Observations from a 14 hour layover in Casablanca

I meet a girl on the plane.  She is my twin.  Except she speaks French and is on route to Togo, with a 12 hour layover.

We meet a European with a 6 hour layover.  We meet an American who is visiting friends.  It’s his first time outside the US.  We all head into town.

The European scares the shit out of the American.  He tells the American to take off his earrings, so that he won’t get the foreigner price at markets.  The American complies instantly.  The European hides the American’s suitcase when the American walks around the train, to reinforce the importance of watching one’s belongings.

The American stares out the train window.  The land is flat and green.  There are run-down buildings with satellites.  “It’s so much to take in,” he says.  “It’s like what I’ve seen in movies.”

The American departs.  The European gets off the train and heads back to the airport to make his flight.

My twin and I walk around Casablanca.

We go back to the airport.  My twin meets two Ivorian footballers.  They are Williamsburg skinny and impeccably dressed.  She introduces us.  They speak almost as little English as I speak French.  We smile at each other.

My twin explains that they were traveling for a game.  They spent the day trying to get visas to Belgium and Mali.  They were unsuccessful, and are returning home.

My twin leaves for Togo.  I sit and read, lonely and unable to communicate with anyone.  I relocate every five minutes to give my chair to old women.

The footballers tell me it is time to go through security by motioning with their hands.  I follow, knowing this is the start of a month of complete reliance on other people.