orocco doesn't seem to have an ozone layer," says my wife.

"Mmm," I mumble, but with a feigned interest, as if I had actually heard what she had said. I may be getting a little ditzy from too much sun. I got a touch of sunstroke several years ago on the Masada plateau; perhaps it is some kind of delayed relapse.

"And what in heaven's name brought you here as part of a vacation?" asks a voice behind me.

I turn to answer the question. I am only slightly surprised to recognize the voice's owner...a remarkable feat of self control on my part, under the circumstances.

"My health," I answer, "I came to Morocco for the waters."

"Waters?" he asks, "What waters? We're in the desert."

"I was misinformed." I say.

Bogart tilts his head slightly and frowns...something about this exchange is familiar.

"It was mostly EPCOT," I tell him. "My wife and I visited there a couple of years ago. We were intrigued by the unique architectural style and sense of antiquity conveyed by the Moroccan exhibit."

"Antiquity," nods Bogart, smiling slightly. "EPCOT is only a few years old. That's just Hollywood fantasy. You didn't really expect a Disneyland version of Morocco look and feel like the real item? Morocco is a true blue, third world North African country. You think a few million comfort-minded Americans visiting Florida actually want to see the REAL thing? An honest-to-God Moroccan street scene smack-dab in the middle of those quaint little air conditioned restaurants and gift shops? Why, a dozen authentic odors alone would bankrupt Disney, inside a year."

"I rather thought the European countries at EPCOT were pretty realistic," I answer. Casablanca didn't paint all that depressing a picture of Morocco."

He pretends not to know I mean the movie; "Casablanca, Marrakesh, Tangier... no big difference, they all can tend to get old after a while; no pun intended."

A group of tourists exiting from their hotel across the street draws the boys' attention and they're off like a flash, descending upon their new victims. "I get that everyday," mourns Bogart. (Bogart resides permanently in my recollection in Morocco, except for brief excursions to float down some African river with Katherine Hepburn.)

"So how about a visit to Rick's Café Americain? You can probably get us a good table, huh?" I ask.

"Be real," Bogie replies. "There's not really a Rick's American Café, those scenes were just filmed in a movie studio. Besides, that was in Casablanca, this is Marrakesh."

"Speaking of Casablanca, it didn't look at all like any of the scenes from the movie. It was all modern, except the Medina."

"That's because none of the movie was filmed in Casablanca," Bogart notes.

"None?" I am stunned.

"Not a single frame," he says. "Some of the background scenes were shot in Fes, in the old Medina, but most of it was filmed in Hollywood, on movie sets. Casablanca is Morocco's principal industrial city and a major North African shipping port. There's more money there. The French built up Casablanca a lot during the brief period when Morocco was a French colony."

"Well, that explains why I liked Fes so much, then. All the narrow little corridors and byways filled with people in robes, donkeys, intricate carvings, ornate archways and cornices...it all was more reminiscent of the movie 'Casablanca'. There was more of the EPCOT style architecture, and Indiana Jones movie surroundings."

"Well then, you have the Almoravides and Alemohades dynasties to thank for that," says Bogart, "It is the oldest of any the cities you've visited here, dating back to the Idrissids."

"Idrissids?" I ask, "You mean those little bitty green insects that suck plant sap?"

Bogart stares at me coolly. "I think you mean aphids," he says. "Now, why would I be talking about insects in an article about Morocco?"

"Uh...because they kill all of the plants, and that's why the landscape looks so barren?" I venture.

"Never go on Jeopardy," Bogart disdainfully advises me. "The Idrissids were followers of Idriss ibu Abdullah, a descendant of Fatima, Mohammed's daughter."

"Never heard of this Idriss guy," I say. "Who was president of the United States then?"

"Hiawatha," says Bogart. "Idriss founded the city of Fes in 789 A.D. That's over seven hundred years before Columbus discovered America."

"The Medina has some parts that still look that old," I acknowledge.

"So, you would pick Fes to live in, if you had to live in Morocco?"

"Gosh no!" I exclaim. "If I were forced to live here - and mind you - I might have to be forced, I'd pick either Tangier or Casablanca. Both of them seem much more cosmopolitan. Fes does seem to be one of the better places to visit, though."

"Understood," nods Bogie. "Keep an eye on your wallet, kid. I was pick-pocketed in the old square the other day."

"Probably those baggy pockets," I remark, showing him one of mine, "I sewed Velcro and a zipper into these."

"Amazing," he says. I can't tell if Bogart is really impressed, or if he is just patronizing me.

"And you don't find the local Moroccans to be as friendly?" he asks.

"Well," I confess, "hardly anyone seems to speak to us or smile, unless they are wanting us to hire them as our guide to the next corner."

Bogart chuckles. "You're just experiencing culture shock," he says. "You probably think this is a horrible little country. Americans tend to like to go on nice comfortable vacations where everything is just like home, everything is air-conditioned and the showers work fine, and "native" people smile benignly, and bring ice cold drinks on trays. This, on the other hand, is reality."

"Such an astute observation, coming from a heat-induced hallucination," I reply.

"I prefer to think of myself as a mirage," he answers, somewhat offended.

"You seem awfully preoccupied," my wife says. "You looked like you were mumbling to yourself again."

"Just daydreamin'," I reply.

"Culture shock," pronounces Bogart authoritatively.

"Now, wait a second," I object. "I don't think I am that naive! I have been all over the world..." I recite a dozen examples of things I have experienced in such places as Russia, Egypt, Turkey, Kenya, the Amazon and New York City.

Somewhere in the background, a bunch of cowboy-sounding dudes exclaim: "NEW YORK CITY?"

"Yet on the other hand, you based your decision to visit North Africa on the premise that it would resemble a tourist attraction in southern Florida," notes Bogart wryly. "Maybe you should have read Paul Bowles' The Sheltering Sky, or seen that movie, instead of Casablanca.

"I did, after this trip is over!" I retort. ( That's the very nice thing about being the author; I can combine timeframes, metaphors, dead movie stars and dialog from the movie into whatever weird logic that suits me).

"Besides," I continue, "I had a fairly good guess before coming here, of what Morocco would look like, smell like and sound like. My preconceptions were not altogether unfavorable, given that I like an adventure to contain elements of authenticity and distinction," I counter. "I may, however, have pre-judged Moroccans themselves as being friendlier than they actually are, based on those we met at EPCOT versus here."

"Wrong book. Try one that has the word 'Crusades' in the title," advises Bogart. "So basically, if you decide you don't like Morocco, it will be because the Moroccans don't seem to like you?"

"But you didn't stay there," notes Bogart.

"No," I concede, while at the same time wondering how it is that Bogart can understand the parts that I am writing in italics...

"Look out!" warns Bogart.

"You're going to have to bargain," Bogart says, "Offer less than half the asking price."

"What you look for?" he asks. "Nice Moroccan carpet? You come, I know very nice shop...No? Okay, I take you to very good store for leather...you buy wife very nice purse, belt?" He lowers his voice, conspiratorially. "Hashish?" he asks.

"No!" I exclaim. "I just want to be left alone!"

He says something in Arabic. I can't understand the words, but the expression on his face translates very clearly. He switches to English. "You look like Russians!" he shouts after us, spitefully.

"Ooh!" says Bogart. "I'll bet that one really stung!"

"He does seem to need a little more practice," I admit.

"Special price for friend of Rick?" I try at one stall.

The shopkeeper gives me a puzzled expression. "You will not find a treasure like this in all Morocco, Monsieur," he tells me, "only 800 dirhans."

"That rustic looking jacket with the tapestry woven on the elbows was unique," Bogart says.

"Maybe I should go up a bit more on my offer," I contemplate. I decide quickly to go back for the jacket. I return to the shop and spend about ten more minutes to close the deal. I wind up paying about five dollars more than the agreed upon price, because I use dollars, and the shop-owner uses creative mathematics for determining the conversion to dirhans.

"How much did you pay?", asks Bogie.

"Four hundred eighty," I tell him.

"Dollars?"

"No, of course not. Dirhans," I say, "About 60 dollars."

Bogart takes the bag from me and sniffs the jacket. He wrinkles his nose and wags his head. "Don't get caught in the rain in that, kid," he says, "You'll wind up smelling like a horse."

"You were the one telling me it was unique," I say.

"Camel dung is also unique," Bogart replies.

"Say," says Bogart, as we start back to the bus, "that wife of yours is pretty good-looking. You could probably get a good price if you were wanting to sell her."

"Yes, but Abdul gets a commission on all the purchases at the shops he arranges for you to visit," explains Bogart, "Kickback is the name of the game here. Didn't you actually watch the movie Casablanca?"

I consider Bogart's earlier remark about selling my wife. "Do you think I could get enough for one of those Moroccan rugs like we saw in Fes?" I ask. The women of Fes weave some truly beautiful and high quality Persian-style carpets. They are not cheap by any means, but they can be bought for a bit more than half than a Persian carpet would cost at home.

"Could be," Bogart says. "You want me to ask around?"

"Nah," I said. "She knows Tae Kwon Do. She'd probably get loose and come after me. Things like that couldn't really happen here, could they? I mean, this is the twentieth century."

"You still might find a few takers," Bogart tells me, "but by and large, you both are probably safer here than you would be in Manhattan, or London, or Los Angeles. Most tourists who run into serious problems are out by themselves after dark. Rape is starting to become a problem in the larger cities. The worst you are likely to encounter is someone asking you if they can take liberties with your wife. American women are believed to be incredibly promiscuous, and to sleep around a lot. The old TV shows like Dallas and Dynasty that Moroccan guestworkers see on TV in Germany help promote that kind of image. Be careful after dark, though. A minor incident could turn ugly pretty fast."

"Huh?" asks my wife. "Did you say something?"

"I don't think so," I say. "I was just thinking about how well your Tae Kwon Do has been coming along." I glance around me. The German lady across the bus isle is watching me intently.

"You should wear a hat," she says. "The sun. It is much hotter here."

"Uhmm," I reply. I say witty things like that, sometimes.

"I don't trust these Germans," Bogart says uneasily. "They give me the creeps."

"Stick to the subject," I tell him, "This article is about Morocco, not the Germans."

"Casablanca is in Morocco," Bogie replies, "and there was a lot about the Germans in the movie Casablanca. I should know. Besides your readers might be interested in knowing that there are a lot of German tourists here. They buy everything."

"There are more than twice as many Spanish tourists as Germans," I tell him.

"Who cares?" asks Bogart. "This article is about Morocco, and there weren't any Spaniards in the movie."

"Visitors to Morocco might care," I say. "The Spanish tourists were very friendly, and that has made the tour here nicer, since we're the only Americans."

"There used to be Americans," Bogart tells me, "...several bus loads, but since the problems with Libya there are hardly any."

"Libya looks ominously close on the map," I agree, "but then, this is Africa and things here aren't nearly as close as they appear to be on a map."

The public address system crackled, and Abdul starts talking: "Klshdgfia numsufd bejuynbbv KOUTUBIA TOWER llasnmdf sev..."

"What language is that?!" I ask.

"English," replies Bogart, "He's holding the microphone too close to his mouth and his accent is a little thick. You won't be able to understand three-fourths of what he says the whole rest of the trip. Good thing you have a guidebook."

"This is a five-star hotel?" I wonder in amazement. "The Mamounia Hotel is a five-star, the Royal Mansour and the Safir hotels in Casablanca are five-stars, but certainly this must be the four-star choice, since it looks like a two-star."

"Nope," says Bogie, "This is the five-star selection, kid. Just like the other hotels in Fes and Rabat. Maybe they got their five-stars during the Middle Ages, and haven't ever been re-rated. They're not that bad, they're just not what you're accustomed to. You stayed at the Marriott World Center, when you visited EPCOT."

"You really have to judge the value of this trip on the sights left over from prior centuries, don't you?" I ask. "For example, the beautiful old painted ceilings and wall and cornice carvings, the mosaic work, the Fes Medina, the mosque and the old city walls and gates at Meknes. I guess that's what we came to see in Morocco."

"Whine, whine, whine," says Bogart. "You sound like an American tourist. Remember too, kid, that a lot of the other things you have been seeing that have been interesting are as much a current way of life in Morocco as they were hundreds, or thousands of years ago: ...the Berber tribespeople in the mountains and plains plowing their fields behind a horse or pair of oxen, the veiled women, the market places in the Medinas, the snake charmers hustling a few dollars from curious sightseers, the heavily-laden donkeys plodding down the narrow cobblestone alleys shoulder to shoulder with merchants, housewives and tourists...that kind of thing. And if you want just one example of something the modern Morocco has to offer, look to Hassan II's royal palace, or even better, the Mausoleum of King Mohammed V in Rabat. That's as impressive a manmade attraction as any in Europe or the U.S."

"Now, wait a minute here," I say, "when we started this article, it sounded as if you weren't all too keen on Morocco...trapped these past fifty years in the Casablanca movie and all that. Now you seem to be singing a whole new tune. It sounds to me like you haven't made up your mind whether to put Morocco down or to play it up."

"This is your article," Bogie says. "I'm just saying whatever words you put in my mouth. Sounds to me like your problem, not mine."

"I could have told you to skip the hotel folkloriques," says Bogart. "You can pay a lot less for a much more authentic setting, and see just as much or more in the old square, here in Marrakesh."

"Some people might not like rubbing that many shoulders, especially since we were hassled in the old square more than anywhere else in Morocco."

"To each, his own," shrugs Bogart. "I guess those people maybe should just go to EPCOT."

"The show we went to at the oasis just on the outskirts of Marrakesh was a pretty good compromise," I countered. "We got to sample several authentic Moroccan dishes, and the setting was fun: large tents with roving group of musicians and regional dancers." (That show was extremely touristy. They play a lot of "Lawrence of Arabia" type music over a sound system all night, offer camel rides, etc., but everyone there seemed to enjoy it a lot, nonetheless. If you take a snooty view of places overrun by tourists, stay away from this show; there are hundreds, and the mood is strictly Hollywood. I think most Americans would like it as much as I did.)

"Gee, that's something you can't say about just about anywhere in the entire universe, now is it?" volunteers Bogart.

"In Morocco, you'd be best off to watch your temper and resign yourself to the fact that it is all part of a different culture," says Bogart. "The U.S. State Department is virtually impotent to extricate U.S. citizens who are caught up in any sort of entanglements in Morocco. And I'm fresh out of transit papers...gave the last ones to Laszlo and Ilsa."

"Also," offers Bogart, "there is an old trick that some young boys and other unofficial guides use...they will lead you deep into the center of the Medina and then as it begins to get dark, threaten to abandon you unless you pay an additional ransom. It probably isn't a really good place for an American to be wandering around after dark and without a clue as to which is a safe street or corridor and which is not."

"Maybe you would have fewer such problems if you were to arrive at the sights less conspicuously than by Touri$t Bu$," offers Bogart.

"I'm not so sure," I say. "Even the darker Spaniards, who look outwardly more like the native Moroccans have been having the same problems when they go out walking. One of them told me that he thought Morocco was someplace to visit, but only once."

"Are you sure then, that this article is a fair representation of Morocco?" asks Bogart.

"Yes, because..."

"You dolt!" he exclaims. "Of course it isn't!"

"I would like to point out that the word 'dolt' is not at all in character with the terminology that Humphrey Bogart would actually use," I accuse.

Suddenly, Claude Rains materializes next to Bogart. He is wearing a French Gendarme's uniform. "You dolt!" he exclaims, He slaps me with a glove and disappears.

"Somebody needed to say it!" says Bogart, regarding me sternly. "It is impossible to gain a fair representation of a country, of its people and its culture during a simple ten-day bus tour!

"Sorry," I apologize.

"Are you done?" asks Bogart. "Eighty percent of the population of Morocco is age eighteen or under," he says, "and seventy percent cannot read or write. Can you imagine your reaction to a U.S. city similarly populated? So far at least, there is nothing that even resembles gang violence in Morocco, although the home and cultural environment ought to lend itself more to that kind of thing more than say, Los Angeles? I mean, no available work, no available education, no available welfare."

"Tangier hasn't exactly had an exemplary reputation, even compared to Los Angeles," I answer, "...but I get your point."

"There's never any Moroccan dames in any public cafe like this," explains Bogart. "It wouldn't be considered proper. Sort of like the all men's clubs in Great Britain, only it's a socio-political-religious thing, here."

"I hope my jokes didn't offend anyone," says Bogart as we were leaving, "I'll admit, that one about the camels and the veils may have been in poor taste."

"That was not a nice thing to say. The veils are a part of their culture and represent modesty and tradition," I reply; "A so-called joke like that might seem innocently funny to a few people, but not to someone who wants to promote cultural tolerance and mutual understanding. When traditions go back centuries, those who practice the traditions revere them and take an extremely dim view of open disrespect for them... especially when it is their home and you are a not altogether welcome guest. Besides, we saw a few of the younger Moroccan women in western style garments and they looked very normal. Thanks to your commentary, it is probably best that I never show my face in Morocco again."

"Well, that is certainly a shame," Bogart replies. "Maybe you could wear a veil."

"Sorry," says Bogart, "It was supposed to be an innocent joke, not a racial or chauvinistic slur."

"Can I get on with the story, now?" I entreat.

"Has it got a wow finish?" asks Bogart.

"I don't know the finish yet," I tell him.

"Well, go on, tell it, maybe one will come to you as you go along." he answers.

"Like that confrontation you saw in the Medina in Fes," says Bogart.

"The confrontation was not about whether the child should have been slapped but rather about the woman having berated the man for having done so," notes Bogart.

"Oh, beautiful, forspacious skies..." sings Bogart.

"Forspacious?" I ask.

Aboard the ferry from Ceuta to Algeciras, Spain, our Spanish guide, Paco, sidled up to where my wife and I stood. "So, what did you think of your trip to Morocco?" he asked.

"It's a long story," I reply.

"Well," I say to Bogart, "I guess this is farewell. The Morocco trip is history now, and you were just along because of your part in Casablanca."

"I hate farewell scenes," replies Bogart.

"Nice tune, kid," remarks Bogart. "Especially since you don't play the piano."

"From the movie," I answer.

"It depresses me." says Bogart. "Anyway, you'd better get going. If that plane leaves the ground and you're not on it, you'll regret it. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon, and for the rest of your life..."

"Tell me about it." I say, "Huh?, wait a minute! What plane? I've got a Eurail pass. I'm catching the night train out of Malaga to Madrid."

"Never mind," he says, "Here's looking at you, kid."