Marrakech never sleeps. Small money thanks

 

Since yesterday's breakfast failed to impress us, we had already picked out a brunch spot for today. But because I can't quite make it to 11 a.m. without food, we made a quick stop at our riad's dining area. And wouldn't you know it, today they decided to swap out bread for pancakes. And chocolate cake. I wasn't ready for that surprise, so by the time the pancakes arrived, my yogurt was already inhaled.

We strolled through the Medina streets to our Mandala Society café and snagged seats on the rooftop terrace. This fancy joint offered choices you can't even find in most of the cafés in Tallinn. One of us went for a fresh bagel with cream cheese and salmon while the other went full-on with Icelandic oat pancakes topped with fruits and orange blossom syrup. Oh, and coffee with almond milk!

To avoid repeating yesterday's blunder, we, as exemplary tourists, had crafted a proper plan for today. Brunch was followed by a visit to Bahia Palace, where a tourist paid exactly 7 times more for entry than a local. The experience was probably the same for both.

We attempted, once again, to leisurely wander around, but as usual, it turned out the same way—squinty eyes from all the smoke and exhaust fumes spewed into the practically enclosed space by those motorbikes whizzing by, all while being on high alert to dodge the next rider, and avoiding salesmen who were either trying to pawn off their goods on us or seemed to know exactly where we needed to go. And their idea of a suitable destination didn't align with ours. Scott grabbed some sort of meat-vegetable mix for lunch, sandwiched between bread, and apparently, it tasted pretty good. I grabbed a chicken-almond pastilla from the nearby counter.

Before dinner, we swung by the photography museum, and once again, the rooftop bestowed upon us an exceptionally beautiful view of Marrakech and the mountains.

Since our dinner was booked on a rooftop terrace promising a breathtaking sunset view, we timed our arrival accordingly. To prevent impious thoughts, the restaurant wisely obscured the entire sunset with panels and plants, leaving only the "best view" directly towards the mosque. We dined on fish ceviche, crab tortellini, and grilled octopus.

On our way back, Scott had cravings for ice cream, and we headed towards where we vaguely remembered it could be. Turns out, there was no ice cream. Instead, I ended up with an entirely unplanned kunafa. It was delicious, I might try making it myself again.

We found ourselves unexpectedly back at the Jemaa El Fna square and started walking towards the riad from there. It was much earlier than yesterday, and we assumed we'd get there without any "this street is closed" issues. Guess again. Once again, we were forced to choose a different route, and while I was starting to make sense of these narrow and winding Medina streets, at night when all the carpet shops are closed, things can spiral out of control. Some young lad redirected us about 100 meters back on track, and as we thanked him and began walking towards the now familiar area, he kindly informed us that a small token of gratitude usually involves a little cash - "Little Money Thanks". Since we didn't have a small enough change for 100 meters, that conversation ended there.

Marrakech never sleeps. Tourists in new town

 

 

Breakfast was included in our riad. When we arrived in the dining room in the morning, there were two couples already eating at the long table. We sat at one end to avoid the awkward elbow-touching, but the head waitress promptly asked (or pointed with her finger) us to move and take seats next to the other couple. So, we shifted over. The morning spread consisted of sweet yogurt, tiny bananas, three types of bread, four types of jam, rock-hard butter, and triangular processed cheese. Not exactly a dazzling culinary display.

Scott was especially hungry leaving the table and wanted a kebab first thing, so we ventured out from the riad. Last night, the city seemed completely deserted, but now it was alive and bustling, and the market was right at our doorstep. We encountered several new friends at the door, each claiming to know the best place for us to go, and none of them mentioned a kebab stand. Finally, a lanky lad won the competition and led us to see how the Berbers process leather. Apparently, these Berbers are in the city only once a week, and tourists are in pure luck to see them in Marrakech. Anyway, this lad took the lead, and we just ran after him. No kebab in sight. Eventually, he stopped at a gate and handed us over to a chubby man, who right away handed each of us a handful of peppermint leaves for "the aroma". Stepping inside the gate, the stench hit us like a ton of bricks, and we shoved the peppermint leaves up our noses deeper than we did with Covid testing sticks four years ago. Then, we followed the enthusiastic fellow and heard all about the process of soaking leather in pigeon droppings to soften it with the resulting ammonia. What the other baths were there for escaped my attention - I imagined all the pigeon-poop treated handbags and jackets... Finally, after what felt like four extremely long minutes, we emerged from that leather industry ordeal, only to be immediately ushered into a shop across the road to buy all these beautifully finished products. We bought nothing and thoroughly disappointed the seller. Exiting the shop, our leather tour guide stood there, demanding payment for his guiding services. He was also left there dissatisfied.

Finally, we encountered the first pastry stand, and Scott bought two pies - one with chicken and the other with cheese. Both were filled with noodles and were utterly tasteless.

At the next place, we had a relatively tasty falafel wrap and a very suspicious mojito juice. The falafel wrap was probably made from scratch; when we ordered, the chickpeas were most likely just being sprouted. By the time it arrived half a day later, at least it was edible. I couldn't say the same for my mojito juice, as its green hue resembled something between a swamp and Shrek, and I didn't dare to taste it.

We thought about strolling through the Medina, but among all the market vendors and motorcycles, it seemed like a nerve-wracking endeavor. So, instead, we went to see the world's oldest mosque and had a light lunch with a mosque view. I was pleasantly surprised by how tasty their chicken tajine was.

We walked to Starbucks. They only had a Moroccan mug, and the barista thought maybe the gas station Starbucks would have a Marrakech one. While we sipped our coffee, we had the idea to have them to call and ask if the other Starbucks had it. Looking at the map, the Starbucks at the train station seemed closer than the gas station, so I went in to inquire. Now, there was a young man behind the counter, and I asked if he would be willing to call the train station Starbucks to check if they had the Marrakech mug. The boy went to the back room, emerged 20 seconds later, and asked when we were going there. I said we were just about to leave. He went back again and came out, this time in five seconds, saying, "Probably not." Nevertheless, we still went there, and they had half a shelf full of Marrakech mugs...

For dinner, we had a table booked on a rooftop, and when we arrived, we caught a slight glimpse of the sunset glow. For starters, we had chicken and almond pastilla, a crispy filo pastry filled with chicken and almonds, covered in powdered sugar and cinnamon. It was delicious. The main courses were quite good, and for dessert, I had a milk pastilla, while Scott went for another round of chicken pastilla :)

Marrakech never sleeps. Eurotrip

 

The journey began significantly earlier than the morning alarm today. Back in October, I had booked tickets with Air Baltic to Marrakech for a long weekend in the midst of winter. A month later, Air Baltic informed us that they had canceled our return flight. So, we rescheduled the flight a week earlier. A week later, that flight was canceled too. We rescheduled once more, a week earlier. Then we didn't make any more preparations for the trip until less than two weeks were left until the return flight. It was then that we could hope they wouldn't cancel it anymore.

And so, the sixth of January arrived. We arrived at the airport an hour before our scheduled flight only to find out that our plane hadn't even departed from Riga. Watching the flight radar, it was clear the pilot was a bit confused - moving away from the gate, then back, then queuing for the runway, then back again. Finally, it arrived in Tallinn at about the time we were supposed to land in Riga. We boarded the plane, boarding was completed, de-icing was done, and then we were waiting at the gate. And waiting. And waiting. We took off roughly around the time our flight to Marrakesh was supposed to depart from Riga.

Upon landing in Riga, the first thing I checked was the Marrakesh flight, and since the plane was still at the gate, there was hope they would wait. But no such luck. Border control didn't let us through, so we walked to the transfer center. In the meantime, Air Baltic kindly informed us they found a suitable alternative for us to reach Morocco. According to them, it was a great idea to fly us to Helsinki, then to Paris, and then to Morocco. Both of us got a five-euro voucher to buy candy from the newsstand. The voucher wasn't accepted anywhere else.

Finnair announced that due to weather conditions, the toilets on the Helsinki flight weren't working and kindly requested dear passengers to use the facilities at the terminal. I went twice just in case because, you know, if you can't, you'll definitely need to.

A few hours later, instead of sunny Marrakech, we landed in snowy Helsinki. The moment we entered the terminal, there was already an announcement that the Paris flight was delayed. Well, in any case, I'd rather spend the night in Paris than in Riga in my summer clothes. Clearly, we were dressed for Parisian summers while flying to Morocco. At least I had time to recharge my phone. I also took the chance to visit the recently opened used clothing store at Helsinki airport. If anyone wants a dress for 350 euros or a skirt for 135 euros, that store is right across from the Moomin house. Boarding passes for the Paris flight were checked visually because neither the self-service gates nor the scanners were working. Proper old-school stuff. On the plane I got some blueberry juice, and before we knew it, we had landed. Deboarding took about 20 minutes because everyone on board had baggage that required a smaller forklift to move.

Paris airport is logical and welcoming as always... Or not. Anyway, the information desk directed us through the public area to Terminal 2F, meaning we covered about 3 kilometers in a speed, which would have left Usain Bolt far behind. After the security check, when we thought gates were imminent and we could relax a bit, turns out, nothing of the sort. When we reached the passport control, I received a message from Air France that our boarding was about to close, and they wished us an enjoyable trip. At that point, we had no idea if the gate was around the next turn or if we still had a Tallinn-Mäo stretch ahead of us. Anyway, we ran. As a side note, it wasn't exactly Mäo, but more like Ardu, but we managed.

We sweated our way to the gate, the scanner lady asking if anyone is still behind us... How can they be when we were racing like our lives depended on it? Not every tourist busts a move like that.

We boarded the plane and... it was utterly deserted. Initially, I only spotted one passenger. Turns out, we were soaring on an empty aircraft with about 20 passengers. Private jet vibes, kinda.

Moroccan passport control had learned from U.S. immigration - after a lengthy interview, we had to show our passport and stamp again, not even 10 steps after the control booth. We had transport arranged, but since I had to reschedule it from 3 o'clock to 11 o'clock, which only Aziz from the office was aware of, not Mohammed, the on-site car allocator. Anyway, the Mohammed was pretty miffed, stating we'd disrupted his otherwise smooth operation.

We hit the bed at around two.