It’s the story of our street wandering everywhere in Morocco. We’re wending our way somewhere. We have a map (for what that might be worth) and so we sort of know the way. And it’s okay with us if we wander a bit while we’re going.

And from nowhere there arrives a bold, charming, friendly, and above all, insistent little boy who offers to take us where he thinks we ought to be going.

“Synagogue,” he insists. “Would you like to see the synagogue? This way! Follow me, please.”

It’s kind of like the Borg on Star Trek. Resistance is futile. “Please. Yes. Take us to the synagogue.”

And after a few attempted stops at his uncle’s rug shop and his cousin’s restaurant, the boy does just that, and we give him the customary tip.

To our surprise, we’ve come upon an old and active Jewish congregation–the Lazama Synagogue, founded by Jews from Spain who arrived in 1492, and still attended regularly by many of the three hundred or so Jews who still live in Marrakech. It’s very, very orthodox, with an outer courtyard that has separate galleries for the women. And it’s very Moroccan in style, Jewish in concept, blue and white in color. And lovely.