Morocco, day eighteen: Tangier

Today I took the Al Boraq, Morocco's TGV.

There is no denying that fact the Al Boraq is a TGV, but it is a TGV with green and red stripes, which makes it a lot more exotic and infinitely more exciting than just a normal TGV. I'd left myself plenty of time to get to Casa Voyageurs in an InDrive driven by a lovely driver called Karim who spent most of the journey patiently trying to teach me new things in Arabic. It was all sorts of fun, and later in the evening – once I'd checked into the Hotel Mauritania in the Petit Socco – I realised that having four or five things you can say in Arabic leads to by far the most fun I've ever had with such little language anywhere; people are genuinely delighted to hear people try and start beaming almost immediately.

But I am getting ahead of myself.

Karim dropped me outside the station and gave me a beaded charm from his rear-view mirror – for when I get my own Sandero – which is currently looping slightly awkwardly around my left wrist and tucked into my watchstrap because it's a bit large. Still, it was a nice thought and I felt almost like a bit of a traveller as I ponced across the station forecourt taking photos of the old Casa Voyageurs building on which all clocks were telling different times.

On my first attempt to get into the old station building a security guard showed me the way to the new station, perhaps slightly perplexed that a tourist could be so devoid of intelligence that they'd failed to notice the big massive fuck-off shiny new pointy station building with "Casa Voyageurs" written on it in big letters, but I explained I had a puppet and fancied a quick poke about inside the original 1923 station.

I couldn't go in or take photos without the station master's permission, but after a while someone came to see what was going on and once acquainted with puppet gave me permission to enter briefly to have a little poke about before heading off to explore the Al Boraq lounge in the new building. I had to be a little careful with my pointy-clicky photography because ONCF employees use part of the old station as a prayer room, but I nonetheless got a little exploration of the old ticket and departures hall with its white and beige plasterwork and lovely chandeliers. It is intended to become a museum, or so I understood, of all things Moroccan choo choo, so that'll be worth another visit at some point in the future.

The Al Boraq lounge in the new building is a bit of a disappointment. It's a big room – or lounge, even – with a fridge full of water bottles and a Nescafé machine (with beans, admittedly) in one corner and some big armchairs with a view over the platforms. After the splendour of the old station I thought it was a bit pants, but it was a quiet place to sit and wait for a train and suddenly remember last-minute that I'd forgotten to procure a fridge magnet. There were some zellijy ones in the shop downstairs, but the queue was moving slowly and I decided I now have a reason to visit Casablanca again and can, in the meantime, buy an interim placeholder fridgespangle in Tangier.

Stupid though it may sound, getting on the Al Boraq in Casablanca was much like boarding a TGV in Marseille. Not that I think I've ever taken a TGV to or from Marseille, but bear with me as it's the only place I can think of that has TGVs, lots of white buildings, and potentially palm trees. Anyway. It was actually a disappointingly everyday experience, really, and everything worked as it should. I'd been allocated an individual window seat at the rear of the carriage on the upper deck - very nice - and set to taking photos of things as we pulled out of the station on the dot of 2pm.

It was quite a pedestrian ride for the first hour or so, and my first mission was to find some sort of sustenance as coffee aside, I'd failed to stock up due to a lack of free stuff in the lounge. In the Caféteria on the upper deck in the middle of the train, I procured a non-meaty pasta salad with a red can of black sugary beverage and a cup of coffee for 67 dirhams, more or less French TGV food prices, but with an extra hint of exoticism as the top of an occasional palm tree floated past the window.

The Arabic name Al Boraq translates into English as "Thunderbolt", as was chosen by the king as the name for the shiny new train as Al Boraq is the creature in Islamic tradition believed to have transported prophets and potentially finger puppets. It was only when we reached Kénitra, after I'd realised I'd forgotten to visit Rabat, that our driver was finally able to crank it up and we were soon thundering through Morocco's majestic countryside at around 320kph. It was a smooth and peaceful ride, and for the most part the locals were much more quiet and well behaved than their Hexagonal counterparts would be. There were regular announcements in Arabic and French from Ghizlane El Merzougui, Morocco's dulcet-toned answer to Simone Herault.

As this was my last train ride in Morocco, I took extra care to soak it all up and enjoy the scenery by taking hundreds of near-identical blurry photos of infrastructure blocking the landscape as it passed the window. It's always difficult to get decent photos from a high-speed train because of the tendency for wires or poles to zoom past the window just as the photograph is being taken, but I gave it my best effort. Eventually we started to slow down and before long everyone was piling out of our metal steed onto the baking-hot platform at Tanger Ville where I took a few photos before heading off to have a look at the lounge, which apparently doesn't welcome people on arrival.

So there's next time for that.

I took the bus two from near the railway station with the help of a kindly older gentleman who was delighted to have a(n exotic) French-speaking companion to look after. I regaled him at length with stories of my adventures in North Africa and he in return very graciously pointed out things as they went past the window and told me about various bits of his city as we passed through it, including where he'd been to school and where he'd grown up.

He joined me in leaving the bus at Place Ouad El Makhazin, and pointed me in the direction I was supposed to be walking and told me that I couldn't get lost, and indeed he was right. Perhaps he'd chosen the Rue d'Angleterre as my route to the Grand Socco on purpose, I shall never know, but it was a fun walk with some breathtaking views of the Strait of Gibraltar as I started my final descent to the Grand Socco from when I knew the way to my hotel.

I'm in the Hotel Mauritania on the other side of the square from the Fuentes, primarily because there was an offer on the booking site of choice so I'm only paying 17€ a night for the four nights. It's equally gorgeous, but slightly less shabby chic and I don't have a room with a view over the Petit Socco, even though I flirted desperately with the man at check-in in an attempt to secure one. The entrance is just opposite the Café Tingis, a wonderful old café with a tiled interior and massive windows that open onto a splendid terrace and a view of the square.

My current plan is to leave on Friday, which is when Ramadan starts. Probably. Apparently nobody actually knows yet when it will start as someone in Mecca has to observe the moon and declare Ramadan, which will then filter through to the other countries that follow Islam perhaps, or not, on the same day. I'm surprised that it's not all done on an app in this day and age, but there we go. So it might be Friday or Saturday, but either way I'm not convinced trying to be a tourist while people are fasting is necessarily a culturally sensitive exercise, so I am resigned finally to going home to see how cold my house is.

I have yet to look at trains, but I quite fancy a Frecciarossa from Málaga to Barcelona in super-first class. I should probably think about booking this.

In the evening, once checked in and power-napped, I ventured out looking for food and found a tiny little snack bar at the top of the rue d'Italie where a bowl of harira and a basket of bread cost just seven dirhams. I was then brave enough to try Calienté, a street food particular – I think – to Tangier which is a slightly gooey savoury pie made from chickpea flour. It can be bought either standalone on little pieces of grease proof paper or in a baguette from vendors who move around the city with their little carts of goodness. I had mine seasoned with salt and pepper and cumin and it was utterly divine. It cost me a staggering two dirhams. Fed, I washed this veritable street feast down with a coffee and a date-with-nuts from a little coffee shop on the rue de la Marine for 12 dirhams, then headed to bed, replete.