With a 6pm red-eye out of Montreal Trudeau, the February night was already here as I joined the crowd of people in line for Casablanca. It was one of those planes with 8 (2-4-2) seats across and I found my window seat next to a man from Marrakesh.

Seven hours later, the night didn't relinquish through the movies and naps, and soon we would be landing in Morocco's biggest city. For someone whose only flown internationally to New Zealand, I was excited and a bit scared to hit the ground running here, especially as all I could see in the dark night were the lights of the airport.

My passport stamped with invigorating squares containing Arabic writing, I made it all of 50 feet before making my first international mistake. There was a kiosk that offered prepaid credit cards and this seemed like a good idea not having to give my credit card out in sketchy situations, but the exchange rate, fee and eventual leftover money meant that I would skip this feature on a return trip.

Things went smoother after that. I exchanged a bunch of cash into a big ol' wad of Moroccan dirhams and found the train platforms leading into town. While the airport was clean and bright, the train station was dark, especially at this early hour. The hunter green cars with dated interiors also reminded me of something I'd expect in a former Soviet republic. This was all very exciting as I threw my luggage into the rack and lounged back in the cushy seats.

Before long I was gathering my first impressions of Morocco as my train passed grasslands, small villages and the rundown backsides of buildings that are always visible from trains.

Pulling into the handsome Casablanca train station, I had about an hour before my train to Marrakech, so it was time for breakfast and one of those little coffees they give you over here. I briefly thought of easing myself into this new country some more by walking around the nearby streets, but a horde of touts crowded the sanctioned border of the train station. Intimidated, I turned around while their volume and offers increased, heading back inside with my giant 70L pack and BMX pseudo-golf bag.

My train to Marrakesh arrived in no time. And here I was enjoying another coffee, people-watching, plus savouring the perfect weather, fine architecture and plentiful cat population.

I needed to get on my way though and since it was my introductory day to Morocco, I splurged on a first class ticket. The difference in cost was something like $12 CAD anyway.

The only problem was that the first class cars were divided into individual 6-seater compartments, with 3 people on each side and only overhead storage space. Obviously I wasn't about to throw my 5-ft high, 50-lb bike bag up there and risk it falling, so instead it was a matter of trying to take the last seat and pull my bike as close as possible in between my legs. Everyone else in the car was a woman and I got the feeling that they may have been annoyed with my amount of luggage.

About an hour into the 3-hour journey, I awoke as the train came to an abrupt halt. Men and teenage boys started to congregate outside of our car, peering underneath and scratching their heads at the problem. It didn't seem mechanical though, but rather like we hit something. Fellow passengers were continuously coming to our compartment as well, stretching around and looking confused at my golf bag, while peering out the window before heading back to their own seat.

After about 10 minutes of stoppage, the train started right back up and we went on our way. Noticing that one of the women was reading an English textbook, I asked her what we hit and grew wide-eyed when she replied, "a man. we hit a man."

Holy hell. By people's reactions outside, I have to assume (and hope) he was okay.

The rest of the train ride passed without incident and I was soon delivered to Marrakesh's stunning train station. The next course of action was to get on a bus to Essaouira, but that bus wasn't leaving for 3 hours. Having read about grands taxis in Morocco though, I figured I was about to get going much quicker than waiting forever for said bus.

Grands taxis are usually old Mercedes with the twin bench seats, which park in a central area and make runs between major cities. If the cost is say 600 dirhams to make the run between two cities, then the grands taxi will wait for 6 passengers to fill up the car and pay 100 dirhams each.

What I didn't know at the time, was that grands taxis don't necessarily congregate right outside train stations. So I walked out of the Gare de Marrakech, thinking I was going to pull a quick one on Morocco and skip waiting 3 hours for the bus, only to find a relatively quiet public square. A few dudes hollered at me about bringing me to whatever hotel, but I didn't see any rundown Mercedes anywhere.

Giving up and figuring that there just weren't any grande taxis heading to Essaouira, I purchased my bus ticket and lounged about in Marrakesh's train station, then wandered the streets a little. It was a hot day though and I had 100 pounds of luggage, so I didn't get very far before setting up shop in the bus station next door.

Marrakesh was also the place that I read would be the most dangerous city I would visit, so just arriving here and trying to get a feel for Morocco, I decided against crossing the street and entering into the maze of businesses and lots that were over there.

(For how much I loved Morocco in the end, I regret every one of these early, cowardly decisions where I could have seen even more.)

My bus would show up on time at 3pm, filling about 2/3rds of the way up, but with an empty window seat where I could watch the Moroccan landscape slip by. Marrakesh didn't look all that rough as we drove out of the heart of the city, then past a growing number of homes and into the area where everything petered out.

By my count there were about 15 people who looked like tourists on the Essaouira bus and the touts and swindlers were waiting as we pulled up to our designated stop. The couples and the girlfriends drew most of the coverage, while I slipped away towards the heart of the city and my accommodations. I had orientated myself, understood how Essaouira was laid out and was heading in the right direction.

Except that I was planning on relying on my GPS once I got close. Taking a second to stop and refer to it, instantly I heard, "hey, where are you going? I show you where your hotel is. Where are you going? I know, you don't need map." over and over this man was talking my ear off, while I tried to make sense of what my car GPS unit was telling me with poor reception in the narrow streets of Essaouira's heart. I tried to keep moving, but I was also lugging my 50-lb bike bag, while trying to study this car GPS, while this guy wouldn't accept that I wasn't interested in his help.

He would win in the end, as eventually I broke down and said I was staying at the Riad El Aha when I thought it was just around the corner. Turns out I was wrong and he wouldn't let me continue without constant talking and constant telling me I was going in the wrong direction; until it just wasn't worth it anymore to carry 100 pounds of stuff, listen to this guy's constant talking, plus not find my accommodations.

I let him guide me and the touts were out to an early lead, touts: 1, navi: 0.

Things got much better as I rushed to put my bike together for these orgasmic evening weather conditions. Racing back down from my room, the riad proprietor quickly explained the two simple turns I had to make in the maze-like downtown, and making these turns, I then stepped on my left pedal and zoomed forward on my bike through Essaouira's main public square.

Cruising the promenade and manualling the seaside marble ledges, I didn't think Essaouira was that touristy at the time, so I was happy to deliver such an odd sight of being a giant man on a kid's bike, flying around and hopping whatever was in my way. I was a million miles away from blowing on my hands and watching the weather report like a hawk with dreams of a 2°C/36°F day. This was fuckin' living, man.

Pausing to ride a curb, I noticed this White Wagtail down by the shore.

The only place you're going to find the White Wagtail in North America is in Alaska, and that makes me happy in that I saw something relatively obscure.

Returning from my bike ride, it was now time to chow down and I found a highly rated, nearby place using my riad's WiFi.

Only a few turns away from my accommodations, a green light corridor lead me to the sit down restaurant.

One of the food items I needed to get on this trip was tajine - which is meat, slow-cooked with spices, usually over the whole day, in an earthenware pot with dome atop that lends its name to the dish.

Hoo boy. This was my introduction to tajine and my lamb tajine was unbelievable. I would have some other meals that rivaled this on the trip, but when people ask about the best thing I ate in Morocco, this dish instantly jumps to mind. It was perfectly cooked, flavourful and the sauce added a delightful complexity. My mouth is watering as I write this.

It wasn't a late night, especially without a television to keep me up in the room. In addition, I had extensive plans for my one full day in Essaouira tomorrow and I'll talk about that in the next update.

Skipping ahead to arriving back in Essaouira in the afternoon, I wandered the medina a little more, exploring the sights and avoiding all of the pushy calls to come into stalls and stores. It was funny how much attention I was getting now that I was wearing my bright yellow, Under Armour rain jacket and fancier field pants. Looking like a proper tourist, I clearly looked like more of a mark than yesterday.

A feature of Islamic Architecture, medinas are found in North African countries such as Libya, Tunisia & Morocco, as well as Malta in Europe. Typically encapsulated by walls, the medina is the narrow and maze-like downtown area that is almost always free from cars.

In booking accommodations for Essaouira, it was a steadfast rule that I had to be located within the medina. And now that I was here, I was realizing this was a great decision as this was one of my favourite areas of the trip.

While I also visited Marrakesh's medina, I preferred Essaouira's because it had fewer straight, inescapable pathways; and more random intersections and enclaves. There were so many times I would simply end up at a dead end, laughing at the randomness and lost in the maze. This was like no downtown I'd ever seen in North America and it felt so exotic and exhilarating. I wanted to stay in Essaouira for another week and discover every nook and cranny.

Fun fact for you movie buffs out there, this is where Orson Welles filmed a lot of the key scenes of his 1952 adaptation of Othello.

My friend Nailhed came to Morocco a couple of years before me and I ate up his verbose trip writeup. Unfortunately he ran out of time before he could explore any medina in the whole Californian-sized country, something which now makes me feel sorry for him.

Of course he did other things like camp out in the desert and visit an abandoned lead mine, but I'm just saying it's a shame he didn't get into any of these medinas!

Initially the medina was intimidating and not really enjoyable because of all the touts and aggressive shopkeepers, but eventually I got the hang of things. It wasn't worth being polite and saying no thanks to the shopkeepers who were aggressive - it was best to simply ignore them. Going into the stores where the shopkeeper was distracted or disinterested, finally I found the places where I could peacefully look at spices, fruit, lanterns, whatever you could imagine.

There were also pool halls, watchmakers and carpenters, which made for interesting scenes as I peered inside while moving along. It was like being able to walk a single street with every old business that's been in your city for decades, but with each having their door open and providing the chance to look inside. It was a fascinating place to walk about and I cursed myself for not knowing more Arabic or French to be able to go into more obscure spaces.

After laying down for a few minutes back at my riad, I grabbed my bike and headed out for an afternoon ride. The first thing was to fill up my tires a bit more, which involved the fascinating gas station air pumps of Morocco, where you clip the hose to your valve, digitally enter the PSI you want, then watch as the machine fills it right up to 66, 72, 83 or whatever PSI you want. And this machine was free! Not $1 like those crooks at Irving and Circle K.

After riding the traffic islands of what looked like a failed shopping district, I biked a few more streets over to southern Essaouira and the Sidi Magdoul Lighthouse.

The Sidi Magdoul Lighthouse was started in 1914 and finished in 1916. It still guides ships into the harbour at Essaouira as an active aid to navigation. It's named for Sidi Megdoul, an Islamic saint, or Wali, who lived in the 11th Century and helped rebuild the small fort (ribat) at Sidi Chikar, who also fought off the invading Berghwata confederacy as part of the Masmuda Berber tribal confederacy.

Sidi Megdoul's tomb is located across the street from this lighthouse, but I didn't see it. Instead I wandered around to the front entrance and started taking pictures, while a calico cat sat on a nearby cement wall and wondered what I was up to.

I wondered what was going on with this lighthouse, as the area around it looked like an old school American motor court. There were dozens of doors equally spread apart like a motel, with a few cars in front of each, and also plant boxes and personal effects. It was almost as if they built a one-story apartment building around this fine active aid to navigation.

Riding back towards central Essaouira, I didn't return to the oceanside promenade, but rather this other busy boulevard which led to a variety of things, like the plaza where I almost filmed something, to the empty dirt lots behind apartment buildings, to the rundown industrial area where I eventually found myself. All the while, none of this felt dangerous and it didn't seem like there were any shady characters about. The rundown industrial area (above) might've stirred some sketchiness fears, but I think it was just mean mugs frustrated with trying to get janky tires off old Renaults.

One of my favourite things was finding a tiny cement embankment, which I then proceeded to session and work out whether I could lay down a good tabletop. School must've let out around this time as well, as loads of backpacked little kids were rushing along on the busier main route. It's only when one had to take my quiet side street, that he twisted his neck as he tried to keep moving towards home, but you could see his fascination and amazement with watching me ride. He was so enamored with my awful table attempts, that I regret not just throwing a tailwhip attempt even though I can't do them, just to step it up even further. I loved little man's intrigue.

Essaouira was mediocre for biking though. That embankment was admittedly crap, that plaza only had a mediocre drop and I didn't find much else besides a giant ledge that was way out of my league.

Still wanting to get a biking picture in the sunny seaside town, I finally found a plaza out front of the Préfecture d'Essaouira Building and threw the bars.

It was a long time ago when my friend and I road tripped to Edmonton with our bikes, my buddy not being much of a BMXer but loving how much a bike lets you see a city. He would rave about this from Chicago to Kenosha to Saskatoon.

I was thinking about that this evening, as this afternoon I saw so much more of Essaouira that I would have ever seen otherwise. No longer was it a question of whether I would BMX enough to make it worth lugging this damn golf bag onto busses, up riad stairs and through medinas; because just this afternoon of exploration made it all worth it.

Extremely pleased with my day so far, I quickly showered and headed up to my riad's rooftop cafe. The only problem was that the cafe was closed for some reason, but it was still excellent to be able to walk around to every corner and check out all of the surrounding sights and rooftops of the medina.

I still needed to shoehorn in a visit to Essaouira's seaside fortifications.

As my riad was all of a 5 minute walk from this area, why wouldn't I spend the last hour of daylight down by the shore amongst these old stone buildings?

A historic seaport sheltered by the island of Mogador, the present city of Essaouira was built from 1764 onwards. It's in that year that Sultan Sidi Mohammed Ben Abdallah moved to Essaouira in order to protect against rebellions coming from Agadir to the south. He also sought to increase trade between Timbuktu and Europe, as well as develop the nearest seaport to Marrakech.

Abdallah hired French architect Théodore Cornut to design and lay out the new city where previously only minor settlements had existed. Cornut succeeded in blending the principles of European military fortifications, in this North African landscape, while also respecting and incorporating Islamic architecture and town layout within the fort.

The sultan was so pleased with Cornut's work that he renamed the city Essaouira, meaning "well designed." The sultan's dreams also came true in terms of Essaouira's importance, as it became Morocco's first seaport and did double the trading volume of Morocco's current capital, Rabat.

This would all change in 1912 with the signing of the Treaty of Fez and the French installing a protectorate here in Morocco. The country became "French Morocco", with troops and colonists moving in, while the Sultan was still the head but didn't actually make any big decisions.

The French would also divert trade away from Essaouira to places like Tangier and Agadir. This left Essaouira without much reason for existing and it subsequently fell into relative obscurity in terms of Morocco's major cities.

The fact that it's still a gorgeous port city has helped it in terms of tourism.

The perfect day had turned into the perfect evening and nightfall. I often say that summertime Corner Brook has the best weather, but Essaouira in February apparently has to be up there too.

The Moroccans were also enjoying this fine evening, as hundreds of people walked by me, wandered about by the ocean, or chatted with friends in the corners of the outside walls.

It wasn't as if I was standing here and peering out at the offshore islands while getting in my feels, instead it was easy to simply relax and savour the joy in leaning up against this rock wall with the gulls.

After such a fine day, I sort of wanted to celebrate with a cold one.

Now out of curiosity, I'd looked up what the deal was with alcohol in Morocco. And while it's a predominantly Muslim country, Morocco isn't dry. Mostly available in upscale hotels or discos, there are also fun, seemingly unsavoury stores that appealed to me.

Looking into these liquor stores, er party stores?, er beer stores? of Essaouira, I managed to find one online, located about halfway to the Sidi Magdoul Lighthouse.

The store was only one street away from the ocean, but the street was dark as I turned east and made a right-hand turn into the strip of buildings with this Essaouira liquor store. Next door was a giant, corrugated metal-fenced abandoned lot. Buildings were worn with exposed cinder block walls. Piles of crumbled cement were interspersed between the sidewalks and the roads.

Flipping my bike upside down to slow any prospective thieves, there was only room for about 10 people to stand in the store, with all of the beer, wine and booze located behind the counter. Three shopkeepers stood around, while one of their buddies was leaning on said counter.

Confused with what the deal was, I asked for beer and one man indicated the selection with a wave of his hand towards a cooler.

Asking for four beers, the man coldly picked up the beer, placed them on the counter, and individually wrapped each beer in newspaper before placing them one at a time in a cloth bag.

(That's right, while America and Canada apparently can't survive without plastic bags, Morocco was all cloth bags.)

Paying some reasonable sum, it was now time to ride back to the riad and crack a few of these Jaguar lager beers after unwrapping each one from their newspaper home.

Continue to Part 3...