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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