We stirred from our restless slumber as the coach jolted its way through the narrow streets leading to Marrakech, Grace brushed her waves of auburn hair out of her face and I checked my watch: It was four in the afternoon. We grabbed our board bags and flagged down the latest in a long run of drive by taxis and headed for our new abode.
Once in Marrakech, our driver signaled us to follow a lingering youngster to our Riad (a Moroccan guest house). Considering we'd just arrived and had no map or sense of direction, we had very little choice in the matter. We followed him through shadowed alleyways, abruptly stopping before each one and telepathically expressing our unwillingness to get mugged. Hesitantly, we strolled on and soon arrived outside a door at the bottom of a passageway with the name of our Riad tiled above it, Riad Selouane. Relieved, we dropped our luggage and rang the bell.