I knew our visit to Morocco was going to be very quick – into Marrakech at 7:30 am Wednesday morning and back to Madrid by 11:00 am Thursday. Rather than pack those twenty-four hours or so with pre-planned and well-researched activities, however, my friend and I pretty much just got on the plane, looked up a few things on Lonely Planet, and bought a map in the airport before hopping on a taxi to our hostel.

So when we stepped out of the cab into the huge and chaotic Djemaa el Fna market I couldn’t help but think that maybe I should have done a little more preparation for this. My senses were suddenly inundated by motorcycle horns and calls of shop owners showcasing scarves and ceramics and smells wafting out of spice stands and food vendors and people running into me and people offering to guide us and people standing around taking pictures and people just crammed in the streets trying to get away from all the other people. It was an exciting but overwhelming first impression, and I was relieved to find some quiet inside the cozy, cushioned lobby of our hostel, where we were served a simple but delicious breakfast of tea and bread and honey and conversed with other, equally overwhelmed travelers.

Reenergized by our meal and equipped with sightseeing suggestions from our fellow hostel-dwellers, we threw our stuff in our room and went back out into the market, determined not to waste any time. We spent the rest of the day exploring a few palaces and a museum, buying food from street vendors, and walking down small, busy streets allowing ourselves to be awed by the intensity of our surroundings.

For dinner, we ate tajines and couscous on a terrace overlooking the center plaza of the market, watching as the sun set on the long stretch of flat rooftops and marveling as the night vendors replaced the orange juice stands and snake charmers on the streets below us. At night, the market is a whole different animal. Storytellers and dancers and palm readers take their place next to the newly set up food tents, filling the square with shouts and bursts of music. Locals and tourists squeeze onto makeshift tables to sample grilled meats and mint tea or crowd around the musicians and other acts, a fog of steam and smoke from the grills accentuating the exotic aura of the market.

We couldn’t really take pictures, because as soon as we were seen with a camera out we would get asked for money to pay for the photo, but my friend managed to discreetly capture a few seconds of the sounds of the night:

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After eating some boiled snails and avocado ice cream, my travel companion and I, plus a friend from home that I literally bumped into after dinner, sat down at an outdoor restaurant to order a pastilla and almond juice and delay the end of our one day here.

A man sitting at the next table, who we later learned was named Khalid, heard us speaking English and, clearly wanting to practice the language, struck up a conversation with us. He kept expressing how happy he was that we were there, that we Americans had decided to experience his country and his culture. I asked him why he said that. “You’re breaking stereotypes,” he said. “You chose to explore another country. And I’m happy you chose Morocco.” Amazing the celebrity status (positive and negative) one can receive just by virtue of one’s citizenship. What did I personally do to deserve that? Be lucky enough to be born where I was. Nothing else. Weird.

After giving us his email address in case we decide to return, Khalid left and we returned to our hostel. We flew back to Madrid the next morning, exhausted but content and feeling like we saw as much as we could see in a day of the colorful, intense, eclectic, and bustling city of Marrakech.