Back in the late 1960s, I lived in Morocco for two years. I was 21 years old when I arrived as a Peace Corps Volunteer, raring to teach English at a lycée deep in the Marrakesh medina. It was an incredible time--filled with exotic food and sights, emotional highs and lows, big philosophical questions and small reality bites like constantly being broke (we were paid $115 a month, which even in those days, even in Morocco, didn't go very far). Ultimately, it was two years in which I did a great deal of growing up. After my tour of duty, I returned several times to this country that had become a second home to me, but by the mid-1970s I stopped. There were simply too many other places in the world that I wanted to see. Happily, in the last 20 years, I have been privileged to see and write about many of those places, so when the opportunity came up for a return visit to Morocco last fall, I figured it was high time. It would be sort of like seeing an old lover after many years. Would the spark still be there? Would the affair be rekindled? I was about to see.