GRAND TOUR OF EUROPE: July 13-14 Italy to Greece

Tuesday July 13 

Milan to Brindisi

by kind courtesy of 

http://www.grandistazioni.it/cms-file/immagini/grandistazioni/MI_p_1900_533x350.jpg

At midnight in Milan, we finally boarded the train for Brindisi.  Our busy day had begun with an early morning 5 km walk in Switzerland and not stopped till now and we were eager for sleep.

We had prepaid and reserved a first class cabin with couchettes! So imagine our dismay at finding two rather portly Italian Grandmas squatting in our fully rented cabin! 

When we informed the ladies that they needed to find another compartment, they cheekily pointed to the "Reserved" sign! 

Of course it was 'Reserved'. For us! 

I was rendered speechless by their hubris. But sensible Donna simply went looking for a guard to rectify the situation.

by kind courtesy of 
http://www.seat61.com/images/Italy-comfort-night4.jpg

Couchettes were crucial that night, since they would enable us to sleep horizontally for a good portion of our 22 hours journey down the Adriatic coast of Italy. But, before we could settle for the night, we had to search for someone needed to explain to these ladies that they were, indeed, in the wrong cabin.

Donna returned with a bevy of male guards. She then produced the requisite paperwork, showing that we, and not the portly impostors, were the rightful occupants of said cabin. I was SO proud of her!

After conferring with each other for 5 minutes, the guards seemed to have reached a decision. The main guard delivered the important announcement, as if he were a Shakespearean stage actor delivering a soliloquy. The cabin, he declared, was unequivocally and rightfully ours. Furthermore, his decision was unanimous and binding!

There was one blessed moment of silence, while the information sunk in. Then all hell broke loose! The two ladies gesticulated and wailed their objections, imploring the implacable guard to let them stay. Somehow Donna and I had been drawn into an impromtu drama akin to an Italian Opera! 

Viva Italia!

After much waving of arms and loudly expressive insults hurled in our direction, the ladies grumpily shuffled out of our cabins. For once I was glad that I could not understand a word they said.

As if by telepathy, every travelling train official had instantly become aware of our situation. So for the rest of our VERY long trip, we were guarded assiduously by 5 very intense Italian guards.

Donna slept like a baby. Alas, I was not so lucky since I had not remembered to re-stock a crucial medical aid before we left Lucerne! Having finished my Montreux companions' gift of 'wonder pills', I now had to endure, without aid, the full effects of the dreaded stomach virus. 
by kind courtesy of 
http://media.tumblr.com/8f214d430f1401ecdf023fd0b1a7cbb6/tumblr_inline_mgh3pch81U1rcf064.jpg

To compound my misery, our train seemed to stop every village en route, where train staff chatted endlessly with distant family members employed at various stations down the line.

Had I not spent an inordinate amount of time visiting the washroom during this trip, I would have been asleep in my couchette, and would not even have noticed these interruptions. I certainly would not have been inconvenienced by them! 

In Italy, in 1976, most distance trains had no tank in which to collect bathroom sewage, so it was directly dumped onto the track below. Apparently Nature would ensure that all such refuse became well composted!

To keep remote villages clean and hygienic, Italian train authorities simply requested that all passengers refrain from using or flushing toilets, whenever the train was stationary. Yikes!

Thankfully, by dawn, the virus seemed to have worked its way out of my system - along with the remainder of my wine. So I was finally able to rest for a few hours.

by kind courtesy of 

http://www.keycamp.co.uk/images/sites/ia014-cavalino-garden-paradiso-campsite-the-adriatic-images/gallery/IA014-Cavalino-Garden-Paradiso-Campsite-The-Adriatic-Beach-A-Second.jpg

The view of the Adriatic Coast from the train, though beautiful soon became painfully monotonous  as it was our ONLY view for hour upon hour. 

Believe it or not, one cannot gaze upon mile after mile of unblemished white beaches for long, when one is trapped in a hot, steel vehicle.

A part of me dearly wanted to escape that train to walk barefoot on that soft sand and swim in those warm azure waters. 

But we had miles to go before we could indulge in such hedonistic pleasures. And perhaps my body's greatest need was that I rest and allow it to recuperate. I would need all my strength to truly appreciate the glories of Greece that awaited us!

Brindisi to Kerkyra  11 hours 41 mins

https://maps.google.ca/maps

Twenty hours later - almost two hours overdue - we arrived in Brindisi a port city situated on the eastern peninsula (heel) of Italy, on the coast of the Adriatic sea. We were bound for Patras in Greece. And getting there would require us to book passage on an overnight ferry.

Donna and I were so grateful to finally hike our packs onto our shoulders and escape our multi-wheeled prison, that we practically ran from that train. 

But our relief was short-lived as we were greeted at the exit by a throng of smiling boys, all jabbering at us in broken English. 

At 8 pm, a multitude of travel-worn tourists filled the streets of Brindisi, each intent on purchasing a ticket for the ferry ride to Greece. The scene was chaotic as well as deafening. We eventually followed a smiling, but most vehement, pied piper to his place of employment.

The small man behind the counter of this well-lit but shoddy looking establishment efficiently sold us two tickets for a ferry that would be leaving for Patras in a matter of minutes.  

by kind courtesy of 

http://www.adriaticandaegeanferries.com/uffizi/proudionian/3213.jpg

To our immense relief, our ship looked more like a 70s pleasure cruiser than any humble ferry of our acquaintance.

It even sported a salt-water swimming pool!

By the time Donna and I had dropped our backpacks off in our overnight cabin, it was close to supper-time. Those living and travelling in the warmer climes of southern Europe tend to eat their main meal after 10 o'clock at night.

by kind courtesy of http://static.ifood.tv/files/images/editor/images/Greek%20food.jpg

Donna and I thus enjoyed a delicious 4-course Greek meal for the ridiculously low cost of $5, including the table wine.

Our supper was delicious.  But the dining room itself was also a joy to behold. It reminded me of one of London's 5-Star hotel dining rooms.

Our introduction to this 'ferry' was, indeed a successful culinary experience.

Wednesday July 14  Aboard ferry bound for Corfu

After supper, Donna declared herself ready to sleep.  But having slept for most of the day, I was wide awake, ! So, I quickly freshened up, changing into a dress and heels. Then I left Donna to dream alone in our cabin, while I visited the Esmerelda Lounge. It was past midnight, and I was ready to search for the company of other young travellers.

Our ferry temporarily housed a veritable United Nations of young adult passengers from United Kingdom, New Zealand, Canada, Norway, United States, Sweden and Denmark, in addition to its all-Italian crew. Before I had time to order a lemonade, half a dozen Norwegians arrived, toting a keg of ice cold German beer.

by kind courtesy of http://rlv.zcache.com/german_man_on_beer_keg_stickers-r67ba1409210d483ebdbbb50565a35d22_v9waf_8byvr_512.jpg

The beer was quickly shared among us all. And soon passengers with guitars joined us. Before we knew it, a party had broken out in the Esmerelda Lounge! 

by kind courtesy of 
http://oliverartscouncil.org/wp-content/uploads/2012/03/70s.bmp

Initially, a couple of the crew charmed us with some of their Italian songs. We listened politely. But as more beer flowed, the guitar players and passengers soon took over.

From my vantage point, we delivered passable renditions of (then) recent popular songs by Crosby Stills and Nash, The Byrds, Simon and Garfunkel, the Beatles, Donovan and more. And a few of us even danced!

by kind courtesy of 
http://www.deliciousmagazine.co.uk/images/articles/3468/3468_2.jpg

By 4 am, we were all quite merry and nobody cared if anyone was singing in key any more. Then the ferry's baker, instructed by the wise and compassionate Captain, supplied us with hot, fresh-baked crusty bread.

It was a most welcome interruption and a very wise move since the bread helped to soak up the excess alcohol in our systems. Also, one cannot successfully sing and eat bread at the same time! So, the bread also served to let us know it was time to quit partying and get some sleep.

Donna, who had missed the entire party, was one the few passengers aboard who actually got any sleep that night. The rest of us were happy just to let down our hair and socialize with each other! 

At 8 am, about twenty of my new 'party friends' disembarked while a new batch of travellers joined our ferry. We had reached Corfu (Kerkyra), a small island that stretches past the coasts of what is currently three separate countries - Albania, Macedonia and Greece.

Vehement promises were exchanged to meet in Corfu when Donna and I stopped there, after we'd visited Greece. And then my new tribe shouldered their backpacks and vanished.

Corfu to Patras 4 hours 53 mins

by kind courtesy of http://www.greece-ferries.com/images/pics/map_international.jpg 

Returning to my cabin, long after dawn, I found Donna cheerfully preparing to leave the cabin to spend the morning on deck.

by kind courtesy of 

http://thestudiobymdm.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/09/classicfrench-950x712.jpg

I showered, washed and set my hair and gave myself a manicure and pedicure before snoozing undisturbed till 1 pm. Utter Bliss!

The first casualty of travel is privacy. Thus, to have a secluded space to myself for several hours, without interruption, was a real treat!

Officially 1 pm was lunchtime, but I decided to wear my new bikini, and sunbathe instead. Perhaps my excessive partying contributed to my decision to avoid food, but I'll never tell!

To my delight, fellow party friends, Suzanne and Keith, had not disembarked in Corfu but were also travelling to Patras. They both looked and felt a little worse for wear, after their night of debauchery. So they, too, had decided to sunbathe by the pool. 

But the early afternoon sun became progressively hotter by the minute, so the pair decided to cool their overheated bodies with a dip in the salt-water pool. 

by kind courtesy of 

http://www.visualphotos.com/photo/2x4629470/woman_diving_into_water_BLD039735.jpg

Great idea!

I immediately dived into the pool with them. But a split second before my body entered the water, I realized, in horror, that I had forgotten to remove my brand new contact lenses! 

Despite the most assiduous efforts of ship's crew and passengers around the pool, my expensive lenses were hopelessly lost to the waters of the Adriatic that day.

Apparently the water for the ship's swimming pool was siphoned directly from the sea and returned directly there after use. Neither incoming nor outgoing waters were ever filtered.

I like to think that my bio-indestructible lenses have been enjoying a permanent vacation in the sunshine of Greece for the last 37 years!

I spent the rest of that ferry ride seeking shade on deck, anywhere but in that filter-less pool which had lost its appeal for me after it swallowed my lenses without mercy. And what Brainiac had decided against using a pool filter? Really!!?? 

The day had begun really well, with laughter, song and free flowing booze. But, since I had taken several weeks to carefully break-in a new pair of lenses before flying to Europe, I was quite upset with myself for so carelessly losing them.

I would now be forced to wear my hated spectacles during what promised to be the hottest leg of our journey through Greece. Oh well, at least both Donna and I had finally overcome our Montezuma's Revenge of the past few days. [Montezuma's Revenge is a jocular term for traveller's diarrhea] That was a blessing we both could count!

At 3 pm, I returned to the cabin, showered - again - changed, and went to the bar for a lemonade. Two Swedish guys, that I didn't recognize, were playing a game of chequers at one of the tables. So I challenged them, winning once and then, diplomatically, losing one game. When Donna joined us, the guys broke open a bottle of Corfu Firewater before we all packed and left the ferry.

by kind courtesy of 

http://www.ferries.gr/italy-ferries/images/wonderful_greece.gif

We docked at Patras about 5pm, to a slightly less chaotic scene than the one we'd left in Brindisi.

It seemed no buses had yet arrived to meet our ferry. And since, at that time, there was no other way to transport our ship's few dozen passengers to Athens, this was a very big deal! Today's travellers can now take a train there.

All those wishing to reach the capital were forced to stand, with their luggage, for over an hour in the still-blazing afternoon heat!  And, despite our united misery, it made me chuckle to see English travellers quietly queueing for the bus, even in that unrelenting sunshine. 

In 1976, the traveller abroad could not always depend on travel companies to take care of their needs. Where we had disembarked, there was no shade, no seating and not even a concession stand where one might have purchased cold drinks or an ice-cream. But Suzanne generously shared a glass of her orange juice with me, so that I could remain hydrated.

We spent an uncomfortable hour waiting. But, upon further consideration, I decided that the general lack of liquid refreshment was a blessing in disguise since there seemed to be no bathroom facilities available.

Eventually the buses did arrive to chauffeur us to Athens. But fate had not yet finished messing with me! The very moment I stepped onto the bus, the remains of the Corfu Firewater that our Swedish chequer-playing friends had given to us slipped from my hands. 

That bottle smashed upon the ground, its contents forever lost. But, before I could lament its passing, I stubbed my toe climbing the bus step, and spilled my remaining orange over and through my thin skirt. 

After my recent experience with an exploding coke bottle in Trier, I at least knew how to walk in a sodden skirt. But this time, I had no opportunity, either to wash or to change my clothes. 

I was NOT amused! 

To keep from screaming in sheer frustration with the insanity of it all, I reminded myself that some of our most enjoyable adventures had begun the day following a particularly trying experience. So I figured the Greek Gods must have something really spectacular in store for Donna and me.

Despite my irritation, I easily napped on the bus, and dreamed I was chatting with the cotton fabric of my skirt, begging it to PLEASE not do its own laundry, especially while I was still wearing it. Thankfully Donna woke me, before my skirt could respond.

by kind courtesy of 

http://goodfoodgoodfriends.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/08/2012-06-22_18-44-50_281.jpg

Our bus was pulling off the road into a dusty area next to a rough looking shack, from which delicious aromas emanated. The driver was first in line to buy souvlaki, or lamb skewers, and suggested that we do likewise.

Donna refused to eat, afraid that this roadside cafe might not adhere to safe food practices. But I had experienced similar roadside treats in Morocco and survived.  Also, I had skipped lunch so my stomach was loudly growling. I risked buying 3 skewers, which proved so tender and delicious that I quickly went back for more!

It was dark by the time we resumed our journey, and I noted with interest, that it was only 9 pm. Three weeks earlier, in Sweden, the summer night had been almost non-existent. But because Greece was closer to the equator, we lost several hours of scorching daylight but gained hours of dark, warm, spice-scented nights. No wonder dark-starved Scandinavians headed for Greece each summer.
by kind courtesy of 
http://farm1.staticflickr.com/131/409078576_99c50c5890_z.jpg

At 11 pm, we reached Athens, and immediately sought out a hotel for that night. Our driver was very helpful in suggesting a hotel where one of his relatives worked.

Travelling in the seventies really was just that casual and trusting, even in Greece!

We had been warned not to wear short shorts or tank tops in public, so as not to over-excite the hot blooded Greeks. And one had to be careful to travel with someone one already knew, when catching a taxi. Apart from taking these sensible precautions, we had no fear of being molested or harmed in Greece.
by kind courtesy of 
http://www.hostelsclub.com/pics/3791/003791-1220288581.jpg

Our tall ceilinged room at the Hotel Olympus, in the heart of the city, was a cool, spacious and most welcome reprieve after spending so many hours travelling in sunshine. And that luxury cost us each the "exorbitant" sum of $6.50 CDN per night!

Donna, of course, was hungry and went down to the lobby to ask where she could find food at midnight. Figuring that she would not be gone for long, I immediately monopolized the sink, finally cleaning my legs after my orange juice bath at Patras.

I then hand-washed my sticky clothes and hung them to dry over my bed's iron head and foot boards. In that wonderfully spacious room, all my clothes dried in less than one hour!

Unbeknownst to me, at the time, Donna had eaten her supper with the handsome green-eyed blond Greek named Kosta.  He ran the hotel's front desk and didn't speak English well. But he did order food for her and help her to understand what she was eating.

Upstairs, I revelled in my solitude, watching the street scene below our window till my eyelids drooped. I, thus, only vaguely registered Donna's return to our room around 2 am. I had hit the sheets right after finishing my laundry and re-organizing my backpack for our upcoming tour of the Greek Islands.

Next Time

July 15-18

GREECE

Greek Islands Cruise

Mykonos 

Rhodes

Crete 

Santorini

I am taking a break from writing about my past 

to live in the here and now for the summer! 

See you in September for the remainder of my 

1976 Grand Tour of Europe

Chapter 7 - Day 8:Tangier to Fes (230 miles)

Day 8 Tangier to Fes  (230 miles via coast route)

I had just enjoyed the best sleep ever, waking up so early that the sky was only just brightening.

  

Anton and his camera had already left the tent. So I changed into my new Moroccan djellaba before heading out to greet the morning.

After so many dreary months of wearing scratchy winter woolens in England, the djellaba's soft cotton felt so gentle against my skin.  

Stepping outside, the air was chillier than expected and I considered grabbing my long woolen cardigan. But I was really counting on the soon-to-be-rising sun to warm me up. So till then, physical exercise would help ward off the chill.

A series of low dunes, to the west, sheltered our camp from the worst of Atlantic Ocean gusts. And completely unaware of just how gusty those winds would be near the top of it, I chose to climb up the nearest dune. 

I could already taste the salt in the air, and was so eager for my first sunrise glimpse of the Atlantic lapping at the edge of the African continent that I forged ahead, literally throwing caution to the wind!

In hindsight, my lightweight djellaba - while a romantic notion - was completely the wrong choice of garment for climbing a dune!  But not until an errant gust threatened to rip my clothing from my body, did I realize my folly.  

Holy Hannah that wind was strong!  

Before I could stop it, the wind blew underneath my garment, expanding it like a conical sail.  I had to act quickly to wrap my djellaba more closely around my hips and thighs, to avoid flashing the entire campsite

Thank heavens the other campers were still sleeping,

for I surely did NOT need witnesses to that embarrassing moment.

My struggle to stand upright, atop that dune, had, however, been worth every effort, as I was immediately rewarded by a sight one would never, ever, see in England.

camel photo by kind courtesy of http://www.flickr.com/photos/sallyrango/5061545997

A caravan of camels was being ushered down the beach by a boy, with a stick! 

This camel train made no audible sound, and the animals seemed resigned to the journey, and also to their handler.

Oh, how I wished I'd remembered to bring my camera with me!

At that precise moment,  I spied Anton, partly hidden on the beach side of the dune, clicking his camera furiously as the camels passed by him.  

Surprised not to have noticed him there before, I now surveyed the area more closely. Those undulating dunes offered a photographer many sheltered nooks. And those strong ocean winds drowned out all but the most robust sounds.

To the west, the slow dawn painted the water's edge in a sheen of silver, for the sun had not yet risen to turn it into gold. 

The sharp, chill wind made me shiver. But I couldn't leave yet - the sun would surely rise behind me above the eastern horizon, if I could stand shivering for just one more minute!

Only I could freeze 

 in April in Morocco!

During England's frigid winters, I stayed warm with friends in heated discotheques!  So, I reasoned, the physical gyrations that worked for me in London, would also work for me in Tangier!

photo by kind courtesy of cynicalidealism.tumblr.com

Dancing like a mad lady, I played on and with the wind. Using my hands to calm the sail-like momentum created by twirling, I managed to remain decently clad.

But if I paused, a mischievous gust would flip my dress up.  So I twirled a lot, stopping only when I was comfortably warm.

Anton and his cameras completely disappeared from my sight after the camels had passed by us.

I knew he had to be somewhere close-by waiting to take his 'famed' sunrise photos. But he did not call out to me and, since the beach and wind provided excellent shelter, I could neither see nor hear him any more.   

Struggling to remain clothed despite the wind, I eventually wound my djellaba tightly around body, then took stock of my surroundings. 

photo by kind courtesy of www.moroccansands.com                 

Ahead was a broad sandy beach, the tide now retreating. Smoother at the water's edge, the sand became darker and coarser as beach met dune grasses. 

Suddenly, a startling 
 b r i l l i a n c e 
illuminated the scene.

I watched in awe, as the sun painted the ocean with gold, enjoying the play of light on the distant waves. That sleepy and surreal, soft and silvery morning, had suddenly burst into full Technicolor glory.

The sun's warmth on my back was most reassuring!  This day had most definitely begun! I was so excited I couldn't wait to get back to the camp and wake everyone up.  I was eager to begin the final leg of our journey to Fes.

 

Making a mental note to ask Anton to send me a copy of his camel and sunrise photographs, after he'd processed and developed his film, I happily skipped down the dune and back to camp.

As it happened, there was no need for me to awaken anyone! Stragglers, with morning hair, were already heading to and from the showers.  When camping, sunshine is a powerful alarm clock.

By the time I had rolled up my sleeping bag, taken a hot shower, and added much needed underwear and my thick, warm, long cardigan to my thin djellaba, I was ravenously hungry. 

We were again seated at the same long picnic table at which we had eaten supper the night before. It was set for breakfast, and already laden with food, supplied and prepared by our British campsite hosts.  

I was happily surprised to see a big pot of hot porridge brought to the table along with the toast and tea - in Morocco yet!  But surprise didn't prevent me from helping myself to a large bowlful, so soon I felt warm and cosy inside and out. 

photo by kind courtesy of  allthingsherbal.com

The milk was goat's milk and tasted quite different from the pasteurized cow's milk, sold in glass bottles, in Britain.

But that morning, on that Tangier beach, cold raw goat's milk was the perfect accompaniment to our outdoor breakfast.

photo by kind courtesy of cie-oxford.com

Our hosts joined us with their cups of tea, to let us know that we needed to reset our clocks and watches before leaving Tangier for Fes that morning.

We had completely overlooked the fact that 

Morocco observes Greenwhich Mean Time 

throughout the whole year.

Our timepieces, therefore, needed to be adjusted back to GMT - an hour earlier than British Daylight Savings Time and a full 2 hours earlier than Spanish time. Though our bodies thought it was 8am, local time in Morocco was only 6am! 

Our hosts told us that, because of the time change, they had been preparing breakfast at dawn on the first morning, for every summer group that camped with them - for the last 16 years. 

I was impressed that they had taken the time to make us porridge on this chilly morning too!  Bless them! 

The previous night,  our two drivers had ordered a huge picnic lunch for all of us, which we now collected and would eat en route to Fes.  

 photo by kind courtesy of worldatlas.com

The sunny day was so welcoming we unanimously decide to take the scenic route along the coast, driving south towards Rabat before turning eastwards towards Fes.

The temperature rose substantially, as we drove towards the interior desert region. Soon able to shed my bulky cardigan, I decided that wearing a light cotton djellaba had, after all, been the correct choice of apparel for that day.

Motoring inland, I noticed a lot of old Mercedes trucks and cars around.  Naively, I expected to see camel trains, but not German-built automobiles.

Our drivers explained that when they had money, Moroccans spent it on cars and trucks. Much like the rest of the world, it seemed.

It was a long, slow drive to Fes, with several stops for photos, but we eventually ate our picnic lunch in an orange grove, en route to our destination city.  

Along with the usual sandwiches, for which the British are famous, our hosts had packed some local fruits and delicacies, like figs and Moroccan tomatoes!  

Moroccan tomatoes photo by kind courtesy of freshtomatoesexport.com

In Morocco, tomatoes grow as large as grapefruit, and were sweeter than any tomato I had ever eaten.  

Although they added an unexpectedly sweet flavour burst to our salad, I preferred to eat them as a fruit. So I would cut one tomato in half for dessert, sharing the other half with someone else.

Eaten alone, our Moroccan tomatoes became a quick and delicious treat, as well as a high vitamin content, anti-oxidant snack that helped to keep all of us healthy during our stay in exotic Morocco.

Not surprisingly, Morocco is today one the largest exporters in world of tomatoes and an unchallenged product leader in terms of Moroccan truck farming.

Orange Grove photo by kind courtesy of en.wikipedia.org

Picnicking in an orange grove was another 'first' for me.  

The collective skins of so many fruits still growing on the tree have such an especially pungent aroma.  The clean, crisp scent was not at all musty or unpleasant, but lifted our spirits, turning that picnic surrounded by orange trees into an aromatherapy treat for us all.

  

Orange’s greatest claim to aromatherapy fame is its ability to affect moods and to lower high blood pressure. In fact, just sniffing it lowers blood pressure a couple points. You don’t even need to buy the essential oil; simply peeling an orange and inhaling its aroma releases its beneficial effects.

 Of course, aromatherapy was still 

a decade or so away from being trendy

One of the girls wanted to pick an orange from the tree, just to taste how sweet it was compared with Moroccan tomatoes.  But our drivers actively discouraged such pilfering, reminding us all that the laws for theft - even of a single orange - are much more stringent on the African continent than in Europe.

So many things to know and 

remember, when travelling!

for more information about Morocco, press this link

We arrived in Fes by mid-afternoon and were immediately greeted by an energetic 10 year old boy with shining eyes and the widest smile ever seen.  

His name was Azim, and he informed us that he would be our guide while we were in Fes.  And to prove that he was trustworthy, his uncle - the Police Commissioner - had invited all of us to his home for 'refreshments' on our last evening in Fes.  

WOW!  

What a warm welcome!

Azim, though young in years, was an animated, delightful soul who already spoke several languages fluently, including English, French, Spanish and Arabic.  

Since Morocco's national languages are Arabic and French, his language skills alone, could prove very useful.  But Azim assured us that he was also "a most efficient and well-informed guide" for our travelling crew.  And because he already liked us, he was willing going to give us a BIG discount!

We were powerless to resist the charm and enthusiasm of this pint-sized business magnate!

Azim then jumped aboard the Love Bus and guided us to our gated and guarded campground, informing us that the guards had real guns with real bullets in them, so we would be safe there.

He also confided the best times and places for shopping and sightseeing, where to eat and where to purchase the exact kinds of merchandise we wanted.

He then cheekily told our drivers that he would personally be willing to escort any unescorted ladies who required his services during our visit to Fes.  

This precocious 10-year old behaved more like a well-seasoned entrepreneur than like any child of my acquaintance. By the efficient manner in which he delivered pertinent information, I had the feeling he'd been a liaison for tourists since he was a toddler.

Before he left us alone to set up our camp and relax for the evening, Azim reiterated that, in Fes, any lady not escorted by a gentleman, risked being abducted or worse.

Was he kidding?  No, he was not...

Our drivers had been similarly forewarned, and insisted that, whenever she wanted to leave the campsite, each lady should do so only in the company of her chosen bodyguard. Anton smiled at me then, and I knew, without words, that he would be my personal bodyguard in Fes! 

Having been reassured of our security at camp, we were grateful to learn that our modern campground offered modern conveniences!  In a week of one night stops, there had been no time to do laundry.  But here in Fes, we had all the essentials -  hot showers, throne toilets - yeah! - working laundry machines and a swimming pool. 

photo by kind courtesy of http://www.motodreamers.com

Early evening temperatures in camp were in the balmy 70s.  So, whilst waiting for our washing machines to finish their loads, a few of us enjoyed a leisurely swim in the clean, clear pool. 

It was a sanitary, civilized and relaxing introduction to Fes.  And, as an added bonus, even the heaviest denim jeans dried to a crisp in that semi-arid climate.

After swimming, we ate lightly, finishing the remainder of our substantial lunch pack! Then we completed our laundry and took to our tents.  

Sleep came easily to us all that night.  Our ultra early start, followed by a marathon day of driving plus the 2-hour time change meant we were asleep much earlier than most of the other travellers that night. But we did not care - dreamland beckoned and we willingly surrendered.

As a group, we were about to enjoy three glorious days in Fes. We were all eager to begin exploring! And I had rarely felt as excited about my life as I did then.  

Less than 24 hours later, our youthful enthusiasm would provoke some alarming life lessons that nobody would soon forget.

Coming Soon! 

Section 3 - Chapter 8

Fes  (Days 1)

 Medina, Mint tea, Maniacs and Meditation,

  My Road to Morocco - Day 9