January 7–9, 2006
We took the 9 a.m. train from Tangier to Casablanca and learned immediately that "assigned seating" was optional at best. We never made it to the seats. The car packed out before we could get past the entry, so we stood the whole way in the vestibule by the doors, crammed in around the bathrooms with everyone who hadn't made it farther. Tina and I held that spot for three of the five hours, wedged in the middle, riding the sway of the train like it was part of the ticket price. A few people stood half outside the doors as the train barreled south.
At least we had a window.
The whole section reeked of aerosol deodorant. A man a few feet away spent most of the ride spraying it into his mouth. At first, it looked chemical, intentional, and dangerous. Eventually, we realized he was clutching his jaw, numbing what had to be unbearable tooth pain. The rhythm went on for hours—spray, wince, breathe—until it stopped, shortly before Casablanca.
At one point, I forced my way through the bodies to use the bathroom. It looked like a Western-style toilet until you noticed there was no bowl. Just a hole. Below it, railroad ties flashed past at speed.
I pissed straight onto the tracks.
Every train that ran this line had emptied onto the same rails.
Outside, the Atlantic slammed into the coast in heavy, rolling waves. Inland, farmers worked narrow strips of land, guiding sheep across fields that flipped between deep green and bare brown. Morocco didn't transition—it switched states. Fertile. Empty. Fertile again. I couldn't stop watching.
Casablanca greeted us with warm air and easy smiles. Once we dropped our bags, we headed straight for the Medina, hungry and curious.
This became a chapter in 9 Lives & Counting — out December 2026.
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