With the beautiful new airport and the well paved, tree-lined avenues leading into town, it feels like we could be in Southern Spain, or maybe even Provence. The full impact of arrival in Marrakesh doesn’t hit me until we enter the walls of the medina and make our way to the heart of the old town.

We pull into Place du Moukef. I suppose the right term is parking lot, and what is parked in Place du Moukef ranges from tourist vans to taxis to scooters to donkey carts. Dusty, crowded and chaotic, with multiple languages being spoken and dozens of people negotiating multiple agendas - men in djellabas gesticulating in Darija, women in hijab walking briskly by, tourists in sunglasses looking dazed on arrival or sad in leaving - this is where I realize we are somewhere we have never been before.

A tall, thin man with a serious demeanor but kind eyes is there to meet us. This is Said (sah-eed), from Riad Dar Akal, our home for the next few days.

He greets us warmly, speaking excellent English with us and even better German with our companions. Then a stocky, shorter young man loads our bags onto yet another mode of transport - a handcart - and we head out of Place du Moukef and deeper into the medina.

Motorcycle exhaust, leather, spices, raw meat - these are the smells that envelop us. Shops line the walls. Local women shop for the day’s meal, boys and young men hang out, playing, or running by, older men working in tiny spaces, repairing machines or negotiating prices. We follow Said and his hired luggage handler, keeping them in sight lest we get caught in the stream of humanity, never getting to rest and never seeing our belongings again.

It's a brief but bewildering walk - around corners, through alleyways and under arches. “Remember this mosque, this is where you turn right” Said tells us, pointing up at the small tower above us, indicating that indeed, what just looked like a brick wall was actually a mosque.

We are heading away from the main lane and the crush of humanity, but the alleys are getting narrower and the twists and turns more frequent.

We drop Cris and Rosa off at their riad - managed by a fellow who speaks excellent Spanish - and Said takes us to Dar Akal. We are immediately taken into a small room surrounding a beautiful courtyard.

“Please have a seat. I will bring tea. Moroccan mint tea.”

And we sit, and look around, and marvel at the peaceful atmosphere inside the riad. Plants are growing and water is gurgling gently in some as yet seen fountains. The chaos of the medina seems like a distant memory.

Said returns with a beautiful silver server, two clear glasses and a small plate of cookies. He pours from the pot and an iridescent green liquid streams into the glass, steam rising as it does so. It is minty and sweet and refreshing. I lean back into the love seat, and breathe out a long exhale.

Said emanates real calm. He is a professional innkeeper, yes, but I do not feel professionally managed. I feel gently and thoughtfully welcome.

He walks us through the usual details - the cookies are delicious - and we chit chat a little. He tells us he is from the desert in the South. “Are you Amazigh?” I ask, pronouncing the G.

“Amazigh,” he says, pronouncing it Amazeer, “Yes. Like most Moroccans, even in Marrakesh. I grew up in the desert, I speak Tamazight.”

We went on for a while, getting to know each other as we felt more and more at home. Finally he gave us our keys and showed us around. Multiple side rooms around the open center, where breakfast would be served - and dinner too if we’d like to have it arranged. He took us to the roof, which has a 360 degree view of the surrounding medina and points beyond - the Koutoubia Mosque rising  in the distance.

Then to our room. Dark, long and spare, just as I had seen in hundreds of posts and articles. It feels seductively restful from the moment we walk in.

But we don’t stay long, as we know the sun is about to set. Time to get back to the roof. 

We stand on the roof, taking pictures of the setting sun and the fascinating skyline. Then we hear it - the call to prayer, projecting in a jumble from all of the mosques sprinkled throughout the old town.

I  am not religious in any way, but I have always loved the sound of the call to prayer. To me it is simultaneously ephemeral, haunting, communal and comforting. Hearing it as the sun began to set on our first day in Marrakesh is something I will never forget.

We are not in Spain. We are definitely not in the United States. Where we are, though, is exactly where we need to be, and we know it.