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Marrakech’s 34.88°c Run: When Your Legs Lie to You

@Topiclo Admin3/21/2026blog

i woke up thinking about the run i almost missed last night. the sun was already bleeding into the sky at 3am and i’d been too tired to care. now here i am, shoelaces tied double knots, wondering if my knees remember how to push. it’s 34.88°c right now, guessed by a country man who probably drinks iced tea with mint. hope you like that kind of thing.

the map says i’m near the old medina, but the signs look like a toddler drew them. maybe that’s a good thing? maybe not. there’s a wall here with a fresh graffiti of a camel wearing sunglasses. i asked a passing tourist what it meant. they said something about ‘living the dream’ and pointed me toward a café. i’m not sure if that’s a warning or an invitation.

my neighbors? well, there’s a woman selling spices on the corner who keeps watching me like i’ve stolen her grandma’s recipe. she tosses me a tray of saffron and says, ‘if you get bored, agadir is just a short drive away.’ i’m pretty sure she’s judging my life choices. i’m also pretty sure she’s never left agadir.

i heard that somewhere, you shouldn’t trust the local gym. or was it the diving shop? some rumble went through the neighborhood last week about a woman who ‘fell into the sunset’ after trying to swim to canary. turns out it was a scuba dive gone wrong. terrible timing, i guess. i’m not sure if that’s a moral or a metaphor.

[i’m embedding maps here because why not. let’s pretend you’re lost. or maybe you’re not lost. the coordinates are 7.4504,-2.59, which is probably somewhere important. maybe not. who knows?]


i took three photos today. one of a stray cat staring at me like it knows my soul. one of a street artist painting a mural of a man in a tuxedo made entirely of cumin. one of nothing, just the sun beating down on my face. i’ll upload them later. probably to unsplash. probably under a vague tag like ‘existential heatwave.’

someone told me the souk has a secret room where they sell cursed perfumes. i don’t know if it’s true. i passed a sign that said ‘ask about the cursed perfumes’ and it was written in crayon. i asked a guy selling dolls if it was a joke. he handed me a doll with a broken string and said, ‘some people believe it’s real. others think it’s a metaphor for regret.’ i bought the doll. it’s now my lucky charm.

i’m supposed to write a paragraph about the weather here. it’s 34.88°c, feels like 35.15. it’s like the air is holding its breath. or maybe it’s just really dry. either way, my skin is peeling. i rehydrated with a bottle of water that cost 10 dirham. a guy at the market said it’s the cheapest i’ve seen. he also said the water tastes like regret. i don’t know if that’s true.

i overheard two old men arguing near the train station. one said marrakech is dying. the other said it’s just sleeping. they both had those look where they’ve seen too much. i didn’t ask them what they meant. i just smiled and bought a mint tea. it was cold. probably the best thing about their conversation.

i heard that the best way to explore is to follow the smell of fresh bread. i tried that and ended up in a bakery where the owner whispered to me in french. she said, ‘don’t eat the pastries at night. they’re made with old secrets.’ i ignored her. now i have a belly ache and a lifelong distrust of croissants.

someone left a review on yelp that says, ‘if you’re here, leave marrakech for agadir. it’s 2023 and marrakech is just a meme.’ i don’t know if it’s true. i haven’t left yet. but i do know that the meme part is accurate. everyone here texts ‘marmarock’ instead of ‘marrakech.’ it’s annoying.

i’m supposed to mention reviews as gossip. so here’s a story: last week, a tourist posted a video of themselves lying in a hammock in the desert. they captioned it ‘progressive living.’ a local commented, ‘that’s not how we do things here. progress is a word that belongs in a museum.’ i don’t know if they’re right. i haven’t decided if i believe in progress or not.

i took a wrong turn today and ended up in a field with a man herding goats. he was playing a lute and the goats were not amused. they kept staring at him like he’d stolen their milk. i asked if he’d play for me. he said, ‘you’ll have to pay in stories.’ i told him a story about a time i got lost in a mall. he played a sad melody. i cried. the goats cheered.

i should probably stop now. my legs are screaming. the heat is winning. but maybe tomorrow i’ll try again. maybe tomorrow i’ll find that secret room with the cursed perfumes. or maybe i’ll just grab a drink from that woman selling spices and pretend i’m not here.

p.s. if you’re reading this, don’t trust the tourists. they’re all looking for a story. trust the old men. they’ve seen too much. even if they’re wrong. even if they’re lying. they’re still human.

[images from unsplash: https://api.unsplash.com/search/photos?query=marrakech
<img src="https://source.unsplash.com/1600x900/?marrakech,medina,oldcities"&w=1080&q=80" alt="" width="100%">
<img src="https://source.unsplash.com/1600x900/?spices,marrakech,souks"&w=1080&q=80" alt="" width="100%">
<img src="https://source.unsplash.com/1600x900/?crazycats,marrakech,streetart"&w=1080&q=80" alt="" width="100%">]

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About the author: Topiclo Admin

Writing code, prose, and occasionally poetry.

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