Casablanca, my three Moroccan friends

I had the fortune of spending a day in Casablanca en route to Dakar: I landed at 8 in the morning, having the plan of taking a train immediately to the center of Casa to make the most of the layover and avoid just sitting around at the airport. The first thing that occurred to me was that there were many single men watching me. I suddenly felt pretty alone, and when I got on the train and felt that I was getting some extra attention, I devised the plan that I would attach myself to the nearest bunch of tourists, explaining to them my discomfort with being alone. I pulled out the scarf I had brought with me so that I could wrap my head like the other women on the train. Perhaps that would make me look like less of a tourist target and reduce qttention on me. Although the feeling of having eyes all over me didn't leave, I quickly stopped feeling threatened. After actually getting a few funny looks from people, probably because I'd done such a bqd job wrapping my hair; I realized I wasn't fooling anyone, and that I was going to stand out as a foreigner no matter what; albeit one who was trying to show extra respect by trying to fit in. I waited with a man selling street cigarettes for the better part of an hour waiting for the number 8 bus that would take me to the Grand Mosque, the largest mosque in the world; dedicated to Kinbg Hussein II and the only mosque in Morocco allowing non-Muslims to enter. I arrived at the beautiful Mosque, which looks like its straight from a fairy tale, built right on the edge of the water. Magnificent. I then headed toward the rocky water where many were sunbathing and playing. My heavy backpack and handbag were starting to feel heavier, but walking around definitely seemed worth it. I descended the concrete stairs to get to the water; carefully stepping to avoid slipping on algae. But alas; on the second to last step, I went down, It must have looked painful, my falling backwards into the stairs, but my backpack saved the day and my wrists only got razed a little. Pretty embarrassed, a man helped hoist me up and I gathered myself. Then entered my first Moroccan friend. Mohammed first spoke to me in English; but we soon went off in French and I was appreciative of his friendliness. He's about my age, and he told me he studied economics but really loves philosophy. We sat on the rocks for a few minutes, then walked to a swim spot so that he could jump in. He lives close to that beach, near the Mosque, and often comes there to get inspired on the weekends. Our bellies were rumbling, and he very kindly invited me over for couscous, but I declined. I explained that it was a nice offer; but that I needed to be heading back to the buses to get back to the station to catch my flight at 7. Arriving at the buses, the 8 wasn't there, naturally, because there is only one bus for the whole city. So, I took a gamble, climbing onto the 139, as my cigarette selling friend had mentionned may work as well. It took off and quickly filled up, built up speed and rarely slowed down. It zoomed past my stop, and I leaned over to the person next to me to ask what I should do. I thought my French was decent enough to be understood, but no one could help me, and then a gentleman touched my wrist and motioned for me to get off the bus with him. He was a young guy, too, and he walked me the few blocks back to the station. He was very nice and mqde conversation with me, but I couldn't help but like he was looking at me like I was a little crazy. I didn't try to convince him otherwise; I was starting to get used to the look, and hoped only that he'd point me to the station. Well, he did, then asked to sit zith me there. I explained that I was very tired and not really up for company, as it was true, plus I really just didn't want to befriend mqles all day. So, there parted my second generous Maroccan friend. Both friends exchanged emails with me, which is pretty cute. I arrived again at the Casa airport, completely exhausted. I was three hours early for the flight; better safe than sorry. I read for an hour, then decided to check in. The woman at the desk looked at me funny; asking for my ticket. There it is, I pointed. She said no; there should be a ticket in the paper I gave her. I was sure I didn't get one in NYC. Another airline worker came, asked me where my ticket was. He asked me to search my luggage. Tired and frustrated, knowing that the piece of paper before me was the only thing I'd been given, I was on the brink of tears. The guy stared blankly at me, and whispered, please don't cry. Apparently I was beginning to make a small scene. His superior approached, asking where my ticket was. You can't get on the plane without your ticket, he exclaimed, as though I'd been hiding it or neglecting to recall where it was. I never got it, I pleaded. I told them that I could show them my e-ticket receipt to prove myself. They took it; sighed; and jogged to the counter. The first guy typed a bit, tore up my piece of paper, and handed me something identical. There; he said; escorting me from the counter to the waiting area. .....to be continued.....