MOLI VIEW™

In just an hour you can take a ferry from the southern tip of Spain to the northern tip of Africa, also known as the place of heady spices and veiled delights — Morocco. It's no wonder that ex-pats like Paul and Jane Bowles, Ernest Hemingway, Jimi Hendrix, Frank Zappa, and Cat Stevens infamously all made a home here for a time. I have never felt at such a head-spinning crossroads: Europe meets Africa meets Islam. In one moment, you can hear the Muslim call to prayer, be buttering your fluffy croissant, and be sitting poolside in a riat — a Moroccan home turned hotel with the classic arched doorway, carved wooden ceilings, and multi-colored cut-tile work that are the signature of this stylish decor.

Getting there

Even for Americans, it's not such a big journey. I flew direct to Casablanca (yes, like the movie, but the modern version bears little resemblance) from New York City, about a seven-hour flight. And for most of the trip, I drove, spending three days in Marrakesh (worth it), two days in Fes (one might have been enough), one in Essouria (wish I could have stayed a week — this is where the Hideous Kinky crowd hangs out now), one in Rabat, and one in Meknes. Quite a tour in a week, given the mind-boggling diversity of what you can do in Morocco.

What to do

From camel trekking in Zagora to surfing in Safi; from Marrakesh's carnival-like bazaar at Djemaa el Fna square (filled at night with snake charmers) to the serene confines of the Majorelle Gardens (owned by Yves St. Laurent); from driving the desert road on the way to Tan Tan to skiing at Oukaimeden: from visiting a traditional tannery in the Fes medina to seeing how argan oil is made at a women's collective of divorcees and widows; from the semolina cake-like Berber breads to the steaming clay tangine pots filled with prunes and lamb; from the Roman ruins at Volublis to the medieval gates of Meknes — Morocco is a total assault on the senses.

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