By continuing to use our site, you agree to our Private Policy and Terms of Use. Before the pandemic, I worked as a hotel critic. For 11 years, I went all over the place, moving from one hotel to the next, fronting myself as some kind of expert of hospitality.
By the third or fourth year it was beginning to be true, but near the start, I was a mess. One of the first trips I took for that job was to the Moroccan city of Marrakech.
I brought my friend Justin along, who is always fun but is also -- a lot. I wasn't technically supposed to bring friends, but I figured, what could go wrong? Justin and I were in artificial-chic Marrakech for close to two weeks. We fully experienced six different five-star resorts, rode on camels, did two black soap hammam scrubs, drank way too much mint tea, and shopped for carpets, poufs, and lanterns.
But that was all tourist stuff. Patrick Waechter and a bustling bar and restaurant in the town square. All courtesy of the writer. On our last night, Justin wanted to find a gay party. We weren't sure if one existed in Marrakech, but we devised a plan to find out. Our suite had a full-time butler, and we were pretty sure he was one of us. Justin went to talk to him. He was resistant at first, but Justin can be very charming.
After a few minutes, Justin returned shaking a little scrap of paper and said, "We're going to a party tonight! Around 10 or so, we went out front to request a taxi. The bellman asked where we were headed and Justin handed him the address. The bellman pulled around the hotel car and drove us to the city center. When we got out, it was eerily quiet. I asked Justin for the address and he slapped his palm on his pocket. I forgot to get it back!
