MIA -> DFW -> NRT -> HND -> OKA

So close. We almost made the trip from Key Biscayne to Okinawa without incident. But the bus from Narita airport in Tokyo to Haneda got bogged down in rush hour traffic, and we missed our last flight. When the bus finally got to the airport, we grabbed our backpacks, carryons, and big suitcase, and speed walked as fast as we could to the Japan Airlines security entrance. We had been traveling 25 hours. An hour later and after much conferring among 4 JAL employees with their computers confirmed there were no more flights to Okinawa tonight. We are booked on a 6:15 AM flight tomorrow. I only slightly wept.

As we waited for our new tickets to be issued, the domestic terminal began to close. I knew it was a bad sign when the security employees turned in their badges, bowed to their supervisor, and left. The shops closed their doors. Even the construction workers walked past on their way out. Since we could not spend the night there, we decamped to the international terminal, open 24/7 and a 10-minute shuttle bus ride away.

We have opted to spend the night here rather than trying to find a hotel and be back to the airport by 5:00 tomorrow morning. Sleeping on airport seats seem easier than trying to find a taxi at 4:00 AM.

Joining Other Airport Campers 

Now it’s 3:00 AM, and after dozing on and off on a fairly comfortable bench near the observation deck, I am buzzed with jet lag. In the background a young woman’s voice gives a continuous announcement to be careful on the escalator. Sounding like “very, very bad, very, very bad”, the recorded voice echoes throughout the terminal. Maintenance has begun vacuuming so nap time is over.

Almost everyone is wearing face masks, trying to avoid the coronavirus coming out of China. Flights and tours are cancelled. World leaders pontificating. Hospitals gearing up. Patten’s friend Jack is back in Fort Lauderdale, which I am sure makes his mother very happy. He is sending boxes of masks to his coworkers in China. We remain unmasked, relying on others not to spread disease.

Disoriented

Marrakech Medina 

We both still startle awake and momentarily don't know where we are. I think partially because of remnants of time-zone mismatch and some because the images of Morocco are floating through our minds. Such a strange, beautiful, foreign place. I am dealing with winnowing the hundreds of pictures we took down to a manageable few. First all uploaded to the cloud, then narrowed down to a slide show and coffee-table book.

Earrings My Sister Betsy Gave Me  

I am also dealing with claims for my lost luggage. Trip insurance, credit card benefit and airline responsibility all potentially going to reimburse me. Getting the paperwork done is tedious. Iberia Airlines does not seem to have an online claim form, so I filed a request for assistance from them, to which they emailed that they would analyse my request and respond in 21 business days or less. Until then, I'm trying to remember what I had in my suitcase. Thank goodness I didn't throw in my kiwi earrings at the last minute like I had intended.

When I packed, I thought about taking a picture of the suitcase and its contents. Thought, didn't do. I also thought about sharing our clothes between our two suitcases, just in case one got lost. Also thought, didn't do. One would think a person of my age could learn from other travelers' tips.

Perhaps just having enough to fit in a carry-on bag is the answer. I certainly did fine with the few clothes I had. And always tuck extra underwear in my purse.

Good, Bad, Ugly

Secluded Garden  

The good of our Moroccan trip was our terrific OAT guide Hicham, who showed us his country with deserved pride, the lovely people we met because of OAT, the amazing food, and the varied scenery.

The bad was my suitcase never arriving from Madrid, so I had to buy clothes, which is trying in the best of times, much less in a Muslim country where, although fairly liberal, women wear long sleeves, no matter the temperature. Definitely not my style, nor the weight of clothes I need at home. I'm tall so the pants looked like capris, and the stores in the mall were full of the latest winter wear. I managed to find a pair of polyester pants and a long sweater, just in case the desert was cold. Those, plus a probably unauthorized AC/DC 1981 tour T-shirt I bought at a teen store, another T-shirt from the modern art museum in Rabat, and some underwear, rounded out my clothes. The frump-o-meter was spinning. I definitely learned I can travel with a lot fewer clothes than I had packed. I donated the unworn sweater to a women’s association in Marrakesh. The rest plus the skirt and blouse I had on when we flew to Morocco may be ritually burned when I get home.

One of My 2 Outfits 

The ugly was getting pink eye in not just one, but both eyes, half way through the trip. I couldn’t be satisfied with a bad cold and sore throat. No, I added pink eye. By the last day, two more tour members had caught it, and several more were looking possible. Fortunately, in Morocco, I could go to the nearby pharmacy and get OTC antibiotic eye drops without a prescription. Easy, peasy. I speak no French, and the pharmacist spoke no English, but after taking one look at my weeping right eye, she immediately knew what I needed. Back at the hotel, I consulted with the three doctors in our group about using the drops. Interestingly, the two internists were more cautious than the oncologist. I wonder if that's from the type of patient they saw in their practices. After waiting 24 hours at the suggestion of the internists, and my natural inclination, with my left eye now crusty, I began using the drops. I didn't dare ask what else could go wrong and temp the fates to answer.

Traveler versus Tourist

Making Copper Pots in the Médina 

Olives 

Grant Eating Snails
While Hicham Watches. 

 Overseas Adventure Travels (OAT) prides itself on providing contacts with locals (being travelers) rather than just driving by and taking pictures (being tourists). To that end we have spoken with venders about their businesses, hopped off the bus and discussed herding with nomads, and eaten dinner with a Moroccan family.

At first, I was meh about this, but it has grown on me. I remember our family hosting college band members and other students when I was growing up. We were pleased to share our home with them for a meal or a stay.

Berber Nomads 

Dinner at a Local Family’s Home

On the other hand, sometimes, like going through the Fez Médina, we have been tourists, hurrying  along and just getting a brief glimpse of the area.

Saltwater Fish For Sale

Buying Camel Meat

  Our guide, Hicham, has herded us like baby goats. Even when he turns us over to a guide for a special area, he trails behind, making sure no one gets lost or left behind.
Actually, we are more like 14 not-too-unrulely cats who are easily distracted by all the things around us. Hicham gently nips at our heels to get us back on the path we should be following. There isn’t much slack in our schedule for us to wander off, and he consciously keeps us on it.

On To Morocco

We climbed down the stairs one last time at Charming Lavapiés, then rode the Metro to the aeropuerto for our plane to Casablanca. Grant, his suitcase, and I all made the trip easily. Now, three days later, and my suitcase still hasn’t arrived. I bought a T-shirt at the Rabat modern art museum but have resisted buying anything else, washing my underwear out each night, in the hope that my own clothes will show up soon. I am starting to loose faith.

To add insult, my glasses fell apart and are now held together with a staple until I get to an optometrist who can fix them.  Amazingly I found the screw. Plus my throat is sore, and my gut thinking about going down. Of course all our first aid and drugs are in my suitcase, now known to be in Madrid. As a woman on the tour said, “You really are a mess, aren’t you?” So true.

The Rabat Restaurant Cat  

But I'm glad we are here. Who knew there would be cats everywhere? We met the first one at the restaurant where we had lunch in Rabat, then noticed others all around the city. There were dozens at the Roman necropolis Chellah, cats waiting to be fed in the Kasbah, and cats sleeping in the royal stables. Traffic is amazingly terrible; lanes usage seem to be considered just a suggestion, people and cats walk everywhere, yet the roadside is not littered with bodies. It all seems to work.


 They seem to be cared for or at least tolerated. Somewhere between feral and house pets. Perhaps in the original cat role of rodenticide.
At lunch today in Meknès, a cat roamed around our table as we sat on the second story terrace. Waiters just walked around it as it checked to for any fallen food bit would have gladly taken hand outs.

Travel Anxiety

We are in Madrid at the beginning of a week here on our own before we meet a tour group in Casablanca. Even though I’d checked and double checked, then checked one more time, I was crazed with anxiety. I worried we were going to miss the plane, the SIM phone cards wouldn’t work, we couldn’t find the hotel I’d booked. I had heart palpitations and shaking hands.

Our Apartment in Charming Lavapiés
(that’s the hotel’s name)  

I don’t know why this hit me all so hard. Usually I’m a little excited mixed with a little worry but this time I was undone. Add the jet lag and missing sleep, and the first 24 hours were not fun.

After arriving via Iberia Airlinea at 7:45 AM, we diddled at the airport while we somewhat figured out installing and using our European SIM cards I bought on Amazon. An hour Metro ride with 3 changes, we were at a sidería, (cider bar), having a late-morning espresso and a slice of potato tortilla while we waited to met the apartment rep, Antonio, to give us the keys.

Exhaustion replaced anxiety. I could barely keep my head up and my eyes open as we sat. Two teens practiced English at a table next to us. They were replaced by five middle-aged women chatting in Spanish. I understood about half in my eavesdropping.

A Contemporaneous Mona
Without Crowds

Now we’re settled into our minuscule studio apartment in the hip district of Lavapiés, our minuscule  studio apartment on the 5th floor with no elevator but with places to hang laundry over the courtyardo. We’ve toured the Prado and found local tapas bars.

Las Meninas at the Museo del Prado  

Pouring Cider  

My Spanish is coming back to me, and many of the locals speak some English so we are communicating. Maybe not discussing the way of the world, but we get more than enough to eat and drink. Even though we’re walk up and down all those stairs, I doubt we are calorie deprived.