Fez & Marrakech: Morocco

Five nights. Casablanca to Fes. G and I, early February, a work trip that turned into one of the more unexpected travel experiences we've had.

We flew into Casablanca and drove to Fes, which is about three and a half hours east through the Atlas foothills. The drive itself is worth noting: flat agricultural land gives way to rolling hills, and by the time you're approaching Fes the landscape has shifted to something that looks like Tuscany crossed with North Africa. Olive groves, wheat fields, and then the city appears in a valley, the old medina visible as a dense, tan-colored mass that hasn't changed its footprint in a thousand years.

We stayed at the Fes Marriott Hotel Jnan Palace, which sits outside the medina walls in the new city. The hotel is built around Andalusian gardens with fountains, tile work, and orange trees. The rooms overlook the gardens and the pool area, and in February the weather is cool enough (mid-60s, dropping into the 40s at night) that the gardens are comfortable to sit in all day. The Marriott is international-standard with a Moroccan layer: traditional zellige tile in the lobby, mint tea at check-in, a hammam spa that G used three times in five days.

Fes is a city that overwhelms you and rewards you for letting it. The medina (Fes el-Bali) is the largest car-free urban area in the world. Over 9,000 streets, many of them so narrow two people can barely pass each other. We hired a guide for the first day because navigating alone is possible but slow and you'll miss everything. The guide took us through the tanneries (the famous Chouara Tannery, where leather has been dyed in stone vats since the 11th century, the view from the terraces above is one of the most photographed things in Morocco), through the spice markets, past mosques and madrasas with carved plaster and cedar woodwork that took my breath away. The Bou Inania Madrasa is open to non-Muslim visitors and the courtyard is one of the most beautiful spaces I've been in. Carved stucco, zellige mosaic, cedar screens, a marble floor with a fountain in the center. G stood in the middle of it and didn't move for about five minutes. She does this in churches and mosques and places where the architecture does something to the air. She goes still.

The food in Fes is the other revelation. Moroccan cooking is slow, layered, and uses spice in a way that Western cooking rarely achieves. We had a tagine at a restaurant inside the medina that had been recommended by the hotel concierge. The restaurant had no sign. You walk through a narrow doorway, up a flight of stairs, and into a tiled room with about eight tables. The lamb had been cooking for hours with preserved lemon and olives and the sauce was deep and concentrated and I soaked it up with bread until there was nothing left. G had a chicken pastilla (a flaky pie with shredded chicken, almonds, cinnamon, and powdered sugar on top) that sounds like a mistake and tastes like genius. The sweet and savory combination is jarring on the first bite and addictive by the third.

The food market near the Bab Boujloud gate is where locals buy everything. We walked through it on the second morning and the sensory overload was total: pyramids of spices in every color, fresh mint piled in bundles, olives cured a dozen different ways, bread being pulled from clay ovens, live chickens in cages next to stalls selling pastries. G bought a small bag of ras el hanout (a spice blend whose name means "head of the shop," meaning the best of everything) from a vendor who ground it fresh while we watched. That spice blend has been in our kitchen since and goes into everything. It's the Dubai honey and the Chelsea Market spice vendor all over again. G cannot resist someone who knows their product.

One evening we had dinner on the rooftop of a riad in the medina. A riad is a traditional Moroccan house built around a central courtyard, and many have been converted into restaurants and guesthouses. This one had a terrace overlooking the medina rooftops, and as the sun went down the call to prayer echoed from multiple mosques simultaneously, each one slightly out of sync with the others, creating this layered sound that filled the entire city. G put her fork down and just listened. I did too. There are moments in travel that you can't plan for and can't recreate. That was one.

We also visited the Jardin Jnan Sbil, a public garden near the Royal Palace that was restored a few years ago. Fountains, palm trees, paths lined with bamboo groves. It's a pocket of quiet in a city that is otherwise relentless. We sat on a bench for an hour and watched old men play cards and kids chase each other around the fountains. The contrast with the medina is almost disorienting: ten minutes earlier you were in a narrow alley surrounded by noise and movement and now you're in a park where the loudest thing is a bird. G said "this is the kind of travel I want to do more of" and I knew what she meant. Not resorts. Not conferences. Cities that have been here for a thousand years and don't care whether you come or not.

The hammam at the hotel was the other highlight. G went three times in five days. A traditional Moroccan hammam involves steam, black soap, vigorous scrubbing by someone who treats your body like a surface that needs refinishing, and then argan oil. G came back from the first session looking like she'd been reassembled. She tried to explain the process and gave up and just said "you have to do it." I did it on the third day. She was right. You come out feeling like a different person. Not better, exactly. Just newer.

Five nights in Morocco. Enough to know we need to come back. Not enough to pretend we understood it.