(Note: I wrote this because for personal reasons I like to document my trip. There’s really no corresponding pictures, but I thought I would post it anyway, for anyone who’s interested. I did post more Morocco pics on Facebook and made the album public. Hopefully it works here.)

I can’t fly directly from Morocco to Cairo, Egypt, so I have to fly back to Madrid. While this is a massive inconvenience, the thought of blending in somewhere for 24 hours is a big relief. Plus Madrid is starting to feel familar and comfortable. I even have a favorite coffee shop.

The problem is that it’s Saturday and all the hostels are booked. I am forced to do something I have never done before- book the only hostel available which happens to have bad reviews and ratings. Some quick research tells me this seems to be primarily due to the location, outside the city. I’m not thrilled at staying at a poorly rated place, but it’s better than nothing.

“Ok, I can do this,” I think as I walk out of the airport and catch the subway. It’s been a long day. It started with a five am wake up call, 2 trains to Casablanca, and then a flight to Madrid. Needless to say, it’s dark when I get on the subway and settle down for an hour long ride, thankful for a seat. I have been carrying around 2 backpacks, my little one at the front and my big one on my back. Deciding this was excessive, I decided to consolidate the two into my big one. Big mistake. All the weight on my back (my waist buckle broke) feels almost unbearbly heavy, and every step feels like the end stages of a marathon.

When I finally get to my subway stop, I groan as I lift my bag on my back. I tromp around, but can’t find the street of the hostel. I ask local after local, and they have no clue. Bad sign. Finally my back can’t take it anymore and I hail a cab. Good thing, too. He drives a ways out in the middle of nowhere to some beat-up neighborhood. I feel like I’ve been transplated to Detroit.

All I want is some normalacy, some food (I haven’t eaten since noon and I had my heart set on tapas) and a safe bed. And of course, the sweet comfort of blending in.

The cab driver pulls up to what looks like a hospital and there’s 10 African looking guys smoking out front. The shabby sign confirms my fears: this is my hostel. Dread fills me. I’m not racist, but this isn’t exactly “blending in”. Once again, I feel a zillion eyes on me as I walked past them with a confidence I do not feel. The front desk is encased by plexi glass and looks like some sort of bullet proof shelter for the guy working there, an Arab. I see no other women and only African and Arab men everywhere. I want to cry from hunger, exhaustion, and defeat.

But I hold it together. I ensure that I am getting a female dorm only (I’ll occasionally do mixed dorms), grab my key, and decide that the best way to deal with this mess is to just go to bed hungry (there is no food close by) and sleep it off. So much for a fun last night in Madrid.

There are thankfully two lovely girls in my room and I feel relief that we all feel the same way. They share some bread with me and once again, I am thankful for the people I meet.

The next morning I get up early, put on my backpack, and walk 1/2 hour to the subway, feeling as if I’m lugging aound a small city. I have to take many breaks, and I vow to get out my small pack again to distribute the weight a little better. I still need my back for another 7 weeks or so.

I give myself lots of time at the airport, because I am determined to get my VAT tax back for my netbook. It’s rightfully mine, and works out to about $200, which goes a long way out here. I try to communicate with airport workers and customs guys, and get shuffled around like a chess piece, subsquently wandering from terminal to terminal, which requires buses and trains in the airport. I do due dilligence, have my paperwork, boarding pass and general ducks in a row…and finally get told that because my name is not on the paperwork, I can’t get my refund. Defeated.

At this point, time has run out. I have to get to terminal 4 and I’m in terminal 1. I have 20 minutes until my flight leaves. Terminal 4 is a bus ride away. I have to get through security. And customs. I realize the only way I will make my flight is if it’s late. I’m stressed right out, because I know there are no flights to Cairo leaving the following day or later that night with the airlines I am travelling with. If I miss this flight, it will severely cramp some other countries.

I am panicked and am one of those travellers we have all laughed at- the one sprinting through the airport, red faced, huffing and puffing. Breathless, I sprint up to my gate at 4:49. The plane departure time is 4:50. The attendants at the gate are not impressed and there is no else around. “Por favor, por favor,” I beg (“please” in Spanish). I apologize. The lady finally gives me a dirty look and tells me to stop it and just be quiet. They radio. They ask why I’m late. They radio some more.

“Okay,” they say dismissively, waving me on the plane.

It takes me a while to calm down, and I am immensly grateful.

I get to Cairo several hours later, thankful that I arranged transportation from the airport with my hostel. It’s late when I get delivered to the hostel. It’s full of Egyptian guys who seem friendly, but I am wary. Where are the other tourists? I finally see a white guy brushing his teeth and I feel a little better. I get lead to my dorm room and realize I am the only one in there. This is not a nice prospect. The more I travel alone, the more I realize that meeting people is very important to me, and I like sharing a room with strangers because I meet so many cool people.

I push the nagging thought out of my mind that I appear to be the only female in the hostel, and out of sheer exhaustion and a near-broken back, I sleep soundly.