English Extravaganza Part 2

I had ordered a shuttle from the hostel to the airport for six o clock the next morning.  I woke up at 5:30 and brought my bags out in front of the building to wait.  It was a very beautiful morning and I was feeling pretty optomistic about this stage of the trip.

I waited..... and I waited..... and I waited, feeling increasingly nervous.  At 6:30, the family came out of the house that had been heretofore dark and locked and piled into the car.  This, apparently, was the shuttle.  The mother of the house carried my bag in and set it down at the baggage check and left saying I should be fine.  I got up to the baggage check where this snide and unhelpful man informed me that I could get on the plane but it was too late to check my bag.  I asked if they could send the bag along on the next flight to Fez but he said that if I wasn't on the plane, my bag couldn't be.  I am here in Morocco for a whole semester, I was not about to just leave my bag to the whim of these foul ryanair employees.  He directed me to a counter where they said they would help me reschedule my flight.  It was only when I began talking to them that I realized it was there that they would make snide remarks and ask me why I had done that and that it would have been better if I had done such and such.  Evil evil woman, I again burst into frustrated and paniced tears and she watched me impassively, a bit like a lizard.
I decided I just needed to sit down and weigh my options so I limped towards some chairs.  A very nice man came over and pulled my suitcase for me and sat down next to me as I cried.  After awhile, he timidly asked when my flight was. This caused me to go into yet another and more violent, paroxysm of grief.  Bear in mind, this was an older English gentleman who, I don't believe felt quite in his element dealing with hysterical young females.  He awkwardly patted my hand, quickly said he was sorry and left me in the company of a motherly older woman.  This woman kept nervously glancing in my direction, and after what seemed like half an hour of unabated weeping, she just kind of touched my leg and asked if there was anything she could do for me.  Yet again, I was shaken out of my self absorbed state of mourning and realized that I was making people uncomfortable.  I knew she couldn't help so I went and got on the computer and booked yet another flight and another hotel for the night.  It was about 8:00 in the morning by this time and I couldn't check into my hotel until 4:00 pm so I spent the day in the airport reading in the airport and having a very long conversation with a very nice Italian man about the murder capitals of the world and all of the grisly things that happens in them.  This was a suffient distraction for me and I was starting to feel like I really didn't have it all that bad after all.
I had read that the Desalis Hotel, where I was staying, had an airport shuttle so I trudged down to the shuttle terminal.  There was a wonderful young Spanish couple who were perfect in everyway who helped me carry my suitcase to gate 36 for me.  I say that they were perfect in everyway not in a sarcastic or snide way, they will just be forever idealized in my mind, our lack of continued correspondence will never open them up to folly of human weaknesses.  They were just both beautiful, athletic, happy, intelligent, and sweet.  As I was waiting for the shuttle, as is England's wont, it started pouring.  The girl came and stood next to me with an umbrella while her boyfriend stood by their bags with another umbrella.  Their shuttle came and they insisted on leaving one of the umbrellas with me.  I thanked them profusely and they drove off into the rain.

By this time, my walking cast was getting distinctly soggy and an unpleasant odor was rising from it.  I began to feel the sneaking suspicion that I was in the wrong spot.  I opened my mouth to inquire with several men in reflective vests as they passed into the control station behind me but they did not seem to notice me and continued walking and speaking in a very mysterious language.  Finally, a Bengali man in a suit came running out from the airport and asked if I was going to the Desalis hotel to which I replied yes and he got on his phone and talked to his friend and demanded where he was.  About ten minutes later, he pulled up in the shuttle van.  He was an incredibly friendly Bulgarian who was delighted to find out that I spoke a little bit of Russian.  He wanted to know if Montana was much like Chicago, he had a friend there and was hoping to visit him there soon.  At the hotel, the Bengali man checked me in and the Bulgarian told him to give me a good room.

The Desalis hotel was a very odd place.  There were murals, marble counter tops, and all sorts of flowers in vases around the lobby.  The main lighting came from huge round paper lanterns.  It was very nice and was the cheapest lodging anywhere around.  The odd thing was that it didn't seem entirely finished.  On the way to the room, there was some freshly applied spackling and hoses laying in the hall. 

The bathroom was magnificent, all mirrors and a fabulous blown glass bowl sink which I regret very much not having a picture of.  The odd thing about it is that, not even that hidden, are things like exposed rusty plumbing the the bathrooms, just behind the sink.  I was very pleased with it and settled down after my first glorious (or any kind for that matter) shower in five days.  After that I just kind of laid on the bed with a glazed expression, I'm assuming since I didn't actually get to see it, and watched a neurological case study about memory loss.  Then I drifted into sweet oblivion, hoping the next day would be better.