“Not all shopkeepers are barkers,” sniffed the owner of the Khalid Art Gallery in Marrakech when I said (politely, I thought) I wasn’t interested in purchasing his $24,000 butter pot — a 16th century museum piece that still smelled, incredibly, of butter. But this fellow’s celebrated clientele included Brad Pitt and Bill Clinton; I was a mere distraction.

He wasn’t the only Moroccan vendor with attitude, just the most extravagant. By the time I reached Marrakech, I had grown accustomed to aggressive merchants. Marrakech was my last stop — I’d saved the best for last. My journey had begun outside the city of Fez, where, along the road from Casablanca, old men stood in front of their tiny orchards, erect and proud, selling jugs of their exquisite olive oil.

Inside the walls of Fez’s medina, or old town, I entered my first souk, one of the busy markets where mobs of shoppers and merchants scurry in all directions tending to daily chores. In the carpenters’ souk, I watched a woodworker pound together a brightly colored coffin shaped like a long, skinny house with a peaked lid — designed so that the deceased could be positioned on his side, forever facing Mecca. That same morning, I wandered through the jewelers’ souk, the carpet weavers’ souk, and — after taking a wrong turn in the hundreds of alleyways crisscrossing the medina — the tanners’ souk, where a young woman distributed sprigs of eucalyptus (inhaling the menthol helps to neutralize the overwhelming stench of the tanning process). It was all good practice for the more hyperactive, noisy, intimidating souks of Marrakech.

My heart quickened a bit when I first entered Marrakech. I had expectations. I was staying at La Mamounia, one of the top-rated hotels in the world. With 32 acres of gardens designed by a sultan in the 16th century, La Mamounia has hosted luminaries from Jimmy Carter to Elton John. Winston Churchill stayed at this Art Deco palace for months at a time, painting on his private terrace.

La Mamounia is over-the-top, though my suite was configured in an odd way. At one end was a small room with a toilet and bidet. Next to it was a sitting room, then a large bedroom, and finally — at the far end — a room with shower, bath and sink. So, each time I used the bathroom, I had to traipse through two “public” rooms to wash my hands.

Still, it was a fine base for learning about all things Moroccan. I was awakened early each morning by the call to prayer, a beautiful cacophony of song from hundreds of mosques across the city. My first morning, I visited several ancient palaces and kasbahs — small, fortified districts, often converted to modern inns — but stopped touring because, after the first few, they all seemed alike. I was able to pick up some useful details, however, about Moroccan design and architecture. I learned that the stalactite-style ornamentation in many buildings represents the Berbers and their caves. I also was fascinated to know that the ornate grillwork called moucharabieh that covered windows of homes was only partly to cool the inside. Mostly, the fancy lattice was to keep women hidden, a perch from which they could see but not be seen.

Moroccan food was another learning experience — who knew lemon chicken could be that scrumptious? Most dinners were tajine meals, baked in the cone-shaped clay vessels in which couscous, meat and vegetables all cooked together. It was a variation of the same meal every night, but I never tired of it.

Moroccan wine, too, was divine — again, who knew? When you go, look for busty reds from Meknes; the soil in that region produces the best wines and olive oils. After dinner, we always cleansed our hands with rose water poured from a delicate glass vase, and enjoyed a glass of hot, desserty-sweet mint tea. I’m not crazy about mint, so it took a bit of coaxing before I tried the tea, and I was instantly addicted.

I returned only one food item to my plate. We were dining in La Mamo unia’s most elegant restaurant one evening, munching on meat-filled pastilles as appetizers, when the woman next to me remarked, “This pigeon is delicious, isn’t it?” Suddenly, that filling seemed less appetizing.

The real education, though, happens in the souks. They’re almost too much to process: the intensity, the intrigue, the clamor of smells and colors, the pageantry of everyday commerce. (Women should consider going with a male guide to spare themselves the relentless aggression of the vendors and their expert hustle.)

The souks are more than markets. People live in that vast labyrinth of alleys and stalls, and a good guide will teach you the five components required for every neighborhood: a mosque, a kindergarten, a public bakery, a public fountain with clean water, and a hammam, or Moorish bath.

Throughout Morocco, I loved sitting on the thick, hard-stuffed mattress seating in restaurants and other common spaces, and in the fabric souks I learned what was inside: the cushions were stuffed with “dead” wool, as opposed to the “live” wool — that is, still containing some oils — used for weaving.

Some of my best photos are of spice stalls, each displaying dozens of bins overflowing with competing colors — pimento, cinnamon, paprika, verbena, lavender, cloves, coriander, fennel. They had harissa for flavoring couscous and henna for the hair, and flaming-red saffron. Nearby, the olive displays were almost as dazzling. An herbalist heard me cough and stepped out to show me how to rub black cumin on my hand to release the sharp smell and clear my sinuses.

There were silken babouche slippers and pewter teapots and engraved silver charms. I wanted to buy everything. My favorite souvenir: a flowing green djellaba, a long, hooded robe worn by both men and women.

Outside in the Jemaa el Fna Square, I saw tumblers and storytellers, acrobats and scribes, henna hand painters and monkeys doing tricks. A snake charmer yelled at me because I only gave him $1 for letting me take his photo.

Marrakech isn’t the only spot in Morocco worth visiting. Every traveler should see Volubilis, the Roman city on the sea, with its grand mosaic floors. Cross the Atlas Mountains, as we did, and ride a dromedary into the Sahara to watch the sun rise. On the balmy coast, spend a day in Essaouira, the resort town near the Berber village that Jimi Hendrix once called home.

Save Marrakech for last.