exits

I wrote this yesterday:

May 13. Cairo, Egypt.

So I'm no longer in Morocco. It hit me, and kept hitting me (approximately 9 times during my 4 1/2 hour flight) that the exit stamp in my passport will not be partner-ing with a "return" counterpart. And it's weird to think about returning. Aside from living at school, my home has always been one place- Columbiana Road, Homewood, AL- but the past four months it's become Meknes, more specifically #5 Azhar Residence on a street name I never knew, but that it's near Cafe Dimachk fi Hamria fi Meknes, Morocco.

And now I'm sitting in F8 Terminal of the Cairo International Airport waiting to board a flight to Dubai, United Arab Emirates.

But let's back up to Maroc.

My alarm rang at 5:25am, but I woke up at 6:06am to Mary-Elizabeth reprimanding me for sleeping in. I hurriedly showered and zipped my bags as 9 of my sweet friends sat in our kitchen floor, gulped coffee and milawee covered with laughing cow cheese and honey.

At 7:18, we grabbed my things and walked speedily to the train station where another friend met us. The next 7 minutes were a blur of goodbye hugs, well wishes, and me making really lame jokes while choking on tears. Mike helped me load my body bag (just kidding, kind of...) onto the train and I jumped on and then barreled through an entire train car searching for a seat. The ride was cramped but alhamdu'lillah I found a cabin with air-conditioning//

[cue man's cellphone alarm ringing the call to prayer next to me in the terminal]

// and somewhere between hours 2 and 3 I started to feel sick. I proceeded to hop out of the car, not even make it to the bathroom, and throw up in the floor of the corner of my car- while a group of Moroccan men watched me. Yeah, no more milawee for me for a while...

After this, one of the men took me to the restroom where there was, surprise, no water. During this ordeal, all of the policemen were summoned to come assist the sick girl. I told them I had medicine so that they would leave me alone. (This morning I had told ME that I didn't need to pack any medicine with me because I wouldn't get sick... right.)

Seat resumed, dozed off, felt better. Woke up by the man beside me telling me it was time for me to get off at the Casablanca station. I thanked him, grabbed the body bag and act annoyed that somebody had thrown up right in front of my exit door- seriously?

I make my way to the ticket office and then realize that I'm not in the Casa train station. Panic. I turn around and see my throw-up train start to move. Check my watch- 21 minutes till my train to the airport but how far am I from Casablanca?

(Mom, breath, this is the part where all of my world traveling experiences and down right hood-rat abilities come into play, also a LOT of "do it live.")

So I got a taxi driver- the smiliest of the bunch and asked him how much to the Casa trainstation. He said 100dirhams, I said 30dirhams. Deal. I suck up my fear of sounding like a snotty tourist and tell him, in arabic that I needed to be there, like, RIGHT NOW.

13 minutes to go. Man, impressively, gives me a quick tour of our current city- Ain Sebaa- and navigates Casa traffic in time for me to full on sprint- Amazing Race style- to the train just as the doors shut in front of me. Don't you do this to me, 11:07 train to the airport, don't be like this. Luckily, I had caused enough of a scene so that the station master flagged down the train for me. Roll tide.

So, in appropriate African fashion, I left Morocco sweating and flustered to which I rewarded myself with spending my last 20dirhams on a Poms at the airport.