Morocco

The first time I made a Morocco travel itinerary, I thought the map would begin at Casablanca Airport, then run through Marrakech, Fez, Merzouga, and on toward the Sahara. Only after landing did I realize Morocco does not unfold in kilometers. It first claims you by smell. When the evening wind moves through Marrakech, saffron, cumin, cinnamon, and dried roses in the spice market speak all at once like vendors refusing to yield the floor. I walked slowly among sacks, and a shopkeeper placed a pinch of Ras el Hanout in my palm. More than thirty spices mixed together, smelling like an old road that had come from Saharan trade routes to the walls of the Red City.

After dark, Jemaa el-Fnaa sets that road alight. Rows of charcoal fires glow, lamb fat drips into the flames, and white smoke curls up at once. The aniseed scent of snail soup, the char of grilled sausage, the cut sweetness of orange-juice stalls all press themselves over drumming and calls. Someone pulls you toward a menu, someone offers a chair, someone smiles through the smoke and says, "China?" I sat on a wobbly plastic stool watching skewers turn, and suddenly understood why many people say Marrakech is exhausting: it is not merely loud. It is too full. Even the air has no blank space.