It may be a chaotic city, but a quick jump through a doorway or a turn into a quiet street always reveals something beautiful.
The airport doors slide open and my senses are bombarded. It’s utter chaos, a combination of children crying and adults screaming in Arabic. I swear I hear goats. Car horns sing, and there’s a weird whizzing sound that I can’t quite figure out; almost like the car from ‘The Jetsons’. This was supposed to be an escapist holiday, a getaway to celebrate my partner Damian’s 40th birthday, a world away from the circus that is our home town of Los Angeles.
Eventually, we find a cute Moroccan guy, holding a sign with our misspelt names on it. He seems excited to have found us and leads us to the pick-up area. I relax momentarily and let my guard down, but then he says goodbye and leaves us with another hip local. They banter somewhat aggressively in Arabic. I’m nervous and my guard is right up again, but I shrug it off and get in the van. If it comes down to it, we’re two Angelinos against one Moroccan.