After a romantic dinner at the hotel, I convinced my very reluctant boyfriend that we should leave the grounds and check out a Moroccan night club. With a cab taking us from door to door each way, I reasoned, what could possibly go wrong? We asked our waiter what club he liked to go to. He told us, and we arranged with front desk for a taxi to take us each way. We had an hour before the club opened, so we had the taxi take us around town and give us a guided tour of Tanger. He spoke in French, and I translated for Keith. He showed us the mansions of the diplomats and contrasted it with the run down accommodations of the average worker. It was appalling, although he said the gap was decreasing steadily with increased tourism.
When we got to the night club, we laughed out loud. The Moroccan music was enchanting (a live band was on the stage). Drinks were expensive ($10 each, for our white selves). The atmosphere was hilarious. White upon white...plastic white couches with tacky white walls...it looked like a wannabe eighties experience. It was empty when we arrived at one a.m., and slowly starting to fill up when we met our cab at the door at three. I asked the doorman if this was a typical Moroccan night club. He laughed. He told me it was an after hours bar; people come here when the night clubs close. We realized we had perhaps asked the wrong person for a recommendation: if our waiter works nights, of course he would go to an after hours club after work. It’s the same way here.