An escape. An immersion. A vacation. A return. 20 years after my first mind-blowing trip to Morocco, I had the good luck to be able to spend a weekend in Marrakech.
The taxi pulled over near a round passageway in a red wall. It was almost 10pm. Dust hung in the air, capturing the light of the single streetlamp. As soon as the door opened, it hit me: in my reminiscing and in my plans for the weekend, I had forgotten how the city smelled. The spice blend was instantly familiar. Specifically Moroccan and fantastically delicious. I grabbed my luggage and looked towards my destination, through the passageway onto another almost-dark street.
The taxi pulled away, cutting in front of two cars and triggering a spasm of honking. The noisy trio rounded the corner and the street was quiet. I was back. It felt amazing.
In 20 years since my last visit, where I spent about 2 weeks wandering the country, my world had changed. Family and profession, successes and failures. I was staying in a Riad, not a hostel. I traveled by plane, not an overnight train (although that would have been fun). Even the phone in my hand — I had one, and it had a live map! This city and country had changed, too. But in the red-orange glow of that dark street, it felt so familiar. I was smiling. It was great to be back.
The trip would be short. There was a lot to do.
