The Road To (and From) Morocco—for friends and fellow-travelers who may have to travel temporarily disabled!

A long-planned trip to Morocco in November 2009 was suddenly altered when I slipped and fell October 29, breaking my left fibula (smaller bone in lower leg). I was encased in a fiberglass cast nearly to my knee. A danger to myself and others on crutches, I was put on a walker. I felt full of trepidation about making the trip. But my husband Tom assured me it would work! So on Saturday November 7, we drove to the airport with my walker. Immediately, I discovered “traveling while disabled”!

The parking-lot shuttle dropped us off at the terminal and I pushed the walker slowly in. As we approached the Continental baggage-check, a man with a wheelchair materialized. We had to check the walker, so he pushed me to the gate. Tom tipped him, and we were able to eat a little and use the restroom (handicapped-accessible stalls have doors that swing out. This is very important when you’re in a wheelchair!) before boarding. We could board first, and find empty overhead bins. For this flight, we were four rows back in economy. Since we had a vacant seat on our three-seat row, I was able to prop the leg up a little. The day before, the orthopedist had not been enthusiastic about my going to Morocco, and his nurse had admonished me to take a daily aspirin, “to keep your blood from clotting”. I took the aspirin and some white wine with dinner, and dozed a little.

We arrived at Charles de Gaulle Airport northeast of Paris. Since we started traveling in 2001, CDG has been a frequent destination. When the sun’s shining and we have an hour to wait, we enjoy people-watching the elegant Parisians and window-shopping at Hermes. Other not-so-pleasant times have seen missed connections and quick scrambles through its strung-out terminals. On November 8, it was cloudy and cold. This time, my focus was on getting in. Our plane arrived far out; the other passengers went down stairs into buses. Tom and I waited in first class near the galley. I was put into an “aisle chair”, a tiny armless wheel chair that looks as if it couldn’t hold anyone over 70 pounds!

Suddenly, below us was a large white vehicle. As we looked, its cab rose in the air, and doors opened between the plane’s galley and the cab. It had other wheelchairs and ample vacant space, as well as some seats. An attendant rolled me in and secured me. Clutching his carryon, Tom joined me, and our cab sank to ground level. We rode over the tarmac until we started to rise again, approaching one of the glass corridors leading to the boarding areas. A door opened in the glass wall, and the attendant pushed me through.

We were met by a young woman with a full-sized wheelchair. She led us quickly to the passport check, then to baggage claim, where she found a cart for Tom (and hoisted our bags and walker onto it). Then, after noting our next flight on Easy-Jet Airlines in the afternoon, she took us through the airport. We entered elevators accessed by card swipe and marked “restricted access”. At one point in the basement we passed the prayer room. I had always suspected they had one! But we had no time to investigate.

Arriving at a seating area marked with symbols for wheelchairs, children, blindness and deafness, the attendant took the wheelchair (they’re airline property). Using the walker, we managed to reach the nearby snack bar, and, via elevator, the basement restrooms. With a few hours to board, we went through security and entered the Easy-Jet terminal. Tom helped me to sit atop the two bags on the luggage cart, as we had some distance to travel. Feeling undignified, I clutched the folded walker and the luggage cart! After lunch, in plenty of time, we checked in at Easy-Jet for our flight to Casablanca.

We had secured a letter from the orthopedist, asking that I be given any possible assistance while traveling. Easy-Jet, a cut-rate airline, was a lot stricter than Continental! Shocked, we listened as they informed us that I couldn’t fly to Casablanca because they had a policy about traveling in a cast. We pointed out I had just made a much longer flight; they sniffed. They produced their “policy paper”, which seemed translated from some strange language and talked of the cast “curing” and of needing it “opened”. At that point, I said, “Nobody’s touching this cast!”

We might still be standing there, but our traveling companions, Tom’s brother Pat and his wife Julia arrived. Pat and Julia project an aura of caring and competence. They said they would look after me, and the Easy-Jet woman relented. Feeling shaken, I boarded the plane. Easy-Jet charges for everything (even water). With many Moroccan passengers in djebelas and headscarves, we began to feel Morocco meeting us. In Casablanca, a young man in military uniform put me in a wheelchair. With our bags collected, he pushed me through the large modern terminal, muttering “I’m supposed to get off at 7”. I glanced at my watch—it was 7:30. After meeting our guide Hadj, we proceeded to the parking lot. I tried to give the young man some two-euro coins, but he refused, explaining, “There is no change in Morocco.” (This could be interpreted more than one way.) Tom gave him a ten-euro bill, which was graciously accepted (and, I hope, eased his unhappiness at having to work late).

We arrived at our hotel to good tidings: only a few outside steps to be hopped up on the walker, an elevator, a good-sized room, and a restaurant on the ground floor. From then on, each day was a different challenge. Morocco’s traditional sites, the medinas, ancient walled cities, now marketplaces with numerous corridors and steps and kasbahs, fortresses built up several levels, were not always easily accessible. I enjoyed what I could see, and marveled at the kindness and helpfulness of ordinary Moroccans toward someone in a wheelchair. French is used in many places, and the people were an interesting ethnic and racial mix, living in apparent harmony.

Tom, Pat, and Julia were always nearby, and Meli, the Turkish woman who was tour director, Hadj the guide, and Abdul the driver also helped. Abdul had to get me on and off the tour van, and several times carried me up stairs. I’m sure there was nothing in his contract about all that! He always said, “Voila!” triumphantly when we’d had a successful van ascent or descent. I started echoing him. Even our fellow tour members kindly carried my purse, opened doors, and assisted in the restrooms .

Sunday November 22 we were in Marrakesh, preparing to fly home. Tom had bought lots of wonderful items, and to lighten the suitcases, had thrown out unnecessary papers, including the letter from the doctor. Big mistake! When we arrived at 8 am at the airport, the Easy-Jet people demanded that letter. Tom left me sitting on the edge of a planter (to keep our place in line) and hurried back to the nearby hotel. The Easy-Jet people did produce a wheelchair. Tom returned with the missing letter; Easy-Jet promised us reserved seats in the front row of the plane!

Knowing Easy-Jet’s policies, we spent some Moroccan dirhams on baguette sandwiches and a bottle of water. We watched as the other passengers walked down a flight of stairs and onto a bus. Then we were taken down an elevator and I was pushed to the far end of a row of planes. Here, I was transferred into another “aisle chair” and carried up a flight of steps to the plane by four Moroccan men, while a fifth stood by with a clipboard. I boarded, the chair and men vanished, and all was well.

We arrived at CDG around 2:30, and were met by a young woman with a wheelchair and a young man who appeared to be in training. They pushed us to the door where we could catch the van to our hotel. When the van came and went, the woman quickly dialed her cell phone and announced we qualified for a special “handicapped” van. We waited and waited, and finally it arrived. Clutching the walker, I managed to get on.

We had reservations at the Ibis. The van drove past it; our protests were greeted by “there’s another one!” There was—on the far side of the airport. Tom went in. I maneuvered carefully down a rain-dampened walkway into the lobby. Tom turned to me said, “It’s the other hotel!” All I could say was, “You’ve got to be kidding!” Back we went, to the first Ibis. The men promised to pick us up at 8 the following morning.

We were waiting outside with the bags at 8. At 8:15 Tom went inside and asked the desk to call the van’s number. No luck! At 8:30 we took a cab. The driver took us to 2-A, the Continental terminal. Its front entrance was barricaded, so he dropped us in the middle. We advanced down the vacant terminal (I was perched on the luggage cart again). Midway, we were stopped by two airport police and a man in military fatigues. An announcement in French and English stated that someone had left a bag at a departure gate. No one was allowed past. A sizable crowd collected behind us. When a distant “pop!” indicated the bag had been neutralized, we hurried to the Continental counter.

We had known that Continental had left one airline alliance and entered another with Lufthansa and United. Doing this had cost them their counters in 2-A. They were now in Terminal One! Feeling trapped in a farce, we hurried to another cab and arrived at Terminal One. Our flight was boarding, but we hadn’t been able to check bags, and weren’t allowed on. We were not alone, and with another longsuffering traveler, we were re-routed to United.

United flew us to Dulles Airport in Virginia, and on to Houston. After all our adventures, I almost fell getting into the parking-lot van! My walker has been to Morocco—if only it could talk! And Tom was right—I could “travel disabled”! If you ever have to, and have stalwart traveling companions, I hope you can, too! Blessings—Nancy Daly

The Road To (and From) Morocco—for friends and fellow-travelers who may have to travel temporarily disabled!

A long-planned trip to Morocco in November 2009 was suddenly altered when I slipped and fell October 29, breaking my left fibula (smaller bone in lower leg). I was encased in a fiberglass cast nearly to my knee. A danger to myself and others on crutches, I was put on a walker. I felt full of trepidation about making the trip. But my husband Tom assured me it would work! So on Saturday November 7, we drove to the airport with my walker. Immediately, I discovered “traveling while disabled”!

The parking-lot shuttle dropped us off at the terminal and I pushed the walker slowly in. As we approached the Continental baggage-check, a man with a wheelchair materialized. We had to check the walker, so he pushed me to the gate. Tom tipped him, and we were able to eat a little and use the restroom (handicapped-accessible stalls have doors that swing out. This is very important when you’re in a wheelchair!) before boarding. We could board first, and find empty overhead bins. For this flight, we were four rows back in economy. Since we had a vacant seat on our three-seat row, I was able to prop the leg up a little. The day before, the orthopedist had not been enthusiastic about my going to Morocco, and his nurse had admonished me to take a daily aspirin, “to keep your blood from clotting”. I took the aspirin and some white wine with dinner, and dozed a little.

We arrived at Charles de Gaulle Airport northeast of Paris. Since we started traveling in 2001, CDG has been a frequent destination. When the sun’s shining and we have an hour to wait, we enjoy people-watching the elegant Parisians and window-shopping at Hermes. Other not-so-pleasant times have seen missed connections and quick scrambles through its strung-out terminals. On November 8, it was cloudy and cold. This time, my focus was on getting in. Our plane arrived far out; the other passengers went down stairs into buses. Tom and I waited in first class near the galley. I was put into an “aisle chair”, a tiny armless wheel chair that looks as if it couldn’t hold anyone over 70 pounds!

Suddenly, below us was a large white vehicle. As we looked, its cab rose in the air, and doors opened between the plane’s galley and the cab. It had other wheelchairs and ample vacant space, as well as some seats. An attendant rolled me in and secured me. Clutching his carryon, Tom joined me, and our cab sank to ground level. We rode over the tarmac until we started to rise again, approaching one of the glass corridors leading to the boarding areas. A door opened in the glass wall, and the attendant pushed me through.

We were met by a young woman with a full-sized wheelchair. She led us quickly to the passport check, then to baggage claim, where she found a cart for Tom (and hoisted our bags and walker onto it). Then, after noting our next flight on Easy-Jet Airlines in the afternoon, she took us through the airport. We entered elevators accessed by card swipe and marked “restricted access”. At one point in the basement we passed the prayer room. I had always suspected they had one! But we had no time to investigate.

Arriving at a seating area marked with symbols for wheelchairs, children, blindness and deafness, the attendant took the wheelchair (they’re airline property). Using the walker, we managed to reach the nearby snack bar, and, via elevator, the basement restrooms. With a few hours to board, we went through security and entered the Easy-Jet terminal. Tom helped me to sit atop the two bags on the luggage cart, as we had some distance to travel. Feeling undignified, I clutched the folded walker and the luggage cart! After lunch, in plenty of time, we checked in at Easy-Jet for our flight to Casablanca.

We had secured a letter from the orthopedist, asking that I be given any possible assistance while traveling. Easy-Jet, a cut-rate airline, was a lot stricter than Continental! Shocked, we listened as they informed us that I couldn’t fly to Casablanca because they had a policy about traveling in a cast. We pointed out I had just made a much longer flight; they sniffed. They produced their “policy paper”, which seemed translated from some strange language and talked of the cast “curing” and of needing it “opened”. At that point, I said, “Nobody’s touching this cast!”

We might still be standing there, but our traveling companions, Tom’s brother Pat and his wife Julia arrived. Pat and Julia project an aura of caring and competence. They said they would look after me, and the Easy-Jet woman relented. Feeling shaken, I boarded the plane. Easy-Jet charges for everything (even water). With many Moroccan passengers in djebelas and headscarves, we began to feel Morocco meeting us. In Casablanca, a young man in military uniform put me in a wheelchair. With our bags collected, he pushed me through the large modern terminal, muttering “I’m supposed to get off at 7”. I glanced at my watch—it was 7:30. After meeting our guide Hadj, we proceeded to the parking lot. I tried to give the young man some two-euro coins, but he refused, explaining, “There is no change in Morocco.” (This could be interpreted more than one way.) Tom gave him a ten-euro bill, which was graciously accepted (and, I hope, eased his unhappiness at having to work late).

We arrived at our hotel to good tidings: only a few outside steps to be hopped up on the walker, an elevator, a good-sized room, and a restaurant on the ground floor. From then on, each day was a different challenge. Morocco’s traditional sites, the medinas, ancient walled cities, now marketplaces with numerous corridors and steps and kasbahs, fortresses built up several levels, were not always easily accessible. I enjoyed what I could see, and marveled at the kindness and helpfulness of ordinary Moroccans toward someone in a wheelchair. French is used in many places, and the people were an interesting ethnic and racial mix, living in apparent harmony.

Tom, Pat, and Julia were always nearby, and Meli, the Turkish woman who was tour director, Hadj the guide, and Abdul the driver also helped. Abdul had to get me on and off the tour van, and several times carried me up stairs. I’m sure there was nothing in his contract about all that! He always said, “Voila!” triumphantly when we’d had a successful van ascent or descent. I started echoing him. Even our fellow tour members kindly carried my purse, opened doors, and assisted in the restrooms .

Sunday November 22 we were in Marrakesh, preparing to fly home. Tom had bought lots of wonderful items, and to lighten the suitcases, had thrown out unnecessary papers, including the letter from the doctor. Big mistake! When we arrived at 8 am at the airport, the Easy-Jet people demanded that letter. Tom left me sitting on the edge of a planter (to keep our place in line) and hurried back to the nearby hotel. The Easy-Jet people did produce a wheelchair. Tom returned with the missing letter; Easy-Jet promised us reserved seats in the front row of the plane!

Knowing Easy-Jet’s policies, we spent some Moroccan dirhams on baguette sandwiches and a bottle of water. We watched as the other passengers walked down a flight of stairs and onto a bus. Then we were taken down an elevator and I was pushed to the far end of a row of planes. Here, I was transferred into another “aisle chair” and carried up a flight of steps to the plane by four Moroccan men, while a fifth stood by with a clipboard. I boarded, the chair and men vanished, and all was well.

We arrived at CDG around 2:30, and were met by a young woman with a wheelchair and a young man who appeared to be in training. They pushed us to the door where we could catch the van to our hotel. When the van came and went, the woman quickly dialed her cell phone and announced we qualified for a special “handicapped” van. We waited and waited, and finally it arrived. Clutching the walker, I managed to get on.

We had reservations at the Ibis. The van drove past it; our protests were greeted by “there’s another one!” There was—on the far side of the airport. Tom went in. I maneuvered carefully down a rain-dampened walkway into the lobby. Tom turned to me said, “It’s the other hotel!” All I could say was, “You’ve got to be kidding!” Back we went, to the first Ibis. The men promised to pick us up at 8 the following morning.

We were waiting outside with the bags at 8. At 8:15 Tom went inside and asked the desk to call the van’s number. No luck! At 8:30 we took a cab. The driver took us to 2-A, the Continental terminal. Its front entrance was barricaded, so he dropped us in the middle. We advanced down the vacant terminal (I was perched on the luggage cart again). Midway, we were stopped by two airport police and a man in military fatigues. An announcement in French and English stated that someone had left a bag at a departure gate. No one was allowed past. A sizable crowd collected behind us. When a distant “pop!” indicated the bag had been neutralized, we hurried to the Continental counter.

We had known that Continental had left one airline alliance and entered another with Lufthansa and United. Doing this had cost them their counters in 2-A. They were now in Terminal One! Feeling trapped in a farce, we hurried to another cab and arrived at Terminal One. Our flight was boarding, but we hadn’t been able to check bags, and weren’t allowed on. We were not alone, and with another longsuffering traveler, we were re-routed to United.

United flew us to Dulles Airport in Virginia, and on to Houston. After all our adventures, I almost fell getting into the parking-lot van! My walker has been to Morocco—if only it could talk! And Tom was right—I could “travel disabled”! If you ever have to, and have stalwart traveling companions, I hope you can, too! Blessings—Nancy Daly