I was very excited to return to Morocco, which left an indelible impression on me in 2010. In fact, I believe that I have Morocco to thank for my two "boys" (Mohamed and my baby boy, who is expected to make his appearance around October 3): the indelible experience was a major reason that I decided to focus on belly dancing upon my return home -- at the time, I was also spending significant time on swing and salsa dancing -- and signed up for the drumming class where I met Mohamed.
Here I am in Paris' CDG, ready to launch into my baguette sandwich and trying not to look too jetlagged: I felt more uncomfortable in my airplane seat than I had ever before, and contorted myself in every position possible in vain pursuit of some sleep.
Since we arrived before the tour began, we checked into the Atlas Airport Hotel for two nights so that we could meet up with the tour group super-early on April 12 at the Casablanca airport.
I was impressed with the hotel's breakfast buffet, and helped myself to the French pastries (Morocco was a French protectorate from 1912 to 1956) and local treats.
On April 11, we took the train to downtown Casablanca, where we walked from the station to the port. Let's just say that the port is exactly that: an industrial port that is extremely important and successful, and completely unintended for tourists to visit.
By the time we finally made our way to the downtown area almost three hours later, we were famished. Mohamed picked a large restaurant with an extensive menu. The fish tagine that he ordered featured an otherworldly level of spice that wafted through the air even before the first tender forkful was eaten -- in fact, Mohamed said that he felt that he's been seriously under-spicing his own tagines. I ordered the bastilla, which was dusted with a generous amount of powdered sugar and cinnamon, which framed the earthy tender chicken perfectly. Although I've had bastilla in the U.S. before, this one was clearly an original with nothing was diluted or lost in translation.
More familiar with the geography after our serpentine exploration of the city, we took the non-circuitous route (I can't say that it was a shortcut) back to the train station. The buildings reflected the fact that Morocco was a French protectorate, and were the classic white that Casablanca is known for.
Here I am in Paris' CDG, ready to launch into my baguette sandwich and trying not to look too jetlagged: I felt more uncomfortable in my airplane seat than I had ever before, and contorted myself in every position possible in vain pursuit of some sleep.
