Travel Corner: Dreaming of Morocco

Abandoned Houses in the Atlas, Tafraout, Morocco. Courtesy Wikimedia.

by Lydia Agidius, Program Director

Our travel program will tour Morocco the fall of 2026. Reserve your spot today!

The weather is turning crisper and the days are getting shorter and grayer (mostly from the smoke, I know). With the feeling of fall in the air comes slower mornings, where the world is quiet enough to let me “figuratively” linger over a warm cup of tea. I find myself daydreaming more, and my mind inevitably wanders toward travel. Where will I go, what will I see, what will I taste? And—because I always want the best of both worlds—how can I be bougee on a budget? I dream of warmth, of a place where the sun still lingers when it has already disappeared from here.

Lately, my mind keeps slipping to Morocco. A marriage of the three.
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The thought of arriving there feels like stepping into a story that has been told for centuries. Marrakech comes alive first in my imagination, its heart beating in the labyrinth of souks. The air is perfumed with cinnamon, saffron, cumin—scents that wrap around you like an embrace. The streets are a kaleidoscope of color: rugs spilling over stalls, brass lanterns glittering in the light, and fabrics that ripple like water when touched by the breeze. In the middle of all this, hidden behind heavy wooden doors, are riads—quiet sanctuaries with tiled courtyards and the gentle sound of fountains. They feel like secret palaces, though their prices whisper of generosity rather than extravagance.

From there, I drift to the desert, the endless Sahara. I see myself swaying on camelback, the dunes glowing golden as the sun slips lower, each curve of sand catching fire with light. When night comes, the stars unveil themselves with a brilliance I’ve never known—so many, so close, it feels as though the sky has bent nearer just for me. Dinner is simple, a tagine slow-cooked over coals, but eaten under that sky it becomes unforgettable. Wrapped in silence and starlight, I imagine falling asleep with the soft hush of shifting sand as my lullaby.

And then Casablanca appears, with its own quiet romance. It is a city of contrasts: modern and bustling, yet still deeply tethered to tradition. I picture the Hassan II Mosque rising from the edge of the sea, its minaret a lantern guiding you home. I wander along the Corniche at dusk, the Atlantic rolling in gentle rhythm, and I linger in cafés where the air is filled with the murmur of conversation and laughter.

Casablanca feels like a meeting point between worlds—where the past and present, the sacred and the everyday, exist together, seamlessly. There’s something magnetic in that balance, a kind of beauty that doesn’t demand attention but lingers softly, like a melody you can’t quite forget.

And always, there is the food. Morocco seems to speak through its flavors: the warmth of spices, the sweetness of mint tea poured high into waiting glasses, the comfort of couscous shared in the glow of lantern light. Even the simplest meal becomes an act of connection, a reminder that nourishment here is about more than eating—it is about slowing down, savoring, and belonging, if only for a moment, to something larger than yourself.

As the days grow colder here at home, Morocco pulls me in with its promise of warmth, color, and rhythm. It feels like a place where life is lived fully, richly, and yet gently. To wander its streets, to watch the desert sky, to taste its food is to step into a dream that lingers long after you wake.

A street in the medina quarter of the city of Marrakech. Courtesy Wikimedia.