My second day in Morocco was spent in Chefchaouen, better known as The Blue City. Visiting The Blue City had been a dream of mine for a long time; seeing it in person didn’t disappoint, and it was a little surreal walking through streets that I had only ever seen on the travel pages I follow on Instagram.

Chefchaouen felt safer than Tangier, probably because it’s overrun with tourists. This city is where I was able to do some of the bargaining that I’d been told was a must. It’s like a game, and prices are never final. At one market, as soon as the young man who worked there saw me looking at a scarf, he grabbed it, wrapped it around me, and said “This is great quality! It’s beautiful on you. It’s 140 Dirham but for you, 120.” I felt flustered and embarrassed, but also very flattered–that’s his trick, I suppose. With some help from my friend, I detached myself from both him and the scarf, and began to walk away, saying I would only take it for 60D. Another man rushed over to me and said “Ok, not 60 and not 120, name your price.” I said “65.” Theatrics over this ludicriously low price, ensued, and I walked out of their little shack. Soon, one of them called after me “Wait, wait, 65 ok, 65!” So, I got my scarf for €6.50, and felt both proud of myself for my first succesful bargaining attempt, and a little icky, for not giving him money that I’m sure he could’ve used.

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By the time we returned to the No Stars Hotel, it was dark. CityLife left us to fend for ourselves, so a few of us grabbed some pizzas-to-go, and ate in our room, not feeling much inclined to wander and risk more street harrassment/yodeling. We got a good night’s sleep, having no idea what was waiting for us the next day.

The plan on Sunday was supposed to go as follows: Leave the hotel at 10:30am. Take the 1:00 ferry. Arrive at Algeciras port by 3. Drive all day. Arrive in Madrid by midnight. Catch the metro before it closes, and be safely tucked into our beds by 12:30.

We left our hotel at 10:30, as scheduled. Halfway to the port, our coordinator told us that our 1:00 ferry had been delayed, and that we would stop at an *actual* 3 Stars Hotel by the ocean, to kill time for the next hour, rather than wait at the port. We walked along the beach, stepped in more camel shit, had some mint tea, and got back on the road. When we arrived at the port, we were told that we had to stay seated on the bus, with no explanation. We waited for a long time, until finally our coordinator came back and informed us that the 1:00 ferry had been cancelled, and the 2, 3 and 4:00 ferrys were full. We would be catching the 5:00 ferry instead. By this point, we were all doing the math in our head, and realizing that this wouldn’t get us back to Madrid until 3am. In a brief moment of insanity, I looked up flights to Madrid, but decided I couldn’t justify to myself spending €300 on a one way flight.

Back on the road we go, to a nearby restaurant for a ‘quick’ lunch. I say ‘quick’ because there were 75 of us and we had about one hour to eat before we had to get back to the port. This restaurant did not accept credit cards. A handful of us got back on the bus, went down the road, and spent about fifteen minutes trying to withdraw cash from a janky looking ATM. By this point, tensions were running high. At least two girls had already burst into tears, two others had gotten into cat fights, and all my friend Lindsay and I could do was look at each other and say “There is WAY too much estrogen here”.

A rushed one hour lunch later (shoutout to the five waiters that somehow fed 75 people–talk about a Biblical miracle), and we were on the bus, headed back to the port. What ensued for the next 30 minutes was complete chaos, as the leaders of the group gave us our Passports and boarding passes (no Coronavirus forms though, because Spain just doesn’t give a heck about that), we went through security, and stood at the back of a long line of people waiting to go through Passport Control. That 5:00 ferry? Not happening.

After finally getting through Passport Control, we joined the throngs of people trying to get on the busses that would take us to the ferry. It looked like something out of a movie, people pushing and shoving one another to get themselves and their suitcases onto the busses. Lindsay and I got separated, with my coordinator flinging out an arm and hoisting me, my suitcase, and my blanket, onto the jam-packed bus. But, we all reached the ferry, stood in line some more, dumped our bags somewhere, and promptly made our way to the bar. The ferry did not leave until 7:30pm.

Of course, the bar was packed too, with only two men behind the counter. Lindsay and I waited for a long time and finally made our way to the front, but not before an entitled, middle aged man with a beer belly, tried to cut his way in and order before us. Normally, I would stay quiet, let him order his drink, and bitch about it later. Not today, hunny. I wonder if this man had ever had two young women snarl at him the way we did, and then turn to the bartender and order two beers and two bottles of wine. I felt a little bad for the bartender who clearly didn’t want to get involved in this war…but not that bad.

Lindsay and I returned to our seats with our hands full of alcohol, and plopped ourselves down to watch a card game, eat some snacks, and try to numb ourselves. But, alas, this relief was short lived. A few Moroccan men came over to the long table that a few people were using for cards. They set their trays of food down, but did not eat, as there were no chairs. What happened next was very sudden: In an instant, one of the men, and a woman from our group, began yelling at each other in Spanish. The man had tried to take one of her chairs, which they had apparently been saving for a friend, and she was demanding for it back. One of the girls on the trip stomped over to him, got in his face, and yanked the chair away. He then turned to us, and the rest of the people sitting around staring, and said “We need to eat! You are all just playing cards. We need to sit down and eat!” There was silence. The man ate his food standing up. None of the other men would even touch their food; one of them eventually sat down on the floor and ate. It all seemed stupid, fighting over a chair, but we realized that this must have been a cultural issue: Why else would these men make such a big deal, and then leave their food on the table to get cold? Lindsay and I felt uncomfortable, awkward, and sad. We gave our chairs to the men, one of whom gave me a grateful smile, and we left to try to find a different place to sit with our luggage. Unsuccessful, we sat down on the floor of a hallway. In front of a Coronavirus poster.

30 minutes before the ferry docked, we realized that we were sitting in the hallway that was closest to the exit. Swarms of people began to gather around us, all pushing and shoving, wanting to be the first person off the boat. This too, we survived, and when we finally got off the ferry, Spain Passport Control barely looked at my residence card, nor stamped my Passport. It felt good to be home. Except we weren’t, yet.

The journey home took nine hours, with multiple stops, due to some issue with the bus that the driver had tried to fix with tape. I am not making this up. We arrived back in Moncloa station, at 7:30am, Monday morning. Lindsay and I took a taxi to our respective apartments, not wanting to deal with the morning commuters, or for them to witness our disheveled state.

My two days in Morocco were incredible. I’ve never had an experience like it, and I’m so grateful I had the opportunity to see such a different and beautiful country. I would love to go back, and travel to Marrakech or Casablanca; but, next time, I think I’ll fly.