Agadir, located in the south of Morocco, did not strike me as a model out of A Thousand and One Nights. On the contrary, the modernity of the city was rather a disappointment. After the disembarkment from our ship, the Marco Polo, we were shuttled along a three-mile stretch of dusty roadwork before we left the bus at the immensely vast and rather plain Plaza de L’Esperanca. What struck me most about Agadir’s architecture was the city’s wide streets, which were hemmed with mostly white, square blocks of buildings that could be called boring and un-Arabic in their simplicity if it weren’t for the oversized Arabic letters above business entrances.

The small, dungeon-like stores were incomparable to the old, romantic market stalls of Casablanca’s Medina. Clothes, table cloths, handbags, lamps, shoes, leather belts, and plenty of clothing items were piled high covering every corner of these rooms. Unfortunately my Mom and I are not great bargain hunters. Two or three of these shops suffice and our sense of shopping is fully satisfied.

To its defense, Agadir, which was mostly wiped out in the earthquake of 1960 (a catastrophe that explains its bland modernism), seems to be full of tourist life in the right season. Given that November might not be the perfect time for most Europeans to come here on their yearly beach vacations, the streets were empty and uninviting while we were there. But the rows of hotels between the main highway and the beach were proof enough to ensure us that Agadir is a well-liked destination. Its beaches are wide and clean, as far as we could see.

My goal, as usual, was to find one of those indigenous markets, which give me so much pleasure. Especially Agadir’s fish market has risen in its status since tour operators have made it one of the top attractions in lack of many other things. To this day, I don’t know if I actually every found that famed fish market. I certainly found some type of market, rather tiny in comparison to the previously visited cities’ fresh produce stands, but charming in its own way.

Along the wall, a sign in Arabic pointed to the fish market as I could deduct from the accompanying painting of a basket filled with fish. Interested, I followed the sign, leaving the vendors buried in their vegetable stalls. Sure enough, I found a corner where fish was sold. The fish I found was presented in six small, ice-filled plastic containers. I snapped my picture and turned around the corner to a rather attractive blue entrance, where I discovered a cabinet made from dark wood on top of which a calico cat was napping. The cabinet stood next to a low sofa covered in a blue-patterned cloth. Along the wall above that sofa was a colorful cloth with vertical blue-black-yellow-green stripes, which served as tapestry. This composition looked pretty enough so that I unabashedly proceeded to snap pictures. I carefully entered this nook until I realized that it was the market’s restroom. A male occupant appeared through one of the stalls, making me shrink back towards the entrance. Sure enough, the restroom was not only named in Arabic letters, but accompanied with the letters W.C. – the terminology I used growing up in Europe since the time I had to raise my hand in class to ask permission to go to the loo.

Back outside, I snatched my elderly mother’s arm and among embarrassed giggles, retreated around the next corner. Here, I found a site that should become one of my better pictures so far, namely a poultry stall. Live chicks were strolling around inside and outside of the stall while grown hens stuck out their necks between the slats of their cages. On the front counter, 10 layers of fresh eggs were stacked neatly in four columns. But it was only when I lifted my 75-300-millimeter lens that I discovered a cage filled with grey and white pigeons mounted on the back wall. The adjacent stall was adorned with skinned piglets, which hung from the canopy. My Mom’s rather weak stomach and soft heart urged us to separate from this part of the market.

Around the corner from the meat market, we were nicely surprised by the color palette presented to us at the spice stall.  The red, brown and yellow spices looked great against the blue and earthern pots holding them. Turning around we encountered the funeral-like flower arrangements common in every Moroccan market. Roughly 60 red roses were carefully arranged in a two-foot, two dimensional cupola adorned with a fan of gladiola leaves. The entire contraption reminded me of a peacock’s tail.

While we did not warm up to these flower arrangements, we certainly admired the many lush blooms hanging from bushes as we walked toward the Jardin du Portugal. Iron tables and chandeliers greeted us from the Belka Gallery at the entrance to the Jardin, which is the French word for garden. The park is surrounded by an artistic rock wall. Inside we discovered a little café. Happily we ordered some cool Coca-Cola, which seems to be the most advertised drink in all of Morocco, and wrote our first dozen post cards. Having written our last greetings, we ventured back onto the dusty roads in search of a post office where we purchased stamps.

The many cafés and restaurants we passed were exclusively occupied by male patrons, with the exception of one bakery where two modernly dressed women sat chatting agitatedly over some refreshment. Around the next corner we watched two other women, who were dressed in the traditional Muslim chador, trying to find change for a public telephone. Morocco in general struck me as the country with the most diverse dress codes that I have ever observed in any one place. Overall, while I did not walk away wanting to come back to Agadir, the city certainly stirred my curiosity about this country in the north-west of the African continent.