Morocco adventure: Navigating medinas and missed connections

I’m just not nimble anymore, which I knew could be a problem when we booked a trip to Morocco. Our son was studying there, and the plan was to meet in Tangier and head south to explore the madness that is the Medina of Fez before backtracking to Spain for some proper beach-bumming in Valencia. (In Morocco, we’d wanted to check out Marrakech or Chefchaouen, the “Blue City,” but our son had been both places already.)

What did I know about Morocco? Not a lot, honestly — aside from its well-deserved rep as a hospitable, hash-fueled hangout for literary types like Paul Bowles (“The Sheltering Sky”) and William Burroughs (“Naked Lunch”), spies, and rockers, notably guitarist Keith Richards, whose relationship with actress Anita Pallenberg began in Marrakech in 1967. (Pallenberg was involved at the time with Richards’ Rolling Stones bandmate Brian Jones, who, awkwardly, was with the pair in Morocco.)

As it turned out, we needed to be nimble almost immediately: Our flight from Boston to Madrid was delayed, which caused us to miss our connection to Tangier and push everything back a day. Hardly a catastrophe, but since we had a train to catch, we didn’t get to stroll Tangier’s bustling medina, visit the Kasbah Museum, or lounge on the municipal beach where the Atlantic and Mediterranean meet to create the Strait of Gibraltar.

The train to Fez takes about four hours and includes a connection in Meknes. (The second leg of the trip was seriously oversold, so the train was teeming.) Here’s a tip: train tickets in Morocco are cheapest when purchased through ONCF, the state-owned railway operator. We didn’t know that, of course, which meant we paid $120 for seats that could have cost $15. Oh well.

People who have never been to Morocco often imagine a vast desert. But the train to Fez sped through a wildly varied landscape — lush citrus and olive groves, small stucco dwellings with kids kicking dusty soccer balls, miles of manicured farmland, empty creek beds, goats and donkeys, solar farms, aloe plants resembling small dinosaurs. (The succulents, flowering spectacularly in pale yellow, orange, and vivid red, are native to North Africa.) The journey was a reminder that trains are a wondrous way to travel.

Because stepping off a train in Fez can be disorienting — noisy, hot, and crowded — we arranged for someone from our riad to meet us at the station. Riads are the traditional Moroccan homes or palaces that operate throughout the walled-off maze of alleys, squares, and markets we’d come to explore. Typically, a riad — “garden” in Arabic — has an open-air courtyard (like Isabella Stewart Gardner’s place), mezzanines, a salon-like common area, kitchen, and guest rooms with private bathrooms.

Friends had recommended Riad Idrissy, a 400-year-old property with a magical vibe. The courtyard, where breakfast and dinner are served, was decrepit yet dreamy, with crumbling columns, a mosaic floor and fountain, a garden with fruit trees, palms, jasmine, and potted cacti, and a couple of cats and turtles under foot. (There are many cats in Fez.) Arriving at the riad, we were led first to the ornate common area and served icy lemonade fixed with honey and mint. Our third-floor suite, accessible by a narrow, unlit stairwell, was old-world elegant, with an antique, four-poster bed, armoire, an old lamp or two, large windows overlooking the courtyard, and a terrace, where the muezzin’s call to prayer could be heard echoing throughout the medina fives times a day. (Our per-night cost: 95 euros, or $108, including a tasty breakfast with ample Moroccan coffee.)

The medina, which dates to the ninth century, is sensory overload, a kaleidoscopic bazaar of shops and craftspeople selling, well, you name it: pottery, leather goods, fabrics, scarves, bedspreads, oils, lanterns, baskets, carpets, candy, jewelry, etc. I don’t like to haggle, but it’s encouraged in the medina because a bit of good-natured negotiating makes a sale more likely. (Our son had taken a few Arabic classes, so he handled the haggling.) As you wander the warren of 9,000 streets, alleys, and hidden lanes, the odor of food and spices can be enchanting, but the smell of the 1,000-year-old Chouara Tannery definitely is not. We were handed sprigs of fresh mint to hold to our nose while surveying the stone vats filled with a noxious blend of cow urine, pigeon poop, bleach, and stagnant water used to soften the animal hides before they’re dyed. What a reek!

Twenty-five years ago, on a trip to Tuscany, my wife and I bought pottery that we shipped home. In Morocco, we did it again, taking a car to Art D’Argile, a workshop outside the medina where artisans design and produce traditional Moroccan tajines, platters, bowls, vases, and cups. We watched pieces being thrown and glazed, and tiny zellije mosaic tiles painstakingly assembled to create stunning tabletops and fountains. Our purchase — the major indulgence of our trip — arrived intact in Medford less than a month later.

If you’re wondering about Moroccans’ attitudes toward Americans — and why wouldn’t you since President Trump has called African nations “shithole” countries — everyone was genial. But then Morocco has long had a good relationship with America; it was the first country — in 1777! — to formally recognize the independence of the United States. That spirit of connection can also be felt in the Mellah of Fez, the historic Jewish quarter, which dates to the 15th century. Today, the Jewish population in Fez is a tiny fraction of what it once was — generations ago, many emigrated to Israel, France, and Canada — but the synagogues, cemetery, and the Mellah Market, with its spice merchants and pickle vendors, are testament to the rich history of the Jewish community and culture in Fez.

“You have your religion and I have mine,” our Muslim driver said, pulling up outside the ancient Al Fassiyine Synagogue. “That’s all. No problem.”

It was time for us to go. The next morning, we took a flight north to Seville, with a four-hour layover in Casablanca. There, I googled the Oscar-winning 1942 movie to see if there were any sites in Morocco’s largest city where Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman had filmed. There weren’t; “Casablanca” was shot entirely on soundstages in Burbank, Calif. I decided to have a siesta in the airport.

Mark Shanahan can be reached at mark.shanahan@globe.com.