Day 6: Into the Heart of the Kasbahs — From Dunes to Dramatic Gorges
We rose before dawn, the desert still wrapped in silence and stars. The air was crisp, the sky a canvas of deep indigo slowly giving way to shades of gold and rose. As we climbed back onto our camels, the only sounds were the soft crunch of sand beneath padded feet and the gentle whisper of wind over the dunes.
At the crest of a ridge, we paused—and there it was: sunrise over the Sahara.
It wasn’t just beautiful; it was soul-stirring. The dunes blushed with morning light, shifting from bronze to fiery orange. Shadows danced. Time stood still. It felt as though the desert was breathing with us—alive with something ancient and eternal.
We returned to camp for a traditional Berber breakfast: warm bread, honey, fresh dates, and mint tea that tasted like sunshine in a glass. After breakfast, we bid farewell to our camels, our hosts, and the magical slice of Morocco that had taken root in our hearts.
Back in our 4x4s, we headed west, tracing the fringe of the Sahara through rugged valleys and red-earth villages. Our destination: the Todgha Gorges, where towering cliffs carved by ancient rivers rose dramatically on either side, a majestic cathedral of stone. It was nature at its most theatrical—and we were front-row center.
We stopped for lunch at Dar Ayour Guest House, a charming oasis tucked between cliffs and palm groves. Tagine, laughter, and Moroccan hospitality filled the afternoon air.
As we continued along the Route of a Thousand Kasbahs, the road led us past ancient adobe fortresses and lush oases. At Kalaat M’Gouna, the “Valley of Roses,” the scent of blossoms lingered in the breeze, and shopfronts overflowed with rosewater, oils, and perfumes.
Our final stop was the cinematic city of Ouarzazate, Morocco’s gateway to the Sahara and the backdrop for countless films. We settled into Hotel Temple des Arts, where each room whispers Hollywood stories with a Moroccan soul.
Over dinner beneath a star-speckled sky, we reflected on the day: a journey through history, nature, and wonder. Though the terrain had changed, the magic had not. It clung to us like desert sand and rose petals—soft, persistent, unforgettable.
Day 5: From the Mountains to the Sands — Fes to the Dunes of Merzouga
We started our day with a light breakfast of croissants, coffee, olives, and fresh juice, then left Fes behind, heading into the gentle folds of the Middle Atlas Mountains. The road meandered through ever-changing landscapes — rocky plateaus, dense cedar forests, and small Berber villages tucked into hillsides.
One of the most unexpected highlights came early: a stop at the Rassemblement Naturel des Singes, where playful Barbary macaques rule the forest. One particularly cheeky monkey nearly held us hostage in exchange for bananas, leaving us laughing and slightly out-bargained.
The road continued through sweeping valleys and lush orchards. By midday, we arrived in Midelt and settled in at Café Restaurant 7, where we shared a richly spiced camel tagine and glasses of fragrant Moroccan tea—an experience equal parts rustic and indulgent.
As we descended further south, the terrain shifted from green to golden. At Barrage Al-Hassan Addakhil, clouds rolled in and rain began to fall—soft, steady, and surreal. Locals told us it hadn’t rained in years. The timing felt like magic.
Eventually, we reached Erfoud, the gateway to the Sahara. There, we switched to 4x4s, excitement building as we crossed rocky trails toward the towering dunes of Merzouga.
At our desert camp, Hassan, our Berber guide, welcomed us with mint tea and stories. Then came the moment we’d dreamed of: a camel ride into the golden sea of sand. As we rocked gently atop our camels, the rain returned—light and almost mystical—casting the dunes in shades of rose and amber as the sun set.
That evening, we gathered for a traditional dinner beneath a sky dusted with stars. The air pulsed with the rhythm of Berber drums, and our hearts beat in time with the land’s quiet magic.
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| Bivouac Café du Sud |
A day of contrasts—mountains and desert, monkeys and silence, sunshine and rain—and one we’ll never forget.
Day 4: A Day in the Heart of Fes
The morning in Fes began quietly, with a light breakfast—flaky croissants, strong coffee, olives, and fresh juice. A simple meal, yet perfectly suited for the day ahead.
Waiting in the hotel lobby was Najeev, our local guide- deeply knowledgeable. At the old Jewish quarter, we met the rest of our group: mostly retirees, a couple from Toronto, another from Dallas, and others from Chicago and Miami. Different paths, now briefly intertwined.
Our first stop was a panoramic lookout over Fes—a breathtaking sweep of rooftops, minarets, and timeworn walls spilling across the hills. From there, we made our way to the gleaming bronze doors of the Royal Palace, and then to the courtyard of an ancient madrasa. Within its peaceful walls, we felt the echoes of generations past, devoted to study and prayer.
Fes unfolded like a living museum. We explored artisan workshops where craftspeople chiseled, stitched, and wove traditions into art. In the tanners’ quarter, vibrant dye pits created a mosaic of color, while the air carried the sharp scent of age-old labor. Spice markets, busy souks, and the ornate fountain of Nejarin offered glimpses into everyday life, rich with texture and rhythm.
For lunch, we gathered at Medina Bis. Michelle chose the chicken pastilla—flaky, savory, with a dusting of powdered sugar—while I had the lamb tagine, slow-cooked and aromatic. It was a meal that lingered long after the plates were cleared.
Our tour ended at the tanneries, a final immersion into the centuries-old spirit of the city. We said goodbye to our group there—brief companions, yet connected by a shared wonder.
As the sun dipped lower, we returned to Hôtel Les Mérinides. From the terrace, we watched the city shimmer beneath the golden light, the call to prayer rising softly in the air.
Fes had opened itself to us, layer by intricate layer. A city not just seen, but felt—etched into memory like a sacred text.
Day 3: From Blue Dreams to Golden Walls-Chefchaouen to Fes
Morning in Chefchaouen felt like waking inside a watercolor. The town, cloaked in every shade of blue, shimmered quietly beneath the watchful Rif Mountains. Before the day stirred to life, we wandered its labyrinthine alleys with Abduh Lah—our local guide, warm, funny, and full of stories. With a twinkle in his eye, he led us through the peaceful Kasbah gardens and hidden corners bursting with color and culture. His pride in his hometown added a heartbeat to every step.
Eventually, we bid farewell to the Blue Pearl, carrying its serenity with us as we began the journey to Fes—Morocco’s timeless soul.
About an hour into the drive, we stopped at La Pergola by Hôtel Rif, a quiet roadside gem where we shared a fragrant chicken tagine, a fresh mixed salad, and steaming mint tea. It wasn’t just lunch—it was part of the rhythm of travel, unhurried and full of flavor. We grabbed coffees to go and rolled onward.
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| Chicken Tajine |
The road to Fes unspooled like a living tapestry. Women in vibrant dresses rode donkeys to the weekly market. Elders tended goats and sheep along the hillsides. Farmers descended from mountain villages with baskets of fresh produce, and fields of red poppies and wildflowers stretched out like brushstrokes on the land.
The scenery changed as we drove: schoolchildren rested beneath acacia trees, worn soccer goalposts stood in dusty fields, and old men smoked shisha under open skies, unfazed by time. Life here moved to its own quiet rhythm.
As we neared Fes, the colors deepened. The soft blues gave way to golden walls and sunlit hills. After checking in at Hôtel Les Mérinides, we freshened up and headed to the terrace—cold Casablanca beers in hand, overlooking the ancient city.
The call to prayer echoed over rooftops like a whisper to the setting sun. We had left one dreamscape and entered another, each more vivid than the last. And somehow, it all felt like a story we were always meant to live.
Day 2: Jewels of Morocco – Casablanca, Rabat, Chefchaouen
Casablanca stirred with purpose as we began our day, the sun casting a golden glow over wide boulevards and the Atlantic’s edge. After a light breakfast, we joined the city’s rhythm—cruising past the elegant Anfa district, the breezy Corniche, and the magnificent Hassan II Mosque, where sea and sky bowed to a minaret that seemed to touch the heavens. Even from outside, it left us speechless.
By midmorning, we were en route to Rabat—Morocco’s capital, and a quiet contrast to Casablanca’s buzz. The Royal Palace stood with regal restraint, and the Kasbah of the Udayas offered a glimpse into another world: blue-washed alleys, the scent of jasmine, and sweeping views of the Bouregreg River.
The Mausoleum of Mohammed V was hushed and reverent, a masterpiece of zellige tile and marble. History echoed in every footstep.
We lingered over lunch at Marina Palms, right on the riverbank. The air was warm and still, the view peaceful. We shared a fragrant chicken tagine, a platter of mixed grilled fish, and glasses of steaming Moroccan mint tea. It wasn’t just a meal—it was a welcome, plated and poured with soul.
After lunch, we began our three-hour drive north to Chefchaouen. The road unwound like a ribbon through the hills, past olive groves, roadside cafés, and quiet scenes of daily life. We saw elders tending to their farms and herds, children in uniform walking home from school, and landscapes shifting from golden plains to rugged peaks.
As we climbed into the Rif Mountains, the light softened and the sky deepened. And then—like a hidden treasure—the Blue City appeared, nestled among cliffs and clouds.
For the night, we stayed at Dar Ba Sidi & Spa, nestled just outside town in serene, green hills. The air was cool, the stars above us endless. After dinner, we walked the quiet grounds, letting the stillness sink in.
Day two had unfolded like a storybook.
And the next day was waiting—painted in blue.
Day 1: Casablanca Arrival
We touched down in Casablanca at 2:50 PM, our third airport in 24 hours—San Diego to LAX, LAX to Paris, Paris to Casablanca. Three flights, two naps, and one too many croissants, we stepped into the North African sun.
At the curb, Brahim stood holding a sign with our names, smiling like he’d been waiting forever. “Welcome to Casablanca,” he said, as he loaded our bags with the grace of a man who’s seen it all—jet-lagged tourists, lost luggage, wide eyes.
The drive into the city felt like flipping through a storybook—palms swaying, minarets reaching skyward, street vendors grilling corn by the sidewalk. The air was warm and a little wild, tinged with salt and spice.
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| Minaret |
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| Rick’s Cafe |
When we pulled up to The Gray Boutique Hotel, it was like arriving at an urban oasis—sleek lines, soft lighting, a quiet hum of elegance behind the buzz of the city. We barely dropped our bags before heading back out, hungry for more than food.
Dinner was at the hotel, cozy and quiet, the kind of low-key meal you need after crossing time zones. Michelle ordered spaghetti and soup—comfort food with a Moroccan twist. I went local with a Moroccan salad followed by a tender steak, rich and flavorful. No tagines just yet—we were easing in.
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| Moroccan Salad |
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