Morocco: "Consulter le monsieur qui vend les olives"

We flew from Brussels Charleroi to Tangier at sparrow's fart, taking the 4 am bus from Bruxelles Midi (booked through flibco.com: not sure who thought that was a particularly good name, but it seems they're sticking with it). We got there about 15 minutes early and were about two-thirds of a bus down the line. I'm not sure what happened to the people who arrived just before the bus left, but there were a lot of taxis hanging around, presumably to pick up people who couldn't wait until 4:30. Charleroi itself is not horrible for a budget airport, and has a small snack-bar past immigration control.

Never having been to Tangier before, and being a sucker for 10% off discounts on line, we booked a transfer with Morocco Chauffeur Services via mozio.com. Do not use these bastards: the guy dropped us off at the bottom of a million stairs by the side of the main road and pointed vaguely upwards before buggering off, leaving us to navigate our way with the assistance of several helpful locals. Mozio did give us a partial refund, for the record.

The Hotel Continental is a bit of a landmark (once you've got to it) - it must have been amazing back in the day, although it's a little faded now. Every other review on tripadvisor compares it to a set of a Wes Anderson movie, but apparently it was actually used for Bertolucci's The Sheltering Sky. The concierge booked us a grand taxi to take us to Tétouan the next day for 300 dirhams (after we'd refused one for 500) - but it came to the door on time and the driver helped carry our bags. He also stopped ten minutes in to the trip and asked for a passport to take to the police station: apparently it's important for inter-city taxis to get a stamp to prove that they've been taking people places in case they get stopped on the way back. After a few tense minutes, our driver came back with the passport and his stamped booklet and apologised profusely for freaking us out.

We're living in the medina - that's our front door above, just next to the lovely Yousef's olive stall. Our landlady had a small dossier of information to help us get around but hadn't left it in the flat, so it was passed to him (le monsieur qui vend les olives) to look after until we picked it up: apparently this is typically how things are done here.  The streets are narrow and mostly full of people selling things - thankfully we're not too close to the fish/chicken section just uphill - and Google Maps makes some interestingly arbitrary decisions as to which streets to show. It's small enough to not get worried about getting lost, and everybody seems pretty friendly. Walking demands even more concentration than Amsterdam: while there's no actual traffic (not counting the man with a pair of wheely-bins going past as I write this, or the very occasional motorbike with a trailer full of grapes nudging its way through) it's rarely possible to walk two abreast at more than a snail's pace.