In the autumn of 1917, Edith Wharton traveled through Morocco at the invitation of the French General Resident. Just before the onset of the rainy season, we see the successful novelist and travel writer hurriedly crossing the country, almost as if in fast motion, from the Mediterranean to the High Atlas, from the Atlantic to Fez. There were hardly any roads, no hotels. As she walked through the blooming gardens of her wealthy hosts, who served her glasses of steaming mint tea and plates of gazelle horns and white sugar cakes in their palaces, every minute felt like a fairy tale. But she also looked into the heart of darkness, witnessing archaic religious rituals, seeing proud falconers and patriarchs, as well as the veiled harem women in their confinement. She experienced a Morocco that had not yet opened up to tourists, for which there wasn't even a travel guide.