The phone rang at 2 in the morning: the plane was further delayed, so we wouldn't have to leave the hotel until 5:30am. Ah well, I could use the extra two hours of sleep.

We woke to find the complimentary coffee drained, the hotel gift shop closed, and the wifi egregriously overpriced. While Barry and I waited for Clare to come down, I took the chance to put some extra joules in the handheld; instead of packing a laptop, I got a Nokia N810, an ultra-portable that runs Linux. It had just enough horsepower to play videos, pull pictures off my camera, and browse the Internet, but the battery was drained from my cross country flight the day before.

Another crowded shuttle bus took us back to the airport. When I got into the terminal, I noticed that the zipper on the main compartment of my backpack was open. I zipped it up and hoped nothing had fallen out.

Airport security was a breeze, and the terminal slowly filled up with our fellow passengers. Two thirds appeared to be Moroccans visiting home, and the other third were tourists like us. Most of the tourists were on package tour groups, though.

The airplane didn't board until 8am. Aside from having to kick an elderly lady out of our seats, the flight was fairly uneventful. Of note was the declining cleanliness of the plane through the duration of the flight, with the bathrooms reaching the nadir of "positively disgusting" a mere 4 hours into the 7 hour flight.

We landed at Casablanca in the dark at 8pm; customs was remarkably easy, with no fee for the tourist visa (something virtually unheard of). After getting our bags, the customs inspector waved us by, seeming irritated that we would bother him with our presence.

We were instantly out of our element. Barry's coworker is Moroccan, and her family lives in Casablanca; we were supposed to call her brother, but we had no cell phone, and the payphone only took chip phone cards.

A guy with a badge from one of the local hotels came over and offered the use of his phone card. It didn't work, so he used his cell phone, handing it to Barry after dialing.

Barry tried to explain what was up, but shortly the guy grabbed his cell phone back and started talking to him in Arabic. He hung up and told us that Mohamed would meet us at the train station down town, Casa Voyaguer. He walked us down to the train terminal and, not quite knowing the etiquette, we handed him a couple bucks as he walked off.

The train ticket was 35 dirhams, about $5; learning the French number system paid off pretty quickly, and would continue to pay off throughout the trip. We got our tickets, although the agent was visibly annoyed at having to make change for the 100 dirham bills we had just gotten at the ATM.

As we walked away from the ticket counter, a rail agent came over and showed us where to wait. And then proceeded to stand next to us. "Je vu dois combien?" I asked him in broken French. He mumbled a reply that sounded like "fifty". No way we were giving him a $7 tip for walking us 100 meters. Barry gave him a 20 dirham note, and he grudgingly ambled away.

While we waited for the train, we resolved not to tip again unless someone actually provided a service, concluding that we surely looked like easy marks with our heavy backpacks.

On the train we met an American couple that was on the same flight as us and were similarly delayed. Weighing on our minds was how we would get to Marrakech; we both had hotel reservations there, but it was nearing 10pm and Marrakech was a good 3 hours away. We talked about potentially sharing a grande taxi.

We thought we missed our train stop, but Barry asked a guy who was smoking and confirmed that Casa Voyageur was the next stop. Getting off the train, we were quickly mobbed by "guides" and taxi drivers.

A smartly dressed man came up to me and asked if I was "Jerry", or "Terry". "Barry?" I asked. "Yeah!" "No, he's Barry", I pointed. "Are you Mohamed?" "Yes."

Mohamed showed away the taxi driver and we talked options. His mother had made us a meal of cous cous, so we decided to go to his home, and then spend the night in a hotel in Casablanca.

We bid farewell to the American couple and piled into a car with Mohamed's brother in law. It was a short drive through the city; lane markers appeared to be mere suggestions, and the roads were packed with scooters and pedestrians, despite the late hour.

The car stopped in an alley of run-down looking buildings with stucco exteriors. The inside of Mohamed's parents house, was an entirely different story. Marble, tile and frescoed walls, with fine furnishings and carpets. Upstairs, the great room was adorned with fine hand-carved wood.

Mohamed's family was extremely kind, and the food was spectacular. We were awestruck by the hospitality that a family of near-strangers showed us.

After dinner, we hopped back in the car and drove over to the King Hassan II mosque, the second largest mosque in the world. We talked politics, religion and family matters with Mohamed. Their view of American families was very much shaped by what they saw in movies, especially the in-law type movies. The family unit is much stronger in Morocco, apparently. Mohamed was also surprised to hear the George W. Bush is not a Jew, and is in fact a Christian.

Being rather late, the mosque was closed, and only partially lit. The guard let us walk up and take a couple of pictures, though.

Mohamed then took us to a new hotel in the quiet part of town, gave us directions on how to get to Marrakech, and bid us bon voyage. The hotel wasn't too expensive, 620 dirhams (~$80) for the room Clare and I shared, including continental breakfast, and it was clean and quiet.

Getting ready to take a shower, I discovered that something had indeed fallen out of my backpack that morning: my bundle of 6 pair of Ex Officio travel underwear. The $20/pair price tag was hard enough to swallow, but now I'd have to make it 10 days on one pair.

The shower itself was nice, though, after 2 days of travel. And now, sleep for 6 hours before we get up and catch the train to Marrakech.