Upon arrival at Casablanca Mohammed airport, I discovered that my luggage never made it on the plane. Through the limited English of the luggage officer and the limited French on my part, we came to the conclusion that Royal Air Maroc has no
My parents were already waiting outside the gate to greet us after their flight from Mali. As we were catching a train to the next town of Rabat, we couldn’t stay and argue with the airline officials that much longer and had to wait until the next day to call with a tracking number. We were catching a train to the next town of Rabat.
Little did I know that my parents would carry with them five large suitcases in addition to several smaller bags. I had been equally uninformed that Adam and I were expected to assist in carrying these from train to train in this North African country. One of these suitcases contained a fifteen pound sacred salt slab, a gift from a tribal chief in Mali.
The trains are quite comfortable, and convenient. First class cars are only ten percent more expensive than the regular cars are worth it for the comfort, privacy and extra storage space.
Less convenient, are the unmarked trains and low key announcements on the train itself. It was easy to miss the intended stop or know which end of the train you want. A family of obvious tourists dragging a total of eleven bags up and down a carved tile platform multiple times was a source of hilarious audible and visual entertainment for the locals.
After checking into the surprisingly chic Scheherazade Mercure hotel on a quiet side street in Rabat, Adam and I crashed for a much needed nap. We woke up in the afternoon to grab a quick lunch at a diner down the street.
The diner had a rack of roasting chickens, yellow from the liberal use of turmeric, cumin and a bunch of other spices common to the country. A whole chicken (including innards in sauce), plate of soupy rice and capers, fries and giant disks of bread were 80 dirhams ($ 10 US). It was hearty, tasty and more than the four of us could eat. We received exceptionally gracious service, which we felt was unusual, beyond the normally nice service that was typical. My father discovered the reason later, when a waiter ran up to him, shook his hand and called him “Jackie Chan”.
After lunch, my family and I walked towards Hassan Tower. It was a historical site of a red sandstone minaret of an incomplete mosque. It was originally intended by sultan Yacoub al-Mansourto be the world’s largest in 1199, but he died during construction. Locals were taking leisurely strolls in this quiet courtyard.
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