This directional sign made me blink twice. Go straight ahead for Fez, turn left for Casablanca!

When I see a sign like this, I get an almost irresistible urge to follow the road, to see what's over the hill.

A Moroccan stop sign.

In Mexico, they say "ALTO." Here, you can't even sound out the word. But its meaning is unmistakable.

This walk-away fruit vendor has what seems to be the standard offering in Marrakech: pineapple and cocoanut.

Street vendors in San Miguel have less elaborate presentation, more different kinds of fruit, and they'll sprinkle chile powder and lime juice on it for you. I've learned to like it that way.

Men hold hands. To me there's a sort of sweetness to the custom.

Once during an all-male dinner party in Seoul, one of the Korean guests held my hand while we stood side-by-side, appreciating our host's koi collection. I felt terribly awkward, at the same time realizing that I was just uptight and that I was holding back from experiencing a moment of friendship. As U. S. culture demands, I stopped holding hands with males when I approached adolescence. Moroccan and Russian men, among others, don't develop an aversion to this simple gesture.

A cute kid goes shopping with his mother. Or his grandmother. Or Michael Jackson for all I know.

All together now: AWWWW.

Jean triumphs in the bazaar. His asking price for the quilty looking cloth on the floor was Dh 1800.

Her price was much less. It took Jean a half hour to strike a deal for Dh 700. Way to go, Jean. I think.

Morocco deserves a harder look. We'll be back in a year or two for a look at more of the country. We'll rent a car and follow the arrows on that directional sign, to see the really, really big souk at Fez, to visit a couple of oases, to drive into the Atlas mountains.

And Jean will bring much bigger luggage. Empty luggage. You know why.

Modernity comes slowly to Morocco, but come it does, inexorably. I was struck by the contrasts.

Proper Muslim women dress modestly, at least when they're in public. But sinful western culture is threatening Moroccan morals.

The clothing on the mannequins clearly is meant to be worn in the bedroom. But after days of seeing caftan-clad women, a glimpse of this store window is faintly shocking. Hard to imagine Moroccans wearing this kind of thing.

On the street, a woman in a red jelaba and yellow barboush talks to the driver of a modern car.

It's hot out, but I'm guessing she doesn't want to be immodest in public.

There's way more construction going on in Marrakech than in San Miguel de Allende or even in Querétaro. I saw at least 30 high-rises being built. Several, like these, were going up just inside the ancient Medina walls.

As with Mexicans, Moroccans aren't interested in in living in traditional homes. They want air-conditioned apartments with wall-to-wall carpets, and many will sell their riads to foreigners for the chance to live the way westerners do.

The sign below says something like "Hamza's Cellular City.

Hamza's sign has that wonderful homemade quality I've posted about from time to time. The cellphones depicted on it are the Moroccan four-button variety: you can dial any number in the world that contains digits one through four. The Royal Ministry of Telephones and Posts predicts the technology will be in place to process fives and sixes next year.

One of Hamza's customers talks to a merchant while smoking a lumpy hand-rolled cigarette.

This man was born when the French dominated the country. He's probably ridden camels, not for fun, but because that's what he had to do to go anywhere—pre-road, pre-automobile. He watched American and British troops march to the east, on their way to drive Irwin Rommel out of Libya. He may have participated in the liberation struggle that won Morocco its independence.

Given his childhood may have been spent herding goats, he doesn't seem to be having any trouble adapting to wireless telecommunication. "Aziz! Aziz! You thief! You're taking the bread out of my children's mouths. OK. My last price is Dh 5500. Not one dirham more! You hear me Aziz?"

This bus bears the logo of the McDonalds of resort companies, Club Med. They have a all-inclusive hotel right on the great plaza, the Djemâa el Fna. Seems sort of sacrilegious to me, although I'm sure that Moroccans who benefit from its presence would disagree.

Check out the faces of the passengers. Do they look happy to you, like the smiling faces in Club Med brochures?

I think they're bored out of their gourds. Every night they suck down Mai Tais at the Forty Thieves' Bar and look for a date while the strains of Kenny G set the mood. And they ask themselves, "Are we having fun yet?"

Of course, they do manage to get some amount of exposure to exotic northern African culture. Take these colorful water sellers:

I love their "authentic" tribal dress. I think these costumes developed about the time the Club Met got built.

Tourists don't buy water from them. "Myron, you don't know who else has been drinking from those cups." Locals don't buy water from them either, 'cause it would be embarrassing.

So if they're not selling water, what are they doing? They're selling the right to aim your camera at them. They'll demand maybe twelve bucks a pop if they catch you shooting.

Then you got your "authentic" snake charmers. There's at least a half-dozen groups like this within a stone's throw of the Club Med.

At night, these guys will gather a crowd. No tourists were watching them when I caught this image—they were all on the Club Med bus. Or in the Forty Thieves' Bar, waiting out the midday heat.

The snakes look sort of listless and worn out. They're not particularly scary. Something about this scene saps all sense of the exotic, of danger. Maybe it's the guy smoking a cigarette, ignoring the snake at his side while he talks to his buddy with the fake Rolex. Just a bunch of working stiffs on their lunch break.

Hey, aren't snake charmers an Indian thing? Why are they in Morocco?

This actress is from an "Ali Baba" show. She's on her lunch break.

About 30 of them trudged up the street to a tent where they sat in rows, eating sandwiches. A tall scimitar-bearing Saracen in chain mail held his sandwich in front of his face when I pointed my camera at him. "Hey, foreigner. No baksheesh, no picture."

I think Ali Baba was an Arabian character. Apparently Moroccans feel they have to import exoticism from the East.

Finally, there's these stupid caliche rides. Nothing Muslim about a caliche. They wouldn't be practical in the sands of the Sahara. They're too big to go into the Souks.

I can't believe tourists are so gullible as to be taken in by this kind of thing.

Wait a minute! That's Jean in that carriage.

OK. She's in it because she just loves carriage rides. For her, authenticity has nothing to do with it.

And I guess you know that since Jean was getting a ride, I was too. I hate to admit it, but there it is.

That's our driver, Kalim, in the baseball hat. He took us around the perimeter road just outside the ancient walls of the Medina.

Kalim undertook to point out the sights along the way, while taxis and buses swerved around our caliche, honking their horns. Now, the city walls are pierced by fourteen gates, called babs. Kalim knew the names of all fourteen, and he made a point of telling us their names. Oblivious to the surrounding traffic, he would turn in his seat when we passed each and intone "Bab Nkob. Bab Nkob." (Honk, screech, insults.) At the next gate, he'd repeat the performance: "Bab er Raha. Bab er Raha." Each name exactly twice.

The only other feature he pointed out was "Bus Station. Bus Station."

Thanks to Jean, I always wind up doing this stuff, and you know—sometimes it's fun. But it always feels stupid. Let's face it. It is.

Our trip to Marrakech was not supposed to be all about shopping. I came to experience high Islamic culture, Morrocan history. At least that was my plan. Once Jean found the Souks, things started to look shaky.

I was further confounded that we infidels were not permitted inside the Palace Royal or the Mosques. It was beginning to look like my choice was going to be limited to either a sleazy club with a belly dancer or fire eaters on the Djemâa el Fna.

One of the few places we would be permitted to look inside was the Medussa Ben Youssef, an 16th-century Koranic school. On Saturday, May 6th, the day after we arrived, we set out to find the place. Jean suggested we take a taxi. I noted that the school wasn't far from our hotel—no more than a mile—and suggested we should walk because we needed the exercise, given our excessive calorie intake while traveling.

Why don't I ever listen to her?

Apparently we took a wrong turning, because we wound up lost in a maze of narrow twisting streets, our sleeves being plucked by rapacious shopkeepers. OK. Lemons? Lemonade. Time to go shopping.

The next day we set out once again for the Medussa Ben Youssef. We wound up at a hot, dusty crossroads just to the north of the Souks, again with no idea how to reach our destination. Our blurry map, printed on cheap, disintegrating paper, indicated we should head south, so again we plunged into the Souks.

No dice. (The Fodor's Guide suggests carrying a compass when negotiating the streets of the markets. Now I can see why.) Should we have asked for directions? Only if we wanted to risk being commandeered by an ersatz guide who, instead of taking us where we wanted to go, would steer us to the shop of his cousin, the lampmaker.

A couple of hours later, exhausted, we stumbled upon what must be the only sit-down restaurant in the Souks: the Jasmine Café.

We ordered a couple of diet cokes—plentiful here, but always served only slightly cool. And of course, nobody askes for ice in these places unless their diptheria shots are up to date.

What now? Only one thing to do when one of you knows what she wants to do and the other doesn't. Shop.

The next day, it's Tuesday the 8th, our last full day in Marrakech. I'm gonna get to the Medersa Ben Youssef it it kills me. I'm so desperate, I agree to hire a taxi. For Dh 20 he takes us to that same hot dusty crossroads just north of the Souks and dumps us onto the street. He points to the road we took yesterday. "Just go straight ahead. The Koranic School is straight ahead. You can't miss it."

Easy for him to say.

We sally forth once again. I keep my eye peeled for any signposts or other clues. I see one pointing the way to the Musée de Marrakech which on my map, is near the Medersa Ben Youssef. We turn down that road. End of signs, but we find ourselves on Rue Ben Youssef. This is good.

After more twists and turns, we come to a large unmarked door in an imposing buiding. The door is partly ajar. A burly workman is standing in the opening. I ask if this is the Medersa Ben Youssef. He indicates it is, but it's closed. Baffled, we walk another half block to where we find the museum. Here we purportedly could buy combined tickets good for both the school and the museum.

On the door I see this notice:

Yes, the damn school is closed from the fifth through the eigth—the very days that we're visiting. "Thank you for your comprehension." Yer welcome.

There's nothing for it but to tour the museum. No way I'm going shopping again.

The Musée de Marrakech is reputed to lack an actual collection of artifacts, but its architecture is supposed to be beautiful, so we plunk down Dh 60 each and go inside. It turned out to be worth every dirham.

I've never seen a lamp this large. That's a pebbled glass ceiling above the lamp providing ample light to the central salon. Eerie Moroccan classical music played softly over hidden speakers.

A surprising number of visitors, mostly singles and pairs, were touring the place. Well, maybe not so surprising given that the only other place you could go was closed. In one corner, a tour group was gathered in a circle, listening to a robed man.

Looks grim, doesn't it. The guy drags those poor people in there, and then, instead of letting them look at the place, he talks to them.

Spectacular brasswork, intricate tesselations. It's all fascinating, although without human figures, I find Islamic art a little cold.

The museum is very accessible: you're allowed to sit on those cushions.

A few 19th- and 20th-century pieces were on display...

... like this jar and carpet. I doubt the museum had fifty objects in its collection.

The details of the building were the real show; for example, these painted door panels.

A more ornate panel:

Visitors offered some diversion. A photographer is too lazy or too tired to shoot from anywhere but her chair.

And what was this woman thinking when she selected her outfit?

She's gotta be French. Only the French would dare to make that kind of fashion statement.

Many museums won't allow you to take photographs. No such restriction at the Marrakech Museum. Everybody was carrying cameras.

It's no Medussa Ben Youssef, but it made for an interesting and entertaining morning.

Breakfast at the Maison Árabe is a wonder. Mornings are cool, and we sit in a shady courtyard where small crowds of staff ask us what we want to eat—in French.

Rose petals are scattered on our table and float in the courtyard fountain. Marrakech is a city of roses, outnumbering all other flowers combined.

The woman seated on the divan is preparing a traditional meal for us, mixing shredded potatoes with balls of dough and cooking them over a charcoal fire. The smell of the burning charcoal wafts through our bedroom window and wakes me up each morning.

A waiter told me they're called msamin, and they're a kind of potato pancake. The woman told me I could have mine plen or meeks. Meeks got me carrots and onions mixed into the dough along with the potatoes.

They are sooo good!

What else do we get for breakfast? Let's start with the fresh fruit. Whenever I see a pile of fresh fruit at the Holiday Inn, I know to stay away from the pomes and drupes. Pears are underripe and hard, as are peaches when you see them at all. Apples are tasteless or sour.

Not so at Maison Árabe. Peaches are set out for guests at the peak of ripeness, juicy and sweet. Strawberries are the kind grown for flavor instead of shelf life.

To drink: fresh orange juice (no big deal for residents of Mexico) and thick Moroccan coffee.

We get a basket of boulangerie-quality rolls and bread. (We can thank Morocco's erstwhile colonial masters for that.) A semi-tame bird shares our bread with us every morning.

Those pale pancake looking things are crumpets, an undeservedly overlooked breakfast bread. That's not a glass of milk in the foreground. It's homemade yogurt, and it redefines what yogurt should be. It has an incredibly delicate texture and a perfumy flavor.

Breakfast is a luxurious and languid affair. It's a lot of food, and I'm gaining weight. I may have to buy bigger pants before this trip is over. Fortunately, Joe, my trainer, is a nice guy. He won't scold or tease me. And I'll get beck in shape starting next month. I hope.

The hotel we are staying in is a converted riad—a former mansion—the Maison Árabe. Riads are sprinkled throughout the Medina—the part of Marrakech that is inside the ancient city walls. They don't look like much from the outside, tucked away as they are in narrow pedestrian-only streets.

Just as Norteamericanos have descended on San Miguel de Allende's old colonial homes in the Centro Historico, Europeans have rushed to snap up and restore the great houses of Marrakech. Using traditional methods and materials, these places are lovingly restored to a centuries-old look.

Coffered ceilings and lintels of carved cedar, marble or brick floors, walls plastered in a traditional mixture of marble dust and egg whites—all add up to a rich, warm look. Handcrafted tin and iron lamps and handwoven carpets help create the luxurious feel.

Ornate iron grills look out onto a courtyard where Bougainvillea climbs a wall.

Antiques, bought for a song in the Souk, add exotic detail.

The first European pioneers arrived about 50 years ago, just as Martha Hyder arrived in San Miguel in 1959. In Marrakech today it's the San Miguel land rush all over again. Remodeling activity is everywhere. Prices have risen astronomically. Even so, you can buy a place here for about half what you would pay in San Miguel. But you'd better hurry. The best places are going fast.

Much of the Souk looks like crap: dark, dirty, dreary. The noise of unmuffled mopeds and shrill barkers, the smells of rotting fish, scooter exhaust and sewage further assault the senses.

I can only take it for so long before retreating to the peaceful courtyard of my hotel and sipping a glass of mint tea.

Exploring the Souk is like sorting through crushed rock looking for gemstones. You sift through dusty rubble, tired and thirsty, and then there's a flash of color.

Caftans from the Dyers' Souk hang out in the sun.

Yarn makers' samples hang overhead.

A pile of area rugs.

There's too much to choose from.

Tanned goatskins dry...

..while another tanner goes for purple.

Amelda Marcos would love this place.

Slip-on pointy shoes are a favorite with tourists.

I thought Mexico had a corner on color. Morocco is a dusty, dun country, but Moroccans know how to do color. In fact, it probably was they who taught the Spanish, who taught the Mexicans about making intense colors work.

Where do you buy your mushrooms? In a supermarket? In a tienda? How about fancy ones, like chantrelles or shitakes?

When we lived in the California Wine Country, we bought ours (when we felt like splurging) at the Sonoma Market, a chi-chi independent supermarket that sold line-caught wild salmon and had an olive bar.

In Marrakech, you might want to try the local rock shop. Of course.

Gathered in the wild as all morels must be (they can't be domesticated), these are nestled between the desert roses and some ammonite casts. The price is right: Dh 100 per kilo. About a fifth of what you'd have had to pay in California five years ago.

Make sure you check the hollow stems for earwigs!

Morocco is about carpets. Probably 90% of the people who come here and buy rugs to ship back home get ripped off by the merchants, and still they get good deals. The prices here seem to be less than what we paid for ours in San Miguel.

Jean and I are ignorant about oriental carpets, and for all we know, the ones we've seen here are cheap imitations of the ones in our house. Or, the ones in our house are cheap imitations of the ones here. For our peace of mind, it's probably best not to look at this too closely.

A few rugs are made in Marrakech, and some yarns are hand-spun here as well.

This porter was pulling his handcart piled high with undyed yarn.

One morning, Jean and I were out walking, looking fruitlessly for some historical site or other, when a man pushing a bike called to us. Big deal. There's always a man calling to us in the Medina. But this one said, "It's Ali. From the hotel. I just got off work"

I said to Jean, "Yeah, right. I bet he says that to all the tourists. Ignore him."

"No, John. He really works at the hotel. Let's see what he wants." Jean is so naïve, so trusting, so gullible. Well, that's probably a little harsh. Actually she's warm and open and outgoing whereas I am suspicious and introverted. So sometimes I follow her lead, to my profit. Sometimes.

Ali launched into a dissertation about how lucky we were on this beautiful day because the Berbers were coming down from the Atlas Mountains to some sort of festival or craft sale or whatever (it was hard to follow what he was saying), and we could see them after three o'clock or right now or some other time and we should follow him. We trailed along southward toward the Djemâa el Fna or the Royal Palace or some other place where he told us they would assemble. Then he made an unexpected left turn into the Souk. A short cut?

Not likely. We quickly came to the emporium of a rug merchant. Ali's friend. Big surprise. They did the air kiss thing and I got the feeling I was about to be had. The rug merchant asked us if we had yet experienced Moroccan hospitality—well we must certainly accept his—come, come inside and have a glass of mint tea—where are we from, anyway?

But, but, but...

Stepping into the store, we encountered a woman weaving a rug.

What a great sales tool. Once you see this loom in action, you just gotta follow through and see the rest of the place. Of course, the loom is not the primary source of the merchant's carpets. Too expensive to make in town. They buy them from Berber weavers for a fraction of the cost.

Jean, still hoping for the best, asked the merchant if the Berbers were going to come to his store. The merchant said, "What Berbers, " and began showing her rugs.

I have to say they were gorgeous. To my untrained eye, they looked better than the expensive little beauties we'd bought in San Miguel. We might have been well-served if we had come here armed with room measurements and a budget.

Not actually being in the market, we politely looked at a few carpets and then excused ourselves. All signs of Moroccan hospitality drained from the merchant's face, replaced by an expression of complete indifference.

In the foyer, the weaver called to Jean and got her to sit down for a short impromptu weaving lesson.

Wasn't that nice? Sure was. Give me a tip please. There's no free lunch in Marrakech.

Outside, we looked around for our guide. We still wanted to find those wild mountain Berbers. Having accomplished his objective for the morning, he was nowhere to be found.

The merchant came outside to say goodbye, and no doubt to let us know we would be welcome to enjoy his hospitality on our return. I laughed and he said, "I'll see you again soon, and if not, I'll remember your smile in Paradise."

Those of you who live in or have visited San Miguel de Allende: think about the Tianguis—the Tuesday Market. It's big, noisy, chaotic; right? Now think about the Mercado Libertad (which I wrote about last December) in Guadalajara. It's ten times as big as the Tianguis and twice as exotic. Well, the Souk in Marrakech is ten times the size of the Mercado Libertad and even more exotic.

The Fodor's Guide treats the place as if it's the Amazon Jungle. They tell you you'll get lost in the twisting maze of alleys. They caution you about high-pressure merchants who will overcharge or cheat you. They warn you about "guides" who will commandeer you, direct you to merchants who give them kickbacks, and then try to charge you for their services. They strongly suggest you take elaborate precautions against pickpockets.

Gee. Sounds like lots of fun.

The guide suggests that first-time visitors have their hotel provide a guide. Oh puh-leez. That's for pansies. I, of course, am a seasoned traveler. I've had my pocket picked in two countries. I laugh at danger. I grab Jean and we plunge into the labyrinth.

Fodor's fails to warn about the greatest danger in the Souk: traffic.

No passageway in the Souk is too narrow for some kind of vehicle, whether it's a full-sized delivery truck or a human-powered push cart. Bicycles, mopeds, motorcycles and scooters careen through alleys, beeping at everything in their paths. Mules graze pedestrians from behind, the outboard wheels of their carts threatening to run up your heels. Drivers are masters at squeezing through impossibly tight places; clearance of one inch is trivial. They're also masters at intimidating tourists, although residents seem matter-of-factly unconcerned.

Below, a scooter approaches Jean faster than the image suggests. The bicycle to its right has just swerved around her. Her apparently calm demeanor, hands clasped pensively behind her back, is proof that over the years, she has developed nerves of steel—an experienced traveler for whom the world offers nothing fearful. Either that or she's entered a fugue state.

Hooded figures prowl the alleys, while sinister groups of young thugs plan mayhem.

Ancient Moslems sit against walls, thinking inscrutable thoughts.

Figures in jelabas emerge from the gloom.

Morocco is adopting western ways as well, as these young soccer players attest.

A Gabby Hayes look-alike whiles away an hour talking with his friend.

No northern african or middle eastern market would be complete without a rug merchant or two. The Marrakech Souk has scores. Of all types of dealers, these have the worst reputations for honesty and integrity. My defenses go up just looking at this picture.

How can you trust a man wearing a zoot suit?

—§—

Buyers come to the Souk to get bargains. But getting quality at a good price takes experience and haggling skills, This woman appears to know what she's doing as she stares disapprovingly at couscous and dried peppers. She's making sure the proprietor will have a hard time justifying his asking price. "Five dirhams for that? Why, I wouldn't even feed it to my cat!"

Speaking of which, the Souk is teeming with cats, as is all of Marrakech. They're not pampered, but people take care of them and seem to treat them with affection. A fishmonger fed this one; in return she graciously accepts a stroke from a nearby foot.

The first cat I ran across in Marrakech lived in the baggage claim area of the airport. I mean, they're everywhere. Ominously though, you don't see dogs. Makes you wonder just what was in the tagine you just ate...

And speaking of haggling, Jean was unable to come to terms with this merchant for a bedspread she liked. (Yes, photographers, I see the damn lens flare, but I just had to use this image.)

He began negotiations by drawing two columns on a piece of paper. At the head of the left column, he wrote "My Price." At the head of the right one, he wrote "Your Price." Then he drew a series of horizontal lines to form two columns of boxes. In the upper left box, he wrote "Dh 6,000." That's six thousands dirhams, or about $720. then he handed the marker and paper to Jean and said, "Your turn."

Flummoxed, Jean handed the marker and paper back and walked out. You can tell we have a lot to learn about haggling.

Still game, Jean braced a dress merchant. His fatal mistake was to model that pink frock for her with a cigarette dangling from his lip. Ruined the entire presentation. Somehow, she just couldn't picture herself wearing it.

Besides, it was the red number she really was interested in.

We did manage to overpay for some wooden-handled kebab skewers from this wood turner. We just had to buy something after he demonstrated his craft for us.

He used a bow to spin the turn-piece. He held his turning chisel against the tool rest with his bare foot. Crude as that sounds, he took a square piece of wood and turned it into an ornate amulet in less than two minutes. He presented it to Jean as a gift—and we were sunk. No way we were going to get out of there without buying something.

His haggling style was masterful. Oh, he wasn't interested in profit. He wasn't into woodworking for the money. No, he was an artist. He was turning wood for a creative outlet. That's why his prices were so low. "Here. Have this amulet. It's nothing. A little gift for you. You don't have to pay me for it."

See? Before you've uttered a word, he's got you set up to be a Philistine if you even hint at the possibility of a lower price. After all, he's an artist. There's no profit in his prices. How could he possibly lower them?

So we gave him the $6 he asked for twelve kebab skewers, and another $14 for a domino set that his 12-year-old son had made. After all, what's $20? It's nothing. Especially for such a fine craftsman, an esthete. And for his kid.

Over the next few hours of wandering, we saw many other merchants offering skewers and domino sets identical to the ones we had bought. It became obvious that they were all made in a factory somewhere. Sigh.

This woman is selling ksra, traditional round loaves of bread that were actually cooked in a wood-burning oven. (Or in the Wonder bakery in Passaic, New Jersey.) For a country in the middle of the Sahara Desert, they sure seem to burn a lot of wood. Where does it all come from?

And what are those things in the red bucket beside her? Oh. Kebab skewers. Sigh.

Comestibles can get a little exotic. Butchers' stalls look every bit as gross as those in Guadalajara, where any part of the animal—I mean any part—is sold for food. I couldn't decide if the stand pictured below was for medicine or food.

They sell herbs, roots and turtles. The reddish-black stuff in the white bowl is some kind of fruit paste. Ot else it's the gunk that squirts out of ball joints when you lay too long on the grease gun.

But most Moroccan food looks appetizing.

These pastries are just as appealing as any you find in the U. S. or France. Myself, I'm trying to keep a lid on my weight, so I didn't try any, but this stall had that familiar, mouth-watering bakery smell. Olfactory temptation.

The Fodor's guide was right about the aggressiveness of the merchants. You could hardly walk twenty feet without someone calling out to you or grasping your hand and shaking it. You can't just give them the brush-off like you can in San Miguel. These guys are persistent. But they're so darned nice about it. They exude a friendliness and warmth that seems genuine. You enjoy talking with them. They make you feel good.

But you must never forget it's all an act. They're not looking for new friends. They're looking for your money. They'll be just as welcoming and sweet to the next tourist that comes along, hour after hour, day after day, year in, year out.

As Jean and I were walking for the first time down one of Marrakech's narrow alleys, this herb shop caught my eye. Being in a new and strange place, we intended simply to give it a glance and continue on, but a disreputable-looking man with five days' growth of whiskers and missing maybe half his teeth approached us from behind and encouraged us to go inside.

I resisted; he insisted. "Go on. Smell. Is very good." He was so warm, friendly and encouraging that, despite misgivings, we moved closer to the store.

Baskets of dried herbs nestled against motorbikes waiting for repairs at the greasy, dark workshop next door.

To the right of the door, carefully-shaped conical piles of powdered substances exhibited the steepest angle of repose I've ever observed in a dry material. You could never make a sandpile that steep unless the sand was wet.

Once inside, we were greeted by Mouhad Tliki, a member of the family that owns the store. He demonstrated his wares for us, encouraging us to smell and feel various herbs, spices and natural medicines. Mouhad was intelligent and well-spoken. He had traveled all over the world and speaks six languages—not at all what I expected from a Moroccan shopkeeper, which just goes to show that I still reek with prejudices.

Jean bought a mixture of four spices for seasoning fish, seafood and "salades:" cardamom, nutmeg, ginger and coriander. She also bought a packet of sanouge (naigella seed) to use "against the cold, maigraine, astma." The method of using sanouge was interesting. Mouhad placed a teaspoon of it in a square of muslin and twisted the edges of the cloth to form a little ball. This he rubbed against the palm of his hand until it became warm, then covering my nostrils with the ball, asked me to inhale. I immediately felt my sinuses opening. Magic!

We could have spent hours in Mouhad's store, and probably would have bought many things, but we restrained ourselves. The store, Herboriste Essalam, does a worldwide mail order business. It has no website, but you can email Mouhad at essalamrobio@yahoo.fr.

Now, about the man who steered us into Mouhad's store. He was not a shill, nor was he offering his services to us as a guide. In Morocco, business is done on the basis of friendships. If you need anything, you ask around until you find one of your friends who can direct you to one of his friends who can provide the service or item you need. It's relatively unimportant if the friend of a friend provides items of good quality or performs the service well. The thing that matters is that you have enabled your friend to help his friend.

The guy across the alley from Herboriste Essalam was doing his friend Mouhad a favor, and in turn, in time, Mouhad will do one for him.

—§—

Postscript:
A day after composing this post, I shot an image of the Armenia Herbalist from a moving caliche, in the dark, using only available light.

This guy has taken powder piling to new heights. But compared with Mouhad's display, his just doesn't have the esthetics. Mouhad's may not be the biggest, but certainly—the nicest.

One nice thing about Europe: wherever you are, you're really close to someplace else. Like Morocco. Where we are now.

Part of our planned itinerary was to take an inexpensive flight from Madrid to Marrakech—not even as far as Seattle to Los Angeles. But culturally, it's about as far as the distance between Tokyo and Atlanta.

On the day of our arrival, our first outing was to Marrakech's town plaza, the place where everyone meets, the Djemâa el Fna. No, I can't pronounce it either.

Here, we have the Koutoubia Mosque, the city's largest.

It was built in the 12th century, when most Europeans were still living in wattle and daub houses and almost none could read and write. From our hotel, maybe five times a day, we can hear the muezzin calls that emanate from the tower—a powerful, eerie ululation.

As we walked the streets, Jean remarked "We're not in Kansas anymore." You better believe it.

While we saw some people in western dress, by far the majority wore traditional Muslim costume.

Check out the shoes these girls are wearing.

This man is waiting vainly to cross the street. Nobody yields right-of-way; it's all a bluffing game. How you cross is you step out in front of the speeding cars, mopeds and bicycles. Now that you're in the road, it's yours, and drivers either swerve to miss you (their preferred approach) or they screech to a halt, blowing their horns. It's unnerving.

Mules are still used for hauling, much more here than in Mexico. Many streets are just too narrow for trucks. But some things are the same as in San Miguel: this man demanded money when I took his photo. Note his traditional Muslim sport coat and baseball hat.

At any time of day, thousands of people are milling around the Djemâa el Fna. Many are tourists, and scores of jugglers, fire-eaters, snake charmers and other characters are out to separate them from their money. They are incredibly aggressive.

But ordinary citizens form the bulk of the crowds. The snake charmers don't bother with them. The people are here to buy fruit and vegetables at the open-air stalls or to catch a cheap meal of kefka (meatballs), couscous or harira (tomato soup with chickpeas and lentils).

Smoke from the grills fills the air and smells wonderful. I was ready to sit down at a stall for a nice plate of barbecued goat, but Jean said, "John, I don't want you going into that crowd carrying your wallet."

Fair enough, given that I seem to have trouble protecting it. But I pointed out to her that a major reason we were in Marrakech was to experience markets like this one.

Jean said, "Oh yeah. Right."

She screwed up her courage enough to enter the street food stalls, but opted to wait another night before consuming any actual food.

For those with a hankering for mollusks, we have here a man selling big fat snails. He's scooping some yummy broth in to a bowl of escargot for the customer in the foreground.

There were four of these guys, all in a row, each with a mountain of snails in a huge bowl.

If garden pests don't appeal for dinner, you can always fall back on something ovine. This woman is eating... I don't want to know... while sitting in front of a pair of roasted sheep heads. I would have chosen a different seat, myself.

Our hotel provided us with this lovely basket of dried fruit and nuts in our room. Figs, almonds, dates—biblical food. All we lacked was milk and honey.

The hotel may have bought their supply from this man. (The things on the left that look like intestines are strings of figs.)

All kinds of other stuff can be bought on the Djemâa el Fna. What better time to shop for lamps than after dark. The pierced metal lamps we buy in San Miguel de Allende probably have their origins here in northern Africa.

We did not manage to escape the guys targeting tourists. These guys beat drums and clang cymbals. But musicians they're not. Their entire raison d'être is to pose with you for a photograph. Here Jean wears the hat of the guy kneeling in front.

Click. Whirr. Then the haggling started. They'd like some money for posing. We offered 20 dirhams (about $2.40). They were offended. A hundred at least. After all, there are three of them. We stuck to our guns. One of the guys handed Jean a 50-dirham note. "Here. Take this. It's nothing. Keep it. Now, maybe you'll give us a hundred."

I was proud of Jean. She tried to hand the note back. The guy wouldn't take it. Jean dropped it on the ground along with her 20 dirhams. We walked away to a chorus of insults.

That's how we knew the price was right.