The alarm went off in Antwerp at an hour that has no business existing. Marrakech calling!
We loaded our snap suitcases into the baskets of two a-velo shared bikes and pedaled to the station in the dark, the kind of early morning where the city belongs entirely to bakers and poor decisions. First train to Brussels Airport. Then the flight south.
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We slept the way you sleep when the riad is quiet, and the mattress has no agenda. Deeply, completely, and longer than planned. Breakfast appeared the way a good breakfast should: unhurried, generous, with bread still warm and coffee that asked nothing of you. The internal clock, which had been running on airport time since yesterday, finally reset.
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Some days are just about covering ground. Fourteen hours of it, from the Atlantic coast to the edge of the Sahara, through the dark, over the Atlas, and into a landscape that makes everything before it feel like a warm-up. We left Essaouira at two in the morning and arrived in Merzouga at four in the afternoon. In between: one sleeping coffee vendor, one spooked camel, and a bathroom that redefined the concept of soap.
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We left Fes without regret, drove through valleys that kept changing their mind about what Morocco should look like, got shaken down again by a gendarme with a clipboard and an invention, and ended the day in Chefchaouen, where the streets are blue and the people are not trying to sell you your own shadow.
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Chefchaouen deserved a full day. Asilah deserved a stop. Tangier deserved the best room of the trip. And then it was over.
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