An Offer You Can Not Refuse

After Amit dropped us off at Nice Airport the next morning, we caught our discount airline flight to Palermo, the largest city on the southern Italian island of Sicily. Our descent into Palermo was among the most spectacular we have ever undertaken, with jarring volcanic peaks hovering near vivid aqua coasts. Upon landing and collecting our bags, we took an airport shuttle bus to Palermo’s central station. A 20-minte walk later, we found ourselves in front of our serviceable business hotel located in the heart of the smokestained old city, mere spitting distance from the Quattro Canti.

After dropping off our bags, Kaberi promptly whisked us out of the hotel to see the four different cathedrals located on each of the four corners of the nearby Piazza Pretoria. Afterward, we commenced a wild goose chase for the newest edition of the Rough Guide to Italy (Amit had lent us his seventh edition in case the eighth edition proved elusive). After visiting five bookstores and traipsing halfway across town, we were finally successful in locating a copy for Kaberi to add to her burgeoning guide book collection. Immediately putting the new purchase to good use, Kaberi found a place that specialized in authentic Sicilian pizzas (much to Vik’s excitement) and Sicilian red wines.

The next morning, we walked west to the massive Catedrale, a majestic, green-domed structure with a cold and sparse interior. After a quick perusal, we moved on to Porta Nuova. After a short stroll, we arrived at Palazzo dei Normanni, the former royal palace now serving as the official house of the Sicilian parliament. Despite an ongoing renovation, we were still able to admire beautiful mosaic frescos and the building’s centerpiece, a gold-painted royal chapel.

Choosing a longer return route, we took in the bustling and malodorous local wet market before deciding upon another Rough Guide recommended lunch spot nearby. Unfortunately, the small hole-in-the-wall restaurant (with us as its only lunchtime patrons) produced a decidedly-mediocre meal, the lowlight of which was an undrinkable amber-colored house wine dispensed from a water cooler. Regrouping, we walked east toward Palermo’s main commercial district to find some respectable compensatory gelato.

We then made the short walk back to our hotel. After collecting our bags, we discovered that the Internet café across the street was shuttered. Taking pity on us, the kindly front desk manager gave us access to the hotel’s office computer. In short order, we were making the best use of our time and managed to finalize our Tanzania travel arrangements four weeks hence. With an hour remaining before we were due to return to the airport to meet one of Vik’s oldest friends, we settled into plush leather lobby chairs. As Kaberi caught up in her journal, Vik (like a typical Sicilian) closed his eyes and soon began an indulgent afternoon nap.

Pesto Change-o!

After completing our tour of duty in St. Martin de l’Arcon, we returned our rental car in Montpellier (but only after dealing with the stress of a malfunctioning fuel gauge) and caught a morning train to Nice. At Nice, we jumped on an eastbound train and disembarked thirty minutes later at Ventimiglia (which translates to “20 miles”), an Italian border town where we were meeting Kaberi’s cousin Amit and his wife Chetna who were vacationing with their two young daughters, Aryana and Anika. They had rented a well-outfitted hillside apartment in Apricale, a nearby village with the well-deserved reputation as one of the most picturesque settings in Italy.

After a pleasant drive to Apricale, we embarked upon the short, but steep, walk up the hill to the apartment. Huffing and puffing, we wound up getting more of a workout than we had anticipated. A few hours later, on a walk to the town center, we found ourselves put further to shame by older townspeople (a mere two to three times our age) effortlessly navigating the steep terrain while we fought to catch our breath with each step.

Upon settling in at the apartment, we had a chance to play with three-month old Anika and were quickly enchanted by her happy-go-lucky temperament. In comparison, three-year-old Aryana bowled us over with her seemingly-boundless energy and curiosity. We found ourselves thoroughly outmatched until nap-time beckoned. Amit and Chetna fortunately had stocked the apartment with ample provisions for rebuilding one’s energy. While the kids napped, we spent the afternoon enjoying local meats and cheeses with tall glasses of Lambrusco wine and Bailey’s. After a relaxing chat, we made our way into the village for an authentic Italian meal at an outdoor terrazzo.

The next day, Amit and Kaberi hiked uphill for a coffee fix before the six of us partook in a hearty breakfast at home. Making good use of our relatively-early start to the day, we drove to a farmers market in the idyllic neighboring town of Dolceacqua to stock up on fresh, local ingredients for a pasta dinner planned for that evening. We enjoyed sampling the myriad cheese options available to us before we carefully accumulated mushroom ravioli, cheese ravioli, fresh tomatoes and apricots. Afterward, we briefly strolled up cobblestone alleys and across a prominent bridge depicted in a Monet painting. In deference to Aryana’s utter glee at hearing the local belltower toll, we good-naturedly waited until the top of the hour before continuing on our way.

From Dolceacqua, we followed the coastline across the border to Menton, a French beachside hamlet that once stood in Italian territory. We were all amused by the exploitative toll system that forced motorists to pull a ticket in Italy and pay toll to enter France 50 feet later. After securing a parking spot in the heart of town, we found an inviting spot to dine al fresco with views of the sparkling emerald and aqua Mediterranean. After lunch, we continued on to one of the only sandy (as opposed to pebbly) beaches on the French Rivera where all of us ventured into the surprisingly-cold late June surf.

On our return, we stopped in at a local Conad supermarket to augment our dinner provisions. We soon found freshly made pesto (a regional specialty), two local varietals of red wines, and a panoply of meringues and éclairs (bearing more of a French ancestry than Italian, in Kaberi’s humble opinion). After returning home to the apartment, Amit and Chetna ventured out for a drink while we babysat the girls. With Aryana down for a nap, the two of us devoted ourselves to lavishing attention on Anika. When Amit and Chetna returned, we started the dinner process, with our hosts whipping up a feast of salad and pesto ravioli accompanied by local red wines and capped off with Kaberi’s hand-selected dessert options. Both the company and the food made for a fabulous evening at home, a nice change of pace after our soporific week in southern France.

Tour de France

After an overnight stop in Madrid with Iraxci, we caught an afternoon flight to Toulouse, the French city where Airbus is headquartered. Once we touched down and made our approach to the gate, Vik was entranced by the sight of a huge, bulging, beluga whale-shaped aircraft sitting outside one of the hangars (apparently, an Airbus experimental plane). Upon setting foot in the airport, we immediately armed ourselves with a Rough Guide to Langueduc-Roussilon (a so-called underrated region of southern France lying to the west of Provence) and a detailed Michelin map of the area. After picking up our rental car, a silver, automatic-transmission Citroen C3, we began the three-hour journey north-east to the village of St. Martin de l’Arcon.

After thirty minutes on the A9 autoroute, we stopped for directions and sustenance at a rest area gas station. Here, we encountered an incredibly-personable French storeclerk who gave us advice on the routing and highlighted key milestone points on our map. On our way out, we bought fresh sandwiches that rivaled their fresh-prepared, gourmet counterparts at Au Bon Pain or Panera Bread. After getting off of the highway near the town of Beziers (which looked to be a mere 25 kilometers from our destination), we spent another 90 minutes winding through narrow, pitch-black switchback roads. After making a couple of wrong turns on the basis of subpar road signage, we finally pulled into the driveway of the cottage where we would be spending the next week, exhausted and relieved.

Our accommodations had been generously set aside for our use by its owner, a British-based friend of a friend. She had warned us in prior e-mail correspondence about the possibility of encountering a scorpion or two during our stay. Fortunately, the only scorpion present in the cottage was the 5 foot “6” inch tall one bossing Vik around. We did, however, encounter other representatives of the insect world, namely a plethora of spiders and mosquitos, which encouraged us to spend as little time in the cottage as possible.

Using the Michelin map as our compass, we explored the area’s sleepy little backwaters to our heart’s content. On our first day, we drove on picturesque roads that underlie one of the stages of the Tour de France. We slowly made our way to Beziers, stuck behind two cautious timber trucks, where Vik’s singleminded obsession with procuring a GSM sim card propelled us to a mobile store. Half an hour and 30 Euros later, we were in possession of 15 minutes of mobile talk time and Vik was finally able to enjoy the town surroundings. We walked the small streets to the main Cathedral offering beautiful views of the river bisecting the city. As we returned to our car, an open air foodgrocer near the central market caught our eye, leading to a carton of wild strawberries and a cheap bottle of local red wine accompanying us on the ride home.

The next day, we journeyed west to picturesque Carcassone, a World Heritage site that we had seen beautifully illuminated from the highway during our initial drive to the cottage. As the artistically-licensed reconstruction of a medieval castle (the domed turrets added in the restoration were not historically accurate), Carcassone was captivating from a distance, but merely a tourist trap (like Bruge in Belgium) from up close.

On our return, Kaberi, in her role as navigator, gave Vik directions to repeat the prior day's route before promptly falling asleep. Unfortunately, half an hour into her nap, Kaberi was awoken with an urgent request for assistance by a frantic Vik who had missed the correct turnoff which so happened to be the only exit for the next 50 miles. After we missed another exit which would have allowed us to retrace our route (much to Kaberi’s dismay), we once again took slow, meandering backroads home, stopping briefly at a local Champion grocery store to stock up on such necessities as After Eight chocolates and another local vintage of red wine. The alternate route allowed us to discover a local boulangerie which quickly became our source for such staples as pain chocolate, pomme beignets and pain de mie.

Later in the week, we drove through Languedoc’s lush wine country to the college town of Montpellier. After locating the train station for our own reference (we were scheduled to take a train from Montpellier to Nice later in the week), we navigated the labyrinth of streets before finally locating a parking space. A brief stroll delivered us to a reasonably-priced Internet café (in sharp contrast to a pub near the cottage that charged an obscene 5 Euros per hour for remarkably-intermittent service). At Kaberi’s insistence, we uploaded the relevant Indonesian updates to this blog (narrowing the visit to publish time lag to a mere five weeks) before dining on crepes in Montpellier’s central Place de la Comedie, a plaza overlooking the ornate, gilded Opera house. After dinner, we indulged in a “version originale” showing of Ocean’s 13 at a local cinema.

The high point of our time in southern France was getting a chance to visit with our friend Doug (Vik’s old boss at Disney and a man with a treasure trove of embarrassing stories about a 24-year-old Vik). A fellow Carleton grad with a similar passion for world travel as Kaberi, Doug was on a Mediterranean Disney cruise with his family. With his ship docked for the day in Marseilles (an easy three-hour drive from our cottage), Doug was able to meet up with us outside the eclectic city’s exuberant Hotel de Ville. Our freewheeling conversation over a fine seafood meal went by far too quickly as we chatted about our travels and caught up on each others’ lives.

The week crawled by at times, but nevertheless gave us a chance to catch our breath from our adventures in Egypt, Spain and Morocco. We both luxuriated in a little downtime with which to fit in some summer reading, blogpost writing and, of course, excessive sleeping. As the end of June approached, we felt rejuvenated and ready to embark upon new adventures in Europe.

Express Marrakesh

Unable to find a direct flight to Marrakesh, we were forced to change planes in Casablanca. Without the foresight to have withdrawn Moroccan dirhams from an ATM before leaving Fes, we were forced to starve as Casablanca Airport’s transfer terminal did not boast a single ATM or eating establishment accepting credit cards. Adding insult to injury, our Marrakech-bound flight was tardy getting in from London, leaving us to wallow in our low blood sugar levels for an extra hour. We finally arrived in Marrakech at eleven at night. Desperate for sustenance, we coaxed the hotel driver picking us up to make a brief pitstop at McDonalds. If not for her growling stomach, Kaberi would have been aghast at this development.

Our introduction to Marrakesh marked a dramatic contrast to the old medina we had just left in Fes. When we arrived at Riah 72, we were struck by numerous examples of its contemporary take on the traditional riad. Its courtyard featured a sleek, slate-gray water feature adorned with red rose petals and our small, upstairs bedroom boasted stunningly-detailed original wood ceilings.

The next morning, the insistent chirping of neighborhood birds and multiple eardrum-piercing morning calls to prayer from nearby mosques roused us against our will. We resigned ourselves to an early breakfast consisting of assorted freshly-baked breads and pastries served with fresh honey and jams. Reading that the medina of Marrakesh was much easier to navigate than its counterpart in Fes, we felt comfortable venturing out of the riad and into the adjacent streets.

After walking to Marrakech’s distinctive, centrally-positioned Koutoubia Tower without incident, we continued on to Djemma Square, renowned as an atmospheric quadrant filled with snake charmers, musicians, henna painters and food stalls. Unfortunately, upon arriving at high noon, we discovered a sparsely-populated district with little sign of its reputed activities. We were left no choice but to return in the evening to see if things livened up.

From Djemma, we made our way into the medina and began wandering. After some concentrated scrutiny of our hotel-provided streetmap and several stops to ask and clarify directions, we arrived at the Ben Youssaf Medersa. Upon entering the school to admire its architecture, we caught glimpses of not only the courtyard, but also the impossibly-small student quarters (that apparently once housed a total of nearly 800 students).

From the medersa, we wandered the nearby souks purveying items ranging from spices, fruits, silver, mosaics, carpets and slippers to live turtles and porcupines. After soaking in the ambiance until the Moroccan sun proved overbearing, we escaped to one of the city’s beautiful gardens, Jardin Marjorelle, owned and maintained by Yves St. Laurent. Jardin Marjorelle turned out to be a stunning oasis that with its accent walls painted in the same blue shade as French workmen’s uniforms and diverse flora made quite an impression on Kaberi in particular.

Exhausted after our full day, we returned to Riad 72 to watch the sun set behind the city’s dual minaret towers. At dusk, we returned to Djemma Square to enjoy the pageantry over dinner. We found the square full of life with white overhead lights casting a warm glow on the bustling scene. After commencing upon a loop to consider our dining options, we settled on a stall with friendly, animated staff. After assuming seats at a makeshift picnic bench, we feasted on several freshly-grilled options.

The next morning, we explored Marrakech’s Ville Nouvelle on foot. Having steadfastly ignored the tourist hawkers all week, we succumbed to Morocco’s retail persistence and headed to the city’s upscale shopping district. Kaberi indulged herself on uber-fashionable rue de la Liberte with the purchase of designer leather slippers and bottles of local perfume. As a reward for not complaining about the financial magnitude of Kaberi’s high-end shopping detour, a culinarily-homesick Vik was obliged with a snack at Pizza Hut. Despite wrinkling her nose during the process, Kaberi appeared to finish her allotted portion of pan pizza expeditiously.

Our short visit to Morocco came to a close all too quickly and we reluctantly bid the friendly country farewell. Unlike one of its north African counterparts, Morocco is a destination that both of us have on our return agendas.

Funky Cold Medina

The next morning, we started the day with a typical Moroccan breakfast consisting of a delicious vegetable puree soup and various unleavened breads. After returning to our room, we discovered that the couple staying in the suite across from us included the actor who played the father on the 80’s TV show Family Ties, and his wife, a former Peace Corps volunteer who had been stationed in Morocco 40 years ago. After hearing about our dinner fiasco from the previous night, she urged us to have dinner at our riad’s sister hotel.

When we arrived in the main courtyard, we met the guide the night manager had hired for us, an older man costumed with a robe, fez and traditional slippers who was literally a walking parody of himself. During a ten-minute soliloquy where we couldn’t get a word in edgewise, he (1) insisted that we had to visit the stores in order to truly appreciate Fes, (2) repeatedly informed us that he had been on haji three times (the implication being that he was an honest man) and (3) kept grabbing Vik’s wrists in mid-conversation. Having our fill of his company and convinced there would be no easy way to manage him, we enlisted the help of the riad manager to send him on his way and replace him with a new, less colorful guide.

Guide number two, Aziz, turned out to be more understated. Dressed smartly in a shirt and dress pants, he struck us as both well-spoken and highly-professional. Understanding that we were only interested in a cultural, as opposed to a shopping, tour, Aziz focused on showing us the sights of the medina. We saw a number of medersas, religious schools where boys had lived throughout the year while studying to become religious leaders or judges. Of the two medersas we were allowed to enter, we noted the significant difference between the one restored with UNESCO support and one slated for restoration next year. Aziz provided us with a sense of history of the importance of the medersa but also emphasized the recent changes that made Morocco a more progressive country that was unusual in the Islamic world in its adoption of women’s rights.

We were disappointed that the mosques that had been written up in the Rough Guide were off limits to us. Occasionally, we peeked inside to catch a glimpse of ornate mosaic work, but generally saw little of the splendor described with great detail in the guide book. Nevertheless, we thoroughly enjoyed the atmosphere of the medina, taking in the mosaic water works, the impossibly narrow alleys, and the stalls selling everything from fresh fruits to fresh meats. Aziz also illuminated aspects of street life that we would never have discovered on our own. In one instance, he pointed out to us several young boys running loaves of bread to be baked in a communal bakery’s wood-burning oven. Interestingly, the bakery also served as a matchmaking site, since the local bakery employees could provide fertile intelligence on eligible bachelorettes to prospective mothers-in-law.

Thereafter, we walked through the Andalusian section of the medina to the dyers’ area (marked by a stench so merciless that we literally were forced to stick sprigs of mint up our noses). In this enclave, men kneedeep in vats of various-colored dyes painstakingly soaked and transferred animal hides from one receptacle to another. Afterward, we ambled to the metal works area of the medina where copper and brass objects were laboriously hammered and crafted by hand. At this point of the tour, Aziz unceremoniously tried to lead us to carpet shops and a touristy lunchtime restaurant, so we had him return us to the riad where we could bid him farewell.

Unable to begin navigating our way back through the maze of streets that might lead us to a different lunch spot, we unabashedly retraced our steps back to the site of the previous day’s lunch. This time, we encountered many of the same storekeepers who had accosted us the day before. With smiles and some light banter invoking Bollywood film stars, we were able to continue on our way without causing any hurt feelings.

That evening, we dined at Maison Bleu Restaurant Gastronomique located in our riad’s older sister location. Overwhelmed by shockingly-generous portions, we feasted on an outstanding array of eight vegetable appetizers prepared with delicate flavors and various spices followed by a second course of pastilla, a traditional Fes savory meat pie, a third course of tajine and capped with a dessert of flakey filo dough with honey. With serving sizes that inspired nausea, we found the food to be eclipsed by the magnificent setting and the attentive service. But the highlight of the meal for us was our conversation with two charming San Franciscans, Bruce and Amanda, seated at an adjacent table. Unlike the night before, when the bill finally came, we found the splurge to have been entirely worthwhile.

With our final day in Fes, we ventured out of the Fes al Bali medina and toured the old Jewish mellah. We happened upon an old synagogue that had been rebuilt with generous private support from abroad. As we explored the neighborhood with its slum-like conditions, we were shocked to learn that Jews hadn’t been allowed to wear shoes outside of their appointed area nor own property. We were also interested to see the difference in architecture outside of the medina. We noted the existence of windows on the second and third floors to let in light, a feature absent in Islamic architecture where the exterior walls are solid and the focus of the home is the interior courtyard.

After a quick lunch in the Ville Nouvelle, we stopped for a drink at the high-end Palais Jamaii hotel acclaimed for its magnificent sweeping views of old Rabat. In a fortunate turn, we ran into our dinner companions from the night before, Bruce and Amanda, and enjoyed an all-too-brief chat in the shade before returning to the riad to collect our bags. After a stressful roundabout petite taxi ride that involved driving in the opposite direction from our hotel, and being delivered to the wrong address, we decompressed over mint tea before heading off to catch our flight to Marrakech.

Fescapades

Our train journey from Fes took us east through the yellow foothills of the Atlas mountain range to Fes, the former Moroccan capital city best known for its World Heritage-designated medina. After disembarking, we found our way through a processional line composed of eager hawkers and reuniting relatives to end up at a not-exactly-organized cab stand. After a few minutes of animated discussion, we finally found a petite taxi driver willing to turn on the meter for the roughly 10-minute drive to the hotel in Fes al Bali, the oldest enclave of the city.

Driving by the city walls of the old medina, our excitement mounted. Within a few minutes, we passed through one of the medina’s large sandstone outer arches into a small alleyway leading to our accommodations at Le Riad Maison Bleu. Built around a water feature in the main courtyard, riads are large homes that have been transformed into small, beautiful guesthouses. We were thrilled to have secured a reservation at an upscale and authentic riad in the city where this type of lodging originated.

Kaberi promptly fell in love with Le Riad Maison Bleu and our private suite overlooking a small fountain. Set away from the riad’s main courtyard which curled around a lap pool, our room had 25 foot high ceilings, a stained glass French door which opened onto the courtyard, and opulent lounge seating areas piled high with luxuriously-covered pillows. Best of all, we found a plate of Moroccan sweets awaiting our arrival (with the macaroons serving as our clear favorite). We immediately explored the rest of the riad, with its many narrow, hidden stairwells, mosaic tiled floors and tiered terraces providing stunning aerial views of the old medina.

The medina beckoned us and we made our way into a labyrinth of small streets and alleys. A sea of vendors loudly implored us to stop and look at their wares with a zeal that exhausted us. After navigating the complicated maze that took us to the main gate, we arrived at Restaurant Kasabah, a centrally located spot with second and third floor tables providing a clear view of the various minaret towers and mosque domes surrounding us. As we feasted on kabobs and kibbeh, we decided to hire a guide to lead us through the medina the next day, partly to navigate the streets and partly to keep the hawkers at bay.

In the evening, taking the hotel’s recommendation, we were driven to an excessively-ornate Moroccan building geared to dinner performances for French tour groups. We resigned ourselves to an expensive night of mediocre food and cheesy entertainment (think balding, pasty-white middle-aged French men being led onstage to try their hand at belly dancing) that did little to improve Vik’s opinion of the French. Once we returned to the riad, we had a stern conversation with the night manager responsible for suggesting the dinner venue and for hiring us a guide for the following day. We took the opportunity to make it absolutely clear that we were not under any circumstances interested in a typical tourist tour dominated by visits to carpet and ceramics stores (where a guide would invariably) get a kick-back. After receiving assurances that he understood us, we turned in for the night.

Rock the Casbah

After our night out in Madrid, we returned home where Kaberi attended to travel preparations while Vik stayed up until 4 a.m. pow-wowing with Debashish. The next morning, Debabish dropped the two of us, one of whom was particularly groggy and bleary-eyed, off at the airport.

After a two-hour flight south over the Mediterranean, we deplaned in Casablanca at exactly the same time as we took off, representing the amusing calculus of Spain’s and Morocco’s differing time zones and daylight savings practices. Upon setting foot in the airport, it quickly became clear that we had been arrived in a different world. A sea of Arabic signs glared at us as we shuffled along hallways crowded with billowing robes and concealing, head-to-toe jalabas.

After clearing a typical third-world immigration checkpoint marked with musty, stagnant air, stifling heat and long queues of shifting, impatient bodies, we attempted to get our bearings. Standing comfortably outside of the airport baggage claim carousels (we regaled in the carry-on-friendly decision to limit our luggage for the week to one rolling backpack), we located an ATM machine. A few minutes later, with a modest roll of Moroccan dirhams in each of our pockets, we found our way to the airport railway station. At this point, Kaberi nervously wondered how we would manage to overcome the language barrier, only to turn around to find Vik chatting amiably in pigeon French with a nearby security guard. Breathing a deep sigh of relief, Kaberi followed closely behind as Vik led us to the appropriate outbound train.

Having heard from friends (and subsequently reading Rick Steves’ corroboration of the sentiment) that Casablanca, despite its cinematic reputation, was unremarkable, we ventured out of Morocco’s largest city as quickly as possible. After our airport express train culminated in the city center, we jumped on the next northbound train to Rabat, Morocco’s capital city. One hour later, we pulled into the Rabat Ville central train station. Unlike Casablanca, Rabat held a reasonable amount of tourist appeal and, with its cosmopolitan vibe, boasted a reputation as a friendly and manageable Moroccan starting point for tourists.

From the train station, we hailed one of Rabat’s distinctive blue jalopy cabs to take us to our hotel, located 25 minutes away in the eastern outskirts of the city. After arriving at our hotel, a renovated villa tucked away in the corner of an upscale neighborhood littered with consulates, we quickly settled into our comfortable, but otherwise forgettable, room whose furnishings did little to evoke its exotic location. Exhausted to the point of distraction, we forced ourselves to stay awake by watching awful made-for-TV-movies (including 2002’s woeful The Vector File) before motivating ourselves to go out for an early dinner.

After making our way to Rabat’s foreign expat district, we enjoyed a cheap, delicious shawarma and falafel dinner at an unpretentious local joint. Afterwards, as dusk turned into nightfall, we walked around the area, stopping briefly at a streetside pastry shop to pick up French tarts for dessert. We then made our way to a nearby train station to purchase the requisite tickets for the four-hour journey to Fes, our next Moroccan destination. Along the way, we stopped a number of people for help with directions, and to a person, found them to be welcoming and helpful. Toto, we’re not in Egypt anymore.

The following morning, after an uninspiring traditional French breakfast, we made our way toward Rabat’s Old City. After stopping briefly at a Moroccan travel agency to purchase Fes-to-Marrakech Royal Air Maroq plane tickets for three days hence, we made a beeline for the Casbah des Oudaias. We found the distinctive area to be full of blue and whitewashed homes arranged along cramped alleyways. Progressing further, we eventually came upon the azure shorefront at the northwest tip of the city. It was marked by a weathered beach entirely dominated by male sunworshippers (making it, in Vik’s humble opinion, one of the least appealing beaches in the world).

Retracing our steps, we stopped to admire the ornate sandstone arches of the entrance gates before advancing into the nearby Andalusian Gardens for some much-needed shade from the afternoon sun. We then walked across the street into a modestly-sized medina chock full of souks and food stalls. With the lunchtime hour upon us, we took the opportunity to forage for a hot meal from the friendly local vendors. After exiting the medina walls, we rested our weary feet at one of the corner coffeehouses in the Ville Nouvelle, only to realize that we had stepped into a conspicuous all-male province. Kaberi finished her mint tea quickly despite no overtures on the part of the other patrons to make us feel unwelcome.

Afterwards, we took a short walk to the unfinished Hassan Tower and the ornate modern mausoleum for King Mohammed V (grandfather of the current king) and his two sons, Hassan II and Prince Abdullah (father and uncle of the current king, respectively). The site’s elevated position offered a comfortable and sweeping vantage point of Rabat’s oceanside setting. We proceeded to end the afternoon by exploring the ruins of the Challah where today storks nest on the minarets of the Muslim necropolis (which itself was built on the site of Roman ruins). After a brief return to our hotel, we capped off our day with a terrific Moroccan meal at the Rough Guide-recommended Tagine wa Tanjia. We feasted on a regional tanjia and an assortment of traditional spreads, raising a glass to a fabulous start to our Moroccan adventures.

Se-La-Villa

An early morning train ferried us west from Granada through Andalusia’s Spaghetti Western landscapes and hillsides rich with preening golden stalks of wheat and sunflowers. Upon arriving in Sevilla -- Spain’s fourth largest metro area and the hub of southern Spain -- a little past noon, we journeyed to our eclectic, musically-themed budget hotel. After dropping off our bags, we took a stroll through the cobblestoned streets of the Old Town. Looming before us was Sevilla’s famed Catedral, which was closed to tourists on a Sunday afternoon.

We briefly lamented our seeming inability to gain entrance to prominent sights on the first try before moving on to the next venue on Kaberi’s list (furnished to her by her cousin Amit). In short order, we found ourselves before the opulent Hotel Alfonso XIII, commissioned by the King of Spain for the 1929 Great Exposition. Following Amit’s recommendation, we stepped inside for a mug of decadently-rich hot chocolate in the gorgeous mosaic courtyard. Savoring the melted chocolate and an accompanying cream-filled pastry, we lost ourselves in our thoughts before the bill brought us back to reality (Vik was apoplectic over the cost, which he claimed compared unfavorably with the downpayment on our condo).

Taking full advantage of the perfect weather, we strolled through the Plaza Santa Cruz and around the Jardines de Murillo, where a number of tourists lingered lazily at the plaza cafes while amorous young Spanish couples engaged in vigorous public displays of affection on nearby park benches. With the afternoon heat building (literally and figuratively), we chose to seek shade and a quick nap at the hotel. That evening, we once again followed Amit’s epicurean advice and chose the Restaurante San Marco, an old Turkish bath house housing an Italian restaurant, for dinner. After a week of forgettable breakfasts and subpar tourist venue tapas, we were thrilled to enjoy a scrumptious meal on the road in Spain. Kaberi likened her gnocchi to light and airy potato pillows, and we jointly inhaled our velvety tiramisu in mere seconds.

The next morning, we took a circuitous route through the quaint streets back to the Catedral. Grumbling about the need to visit yet another church, Vik was only cajoled into entering after intensive lobbying on Kaberi’s part. The largest church in the world as measured on a cubic space basis, the Catedral anchors the Sevilla skyline and also marks the burial spot of Christopher Columbus. Nevertheless, the most impressive aspect of the structure was the Giralda, one of three remaining Almohad minarets in the world (the others are the Hassan Tower in Rabat and the Koutoubia in Marrakesh) and the only one able to be climbed by the general public. The Giralda's upward-sloping path was built to accommodate two horses side-by-side while the facing windows of every level provided clear city views. After scaling 340 feet to the bell tower, Kaberi took pictures to her heart’s content while Vik slowly came to terms with the notion that the visit was probably worth the price of admission.

We spent the rest of the day online, with cerveza con limon in hand, to finalize our travel arrangements for Morocco. Before turning in for the night, Vik made the fateful decision to close the wooden shutters of our room, thereby rendering us devoid of any natural light. Without a wakeup call or the benefit of Kaberi’s internal alarm clock (which much to Vik’s chagrin, is cued by the dawn’s first rays of light), we awoke the next morning several hours after our morning train to Cordoba had promptly departed without us on board.

Hurriedly making our way to the Sevilla San Justo train station, we soon discovered that we had lost the full value of our tickets. After purchasing a new pair and grumbling to ourselves, we caught the next train to Cordoba for a daytrip to see the Mezquita. After a brief bus ride to the site, we found a beautiful old mosque with an interior of alternating red and white striped arches. The Mezquita was once the largest mosque in the world. However, the building appeared diminished with all of its doors closed, confounding the natural pattern of light and airiness of its original design. More disconcerting, however, were the gaudy cathedral nave and inner chapels fashioned inside the structure after the Catholic monarchs expelled the Moors from Spain. We were somewhat heartened to read in our guidebook that Carlos V (the authorizer of the unfortunate renovation) had immediately regretted his decision upon seeing the finished product for the first time.

Without incident, we caught our northgoing late afternoon train back to Madrid. We were thrilled to be able to spend a night with Debashish and Iraxci at their home before our Morocco trip commenced. We enthusiastically washed several much-needed loads of laundry before being taken out to dinner at our hosts’ favorite sushi restaurant, the charmingly-named Sushi Ole, and drinks at the lace-curtained and British-owned Almeda.