With ten minutes to go before my train was supposed to leave for Casablanca's Mohammed V Airport from the central Casa Voyageurs station, there was still a different train parked at the platform and no sign of mine. It was 3:50 am which is early enough, let alone when you've only had three hours of sleep. With time winding down I began to get a little nervous. The next train wouldn't be for more than two hours so I needed to be on this one in order to catch my 7:30 flight to Paris, en route back to Ljubljana. Eventually, with just a couple minutes to spare an announcement came over the PA, first in Arabic and then in French, saying that the train to the airport was departing from platform one. I was on platform two. I immediately got that "oh shit" feeling and started running down the steps, underneath the tracks, and up the other side. Just as I came to the top of the steps the official was closing all the doors on the running train. I frantically asked him if it was the train to the airport and either he didn't say anything or I just didn't hear him but he appeared to give a thumbs up. Without hesitation I jumped on board and felt the closing doors squeeze my backpack as I narrowly made it on.
But before I could even begin to feel relaxed that I had made it, I heard someone yell "No!" and a guy came running over and stared at me through the window on the door. He was a young guy with a thick beard and a large backpack and apparently he was going to the airport too because he screamed through the glass that I was on the wrong train. At the same time, he was desperately trying to get the attention of the official on the platform and I began to pound on the "Door Open" button as if I could will the door to open with a little force. But it was all no to avail and in a matter of seconds we started pulling away, and in the opposite direction of the airport. The gentle rocking of the train under my feet felt more like an earthquake and my already elevated heart rate began increasing along with the speed of the train. The guy on the platform just stood there staring at me, mouth open with his hands in the air in a helpless, almost apologetic kind of way. Judging by the look on his face, my own expression must have been somewhere between "Is this really happening?" and "just got punched in the stomach." Slowly, the lights of the station faded away and I was overcome with the darkness of the unknown, and the uncertainty of what lie ahead.
At this point my mind was racing at warp speed. 'Its almost four o'clock in the morning and its pitch black, I'm on a train heading in the wrong direction to who knows where and for who knows how long'. Time was ticking, and of course my initial thought was that I was not gonna make my flight. But through all this noise in my head came the sound of laughter. I looked into the compartment to see two girls in the same car, probably the only other people on the whole train. They were busy taking pictures of each other in funny poses and giggling away, completely oblivious to the gravity of the situation. I interrupted them to ask if the train was going to the airport, I figured it wouldn't hurt to double check. Sure enough though they both said no with a little bit of a laugh and looked at me like I was crazy. They then went back to taking pictures of each other and I was left to torture myself by playing out different scenarios in my head.
Thankfully, the train came to a stop at a station about 15 minutes later, rather than two hours later, and I, along with the two girls, got off. It was just a tiny station somewhere on the outskirts of Casablanca. There were no street lights and definitely no traffic and since it was just after four in the morning there was hardly anyone there except for a few people in the lobby. There was a security guard who was dressed as though he was on an Arctic expedition despite the fact that it was at least 10 degrees outside. Apparently noticing I had no idea what to do, one of the girls from the train offered to call a taxi for me but after several attempts she could not convince anyone to come all the way out to the station. The only other option was the lone taxi who had been coming back and forth to pick people up. After some negotiating, she was able to get him to agree to take me to the airport for 250 dirhams. Of course, I had spent the last of my dirhams on the train ticket and had only 20 euros (200dh) left, but I'd deal with later. As I walked towards the lights of the cab through the dark parking lot I realized another problem. It was a red "Petit Taxi" meaning it was only allowed within the city and not to the airport. Just when I thought it was clear sailing, there was something else I had to worry about. Is this guy really gonna break the rules for me? As it turns out...no, no he's not.
We drove around through dark deserted streets for some time, picking up and dropping off other passengers along the way, until we eventually pulled up beside a stand of 'Grand Taxis', the ones that are used for bigger distances including the airport. My driver got out and negotiated some more before coming back and literally pushing me out of the passenger seat. I was to go with one of the other drivers from here. Now, I wouldn't have minded this except he wanted to be paid in addition to the 250dh I was to pay this other guy which of course, isn't what we had agreed on. Realistically though, it was almost 5:00am, I had no idea where I was, time was ticking, and I was surrounded by some obviously unscrupulous taxi drivers; paying this guy extra would not be negotiable. They were more than happy to exchange my euros into dirhams so I could pay my driver, but that still left me without enough money to pay the next leg to the airport.
So the new driver began taking me around to different banks, trying to find one that would take my card. It became a routine; he pulls up at a bank, I get out and run to the ATM, and he yells at me in French with his incredibly gravelly voice and honks the horn because apparently that makes ATM's run faster. Finally, I was able to get some money and we sped off to the airport, although I never really relaxed until I sat down in my seat on the plane (which had been bumped to First Class by the way, the only good thing to happen to me all day). As I polished off my delicious breakfast and dozed off in my comfy seat I had no idea that the most stressful part of my day was actually still to come.
We landed at Paris' Charles de Gaulle Airport at 10:30, giving me two hours to spare before my flight to Ljubljana. de Gaulle airport is MASSIVE and it took a long time to go through passport control, multiple security checks, and take the bus to the right terminal, but I wasn't worried because I knew I still had about an hour to kill. But as I was making my way past the "A" gates of the terminal en route to my "C39" an announcement came on overhead calling certain people to their gates. Given the experiences I had already had that morning, I knew right away that my name was for some reason going to be included on this list. Sure enough, "Mitchell Norstrom please proceed immediately to your gate," came over loud and clear. As it was an hour ahead of boarding I wasn't quite sure why, I thought maybe I was gonna get bumped to first class again. Anyway, I picked up the pace and hurried to my gate.
As I walked up, there was a guy standing there who was visibly anxious. He asked me if I was Mitchell Norstrom going to Ljubljana, followed up with "Come on, hurry up!" He started off at a run towards to door to the tarmac and I was right behind him. Just as we got to within an arms reach a guy on the other side pulls the sliding door shut, and locks it, staring at both of us and shaking his head. The guy I was with turned to me and said, "Sorry sir, boarding has closed." To which I replied, "What?"
I was so surprised I literally forgot to breathe for a few moments. It felt like I had had the wind knocked out of me. I looked up at the screen above the door and noted the boarding time flashing in red and yellow, it finally dawned on me that it was already 12:30, and that the clock on my phone, the only clock I had looked at until this point, was still stuck an hour behind on Moroccan time. I was only interrupted from my confused daze by the airport attendant saying, "Sir, you're not getting on that plane. Do you understand?" I stood there not quite sure what to say for what seemed like an eternity. Eventually, and in reality probably only a few seconds later , a girl standing behind the desk got a brief phone call and said, "Okay we're good." She then hurriedly scanned my passport and opened the door. "Go now! Run!"
To make matters worse, as I was running out to the plane, I looked up into the piercing gaze of the pilot sitting in the cockpit. I then had to be that guy that walks on to the plane late and everyone knows he's the reason for the hold up. They probably thought I had just spent too much time shopping at the Duty Free. But little did they know what I had already been through.
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