As the plane lands in Marrakesh, there is only one color visible below: terra cotta.

From the sky, everything looks faded rusty red.

Passport control takes nearly two hours; the wait is unbearable.

I head to the exit, wade through the sea of drivers with signs, and find mine.

Small scooters and motorcycles congest the highway: 2 girls in hijabs riding together, men wearing unfastened old metal army helmets – or no helmets at all, guys in flip flops, a mom with one boy standing between her legs, the other sitting behind her.

The driver asks if I speak French (Morocco was a French colony in the early 1900s so French is widely spoken there).

(no).

Spanish?

(well, I mean, I guess, a little…)

He immediately starts telling me a story in Spanish.

He talks in Spanish until we arrive at the medina.

He drops me inside the wall of the medina (the old town), and hands my suitcase to another guy who walks briskly ahead of me, telling me the hotel is in this direction.

I follow him, Wafi, down a small alley.

We pass a couple of small girls playing, and they giggle and speak to him. He tells me they are asking what my name is.

We duck into a small doorway through a thick wooden door, behind which is the oasis that is my riad.

He shows me around quickly, including the rooftop terrace, where he chats over the wall to the neighbor: the buildings are that close together. It’s hard to see where one ends and the other begins.

The pets of the house are two small turtles.

Wafi sets a place for me at the table downstairs, while he prepares lunch.

Even though alcohol is not consumed in public, it can be served in private residences or some restaurants, and luckily he has Moroccan wine.

He brings me a plate of baba ganoush, carrots, cucumbers, chicken kebabs with a sprinkling of saffron, and a basket of grainy bread.

It is heaven.

As I get up to leave, he is walking toward me with a tray of cinnamon-sprinkled orange slices, and tells me it would be rude not to eat dessert.

Feeling stuffed, yet satisfied, I head out into the medina to check out the souks.

It is chaotic and overwhelming.

Colors.

Fabrics.

People yelling.

All new and foreign to me.

Men entering prayer rooms.

Men selling everything.

Literally everything.

Motorcycles zip by (even in the medina, which is a maze of alleys and pedestrians) leaving the choking smell of gasoline in their wake.

I find my way to Jemaa el Fnaa Square. Everyone says it’s a must-see.

I hate it!

Snake charmers, monkeys on leashes, palm readers.

Before I left, I was told: “Be careful. They sell blondes for camels.”

That night, I sleep so deeply; it’s so dark and quiet.

I dream of snakes and turtles crawling and slithering around me.

I was in Marrakesh for a week, and because it was sensory overload, the way I want to describe it is through the senses:

Smells

• The oriental scented oil burned constantly in the riad
• Incense, oud, myrrh floated in the air
• The smell of fuel from all the scooters
• The area of the medina is where the leather is laid out to dry; there, the smell of flesh baking is overwhelming.
• Hot tajines
• Freshly baked bread
• Roasted nuts

Sounds

• The sound of silence at night
• As a sharp contrast, the piercing jolt of prayer calls. Salab, worship, is one of the five Islamic pillars, and the men are called to pray 5 times a day: dawn, midday, afternoon, sunset, before midnight. The call to prayer begins as a low growl & horns, similar to a fire station starting its alarm. Then you realize the growl is actually a man calling “Allahu Akbar”. This comes from every mosque, so it permeates the town. As Westerners, we so frequently hear “Allahu Akbar” used in a terrorist sense, and it was quite beautiful to hear it in its original use, as a prayer.
• “Hey lady, take a look in my shop”
• The incessant buzz of motorcycles. I cannot state enough how many there are.
• Beautiful, exotic Arabian music
• Birds chirping in the riad
• The beautiful mix of languages: French, Arabic, Berber.

Sights

• Spice mounds of bright colors: bold cobalt blue, deep red, vibrant yellow, and the Jardin Majorelle that brings all these colors to life
• The terra cotta city truly is that color
• Rugs and blankets in infinite patters and colors
• Metal lanterns, mirrors, teapots
• Ornate dishes and pottery
• Men pushing carts of pomegranates
• Bread everywhere: in carts and on the ground
• Tourists sweating under too many clothes, carrying too big cameras
• Fully covered Muslim women – where only the whites of their eyes were visible
• Cafes full of men sitting and relaxing midday
• So. Much. Stuff.
• A mix of old and new, young and old – I could really feel that this is a city grappling with its identity. To stay traditional and “simple”, or to embrace the modern world.
• Traffic: it was one big free-for all. When I ventured out of the old town, I quickly adopted the strategy of only crossing the street next to someone else.
• Hammams and spas were ubiquitous, catering not only to tourists, but to locals too. They take their spa time seriously.

Tastes

• Khobz – round bread topped with cornmeal, served plain or with dips
• Salads: nutty, garlic, yogurt, dates and peanuts, cauliflower, couscous, oranges
• Harissa and yogurt and hummus and falafel and avocado
• Oranges and cinnamon
• Carrots and herbs
• Dates, prunes, apricots, carrots cooked in tagine
• Patisserie left for me in room every day (and eaten by me every day)
• Spiced coffee
• Iced mint tea (unfortunately, and stupidly, I had the ice…)
• Crepes with honey
• Olives, hot nuts
• Layered Berber flatbread

Touch

• Moving through yoga asana
• Crisp linens in bed
• Cool shower after a hot day
• Cool mint tea
• Shaking hands after a seemingly well-negotiated purchase

 

I met many people while I was there – both tourists and locals.

One of my favorite memories is haggling with a shop owner over the price of a blanket in the morning, and returning in the afternoon to purchase it, only to sit and talk to him for about an hour about life.

While we talked, I believed he was a genuinely good person, but in the back of my head I knew that it was still a business transaction and I was sure the final price we agreed on was still too high.

The entire trip, I felt completely welcome, mixed with never knowing if I was being scammed every single time money was involved.

I witnessed heated interactions that ended in handshakes and laughter.

Security tracked me down to make me delete my picture of the royal palace, followed by small talk about where I was from.

And this dichotomy is Marrakesh.

After spending a week there, it became obvious why so many celebrities and artists from around the world visited again and again, some making it home.

I found it to be safe and tourist-friendly. When two Scandinavian tourists were murdered in the Atlas mountains last month, my heart sank; I hope it was an isolated incident.

Marrakesh is a beautiful city full of beautiful people, and if you’ve been considering it, it is definitely worth experiencing.

I have a feeling I’ll be back…