Casablanca Journal - Day 4

Three colleagues and I were sent to Casablanca for business three weeks ago. The trip lasted four days, so I kept a daily journal.This is the fourth and final day.

How Did I Get Here???

Another copywriter was supposed to go on this trip. She was grounded by her doctor after experiencing some vicious inner ear pains. On Saturday afternoon, I got an SMS informing me I was flying out early Monday morning to Casablanca.

I scrambled to prepare for the trip. Loads of laundry waited to be done and a cabin-worthy bag had to be packed. My laptop had to be fetched from the office.

I had no time to research Morocco, which was obvious after my arrival on Monday. I handed the money exchange girl some Euros and asked it to be changed into... into... I paused, realizing I did not even know the local currency. “Dirham,” she said.

Incidentally, I saw her again at a different booth today, as we were flying out. She recognized me. We had a laugh.

Business Class

In the chaos of canceled and rebooked flights over the weekend, the accounting department rushed to get find an available flight. The only space for me was in business class. That is why I am here, luxuriating with extra leg room, scribbling in my notebook, eating from a cheese plate and sipping wine.

Not a bad way to travel. An aside: I was happier during the trip than I appear in the scribble below.

WAIT! Whatever happened to the lost luggage?

Yesterday Malika and Katie received word that their luggage was left in Rome and was enroute to Casablanca. It was due to arrive at midnight, which did nothing dressing for impressing in the business meetings.

The worst part was they were both going to Croatia trip after the business trip and Katie had packed a huge suitcase for her Casablanca trip and the Croatia trip. Everything she needed was out there, somewhere, in the air.

So today, being the day of their departure, with hair curling and volumizing in the blazing Moroccan heat (remember, no hair product), they went to the airport for their 6am flight to pick it up and fly back to Budapest.

That was the plan.

The lost luggage locker was, well, locked, and there was no attendant around. With only a few feet separating them from their long last luggage, they left their luggage behind to catch their flight.

Good trip with good people: The Casablanca Crew at Rick's.
 Photo by Arnold

Casablanca Journal - Day 3

Three colleagues and I were sent to Casablanca for business three weeks ago. The trip lasted four days, so I kept a daily journal.This is the third day.

During a break in the meeting, we took in the view from atop our client's building.

Eating to Excess

The hotel’s breakfast is a rich buffet. There is an omelette chef, a lady who makes pancakes, and a spread of Moroccan dates, almonds, merguez sausages, and other local deliciousness. For Westerners, there are cupcakes and a love-handle load of sugary pastries on a table. Yes, there are also fried potatoes and broiled tomatoes. There are cheeses, olives and, yes, a small pork section for those who don’t do halal.

So we sit down here, eat too much, and feel truly North American in our needless excesses. Pass the cupcakes!

To the Meeting!

We catch a cab and begin the battle with traffic. Casablanca traffic is a study in the chaos theory. It seems disorderly, with bicycles, motorcycles and mopeds diving between cars, pedestrians ignoring crosswalks and crossing wherever they please. The lines painted on the road are really just abstract theories, cars jump out into opposing traffic to pass cars, they make wild left turns from the far right lane at intersections. They jockey for pole position at stoplights, which are the only traffic law obeyed here.

But! The traffic moves and it seems to fit the flow of the city. As a client put it yesterday, you can’t get angry about traffic here, it won’t do any good.

Casablanca traffic. An orderly snarl.

This is an Office? 

The client’s office is in a walled compound with trees, flowers and other lush surroundings. Walking to the main office building was like walking through a garden. The office building is built around an atrium with gilded wood arches and a beautifully tiled floor and mosaic on the ceiling. It’s a beautiful office to visit and a welcome change from the beige-grey offices I’m accustomed to.

Trial by Taxi

After the meeting, the client called for cabs. The office is in a nice neighbourhood and doesn’t see too many cabs. We waited a half hour before the first one came. Then Arnold and I waited another half hour.

Growing impatient we hailed a Petit Taxi, which are shared cabs, so with two out of three spaces filled our cabbie was pulling over for fares on the way to the hotel.

No one was going in that direction and the cabbie made quick work of the trip – scooting down side streets at break-neck speeds and sliding between garbage trucks and oncoming traffic. It was a cheap fare to boot.

Friends of Friends in Strange Places

A colleague from deepblue Budapest has a friend in Morocco, who we met her for coffee. Naturally, traffic came up. She finds moves too slowly and is accustomed to the lax traffic enforcement of Mexico, apparently the land of the loco speed demons. Here there’s a speed limit that’s obeyed, so she gets pulled over often and has to talk her way out of it.

She moved to Casablanca after marrying a Moroccan man. I give her credit, she moved here without any friends and she’s thriving – a very brave lady.

I Hate Haggling

Once again we took a taxi, the same one we took us there.The cab driver demanded more because he had to return to the cafe to pick us up, I got grumpy and said that’s not happening, he’s already getting a tourist-whitey fare. He didn’t object. I’m getting sick of the haggling here, but I might be getting the hang of it.

Rick’s Cafe

Katie made reservations for dinner at Rick’s Cafe tonight. The movie Casablanca wasn’t filmed in Casablanca, but an enterprising individual opened a Rick’s anyway. It’ll be pricey, but I’m looking forward to it, I’m a fan of the movie and I think I’ll finally do the lamb...

Rick's Cafe... and Arnold in mid-bite.

Casablanca Journal - Day 2

Three colleagues and I were sent to Casablanca for business three weeks ago. The trip lasted four days, so I kept a daily journal.This is the second day.  

The neighbourhood around our hotel.

Breakfast of Champions

Good breakfast this morning. I was the first downstairs and met our omelette/pancake cook, Ami. Friendly guy. He laughed at my jokes, even the lame ones. He whipped up some Moroccan-style pancakes, which are made with ground-up couscous, and topped with honey and an almond spread that’s made from pulverized almonds and argan oil. I like Moroccan breakfasts.

Luggage Update

According to the airline people, Katie and Malika’s luggage didn’t even make it onto the plane in Rome, so it might arrive later that night on the midnight flight.

With no luggage, Katie and Malika went out shopping, while Arnold and I went for a quick Discovery Walk around the block. Nothing to report, Katie bought a dress, Malika bought a top, but neither could find appropriate hair product. Meanwhile Arnold and I learned to play frogger through Casablanca’s free-for-all traffic.

Time to Work

We began the process of understanding the market, so we toured the cigarette vendors of Casablanca. There are plenty of smokers and we’re allowed to advertise in-store, but they’re all so small and crowded.

The big thing that everyone talks about is everybody buys their cigarettes individually, especially at bars where waiters and bartenders sell their own smokes to patrons. It’s not legal, but it’s not enforced either.

This reminds me of a conversation with a friend when I used to be the guy who only smoked while he was drinking. We agreed that if we could just buy one smoke when we wanted it at the bar, we wouldn’t come home with half a pack that tempted us the next day.

Morocco understands the smoker I used to be. 

One of the crazy crowded kiosks. I can't even find the smokes.

Seeing Casablanca from the Backseat

Casablanca is Morocco’s biggest city and people from all over the country flock here for work and other opportunities. It’s a big country. There’s a huge rural population and plenty of cities strung along its coast, so there are a lot of different people from different backgrounds.

The easiest way to recognize them is how they dress. Some men wear the long kaftan, while others wear jeans and t-shirts – although almost nobody wears shorts.

For the women, there are a few burqas, but not many. Most wear brilliantly-coloured, ankle-length dresses with vibrant head scarves. Many other women wear trousers and modest tops but, like the men, few bare legs.

Over lunch one of our clients mentioned that Moroccan society, despite appearing modern, is actually very traditional, with a focus on family and religion. He described it as traditional with a modern coating over top.

HoReCa Tour!

After a break to change and refresh, which is difficult for luggage-less Malika and Katie – who are craving their favourite shampoos and other product in this heat – we will be visiting a few bars with the client to investigate tobacco advertising opportunities, get a feel for the target in their natural habitat, and, of course, have a drink (we're in advertising, after all).

Casablanca Journal - Day 1

Three colleagues and I were sent to Casablanca for business three weeks ago. The trip lasted four days, so I kept a daily journal. This is the first day. 

We arrived at the Hassan Mosque before evening prayers
and it was a hub of activity.

So Long Luggage

We have arrived in Casablanca, although without some luggage. Katie and Malika both checked their baggage in Budapest and, probably because we only had an hour to change flights in Rome, their baggage is lost.

Their hair product and business outfits are in those cases, which is not a good situation to be in when you’re looking at two days of client meetings and retail outlet tours.

Tissue Vendors

At stoplights, vendors walk between cars selling boxes of tissues. In one case, a guy in the backseat of a BMW bought a box of tissues from a vendor while the light was changing. As the vendor was fumbling for change, the car began lurching forward, so the passenger just took two boxes instead of the change and sped off.

Medina Discovery Walk

We checked into the hotel and went for a Discovery Walk to the Medina, which is Casablanca’s old market. We quickly got lost in the maze of old buildings, narrow streets, and stalls.

Along the way we met Omar, who latched onto Arnold right away. Omar told us he would guide us through the market and took us to a shop, where he was clearly had the job of steering tourists in. Another guide brought in a couple of Dutch sailors.

We purchased a few things and Omar took us for a walk through the market, slowly guiding us to our destination: the Hassan Mosque. Along the way, he talked about fighting in the war, living in the mountains, traveling with Berber nomads in the desert, a dead wife, and all manner of hard luck stories. It all could have been true, or simply tall tales, because when we reached the mosque, we felt obliged to give him a couple of Euros, enough if he didn’t expect payment for his tour guide services.

Eating like Moroccans

For dinner we went out for some traditional Moroccan grub: Tagine. I got the Chicken Tagine with vegetables and couscous. Delicious stuff, but Malika wisely ordered the lamb with stewed prunes. She’s a light eater, so I helped out and quickly realized I should have ordered the lamb.

Of Curses and Hungarian Healthcare

There's a grim joke going around the office that the Canadians are cursed.

It began with Teak tearing an Achilles tendon playing squash. After a traumatic visit to an emergency room/butchershop, surgery and months of physiotherapy, he still limps.

Kevin flew over the handle bars of his mountain bike in the Buda hills. He has had three surgeries on his shoulder and still has metal screws holding things together.

The rest of the Canadians have gloomily awaited their turn. We are cautious. We don’t jaywalk. No one does extreme sports. When Cara, another Canadian, and I go running in the Buda hills with our Hungarian running group, prayers are murmured down every treacherous trail. Other Canadians just stopped being active. They just stay home. They avoid outdoor activities. They avoid disaster.

Then the curse struck me this summer.

A week before my 31^st birthday, I got a pain in the neck. It was so incredible that my shoulders were scrunched up to my ears. I went to a private doctor’s office frequented by my other  expatriate co-workers. The nice doctor prescribed me a bunch of awesome drugs, set me up with an MRI exam and sent me home.

For two days, I lay on the couch, popping muscle relaxants, until my MRI appointment. Normally, the wait is longer, but going through the private doctor and paying more meant I jumped the line. Not something that happens in Canada, the Land of the Long Wait.

I went in, got buzzed by the machine and they handed me a CD with the images on it almost right after, ready to be shared on the book of face. Nothing to worry about, just muscle pain from poor neck posture at the work computer, so I began physio.

Not a week later, I got a sore throat. No matter, I thought, just sleep and gargle some salt water and all will be well. 

That Saturday, I laid on the couch, unable to eat anything because my throat was so sore. Kata came by with a thermometer, because, silly me, I didn’t pack one when I moved to Europe. It informed me my temperature was in the neighbourhood of 40 degrees. It was not a routine sore throat, so she administered a tea and strepsil cure and I decided to see a doctor.

Private medicare isn’t cheap in Hungary, which is a universal truth everywhere, so I asked the internet about public care. I found an information number on a government website and asked for help. With my woefully limited Hungarian and the operators’ limited English (I could hear several other employees in the background, helping out), I found a walk-in clinic.

I took the metro, staggered into the office and began the most sacred of medical rituals: the wait. There was no front desk, no triage nurse. You just walk in, and sit on a chair near the door of the office you are meant to visit –I just did not know which door I was meant to visit.

After waiting and awkward conversations in Hungarian with other waiters, I managed to get into and office and lo there was an English-speaking doctor. She took one look at my throat and said it was an infection. She prescribed a bunch of powerful antibiotics, which are cheap in Hungary, and told me to rest.

I embarrassed myself a bit later, when I returned for a follow-up, just to make sure I was cured. I got a lot of strange looks because it seems no one just drops by the doctor’s office to make they’re sick.

Since this writing, a Canadian copywriter has developed inner ear issues – the curse struck again.

Escape from Venice

Venice has its medieval charm, which is lost when you need to get out. 

Neither of us wanted to leave Venice, but there were jobs and responsibilities back in Budapest, so we had to get out. But if you want to get out of Venice you have to manage your time.

We started with the water bus, or vaporetto, which took us to the stop near our hotel. We walked to the hotel. The hotel manager eventually buzzed us through the gate remotely. We collected our luggage and walked as briskly as we could with hulking backpacks to the water bus stop. Then we waited.

When it arrived, we boarded the water bus, which leisurely took us to the train station for the tiny monorail that would take us to the bus station.

The water bus route creeps along the Grand Canal. It’s a beautiful ride, but we were watching our watches, not the scenery. We reached the docks and ran frantically to the station. We paid quickly, boarded the monorail train, which has only two stops.

As we reached the final stop, we saw a bus with our carrier lines’ name written on the side. It might have been ours, but it could have been another one. We got off and waited. As we waited, as the realization that we missed our bus to Budapest sank in.

This was not good. It was after 8pm, we had to work in the morning, and, save for restaurants and bars, Venice shuts down in the evening.

Everything was closed, there was no way we could buy a ticket anywhere to board a night train, so we found a hostel, rented two beds in a dorm room and slept a nervous sleep.

In the morning, after a few hours of train station waiting and negotiating with travel agency people, we figured out our journey. We take a bus from Venice to Villach. From there, we catch a train to Vienna. We debark at a remote, Viennese suburban train station and hop on the night train to Bucharest, which was making a stop in Budapest.

Monty Python couldn’t have dreamed of a more ridiculously topsy turvy trip.

To our gleeful surprise, the bus to Villach was an Austrian double decker highway coach. We got seat on the second level and spent most of the ride enjoying the view of the Alps as we crossed from Italy into Austria. Next, we got a comfortable Austrian train to Vienna.

Things seemed to be turning to our favour.

We packed a lunch of proscuitto, olives, cheese, and bread in Italy for the journey, but ran out before Vienna. There was nothing open around the train station, so we decided we could afford some overpriced train food, no matter how suspect it might seem.

The sounds of our hopes crashing when the train arrived could have deafened people around us. The train looked like it arrived from the 1970s East Bloc.

It was old, with peeling paint, faded upholstery and reeked of stale cigarette smoke.We managed to get a compartment to ourselves, but could not get comfortable enough to sleep.

There also no dining car, so the final leg of our journey was spent with grumbling stomachs, which we sated at a McDonald’s in Budapest after we finally arrived, almost 18 hours later than expected.

The Alps, from our Austrian double decker bus.