Moroccan Debut

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From the air, Casablanca looks a lot like Sacramento: the surrounding region of lines, angles and intersections making up a patchwork farm area resembles the same quilt-like agricultural area that encompasses. I came at the best time of day: dusk, when you can stare right at the sun as it sets in the dusty Saharan sky. The first part of our drive, through farmland and occassional suburban sprawl, was quiet besides my driver's honking which would begin immediately as the light turned green, whether or not the cars in front of us had started moving. Once we reached the city, itself anything but tranquil, I realized that Sacramento and Casablanca have little beyond farming in common. Where Sacramento is sleepy and contained, Casablanca is vivacious and delightfully chaotic. It seemed as if the entire 7 million strong population of Casablanca (or Casa as those in the know call it) had emptied onto the streets, to stroll along Boulevard Mohammed V or else to sit and drink mint tea at one of the many outdoor cafes. Creeping along the crowd-choked streets and weaving through the maze of moving and not moving traffic, we made our way towards the auberge de jeune (youth hostel) passing a lively rally for the next day's election (drums, cheers, trumpets, chants) and the Mosque Hassan II, perched on the coast as Casa's dominating feature and second in size only to the great mosque of Mecca. I chitchatted with my driver in my awkward French, discovering that I am much more comfortable speaking French with other non-French people. We arrived, I paid my hefty 300 dirham cab fare (8.5 dirham to the dollar) and my measly 45 dirham bed fare, and crashed onto my cot. Then sounds off the call to prayer. Ahhah! Morocco at last.

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