Rabat to Paris (Jon)

Our flight from Rabat is filled with children and women seeking more convenient seating. As the plane is not quite full there is some opportunity for this, especially where we are in the back. Two women have totally monopolized the row of seats to the left and the right of the aisle. Another woman, larger, takes advantage of the temporary vacancy left when a European young couple went to visit their friends further up in the plane a and sat comfortably because her body requires two seats not just one. The poor couple upon their return were surprised to find her asleep in their seats and immovable. Meanwhile the circus of children at play comes to my part of the plane, as do a troupe of chasing mothers with diapers in hand. The woman behind me comes to me with an iPhone and SIM card pleading with me to help her figure out how to replace her Moroccan one for a French one. I try but can’t seem to get it right. I give it back and she thanks me anyways in French. The woman seat-stealer to the left of me beckons obscurely toward me for something I have. What does she want, I don’t know. As this is Morocco, and this has happened to me before, perhaps she wants a sip of the delicious cup of coffee I just ordered for 3 euro… Being stingy I feign confusion, and somewhat ridiculously gesture back with an unopened cream packet. The things culture shock teaches you in Morocco I guess. Turns out what she wanted was not my coffee at all (el humdullah) but to borrow Krysti’s RyanAir magazine; we must have made her hungry. Or did she want to just look through it as we? Meanwhile a child tries to sneak my gum without me noticing but I put my hand on it and make solid eye contact. What’s wrong with me? Our plane begins its descent, maybe I am dreading Paris I wonder. Krysti, on her phone asks how to spell “arduous”. So glad she is as glad to have left Morocco as I.






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