A weekend of continents
The final bits and bobs of this trip, halfway around the world and back, were a quick hop-and-jump from Abu Dhabi to Amsterdam, onwards to Malaga, and then to Casablanca, to finally return to São Paulo. All in a few days.
From Amsterdam to Malaga, I flew Ryanair, and in Amsterdam they now appear to have their own terminal, which feels like a newly refurbished small terminal of some remote airport in some secondary city. Too busy, limited services, hip designs.
The worst part was that my pots of satay sauce were confiscated at security. Is peanut butter a liquid?
In Malaga, I found a surprisingly large number of people sleeping in the street.
My accommodation was another one of those where the host expects you to call him when arriving, assuming that everyone has a roaming number or data. The host wouldn’t budge on this, and I refused to get a roaming SIM just because he wanted to be lazy.
A complaint with Booking.com resulted in an almost full compensation for the night’s stay.
The next day, early at the airport, I hung out just outside the terminal in a quiet, concreted-over, area, and sat on a large square concrete block, enjoying the weather and a packed lunch.
One slab away, perhaps 20 meters to my left, someone was sleeping, with a backpack between his legs. After I consumed my lunch and read the news, this gentleman started to violently heave and throw up. Repeatedly.
I made a quick exit.
In Casablanca, my connection to get to town at a reasonable time was going to be tight. Trains from the airport only run once an hour, and my flight was running late. Then, after landing, several travellers held up the line at immigration, and when it was my turn, I was grilled.
“Where are you from originally?”
Iran
“Have you been to Morocco before on this passport?”
Not sure
“Have you been to Morocco before with this nationality?”
Yes.
“Where do you stay?”
The officer seemed genuinely reluctant to let me in, until he realized I was here in transit, after which he stamped me through.
I got to the train station’s ticket desk, with a minute to spare, and was told my train was to leave from track one.
A train was rolling into track two, while on track one, a sign was advertising a train to almost my destination, with the signage for track two not indicating anything.
I asked a bystander whether the train on track two went to my destination.
“Eeeh, I don’t know.”
I asked a group of men who were waiting to board the train, just having arrived by plane. This resulted in chatter with, after some time, a consensus that, yes, this train was going to my destination. Their hesitation didn’t make me feel confident.
I then asked two staff, just exiting the train.
“Please, enter!”
Also not quite a confirmation.
It was only when the train rolled out of the station, and an announcer, in three languages, told the passengers the train’s destination, was I confident that, yes, the train was going to where I needed to go.
On pure coincidence, I booked myself in to the exact same hotel as, almost to the day, 15 years ago. I didn’t recognize the hotel, I didn’t recognize the room, but when I walked on the room’s balcony, I immediately recognised the setting.
I was now entering the last night of this trip. I reflected.
Shortly after I finished university, or perhaps near the very end, a few friends and I went on a weekend trip which involved visiting 8 countries in three, or perhaps 4, days, by car; leaving Holland, then traveling through Belgium, Luxembourg, France, to get to Monaco, then back via Turin, Switzerland, and Germany.
Little can top that, but this weekend I had come close; on Thursday I was in Indonesia. On Friday in the UAE. On Saturday in the Netherlands, on Sunday in Spain. On Monday in Morocco, and Tuesday I’d be home in Brazil. Six countries, only, but on four continents. Five if you consider the Middle East separate from Asia.