They exchanged some rapid Arabic among themselves, and finally said that they must invite me. I hadn't realized that women in Morocco, even in their 30s, don't just pick up and go out to dinner unaccompanied by men, and that for a Westerner to ask Moroccans to dinner in their hometown is like inviting herself to their house for a meal. I tried again, explaining that I was a journalist and that in America the custom is for the magazines to always pay to take people out to dinner in other countries. This, of course, wasn't true, but I was doing my best not to impose on them. Another conversation ensued, apparently with some disagreement.
Arab hospitality makes no exceptions for expense accounts.
In the morning, I arrived in Casablanca and made my way to the hotel where I had a reservation. The manager seemed surprised to see me. I hung around the lobby long enough to realize I'd been booked into a bordello. Businessmen kept arriving with heavily made-up women, and no one had any bags. Interesting as this scene was, I didn't like the way I was being eyed.