Chefchaouen, Morocco: Escaping the Tourist Chaos to Find the Blue City’s Quiet Side

4/29/2026

I did something crazy this past weekend. Not since the somewhat flawed trip to Asilah and the wedding reception I wanted no part of did I take my friend up on her offer and head to the mountains. Yes, it was time to check off Morocco’s Blue City, Chefchaouen, the tourist mecca most international visitors and expats flock to for blue walls and photo-friendly moments. Then again, from my brief exchange with the shady guy on the street who asked me if I wanted some hash, maybe people come here for other, nefarious reasons.

Full disclosure: I have known about Morocco’s Epcot Center for three years, since IntotheBloom shared her adventures (https://www.intothebloom.com/chefchaouen-photo-guide/). Dominika’s blog gave me hope it might be worth a visit, until I actually started living here and realized it was a hub for people to check off their travel lists, as though it were a necessary stop on the way to seeing the real Morocco.

Let’s be clear: aside from some blue-painted walls, which would look better whitewashed, any charm this village in the mountains has comes not from the vendors or the tourists who do their ridiculous dance. Sure, there are some lovely bags, bath salts, and a ridiculous amount of knockoff paintings showing some senorita in the streets, or a lone cat stalking the medina, but the real charm of this city comes from the quieter moments.

That, my friends, is what I will focus on as opposed to giving you a list of where to visit or what to see, let alone what to eat. Come on, I went out of my way to eat at a local pizza restaurant because I was hungry and didn’t want to walk around any longer looking for some authentic Moroccan cuisine that was likely as good as the same standard tourist menu they hawk at us here in Tangier. Then again, maybe if I had gone to Twins and gotten some tagine or couscous, I wouldn’t have dealt with the wrath of one of my students. Note to self: always consult your students for tips before any adventures.

Back to the silence, or at least the perception of such compared to the constant hammer and grind of the big city in Tangier. That’s what this trip was about: getting away, for an overnight retreat, to not have to deal with the incessant noise, whether from the hobbyist renovator who might live above my head and has decided that Saturdays are the best days to pretend he is redoing the apartment, but more likely he is attempting to look occupied going from room to room in an attempt to hide from his wife. Between that nutjob who has been “busy” since October on this pressing project, the same one that flooded my kitchen the previous January, and the drone of motorists not communicating with their horns, but simply being a-holes, I needed a proper respite. We aren’t even considering the random drum circle that loves to frequent the restaurant below my apartment window, or the women who walk around doing their glorified throat singing that sounds more like a battle cry to my ears.

Chefchaouen seemed promising, with at least fewer people to contend with and, if we were lucky, a bit of quiet. Granted, this is Morocco, so one has to put such things in perspective, just like dealing with idiots jumping in front of cars because they can, or parking attendants stopping vehicles to get them to go to a different lot when it makes little sense.

The ride itself was already a blessing in disguise. Sure, the GPS told us the trip would take two hours, but it took us two and a half because, unlike the trucks and cars that seem oblivious to common sense or rules of the road, we drove like our grandmother would on her way to church. There was no rush, just a sense we would get there in time to appreciate the service. I treasured the change of pace, the sheep and goats who claimed the roadside as their own, and the occasional mule eager to push its master into the passing traffic.

Thank goodness, we didn’t stop at the intermittent mountain-side vistas where suspect old women carried prepared food in plastic containers and vendors were selling necklaces that I could have been ripped off for just as easily, here in Tangier. However, according to my friend, the food was fresh cheese and bread, so maybe we should have stopped after all. The roadside coffee is some of the best in Morocco, spiced if that is your thing. I suppose a follow-up trip might be necessary to confirm if this is, in fact, the truth. I also seem to remember a mention of Morocco’s number-one barbecue venue, but you know the pizza was calling in Chefchaouen, so we continued on at our measured pace.

We were more concerned about getting to the mountain city, past the random police markers where everyone appeared to be waved on, and no one was actually being stopped. I know, I for one, was eager to be pulled over so they could see me in the front seat with an assortment of stuffed friends on my lap and an empty container of gummy bears. All we needed were some Slim Jims and Combos to make this the perfect trip.

When we finally arrived at the Blue City, after driving up a significant incline with way too many street lights, as though people actually walked this route, when I knew it was really for dogs dropped off at the bottom by rescue organizations, I wondered if we had made the right call. Several minutes passed before we parked the car in front of a hotel, with too many taxis blocking the way and people who had no clue where they were going or why.

As with the alluring seaside hamlet of Asilah, the questionable, potentially dubious act of old men standing on the streets, jingling their keys, made me ponder what awesome rooms for the night they were offering. What could go wrong in paying for a room from a stranger on the outskirts of the old medina? I’m sure these are only the best, safest places without shared bathrooms and beds free of bedbugs and other fun overnight visitors. If only my friend had been more adventurous, or if I had wanted to eat the price of our reserved riad, we could have experienced one of Morocco’s greatest charms. Alas, like with Twins, I’m sure we missed out on what others only dream about.

By the time we arrived, the blue streets were busy with old-timers and their hiking sticks blocking the already narrow alleys, gathering closely and listening to their tour guides, who were sharing only the greatest history lessons on the ancient practice of painting walls blue, as if it were something special. We forced our way around these veterans of the traveling circuit, past the vendors whose stands were encroaching even more of the path, and Generation Z members paying for opportunities to pose in beautiful corners on provided cushioned chairs, because it would help their auras.

I pretended to be a nomad, not of the digital kind, but a man who knew where he was going, away from this prescribed schtick, and to our awaiting riad, far enough from the madness, but with enough charm to make it worthwhile.

We weren’t disappointed. This place wasn’t next to the kasbah or to the square that needs no name, because everyone and their friend has taken a photo at this thing. No, our place was off the main path, no vendors, no madness, unless you call the young girls forcing the boys to play soccer somewhere else madness or simply role playing for their adult years when the men would find other reasons to avoid their spouses.

The riad was a complete contrast to life in Tangier. Tiles galore, fountains, and an abundance of designs that, while not my preferred aesthetic, worked. More importantly, the little living room with the vintage couches proved an ideal spot for a delivered Chinese dinner, and the rooftop terrace offered views without the headaches of sharing space with hundreds of other people watching the setting sun.

Don’t misunderstand me, we ventured out to play tourist, but within reason. There was, of course, the walk to the river, looking for that connection to nature where even in constructed chaos, the sounds of water can still soothe the soul. We walked to the Spanish Mosque in search of good views and aloe plants I could entertain the thought of digging up for a lifetime supply, but most importantly, we walked to clear our heads from the demands of school life, where students require our undivided attention and some parents prefer preferential standing when the need arises.

Aside from a few stumbles on loose cobbles eager to claim new victims, we found a near-empty cafe that other tourists feared to go to. I now found a reason to explore the next morning, when everyone else was sleeping off a night of excess and boisterous activity.

I fell asleep in silence, without even the hum of activity outside to stir. As the residents and tourists disappeared into their rooms, bringing many of the city’s cats with them, we woke to explore a new city, untouched, unbothered, and free of commercial transactions. That’s when the real fun began, with four-legged angels keeping us safe and leading us to the best spots without the madness that a Moroccan experience typically entails.

While I’m sure you want to hear more, I’ll let the vlog take over from here. In the end, the trip to Chefchaouen was a good one. I’m still unsure whether I liked the city, but I appreciated the well-deserved respite from constant noise and the opportunity to be closer to nature, even as I watched others treat it as a place meant for tourists rather than a home to so many.