Around 07:30 I used public transport to get to Karlsruhe/Baden-Baden Airport (FKB): first a tram, then another tram, and finally a bus. It was relatively cumbersome, but without any problems. Winter had now also settled in Baden—there was snow everywhere, and of course it was cold.
At check-in my backpack weighed 8.5 kg, so I could actually have taken something with me. But as it turned out later, I didn’t need anything more. Around 09:30 the plane took off for Girona. The cloud cover broke, and for the first time in a long while I saw a bit of sunshine again.
The landing in Girona took place in bright sunshine at about 13 °C, an improvement of roughly 15 degrees. A long wait for the connecting flight followed, as it was not scheduled to depart until around 18:00. Fortunately, the airport is generously laid out, with relatively few people, plenty of places to sit or lie down, and even smoking areas within the security zone. Not to forget the power sockets, which allowed my netbook to run for a long time. Only the habit of charging excessive fees for Wi-Fi spoiled the waiting time somewhat.
The flight departed on time, was uneventful, and arrived at Marrakesh Airport around 21:00. The airport, relatively new, already showed interesting architecture from the airplane. To enter the country, a form had to be filled out—where from and where to, which I didn’t even fully know myself. Inside the airport, I withdrew some money to be covered at least for the evening.
The Planet mentioned a bus line to the edge of the medina, but I couldn’t find it at first. After asking, I realized I had been standing right in front of the bus the whole time. There was also enough time to raise my nicotine level. The bus itself was surprisingly like new.
The ride took about 30 minutes to the edge of Djemaa el Fnaa, where I was unexpectedly dropped into the most intense human hustle and bustle imaginable—despite the fact that hardly any people had been visible along the bus route before. I had written the hostel’s address in my notebook beforehand, checked the area on Google Maps, and even made a small sketch. With that, I hoped to find the hostel in the medina of Marrakech. Surprisingly, it worked almost immediately, even though everything was packed with people. The daredevil moped drivers worried me at first, until I understood how things worked there.
At the very pretty hostel, I was welcomed by Mustafa—although it turned out later that his name was actually something else. Some Brazilians had just arrived as well, and I got to know them briefly; one of them was a hat designer. After a meal on the hostel’s roof terrace, we walked back together through the medina to the Grand Hotel Tazi, where there was supposed to be a bar serving beer. After three 0.25-liter beers, the day came to an end.