I’m not sure what it says about me that I seem to wind up, more often than random chance would dictate, in remarkably dismal hotels. It’s not that I seek them out; rather its the reverse. These places somehow, almost magnetically, find me. It began early in life, as my family can attest, having enthusiastically taken them to a small town in Argentina where the only accommodation was a jail cell. So it shouldn’t be a surprise that given the questionable condition of the bedding at the Hotel Rendezvous, we decided it would be best to sleep fully clothed, including hats, socks and jackets. The surprise was how well we slept. And then, fortified by a delicious Berber omelette and strong coffee consumed al fresco as the local school children flowed past, what a great day of riding we had. Curvy mountain roads with dry scrub brush and unrelenting winds gradually yielded to palm trees and bougainvillea as we went up and over the 5,300 foot Col du Tarkatin, ending our ride at the foot of Lion’s Head mountain. Needless to say, Allegra did not seek my input on accommodations and we enjoyed an exquisite room and dinner at a small hotel owned by a meticulous and kind Dutch woman. Ten hours of rapturous sleep and another great breakfast saw us on our way, heading west, out of the mountains and towards the Atlantic. What was intended to be a quick stop for coffee in Jamaa Idaoussemial led to a leisurely and friendly chat in Spanish, French and English with Daod Jazuli, a former professional soccer player with Casablanca WAC and the unofficial town mayor. His appraisal of Americans: “Buenos hermanos.” Of our President: “Loco.”