The Road More Traveled

I went to Morocco more than ten years ago. It was when I was in college and kind of on a lark - my friend Katherine and I wanted to get to the most exotic destination possible for spring break when we were both on a semester abroad in Bath, England. So we chose Morocco. She was going to travel through Spain for the first week of the break while I visited with some friends in Northern England. Then I flew to meet her in Malaga, and from there we took a ferry to an old Spanish Fort, Melilla, where we planned to cross the border and take a bus to what's one of the oldest and most sacred cities in Morocco, Fes.

This was before every hotel had its own website. This was before every traveler posted his or her photos on Flickr or Snapfish and all you had to do was type in a place to see what would be there. This was before you could download a podcast of a language lesson and listen to it on the plane, or read about every type of traveler malaise possible on three different travel forums. That much has changed in ten years.

I too have changed. For that trip, I lost my passport and only realized it the week before I had to leave. That meant an emergency day at the embassy in London for which some people will always deserve to be thanked. For that trip, Katherine didn't pay close enough attention to the balance in her bank account, which meant spending a few days in a bank in Morocco getting money wired. Luckily, those were the worst of our troubles.

When we got to the border, perhaps because we'd taken a less tourist-traveled route into the country, we found no signage in English. There we no guides trying to get our business. I don't know who we thought would be there to help us, but there was no one. We did finally manage to meet a nice Algerian man who spoke English and got us into Morocco and onto our bus to Fes. Though he didn't warn me not to drink too much water, because there was no toilet on the bus and it would be a long time before we stopped anywhere. A long time.

When we arrived in Fes, we took the first friendly guide who approached us at the gates of the old city, despite the warnings in the guidebook. Abdullah was his name; he was young so he didn't freak us out as much as the older guides leaning against the wall and whistling "Sweetheart," and he worked out just fine. He took us around the Medina, to the tannery and the rug and leather shops. We bought trinkets big and small. We saw the sights and watched the people. We ate a lot of unleavened bread and oranges from street vendors. The oranges were the best I've ever had.

On our last day, we splurged and went to Moulay Yacoub, a spa in the mountains that wasn't in our guidebook but was recommended by the locals. We paid close to our last twenty dollars for a taxi to take us there, visions of poolside leisure in our heads. When we arrived, we discovered the pool was indoors, it reeked of sulfur, and it was full of topless Moroccan women, young and old, who didn't seem to be too impressed by our arrival.

My point is this - the best experiences of the trip came from the unexpected. The best stories came from the surprises, and almost everything was a surprise because we were so completely unprepared.

This time, we're totally prepared, and my fear is that we've taken the surprise right out of it. The internet has made the world so small that I know exactly what I'm walking into - right down to the weather in Kolkata, minute by minute.

So my hope is that, despite our hours poring over guidebooks, making lists and looking at travel websites, there will still be some adventure, some suprises, some stories.

And who knows, maybe I'll leave the guidebooks at home, but don't tell Chris;)