Kids in the Jewish Quarter of Fes | Photo by Lauren Girardin

The grand taxi that takes us from the Sahara to Fes is not grand by definition, neither in largeness or in luxury. There's no air conditioning and only three of four windows roll down. The driver's and front passenger's seat belts have been repurposed; instead of keeping us safe, they wrap behind the the front seats to hold them upright. The seats – upholstered in torn, dirty lime green velor that's spattered with cigarette burns and multi-colored stains of unimaginable origins – are less comfortable and more filthy than the one-humped camels that were our most recent ride.

But, the tape deck works, so Todd asks our driver, Ali, to play some music using the international language of pointing at the radio and busting a move. Keeping one hand on the wheel and no eyes on the road, Ali reaches into the glove compartment, and then scatters nearly a dozen cassette tapes onto the dashboard. After a few rejects are tried and ejected, Ali settles on a tape of what sounds like one long instrumental Berber oud jam band session. Satisfied, Ali leans back and begins to delicately stroke his short mustache, a gesture he'll continue almost unabated for the next six hours.

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Sahara sunset | Photo by Lauren Girardin

Sometimes your love for a place comes on as hard and fast as food-poisoning. Other times, a place is forgettably bland, bringing on neither bitter aversion or the sweet desire to return. Then there are places of which you can't wait to wash your hands, where no matter how hard you try, you feel utterly out of sync.

Before we left on our round-the-world trip, more than a few people asked me and Todd, "Why Morocco?" During our time in this North African country, we've often asked the same question of ourselves.

We finally synced with Morocco in the Erg Chebbi dunes of the Sahara desert near Merzouga, a place that reminded us that we are on an adventure, even if it's sold as a package tour.

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Humping through the Sahara, Morocco | Art by Todd Berman

Heya Jennie and Amos -

Riding a camel through the parched Sahara dunes is like riding a mechanical bull that has a banana seat, though a bull that moves in slow motion. Your one-humped ride plods up and down soft dunes of rusty orange sand, surefooted on camel toe. With one hand, you hold tight to a metal handlebar; with the other, you grip your camera, trying to capture the photogenic shadows and silhouettes of the camel train.

After forty-five pelvis- and coccyx-busting minutes, Todd and I dismount our dromedaries at the Berber desert camp where we'll spend the night with several dozen others in our caravan.

We all lay out on a large square of layered carpets, surrounded by tents. Looking up, we watch planets and stars punch through the black sky. Todd and I listen in as a Spanish couple asks our Berber hosts about desert wildlife. Our Spanish is good enough that we understand that there are scorpions, but not to worry.

XOXO -
Lauren & Todd

This way to the Sahara| Photo by Lauren Girardin

It's 7 a.m in Marrakesh and Todd and I have just been sold from one tour agency to another, like so many camels.

Yesterday, we bought into a three-day Sahara expedition in an air-conditioned car from the charming Mohamed at Hilali Tours. We'd passed on the more popular Sahara Tours because the woman doing the sales pitch was suffering from a terminal case of indifference and their vans had no climate control, an unbearably painful concept for a desert-bound trip.

As it turned out we were the only people who wanted to go to the desert with Hilali Tours. So, a few hundred dirhams exchanged hands, and Todd and I were ushered into the well-worn Sahara Tours van.

Even before our ride left Marrakesh, seven young British men sitting in the back of our van started bantering about the desert. Without turning around, it was impossible to tell one jolly-old voice from another, so the following conversation is exactly as we heard it.

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Djemaa el Fna at night | Photo by Lauren Girardin

In between awkward, head-jerky naps on the monarchy-run CTM bus from Essaouira to Marrakesh, Todd tells me what has him the most excited for Marrakesh.

"They have these guys that squeeze fresh orange juice for three dirhams a glass in the main square. Randy said it's the sweetest orange juice he's ever had."

Randy being the globe-trotting Randall Wood, who co-authored the travel book Moon Nicaragua along with Todd's brother Joshua. Randy, his Nica wife Ericka, and their new baby, Valentina, had dined with the Berman family days before we left Long Island for our current Muslim hot-spot. Randy and the then-pregnant Erika had just toured Morocco and Todd had picked their brains for tips on the Red City.

After finding a hotel in the medina and locking our packs, we headed to Marrakesh's boisterous main square, Djemaa el Fna in search of juice.

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Todd and tajine in the Riad Sidi Magdoul, Essaouira | Photo by Lauren Girardin

It's 95 degrees Fahrenheit and stunningly sunny as I wind through every little alley and souk in Essaouira's medina. I'm getting desperate to find a new place to sleep for the next two nights so Todd can recover from the food poisoning that's turned him to mush. The place where we stayed last night, Hotel Majestic, is dingy, unpleasant, and their bordering-on-gross bathrooms - no more than 10 feet from any room's door - are echo chambers for every noise that happens within.

Todd's making a lot of noise. I'm starting to feel a little noisy myself.

Most hotels are dirtier than the Majestic, complet (full), or are more than Dh 500, which is a steep $70 US a night.

I'm in the smallest alley yet. I pass by a tiny homeless woman every ten feet. I bounce into the Riad Sidi Magdoul. I'm running out of steam.

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Escargot aux espice in Casablanca | Photo by Lauren Girardin

I like snails. I like them steaming hot on a cart in Casablanca. Stick a toothpick in their cute little head and yank them out of their shell. The meat is tender, like shellfish. Yum. Wash it down with a swig of the spiced broth in which they were cooked.

More than an afternoon snack, these escargots aux epices were a first taste of the exotic following weeks of frantic travel preparations in suburbia and several hours of chaotic urbanity in Casablanca.

A few days later, I was laid up sick in a hotel with my stomach tied in a knot. First I, then Lauren, succumbed to some local parasite. Instead of exploring the cool coastal town of Essaouira, Lauren and I took some downtime to heal in a riad. Rustic cannons pointed out at a raging sea would have to sit lonely while we recovered. Instead of strolling down the beach watching French kite surfers, we were inside wondering what had caused our illness.

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Mosquee Hassan II, Casablanca, Morocco | Art by Todd Berman

Dearest Dan & Jesse -

All advice said "Get out of Casa as soon as you get in." It wasn't that bad, but it didn't offer much beyond decaying Colonial and art deco architecture and an impressive, modern mosque that's still under construction in parts. C'est tout.

The country of Morocco is about the same size as the state of California. Visiting Casa is like gong to Cali and heading straight for Fremont...a post-apocalyptic Fremont, that is, where the streets are lined with cactus fruit and the men are completely in charge.

XOXO -
Lauren & Todd