Well, it was bound to happen at some point, but we just didn't figure on it being so soon, or here. We were robbed and succombed to horrible food poisoning during our second week in Morocco. Not the experience we'd hoped for, but it could have been worse. We are grateful to have escaped without too much damage.After four wild nights in Marrakech, we left on a cushy Supratours bus for a three-hour ride to the lovely beach town of Essaouira. It was a welcome change from the hot, gritty red desert interior landscape and proved a great place to chill out for three days. We took long strolls on the beach, sat on a camel, played on the dunes, drank mint tea with the Berbers, hugged dogs, ate yummy macaroons, watched amazing sunsets, relished the Atlantic breeze, and finally found a few beers to quench our thirsts. (Morocco is dry for the most part). Sadly, we were robbed on our last night in the hotel, which left a bad taste in our mouths for the place. We figured it was the cleaning lady, but how she managed to pick our locks we'll never know. It was definitely an inside job, as they only made away with 300 of our 1,100 dirham (about $35) and most of the free perfume samples I'd picked up in Scotland. This skimming of a small amount of money is a common scam we've read about; hotel worker thieves take only a small amount of cash so you won't notice anything amiss. As I said before, it could have been much worse. The feeling of being violated was the evil thing; just knowing someone had rifled through all of our belongings made us sick to our stomachs. To add insult to injury, we had to get up at 5am to catch the bus back to Marrakech to make a four-hour train transfer to Rabat, so the evening's events took away from our much-needed rest. After explaining our plight to the hotel manager via phone, he graciously refunded us back 100 dirham and was shocked to hear of such an event on his property. We hit the pillows around midnight and had a restless night of ZZZZs.We enjoyed our evening in Rabat, despite emerging from the train station into an unemployment protest complete with riot police and ambulances. It appears the civil disobedience had wafted into the uncivil; we saw a few protestors writhing on the ground in pain and quickly made our way to a nearby hotel. We toured the exquisite kasbah, Andalusian gardens (where we got offered hash), the famous Tour Hassan, and the mausoleum of the current king's father. We grabbed a beer in a funky basement bar and feasted on free nuts. Our hotel room proved to be a dust-infested trap that we figured hadn't been opened since the 50s; I dosed up on allergy meds and kept my inhaler close at hand. A shower proved impossible in the stupidly small, low-ceiling bathroom, thus we hopped the train to Fes a bit worse for wear.
Despite reports of suicide bombings in Casablanca, we enjoyed five days in Fes, whose medina and surrounding area makes Marrakech look like a modern, first-world establishment. We took refuge in the nouville ville, or new city, enjoying Paris-like cafes, lattes, and amazing pastries every morning. It was a great refuge from the habitual street hassle we've encountered in the country. We hired a guide one day to take us deeper into the medina, whose 9,400+ lanes make it difficult, if not dangerous, to navigate on one's own. I was a bit disappointed by Hussein's leadership, which left us to fend for ourselves in a carpet warehouse for almost an hour while English-speaking Mohammed tried to sell us five gorgeous rugs for the low price of $12,000 U.S. He assured us we would more than pay for our trip by selling them at American auctions, but we didn't have the bank account for it, let alone the gall to imagine shipping them to my mother's house in Scottsdale, AZ, via a DHL truck.A highlight of our Fes experience was a day trip to the 2nd-century Roman ruins at Volubulis. Lonely Planet makes this sound like a relatively easy adventure, but the reality is anything but for non-locals unused to the local means of road transport. Read on for a good laugh.We took a morning train from Fes to Meknes, a mere 35 minutes away. From there, it was a simple 10-minute walk to the grand taxi station. Easy enough...but herein lies the catch. There are a few scammers around who will offer you a private ride to the ruins and back, including an hour to wander the site, for the seemlingly "low" price of 300 dirham, or $30+. We knew from our research that you should pay no more than 65 cents for the 28km ride to Moulay Idriss, then another 45 cents for the 3km onward to Volubulis itself. We quickly bypassed this cheat and found the parking lot of grand taxis. And now it gets exciting.
In simple words, grand taxis are nothing more than a bunch of really scummy-looking local dudes in REALLY old run-down Mercedes sedans that shuttle mostly locals around between cities. in Morocco you often see people standing by the side of the road waiting for these cars to pick them up. We paid 10 dirham each for a seat (about $1.10) for a half-hour ride to Moulay Idriss and then haggled for another grand taxi for the remaining 3km to the ruins. But here's the rub: we are crammed into the Mercedes with FOUR other Moroccans plus a driver. It's so ridiculous you just have to laugh. I had to hold onto David the whole time for fear he'd fall out of the door, which wasn't quite securely shut for the journey, not to mention that none of the rear windows roll down and it's about 90 degrees in the sedan. Despite the sub-standard conditions, I still managed to sneak in a lovely French conversation with two smelly guys sharing the back seat with us.As if it couldn't get worse, once we arrived in Moulay Idriss, I managed to get in trouble with the "local boss" there for trying to arrange my own bargain with another French tourist and a cab driver for the onward journey to Volubulis. They jack up the price for the last 3km since they know it's the main draw. He told me I didn't have the right to make my own deals, and since we realized later he ran the only cab game in town and was our ticket back to Meknes a half-hour away, I did some serious ass-kissing. Thank you, California schools, for the 15+ years of French lessons! We waged our own silent protest on the stupid fees they charge for the second ride to the ruins by WALKING the 3km back down the road through the farms and cows and past the donkey carts coming back from market. It was pretty wild. The locals who passed us thought we were nuts for walking, but we didn't seem to mind. The day was lovely and the scenery impressive. On our last night in Fes, the intestinal cramps that had plagued me earlier in the week escalated into a full-on attack of food poisoning. I was majorly ill the entire night, awaking at 4:30am to puke my guts out. I was completely empty from the other end as well and not a happy camper. We made it onto the 10:50am train to Casablanca, where we were staying for the night before catching our flight to Barcelona the next morning. Halfway through the train ride, David started feeling ill as well. By the time we checked into the hotel at 3:30pm, we were both down for the count. We never left the hotel, which was a good thing as more fanatics had blown themselves up in the city just two days earlier. We watched a lot of bad French game shows and a Moroccan tennis tournament, then managed to bag some ZZZs before our 8am wake-up call. We both couldn't wait to leave the country for greener pastures. We made it out of Morocco but not without our share of challenges. It was truly an experience we'll never forget!
(From April 3-7)—I've not been in Marrakech a mere three hours and already the city has made an aggressive assault on my senses. I am tempted to retreat back into the tranquil confines of the riad, where we're holed up for our stay here. The riad is a beautifully restored old home that's been turned into a sort of B&B. There are tons of them all over Marrakech, many situated in the heart of the medina, the medieval walled city-within-a-city still in existence in many Moroccan towns. The riads boast traditional Marrakshi decor, beautiful rooftop terraces, friendly staff, home-cooked breakfasts, and best of all, serve as needed respites from the hectic world just outside their walls.
Words don't do justice to this place, which struggles to find its way in the 21st century amid an increasing onslaught of tourists while clinging to an incredibly ancient past. I'm spit out of our riad into the cramped dusty lanes of the souks, or traditional Arab marketplaces. As we stroll down the tiny alleys, the wrinkled elderly wrapped in traditional garb avoid frantic denim-clad teenagers zooming by on decrepit mopeds. Small children beg for handouts or try to sell you Kleenex packets for a few dirham; veiled women shop for vegetables, newly-skinned bloody sheep heads, and live chickens; hip 20-somethings hawk tagines, lamps, carpets, and tassles (what do they do with all those tassles?); middle-aged devout men hail the daily calls of the muzzein and head for the mosques to pray...and the scene repeats itself at every turn we take.
Upon arrival Tuesday, April 3, from Scotland (quite a lesson in contrasts, believe me), the taxi strike forced us to negotiate with two random locals combing the airport parking lot in search of suckers. It was hot, dusty, and dry, and red clay stretched on for miles. The two men advised us of the strike. With my guard up, I asked in French if this was a joke. They responded in French with a chuckle, "Do you see any taxis here?" I took a quick glance around and had to admit that yes, c'etait vrai, there were cleary no taxis in sight. There was hardly any sign of life for that matter. Most people had already left the airport, grabbing the local bus or packing into a horse carriage for the 15-minute ride into town. Luckily my French helped us sort out the mess, and after haggling the price down, we made our way with two Kiwis and a Londoner into an unsuspecting minivan for the ride into town.
What ensued afterwards was a good hour of frustration and confusion. Seems we'd booked a riad with Expedia but they work with an intermediary agency in Marrakech that manages most riad bookings in town. To make a very long story short (which for me is almost impossible), our driver got lost, insisted there was no such place called Riad Passions (which is what Expedia had confirmed), called the riad agency, and then out of nowhere amid six lanes of traffic, a young Moroccan guy jumped into the van and demanded our names. I thought it was a scam similar to those we'd encountered in Vietnam, where a taxi driver in cahoots with a local travel agency would suddenly stop to let a random guy into the cab, who would then try to force unwanted hotels upon you. I started to protest but looked down at the sheet of paper in the guy's hands, and to my amazement, saw David's name on the list. But the riad next to his name was different from what Expedia had confirmed. After several minutes of arguing in broken French (me) and Moroccan Arabic (them), we got dumped off at the riad agency to sort it out. An hour later, the boss had managed to explain to us in broken English and too-fast French that Expedia books a certain class of riad (e.g., three-star, or Passions) but the agency chooses the exact establishment. Hence the confusion, not to mention the price markup from Expedia (which we learned about too late after the fact). Alors, we now had the riad confirmed but how to get there? The agency said goodbye and tried to send us on our way, but I complained and said we had no way of getting to the riad, let alone finding the place on our own. Besides, we shouldn't have to pay again for a ride since we'd already paid the van driver. The agency boss countered by telling me we should have stayed in the van and gone to the riad the young guy had indicated in the first place. We had to laugh at the absurdity of it and also could see her point. With the taxis on strike, we really had no options and hoofing it would have been out of the question; people get lost in the medina for days and never find their way out. :-) Thankfully, a young guy who worked as an agency driver took pity upon us and offered us a free ride in his private car. We gladly accepted and what ensued was a scene I'll never forget.The ride through the new part of town was nothing too out of the ordinary (remember, we'd traveled through central Java and Bangkok not so long ago), but suddenly we turned down a dusty street and how Saad, our new friend, managed to manouever his vehicle through the narrow lanes of the medina I'll never quite understand. It was like trying to shove a giant square peg into a very tiny round hole. After winding through a maze of butchers, local shops, vegetable markets, and hundreds of Muslims, we arrived at a dark narrow lane with a big wooden door at the end. "Au pied d'ici," he advised. "On foot from here," I told David. I was certainly skeptical but quickly my doubts changed to awe as we stepped inside the riad and the caretaker shut the door. Absolute stillness, marble floors, stone walls, and mint tea and cookies waiting for us. The rooms were nicely decorated but there was no escaping the stench emanating from the bathroom; hundreds of years of old plumbing still remained, and you had to laugh at the opulence coupled with the stink. 
In retrospect, not much happened in Marrakech, which in some ways is a blessing, although also somewhat of a letdown. We spent a lot of time in the riad agency trying to find a new place to stay for our last two nights, as our first riad was full, and a good chunk of time in the Internet cafe planning our next moves from there. Our friend Saad picked us up and drove us to the new riad, which was humorous as we soon realized we weren't that far from the first one, but again, never would have found the new one on our own. We ate in the huge Place Jemaa El Fna's cheap food stalls brimming with skewered meat, salads, yummy bread, gingerbread cake, and the spiciest tea I've ever tasted (touristy but fun nonetheless). We treated ourselves to yummy Italian gelato every afternoon. We sat in the rose garden surrounding the famous Koutoubia mosque and took a break from the madness. We watched snake charmers woo cobras and young children pose for photos with monkeys on leashes. We fended off aggressive street performers demanding money from Westerners; one hit me quite hard with a brass platter and I yelled back defiantly in my best French. We chuckled at what we dubbed "Fishing for Fanta," a makeshift carnival game fashioned out of long poles with plastic rings tied at the end and numerous bottles of soda pop lined up in a giant circle. Seems many a young Moroccan gets excited at the idea of futily trying to wrap the ring around the neck of a bottle to win a free liter of soda. In the U.S. you'd at least get a goldfish or a tacky stuffed animal prize. To each his own I guess. We didn't see any winners and we didn't waste our money on the game.It's not easy for a woman to travel in Morocco, even with a man. David takes my arm or holds my hand but I still get leers from the male population. It's quite off-putting, but sadly I'm used to it now. On our last night in town, I asked a local shopkeeper if Muslim women were allowed to enter the mosques. What followed was an amazing conversation about religion and a delightful glimpse into traditional Islamic life and beliefs. The man was so devout he wouldn't shake my hand; hard-core Islamics can't touch women they don't know too well. We talked with him for almost 45 minutes, and his English was quite good. We felt blessed to have made the connection, as we found most Marraksis to be unfriendly and disinterested. We see very few Americans here and shared with this man the sad fact that many people in our country fear the Islamic culture and know little, if anything, about it. He enlightened us about his community and we were grateful for the opportunity to broaden our horizons. It was one of those special moments that reinforced what this trip is all about. In retrospect, it made our time in Marrakech worth the effort.
We're holed up in a small Internet cafe in the "new city" section of Fez, Morocco's most mystifying (and challenging!) tourist destination, although we've seen few Westerners here in comparison to Marrakech, where they were abundant. It didn't help that we arrived in northern Africa the week before Easter. We wrongfully assumed that this being a Muslim country, the egg-laden holiday wouldn't be an issue, but it appears that Marrakech is an extremely popular tourist destination for Europeans and UK folks seeking respite from the grey, not to mention the locals on holiday as well. Alas, hotels were hard to come by and expensive. Not what we'd hoped for but it could have been worse.
We haven't been able to post until now because the Internet cafes in Scotland and Marrakech wouldn't allow us access to our blogs. While at the beach in Essaouria, we couldn’t stomach the idea of sitting indoors at a computer; the Moroccan sunshine and the Atlantic's cool waters were calling, not to mention the camel rides, rolling dunes, and yummy macaroons. Here in Fez, where time has all but stopped in the ancient medina and rain has clouded our experience, the connection is speedy and we're happy to be online finally conversing with you all.
I'll do my best to succinctly relay the first several weeks of our trip. London was uneventful and grey (surprise?), but it was fun to ride around town in the upstairs front seats of the double-decker buses and to reconnect with my girlfriend Nikki and her family in the burbs for a few days. Nikki (shown on the right) and I joined another girlfriend, Kathy (on the left), from our early 90s days as au pairs in Paris for a fun dinner out in Picadilly one night, and it was great to catch up, despite almost lighting the table on fire after downing an entire bottle of wine and several margaritas (some habits die hard). David gladly escaped the estrogen frenzy and entertained himself by strolling the theater district and grabbing a hamburger so the girls could have a night out.
Scotland proved a fresh of breath air and completely surprised us both. Edinburgh's imposing castle, Gothic monuments, and cozy atmosphere welcomed us with open arms, as did the great hotel we found online for the low price of $80/night, a true steal in the UK. We ended up spending eight nights in Scotland as we couldn't arrange a cheap flight to Morocco before then, so we treated ourselves to two days in the Highlands, which was pure bliss. We rode a glorious train through winding hills and lovely lakes, then settled into a quaint B&B run by a lovely English couple from Devon. We drank pints of warm ale in the local pub and struggled to understand the Highland drawl. We hiked all morning and afternoon deep into Glen Nevis, an amazing valley rivaling those in Switzerland, if not in scale then at least in scenery. We ate lunch under the imposing shadow of 
Ben Nevis, the UK’s highest mountain at 4,400 feet. Shaggy Highland cattle mingled along the river with herds of fluffy sheep as David sketched to his heart’s content and I busied myself with a Kakuro puzzle. It was warm out and we relished the wearing of t-shirts after having donned mittens, scarves, and multiple layers of clothing the previous week to fight off the requisite late-March chill.
After seven hours of hiking along the river and relaxing in the fields, we arrived deep in the valley at 5:00pm and figured we had a good few hours’ hike back along the road. Luckily a car full of friendly-looking climbers offered us a lift into town. We piled into the back of a small Renault amid crampons and helmets, keeping a safe distance from the ice-ax-wielding German guy next to us. A nice group of folks, those guys. Their generosity allowed us to be in the pub by 6:45pm and down a yummy dinner in less time than it would have taken us to walk the entire way back.
We returned to Edinburgh late Sunday night and spent our last day in town wandering leisurely up to Calton Hill. We basked in sunshine and stunning city views while cheering the appearance of the Firth of Forth, which had been obscured all week by fog and grey clouds. David sketched a local monument and I wrote in my journal while a busload of Chinese tourists looked on. Several of the men were fasincated with David’s art supplies; one even grabbed David’s kneaded gray eraser and proceeded to play with it like it was Silly Putty. We chuckled and talked about China; they were impressed to learn we’d be visiting there this summer. Later that evening, we celebrated our second wedding anniversary with a lovely splurge in a chic local restaurant. We’d been subsisting on free hotel breakfasts, cheap Marks & Spencer sandwiches (surprisingly good!), and flat ale in the local pubs. That night we feasted on Italian salads, Tuscan red wine, and yummy roasted chicken and pasta. We capped it off with a tribute to the locals and ordered the awesome sticky toffee pudding. It was a great end to our time in the UK. Morocco was next on the list, and we had no idea what we’d be in for.
