Monday, April 28, 2008

Fes: No Room At The Inn

We arrived by taxi, weighed down by bags and the eight-hour train ride from Marrakech. The receptionist was tall and balding, dressed in a dark blue suit. He stood upright behind the desk, clucking his tongue while he looked up at his computer screen and back down at the folded reservation. There was a pause while he moved his feet from side to side; he made a deiberate show of checking one last time. Finally, with a shake of his head, he gave us the news. "There is no trace of your booking and today we are full, miseurs."

Back outside, it was still raining.

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