In Morocco, there is the theatre of Marrakech, the poetry of Fes, the colour-coded elegance of Chefchaouen. And then, there is Casablanca, a city less choreographed and all the more compelling for it. Here, in the country’s largest and most modern metropolis, the Moroccan experience is not wrapped in silk or staged for travellers. It simply is.
Casablanca, or “Casa” to those who live here, offers no single narrative. It is a collision of Berber roots, colonial fragments, Arab soul, and Atlantic edge. The result is a city that doesn’t try to seduce. It simply goes about its day, with confidence, scale, and a kind of utilitarian beauty that grows on you with each hour you spend getting lost in it.
Its history, of course, is deep. Founded as a Phoenician port, later Portuguese, then Spanish, then French, the city has carried more names than most have passports. Its current incarnation owes much to the French Protectorate era, which left behind a legacy of Art Deco geometry and civic grandeur. The cinema where Bogart’s face flickers across the screen still runs Casablanca on repeat, not so much for tourists, but for the quiet joy of ritual.
But Casablanca is not a postcard of itself. Today, it is Morocco’s business capital, a city of movement, negotiation, and ambition. That energy, while at times chaotic, is also liberating. Unlike other Moroccan cities with their curated souks and tidy tourist routes, Casablanca asks for no particular reverence. It expects you to find your own rhythm.
You might start at the Grand Théâtre de Casablanca, a bold architectural statement with sweeping sail-like curves and an 1,800-seat theatre that now claims the title of Africa’s largest. Or wander through the Villa des Arts, where modern Moroccan works hang in dialogue with the building’s original, colonial bones. The murals on the medina walls, sharp, defiant, often political, speak to a city in creative flux.
From Place Mohammed V, it’s a 20-minute tram ride to the new Finance City, a district rising from the old airport grounds like a silver mirage. Here, Thom Mayne’s CFC Tower gestures towards a globalised future, while nearby boutiques and cafés in Anfa, one of the city’s oldest neighbourhoods, offer a quieter reminder of Casablanca’s layered identity, luxury and local in the same breath.
For those drawn to the Atlantic, Anfa Beach remains resolutely unscripted. You can sip iced coffee in the shade of a parasol while beginners surf small waves under a languid sun. More seasoned surfers drift down to Dar Bouazza for stronger breaks and fewer questions. Either way, the coast here is less a scene than a mood.
From the soft sands near El Hank Lighthouse, the iconic Hassan II Mosque rises with an almost impossible grace. Built partially over water and visible from nearly every corner of the city, it’s a triumph of both engineering and devotion its 210-metre minaret the tallest in the world. But numbers don’t do justice to the experience of standing beneath it, just as the facts don’t quite explain Casablanca. You have to feel your way through.
Evenings settle easily in this city. The old medina gives way to the newer Quartier Habous, built in the 1930s with measured French planning and Moroccan spirit. Olive stalls, tea salons, and bric-a-brac vendors spill into the street without apology. The Central Market, meanwhile, is a sensory clash of fish, fruit, and voices, a place to point, taste, and trust the process. No menu required.
Those looking to stay in the city might find the Royal Mansour Casablanca a fitting base. Housed in a building that subtly echoes the city’s early 20th-century elegance, the hotel blends traditional materials with contemporary design. With a collection of quietly luxurious rooms and a well-regarded spa, it sits comfortably between Casablanca’s historic layers and its more modern ambitions.
Casablanca is not the kind of place you visit for a single landmark. It’s a city of thresholds, where local becomes global, where history slides into futurism, and where everyday moments hold more authenticity than any guided tour.
There is pleasure in that kind of looseness. In cities that don’t explain themselves, only reveal, slowly, to those willing to notice.
