Falling for It: A Newbie Navigates Marrakech–with a Little Help from an English Novel

Down the lane from my house in the Marrakech medina, four brown cows’ hooves dangle just above eye level. They’re a specialty item at the micro-butchery, where the owner wears a long face and a stern expression.

Less than two miles away, I find myself dangling from the ceiling of a room in the new part of the city. It’s my first aerial yoga class. The trilingual instructor (“This is Netflix English,” she says) shows us how to swing from swaths of purple fabric. For the class finale, ten women hang motionless in our silky cocoons, like chrysalises waiting to emerge.

I shuttle between the ancient world and the new age, propelled by privilege, curiosity and a desire to connect. Back in the medina market, a fruit vendor gives me impromptu Darija (Moroccan Arabic) lessons, counting out numbers and asking friendly questions—some of which I can decipher (“Bebe?”) and others I can’t fathom.

Then I pedal my bike down four-lane streets buzzing with cars, motor scooters and horse-drawn carriages—plus the occasional cart-pushing pedestrian—to emerge a couple centuries later into The Spot, a coworking space striving for a startup vibe.

The scene boasts fast wifi, emoji pillows and a fleet of Americans pecking away at laptops. In this familiar world, connections come easily: Lunch at the food court in the mall with other digital nomads. A movie at the Yves Saint Laurent Museum with teachers from the international school. Coffee dates with other American writers.

But in the medina, I struggle to navigate new relationships. Never before have I lived alongside so many people who have so much less wealth and mobility than me. Sometimes a real connection seems to be forming, and then I’m caught short by a whiff of the transactional: The chatty fruit vendor overcharges for my avocadoes and bananas. The sweet housekeeper, whose services came with my rental house, proposes to sell me used blankets at a 100% markup over the cost of new ones.

And the 20ish, English-speaking Mohammed, who helped me find my way on the day I arrived? A few days later, I take him up on a ride (“for friendly, not for money”) to a special Berber holiday that turns out to be…wait for it…a shop selling Berber rugs and leather goods.

I have to hand it to the Moroccans. If Marrakech is any indication, they’re a nation of scrappers. And I try to put our interactions in the category of “both/and” rather than “either/or.” People can share genuine warmth and curiosity, AND they can view me as a kind of walking ATM. Both can be true.

Now, when Mohammed sees me in the neighborhood, he just asks how I’m doing. Am I enjoying Marrkech? Because the citizens really want tourists to enjoy it.

When I pedal up to the fruit vendor, he emerges from behind his cart to shake my hand, address me by name and remind me of his: Hassan. He eschews Google Translate, which is probably for the best. (Last week it translated “chicken” as flesh of the cock.) We agree that my progress in Darija is “schwee-uh, schwee-uh,” which can only mean glacially slow.

The English major in me half-remembers a line from Howard’s End about being swindled (a little) as way of “paying rent” to faith in humanity. I looked it up. Our heroine, Margaret, says of her father, “You remember how he would trust strangers, and if they fooled him he would say, ‘It’s better to be fooled than to be suspicious’—that the confidence trick is the work of man, but the want-of-confidence trick is the work of the devil.”

So, I try to keep my wits about me (“no thanks” on the second-hand blankets, and no more motor scooter rides with helpful young men) while staying open to the adventure. As the epigraph to Howard’s End has it, “Only connect.” Some days, it’s easier than others.