Romanticized in a film we know and love – and probably misquote on occasion – the city of Casablanca perches on the northwest corner of Africa, the Atlantic ocean lapping at its rocky and sandy shores. Morocco has long been a place of intrigue for us world travelers, and at last, we’re here! For a bit of geographic orientation, a map:

Our long journey concluded with a final leg from Paris to Casablanca on Air France, giving us a taste of the French that is spoken throughout Morocco, it being a French colony for 50 years until its independence in 1956*. I find it curious that an Arab country where so many speak Arabic would maintain the language of its European possessor but perhaps old habits indeed die hard. Almost all public and private signage in Casablanca is in both Arabic and French, and it seems French remains the common language.

We – Bobb, Liz and I – arrived early evening, and were met at the gate by our immigration expeditor (a rather common service for tourists), who whisks us through the rather empty “fast track,” just one family ahead of us. She chats with the immigration officer (in Arabic, contrary to my note above), they laugh about something, and the officer takes our picture individually while asking what we do for work. It’s the only question we have to answer, and are soon ambling bleary-eyed through customs and out past security in search of our driver. It’s a modern airport, clean and well organized and not terribly crowded. There are many drivers holding signs with names, and we do not see ours, causing a momentary bit of concern. Then we spot an Outstanding Travel logo…must be for us…and are quickly on our way to the hotel.

Our bodies and minds aren’t quite sure what time it is, but our watches say we have time for a little nap. Later we eat dinner at the hotel buffet, which is quite good with a variety of western choices and Moroccan specialties (“what are all those little sweets?!”), after which we attempt to get a normal night’s sleep. 

The jet lag is pretty brutal, leaving us in slumber until almost 9 am. We planned for this; our tour officially starts tomorrow so we have a leisurely unplanned day ahead. Breakfast conversation is…what should we do today? Trip Advisor gives us some options, but not many…as we expected since Casablanca is limited in its tourist attractions. The highlight will be the Hassan II mosque, on our itinerary for tomorrow.

The hotel calls a taxi for us (which turns out to have been completely unnecessary – taxis are everywhere), which takes us to the Habous district. Our destination is the “new Medina,” a bazaar of shops and cafes much smaller than the “old Medina,” the latter not really recommended for tourists. The taxi driver does his best to basically become our driver for the day – “…for 120 dirham, I’ll wait one hour; for 200 dirham I’ll wait two hours…as long as you want for a price and I will take you back to the hotel. Or I can drive you around the city to…” We politely decline, and the taxi drops us on the corner of a random street, pointing to the way we should walk. In front of us is the “palais,” [palace] with guards stationed outside. Turns out it used to be a palace and is now the seat of what we understand to be the state’s governor. The guards are very friendly as we ask questions about the building in front of us, and when we tell them we are going to Merzouga, one becomes very animated and talkative telling us he is from there. He is proud of his heritage.

It couldn’t be a more pleasant day, with just a couple clouds peppering the blue sky, a slight breeze keeping things cool. We find the entrance to the New Medina [pic] and are happy to see it’s calm, quiet, not crowded. Perhaps because it is Friday? (a day of rest for muslims)

The small shops are mostly tended by one person (only men), and many carry the same goods (except the wacky antique shop that was crammed with a variety of unique things), but it is all new to us so we are curious kitties. We browse the leather bags and backpacks, various sizes of paintings good and bad, we wonder at the zebra skin (real or dyed cowhide?), pass by the multitude of keychains and compacts…we buy beautiful coasters with patterns we will soon see in the tile work at the mosque. Bobb and Liz each get really nice little paintings that will always remind them of this adventure.

As we wander the narrow alleys, off to the left down a side street the aroma of a bakery catches our attention, only to be overtaken by a display of rugs around a doorway that beckons us to explore the treasures inside. We have heard about the amazing Moroccan rug weavers, so go in to take a look – and are not disappointed. They are truly spectacular. These two are camel hair for the background, the decorations made of sheep’s wool. Would a person really walk on these?! They are truly works of art.

The shopkeeper Farhane is gracious and friendly, and much like the others, he is not aggressive in trying to sell us something. That is such a pleasant change from other markets like this. He shows us many rugs…large, small, rough, soft, new, old…and then takes us to his other shop across the street where he has even more! I seriously consider buying a rug but wonder where I would put it. We ask Farhane for a lunch recommendation, and he directs us to a tiny cafe “just to the right down this street.” We think we end up at the right place, and although he had recommended the tagine, we opt for the special variete de couscous, only available on Friday, as the man at the table next to us suggests. A local’s advice is always a good bet…and it doesn’t disappoint. Very tasty – although there was that one mystery vegetable – and WAY too much to eat.

Oh – that bakery?! Of course we go back! Farhane had told us it’s the best Moroccan cookies in all of Morocco, so how could we not? We say farewell to the neighborhood cats that have accompanied our lunch, and wander back through the square past the taxi drivers chatting and smoking (everyone here smokes, it seems). In spite of the large Patisserie sign outside, the doorway gives no clues to the small space but fragrant and robust operation inside…capped by a picture of the king under a fluorescent light covered with bees. And a fantastic display of little cookies lining tiny the room…rolled in powdered sugar, sesame, almond, chocolate, pistachio…we choose enough to fill a small box and pay about US$4 for the tasty delights.

Returning to the taxi stand, we ask how much to go back to our hotel, and somehow it is almost twice what it cost to get us here. I argue, and Bobb reminds me we’re talking about just a few dollars. We agree to pay it, and pile in.

We wind down this first day with a nap, and Liz finds us a place for dinner walkable from the hotel at The Rooftop. It turns out to be sort of hipster joint with everyone smoking and watching soccer on a massive screen while the music thumps.  The vibe is cool and friendly and we have a good time after navigating a menu containing many things no longer available (that is already a theme in Casablanca). One menu is so outdated the waiter tears it up in front of us!

After dinner, darkness has fallen as we walk the short distance to the hotel, down a wide street flanking a palm-tree filled median, well lit modern buildings on either side with the occasional structure that seems about to crumble under its own weight. Some cafes and bistros dot the area, and just a few people are out and about as…we unsuccessfully seek ice cream…and bid the night adieu, looking forward to tomorrow’s meet up with our guide and the rest of our group.

Until then, a bientot et bonne nuit mes amis…

*The name Casablanca goes way further back to the Portuguese occupation in the 15th century. The original Arabic name translated to “the house of white,” which in Portuguese became Casa Branca…and then later it stuck as Casablanca.