#taxi casablanca

[webpluse]

Taxi Casablanca Marrakech Les taxis à Casablanca et Marrakech offrent un moyen pratique de se déplacer dans ces villes et les alentours. Ces services proposent généralement des transports en voiture ou en van, et les véhicules peuvent être enregistrés en tant que taxis traditionnels ou en tant que véhicules de location privée.

In the rhythm of everyday life in Casablanca and Marrakech, taxis play a pivotal role, orchestrating a symphony of mobility and cultural exploration. These vehicles, whether traditional or private, become the conduits through which travelers traverse the vibrant landscapes and immerse themselves in the rich tapestry of Moroccan life.

Harmonizing Travel:

1. Traditional Taxi Crescendo:

Les taxis traditionnels, painted in the vibrant hues of Moroccan culture, compose the initial crescendo in the symphony of urban movement. Governed by regulated meters, these taxis offer not just transportation but a journey interwoven with the city's history and traditions. Passengers become part of a larger narrative, discovering the soul of Casablanca and Marrakech through each winding street.

2. Private Melodies:

Au-delà des taxis traditionnels, private hire services introduce a more personalized melody to the transportation symphony. Like a bespoke composition, these services allow travelers to craft their own experiences, choosing the tempo and destinations that resonate with their interests. The private taxi ride becomes a harmonious exploration, a seamless integration of convenience and cultural immersion.

3. Essaouira-Marrakech Sonata:

For those seeking the coastal melodies of Essaouira blended with the vibrant notes of Marrakech, dedicated taxi services create a sonata of travel. The Essaouira to Marrakech taxi journey unfolds like a musical score, each kilometer revealing a new movement in the composition of Morocco's diverse landscapes.

Keywords: Taxi Essaouira Marrakech

Les taxis entre Essaouira et Marrakech ne sont pas simplement des moyens de transport. Ils sont les maîtres d'œuvre d'une symphonie d'exploration, offrant une mélodie de découvertes entre ces deux destinations emblématiques.

In Harmony's Finale:

Que ce soit à travers les avenues animées de Casablanca, les médinas mystiques de Marrakech, ou le voyage envoûtant d'Essaouira à Marrakech, les taxis composent la dernière note d'une mélodie inoubliable. Chaque ride devient une coda, laissant les voyageurs émerveillés par la fusion unique de mobilité et de culture au cœur du Maroc.

[velvet4510]

IMPORTANT NOTES: So sorry I had to abbreviate Brando’s amazing On the Waterfront line on the third option - these darn poll entries have a word limit. The full line is this: “You don’t understand! I coulda had class! I coulda been a contender! I coulda been somebody, instead of a bum, which is what I am.”

The penultimate option is from All About Eve.

The final option is from Taxi Driver.

[casablancatransfers]

Reasons to Hire an Airport Taxi at Casablanca Airport

Hiring our airport taxi at Casablanca Airport is a smart choice for travellers seeking convenience, time efficiency, local expertise, safety, and transparent pricing. More details visit https://www.casablancatransfers.com/

[taxirabattours]

The Ultimate Guide to Traveling from Casablanca Airport to Rabat

The journey from Casablanca Airport to Rabat offers a unique opportunity to experience the diverse landscapes and rich culture of Morocco. Whether you’re visiting for business or leisure, making the most of this transfer can turn a simple trip into an unforgettable adventure. Here’s how you can enjoy your Casablanca Airport to Rabat transfer.

Embrace the Scenic Drive The drive from Casablanca Airport to Rabat spans approximately 120 kilometers and takes about an hour and a half, depending on traffic. The route is mostly along the A1 motorway, offering a smooth and comfortable journey. Along the way, you'll pass through scenic landscapes that highlight the contrast between Morocco’s urban and rural settings.

Be sure to keep an eye out for the vast agricultural fields, lush greenery, and the occasional glimpse of the Atlantic Ocean. The changing scenery provides a perfect backdrop for a relaxing start to your trip.

Explore Mohammedia If you have some extra time, consider making a stop in Mohammedia, a coastal city located about 30 kilometers from Casablanca. Known for its beautiful beaches and relaxed atmosphere, Mohammedia is a great place to take a break and enjoy some fresh air.

You can stroll along the Corniche, visit one of the local cafés for a refreshing mint tea, or simply relax by the sea. This stop allows you to experience a quieter side of Moroccan life before continuing your journey to Rabat.

Discover the Cultural Richness of Rabat As you approach Rabat, Morocco’s capital city, the landscape gradually transitions into a blend of historical and modern elements. Once you arrive, you’ll find that Rabat is a city steeped in history, with numerous cultural landmarks to explore. Consider visiting the Hassan Tower, an unfinished minaret that dates back to the 12th century, or the Mausoleum of Mohammed V, a stunning example of traditional Moroccan architecture. Rabat’s medina, a UNESCO World Heritage site, is also worth exploring for its vibrant markets and traditional crafts.

Capture the Journey Don’t forget to document your Casablanca Airport to Rabat transfer by taking photos along the way. The journey offers plenty of opportunities for photography, from the scenic views on the motorway to the charming streets of Rabat. Capturing these moments will allow you to relive your Moroccan adventure long after it’s over.

[transfert-casablanca]

Vous êtes à la recherche d’un chauffeur privé à Casablanca pour votre déplacement à la ville, « transfert Casablanca » met à votre service des voitures prestigieux avec des chauffeurs privés professionnels. Notre service de voiture avec un chauffeur privé à Casablanca est le meilleur moyen de transport pour déplacer à toute la ville tranquillement avec vos amis ou vos familles à Casablanca.

[luuuucas]

What famous characters I see F1 drivers playing

Max Verstappen — Rick Deckard (Blade Runner)

Checo Pérez — Wolverine (X-Man)

Daniel Ricciardo —Jake Peralta (Brooklyn 99)

Yuki Tsunoda— Donnie Darko (Donnie Darko)

George Russell— James Bond (007)

Lewis Hamilton— Neo (The Matrix)

Oscar Piastri— Han Solo (Star wars)

Lando Norris— Marty McFly (Back to the future)

Fernando Alonso— Rocky Balboa (Rocky)

Lance Stroll— Ferris Bueller (Ferris Buller’s day off)

Nico Hulkenberg— Elliott Ness (The untouchables)

Kevin Magnussen— Ragnar (Vikings)

Charles Leclerc— Harry Potter (Harry Potter series)

Carlos Sainz— Patrick Bateman (American Psyco), Poe Dameron (Star Wars)

Alex Albon— Ian Malcom (Jurassic Park)

Logan Sargeant— Jessie Pinkman (Breaking Bad), Luke Skywalker (Star wars)

Pierre Gasly— Maximus (Gladiator)

Esteban Ocon— Ricky Blaine (Casablanca)

Zhou Guanyu— Travis Bickle (Taxi Driver)

Valtteri Bottas— Walter White (Breaking Bad)

[hotvintagepoll]

ingrid bergman propaganda (she shouldn't need it)

My grandad has been obsessed with her since he was born. Lifelong fan. Claims his Dad drove her in his taxi once and she was the most stunning woman he and his Dad have ever seen. We cannot talk about Casablanca (his favourite film) without him going on a tangent about her. Voting for Ingrid Bergman is literally my birthright. It is in my blood.

vote for ingrid !!!

Ann Sothern vs Ingrid Bergman

[missathlete31]

This interview is fascinating and really cements how hard Glen has worked to make it. He has lost out on so many jobs and yet still stayed in Hollywood and worked harder.

Throughout his early-to-mid twenties, Powell, who is now 35, found himself auditioning for – and ultimately losing out on – parts that went on to turbocharge the careers of his peers. In his eyes, he screwed up his audition to play Captain America. He came extremely, agonizingly close to playing Han Solo in Solo (Disney went with Alden Ehrenreich). “I can joke about it now,” he says, “[but] I blew that final audition.” Each time, it felt like he had missed his big chance. It was starting to feel as if the universe – and Hollywood – was laughing at him. It’s a uniquely torturous thing, Powell says, blowing an audition. One that stands out was losing out on 2015’s The Longest Ride to Scott Eastwood. “I remember Marty Bowen, who was the producer, just looking at me like, ‘Yeah, this is not going well.’”

“He’s a really positive guy,” Richard Linklater, who directed Powell in Everybody Wants Some!! and Hit Man, tells me. “He doesn’t hold grudges, or feel like the world’s against him. He’s just like, ‘OK, that didn’t work out. But, next time!’” “I’ve got a bingo board of roles I want to play,” Powell says. It’s a literal grid that he keeps in his house in LA. The board is not tied down to specific roles so much as flavours of characters he’d like to play. If he was playing bingo, he’d be up and down the aisles quite a bit. “Twister was on there. Top Gun was on there.��

“I’ve always wanted to play a senator or a president,” Powell says, standing in front of an exact replica of the Resolute desk from the Oval Office, built for the 1990s Michael Douglas romance The American President that later featured in The West Wing. (“No one talks about The American President,” says Powell, disapprovingly.) Other archetypes on the board include Patrick Bateman in American Psycho and Travis Bickle in Taxi Driver, an amalgam of which he feels he’ll hit in the A24 thriller Huntington, which is scheduled to shoot this summer. As we walk through the halls, Tom points out the Iron Throne toilet, inspired by Game of Thrones, which is exactly what it sounds like. Powell gets childishly excited by the piano from Casablanca. “Casablanca is on the board!”

From the GQ Interview

[bu1410]

Palermo - Italy

Hotel du Lac - Tunis

Hammamet - Tunisia

Costantine - Algeria

Fez - Morocco

Casablanca - Downtown

Typical Moroccan ''Grand Taxi

Benalmadena - Spain

Good evening TUMBLR - March 4th - 2024

From today , in order not to boring my 3 or 4 readers, I decided to alternate the writing of my work's experience, with holidays/vacation's adventures.

I hope that will make my writing less boring and more various.

Neverthekess, the overall title remains the same':

''Mr. Plant has owed me a shoe since July 5, 1971."

Ch. I - August 1975 - Italy - Tunisia – Algeria – Morocco – Spain – France – Italy.

So me and my ''partner in crime'' Gianluigi, we decided to make a Mediterramean circumnavigation: the Citroen DS19 purchased from by Mr. Proserpio, Gianluigi's uncle, for the modest sum of 300,000 lire (150 euros) we hope it will take us on a journey through six countries. The travel from Milan to Palermo was smoothly. It should be noted that the works on the Salerno – Reggio Calabria highway section (especially in the Lagonegro area) were already underway, and will continue for many years to come. Once in Palermo, we slept the night in a moribund AGIP Motel, an attempt by ENI (italian Hydrocarbur Giant) to provide Italy with a network of decent and not excessively expensive motels, obviously doomed to failure.

TUNISIA We board the ship to Tunis early in the morning and the got first surprise: on the ferry there is Mr. Mastelloni, a very popular Italian comedian at that time, of which no one ever really understood what he was, artistically speaking I mean. However, it was easy to understand: he was accompanied by a young ''blondy boy'' with blue eyes, similar to the main carachter of ''Death in Venice'' movie. As well as by two whiskey-coloured Afghan dogs, which were ''trendy'' at that time. We spent the night standing up, since we had a bridge ticket, so we slept little and badly on the sofas in the on-board bar. After docking in Tunis and disembarking, we understood that we were behind everyone at the customs check. A business card from the son of the Tunisian Minister of Industry, in Gianluigi's possession, comes to our aid (we have to deliver to this guy two sample chairs produced by G. Luigi's workshop for possible approval and export). As soon as the local policeman saw the business card, he immediately made us leave the queue, and in an instant, followed by the protests of the other passengers in the queue under the midday sun, we were outside the fence of Tunis port. We stay overnight at the Hotel du Lac, a building with the strange shape of an inverted pyramid: from the window of our room, on the 22nd floor, it was easy to see the sidewalk about 60 meters below: ''Let's hope that the building doesn't tip over this very night'' I told my friend. In the evening we take a tour of the old Medina, with dinner in a typical restaurant: large crevettes dish with a unique flavor at a price at which in Italy you would eat a sandwich on the street! For the rest, at the time, there was no nightlife, the clubs were all closed, in a sort of early lockdown. The following day, after having delivered the chairs to the Minister's son (followed by his exaggerated thanks) we left for Hammamet, where we would treat ourselves to a couple of days of relaxation before embarking on the journey to Algeria. And here I must make a premise: Tunisia in 1975 was a nation that was emerging from the long post-colonial period, and was governed by a Socialist regime. The ''Mediterranee hotel'', where we stayed, was a typical expression of this management: the various activities of the hotel - kitchen, rooms, swimming pool, beach -were managed by various cooperatives.

The result was simply disheartening. On the access staircase to the restaurant, in a glass showcase, the day's food was displayed: lunch with tomato-colored soup where 2 crevettes were floating - green salad with tomatoes, carrots, peppers and hard-boiled eggs. Two flies flew happily inside the box… and then there was nothing else…. In the hotel lobby we come in touch with a group of Italians from Abeille Insurance on a reward trip. The wife of one of them, a tall, large guy weighing at least 120 kg, takes us by the arms and, speaking in a low voice, she asked: - ''I saw that you have a car, right? - ''Yes, I answer cautiously… - - Well, the Lady continues – I ask you a favor, would you take my husband to eat in the city this evening? We are willing to pay for dinner for you too, there is no problem, please, we have been here for three days, my husband doesn't eat anything that is offered to us, and this morning when he got out of bed he almost fainted to the floor ……'' Well, the rumors spread at fast speed: attracted by the possibility of ''eating'' in the evening, 8 Italians found us and board our the Citroen before we can say anuthing! We choose the ''Barberousse restaurant''and we were threated with excellent grilled meat and local rosé wine – our guests had a sort of big binge, and all of them filled several take away containers. After the dinner, while wandering around the Medina of Hammamet, we understand the reason for Mr. Mastelloni's trip to Tunisia: some advert on the walls inform us that the 'Deuxieme Festival des Homosexuelles'' (the 2nd Homosexual Festival) was underway in a nightclub of the city!!! We were really astonished that in a Muslim country such kind of festival could take place. After a two-day stay where we also discover that around the hotel swimming pool yet another cooperative cooks excellent meat and fish brochette, we set off for Algeria.

ALGERIA The Tunisian state roads have good asphalt, and the journey was smooth till the border. The formalities at the Tunisian border post were completed in a few minutes. Then a couple of kilometers of ''No Man's Land'' took us to the Algeria border post.

The police shack was in very bad shape. The immigration policeman at first doesn't believe it was me on passport picture. (I had a mustache in the passport photo). Than he went back into the guard post box with both of our passports. After about twenty minutes, the Algerian policeman opened the shack's window and, shouting incomprehensible words in Arabic, literally throwed our passports at us! I stop Gianluigi from replying, I collect the passports and said ''merci Monsieur, au-revoir'' we finally left: certainly not a good welcome to Algeria!

Algeria is a land that is iconographically symbolized by deserts and dunes, but the region we pass through instead appears to us as a sort of ''African Switzerland''. Kabylia is mountainous and green and in the distance you can see numerous flocks of sheep and cows. The farms are bordered by well-maintained fences. We travelled quickly, and in the evening we arrived in Constantine. We pass impressed on the famous Sidi M'Cid: a 164 m long suspended bridge that crosses the Rhumel river in Constantine. It was opened to traffic in April 1912 and until 1929 it was the highest bridge in the world, standing at considerable height of 175 m. The next day we were traveling towards the North-West - at midday we have a quick lunch in white Algiers: its kasbah is still impressive but we had no intention of stopping there. And then away again, the roads were worse than the Tunisian ones; the asphalt is often full of potholes or completely missing. This is despite the country being a large oil producer, so asphalt should be available at very low cost. It was evening when we arrived in Sidi Bel Abbes and for the overnight stay we choose the pompous ''Intercontinental'' an old hotel built during the French occupation of the country. The rooms were dirty, sheets not washed since when? Bathrooms with taps from which a trickle of water flows slowly. The dinner, however, is a farce: - ''What are you offering for dinner''? - ''Des pates avec sardines'' (Spaghetti with sardines) - ''Et apres''? (And after''? - ''Des sardines'' (Sardines) - ''Chaude''………….(hot…) The next morning we literally escaped from the Intercontinental and pass through Tlemcen. From the main road it was possible to have a glimpse of the vineyards of the famous ''Coteux de Mascara'' rosé wine planted by the French. During the years of the civil war from 1991-1995, all the vineyards were removed. At the Western Algerian border we were lucky, and we crossed without problems. Further on, after the usual 2 kilometers of no man's land, at the Moroccan border post of Zouij Beghal a singular encounter: four Italians from Venice traveling in an Opel Rekord: - ''Where do you come from?'' we asked them

- From the Cape North'' - ''Cape North''? - Yes, we have few days holidays, and we promised ourselves to run from Padua to Cape North – than Morocco – Algeria – Tunisia – Italy. - ''Ahh….ok …''vaste programme''……. good continuation guys ….''

MOROCCO In the meantime, the Moroccan policeman kindly asked us to give a lift till the first village to an elderly lady that was carrieng a box containing four chickens. It is very common practice in Morocco, being asked to give a lift of stranded people. Once left the lady at the Attamiaas souk, our journey continued towards Oujda, the first important Moroccan city on the road to South-West. The route was very tormented, with ups and downs among the stony hills and sudden, very steep descents towards the ouadis and their unsafe bridges. We were crossing one of these bridges, where the road narrows sharply, when, about halfway through it, suddenly a blue Mercedes Grand Taxi enters the bridge from the opposite side!!! The Mercedes star on the hood of the car seems to get bigger and bigger as the taxi gets closer to us! In this situation - Gianluigi was driving - the only thing to do would be to stop and lean the car as much as possible against the balustrade of the bridge. Which - for inscrutable reasons - my friend didn't do! In fact I had the feeling that he speeds up in an (useless) attempt to reach the opposite end of the bridge before the Mercedes meet us! By then we understood that two cars cannot pass on the bridge at the same time, and we huddle closer and closer to the right parapet of the bridge, fearing the impact of the bodies at any moment! WHICH HAPPENED ! But… after a skid I believe due to the blow received on the side of the Citroen by the Mercedes, my friend managed to put the car back in the right direction!! We arrived on the other side of the Ouadi and we find ourselves at the first lay-by and we stop – for a moment we didn't had the strength to go down and check the damage to the car. In the meantime we realize that the blue taxi, far from stopping, has disappeared up the opposite slope. At this point Gianluigi took out a providential bottle of whiskey from the cardboard box, purchased on the ship between Palermo and Tunis! A couple of sips and we recover from the scare! It was needed!! Finally we got out of the car and realize that the end part of the left side of car's bodywork was missing! The impact with the Mercedes detached it. As we run back, and we see it lying in the middle of the bridge: it was a little battered, but once we returned to our car, we manage to put it back in his place: everything was resolved with a great scare and minor damage to the car, but it

could have gone much worse: the clash could have thrown us further down, onto the dry riverbed of the Ouadi and than perhaps I wouldn't be here to tell you about it…… After a couple of hours (and after a few further sips of whiskey because every now and then the memory of the narrow escape came back to us) we arrived in Fez.

Fez was founded under the rule of the Idrisids during the 8th-9th centuries AD. It initially consisted of two autonomous and competing settlements. Successive waves of mainly Arab immigrants from Ifriqiya (Tunisia) and al-Andalus (Spain/Portugal) in the early 9th century gave the nascent city its Arab character. After the fall of the Idrisid dynasty, other empires came and went until the 11th century, when the Almoravid sultan Yusuf ibn Tashfin united the two settlements in what is today the neighborhood of Fes el-Bali. Under Almoravid rule, the city gained a reputation for religious culture and mercantile activity. Fez reached its peak in the Marinid era (13th-15th centuries), regaining its status as a political capital. Numerous new madrasas and mosques were built, many of which survive today, while other structures were restored. These buildings are counted among the distinctive features of the Moorish and Moroccan. We stayed at the Moorish-style hotel les Merinides, where in the evening we had a delicious dinner of local dishes. The night was spectacular, the hotel stood on a hill and I cannot forget the view of the city lights, and of the sky illuminated by the full moon and a myriad of stars. The next day, unfortunately (in the sense that with hindsight we should/could have taken more advantage of the hospitality of Fez…) we left again for Casablanca, our final Moroccan destination. Yes, because August 15th was approaching, the date on which we had an appointment with the Mr. Proserpio in Benalmadena, on the Costa del Sol, Spain. Now my three readers need to consider an important factor: we are in 1975, so no cell phones, no computers etc and international calls between Morocco and Europe were very problematic. We arrived in Dar El Baida (Casablanca) and the problem arises of finding the Toubkal hotel (a structure we found in Morocco's tourist brochures). As soon as we arrive in the city, we notice a fruit and vegetable shop: I stopped, get out of the car and show off my French knowledge (I studied it in middle school, and my teacher would be proud of me…) I ask the greengrocer: - Excuse me Monsieur, the direction to go to the Toubkal hotel? - And he ''The Toubkal Hotel''? T'as dit l'Hotel Toubkal??? Ahh yes……Wait…. one minute……'' I saw returning from the shop with two very fat Maroccan women, together by bags and bags of fruit and vegetables. Whereupon the rear doors of the Citroen are opened, and everything - bundled women, vegetables, fruit is introduced into the car!! Then the greengrocer approaches the window and says to me:

''Elles save ou' est l'hotel Toubkal, elles vont vous donner la management''! Au revoir, M'salamah! '('They know where the Toubkal hotel is, they will give you the management''! Goodbye)

So we set off again, and at every crossroads I was asking: ou'? And the women: ''a droite - a gauche-tout droite'' (Where to go''? and the women ''To the right - to the left - go straight...''). We end up leaving the city, and it occurs to me that the Toubkal hotel is near the Place des Nations Unies, therefore in the city centre……. You should know that the Moroccans have established a scale of values of ''shrewdness'' of nationalities where obviously they are in first place - les Marocain sont de raquins (Moroccans are like sharks) and all the others are more or less imbeciles. According to this scale, the Japanese are considered the most badmouthed, followed by the Germans and the English - Italians and French are nationalities that should not be trusted too much… Well, when we now understood that we have been victims of a typical ''Moroccan'' scam, the women say ''ici ici'' (here...here) and tell us to stop - we were in a suburban street, and so we asked the women: So where is hotel Toubkal '' ? They get out of the car, look at each other perplexed and then at

'in unison, throwing their hands in the air in the typical Arab expression, they tell us: ''ça moi je ne sait pas…'' (This I dont know) and disappear with all their belongs! We than continued following the signs for Center Ville until we reached the aforementioned square and then finally, in a side street, the Toubkal hotel. We spent a couple of pleasant days in Casablanca, visiting mosques and the waterfront, eating exquisite Atlantic fish dishes and drinking excellent Moroccan wines (Rosé Boulaone – Red Guerrouane). We spent the evening at the (reconstructed) coffee shop from the famous movie ''Casablanca'' at the Hyatt hotel: waiters in period uniforms, delicious dishes, mint tea served in an exemplary manner.

And then we started the journey to Spain: Tangier (Tanja as the Moroccans call it) was the first stop over on the way back to North. While waiting for the ferry that will take us to Algeciras, across the Strait of Gibraltar, we stay in an old hotel, Les Almohades, directly on the seafront. In the evening we go out for a walk on the promenade, before dinner, and we were approached by a Moroccan guy who was dragging himself on homemade crutches. Like all Tangerois he was fluent in at least three foreign languages, and he offered us ''hierba, buena cossa……'' (hashish) and then kif, the ''smoke'' of Moroccan production. Gianluigi senses the deal (if he brings it to Spain he will be able to resell it at a good profit) and buys a couple of pieces.

''Good - says my friend - let's take him to the hotel and then go out for dinner'' But at this point the limping Moroccan changed register and becomes annoying - suddenly some friends of the guy materialize who - following our steps - sing and shout like:

''hierbaaaa…… hieerbaaaa los hombres tenern hierbaaaa…policia…policiaaaaa'' (Hashish......hashish.....this guys have hashish...). My friend immediately come up with a plan: ''Let's get to the first street, turn the corner and then start running uphill towards our hotel – we'll get rid of the ''stuff'' before entering the lobby. No sooner said than done, once we reach the corner we started running! The chasers understood the game, and started running too, always shouting! With a great surprise, looking back, we discovered that the limper has thrown his crutches to the ground and he was running like a new Usain Bolt!! We manage to maintain a certain advantage, and arrived near the hotel and Gianluigi throwed the package of stuff into a rubbish bin, as we enter the hotel. We went up to the room, and with the lights off we were looking down to the street: the pursuers have arrived, and after a meeting with their neighbors, they head to the rubbish bins, where they recovered the stuff! And then, not satisfied, they direct sneers at us towards the window where they suppose we are observing the scene of their triumph! It was like that Gianluigi's career as a ''smoke trafficker'' ended, before it even began.

Early in the morning we boarded one of the first ferries to Algericiras. After a quiet Strait of Gibartar crossing, and having traveled the 120 km that separate Algeciras from Benalmadena, we arrived at the residence where – supposingly – Mr. Proserpio & Family were waiting for us. We had managed to reserve an apartment for the entire month of August - the Proserpio family would stay there for 15 days, with Gianluigi and me for the rest of the month.

Citron DS19 Pallas

[averagejoesolomon]

WELCOME TO THE KIDS. God, we are not ready for this installment, I'm so serious. Matt and Rachel are going to kill us all. To say nothing of the upcoming spycraft and general ass-kickery. Thank you for reading this with me. If you're new here, you can read Full Circle in full on Ao3. Enjoy!

Chapter Two

Before Matt boards a plane to New York, he pastes an OTS-issued mustache to his upper lip and switches the passports in his backpack.

There are no direct flights from Washington DC to Moscow. The reasons for this span far and wide, but the most significant factor also happens to be the simplest—sheer distance. At nearly five-thousand miles as the crow flies, there ain’t a whole lot of civilian aircraft that can make the flight in one go, to say nothing of the fact that neither country is especially amicable to the idea of direct contact. As part of a global effort to reduce the friction between two nuclear superpowers, Morocco offers up its services as the geographical and political buffer between the two destinations, its liminal and atmospheric nightlife acting as the ideal backdrop for the world’s transfers, layovers, and delays.

The trip usually takes eighteen hours if flown straight through, but the gin joints can eat into a full day if given the chance. For his part, Matt’s latest trip takes thirty-seven hours.

But he can’t blame the bars this time around because he doesn’t stop in Morocco, and hasn’t since he picked up a Soviet tail in the CMN terminal last spring. For every US intelligence agent flying through Casablanca, there are five Russian officers waiting on the ground with direct orders to identify and apprehend incoming westerners. The behavior has become too predictable. The Soviets have become too prominent. As Joe puts it: an agent in Morocco is an agent in the grave.

So Matt begins with a trip to New York, then London, then Istanbul, where he switches passports again to fly to Dubai, so he can finally make his way up to Moscow. He survives off of complimentary peanuts and ginger ale, stopping only at the occasional newsstand for the latest local headlines and a fresh packet of M&Ms—one of the few candies sold consistently across international borders. Vigilant airport hours are balanced with the relative safety of the sky, and his only sleep happens alongside the low, rattling drone of jet engines in his ear.

By the time he lands in the Soviet Union, he’s already added a goatee and traded his honey blond hair for a bleached wig that more closely resembles his newly assumed Slavic heritage. After deboarding, he identifies the nearest bathroom to the gate and enters the last stall on the left. As instructed by his CO, he runs his fingers along the wall until he finds a ridge in the tile. He carefully peels back a damn near invisible panel, revealing the compartment Langley promised him. There’s a change of clothes. A pair of contacts. A note written on evapopaper: E ibvltn aely ldrm oor we uti I. The key to this particular skip code was already given to him in New York, which helps him decipher the message that a driver will meet him in Lot 2. Thank God he doesn’t need to hail a taxi.

He drops the note into the toilet bowl and watches it melt from the edges inward. After changing into the provided outfit, he silently shreds his old travel clothes to be discarded in various trash cans on his way to the parking lot. Finally, he pops both contacts in, replaces the panel, and flushes the toilet in case anyone is listening. When he approaches the sink to wash his hands, unfamiliar blue eyes blink back at him from where his own brown eyes ought to be.

Between the sporadic sleep and the changing time zones, he has no idea what the local time is, but the dark sky narrows his possibilities to either very late or very early. The weight of travel saturates every muscle, every joint, every step, but he can’t afford to turn off his senses and slip lazily into the night—not in Moscow. Never in Moscow. After five consecutive flights in less than two days, the hard part has only just begun.

The Soviet Union has always been dangerous to western agents, but the capital has only gotten more hostile in Matt’s time as an operative. Last summer alone, ten US informants were executed in the city, including two of Matt’s most reliable contacts. In the following winter, a handful of Russian specialists left Langley for a field mission and didn’t come home. The last time Matt was here, he met with a Circle informant named Omar who offered to talk in exchange for medication not available in Russia, but easily acquired at a US pharmacy with a forged prescription. Omar is dead now, too, and Matt suspects an assassin finished him off before the illness did. These days, Moscow is a loaded spring trap ready to snap at the slightest tick in the wrong direction, deadly enough that even a skilled Pavement Artist stands to don a disguise or two.

Despite the ocean between them, Joe’s voice rings through Matt’s head. It’s always strongest in Moscow, imploring him to pay attention. Notice things. This is the sort of place where it’s best to lean into strengths, so Matt jumps in with the rest of the red-eyed passengers as the mob progresses through customs, down to baggage claim, and toward ground transportation. From his pace to his posture, he strives to put on a seamless Soviet appearance.

When he reaches the lot, he identifies a license plate number he was instructed to memorize, then enters the backseat of the boxy beige Lada. The driver doesn’t look back when he says, “Nice weather we’re having, yes?” in the sort of thick, Russian dialect that only natives can pull off.

Matt replies in his own practiced Russian. “I hear rain is imminent,” he says. “But I seem to have forgotten my umbrella at home.”

Satisfied with the exchange, the driver shifts gears and squeezes out of his parking spot, working his way toward the main city. By now, Matt knows the streets of Moscow as well as he knows the streets of Hay Springs, so he pays close attention to the route, just in case the driver has been compromised in the past forty-eight hours. The two of them do not speak, wary of bugs. They do not exchange glances, wary of pinprick cameras sewn into buttons. Instead, they embrace their existence as total strangers, not eager to leave any impression of an alliance.

This suits Matt just fine. That is, until seventeen minutes later, when the driver takes a right-hand turn away from the city center, then another.

In this business, in this part of the world, two right turns are a surefire signal to any veteran agent that something significant is about to happen, though it’s impossible to predict whether he’s looking at a positive or negative outcome until the moment actually passes. That’s probably why Joe’s voice is in Matt’s head again, anticipating the worst and providing Matt with escape plans. 

The sidewalks look reasonably empty, easy enough to run.

The rear doors appear to be unlocked from the inside. 

If the doors are jammed shut from the outside, Matt’s shoe has an iron wedge embedded in the rubber heel, which will help him kick through the window.

The driver isn’t armed, but if he makes a move for the glove box, Matt’s best option is to choke him from behind.

The little Lada pulls up to an alleyway tucked between high-rise apartments and a seemingly abandoned liquor store. There are no streetlights. No witnesses. The driver shifts the car into park and says, “You exit now.”

Risk assessment is a key component of any covert decision and, in that moment, Matt senses some serious risk waiting for him at the other end of that alleyway. At the same time, he also senses an even greater risk if he overstays his welcome with this native Russian driver who, by the way, has about a hundred extra pounds on him. Matt doesn’t need to be told twice. Hands up, he slowly exits the vehicle and prepares himself for the next piece of this rapidly evolving Moscow puzzle.

The instant Matt kicks the door shut and slings his bag back onto his shoulder, the Lada’s engine grinds into full gear with a squeal of the tires. He has officially run out of CIA instructions, but the good news is that he doesn’t have any time to doubt himself before his next priority makes itself apparent. The bad news is that his next priority should probably be to get away from the knife that was just pressed against his side.

The pointed end of the blade pokes along the muscle just above his hip. It hasn’t cut through his shirt yet, but one wrong move could change that and much more. “This is a nice surprise,” Matt says, sticking with Russian in a rushed attempt to keep his cover intact. “Where are we going?”

The answering Russian is good—excellent, even—but it has the subtle lilt of someone who learned it as a secondary language. “Is that all it takes to best you? One knife to the ribs and you roll over completely?” It’s a woman’s voice, and one of the few commonalities between the CIA and the KGB is the rarity of female agents among their ranks. Plus, the hold on the knife is petite and graceful, belonging to someone who was taught to fence before she was taught to fight. Matt decides he’s not up against a Soviet agent, but this ain’t a friend either. Not yet.

Joe’s voice is telling him to fight, but Matt’s curious enough to say, “In my experience, the person with the knife usually gets to make all the rules.” He continues with Russian, hoping that the woman will respond in kind and give him a chance to identify the accent layered below. “And, by the way, if you’re aiming for my ribs, you’re about two inches too low.”

She doesn’t disappoint. British accent, maybe. Or Australian. It really is impressively subtle. “Bold thing to say to someone with a knife to your side,” she says. “Remarks like that could get you killed.”

Matt huffs. “Maybe one day, but not today.”

She twists the knife a little deeper, pricking a hole in his shirt. “And what makes you so certain?”

“Because if you were going to kill me, ma’am,” he says, “I’d already be dead.”

This is a bit of a risky gamble. Few things make one human want to kill another more than spite, and Matt’s gone ahead and welcomed it with open arms. His mama always did say he had a real way about him, when it came to tempting fate. Thankfully, this particular bet seems to pay off as the knife finally falls away from his torso. The woman grabs him by the back of his collar instead, pulling him deeper into the alleyway. “You’ve taken all the fun out of it,” she says with a sigh. “Come with me. And don’t ever call me ma’am—that much will get you killed.”

This is a joke. He thinks. And jokes are awfully promising in a place like Moscow. 

At the end of the alleyway, another car sits idling. No headlights. No plate lights. Matt can’t know for sure, but he reckons the brake lights are probably cut, too. In the presence of a car designed for a perfect covert getaway, Matt recognizes this moment for what it is—not an attack, but an escape. A high-tech game of keepaway.

In this particular instance, Matt is not an agent. Rather, he’s an asset in need of transportation, and he’s just met his new driver. When this stranger opens the rear door and shoves him inside, Matt knows that she’s putting on a show for potential onlookers. When she says, “Stay down,” he understands that his silhouette can’t be seen driving through the city. It is not enough to blend in—not when he could have a tail leftover from travel, not when the customs office could have bugged his backpack, not when a patrolman might recognize him from another visit into the city and assign a car to follow close behind. Agents have been known to disappear between an airport and a safe house, which means Matt is only safe if he becomes completely invisible. It’s the sort of thing that can only be accomplished with careful timing, meticulous planning, and an appreciation for redundancy, after redundancy, after redundancy.

In other words, this plan has Rachel Cameron written all over it.

He’s managed to avoid the thought for the past thirty-seven hours—and, frankly, for the entire two years before that—but the idea of being in the same city as Rachel after such a long time away has him wishing for a knife to his side instead. Knife wounds, at least, are an isolated pain with one clear source. They can be cleaned and stitched up. Bandaged and healed. This business with Rachel pings around all of his insides, taking turns with his stomach, his heart, his throat, his lungs. Rancid regret rots his brain and radiates down to every last muscle. Laying alone in the back of a stranger’s car, staring up at the velvet interior, Matt gets caught in a loop of all the things he wishes he’d said sooner.

He didn’t expect it to all stop.

He never should have made her cry.

He didn’t think it would last this long.

He lies, sometimes. He’s sorry he has to lie.

He’s doing good, good, good as often as he can.

Matt has always meant to say these things to her, but the longer they went without, the harder it got to call. Now it feels like too much time has passed to say any of it—like apologizing will only serve as a bitter reminder of just how deeply they tore into one another. Like acknowledging it will only reopen scars that have only just started to heal over.

The longer they drive, the more Rachel’s proximity presses down on his chest, squeezing him into the seat. He knows he ought to count the seconds. Track the turns. Try to get some sense of where they’re headed. But Rachel Cameron fills every last available space in his thoughts and, God almighty, she would lecture him straight to high heaven if she knew how distracted he was.

Once he’s fully worked himself up into a tightly wound ball of unspoken mistakes, the tires hit a gravel drive. The car takes an awfully long route over bumpy back roads and heavily forested hills, which is especially impressive given the lack of headlights, before it finally slows to a stop. His driver turns to the backseat, moonlight catching on the curve of her cheek, an icy white steak against smooth dark skin. “Congratulations on surviving your trip,” she says, and Matt thinks it might be an American southern drawl hiding beneath her Russian, with the way her vowels drawl. “You may leave. Your bag, however, must stay until morning.”

Matt sits upright, his silhouette visible to the night once more. “Sure thing,” he answers. “It’s like I said—the lady with the knife gets to make the rules.”

This earns him a subtle tick of the stranger’s lips. Matt latches onto the near smile and vows to turn into a broad, toothy grin sooner rather than later. But in the meantime, he’ll settle for the semi-charmed side-eye she casts his way, just before she opens the driver door. “Bloody Hell,” she says as she exits, finally switching to English. “She was right about you.”

British. Damn. Matt should have trusted his gut.

Wait. 

He bolts out of the backseat and jogs to catch up. “Right about me?” he echoes, falling back into his own American English. “Who was right about me—right about what?”

The Brit’s stride is incredibly long, and would probably be better suited to a runway than barely-used backwoods paths overgrown with weeds. Matt has to quicken his own pace just to keep up with her. “Never you mind,” she says. “This way.”

“Doesn’t seem right,” he tries, “that you get inside info on me when I don’t even know your name—”

“This way,” she says again. “Surely I don’t have to remind you, of all people, that Moscow’s trees have ears.”

Matt has spent a significant portion of his career listening to conversations picked up by precisely placed bugs exactly like the ones she speaks of now. He doesn’t have the heart to tell her the surrounding trees probably aren’t bugged—at least not in the way she expects. The Soviets wouldn’t go to the trouble of tagging each individual tree, only to have an opposing agent uncover them within an hour of arrival. The birds, foxes, and deer, however, are worth a second glance. 

Either way, she’s right. The forest is no place for introductions. Instead, he follows as she hikes toward a tiny cabin tucked between one hillside and another. It appears perfectly plain on the outside, built from cedar logs and a tin roof. Shrubs and pines surround the perimeter, and Matt knows from experience that these are probably prickly and unpleasant, making it difficult for any unwelcome guests to get too close. The curtains are drawn. The chimney is without smoke. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say no one was home. 

They cover their tracks as they go, wordless right up until they reach the door. Mind split in the dozens of different directions demanded by good countersurveillance, Matt forgets to be nervous until the last minute, when the Brit knocks in a unique, four-rap pattern, then opens the door. The cabin’s light flashes into the nighttime forest, so they waste no time stepping inside. 

A new voice greets them. Then again, this voice ain’t really new. Not to him. He’d know this particular voice anywhere, even if he spent years, decades, centuries away. “Grace?”

Rachel Cameron waits for them just inside, seated at a small dining table at the center of a small kitchen. Rachel Cameron has lists, and blueprints, and notes scattered all across the tabletop, the chairs, the linoleum, splayed across kitchen countertops, and taped to cabinets, and stuck to the refrigerator with little black magnets. Rachel Cameron scans one stack of papers with the pencil in her right hand, then another with a highlighter in her left. Rachel Cameron looks up. Rachel Cameron meets his gaze. Rachel Cameron sighs.

Genius. He’s always known the word applied to her, though it strikes him anew. Rachel’s brilliance is better experienced in small doses, when he can slowly acclimate himself to the raw appreciation of it. The last two years have robbed him of his resilience and it’s like he’s seeing her for the very first time all over again.

Except it only takes a single moment for all of their history to come rushing back, filling the room from wall to wall, floor to ceiling, until there’s no more space for words, or gestures, or glances. Rachel looks away first, eyes falling back to a set of blueprints, and Matt follows her lead.

Thankfully, their companion cuts through the silence without a trace of discomfort. “Found your boy,” she says, kicking off her shoes. “He’s cheeky, this one.”

Matt starts to protest with “Oh, I ain’t—” at the same time Rachel says, “He’s not my—”

They both stop, and wait, and wait some more. Neither of them meet the other’s eyes. When enough excruciating seconds have passed, Rachel starts again, and Matt lets her. “Thank you for picking him up,” she says. “I know you were eager to stay in tonight, but—”

“But we aren’t taking any chances with this op,” the Brit finishes. “Understood. Really, Rachel. Though I will say, I was a bit surprised at how easily this one came along with a complete stranger.”

It is as if all of Rachel’s years of etiquette training hit her at once. She brings her fingers to her forehead, suddenly remembering. “Ah, yes, sorry. You haven’t been introduced yet.”

“Not unless you count my putting a knife into his side,” she says.

Matt clears his throat, finally finding his words. “In this business, that’s sometimes the only introduction we get.”

The Brit smiles again. It’s still not the full grin he’s looking for, but it’s closer. “Quite right.”

Rachel studies the pair of them, analyzing something Matt can’t see. She squints back and forth between them, her face twisting into something sour, as though she’s not sure she likes what she’s looking at. “Right,” she says, slowly. Then, clears her throat. “Right, well, anyway. Grace, this is Matthew Morgan. Matthew, this is Grace Harris—”

“Baxter,” Grace cuts in.

“Right,” says Rachel, squeezing her eyes shut, remembering again. Matt’s not sure he’s ever seen Rachel forget anything, and he takes note of the fact that she’s gone and forgotten twice in a sixty-second span. A data point he’ll save for later. “Grace Baxter.”

Grace Baxter holds out her hand to shake, meeting Matt with a far firmer grip than he’s expecting. He feels a couple of knuckles pop in his own hand, and resists the urge to call out. “It’s so great to finally meet you,” she says. 

That’s an awfully interesting choice of words. “Finally?” says Matt.

Grace does not elaborate. “My husband is around as well, but he’s being a good little agent and sleeping off his jet lag while it’s still dark.”

Matt, who hasn’t had more than two hours of consecutive sleep since DC, can’t quite hide the longing in his reply. “Smart man.”

“Outrageously so. It’s infuriating, really,” Grace agrees. “You’ll see him at breakfast tomorrow, but in the meantime we should all probably join him. The last thing we need is four exhausted agents trying to run an op in Moscow.”

Matt has about a million more questions for Grace Baxter, but none of them form quite right in his head. A fog fills his brain, clouding all of his better thoughts, and he reckons Grace is probably right. He’s useless to Rachel like this, and she’ll be the first to call him on it. “Sounds like a plan to me,” he says. “Do you think we ought to run it by the boss, first?”

Grace risks a glance toward Rachel, who has already returned to one of her blueprints. With Rachel’s attention occupied, Matt steals this chance to take her in. Her clothes are worn with travel and her shoulders slump with a need for sleep. Some of her curls have escaped the denim scrunchie holding back the bulk of her hair, falling into her face, and Matt remembers all at once that Rachel never did know how to stop, once she got started.

“Good luck,” Grace scoffs. “I’ve been trying to get her to sleep for hours. Maybe you can talk some sense into her. She’s been planning since the moment she walked in.”

Matt ain’t got any sense that Rachel doesn’t already have ten times over, and he doesn’t dare pretend otherwise. Thankfully, Rachel recognizes this and provides an answer of her own. “I’ve been planning for the past three months,” she corrects, just as she circles something on the page. “I just wanted to get some last-minute changes down before bed.”

Grace turns back to Matt. “You see? Hopeless,” she says. “You two may do what you please, but I intend to get some sleep. Pulling off a fake kidnapping at the edge of Moscow is exhausting work, you know.”

With this, she sends a playful jab into Matt’s side. Only problem is, Grace’s idea of a playful jab is most people’s idea of a full-on elbow to the ribs, and Matt has to catch his breath afterward. It takes all of his might not to let out an unmanly yelp in front of these two women. “Right,” he gasps. “See you in the morning.”

“Thanks again, Grace,” Rachel calls, not looking up from her writing.

With a wave of her fingers, Grace disappears behind one of the two available doors and shuts it with a twist of the lock. Matt realizes too late that her absence leaves just him and Rachel. Alone. Together.

This silence just won’t do.

“Flights good?” he asks.

“Yes,” she answers, scribbling away.

“Abby okay?”

Scribble, scribble. “Yes.”

“You okay?”

Scribble, scribble. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“No reason.” This is worse than the silence, actually. Out of questions and energy stores depleted, Matt decides that his only remaining move is one that has been employed by desperate agents for centuries—a retreat. “Listen, I think I might join the others and try to get some sleep. Unless you need me?”

Scribble, scribble. “Not yet.”

“Great,��� he says. “Just point me to my bed and I’ll be on my way.”

Rachel’s pencil freezes mid-sentence. This is Matt’s first clue that something is horribly wrong, followed by the fact that her eyes finally meet his and this time, she doesn’t look away. “No.”

“Um.” Retreat, retreat, retreat. “Okay? I guess I can find it—”

But Rachel is already up, dashing through the sliver of a living room that hosts a single chair, a coffee table, and a throw blanket. When she reaches the second available door in the cabin, blood drains from her already pale face, turning it to an alarming, ashen white. Her voice is hollow and distant when she squeaks out a soft, “No, no, no.”

When it comes to Rachel, Matt is woefully out of practice, but it doesn’t take an expert to see the panic, and Rachel’s panic ain’t built the same way everyone else’s is. The sight of Rachel out of sorts is enough to get Matt’s heart really, truly racing. “Rachel, what are you—?”

She flicks on the light, and when Matt steps up behind her, he’s met with an instant understanding of the situation. “There’s only one other bed,” she says, spinning to face him as she explains. “Abby and I usually share. I booked the safe house when it was going to be the two of us, but between the hospital, and the flights, and coordinating our assets…” Sometimes Matt wonders how loud the inside of her head must be. He suspects she doesn’t realize when her words dissolve between inner and outer monologue. It takes some deciphering to understand her complete thoughts from start to finish. “I forgot. I’m so sorry, I forgot to account for the beds when I switched agents, I’ll take the couch.”

By couch, he supposes she means the ancient loveseat tucked away at the end of the bed. The leather cushions are scratched and cracked, and the silver shine of a spring peeks out from beneath the quilt laid across its back. A grease stain rests along the arm where agents have laid their heads for years and years before. Throughout his travels, Matt has seen more than his fair share of uncomfortable furniture and this one has serious potential to rank among the worst, but this is Rachel’s third strike at forgetfulness when she’s usually a home run hitter. She needs to sleep, and sleep well, and it simply won’t do, for her to sleep on that old thing. “I’ll take the couch.”

“No it’s my mistake, I should—”

“Rachel,” he says, and his hands fall to her shoulders out of habit. Out of familiarity. “I’m sorry, but there just ain’t no way I’m letting you take the couch.” She’s looking up at him with big, brown eyes. They’re glassy, and tired, and he spares Rachel her dignity by ignoring the twinge of tears sneaking into either corner. “She may be all the way in Nebraska now, but there’s no quicker way to get Joy Morgan to Moscow than if I let you sleep on that couch.”

She shakes her head. “Matthew—”

“I’m telling you,” he tries again. “My mama can sense that sorta thing, and believe me when I say she’ll shake down the entire agency to find this cabin and knock me six ways from Sunday, right upside my head.”

“You’re worried that your mother will intimidate CIA agents into disclosing the location of one of their most heavily protected safe houses?”

“You’ve never seen my mama when there’s a matter of chivalry at stake.”

“Matthew, I—” she interrupts herself, this time, freezing when she meets his gaze. “Your eyes,” she says, studying the intimate features of his face. “Your eyes are blue.”

This is outright nonsense, and even more proof that she needs to sleep. That is, until he remembers the light blue contacts. He blinks, as though he might be able to get rid of the color, because everything artificial seems so ridiculous now that he’s in the presence of someone who knows him to his core. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, sorry.”

With that, she studies him more deeply, and he notices the faint lines that have started to form where her eyebrows always furrow, the freckles she’s accumulated along her cheekbones with years of missions spent in the sun, the ease with which her lips fall into a tight, even line. Her eyes bounce between each of his, debating her next words before she finally says, “Why are you apologizing?”

Matt’s breath catches, and he knows this is it. The opening he’s been waiting for. But it’s late, and they’re tired, and they both smell like planes, and airports, and taxis. So despite the desperate words trying to crawl from his heart to his mouth, he settles on something softer. “I think we both know I’ve got plenty to apologize for,” he says, finally letting his hands fall. “But I think we both know this ain’t the time to do it.”

Genius. She’s always been smarter than him in more ways than he can count, and this moment is no exception. She’s smart enough to know that they both need clearer heads. That they both need a moment of quiet. That morning will come and they’ll both be better for it, and that tonight is no place for their usual fights. “I’m sorry I didn’t think about the bed,” she says, barely more than a whisper. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I know you didn’t—”

“I’m not mad at you.”

“I know you aren’t.”

“I’m so tired.”

She has this way of taking small words and making them feel big. Of making them span years, when they shouldn’t last more than a second or two. Rachel isn’t tired, so much as she’s exhausted, and burned out, and lonely, and weighed down—and she manages to convey all of this by simply shaking her head, and folding her face into her hands, and standing in front of him with all of the humility in the world.

He has this way of feeling her when she most needs it, in a way that no one else seems to be able to. Of hearing those great big words tied up in all of her small ones, and trying his best to say the right thing in response. “Let’s get some sleep, then,” he says, as though it’s the simplest thing in the world. “We’ll get some sleep, and when you wake up, you can tell me exactly what all of those crazy kitchen plans mean.”

Despite herself, she laughs. It's a pitiful, mangled thing, but it still counts. “They’re not as crazy as they look.”

And Matt can’t hold back a smile. “Well thank God for that, because they look…” he tries to find a word, but this is much like everything else Rachel does, in that it defies explanation. “I mean, seriously, Rachel, you’ve gone full Doc Brown in there.”

She shoves him, gently, and Matt makes a show of clasping at his chest in faux hurt. “They’ll make more sense in the morning,” she tells him.

“Everything will make more sense in the morning,” he assures her.

And she believes him. “Okay,” she says.

“Okay,” he says.

That’s enough for them, for tonight, for now. It’s all they need. And maybe tomorrow will be bitter and hard at the center of Moscow, working an op that Rachel has given her whole heart to, but right now is easy and safe. Right now, they’re old friends who need each other more than they knew. 

Rachel finds his eyes again, and sighs something that sounds like relief and regret mixed together. “At least let me ease some of my guilt by hunting down a truly outrageous number of blankets on your behalf.”

Matt looks back to the loveseat and knows in his gut that there will not be enough room for more than one blanket. There is barely enough room for Matt, as is. Even so, he smiles at her. “Rachel Cameron,” he says. “I’ll always take any blanket you hand me.”

[mrs-lockley]

!!! tell the people more about We'll Always Have New York? 😗

Ohoho gladly 🤭

So I've had this idea brewing for a while and my love for Roman Holiday and Casablanca spurred it. It started with the idea that you get stood up on a date, so you immediately call for a taxi with the idea of telling the driver to take you wherever to get your mind off it, and lo and behold, your driver is Jake! When he finds out you're new to New York, he offers to show you around.

I started writing it but it didn't feel right to me, it felt like it was missing something. But based on my hcs that Jake likes vintage, I thought back on the Old Hollywood movies I like and realized Roman Holiday and Casablanca would be fitting, so I changed it a bit that instead of going into a taxi, you go to a coffee shop. You're short on change, but Jake is the one standing in line behind you and offers to pay for your drink, and in return, asks you to keep him company while he's on break. He drops you off at your aunt's place and offers to show you around New York, but you decline the first time. But you end up running into him again and with some coaxing from your aunt, you figure, why not? I had this idea that when he does pick you up to show you New York, you ask him, "are you sure it's okay?" To which he answers, "I'm calling it a holiday" like how Gregory Peck's character told Audrey Hepburn that he's taking a holiday in the movie.

Plus the title!! Definitely Casablanca. So this takes place before Moon Knight- Jake tells the reader that he has two brothers, and one of them needs help in London and he needs to leave. The reader also tells him that she needs to go back to California, but is worried about what this means for them and their relationship. Jake smiles and comforts her by telling her, "we'll always have New York," which is based on the scene in Casablanca where Rick tells Ilsa to leave and comforts her saying, "we'll always have Paris."

[darkfictionjude]

Happy Halloween!

(For those who celebrate!)

I have nothing special written for this occasion but let me tell you what the Crown + ROs + the siblings have dressed up as in the years before.

MC: very uninspired — a ghost. Literally a white sheet with eye holes. Or even more sad — a pine-cone. Due to this depressing state of affairs on Halloween ‘89 Nia made them dress up as Freddy Krueger.

Imre: to the surprise of no one he spent most of the 70s and all of the 80s as Indiana Jones. Thanks once again to Nia she managed to get him to agree to dress up as Rick Blaine from Casablanca from ‘90-‘92 and in ‘93 as Vito Corleone.

Nia: now she will never be caught dead wearing a costume two years in row. She’s done it all: princess, pirate, witch, fairy, Shirley temple, Andie Walsh from Pretty in pink, Sandy from Grease, Madonna, Cher, Tina Turner and in ‘93 she went as Morticia.

Lorcan: everyone always thought he was wearing a costume but those are literally his clothes. With the satanic panic of the 80s people did think he was dressed up as a devil worshipper. He did dress up as Marty Mcfly in like ‘91.

Salvatore: he was the type of dress up as all the gangsters, Michael, Tony, jimmy Conway from goodfellas. After dressing up as Travis bickle from taxi driver his mother only ever allowed him to dress up as a businessman.

Orla: whatever popular female movie character of that year was that’s what she dressed up as. Claire from the breakfast club, Ellen ripley, Lydia deetz, Princess Leia, sally from when Harry met sally, Sarah Connor, Lorraine mcfly.

Percival: he would just throw on a wig, get a band t-shirt and say he was whatever rockstar come to his head at that moment whether he looked like them or not — iggy pop, Jim Morrison, mick jagger, Freddie, Bowie, what-have-you.

Enjoy the night 💜

[aimersproduction]

Uncover Hollywood’s Secrets: Top 10 Iconic Movie Scenes Using ADR

Have you ever watched a movie and been completely captivated by the perfect delivery of a line? It might surprise you to learn that many famous movie moments were actually recorded later in a studio using a process called ADR, or Automated Dialogue Replacement. This technique helps fix audio issues and improve dialogue clarity. 

Here are top ten iconic movie scenes where ADR played a crucial role.

1. “You’re gonna need a bigger boat” from Jaws

This famous line, said by the character Quint after seeing the shark, was originally hard to understand when filmed. Actor Robert Shaw re-recorded it in a studio, giving us the clear and memorable line we all know today.

2. “I’m walking here!” from Midnight Cowboy

Dustin Hoffman’s improvised line became legendary, but the street noise made it hard to hear during filming. Hoffman re-recorded it in a studio to make sure his iconic shout was crystal clear.

3. “You had me at ‘hello'” from Jerry Maguire

Renee Zellweger’s heartfelt line was re-recorded in a studio to perfect its emotional impact, making it one of the most romantic moments in film history.

4. The Lobby Shootout in The Matrix

During this intense action scene, Keanu Reeves’ dialogue was mostly re-recorded in a studio. The noise from special effects and stunts made on-set audio unusable, so ADR ensured every line was perfectly clear.

5. “They’re he-ere…” from Poltergeist

Heather O’Rourke’s spooky line was enhanced in post-production with ADR and sound effects, making it even more chilling.

6. “Show me the money!” from Jerry Maguire

Cuba Gooding Jr.’s famous line was re-recorded to capture his energetic delivery more clearly, ensuring it became a pop culture phenomenon.

7. “Keep the change” from Taxi Driver

Robert De Niro’s line in the diner scene was re-recorded to add extra menace and clarity, enhancing the film’s tense atmosphere.

8. “That’ll do, pig” from Babe

James Cromwell’s gentle line to Babe was re-recorded to capture the warmth and sincerity needed for this touching moment.

9. “You’re killing me, Smalls!” from The Sandlot

This funny line was re-recorded by the young actors to ensure it was clearly heard over the noise of their game, making it one of the film’s most memorable quotes.

10. “Here’s looking at you, kid” from Casablanca

Humphrey Bogart’s famous farewell line was enhanced using ADR, making it richer and more impactful than the original on-set recording.

Conclusion

ADR is a hidden gem in filmmaking, allowing directors to fix audio issues and perfect performances. Next time you watch a movie and hear a perfectly delivered line, remember it might have been thanks to the magic of ADR. This technique ensures the dialogue we love is as clear and impactful as possible, making good movies great and unforgettable moments truly iconic. At Aimers Production, we understand the importance of flawless audio and are dedicated to bringing the magic of ADR to every project.

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