A wise lady told me that traveling is like owning a car. Eventually you’ll need a new transmission, it’s just park of the gig.
(Above) Todra Gorge, Morocco
Three Tips for Travelers:
Double check your visa requirements. And them check them again. And probably again.
Keep tabs on your friends, this is both life and travel advice.
Always have snacks on hand.
Leaving my Riad in Marrakech at 4:30am, the streets of the Medina are empty except for a few construction workers and the occasional straggler.
After a 10 minutes of lugging my monster North Face bag across cobble stone streets I come to a clearing and spot a taxi coming right for me. The cost is 100 Dirham, 100 less than the Riad’s night attendant had told me - excellent news. I text my friend an update and share my location.
This is the first time in a month I’ve traveled alone and I’m taking every precaution as I get my sea legs back.
I get to the airport 2.5 hours early, given the stress of a 7am flight and no guarantee of a taxi it’s worth it.
Check in, security, and immigration is a cinch. With extra time and Dirham to waste, I mill around the Moroccan equivalent of Hudson News curating a selection of snacks that is both comforting, filling, and uses every bit of my remaining cash.
Unfortunately, other countries don’t take Dirham. You can spend Dollars, Euros, and Pounds anywhere, but that’s about it.
I eat gummy worms and a chocolate croissant for breakfast. Then take a last stroll from one end of the terminal to the other and back to my gate again. The flight is finally boarding.
3 hours later, I’ve had enough coffee to balance out the sleep I didn’t get and I’m confidently walking to baggage claim at Charles de Gaulle. I’m flying a different airline to Vietnam and have to self-transfer, meaning I’m rechecking my suitcase. I accidentally paid for two check bags, which is fine because I can unload one of my carry-ons and cruise to my gate with little effort.
Waiting in line, I respond to Whatsapp messages asking about my plans, how my flight was, and unsolicited updates on a friend’s breakfast - he had bread, thrilling. I close my phone.
The night before, I realized the “visa on arrival” option for Vietnam requires an online application and fee. So, it’s not actually a “visa on arrival.” I would have known this had I read farther than the first sentence on the embassy’s website. I applied immediately, paid to expedite my visa, and hoped for the best.
I reach the counter to check in. My bags are getting tagged, my boarding pass is printing, then it happens. “Ma’am, I need to see your visa.”
“Well, I don’t have it yet.” I spit out. “My application is being processed but I promise I’ll have it by morning. I paid extra to have it in one day and it’s only been 12 hours, but I’ll definitely have it by the time I land. Here, you can see my receipt!”
She can’t give me my boarding pass, I plead with her. Her supervisor comes over, a french man about an inch and a half shorter than me. He’s not budging.
I present every possible work around I can think of. “Can you just move my flight to tomorrow?” “No.” “What if I wait it out in Bangkok?” “No.” “What if I just go, and if they turn me away it’s not your fault?” “No.”
I let a tear fall, I’m not actually sad but I am good at crying to win over service workers. It’s a pathetic skill that I’ve used too many times. He speaks softly into his radio, a few back-and-forths in French that I can’t understand, but nothing works.
Before gesturing me away from the counter, he looks at my reservation, then asks, “you had a vegetarian meal?” I can’t tell if this is somehow helping my case, as if he now thinks I’m worthier of leniency because I don’t eat meat, or if he’s making a mental note to cancel the special meal before take off.
I sit on the floor 20 feet from where my latest heartbreak has happened, book a room at the Ibis Budget Roissy, and call every number I can in rapid succession.
I don’t have my visa and no one can do anything for me.
After going to the wrong hotel, I get lost one more time before curling into bed for the night. I break out the remaining snacks in my bag: popcorn and a granola bar. Then proceed to eat my feelings the way my mistake is eating my bank account.
I finally rebook my ticket after three attempts at chatting with eDreams. My mistake has been saying I was forced to miss my flight through a bureaucratic lack of sympathy from Vietnam Airlines. However, this does not get you a new ticket.
Once I admitted this fiasco was my fault, a breakthrough that cost around the same as its equivalent in a therapists office, I had a ticket for the day after tomorrow.
The following morning, full of mini croissants and instant coffee, I decide not to waste the only day I have left in Paris. I put 3 mini croissants into a napkin, make another coffee, and head upstairs to shower. One croissant makes it to my room.
I spend 17 Euros on a round trip ticket to Gare du Nord with the express intent of having a glass of red wine next to the Eiffel Tower. Something about the last 24 hours coupled with my small plan makes me feel like I shouldn’t be alone.
Now is not the time to be a Smiths’ song.
Then I remember Ari lives in Paris. We were acquaintances in college, though that might be an exaggeration. We were aware of each other in college and I follow her on Instagram.
I DM her asking if she’s still living in Paris and if she’d like to get a drink today. She immediately responds. I’m ecstatic. We plan to meet later in the afternoon, giving me time to wander the city.
Paris doesn’t make you forget your troubles but it does turn them (temporarily) into poetry. I pick up a book and find my wine.
Ari and I meet at La Magie de Noel, the Christmas Carnival between the Musee Dorsay and the Tuileries. We each get a liter of mulled wine and catch up. It’s interesting how no matter where you are, every 26 year-old is going through the same “I’m not young, I’m not old, what am I doing” phase. It’s comforting.
We down our wine, get crepes, and head for some rides. On the hour, the Eiffel Tower begins to sparkle and we both run to see it.
As the night ends, we get a wine for the road and I head to the train.
The next day, with my visa firmly in hand, I white knuckle my way through security and immigration, waiting for an invisible shoe to fall. Nothing.
I board the flight refusing to relax until we leave the runway. 10 hours later, on zero hours of sleep, I arrive in Hanoi. Nervously, I approach immigration.
I had turned down the complimentary wine onboard, afraid of either being tipsy or hungover for this encounter. Everything is riding on this encounter.
My visa is open on my phone, vaccination card is in hand, passport cover is off.
The immigration officer never asks to see my visa, or anything for that matter.
He stamps my passport and waves me through.