A few weeks ago I took a trip to Spain and Morocco. Alone. The thought of travelling alone in two countries I had never been before was a bit terrifying at first. But then a week before I left I was talking to my mother on Skype, and I realized, "I live in the West Bank. ALONE. I always travel alone. I think I'll be ok."
However, travelling alone always brings with it the hilarious, the creepy, and the wow-these-people-are-so-nice-did-they-really-just-go-out-of-their-way-to-help-me. So here you are: life as a lone traveller in Spain and Morocco.
*First, you have to know that I speak very little Spanish. Very, very little. I can count to ten, nod my head yes or no, and say tu hable Ingles?" I think we've seen in a previous post, however, that my Spanish skills were unfortunately more useful than my English, Arabic, Chinese, or Hebrew skills in Spain. One day I was trying to find an internet cafe. I was planning on leaving for Morocco the next day and I wanted to compare flight and plane prices, connect with my friends in Casablanca about church on Sunday, and try and find a place to stay. Basically, I was desperate for internet. I was staying in the Madrid temple's patron housing, so I asked the person at the front desk (who, thankfully, spoke excellent English) where an internet cafe was. He looked up the closest ones on his phone, printed me off a map, and wished me luck. Unfortunately, I needed more than luck (I realized several hours later that he had given me the wrong map!)--I needed a miracle. After getting off at two different metro stops and consulting my map for at least 20 minutes to try and figure out where I was, I finally walked into a pharmacy. Surely pharmacists speak English, as the medical world converses in English, I thought to myself. "Tu hable Ingles?" I asked. No. Not at all. Not even enough to understand "What's the name of this street? Nombre? Calle?" The pharmacist wanted so badly to help that she kept speaking to me rapidly in Spanish and gesturing at the map while I looked at her helplessly. Finally she turned to one of the several customers that had accumulated since I had entered the store. "Excuse me," she asked in Spanish, "do any of you speak English?" One of them did and, as everyone in the store looked on encouragingly, translated the pharmacist's directions: "This is the wrong metro stop. You need to get back on the metro and go in the opposite direction." (It was at this point that I realized the map was wrong.) "Gracias," I said as I left the store. Thank you, thank you, thank you for wanting to help enough to ask your other customers to translate, I thought as I walked back toward the metro. (By the way, after another hour of searching, I discovered that the internet cafe had closed. Fail.)
*I took a day trip to Toledo to visit the Christian/Muslim/Jewish sites there and see a place where, at one time, all of them had lived together in a relative peace. While I was there I stopped in at the Santa Maria la Blanca synagogue, which was, according to my Triposo ipod app, "constructed under the Christian Kingdom of Castile by Islamic architects for Jewish use" and is owned and preserved by the Catholic church. I was a little overwhelmed at the mix of religion, architecture, and tradition, and stopped by the table of the nun who was selling some of the art on display in the former synagogue. "I live here," I said, pointing at a picture of Jerusalem. "You do?" she asked excitedly and then, in Hebrew, "Do you speak Hebrew?" Shocked, I asked her why a Catholic nun in Spain would speak Hebrew. "Our order's founder was born in Israel...he converted to Christianity and started this order. We want to be a bridge between the Jewish and Christian communities, so he is teaching us Hebrew and we celebrate all the Jewish holidays here, in celebrations that are open to the public." And this, my friends, is the odd story of a Mormon girl from Utah and a Catholic nun conversing in Hebrew in the middle of Spain.
*A little later in the day, I stopped by the mosque of Cristo de la Luz in Toledo, which is one of the oldest mosques in Europe (and which was later converted into a cathedral). After examining the Arabic graffiti on the walls, I sat in a corner to give my feet a rest for a minute. "I wonder what the Arabic graffiti says," I heard someone say IN ENGLISH. Finally, someone I could understand! "It says God is the merciful one," I offered. Turns out this family was from Toledo, Ohio, just visiting their daughter who was studying in Switzerland and taking a side trip to the other Toledo. OHIO. People, this family was from the very state that I am planning on moving to next year, and their daughter has some good friends at THE Ohio State University. The only people who speak English in the whole town, and they're from Ohio.
*A lot of my stories are from Toledo. I got on a bus to go back to the train station, and since the sun had gone down and it was dark I got a little disoriented. I was trying to figure out which stop to get off at, and I looked out the window and saw a train. But just as I was about to get off, I saw a bridge and remembered that we had passed over a bridge just after the train station, so I settled back in my seat, deciding that maybe the train was up the tracks a little way instead of sitting at the station. And then suddenly, before the bus driver could close the doors (we were 2 bus stops past where I had seen the train by now), a woman came up to me and started speaking excitedly in Spanish. Seeing that I understood nothing, she finally said, "Train?" When I said "si, si," she shouted to the bus driver to reopen the doors and, pointing back the way we had come, said, "Train, train." I got off and yep, sure enough, the train I had seen was indeed sitting at the station. I have no idea how that woman knew I wanted to go to the train station, but I thank her and divine intervention for helping me get off when I did.
*After several days in Spain, I attended one last temple session before going to Madrid. Spain was wonderful and the temple was spectacular, but I really missed speaking to people in English. Or even Arabic or Chinese or Hebrew. Basically I missed understanding and being understood by people. Friday evening, as I was at the temple, one of the workers started speaking to me in (native) English. Turns out she and her husband were from KAYSVILLE, Utah and were missionaries at the Madrid temple. People. My PARENTS live in Kaysville. It just happened that I ran into one of the only English speakers in the temple, and it just happened that she was from the same small city in Utah that my parents live in. It was a huge sign to me that God loves me and is very aware of me.
*I took a train from Madrid to Algeciras, where I wanted to catch a bus to Tarifa and then take a ferry to the port in Tangier. However, when I got to the bus station, no one could confirm my guidebook's directive that there was actually a port in Tarifa and ferries actually did depart from there to get to Tangier. When the bus came, I tried to ask the driver. "Tarifa? Ferry in Tarifa? Ferry to Tangier?" I tried. He finally nodded, and I knew that at least this bus was going to Tarifa, if nothing else! But then as I was walking to the back of the bus a Moroccan woman asked me, "Are you taking the ferry to Tangier from Tarifa? My husband and I are also taking the ferry...when we get to Tarifa maybe we can split a taxi to get to the port." And it was a good thing that I had them to follow, because the bus dropped us off almost a mile from the port and there were no taxis. Luckily I had them to follow, rolling our suitcases all the way!
*I have lived in the Middle East for more than 14 months now, and I have been all over Egypt, Jordan, and the West Bank. I thought I was used to the cat calls and harassment that girls with white skin, red hair, and blue eyes experience in the Middle East. But dang, the men in Morocco were like nothing I have ever encountered. I got in to Rabat around 10 at night and got off the train to try and find my hotel. Within seconds of leaving the train station, young shabab (young men between the ages of 14-28) surrounded me. Some of them offered to help me pull my one small piece of luggage, others of them told me I was beautiful in French, Arabic, and English, and one of them was so persistent that he followed me to my hotel (a mere block and a half away from the train station, thankfully!). "Excuse me," he said, "Have I seen you before?" "No," I stated emphatically. "No really, I think I know you. Didn't I meet you at..." he left it hanging and I waited, expectantly, to see where he thought he knew me from. "Nope," I stated, knowing full well that we had never met before. As I got to my hotel door, he said, "What I really mean is, will you go out for coffee with me?" Guys, I've never seen the men so over-the-top pushy. I probably could have gotten married within the hour if I wanted to! I'm pretty sure in 3 days in Morocco I was asked on more dates than I had in 6 years at BYU. And no, this is not a reflection on my pathetic social life in college. :)
*I stayed in this totally sketch hotel in Rabat. It was only 15 dollars a night for a private room with a shower in the room (although there were only two toilets per floor, in separate rooms in the hall). But hey, it was only a block and a half from the train station, it was super cheap, and I didn't have to go wandering far in the streets of Morocco to find a hotel (and be attacked by the shabab all along the way). I had absolutely no desire to touch anything on the bed or the floor, though, so I pulled out a sheet I had brought for this very purpose and rolled up in it before I got on the bed, moving the pillow out of the way and instead sleeping on my dirty laundry bag. It was freezing in the room, though, so I put on several shirts from my dirty clothes pile and tried not to die in my thin sheet. I woke up several times in the middle of the night, certain that I would freeze to death, but I finally got up at 6, grateful to have survived the night (and hopeful that I hadn't contracted any worms or diseases from the room). I realized that I had forgotten my flip flops, but there was no way I was going to stand barefoot on that shower floor. I put a plastic bag on the floor, turned on the water, and tried to step in. BAM. Naturally sloped shower floor + wet plastic bag + mid-calf-high step into the shower = big bruise on my calf from falling. Thankfully I didn't touch the floor and the water was even warm.
When I saw the room I thought to myself, "My father would die before staying at this hotel. But hey. $15 a night."
However, travelling alone always brings with it the hilarious, the creepy, and the wow-these-people-are-so-nice-did-they-really-just-go-out-of-their-way-to-help-me. So here you are: life as a lone traveller in Spain and Morocco.
*First, you have to know that I speak very little Spanish. Very, very little. I can count to ten, nod my head yes or no, and say tu hable Ingles?" I think we've seen in a previous post, however, that my Spanish skills were unfortunately more useful than my English, Arabic, Chinese, or Hebrew skills in Spain. One day I was trying to find an internet cafe. I was planning on leaving for Morocco the next day and I wanted to compare flight and plane prices, connect with my friends in Casablanca about church on Sunday, and try and find a place to stay. Basically, I was desperate for internet. I was staying in the Madrid temple's patron housing, so I asked the person at the front desk (who, thankfully, spoke excellent English) where an internet cafe was. He looked up the closest ones on his phone, printed me off a map, and wished me luck. Unfortunately, I needed more than luck (I realized several hours later that he had given me the wrong map!)--I needed a miracle. After getting off at two different metro stops and consulting my map for at least 20 minutes to try and figure out where I was, I finally walked into a pharmacy. Surely pharmacists speak English, as the medical world converses in English, I thought to myself. "Tu hable Ingles?" I asked. No. Not at all. Not even enough to understand "What's the name of this street? Nombre? Calle?" The pharmacist wanted so badly to help that she kept speaking to me rapidly in Spanish and gesturing at the map while I looked at her helplessly. Finally she turned to one of the several customers that had accumulated since I had entered the store. "Excuse me," she asked in Spanish, "do any of you speak English?" One of them did and, as everyone in the store looked on encouragingly, translated the pharmacist's directions: "This is the wrong metro stop. You need to get back on the metro and go in the opposite direction." (It was at this point that I realized the map was wrong.) "Gracias," I said as I left the store. Thank you, thank you, thank you for wanting to help enough to ask your other customers to translate, I thought as I walked back toward the metro. (By the way, after another hour of searching, I discovered that the internet cafe had closed. Fail.)
*I took a day trip to Toledo to visit the Christian/Muslim/Jewish sites there and see a place where, at one time, all of them had lived together in a relative peace. While I was there I stopped in at the Santa Maria la Blanca synagogue, which was, according to my Triposo ipod app, "constructed under the Christian Kingdom of Castile by Islamic architects for Jewish use" and is owned and preserved by the Catholic church. I was a little overwhelmed at the mix of religion, architecture, and tradition, and stopped by the table of the nun who was selling some of the art on display in the former synagogue. "I live here," I said, pointing at a picture of Jerusalem. "You do?" she asked excitedly and then, in Hebrew, "Do you speak Hebrew?" Shocked, I asked her why a Catholic nun in Spain would speak Hebrew. "Our order's founder was born in Israel...he converted to Christianity and started this order. We want to be a bridge between the Jewish and Christian communities, so he is teaching us Hebrew and we celebrate all the Jewish holidays here, in celebrations that are open to the public." And this, my friends, is the odd story of a Mormon girl from Utah and a Catholic nun conversing in Hebrew in the middle of Spain.
*A lot of my stories are from Toledo. I got on a bus to go back to the train station, and since the sun had gone down and it was dark I got a little disoriented. I was trying to figure out which stop to get off at, and I looked out the window and saw a train. But just as I was about to get off, I saw a bridge and remembered that we had passed over a bridge just after the train station, so I settled back in my seat, deciding that maybe the train was up the tracks a little way instead of sitting at the station. And then suddenly, before the bus driver could close the doors (we were 2 bus stops past where I had seen the train by now), a woman came up to me and started speaking excitedly in Spanish. Seeing that I understood nothing, she finally said, "Train?" When I said "si, si," she shouted to the bus driver to reopen the doors and, pointing back the way we had come, said, "Train, train." I got off and yep, sure enough, the train I had seen was indeed sitting at the station. I have no idea how that woman knew I wanted to go to the train station, but I thank her and divine intervention for helping me get off when I did.
*After several days in Spain, I attended one last temple session before going to Madrid. Spain was wonderful and the temple was spectacular, but I really missed speaking to people in English. Or even Arabic or Chinese or Hebrew. Basically I missed understanding and being understood by people. Friday evening, as I was at the temple, one of the workers started speaking to me in (native) English. Turns out she and her husband were from KAYSVILLE, Utah and were missionaries at the Madrid temple. People. My PARENTS live in Kaysville. It just happened that I ran into one of the only English speakers in the temple, and it just happened that she was from the same small city in Utah that my parents live in. It was a huge sign to me that God loves me and is very aware of me.
*I have lived in the Middle East for more than 14 months now, and I have been all over Egypt, Jordan, and the West Bank. I thought I was used to the cat calls and harassment that girls with white skin, red hair, and blue eyes experience in the Middle East. But dang, the men in Morocco were like nothing I have ever encountered. I got in to Rabat around 10 at night and got off the train to try and find my hotel. Within seconds of leaving the train station, young shabab (young men between the ages of 14-28) surrounded me. Some of them offered to help me pull my one small piece of luggage, others of them told me I was beautiful in French, Arabic, and English, and one of them was so persistent that he followed me to my hotel (a mere block and a half away from the train station, thankfully!). "Excuse me," he said, "Have I seen you before?" "No," I stated emphatically. "No really, I think I know you. Didn't I meet you at..." he left it hanging and I waited, expectantly, to see where he thought he knew me from. "Nope," I stated, knowing full well that we had never met before. As I got to my hotel door, he said, "What I really mean is, will you go out for coffee with me?" Guys, I've never seen the men so over-the-top pushy. I probably could have gotten married within the hour if I wanted to! I'm pretty sure in 3 days in Morocco I was asked on more dates than I had in 6 years at BYU. And no, this is not a reflection on my pathetic social life in college. :)
*I stayed in this totally sketch hotel in Rabat. It was only 15 dollars a night for a private room with a shower in the room (although there were only two toilets per floor, in separate rooms in the hall). But hey, it was only a block and a half from the train station, it was super cheap, and I didn't have to go wandering far in the streets of Morocco to find a hotel (and be attacked by the shabab all along the way). I had absolutely no desire to touch anything on the bed or the floor, though, so I pulled out a sheet I had brought for this very purpose and rolled up in it before I got on the bed, moving the pillow out of the way and instead sleeping on my dirty laundry bag. It was freezing in the room, though, so I put on several shirts from my dirty clothes pile and tried not to die in my thin sheet. I woke up several times in the middle of the night, certain that I would freeze to death, but I finally got up at 6, grateful to have survived the night (and hopeful that I hadn't contracted any worms or diseases from the room). I realized that I had forgotten my flip flops, but there was no way I was going to stand barefoot on that shower floor. I put a plastic bag on the floor, turned on the water, and tried to step in. BAM. Naturally sloped shower floor + wet plastic bag + mid-calf-high step into the shower = big bruise on my calf from falling. Thankfully I didn't touch the floor and the water was even warm.
When I saw the room I thought to myself, "My father would die before staying at this hotel. But hey. $15 a night."
*The next morning, after my freezing night at the hotel, I was supposed to meet my friends Brooke and Max at the train station, where they would take me to church. I was super excited to go to church in Morocco, but even more I think I was excited to see someone I knew and speak English. Imagine my dismay when they didn't show up at the appointed time. 8:20 came and went. 8:30. 8:40. I'm pretty sure she said church starts at 9...did I miss them? Did they forget about me? Did they get in an accident? Did Brooke send me an email changing the plan and I just didn't get it? Before I panicked, I realized I had Brooke's number. But every pay phone was phone-card only, not cash. I finally walked up to a group of chatty girls. "Excuse me," I asked in Arabic. "Do you know where there are pay phones where you can use cash and not a card?" "Just use my phone," one of the girls said, in English. "Welcome to Morocco!" I called twice to no avail. And then the nice girl tried to call. "It says this is an invalid number," she said. Invalid number? Can I panic yet? I don't have the address of the church...I don't even have Max's number! I thought to myself. Trying not to cry (it had been a long night, ok?!), I walked back in the train station to try and find another phone. The most beautiful thing I have ever heard was someone shouting "Breanne!" as I wandered through the station. Turns out there are two train stations in Rabat, and Brooke and Max had been waiting at the other one. I almost kissed them, I was so happy to not be abandoned at a train station in Morocco! And church was wonderful.
*And finally, although I had many, many more adventures, I will end with this one (although my layover in Rome and a crazy experience on the train in Morocco deserve their own posts, which are forthcoming). The train stations in Morocco are kind of wild. Some of them are in the middle of big cities, and some of them are in the middle of nowhere. Literally. After my stint in Rabat, I took the train to Assilah. By the time we got there, it was after dark. I got off the train and saw everyone walking to the edge of the platform and disappearing into the darkness. My guidebook said that you had to walk a few kilometers from the train station to the town, so I grabbed my suitcase and walked off into the darkness. Wanting to make sure I was walking the right way, however, I turned back and asked an older woman (in Arabic), "Is this the way to get to Assilah?" And just like everyone else in Morocco, she responded to me in French. "Please, speak Arabic," I said. "I don't speak French." "Arabic? You speak Arabic? Come. Come with me. My son is waiting on the road. You can ride with us. Where do you need to go?" They drove me right to my hotel (which was much less sketch than my one the night before and only $10 a night, by the way) and, when I asked if I could pay, she just laughed and closed the door. Thank you, dear woman, for giving me a ride so I didn't have to walk down a dark highway alone! (But the next morning, when I was walking back to the train station and two shabab asked me if I wanted a ride, I politely said no. Don't worry, I only take rides if there is a woman in the car!)
The Assilah train station, situated in the middle of nowhere.
So that's it, my friends. Travelling alone certainly gave me some crazy stories, but above all, I realized that people are so willing to help. So, anybody want to join me on my next adventure?
*PS (can I put a PS on a blog post?): my sister just reminded me that I forgot to tell the story of when I pretended I could only speak Chinese. I was getting pretty sick of people harassing me in English, French, and Spanish. When I got to Assilah, I went for a walk around the town, but it was dark and as has been seen, the creepers come out in the dark. I was walking around the Old City, just heading back go my hotel, and suddenly I see this guy out of the corner of my eye making a beeline for me and speaking at me in English. I shook my head. "我不會將," I said in Chinese. I don't speak that language. He tried Spanish and French. I kept shaking my head and repeating in Chinese, "I don't speak that." BAM. Less than 15 seconds of refusing in Chinese, and he walked away. Success. I think I'm safe with Chinese as my "native" language all over the Middle East...
Oh, Breanne...I'm glad you have a blog. You have some seriously crazy stories. I want to hear the details of when you pretended you only spoke Chinese. :)
ReplyDeleteI totally forgot about that one! So glad you reminded me. It's up there now.
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