Since I returned from Morocco, I’ve been wearing only dramatically embroidered caftans around the house. While my sons barely notice their mother in her “channeling Talitha Getty” time warp, my daughter thinks it’s fabulous (I bought her a few mini-versions) and I’ve never felt more comfortable or glamorous while returning emails.

A little worried about what I’ll do now that fall is rolling around – maybe a little number like the one from Lacroix‘s last show…

Check out of Hotel Tangerina after obsessing over the coolest wall clock / calendar I have ever seen.  Head to station to catch express to Casablanca.  Haggle with taxi driver about the fare.  He wants to charge us a 50dh flat fee (illegal) and we want him to use the meter.  He reluctantly agrees and the ride is 18dh. Almost miss train but make it by the skin of our teeth after Cristina puts the guy who tried to cut her in line in his place (the wonders of cueing are lost on most Moroccans.)

Lucky to have private cabin this time although the A/C is on the blink.  Spread out across three seats and try to catnap.  Five hour ride goes by in a flash.  Arrive in what appears to be a depressing, dilapidated city, full of smog and pollution – and not a horse or donkey in sight for the first time in over a week.

Hail taxi and jump into masterpiece of improvisation. Every part of the car was either made of, held together by, or leaning on stuff that doesn’t belong in cars… like plastic plumbing pipes, straw floor mats, and empty soap boxes.  Head to our hotel, JM Suites, which we are thrilled to find in an upscale part of town. Almost faint when we pass a Lanvin boutique… and a l’Artisan Parfumeur!  Modern hotel and (kind of) modern city are a welcome sight after the past week of dusty (though fabulous) African towns.  Check in and plop onto bed in air conditioned / flat-screen having room.  Decide to have tea at the cafe across the street and then dinner at the über-glamorous / tourist-trappy Rick’s.  Totally surprised / impressed by the progressive vibe throughout the city and happy to see jean wearing women in the cafes alongside their men.  Same density of headscarves but chicer sunglasses.

Dive along the Casablanca waterfront, past the magnificent Hassan II mosque to dinner at the straight-out-of-Casablanca-the-movie restaurant.   Start off with fave new cocktail, the Martini Blanc, in a gorgeous glass.  Piano player keys out perfect 30′s classic standards.  Indulge in ridiculously delicious crab salad and sole dinner with a French white.  Deliriously happy.

Milked wine and Wi-Fi’d our brains out for three hours with the first working connection since we landed in Morocco. Both totally astonished at how much we’re enjoying this town that everyone told us to avoid.

Take lovely late night petit taxi ride back to the hotel, watch about an hour of hilarious / depressing Moroccan fashion TV before passing out on finely pressed linens.  I love my new little city.

Wake up in Fez and go downstairs to tell the riad host that we’re headed to Tangier a day early. She tells me we have to pay for the duration of the stay because they “turned down other potential guests.” I look around at the half-empty riad and she reads my mind. (I forget haggling is a sport even in the most sophisticated of settings here) We agree on 1/3 of the unpaid night after some good natured back-and-forth…

We’re getting dangerously close to our budget limit now that we’re hitting the tail end of our trip. Think about how to cut back.  Decide all food must go.  Shopping and cocktails should be fine.

Train it to Tangier on what have become our beloved first class cabins.  Meet a young American woman and her parents.  She is living in Madrid and has recently lived in Fez for six months with her husband while she was getting her PhD in Moroccan history at Harvard.  We chat for hours about Moroccan culture, she gives us some more great words to throw at assertive Arab men, and tells us our hotel in Tangier is her absolute favorite.

Change trains at Sidi Kacem and are now in cabin with eighty-something-ish woman in fabulous Chanel seersucker suit and oversize Celine glasses.  She strikes up a conversation with us and tells us in a dreamy drawly French voice that she’s from Tangier but she worked for Chanel in New York for thirty years.  We decide we love her.

Head to back of train, open rear door, and sit on steps with feet hanging out in the open air. Minutes later Chanel appears and tells us to turn around and face the sea.  We see the most incredible streak of blue to our left. Amazing to see ocean after so much time inland by desert. Tangier, she reminds us, is where the Mediterranean meets the Atlantic at the northernmost tip of Africa.  Although we already know this, when she describes it, it sounds like sex.  Debate asking her to repeat herself so I can hear it again.

Arrive in Tangier to the usual dearth of maniacally eager taxi drivers.  Settle on ridiculously inflated fare – too tired to argue – and make our way to the Hotel Tangerina.  Drive by the long strand of beach dotted with ramshakle beach clubs and faded discotheques.  Pass a group of camels resting in the sand – presumably a tourist photo op enterprise, but still amazingly exotic.

After ton of hairpin twists and turns we arrive at our little hotel, perched on the very top of the hill overlooking the whole of the city.  Walk in and fall in love.  Immaculately styled to a Humphrey Bogart-by-the-sea tee, it’s absolutely the perfect setting for this little gem of a town. Our room overlooks the city walls which drop down to the glorious Med.

Head upstairs to rooftop terrace.  It’s stunning.  From there we can see across the Strait of Gibraltar to Spain and all around the edge of the continent.

Have a mint tea and launch into full-blown photo shoot on the roof.  When we’re exhauseted, head down to the Petit Socco (square) and check out the fab deco Cinema Rif. Pass tons of magnificent French colonial buildings and balconied windows.  Stroll around and then head back to La Tangerina.

It’s now completely dark out with the moon shining on the African coast and the two oceans meeting in front of us.  Meet awesome Canadian couple celebrating their one year anniversary  - he is Indian, she Pakistani – both Muslim.  They grab a seat with us on our oversized daybed overlooking the water and bring a box of pastries to share.  Talk until 3:30 am about everything under the sun… God, religion, politics, and marriage.  It’s another amazing human connection in this wild country.  Since we’re trying to save our cash, Cristina runs down to fetch a bottle of water from our room and arrives back with two glasses… “Champagne Dahhhling???” she slurs… we crack up cause we’re almost broke.

After four hours of chatting, stumble downstairs to catch a few hours of sleep before 10 am express to Casablanca…

Wake up to breakfast on the terrace and Chris getting us packed ready to go.  Sad to be saying goodbye to our little home in Marrakech and our new friends, but excited to make our way to Fez. He warns us that Fez is much more conservative than Marrakech…  While Marrakeck is a true African city, Fez is a wholly Arabic and very Islamic.

Hurry through breakfast and as I say goodbye to our little rooftop, a huge flock of storks lift of the palace walls and start circling over our heads, yelling and squawking.  We decide they’re saying goodbye back.  Whip out cameras and start taking photos – bye bye “House of Storks”.

Chris arranges out car and we say our farewells.  He assures us that if we need anything at all for the rest of our time in Morocco, we can call him.

Arrive at station and board train for seven hour ride to Fez.  Again train is ultra comfortable and we’re unfazed by the long trip.  After about an hour into the trip I stroll to the back of the car.  Since we are in the last car, the view is just the track speeding away from us.  I open the side door and sit down on the steps with my legs hanging out.  Everything feels so peaceful.  Cristina joins me.  Nostalgic African air gets to our heads and we start talking about the metaphors between the train ride, our trip, and our lives.  How you get so distracted with everyone and everything else back home. And how, like with the cameras that have been attached to our faces this entire trip, it’s important to take time to see the world though your own lens.  Hours pass with feet dangling out of train while zipping through countryside as we indulge in saccharin contemplation.

Arrive at Fez on time and after the usual harassment by the local taxi drivers our driver from the riad shows up.  After about a fifteen minute drive from the train we’re deposited in our hotel in a desolate quarter of the town.  We’re immediately uncomfortable.  It’s slightly run down and our room, though spacious, feels a little rickety.  Christina thinks she hears a donkey.  We decide we can’t stay there and call Chris in Marrkech and ask what to do.  Within ten minutes he has new accommodation booked and a porter at the front door to collect us and take us to our new riad.  After some awkward negotiating we settle on a one night cancellation fee.

Arrive at Riad Sheherezad.  It’s incredible – with a magnificent tiled courtyard and stunning swimming pool surrounded by African palms.  Our room is dark and mysterious – perfect for the mood of this city.  We’re told the Medina is unlit and dangerous for women at night so we head into the Ville Nouvelle for dinner. Hassled by young Fassi boys at every turn.  Wander around the strange little city for an hour before settling on a restaurant someone on the train recommended.  Dinner is fab. We’re dead tired and getting a little cranky from the nonstop day.

Go to taxi stand and try to hail cab.  There is ZERO English spoken in this city and no one has any idea what we’re talking about.  By now my French is back in full swing and I explain the directions to six cabbies in a row.  They all say they have never heard of this place.  After an hour of this we decide we need a better plan.  Take a time-out on a park bench next to some gossiping Arab ladies and hatch a plan – write out the name of the hotel in bog bold letters and remember that Cristina took a photo of the front door sign.  Use the writing / photo visual aids, which prove to be a successful combo. Within 20 minutes are safely back home.

Arrive to a beautifully candlelit courtyard and the sound of a mandolin being played.  We order a tea and plop down on the lounges.  We’re now overtired and delirious.  I become obsessed with taking the perfect picture of the room key against the blue tile floor.  After about 300 attempts Cristina bursts into hysterics behind me.  She snaps a picture of me bent over like a lunatic in my djellaba looking like I lost something.  She shows me the picture and we dye laughing.

Realize we need sleep and head upstairs.  After deciding half the room is haunted we barricade ourselves in the other half.  Crawl into bed, still laughing about me and the key.

Wake up to awesome rooftop breakfast of fresh watermelon and prepare for our first traditional hamam treatment in our riad.  Go downstairs to the impeccably restored 17th century marble and mosaic hamam, stripped down to nothing, and were laid down naked on warm wooden benches.  Covered from head to toe in black Argan oil paste by bath woman who did not speak – English or anything else.  Every inch of us scrubbed vigorously by hand with the roughest, most exfoliating mitt I’ve ever felt. Swore I lost a pound of skin.  Rinsed off with beautiful copper bowlfulls of warm water poured ovr our heads from massive wooden buckets.  Hair caked with desert clay and ENTIRE bodies coated with thick layer of Arabian herbs or “Les herbes de l’Arabe.”  Left lying there for a few minutes before being placed in a fabulous marble shower where non-speaking scrubber rinsed our bodies until they were clean and unbelievably shiny.  In an effort to capture the complete decadence of the moment, Cristina starts snapping photos of me in the marble shower.  Scrubber is horrified but tries best to appear nonchalant. Not only do Muslims not believe in taking photos, but here is a crazed woman shooting a centerfold before her eyes.  No doubt the topic of riad gossip for the next week.

Decided to have respite from Medina and at Chris’ recommendation headed to luxurious “beach club” and playground for the privileged in the Palmerie Oasis on the edge of the desert.  Spot camels en route.  Screech and ask driver to stop so we can take photos.  End up taking camel rides through the palms with our fab poolside gear while we convinced our driver to play fashion photographer.

Once ensconced inside club we decide we look cool in our bathing suits after three days of desert air and mediterranean diet. Initiate all-day photo shoot.  Sip Moroccan orange juice drinks all day listening to fabulous classic Sinatra mix by stunning pool.  Head home by taxi at sundown.

After a brief stop at an internet cafe (three ramshakle desks with computers in someone’s lobby) we decide on small dive-y square-side restaurant in Djemma el Fna.  Have amazing omelette, soup, tagine, olives, salad, and drink for $8.  Three twelve year old boys from France are sitting next to us. They remind us of our kids.  Apparently they’re on some sort of group holiday and the rest of their group and counselors are sitting a few tables away. They’re getting into all sorts of trouble – shooting spitballs and airplanes at customers in the next cafe.  We crack up and they start talking to us in broken English and asking for our napkins for more airplanes. I lean over and snicker to Cristina these are the youngest men we’ve picked up to date.  She jokingly threatens to show them my hamam picture.  We crack up, finish tea and head back to the souls for some last-minute Marrakech shopping.

Haggling is a sport in Morocco and by now we’re killing ‘em – paying 30% of asking on average for everything.  Find a ton of ceramics we love.  After some hard negotiating Cristina settles on a price for her lot.  I’m not satisfied yet and decide I’m leaving Marrakech while I’m on haggling fire.  The seller’s not budging and I decide to call his bluff and walk away.  When I’m about 20 feet from his stall he calls me back.  ”Ok, ok!!! You tough lady but yes deal. You have the face of America but the pocket of Zimbabwe!”  I relish my victory, reward myself with more spiced ice cream and we head home.

Get back to hotel and ask front desk guy for a some tea and a snack.  He says the kitchen staff is gone but he will dig something up.  He goes the to kitchen and returns with a full meal he prepared for us himself!!! Brings us a picture of a gazelle he printed off Google and tells us this is what we remind him of.  Go to bed with full tummies and happy hearts.

Plane lands in Casablanca and after lengthy immigration line we’re escorted outside to wait for the shuttle bus which will apparently take us to the terminal where we’re to catch our train to Marrakech. Three buses go by and inexplicably do not stop.  Actually one stops.  And then it leaves without opening its doors.  This is how things go here.  Finally after waiting almost an hour we decide to walk it.  We follow an older Moroccan man who says he can show us the way to get to Terminal 2.  Roll heavy suitcases across African highways, jump fences, and arrive at our destination.

Buy train tickets to Marrakech and decide to have a drink in the terminal since we’ve got about an hour to kill.  Get embroiled in pondering our first time traveling in an Islamic country and space out staring at passersby, trying to suss out the female attire situation.  Miss train.  Get on next train. Four hour ride to Marrakech in first class cabin.  Astonished at how comfortable and plush this rail system is.  Try to nap but too wired.  Arrive in Marrakech and are swarmed by over eager and aggressive taxi drivers wanting to take is where we’re going… About twenty of them circling us like hawks.  We figure it must be the exposed long hair.

Arrive at our hotel and we meet Chris, our wonderful host at Dar les Cigognes.  He is completely enchanting and tells us he’s given us the suite in his magificent Riad.  It’s dark out now and we’re a bit disoriented having just arrived in Africa, but he immediately makes us feel perfectly at home with a lovely mint tea and some awesome advice on how to approach this wild city.

The riad is spectacular.  It’s the former home of a wealthy 14th century merchant and is situated about 30 feet from the palace walls.  Our fuses are totally blown.

We decide to have dinner and drinks out.  Chris recommends Kosybar, a rooftop restaurant on the small square where we can watch the sun set over Marrakech and the storks hang out in the trees above our heads.  We almost pass out when we arrive… the place is amazing. Get tipsy on Kir Royales and decide to go wander around the souks in the ancient Medina.  Buy the kids some cute little leather toy camels and funny underwear.  Watch the complete human sideshow that is the Place Djemaa el Fna in the center of the walled city.  Fortune tellers, snake charmers, berber dancers, horses, donkeys, food stalls, storytellers, and acrobats everywhere.  The drums here play all night long.  Understand why UNESCO has made this place a World Heritage Site.  It’s like nothing else we’ve ever experienced.  Mezmerized for hours.

Stumble home through alleyways, past cafes with old men sitting outside having late-night chats. Collapse after not sleeping for 32 hours.  We love this place.

Wrapping up whirlwind North African tour with my best friend, partner-in-crime, and all around phenomenal mama Cristina Berusch. We took Morocco by the horns and are both inspired beyond words, returning with a completely new lease on life, work, and everything in between. The trip meant a lot to both of us – it was just as much work as it was play, inspiration, and rejuvenation. After a series of “you-can’t-make-this-stuff-up” moments on our way to Casablanca from New York, we decided to keep a journal of every day of our trip. The adventure was priceless and it will be posted here daily, as we wrote it…

Shout outs to Royal Air Maroc and that crazy wine, ONCF and the chip cart, Yacout, Christoper in Marrakech, Mustafa in Fez, Nafisa & Nass in Tangier, Alex in Casablanca, Mohammed VI and Mudawana, the Call to Prayer, Djemaa el Fna, Reglise and 45 épices, Harira, Djellabas, Mint Tea Madness, Jamie Jones from Madrid, the Strait of Gibraltar, Petit Taxis, Wafacash, “Zero Jeeram”, the Hassan II, stray cats, Allah, and all the donkeys that make every single thing in Morocco possible. As-salaamu ‘alaykum.