Dad's 1st Visit

It is said that most Americans do not have a passport and an even greater amount never leave America's borders. With recent legislation in America making the old past-time of traveling to Canada, Mexico and certain Caribbean Island nations with a driving license or birth certificate now extinct more passports are being issued than ever before to American citizens. Yet it is unknown how many actually utilize them to travel outside of North America.


Whether most Americans not leaving their continent is an admirable or detestable situation is indeed debatable on many levels. It is understandable to believe that North America has so many different cultural treasures and great vacation spots that a person could spend a week vacation every year for 20 years easily exploring the continent and not going to the same place twice.

At the same time there are so many other cultures and environments on 6 other continents that have so much to offer and explore that it seems a shame to limit oneself to one continent.

In late February 2006 my father made his first trip outside of North America to come and visit my family and I in Birmingham for about 9 days. My dad is a typical American man in his 50's with a slight resemblance to Liverpool Football Club manager Rafa Benítez and getting him to actually apply for a passport was a huge step. At this point I had actually been living in Europe for almost 7 years and it amazes me that it took this long for my dad to get a passport and get on a plane. In fact, that more of my family has not taken advantage of me living in Europe to come and visit me leaves me incredulous. If I was in their shoes I would have been over at every opportunity. But I digress.


My Dad flew on KLM from Boston to Amsterdam and then after a small layover a short leg of Amsterdam to Birmingham. He didn't much take to Birmingham in those first few days. He wasn't too thrilled with the food nor the trash that people around here seem to religiously throw wherever they please in Birmingham. The only food he actually liked while he was here was Nando's.


I had booked us a flight from London Luton airport to to Grenoble airport in the French Alps on Easyjet while he was here in Europe so that we could go visit my son in France. The flight wasn't until late morning but we were catching a coach from Birmingham to London Luton at 6.45AM leaving us plenty of time to get stuck in traffic on the M1. As I only lived about maximum 10 minutes from the coach station we went outside to the car at around 6.15-6.20ish to have my wife drive us to the station.

Unfortunately the car decided that it didn't want to start. It was actually a very cold night out but I never had the problem with the car prior to that. We tried push-starting the car for about 5 minutes before we gave up and I called a friend to drive us to the station but of course we had missed our coach by then.

The next best option was a 7.30AM bus heading to central London. Luton airport is not actually in London. I would estimate it to be around 40 minutes drive north on the M1 from central London with decent traffic. I was actually hoping that the coach driver would drop us near the airport but I didn't have the nerve to ask.

By the time we got to London it was around 10.30AM and now we had to find a way to back track through the city and up the M1. It wasn't looking good. If we missed this flight my dad wouldn't have another chance to fly to France to see my son. I asked a black cab how much it would cost me to get to Luton and he quoted me "around £120". I found a private taxi and he told me he could get me there in time for £75 and we were off. He drove like a mad man through the city in his Ford Galaxy minivan and even stopped on the way for some gas before dropping us off at the airport with literally only a few minutes to spare.


We checked in and hurried to the gate to board the aircraft. After landing at St George airport we passed through immigration and boarded a bus for centre of Grenoble. I had booked a hotel nearby to where my son was staying and we had an excellent time having fun with my oldest son.

My dad loved France. He found the atmosphere and the environment of Grenoble to be extraordinary not to mention the great food. I think while he obviously wanted to spend time with his granddaughter in Birmingham he really hated to fly back to the UK.

The morning of his flight to Amsterdam continental Europe was having some terrible weather. His flight to Amsterdam was delayed a day and then when he did make it out to Amsterdam the next morning he got stuck there for another day before getting flown to Newark airport and then on to Boston.

I guess he didn't have that bad of time here in Birmingham though because he did end up returning about 2 years later. He still insisted on flying to France though.

Rockin Like a Moroccan Part II

In my previous post I left off with DBH having a seizure in the bathroom of my friend Karim's house the evening before we are supposed to board the train for a cross-country trip in Morocco. I was able to squeeze part of my upper body through the slight opening we had created by pushing the door and his body forward and see that he was not in the best of condition.

I was able to see that DBH was still having his seizure but not as severe as when he first fell out. He was completely dressed and it was obvious he was about to leave the toilet area when he was overcome. He had somehow fallen so that his back was against the door and his legs were straight out in front of him facing towards the toilet. His eyes were still rolled back in his head and his jaw was clenched incredibly tight while the air coming from his nose was incredibly exaggerated.

I was trying to comfort him by telling him to relax and that everything would be all right and after maybe 3 minutes the seizure appeared to end. Using the left arm I had managed to initially squeeze through I forced him to slouch forward taking his body weight off the door. After that Karim and I were able to push the door forward enough so that we could get inside the bathroom and lift him up.

We carried him about 20 feet (6 meters) to a sofa in Karim's living room and left him to rest. Karim and I looked at each other in disbelief at what had just transpired in his apartment. He then asked me why DBH or myself had not informed him of DBH's condition to which I informed him that I knew nothing about it.

Karim explained to me that if DBH had needed medical attention or had died in his house just how severe the consequences would have been to him and his family. He said that the police would have basically arrested everyone and figured out the story at the station. He said that DBH and myself would have been okay as we had traveled together to Morocco but him being a resident and his wife a citizen they would have had it much worse.

About an hour or two later DBH came through from his sleep and looked around the room then at me. I asked him if he knew what day it was to which he answered incorrectly. I then asked him if he knew where he was. He looked around the room again and then back at me while revealing that he thought we were in England.

I informed him that we were in Morocco at Karim's house. He laid back down and went returned to sleeping.

He woke up again a few hours later and seemed to be a little clearer on where he was but was not too sure as to what had happened to him. He said that he had not had an episode like this one for well over 5 years and had no idea what had brought it on. He said he was very tired and did not think he would be able to travel the next day so Karim insisted that we stay until DBH felt well enough to leave.

By the next day DBH was just as active as he was before his seizure. We caught a taxi to the train station and each purchased a first class one-way ticket to Oujda with a delay in Rabat to visit friends and drop off some belongings. The train was modern and similar to ones I have traveled on in Europe. The cars had a corridor the length of the car with perhaps 6 separate cabins. Second class cabins consisted of a hard bench on each end of the cabin with a normal train window. First class cabins had 6 cushioned seats in a cabin and operated off of an assigned seating number printed on your ticket. We had each paid 450 Moroccan dirhams (about $45USD) for our seat in first class for an almost 16 hour ride from one end of Morocco to the opposite end.

The ride from Marrakesh to Rabat was about 3 hours and we sat by the windows watching the scenery go past. After a while we could tell we were entering into an urban area and all of a sudden the man came on the intercom calling out in French that we were about to stop at Rabat Agdal station. DBH and I quickly grabbed our belongings and exited the train onto the platform and hot humid air. As the train was departing we walked towards the station and then out to the parking area in front of the main entrance. I immediately knew that we had gotten off at the wrong station as the area was to suburban looking. We grabbed a taxi outside the station and told him to take us to the address we provided.

The taxi driver explained to me that he would only be able to take me to the edge of Rabat where I would have to catch another taxi, as petit (small) taxis can only operate within their district. So after switching taxis I gave the new taxi driver the address to the villa and after some confusion we arrived and were welcomed inside. We sat with them for a few hours had some mint tea and dropped off the diapers that were the majority of my luggage. We caught a taxi to the main train station Rabat and awaited the 11PM train to Oujda.

As it was late at night some men were cleaning the platform with hoses and other materials when it started to rain. The 20 or so of us on the platform all headed to the same overhang trying to keep ourselves and luggage dry and the train pulled in not too long after the rain had started. We found our assigned car and cabin and put our luggage on the racks above the seats and tried to get comfortable before the train pulled off.

We got some sleep on the trip but were typically awakened at every stop as people were embarking and disembarking the train. At the city of Fes we seemed to have stopped for longer than scheduled and had a man and woman enter our cabin for the remainder of the trip.

We arrived at our destination around 9AM and were greeted by a friend who lived in the same community with me in Germany for a time. Abdur Rahman is American and married to a Moroccan woman who is originally from the city we were visiting on the Algerian border.

We stayed with Abdur Rahman and his family for about 5 days. It was cool to have a window into the frustrations and happiness of his daily life. We typically ended up going to the market every day for groceries and other needs but stopped off for lunch and coffee occasionally. Oujda being so far from the main cities of Morocco and not having any tourist attractions of any sort people tend to wonder what westerners are doing all the way out there. Hence I felt like a curiosity to the people.

We did manage to walk out towards the Algerian border one afternoon. It was about a 20 minute walk and I would have loved to cross the border but unlike Morocco, Algeria requires visas to be arranged prior to traveling. Moroccan can cross the border with no problems but Algerians are not allowed to cross into Morocco without a visa or some official paperwork.

The day before our flight back to London we caught the long train ride back to Marrakesh with a change in Casablanca. Once in Marrakesh we caught a taxi back to Karim's house and spent the night. Our flight was around 7AM and that meant we would have to leave Karim's house around 5AM for an uneventful flight back to London.

Rockin Like a Moroccan Part I

In May of 2006 a British friend of mine and I somehow came to the decision that we were going to go to Morocco for around 10 days at the earliest and cheapest opportunity. I wanted to visit because I had two good friends living there and my traveling companion, DBH wanted to go because he was on the search for a wife and Morocco is known for having ample single women looking for husbands.

DBH was all of 18 years old and actually looked more like 16 at the time. He is of mixed race (as they call it here in the UK) and originally from the south of England but had moved to Birmingham not to long after I had. DBH had received his full UK driving licence just recently and purchased a used Nissan Micra that he drove us to his hometown in, the afternoon prior to the day of our flight. We took the M40 south towards London where we eventually changed to another motorway that brought us to his mom's house. We visited his mother and brother for a short time before heading over to another area named Slough that is not to far west of London where DBH had arranged a place for us to stay the night.

The next day a mutual friend drove us to London Gatwick airport (one of London's 5 airports) which was where we had booked our departing flight that would take us to Marrakesh, Morocco. Atlas Blue airline is one of the many low-cost airlines operating out of London and their website had quoted me a roundtrip price of about £85 each. We were dropped off curbside and proceeded to check in our luggage inside the terminal. The line through security was pretty long but moved fairly quickly and before we knew it we were sitting at the gate waiting to board the plane. Unfortunately the flight ended up being delayed for about an hour and we didn't have much to do except look around for the person with the most outrageously over-weight and/or over-sized piece of carry-on luggage.

I do not remember much about the actual flight itself although it would have taken about three and a half hours to fly over the English Channel, France, Spain and most of Morocco. Upon arrival we were met by a bus at the foot of the aircraft stairs that brought us to immigration where our passports were stamped. I had arranged a place to stay for the night in Marrakesh for DBH and I with a friend who is married to a woman from Marrakesh. Unfortunately I did not know that I would be asked for his address and it held us up for a little bit longer than normal at immigration.

Once cleared to enter the country as tourists we went to the luggage belt and awaited our bags. After a short time they showed up and now we had to stand in a line for custom's inspection. Our turn came and we had to load our bags onto a conveyor belt that led into an X-ray machine. DBH's bags where deemed to be ok but I was asked to open my bag up because of odd shapes on the official's screen.

I had been asked by my ex-wife to bring some diapers from the UK to Morocco for my son as apparently they are much more expensive there. Her family is originally Moroccan although her and most of her siblings were born in France. Her parents had had the fortune and foresight to build a house close to the capital city (named Rabat) as a vacation home.

Upon complying with the customs officer's request to open my bag up for his viewing pleasure he saw 4 large packs (84 diapers in a pack I believe.) of diapers and asked why I was bring diapers when I had to child with us. In his mind I was bringing these diapers into Morocco to sell and make a profit. I explained to him the situation and he reluctantly allowed me to pass without paying any duty tax.

Once on the other side of customs my friend, Karim, who has lived in the UK for most of his life was there to greet us. We caught a taxi back to his place and sat in his in living room catching up on things for the majority of the night. The next day we went to visit Marrakesh's main tourist attraction known as Jamaa' al Fna, a market and square that I imagine has had the same vibe today as it did 500 years ago. In fact this main square has a history going back over a thousand years!

The market behind the main square was a maze of alleyways with hundreds of shops selling everything from clothing and refreshments to cheap Chinese made toys and authentic hand carved Moroccan household items.

But after the sun set the main square became a regular old 5-ring circus! I am talking about monkeys, belly dancers, fortunetellers, and much more. It was a feast for the eyes! You almost wouldn't believe that the same square you saw during the day was the same one you witnessed at night.

At the center of this circus were perhaps 50 open-air restaurants that were setup directly after sunset in the center of the main square. Each restaurant was like a stall with benches around the grills and men yelling things out in probably 5 different languages trying to convince you to eat at their particular stall.

We did and the food was amazing.

Upon returning back to Karim's house we began to prepare for our planned train ride to Oujda (On the Moroccan/Algerian border) with a few hours stop at my former mother-in-law's house near the capital. After packing our bags I decided to jump in the 'shower', which consisted of a closet with a drain on the floor and a tap with a showerhead attached to it, when all of a sudden I heard a continuous loud banging sound.

I had never experienced even a small earthquake at this point in my life but this sound was so loud that this is exactly what I thought it was, so I froze. The extremely loud banging sound continued in what seemed like a steady evenly timed manner. I changed my mind and thought to myself, "Someone must be dragging something extremely heavy down the stairs of the building. Perhaps a grand piano."

Finally the sound stopped and I was about to complete removing the soap from my body when Karim knocks on the door and calls my name loudly. I answer him "Yes" in an inquisitive manner and he then asks if I am okay. I am slightly baffled at his question and tell that I am fine.

Not a few seconds later he is banging on my door again yelling frantically that something is wrong with DBH and he needs me to come out and help him. I am standing naked in this closet with a 'shower' in it with my friend on the other side of the door telling me to hurry and help him. Not knowing what is going on I continue to dry myself off with my towel not wanting to put my clothes on while I still have a wet body. He frantically bangs on the door again yelling my name and telling me to hurry and come help him.

I break and just throw the towel around my waste and come out of the shower. Karim tells me that DBH is in the toilet, which is directly next to the shower closet but that he is not answering. And then the cause of the banging noise clicks inside of my head.

While trying to hold the towel around my waist I push on the bottom of the door that opens into the toilet room but it is no use. It does not budge. After both Karim and I put a lot of equal pressure on the lower part of the door and the middle part we manage to create a gap of about 4 or 5 inches and I manage to squeeze my still wet head, shoulder and left arm into the bathroom and see DBH sitting with his back against the door having a seizure.

TO BE CONTINUED...