Race Report: Casablanca 10K

The light rail system in Casablanca was prime advertising space for the Casablanca International 10K, and it only took one tram ride for me to decide, yep - I want to run that race. My lack of French and a wonky race web site foiled my attempts to register, so on the appointed morning, I took my best guess at what is appropriate for women to wear while running here, got in a cab and headed to the residential neighborhood shown on the pixilated course map that I found online.

I thought the 10K started at 8 a.m. and the 5K at 9 a.m., but when I arrived at 7:30 a.m. there wasn't an obvious starting line. Crews and volunteers were putting together the massive staging for the finish area -- balloon arches, timing clocks, announcer stand. At a small white tent across the street, two French-speaking people patiently helped me register. One of them owns a running store and was selling shoes, the other sells a sports massage oil and was offering samples. For around $10, I got a bib with a timing chip, a tech shirt and a running cap. Not too shabby!

Weirdly, whenever asked "Where is the start?" they ushered me through barricades and further into the staging area, until I was standing next to the yet-to-be-inflated archway that would mark the start and finish line. And yes, I was standing there still asking, "But where is the start?!"

I was still under the impression that the race was starting in 20 minutes and I had still failed to understand that the race started and finished at the same spot. So I kept asking people, "Ou commence la course?" -- "Where does the race start?" -- and they kept gesturing to the finish area under construction. A race official who spoke English finally set me straight, and I left the staging area to loiter for an hour until the actual start time.

By now, more runners were arriving and warming up and it was definitely starting to feel like a race. Several hundred people registered for the race, and they were all wearing their blue Casablanca 10K tech shirts. I found a secluded spot behind a hedge and quickly changed into mine, too. Now I was ready!

But man, did I get here early... I'm never early for races, I loathe extra time at the starting line. I wandered back to the registration area, and the massage oil booth was in full swing. The camphor-eucalyptus scent was strong, and I joined the runners who were trying generous free samples. Some of them were serious about their pre-race routines, and others were joking around and laughing. Running clubs took group photos, parents gave their teenagers encouragement while trying not to embarrass them, earbuds were adjusted, more stretching and nervous jumping around. Everything about this felt so familiar, it made me smile.

Finally, finally the race started. One of the purple-pinafored volunteers who'd been so nice to me early in the morning called out, "bonne chance!" as I ran by him. I briefly interpreted this to mean, "You have a chance!" and I was nearly offended because even though I'm undertrained, c'mon! You don't even KNOW me enough to judge me, dude! And then I realized he was saying "good luck!" and my heart swelled with appreciation.

Just a few more Ks to go.

The vibe of the runners was jubilant as we headed out of the starting corral and into the neighborhood. People were laughing and smalls groups of curious spectators cheered from street corners. I ran with a group of middle-aged guys who were carrying a big Moroccan flag and singing a call-and-repeat song in Arabic that sounded fun, but I have no idea what the words were.

The weather was perfect -- sunny and cool to start, then warming up but never hot. What to wear had preoccupied me, and I spent a lot of the race cataloging the clothing choices of runners, men and women. In general, everyone was wearing more clothing than American runners would in this weather. Some men wore long shorts and the short-sleeve tech shirt, many wore track pants and a long-sleeve shirt under the tech shirt. Very few men were in short shorts or in singlets, which I think most Americans would have been. The women were more covered, wearing capris or full-length tights, some in short sleeves but many in long sleeves. Most but not all covered their hair, some wearing the running cap from the swag bag on top of their hair covering. I went with capris and the short-sleeve race shirt, but I had a long-sleeve shirt with me just in case it seemed more appropriate. But here as everywhere, people know I'm foreigner and don't expect me to dress like a Moroccan would.

The course support was excellent. Water stations and signage were clear and well organized, with volunteers and staff picking up discarded water bottles at the aid stations. Roads were closed with barricades and monitored by police, who gave bored side-eye to irritated drivers waiting in traffic. Some of the drivers joined the spectators to cheer for us. Kids hung from balconies yelling "allez, allez!" and the course volunteers offered high fives and, "bravos!"

The course was mostly flat with a two notable hills. Heading up one, I slowed to a walk and a man came alongside me speaking in Arabic. By his tone and his posture, I understood he was encouraging me up the hill, and I worked hard to match his pace nearly to the top. Simple interactions like this happen in every race everywhere, but it felt really special here.

Heading into the finish, I crossed the line around 1:10:00, delightfully close to my best-case guess at a finish time. A few of us who crossed the mat together spontaneously hugged and high-fived and exchanged "bravos!!" with enormous smiles. The runners who'd already finished were cheering with medals around their necks and I found my mine in the fantastic goody bag they handed each of us in the finish chute. Cookies, crackers, a few pieces of fruit, a bottle of water, a waxed paper packet of dates, raisins and almonds; and, a medal. A fantastic souvenir from a great morning. The single rose for each woman finisher was a sweet touch.

I rested on the curb grinning and taking it all in, and made friends with Adil, a runner sitting near me. Speaking a hash of French-Arabic-English, we congratulated each other on the race, chatted about running and travel, and he gave me a tech shirt from his running club. They're heading to Rabat next weekend for a half-marathon; if only I were in shape for 13.1 miles right now.

The race left me triumphantly happy. Physical exercise feels great. Hundreds of people showing up together in a good mood is contagious. Having a shared experience with strangers across language differences is awesome. And doing something you love in an unfamiliar place is great way to remember how similar we all are, everywhere.

Travel Karma In Marrakech

The courtyard at the center of our riad, home for the next three nights.

The few hours we've spent in Marrakech have proven the advice I'd heard from several people: Casablanca is okay, but Marrakech! Marrakech is amaaaaazing.

Liz rallied through jet lag, arriving on a red-eye in the morning and going straight to the train station for the three-and-a-half hour ride to Marrakech. I had purchased our tickets and learned the tram system the day before, and we made the train with zero problems. In Marrakech, we were booked at a riad, a guest house converted from a traditional home. Riads, there are thousands to choose from, but most evoke traditional architecture, homestyle hospitality and a peaceful escape from the city that swirls outside the riad's walls.

But being nestled deep in a neighborhood of tightly wound and high-walled streets, most riads offer to meet guests in the city and escort them in, and Liz and I were expecting our to meet host at the train station. Sadly, our host was expecting to meet us at the airport, and so we stood for a few minutes in the modern, earth-toned Marrakech train station unsure what to do.

Enter Jamal.

As we were figuring out how to call the riad (I swear, using phones internationally drains me of all travel confidence) Jamal offered to help us place the call on his cell phone. He works for a tour agency and had a few minutes while he was waiting.

The phone line was busy, but Jamal finished the task that had brought him to the train station and offered to help us catch a bus to the medina. He was going that way to meet up with friends, and our stop was one beyond his. As we waited for the bus he told us that actually he would go with us to our stop and help us find the right direction to walk in. I had perfect change to pay for our three bus tickets, and he laughed off the offer. "You are kind!" he smiled. "And because you are kind I will walk with you the whole way to find your riad."

The bus was slow to show up, and Jamal had friends to meet so he suggested a taxi instead, and then paid for the taxi against our protestations. We walked into the medina, following Jamal and peppering him with questions about his work (he arranges tours to Mecca) and his family (his mother is still living, his father has died) and the languages he knows (he lived in Japan for 10 years and taught Arabic there.)

Fast forward an hour, and Jamal had personally guided us to our riad, stopping at least eight times to ask directions of local shopkeepers as we wound through the maze of earthen walls and vendors selling shoes, souvenirs and tiny live turtles. I asked if we were making him late, and he assured us, no problem, and we kept walking briskly through the vendors and locals and tourists.

Jamal works in tourism, and has traveled extensively himself, and it was natural for him to want to help us, he said. People have helped him countless times. The situation unfolded from his kindness and taking the next logical step, but by the end his generosity was remarkable. At every stop, his smile and warm exchange with a shopkeeper offering directions was delightful and genuine. When we arrived at the riad and learned the driver was waiting at the airport, I could easily imagine a person in Jamal's position being irritated, at least. You made made a mistake that inconvenienced your guests, and I went out of my way to correct it for you.

That's one way you might look at it.

But as our riad host explained the logistics mishap, Jamal laughed and smiled understandingly. It's a mistake anyone could make! Aren't we all fortunate that ended it well? And it was lovely to meet you! The sun is setting over the old town and I'm going to meet my friends for tea. Would you like to meet us? Cafe du France, on the terrace overlooking the market. Peace be with you.

Me, Jamal and Liz, moments after finding the front door of our riad.

Casablanca, The City Not The Movie

Not that interesting, spend time in other places.

This is generally the advice I got when I told people who've visited Morocco that I was going to Casablanca. But my free (awards mileage) plane ticket landed here after 30 hours of travel and two red-eye flights, and I checked into a hotel to sleep off the road weariness.

Hassan II Mosque. I spent a disproportionate amount of my two days in Casablanca here.

My friend Liz would be arriving in Casablanca two days later, so staying in town made sense, even if that town did not get glowing recommendations. But Casa did provide me with a few key experiences: I resolved some practical questions and got a small immersion into city life in a Euro-centric Moroccan city.

Checked off the to-do list:

1. Buy local SIM card and get smartphone online with data and local phone number.

2. Learn taxi system. (Grand Taxis vs Petit Taxis vs random reliable guy with car. I used the latter to get from the airport to downtown, and Mustafa could not have been nicer, and also didn't overcharge me.)

3. Learn public transportation system, take the light rail tram around town.

4. Find the train station and buy train tickets for the next day to Marrakech.

Shay na na, te de la menthe, mint tea. Oui oui!

I was feeling accomplished about these tasks, and treated myself to my first cup of sugary mint tea. 

From here, I still had all afternoon and I went walking. First to an arts and crafts museum, then through the medina to the Hassan II Mosque. Said to be the third largest mosque in the world, it's built on the edge of the ocean and commands a starkly beautiful open square. From the mosque, I could see a small lighthouse on a spit of land just down the coast, and headed there despite the slightly unwalkable road. The view of the mosque from the rocks was worth it, and the people walking among the striated exposed bedrock in the waves reminded me of the tidepools I'd seen in Santa Barbara just a couple weeks ago on the edge of different ocean.

Hassan II Mosque, seen from El Hank, Casablanca.

Rocks and tidepools below Phare El Hank, Casablanca.

Sunset behind Hassan II, seen from the seawall north of the mosque.

I walked back to the mosque and north from there on the seawall, ending at sunset in the neighborhood that's home to Rick's Cafe, of Hollywood movie fame. The entrance to Rick's is guarded by valets, with a lot of white people lined up between velvet ropes waiting to get in. I was curious enough to stop, and not nearly curious enough to join them. (I haven't even seen Casablanca, to be honest.)

The highlight of the day, and I'm told of the city, was the mosque by far. The curved and straight lines of the sand-colored building and the bright blues and greens of the tile work were transfixing.

Hassan II Mosque

Detail of tile exterior.

Hassan II Mosque

Hassan II Mosque

Hassan II Mosque

Prayer hall, said to hold 25,000 worshippers.

Hassan II Mosque

Prayer hall, detail.

Hassan II Mosque

Detail of ceiling, prayer hall.

Hassan II Mosque

Bath house, for ablutions before prayer.

As I looked at my photos later that day,  realization dawned that I had been in Morocco only one day, and already I was dozens deep in close-up photos of tile and architectural details. And apparently, I still hadn't even seen the "real" Morocco, yet.