We stayed in North Africa — but shifted west — flying from Egypt into Casablanca, perched on the Atlantic edge of Morocco. Morocco has so many different landscapes in a relatively small country.
And did you know that the djellaba is almost a required part of Moroccan’s wardrobe. I finally asked a tour guide why they are so omni-present because face it – they have the shape of a burlap bag and they are topped off with a pointy hood – anti-stylish. Well, as one would suspect, the main answer is that they are very functional, warm and they are handmade by Djellaba craftsman for each individual – the fabric and designs are chosen by the wearer. When in Morocco, do as the natives do…
Casablanca: Then and Now
The last time I was here was 25 years ago, in a very different season of life. My mom had just died of cancer at 63 — younger than I am now. She and Dad had booked a Mediterranean cruise together. When her health suddenly declined, she died quickly. Dad asked me to take her place. I left behind work, two young children, and everything that felt urgent — because none of it was.
That cruise became sacred time. We mourned. We played daily jumbles (and won the cruise-wide contest every single day — obviously). We dressed for formal dinners, watched old movies, listened to live oldies bands in the ship’s lounge, and became unexpectedly competitive at shuffleboard. Grief and gratitude blended together.
One of our stops was Casablanca.
As soon as we stepped onto the dock, a Moroccan man sprinted toward us yelling, “Ken!” and wrapped my dad in a huge bear hug. His name was Muhammed. He had guided my parents three years earlier and remembered Dad instantly. It felt like a small miracle — this joyful collision in the middle of loss. Muhammed gave us a grand tour that afternoon, and that memory has never left me.
Thank you for indulging the flashback and now back to the present.
Mike and I landed in Casablanca after midnight. On the flight we’d checked for local races in cities we were visiting. The only one that aligned? The morning we arrived.
Bed at 2:00 a.m. Alarm at 6:30 a.m. Why are we like this?
We reached the start line as volunteers were still setting up barricades. The race officials asked where we were from and, upon hearing “United States,” immediately insisted: “No fee. You are our guests. Here is your shirt.” Free race registration. Free shirt. Huge smiles.
Soon hundreds of runners gathered — stretching, laughing, blasting music. Mike ran the 10K; I ran the 5K. I normally dread paved city races, but this one felt electric. The crowd energy carried me the entire way. Afterward the music swelled, and somehow I ended up in an impromptu dance circle with Moroccan runners.
We also visited the magnificent Hassan II Mosque, rising directly from the Atlantic like something imagined rather than built. And yes — we went to Rick’s Cafe not once but twice. The staff fully commit to the Casablanca nostalgia. You half expect Sam to start playing the piano.
Rabat: Scrubbed Within an Inch of My Life
From Casablanca we took the train to Rabat, Morocco’s political capital, where the river meets the sea.
We explored the haunting ruins of Chellah, once Roman, later Islamic Marinid, layered with centuries of wind and storks. We stood before the serene Mausoleum of Mohammed V, guarded by mounted horsemen so still they look sculpted.
And then — the hammam.
Described as a cross between a “sauna and a Turkish bath.” I imagined something spa-like.
Instead: a tiled room, a thin mat, buckets of increasingly hot water, and a woman wielding a scrub mitt with Olympic-level intensity. No shared language. No negotiation. Just scrubbing.
At one point I heard actual squeaking as she exfoliated me into the next dimension. My mother always told me to get squeaky clean. Careful what you wish for.
Mike’s experience was worse. No mat. Cold drips from the ceiling. Abandoned for 30 minutes marinating in herbal paste. He later titled his version: “Hey Man, Don’t Go to the Hammam.”
Marrakech: Beauty and Uneasy Moments
In Marrakech, we stayed just outside the medina in one of the few Airbnbs in Africa we genuinely liked. The old city is mesmerizing — intricate tilework, carved doors, alleyways that twist and fold into themselves.
The vendors were surprisingly low-pressure, which made wandering pleasant. I avoided the snake charmers after reading how the snakes are often mutilated. And the monkeys on leashes? Heartbreaking.
Still, the architecture dazzles. Light filters through latticework. Courtyards bloom unexpectedly behind heavy wooden doors. Marrakech overwhelms the senses in the best and worst ways simultaneously.
High Atlas: Mountains, Villages, and a Sudden Illness
We left Marakkech for a 4-day trek in the High Atlas Mountains.
Snow-capped ridgelines. Terraced hillsides. Villages clinging to slopes. Rivers slicing through valleys in a region that rarely sees rain — though last year brought more, and everyone we met mentioned it with relief.
The hiking was easy for us — especially after Mt. Kenya — but the reward was the immersion: village life, thin mountain air, conversations over mint tea.
Then Mike got sick. Coughing, congestion, wheezing. He blames the hammam.
By Day 3 he stayed behind at the riad while I continued up toward Mt. Toubkal, the highest peak in North Africa. I walked briefly on snow, turned around, and carried the lovely photos back to him.
Evenings brought cards with two young Belgians from Ghent and long dinner conversations with a couple from Boston. Travel compresses strangers into a temporary community.
Sahara: Camels, Carpets, and a Sandstorm
From mountains to desert in one sweeping transition.
We drove through dramatic gorges — including Todra Gorge — lush with irrigation and popular with rock climbers. Naturally, our tour included a carpet stop. Twenty rugs unfurled in rapid succession: camel hair, goat hair, silk, Berber symbols. Guaranteed for 100 years. Just bring it back to the village woman who made it. Sure. No problem.
Then came the Sahara.
We mounted camels for the 2.5-mile ride to camp. Their gait is a rolling lurch — both legs on one side moving together — surprisingly soothing once you surrender to it.
They make noises that sound like they’re preparing to launch the world’s largest loogie. And the smells? Let’s just say authenticity includes sensory immersion.
Mike played the theme from Lawrence of Arabia as we crested dunes. Completely perfect.
Our campmates formed a mini-United Nations: Canadian, Slovenian, Slovakian, Belgian, Italian, Swiss, German, Chinese — and us. We swapped geography lessons and travel stories beneath a sky thick with stars. I now understand how Eastern Europe was chopped up with the dissolution of Czechoslovakia and Yugoslavia. And it wasn’t too surprising to hear that Melania is not liked in Slovenia, where she is from.
Overnight, a sandstorm arrived. Mike, channeling his inner 10-year-old, ran outside with goggles and a buff to “experience it fully.” He returned sandblasted and deeply satisfied.
We rode out before sunrise the next morning, dunes glowing pink under the first light. It felt unreal.
Fes and Chefchaouen: Blue and Better
By the time we reached Fes, we were both sick. This was the roughest stretch of our entire trip. We declared one full rest day — a rare admission of defeat.
When we rallied, we explored ancient medinas and Roman ruins near Meknes, Morocco’s religious heart.
From there we bused to Chefchaouen, tucked against the Rif Mountains.
Blue walls. Blue doors. Blue staircases climbing with the hills. The town feels like it was washed in sky.
Our hotel was a charming maze of staircases and tiled ceilings — atmospheric and inconvenient in equal measure. Hard mattress. Street noise that felt inside the room. Dim lighting. Questionable breakfast. But hot showers and solid WiFi – the top priorities.
Tangier: Where Seas Meet
Our final stop: Tangier, where the Mediterranean and Atlantic converge.
We hired a guide — Moroccan guides study for years — and he was exceptional. We saw Cap Spartel, where the lighthouse marks the meeting of seas, and the Caves of Hercules, mythically tied to Hercules himself.
We walked the medina and kasbah, passed fish markets displaying every imaginable anatomical detail (no thank you), sampled Medjoul dates and nuts, and learned that guests traditionally bring sweets — sugar or dates — to their hosts. A custom I can fully support.
We even tracked down the exact alley where James Bond (Daniel Craig edition) strode through Tangier in the film Spectre. Yes, we verified it on video.
And just like that, a brilliant three weeks in Morocco were over. We covered mountains, deserts, traditional areas and modern times. We tried a hamman and wore djellabas.
Next up: Europe — Gibraltar and Portugal — before circling back to Africa once more.