure you just heard the front door open, please don't get up as I'm going to rob you." You could respond with, "Thanks, I'll stay right here and you take what you want." At least everyone is on terms. When you hear the front door "just" open followed by a pure silence, you start coming up with scenarios. My mind was racing at this point, and the "silence" endured.
Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes passed. The Arabic music played in the background. I tried to tell if the car was a legit taxi. He had a box of tissues in the rear window. The seats seemed moderately worn. We knew the airport was well outside the city, but we didn't know exactly how far. I watched for road signs and indications that we were headed towards a major metropolitan area. We passed houses with blankets for walls and saw kids playing make-shift soccer in dirt fields. One gentleman in a suit rode an older ten-speed style road bike; he was in his 60's and carried a cane.
Buildings soon grew larger and we were definitely entering a city. At this point my nerves finally eased and I figured heck, if the worst is coming, then I mise well enjoy my last few minutes in the back of a taxi. Dani smiled at me and I gave a true, honest smile back. I was happy to be next to her and glad to be in Morocco. Well, kind of glad to be in Morocco. We finally pulled up to the hotel and I was so glad to see it that I paid and gave the driver a tip (mostly because we were alive), and we proceeded to our room. *Dear taxi driver: sorry for not trusting you (if you happen to be reading this), I think you're nice and all, but I was just a little worried for a while; maybe you'll understand now. Maybe next time we can talk a little more.
Well, our too-good-to-be-true EasyJet flight deal from Madrid to Casablanca came to be.... true! Yes, without hitch or problem we placed the wheels of our plane on the Moroccan tarmac at precisely 13:50 on May 29, only 10 minutes late. We slid through customs and picked up our bags with ease. With nothing to declare we walked through a line of people all waiting for their loved ones. We were apparently not in the looks for a Moroccan loved one, as eyes quickly glanced over us after some initial looks of disbelief. Dani had e-mailed our hotel just before we left indicating that we'd take a room and we'd also like their pickup shuttle service from the airport, so we scanned the signs only to find names of which we did not recognize. We had no idea if they could actually pick us up, but we had high hopes. We set a plan in action, which included getting local currency and then calling the hotel to check the status of the ride (we've heard things can be customarily late). We once again scanned the taxi driver signs for good measure and then proceeded to make the call. Luckily the gentleman spoke English, as my Arabic is lacking. I asked about the ride and he requested that I call back in 10 minutes... I think, or someone would be there in 10 minutes? Both his English and my clarification skills obviously needed some improvement. I realized this when I had to convey the not-so-clear message to Dani. So, we sat down and rested for a while and then I decided to give the hotel another call. This time he had solid news. He said that his driver could pick us up in one hour. I kindly declined the offer and we decided to catch the economical train into the city (much less than a taxi) only to find that the 15:00 train actually left at 15:00 on the dot. We watched it's taillights disappear. The next train was at 16:00, and we were now tired, hot, and mentally fatigued after less than an hour in Morocco. Dani was feeling a little dizzy from the flight too, so the last resort was a taxi. Keep in mind that up to this point we've gone everywhere and done everything via public transportation, so relying on a taxi was just a shift for us. Don't get me wrong, taxi's are great and serve a niche, but we enjoy traveling as economically as possible--it just makes things more fun. We accepted our mini-defeat and tried to think of the efficiencies as we entered the airport taxi area where a guy walked up asking if we needed a ride. I wasn't sure if he was just some guy off the street or not, as he held an "official as can be" looking piece of brown paper which looked to be torn from the bottom of a brown grocery sack. So, we chose honesty and said yes and I guess the paper was official. He guided us to a line of old, white, Mercedes with a small group a men sitting in a circle beside them. Several immediately rose, we showed them the name and address we had written down of our hotel, they exchanged some words and we were off in an official taxi. Our driver slowed by another taxi and said something in Arabic and then kept going. The national language in Morocco is Arabic, which I can not read, speak, or comprehend verbally a single word. I'm still working on thank you, which I believe is pronounced "Show-krahn". I enjoy languages, but wow, this one is a doozy. Oh, the second language of choice is French, followed by Spanish. Our fourth place English is a bonus if we get past hello. We were toodling along fine when the driver once again slows by a gas station and honks. Maybe he's just a really nice guy and likes to wave at everyone? Another white, old, Mercedes pulls up from the pump and before I could decipher the situation and come to my senses, we were shuttled into another vehicle of similar character, however, without taxi markings that I could see. As we picked up speed you'd think that at this point you would jump out of the car and just take the roll versus waiting for the endless possibilities. Once again, we chose to sit it out and be mindful of open fields and dark alleys.
After we showed the new driver our hotel information he indicated with complete assuredness that it was no longer operational. That's strange, as we had just spoke to someone at the hotel about a ride. The second lump in my throat began to form. The seats were springy and the black vinyl was warm in the naturally air cooled car. I started taking note of the general direction we were headed and making mental notes of the car's description. We had about a 1/4 tank of gas; good, he couldn't drive us too far if he had ill intentions. Wait a second, didn't he just pull out of a gas station? Maybe he didn't intend to take us very far. His inky black hair had specks of gray and his mustache was bushy and tapered down to the edge of his lips.
Then, silence. Silence has to be the worst form of torture when your nervous or on edge. Think of the sound of your front door opening at 2am in the morning. Then, think of hearing nothing more as you listen with everything you've got. Wouldn't it be more comforting to hear someone say, "Hello there, I'm sure you just heard the front door open, please don't get up as I'm going to rob you." You could respond with, "Thanks, I'll stay right here and you take what you want." At least everyone is on terms. When you hear the front door "just" open followed by a pure silence, you start coming up with scenarios. My mind was racing at this point, and the "silence" endured.
Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes passed. The Arabic music played in the background. I tried to tell if the car was a legit taxi. He had a box of tissues in the rear window. The seats seemed moderately worn. We knew the airport was well outside the city, but we didn't know exactly how far. I watched for road signs and indications that we were headed towards a major metropolitan area. We passed houses with blankets for walls and saw kids playing make-shift soccer in dirt fields. One gentleman in a suit rode an older ten-speed style road bike; he was in his 60's and carried a cane.
Buildings soon grew larger and we were definitely entering a city. At this point my nerves finally eased and I figured heck, if the worst is coming, then I mise well enjoy my last few minutes in the back of a taxi. Dani smiled at me and I gave a true, honest smile back. I was happy to be next to her and glad to be in Morocco. Well, kind of glad to be in Morocco. We finally pulled up to the hotel and I was so glad to see it that I paid and gave the driver a tip (mostly because we were alive), and we proceeded to our room. *Dear taxi driver: sorry for not trusting you (if you happen to be reading this), I think you're nice and all, but I was just a little worried for a while; maybe you'll understand now. Maybe next time we can talk a little more.
Madrid and Segovia
FROM DANI:
5/26: We began the day by getting ready to catch a bus from San Sebastian to Madrid. We raced across the small town and found the "station", bought our tickets and a little something for breakfast. Off we went on the bus. We drove through rolling green countryside, sometimes in sunshine others in downpour. We caught up on some sleep and got into our books (Mark is reading Odd Thomas and I´m reading Thunderstruck...we plan to swap when we´re finished). We arrived in Madrid and made our way to find a place to spend the night. We found a room (big and decent) and went to find dinner...we were both growing hungry and had the idea that it would be funny to eat at a ribs joint bearing the name Texas. Big mistake. Not funny at all...just expensive! The food was so-so and on our walk home we went past a nice little fast-food Turkish place that serves Doner Kebab (I learned to LOVE these while living in Germany). Bummed but making a note of it´s location we headed to an internet place. We were wanting to escape the rain...so we found a deal on plane tickets to Casablanca, Morocco on 5/29. Yes, that Casablanca! Here´s lookin at you, kid! Emboldened by our great find we splurged on dessert at McDonald´s and went to bed.
5-27: We had decided to make a day trip to Segovia (about an hour and a half bus ride away). On our arrival we located a great place to stay cheap and unloaded our belongings. We walked through the city which boasts a Roman aqueduct (it was once a Roman military base and needed water). It was chilly and growing darker...rain coming! We grabbed lunch and sat out the rain. We walked around the city that is over 2000 years old. It was nice and relaxing and quiet.
5-28: Back to Madrid. We hit up El Prado, considered to be the best painting museum in the world. It was beautiful and overwhelming. We saw many students with their easels doing their best to replicate famous works. We saw works by El Greco, de Goya, Velazquez - including Las Meninas, a painting which many artists consider the best in the world. Very, very cool. We stood with a crowd for a long time just looking at it and wondering at the talent! Then onto a stroll in Retiro Park where we ran into Mickey Mouse (trying to make money off of tourists wanting a picture). We hit up a couple of great Plazas, had some sweets, read some history, and headed for Doner Kabab for dinner. We spent the evening in planning mode...getting ready for Morocco, more Spain, France, and Ireland. Any suggestions? Please send them! :) Oh, did I mention we lunched at a restaurant named Iowa??
Stay tuned for more from Africa!!!!!
5/26: We began the day by getting ready to catch a bus from San Sebastian to Madrid. We raced across the small town and found the "station", bought our tickets and a little something for breakfast. Off we went on the bus. We drove through rolling green countryside, sometimes in sunshine others in downpour. We caught up on some sleep and got into our books (Mark is reading Odd Thomas and I´m reading Thunderstruck...we plan to swap when we´re finished). We arrived in Madrid and made our way to find a place to spend the night. We found a room (big and decent) and went to find dinner...we were both growing hungry and had the idea that it would be funny to eat at a ribs joint bearing the name Texas. Big mistake. Not funny at all...just expensive! The food was so-so and on our walk home we went past a nice little fast-food Turkish place that serves Doner Kebab (I learned to LOVE these while living in Germany). Bummed but making a note of it´s location we headed to an internet place. We were wanting to escape the rain...so we found a deal on plane tickets to Casablanca, Morocco on 5/29. Yes, that Casablanca! Here´s lookin at you, kid! Emboldened by our great find we splurged on dessert at McDonald´s and went to bed.
5-27: We had decided to make a day trip to Segovia (about an hour and a half bus ride away). On our arrival we located a great place to stay cheap and unloaded our belongings. We walked through the city which boasts a Roman aqueduct (it was once a Roman military base and needed water). It was chilly and growing darker...rain coming! We grabbed lunch and sat out the rain. We walked around the city that is over 2000 years old. It was nice and relaxing and quiet.
5-28: Back to Madrid. We hit up El Prado, considered to be the best painting museum in the world. It was beautiful and overwhelming. We saw many students with their easels doing their best to replicate famous works. We saw works by El Greco, de Goya, Velazquez - including Las Meninas, a painting which many artists consider the best in the world. Very, very cool. We stood with a crowd for a long time just looking at it and wondering at the talent! Then onto a stroll in Retiro Park where we ran into Mickey Mouse (trying to make money off of tourists wanting a picture). We hit up a couple of great Plazas, had some sweets, read some history, and headed for Doner Kabab for dinner. We spent the evening in planning mode...getting ready for Morocco, more Spain, France, and Ireland. Any suggestions? Please send them! :) Oh, did I mention we lunched at a restaurant named Iowa??
Stay tuned for more from Africa!!!!!
5/25/2008
San Sebastian
The "night train" has a variety of options for sleeping, including standard seats (not the best for your back), and small rooms with 2-6 bunks. We opted for the most economical 6 bunk couchette and ended up with the two bottom beds (one on each side).
FROM MARK:
I awoke once on the night train and proceeded to the small toilet at the end of the car only to find toilet paper strewn about. Due to my incoherence I thought it was a dream and am still not so sure. While on the topic, if you're ever needing to get water going in the sink of a train via the foot pump, make sure you bring some down-home folk music to stomp your leg to, as it takes almost a minute to get it going. Don't ask how I figured that one out.
Our eyes opened for good around 7am for the 730 arrival into San Sebastian, a coastal resort town located in the armpit of Spain near France.
We sat down in the train station to figure out a plan for the day. We needed breakfast and a place to stay. Our previous attempts to secure lodging via e-mail and phone calls were unsuccessful, so we weren't sure what to expect, as weekends can be quite busy. A dark blue sign with yellow font indicated a "Pension" (a small room to rent) located on a street about the width of me and Dani stretched end to end. I pressed the call button and inquired about a room for the night and the next thing I knew we were being buzzed in. He had a room, and it was one of the nicest we'd seen. Since the bathroom was shared between several rooms, it was unusually large, and we were excited to have a hot shower available so early in the day. After cleaning up, we walked... And walked... And walked to find a place that issued a paper credential which allows one to stay in hotels along the camino de Santiago trail. We took care of a few errands and did some planning before a hearty pasta dinner and a night of rest just above the cervezaria.
Sunday is May 25... our 5th anniversary! How does one celebrate such an occasion when you're already in a small town of Spain? We slept in, had brunch, and took a walk along the water's edge. To top the day off, we did laundry! Ahh--clean clothes! The plan was to have pizza for dinner, however, promptly when we walked out of our place a downpour ensued. We low- tailed it into the nearest taparia, which turned out to be a winner. We splurged with some gelato and coffee and mall-walked in the drizzle back to our home, which by the way, has free wi-fi. We plan to catch a bus tomorrow to Madrid and then on to Seville with the idea that more southern parts of the country will offer better weather. Cheers from San Sebastian, -Mark & Dani.
FROM MARK:
I awoke once on the night train and proceeded to the small toilet at the end of the car only to find toilet paper strewn about. Due to my incoherence I thought it was a dream and am still not so sure. While on the topic, if you're ever needing to get water going in the sink of a train via the foot pump, make sure you bring some down-home folk music to stomp your leg to, as it takes almost a minute to get it going. Don't ask how I figured that one out.
Our eyes opened for good around 7am for the 730 arrival into San Sebastian, a coastal resort town located in the armpit of Spain near France.
We sat down in the train station to figure out a plan for the day. We needed breakfast and a place to stay. Our previous attempts to secure lodging via e-mail and phone calls were unsuccessful, so we weren't sure what to expect, as weekends can be quite busy. A dark blue sign with yellow font indicated a "Pension" (a small room to rent) located on a street about the width of me and Dani stretched end to end. I pressed the call button and inquired about a room for the night and the next thing I knew we were being buzzed in. He had a room, and it was one of the nicest we'd seen. Since the bathroom was shared between several rooms, it was unusually large, and we were excited to have a hot shower available so early in the day. After cleaning up, we walked... And walked... And walked to find a place that issued a paper credential which allows one to stay in hotels along the camino de Santiago trail. We took care of a few errands and did some planning before a hearty pasta dinner and a night of rest just above the cervezaria.
Sunday is May 25... our 5th anniversary! How does one celebrate such an occasion when you're already in a small town of Spain? We slept in, had brunch, and took a walk along the water's edge. To top the day off, we did laundry! Ahh--clean clothes! The plan was to have pizza for dinner, however, promptly when we walked out of our place a downpour ensued. We low- tailed it into the nearest taparia, which turned out to be a winner. We splurged with some gelato and coffee and mall-walked in the drizzle back to our home, which by the way, has free wi-fi. We plan to catch a bus tomorrow to Madrid and then on to Seville with the idea that more southern parts of the country will offer better weather. Cheers from San Sebastian, -Mark & Dani.
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