Marrakesh – Morocco
Marrakesh had been on my mind for a long time.
I first went there around the year 2000. I was twenty-two. I had no children, no obligations, no loans. I didn’t have much experience either. What I did have was a deep curiosity about the world and a dream of taking an exotic journey.
Even then, Marrakesh made me think of the tales of One Thousand and One Nights.
Of extraordinary landscapes, exotic places, the scent of spices and food. And somewhere in the distance — the Atlas Mountains.
I also remember the film Road to Marrakesh, which I watched shortly before the trip. For a young man, it felt almost like a preview of adventure.
That journey was long. I travelled through Morocco’s imperial cities — Marrakesh, Rabat, Meknes and Fez. I visited Essaouira, Casablanca and Agadir. Today I don’t remember every road we took, but I know that I travelled about two thousand kilometres.
What I do remember very clearly is the thought that came to me back then — that one day I would come back.
Morocco had made a powerful impression on me..
This time I bought the ticket in November.
I travelled with my twenty-year-old son, Leon. He had never been there before, and I wanted to see Marrakesh again and discover how it had changed over the years.
We flew there for just a few days. Straight to Marrakesh.
To feel again what it’s like to stand at the gateway to Africa.
I remember the moment when I stepped onto Jemaa el-Fna square with only my carry-on bag and the feeling that I had returned.
It was a strange sensation.
The cars had changed.
Mobile phones were everywhere.
But apart from that, almost everything seemed the same.
The same stalls.
The same music.
The same chaos and the smell of food drifting through the square.
Water sellers.
Musicians beating their drums.
Evening restaurants appearing in the middle of the square.
Twenty-five years.
And yet it felt as if very little had changed.
Perhaps only one thing — everyone now holds a phone in their hands. People take photos, record videos, capture their memories.
I do the same.
Everyone in their own way.
For three days we wandered without a plan.
We got lost in the narrow streets of the medina. In the evenings we returned to our riad, dropped our things, and went out again — searching for something we couldn’t quite name.
We had dinner on Jemaa el-Fna square.
In the middle of noise, music, smoke from the grills and the scent of spices.
That was Marrakesh.
The next morning we went out for breakfast.
We sat at a small table while I watched a woman in the kitchen — probably doing this for many years — preparing pancakes one after another. Her movements were calm and repetitive, as if her body simply remembered the rhythm.
Three types of pancakes appeared on the hot metal plate. One reminded me of roti, another was made from corn flour, and the third had a completely different texture.
I ordered the same breakfast I saw on other tables.
And coffee.
I was dreaming about coffee.
It was one of those travel moments when you sit somewhere completely foreign, culturally distant, and every detail of the street feels fascinating. Every sound. Every smell. Every person passing by.
The coffee finally arrived on a small metal trolley.
It was excellent.
The pancakes were fantastic too, although one of them made me smile. It reminded me a little of lembas — the legendary bread from The Lord of the Rings. That one wasn’t exactly my favourite.
But the roti-style pancakes were wonderful. Warm, soft and dipped in honey.
This is the luxury I choose. Space. Stillness. A day without excess..
After breakfast we walked toward the mint stalls.
Mint in Marrakesh is everywhere. It’s added to almost every glass of tea — sweet, very sweet mint tea.
It’s a beautiful custom. If you stop somewhere, someone will often offer you tea.
A small ritual of hospitality.
At one of the stalls a vendor sprayed large bundles of freshly cut mint with water. The leaves were thick and full of essential oils. All you had to do was crush one gently between your fingers and the fragrance would burst into the air.
We spent the entire day wandering through the city.
We stepped into spice shops and small stores filled with strange mixtures and traditional remedies.
Sometimes we got completely lost.
And that is exactly what I love most about Marrakesh.
In the evening we walked back toward our small hotel on the edge of the tourist centre.
On the way we stopped for coffee again. We sat on small stools and the table was an old oil barrel converted into a café table with the name of the place painted on it.
The sun was slowly disappearing behind the rooftops.
At one point I reached a crossroads.
It was already getting dark.
I stopped.
And for the first time in my life I had a very strong feeling that I knew this place.
As if I had been there before.
But not this time.
I knew the street.
The crossroads.
The buildings.
I had the strange sense that I knew what was at the end of the road ahead of me.
As if… I belonged there.
Even today I feel a shiver when I think about that moment.
Time seemed to stop.
Greece has a way of remaining unchanged.
The following days passed in much the same way.
Wandering through the streets.
Eating tajine.
Drinking tea.
And writing postcards.
I love writing postcards. It feels like an old-fashioned habit. In a world where everyone sends instant messages and photos, a postcard becomes something quite different.
Something rare.
Almost luxurious.
Because when you send someone a postcard from a journey, in a way you are saying:
you matter.
That’s why in special places I buy postcards and stamps, sit down in a café and write a few words.
At one point I wanted to buy everything.
Tea sets. Masks. Carpets.
But after many years of travelling I realised something.
It doesn’t work like that.
You cannot take a place home with you.
You can only take the memories.
In the evening I return again to Jemaa el-Fna square.
I sit in a café with beautiful mosaic tiles on the floor — a place that still remembers the years of Morocco’s splendour and the presence of the French. Their colonial influence can still be heard in the language.
From a nearby mosque comes the call to prayer.
The day is ending.
I order dinner — chicken tajine. Sweet and spicy flavours of the spices, couscous, roasted meat, dates. A bowl of lentil and chickpea soup, a piece of bread and a glass of hot, sweet mint tea.
The square is buzzing.
Someone performs with cobras.
Someone plays a local game with plastic bottles.
Boys beat drums loudly and rhythmically.
The rhythm feels ancient.
I imagine these melodies have hardly changed for hundreds of years.
I always carry a notebook with me.
Even in my carry-on bag.
I write down a few sentences.
Later I walk through one of the souk streets. It’s filled with small objects, fabrics, glasses, decorations, rings — everything you might expect to find in a Marrakesh market.
I sit down by one of the stalls.
Across from me, on a stool, sits an elderly man in a djellaba. He must be well over seventy. He looks at me with warm eyes and smiles, revealing missing teeth.
He doesn’t speak English.
I don’t speak his language.
Yet for a moment we sit opposite each other in silence — with curiosity and complete acceptance.
I buy a few small bowls.
Those I do take home.
I’ll use them for olives or for spice pastes that I mix myself.
One of the inspirations from this journey became a spice blend I create from the finest ingredients — many of them from Morocco.
Ras el hanout.
In Morocco every family prepares it in their own way. No two recipes are the same. Sometimes it contains just a few spices, sometimes dozens.
It’s a blend that instantly transports you to the markets of Marrakesh.
When I was thinking about a name for my own blend from this collection, I looked at the photos from the trip and felt the memories returning.
The name appeared almost by itself.
Mystic Marrakesh.
A blend that, for me, captures the essence of the city in a small jar.
Whenever I want to return there, I reach for it.
I cook something, add the spices, and for a moment it feels as if I’m there again.
In Marrakesh.
Scent — crushed mint, warm spices, desert dust
Sound — drums of Jemaa el-Fna at dusk
Book — The Alchemist — Paulo Coelho
Taste — chicken tajine with sweet mint tea
Colour — burnt orange of the medina walls
Music — “Gift of the Gnawa ” — Hassan Hakmoun
Movie — The Sheltering Sky (1990)
