Casablanca

Wot is zis?

The things you have time for all of a sudden when you are on sabbatical.

A pale green waiting room filled by angry shouting. Dirty marble floors reflect a neon flicker of the kind that makles sleep impossible. A stale sandwich that tastes of dusty cotton, a strong cup of coffee.

My journey begins with a stop. Somebody in the long line of people that guarantee our safety, check us in, fly us to exotic destinations, or handle our luggage is on strike – this time at Casablanca Mohammed V. Airport. Waiting seems the essence of travel in a lot of ways, and I calm myself that in a situation that cannot be changed, it is wise to chill and be thankful for a chance to have nothing else to do than think. The angry mob across the hall is not in the mood for thinking much, it seems. Rather, the members indulge in some heavy shouting, which, rendered in melodious Arabic, loses nothing of its aggressive impact even on uncomprehending aural tract.

My gaze drifts through the hall as my thoughts condense. In a way, a month of waiting already lies behind me – if life was a straight line, I'd be standing on a street corner in Buenos Aires by now, striking a match, whistling perhaps a Troilo tune. But it isn't and I am not. My August saw me head off to the Atlantic coast of France with my girl instead, for a much too short but tasty bite of summer, sun and surf. The rest of the time I spent in Wiesbaden, probably the most unlikely place of all to start my sabbatical adventure.

Corals, German variety.

And truth be told, summer in Germany isn't so bad, and yes, I can hear you snickering. Lots of it has to do with being in love, for sure. But even that left aside, it just gave me the time to thoroughly decelerate from the LGH pace. The first sign that I was recovering was that I suddenly had not only the time, but also the need to read a book, a wonderful experience in itself. Next, I put on my boots and strolled through forests with early morning sunlight shifting through high-rising pines. I set up shop in a peacefull Taunus village and shaped a few longboards (and those become beasts and beauties). And I had time to wonder at how fast time passes when actually you have nothing to do, and how slow it does when you lie in bed with a fever, waiting for someone to come home.

And now, I am on my way. Feshly recovered, relaxed down to the last muscle fibre. Ready to let life just wash over me, for stories to unravel before my eyes as I sit on the beach of existence. Prepared to let go and go with the flow - which has brought me here to a pale green waiting room filled with neon flickering lights that make sleep impossible.

The noise from across the hall suddenly abates and the group heads towards the café as one. They sit down, apparently appeased, taking up all the places around me.

Airport service staff starts serving them a free meal. Wordlessly, a waiter puts down a tablet full of food in front of me. I look up, surprised, and exchange a glance with the proper group members. We laugh together.

Apparently, something can be said for complaining after all. And humour transcends the language barrier.