After nearly two weeks traveling through Morocco—desert, mountains, and coast—I had one last stop: Marrakech. The drive inland from Essaouira, took about three hours, passing argan groves and the occasional women-run cooperative, before the quiet open road gave way to the energy of the city.
This post picks up at the end of my two-week journey. To read the full story from the desert to the coast, check out Part 2 of my Morocco blog series.
Before this trip, I mostly just knew the name from the Crosby, Stills & Nash song “Marrakesh Express”—but I couldn’t have told you much about the city itself. Turns out, it’s one of Morocco’s four imperial cities, with a history stretching back nearly a thousand years.
A longtime trading hub and cultural crossroads, it’s famous for its maze-like medina, bustling souks, and the nonstop energy of Jemaa el-Fnaa square. It’s big, loud, colorful, and full of life.
The medina is a tangle of alleys packed with market stalls and scooters, but mixed in with the chaos are peaceful riads, rooftop cafés, and tiled courtyards where you can catch your breath. The architecture, the colors—really all of it—pull you in fast.
We didn’t reach Riad Al Jazira until late in the afternoon, after four o’clock. It’s located in the old city’s Sidi Ben Slimane neighborhood, in the quieter northern corner of the medina—still an easy walk to all the action, but far enough away to feel peaceful. Since cars can’t reach most places inside the medina, we had to park outside and walk the rest of the way.
We wound through a few narrow alleyways, even ducking under a tunnel to get there—and I loved it immediately. With its shaded courtyard, small pool, and calm atmosphere, it felt perfect.
Most of the trip, I’d been sharing a room with a fellow traveler, but she got sick back in Essaouira, so I decided to get my own. I don’t mind sharing—mostly because it’s cheaper—but when I can swing it, I definitely prefer having my own space. On group trips, a little solo time goes a long way.
Dinner that night was supposed to be at a local home nearby, but not until 7 p.m. I was still full from the day and, honestly, I’m just not one of those people who does well with really late eating. So I opted out and stayed back at the riad instead. I booked a 90-minute massage, which turned out to be exactly what I needed after two packed weeks of travel. Still, part of me wishes I’d pushed through and gone—the next day everyone said it was one of the best meals of the trip and that the hosts were wonderful. Lesson learned.
Breakfasts at the riad were truly fabulous—plentiful and beautifully presented, just like this one: a generous spread of msemen, semolina rolls, sponge cake topped with apricot glaze, fresh bread, jam, and glasses of fresh-squeezed orange juice. And of course, there was always hot mint tea. Like everywhere I’d been in Morocco, the staff were kind and attentive—always ready with a warm smile.
The next day, we headed deeper into Marrakech’s medina—winding alleys of nonstop energy. One of the first places we stopped was Jemaa el-Fnaa, the big central square, where the chaos was on full display: juice vendors yelling over each other, the smell of grilled meat in the air, and people moving in every direction at once. It was easy to get lost in the rhythm of it all.
Carts rattled by, pulled by donkeys or pushed by hand. Men on scooters zipped through the alleys like they’d been doing it forever, weaving around people and stray cats without even slowing down. Shops spilled into the streets, piled high with leather poufs, spices, herbs, pottery, and handwoven rugs.
I stopped to watch a metalworker in his small workshop, hammering away as sparks flew—tiny bursts of light that seemed to dance across the room. It was almost hypnotic, the steady clang of metal and flicker of sparks holding my attention for longer than I expected.
In one alley, skeins of yarn dyed every shade of red and orange hung overhead like a canopy of fire. In another, crates of tomatoes and bundles of mint sat under makeshift awnings in the morning light. I passed a row of tagines stacked like pyramids and stopped outside a butcher’s stall, where a few hopeful cats were glued to the meat counter.
I wasn’t taking a picture of the butcher—just the meat and the cats. But he must’ve thought otherwise, because he looked straight at me and gave me the middle finger. That gesture really is universal. I moved on—more amused than offended. I usually try to ask before photographing people, but in this case he wasn’t the subject. Still, it was a good reminder that not everyone wants to end up in someone else’s travel story.
At some point, we passed the Ben Youssef Madrasa—one of Marrakech’s most famous landmarks. It was once the largest Islamic college in North Africa, housing up to 900 students. Even from the outside, I could tell how impressive it must be. Photos I’d seen of the courtyard show dazzling tilework and carved cedar all around a central pool, with stark little student rooms tucked upstairs. I wish I’d had time to step in.
We stopped at a small workshop where an artisan was carving plaster in the traditional Moroccan style called gebs. He used tiny chisels to cut patterns directly into the gypsum. It’s the same technique found on the walls and arches of Morocco’s palaces and mosques, where plaster has been turned into lace-like designs for centuries.
The shop was filled with finished pieces—delicate floral and geometric motifs, Arabic calligraphy, and symbols like the Hamsa hand, all set against a wall of colorful mosaic tiles.
Before lunch, we visited Bahia Palace, down in the southern part of the medina near the old Jewish quarter. Bahia means “brilliance,” and once inside you can understand the name. The palace was built in the late 1800s for a vizier and his family. It isn’t one massive palace but a series of rooms and courtyards, each one layered with detail, built to impress with every surface.
One room had plaster walls so finely carved they looked almost like lace—arches, flowers, patterns everywhere.
The painted ceilings were another highlight—rich with color, floral motifs, and Arabic script, all surrounding skylights that filtered in soft, golden light. It felt like standing inside a jewel box. And then there were the zellige tiles: tiny geometric mosaics in blues, ochres, and blacks, arranged so perfectly it was hard to believe they were done by hand. Every surface had something to admire.
Afterward, we had lunch on the rooftop of Zeitoun Café. The view from the top was fantastic—overlooking the medina with just enough distance to relax and take it all in. Funny enough, I don’t remember hearing the call to prayer while I was in Marrakech. Maybe it was the nonstop hum of the medina drowning it out, or maybe I was just too caught up in the swirl of people, scooters, and stalls—a constant rhythm of its own.
I ordered a fresh juice called the Zeitoun—a surprisingly refreshing mix of strawberry, basil, coriander, and olive. It might sound like an odd combo, but it worked. For lunch, I had a quinoa salad with tomatoes, cucumber, raisins, almonds, fresh mint, lemon juice, olives, and (of course) plenty of quinoa. A perfect kind of lunch for a hot afternoon.
After lunch, I wandered through more of the medina and bought a pair of gold-embroidered slippers and a bright fuchsia kaftan with silver and gold trim. I loved the color, and it felt festive but still light enough for the heat.
I had fun practicing my bargaining skills, and honestly, I think I did pretty well. Shopkeepers usually start with a price that’s way too high, and this one was no different—but I managed to get him way down. When he finally agreed, he leaned in and whispered, “Okay, but don’t tell anyone,” meaning the other women from my group who were also in his shop. That little aside made me laugh and reminded me what a performance bargaining really is.
For me, bargaining is always a game. A lot of times I’ll walk away saying, “Too much,” and more often than not, I get called back. It’s not that I don’t want to pay a fair price—I do. But there’s a big difference between fair and overpaying. Some vendors assume every American has endless money, and honestly, that’s not the case. I don’t need to buy something if it means paying more than it’s worth. For me, it’s the back-and-forth that makes it fun, not just the purchase at the end.
We ducked in and out of a few more shops—spice stalls with pyramids of cumin and paprika, shelves stacked with herbs and soaps, and little corners filled with leather goods and pottery—before making our way back to the riad. The medina was exciting to take in, but I was just as happy to enjoy the quieter side of Marrakech for a bit too. Back at Riad Al Jazira, there was a small pool and a rooftop patio with lounge chairs, and I was more than content to relax there before heading out for dinner later that evening.
That night, we had our final dinner at Dar Zellij, a beautifully restored riad with candlelit tables, rose petals scattered across crisp white linens, and some of the best food of the trip. Housed in a 17th-century riad in Marrakech’s old medina, Dar Zellij felt like dining inside a piece of Moroccan history—its carved woodwork, tiled courtyards, and arches giving the whole evening an atmosphere as memorable as the food.
The meal began with a spread of Moroccan salades variées—dozens of small plates arranged across the table, each one a different burst of flavor. There were spiced carrots, lentils, eggplant zaalouk, green beans, sweet tomatoes, and more—all perfectly seasoned and artfully plated. Most of the dishes were vegetarian—so lucky me.
For dessert—pastilla au lait, a delicate tower of pastry layered with creamy custard, topped with powdered sugar, slivered almonds, and bright pomegranate seeds. It looked like a piece of edible lace and somehow managed to taste rich, elegant, and incredibly light all at once.
To make the evening even more special, one of the women in our group was celebrating her birthday, so the staff brought out a decadent chocolate cake with sparklers, followed by a plate of traditional Moroccan cookies—crumbly, nutty, and just the right amount of sweet. It was a fabulous dinner and the perfect way to close out our time together.
Afterward, we went upstairs and met a local artist who painted intricate henna designs on our hands. In the softly lit room, with the scent of rosewater in the air and everyone chatting and admiring each other’s patterns, it felt like such a beautiful way to mark the end of the journey.
If I had to do anything differently, I would’ve added another day or two in Marrakech. Two nights just wasn’t enough to explore it properly. Still on my list: the Majorelle Garden, the Photography Museum, and more time to simply wander the medina’s maze-like alleys at a slower pace.
And maybe—just maybe—I would’ve worked up the courage to try the public hammam down the alley from our riad. I probably would’ve chickened out (it’s such a social experience for Moroccan women, and I don’t speak the language), but still—it would’ve made a great story.
I left tearfully the next morning—too early to join the cooking class the rest of my group attended, and I still don’t know what I was thinking when I booked that flight. After nearly three unforgettable weeks in Morocco, I was heading home completely in love—with the colors, the kindness, the noise, the stillness, and the unexpected beauty of it all. I also couldn’t have asked for a better group to share it with, or a guide like Sara, whose energy and stories made Morocco come alive.
This post is part of my full Morocco series.
Catch up on the rest of the journey:
👉 15 Days in Morocco – Part 1: Cities, Mountains, and Medinas
👉 15 Days in Morocco – Part 2: Sahara Nights, Coastal Towns, and Marrakech
A short solo trip before the group tour began — wandering through quiet blue lanes, sipping fresh orange juice, and falling in love with this mountain town.
🛁 Trying a Private Hammam in Morocco: What It Was Really Like
My first hammam experience — part exfoliation, part meditation, and completely unforgettable. A gentle intro to a deep-rooted Moroccan tradition.
🌊 Essaouira: Morocco’s Laid-Back Coastal Gem
Wind, waves, and whitewashed walls — I spent a few quiet days here exploring the medina, riding horseback on the beach, and enjoying a slower pace.
🕌 Two Days in Fes: Exploring Morocco’s Cultural Heart
Tilework, tanneries, and maze-like alleys — I spent two days in Fes getting lost in the medina, watching artisans at work, and staying in a centuries-old riad.
Hi, I’m JoAnne—writer, wanderer, and lover of places that surprise me. I’ve traveled to 60+ countries (and counting), usually with a camera in one hand and a notebook in the other. I’m drawn to mosaics, markets, and mountains, and I write to remember what moved me. When I’m not traveling, I’m working on my blog Travels Afoot, trying new creative projects, or planning my next adventure.
