Nothing good happens after 2 A.M.
Ted Mosby’s Grandma, How I Met Your Mother
“We’re staying in the same hostel!” I heard my flight neighbours say.
Their choice was the most popular option on the booking site I used, but, anticipating the inevitable chaos over the coming days, I couldn’t resist the temptation to book a single room in a riad instead.
Had I gone to the hostel, I wouldn’t have this story to tell.
It’s the first flight of the year. Half past midnight.
I land in Morocco: a new stamp for my passport and the chosen rendezvous point to celebrate my birthday with friends and their little ones, all arriving from different cities on different flights over the next few days.
We make the (loooong) passport queue together.
Three seconds later, it’s 1:30 a.m.
Despite my decade-long experience as a travel agent wanna be, I couldn’t find a single flight landing at a more reasonable hour. The city, however, seems used to it—an assumption based solely on the fact that check-ins are available until 2:00 AM, which has reassured me at the time of booking.
All I have to do is get a taxi to drop me off at the riad’s doorstep. I’ll deal with the SIM card and currency exchange the next day—nothing too complicated.
Still, a bit of caution and common sense (measured by my own highly questionable standards) never hurt, so I made sure to:
- Book a room in a hotel very close to the airport (5.6 km), just a 7-minute drive away.
- Download an offline map of Marrakech.
That should keep me safe and sound.
A taxi and a forbidden road
I’m in a country I don’t know, where the primary language is Arabic—a language I don’t remotely speak (to put it mildly and avoid confessing that if someone said “thank you” to me, I’d think they were verbally attacking me).
My flight neighbours wait for their pre-booked transfer to the hostel, and I book a taxi at the only authorized kiosk, where I’m handed a receipt to present at the parking lot entrance.
I pay my dues: €20. Excessive for 6 km, but if that’s the price for my safety, it feels fair enough.
Or so I thought.
At the parking lot, I show my ticket to a young man, who calls a taxi driver.
“I can drop you nearby.”
“Nearby?”
“The streets are too narrow in the Medina, I can’t drive through. You’ll have to walk a bit.”
“Walk?
Alone?
At 1:40 in the morning?
Without a phone?
Without internet?”
He looks at me, puzzled.
I clarify, to help him understand: “Is it safe to walk alone at this hour?”
“Aadjjhmnjhmnjlkdfj*other words in arabic I don’t understand*jjhmnjhmnjlkd, sure.”
He looks offended.
Apparently, my questioning the safety of a lone woman wandering the Medina at night was taken as an insult to the entire local population—him included.
He repeats my question twice more, shaking his head, as though it were such an absurd statement that he needed to repeat it to make sense of it.
Noticing I’d struck a nerve, to defend my insolent insinuation, I add: “There are cities that are safe by day but not so much at 2 a.m.—especially for a woman alone. I have no idea how it is here.”
To be fair, I did have an idea, but it only fueled my worries.
As we head to his taxi, I recall the advice from friends who’d been here: avoid going out after dark, especially alone. And 2 a.m.? That’s definitely well past “dinner hour”.
The driver is adamant the Medina is safe. But since I insist, he calls the riad.
I listen to the sounds of the call. I have no clue what’s being said, but I can tell from his tone he’s mocking me. I guess making fun of somebody must sound the same in every language.
He confirms he can’t drop me at the riad’s door and leaves me at the beginning of a pedestrian zone.
Two seconds of relief upon noticing there are still plenty of people around—until I realize what kind of people.
The walk of shadows
I put on my neutral-serious expression—the one that wouldn’t suggest to anyone that I’m a friendly person in the mood to chat. Paired with a confident stride that says I know exactly where I’m going (entirely staged), it seemed my best bet for arriving undisturbed.
I fantasize about having a Matrix-style implant installed at the base of my neck, loaded with a lethal combat program to drop-kick any potential threat with acrobatic precision.
But alas, reality demanded I stick to Plan A.
I walk, feeling a spotlight from the heavens illuminating me, judging by the stares I’m getting.
Every man (no woman in sight) turns to look at me, and those close enough to be heard, say something. My large backpack and my ivory face scream, “Tourist!”
The deeper I go into the alley, the fewer people there are.
The most unnerving moments are when someone crosses the pedestrian area diagonally, directly in my path. Until the last second, I can’t tell if they’re going to crash into me or just pass by.
Almost all of them head towards the opposite sidewalk and, when they’re just a few inches from my ear, mutter what they think is a kind compliment—but which sends my heart racing and makes me pray the riad is just around the corner.
The encounter with the water thief
While I curse myself for not knowing the Medina is a pedestrian area, I spot a guy to my right heading straight toward me. For a fraction of a second, I stay calm, assuming he’s just crossing the street like everyone else. But judging by his trajectory, he’s about to run into me.
I speed up to get ahead of him. He just barely avoids colliding with me. He doesn’t hit me directly, but he slams into my bag, managing to yank the water bottle from the right-side pocket.
The tug spins me around, and I somehow pull off a ninja-like move that dodges the rest of the impact. When I come out of the unexpected pirouette, he’s no longer beside or behind me. He’s right in front of me.
For a microsecond, it feels like a scene from a period drama—just before the dance begins, when the couple steps into an invisible circle, facing each other. That—or a duel.
He smirks defiantly, clutching my (now ex-) water bottle like a trophy and saunters back to his pack of friends, all the while keeping his eyes locked on me.
Knowing full well that I don’t have access to the Matrix combat program I’d been fantasizing about, it doesn’t seem wise to make a fuss (in what language, anyway?) or to fight (haha).
The smartest choice I can think of is to turn on my heel and walk away—fast and far—from this idiot. Maybe he is harmless, just trying to show off to his friends. But still, I don’t want to hang around to find out.
I’d bought that water bottle at an airport jewellery bar, unsure if there would be vending machines or open cafes when upon arrival. But by this point, dehydration is the least of my problems.
How much farther to the riad?
The street grows emptier. My heartbeat grows louder.
Reaching a vast, dimly lit square (later identified as Jemaa el-Fnaa, one of the main ones), I see even fewer people and fewer lights.
I’m dying to just stop, take a deep breath, relax, and tell myself everything’s okay. But I don’t know if the guy from earlier is still watching me, and I refuse to turn around to check and risk encouraging him. On top of that, if I stop to look around, I’ll make it even more obvious that I have no idea where I’m going—and I don’t want anyone approaching me under the guise of offering help.
The last thing I need is someone offering to show me the way, only to take me where they want.
So, I keep moving, eyes glued to the little blue dot on the offline map, which marks my location. Almost there. I just need to turn right and it’s done.
Where the hell is the sign?
I don’t see the name I’m looking for anywhere.
The right side of the square—the direction I need to go—is completely dark. Pitch. Black.
I can’t see anything, I feel like a fish swimming in milk.
There are just two guys sitting on a step, positioned squarely between me and what I think is my final destination. It’s just me, them, and the dark.
I don’t have many options. I tell myself this is the final push.
They won’t even notice me.
I go.
Eyes still on the GPS.
50 meters.
40 meters.
20 meters.
10 meters.
I’m here.
Wait. Where the f*** is the hotel?
The square and the first moment of panic
The little blue dot perfectly overlaps the red pin marking the riad. But it’s not here!
Does the riad not have a sign?
I knock without shame on a random door.
Nothing.
Do I have the wrong address?
Is the GPS drunk?
Where should I go now?
What am I supposed to do?
Think, Filo. Think.
Until now, I’ve managed to hold back panic, discouragement, pessimism, and all their cheery travel companions—mostly because I’ve been certain I’d soon arrive at the hotel.
Now, I have no anchor.
Nothing to rely on.
My guardian angel doesn’t have a phone to hold out to call the riad. I can’t do an internet search to see which place is closest. I don’t trust anyone I see nearby.
I feel like sitting on the curb, burying my face in my hands, and waiting for dawn. Only four hours until sunrise, after all.
But if I do that, what are the odds I’ll actually see sunrise? Or maybe I’ll make it to morning, but without my documents, phone, or wallet?
The worst-case scenarios are playing out vividly in my mind when I spot a group of about ten blonde tourists. I rush toward them, desperate to breathe and let a tear run without worring of keeping my guard up. I run until I catch up with the last two stragglers (the gazelles leading the group haven’t even noticed me slip in).
Apologizing for the intrusion, I ask if I can walk with them for a bit, giving them a quick summary of the situation.
They barely acknowledge me. I feel in need for help, and since they are a big group, I ask the two girls in the back if they can help me find my hotel—it’s supposed to be somewhere in this very square.
Flustered from trying to keep up with the faster members of their group, they apologize, pick up their pace, and explain that they’re rushing to make a check-in and they are already late.
I join their mini-marathon for a short stretch, catching my breath and calming my racing heart without having to worry about being careful who I have on my right, left, front and back. As soon as I feel my neurons reoxygenated enough, I plant my feet and watch the members of that group being quickly swallowed up one by one by the darkness.
Once again, I’m alone.
I decide to ask someone for directions: the key is choosing the right person and be quick to avoid letting anyone else approach.
I scan the scene and quickly formulate my selection criterion to avoid someone having the time to approach and take the initiative to help me.
The encounter with the corn seller
I see is a man in his fifties selling corn on the cob (yes, at two in the morning). A boy is chatting with him.
Here you have my selection criteria.
“If the kid’s standing there chatting (and not buying corn), it means they know each other. He must be a regular in the square, probably a friend. That means the corn seller is the kind of guy you’d willingly stop and talk to—even if you couldn’t care less about corn.”
Not a bulletproof theory, I admit, but considering the options, it’s the best I can do.
Deal. That’s my guy.
I breathe, approach with a smile (or something that aspired to be one) and ask if they know where my riad is.
“No idea…!”
Not a great sign, considering I assume he’s here every day.
Thank God and every saint in heaven and in the calendar, the boy takes my phone, studies the map, zooms in, tilts his head for perspective, and finally signals for me to follow him.
At this point, I’m almost relaxed. Maybe this is what happens when you surrender yourself to whatever outcome might show up. Whether it’s desired or undesired.
He walks (as I had before) toward the dark corner of the square and stops in front of a tiny, pitch-black alleyway that I hadn’t even noticed before. It’s exactly where those two guys had been sitting earlier. He raises his hand and points into the void.
I look at him.
I look at the alley.
I look back at him, still pointing into the darkness.
“Here?” I ask, incredulous.
He nods.
I only breathe when I realize he’s walking away (so he’s not planning to accompany me or drag me in there).
Just then, two men walk into the alley, moving slowly and repeatedly turning to size me up from head to toe.
Shivering at the idea of entering that road with those two just steps ahead of me, and sure by now the boy is cool (yes, met three minutes ago, but still the person I know most in Marrakesh), I ask him to come with me.
He waves me off, as if to say, “Don’t worry, it’s only two meters ahead.”
Hoping it’s no more than five steps, I venture in.
I can only hear two sounds:
My heart pounding as if it’ll burst through my chest and the two men speaking in Arabic.
Those two, to make everything even more creepy, continue walking, exchanging words, and glancing back at me.
They start talking again and look back once more.
I take out my phone and loudly say in French, “J’arrive, oui oui!”
The reason for such a brilliant wit?
To make the two men think that someone is waiting for me to arrive—someone who knows I am in the alley and might even be coming to meet me.
Does this logic hold up?
I’ll never know, because I spot a hotel on the left. It’s not mine, but I dart inside anyway.
The encounter with a hero in slippers
For the first time since I got out of the taxi, I feel safe. I breathe freely and let tears of relief flow.
The receptionist, startled to see someone he wasn’t expecting at 2 a.m. with a lost look and tear-filled eyes, stammers and asks how he can help.
I hand him my phone with the map open, explain that I have a room at a nearby riad but don’t trust my GPS and refuse to go back out into the street.
“Can I book a room here?”
“No need, it’s just here!”
“I don’t want to go out!”
He steps out from behind the desk, motions for me to follow, closes the hotel’s door, and takes me into the alley himself.
A set for Stanley Kubrick’s films
I’m literally sticking to him like a three-month-old puppy dog who wants to play with the calf of those who have just adopted him.
The riad is just a few steps away, but dear God, it’s a proper setting for a horror story.
Here it is in the light of day, I leave it to your imagination to place it in the nocturnal context described. In the total absence of lights. At that moment, the idea of reporting had not been born from my neurons engaged in ensuring my survival.
Once inside, I see the name of the riad, thank my saviour profusely, check in, and ask for a glass of water.
I connect to the Wi-Fi and let friends and family waiting for updates know that I’ve arrived.
I don’t add any details—saying it all went smoothly would be a lie.
Epilogue
I don’t recall many moments like this one, maybe just a few late-night trips back home when I lived in the outskirts of Milan as a college student who couldn’t afford taxis. At least back then, I had pepper spray, keys positioned between my fingers as makeshift brass knuckles, and someone on the phone with me (either actually or just pretending).
I’d say this episode ranks straight to the top five experiences where I felt like clutching my heart tightly in my hands.
I think tomorrow morning Cuqui is finally arriving with her little one. Tomorrow evening, another friend of ours is coming from Málaga, the day after, my sister and her boyfriend from Milan, and the day after that, our friend from Marseille will arrive and introduce us to her son.
Sometimes, journeys don’t start with the excitement of expectations but with a racing heartbeat, an uncertain step, and a series of decisions made in the dark—literally.
With a glass of water finally in my hands and lungs filled with the sense of security that only four walls and a locked door could give me, I set the alarm clock knowing that I will open my eyes with a completely different emotion from the one I have on me right now.
I thank all the saints in the calendar once again, and ask myself before drifting off, “Why on earth did I put myself in this situation?” I picture the faces of those I’ll see soon, smile, and give myself the answer.
I linger at the edge of sleep, waiting for Morpheus’s embrace, as I read of Cormoran Strike taking his first steps into the mystery of Lula Landry.
Notes from the Next Day
Note 1
It feels like I’m in a different city. There’s light, joy, movement everywhere. I leave my room and meet cheerful people. I ask for directions to exchange money and buy a SIM card. The riad owner sketches a little map on a piece of paper to show me the best place to get a good exchange rate.
I tell him about the previous night’s misadventure. He’s sorry to hear it but assures me that there’s no safer area than the Medina.
“Sure, there might be pickpockets, like in any city in the world, but no one would dare commit more dangerous crimes.”
Well, good to know. I take into account for the next time and for all those who will listen or read this story. Still, starting a trip without documents, money, a phone, or clothes wouldn’t have been ideal.
I step out of the alley and walk in the middle of the street—it’s all pedestrian, right? That’s why the taxi didn’t drop me off in front of the hotel.
As I let my senses be overwhelmed by the visual, auditory and emotional stimuli of a new, alive and radiant city, to my great surprise, I’m almost run over.
In the famous square from which the Alley of Horrors begins, there are cars, three-wheelers, horse-drawn carriages, and—surprise, surprise—TAXIS.
Suddenly, I think of Jesus’ famous teaching I try so hard to remember when I feel my fists clench.
Love your enemies, and pray for those who persecute you.
I think about it for a moment, focus on the face of the taxi driver, and decide to apply starting tomorrow.
Note 2
Two days later, my new go-to taxi driver, whom I met on the trip to the Ouzoud waterfalls, explains that traffic in the Medina is only allowed in the morning. I take back the bad words directed at his colleague and send him some virtual apologies. Apparently, I was the only one entirely responsible for those terrible 40 minutes.
Important info for you, if you want to visit Marrakech
The vividness of these emotions will fade over time, but know that I wrote this story in the very same riad at 3 a.m., when I still wasn’t ready to fall asleep despite the hour.
The experience in Marrakech turned out to be one of the most beautiful I’ve ever had—a birthday trip that I’ll always cherish. The bad memory of the city is thankfully limited to the first night.
Even if it doesn’t seem like it from the story, I wholeheartedly recommend visiting Marrakech. Just keep these things in mind:
- If you’re traveling solo and your flight lands late, avoid booking a room in the Medina.
- Be wary of GPS: according to mine (on a pretty decent smartphone), I could easily reach the first night’s riad by car. Multiple times during the trip, it also gave incorrect directions.
- I met a reliable and punctual taxi driver who drove us everywhere, picking us up where and when agreed without ever missing an appointment. I doubt he has Instagram pages, sites and more to link here, but I’m happy to share his contact if he authorizes me to do so. If you know me in person, contact me, otherwise use the email of the site or the contact page.
- If you’re wondering (as did my friends and myself while reworking the adventure) why I didn’t keep running with the blond tourists to their facility, my answer as banal as it is humble is: BECAUSE I DIDN’T THINK ABOUT IT. Evidently the neurons had not oxygenated well after all.
If Ted Mosby’s grandmother knew about this story, she would tell me in her own right: “See? I always say that after 2 a.m. nothing good happens”. And for this time, I should agree with her.
