Here's Looking at You, Kid

The movie, Casablanca, was filmed entirely in a Hollywood studio 70 years ago, so I don’t know how much resemblance the scenery ever had to the actual locale.  Still it’s at least cool to say I’ve actually been there (unlike the actors in the film.)  I also get why they call it "Casablanca" as a lot of the casas there were pretty blanca.  My main reasons for going there at all were to catch a flight since it was cheaper to fly from there than Marrakech and to get more pages added to my passport.

I arrived on the train at about 4:00pm and took a cab to my shitty, cheap hotel since I couldn’t find any hostels besides one that appeared to be all booked.  I still had a few hours left of daylight so I figured I would wander around a bit before finding something to eat.  I had a vague notion of trying to find some place close to the water, though I wasn’t sure exactly what that was supposed to look like.  I saw from my phone that the Medina (which is much smaller than the Medina in Marrakech) seemed to border the coastline so I headed first in that direction.  On the way, I walked past the Palais de Justice not far my hotel that anchored a large plaza, which at that time was filled with tons of people enjoying their free Sunday evening.

When I got to the Medina, the streets were even narrower and more crowded than in Marrakech with a million vendors trying to sell their cheap wares.  I just couldn’t deal with all that commotion at the time so I walked right out the opposite gate along the same wall.  I continued to walk toward the water, but then reached a big commercial port area where I wasn’t able to really get any closer to the harbor.  By this point, I was getting pretty hungry so I doubled back toward the direction of my hotel and stopped along the way at a nice pub.  I was a bit surprised because I didn’t know they really had bars in Morocco, except at the big westernized hotels.  I guess Casablanca, which seems a bit more “cosmopolitan” (in North African terms) than Marrakech, has a bit of a more relaxed attitude toward alcohol consumption.  The place definitely seemed to be trying to go for a chic vibe as the walls were decorated with large photo murals of New York City (or if not NYC, specifically, then at least “Generic Big City.”)  In any case, I enjoyed the fact that I was able to order a beer with dinner.  It was also an added bonus that the restaurant had wifi because my cheap-o hotel certainly didn’t!  I made a note of where the place was in case I wanted to come back the next day to use more of their “free” Internet.

In the morning, I set off on what was essentially to become “Quest for the Consulate” Day.  I had made a note of where the American Consulate was located and so I headed out down Boulevard de Paris convinced by my memory that this was the right road.  I knew the address was Number 8 so I watched as the numbers went down, figuring I was still headed the right direction.  However, soon the numbers started going back up and I reached a fork in the road where I had no idea which way to turn.  I walked back down from where I had come and when I got the spot where the building was supposed to be, all that was there was a seemingly abandoned warehouse.  I figured this couldn’t possibly be the consulate and even if it was I would have assumed I would see an American flag or two flying.  Luckily I had my computer with me, so I pulled it out on a bench alongside the busy road and discovered that in fact the consulate was located on Boulevard Moulay Youssef not Boulevard de Paris.

Fortunately the street I needed ran parallel to the one I was on so I only had to walk down one side street to reach it.  A quick survey seemed to indicate that the numbers would go up if I went to the left so I made the decision to go to the right.  For a while I seemed to be heading the right way and I passed a few nice cafes where I thought it might be nice to stop for lunch once I had finished my errand.  Then all of a sudden the numbers, which had been in the double digits, jumped up to triple digits.  I was highly confused, but could see the end of the street in sight so I figured I would at least try to walk all the way down to make sure I didn’t miss it, before turning back around.

When I got to the end of the road, I saw that I had reached a rocky beach where a large mosque with a tall minaret jutted out over the sea.  I didn’t want to waste time going over to the mosque so I ordered a fresh-squeezed orange juice from a local stand since all the walking had made me thirsty and then went to the edge of the jetty to take a few pictures.  While I was standing there, a Moroccan guy on a motorbike got my attention and seemed to want me to take a photo of him... or at least that was how I interpreted it.  I felt like it was completely rude to refuse, but in retrospect I probably should have.  I think he was just looking for an excuse to talk to me.  I took the photo and then said I had rush off to go bring my passport to the consulate.  I started to walk away, but he kept insisting he would drive me.  I continued walking and every time I would think that I had lost the guy, he would pull up to me again.  I even crossed over to the other side of the street, figuring he would then be against traffic, but he just got off his bike and started walking it behind me.  I finally had to resort to just completely ignoring him.  His last ditch effort before he finally gave up and rode away was “I love America.  President Obama is good” (or something along those lines), as if praising my country would ultimately win me over.

Once I finally lost my stalker, I made it back to where I turned onto Moulay Youssef and continued straight instead of going left.  To my relief, I noticed that the numbers were going down and I was approaching a nice neighborhood where it would make sense for there to be a foreign consulate.  I think that when I had initially entered Moulay Youssef, the street I was checking the numbers on was actually a parallel street bordering a square along Moulay Youssef--thus the confusion with the direction.  After heading the right way for a few blocks, I saw that the road ahead of me was blocked and heavily fortified with barricades indicating that I had made it to the right place.  The presence of an American flag confirmed this for me.

I walked up to the Moroccan guard standing at an opening in the fence, showed him my US passport and figured that I would be ushered right in.  Then he asked if I had an appointment.  Of course I did not.  The guy took pity on me and let me go in to talk to the person at the entrance.  That guy also asked if I had an appointment (I did not), but when I told him I just wanted to add extra pages to my passport, he said that they were closed for lunch and I could come back at 1:00pm. I went out the exit and walked over to a nearby cafe where I ate lunch and used the Internet. 

Shortly after 1:00pm, I went back to the consulate entrance and joined a short line to speak to the “gatekeeper” at the window of a small kiosk.  When I got to the front he asked if I had an appointment (nope), but when I pleaded my case saying that I was flying out in the morning (true) and didn’t know if I had enough pages left for my next destination (not entirely true), he took pity on me and let me go through.  His exact words were, “I may get in trouble for this, but you can go in.”   Woo hoo!  Success!  This was the closest I had come to setting foot on US soil in nearly eight months.  I had to pass through a metal detector and put my bag through an x-ray machine, but finally got up to the consulate services window where I paid a bunch of money and then handed them over my passport for them to add the pages while I hung around for about an hour.

While I was waited, I spoke briefly with another American woman who was at the consulate to get a replacement passport after hers had been stolen.  She was wearing the hijab headscarf and a long skirt down to her feet, but she appeared to be white rather than Middle Eastern.  She told me she was   originally from Texas, had been in Morocco three times and now was getting married there (I assume to a Moroccan man.)  I felt it was a bit rude and presumptuous to ask her, but I assume she had converted to Islam in order to get married.  It still seemed very interesting to me that she made the choice to wear the headscarf since I saw many Moroccan women, especially in Casablanca, who went with their heads uncovered.  I suppose it was her decision, but perhaps she is marrying into a very traditional family.  Though I don’t know how traditional they can be if they would allow their son to marry an American!

A little more than an hour later, my passport was ready with 25 brand new pages for me to fill with new places to visit.  It was basically like getting a whole new passport, which may be why it costs so much.  I still had some things I wanted to do on my computer so I went back to the cafe where I had eaten lunch and camped out there for a few hours until dinnertime when I ordered yet more food.  The waitress must have thought that I was crazy.  It eventually started getting dark so I packed up my things and made the short walk back to my hotel before it got too late.

The next morning, I wanted to take a quick walk around before heading to the airport.  I walked back to the Medina, but since it was so early in the morning the shopkeepers were just starting to open up for the day.  It was nice that it was quiet, but since nearly everything was still shut it was also a bit boring.  When I got back to the hotel, I grabbed my bags, hopped in a cab and took off for the train station.  I was a bit worried that I was cutting it close on time, but luckily I made it to my train, which ended up being late in any case.  Thankfully, even though the train left late it arrived at the airport nearly on time so I had plenty of leeway to catch my flight.