Casablanca Wasn’t Magic. It Was Real.
I landed in Casablanca expecting cinematic chaos—whitewashed buildings, markets that swallow you whole, the city humming with a kind of old-world promise. Instead, I got a cracked sidewalk, the smell of diesel, and a sky that looked tired. I wandered the medina, trying to feel something profound, but mostly I felt like an outsider, sweating through my shirt and counting my cash.
I kept waiting for the city to reveal itself, for some movie-moment epiphany. It never came. What I got was a man selling oranges who called me 'sister' and meant it, and a quiet rooftop where the call to prayer echoed off concrete. It wasn’t awe. It was something smaller, and maybe more honest.
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