ooh, morocco.

We took the ferry from Tangiers to Tarifa, and it was a rocky ride. 

"Everyone show me your sea-sick face!" I chirped as I positioned the camera. 

"This is my sea-sick face," Lorena growled. 

We made friends with the man sitting next to us, and casually mentioned that we had, as of yet, no tickets for tonight's train to Marrakesh. 

He was horrified. 

"Have you never been to Morocco before??" He asked. 

We exchanged looks. 

"No," we said. 

"Don't you know how the trains work?" He asked. 

I began to feel rather queasy. 

"No," we said again. 

He sat back, relishing his chance to tell us. 

"It's bedlam," he said. "Nobody has tickets. The first class berths go right away, and all the rest of the poor suckers have to fight it out for a seat in coach. There's ten people for every seat. They all camp out in the station, lining up at the gates. At nine o'clock the gates open and it's like the running of the bulls; everyone jabbing, shoving each other out of the way. If you do manage to get on the train, you share a seat with at least two other people. Everyone's sleeping on top of each other, sitting up. It's bedlam," he said again. 

We all sat and stared at each other, very pale. 

"Oh boy," I said, finally. "Rick Steves failed to mention any of that."

The man sank farther into his seat and folded his arms behind his head. 

"Just keep your elbows up," he said, happily. "Don't let anyone run you down."