BURN ALL THE (GUIDE) Books (IMSSOUANE)

There is a place on the wind-wracked Atlantic coast of Morocco that even Lonely Planet hasn’t discovered yet. It’s populated with guys like this:

And this:

And this:

Let’s just say that in my feral, mushroom-shake-slurping, bikini-eternal backpacker days I would’ve ridden more than a few waves in this town, if you get my meaning.

An hour and a half drive through the rocky, rolling hills south of Essaouira, hunkered down at the bottom of a cliff, lies Imssouane. Its name literally translates to “hot surfer dude”. (Oh stop, that’s how we joke!) The air is 5+ degrees warmer than Essa, the people in a rush for nothing, even the wind feels like it just took a nice big hit of kif and settled.

Our first stop was, as all first stops with toddlers are, The Potty. So we rolled into one of the half dozen laid back cafes, ordered a cafe, (still can’t figure out how to order it right - there’s like 12 different ways) emptied our tanks and took it all in.

Wilder immediately started asking for a soccer ball – two weeks out of the states and he’s replaced his love of football with the much more exotic love of fútbol. We asked the waiter if he knew where we could find one and he said, “We go.” So Billy, Wilder and Waiter set out on their search while Nakota and I discussed boundaries, i.e., That’s a cliff, Don’t jump off it.

The guys returned with a beat-up, blown-up, two-dollar ball, for which the waiter refused a commission and the child gladly accepted his good fortune. Game on Imssouane.

We heard about this place from the owners of the riad we stayed at in Marrakesh. Through our pathetic command of the French language we gathered it was a cute seaside town with good fish. Little did we know that it was the underground surf capital of Morocco. The crescent shaped beach makes for long waves that cut on an angle, so the surfers can ride them in and have a shortcut to get back out and do it again. Or something like that. I really have no idea what I'm talking about.

I tried to learn surfing exactly once. Billy and I were in South Africa and I ignorantly assumed that with my background in waterskiing I would take to it like the proverbial fish to water. After two hours of being caught in the spin cycle of a washing machine gone rogue, I salt-water burped my way to shore and consciously decided to work on my tan. But we want to try again. Because that shit looks fun. And our kids don’t know how to swim yet. #peaceful.

In the meantime, we lunch.

Of course I don't want to literally burn any book, guide books included. Even in this day and age of travel blogs and Trip Advisors I still cling to my Lonely Planet hardcopy as much as I did pre-internet. (Even more so since I still haven't found an English bookstore and can't get wifi in our bedroom - I fall asleep reading and re-reading every fucking word of the thing). But "discovering" Imssouane was a nice reminder that sometimes the best places we travel to are the ones that we are told about by the people we meet traveling. How fun it would be to traverse the world like that, from one word of mouth to another.