Before people attack me in the comments: Marrakech is beautiful. The people are nice, the food is good, and I understand why millions of tourists love it.
But I think Marrakech is overrated.
Not because it’s ugly. Not because the food is bad. Not because I hate fun.
I think Marrakech is a city where you need a local friend. Someone who knows the secret places, the hidden restaurants, the shortcuts, and most importantly... someone who can explain where the hell your hostel actually is.
Because if you go there alone for the first time? Marrakech doesn’t welcome you.
Marrakech tests you.
My first time there, I was 18 years old. I had just graduated high school, and my father gave me what I thought was the greatest gift ever:
“Here’s the car. Go enjoy Marrakech.”
I had just gotten my driving license.
I felt like the main character.
I imagined myself driving through Marrakech with music playing, arriving at my beautiful riad in the Medina, making international friends, living my best life.
Reality had other plans.
The riad looked amazing in the pictures.
You know those booking photos where the place looks like a palace? Beautiful lights, flowers, peaceful atmosphere...
I’m convinced photographers for riads are magicians.
Before even reaching my place, I got lost.
Actually, “got lost” is too small of a phrase.
Christopher Columbus was less lost than I was.
And I think hostels in the Medina should come with a free guide.
Not breakfast.
Not towels.
A human being.
Because apparently the address means absolutely nothing.
And I had a car, which made everything worse.
I met a guy who looked friendly.
He said:
“Brother, I’ll help you find it.”
I thought:
Wow, Marrakech people are so nice.
Turns out he also had absolutely no idea where it was.
So now there were two confused people walking around.
Like two blind men leading each other.
Then I discovered another surprise:
The hostel wasn’t accessible by car.
You have to park far away and walk through Medina streets that look like somebody designed them while drunk.
Left.
Right.
Tiny street.
Tiny street again.
Random cat.
Another tiny street.
At some point I think I walked past the same wall four times.
Then the guy helping me said:
“Give me money.”
I said:
“For what?”
He said:
“For helping.”
Brother, we got lost together.
WE were teammates.
I gave him 10 dirhams because I didn’t want drama.
He looked offended.
“20 at least.”
20?!
My man was charging me for premium confusion.
I told him:
“That’s all I have. Next time I see you.”
He was not happy.
Finally after around 40 minutes with Google Maps fighting for its life, I found the riad.
I almost gave up and decided to sleep in my car.
I arrived around midnight.
I entered the dorm room and immediately understood that the beautiful pictures online had committed crimes.
The room was tiny.
Hot.
No oxygen.
I think the air itself had left the room.
Near the door there was a blond guy sleeping.
Or fighting for survival.
The poor guy was sweating and shaking like he was downloading a software update.
I hope he’s okay today.
My bed was the top bunk above him.
I looked at the bed.
The bed looked back at me.
I asked the host:
“Any private room available? I’ll pay extra.”
“No.”
“Can I sleep on the rooftop?”
“Sure.”
I felt relieved for about three seconds.
Then I went upstairs and discovered I was not the first genius to think about this idea.
The rooftop looked like refugee camp season 2.
Then the host said:
“You need to pay first.”
I thought:
I’m paying money...
To sleep on a rooftop...
In a city where I got scammed by a guy who got lost with me.
I told him I’d go withdraw money.
I went back to the car.
Then I slept in the car.
The next morning I drove back home.
My Marrakech adventure lasted approximately one night.
Technically I visited Marrakech.
Emotionally, Marrakech visited me.
