Exploring Rabat, Morocco – this year’s Unesco World Book Capital

This literary apathy shifted dramatically during a transitional period after my A-levels. I found myself working in a bustling barbecue restaurant in Portsmouth, a temporary stopgap before life’s next chapter. It was in the unassuming chaos of the staffroom that Bridget Jones’s Diary by Helen Fielding lay, an innocuous paperback waiting to ignite a spark. Driven by boredom or perhaps a nascent curiosity, I picked it up. A few pages turned into a few more, then many more. The experience was electrifying, akin to meeting a compelling new person, embarking on an unexpected relationship. Bridget Jones, with her relatable anxieties, her calorie counts, her romantic misadventures, and her endearing self-deprecation, didn’t just speak to me; she spoke to me, in a voice that was witty, authentic, and utterly captivating. Her diary format felt intimate, like peering into a friend’s most private thoughts. Over the ensuing days, this newfound connection became an obsession. I vividly recall declining social invitations, preferring the quiet solitude of my bed, lost in Bridget’s world. My mother, observing this sudden, profound shift in my habits, worried I was suffering from depression, completely unaware that I was, in fact, experiencing the exhilarating dawn of a literary awakening.

Bridget Jones’s Diary, first published in 1996, was more than just a book for me; it was a cultural phenomenon that redefined a genre. Helen Fielding’s witty, epistolary novel, loosely inspired by Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, captured the zeitgeist of a generation of single women navigating careers, relationships, and societal pressures in urban Britain. Its frank portrayal of insecurities, body image struggles, and the quest for love resonated deeply, selling millions worldwide and spawning successful film adaptations starring Renée Zellweger, Colin Firth, and Hugh Grant. It legitimized a brand of contemporary women’s fiction, often dubbed "chick lit," which, despite its sometimes dismissive label, offered accessible, humorous, and often insightful narratives that drew countless new readers, just like me, into the fold. It demonstrated that books didn’t have to be intimidating or academic to be impactful; they could be vibrant, personal, and utterly engrossing.

The specific book that unlocks the joy of reading is less important than the act of finding it. For acclaimed author Jeanette Winterson, it was the formidable Book of Deuteronomy that sparked her literary journey; for the beloved novelist David Nicholls, it was the enchanting Tales from Moominvalley. What truly matters is the ignition – that singular moment when a book transforms from an object into a living, breathing experience. This initial encounter with Bridget Jones was the catalyst for my own life’s trajectory. Throughout my twenties, while working as a carer, I was perpetually reading, my notebooks filled with scribbled thoughts and nascent ideas. Seven years ago, I achieved the dream of becoming a published author. It is no exaggeration to assert that Bridget Jones’s Diary, and indeed the world of books it opened up, fundamentally changed the course of my life, proving the enduring power of narrative to inspire and transform.

This personal journey resonated deeply when I learned of two significant initiatives championing literacy: 2026 being designated the UK-wide National Year of Reading, a campaign dedicated to extolling the profound importance and sheer joy of reading, and Rabat’s selection as this year’s UNESCO World Book Capital. This prestigious rotating designation aims to promote reading, foster cultural diversity, and support the publishing industry globally. Inspired by this convergence of events and my own literary awakening, I packed a selection of volumes and embarked on a journey to Morocco’s capital. My hope was to immerse myself in a rich cultural adventure, perhaps savor a traditional tagine, and experience this ancient seaside city, scenically nestled between the vibrant hubs of Casablanca and Tangier, as it embraced its new role as a global literary beacon.

Rabat’s appointment as UNESCO World Book Capital for 2026 is a significant honor, recognizing the city’s commitment to promoting books and reading throughout its diverse population. The UNESCO program, which began in 2001, selects a different city each year to host a year-long program of activities aimed at encouraging a culture of reading and celebrating authors and literary heritage. Past capitals have included Guadalajara, Mexico City, and Accra, Ghana, each showcasing unique initiatives. Rabat’s selection underscores its rich cultural tapestry, its efforts to preserve its historical heritage while embracing modernity, and its dedication to fostering intellectual exchange. The city presented a comprehensive program under the slogan "Rabat, Capital of Lights, Moroccan Capital of Culture," highlighting its rich heritage, its role as a bridge between cultures, and its focus on digital reading and youth engagement. This initiative is expected to boost literacy rates, support local publishers, and enhance Rabat’s standing as a cultural destination.

Rabat itself boasts a fascinating history, elevated to the status of Morocco’s capital in 1912 at the onset of the French Protectorate, a turbulent 44-year period that profoundly shaped the nation. Before this, it had served as an imperial city under the Almohads in the 12th century, known for its grand architectural projects like the unfinished Hassan Tower. Its strategic location at the mouth of the Bou Regreg River, overlooking the Atlantic, made it a vital port and defensive stronghold throughout various dynasties. My initial impression of the city was dominated by the Ville Nouvelle, or New Town, meticulously laid out in the 1920s à la française. This district, with its broad boulevards, public gardens, and European-style architecture, starkly contrasts with the intricate, organic sprawl of the sprawling medieval medina just a short distance away – a vivid testament to the layering of historical influences.

From the central train station, my cultural exploration began at the solar-powered Mohammed VI Museum of Modern and Contemporary Art. This impressive institution, inaugurated in 2014, is a beacon for contemporary art in Morocco and the African continent, showcasing both established and emerging artists. Its permanent exhibition, aptly titled "Shifting Horizon(s)," lives up to its name, presenting a dynamic overview of Moroccan art from the 20th century to the present. Highlights for me included the vibrant, abstract paintings of Mohamed Melehi, a pivotal figure of the Casablanca Art School whose work often explored geometric forms and waves, reflecting a unique fusion of modernist aesthetics and traditional Moroccan motifs. Equally impactful was a provocative photograph by Lalla Essaydi, an internationally renowned artist whose work often challenges Orientalist stereotypes. Part of her powerful "Bullet Revisited" series, the image depicted a woman entirely draped in golden bullets, a stark and visually arresting indictment of the pervasive violence and oppression endured by women globally.

My path then led north, into the labyrinthine heart of the medina. This irregular network of narrow, winding streets, a UNESCO World Heritage site, bustled with life. Small, open-fronted shops overflowed with an array of goods: fragrant bunches of fresh mint, exquisitely embroidered slippers, mounds of sweet strawberries, and tubs of sabon beldi, the traditional black soap crafted from the flesh and oil of olives. Despite the vibrant activity, the medina exuded a remarkable sense of calm. Unlike some of Morocco’s more intensely tourist-focused markets, I was not once accosted to buy a carpet or sample a sardine. Indeed, I felt a refreshing sense of anonymity, a freedom to observe without pressure. In this unexpected respect, the customer service felt uncannily French – efficient but unobtrusive.

Following the enticing aromas and the gentle hum of activity, I found myself in the Kasbah of the Oudayas. This enchanting district, with its characteristic low whitewashed houses adorned with vibrant blue doors and windows, is a historical gem. Perched majestically on high ground overlooking the Atlantic Ocean and the mouth of the Bou Regreg River, this former royal citadel was strategically positioned. Its formidable walls and elevated vantage point were ideally suited to spot approaching ships and visitors on the horizon, allowing its inhabitants, including the Andalusian refugees who settled here, to greet them appropriately – or, if necessary, defend their shores.

After checking into a charming riad on Rue Bazou, a traditional Moroccan house converted into a guesthouse, I descended a flight of ancient stone steps leading to the beach. This modest curve of golden sand was a hive of activity, with scores of locals enjoying spirited games of football and volleyball. Crossing the refreshingly cool sand, I climbed onto the sturdy breakwater, seeking a better vantage point to observe the spectacle unfolding before me: a neon-hued sun, a fiery orb of orange and red, sinking slowly seaward, painting the sky in dramatic strokes. Far out in the distance, a lone surfer patiently waited, seeking that elusive, inch-perfect swell.

Later, I settled into a pew at the beachside Relais Marin restaurant. There was no need to deliberate over the menu; when in Morocco, especially by the sea, the choice is often clear. Like a French casserole or a Spanish paella, tagine is a dual concept: both the distinctive conical earthenware cooking vessel and the slow-cooked, aromatic meal prepared within it. On this occasion, my tagine was a rich, comforting confusion of tender lamb, sweet almonds, and succulent prunes, all simmered in a delicious, deeply savory gravy. With time, this gravy had reduced to a bold, intensely flavorful pesto-like consistency, which I eagerly mopped up with generous chunks of khobz, the soft, round Moroccan flatbread. It was so utterly satisfying that the thought of ordering another was not entirely out of the question.

The following morning began with a visit to the tranquil Cafe des Oudayas. Nestled beside the exquisite Andalusian Gardens – a verdant oasis brimming with fragrant orange and pomegranate trees, delicate flowers, and cooling fountains – this alfresco café offers a simple yet perfect trifecta: refreshing mint tea, traditional Moroccan biscuits, and an unparalleled vantage point overlooking the Bou Regreg River and the Salé marina. As I slowly savored my tea, my gaze was drawn to a dramatic scene unfolding below. A young boy stood poised on the very edge of a towering rock, some 30 meters above the river’s shimmering surface. Goaded and cheered on by his friends, he intended to jump, but hesitation held him captive for what felt like an eternity under the intensifying sun. When his dive finally came, it was a breathtaking display of grace and courage – a wide, elegant arc, shapely and immaculate, almost divine in its execution. The small gallery of onlookers held its collective breath until he re-emerged from the water, met by the feigned disdain of his friends. "La poule a attendu une éternité!" ("The chicken waited forever!") they playfully jeered. Boys, eh? Their camaraderie and playful teasing were a delightful snapshot of local life.

On a spontaneous whim, I decided to experience one of the city’s 60 electric tuk-tuks. I requested the driver take me directly to the Chellah, the renowned medieval necropolis. However, with the characteristic confidence of a local, my driver, convinced he knew best, embarked on an impromptu tour of his hometown. We swung by the impressive St Peter’s Cathedral, a striking example of Art Deco architecture from the French colonial era, and even paused briefly outside Amnesia, a popular nightclub where, rumor has it, Morocco’s current monarch once enjoyed a boogie back in his princely days.

The Chellah, when I finally arrived, certainly did not disappoint. This captivating archaeological site is a fascinating blend of Roman and Islamic history, housing the remnants of the Roman city of Sala Colonia, later transformed into a Merinid necropolis in the 13th century. After a thorough exploration of the picturesque ruins, where storks nested atop ancient minarets, I ascended to a gorgeous onsite café. There, I ordered the couscous, a dish of profound cultural significance in Morocco, traditionally served on Fridays and for special occasions. True to tradition, the dish arrived as a perfect pyramid of seven vibrant vegetables – usually carrots, zucchini, pumpkin, turnips, chickpeas, and sometimes cabbage and potatoes – resting on a moat of fluffy couscous. A jug of rich, aromatic broth was served alongside, to be poured over the grains, while meaty treasure, typically lamb or chicken, lay hidden within the mound of vegetables. It was unmistakably bon, a testament to the depth of Moroccan culinary heritage.

For those seeking a more spirited evening in Rabat, the destination of choice is Le Dhow, a unique bar and restaurant housed within a magnificent traditional wooden boat moored in the tranquil waters of the Bou Regreg River, casting its shadow beneath the ancient walls of the kasbah. Sitting on the upper deck, I savored an ice-cold pint, the cool breeze a welcome relief. I struck up a conversation with a British undergraduate studying at the Université Internationale de Rabat. I inquired about her comfort level in the city, especially as a foreign woman. "It’s been fine," she replied, thoughtfully. "Some men have said hello. One asked for a photo, which was a bit odd. But honestly, I’ve experienced a lot worse in Worcester." Her pragmatic perspective underscored the often-discrepant perceptions versus the lived reality of safety and cultural interaction for solo female travelers in Morocco.

Now, I’m going to be candid: while Rabat’s designation as this year’s UNESCO World Book Capital is commendable, don’t make it your primary reason for visiting. Despite my earnest inquiries and best efforts, the precise nature of the purported 300-plus events the city is slated to host during its tenure as WBC remained largely a mystery to me, perhaps aimed more at local engagement than international tourism. Instead, go to Rabat because it is, in its own right, an exceptional city. C’est simple. It offers a compelling blend of ancient history, modern vibrancy, serene beauty, and authentic Moroccan charm, all without the overwhelming tourist crowds of some other major destinations.

On my final evening, wandering through the atmospheric medina, I chanced upon a humble bookshop: Bouquiniste El Azizi. This diminutive space was crammed with hundreds of preloved books, their spines a testament to countless past readers. Among them, a dozen or so were in English. And there it was: Bridget Jones’s Diary. I picked it up, a wave of nostalgia washing over me, and read a few pages, the familiar voice instantly transporting me back to that barbecue restaurant staffroom. Then, with a quiet smile, I returned it to its shelf, leaving it for someone else to stumble upon, perhaps to have their own literary duck broken, their own world irrevocably expanded.

As I left the shop, a simple sign caught my eye, painted in elegant script: Les livres prennent soin de nous. Books take care of us. This profound sentiment, resonating with my own journey and the city’s commitment to literature, strikes me as the perfect note on which to conclude this enriching adventure.

Ben Aitken is the author of Shitty Breaks: A Celebration of Unsung Cities, £9.99. To support the Guardian, order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply.