It has been a little more than a year since we dropped our son, “Karim,” off at Boston’s Logan Airport where he began his journey to Morocco as a Peace Corps volunteer. While modern technology has kept us well-connected, we yearned to see him in person and experience a slice of his life there.

Our reunion took place in Marrakech, a crazy, bustling place. We walked to the old medina through unmarked streets that were filled with scooters and exhaust-spewing cars — this is a developing country after all. Between the sights, sounds, and smells, and the joy of being with our son again, it was a lot to take in. The camera stayed in Paul’s knapsack.

The next morning, we climbed into our rental car and headed to Essaouira, a beach town. Much less intense than Marrakech, it was a good place to start our journey. Karim has friends there, who are also in the Peace Corps.

The name of the riad where we stayed, Les Matins Bleus, reflected the town’s color scheme.

Tourists’ jackets also reflected the decor.

The blue carried to the waterfront, where Paul took over camera duty and captured the fishing boats.

At the docks you can buy fish directly from the fishermen. Then, back in the medina, stop at the market for vegetables, before taking these purchases to a restaurant where they grill your food to perfection and serve it to you with bread – which also functions as your knife, fork, and spoon.

Eating in Morocco is a communal event: not a lot of cutlery or plates required.

The next leg of our trip took us back towards Marrakech and over the Atlas Mountains to my son’s site in Tinghir, where the real adventure began.

Goats grazing in a tree on the road to Essaouira.