When a Country Becomes a Love Story: My First Time Traveling to Morocco

They say love finds us. It slips in quietly, usually when we’re busy chasing dreams or checking boxes on some bucket list, and we don’t recognize it until we’re already too deep to walk away—even if we tried. One minute we’re moving through life, confident in our plans, certain of what we think we want. The next, destiny—or whatever name you prefer for the universe’s plot twist—steps in, grabs the wheel, and drives us straight into something big and unexpected and beautiful. Suddenly you see past the novelty, past the surface shine, and you catch a glimpse of something far more powerful. And in that moment you know: you will never be the same. And the crazy part? You’re grateful for it.

For many of you, this might feel familiar—that chance meeting with a person who wanders into your life and somehow becomes part of your soul’s geography. I’ve had those moments, too. A few times, actually. Each one eventually faded, leaving behind nothing more than memories and unanswered questions about where those people ended up.

But this story isn’t about a person. It’s about a people—an entire nation. I’m talking about one of the most underrated countries on Earth: Morocco.

My desire to travel was strong, but my insight was… lacking. My intentions were the usual suspects: I wanted adventure. A change of scenery. I wanted to feel special—something I cringe at a little now, but it’s worth pausing on. If you’re planning your own travels, check that intention. You’ll thank yourself later.

So there I was, looking for a place to satisfy all those shallow, touristy boxes.

My first stop was Argentina. It was my introductory taste of international travel outside of the military, and it was wonderful. I had a very, very good time—and I still hope to return someday and give it the slow attention it deserves. But back then, I didn’t understand how to travel. “Slow travel” wasn’t even a phrase in my vocabulary. I was impatient, skimming the surface of places I longed to experience more deeply. I checked off landmarks but never stayed long enough to feel the heartbeat of a place. I hadn’t met “the one” yet.

“Argentina, you were exciting,” I told myself. “But it’s time to move on.”

So, out of pure curiosity, I booked a flight to Casablanca.

Before clicking “confirm,” I couldn’t have pointed to Morocco on a map. I’d love to blame myself, but honestly, most Americans can’t either. Geography just isn’t our educational strong suit. All I knew about Morocco came from YouTube videos: vibrant, chaotic, novel—the perfect fit for my American-tourist checklist. I had no idea I was walking into the place that would reshape me and brand my heart as its own. 

After clearing customs, I found someone who spoke English and pointed me toward the train station conveniently attached to the airport. Traveling carry-on only meant I breezed through airports like some seasoned nomad. Rick Steves has a quote that became gospel to me: “You can’t travel heavy, happy, and cheap. Pick two.” If you’ve never traveled with just a carry-on, do yourself the favor. You’ll understand immediately.

The moment I stepped out of the train station, I was hit with a scene unlike anything I'd known. Taxi drivers shouting for business. Would-be scammers hovering. People truly in need asking for help. The soundscape was loud, layered, alive. A language I’d never heard before wrapped itself around the air. Red taxis lined the curb like a fleet. Every driver asked, “Taxi? Taxi?” even though you just declined one from the guy standing three feet away. A crash course in patience and politeness—two things Americans don’t always excel at, especially when pestered.

Past the “welcome committee,” I made my rookie mistake: I pulled out Google Maps. Nothing says lost tourist louder. Still, I found the direction of my hostel and started walking the mile or so toward what I thought would simply be my next temporary stop.

That walk, though… it became something else.

One moment I was wide-eyed, grinning like a kid at a carnival. The next, I stopped dead in my tracks. Something hit me—an aroma so exotic and intoxicating that everything else around me disappeared.

Just ahead was a small spice shop with pyramids of paprika, cumin, turmeric, cinnamon, ginger—carefully sculpted into conical shapes, each sitting proudly on its pedestal. Bundles of parsley, cilantro, rosemary, and thyme added their own fragrance to the air.

The shopfront was decorated with Quranic script, multiple versions of the Hand of Fatima, and a portrait of the king. A soft recitation of the Quran played on a low radio, adding a layer of serenity to the already mesmerizing atmosphere.

“Bonjour!” a voice called cheerfully from inside.

A moped buzzed past me, missing me by inches and startling me into a laugh. I peered into the dimly lit shop and saw the owner—a man maybe in his sixties with eyes that looked twenty. I returned the greeting in my worst French, and without hesitation he exclaimed, “Ah! You’re American!”

Apparently my accent gave me away instantly. Our short exchange was a delightful dance of broken English and worse French. I didn’t buy anything, but he sent me off with warm wishes. Little did I know that smell—those spices—would become one of the things I’d miss most about Morocco.

Soon, I was walking through what looked like a wealthy residential neighborhood: tidy streets lined with small palms, homes hidden behind high walls and iron gates. Quiet. Peaceful. A stark contrast to the chaotic energy I’d just come from.

I reached the hostel, checked in, and braced myself for whatever Casablanca had planned for me.

    In upcoming posts, I give you a full description of my first experience in a riad hostel, then take you deep into the market of the old medina!