The Train From Tangier To Fez

Elena and I boarded the train. We had car 1, compartment 1, seats 11 and 12 (there are 6 seats per compartment). There were all sorts of people in compartment 1. It looked like some people wanted to be together but were in separate compartments. Fine, we could move if we had to. The motley collection of people in our compartment didn't exacty make me look forward to our 6 hour train ride. And if I wasn't looking forward to it, I could only imagine that Elena was dreading it twice as bad. Anyway, we decided to plop down in 11 and 12 anyway and reorganize later. The guy next to me started asking me, in English, where I was from (I told him), what hotel we were staying at (don't know yet), how many stars we needed (doesn't really matter--besides, I'm American and I don't do the star system). He said he was a student at the Koranic school and studied the history of Fez--the Fez was the largest city in Morocco (actually it's Marrakech 1.0 million to 1.25 million). He asked if we needed a guide (no) and then we said he could show us in our guide book where is good. Sure, why not. So I got out the guide book. He seemed a bit deflated when he saw we had the Routard book. I think he thought that we were English speaking and would be pretty much screwed in Fez, but the Routard book showed him that, in fact, we were conversant in one of the official languages of Morocco. It seemed to set him back a little. I felt a little victory against all the "guides" who stick to you like glue.

But before he got a chance to express his disappointment too much, a sudden turn of good luck. He wasn't sitting in his seat. He was in somebody else's seat. And not just anybody's seat, but a super hot Moroccan 20-ish Westernized babe's seat. The good luck held out...by the time the train left, the motley men in three of the four seats were displaced by Western dressed pretty young women. I couldn't contain my smile at our sudden turn of luck.

The train left and the last motley guy, certainly as delighted as I was, couldn't shut up. He became Mr. Chatty Motormouth. Elena had to flee the compartment because he wouldn't shut up. I read Generation X in French. The hottie next to me read her magazine, and the other two women discussed their businesses with Mr. Chatty. A man selling food went up and down the hallway from compartment to compartment--sort of like in the Green Car of the Shinkansen. He had a little cart with overpriced food. The girl next to me got Pringles and shared them with everyone.

Watching the landscape change was interesting. We starting out going along the Atlantic. We saw beaches and resorts under construction around Assilah. Then turning inland, hedgerows made up of those cactuses that look like chained dinner plates. Donkeys everywhere as people were engaged in farming the slightly arable land. There were little villages, all with minarets and I noticed that most of them had a loudspeaker so the muezzin doesn't have to climb to the top. There were sheep, a couple of orchards, and several lone houses. Some of the villages were really almost like ruins, but people still live there.
Eventually about half way through the ride, the girl next to me had to transfer to another line. Then Elena struck up a conversation one of the girls just outside the compartment. Next thing you know, we're all chatting away. Mr. Chatty asked how much we paid for a week in Paris. We told him €300 for a week. He offered us an apartment in Fez for the same price as well as to be our guide. He gave Elena his card. We also got a bunch of recommendations from the women offered in the Western style spirit of genuine no-strings-attached information. Nice. Eventually Fez started to come up. We were talking about hotels. Mr. Chatty told Elena that he would write another phone number we could use on his business card, but when she handed it back to him, he just kept it and said we were too poor and he doesn't want to deal with poor people like us--only rich people. Soon the train stopped and we stepped down in Fez.