The Elixir of the Unknown
- pdomico
- 3 days ago
- 4 min read
Finding Connection in the Tangier Medina
The morning arrived draped in sound: the cries of the gulls wheeling over the water, the rhythmic sigh of the waves breaking against the seawall, and the haunting, timeless echo of the morning prayer stretching out from the city. From our vantage point on the terrace, gazing across the port, there it was: Africa.
Of all the destinations on our itinerary, Tangier was the city I carried the deepest excitement for. It was a complete unknown, shrouded in layers of mystique, both historical and cultural—a place that felt, for lack of a better word, legendary.
To embed oneself in a city like Tangier, even for a single day, is to take a sip of an elixir mixed with history and a palpable sense of adventure. The flavor is complex—hints of danger and mystery, balanced by an intoxicating curiosity. For me, the experience was already a triumph for the simple reason that my feet were finally touching a soil I never, in a million years, thought I would have the opportunity to leave a print on.
I made this point to a fellow traveler as we disembarked, neither of us knowing exactly what awaited us as we made our way toward the old town, the Medina—a dense, beautiful labyrinth of narrow, sloping streets and ancient markets.
Our first immersion came in the Petit Socco, a square less tailored for tourists than the larger marketplaces deeper in town. The constant, rapid-fire negotiation of the street merchants immediately took me off guard.
“How much? ¿Cuánto?” I asked a vendor holding up a pair of what looked like genuine Ray-Bans.
“200 Euro!” he shouted, the number delivered with the finality of an ultimatum.
“No thanks, too high for me,” I replied, trying to keep the encounter brief.
“OK, my friend, name your price!” He was insistent.
I hesitated. We had just set foot on Moroccan soil, and the last thing I wanted was to jeopardize the experience ten minutes in by insulting a local merchant. I shook my head and kept walking, but he persisted.
“Go ahead, you name price!”
Knowing he wasn’t going to easily let it go, I offered a price so low it was almost comical.
“10 Euros!”
The man’s expression shifted instantly. His face turned to stone, his eyes holding a look that gave me pause. You idiot, I thought, you’ve just gone too far.
“Fifteen!” he countered, a challenge in his voice.
“Five!” I said, this time smiling genuinely.
We both laughed. It was a moment of mutual recognition of the absurdity of the “negotiation,” and we amicably parted ways.
In that brief, shared burst of laughter, there was a feeling of connection that’s hard to articulate. It’s that subtle, knowing look people exchange when they are the only two in a crowd who understand the inside joke. If you know, you know, as they say. To experience that intimate human moment with a stranger, a world away from my own, was instantly refreshing.
This, I realized, was what the day would be about: connection.
It happened again inside a small shop that caught my wife’s eye. Amidst the carved wooden frames and tiny tchotchkes hung photographs of a man competing in races, smiling beside fellow athletes with medals draped around their necks. The man in the photos was sitting right behind the counter.
“You athlete,” he observed sternly, as if issuing a challenge. He flexed his biceps in a friendly, Schwarzenegger-like pose, and his serious expression broke into a wide, proud grin. I smiled in return, nodding.
“I try to be!” I replied.
“I’m athlete, too!” He proudly motioned toward the pictures detailing his past races and running accomplishments. Yes, he was a salesman, and he certainly understood the value of small talk. But once again, here was a person from a different world, a different culture, genuinely attempting to find common ground.
This was the prevailing theme of Morocco, a place completely unknown to me, a first-time visitor. Growing up in the States, I’ve absorbed certain ingrained—and often damaging—narratives about the Middle East and Arab culture. We are told Americans are universally resented here. Yet, especially in Morocco, I found absolutely no evidence of this animosity.
I am not naive to the fact that people in this world hold resentment toward Americans. I simply didn’t see it this time. I saw people trying to make a living, trying to live their lives, and most importantly, trying to make connections with me. This is no different than the States, where, I might add, there are people who harbor an equally real and ugly Islamophobia. I only wish we could all focus on the similarities between us rather than our differences.
It is through these connections, and the stories they create, that we bridge the gap.
El Paso, Texas native Phillip D. Cortez is the author of I’ll Be the Moon - A Migrant Child’s Story. He and his wife are the parents of four kids, each possessing the incredible ability to ask for something the moment the game comes back from commercial.
I'm on Substack now! :)
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