A relief to land in Rabat, Morocco’s capital, after  thirteen hours of flying and a four hour layover in Paris. The bright February sun and temps in the 70’s are also welcome, and just what we’d hoped to escape to.

It’s a white city of four and five story buildings, the wide main boulevard, Avenue Mohammed V, features a row of towering palms marching down its middle. That’s where we find our hotel, the appropriately named Terminus, a block away from the main railway station. We’ve come two days before our two-week Road Scholar program begins to do some exploring on our own and, we hope, get over the worst of jet lag. Our first priority is dinner – somewhere close by that we can walk to without getting totally lost. Tagine wa Tanja looks promising.

Stepping down into the dining room takes us out of what could pass for a provincial capital in southern France, and into the Morocco of our imaginations. We’re greeted by candle light and the music of an oud player sitting cross legged close to a fireplace’s glowing embers. There are only half a dozen tables, and they’re dressed in the same apricot silk that covers the walls.

It’s Friday night, when couscous is the traditional dish. Mark orders the ‘royal’ version. We’re not sure just what that means, but how can you go wrong?  I opt for a tagine of chicken cooked with pears and walnuts. Tagines are the signature dishes of Moroccan cooking, named after the two-part utensil they’re cooked in. The contents of a shallow clay pot, filled with combinations of vegetables or fruits, meats, and a variety of spices, are covered with a conical hat that lets out the steam, then slow-cooked over embers.

We find out what royal  means when they bring Mark’s towering platter.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mine is more manageable, but equally delicious.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Desert is a rich custard,

A diner at the neighboring table introduces himself. He’s headmaster of a boarding school in the interior, and wants to welcome us on our first night in his country.

We retrace our steps, and find the palms of Avenue Mohammed V twinkling with the baby-blue lights that wrap their trunks.

We’re actually here! Morocco.  Magic.