One of the strongest impressions I took with me from Casablanca was of civility, of easy shows of affection. Of couples walking together arm in arm, hand in hand, talking and laughing. Of pairs of males -- clearly not gay -- walking together, arm in arm. A restaurant a few blocks from my lodgings, run by a French woman, became a default haunt for me -- tables outside provided good tea and excellent views of the local scene, service inside provided good food. Both my mornings in the city included a wake-up period outside this joint, absorbing the feel of that part of the world, enjoying the constant stream of passersby. The only two drunks I saw during my time in the city staggered past while I sat there, each stopping to harangue people at nearby tables. Both times the restaurant's doorman intervened when it became clear the drunks didn't intend to move on right away, both times he handled them the way he handled everyone -- effectively, with grace, kindness, tact. An elderly man approached at one point, walking with difficulty, aiming himself at an empty table to my left. The doorman moved quickly to pull out a chair, help the older person to sit down, asking what he could get him. I saw this kind of thing everywhere -- usually with less obvious examples, but marked by the same generous regard.
And young couples were everywhere, walking together, talking animatedly. Radiating affection, enjoyment. Without the demonstrations of physical affection I see here in Madrid -- arms around each other, kissing -- but sweetly enjoyable to watch just the same.
I'm grateful for this stuff, for this kind of lasting impression, because my final few hours in the city featured some jarring moments. One of those being the wildass trip to the airport. My taxi driver: a genial guy who drove with casual ferocity, providing a hair-raising ride that would have been more harrowing still if his car had had the pep and mobility to do the things he wanted it to do. As it was, he took the lines painted on the roads as vague suggestions to be ignored, weaving through traffic at highest possible velocity, inserting our taxi into any space that it would fit, regardless of the risk, no matter how small the opening appeared, working the horn the entire time. Pulling up to traffic stopped at a red light, slipping into the gap between vehicles already occupying legitimate lanes, turning the painted lines into brand new lanes, shooting off the nanosecond the light changed. (Not that he was alone in these maneuvers -- just more aggressive than most of his compatriots.)
That last day brought beautiful weather -- mild, breezy, the city and surrounding countryside awash in sunlight. The ride to the airport featured hitchhikers along every part of the route, many of them co-ed groups of adults, some families. Mopeds tooled about in every direction. Herds of sheep grazed off to the side of the highway, a shepherd, complete with staff, sometimes visible among the animals.
Kind of amazing I could see that much detail, now that I think about it, considering the speed at which we went by.
I hurled myself out of the cab at the airport with desperate gratitude at being released, heading away from the car and driver so quickly that my shouted thank-yous may have undergone the Doppler Effect.
Airport personnel remained grimly serious about the passport/inspection thing, luggage going through three different x-ray machines, passports getting eyeballed four or five different times from the moment of entering the departure area to the moment of boarding, the final two checks taking place within 60 seconds of each other, at the beginning and end of the movable concourse that extended from the waiting lounge to the plane. As if we might have craftily changed identities during that brief walk.
And then I found myself on a plane, surrounded by Spaniards, a seemingly accelerated sunset and falling of night marking the hour and twenty minute flight back to Madrid, where yet another uniformed person inspected/stamped my passport, and a Metro ride brought me back to a markedly different world from the one I'd just left. Glad I'd gone, glad to be back here. Glad to be planted in one place for a while, with a life to carry on. And already thinking about heading off somewhere else.
Barcelona maybe. We'll see.
rws 1:10 PM [+]