I was about to make my beeline across the country, through the Sahara Desert.
The trip would take 4 days, involving bus journeys, long camel drives and camping in the desert. It sounded so romantic and primitive - I couldn't wait for it!
Before touching the desert, I had to get through the Atlas mountains first - a handsomely jagged mountain range that cinches in Morocco's waistline like a basque.
I woke up incredibly early that morning to catch a 6am bus from Place de Foucauld. I was the only person waiting there, and grew increasingly anxious is it got later and later after 6am, and no bus was in sight.
I stood nervously outside a closed-down café playing with a box of kittens. I don't know whether they belonged to somebody or were just dumped there. They were probably riddled with ticks but they were a very effective stress-reliever!
40 minutes after 6, the bus rocked up. There were a few other tourists on board who I started talking to as we began to make out way out of the city and towards the mountain range.
After a one-hour nap, I woke up in beaming daylight.
The bus had stopped for a refreshment break at a truck stop in the foothills.
As far as highway stops go, this was a pretty nice one. It was peaceful and the air was mountain-fresh.
There was a stand offering freshly-squeezed orange juice for as little as 20p a glass. Fabulous.
Another hour and we were much higher up into the mountain range. The air grew colder and thinner, but cleaner. After only a few days in dusty Marrakech, my lungs were happy about this change in scenery.
The road grew flat, and we began to sail through a date plantation - mile after mile of lush, green palm trees armed with delicious, sweet dates.
This was the edge of an oasis - the mountains were far behind - I was now officially in a desert. Scorching, dry desert.