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.