Rabat, our Seaside Welcome
Our flight from Atlanta to Marrakech was eight hours, departing at 5pm. Not exactly an ideal overnight schedule. Despite our melatonin strips, neither of us could doze off until well into the flight, which left us each with only a couple of hours of sleep before landing at 6:30am. Border control moved quickly and was nothing like the chaotic lines we had seen circulating on social media. We picked up our rental car and headed out of Marrakech toward Rabat, our seaside stop for the next two days.
The city driving was exactly what you would expect: hundreds of scooters weaving in and out of traffic, pedestrians stepping casually into the street, organized chaos at every turn. My job was to stay non-reactive, keep calm, and talk Matt through each navigational move before it arrived. Stressful is an understatement. The moment we hit the national highway and the open road stretched out ahead of us, we both exhaled.
One thing that struck us immediately was the signage. Arabic is the official language, but French runs a close second, and the road signs reflect that inconsistency completely. You will see Arabic only, Arabic and Moroccan (Berber), Arabic and French, or Arabic and English, sometimes a combination of three. No rhyme or reason. The landscape along the drive offered rolling hills that were greener than we expected, scattered palm trees, open fields dotted with cows, and farmers working the land. Morocco, like us, was still shaking off winter.
I fought sleep the entire drive, trying everything I could think of, but eventually lost the battle as my head started bobbing forward. We pulled into the first service station we found, set a timer, and took a twenty minute power nap before getting back on the road for the remaining stretch of the three hour drive.
The Riad and the Kasbah
Our riad, Dar el Baraka, sits at the end of the Kasbah des Oudayas, a quiet walled citadel fortress perched above the city. To the west, the Atlantic stretches out endlessly. To the north, across the river, sits Salé, the city where most locals who work in Rabat actually live. Our room was small but thoughtfully appointed: a gloriously deep brass soaking tub, a comfortable outdoor sitting area, and a bed with pillows so good we both made a beeline for it after check-in to squeeze in one more short nap before our 4pm food tour.
The Food Tour
We always try to book a food tour early in any trip. It is the fastest way to understand local cuisine, find the places worth returning to, and get the cultural context that no online resource really gives you.
We met Youssef, our guide from A Chef's Tour, just outside the Medina. Our first stop was the main square for Morocco's most iconic dish: tagine. Ours was chicken with potatoes, onions, carrots, and peas. We both expected it to arrive with more heat or depth of flavor and were a little surprised by how mild it was, but a dish of harissa on the side solved that quickly. Youssef walked us through the traditional way Moroccans eat, using torn pieces of bread as both utensil and vehicle, scooping food directly with their hands. This was familiar to me. At nine years old, I was introduced to authentic Moroccan food by a friend who invited me to her birthday dinner at Marrakesh Restaurant in Portland, Oregon. It was a defining moment. Years later, it was the restaurant where I took Matt on our first official date to see if he was, in my estimation, a keeper. He passed. It is still the first place I want to go every time I am back in Portland. You sit on the floor, there are no utensils, and everything tastes exactly as it should.
From the tagine stop, we took what felt like fifteen steps before arriving at our next tasting. Two brothers make and sell Briouat on site: fried pastries filled with meat or fish, wrapped in warga dough, spread paper thin and cooked and stacked right in front of you. After that came butterflied sardines, each stuffed with a savory chermoula made from parsley, cilantro, garlic, cumin, paprika, and lemon juice. The fish are pressed together, coated in flour, and fried until golden. We also tried fried mashed potatoes and chunks of eggplant at the same stall, which was packed with locals ordering sandwiches stuffed with sardines, rice, beets, pickled vegetables, and whatever else caught their eye. The sardines were remarkable. Barely a hint of fishiness.
We moved on to sweets. A Moroccan donut first, fried dough that was fine but not memorable, and then Chebakia, which came with a story I have not stopped thinking about. A confectioner fell in love with a young woman he saw every day through her window in the alleyways of the old Medina. To win her heart, he created a delicate pastry shaped like the intricate vertical bars of her window. When he discovered she was to marry another man, he returned home heartbroken and, in his grief, distorted the dough he had designed for her, folding one ribbon into another until it became a rose shaped knot. He named it Chebakia, the word for window, as a lasting mark of his love and loss. It is most commonly eaten during Ramadan and is one of the most beautiful things we tasted.
We wandered a little further through the market, past stalls of fresh fruits and vegetables and the lingering scent of the morning's fish sellers. Youssef paused at a traditional cookie shop in operation since 1928, explaining that their sweets are considered essential at Moroccan weddings. Then he turned to us and asked if we were up for cow's head. Under normal circumstances I would have said yes without hesitation, but I was beyond full and the combination of everything we had already eaten made my stomach stage a quiet protest. I passed. Matt did not. It became his favorite thing on the entire tour.
We finished with a pot of mint tea and a spread of cookies Youssef had selected for us. Filled to capacity and running on fumes, we made our way back to the riad, climbed the many stairs to the Kasbah entrance with legs that felt like concrete, and were asleep by 8pm without a single regret.
Day Two: Wandering, Rugs, and a Surprise
We woke to a breakfast spread that could have fed a small village. Three types of bread, some fried savory and some sweet, alongside Moroccan soft cheese with the consistency of the creamiest crème fraîche you have ever tasted, jam, avocado toast, fresh fruit, and an omelette made to order. Between the feast and the jet lag still nipping at our heels, we did what any reasonable person would do and went back to sleep for a little while before setting out.
We started by wandering the hidden alleyways and streets of our Kasbah with no real agenda, which is always how the best mornings go. From there we made our way back into the Medina, where we ended up buying what we were hoping we would…rugs. Two handwoven beauties that will be shipped home to join the handwoven rug we brought back from Turkey. There is something about textiles made by hand in the places you have loved that makes a home feel like a life well lived.
As we meandered through the older section of the city, the call to prayer began rolling out across the rooftops from a nearby mosque. I have heard it before on other travels, but it never fails to stop me in my tracks. Regardless of not being religious people, there is something about it I find deeply calming, almost meditative. One of those travel moments you cannot manufacture.
We made our way to the Hassan Tower, where members of the Moroccan royal guard stand post at the gate on horseback, warm and relaxed with visitors, smiling easily and happy to pose for photos. We walked the grounds before continuing on to the Mohammed V Mausoleum, which is as striking in person as anything you have seen in photographs.
Lunch was at Dar al Achab, a seafood restaurant nearby with a menu of the day and reviews that turned out to be completely accurate. We started with freshly roasted almonds and walnuts, moved into a tagine of sizzling spinach and calamari, and then the centerpiece arrived: a whole grilled sea bass stuffed with chermoula and finished with a squeeze of fresh lemon. Simple, perfectly executed, and absolutely delicious. Dessert was fresh strawberries with a light honey syrup and a bowl of toasted quinoa with nuts, which sounds understated but was a lovely way to end the meal.
On the walk back we followed the river, stopped for mint tea, and watched a group of teenage boys taking turns launching themselves off the side of the walkway into water that looked far too shallow. They were completely fearless, diving in and then sprawling out to dry in the middle of the path as if that were the most natural thing in the world. We watched longer than we probably needed to.
Back at the riad we settled in outside, Matt sorting through photos and me getting these memories down before they faded. Then the staff appeared with a birthday cake for Matt, complete with Happy 50th Birthday written across the top. We had not said a word about it. Just one of those quiet, thoughtful gestures that catches you completely off guard. The cake itself was a light mousse with the most satisfying crunchy crust. We sat with it, looked out over the Atlantic, and decided that was exactly how we wanted to spend our last evening in Rabat.
No agenda. No plans. Just the view, the moment, and a very good piece of cake.
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