Morocco. The land of olives and oranges, dates, bread and harisa, strong mint tea, cookies laced with honey and almonds, lamb. A place were soccer is played in narrow alleys late into the night, neighborhoods are organized around bakeries and the hammam, and even the simplest of homes is a visual feast of painted tile, carved wood, chiseled plaster. The call to prayer. Men in cafes. A fierce, refreshing wind and an ever changing landscape. So much of these spaces felt familiar in a way that is hard to describe–and not just because of the influence of North African Muslims on Argentina (via Spain.)

Our last night in Marrakech, our last night in Morocco, we stumbled through dark alleys in the rain (many wrong turns righted by kind Marrakeshi) and arrived late at Naïma for dinner. Seeing us, the chef’s son jumped on his motorbike to get more chicken (the kind you pick out, weigh, kill, soak for a good while in hot water & pluck.) Many cups of strong mint tea — and an unexpected, epic, cooking lesson in couscous de la maison — later, we were served the most delicious couscous, made with love and generations of practice. A perfect end to a trip rich in history and memory. We will be back, inshallah.






The Sahara Desert & The Atlas Mountains





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