AN HOUR AFTER my plane lands at Marrakech’s gleaming, modern international airport, I find myself stuck in a huge traffic jam. My taxi inches forward, navigating donkey carts, pedestrians with towering bundles on their shoulders, battered saloon cars from the 1950s, camels, horse-drawn wagons and hundreds of weaving, swerving mopeds. At a major intersection near the center of the city, a traffic policeman waves his arms but has little hope of controlling the wonderful chaos.
The city’s thrilling energy and its proximity to Europe have drawn generations of affluent European travelers. Winston Churchill visited, as did Édith Piaf, Maurice Chevalier and Yves Saint Laurent (who bought the lovely Villa Majorelle and whose ashes are buried in its gardens). Hippies and rock stars came in the ’60s and ’70s, and it remains a lure for celebrities. The draw has always been the same: a unique mixture of urban intensity with the sense of escaping to a magical, distant place.
For most visitors, the pink-walled medina— the old city—is the primary attraction of Marrakech. Many head initially for Jemaa el-Fna, the main square and open-air space that may be touristy but is unlike any other place on Earth. Here, you’ll encounter monkey-handlers, snake-charmers, dancers, magicians and peddlers of traditional medicines—along with hundreds of food stalls. The souks (marketplaces), whose various entrances are tucked behind and above restaurants and cafés at the edges of the square, sell perfumes, spices, bags, clothing, baskets, shawls, carpets and shoes.