The beach is a tourist hotspot across the Islamic world, attested to by the long line of Lebanese, Gulf & Turkish restaurants that line it, and the ginger Pashtuns who fill the Pakistani cafe. There's a posh marina with a Zara and policemen who run face control on anyone deigning to come close. Agadir is not like other places, but it is like every place.
Instead of everything being permitted, everything is encouraged, for a price. Pork and booze are on all the menus. Everything is 50% off but it still seems too expensive. Restaurants play Beiber & Ed Sheeran, and 'English Pub' does Full English's and shows all the footy. There are two English language bookshops, but both have been boarded up for years. Every mosque and every tree is dressed up head to foot in disco rope, and the cats eyes flash & dance in elaborate patterns after dark.
The sketchy end of sketchy street, where djellabas hunch at long closed cafes, sheltering men with nowhere else to go, and where teenage boys ask for a dirham and tell you you're pretty, now had a massive Carrefour supermarket, where they actually turn on the fridges they store the drinks in! Actual cold drinks! There's posh flats and a gym above it, and a plaza that's walled off so that the new inhabitants can see the sea but not their neighbours. I thought to break the chain of tajines by going to an Asian restaurant there. The summer rolls were in the right ballpark, but the 'thai' main had obviously never even been introduced to the concept of thai cuisine, or any flavour other than sweet.
And whilst Agadir's soul is in the process of elision, there's still some Moroccan laced through it like rock. I had the breakfast of champions at a restaurant where finding a seat is often a scrum. The amlou was the nuttiest I'd ever had, bursting with flavour, and the dark, treacly honey was delicious. The msemen flaky to just the right degree, and not too oily. And on the main strip at night men drum and women sing, a fairly accurate facsimile of their traditional culture.