We left the hotel at eight o'clock, German-style, with bread and croissants from breakfast stuffed in a bag for lunch. At the station a middle-aged couple were arguing on the tracks, their suitcases blocking the path. A window had been smashed in the second carriage down.
The train filled up at the first stop and my legs were crushed against the wall. Afterwards, each station saw a new set of faces walking up and down the corridor, peering in through dirty glass. I sat by the window looking out at pockmarked countryside, studded with trees and, wherever people lived nearby, strewn with litter. Sheep grazed by plastic bags and water bottle heaps; children played in the dust; men wandered slowly with shovels on their backs. Behind them all were the Middle Atlas, blurry mountains mingling with the sky.
I turned away and started to read. In three hours we had reached Rabat. Thirty minutes later we arrived in Casablanca.
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