The really sad part is that these strategies usually work, but they make it difficult to walk through Casablanca or any other Moroccan city at a pace slow enough to investigate the decaying buildings and fascinating street life.

I’ve noticed that most people are hassled mercilessly for their curiosity, for hesitating, for looking around—anything that signals to the locals that they are a tourist with money to blow. So, you learn to avoid the human beings around you, and, consequently, you can no longer tell if someone legitimately needs your help.

Across the street from the American Language Center is a large-windowed, nondescript office building with a solitary security guard standing listlessly in front of it. I hadn’t really noticed the building—or the guard—until a voice called out to me one day as I walked past it.

"Mohammed looked up at the sky for a moment and made the decision to follow this conversation wherever it might lead. 'Well, I was in jail for 10 of them.'"

“Hey, man. Can I talk to you for a minute?” I’m not sure if these were the words he used or not because they were lost in the din of passing cars, I wasn’t really listening, and I wasn’t sure from where the voice was coming.

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