This is the incredibly long saga of how I managed to get a flight home in the midst of the biggest travel chaos in recent history.
The Earlybird gets the flight?
My day began while it was still dark. I woke up at a quarter to five in the morning, and took a taxi to the airport, arriving by six. Marrakech’s sleepy little Menara airport was pretty quiet at that hour, with none of the airline service desks open yet and only a few frantic passengers hanging around. Most of the scheduled flights from the airport were cancelled, including mine, but I figured I’d have better luck going to the airport in person and trying to work something out, rather than hanging around Marrakech with no real plan. At least it was doing something.
I started looking for some information about my original flight to Paris. There was no Jet4You desk at the airport at all, and no airline personnel. All of their scheduled flights were cancelled, and there was nothing but a printed sign taped to a window, advising of the cancellation and posting the (non-working) call centre phone number. So much for that.
Beg, borrow or steal
The next thing I tried was to talk to Royal Air Maroc. I knew they operated flights from Casablanca directly to Montreal, and if I could get on one of those, I figured I could bypass Europe altogether. There was a small crowd at the RAM window, but I was near the front by virtue of the early hour. When an agent showed up, she was pounced on by scores of angry French tourists trying to get to France. There was nothing she could do for any of them; French airspace was still closed. I think that might be why, amidst a chorus of “Paris, Paris”, she singled out my “Montreal” and took me aside. She must have thought that maybe there was something she could do for me. But then she asked me why I hadn’t been there earlier; apparently, there had been space on the 8am flight to Montreal out of Casa that morning, and if I’d been at the airport by 4:30am, she could’ve gotten me there. Here I was thinking I’d arrive at six and that would be plenty early, but, it seems, not early enough. I asked her if there were any other flights to Montreal from Casa that she could get me on, and she checked and said nothing until at least next Saturday, at least. Not only that, but because they had suspended all new reservations, she couldn’t even book me on that.
So I started asking about other flights. Anything else to North American gateway cities? New York, Boston, Toronto, Washington? Nothing, nada, zilch. Then I asked about flights to still-open airports in Europe. Marrakech is a small airport without a lot of options. Maybe by getting to a larger hub city, I could find a flight to Canada or the US and get home from there. But when I told her my original booking was not with Royal Air Maroc, she told me that she was sorry but there was nothing she could do; the airline’s first responsibility was to its own stranded passengers, and it had suspended all bookings for other passengers. She was sympathetic when I said that my airline had seemingly disappeared off the face of the planet, but it wasn’t really her problem. I understood, but that brought me no closer to a solution.
Dejected, I had to think of a new plan. I brought my laptop over to a table and paid fifteen euros for WiFi access in the airport. Then, I started to work the magic keyboard. I’m no travel agent, but – luckily – I know my way around airline sites and schedules, and I figured that it was every man (or woman) for himself, so I’d better start investigating options.
About a half hour later, I hit on a glimmer of hope. Air France’s website said that additional flights had been added to several destinations, including Montreal, out of Toulouse, for that very afternoon. Passengers who had been booked on cancelled flights from Paris (i.e. me) would have priority. I knew that Royal Air Maroc had a flight to Toulouse leaving in an hour’s time. I ran to the RAM office and frantically explained the situation to the agent, asking if there was space on the Marrakech-Toulouse flight. Unfortunately, while he was checking, France closed the Toulouse airport. So much for that.
At that point, I hit a low. I was starting to think that I’d be stranded in Marrakech forever, with no recourse and no way home. What’s more, I was starting to realise just how serious the situation was. Thanks to WiFi, I was able to see that the number of stranded passengers was well into the six or even seven figures, that the volcanic smoke was showing no signs of letting up, and that people were digging in for delays of weeks. It’s one thing to be somewhere because you want to be; it’s quite another to be stuck with no way home. I indulged in about fifteen minutes of self pity and had a good cry before shaking myself out of it and trying to work on a new plan.
A new plan, some luck
I made friends with another Royal Air Maroc agent, who told me that the only flights operating that day were to Barcelona (which was cancelled shortly thereafter) or Madrid. Was there any chance I could get on the Madrid flight, I asked? Maybe, he said. There was still some space, though it was supposed to be reserved for RAM passengers. But maybe he could make an exception for me if I kept it quiet. Come see him in an hour, he said, and he’d see what he could do for me.
I knew there were no flights from Madrid to Montreal, but according to updates on Twitter, there might be some flights going to the US. I worked the airline hub sites again on WiFi and came up empty again and again until – miracle of miracles! – I hit on a US Airways flight to Philadelphia leaving tomorrow afternoon with one seat left on it. From Philly, I could connect to Montreal, making it home before sunset tomorrow evening. The flight would cost upwards of three thousand dollars, and there was no guarantee I’d even make it, but in that moment, it was almost too good to be true.
So, without having any idea (a) whether I’d even manage to make it to Madrid to catch that flight, (b) whether the Madrid airport would stay open or the flight would even happen, or (c) how the *bleep* I would pay for the incredibly ridiculous fare, I took a leap of faith and booked it on the spot, terrified that it would disappear before I could even enter the credit card information. I held my breath and – voila – a confirmation number for a flight out of Madrid tomorrow, via Philadelphia.
Now I had to get myself onto that Marrakech-Madrid flight. I went back to see my new friend at the Royal Air Maroc booth. Officially, he shouldn’t have been able to help me at all; there was a long queue of stranded RAM passengers that he needed to help first. I ran over to him, open laptop in hand, and frantically showed him the confirmation number of my flight out of Madrid, begging him to get me on the flight to Madrid that afternoon. I took a chance on this flight, I told him. Now, can you take a chance on me? Pretty please? I’ll pay, I said. Whatever it takes.
Well, my begging paid off. He took pity on me and made me a reservation on the Madrid flight. If the airport stayed open, he said I could swap it for a boarding pass two hours before departure time. The ticket would cost another $700 or so on top of what I’d just paid for the US Airways flight, but I didn’t care; it was a ticket home. I nearly cried again – this time tears of relief – and settled in to wait. I kept checking the AENA website for updates on the airport closures. Barcelona remained closed, but Madrid was – so far – staying open. All my fingers and toes were crossed at that point.
Three American girls who were on a study exchange program in Barcelona and were trying to return after a weekend trip to Marrakech approached me and asked if they could use my laptop and WiFi. I didn’t have much to do but wait, so I agreed, and we chatted as they tried to see what they could find out. Not much, as it turned out.
It got closer and closer to departure time and Madrid’s airport was still open. I paid the RAM agent, exchanged my reservation for a ticket, got my boarding pass, went to the gate, and… the flight took off! Sweet relief!
On the plane, I made friends with the very interesting man sitting next to me. He was a university professor in Marrakech. So nice to meet a local who wasn’t trying to sell me something, for a change. I know it’s not a fair perspective of a country, but it’s a fact that most tourists are more likely to interact with people in the tourism industry.
Couscous Crew in Madrid
There was some clapping when we landed in Madrid, mostly from the multitudes of stranded French tourists. Madrid was the only major European airport that was still open at that point, and it looked like people were driving, taking trains, and even hiring taxis to get there.
When I got to the baggage claim area, I ran into two of my tourmates who’d been on my flight. I knew they were going to Madrid and had looked for them in the Marrakech airport but for some reason I hadn’t seen them. It didn’t matter; they found me. They’d booked a hotel room already, since this stop in Madrid was intentional on their part, and they invited the me to tag along with them. As it turned out, their hotel had a spare room, which turned out to be pretty perfect.
As it turned out, my roommate from the tour was also in Madrid; she’d taken the earlier flight and was upstairs on the departures level waiting in the incredibly long line for her airline to try to rebook her onward flight to the UK. We headed upstairs after getting our bags and waited with her as she learned that there were no flights to London for at least a week. She opted for a midweek flight to Paris instead, though it’s anyone’s guess whether those will be running by then.
The four of us convinced a taxi driver to take all of us in a single cab, and we drove the twenty minutes from the airport to the city centre. The sticker shock from the cab ride reminded us that we weren’t in Morocco anymore; those prices are in Euros now, not in Dirhams. But it was worth it, and, split four ways, not overly expensive.
(I know this breaks every single rule in the Traveler’s Code, but I have to admit I was so happy to be in Europe. No more haggling for cab fare, no more fending off touts, everything clean and efficient. We were even giddy about silly things, like Starbucks. The thing about travel is, when things are going wrong, sometimes there’s no substitute for the comfort of the familiar.
On the other hand, thanks to the French, I didn’t really have a language barrier in Morocco, but Spain was another story. My few words of Spanish get me by fairly well when it comes to reading, but the rapid-fire Spanish of the locals was too much for my exhausted brain to process.)
The hotel turned out to be extremely nice. Right in the city centre, with clean, luxurious rooms, in-room WiFi, and working hot showers. It was everything we needed right then. My roommate and I paired up one more time to split the cost, and we all checked in and did our best to “freshen up” with whatever was the least dirty items in our backpacks.
It was getting late by then, close to ten-thirty at night. With the time difference, though, it only felt like half past eight to us. And, luckily, Spaniards eat dinner late, so our timing was perfect. After the day we’d all had, we figured we owed it to ourselves to have a nice dinner out. We asked for suggestions at the hotel’s reception desk, and were pointed in the direction of the main square and some streets meant to be good for food and drink.
We walked in that general direction, but without any particular purpose. Luckily, we stumbled on what turned out to be this incredible restaurant, totally authentic and with a fantastic atmosphere. None of us could read or pronounce much of anything on the menu, but our combined guesswork and few words of Spanish got us quite far. Good wine, good food, some free shots on the house, and we were all feeling no pain by the end of the night.
So, I managed to see a small glimpse of Madrid for a few hours. I’d like to go back for real one day. But I’m feeling pretty grateful to have a flight out tomorrow, even if it means foregoing the chance to sightsee in Madrid. At this point, my main priority is getting home. I can always go back to Spain, once the volcanic ash clears.