Tangier

There's nothing quite like the surreal absurdity of balancing atop a camel as it sways awkwardly along Achakar Beach, a windswept stretch of Moroccan coastline that has patiently watched Phoenician traders, Barbary pirates, and now-you-a slightly bewildered tourist, clinging determinedly to your dignity. Plan ahead only enough to avoid midday, when the sun turns the ride into a sweaty, squinty ordeal; early mornings or late afternoons gift you softer views and a kinder ocean breeze. Expect to spend roughly 100 to 150 Moroccan dirhams (around ten to fifteen bucks), though bargaining theatrics can often make the transaction more memorable than the ride itself. Bring sunglasses, sunscreen, and a camera to immortalize your suitably bemused expression atop your wobbly steed. Sure, it might seem cheesy and vaguely tourist-trappy, but when else in your carefully curated existence will you experience the odd camaraderie of man, camel, and sea breeze, all conspiring gloriously to remind you how delightfully ridiculous life can-and occasionally should-be?

Perched defiantly on the cliffs of Tangier's Marshan district, Cafe Hafa has spent nearly a century balancing precariously between quiet mysticism and delightful chaos, a place Hemingway might've scribbled a sentence or two, and the Rolling Stones once pondered life's debaucheries over steaming cups of sweet mint tea. Sure, it's got chipped mosaic tiles, wobbly tables, and waiters whose indifference borders on avant-garde-but believe me, that's the charm. Arrive mid-afternoon, preferably a weekday (weekends can get a bit rowdy with earnest tourists brandishing selfie sticks), and bring a handful of dirhams-about 15-20 MAD per pot should cover your steeped pleasures and begrudging gratuity. Plan spontaneity; reservations are laughable here-simply snag a seat on the tiered terraces cascading towards the Atlantic's cobalt depths. Bring sunglasses (to hide your ironic appreciation), a camera (for the inevitable Instagram humblebrag), and a notepad-just in case inspiration strikes, or better yet, doesn't. Visiting Cafe Hafa isn't just about the mint-infused sugar rush or the absurdly picturesque sunsets; it's about soaking up history, indulging in creative idleness, and later boasting that you lounged, ever-so briefly, at the intersection of literary legends, rock-star antics, and Moroccan laissez-faire attitude.

If Dr. Seuss ever discovered Morocco, he'd probably dream up something awfully close to Chefchaouen-the town so relentlessly blue you'd swear the Smurfs had colonized this hillside paradise. A guided day trip to this mountain-hugging gem isn't your standard postcard romp; it's more like stepping inside someone else's Instagram feed, where every azure doorway and indigo alley whispers a story about Andalusian refugees fleeing Spanish persecution centuries ago, only to find peace-and Pantone-inspired glory-in these hills. Show up early-like absurdly early-to beat the self-stick-wielding hordes, and you'll have the chance to snap envy-inducing selfies in empty streets bathed in soft morning sunlight. Budget around $50-80 per person, stash extra dirhams for souvenirs (because resistance to locally woven blankets and aromatic spices is futile), and don't skimp on comfortable shoes-Chefchaouen may look idyllically quaint, but your calves will remind you later of every upward incline you navigated in pursuit of that perfect shot. Yes, it's touristy, yes, it's trendy, but do it anyway. Because let's face it, how often do you get to wander a city where the biggest threat is blending into buildings if you accidentally wear denim-on-denim? Trust me: this is a tale worth retelling, preferably with dramatic pauses and exaggerated eye-rolls at those who haven't made the pilgrimage themselves.

Attending a Gnawa music festival is a bit like stepping into a fever dream orchestrated by rhythmically-gifted shamans: an intoxicating swirl of hypnotic beats, clanging castanets called krakebs, and relentless bass of the guembri that throttles straight into your ribcage. Born out of a centuries-old alchemy of West African spirituality and Moroccan mysticism, Gnawa music was initially introduced by enslaved people brought across the Sahara, creating a ritualistic art form that not only survived adversity but flourished vibrantly enough to host festivals drawing crowds from Brooklyn hipsters to French backpackers and wandering mystics alike. If you're wise-or at least want to keep a shred of sanity-arrive at sunset, when the skies ignite dramatically over the medina rooftops, and the honeyed aromas of street stalls selling grilled sardines compete valiantly with pungent clouds of hashish drifting lazily through the alleys. Book accommodation months in advance, as procrastinators risk ending up sleeping in rooftop hovels alongside entrepreneurial goats. Budget modestly-around $30 per day will cover street eats, mint tea, and enough trinkets to prove to skeptical friends back home that you've achieved cultural enlightenment. Pack earplugs, comfortable sandals, and an open mind-expect to dance, sweat, and be spontaneously cleansed of bad vibes by an elderly musician whose knowing eyes suggest he's seen far worse than your half-hearted life choices. In the end, even if Gnawa's hypnotic grooves don't rearrange your chakras, you'll come away with an enviable story-and potentially a whole new appreciation for life's peculiar magic.