Sahara. Been there, I Do-une That.

Our final morning in Fes was a quiet one—perhaps because none of us wanted to admit we were leaving. Breakfast at Palais Faraj was a calm conclusion to our time in the city, a gentle sendoff with sweeping views and mint tea served in sunlight. There’s something poetic about wrapping up a chapter of travel with a simple meal—one last bite before the adventure shifts gears.

…and shift it did.

We began a long journey across Morocco, making our way toward the golden dunes of Erg Chebbi. It was a day that mostly blurred by—dozing passengers on the bus, earbuds in, screens glowing with downloaded movies, and random conversations that popped up here and there—those lovely, strange, travel-induced chats that meander from life back home to the state of Moroccan rest stops.

Midelt was our lunch stop. I wish I could say it was memorable for good reasons.

We were served a mixed grill of meats and vegetables—harmless enough, or so I thought. But lurking among the sides was a surprise I didn’t ask for: potatoes with a distinctly fishy flavor. Fish broth. In the potatoes. The betrayal was swift and absolute. I hate seafood with every fiber of my being, and nothing ruins a meal faster than expecting comfort food and getting Poseidon's pantry instead. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in Morocco, it’s that fish sneaks into more dishes than you’d ever suspect. So if you're like me and think fish belongs in the ocean and only the ocean, beware.

Luckily, Adventures by Disney had our backs—and our bags. Snacks were always plentiful, and let me just say, those kebab-flavored potato chips became my personal obsession. Savory, smoky, and oddly addictive. And the unofficial MVP of the bus? Kit-Kats. I don’t know what it is about a chocolate wafer on a long drive, but everyone seemed to light up whenever they got passed around. Consider it morale management by sugar.

As we continued our drive, the scenery began to shift—rolling hills gave way to wide, open stretches of rocky desert. And then, almost like a mood change in the sky itself, clouds began to roll in. They hovered low, casting long shadows across the landscape, and brought with them a quiet weight. For me, it wasn’t just the weather changing—it was the rising awareness that soon I’d be boarding a camel, heading into the vast Sahara… and I wasn’t just going for the scenery.

We arrived at the edge of the Sahara just as the skies had settled into a moody silence—clouds still hanging low, as if the desert itself was holding its breath. Our tour bus pulled up to a dusty, windswept meeting point where sleek ATVs waited, lined up like something out of an adventure film. This was the moment we’d been waiting for: the ride out to our luxury desert camp. I’ll admit, we were expecting high-octane dune chaos—racing engines, flying sand, hearts pounding in our throats… and sure, there were bursts of speed and a few spirited bounces across the lower dunes that sent us laughing and gripping the handlebars a little tighter. But this wasn’t a wild ride; it was something else entirely.

It was... cinematic.

The ATVs hummed forward as the landscape stretched wide around us—sparse, quiet, beautiful in that raw, endless way only the desert can be. The ride became a slow reveal, like nature pulling back a curtain one golden ripple at a time. The Sahara doesn’t just appear—it arrives. And as we carved soft tracks into the sand, I could feel the moment building, step by step, heartbeat by heartbeat. As we crested the final rise of the dunes, the camp came into view—an elegant sprawl of cream-colored tents nestled like a mirage in the sand. The clouds parted just enough to let the sun spill across the canvas, casting a fleeting golden light on the scene. The wind had begun to pick up, tossing fine grains of sand like whispers across our path. This wasn’t “roughing it.” This was Morocco’s version of opulence—with a side of stargazing. Ornate rugs paved our path between the tents, and plush seating areas invited us to sink in and stay awhile.

We were quickly assigned tents and given about fifteen minutes to freshen up and prepare for our sunset camel ride. There was no lingering, no unpacking—just a flurry of scarves and excitement as we scrambled to get ready. Our adventure guide Robyn had just informed the group that we'd be divided into smaller groups for ease—an announcement that gave me the perfect window to discreetly pass off the Cartier ring box to her, which she graciously agreed to keep safe until we reached our dune destination. I ran from my tent to hers under the guise of admiring the view, hoping no one would notice the little velvet box I was hiding. and given about fifteen minutes to freshen up and prepare for our sunset camel ride. There was no lingering, no unpacking—just a flurry of people, and excitement as we scrambled to get ready.

Tonight wasn’t just another night in Morocco—it was the night everything would change.

Before we left , Robyn and I started a conversation with the entire group about how this experience might be the closest we’d ever get to feeling like Aladdin. We asked everyone: if you had three wishes, what would they be? When it was my turn, I abstained from my third. With our heads wrapped in colorful scarves, we rode our camels, laughter and banter amongst us. We arrived to a young Moroccan man in the desert with a table full of Moroccan wine and snacks.

Before the excitement  began, we laughed and sipped wine, marveling at the sheer beauty of the dunes around us. I shared a story I’d once learned from another Adventure Guide—about taking photos from behind yourself, looking forward, to capture your own perspective. It caught on quickly. Each person took their individual and couples’ photos. Greg walked forward to get his photo as I took the ring box from the backpack. On bended knee, as he turned around. Our friends were beginning to catch on.

I told Greg that I had been blessed with fifteen beautiful, messy, unforgettable years. That sometimes life is a bit chaotic—like the wine now soaking into his pant legs (shout out to Shahzad)—but that it’s also good. And for my final wish, I wanted our happily ever after.

With a YES, we all hugged and began the celebration with more wine and photos. Before we realized it, darkness had fallen—we were still out in the desert, and it was time to ride the camels back. So fiancé and crew onboard, we made our way back through the cooling sands, hearts full and laughter echoing into the night.

Arriving back at the camp, we were welcomed with cheers and congratulations from our fellow adventurers at dinner. The excitement was too much to really eat. We were lucky that the owners of the tent camp offered us the honeymoon tent, so we were whisked away deeper into the desert in the pitch black—just as a massive thunderstorm began to roll in. We joked that maybe my mom was acknowledging the moment with a flickering light in the tent. Then we lost power. Perhaps she was saying, "Of course I'm excited. Now go to sleep."

After a night away from everyone, we had a delicious breakfast by ourselves. As we sipped tea and soaked in the silence, we started to hear something strange—booming across the dunes. A man’s voice echoed in the distance. Then came the unmistakable guitar riff of AC/DC’s Highway to Hell. It wasn’t a mirage or a hallucination—turns out, an ultra marathon was tearing through the Sahara that morning. Phew.

We eventually reunited with the rest of our crew back at the bus parking spot, shared a few laughs about our surreal wake-up call, and learned a bit about the region’s fascinating fossils. Of course, there was shopping—because when isn’t there shopping? Then it was all aboard for our next stop: Skoura.

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