Marrakech. It’s in Africa.
More specifically, Morocco.
Even more specifically: 31°37’48”N, 8°0’32”W.
What we’re trying to tell you: it’s not in Miami. Remember this.
Because you’re about to enter the Delano Marrakech, a Moroccan transplant of the legendary Miami slumber pad with the same luxurious substance, just opened to the world.
Okay, so given the excess of rug salesmen and Barbary apes, and the astonishing lack of oceans and swimsuit models, you probably won’t mistake Marrakech for South Beach. Until you pull up here—basically on Marrakech’s version of Collins Avenue.
Go ahead and survey the space. Stare off your balcony. Yep, those are the Atlas Mountains. Pet the walls. Right, crushed velvet. Everything looks good and regal, like it was designed by a famous French designer (okay, it was). There’s the pool. There’s the Michelin-starred chef. There’s you, under the lobby’s retractable roof, telling time by the sun. Oof—their clock is off a hair. That’s going on your review.
But now it’s time to find what you came here for: discreet adventure. You can start at the spa, investigating the existence of an alleged four-handed masseuse. If that’s not enough, see what happens in the VIP spa with your own private two-person hamam, hot tub and shower.
But probably leave that off your review.
More specifically, Morocco.
Even more specifically: 31°37’48”N, 8°0’32”W.
What we’re trying to tell you: it’s not in Miami. Remember this.
Because you’re about to enter the Delano Marrakech, a Moroccan transplant of the legendary Miami slumber pad with the same luxurious substance, just opened to the world.
Okay, so given the excess of rug salesmen and Barbary apes, and the astonishing lack of oceans and swimsuit models, you probably won’t mistake Marrakech for South Beach. Until you pull up here—basically on Marrakech’s version of Collins Avenue.
Go ahead and survey the space. Stare off your balcony. Yep, those are the Atlas Mountains. Pet the walls. Right, crushed velvet. Everything looks good and regal, like it was designed by a famous French designer (okay, it was). There’s the pool. There’s the Michelin-starred chef. There’s you, under the lobby’s retractable roof, telling time by the sun. Oof—their clock is off a hair. That’s going on your review.
But now it’s time to find what you came here for: discreet adventure. You can start at the spa, investigating the existence of an alleged four-handed masseuse. If that’s not enough, see what happens in the VIP spa with your own private two-person hamam, hot tub and shower.
But probably leave that off your review.
