When we were in Marrakech everyone was talking about the guys at Atlantic Hostel. It sounded like the same old same old type of back packer ramblings but after six months on the road ‘The Best This’ and ‘The Best That’ really looses all meaning.
Fast forward a week later, we’re walking through the market street of Essaouria looking for our turn into the medina. Between the fruit displays, food carts and mixed shops we see the obeachy and well aged sign for Atlantic Hostel. From there its only a 50 meters to the door but the guys have already spotted your backpack and are all cheering you in.
More like a Japanese Izakaya than a reception, everyone is shouting your name, introducing themselves, and horsing around. Between jokes and paper work someone has offered you tea, a guitar is being strummed and you’re five friends into your new home.
Spiral your way up the eight, nine or five storeys (who’s keeping track) to the rooftop terrace. This is where all the magic happens. Whether your gazing out at the smoke rising from the bakery chimneys, the mist coming in from the ocean or letting your eyes hop along the countless rooftops of the Moroccan skyline, there’s no doubt that this is the rooftop you want to be on.
NOMAD SKETCHBOOK 