orty-eight hours is too little time to spend in a land brimming with mystery and inhabited by such a fine, handsome people. I came to test Triumph’s new Tiger 800. On the Tiger, traversing rolling fields of a newly germinating spring crop, I absorb the sights and sounds, hoping to record them in my mind. Any account of Morocco I give is with the knowledge that it is really more an account of myself and a reflection of my own mood and temperament at the time. I can be a witness to a place and observe its customs (albeit briefly, in this case), but I can no more impartially interpret them than I can forget my first motorcycle ride or figure out how to, say, properly throw a football (picture Woody Allen playing Jenga without his glasses and wearing mittens, and you’ll begin to sense my struggle). Indeed, trying to fit in with my wife’s athletic brothers can be humbling: “You guys have fun with the pigskin, I’ll just be inside playing My Little Pony with the five-year-old girls.” But I digress… Steinbeck says of the traveler: “Our morning eyes describe a different world than do our afternoon eyes, and surely our wearied evening eyes can only report a weary evening world.” After 36 hours of sleepless travel, getting hassled by suspicious Moroccan customs agents (in my desperation I wanted to yell, “I’m an American, dammit!”), and hours of clutching my empty, growling stomach, I’d say my eyes were exhausted, entitled, and irritable. It’s amazing, then, that I can describe Morocco as a place of wonder. My group of North American journalists arrived at a tenting compound outside of Tamazirt, 50 clicks south of Marrakesh. It was 40 degrees and the mountains were covered in snow.