The real “Marrakech Express” isn’t on rails

So… continuing tonight’s (it’s almost 9 pm here) 60s theme, the quote of the trip so far (which really doesn’t amount to too much, since she’s one of the few people I’ve had an actual conversation with so far) comes from Rosalie, a chatty ol’ lady in her late 60s on holiday from Cork, Ireland.

When I mentioned that I was looking forward to taking “The Marrakech Express,” as we looked down from the ancient Alcazaba onto the even more ancient Roman theater ruins (photo below) she laughed and said, “There’s no “express”! That was just (the reefer) talking.” 

The 2,000 year old Roman Teatro, and, hidden by trees, the sprawling El Pimpi restaurant

And, in fact, it’s not an express train. Guess we know now what those smoke rings Graham Nash was blowing from the corner of his mouth consisted of. 

I still like the song, even though I decided it’s far easier and much quicker to fly on Air Arabia from Fes to Marrakech. I doubt I’ll see any 5-foot blue ladies on the flight, but I’ll get there almost six hours faster.

And then I’ll blow smoke rings from the corner of my-my-my-my-my-my-my mouth on the terraza or veranda or whatever they call it in Morocco. 

I land in Tangier Saturday afternoon. Meanwhile, let’s let Graham have the last word, shall we?

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