I had decided to make a day trip at 17h00 the day before, after writing the blog post about almost being half way done with my time in Morocco. I told Fenna this while I was cooking dinner, and what a coincidence she was headed to Rabat this weekend too. She convinced me to spend Saturday night in Rabat and catch the 9h30 train with her and her friends (didn’t take too much convincing, I was planning on taking the 5h15 train yuck!). She even offers to make me a room reservation and share a taxi to the train station. Perfect.
I shower, pack, eat, and eagerly wait. It quickly turns into 9h00 and no signs of movement from Fenna’s room… I knock to no response. Maybe she’s planning on taking the 11h30 train so I wait. It quickly becomes 10h45 so I knock again this time more forcefully. I get cursed out in a mix of Spanish and French but I get the gist: Im not going to Rabat today, let me sleep. Fuming, I grab my bag, storm out the door and with my best New Yorker whistle hail a cab. It takes me the cab ride to the station and an hour on the train to wrap my head around the situation: Im headed to Rabat, where I know no one, I have no hotel reservation (or even a name of a hotel), and I don’t know anything about the city. Shhhhhhhh, I’m Rabat hunting.
I get of the train, ask the police officer where I can find a cheap hotel, and start walking. I roll into the madina, and pass about 15 hotels. I have no logical explanation for how I chose, but I follow the tattered sign for the Hotel de la Madina and ask for a room. 80 durhams get me a private room with a sink, access to communal bathrooms and a home base. I was 10 extra durhams for a shower but what did I care? (I didn’t even bring shampoo).
Before I continue with the story, I’m going to go off on a little tangent: I think I am the hardest tourist to pickpocket ever. Between keeping everything in one pocket which I then put my hand inm and randomly crossing the street, backtracking and pretending to tie my shoe at irregular increments (I get funny looks when people realize I’m wearing sandals). And even if someone did get in to the Belagio vault that is my pocket, (and why this is in this post) I never carry more than 300 durhamm and hardly ever have plastic. Here’s my thought: anything that I want to buy that is more than 40 bucks should require some thought, and incases of emergency/danger, 30 durhams will get me a privet taxi anywhere including an escort to the door.
Bags and cash securely locked up, I stroll through the madina. It has a lot of similar qualities to Tanger: old cobble stones, juice, snail, corn vendors lining the street, and attention from everyone. I can see the tip of a lighthouse far in the distance, looking for the view I continue past the end of the madina and into the largest cemetery I have ever seen (with the best view too).
A man from a local café comes and sits down next to me and starts making small talk. I know his game, he’s a guide who will gladly show you the city for a price. My first reaction is to blow him off (albeit politely) but then I realize this guy supplies something I am ready willing and able to consume. This is how I met Mon Pote (pronounced like the first syllable of “potable”). We walk to the Kasba and beaches, hop in a friends car to drive out past the kings palace to the ancient city, and end up at a supermarket buying booze. He invited me to hang out with him and party tonight and I thought what the heck, ready willing and able. There are five of us in his small apartment. It’s about 10’ by 5’ and completely filled by 3 couches, a small table and a dresser with a TV on it. I followed their lead. In a small glass, they’d pour a shot of wine, when it was their turn everyone would drink it in one gulp, then immediately dip a lollypop in fromage blanc the sweetness of the candy and the tangyness of the cheese mixed well. (Not exactly what you think of when you say “Wine and Cheese” huh?) Of course there was beer to drink while the glass was coming around. A few hours/bottles later we head out to their favorite barm and order a bottle of wine and a whole fish. I had only eaten a half a loaf of bread for dinner so I greedily tore at the charred flesh of the fish with my fingers. I fit right in. It might have been the wine, but this was the best fish I have ever had. The crunch of the skin and creamyness of the meat combined with the outstanding flavor to make a good ensemble. Also, there was something about the presentation, the consumption that appealed to my inner neanderthal.
Then is when things started to get a little sketchy. Mon pote pulled me aside and asked if I could “lend” (he guaranteed he would pay me back tonight) him 800 durhams to pay for the wine and fish. I truthfully said no. I gladly gave him the 150 durham I had left (excluding the emergency 50 I had tucked in the waistband of my boxers. When he said suggested I could withdrawl across the street I tossed him my wallet. Nothing but a photocopy of my passport: I had beaten his game.
During the trip back to the medina I debated whether or not to feel angry or used. I decided no, he supplied something I demanded, I spent a half a day with a guy paid for a healthy portion of our food and beverage, and had a good time.
I slept in for the second time in Morocco (although this time I didn’t have food poisoning so it was decidedly more pleasant). I hit the streets, taking a tea in a scenic café mon pote had showed me, stopped by his room to say thanks and goodbye, and then found the market.
I’ve already expressed my man-crush on Moroccan markets (or just markets in general), and this one was love at first sight. While I had seen all of these stores before (Spices, clothing, shoes, shoes, leather, tapestry, hooka, spices, clothing, café, spices) there was something new and more exotic about this one.
Vendors hung colorful cloths in front of their stores to protect their patrons from the sun causing the whole place to be colored by a stain-glass-esque light. Because the road twisted and turned slightly, you could never see more than a hundred feet down the stretch making the market seem infinitely long (in reality it was about a half mile long). I did my first souvenir shopping of the trip, and haggled down a Moroccan soccer jersey (which will debut next soccer jersey Monday). I caught the earlier train back and four hours later Im home… but not for long. I’ve caught the Moroccan travel bug, and I have a feeling Im going to like this illness more than food poisoning. 
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