An adventure without Misadventure has no Perspective

Sometimes as I sit writing my blogs I wonder if I don’t go out of my way a little just to make myself more interesting to you. After all, you all deserves to get an epic event every so often just for having stuck with my tale this long.
Well, my friends, I have such an occurrence for you this month.
My parting words last month were that I was about to have a lovely Roman holiday so I could avoid the trials of Ramadan. This is just what I did, but my adventure was not all riding Vespas without helmets like Ms. Hepburn. While I must say it was a great deal of fun, everyday was full of impromptu art, history, and Italian language courses. My only complaint is that this fabulous event was capped on either end with epic tragedies on par with Oedipus. The only way I was able to maintain a stiff upper lip was to remember that you, my captivated audience, would commiserate with/ find humor in/ be enraged on behalf of/ or in some way find emotional entertainment in my catastrophes.
To begin from the beginning, my friend Andrew and I decided that we deserved a vacation; August was the best time for this because it coincides with the Islamic month of Ramadan: a month in which the entire country of Morocco (the entire Arab world really) shuts down. The cheapest flight to be had flew from Fes to Rome, so we agreed to meet in Fes the day before the flight so we could run a last couple of errands. I arrived early in the morning so I booked a hotel room and loafed about waiting for Andrew’s bus to get in. He arrived in the early afternoon and we spent a couple of hours going around getting those last minute things.
The next morning our flight was scheduled to leave at 8 am so we git to the airport at 5 thinking it would be like any other international flight where you need to be there three hours before hand. It was when I went to pay for the taxi ride that I realized something was very, very wrong. My money wasn’t in the backpack pocket I had put it in. Fortunately Andrew was able to pay for the taxi so we were not in trouble. When we were inside at the airport cafe I unpacked my entire bag and found that my money was gone. At some point during the previous day while Andrew and I were going around town someone who works for the hotel went into our room and stole the vast majority of the money I’d been so carefully saving. They didn’t get it all because I’ve been warned never to keep all of my money in one place, but they did get away with most of it. Even more unfortunately, there was no way I would have time to find a taxi and go back to the hotel to harangue them, or go to the police and file a report without missing the plane. So I got on the plane in a seething rage and hoped for the best when we landed.
The flight was an uneventful two hours in which I spent most of it asleep; I’ve always found that disasters and disappointment are easier to deal with after a nap. The flight lands and something interesting happened, everyone in the airplane clapped and cheered... as if there was any doubt we were going to make it? Well, I’m sure the pilot appreciated the gratitude regardless.
Rome was amazing. I could go on about the details forever, but there weren’t any real anecdotes for your amusement. So I’ll be succinct, the art, architecture, and food were all to die for. And everything inspires your inner artist. I would spend whole days sitting in front of buildings or statues sketching them. Although, I have to admit three weeks is too long to stay in any city, even one of the most interesting cities in the world. On the bright side, I can give suggestions to anyone who is Rome-ward bound.
My next anecdote occurred when Andrew and I were headed to the airport. Our flight left at 7 am but the buses don’t start running until 8. We knew this ahead of time so it was no big deal, we decided we’d just head to the airport in the evening, and spent the night there. So we packed up and left the apartment at 10:30 aiming to catch the second to the last train at 11:30. We got to the station, bought out tickets and went to the platform marked on the ticket. At the time marked on the ticket we got onto the train that had the number marked on the ticket. Then we sat and enjoyed our last ride out of Rome, 15min after leaving the station we saw the airport and or stop... then the train passed the airport and or stop... After thirty min Andrew and I began to worry so we divided and went in search of someone who could tell us where we were going. He went up the train and I went down. I had to go through four cars before I could find someone who was awake. I walk up to him and asked if he spoke French or English. No. Alright, I’ve picked up a handful of Italian words in my three weeks.
Me:“I want to go to the airport.”
Man: “No, we passed it. This train doesn’t stop there,”
Me: “Where are we going?”
Man: “Sicily, non-stop.”
Me: *shocked pause with eyes the size of saucers* “When will we get there?”
Man: “6.”
Me: *%@^ “Thank you”
I return to Andrew who hadn’t gotten far b/c the door to our car at the other end was locked. I told him we were going to that beautiful island at the bottom the country against our will. I’m sitting there toying with the idea of pulling the emergency brake, or jumping from the speeding train. Andrew’s response was, “Then we’re going to Sicily... This makes us stowaways.” That had a surprisingly calming effect.
So we sat and waited to be discovered. Finally, at 5 in the morning a ticket collector came by. Fortunately he spoke French so I explained our problem. At first he thought we had deliberately missed our plane and were extending our vacation. He wanted us to pay 60 euros each for our mis-adventure. Eventually we got him to understand that we DIDN’T want to go to Sicily. We wanted to go back to Rome so we could get back to being PCVs in Morocco. At this point I decided to stop trusting fate to help me out so I pulled out some good old-fashioned Catholic guilt. I told him all about the Peace Corps, and our work in Morocco. As it turns out his mom is Moroccan and he was very impressed with us. He told us we would be stopping for about thirty seconds at a station 20 min away, and we could get off there and catch the 7:30 train to Rome. We would miss our plane, but at least we weren’t being charged 120 euros. I’ll take what I can get.
We get off at a village that amounted to a stop sign in the road and learned that all of the northbound trains were sold out for the next three days. And I mean all, not just those to Rome, but every train to every place north of our stop sign. Before I was resigned, now I was despondent. Ugh
Suddenly Andrew has this brilliant idea. Sicily has two airports; maybe we can hop a puddle jumper from the island to Rome and be home with only one day’s loss. Huzzah!
So we buy two tickets to the island for 12 euros each (what a bargain) and wait to see what new adventure would find us. Now I know you are all wondering how it’s possible to buy a train ticket to an island that doesn’t have a RR bridge. We catch a connecting ferry. Sorry, I know that was anti-climactic. Our trip to Sicily- now that we WANT to go there- was a smooth operation. And a beautiful trip too, Mt Edna is breath taking.
So we got to Catania and hunt down another internet cafe. Here we learn that all plane rides to Rome are 300 euros per seat. It would be cheaper for us to stay here for three days and wait for a train. Then it was my turn to be brilliant. We got here via ferry; I bet we could get to Rome’s port town via ferry too. And for the same price as a train ticket we found a ferry the next night. AND we found plane tickets for the morning after we would arrive in Rome. Allhamdullila! And with much ado and fanfair Andrew and I finally get back to Morocco three days after our intended return date.
I bet you think my mis-adventure ends here don’t you? Well I’m back in Morocco but I’m only in Marrakech; home is a long ways off yet, and now I’m going on four days without sleep- trains and ferries make terrible sleeping places.
Quick transport fact: under normal circumstances the best way home from ‘Kech is a train to Meknes and a bus from there home.
Quick culture fact: I got home the first day after Ramadan. That’s like trying to travel on Christmas day.
So I get to the train station and my ticket is three times what is normally is. I am not amused. Then the train which is usually 7 hours takes 9 and I miss the last bus home by 20 min. So I walk over to the taxi stand to see if they’ll take me home. I find the taxi that is going to Errachidia- the first major city south of my village- the man says he won’t stop in my village, he is only going to Errach. I tell him He is passing through my village anyway. He says no he won’t stop for me. “Fine, then just slow down I’ll jump out!” But to no avail. At last I am at my wits end, so close to home but so far away, then I hear a bus called out that is going to my friends city. So I call up my favourite Persian and ask in my sweetest voice if he will let me crash with him and I will trade him a fabulous tale. Thirty min later I was sitting on his ponj retelling this same tale.
The next day I was finally home. I slept for a day and half.
After so much adventure I was glad to be back in my village for the month of September. In July and Aug it’s just too hot to be active, but Sept. is when it’s cool enough to work but people are trying to enjoy their lazy summer as long as possible so they encourage you to relax just a little while longer. Last year this drove me nuts, this year I was more than happy to comply.
Isn’t it funny that I can fill three pages with stuff I did one month, then summarize the next month with a paragraph? Ah life, it’s full of dichotomies. And with that epiphany I will say ado.