What No One Tells You About Moving Abroad (That You Learn at the Grocery Store)

Before moving to Marrakech, I used to breeze through grocery shopping like it was a sport. I had my routine down—my mental map of Trader Joe’s, my favorite sandwich wrap and funky sweets locked in. Ten minutes in, ten minutes out. Zero fanfare.

Now? Grocery shopping at Carrefour feels like stepping into a different world—and not just because it’s tucked inside a sprawling mall.

First, it’s massive. I’m talking “somehow four different aisles for yogurt” massive. Every trip takes at least an hour, even if I only came for oat milk and mangoes. Why? Because here in Marrakech, time has a different shape. The checkout line alone could be its own short film: someone’s paying by check, another is deep in conversation with the cashier, and you’re just... waiting. Watching. Wondering if you really needed that second tub of spiced olives.

And then there’s the cart drama. There simply never seems to be enough carts, so you start juggling groceries in your arms—until you realize you’re carrying a watermelon and three jars of amlou (each with its own famed secret ingredient). There’s a little chaos, a lot of wandering, and often that moment when you discover you forgot the one thing you actually came for.

But honestly? I’ve grown to love it. There’s something oddly comforting about Carrefour’s fluorescent lights and its strangely international—but not quite—selection. French butter sits next to Moroccan spices and knockoff American cereals all in one aisle. Five languages swirl around as you debate tea. Cheese samples you didn’t ask for mysteriously appear, and you say yes anyway.

It’s not romantic or rustic. It’s not a dreamy souk with handwoven baskets and chickens in the background. It’s just a grocery store. A big, fluorescent, sometimes-frustrating, totally ordinary grocery store.

But it’s become part of my Marrakech rhythm. A place where I fumble through Darija with the cashier, remember to slow down, and almost always forget the oat milk.

Small adventures. Everyday joy. That’s the magic, I think.

With love (and a kilo of mangoes),
Alethea