Casablanca

The morning mist hung low over the Atlantic as we approached Casablanca, and the first thing I saw was the minaret — 210 meters of carved stone and green tile rising from the shoreline like a beacon calling ships home. The Hassan II Mosque announced itself long before we docked, and I understood immediately why this massive structure, completed in 1993, draws visitors from around the world. However, nothing prepared me for the scale of what waited ashore: a city of five million souls where modern Morocco meets French colonial legacy meets ancient Berber heritage in a symphony of contradictions that somehow harmonizes into something unforgettable.

I took a taxi from the cruise terminal directly to the Hassan II Mosque, and the driver apologized that traffic would delay us. Nevertheless, I didn't mind — the streets themselves were fascinating. Casablanca means "white house" in Spanish, a name given by Portuguese sailors in the 15th century, but the city I saw through the taxi window was anything but monochromatic. French Art Deco buildings in cream and terracotta lined Boulevard Mohammed V, their geometric facades showing the influence of the Protectorate era (1912-1956). Moroccans in traditional djellabas walked beside others in European fashion. Motorbikes weaved between cars, vendors sold oranges from carts, and the call to prayer echoed from mosques throughout the city. The sensory overload was immediate and wonderful.

The Hassan II Mosque exceeded every expectation. Rising directly from a platform over the Atlantic — Hassan II chose this location citing a Quranic verse that God's throne rests on water — the structure can hold 25,000 worshippers inside and 80,000 more in the surrounding courtyard. The minaret stands as the world's tallest at 210 meters, with a laser at its summit pointing toward Mecca. I joined a guided tour (required for non-Muslims to enter) and walked through a forest of columns carved from pink granite and green marble, beneath hand-painted cedar ceilings that took 6,000 artisans twelve years to complete. The floor beneath my feet could open to reveal the ocean below. The complexity of the tilework — zellige mosaics in geometric patterns that mathematics has proven cannot repeat — made me dizzy with their precision. My eyes welled unexpectedly with tears at the sheer ambition of human devotion, the way faith can inspire such painstaking beauty. Whatever one believes, this place humbles.

From the mosque, I walked to the old medina — smaller and less tourist-oriented than Marrakech or Fes, but authentic in its own way. The narrow streets twisted between whitewashed walls, opening occasionally into small squares where men played backgammon and women haggled over spices. I bought a handful of dates for 10 dirhams (about $1 USD) and ate them while watching the life of the quarter unfold. The smell of tagine — that slow-cooked Moroccan stew — drifted from doorways, mixing with cumin and mint and something sweetly floral I couldn't identify. A shopkeeper invited me for mint tea, and I accepted despite suspecting (correctly) that a sales pitch would follow. The tea was perfect — sweet, strong, poured from a great height into small glasses — and even the sales pitch was charming. I left with a brass teapot I didn't need but don't regret.

Lunch at Rick's Café felt necessary, even knowing its origin. The 1942 film "Casablanca" was shot entirely on a Hollywood soundstage — Humphrey Bogart never set foot in Morocco. Yet an American woman named Kathy Kriger opened this restaurant in 2004, painstakingly recreating the movie set's atmosphere in a restored 1930s mansion. The result is pure fantasy, but delightful fantasy: waiters in white dinner jackets, a pianist playing "As Time Goes By," Moroccan-French cuisine served on white tablecloths. I had lamb tagine with preserved lemons and olives ($25 USD) and a glass of Moroccan wine, and the experience was exactly what nostalgia should be — silly and sincere simultaneously. The restaurant donates profits to local charities, which helped me feel less guilty about indulging in colonial-era fantasy.

The afternoon took me along the Corniche — Casablanca's oceanfront promenade stretching several kilometers along the Atlantic. This is where wealthy Casablancans come to see and be seen: beach clubs, restaurants, the Hotel Tahiti that once hosted Allied generals during World War II. The waves crashed against the rocks below, salt spray mixing with the smell of grilling fish from the beachfront cafés. I found a spot at one such café, ordered fresh-grilled sardines and harira soup ($8 USD total), and watched the sun begin its descent toward the Atlantic. Surfers caught waves in the middle distance. Children built sandcastles while their parents drank mint tea. The scene could have been California if not for the minarets punctuating the skyline and the call to prayer that echoed as the sun touched the horizon.

Returning to the ship, I asked the taxi driver what he loved about his city. He thought for a moment, then said: "Casablanca is Morocco becoming. Not what it was, not what it will be, but becoming." I understood what he meant. This city feels like a place in transition — preserving its French architecture and Islamic heritage while building skyscrapers and dreams. It lacks the timeless quality of Fes or the fairy-tale charm of Marrakech, but it has something those cities don't: the energy of a place actively creating its future. What I learned here stays with me — that authenticity isn't only found in ancient medinas, that cities made of contradictions can feel more alive than places frozen in perfection. Casablanca taught me that becoming is its own kind of beauty, and I am profoundly grateful for the lesson.