My First Times in Marrakech, the Ones I Never Forget

Some cities greet you with a flawless, well‑designed calling card. And then there’s Marrakech, which turns up like a hastily picked bouquet: fragrant, messy, full of thorns and colors you can’t quite name. Every encounter with her is—inevitably—a first time. Some funny, others poetic, a few uncomfortable, all utterly real.Whenever a friend asks, “What’s life like over there?” my mind runs back to those first moments. And I smile, because here even the tenth time can feel like the first. That, for me, is the magic of Marrakech.

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The first time I drank mint tea

They served it in a thin, gold‑etched glass, so hot it almost singed my lips; inside, a small forest of fresh mint leaves rose above the amber liquid. The waiter poured from high above—a green‑gold thread falling like silk—making the glasses chime on the silver tray. I thought it was all theatre; then I learned it aerates the tea and, above all, reminds you that hospitality here is an ancient art.

Local tip: always accept the first, the second and the third glass. It’s in that trio that the real sweetness of the mint—and the conversation—unfolds.

The first time I got lost in the Medina

I set out with an address scribbled on a Post‑it and the belief that “just follow the main street” would do. Ten minutes later, the main street had multiplied into a labyrinth of alleys scented with coriander, tanned leather and freshly squeezed oranges. My GPS waved the white flag.A boy on a battered scooter rescued me: “Madame, where you go?” I recited the name of the riad; he nodded with the thrill of someone embarking on the unknown. He led me, zig‑zagging between carts and motorbikes, until—before a cedar door carved with stars—he declared triumphantly, “Voilà!”Of course it wasn’t my riad, but the adventure was worth the (haggled) price of the “ride.” Since then I willingly get lost at least once a week: it’s the quickest way to discover a new bakery, a hidden courtyard, a secret rooftop. Over time I’ve learned to ignore overly keen directions from strangers and to avoid lanes that look too narrow or dark.

Local tip: The Medina runs on its own compass—woven from smells and sounds. Follow your nose (or your curiosity) and the right riad will surface sooner or later. Politely decline unsolicited directions from strangers, and rein in your inner explorer once night falls. Let your nose (or curiosity) guide you; the riad will turn up sooner or later.

The first time I bought something without knowing what it was—or that I needed it

It was a kilim rug straight out of a Berber dream: patterns in zig‑zag, reds deep as pomegranate, blues fading into dusk‑indigo. I didn’t recall (and still don’t) the Arabic term for that particular knot. I simply pointed, eyes glossy with desire, and—over shared mint tea in the back room—haggled using only gestures and laughter.When the vendor tied the last string around my precious bundle, he taught me the word: azlag. Roughly, it means “light between the mountains.” Irony: I was carrying that light into a city apartment.

Local tip: before entering a souk, learn three words: “Salam,” “Choukran,” and “Bargain.” The rest will come with time (and smiles).

The first time in a hammam

Crossing the threshold of a public hammam is like stepping into an anthology of the senses: dense steam, eucalyptus scent, women’s voices bouncing off tiles like droplets.A robust woman with sculptor’s hands motioned me to lie on a slab of warm marble. We shared no common language, but her kessa glove did: with slow strokes she “brushed” away a summer tan and, perhaps, a few too‑many certainties.I emerged dazed, pink as a shrimp and light as rice paper, feeling I’d left a piece of the West behind in the steam.

Local tip: bring a small bottle of ghassoul (clay from the Middle Atlas) and a sarong; everything else the local women will teach you—amid clouds of foam and jokes in Darija.

The first dawn to the sound of the adhan

The 5 a.m. call to prayer flings open the night like a velvet curtain. I remember jolting awake, unsettled by that layered chorus of voices seeming to rise from every rooftop. Instead of sleeping, I climbed upstairs. Beneath me, Marrakech was a piano of green roofs and pink bricks; above, the sky still burned with stars. When the muezzin fell silent, only the flutter of a few pigeons remained. I realized the city breathes softly before the chaos.

Local tip: set an alarm at least once—even if you’re not religious. You’ll see the fabric of the city turned inside out, like the back of a rug: maybe less glittering, but even more authentic.

The first sunset from a rooftop

Perhaps it’s that Majorelle red seems tailor‑made to reflect the last rays, or that birdsong blends with the shouts of vendors pulling down their shutters. My first Marrakech sunset feels like a photo taken with the soul. The sky exploded in orange and fuchsia, the Koutoubia rose like a stone lighthouse, and I held a glass of chilled jus d’avocat, convinced I’d found my place in the world—at least until the next sunrise.

Local tip: find a rooftop facing west (there are dozens in the Mouassine quarter). Order something simple and stay until the imam starts the maghrib call: it’s the sincerest way to bid the day farewell. I’m fond of Le Grand Balcon du Café Glacier—not for the décor, just the view of Jemaa el‑Fna and the Koutoubia—or the terrace at El Fenn. In truth, any rooftop will do.

And every time that comes after

In Marrakech the “first times” don’t end with the list: they return in cycles, with the stubbornness of an off‑key muezzin. Each time you think you’ve learned the shortcut, you hit a dead end; just when you master bargaining, you meet an artisan immune to your tactics; get used to the dry heat, and a whiff of cinnamon scrambles your certainties.

That’s where the wonder kicks in: there’s no nostalgia for the very first time, because the second, third, tenth taste just as much of discovery. Marrakech, in the end, is where déjà‑vu doesn’t exist—or perhaps where every déjà‑vu spins into another story.

Because in this city, the next first time is always right around the corner.