Algeria Calling
I couldn’t wait to get back to Algeria after wrapping up the 193. Out of all the countries I’d visited, Algeria was one that stuck with me the most. Why? Because it was the first place to completely shatter a stereotype I didn’t even know I was carrying. I remember 2016 like it was yesterday—feeling tense, uneasy, unsure about what I was walking into. I’d gone so far as to hire a guide, complete with an airport pickup and, let’s be honest, a bit of hand-holding. Why? Because, like a lot of people, I had this distorted view of Algeria, this idea it was some kind of dangerous, no-go zone. A place where “bad things happen,” and “bad people hang out.”
Don’t Believe The Hype
Blame it on the news. Growing up, the only time I heard the word “Algeria” was in stories about terror. I remember Dan Rather saying something like, “The hijackers were trained in Algeria,” “…the terrorist training camp in Algeria,” etc. Whenever Algeria was in the news, it wasn’t good news. From that moment on, Algeria lived in the shadows of my mind, filed under “places you probably shouldn’t visit.”
But man, was I wrong. It took minutes—maybe less—for Algeria to flip the script. All those fears, all that unease, evaporated almost as soon as I stepped off the plane. And by the time my 36-hour whirlwind tour was over, I was a mess of emotions—relieved that my paranoia had been pointless, overjoyed by the sheer beauty and warmth of the place, and just a little heartbroken that I had to leave so soon. Algeria had jumped to the top of my list of places I had to come back to. So, here I am, finally back.
>>> RELATED: The Secret Corners of Algeria – My 2016 Trip <<<
What Had Happened Was…
This trip was kind of a one-year “anniversary” thing—a year since I finished what I set out to do and stepped foot in my final country, back in September 2023. Turkmenistan was the big one, the ceremonial number 193 and it was almost too perfect, like something out of a movie. One of those experiences where you wonder if it really happened or if your memory is just playing tricks on you. Maybe one day I’ll spill all the details in a book, tell you the whole story, but for now… you’ll have to let your imagination run wild.
This trip wasn’t even supposed to be about Algeria. It was all about my glorious return to Turkmenistan. But apparently, I had *too* much fun the first time, because this time around, they flat-out denied my visa. They even told my guide, “We know who he is.” Fantastic. Turns out being in media is a bit of a liability—who knew? Turkmenistan, it seems, has zero interest in publicity. Even the good kind. When I wrapped up my 193-country tour, news outlets all over the world covered it, and naturally, Turkmenistan got its fair share of the spotlight as the grand finale. I guess that was enough for them to say, “Thanks, but no thanks,” the next time I came knocking. And yeah, it stung. Being blacklisted from one of my favorite countries? Not exactly the ending I was hoping for.
>>> RELATED: Turkmenistan or Bust – My Final Country <<<
But hey, when one door slams in your face, another one flies open, right? So I pivoted to my “must return” list, and Algeria was right there in the top 10. I figured I’d bring the same travel buddy from my Turkmenistan adventure—my friend from 8th grade, Rafik. This time, we even got his dad to tag along for the reunion tour. Because, you know, every good adventure needs a parental chaperone.
This trip had me hopping through the south of France before a leisurely four-night stay in Libya. And let me tell you, Rafik’s warning of “Don’t get stuck in Libya” played on a loop in my head the entire time. While I enjoyed my time in Benghazi—Libya had also made the cut on my “must return” list—I still exhaled like I’d dodged a bullet when the plane finally lifted off, heading straight for Algiers. Time to meet up with Rafik and his dad, and officially leave the “getting stuck in Libya” chapter behind.
>>> RELATED: Fun and Adventure Await in Benghazi <<<
We rendezvoused in the domestic terminal at Algiers International, like some kind of secret agents about to embark on a classified mission. Before long, we were boarding our flight for the first of six stops on what I could only describe as “Algerian Adventures: The Extended Cut.” First up? Ghardaïa, deep in the Sahara, because what’s a trip to Algeria without plunging headfirst into the desert, right? Full schedule ahead, folks. Hold onto your keffiyehs.
Gallivanting Through Ghardaïa
The moment we rolled into Ghardaïa I knew we’d stepped into something special. This town could easily double as a set from Raiders of the Lost Ark. Narrow, twisting streets, ancient architecture, and locals gliding through the shadows, draped in white sheets like ghosts haunting the night. After a late dinner of—you won’t believe this—cheesy pizza (in the middle of the Sahara, no less), and a 40-minute drive, I was pretty beat, barely able to take in the surreal beauty of our lodge.
We drove through dark date fields to arrive at a place that could’ve been the main feature for the music video for Hotel California. The giant yet humble estate seemed to have endless corridors, including a bright white passage slash staircase that looked like it was straight out of Star Wars. And no other guests anywhere. Low season? Dream sequence? Who know? All I can say was that this place checked all the boxes for a haunted property, but at this point I was too tired to care – let the ghosts haunt me. I was beat.
View this post on Instagram
Market Watch
It’s hard to capture Ghardaïa in a few words—like trying to describe a dream you’ve had forever but only just now remembered. Spoiler alert: this place was one of my absolute favorites on the trip, though the gods only granted me 24 fleeting hours.
After a simple breakfast, we piled into a car and headed into town. Then, there I was, face-to-face with a living, breathing market, untouched and unapologetically raw. This was the thing I had missed in Benghazi. Don’t get me wrong, Benghazi was electric, with my guide proudly showing me the new face of the city. But, as they say, I had an itch only an old market could scratch. So by the time I got to Ghardaïa, I was primed and ready.
Ghardaïa didn’t just meet expectations; it smashed them. Spices, nuts, veggies, shelves of dates stretching on forever—all spilling out under a desert sun. Not a single other tourist in sight. No gimmicks, no gloss—this was the real deal, and it felt as if I’d stumbled into a secret. Who knows, maybe it was just a quiet day, but it was a joy being the only foreigner wandering those narrow lanes. An oasis I’ll probably always be searching for, no matter where I end up.
RAMBLIN’ TIP: Find a place to stay in Ghardaïa HERE.
Another World
The town itself? Straight out of Indiana Jones. The colors, the shapes, the atmosphere thick with mystery. It had everything but the snakes, the jewels, maybe even a giant boulder rolling down the street for a dash of danger. I skipped the neighborhood up on the hill, though—I’d need a separate guide just to enter. And while that’s my one real regret, I was just too jetlagged to play attentive student to yet another tour guide. Too tired to fake my way through a lecture that would go on who knows how long. Yeah, I know, a little weak. I’ll probably be haunted by those streets I never walked for the rest of my life. Maybe some things are meant to stay a mystery.
Back at the ranch, we took a dip in the pool, lounged around, savored the calm until it was time to head to the airport. We plucked dates right off the trees at the hotel while the sun melted over the village in golden hues. A pretty decent way to start, if I’m honest.
Day Two: Tamanrasset
It was pushing 3AM by the time we finally touched down in Tamanrasset, deep in the south. Local police picked us up at the airport, whisking us straight to our hotel. Apparently, this was protocol—security to “keep us safe.” Safe from what, exactly? I wasn’t sure. I mean, I’ll admit, rolling up to the hotel with a police escort felt like a touch of rock-star treatment, but I’d be lying if I said my mind didn’t wander to some, let’s say, less glamorous possibilities.
In any case, the ride was smooth, and crashing into bed felt like pure salvation. Only four hours later, though, we’d be back in that car, headed for the hills. But first—scarves.
RAMBLIN TIP: Secure a hotel in Tamanrasset HERE.
Road Trip
We’d signed up for a desert “adventure”—hours of driving, camping somewhere in the middle of nowhere, and then making our way back to civilization the very next day. Sounded like a solid plan at the time. We figured, plenty of time in cities later; we wanted one rough-and-tumble experience to say we’d done Algeria “right.” Truth is, I’m more than a little guilty of jetting into countries, parking myself in a nice hotel in the capital for a night or two, then jetting back out. After hitting all 193, I’d promised myself I’d start digging a little deeper, sticking around a little longer. Hence, this trek into the far-flung nothing.
I’ll be honest—I hate long car rides. Hate them more and more as I get older. But to reach wherever it was we were headed—honestly, I wasn’t even sure—we’d be logging a lot of hours in that car. Now, if we’d been on paved roads, maybe I’d have survived it a bit better, but 85% of the trip was over rocks, boulders, gulches, and dips. At times, I have no idea how we didn’t get stuck or just plain tip over. But the 4Runner held its own, and the driver—he was a force of nature.
And as brutal as the ride was, the landscape made it worth every bone-rattling minute. Towering mountains, mesas that looked torn right out of a Western, white camels strutting by like they owned the place. We even stopped at a genuine oasis. Rafik, fearless, dove right in while I just watched from the edge. Later, we scrambled up jagged rocks that had been here long before we were. This was a piece of the world so few ever see, and I took it all in—just trying to soak up the magic.
View this post on Instagram
View this post on Instagram
It’s a Hard Knock Life For Me
We were supposed to be camping out in tents, but the weather had other plans. Muddy ground and tents don’t exactly get along, so indoors it was. Sort of. Our shelter for the night: a small cinder-block hut with a concrete floor, no electricity, a missing window pane. Wi-Fi? Forget it. Toilets? Dream on. We got sleeping bags, a foam mat that looked like it had seen a few wars, and a blanket. I was a little sketched out by it, but no bugs in sight. I’d once been lounging in a five-star Fijian resort, only to nearly drop dead when a spider the size of a small dog came barreling out from behind the curtains. So, yeah, maybe this was the most depressing accommodation I’d stayed in—but at least it was mercifully critter-free.
Dinner was a home-cooked meal in the shack next door, a mini adventure on its own. Then, off to bed, armed with a heroic dose of melatonin. Surprisingly, I slept okay—despite sharing a room with Rafik and his dad, both snoring like freight trains. Not that I’m any better; I could wake the dead myself. Three guys in close quarters, each sawing logs like a team of lumberjacks, all drowned out only by the scream of a donkey outside the window. Thankfully, I only had one night of this. I was ready to trade it all for the promise of the big, fluffy, white bed awaiting me at Le Meridien in Oran the next night.
View this post on Instagram
Early Check Out
Next morning, I was more than ready to hit the road again—if only I didn’t have to face that same bruising, bumpy route. But we pushed through. We stopped at some ancient Berber rock carvings—the original social media, if you ask me. Pretty incredible stuff. And then, the best surprise: a roadside lunch cooked up by the crew, hands down the top meal so far. Some kind of massive rice salad loaded with olives. I had three helpings; it was that good. Finally, we rolled back into Tamanrasset, checked back into the hotel, and stole a quick nap before setting out to see the town on our way to the airport.
Street Life
I love a rough city—the grit, the layers of life on display. Dhaka? Fantastic. Mogadishu? I savored every chaotic second. I’ll take a bruised, tattered town over some glitzy, “civilized” snooze-fest any day. But Tamanrasset… Tamanrasset didn’t do it for me, and I couldn’t quite put my finger on why. Maybe it was the air, thick with this raw, acrid smell that clung to everything—like burning tires mixed with sand. Absolute torture. It hit you in the eyes, clawed at the back of your throat, burned the hair right out of your nose. Exploring was a struggle. We pushed through the indoor market and walked the streets, but this air? The worst I’ve ever breathed. Can’t imagine what years of it do to the people here. I was ready to get out.
One thing that did catch my interest: hearing about the people filtering in on foot from Niger, Chad, Mali. Most have no papers, no passport, no ID—just desert dust on their boots and survival on their minds. No border crossing, just miles of sand. I saw a few of these folks and wanted to know their stories. And here I was, whining about a rough night’s sleep in a dingy shelter. It hits you, the difference in what we take for granted. Really puts things in perspective.
Oran’ You Glad You’re Back in the City
I’ll own it—I was thrilled to be back in the city. After that redeye flight back up north, we pulled up to Le Meridien around 6AM, practically giddy at the thought of a hot shower and a fluffy bed, with some mind-numbing American TV in the background. I’m a city guy, a creature of comfort, and I’m fine admitting it. The older I get, the more okay I am with who I am. I’m not some hardened adventurer, and I’m good with that. I don’t need The Ritz, but at least give me a Holiday Inn. Getting out of the sticks and into a plush setup was a gift. Couldn’t wait to dive into Oran, but first? Papa needs a real bed and some damn good sleep.
RAMBLIN’ TIP: This hotel was a winner. Book it HERE.
Oran (So Far Away)
This place had me right from the jump. I rolled out of bed, loaded up from a buffet that could keep you going for days, and hit the streets, hungry to see what this city was all about. And man, it didn’t disappoint.
It took no time at all to feel the beat of this place—a coastal city pulsing with a kind of energy you just don’t get everywhere. First stop was a former Catholic church, now reborn as a library, a quiet monument to the city’s layered history. Then we were off, wandering right into the heart of the action: a sprawling market that seemed to stretch forever, flanked by old French buildings, iron balconies hanging over us like silent spectators. It was like the market in Ghardaïa, but on a city-sized scale—alleys packed with vendors hawking everything, their calls echoing off stone walls that had seen it all.
This was a town I could get lost in for months. Maybe more. But then, out of nowhere, that familiar, unwelcome twist in the gut hit me. I’d eaten something the night before that decided to fight back. So, a quick nod to Rafik and his dad, and I was back to the hotel, where, thankfully, I could hunker down in comfort. Not a rough shack on the outskirts of nowhere, but an actual room, with running water and soft pillows. I’d dodged a bullet, and I knew it – had this hit me a day earlier, I’d be suffering in a shack with no electricity or plumbing. Sometimes, you get lucky.
View this post on Instagram
Recouped and Recharged
The whole “doing nothing” thing? Turns out, it works wonders. Nestled up in that cushy hotel, doing nothing but letting the quiet hum of the AC lull me back to life, I finally started feeling human again. Then there was that spa downstairs—the kind where you feel like the masseuse is pulling stress from a place you didn’t know existed. It was just what the doctor ordered. By dinner, I was back, hungry and roaming the streets of Oran, shaking off that lingering haze.
I stumbled upon a little Syrian fast food joint, right on the corner in this newer part of the city near the hotel. A place where you knew the shawarma would hit just right. I feasted, watched, let Oran wash over me. Rafik, on the other hand, took one for the team, caught the same bug I must have had, and opted to sit the next morning out. His dad and I? We had plans. There was an old cable car in the city with my name on it.
There’s just something about a good cable car ride—the way it slides up into the hills, giving you a front-row seat to rooftops, hidden courtyards, lives lived just out of sight. Some of my all-time favorites have been in Medellin and Jounieh, right outside Beirut. And Oran’s? Not bad at all. At the top, you get a park, mosque, even a little restaurant. But it was what lay below that stuck with me.
Picture this: a villa on a hillside, raw and unfinished, like a forgotten sculpture left by a dreamer who ran out of steam. A concrete shell with a private road, wide driveway—all waiting, practically begging, for someone to make it their own. I know, sounds silly, right? But I fell hard for that place. Started dreaming about snagging it, finishing it up, putting my own twist on it. Called up my friend Omar, my first guide in Algiers, to see if he could dig up any intel. I mean, seriously, want to go in on this with me? I’m not kidding.
View this post on Instagram
Afternoon Delight
The rest of the afternoon unfolded in Oran’s backstreets, a maze of history, humanity, and the small, quiet moments that define a place. I wasn’t in a rush—these streets demanded to be experienced, not conquered. People-watching became an art form: the shopkeepers haggling over prices, children chasing one another with the kind of reckless joy adults can only envy. Every corner seemed to hide a treasure—a scent, a smile, or the faint strains of music wafting from a distant window.
Shave and a Haircut, Two Bits
Walking along, I paused in front of an old barbershop. The peeling signage, the patina of its windows—it was like a siren call. The owner caught me staring and waved me in with a grin that said, “Come on, stranger, there’s a story here.” Inside, the walls were a museum of his father’s legacy. Black-and-white photos of men in sharp suits, their hair being trimmed with care in the ’60s, lined the walls. He pointed to a framed photo of his dad, scissors in hand, mid-snip. His pride was palpable, his storytelling as sharp as the straight razors still neatly arranged on the counter. It wasn’t just a barbershop; it was a time machine.
Queen Bey
From there, I wandered up the hill to the Palais du Bey, a crumbling yet breathtaking relic of the 1700s. It was all tiled courtyards, intricate arches, and the echoes of an empire’s past. As we wandered its halls, it was impossible not to wonder about the lives lived within these walls—lives filled with power plays, whispered intrigues, and moments of quiet grandeur. The air felt heavy with history, but in the best way, like the weight of a well-loved book in your hands.
I’m Lovin’ It
By the time evening rolled around, my feet demanded a break, and I found myself at a place called Wonder Foods. Let’s not beat around the bush: they shamelessly borrowed the golden arches of McDonald’s and just flipped them into a giant “W.” Clever? Maybe. Lawsuit-proof? Questionable. But hey, the audacity was endearing.
My waiter, a teenager with a face still caught between boyhood and manhood, approached with an enthusiasm that was disarming. He didn’t hide his excitement that an American was sitting in his section. His English was halting but heartfelt, and when he told me how welcome I was in his country, it wasn’t just words. It was an invitation, a reminder of the universal language of kindness.
As I sat there, finishing off a plate of sweets too sugary to name, the day felt complete. Oran, with its layers of history and unabashed authenticity, had cracked itself open just a bit, and I was grateful for the glimpse inside.
Constantine, Constant Beauty
Two nights in Constantine. Where do I even start? This isn’t just a city—it’s a love letter to history, architecture, and sheer geographic audacity. They call it “The City of Bridges,” and you don’t have to wonder why for long. From the moment you arrive, the landscape hits you like a thunderbolt. These massive suspension bridges span canyons so deep and raw they feel like the Earth has been torn open by some ancient god’s wrath. And yet, Constantine rises above it all—impossibly perched, defiant, breathtaking.
The old city? A labyrinth of winding alleys and market stalls, a sensory overload of spices, voices, and colors that stretch endlessly in every direction. You walk here not to get somewhere but to lose yourself. There’s a peculiar joy in surrendering to it, in blending into the chaotic choreography of the crowd. The streets narrow, twist, and surprise you around every corner—just when you think you’ve seen it all, there’s a burst of ornate French colonial architecture, a crumbling façade that whispers stories of another era.
High and Tight
Rafik and I ducked into a little barbershop for much-needed haircuts. Two bucks, a straight razor, and a mirror held together by sheer willpower. It’s those small, unplanned moments that stick with you—the ones money can’t buy.
Dinner that night was at Igherssan, a restaurant that clings to the side of a cliff like it’s daring gravity to challenge it. The wooden beams creak with the weight of time, and from your seat, you’re treated to views so stunning they feel like you’ve stolen a piece of the gods’ domain. The food? Rustic, honest, and satisfying in the way only Algerian cooking can be—harissa, cumin, lamb so tender it practically melts off the bone.
Constantine isn’t just Algeria’s most beautiful city—it might be one of the most soul-stirring places I’ve ever stepped foot in. Every corner of it hums with history and life, from the staggering bridges to the tangled markets to the cliffside retreats. It’s the kind of place that gets under your skin and stays there.
Road Trip
We’d rented a car and set off on the road from Constantine to Annaba—a journey that promised more than just a change of scenery. The plan was simple: take our time, stop when something called to us, and soak in the shifting landscapes of Algeria.
The drive was a slow burn in the best way. The sea appeared like a mirage in the distance, shimmering under the kind of sunlight that makes you squint but fills your soul. We passed through sleepy little towns that felt untouched by time, the kind of places where the pace of life is dictated by the tides and the chatter in the marketplace.
At one roadside stand, we pulled over to buy prickly pear cactus fruit. Bright, spiny, and full of sweet, fleshy pulp—the kind of snack that feels almost criminal eating for how little it costs. Then we hit a town called Treat. Yeah, Treat. And because I’m a sucker for the obvious, corny joke, I posed for a picture: me in Treat, eating a “treat.” It was dad-joke level absurdity, and I embraced it fully. I even bought a box of cookies for the bit. Then, because I’m weak and can’t resist good cookies, I ate the entire box in the car before we even left town. No regrets.
Of course, every great road trip needs a little chaos. Ours came in the form of a mishap at a gas station—where, let’s just say, someone (okay, it was me) might have filled the rental with the wrong kind of fuel. Cue a slightly panicked stop at a local mechanic. The sight of him siphoning gas with a look that was equal parts pity and amusement? Priceless.
It was one of those days that wasn’t perfect, but that’s what made it perfect. The mix of laughter, small-town charm, and a little self-inflicted trouble is what road trips are all about. If the cookies didn’t kill me, the embarrassment certainly didn’t either.
Annaba
Rafik and his old man seemed to have a soft spot for Annaba. They were in love with the place, the whole vibe. Took me a bit longer to come around. The city wasn’t bad, but after the electricity of Oran and the rugged grandeur of Constantine, well, it was going to take a lot to knock me off my feet.
So we strolled down to the fish joints by the port. The whole stretch lined with these open-air restaurants, like a gallery of the ocean’s freshest catches. You point, they grill. It’s a simple transaction. But somehow, on that particular day, the pull of the ocean wasn’t enough. We kept moving—hopped in the car and wound our way down Boulevard Rizzi Amor. That’s when it hit me: this was the pulse of the place. The whole town was out, cruising the strip. It wasn’t just a street—it was a scene. Cars rolling by, people hanging out, laughing, the old and the young. The kind of night that tells you everything you need to know about where you are.
But it was the next morning that Annaba really started to show its charm. I found the market. And listen, a good market—it’s like the holy grail. I don’t care where you are in the world, there’s something about a market that gets me right in the gut, gets me in the zone. This one had the whole shebang—fish, meat, nuts, fruits, and a mind-bending variety of spices. And cats. Everywhere. There were cats like little ghosts moving between the stalls. You know I couldn’t resist snapping a few shots, low-key, trying to catch the essence of it all. The aromas, the chaos, the little cats weaving through the madness—these were the real treasures of the market. The things that make a place feel like home, even if it’s only for a minute.
View this post on Instagram
Backsteet Boy
With Rafik and Pops heading back to the hotel to freshen up, I figured I’d kill some time by wandering through the residential neighborhood just across the street. I needed a break from the sanitized luxury of that 19-story Sheraton, all shiny glass and sterile opulence—looking like it was lifted right out of a Dubai brochure. But here I was, on the other side, just a stone’s throw away, standing in a completely different world.
The place was rough. Crumbling buildings, broken cobblestone streets that looked like they’d been forgotten by time, power lines dangling like overlooked tethers. Plants, wild and untamed, grew out of cracks in the stucco, making it look like nature was slowly claiming what was left behind. The doors of the homes—big, old, colorful—felt like they were trying to say something, but no one had bothered to listen for years. Kids tore through the alleyways, chasing each other like the whole world was their playground.
And then, out of nowhere, I came across it—a graffiti rendition of The Smurfs. Yeah, you heard me right. The Smurfs. Bright blue little creatures painted onto a wall, a strange contrast to the decaying surroundings. But somehow, it fit. It was like an accidental little piece of pop culture wedged into the cracks of a place that had clearly seen better days.
It was a cool, unexpected stop to cap off the visit. But soon enough, we were back in the car, heading back to Constantine for a flight to our next destination. I’ll give Annaba this much—it had its moments. But would I come back? Probably not. It was a one-off for me. And that’s okay.
RAMBLIN’ TIP: Save on Annaba hotels HERE.
View this post on Instagram
Take me to Church
On the way out, a must see: St. Augustine Basilica. An Algerian gem that feels like stepping into the soul of history. Roman bones beneath your feet, the scent of the Mediterranean in the air. Here, Augustine’s words still echo off the stones—philosophy, faith, grit. You don’t just visit, you feel it.
Special thanks to Imed Bentoumi, who, for reasons I still can’t quite figure out, took a shine to us. I mean, we’re just a bunch of strangers passing through, right? But there he was, rolling out the red carpet, giving us the VIP treatment like we were someone important. He didn’t just show us the tourist spots either. No, Imed took us deeper—way behind the scenes. We got the kind of tour that most people never see, the kind that’s not even in the brochure. We ended up in the residence quarters behind the church—an area hidden from the usual crowd, a part of the city that held its secrets close.
It wasn’t the polished, public side of things. This was raw. It was where the real stories lived, tucked away behind the holy walls, where the locals breathe in the dusty air and live lives far removed from the ones you see on postcards. There was a certain reverence in the place, a quiet history lingering in the corners.
Imed didn’t have to do this. He could’ve just taken us on the usual path—showed us the sights, handed us a couple of touristy sound bites, and sent us on our way. But no, he gave us a glimpse into a different world, a hidden layer of the city that most won’t even know exists. That kind of gesture—it stays with you. It’s not just about the tour. It’s about the people, the connection. So, yeah—big thanks to Imed for showing us a side of the place that most don’t get to see. A rare, honest look at a city’s heart.
Reunited and it Feels so Good
From the moment I set foot back in this extraordinary country, I felt that familiar pull, that unshakable thrill of return. Every stop so far had been its own revelation, but Algiers? Algiers was the crescendo I’d been waiting for—a personal encore in the city that always felt like it had more to say.
I ended up staying a few miles outside of town—not out of strategy, but out of loyalty to a hotel chain and my pursuit of Platinum status. The perks? Sure, they’re nice. But let’s call it what it is: a decision that left me stranded in logistical purgatory. The location was inconvenient in that way that gnaws at your sanity when you’re waiting for a Heetch—dozens of futile app refreshes, canceled rides, drivers going in endless circles only a half-mile away from you, a whole lot of muttered curses. Not ideal. I should’ve stayed in town. Algiers is a city that demands proximity, a place where every corner has a story and you don’t want to be stuck watching from a distance.
But Algiers doesn’t hold grudges, and those two days were a love letter to its layered, complicated soul. This seaside capital—glorious, messy, ancient, and alive—has a way of pulling you in and refusing to let go. My return to the Casbah, that labyrinthine heart of the city, was like stepping into a song I already knew by heart, but played a little differently this time.
Back in 2016, Omar had guided me through its quiet morning streets, a time when the shops were still yawning awake. This time? It was a riot of life. The markets spilled over with chatter, color, and the heady swirl of spices. It wasn’t better or worse, just different—louder, busier, more electric.
Algiers doesn’t stand still, and that’s its charm. You don’t come here to watch; you come to get swept up in the tide.
View this post on Instagram
Step by Step
Algiers is a city built for stairs—its people winding their way down into the rhythm of the city for work, school, or a café rendezvous, only to climb their way back up into the quiet of the hills. But there was one set of stairs, in particular, that had stayed with me since my first trip.
They weren’t just stairs; they were a statement. Tucked at the end of a street, they zigzagged up the mountainside, painted in sunlit tiles, each step carrying the weight of a city that’s always in motion. I remembered seeing them with Omar years ago—one of those fleeting moments you don’t realize will become a touchstone until you’re back in the same place, chasing the ghost of that first impression.
This time, I wasn’t sure how to find them. I asked the waiter at the café—nothing. The cashier? Blank stares. Finally, the third guy, a local with an easy smile, took pity on me. He walked me down the street, pointed to a corner, and sent me on my way.
I still don’t know if these stairs have a name—or if they even need one. But seeing them again, climbing them step by step, was like running into an old friend. Familiar but fresh. And this time, there was a twist waiting at the top—a little surprise I hadn’t expected.
There are no Strangers Here; Only Friends You Haven’t Yet Met
There I was, standing at the top of my favorite stairs, soaking in that perfect moment of “yes, this is exactly why I came back.” Naturally, I decided to film a little something—a love letter to Algeria, spoken into my phone. As I hit record, I started riffing about how thrilled I was to be here, about how my brother had asked me, “Why are you going back there?”
Mid-thought, as I’m explaining how ridiculously friendly the people are here—almost on cue—I get interrupted. Not by a tourist, not by some impatient passerby, but by a mother and her daughter. They just wanted to say hello, to welcome me, to share a moment.
Perfect timing. Almost too perfect. It was like Algeria itself had jumped into my video, eager to prove my point before I even finished making it.
View this post on Instagram
Three Cheers for Algiers
To be honest, the rest of my time in Algiers is a bit of a fever dream. That city is the sensory equivalent of a double espresso chased with a shot of adrenaline. It’s a lot. A beautiful, chaotic, apricot-cake-flavored lot.
Speaking of apricot cake—yes, it was amazing. So amazing, in fact, that I’m still questioning why I didn’t buy the whole bakery. And yes, I found the holy grail of traditional Algerian meals after an unnecessarily epic quest that felt like an audition for Indiana Jones and the Lost Couscous. I even swung by the Martyr’s Monument to deliver a Slowjamastan passport (because apparently, I moonlight as a micronational courier now). Oh, and if you’re somehow unaware of The Republic Slowjamastan, click HERE to educate yourself—you’re welcome.
I loved it all. I really did. But let’s be real: I was running on fumes. Two weeks in one country—an eternity by my usual travel ADHD standards—yet somehow I’d managed to overbook myself into oblivion. Too many cities, too many hotel beds, too many redeyes. By the end, I wasn’t sure if I was still perfecting my travel style or just auditioning for a role as a cautionary tale on how not to do it.
Still, Algeria was the perfect playground for this experiment in endurance. And about that mountainside estate in Oran? I’ll keep you posted. If I buy it, you’ll be the first to know—right after the real estate agent, of course.
>>> RELATED: The Secret Corners of Algeria – My 2016 Trip <<<
This entry was posted in Africa
