According to my pathetic map, I should have been near the Royal Palace. However, in Casablanca’s bustling Mars Sur Tank Quarter, streetcars rang past shoe stores and cafes, making them seem less cool remote. I tried one street and the following: Finally, I approached a teenage girl wearing jeans and headscarf downing diet coke outside the snack bar.
“I’m looking for a palace,” I said in elementary French, pointing to my map. “I say it should be near here.”
One of the girls glanced at the wrinkled paper and in a voice loaded with teenage emptying, “You don’t have one?” phone?
No, I didn’t have a phone. Rather, I did, but I wasn’t using it.
Except for buying a plane ticket, my plan was to explore Casablanca, a Moroccan city I’ve never visited, without using the internet. That is, there were no online research, GPS, Uber, Airbnbs, virtual dictionaries, and no mindless scrolling to avoid social awkwardness.
When many of us feel more and more of the need for digital detox, I am deeply aware of how the internet has deteriorated due to all its benefits. It not only played an important role in overtourism, it flattened the sense of discovery. By perusing restaurant menus, visualizing the site and compiling a must-see list, the Internet will tell you what you will experience before you arrive.
I could have used the guidebook, but it seemed to be against the spirit of effort. After all, my main goal was to see if I would recover the chances of exploration. And along the way I learned some retro travel lessons.
Lesson 1: Get a good map
After leaping into Mohammed V airport in Casablanca, my first business was to find a map. I approached the woman sitting at what I took to become an information desk. “Of course I have a map,” she replied. “I have a phone.”
But she led me towards the train to the city centre. When I arrived at the airy station, I realized how difficult it is to have the plugs unplugged here. There was no sign for “You’re here” and there was no place to hide my luggage while I was pointing in the direction, and a clear sign of that direction led to the city centre.
There was no map yet, so I chose the direction and started walking. The palm-lined boulevards looked like a good bet, and soon I was inside the shops and restaurants. Over the gates of what became an old medina, I saw a hand-drawn sign.Ryad 91.
Lesson 2: Ask me to see the room
I have known from previous trips, from trips to other Moroccan cities that “riad” or “riad” means “inn.” Soon, Mohammed, a tall, glasses-wearing man, welcomed me in the cushioned-bedecked lobby and didn’t seem to offend me when he asked me to see the only remaining room, a dig of 360, or about $37. It was simple and clean, but claustrophobic and had an open window in the interior courtyard. The next day, I decided to look for something more spacious and got into my room.
In the meantime, I asked Mohammed for a map. “A minute,” he said, sitting on his computer and printing it out from Google. There are about 12 streets named above. The rest was tangled in the lines.
Lesson 3: Accept your ignorance
The good thing about ignorance is that it can turn everything into discovery. And there were many things that fascinated me along the winding alleys of Casablanca: the elegant minaret. A bakery that pulls hot, flat bread from an outdoor oven. A splash of vibrant street art on a whitewashed wall named after Casablanca.
My wandering began outside the inn door. Keeping the harbor to the right, I meandered west through the noisy food market. There, vendors were selling fat walnuts from their carts. As I walked along the fortress that was built when Portugal ruled the harbor, I saw a huge structure. We asked the boys jumping into the sea from the rocky beach and what it was. “C’est La Plus Grande Mosquéedu Monde” was the reply.
Did I really stumble at the largest mosque in the world? Alas, my informants were not entirely reliable. Hassan II Mosque It may have one of the world’s biggest minarets, but it is not the biggest in itself. And when the tour bus around the corner proves, it is Casablanca’s main attraction.
I understand why the boy exaggerated it. With the ability of 25,000 people, the mosque is designed not only to its size, but also to be respectful. Every centimeter is covered in intricate craftsmanship, from plaster work to mosaics and fretwork. At the attached museum, I learned that 12,000 artisans were required to complete it.
My walks have brought more discoveries. Downtown streets lined with Art Deco buildings. Elegant modern Moroccan art Villa de Arts; Abderrahman slaoui There is a museum, Berber gems and colonial travel posters.
By traveling without expectation, you can also be more abiding in normal life. I loved coming across a square man selling coffee from a small pot. Then the desperate woman from Zigella Bass scrambled to get an air fryer that had just been on sale.
Casablanca wasn’t working hard for tourists. It was busy living my life.
Lesson 4: Let go of FOMO
We found a second hotel on the streets of the villa decorated with bougainvillea. Room Doge (approximately 2,200 Dirhams) once in a private home, leaning hard against the origins of the jazz era, featuring velvet-lined walls and at least one photo of Josephine Baker. Staying there in inlay furniture and orange flower scented soap, I tried not to wonder if there was even a more exquisite Casablanca hotel It wasn’t Found.
Unplugged travel means letting go of the fear of missing out. The Internet can convince us that its best list is objective truth and that fewer travelers have settled down because they do not pass through them.
I had to fight the sparkle in the central market. There, dozens of seafood stalls served fresh oysters and fish tagin. How to choose? Thanks to the local businessman, I settled in Nadia. Did the juicy grilled sardines drizzle with the charming chelmoura sauce? They were the best I had.
The same applies to perfectly spice chicken shawarma sampled in the upscale Racine district, and delicate gazelle horn pastries at bakeries in Gautier Quarter.
However, that strategy did not work in the quest for sit-in restaurants serving traditional Moroccan food. Because local diners choose different dishes than what they get at home. So when I came in Le Quistot I’ve heard the tiled dining room and Castilian Spanish, British English and New Jersey accents, but I didn’t have high hopes.
However, my couscous tfaya was fluffy, the vegetables were flavorful, and the caramelized onions and almonds added just the right amount of sweetness and crunch. When chef and owner Aziz Berada said his couscous was the best in Casablanca, I believed him.
If so, it was one of his talents. Before Aziz became a chef, he told me, he was a photographer of King Hassan II, the same monarch who ordered the construction of the impressive mosque. When the monarch died, Aziz decided it was time for a career change.
Lesson 5: Talk to people
My conversation with Aziz – It didn’t happen if he was buried on the phone while eating, but I wanted to see the palace where he worked. On my last day, the Doge receptionist printed yet another Google Map.
That’s when I got lost. After no help from the soda drinking teenager, I wandered the block and finally asked for instructions from an older man pointing to the far-flung red flag: the palace.
That was not the only thing that was open to the public. clearly.
The internet would have made this clear. But when I tackled the realization that I had spent hours reaching those mysterious walls, I spied on the streets lined with bookstores. At least I thought I might find a decent map.
And I did. But the streets also sold shops selling hand-woven rugs and copper tea sets, courtyards filled with olive barrels, and even before I came across a small museum of Andalusian instruments, they sold warrens in whitewashed alleys that reminded me of Andalusia.
Designed by the French in the 1920s and 30s, the habous neighborhood looked like a Moroccan stage set.
I learned this from a woman who introduced herself as Iman when I stopped for mint tea at Imperial Cafe. Salutes from passersby were frequently made as she sat near me and appeared to be either a celebrity or mayor. I asked if I could talk to her about the neighborhood.
“Of course, lover,” she said in perfect English. “I love Americans. You’re very spontaneous.”
Lesson 6: Stay open
Iman suggested moving the conversation to a nearby location. I think I might overcome my skepticism and get local recommendations.
As we walked, Iman’s Rapid Fire Monologue left a small space to ask about her favorite restaurant. However, I learned that she once lived in the US, sold real estate, worked for a jewelry company, and drove an Uber.
Finally, we arrived at a wall that was slightly less than the set of palaces. The guards led us through doors carved into a gorgeous building with green and blue geometric tiles and intricate plasterwork walls and courtyards dotted with orange trees. I still didn’t know where I was (later I learned that it was Pasha’s former court and residence, and is now used for cultural events). And I was given a mystery to staff, including a bureaucrat with a stern look on my face and a cleaning lady who effectively greeted Iman.
Who is It was Iman? Politician
Source: www.nytimes.com
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