Morocco hits the senses first: spice in the medina air, a call to prayer over rooftops, a tagine lid lifting, and a blue alley in Chefchaouen that looks invented. Marrakech is the gateway and the chaos. Fes is older and deeper. The Atlas and the desert are why people extend the ticket.
It is a country of hospitality and of hustle, often in the same five minutes. Learn a few words of Darija or French, drink the mint tea, and treat the first price as the opening of a conversation, not an insult. Humor travels further than suspicion.
Trains between the imperial cities are comfortable and cheap. The mountains and the Sahara want a driver or a tour you chose, not one that found you. Give Marrakech three nights, then leave it — the trip starts when the walls are behind you.
Eat with bread, accept the extra pastry, and do not rush a riad courtyard. Morocco is a place that looks like a postcard and feels like a negotiation, in the best sense: you meet it halfway, and it meets you back.