I feel like I enjoyed this book way more having read it while actually in
Morocco. Everything is so much more meaningful when you're actually looking
at the stuccowork, driving between the different neighborhoods of Casablanca, etc etc etc!
Am still a little weirded out by the almost complete nonentity of women in the book, though. Women occasionally provide information, complain, or give birth; men do
things. It was hard to tell how much of that was the author and how much is a reflection of the culture.
This opinion is, of course, colored by other books on Morocco I read/flipped through, which suffer from the same phenomenon. My choices in books for trying to get a feel for what traveling as a woman alone in Morocco were a) books about girls who grew up in harems and 2) Edith Wharton.