It had always been on my list – Morocco. I wanted to find out whether it really was the magical One Thousand and One Nights tale I had imagined. What I didn’t expect, however, was that I would one day actually move there.

In 2017, I traded the rainy skies of the Netherlands for the dusty pink hues of Marrakech. Why? Well… long story short: I fell in love. His name is Said – a kind, soft-spoken Moroccan man and a proud Amazigh (Berber), deeply rooted in his culture, who somehow swept me off my Dutch feet.

Love, visas & border control: romance edition

At the time, I didn’t have a visa to stay in Morocco full-time, so for a while my life looked like an episode of Border Control: Romance Edition. Every three months I had to leave the country – sometimes for just a few days and then return like some sort of international ping-pong ball.

Said couldn’t come to the Netherlands either; visas were expensive, nearly impossible to get, and let’s just say… Said didn’t exactly have friends in high places. Being a proud Amazigh (Berber), raised in a humble family, meant the doors to Europe remained firmly shut.

So we built our story between borders.

Life in Marrakech: from Gueliz to Douar Sraghna

We first lived in the Gueliz district – a modern neighborhood with cafés, traffic, and an apartment right across from the train station. Later, we moved near the university. Sounds fancy? It wasn’t cheap, especially since I was still paying rent in Groningen back in the Netherlands.

Eventually, we moved to Douar Sraghna – a more local neighborhood, less polished, more… real.

Living in Marrakech felt like stepping into a parallel universe. The culture was vibrant, the colors bold, the traffic… creatively chaotic. There was a rhythm to it, sure – just not the rhythm I was used to.

Meeting grandma Aicha in Azilal

The first time Said took me to Azilal, I knew it was important.

 

Said had been raised by his grandmother, Aicha – a strong, loving woman who carried her family with quiet dignity. He respected her deeply. I felt honored that he brought me to meet her so early on. In Morocco, that gesture means something. You don’t introduce just anyone to the woman who raised you.

Azilal is nestled in the Atlas Mountains, not far from the stunning Ouzoud waterfalls. From Marrakech, the bus ride normally takes around 3.5 to 4 hours.
Normally.

We were delayed for almost an hour before we even left the station because the bus driver simply… wasn’t there.
No explanation.

Maybe he was taking a siesta.
Maybe drinking tea with colleagues.
Maybe running errands.

In Morocco, time is often a suggestion rather than a commitment. Eventually, the driver appeared as if nothing unusual had happened, and off we went – toward the mountains. But before the bus even left the station, a small parade of vendors boarded to sell… well, everything.

Water bottles.
Tissues.
Sandwiches.
Jewelry.

It felt like being on an airplane – if budget airlines sold perfume and socks aisle-by-aisle. Some vendors moved confidently down the narrow aisle, balancing trays with impressive skill as the bus lurched forward. Others shouted their products with theatrical enthusiasm. It was chaotic, loud, and strangely charming.

I don’t remember much of the actual journey after that – but I remember the landscape. Those vivid, earthy colors. The red hills. The endless sky. The gradual shift from city noise to mountain stillness. They would become familiar friends in the years to follow.

Petits fours & mountain roads

Before leaving Marrakech, we had stopped at a bakery to buy a beautiful box of petits fours marocains delicate Moroccan cookies filled with almonds, coconut, sesame, and honey. The kind of sweets you promise yourself you won’t eat during the ride and then absolutely do.

In Morocco, you never arrive empty-handed, especially not when visiting family. Bringing sweets is a gesture of respect, of gratitude, of connection.

Later, when I was living in Morocco, I would bring these exact boxes back to the Netherlands for my father. He loved Moroccan cookies. Somehow, they tasted even sweeter when shared across countries – like small edible bridges between two worlds.

Arriving in Azilal

When we finally arrived in Azilal, it felt like stepping into a different rhythm. The air was cooler than in Marrakech. The mountains surrounded the town quietly. And I knew – before even stepping inside – that meeting Grandma Aicha was more than just a polite introduction.
It was the beginning of something.

A blonde girl in the mountains

The first time we briefly stopped by Grandma Aicha’s house, I was welcomed warmly.
The second time?

Oh, that was a full-blown village event. It felt like half of Azilal had gathered outside, whispering and pointing at the blonde lady from Holland. Children stared openly. Women nudged each other. Doors opened. Curtains moved. News travels fast in a small town.

Women took my hand and pulled me inside, inviting me to sit, to drink tea, to eat. I was examined gently but thoroughly – my hair, my skin, my eyes. Not in a hostile way. Just curious. Curious in that beautifully human way.

Unfortunately, I didn’t speak a word of Arabic or Tamazight, and they always apologized that they didn’t speak English. But somehow, we laughed and connected anyway. Smiles translate.

Over the next two years, I lost count of how many women warned me – with the most loving concern – to protect my pale skin from the sun. “Such a shame if it gets dark,” they would say.
Back in the Netherlands, people chase sunburns as if they’re luxury handbags. In rural Morocco? Pale skin is prized. Life is funny like that.

Driving, dignity & a small cultural earthquake

Before going in for tea that day, Said parked the car. Well – tried to.

We had rented one for the trip, since Said didn’t own a car at the time. I gently suggested he reverse a little more because of some rocks nearby. Let’s just say his driving skills were still… in development.

Getting a driver’s license in Morocco can sometimes be surprisingly uncomplicated – a few laps around the block and voilà, you’re certified. Mountain parking, however, requires a bit more finesse. Eventually, I took the keys, slid into the driver’s seat, and reversed the car perfectly into place. The silence that followed was immediate. Then came the faces.

Mouths open.
Raised eyebrows.
Whispers.

A woman… driving backwards?
I might as well have landed a spaceship in their driveway.

It wasn’t rebellion. It wasn’t drama. It was simply unexpected. And that’s when I realized something about living in another culture: sometimes you don’t mean to make a statement. You just exist
differently.

Tea is never just tea

Inside, tea was already being poured. In Morocco, mint tea isn’t just a drink. It’s hospitality. It’s respect. It’s warmth poured from a silver teapot held high above small glasses. And it never comes alone.

The table slowly filled with homemade bread, olives, honey, small dishes prepared with care. Food in Morocco isn’t rushed. It’s shared. It’s generous. It’s made with heart.

As I sat there between Grandma Aicha and the women of the family, surrounded by a language I didn’t understand but somehow felt, something shifted quietly inside me.
I hadn’t just moved to Morocco.

I had stepped into a world that was layered, proud, complicated, generous – and deeply human.
That day in Azilal was my first of many.

And somewhere between mountain roads, Moroccan cookies, mint tea, and the steady presence of Grandma Aicha…

I knew I wasn’t just visiting anymore.
I was already becoming part of the story.