I think the first time I figured out that, generally speaking, renting a place was better than staying in a hotel was 1970. I rented a house for a couple of months on the beach in Goa. Once I figured out the function of the herd of pigs on the property, everything was smooth as silk and I settled in for a nice leisurely stay in my very first post-college home-of-my-own. It took me about 3 days to convince myself that I was actually a Goan and start, relatively speaking, integrating myself into the pulse of the community. I don't recall ever seeing a hotel in Goa although I'd hear from the hippies and other travelers who came to our beach-- the one that was 30 steps from my front door-- that there were hotels.

When you're staying in a place for less than a month, renting a place is tough. After my 10th trip to Thailand I finally figured out that a secluded villa on Phuket was way more what I was looking for than a berth at even the nicest of hotels. I don't think I ever put on any clothes for weeks at a time. And then a couple years ago I rented a villa overlooking the Ayung River in central Bali. Except to go pick up a friend who was staying at the Ritz, I never even visited the tourist ghetto on the island and, as far as I could tell from my vantage over the Ayung, I was indeed the only non-Balinese on the entire island.

These days, whenever I can, I always rent an apartment or a house rather than stay in a hotel. So, when planning my trip to Argentina a few months ago I was delighted when Lieber, an Argentine waiter at my favorite raw foods restaurant, told me that renting apartments was a very normal thing to do in Buenos Aires for anyone staying at least a week. Perfect! I found what looked like a reputable rental agency that specializes in dealing with foreigners and quickly found an apartment in the part of town (Recoleta) everybody was telling me was the safest and best located.

The apartment was perfect, right on Posadas, across the street from the Four Seasons Hotel-- a light, airy, well-kept one bedroom, with a living room, dining area and kitchenette, fully supplied with everything from sheets and silverware to a free phone for local calls, Wi-FI, a doorman and daily maid service. And the price? Prices vary based on location, size, all that stuff, but generally it costs for a week what you would pay for a night in a comparable hotel.

The agency I used was BytArgentina and I couldn't find anything online about them being unscrupulous or anything like that. My experience with the agents I used on Bali, BaliVillas, was superb and I just assumed-- uh oh-- that BytArgentina would be as good. They weren't-- and I mentioned what went wrong in a story I did a couple weeks ago about safety and scams in Buenos Aires.

In this case, the company (or perhaps the owner of the apartment, more likely), shrewdly not accepting credit cards, only cash, managed to separate me from $500. I had no recourse other than to suck it up. Something similar had happened to me in Tangier decades ago at the El Minzah Hotel (best in town), a $100 travelers check having been removed from the safe behind the reception desk! Left me with a bad taste in my mouth, but, after trying a couple of less grand hotels, I wound up back at the El Minzah a few times since. I know for sure I'd never rent an apartment through BytArgentina again (nor from Graciela Ujaque, the owner of the apartment). Would I rent an apartment in Buenos AIres again? 100% yes. Let me tell you why.

Aside from getting a sense of belonging to a culture that most hotel guests can never experience, there are some tangible reasons I like to get my own place. I don't eat junk food and I take breakfast seriously. Even in NYC, where I do stay in a hotel, I always get one with a kitchenette. That way I can stock up on healthy goodies (fruits, nuts, etc) and on breakfast goods (blueberries, melons, papayas, lemons...) and have a place to store them and prepare them conveniently. It is virtually always much less expensive to rent your own place than to stay in a hotel. And it's far more personal.

Not everyone agrees, of course. One of my friends found my luxurious villa (with 4 servants-- including the best cook on the island of Bali-- and a swimming pool) akin to camping out. She was eager to move to the more... sterile environment of the Ritz. (I talked about that syndrome a little when I discussed the Park Hyatt in Buenos Aires a few weeks ago.) Some people, maybe most, would prefer to be pampered and to have everything done for them, something more likely in a hotel. Me, I like going to the local markets and shopping for day to day stuff. You start to feel the rhythm of the town's life. Last time I stayed in Marrakesh, I gave up on the Mamounia and stayed in a riad instead, sort of halfway between a hotel and an apartment; well, not halfway, but we definitely had the feeling of being part of the neighborhood.

I'm finally finished unpacking and guess what I found! 3 pages of notes that I took when I decided to start this blog while I was in Tangier. Well, it's not the first post like I planned on it being, but, hopefully you'll get an idea where I'm coming from and an idea about Tangier too. The day before I started thinking about a blog, Roland and I were wandering around the Tangier medina and kasbah. It was my 10th trip to Morocco, probably my 6th or 7th to Tangier and I didn't recognize much-- a flicker or a glimmer here, a flicker there. And not because it's all changed or something; the memory ain't what it used to be (even though I take this great holistic memory stuff my friend Lou recommended, Juvenon.) Anyway, Roland has a great memory and he navigated us up hills and through passageways. "Don't you remember this (mega hill)"? he demanded.

"Uh... no. Are you sure we went this way last time?" He was-- and we had. (Eventually I recalled; it just takes longer these days.) The hill leads right up into the Place du Kasbah, the place where the kasbah begins with the police station and my friend Absalaam's  little cafe (which I've only seen open exactly one time. It was closed.) Now how the hell are we gonna find Absalaam's house? Roland was undaunted. He even remembered the awesome ancient door. We both had a memory of a small, pastel mosque Matisse had painted a block from Absalaam's. (That's it with me in the photo.)

The first time I came to Tangier it was 1969. I had heard lurid things about the city-- it had a bad reputation back then, a holdover from the International City days-- and I avoided it on the way in by entering via an Algeciras ferry to Ceuta, the bit of Spain that is still left in Morocco. Dull, sleepy place, but we headed south from there and by-passed Tangier. A month later, we did enter the city of sin on the way back to Spain. It didn't impress me but I didn't give it a chance. It wasn't for years that I grew to really like Tangier. But not remembering much is what gave me the idea for starting the blog. I told Roland and he loved the idea-- and he never thinks anything is a good idea.

Allow me a quick detour from Tangier-- as though this really were the first piece in a brand new blog (instead of the seventh in a 5 day old blog)-- and I'll give you a few details about my traveler background. I hit the road for the first time in the mid-60s when I was just a kid. I think I had just turned 15 when I hitchhiked from Brooklyn to Miami Beach to visit my grandparents for Easter-- or tried to hitchhike. I got picked up by the New Jersey Highway Patrol and they made my pissed off father come and pick me up at the police station. In Bumfuck, NJ (which was like Georgia or Virginia as far as I was concerned). I figured I was gonna get a beating but instead he or my mom gave me the busfare to go down to Miami in style the next day; maybe even the same day. I lost my virginity behind the Jacksonville Greyhound terminal. I don't remember much-- a lot of black: big black tires, big black face... and I kind of blacked out when I um... you know (this isn't a porn site, so we'll leave it at that). She was so sweet and cool and friendly and I was such a nerd. I don't know if she told me her name. If I had this blog then, I'd know now.

I only spent 2 nights in Tangier this time. The ferry was like 6 hours late but we were lucky because it hadn't crossed in 3 days because of stormy weather. It only took 90 minutes once we left Algeciras. I always used to love the gradual approach from Europe to Africa, the sights, the sounds, the smells, the feeling of excitement. I didn't really feel it this time. It was drizzly and overcast. We stayed at the place I always stay there, the only decent place, the El Minzah Hotel. Some Scottish aristocrat got it going in 1930, Lord Bute. It's actually gotten quite a bit better since the last time I was there. There's even a business center on the second floor with 2 super-fast Dells ($5/hour, which is really expensive for Morocco but I didn't know that yet). It's a 5-star hotel in a country where stars are very relative; the hotel owner is probably married to a relative of the Minister of Stars. But it is the best hotel in Tangier, which is, after all, a slowly improving but still shabby port at the Northwest tip of Africa, a place of intrigue and desperation where people from Africa (all over the world, actually) come to try to smuggle themselves into Spain and the EU, where the streets are paved in gold (relatively). Some people say it reminds them of Tijuana. I'm sure it seems to some like the whole continent of Africa would like to come in order to cross over to the good life in Europe. And it's a place where the livers of that good life can cross over and have a quick look-see how the other 90% of the world lives. Someone once told me most visitors to Morocco just come for a day and never get beyond Tangier. That's a shame.

The concierge at the El Minzah told me that almost all their guests stay for one night. There hadn't been any for 3 days because of the ferry. Tangier's not really a destination any more-- at least not for more than a night-- which must be frustrating for the people running the hotel, although they seem to be trying to make the best of it. There's still an underlying seediness about it that you won't find in a real 5-star hotel but at least I don't think they'd steal a $100 travellers check left in the safe behind the reception (the way they did about 20 years ago when I stayed there once). Now they don't even have a safe behind the reception-- and I don't bother with travelers checks anymore anyway. I feel confident enough now, after almost 4 decades of travel, to keep my cash in the pockets of my relatively tight jeans.

A couple months ago when I tried booking our room on the net, the hotel was anything but receptive. Not only did my correspondent have no interest in agreeing on a decent discount, he also said we would have to participate in an extravagant Christmas Eve dinner if we booked a room. I pointed out that Expedia.com was offering much cheaper rates and he claimed they don't honor Expedia's bookings. The El Minzah, 5 stars and all, ain't much, but the drop down to the next level hotel is a far drop indeed. I booked through Expedia-- 1,125 dirhams (like $120) for a double room, breakfast included. They honored the booking and the price.

The pleasant surprise in Tangier was the restaurant scene. It's one of the few cities where there is a Moroccan middle class accustomed to going out to eat enough to support real restaurants that don't just cater to tourists. Tourist restaurants are always horrible-- bland, over-priced, pathetic... all decor and show and never anyone striving for excellence in the kitchen. The guide books all claim that the El Korsan in the El Minzah is the best restaurant in town. It's exactly the kind of place I do my best to avoid. We managed to find two really excellent restaurants we ate in. One was somewhat touristy, but reasonable and definitely oriented towards ala carte ordering, rather than forcing you into a gigantic feast, Raihani's. A little further from the tourist area we found a fish restaurant which catered 100% to Moroccans, the Andalus. It was so delicious-- real salt of the earth kind of place, very friendly and unpretentious and ridiculously cheap. Harira for 5 dirhams, not 60 or 80, for example. Hmmm... I'm drooling just thinking about the fish tagine I had!

When I first drove down to Morocco from Spain in 1969 I had heard enough about Tangier to think I should avoid it. We took the ferry from Algeciras to Ceuta (a cheaper alternative than Algeciras-Tangier). Ceuta is technically part of Europe-- the last Spanish enclave in Morocco, just a couple hours drive northeast of Tangier. We headed for Tetouan instead, avoiding Tangier entirely. At least for a while. We drove all through Morocco, loving it-- I've been back a dozen times since-- and then decided we were old Moroccan hands enough to brave the weirdness of Tangier. I must have picked up my preconception about Tangier from meditations on Paul Bowles' most brilliant novel The Sheltering Sky-- although they were strictly my own meditations, Bowles having loved Tangier so much that he decided to live there... forever. It didn't take me long to start liking it either.

Yesterday I went to see The Bourne Ultimatum, which takes place in Moscow, London, Madrid, New York and... Tangier. I've never been to Moscow but the movie didn't evoke anything special for me geographically in the other cities-- except Tangier. The scenes-- shot on location, of course-- were beautiful, action-packed, exciting and realistic real and I recognized almost every spot they shot.

The last time I was in Tangier, December, 2005, I was already thinking about starting a blog and I took some notes and pictures and wrote it up. These days I wouldn't think about leaving Tangier out of a Moroccan itinerary. It's a sophisticated, exotic and unique city, very different from any other place in the country. The energy is powerfully kinetic-- young and vibrant and bursting at the seams. It's pretty cosmopolitan and very much it's own thing.

Here's some footage of two chase scenes shot in Tangier.