Train station? Please?

I spent the last half of my one-week trip to Morocco at Hostel Marrakech Rouge. The place fits the description of a riad or a traditional Moroccan house built around a garden or a courtyard. The only striking difference between the hostel and a traditional riad is that Marrakech Rouge looks like it was designed by someone tripping on acid. I love that it’s bold, vibrant, and offers a lot of common areas for strangers to become friends. 

I  enjoyed my stay at Hostel Marrakech Rouge. My only issue was it was difficult to find. It was tucked away in the meandering alleys of Marrakech medina. On the night I moved to the hostel from  my posh hotel I could never afford if not for my travel rewards points,  I had to call the hostel receptionist to ask for someone to pick me up from a restaurant in the main square. I gave him my name and told him I was wearing a blue shirt and dark jeans. Saying that on the phone made me feel like I was on a blind date.  I waited for nothing in the busy restaurant for about 15 minutes before calling again. I was assured someone named Ahmed went out to pick me up right after I called and that he should already be at the restaurant because it's only five minutes away. If I were in a familiar city, I would have looked around  for Ahmed. However,  after getting lost and scammed on the day I arrived in Marrakech, drawing unwanted attention to myself was the last thing I wanted. I sat there  like a man who's being stood up on a blind date for five more minutes when I remembered something that happened to me when I went on an amazing trip to Ouarzazate on my second day in Morocco that might explain why Ahmed had not approached me yet.  I called the hostel again to ask to call Ahmed and tell him to look for the biggest Asian guy in the room. Less than a minute later, a skinny guy introduced himself as Ahmed and asked to confirm if my name is Enriquez.

"It's Abad. My last name is Enriquez. Were you looking for a white guy?"

"Yes, when I heard Enriquez I thought you're Spanish," he replied with a smile. Morocco welcomes a lot of tourists from its neighbouring European country every year. It made sense why they simply assumed that a guest with a last name like mine was coming from Spain.

"Oh, no. Don't worry. This happened to me a few days ago as well."

While we were walking to the hostel,  I told him the Philippines was a Spanish colony for three hundred years and that our ancestors had to give up their last names  and pick a new one from a list of Spanish last names. He kept walking without a word. He didn't seem to find my basic knowledge of Filipino history to be amusing.

On my last day in Morocco, I woke up at 7:45 am. That's exactly three hours before I  take a 5-hour train ride from Marrakech to Morocco’s capital city of Rabat. I calmly packed my things and went down to find a seat at the  courtyard, now turned into a colorful and quirky lounge where breakfast is served every morning. I was certain I had plenty of time to talk to other travellers while enjoying a cup or two of hot Moroccan mint tea. The guests I hung out with the night before immediately greeted me and gestured to invite me to sit with them. I was surprised they were up so early after we stayed up pretty late at the hostel’s rooftop to talk about gross movies (do not google "The Human Centipede") among other things. Before I knew it, I had one cup of tea too many and only had a little less than an hour left before I take a train to Rabat. I needed to reach Rabat not later than 6 pm to make it to my 8 pm flight back to London.

I hurriedly grabbed my  luggage from my dorm room. I was staying in a small room with pink walls and three sturdy bunk beds. I shared the room with a Brazilian guy, a Portuguese girl and a loud Australian lad who was clearly sent to this world for the sole purpose of managing to go home intoxicated every morning to wake everyone up as he drunkenly climbs his way up the top bunk of our bed. Luckily, I found the Brazilian guy and Portuguese girl who were travelling together to be very pleasant roommates. They said they’re not a couple but I was almost certain they’re in love with each other. When she left a day earlier at the middle of the night to catch her flight back home, I was half awake and I couldn’t help but hear their lengthy and passionate goodbyes. It was mostly in Portuguese so I didn’t really understand what they were saying. From what I gathered, they won’t be seeing each other for at least two years. Not even the pink walls could cover up the sadness that filled the room when she left. Either that, or I watched way too many cheesy soap operas as a kid.

I frantically went out of the room and said goodbye to everyone in the lounge. Some of them smiled and waved goodbye while most of them couldn't care less because they had no idea who I was. I probably should have just said goodbye to the people I met instead of getting everyone's attention and announcing my departure as if it were a matter of national importance.

I looked at my phone and was surprised to see I only had exactly 45 minutes to catch the train. I wore my trusty hoody before heading out the door  to find my way out of the maze that is the medina. If everything goes well, I will reach the taxi stand in 10 minutes. It will take me another 20 - 30 minutes to reach the train station in a taxi. I stepped out of the hostel and saw the  medina like I’d never seen it before. On a regular day, the medina is easily the most overwhelming and charmingly chaotic place I know. That morning, however, the alleys were devoid of tourists and most of the stalls were still closed because it was too early. This seemingly new environment threw me off a little bit so I ended up making one wrong turn that caused me at least five extra minutes. 

I hopped in the first taxi I saw when I finally reached the stand. Filled with overwhelming anxiety, I was convinced that the only way I could be certain that the driver knew my destination was for me to speak in French using words I’d picked up in the past few days.

“Gare? Gare? Gare? S'il vous plait?”

That has got to be one of the most pathetic attempts to speak French in the history of the language. “Train station? Train station? Train station? Please?” I don’t know why I had to say train station thrice. I also don’t know anyone who talks like that.

The driver responded in English after seeing how physically challenging it was for me to utter four French words and assured me that we will reach the train station on time. That’s when I finally felt at ease. I took a deep breath and thought of my good friends back home who make fun of me for missing my flights all the time. Not today, I told myself with a smile, not today.

I could see the train station from a distance when I checked my phone again and saw that I only had five minutes before my train leaves. I noticed a huge inflatable arch, the type typically seen in racing events, blocking the way.

“My friend, road close,” said the driver.

I stared at him. “Why?”

“People biking.”

I understood what he meant. “Ha. Like Tour de France?”

“Yes! Like Tour de France, Tour du Maroc.”

“Perfect. Why do healthy people always ruin things for me?” was my irrational response.

“What? We can go other way.”

“Don’t worry. It’s fine. I’ll walk. Merci!”

It was drizzling. I stepped out of the taxi, put my hood up, and ran to the train station like I’ve never run in my life. With the inflatable arch behind me, it looked like I was running away from the finish line. I don’t remember how long it took me to reach Gare de Marrakech. Before I even had the chance to catch my breath, I asked someone at the ticket counter if my train has left the station. I was about two minutes late.

“M*rde,” I cursed under my breath. At least I learned I could say one French word with conviction.

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