There’s a particular kind of confidence that only exists when you’re holding a smartphone at arm’s length, watching a thick blue line tell you exactly where to go. It’s the sort of confidence that whispers, Relax mate, satellites have got this.
That was me in Morocco.
At night.
In a medina.
If you’ve ever travelled with a backpack and an optimistic attitude, you already know how this ends.
I’d been in Morocco for about four days, which is roughly the amount of time it takes for a traveller to go from wide-eyed cultural appreciation to dangerously overconfident. I’d eaten tagine from places with no menus, negotiated taxi fares using hand gestures and vibes, and successfully navigated daytime medinas without crying.
Naturally, I assumed I was basically a local now.
My accommodation was tucked deep inside the old city—one of those charming riads that looks magical in daylight and mildly cursed after sunset. The host had given me directions that involved landmarks like “the third alley after the broken fountain” and “turn left where the cats sleep,” which I nodded along to as if that made sense.
But I had a better plan.
I had Google Maps.
According to Google Maps, my walk should’ve taken twelve minutes. A pleasant stroll. Straightforward. Minimal drama.
The blue line shot confidently through the medina like it had done this a thousand times before. Who was I to question the accumulated wisdom of satellites, algorithms, and Silicon Valley optimism?
So I followed it.
The first few minutes were fine—bustling streets, warm light spilling from shops, the hum of scooters weaving past with reckless enthusiasm. Then, without warning, the alley narrowed. Then narrowed again. Then narrowed to the point where I could touch both walls if I stretched my arms out, like a backpacker doing a trust fall with architecture.
The blue line continued onward.
Here’s something travel blogs don’t tell you enough: medinas don’t believe in right angles. They believe in chaos, history, and mildly hostile geometry.
I turned a corner and immediately felt that prickling sensation between my shoulder blades—the universal human instinct that says, You are absolutely not supposed to be here. The alley dipped, twisted, and lost all ambient noise, as if the rest of the city had collectively decided to stop breathing.
Still, Google Maps insisted this was “the fastest route.”
This was my first mistake: assuming “fastest” and “safest” were the same thing.
I kept walking, projecting calm. Backpacker calm. The kind where you tell yourself you’re relaxed while mentally rehearsing what you’ll say if someone asks why you’re in their alley at 9:47pm looking lost and sweating through your shirt.
The walls grew taller. The lights disappeared. A stray cat darted past my feet and nearly sent me into cardiac arrest.
The blue dot.
Still moving.
Still confident.
Still wrong.
According to Lonely Planet, Moroccan medinas are among the most intricate urban environments in the world—designed centuries ago to confuse invaders and protect communities. Which is comforting, except when you realise you are now the confused invader.
They also gently advise travellers not to rely solely on GPS inside old cities, as signals bounce unpredictably off thick stone walls. This is excellent advice that I would’ve appreciated earlier.
At this point, Google Maps suggested a “shortcut.”
I laughed out loud. Alone. In a dark alley. Like a character in a horror film who absolutely does not make it to the final scene.
I followed the shortcut.
Naturally.
It involved descending three uneven steps into what I can only describe as an alley’s alley. A bonus level. The walls leaned inward like they were gossiping about me. My footsteps echoed far louder than they should’ve, and I became acutely aware of every sound my body was making—breathing, fabric rustling, the thud of my own panic.
I checked my phone again.
“Recalculating.”
No kidding.
Travel psychologists—yes, that’s a thing, and yes, I Googled it later—often talk about the “illusion of control” travellers feel when using digital tools. According to research cited by BBC Travel, navigation apps can increase confidence while simultaneously reducing situational awareness.
Translation: you stop trusting your instincts because an app told you not to.
I ignored every internal alarm bell because the blue line hadn’t panicked yet.
Then I heard footsteps behind me.
Not hurried.
Not slow.
Perfectly paced, as if they’d matched my stride.
I told myself this was normal. Medinas are lived-in spaces. People walk places. Humans have legs. Very normal. Very rational.
I did not, however, turn around.
Eventually—mercifully—the alley spat me out into a small square lit by a single flickering bulb. Two older men sat drinking mint tea like they’d been there since 1974 and had seen this exact moment play out thousands of times.
They looked at me.
They looked at my phone.
They smiled.
One of them pointed in the opposite direction of my blue line.
I nodded gratefully, thanked them in a Frankenstein mix of English, French, and broken Arabic, and walked the way he indicated.
Google Maps immediately spun around and agreed.
Ten minutes later, I found my riad. Warm lights. A wooden door. The sound of someone laughing inside. Safety, in architectural form.
I stood there for a moment before going in, letting my heart rate return to something resembling normal. I laughed then—properly this time. The kind of laugh that comes from relief and hindsight and the knowledge that this story will absolutely be told again.
Morocco didn’t try to scare me that night.
It taught me something.
That trust is complicated. That technology is helpful, but not infallible. And that sometimes the smartest navigation tool you have is a local who’s been drinking tea on the same corner longer than Google has existed.
Backpackers love to pretend we’re fearless. But the truth is, half of travel is learning how to sit with uncertainty—how to look calm while quietly admitting you have no idea where you are.
And maybe that’s the point.
These days, I still use Google Maps. I’m not a lunatic. But in old cities, ancient places, and labyrinths built long before satellites, I pause. I look up. I ask someone. I trust my gut a little more than the blue line.
Because sometimes the shortest route isn’t the one worth taking.
And sometimes, the best travel stories start with absolute confidence—and end with mint tea, humility, and a very fast walk home.