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Published: August 7th 2007
Electronic ticketing is supposed to make the check-in process that much easier. Inevitably, Gene and I would learn otherwise.
After being advised by our travel agent that postponing our flight from Egypt to Morocco by two days would incur no additional change fees, we decided to extend our stay in Egypt so that we could take the opportunity to explore Luxor. We were less than surprised, however, when the desk agent informed us at the time of check-in that we would have to pay an additional 500 Egyptian Pounds per person to change our tickets.
“I don’t understand,” Gene countered. “We were told by our travel agent that there wouldn’t be a change fee.” A puzzled silence ensued.
After several minutes of ticking away at her keyboard, the ticket agent confirmed, “I’m sorry, Sir. You can speak to my manager if you’d like, but I’m afraid that we can’t do anything about it. It will cost you an additional 500 Egyptian Pounds per ticket to change your flight.”
“But according to the travel agent, our tickets have already been changed. She assured me that there would be no additional change fees,” Gene retorted.
Like many people
confronted by an unrelenting customer, the ticket agent called over another airline representative to dissuade us otherwise. The second agent spent the next several minutes tapping away at the keyboard only to tell us the same thing.
“Is there any way that I can speak to a manager? If I have to pay the difference, I’ll pay it, but I just want to clarify what I was told,” Gene persisted.
By the time Gene was led back to speak to the manager, we had been standing at the counter for a total of 45 minutes - still no tickets. When all was said and done, we were advised that we would need to pay 150 Egyptian pounds per person to change the tickets. How the price could go from 1000 LE to 300 LE, we never understood. Instead, we just accepted our fate and set out on our goal to get the hell out of Egypt. The last thing we wanted was to miss our flight to Morocco.
When we finally boarded the plane, we were relieved to find the seat next to us unoccupied. However, after settling in, I noticed the pervert sitting across the aisle,
leaned forward in his seat so that he could gawk at me. Actually made uncomfortable by his gaping stare, I pointed the creep out to Gene, hoping that Gene’s acknowledgement might discourage him. I breathed a sigh of relief when the weirdo moved one row back out of my direct line of sight.
Gene, who was positioned in the window seat, suggested that I move over to the aisle seat to thwart any attempt by another passenger to sit in our row. Heeding that the doors were secured, I quickly changed seats before I could get scolded by the flight attendant. Within minutes, a young woman, who had already been seated, was standing at my side asking whether the middle seat was taken. Gene immediately flashed me a look signifying, “You better do
something to prevent her from sitting here.” Tuning into my female intuition, it occurred to me that no woman would be asking to sit in the middle of us unless something was wrong - unless that same weirdo who was staring at me was now antagonizing her. Naturally, I moved over.
I told Gene to shut it as he hemmed and hawed in his seat
next to me, determined to later substantiate my instincts. Unsurprisingly, I was absolutely right.
After we landed in Morocco, Gene and I scurried over to the train station with our luggage, hoping to make the early train to Marrakech. Little did we know, we had to take a separate train to Casablanca before we could catch the connecting train to Marrakech. Advised that we missed the train headed to Casablanca by 5 minutes, we flew back up the escalator hoping that a cab could get us to the Casablanca station in time. We flew through the crowds standing in line to enter the airport and headed straight for the taxi stand.
Out of breath, Gene approached the first taxi driver. “Can you get us to the Casablanca train station in less than 30 minutes?”
Indifferent, the guy shrugged his shoulders, nodded his head and opened his trunk to start loading our luggage. Not having the slightest clue as to the cost of the cab fare or the distance to the station, I told Gene that it likely wouldn’t be worth the money unless the driver could guarantee that he could get us there in time.
Gene
inquired a second time to which the driver responded in an unsympathetic tone. “Depends on traffic.”
We thereafter found ourselves waiting in the long security line to reenter the airport and catch the next train to Casablanca. After purchasing our tickets, we were approached by a female backpacker who asked if she could sit with us on the train as she was clearly uncomfortable traveling alone. Wondering what it was about the two of us that screamed, “We’re foreigners capable of being trusted,” we consented, only to later realize that our first-class $5 tickets were in a separate train car.
I didn’t feel like talking anyway. By the time we arrived into Casablanca, we were forty-five minutes behind schedule to make the early train to Marrakech. We decided to pass the remainder of time at a nearby café.
We returned to the station a few minutes early, intent on beating the crowds to the front of the platform. Like two morons, we hastily waited as the train approached the station and watched as our car roared right passed us - we were on the wrong end of the platform.
We did our best to hustle our
way toward the front of the train, our bags on the brink of becoming airborne behind us. As we neared our car, we passed a middle-aged French woman headed in the same direction. With at least two feet between us when I circumnavigated the woman, it took me a few moments to realize that her raised voice was directed toward me. I turned back only to catch sight of an irate French woman shouting French babble as she raced forward to get ahead of me.
Not understanding a single syllable uttered, but smart enough to know that I was being insulted, I Fred-Flinstone’d it up the elevated train stairs, surprised at my own strength in hauling up my luggage when put to the challenge. Just as I was about to clear the final step, I felt a shove into my left side.
Oh no you didn’t! Before the woman could so much as lift a leg to get in front of me, I swung the junk in my trunk right into her shoulder and knocked her grip on the handrail loose. Not aware of what ensued thereafter as I boarded the train, Gene later informed me that the
woman had accidentally dropped her luggage on the platform in a fit of rage.
Content to finally seat myself on the train to Marrakech, I nearly shit myself as I watched the furious French woman enter our train car - she had been assigned to a seat right next to us. Gene and I sat smirking as she struggled to get her bag into the overhead - there was no way in hell that we were going to assist her. However, we were to spend the next three hours in a 6-seat train car with her.
Our tolerance waned all the more as the small compartment filled up with overweight passengers, one woman carrying a bag large enough to fit a human body. Packed like sardines, Gene and I nearly clawed our eyes out over the next three hours as the others chattered in French, played games on their cell phones with the volume on high, and snored in our ears. It only confirmed our decision not to travel via Eurorail during our four months in Europe.
When we arrived to Marrakech, we were glad to encounter a number of taxis parked outside the station.
One less hassle. We were approached by one gentleman who directed us to his vehicle, claiming that his meter was broken and that it would cost us 50 Durham to take us to our hotel.
Infuriated by the proposition, Gene hollered, “I know what the law is! Meter or no deal.”
When the driver refused, we approached another taxi. “How much to take us to the ____ Riad?” we inquired.
“50 Durham,” the driver declared.
What the f$%!!(MISSING) “We pay by meter,” Gene demanded.
“No meter. 50 Durham,” the man countered.
Gene, who lacks all patience even when being ripped off, instructed me that 50 Durham was the equivalent of $5 US dollars and that it wasn’t worth a fight. Against my will, he accepted the ride. We would later find out that the ride should have cost us between 15 and 20 Durham.
We were dropped off with our luggage in the midst of a number of unmarked alleyways - no hotel in sight. We considered ourselves lucky to be approached by a gentleman hauling a cart who claimed to know the way to the Riad. Fully aware that we would be hit up for more money at the end of our journey, we gladly accepted.
The obstacles of the day were soon forgotten as we ventured inside the Riad to find a spectacular old courtyard home. Our room itself consisted of three different levels with a private rooftop. Gene, convinced it was too good to be true, carped about the lack of hot water for a good twenty minutes before realizing that the shower handles were installed backwards.
After a magnificent homemade meal provided by the hotel, we were anxious to settle in and call it a night. As we snuggled into bed, we listened as a mosque sounded the call to prayer nearby. Being the light sleeper that he is, Gene instantly began cursing the very thought of being roused by the 5:00 a.m. call to prayer the following morning.
Not looking forward to being awoken by Gene’s cussing at 5:00 a.m., I warned him not to wake me, vowing that I would sleep through the next morning’s megaphone without difficulty.
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Tamisha
non-member comment
Whatcha gonna do with all that junk...
Go on with your big booty!!! Who knew it would come in so handy? ;o) Glad you guys are back on the trail; we were very sorry to hear the bad news. We miss you so much!!!