Marrakesh

Marrakesh is not a place that eases you in. It arrives all at once, with heat, dust, noise, colour, and smell layered so thickly that the body reacts before the mind has time to catch up. It sits just north of the Atlas Mountains, their snow still visible on clear days, an incongruous reminder of cold beyond the warmth. At its heart, Jemaa el-Fnaa churns endlessly, a square that feels less like a destination and more like a force of gravity.

I went because it had been on my list for years. More truthfully, I went because I needed to stop. I needed distance from beer, from the internet, from the constant low-level noise that accumulates unnoticed until it becomes oppressive. The plan was deliberately thin: walk, read, eat, take photographs properly again. Film, not phone. Morocco made abstinence easy. Alcohol exists, but it is inconvenient. Internet exists, but it is unreliable. Both felt like small mercies.

Menara Airport is calm in a way that surprises you after the flight. Cool marble underfoot, light moving through the hall, the heat held at arm’s length. Airports blur together when you travel often. This one didn’t. It worked. The taxi chaos followed immediately, of course. I had learned enough in Fez to pre-book a transfer, knowing that the Medina is not somewhere you stumble into by accident. Fifteen euros for certainty felt fair.

The drive into the old city was short and anarchic. Traffic rules appear to exist as a loose suggestion. Roundabouts are negotiated by intent rather than right of way. Hiring a car would have been a mistake. I arrived late, ate a chicken and preserved lemon tagine that required no thought beyond eating it, and slept.

Riads reveal themselves reluctantly. Heavy wooden doors, blank walls, no hint of what sits behind them. Inside, calm. Courtyards. Water. Shade. Mine became a refuge from the constant sensory pressure of the Medina. Finding it again each night took patience and memory. Routes became habits. Wrong turns were punished with well-meaning offers of guidance that came at a price. Avoidance became a skill.

I had promised myself I would walk everywhere. No taxis, no buses. The week before I had driven over a thousand miles and my watch had taken to quietly shaming me. This was a correction. I avoided research entirely, relying on instinct, Google Maps only when lost, curiosity the rest of the time. The only fixed point was the Jardin Majorelle and the YSL Museum. Everything else could wait.

The first morning began early. The call to prayer arrived before dawn, unfamiliar but grounding. I judge places by simple things: the bed, the linen, the shower. Clean cotton, hot water, nothing ornamental pretending to matter. The mirror told me the walking was overdue. I took that as instruction.

Bread cost a dirham. Fresh, warm, pulled from a wood-fired oven set into a wall. Coffee was weak but sufficient. Honey did most of the work. I stepped into the Medina early, before it reached full volume.

Marrakesh assaults the senses. Donkey shit, two-stroke smoke, dust, questionable plumbing, heat that settles into the body rather than passing over it. The week before I had been in northern Germany, clean air, cold winds, order. The contrast was violent. And yet, the sky stayed blue. The light stayed honest. The discomfort was part of the point.

Food anchored the days. Couscous, tagine, kofte over charcoal. Eating with flatbread, scooping rather than cutting, quickly stops feeling foreign. Watching men cook over coals who have done so daily for decades is humbling. Skill without theatre. I am cautious with street food, not fearful. Busy stalls with locals are usually the safest bet. Twenty-five dirhams buys a chicken cooked better than most restaurant versions at home. Lamb tagine arrives soft and unassuming, then lingers.

Beer exists, but it is not the reason to be here. Local lagers do what they need to when cold. Wine is best avoided. Mint tea, however, is extraordinary. Proper mint tea, poured from height, sugar unapologetic, mint so oily it borders on narcotic. It clears the throat, resets the head, and leaves you alert in a way caffeine never quite manages.

I left a full day for the Jardin Majorelle and the YSL Museum. Walking through couture and jewellery surprised me more than I expected. Objects designed to move with bodies, to exist in time rather than defy it, felt closer to brewing than many trades I have encountered. Materials transformed by restraint and understanding. The garden itself balances colour and shade with an intelligence that never announces itself.

Beyond that, Marrakesh offers less in the way of sights than in moments. Gates passed without names. Tombs half-glimpsed. Cemeteries closed to outsiders. Wandering mattered more than ticking boxes.

This is not a place for people who require comfort as default. The heat, the smells, the dust are real, particularly in the Medina. Two millennia of continuous habitation leave traces. Modern Gueliz exists if needed, softer edges, European rhythms. I preferred the friction.

Value is elastic. You can spend nothing or plenty. Water is essential. Big bottles cost little. Fruit is everywhere if you trust it. I bought nothing ornamental. No slippers, no poufs. The artisan market near the square offers fixed prices and calm if bargaining is not your game.

This was not a change of pace. It was a change of climate, physical and mental. I left knowing I would return, not to repeat the same days, but to head outward. Toward the Atlas. Toward valleys and water. Marrakesh feels like a place you orbit before leaving it behind, rather than somewhere you ever fully settle into.

Some places teach you something quietly. Others insist. Marrakesh insists.