This isn't a hotel experience.
When you are first brought through the winding streets by the taxi driver sent to pick you up, and you find those streets growing ever narrower, twisting into themselves past shopkeepers yelling and women sweeping doorways and motorists squeezing by and children running through your legs and stray cats eating scraps, you might for a moment wonder if the place you've booked even exists, and whether you haven't just offered yourself up as the easiest tourist-rube there ever was.
Then, five minutes later, you are sitting in a gorgeously decorated living room illuminated by a third-story skylight, having tea with and being introduced to Madame Maggie, as the locals call her (and everyone here knows Madame Maggie). She's telling you her story and the story of the city of Tangier, and that of the 89 year-old man who may or may not be by later to fix up the roof ("He always says 'Some people have watches, Moroccans have time,'" she explains) and of the old woman who will be there to cook you breakfast in the morning, who won't understand a word you speak and who you won't understand at all, and yet you will manage to communicate perfectly and you will come to love for her kindness and her incredible laugh. And that night you will climb the stairs to your room on the roof and you will only leave a curtain separating you from the rooftops of the city, because a door wouldn't let in the fresh salt air and the light of the Moroccan stars.
I could tell you about how conveniently located the house is, how well our host communicated with us, and how problem-free it all was. It certainly was all that. But that doesn't paint an accurate picture of what staying here is like. It isn't a hotel experience.
Bear with me for a moment: before I was born, my parents visited Portugal for several months and rented a small home from an old man named Señor Suarez. He was supposedly incredibly kind and welcoming to them, and made them feel at home in a country completely foreign to them. I've never met him (though I'm told he's still alive, now a very, very old man) but I feel as though I know him, so much has he been featured throughout my life as an inextricable part of what Portugal means to my mother and father.
One day, your children will ask you if you've ever been to Morocco, and what you describe to them won't be a postcard view or a guidebook writeup. You'll tell them about Madame Maggie, how she took you into her home, and how she took you into her city.