Going back to Morocco involved deliberation. From Paris it's about a three hour plane ride and there are many flights per day carrying French tourists to it's no longer protectorate in Marrakech. We left many stones uncovered the first time, just skimming the surface, romantic notions noted but not lingered in, it was an imperative to see if these could be sustained or were we just dreamy tourists on a quick trip? We were. And were again. But Morocco is a dreamy place.
Itinerary went: A day in Marrakech into the color of the souks, into the small anthropology museums and defunct palace ruins of Marrakech and we jumped in a rental car (we paid cash for, no questions asked) and somehow found our way out of the city towards Ouarzazarte into the Atlas mountains along what was once one of the most important trade routes in North Africa, passing and stumbling around crumbling kasbahs, once strongholds of warlords, sultans, pashas, caïds. We passed deep green palmerais and slept in mud villages. We picnicked amongst white flowering almond trees and olive groves, rose estates, high snow-capped peaks, low salt baked plains, small villages, large towns, markets filled with donkeys goats sheep spices loud music and tomatoes from Agadir, 'til finally we reached a small section of shifting sands, the Erg Chebbi in the Sahara, in which we hopped out of the car immediately onto camels and into the dunes where we slept under a krillion stars.
This is the romantic version.
If I told you I just wanted to go to Morocco to buy a silver pouf, it would be much less interesting...more to come.