I met a very nice porter in Casablanca. He was wearing his own dark uniform and pushing one of those big golden trolleys.
I didn´t even have the time to pick up my rucksack, that he came running and took it for me. For a moment I was ready to jump and kill (I was still shaking from the airport adventure), but I saw his uniform and thanked him.
We started talking in the elevator: 15 floors are a long ride. He found out that I am Italian and, of course, told me that he had family in Italy and that he had been there as well! He lived somewhere in the south, but he did something wrong and the carabinieri forced him to come back to Morocco. For a second, once again, I was ready to jump and kill, but he is a good and funny man.
Every-time we met in the elevator, we would say ciao to each other and exchange a couple of sentences in Italian. Me dressed like a hobo, and him behind his golden trolley.