Smoke from the grills clouds the incandescent light bulbs that illuminate the square. The savory smell of grilled meat is occasionally cut by the acrid odors of diesel exhaust and donkeys. An enchanting tune from a snake charmer's horn breaks up the repetitive din of the drums, writes Dave Adornato, Staff writer for The Record on North Jersey.com

This was my chance to make up for a lost opportunity. I'm pushing 40, married, with a beautiful daughter. Actually, I'm 37 and I never got a chance to bum around Europe or drive cross-country. When a friend living in Morocco invited me to visit, I knew it was my chance to embark on that missed adventure. Solitude, freedom, and the fantasy of experiencing it like I was 20 again were all part of the lure for this exotic trip.

I dropped my friend Jamie off at the Marrakech train station about 10:30 a.m. We had just spent two days at a resort in the High Atlas Mountains. Time with my friend helped me acclimate to the country. He helped me adjust to the language and customs, giving me the confidence for the next part of my journey, five days on my own in Marrakech and Essaouira.

Day 1: The drive

Pulling away from the train station in a Kia Picanto, my tiny rental car, I set out to find my hotel in the medina, or old city (you'll find these colorful and traditional centers of daily life in most big Moroccan cities). As a press photographer and New Yorker, I thought I'd been schooled in the art of offensive driving, but nothing prepared me for motoring down Mohammed V Boulevard, one of the many long, wide thoroughfares that is part of the Ville Nouvelle (new city). It's one of the many French influences in Morocco, which was controlled by France from 1912 to 1956.

Traffic was chaotic. Women zigzagged on all sorts of two-wheeled contraptions, from bicycles to motorcycles, through traffic with their babies in slings. Men rode scooters with their lambs in the foot wells. Diesel exhaust sucked the oxygen from air.
Finally, the high walls of the medina appeared in the distance. It was time to turn down one of the narrow streets leading to Djemaa el-Fna. As I got closer, it became choked with pedestrians, mopeds and push-carts. I picked the wrong street. Only a few streets from the Ville Nouvelle allow for access into the main square. I turned back the way I came. I did this numerous times until I found the right street, busted through the medieval walls and landed in the vast open market of space which is Djemaa el-Fna; I exhaled.

After parking, I set out to find my bed and breakfast, Hotel Sherazade, a riad once occupied by a wealthy merchant family. Traditional Moroccan homes, like Sherazade, are unassuming from the outside, but quite impressive on the inside. A beautiful open-air courtyard awaited me, decorated with plants in terra-cotta pots, chairs for lounging and a fountain at its center. The only windows in the modest but comfortable rooms that surround the courtyard look out to this communal center.

Riads allow travelers to experience Morocco in the fashion of a medieval sultan or prince. They reflect the Moroccan artisan richness. Decorated in the local fabrics and colors, some rooms have private baths. Many offer less expensive accommodations with a shared bath. My room, with a full-size bed and bath, was 612 DH (dirham) a night or $65 including a full breakfast.

Day 2: The souks

I was up at 5 a.m., awakened by the sounds of the Islamic call to prayer, a chant I would hear every morning. It's hard to sleep late in Marrakech. Most riads in the medina are close to a mosque. I got up and had breakfast on the rooftop patio. The early morning sun and a strong cup of coffee brought me back to total consciousness. Some fresh-squeezed orange juice, a specialty of Morocco, and sweet Moroccan bread called khobz with apricot jam and butter completed my morning nosh.

I was out the door around 10 and attempted an unguided walk recommended by travel guide Lonely Planet. Finding the starting point was a challenge. A police officer helped me get there but not before I experienced the city's ironworks district. Here blow torches and grinders shaped many of the metal wares like lamps and furniture found in the souks, or market places, frequented by tourists. I was clearly one of the few tourists who ventured down these narrow alleys. Although I never felt danger, the stares that followed me did make me feel like an outsider.

After finding my way to the souk I was looking for, calls from the vendors began. Let the shopping begin — handmade leather sandals for my wife, and scarves for my mother. My first real encounter with haggling was moderately successful. 400 DH for the sandals was negotiated to 220 DH.

The rule of thumb, according to my sources, is to offer a quarter to a third of the merchant's starting price. Eventually, you should meet somewhere in the middle. So the final price was about as predicted: $20 USD.

I decided to glance over one of the vendor's selection of scarves. "Jawad" caught my gaze and introduced himself. Jawad, or "Joe" as he suggested I call him, was not going to let me go without a sale.

After a pleasant invitation into his store, he showed me pashminas, linen, silk and plain cotton. The colors were across the spectrum; gold and reds, purples and blues, yellows and pinks. The linen scarves were particularly beautiful. They were custom designed for a rich French woman, and were the only ones of their kind in Marrakech, he said. The story behind the merchandise can be half the fun of a purchase. I decided on two, a linen and a pashmina. The offer came in at 300 and 180 DH respectively. I got them, for half. About $30 for both.

Jawad offered me tea. After I refused once, he insisted. I accepted graciously. Practically every vendor is ready and willing to make tea for his customer. Travelers should experience it at least once.

While the tea steeped, we talked about my travels. To bridge the language barrier, I pulled out my "Emergency Arabic" translation book. I'd managed to remember only one Arabic word thus far, shukran — thank you. This book hadn't been necessary, since French is the main language spoken in Morocco, but he was enamored with it, so I gave it to him. Apparently, the book's vernacular translations were very accurate.

Day 3: Leaving Marrakech

A palpable sense of relief came over me as I pulled out of Marrakech. I would be leaving the heart-pounding pace of the Marrakech medina for more tranquil surroundings. Jamie had suggested Essaouira would be a welcome respite. He was right. Even the color scheme changed, from the vibrant red earth tones of the desert to the cool soothing blue of the ocean.

The three-hour drive took me through remote sections of Morocco. The entire route was a smooth two-lane highway. Exceptional highways are another by-product of French colonialism. The route was clearly marked, so the Michelin map I had to guide me was mainly an insurance policy.

Essaouira's medina is carefree and lots of fun. The nerves I felt walking through parts of Marrakech never surfaced even in its most remote back alleys. It's a fishing village and an artist's community. Many of the storefronts are galleries containing work by local artists.

Day 4: Outdoor fish grills

The sun sets behind the ramparts where the fishermen gather after a day at sea. The fish are scaled, gutted and arranged for purchase, so locals can look over the day's catch. Beautiful blue boats fill the marina. Seagulls mass overhead looking for anything they can scavenge from the gutted fish. Giant fishing vessels in dry dock are hubs of noise and activity, as laborers sand and grind wood and metal, scrape barnacles and replace propellers. Tourists, all the while, gawk and take pictures.

Out by the ramparts, medieval fortifications to repel invaders, there is a row of outdoor restaurants. You can choose your freshly caught sea bass, sardines, shrimp, crab or flounder and a cook will grill your selection on an open fire while you wait.

The establishment I ate at went by weight, 80 DH for sea bass weighing about a pound. With salad, bread and a Coke it was 70 DH more. In no mood to bargain, I accepted. $18.50 for a fresh fish meal was a lot, but I wasn't arguing. Oh, the waiter threw in two additional large fresh sardines. The sea bass was delicious, the salad and bread were fresh. Well worth the price, by American standards.

He sat me down with a Dutch couple, Ron and Anne. Ron, who liked to laugh, spoke English hesitantly. Anne spoke English quite well and between the three of us we managed a conversation. They told me tales of their caravan in the desert. I would have loved to make this trek, but one week is not enough time to spend in the cities and the desert. Two weeks would have been enough to do both.

Day 5: Essaouira's harbor

At 7 a.m. the harbor was quiet. I walked past a menacing-looking soldier guarding the entrance to the docks. He acknowledged me with a nod and I continued on my way. I was looking for a spot to set up my camera for the sunrise. It was a foggy morning, cool and damp. Like the Maine coast in August, I thought, as I took photos. When I was done, the officer was still doggedly guarding the harbor pier. I decided to allay his suspicions by showing him the back of my camera. He nodded again and I moved on. Moments later he was running toward me. I was concerned. He whipped out his camera phone, flashed me a smile, and showed me his photo of the sunrise.

By 8 a.m. the port began to come alive. Sardine trucks started moving their goods from the vessels back from a night at sea. Old men began to show up with their push-carts looking for work as porters. Piles of nets are arranged and mended. Men, young and old, yawn. Even the feral dogs can be seen stretching, stiff from a night sleep out in the damp air. The only major activity is from the kids jumping from skiff to skiff preparing them for a day at sea.

Journey's end

Five hours in a car alone is plenty of time to think. As I rolled past the olive groves and the little villages, I was struck by a sense of accomplishment and a little bit of regret. I didn't get to see everything I wanted to see in Morocco, but I made it there and I have the stories and photos to prove it.

Morocco is a place to live out your fantasy about an Arabian adventure. Though I know I can't reclaim my youth, I learned age is just a number and it's never too late to live out your dreams. Most important, I couldn't imagine taking a trip like this without the reassuring thoughts of my family. Those thoughts kept me company at night. I will return to Morocco someday, and when I do, my wife and daughter will be with me. Because the best part of at trip like this is sharing it with family.