Years ago, I spent some time in Morocco. It was an unforgettable time. I learned pieces of a new language and culture. I slept under the stars in the Sahara. I explored the markets filled with handcrafted goods. I heard stories that forged new relationships and cemented forever memories. I had the best French fries I have ever eaten in my entire life. They were perfectly crisp and perfectly salted and otherwise indescribably delicious. To be honest, I think of that plate of fries often, as shamefully American as it was to order such a thing as I explored an all-new country.
Sometimes I think of going back to that place. I even did a quick search to see if I could locate a website for the restaurant, Le Dauphin in Meknes. But alas, I was met with mixed reviews as many raved but other travelers complained it was nothing as it once was. From a beautiful local staple, they claim it had transformed into overly commercial and overrated.
As I consider how I might travel now, especially as I more frequently jaunt about on my own, I place too much pressure to find that place. I believe I should find a restaurant or spot that will burn equally strong memories in my mind and have me yearning to return. But that is not fair to myself as I plan out itineraries. Nor is it fair to the locale, just existing with no desire to impress me. I wonder if I should even have goals for my travel. I wonder how much I need to see and experience in order to say it was a good trip. What will make it worth it? Do I need to be able to say “Ten out of ten. I would definitely recommend”? Or do I just need to go, and let the journey be enough?
I don’t know, but I still want those fries.
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