Stepping onto Tangier's soil felt like walking into a living palimpsest – five thousand years of history layered one atop another. This was a Phoenician trading post in the 5th century BCE, passed through Roman, Vandal, Byzantine, and Arab hands, claimed by Portuguese, Spanish, and British in turn. Between 1923 and 1956, it was an International Zone – jointly administered by France, Spain, and Britain – a cosmopolitan crossroads that drew artists like Matisse, writers like Paul Bowles and William S. Burroughs, and more than a few spies during the war years. That bohemian, anything-goes reputation still perfumes the air.

We walked off the ship and straight into the Grand Socco – palm trees, women in colorful djellabas, the call to prayer echoing through centuries of stone. A local guide led us into the medina labyrinth – narrower than Marrakech, more European-flavored, easier to navigate thanks to that International Zone heritage. We climbed through the Kasbah to the former Sultan's palace, its white walls glowing against the blue strait. We bought saffron that smelled like sunshine and argan oil still warm from the cooperative.

We stopped at Café Hafa for mint tea overlooking the Strait of Gibraltar – waves crashing, Spain visible just 14 kilometers away across that narrow passage where Europe and Africa nearly touch. Old men played chess at wobbly tables; the same tables where the Beat Generation once debated art and existence. We had lunch at a tiny place the guide knew – lamb tanjia slow-cooked in clay pots for 24 hours, bread still hot from the communal oven.

In the afternoon we drove 14 kilometers west to the Caves of Hercules, where legend says the demigod rested before his labors. The cave's natural opening, worn by millennia of Atlantic waves, uncannily resembles the shape of Africa itself – locals swear it's no accident. Then Cap Spartel, where the Mediterranean meets the Atlantic, waves exploding on rocks from two seas, camels posing for photos against the lighthouse. The pros: authentic Moroccan chaos layered with centuries of cosmopolitan polish. The cons: persistent touts, but a firm "la shukran" (no thank you) works wonders.