For years, my dreams of Morocco ran wild. I filled my sleepy head with visions of lounging around elegant Riads and soaking in shallow pools enveloped by ornately tiled galleries. Sharing hookahs on deep floor poufs cozied up in corners covered in large area rugs and windows layered in lush fabrics and opulent brass lamps casting shadow mandalas across the walls and ceilings.
Strikingly beautiful people with sun-kissed olive skin speaking a baroque mix of Arabic and French — their words gently curling and wrapping around one another as ornate as the furniture. The Sahara’s horizon dancing from the dry heat, sprouting desired oasis under clustered palms.
Crowded markets and hushed secrets and warm air drifting cinnamon, clove, and cumin along narrow alleys. Bejeweled mounds of couscous with apricots, currants, and pistachio. Morocco was a dream of texture, color, and enlivened senses with a synchronous heat-induced leisure.
Morocco has a rich cultural awareness to detail, a flowery country. A land of intentional crafting of words, design, and tastes. My month in Morocco was exactly as imagined – a beautiful depiction from a travel magazine. However, it was interwoven with more complexities and challenges that I had yet to face when travelling.
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