This luxurious lift beats bumpy taxis.
Bus maybe come now, maybe come later.
Sharing travel itineraries and experiences with a deaf couple is a fun game, and I’m glad they’re still enjoying it too!
Supratours!! Air conditioning, leg room, an assured seat – uncontrollable smiles on our faces.
Heat, sun, and a thoroughly surprising lack of touts strike us upon arrival in Ouarzazate.
Big empty roads.
Has the taxi delivered us to a premium resort by mistake? No, indeed this is our hotel, pool, bar and all.
Beer! Our only one in Morocco.
Sumptuous lamb tagine could have been ten times the size.
Tour busses arrived overnight, and the breakfast buffet buzzes.
The desert exit towers above us. The Tizi and Tichka road through high atlas, conquered by Supratours.
Vertigo versus views: which force will prevail?
Get into Marrakech, to your hotel, with all your stuff, yourself. Go on, I dare ya.
This taxi driver has absolutely no idea where to go, yet happily demands a premium price.
Even the kids morph into touts, demanding 100s. Our cart puller accepts the backup.
One appreciates one’s peaceful Riad all the more after a tumultuous arrival.
The Bordeaux suite, a deep rouge naturally, neatly matches Amy’s outfit.
Venturing back out, the tempestuous street tempo has quelled to a mere murmur.
Can’t get the kids off Facebook? Stick Facebook in the park.
Another deaf pair, this time a chance Moroccan meeting across the park. No score, but a nice moment.
Amy haggles like a pro, 400 to 40 for henna.
“Why you look another place, all menu the same here.”
Fresh food speaks for itself.
Bicycles in medina backstreets, fine, that’s ok. But motorbikes really ruin any strolling pleasure.
Marrakech’s museums are doable in minutes, but lunch takes hours.
Our attempts to find Najat’s Kitchen, marked differently on three maps, in a dark maze devoid of road names… really aren’t going to get far.
Tagine presented with panache.
And we’re away! Marrakech wrapped up.
Why they call Essaouria ‘wind city’ is immediately obvious.
Essaouira is a little Brighton: artists in alcoves, hippies with hash cookies, all framed by the beach.
Off a soggy back alley, through a doorway and upstairs to an art deco lounge-shrine par excellence.
They’re happy when there’s tuna, but as soon as supplies dry up, moods sour.
Fine wine (ie any wine is fine by us.)
