Lo Que Me Enseno Getting Lost in Morocco

Perdida en el Laberinto

The Fez medina has over 9,000 narrow alleyways. No pueden entrar carros. GPS is useless—the streets are too narrow and winding for satellites to track. Cuando entre, confident with my downloaded maps and sense of direction, no tenia ni idea that I was about to have one of the most disorienting and ultimately meaningful experiences de mis viajes.

It started simply enough. I wanted to find the famous tanneries, the leather-dyeing pits that had operated for centuries. The riad owner gave me directions—turn left at the spice shop, follow the alley past the brass makers, look for the door with the blue tiles. Simple.

Twenty minutes later, I was hopelessly, completely lost.

El Panico Se Apodera de Ti

At first, I wasn't worried. I'd gotten lost before and always found my way. But the medina of Fez is different. Every alley looks the same—high walls, glimpses of sky above, doors that could lead anywhere. I'd turn left and end up facing a dead end. I'd retrace my steps and somehow emerge in a completely different area.

My phone was useless. The blue dot spun in confusion. The offline map showed nothing but a gray blob. The sun, my usual orientation tool, was hidden behind the towering buildings.

Panic crept in. I was alone. I didn't speak Arabic beyond basic pleasantries. I had no idea which direction the exit was. The calls to prayer echoed from somewhere, everywhere, adding to my disorientation.

I sat down on a stone step, trying to calm my breathing, when an elderly woman in traditional dress stopped and looked at me with concern.

La Bondad de los Desconocidos

"Perdida?" she asked. Lost. Even across languages, my predicament was obvious.

I nodded, showing her my phone with the name of my riad. She studied it, then gestured for me to follow. For twenty minutes, she led me through alleys I never would have found, occasionally stopping to speak with shopkeepers who nodded and pointed. We couldn't really talk, but she held my hand like a grandmother guiding a lost child.

When we emerged at a landmark I recognized—the Blue Gate—she smiled, patted my cheek, and disappeared back into the maze. I never got her name. I never could have thanked her adequately.

That moment broke something open in me. I had been so focused on being capable, on having everything figured out, on never needing help. And here was this stranger who had given twenty minutes of her day to rescue a foolish tourist, expecting nothing in return.

Decidiendo Perderme Otra Vez

The next day, I did something that surprised me: I went back into the medina without a plan. Not to find anything specific, but to practice being lost.

I left my phone at the riad. I had the name of the riad written on a card in Arabic, in case I needed to ask for directions, but otherwise I was unmoored. And something magical happened.

Without the pressure to find something, I started to see everything. The play of light on ancient walls. The smell of cedar and leather and spices. The sound of craftsmen hammering brass. Children playing in hidden squares. Cats lounging on warm stones.

When I got lost—and I did, repeatedly—I asked for help. I pointed at my card, and people smiled and pointed me in the right direction. Sometimes they walked me part of the way. One leather merchant insisted I have mint tea before sending me on. A group of teenage boys thought my predicament was hilarious and escorted me to the main square, laughing the whole way.

Being lost stopped feeling like failure and started feeling like permission—permission to slow down, to notice, to connect with people I would have walked past while staring at my phone.

La Leccion Que Viajo Conmigo a Casa

I think about Fez often, years later. Not just because it's beautiful, but because of what it taught me about control and surrender.

I had spent so much of my life trying to avoid being lost—literally and metaphorically. I over-planned, over-researched, over-prepared. I wanted to arrive everywhere knowing exactly what to expect. And in doing so, I missed the unexpected.

Now, I build getting lost into my travel plans. Not recklessly—I'm not wandering into dangerous situations. But I leave space for not knowing. I put my phone away sometimes. I take wrong turns on purpose. I ask locals for directions even when I know the way, because those conversations often lead somewhere wonderful.

The woman who helped me in Fez gave me more than directions. She showed me that vulnerability can be an invitation—that admitting you don't know opens doors that confidence never could.

Lo Que le Diria a Mi Yo de Antes de Morocco

If I could go back to that panicked woman on the stone step, I'd tell her to take a breath. The worst case scenario—spending a few extra hours in the medina—wasn't actually that bad. The discomfort was temporary. The growth was permanent.

I'd tell her that being lost is different from being in danger, though fear makes them feel the same. I'd tell her that asking for help isn't weakness—it's connection. I'd tell her that the most memorable experiences often happen when plans fall apart.

And I'd tell her what I tell myself before every trip now: It's okay not to know. The not-knowing is where the adventure lives.

Encontrando Tu Propio Fez

You don't need to go to Morocco to get lost. Every city has places where you can surrender to not-knowing. It might be a neighborhood you've never explored in your own city. It might be taking a bus to the end of the line and walking back. It might be saying yes to something that scares you a little.

The practice is the same: let go of the map, trust that you'll find your way eventually, and pay attention to what happens when you stop trying to control the journey.

I still get lost sometimes. The difference is that now, I've learned to trust the experience. There's almost always someone willing to help, something beautiful to notice, a story waiting to unfold. You just have to stop long enough to let it find you.

Pierdete. Encuentrate.
— Sofia