Disclaimer: Rabies is a very serious and often fatal disease. I do not support the spread of rabies among animals or humans. I do not think actual rabies is funny nor would I mock it's victims in death. I only intend to mock rabies in the abstract as it relates to my younger sister and her desire to pick up, feed, pet, house and otherwise love kittens seen on the streets of North African and Middle Eastern Countries.
As I prepared to travel to Morocco this spring I knew I was taking some life threatening risks. First there was the plane ride. Despite the supposed "safety" of air travel, I am fairly certain that I will die in some fiery plane crash. There are a couple of theories I have developed to ward off plane crashes and of course I took the customary in flight precautions like wearing close toed shoes, counting the number of seats between myself and the nearest emergency exit, and alerting the flight attendant to all suspected terrorists on board. Then there were the advance safety measures employed too avoid certain death. Before even heading to the airport I followed the lottery rule. Whenever I have a big flight (or a simple 45 minute flight from DC to NYC), I buy a lottery ticket. If I win the lottery the lottery I can't fly, ever again. Clearly the win indicates that all good luck for a lifetime has been used up and at every opportunity bad luck and death are lurking. It’s the natural law of karma, one really great thing means misery and crap is waiting at the other end. Luckily I didn't win the 200 Million jackpot the day before my flight for Casablanca. I had one base covered.
Then there is the attractiveness clause. I know (from watching Lost and just being really in touch with the Universe) that God only takes down planes with really good looking people aboard. There are a couple reasons for this. First, in the unlikely event that the plane crash lands on a deserted island, there need to be enough good looking people to get together and procreate. Ugly people having ugly babies on some gorgeous palm tree lined beach just doesn't cut it in the grand scheme of things (you can pull from the karma justification above, if your plane crashed then the chances are you will at least be able to find some super hunky mate to gather your coconuts and keep you warm in your hut).
The second reason ugly people don't make for a good plane crash is that ugly people don't really illicit sympathy. If the plane crashes and everyone dies (which is probably a more likely scenario than the deserted island), the pictures CNN scrolls across the screen are going to need to display some young tan couple that's recently engaged, or a beautiful young mom with her three cherub like babies. We want to cry for these people and their lost youth. No one is going to cry for some balding snaggle toothed lady with a lazy eye who had to pay for two tickets because her ass couldn't fit in one seat.
Needless to say, when sitting at the gate, convulsing and crying hysterically because I know my time on this planet is running out, I am slightly comforted by the presence of persons missing limbs, wearing an eye-patch, lacking proper hygiene or someone with those bizarre lobster fins instead of arms. I can only hope that the man with two wooden legs, a harelip and only one tooth is sitting next to me.
Assuming I didn't perish en route to Morocco, there were other opportunities for my downfall waiting for me on arrival. Some of which were foreseeable, others which were not. The foreseeable dangers included but were not limited to spending ten days with my Mother and 15-year-old sister Mannah. Now Mom and Mannah (the sister) are great, in small and diluted doses but ten non stop days together created the very real threat that I would kill them both and face very serious jail time.
Having taken many trips with Madre throughout the years, I knew we traveled well together. We both like museums, food, attempting to figure out foreign public transportation systems and soaking up local culture. She is a fine woman (and deceptively young looking!), and I love her dearly (especially because she paid for the trip), however I knew there would be things that tested my limits. For example, my mother’s habits at the buffet style hotel breakfast are a bit bizarre. Apparently the woman grew up in times of famine because every time we went to the hotel breakfast my mother packed away about fifteen meals worth of rolls, jams, cheeses, yogurts, fruits and other perishables that were unlikely to make it through the 90 degree day unrefrigerated.
Alas, I murdered no one and my plane made it safely across the Atlantic, thus the last threat I faced was that of the unknown. A couple notes about the unknown, it’s hard to pack for. How was I to know I would need pliers and a sledgehammer? Had I brought these items the unknown would have been far more manageable and my brushes with death far less fear inducing.
My first night in Morocco I was on my own. Having arrived in Casablanca a day before my mother and younger sister, I traveled by train to my hotel in the city center. Not speaking a word of Arabic or French made this slightly difficult as the vast majority of people seemed to know little English. Yet people were unbelievably helpful in my quest to find my hotel and I made it in one piece by around 8:00 pm local time. I was delirious with exhaustion, unbelievably greasy, and not surprisingly hungry upon arrival. Once in my room I decided I would take a quick shower before heading out to scrounge up some authentic Moroccan food. My sense of adventure had kicked in and despite not speaking the language and looking fairly out of place I was excited to strike out on my own and find some good Moroccan food.
The shower was fine, really relaxing. I step out and towel off, brush my teeth and then go for the door. This is weird, I think, the door handle is turning but the door won't open, must be the moisture from the hot shower. So I wait, patiently, for a minute or two before trying the door again. The door still does not open. My mind goes quiet for a second and I consider the possibilities: my mother got there early and is playing a mean spirited trick on me, there is some sort of rapist/murdered who has decided to lock me in the bathroom before assaulting me, or maybe the door was just stuck. After about an hour of turning the door handle between drop kicks it became apparent that option number three was indeed a reality.
The possibility of escape from Bathroom of Doom seemed pretty slim. My mother was not due to arrive until the next day at five and I had left the "Do Not Disturb" sign on the door so there wouldn't be any maid service the next morning. It was then that I considered curling up in a ball on the bathroom floor, clad only in a small hotel towels and crying my self to sleep. But my hunger urged me onwards and for two hours straight I banged on the bathroom door screaming "I am stuck in the bathroom in room 1504, please get someone from the front desk." As this was a rather Euro minded hotel I added a " s'il vous plait" in there every so often hoping it might help a passerby to understand.
Finally about two hours later two men from the front desk were alerted to a girl screaming on the 15th floor and came to my rescue. Still half naked and in utter hysterics I barricaded myself in the now open bathroom as the concierge and bell hop tried to pry my out and hand me my bra. If only I had the sledge hammer.
No comments:
Post a Comment