OK. So. Let me tell you about our trip to Marrakech. Being a Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young fan, Marrakech was my Mecca. This was my goal destination. I brought (and wore) a blue shirt so I could be an American lady (using the term loosely here) five foot tall (give or take six inches) in blue (ok periwinkle, but I don't have an extensive wardrobe).
I was still eager to go to Marrakech even when I learned that it was not in Fes that carneys put snakes on you unexpectedly, but at Jemma el Fnaa in Marrakech.
So we get up, have a nice breakfast and catch a train to Casablanca where we will board the Marrakech Express. We met a couple on the train from Portsmouth (even I could hear the British accents under their French) on their way to Rabat. They were very nice. They had visited Morocco many times and shared ideas of cities to visit. They seemed to agree with everyone we spoke to that Casa was not so much to see. Rick's Cafe, an American tourist trap, and the Hassan II Mosque, a Moroccan tourist trap, seemed to be the two big sights (except, of course, the ocean, which we had sailed two days ago). So when we arrived at the station, couldn't negotiate with a cabbie for less than a four-hour trip to the mosque (during which time he would keep our luggage and purchases with him), and couldn't get him to quote us a price for this lovely afternoon -- "How much will it cost? Is that all you care about?" Um, yes -- we decided to bag the sightseeing, get lunch and catch an earlier express to Marrakech. (Which, you will soon see, was a good thing.)
We walked to a hotel near the station, checked our luggage and enjoyed tagine in the garden. With the exception of the two stray cats that kept approaching our table (one of them actually jumped on to the table of the guy next to us), we had a nice relaxing lunch.
We then return to the station where we board not an express, but a local. There is no express. Cursing Graham Nash under my breath, we board, and walk to our compartment where all the seats are taken. Being a gracious traveler, I tell the lady with the sleeping baby, "You're in our seats." Actually, some other people were also in the wrong seats, so they moved out. Probably didn't mind leaving as the air conditioning wasn't working! Then, lady with the sleeping baby wants to keep the door closed so her child won't get chilled while the rest of us in the compartment suffocate and sweat. And, no one talks (because of sleeping beauty) except one guy on a cell phone in the corner seat. So I'm sitting there thinking uncharitable thoughts when I decide instead to focus on the beautiful countryside and gorgeous day, which makes life better. Also I got to see three more camels.
About an hour out of Marrakech, Simone, the baby, wakes up. She's sweet, cute and playful and has a McDonald's toy that plays, "Hey Baby Will You Be My Girl." She loved Sami and entertained all of us -- even the French guy on the cell phone in the corner thought she was cute and got into the conversation.
Simone's mom was a chemist who studied in Seville (where her husband is from?), lived in Paris for a bit (where Simone was born) and then moved back to Marrakech. She gave us sightseeing ideas before we parted ways.
So with our spirits renewed we arrive in Marrakech just before sunset. Forewarned that a cab to the medina should cost no more than 30 dirham, we barter a cabbie down to 40 dirham from 80! Then he drives like a maniac (this from a maniacal driver who likes to drive in New York City) through modern Marrakech (a very pretty, salmon-colored city, by the way), not to our hotel, Riad Laora, but to a square on the far side of the medina, Riad Laarous, where he dumps us, points vaguely away from the square, says our riad is "down there," then hops in the cab (after counting his fare) and drives off. Just as it's starting to get dark. Lovely.
All kinds of lovely predators start to swarm. "I'll take you to your riad. It's this way," "What's in the package?" "Oh, did you buy a carpet in Fes?" In a panic, I see a pharmacy and Sami and I make a beeline for it. Once inside (all women, yeah!) Sami explains our predicament in rapid-fire French while I call the riad. Since no one knows where the riad is (since we are on the wrong side of the city), we decide to catch another cab back to the train station where the riad can send a driver for us.
Back in the square, we hail another cab. This one, luckily, turns out to be reputable. Abderrahim, the driver, and Sam spoke for a bit, then Abderrahim urged us to get in the cab so we could "get away" from the creeps swarming the car. Sami didn't translate everything to me, but essentially he promised he would stay with us until we were welcomed at the riad. After a twenty to thirty minute drive, he had us at the front door. If you ever go to Marrakech, I will give you his card. It's totally worth it.
The maitre d'hotel had us leave our bags in the lobby, then showed us into a beautiful salon, or as Sam and I like to call it, a decompression chamber. We were brought Moroccan tea and sweet cookies, and we relaxed and recuperated while someone -- elves? -- brought our bags to our room. All we had to do was walk across the courtyard, rave about how gorgeous the room was, and go to bed!
By now, I'm thinking, I won't be taking travel advice from rock stars again in the future. 
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