As Time Goes By: Two Impressive Months in Casablanca

After seven restless months in Georgia, where life as a digital nomad didn’t quite take off, I landed in Casablanca, Morocco. Not because I’d spun a globe and jabbed my finger at it, but thanks to an unexpected invitation from American friends I’d met years earlier in Cambodia. They offered me the chance to recover and recharge, fully at their expense, in their spacious villa nestled inside a secure expat compound on the grounds of a large American school.

I arrived on February 9, 2022, with just enough funds to bring along my ever-traveling-along cat, Fifty Shady, via Paris. The villa I stayed in had three bedrooms, a giant kitchen, and a huge lounge with a giant television. The family was generous and welcoming. There were daily breakfasts, hearty lunches, and dinners that either involved someone cooking up something, or all of us hopping over to the nearby Morocco Mall for American-sized McDonald’s meals or pizza delivery. Comfort food, comfort zone.

But that compound wasn’t Casablanca. Not really. We were on the outskirts, in a suburban ghost town-in-the-making — a future Moroccan Riviera still under construction. Even a walk to the beach was off-limits due to cranes, fences, and bulldozers. It was a fascinating place to be, but culturally sterile. And while I was grateful to my hosts, they had little interest in Morocco itself. Their world revolved around the campus and the Morocco Mall. I, on the other hand, was itching to see what lay beyond the compound walls.

Enter the “Petit Taxis” and Dating Apps

I started exploring the city the way many expats and broke nomads do — by taking local “petit taxis,” battered old cars shared with strangers, sometimes even chickens. You flagged one down along the main road, climbed in if there was space, and tossed a few dirhams at the driver when you hopped out. Cheap and delightfully chaotic. Or I’d use Bolt, the Uber alternative, which cost a bit more but gave me the illusion of control.

But navigating Casablanca wasn’t just about geography — it was about people. My American hosts weren’t much help there. They worked all day, didn’t speak Arabic or French, and had little desire to dive into Moroccan culture. And while I love wandering solo through neighborhoods and parks (Casablanca has incredible parks, by the way), I wanted some real connection.

So I turned to Tinder and Bumble. I wasn’t looking for love, or anything spicy (this is Morocco after all), but for connection. Conversation. Company.

And surprisingly — it worked.

Dates Without Kisses (or Even Handshakes)

Meeting locals through dating apps in an Islamic country turned out to be the perfect way to ease into the culture. Here, a “date” meant coffee or dinner in a public place. No touching. No hugging. No kiss on the cheek. At first, I didn’t even know if I was allowed to shake hands. Public displays of affection? Strictly off the menu.

And yet, I met some wonderful women. Not romantically — just real, curious, kind people. They were eager to talk, share, and help a foreigner discover their city. One of them, Asma, even took me on a spontaneous trip to Marrakesh. We wandered souks, dodged mopeds, and drank mint tea in chilly courtyards. She loved her country, but like many young Moroccans I met, she dreamed of leaving it — for France, for Canada. “Anything is better than here,” she told me.

Many of them were over 30 and still lived with their parents — perfectly normal in Moroccan culture but also a symptom of economic stagnation. Jobs were scarce. Opportunities even scarcer. They confided in me, not just about Casablanca, but about how it felt to live in a society caught between tradition and modernity. Between beauty and limitation.

Tea, Couscous, and Culture Shock

I had expected food to be a huge part of the experience — and it was, though I had to discover it on my own. My American hosts barely looked at Moroccan dishes without suspicion. When I pointed out couscous in the supermarket, they grimaced as if I’d picked up a can of dog food. So I took local advice instead, and dined at hidden gems like the traditional restaurant Le Cuisto, often guided by my app matches.

I also went to the movies (everything dubbed in French, of course), walked endlessly through French-colonial streets lined with palm trees, and soaked up the sun in vast, well-kept parks. Casablanca had the elegance of a tired starlet — still graceful, but worn around the edges. I was falling for it. Asma even took me to see Marrakesh!

But even here, I couldn’t escape moments of absurd culture clash. Once, a local woman invited me and a university professor to a rooftop bar. She arrived 15 minutes late and was nearly denied entry. The doorman took one look at her — alone, unaccompanied — and said, “Whores are not welcome here.” A woman entering a bar solo? That made her suspect. We argued, she was let in, but the damage lingered. Casablanca was modern — but only to a point.

Time to Move On

As the end of my 90-day visa approached, a month-long Ramadan loomed — and with it, a full cultural shutdown. Cinemas, cafes, and restaurants would close, and Casablanca’s already slow pulse would nearly flatline. My hosts suggested I do a quick visa run to Lisbon. And honestly, they had me at “Lisbon.”

So I packed up, got Fifty Shady vaccinated and vet-approved, and booked that flight out. I was sad to leave, but the timing was right.

Casablanca had given me exactly what I needed: rest, kindness, long walks, and a deeper understanding of Morocco — one date at a time.

Casablanca Was Real

Forget the fake Rick’s Café (no, the movie Casablanca was never filmed here). Casablanca is very real. It’s complicated, warm, frustrating, and absolutely worth exploring. You just have to know where to look – and be brave enough to swipe right once in a while.

Beslama, Casablanca.

Lisbon, I’m coming for you.

Ramon.