Parent's Visit, Pt. 1: Airport

I arrived at the airport at one o'clock in the morning and ran a mental checklist to make sure I hadn't forgotten anything. Hotel reservations? Check. Camel Trek Reservations? Check. Things to do for the two days before the Camel Trek? Hmm... In Morocco, I have learned that there isn't really a need to make plans; nothing is ever set in stone, so things will change and either won't happen or will happen later. One of those things that happened later was the arrival of my parents' plant. Would my parents be able to accept that fact here when it took me a few weeks to get used to it? In all honesty, there are still times when I think to myself Why can't there be actual hours on these stores? Besides, my parents' hotel had a pool, AND a bar AND a hot shower. What else would they need?

I felt the airport building shake as the double-propellor plane began to touch down in Errachidia. The airport in Errachidia works two days out of the week. On Friday early morning, a flight comes on from Casablanca, and on Monday early morning, a flight leaves to Casablanca. One would think that with two flights to handle per week, that would leave a decent amount of time to work on having those two flights arrive and leave at decent hours. I waited at the entrance to the tarmac and noticed that there were two metal detectors, and that one of those metal detectors was pushed to the side. I imagined a conversation that I could have had with security about this.

"Should that be at this small hallway so people have to go through it?"
"Yes, but that would probably take more time for them to get through."
"And this other one, I'm guessing it's not plugged in, is it?"
"It is, but why would they go through that when there's more room on the side without it?"

The dialogue that I created in my mind was probably far from the truth, but there is still a part of me that yearns to recognize that carefree attitude that marked so many images to the small town airports pre-9/11. I remembered an old Jeff Foxworthy joke about small town airport security and the image of an old sheriff leaning in a chair, saying, "You got any guns or bombs in that bag? You ain't a terrorist, are ya?"

I heard voices on the tarmac. In a few moments, I would be face to face with my parents, whom I haven't seen in fourteen months. Have I changed at all while I was here? What will they think? Have my mannerisms or body positions changed during these months? My hands were sweaty. I couldn't wipe my huge smile off of my face. I was tired when I got into the airport, but now, I was wired.

The door opened, and my mom appeared, her once brown hair a much brighter blonde; she had begun getting highlights. She seemed so much more radiant than I remembered. She dragged a little suitcase behind her and had her camera strapped around her neck. She was followed by Joe, whose hair and mustache were still the same brilliant grey. It was strange to see such radiant skin on people. After a year of seeing mainly olive skin tones, focusing on such white faces stood out. The passengers walked past the metal detector an into the lobby.

"Where is our taxi?" Mom asked. I pointed to a small taxi that I had spoken with someone about using beforehand. We made it to the vehicle, and at that moment, the driver with whom I spoken to told me that he forget that he was already there to pick up other people, and that we wouldn't be able to use it after all. Sounds about right, I thought to myself. Fortunately, there was another person staying at the hotel that my parents were staying at, and there was a large van there to pick her up, and he said that we could come, too. IT would just be a few minutes.

"How long will it take?" Mom asked.
"A few minutes. Maybe five, ten, fifteen, twenty, or thirty." Joe looked at me with a blank stare for a moment.
"What?" I asked

We got into the van and drove off after only fifteen minutes, and I was amazed at how on top of their game they were. Only fifteen minutes of waiting? That's unheard of. My mom looked out the window of the van at the kids who were walking the streets at about two o'clock in the morning.

"What are these kids doing?"
"Hanging out."
"Isn't there school tomorrow."
"Yes, and they might go. There is a big graduation test happening." Mom gave the blank stare this time.
"What?" I asked.

Morocco, as I have said before, is a nocturnal town. Stores are shuttered through the day, but once eight o'clock rolls around, it comes alive. The streets are filled with so many sounds, so many footsteps, that it becomes a beautiful cacophony of different lives. My parents, however, were more interested in getting to the hotel. We arrived there a little after two o'clock, and I asked my parents when they wanted me to pick them up for the day in Errachidia. I wanted to show them a souk and some other volunteers that I have gotten to know and eat at one of our favorite places.

"It's really late. I can just come at noon or maybe one in the afternoon." I said.
"No, we'll be fine," Mom replied, "You just come to pick us up at ten."
"Are you sure?" I asked.

My trip with David, whose trip from Pensacola left him quite tired, as I painfully recalled, came quickly to mind.

"No, come on. We'll be fine."