Travel days. I love to travel, in the sense of actually being somewhere not my home, somewhere new, somewhere different. So I suppose I love the noun travel. But the actual verb TO TRAVEL makes me want to rip my arm off and beat myself over the head with it, while gouging out my eyes with my red plastic spork.
I’m not even joking. Ask the poor souls who had to sit with me at the food court or at the gate or in the customs line(s). I wasn’t as grumpy as I can get when I travel with my family (sorry guys), and I wasn’t as hangry as I was when we flew above Aruba in circles for hours because a different plane had a flat tire (true story), but I admit I’m not the most relaxed traveler. I’d love to travel like my grandparents would, the Carrs wearing khakis and white tee shirts to board a cruise ship, or the Joneses loading up the RV for yet another cross country adventure, carefree attitudes in tow. Maybe someday I’ll get to that point.
At least I don’t throw up on planes anymore.
Except that one time last year.
So we made it to the Casablanca airport unscathed. After getting into the wrong van (don’t ask), having an address change fiasco (don’t ask) and watching a guy high on something drop trou in the middle of the street (REALLY don’t ask), I’m in Rabat, Morocco.
My apartment is, let’s say vintage. We have a huge common room with couches surrounding the perimeter so I can host about 20 people, although our butts would go numb in half an hour because a couch here is apparently thin padding on top of a rock. I’m in a 3BR apartment with two lovely ladies in a great little neighborhood called Agdal. It’s more of an urban community, and there are plenty of shops and restaurants and ice cream and fellow Remotes around to keep me busy. Some other Remotes live in the Rabat city center in the Medina, which is a big market. People are spread out with stalls and big blankets stretched out selling anything from fruit to tea kettles to leather to rugs and clothing. The volume of people there would make any claustrophobic or agoraphobic person run in the opposite direction, but I like it.
The coworking space is, in a word, awesome. First floor is open and airy, with long communal tables and some great catered food options for lunch. Second floor has meeting rooms and modern styled cubicals. The roof, which is obviously my favorite thing ever, is a traditional berber tent with rugs, couches, tables, and fans. A grown up Moroccan pillow fort. I’m feeling inspired already. BRING IT ON, MUSE!