Georgina Lunn

Though the title of this travel piece may evoke the beginning of a poorly told joke, rest assured, what follows is less a punchline and more a reflective narrative, infused with some comedic flair, if I do say so myself.

Flying from Stansted Airport with Ryanair is never a favourable mode of flight, especially as the Ryanair logo bears a resemblance to Icarus (who, according to Greek Mythology, ironically perished after ignoring his father’s warnings and flying too close to the sun). Despite our amusement at their questionable emblem, our good humour was rewarded, as both my sister and I had a row to ourselves. We landed at what might be the smallest airport I’ve ever seen, where we were greeted by our emoji-loving taxi driver holding a sign with only my sister’s name on it. Naturally, I was miffed. After all, I was the one in coordinated loungewear, fully prepared for my ‘celebrity arrival’ moment.

Our first stop was the Medina – otherwise known as ‘The City’ – a maze of narrow alleys and centuries-old charm. Armed with directions from our Airbnb host and a dangerous level of confidence, I promptly misread the map and took my suitcase on an impromptu grand tour of the Medina. In that moment, I deeply regretted not doing DofE. After much wheeling, second-guessing, and a spirited debate about whether our accommodation could possibly be ‘down that suspicious-looking alley,’ we took a leap of faith (over the pot hole) and a tug of optimism – and finally arrived at the right door. Our welcome committee began with Caesar, a Doberman who loomed over the rooftop edge and barked down like a guard dog straight out of a medieval fortress. Next came Mark – our English Airbnb host, and Abdel, his soft-spoken seventeen-year-old Moroccan right-hand man. After lingering just long enough in the foyer for it to become socially questionable, we politely asked to be shown to our room. The room was bathed in a rich salmon hue, finished with a glossy sheen and high ceilings. Charmingly weathered blue arched double doors led to a small bathroom with a sink and shower, mirroring the same blue as the shuttered window overlooking the alleyway. I’d picked this first stay myself, and I felt quietly (loudly) smug about it.

We were then shown the roof where we would eat breakfast for the next three mornings, surpassing three cats and two tortoises on our way up. The winding staircases were walled with eclectic art, well-thumbed books and vibrant ceramics collected from all over. A curated chaos that made the house feel like a living museum. Honestly, if we’d spent all three days holed up inside, we’d still have left feeling cultured. What we’d mistaken for mutual awkwardness was, in fact, just us – he, on the other hand, was shy and seemed thoroughly charmed by our presence (his words from our review), and had asked us if we’d like to join him for a glass of wine. He’d claimed a couple of the rooms of the four-story riad for himself, leaving the remaining rooms to be rented out to an ever-changing cast of travellers. It only took a couple of sips to realise we were in the company of a man with an extraordinary past. In his twenties, he’d spent a decade as a Benedictine monk, cloistered in a monastery near Bath. While studying Theology at Oxford, he lived on a £5 weekly allowance and needed permission just to visit friends – an existence both ascetic and tightly bound by ritual. Eventually, the constraints proved too limiting, prompting him to leave the order and begin teaching Religious Studies in East London. From there, he moved to Auvers-sur-Oise in France, where he cemented his admiration for Van Gogh. Abdel joined and told us how he was born and raised in Essauoira and has been learning English over the past five years whilst working with Mark. He spoke thoughtfully about Muslim culture, shared anecdotes, and explained the Moroccan preference for English-speaking visitors over the French, a sentiment shaped by the legacy of the French Protectorate. He also noted, with a wry smile, that they’re not typically ones to indulge in unnecessary pleasantries. We bid adieu and, per their recommendation, ended up at an Italian restaurant to finish the evening with a full stomach.

Our first full day began with an awkward breakfast with other guests unwilling to partake in any conversation, even with their own travel companions. I tried, but gave up, leaving Evie to fend for herself whilst I discovered my newfound love of jam. Specifically raspberry. Our walk through the medina to get cash out felt like a movie scene, between meandering through the same alleyways as the Outer Banks cast and walking past the most accurate Jack Sparrow impersonator, my subconscious was waiting to hear someone shout ‘Cut!’. We eventually hailed a taxi to the ‘Jimi Hendrix Café’ – an unassuming spot next to the stables where we’d booked a beach horse ride. Our guide, Mohammed, greeted us warmly, then promptly walked face-first into a metal pole in the most slapstick fashion imaginable, just as we were exchanging hellos. He and his phone survived the collision, but our composure did not; stifling laughter was arguably harder than the ride itself. We were led into a stable block alive with movement and colours; palominos, greys, chestnuts, and glossy black stallions shuffled in their stalls, while a scatter of kittens and dogs filled the in-between spaces. A few other guides helped us tack up. I tried to absorb what they were doing, but was distracted by a mural of Donkey from Shrek glaring at me from the wall, reflective of my current state. Evie’s horse was a graceful grey named Mi Amor. Mine, a black stallion called Oreo – fitting, given my complexion is best described as transparent. Sala, one of the grooms, told us he’s a stunt double in Casablanca, riding in battle scenes, and casually mentioned he’d worked with John Cena. He had no evidence on him, so I told him I’d remain sceptical until I could, quite literally, see him. Within ten minutes, we were trotting along the Atlantic coastline. Aside from the occasional camel, cow, and rogue quad biker, the beach was as tranquil as it was thrilling. Watching Evie gallop ahead while I trotted speedily behind, staring into the blue void of the ocean, was equal parts ridiculous and poetic. There’s something surprisingly surreal about riding a horse along a shoreline – a scene that should feel simple, unembellished, even ancient, yet somehow strikes with all the force of a dream. It was both fantastical and metaphorical, a childlike wish realised in hoofbeats and sea spray.

As we wistfully departed the stables, we queried about how we were going to take a taxi back. We hadn’t pre-booked, and they rarely drove past our location. But, as fate would have it, one randomly pulled in just before us. For such a small coincidence, we were truly astonished. Adding to the magic, we had the perfect amount of change for him. We felt like we had just cashed in our life’s karma. Energy was up! Until I had my shower… Something started to burn, and I realised I had quite a vast amount of raw skin in some uncomfortable places, caused by two hours on a leather saddle in twenty-five-degree heat. We journeyed to a rooftop for sunset, distraction was key, and I read the sequel to my favourite book, Bridges of Madison County, whilst Evie worked – probably solving world hunger or something. A couple of mocktails later, and we were ready for grub. Adwak was recommended to me by my dear friend Finn, meaning I had someone to blame if it was bad or someone to credit if it was good. Luckily for us, and Finn, it was the latter. Our first Moroccan tagines were glorious. The culinary experience was completed by our position sitting on the street, allowing us to intermittently flit between people/cat watching and an intense game of cards, which was ‘all about the redemption’ (inside joke). Our fatigue, coupled with our hunger, was the perfect foundation for us to get a little too hyper. But hey, when has jestering the court ever been a crime? We finished the night with a bar of Milka, then turned in.

We spent Friday at a Riad, Les Jardins des Maroc – to be specific. A hotel where nightly rates usually run into the high hundreds, or £25 for a day pass, including a shuttle pass, access to their pool and a delicious tapas-esc brunch. We shared the shuttle from the medina with a Swiss family, who bonded with Evie over the mutual amusement of watching me attempt to scan a leaf with my portable scanner – a moment I’ll admit may have crossed the line from inquisitive to idiotic. As per the name, the locale was cradled by flowers. The pool was surrounded by an assortment of loungers facing inwards, inviting guests to take a White Lotus-style approach – observing one another, quietly decoding relationships and dynamics, all before we eventually converged over lunch. The soundtrack for the day was a French rendition of ‘Life on Mars’ by Bowie and the scream of a ginger cat, gingerly waiting to be fed our scraps. Like every other day we spent in Essaourira, the clouds took dominance in the sky before the scolding sun came through mid-afternoon. Our meandering shuttle back, in combination with the heat – and, in my opinion, a lack of carbs – led to a bout of travel sickness. Only one thing could cure that: Fish Burger. Though I opted for an octopus taco – hold the tartar sauce (a request that sparked yet another round of laughter between my sister and the staff, as though a woman knowing what she wants is a revolutionary concept). *Dabs*

Saturday was a day of divergence, sub Theo James. It was a peaceful beginning, slowly packing up, buying bags at the souks, salmon bagels for brunch as five men performed a human pyramid in front of us. Brunch and a show. We had even organised a pickup to take us to our surf camp in Sidi Kaouki. Upon arrival, things were great, our bags were carried to our ocean view room for us (I’ll gloss over the fact that the toilet and shower were practically spooning the bed), we made friends with a German Shepherd puppy called Karma (you can imagine my reaction), and whilst, yes, it was windy, we were only a twenty-minute walk away from a beautiful beach. So we went. Walking down to the beach, with the intent to sit and read, we still had our wits about us, laughing as we tiptoed around broken tiles and caterpillars, calling the wind ‘Gail’ and jokingly telling her to take five. We saw some trees by some big dunes and thought it must be calmer there. Nope. Sand was everywhere, in toe crevices, eye sockets, book spines… But with our father’s spirit in tow, we didn’t want to admit defeat, so instead of reading, we went swimming. We must’ve looked insufferable to the locals, two girls frolicking in the shallows, jumping over the waves, though we know better than to complain about the cold. We laughed, held hands, and in that moment were blissfully unaware of the conquest ahead of us. It took five solid minutes of wrestling with the wind just to get our clothes back on. We took turns guiding each other up the hill, one acting as a human windshield while the other squinted into the sandstorm. It was a silent, dramatic ascent, where we genuinely felt like extras in Dune.

However, after a quick shower and the successful finding of a less-than-legal movie website, we quickly nullified our right to complain the moment we hit play on She’s the Man. We went down for dinner and had the most delicious tagine, sardine meatballs on a bed of crispy potatoes, carrots and whatnot. There were a couple of French families talking to the hosts/workers who had their backs to us. We were feeling a lot of FOMO despite being right next to them all. It’s humbling to realise that a 200-day Duolingo streak means precisely nothing when you’re faced with actual French people. In a hopeful act of social engineering, Evie popped back to the room to grab a deck of cards – her subtle way of forcing me to make friends while she was gone. Normally, I’d back my ability to charm a crowd, but this was a tough room. So instead, we seized our moment when our plates were being cleared to ask about booking surf lessons for the next day. Luck, once again, appeared to be on our side: the undeniably handsome Moroccan taking our plates turned out to be the surf instructor. We spent ten pleasant minutes getting acquainted, right up until Evie casually mentioned that she’d spent a week surfing in Bali and had yet to stand up on a board. His face registered pure disbelief. That, I think, was the moment her stomach dropped. She gave me the look – we needed to retreat to the room. And so began the first instalment of what would be a recurring culinary betrayal.

Evie had calls all Sunday morning, so I sat beside her on the deck with a book in one hand and a fork in the other. By this stage in the trip, I’d graduated from jam and was fully addicted to their homemade almond butter. Later, we were driven to the surf shack further down the beach and were met with Kabir, our instructor and Celia, a solo French traveller we had briefly met the day prior. We put on our wetsuits and slathered on some sunblock to begin carrying our boards to the shore (the most underrated endurance sport, in my opinion). We went over the safety protocols, tried to focus when our instructor was toplessly demonstrating how to paddle, failed, then got in the water. Soon we were in the water, willingly throwing ourselves into wave after wave. Evie managed to stand up once, only to look back at me triumphantly, wave mid-victory, then promptly faceplant into the surf. I’m no pro, but I’ve mastered the fine art of riding a wave back to shore with mild dignity. Now, if I could only figure out the part where you actually catch a wave horizontally. In between wipeouts, Kabir told us he’d surfed with the cast of Outer Banks and that my hair reminded him of the Mother of Dragons. I felt like I was in good hands. After hours of having The Beach Boys stuck in my head, Evie, Celia and I had the dynamism of a snail on a hot day. Kabir took 3 boards back, and between us girls, we tried to carry the remaining one, more for morale than efficiency. Somehow, lunch together felt inevitable – the vibes were too good to part ways. Kabir took the liberty of ordering for me (a steak, with a side of forced vegetable consumption), as an enormous herd of goats crossed our path. We left lunch with a new plan: a night out in the City. Partying with our surf instructor and a French stranger? Why not. As I was the best at surfing that day (Kabir’s words, not mine – though I didn’t argue), I was rewarded with a pillion ride on his motorcycle back to the hostel. The bike had Route 66 adorned on it, which felt like a cosmic nod to tick something off my bucket list. It felt weirdly safe, like the kind of reckless decision that somehow settles you. Just as cycling through LA once made me feel like I was in a coming-of-age film, this felt more like I was the love interest in someone else’s.

The night began with Evie and I adopting Celia, and all getting ready together on the balcony. We went down for dinner and started the evening off strong with a game of Irish snap. Jules, a pro surfer and the eldest child of one of the French families (well acquainted with both Celia and Kabir), joined us for cards as he too was coming out partying. Time was up as the yoga instructor who was driving half of us had arrived and was raring to go in her vintage blue car. I was with the boys, slightly afraid to third-wheel their French discourse, I took the liberty of calling shotgun and proceeded to spend the thirty-minute car journey quizzing Jules about what he wanted to do post-college, to which he momentarily forgot the word for plastic surgeon and just said ‘BBL’. Throughout the whole night, I never let this go; in fact, I told everyone we met. To make him feel less embarrassed in the car, I decided rapping the entirety of Low by Flo Rida would be appropriate. Let’s just say they were amazed.

Firstly, we went to a warmly lit bar in the medina, where we consumed some toothpaste-tasting shots and whined about how we wanted to dance. Kabir finally listened and took us to Beytt, an open-roof club with a view of the sea. I honestly have never heard a DJ that good; he was so good and looked so cool that I managed to momentarily convince Evie that it was Burna Boy. The highlight of the dance floor was Celia jokingly activating her glutes, which led to an instant swarm of men that was so comical we couldn’t quite believe the summoning power her dancing had. It hit around 2 am, and Jules was the only one still keeping morale and busting some Michael Jackson-esque moves, granted, he’d had a few more beers than us. Goes to show how a silent stranger can become a moonwalking companion in under a few hours. We all went back in one car, where Evie joined me on the rapping, this time to Baby by Justin Bieber, where Jules told us we had ‘Beautiful Voices’. Must’ve been the language barrier. Evie joined our French friends in exiting the car, and what followed wasn’t exactly on my itinerary, but let’s just say… Morocco has a way of turning quiet car rides into bonus tracks you didn’t know were on the album.

Sadly, the next morning marked the final stint of our trip. Running on a 4 a.m. bedtime and the bruises of yesterday’s surf session, we practically collapsed on arrival. Our new stay, more villa than riad, felt like a hidden oasis plonked in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by blooming flowers and, rather unexpectedly, a handful of tortoises. We sweet-talked our taxi driver into stopping at a supermarket en route so we wouldn’t starve. Thank god for Evie, or I would’ve been surviving on kiwis and Nutella for two days. We had a nap, watched Over the Hedge (inspired by the tortoise sighting), ate the worst pizza of my life, then hit the hay. The next day was devoted to work, but, honestly, there are worse places to answer emails than on a lounger with a bag of Lays. That evening, we hosted some of our surf hostel friends for dinner. They arrived bearing ingredients for a homemade tagine (cue the second chapter of the culinary betrayal saga) and we swapped stories that ranged from the science of synced-up periods, whether we’d subconsciously summoned spirits, to juggling and how Kabir’s ethos for everything is “Life is Waves”. We even had a heated debate over whether the wailing orange cat on our doorstep was the same one from the hotel. (Spoiler: it was. I named him Simba.) We reluctantly said our goodbyes and began the inevitable task of packing. On our final day, rather than camp out at the airport, we returned to the hotel with another day pass (pro tip). There, we spotted someone with a tattoo that read ‘Be strog’ – presumably a regrettable consonant short of true meaning.

By the time we reached the airport, we were running on crumbs of sleep but still in high spirits. It was so tiny that navigating it was a breeze. On the plane, I somehow befriended a man two seats over who claimed to be smuggling black salt for a 2000% profit. Then again, I was so sleep-deprived it could’ve been a dream. Our mum, very kindly, picked us up from the airport – but maps had other plans. It was a cruel twist of fate not going down the M25, prolonging our journey home. Still, we made it back eventually – sunburnt, surf-sore, and hearts full.

So, the punchline of the title? The monk offered us stillness, the Moroccan surf instructor gave us motion, and the French – well, they reminded us that sometimes, even in places marked by colonial residue, friendships still manage to cross the tide.