Moroccan Air.

A lasting memorable bus ride with a tirade fuelled drunk spilling word vomit into the morning London air and numerous tube closures meaning senseless traipsing across the patchwork of London's transport system. 

Watching the green flash by as the brick houses of Britain's capital seem blurrier and smaller. 

Adrenaline of the unusual, anticipation toward the uncertain. 

Arriving at Gatwick, clearing customs and being ushered straight into the plane, no waiting, no lines. Hurrah! 

Took off into the sky with a plane of mostly empty seats before getting stuck into episodes on my iPad. 

Landing in Casablanca was beautiful, we flew in right over the city and cut back across it to line up with the runway. Even from above, the land was barren and empty and I couldn't wait to get into it. It's absolute flatness and lack of anything  resembling third world structures was exciting and so different from most birds eye views. 

Customs line seemed to reflect the third world idea, as it took almost an hour to get through. But eventually my passport got pressed with a fresh new stamp and I was able to get through and meet my tour guide, still patiently waiting for me at the exit. I withdrew a ridiculous amount of money (in dirhams, potentially peanuts in pounds) and met my first fellow your companion, a fellow London dweller from Australia, Katie. 

We instantly got on comparing ridiculous London antidotes and I couldn't wait to meet everyone! 

Driving through the desert as the sun set, I was instantly drawn to Morocco. It's unlike anything I've seen and anywhere I've been and I love it. 

Arriving into a 5 star hotel and probably the nicest place I've ever stayed, bed is calling. First, dinner at a lovely restaurant with cous cous, tagine and 'special' beer, if I can stay awake.