We had to get out of the car several hundred yards from the riad, and led through the narrow streets of the medina on foot.
Our driver handed us off to a fellow who was to take us there. Partway there he kept mumbling a word that sounded a lot like "money." After a while I realized it was "money." I'm money that way. Realizing that giving him money there and then would cause him to disappear, we walked on, with me resolutely not reaching for my wallet.
Then, we stopped and had a good old Morocco argument. At that point time I was missing Hamid. There we were in the street, joined by two other men. They were asking insistently for the name of the riad. I was giving them Edwina's name and the name "House of Fusion" -- which is the name of her cooking school.
I did not have an address, so I just kept saying the same things louder and louder, all the while showing them the information on my iPhone. Worried that things would not end well, it turns out raising my volume (which was a piece of advice from Peggy) worked. Apparently Moroccans respect you more if you stand your ground.
Just when I thought we were marooned in the Marrakesh medina, meal-less (Editor's note: Nice alliteration! Blogger: It was fun!), one guy says, "Oh, House of Fusion!" and proceeds to tell our "guide" in Arabic where to go (which I felt like doing too!).
We then went a bit further, and made a right turn down a dark alley. Partway down the alley, he asked for/demanded money for perhaps the fifth or sixth time. This time I responded, vehemently noting that there would be no money until we were delivered to our destination.
We got to the riad at the bottom of the alley. The door was open, and the guy would not leave. I called to Edwina (our chef, originally from Australia) and asked if this was legit. She was caught by surprised, having paid in advance for the pick-up and delivery. She paid him off and sent him away.
And then it was time for dinner!
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