Paris - Arrivè deux

After walking for quite some distance and dragging that good ‘ole Billabong bag behind me I decided to jump a cab and get to my destination sometime sooner rather than later. After 15 seconds we were back onto rue Faubourg and I was thinking, ‘hey, didn’t I just come from there’ – then I saw the Seine, ‘wow’, another headspin for me. After looking at maps in French class for I don’t know how long now I was actually driving next to it, and then we took a left hander
across Ile de la cite (amazement yet again), and now we were driving right across it. Now we were onto the Boulevard Saint-Michel !!!! ......and finally cruising up a relatively moderate incline we made it to what would eventually be my place of residence for the next few days. How funny, five mins in a cab had brought all those apparently useless lessons of studying the Parisian UBD well and truly into focus, I was 'living the dream' ! (....I thank Ben Dalton for the useless line...and if you knew him, then you'd know how funny it would be to relate that line to him).

So, # 17 rue Malebranche was to be ‘my base’. From the instructions that I’d read it was quite easy. Buzz at the door, keys to unlock, up to level six and then walk up one flight of stairs. Use the ‘other keys’ for the apartment door and you’re in. I jumped out of the cab and had a quick look around the area, the ‘Latin Quarter’, which is apparently one of the older areas of Paris. I was already loving the charming, older style feel that this area had. With a bag full of optimism I made my way to the ridiculously small lift and exited on the sixth floor. This is where the fun commenced !

My apartment was a level up from the lifts last stop and of course, by arriving in the late evening I encountered a floor where the lights were out !! Bloody hell. The instructions that I’d received from the Melbourne based, ‘French Experience’, was to go up one flight of stairs and turn left. Ok, that I could manage, but they failed to tell me that there were two apartments , one on either side of the hall, which one was I to be in !!?? Fumbling around in the dark I found my keys and listened for noise in either apartment, assuming that the occupied one was NOT to be mine……ok, both quiet, lets just hope that people aren’t sleeping in there, I’d hate to have an irate Frenchman smashing my head in with a stale baguette for being ‘honestly’ mistaken. I decided to go for the ‘left, left’ option and feeling my way down the door notice that there were three locks !!? WTF !? I only had one key to operate this medieval door. Feeling around on the other side of the hall didn’t resolve my issue either. I all of a sudden envisaged myself waking up with rays of sunlight streaming through the hall window and people standing around me thinking ‘typical Australian, they’re all mental – sleeping in the hallway, no surprise’.

As most people know however I’m much more stubborn than that, I couldn't be beaten by a French door, could I ?! So I felt around the keyhole and managed to locate a key of similar size to that which I assumed would open the door. I tried it out and ‘hey presto’, it fit ! Two turns right…..nothing with the door, ok, two turns left, nothing again. One turn right, nothing, one turn left, nothing. This little game went on for approximately half an hour with self admonishing swear words becoming the norm as time progressively ran on by. Then, finally and almost rewardingly, with one turn and a ‘half door’ pull I unlocked the damn thing and was in !!!!!!!!!!! Mèrd !! That nearly drove me insane – F**k you Paris !!! F**k you for messing with me so early on, lol !

Paris

Paris (France)

"If you are in alone on a street in Paris, France, and you become unconscious, as long as someone calls the number on the bracelet, we can tell them who you are.”

Chief Donald Poirot

On the Seine - Paris - France

 

French class for me was an awkwardly positioned one hour a week venture that only lasted for six months of the year during year 8, that would have made in back in the good 'ole year of 1989 if memory serves me correctly. I remember not liking U2 back then as their song Desire was being played on the TV and radio endlessly, I remember still thinking that a Hits Compilation album was the best thing you could ever buy because obviously you got all the hits in the one convenient package, there was also the small matter of the Berlin Wall coming down and some racy catchwords like glasnost and perestroika filling the the air with some type of pervasive enthusiasm and wonder. So, what's my point here? French class, that's right, that's what I was getting to. It was a short weekly escapade into the wonders of the SNCF, a complex Parisian city map and the few lines of French that somehow always stuck with me. There was a huge poster of the Eiffel Tower on the wall and for some reason I always remember the background of the image being a very dark blue, perhaps it was just that the picture had a dark blue feel, perhaps, never the less, those memories were somehow always special and the need to visit Paris and to check out a place that I'd always had a soft spot for without ever having been there was kind of overwhelming. So it was, on the 5th of July, I jumped a plane from Madrid and made my way into the town of my dreams.

My first steps on French soil occurred when I disembarked at Paris-Orly airport, looking out from the ceiling high glass windows I was kind of amazed that I had actually arrived and that it had taken me this many years to finally get here. Looking into the city I could see that famous structure protruding out of the Parisian skyline, it was a mere14kms away and I must have had the cheesiest smile on my face of all the disembarking passengers, but that's OK, it's something that I was more than happy to live with.

So understanding the the rail system and the fabled metro is one of the most efficient and practical ways to get around Paris, (please see Yr 8 French class reference for reasoning), I jumped the Orlyval automatic metro service and made my subterraneally to Antony (Paris RER) station. OK, there were a few moments of confusion when I tried to get into the actual station at Antony because my ticket was giving me a big rejection signal but hey, I hadn't come all this way to be denied by some militant train ticket facility. I threw my bags over, jumped the barrier and away I went. So I took the RER B line to Gare du Nord, cheesy grin in tow and considered jumping a subway line to another station where I was suppose to pick up the keys for the apartment that I was renting somewhere in the 5th arrondissement for the next five days, but eh, I wasn't the exact route that I ended up taking. In my haste to get to my destination I simply jumped in a cab and made my way down to the office at 62 rue du Faubourg Saint-Martin. How cool was this! I was in a taxi cruising the streets just trying to absorb as much as possible and I've got to say, from the moment I arrived I just fell in love with the place. A slightly biased call, obviously, but at least I wasn't disappointed, not by any stretch of the imagination. Once I picked up my keys I decided that walking might be the way for me to do it, why the hell not? My sense of direction is reasonably good, knowing that the apartment was more than a simple walk away I decided to try my luck and see where the hell it was that I'd end up. Along with that cheesy grin I was rolling my suitcase down these Parisian streets and if I didn't look like a foreign head case previously, well, I sure knew that I looked like one now. About 15-20 mins later and following my own internal GPS coordinates I came across Les Halles, a place in the 1st arrondissement, named for the large wholesale marketplace that use to take pride of place in the area. I have to thank Mr Anthony Bourdain for the background on that one, at least I knew that I was travelling in the right direction and as the sun set and the lights came on around me, walking the streets of this beautiful city was the best and only place I could think of being at that moment.

Marrakech to Madrid - The Hype

Marrakech (Morocco) to Madrid (Spain) - Flight No. U2

What better flight number to have than U2 ? So it was my flight ID from Marrakech to Madrid landed me with 'They Hype', of course I kept the boarding pass and of course I'm tragic but do I care ? No, not at all. I still like Bryan Adams also and am happy to admit it.

You can see just how close Europe is to Africa - 14kms at its shortest point!

 

After my Moroccan gallivanting I was ready to take up sangria taste testing in the capital. A couple of hours out of Marrakech and I was skirting over the Iberian peninsula with a golden sunset veiling the continent where I had just spent the last 10 days. Actually flying from Africa into Europe was a definite highlight, in fact the distance between the continents at its shortest point is only 14kms, that's just a ski paddle apart. Actually that's quite an interesting idea, make base in Spain or Morocco and then go out for a ski paddle for lunch from one continent and then paddle back for dinner later on. Of course there's always the ferry right ? But who am I to ever do things the easy way ? Just need to make sure that the passport doesn't get lost in the Mediterranean.

In any case, there I was landing in Madrid on the 4th of July, long hair intact and looking more and more like a Spaniard everyday, or so my Moroccan friends told me. I wasn't quite sure what to expect of Madrid, I'd already heard from many a people that Barcelona was their favourite destination and that Madrid was the grey to Barcelona's technicolour rainbow, well, whatever, not really sure what that last comment meant. So perhaps I arrived to the heart of Spain a little apprehensive at first but it was nothing that a carafe and a half of full sweet sangria couldn't fix in an instant

Plaza Mayor - Madrid - Spain

I've got to say, from my short stay, 48hrs tops, Madrid came across as a modern city, possessing all the infrastructure that you'd expect from one of Europe's most populous and financially important cities and yet it still had a look and feel of an older, more historic era. As I did the standard tourist thing whilst in town and walked my way from Plaza Mayor to Plaza de Cibeles to Retiro Park etc, I started to wonder what the hell people had been talking about. I also started to wonder as to how Spain had managed to keep all the most attractive women of the world in one city ! If only I could speak Spanish or was a metre taller, perhaps I would have had a chance but then I would have needed to split my sangria ! The inevitable pitfalls of a travel adventure. What I also loved about Madrid were the tapas bars, mixing in some beers with bits and pieces of every food and hey presto, one great evening in progress.

I love you Madrid!

Plaza Cibeles - Madrid - Spain

The Lonely planet guide described Madrid this way, a description that I found to be very apt;

If Madrid were a woman, she’d be a cross between Penélope Cruz (beautiful and quintessentially Spanish) and Madonna (sassy, getting better with age). If it were a man, it would have to be Javier Bardem (not the world’s most handsome but with that special, irresistible something). And if you could distill the city to its essence, it would be this: Madrid is a rebellious ex-convent schoolgirl who grew up, got sophisticated but never forgot how to have a good time.

Sangria going down quite nicely on an evening in Plaza Mayor

 

Strangely I think Madrid and Barcelona have the same competitive fight going on that Sydney has with Melbourne. Sydney and Barcelona in a purely aesthetic sense are stunning cities, colloquially eye poppers that cannot help but overtly display their beauty. Madrid and Melbourne on the other are attractive in their own way but their charm, sophistication and elegance lies away from their physical characteristics and can be found in their build, their make-up, it's style, diversity within it's barrios, nightlife and fantastic tapas bars, which of course I'd already tested out with reckless abandon. Truthfully my time here was much too short and not well planned, mostly because my itinerary had a few last minute changes. In any case I know better now and I know that next time I'm here I'm going to spend a lot longer and learn a few critical lines of Spanish , as they say, you never know your luck in a big city !

Streetscape - Madrid - Spain

Bear and the Madrono Tree, heraldic symbol of Madrid - Puerta del Sol - Madrid - Spain

Marrakech - Take your pick, it's a Marrakechi speciality

Marrakech (Morocco)

It's funny, the more I reflect on Marrakech the more and more I begin to like it, even though I'm sure I got ripped off on every corner, had my mobile stolen and was eyed off by ALL the pick pockets in D'jemma el Fna as an easy target it still seemed to have something magical about it.
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Knowing the dodginess of this place I did manage to spend a great night watching the sun set over the main square, sitting back drinking their main speciality, a sweet mint tea, which is 1) very refreshing and 2) more than an enjoyable drink to have even if the temperatures were pushing up to the 40 degree mark. I've forgotten the balcony where I took up residence but I spent hours just watching the square and the way that the mood of the square changed into the evening, swelling constantly with more and more people as the night drew on. It's just during the sunset phase that the square comes alive as all sorts of entertainers mark their territory and start performing for the crowd. Obviously these days it's predominantly tourist orientated but it was more than a lot of fun to walk around and check out the snake charmers, henna tattooists, jugglers, storytellers (even though I couldn't understand them, all were vibrant and animated), musicians, etc. Not only are there entertainers to draw you in but the numerous food stalls set up just on the edge of the souk fills the air with strange and wonderful smells. The foods were also quite varied from the standard kebabs, kefta and grilled meat cuts to a lamb heads broth (which was fantastic), grilled heart, lung, etc. Just walking through the food stalls and trying to dodge the spruikers is quite an art in itself. They are however good natured about it ,(the spruikers), and should you choose to not dine with them for an evening they'll simply ask you to remember their stall number for the next night.
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The only real problem that I encountered in the square were pick pockets. I understand that this is an ever present danger wherever you travel but due to the sheer number of people and the fact that the mind of a tourist tends to be concentrating on 100 other things going on around them other  rather than the idea of having their wallets / purses stolen, it makes the foreigner an easy target. So I guess I was deemed quite an easy target by the professional thieves that inhabited the square, and thinking about it, yeah, I would have looked like a shoe in. There I was, walking around the crowded circles engulfing each entertainer, camera in hand and at the ready, not looking to be even giving a second thought to the whereabouts of my wallet, but alas, I was. I think I was a little more than hyper vigilant as I was constantly checking to see if it was still there every 30 seconds (thinking back on it, I should have just left the damn thing in the hotel). In any case, I was standing on the periphery of one crowded circle, just taking my camera out and getting prepared to shoot. Now I don't exactly remember if I spun to see if anyone was in close proximity to me (which I was also doing every now and then), or if I caught someone out of the corner of my eye that felt  too close to my person for things not sexually related, or if I simply sensed that someone was in my personal space but I spun around at exactly the right moment. As I turned to face my potential thief  I'd have to say that our faces would not have been more than 30cms apart. I immediately did the wallet check and realised that it was intact, I smiled more out of relief than anything and just said to the guy 'you nearly got me didn't you, huh ?' . The young guy just smiled and casually walked away from me. I don't know if he understood  my exact words but we both knew that I had just had quite a fortunate escape. Now I don't know if it was a sense of bravado or whether I was pissed that I'd nearly been ripped again but I took out my camera and started to film this guy as he decided to stalk other prey, basically I just wanted to ask him about what he had just tried to do. As I closed in on him he just continued smiling and walked further away, still looking at other crowded circles and other easy targets.

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The fun begins
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My encounter with the Marrakechi pick pocket crew didn't end there however. As I walked away from the crowd and back to the food stalls two young Moroccan guys approached me and asked to shake my hand. I denied them their request and walked amongst the food stalls which is an area that is well lit and safer / easier to negate in terms of pick pocket threats. As I moved up and down the stalls I noticed two Moroccan guys on one side walking parallel to me, I also noticed another guy on the other side of the stalls tracking my movements also. Just to make sure that I wasn't paranoid I walked back to my starting position, turned once again and then walked back up that way I had just came. It was more that obvious these guys were following my moves and they made a piss weak attempt of hiding it. I sat down at one of the stalls for a while and these guys stopped, kind of hovering around, waiting for me to walk on. I stared at them for a little while and gave them a wry smile, showing them that I knew their game but also thinking that I was now in kind of in a difficult position. If I was to walk away from the stalls and get into an isolated area then it was going to be relatively easy for them to jump me, so I decided to sit in my spot and wait them out. I felt certain that they would get bored with the idea of trying to exact revenge, whatever their concept of revenge was going to be. I watched these guys walk into an area of the souk where they were easily hidden but could obviously keep a sight of me, if that was their choosing. F***, now I was in an even worse position. What I decided to do was head for one of the fruit & nut stalls that was on the edge of the square. A  place that was far enough away for them to have to come out into the open in order to track me but also a place that I could spot them easily if they were to make the decision of following me. I stood there for a few minutes and waited, nobody made the move to come for me, well none that I was able to spot. On reflection my thinking was that their only intention was to make me a little paranoid, which I guess worked a charm. Never the less when I thought the coast was clear I negotiated the dark  backstreets of Marrakech relatively quickly and just hoped that these guys weren't waiting somewhere to undertake an entertaining surprise on me, thankfully it didn't happen. Lesson learnt though, don't mess around with pick pockets, just give them every reason not to choose you!

Marrakech - C.S.I

Marrakech (Morocco)

This is where it happened, this as they say was the location for the scene of the crime or of the unbelievable stupidity that unfolded, take your pick as to which you prefer there.

Mellah - The Jewish Quarter - Google Maps view - Marrakech - Morocco

Just to note, the bottom marker in this picture is irrelevant, the top marker is where my riad was located. Also note, the main street just above the riad is one way, the taxi that dropped me off did so at the t-intersection to the left of that marker. I essentially walked to the end of the street, and asked a few people where my riad was because obviously I didn't have any sort of clue as to where I was going. I made a very sharp left hand turn at the end of the road and stopped where the red X marks the spot. It was there that the Moroccan magician picked me out as his target of opportunism. I don't need to go into the how and when of what happened as I've already done that, needless to say, by the time I hit the blue X and Mr Copperfield had fled from the scene I was a man full of rage and Serbian madness (quite common for me I know).

Marrakech

Marrakech (Morocco)

Thus far the little phone drama that I had played a lead role in had been the 'highlight' of my authentic Marrakechi experience and in its eventful afterglow I had walked the smoke filled streets in a kind of a haze, oblivious to calls by various vendors asking me to come into their shop and check out their wares, 'Hola amigo', 'No mate, I'm Australian'. You know, I was going to have to make a little more of that Spanish look that I apparently had going. In any case I strolled back to Dar One, headed upstairs to my terrace room and just crashed out for the evening, tomorrow was just going to be another opportunity for me to be able to take it all in again.
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Day two in Marrakech, it was going to be a new day but first it was going to involve a stop off at the local police station for over two hours of nothingness.There I waited, outside the office of the Chief of Police, waiting to have my details taken down and the loss of my phone recorded, more than anything for insurance purposes. I've got to say, it was lesson in Moroccan bureaucracy, people wondering in and about, no order, no queues, not structure and there I stood, with my mate from the riad,waiting, and waiting and waiting. It sucked. I could go further into the utter stupidity of having to take my signed statement across the road to get it photocopied in one store and then stamped in another before bringing it back to the police to have it signed by them, a ludicrous authentication process if ever I witnessed one but stuff it, recounting the complete idiocy of having to do that would bore me also.

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Finally, police stop over, the streets of Marrakech were mine to own and check out for a few days. Considering that I was unable to make D'jemma El Fna the day before I made my way in the heat of the day to check out what was going on. It must be said, the square is enormous but the day crowd is basically made up of orange juice carts, snake charmers and the occasional henna artist also seeking to dupe you, which again, happened to me! Damn, these Moroccans seemed to be getting me at every freakin turn! And before I continue on with my henna tattoo story I'd like to say this. My first couple of days in Marrakech sound like they were awful and in some ways they were but on reflection, the sight, smells, great food etc, made this one of my favourite places of the trip, go figure! In any case, a Moroccan lady pulls me over to a small plastic chair and says, 'I give you tattoo for free'. You can see it unfolding already can't you, when do you ever get offered something for free? Before I have time to pull my hand away she starts drawing a design on it., and so she continues, up my arm and I start thinking to myself, 'Hmmm, that's quite a large free tattoo Ms Henna Artist of the Square'. As the lady finishes off, looking rather pleased with her work (or pleased with the fact that her scam was in motion) she says to me, 50 dirhams ! 'Oh f*** you', 'What for' ? 'Wasn't that for free' ? She points to a small couple of circles on my hand telling me that 'this part of the tattoo was free, the rest was 50 dirhams'. My blood is boiling, after giving my phone away, spending time in the sun at a Moroccan police station and being totally ignored, having to scream down the phone to my dumb ass aunty and now being duped by some freakin' Berber, I was starting to flip out. So I cut loose. I gave her my seriously pissed look and told her that thus far I'd only experienced bad things of Marrakech and she was contributing to the the view provided by several tourists that I'd spoken to telling me that Marrakechi's are the greatest of scam artists. There was just no way that I was going to pay her the 50 dirhams, I threw her 10 and walked away thoroughly pissed at being duped by this masters yet again ! So I headed into the markets to check out what was on offer, again ignoring anyone that may have been calling my name or referring to me as señor but as I walked and as my mind cleared I thankfully calmed myself down and really chilled the hell out. This was in fact their culture and being duped or negotiating a democratic price or having personal items stolen was all part of the deal and all part of being a tourist in their city. These are the things you remember from your journey and the elements that you end up laughing about and remembering with strange fondness months or years down the track. Once I accepted that I knew I had arrived  at a turning point and it was at that exact moment that I realised that Marrakech had really started to grow on me.
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After two hours getting lost within the markets and taking turn after turn, going deeper and deeper into a seemingly endless row of small shops I finally found what seemed to be the light, an exit back to the square. This is when I encountered a brazen young Marrakechi pulling off his best pick pocketing moves on two young unsuspecting English females. This guy was walking about 5mtrs in front of me, in a lane that had quite a few people and shops. He walked right up beside one of the girls and appeared to touch her elbow. At this point I'm walking just a couple of metres behind them thinking 'Oh, he must be their guide'. He unzips part of their pack and pulls out something like 50 dirhams, equivalent to $14-$15 dollars, he then casually starts making an exit stage left. For a few seconds my brain doesn't quite equate the act to being pick pocketed and I somehow try and rationalise the act but in the end I can't. I call out to the girls and ask if they had any money in their bags, they confirm that they did. After checking their pockets the person whom I saw getting pick pocketed realises that their money has well and truly travelled on the S-train to Copperfield world and they won't ever be seeing it again. Now this thief is only 50mtrs away and I'm more than happy to point him out to his victims. All three of us have a bit of a chuckle at the audacity of this guy and start following him knowing full well that the money is not coming back but more to press the point that he's been busted. It was from this point on that I realised that Marrakech was going to be a game of wits, a challenge of sorts and I was more than happy to accept the challenge and take these guys on. This is where the fun began.
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As the heat of the afternoon grew I checked out one of the many orange juice cart stands that surrounded the square. Most of these places charge 5 dirhams for a glass or you can simply have your empty water bottled filled when you feel the need. Now, I don't know if it was the supreme heat of the day  but damn, it's got to be some of the best orange juice I've ever had. Supremely cold, tasty and refreshing, I don't know how many glasses or bottles of orange juice I had in my time there but on each occasion, two or three glasses never ever seemed to be enough. As early afternoon came on I headed back to Dar One to cool my feet in their splash pool and lay out in my room for a while until I headed back to the square in the evening, because that apparently is when the real fun begins and when the square just bursts into life.

Marrakech - The Dream Police

 Marrakech (Morocco)

I think it would be fair to say that my first 30 minutes in Marrakech was an instruction manual in what not to do whilst travelling. All things I should have known,are all things that I had decided to disregard. Well, there's someone in Marrakech that now has a Snowpatrol ring tone, lol. So, as Mr MobileStolen made an exit stage left, 1st assistant to the manager of Dar One Riad picked me up from a dark doorway of the alleyway where I was duped. At this point in time I was pissed, partly because this was mobile number three that had left my grasp in the last 14 months, partly because, well, BECAUSE I WAS SO DUMB !!

When we got to the riad assistant #1, whom I'll call Michel because his name escapes me, sits me down and decides to run over events. Questions such as, 'Why did you give him the phone?' weren't really helping my cause and only upped my level of internal anger. Michel then decides to lay down the good news as his 'informants' tell him that the person of whom I speak is known in the area, apparently I had walked pretty close to the riad and some of the local crowd who act as a type of 'front door security' had seen me walk by. Then Michel drops me a line that goes something like this, 'I think from what we know you probably have a 65% chance of getting your phone back'. Really Michel ? 65%, wow, that's great news, with the powers of your supreme deductive reasoning and obvious Phd in statistics you were able to generate me a favourable recovery rate percentage of 65%. I so wanted to say 'Michel, that was complete bullshit wasn't ?' but I didn't and for the moment I have to say that it did kind of make me feel good.

In my first few moments within the confines of Dar One riad I was totally oblivious to the design, feel and look of the place, all I wanted to do was unpack and then organise what I needed to do in terms of getting the phone cancelled and  getting out the necessary messages to the people that would be calling me on the phone. After about 90 mins I headed out of the riad in search of an internet/international dial centre so I could contact who I needed to. The first call I was completely dreading. My Aunty is, shall we say, stupid in a crazy 'old folk' type of way, coupled with the fact that she's  also quite deaf, it proves to be a lethal cocktail for my nerves when I need to speak to her in an informative, no questions asked type of manner. I go into the international dial centre loaded with coins and pre-programme my head to put the right questions to her. I know not to say that my phone was stolen, this would inevitably lead to 100 questions as to why this happened and my coin count just wouldn't go the distance with her rambling on about how I shouldn't have gone to a 'bad country' such as Morocco. The conversation my dear friends travels along in a manner closely resembling the following;

'Hi, it's Henry'

'Where are you ?' (Stupid Aunt)

'In Morocco, listen to me, I have an important message' (Already irritated person, aka, me)

'You're in Egypt ?'

'Morocco, MOROCCO' - (thinking how the f*** did she get Egypt from Morocco)

'What's the weather like?'

Now internally I'm already fuming, I need to get a message across and she's talking to me about the weather ! The small bag of dirhams that I have are being eaten up wildly by this phone and my Aunt if about to give me a nervous breakdown.

'LISTEN !! Call Tanja and tell her I've lost my phone and that they'll not be able to contact me'

'OH, you lost your phone, where ?'

'Bloody hell, can you tell them that'

'Where did you lose it?'

'F***, listen to me' (she's deaf, she wouldn't have heard the 'f***')

The phone clicks out. I start smashing the handle of the phone against this dirham eating monster out of the sheer torture that I just had to endure because of a mostly insane relative. The shop owner and the only other client in the store look at me like perhaps I should have been locked up. I give them a smile and ask them where I can change more dirhams, he decides that he can help me out, perhaps out of fear, perhaps for his own sheer amusement.

I go through the process of calling again. I get my message across but only after I tell her a number of times to LISTEN ! , and really, I was screaming. I walk out with some of my nerves in tact and decide that perhaps that now I'm in Marrakech I should check out the place. I had already booked in to see the Marrakechi police the next day, not out of any hope that they may actually get my phone back but rather so I could have an incident report filled out for insurance purposes.

Initial perceptions of Marrakech were that it was unlike Fez in its make up. The sights, sounds and smells were there but somehow the touristic element was pervasive whereas in Fez it wasn't. That's not an overwhelmingly bad thing, just that you need to make mental adjustments to overlook the local grab for the tourist dirham. It always amazes me when people say that they don't like a place because it's 'very touristy'. Well if people like you and I didn't go there then it wouldn't be! They're only feeding of what we bring and provide for them in terms of currency. Usually it's accompanied by the lamented argument that they require a 'unique' experience or require that they experience something 'authentic' ! Bloody hell, what's classified as 'authentic' these days !? My take on it is that any experience that you have is unique in the way you , as an individual experience it, you reflect, have your own insights, investigate and experience with all your senses in a totally different way to anyone else. It's very, very, very rare to do things or to go places that no one else has been before, so just accept that and enjoy your environment for what it has to offer.

....hmmm, I haven't touched on the 'Dream Police as yet', will mention them in my next update.