But in all seriousness, drop whatever you're doing and ride a camel.
So here's how it goes:
Friday morning, I was up at 6:30 for breakfast with my brother. We ate, and around 7ish, I grabbed my bag and we hopped on his brother's motorcycle and headed to the center. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I am officially a Moroccan badass. We swerved in and out of lanes, picking up speed, and being awesome. Now, at this moment, I feel the need to describe to the readers of the world the insanity that is Moroccan traffic.
Let's take a busy American street, for example. Portland folk, let's say the Burnside-downtown area. Laredo folk, let's say Mcpherson (spelling?). Ok, now let's say you're on these streets during rush hour. Ok, so there are tons of cars, you're passenger's seat of your friends car, the air conditioning is broken, and talk radio is blasting in some language you can't understand. Also, traffic lights don't exist (well they do, but they are randomly placed and seem to be only taken as suggestions). Now, imagine that every car had one selfish agenda, to get to it's destination without any sort of consideration for anyone else on the road. That means, if there is space for the car to go, it's going to go. On coming traffic? No biggie? Lady with stroller pushing a small child? No bigger. Godzilla making a bed out of all the office buildings within a 10 mile radius? No problem at all. Motorcycles are smaller, so they can cruise down the center lane and there are so damn many.
Oh, and one more thing: Everyone's horn is on.
That's Moroccan traffic.
So we cruise through morning traffic, get to the center, and jump on the bus. 9-12 hours later, we arrive in Zaragoza and check into this beautiful hotel (complete with palm trees and swimming pool) and we....
RANDOM PICTURE INTERMISSION
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| Picture by Renda |
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| Picture by Renda |
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| To Be Continued... |
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