Amalay Hotel Marrakech
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TripAdvisor Reviews Amalay Hotel Marrakech
Travel Blogs from Marrakech
... buried there. The tombs were closed up and hidden for many years and discovered during a French aerial survey in 1917. The covered tombs are undergoing extensive renovation work and so we could only get a limited view of the most lavish section of the mausoleum. Our final monument for the day was the Musée Tiskiwin, an eclectic museum that houses the personal collection of Bert Flint, a Dutch anthropologist. The collection is ...
... tied to Morocco and Spain gets us. The difference, data roaming in Morocco is £15.99 per MB, in Spain 19pence. We wave goodbye to Morocco, having watched the pilot transfer from ferry to launch. As majestic mountains roll by the cabin window, and the rip tide (or where the Med and the Atlantic meet) jags the surface and the sea fog tries to obscure the vapour trails, all is good with the world. PJ has the Satnav out and is programming the route to the Hotel ...
... into a tirade of what I assumed were Arabic curses directed towards me.
I pointed my finger at my chest and shouted, ‘You want to fight? I’m standing here.’
We went back and forth with all the typical macho BS that I hate, and yet there I was doing it. A circle of people formed around us expecting a fight. Finally, someone took his arm and started moving him away. He made a few last screaming Arabic insults and then the show was ...
... has a tout, each acting like your friend, putting their arms around your shoulders, trying to beckon you in... But the best way to know where to eat is to follow the locals. Wandering over to stall No. 31 felt right - their tout, an old man, was friendly but not pushy, and seeing how packed it was (and with Moroccans, not foreigners) compared to the other stalls pretty much made the decision for us. I had a wonderful ...
... our friendship was instantly propelled to new heights. The time it took for me to get my key, ditch my bag and walk up to the terrace, we went from all that innocent new befriending to shouting and accusations with our arms splashing out a sort of interpretive dance across the Moroccan sky. I'd have submitted the whole thing for a bafta if I wasn't so busy thrashing out my indignation.
We had left the argument on a strict pause and ...