The ferry from Spain to Morocco left early in the morning and was uneventful until we docked and I tried to get off. After much running up and down the steep steel stairs connecting the decks I found out that, as a walk-on, I could only disembark from the bowel of the boat along with the transport trucks.

The other two walk-ons were Moroccan men who were already waiting there. They seemed nice and one spoke a little English. We all agreed to share a taxi, which was fortuitous as it was the only way to get the 50 kilometers from Tangier med to Tangier town. As we exited, I was stopped in my tracks by a ferryman. It seemed I didn’t have the right stamp in my passport and he wouldn’t let me off the ship. I ran back up the five flights of stairs to find the steward. He informed me that the border policeman had already left the ship but he was kind and called him; then he told me to hurry down and go to the border shuttle bus – the policeman would wait for me there. I ran back down as fast as I could. But the grunty ferryman who was letting the trucks off didn’t speak English and didn’t understand. He still wouldn’t let me off. I took a big breath, raced back up the five flights of stairs to find the steward again. I could barely gasp out an explanation. The steward came down and escorted me off. He was kind, but he also may have been sincerely afraid that I was going to stroke out on his boat. I staggered to the shuttle bus to find the border policeman and the two other Moroccan men happily chatting away. They had waited for me, even negotiating a local price for the taxi ride. Which was awesome! And all was well.

I got dropped at the train station in Tangier town where I bought a ticket to Marrakech. My assigned seat was beside a lovely family who didn’t speak English but we settled ourselves in, exchanged pleasantries and knew we were both going to Marrakech. Suddenly they were shaking me saying we had to get off. I had dozed off. Time to get off!? We were only a few hours in on a five and a half hour ride! But apparently my Arabic ticket said we needed to change trains in Casablanca. Again, lucky they were watching out for me!

They indicated much haste was required, so I threw on my shoes, quickly gathered my stuff and raced after them through the busy terminal. I am a stickler about tying my shoelaces as I am always afraid I will trip, but with the rush, you guessed it, I didn’t lace up. On the escalator my luck went a bit sideways. My shoelace got caught at the top and sucked in. I was moving fast and as I stepped off my upper half literally went airborne like some comic reel and I hit the marble floor hard. Sprawled flat, I just barely got my shoelace pulled out in time. The escalator almost swallowed my shoe with my foot with it. My family stayed with me, helped me up, and we all managed to just barely catch the train. Again, lucky…sort of. I’ll focus on the lucky part.

I arrived in Marrakech around 9pm. My elbow was swollen and crazy painful, my head and hip were throbbing and my knee and ankle were distinctly unhappy, but I could walk. I grabbed a taxi right from the station and rested easy knowing that at least I wouldn’t be searching for my hostel in the dark. When the driver pulled over, pointed to the Medina, and said “just down there, very easy, three minutes”, I couldn’t believe it! My hostel was smack dab in the middle of the market maze! I have been to many, many third world and developing countries’ souks and medinas and I knew what I was in for. It wouldn’t be easy or three minutes. I needed to navigate through a maze of narrow alleyways (with high unbroken concrete walls on both sides) teeming with people and merchants of all kinds, avoid racing scooters, ask someone every 20 feet to help narrow down a door that likely would have no name or number. I didn’t get a Moroccan SIM card as I was staying in hostels that would likely have WIFI most of the time so I couldn’t call or find it in maps and I figured the taxi was a sure bet. It took awhile but I eventually found it. And all was well enough.

I was led to a room on the roof three stories up with open air windows. It was three degrees outside. I laid in bed, called Sabrina and she was aghast – at both the fall and the room. She emphatically pointed out that I was doing hostels to be warm! She said I got the stable special, baby Jesus on the left, pigs on the right. We laughed until I cried. Which was perfect. I needed a good laugh and I needed a good cry. In the end, the blankets were warm, I was safe, laying flat, snuggled in and fell fast asleep. But ya, the day getting to Marrakech was a wild ride!