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Musings of an American Idiot on a Train

The tiny train compartment seats six – five Moroccans and me. Someone passed gas. It’s tremendous. I am convinced it is the guy in the cheap blue suit across from me, who is pretending to be asleep. I wonder what he broke his fast with last night, must have been very spicy.

This is not the high-speed rail. It’s not available between Marrakesh and Casablanca. We have come to a stop, and the guy across from me, pretending to be asleep, woke-up, and abruptly left. The girl sitting next to me took his seat. She probably thinks I’m the one who passed wind. Another man sits next to me. He has his own curious odor. It is a mixture of B.O., turmeric, and sadness. We roll on in silence.

There doesn’t seem to be any food or beverage service on this train. That’s probably because this is the holy month of Ramadan. Everyone here fasts all day until sundown. It’s lovely.

After the first stop between Marrakesh and Casablanca, the landscape is littered with half-finished, multifamily dwellings. Why are all the rooftops flat? It seems to rain quite a bit here.  Oh well, you can’t have a garden on a pitched roof. The countryside here is surprisingly free of litter. I have seen more roadside trash in the States. Old tires, sofas, plastic bags and rusted cars seem to make up the landscape in the California desert. Morocco does a nice job of keeping it clean. 

There’s a lot of dirt. The sun tries to break through a mostly gray sky.  We lumber through a mostly brown countryside – smells and all. No one speaks. The flatulence odor left with the man in the cheap blue suit. I wonder if the girl still thinks it was me. How could it have been? It is always the one pretending to sleep – always.

The odoriferous man next to me coughs, a deep rattling cough. He is a big man and Arabic. He wears dungarees and a sports jacket. His hands are the soft hands of a man who doesn’t toil. I compare them to mine, gnarled. My nails are broken to the quick. They are the weary hands of a washerwoman. I have the straight flat body of a teenage boy. It’s really not a winning combination.

Morocco is good, great even. Am I in love with it?  Perhaps. I love some parts. I hate some parts; others leave me non-plussed. The sun has broken through the clouds and the blue sky peeps out. The man next to me is making us all lightheaded. Perhaps he finds my scent offensive.

I am headed to Tangier, the birthplace of Burrough’s Naked Lunch. I have been grappling with it and have decided that it might be a better read on drugs. Many things are better on drugs.

I think we are approaching Casa. The scenery is no longer rocks and mud. The train slows to a crawl. Stops – buildings, trees, and cats. The ubiquitous Moroccan calico cat. They are everywhere – in every medina, in front of every Airbnb, in the restaurants, on every street corner. Always hungry, always pregnant, always waiting for some charitable scraps.

The large man with the soft hands speaks to me in French. I respond in kind. Then, recognizing how poor my French is, says, “You’re not French.” This happens to me often – too often.

The mountains have softened into rolling hills. We make good time. The sun has gone back into hiding. The sky is gray. Dan rests quietly in my handbag. I will put his remains in Tangier.

I will arrive in Tangier at 5:00 pm via the high-speed rail. William Burroughs never took it; he was long dead. Where does one fix on a moving train anyway?

Back home in Georgia, an angry gunman fires randomly into a Walmart. The American government summarily votes to give money to support random wars, promoting violence. Outside, the Mosques call the faithful to prayer. The whole country fasts. Mothers walk on Heaven. Birds sing. I have never had answers, only questions. Has there ever been peace on Earth? Will there ever be?

The tickets please guy comes by. I ask him a question in French. He responds in English. I am truly the ugly American. I might smell like violence. We approach the next stop, doucement. Gently, don’t stress the ugly American.

The sun bursts through the clouds. I make faces at a cute child. She smiles. A pale blue sky covers us. All is good in the world. Meanwhile, a child dies in war; they call it collateral damage. It sounds better – innocuous even. We arrive in Casablanca. It’s beautiful.

I am now on the high-speed rail from Casa to Tangiers. It’s almost empty. A lone man sits opposite me. I do not smell or hear him. The city starts to roll by under a big blue sky. We’re off to a slow start. All is well with the world. It is 3pm. The elusive food and drink await. Today, I fast with the Moroccans.

The man across from me moves seats. Perhaps it is me who smells, or perhaps he can sense that I’m the ugly American.

We pass a man sleeping beside the train tracks. It’s the third homeless person I’ve seen in my two weeks here. Something else to love.

The high-speed rail goes up to  120 mph. It feels like 20 mph.

We pass a big graveyard; they are separated by religion here – Christian, Muslim, and Jewish.

We pass many abandoned buildings.

The distant sound of a crying child.

Earthquakes are serious here; they kill.

Folks are camera shy.

The French lady feeding the cats is staying here for a month to get a new mouth. As she explained, she’s getting the works – implants, crowns, fillings, etc. She says it’s so much more affordable here. So, she takes care of the street cats. She can smile big after having neutered every cat in the entire city of Marrakesh.

It only takes an hour to travel from Rabat to Tangiers by high-speed rail. We travel through a lush green, verdant area. Rabat looks amazing from the train.

Tangiers. I get it. It’s magnificent – bright and balmy. It pops. There’s no question why many of the greats have found inspiration here. It’s April, and it’s comfortable. I’m aghast – the people, the climate, the sea. This place is amazing. This morning I laid Dan to rest in front of the iconic Villa Muniria. Walking up the alley way is walking in the footsteps of giants – Burroughs, Kerouac. The Café de Paris is next; this is the old meeting place of the beat poets back when old men cast their fishing lines into the sea besides sleeping camels and Morocco had a real king before the world was ruled by the great computer.

This place tastes like olives and wine. I am warned not to venture into the old Medina alone, lest I never return. Then I must go. I must see the dangerous artisans.

If I take a sleeper car to Rabat like Port’s wife Kat, will I feel her loneliness like a blanket of skin? Tomorrow the capital. Today the beating heart of the Medina – the deep, dark Medina where I am warned not to go. I’m not scared. It’s better than Noah’s arc appearing out of nowhere with a lone equestrienne and her deadbeat brother.

I am in the heart of Tangiers at the Grand Paris café. It is closed for Ramadan or maybe forever.

I love English and I can handle French, but this city serves Spanish. Spare me the shame and bring more olives and wine. Keep the olives and wine coming.  

Does anyone buy that tourist BS? Does anyone believe you have to fight for peace?

The sun sets over the lovely town. It’s mellow. It’s always mellow.

This is trash. I should get serious. I shall find my voice somewhere between Burroughs and Dan. In the meantime, more olives and wine, please.

How beer amplifies voices. They are harming no one. Keep the beer flowing. Some guy floats up the stairs like a ballerina. He notices nothing but his own nimble toes. The Englishman sinks below his table. The sun sets, and Tangiers comes to life.

One day, I shall get serious, but it’s simply not the right time. I couldn’t view the tile. It turns out to be in Fes. All that is here is paradise and the occasional annoying cabbie, who doesn’t speak tourist. Dusk becomes you, Tangiers, like so many olives and wine.

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