26 August, 2014
I got to Heathrow by tube in
comfortable time for my flight to Casablanca. Lots of young teenagers
about. Oh, no! They were on my flight. It was like be trapped on a
school bus with a gaggle of over-exuberant puppies. Never mind the
mixed metaphors!
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| Spain - or maybe Portugal - down below |
From Seat 22A I was a long
way from last off the plane. Got to border control, got in a queue …
which then seemed like my usual luck, the slowest. I thought of
changing but other times I’ve done that it’s gone from bad to
worse, so this time, for once, stayed put. Slowly, slowly; other
queues quickly, quickly. Finally I got to the head of the queue. And
what happens?! The bloke ups and offs. I was the very last from the
flight through border control! Not happy.
More queues for various
mysterious checks and at very long last I was out the door. Because
the flight was due at 9.30pm, in fact 8.30 pm local time – they
don’t change the clocks in summer, they change the time they do
everything – I booked a car and driver to take me to my hotel, some
distance away in the beach area, the Corniche. No way I wanted to be
haggling prices at that time of night.
So I get outside and see my
name. We head to the car and the driver says to me, “Tomorrow we’ll
do ….. this and that.” Oh no, I’m about to be kidnapped. In a
country where touting, hassling and bargaining are the ways business
is done, I thought he was trying to lure me away from my booked tour.
It took a bit of working out that the driver who collected me was to
be my driver for the tour. It wasn’t a separate, unrelated taxi
that had collected me after all.
At long last, arrived at the
hotel. A good night’s sleep and the next morning was a different
day. Thank God!
