I have been in Morocco for a week. I am part of a group of 29 people, almost all of whom are Catholic and members of St. Boniface, a church in downtown Brooklyn. I am with my partner Mary, who is a member of the parish. The group is led by Father Dennis, a retired priest whom I adore.

First stop, Rabat, a beautiful city whose major streets are lined with carefully trimmed topiary. We had our first Moroccan meal and saw the sights. Lots of walking as we visited mosques, museums, and a grand mausoleum.

Second stop, Fez, which was notable for its Medina, an underground labyrinth of tiny shops selling almost everything: food, spices, clothing, leather goods, rugs. There were booths with dates and figs, with multiple varieties of olives, with freshly baked pastries. There were butcher shops, fishmongers, vegetables, and souvenirs.

It was an overwhelming experience, topped by stopping at a restaurant in the souk that was beautiful, serene, and served traditional Moroccan food. Another night we had dinner at one of the most astonishingly beautiful restaurants I had ever seen, with an interior courtyard that was four stories high; its walls and floors were covered with gorgeous tiles.

Third stop, Marrakech. We began with a visit to its mosque, which is fairly new, built in the late 20th century. It is the third largest mosque in the world. The mosaics and tiles were spectacular. We had a knowledgeable guide, who taught us about Islam and some of its rituals.

We had dinner in a restaurant that featured traditional Moroccan music. As we entered, we were greeted by eight men in long white robes beating their drums in ear-splitting unison. Then, dinner: traditional Moroccan food, chicken pastille and couscous. All though dinner, two musicians played Moroccan music. One played an oud, which is somewhat like a lute. The other played a drum.

With the arrival of dessert, a dancer appeared, carrying a large silver tray of lit candles and tea pots on her head. As she sought out volunteers, I managed to avoid her gaze, and Mary–ever venturesome–volunteered. The two of them danced for about five minutes, and at one point the dancer put her tray of lit candles on Mary’s head. I thought I was taping the whole thing on my cell phone but I pressed the wrong button and was mortified to discover I filmed none of it. One of the other members of the group did capture a minute or so, when the dancer put the tray on Mary’s head. But I felt badly that I had made such a dumb error. (In the video, I am sitting on the left, holding up my cell phone and imagining that I was taping the event).

Today being Sunday, the group wanted to celebrate Mass. The hotel would not give them a conference room for a “religious ceremony,” so we all crowded into Father Dennis’ room, where he said the Mass, and everyone participated. He gave me a special blessing. It felt like a covert gathering. It was certainly a moving experience.

I won’t add any more other than one anecdote. Tonight, after sharing a pizza at the hotel (skipping the traditional Moroccan meal), Mary and I walked through a small lounge where a large-screen TV was playing a film we had seen many years ago: “The Mad Adventures of Rabbi Jacob.” There was no sound and no captions, but we watched until it ended, laughing uproariously. It’s one of the funniest, most outrageous films I have ever seen, as two men–one, a wealthy bigoted Frenchman and other, an Arab revolutionary– evade their pursuers by pretending to be orthodox rabbis. Behind the film is an implicit message about tolerance. We couldn’t get over the fact that we were watching this particular film in Morocco.

No more to report. It’s a lovely country and we have enjoyed our too-brief visit.