Marrakech, Morocco, can only be described in multi-dimensions. Every moment commands all of the senses at once, working to process what’s happening and take in the mysteries. Pre-dawn, I’d wake to the muezzin bellowing the first of five calls-to-prayer a day. Outside my door, swallows threaded the air of the riad’s courtyard––soaring over the mosaic floor, burbling fountain, potted lemon trees, and slow choreography of housekeepers in cherry-red hijab uniforms. Breakfast took place on a rooftop terrace with a view of the snow-covered Atlas Mountains, and consisted of cumin-spiced baked eggs, homemade yogurt, stewed apricots, and coffee served in slim glasses. Each day, I set off into the medina––the warren of souks inside the walls of the old city, a UNESCO world heritage site. I met with rug dealers who began our transaction by offering mint tea, and told stories of the Berber people as we ducked the swarms of dust set loose with each unfurled rug. All day I heard the staccato of Arabic, the bagpipe-like sound of the native music, the calls of souk vendors, “Miss, Miss, I make you good price!” the trot of donkey carts, the muezzin that silenced all else for long, mournful moments. I smelled roasted lamb, orange blossom, and the spice market of scents constantly prickling the air. No wonder that at night, I’d lie in bed literally buzzing with the day. Morocco does not let you experience it plainly; it takes you with it through dimensions and imprints on you. This feeling of Morocco is my best souvenir.