Flamenco, Cathedral & the Alcazar

Oh, Seville, I could visit you time and time again! This place is magical - it's like a non-creepy version of the Stepford Wives tale, where perfection is everywhere. Children are all well behaved, well dressed, and happily and lovingly playing together. Everyone is dressed in their finest attire, all the time - the little older couples in their vests and hats and the financiers in their three piece suits, escorting the ladies in their white blouses and flowing skirts.

We were back for just a day before heading to Madrid for our flight to Mexico, so we had to make the most of our time. To Pension Javier we went to secure a room (really important, we've found!) and then on to La Tapeteria next door for lunch where beer is just 1 euro. We grabbed a taxi (normally this goes against our preferred travel methods, but we've been lost miserably twice before in this city and couldn't spare the time) to Casa de la Memoria, the cultural center for Flamenco to get our tickets for that evening's show. There are tons of Flamenco options in town - this is the ONLY ONE you should consider. The other ones have food and drinks, yes, but they scream "tourist." If that's what you're going for, then great! You can get tickets at any hostel in the city. But if you want to see serious art, passion flooding from a small group of incredibly talented individuals in an intimate setting, then make no mistake - this is your show. We almost missed out - they sell out quickly - but we managed to land our tickets and grab another taxi back to the Cathedral.

The Cathedral de Seville is the world's largest Gothic cathedral and the third largest church in the world. This is the most impressive church I've visited to date, and my goodness, you need some serious time to devote to this marvel. We were short on just that, so since we had been inside on a prior occasion, we focused on the Giralda tower and the inner rooms of the church.

The Giralda was completed in 1198 and was once a minaret belonging to the city's mosque, but when the city was taken by the Christians, they added the top third and converted it into a bell tower, leveling what the earthquake of 1356 did not, to create this gargantuan church. We climbed the ramp up around the inner edges along with many others to the top, to see the city and through the windows as we rose, other parts of the massive church. The ramps were once stairs, converted they say because the watchman was unable to walk and had to ride a horse to the top of the tower every hour to ring the bell.

And then, there is the church itself. One could write for quite a long time about all the intricacies that can be experienced in this place, and indeed, some have. I loved the detailed wood carving, the massive marble floors, and the masterful paintings and alter pieces. I flew around, from room to room, taking pictures quickly and gawking until Derek hauled me to the next one. If the Palace wasn't the last thing on my list, I could have stayed all night.

Finally, we walked next door to get in line to see the Royal Alcazar, the oldest palace still in use in Europe. The castle was built over the first settlement foundations of Seville in the 11th century, and ever since then, every civilization and culture that has occupied the Iberian Peninsula has used the palace as the capital of its kingdom, and the architecture reflects it.

This is where Derek experienced "palace burn out." I didn't know it was possible, but as soon as we went in, Derek kind of listlessly looked around, bored out of his mind. I honestly wasn't that impressed either. I couldn't believe it - we're in Seville, Spain, in a palace, older than just about anything else we've seen, and for the life of us, we weren't impressed.

But, then we moved into the inner chambers and the upper levels of the palace and were overwhelmed once again with the ceilings, the walls, the courtyards - a mixture of mudéjar architecture and European design. It was odd to see symbols that we had seen in Morocco with family crests featuring lions and crowns the likes of which I saw in England years ago. Derek and I searched for what seemed like hours in the Patio de las Munecas (patio of the dolls) for a single doll face very carefully hidden right above one of the pillars.

The courtyards were lovely, but most impressive was the singing fountain, where on the hour, it plays 5 minutes of organ music. There are only 3 working fountains of this kind left in the world, and only one known person alive who can fix them, so it was a rare sight to see.

Derek got a pastry for dinner (it's the thing to do on vacation, apparently - this trend had better not roll over into real life!) and we got a taxi to the flamenco show. It was mesmerizing, but there aren't any videos, because it's not allowed. No harm done, though, watching it on a video wouldn't do it justice. The dancers moved with such precision, and so much passion that they poured sweat and somehow made it look elegant to do so.

We followed the epic show up with some gelato (naturally) and made our way through the streets to find ourselves our trip souvenirs - azulejos. We found ourselves some pretty ones with green and gold and blue and white. These tiles were in all three countries we visited, in all of those same colors, since they are traditional for the people that settled the peninsula and built the incredible cultural wonders that we saw. Then, we had a quick dinner at Bodeguita Tomate y Sal to get the paella I had wanted for days (it was disappointing - find paella somewhere else) and very inexpensive sangria (LOVE).

Our trip to Madrid the following day was rather long and uneventful, and we had a nice single evening in the city, enjoying the crowds that gathered for a few political demonstrations and the like. The architecture is amazing, but this city is a true city not unlike those in America - it is nothing like Seville. None of the cities in Spain, I am told, really mirror one another - they are unique in and of themselves.

Ugh...Algeciras

Then came the travel day, a necessary evil when moving around as furiously as we did on this trip. We met Phillip and Monica, two Americans traveling during Monica's school break, on the train to Tangier, who had spent their time camping in the desert. As jealous as we were (we had considered a trip like that as well, but didn't have the time), we found that they had a difficult time of it, with sand storms and pouring rain and other natural fun that somewhat tempered their enthusiasm for their trip.

Since they hadn't before crossed the straight, we helped them navigate from the train station in Tangier to get a cab (the bartering was fierce, and pointless, since we were short on time and they knew it) to the docks for our ferry ride back to Tarifa. Once the ferry landed, we had to catch a bus to Algeciras, but it takes 25 minutes after it loads itself to the gills, so we knew we were screwed for our next step as soon as we left. We were trying to catch a 4:30 bus back to Seville and missed it by 15 minutes, but we sure as hell tried our hardest - we ran back and forth with both good data and bunk suggestions until we found the bus station. It was just too little too late, and devastated at having to spend the night in the miserable port city instead of magical Seville, I mourned the whole evening. Algeciras is not somewhere anyone should spend any more time than is absolutely necessary - stay in Tarifa, that place is happening! But not Algeciras. We spent the night at Pension La Plata and got our bus tickets for the first bus out the next morning, than wandered around the rather sketch streets to get cash and a shawarma snack. We tried to find a park, a beach, anything, but all we found were questionable casino shops with bars on the window.

When dusk arrived, we ventured out to find food and thankfully happened upon the main square, where we found a fountain covered in pigeons and a pet shop that was selling our favorite - GUINEA PIGS! How I wanted a Spanish pig! But the shop owner just handed me a kitten, one of those little ones with the big doll eyes. It was ok too. We stopped for a beer (we were the only ones in the pub) at Cairo and a bakery, Granier, for donuts. Then, we figured we should probably be responsible adults and have dinner, so we hit up La Alhambra for tapas, which were phenomenal.

If I could only eat one type of food the rest of my life, tapas would surely win that contest.

Pure Bliss in Volubilis: A day visiting Moulay Idriss, Volubilis, and Meknes

Having traveled by bus, train, ferry, taxi, and foot across Portugal, Spain, and Morocco, the intercontinental travel was beginning to exact its toll. Yet we knew that we still wanted to see the ancient Roman ruins of Volubilis outside of Fez. To accomplish that would require an intercity train from Fez to Meknes and then an expensive private taxi, or an unreliable (and crammed) shared grand taxi, to Volubilis. Not to mention several hours more than we had to spare. But we also didn't want to join a commercial tour group, with their throngs of people, pre-set agendas for each site, and exorbitant prices. We needed a solution, and sure enough, one was handed to us by fate in that little cafe outside of Place Rcif in the Fez Medina.

We had made the acquaintance of Nour, a charming Moroccan guide, the previous day, and he was kind enough to offer up the services of his company, babafrica.com. Meaning "Gateway to Africa," we would find BabAfrica to be the perfect solution to our dilemna, balancing our interest in seeing as much as possible with our disinterest in joining a tour group.

Nour picked us up from our hotel right at 9 am. He was accompanied by BabAfrica's driver, who was just as nice as the 4x4 SUV. The day's agenda was ambitious- a visit to Moulay Idriss via the "Old Road to Meknes," then the world's coolest photo-op at Volubilis, and finally the fast highway back to Meknes to see that beautiful city's famous sites.

The Old Road to Meknes

With Berber music playing in the jeep, we drove past New Fez (a large suburb that has sprung up in the past 15 years), and out towards Moulay Idriss. Rows and rows of olive trees rolled by, kept company by numerous shepherds and their flocks of sheep. Kendra and I kept calling out "sheep!" like five year olds. As the rolling green hills kept coming, I started thinking that even an Italian would be impressed by the absolutely gorgeous countryside. The music was a great compliment to the view, with berber and arabic artists covering the full spectrum from mournful to fun.  We kept asking about the agriculture as well and Nour filled us in, jokingly and truthfully saying that, though Morocco is an Islamic country forbidding alcohol, 80% of the wine produced here doesn't leave its borders!

Our first rest stop at the Shahed Lake overview, replete with wildflowers, mountain vistas, and quietly grazing cows, only hinted at the scenescapes to come. We learned that nearby, local villages make Moroccan whiskey from figs and dates.

After the lake, other tour groups head along the highway to Meknes, but Nour had the inside scoop and took us up into the mountain massif that stands between the two cities. This was the 'Old Road to Meknes,' now abandoned to local use given the cushy new highway linking Fez and Meknes. Here we were awed by the view out over the plains, red rock cliffs and hawks circling above, with children playing, men herding sheep, and women accompanying donkeys carrying firewood.

The views were ridiculous. We stopped a couple of times (the benefits of a private guide! Nour went out of his way to impress upon us that our set itinerary was open to adjustment), and lingered at this beautiful spot. While we were waiting, a young man walked by and happened to have olive oil, so Nour bought two liters. Can't get fresher than that! 

Moulay Idriss
All of a sudden we found ourself pulling into a small parking lot, alongside some parked donkeys, in  Morocco's holiest city, Moulay Idriss. The city is uniquely laid out to comprise the entirety of a single hill, which contrasts sharply with the lush green of the countryside. It's said that 5 trips to the city is equivalent to one to Mecca for a Muslim, so the city had even earned the nickname of 'Poor Man's Mecca.' Back further in history it was legal to kill Christians here (like Kendra and I), so it was a fascinating place to visit. We soon found ourselves following Nour to the Mosque. Non-muslims aren't allowed in Mosques, of course, but Nour cleverly took our camera and was able to capture some beautiful images of the interior.

After Nour returned from the mosque, we headed up the hill towards an overlook of the city. It was a spontaneous lesson in Islamic society as well. On the way up, Kendra and I learned about the 5 essential components of an Islamic society: a public fountain (water source for the poor), a pharmacy, a school, a Mosque, and a bakery. We even visited the latter on our way back down and got to learn about the surprising variety of breads, as well as the "underground economy" for stale bread. It's frowned upon to throw it out, so leftover bread is either given to the poor, or collected by networks of the poor who sell it back to suppliers so that dessert cakes can be made (not unlike how in the States the homeless recycle cans). 

The highlight of this little trek was, of course, the viewpoint overlooking the beautiful city:  

Now back down off the hill, we walked over to the entry gate. A peeved off donkey told off the world as he walked by with his entourage, and we settled into a mint tea cafe. Old men were playing a spirited card game, as is customary among older males in Morocco, and we enjoyed some mint tea in the shade with two of the elder gentlemen, while Nour filled us in on Berber magic. Apparently, if you ever want mint tea in Morocco and are in need of mint, this is what you need to do: take a tissue and drizzle on some olive oil, then rub a fig on it, then hang it in a tree. Flies will be attracted and poop on it (I sh*t you not). Bury the tissue and then presto Mint will grow! Another trick, to get a scorpion (that's right, should you ever randomly need a scorpion we've got you covered), is to bury an eggplant. Dig it back up in a couple days and where there was once eggplant, there will now be scorpion. Berber magic.

The offended party, back left

Volubilis
Refreshed by our mint tea, we drove the 5km out to Volubilis. Now every resource I read, from our guidebook to Wikitravel, mentioned the direct sun of Volubilis, to such an extent you would think the Romans built the thing on the surface of the sun. So I was expecting a barren landscape. You can imagine my surprise when we were greeted on entry with yet another beautiful landscape of wildflowers (purple, red, blue, yellow) in bright green countryside. The museum they're building onsite to house the artifacts that are currently in Rabbat is nearing completion, and there was a great display of tombstones and column heads upon entry.

We then headed out onto the grounds and were blown away by the stark beauty of the ruins. It was like being able to explore the ruins in Greece but without throngs of tourists! Columns, archways, and mosaics all stood in silent testimony to what was once Ancient Rome's thriving North African capital. Built up on the back of the olive oil industry, a donkey-powered olive press is even still standing! The city was first created around 100 AD, and was overtaken by local tribes around 285 AD, becoming a Christian and then an Islamic city over the next 600 years. Eventually it fell to ruin when Islam relocated to nearby Moulay Idriss. This was perhaps the coolest part- no rennovation, no excavation, just the stillness of a ruin giving quiet testimony to an ancient society.

 One moment you could see the Seal of Rome on the giant arch, and the next you're studying the mini-aquifer system between the basin and baths within a bathhouse. We found it curious that, among all of this stunning architecture, a majority of the tourists were standing and gawking at a stork's nest... Kendra was in seventh heaven, and took a picture of everything, her images describing the stunning setting better than I ever could.

Volubilis was easily a highlight of our two week trip, and far from 'a daytrip if you have time during a visit to Fez,' we would consider it mandatory for any trip to Northern Morocco. Or for life. It was too cool. 

Meknes
Having thoroughly enjoyed ourselves in Volubilis, we would've been happy to have even called it a day, but Nour had even more in store with a quick hit of the highlights of Meknes. We stopped by the beautiful Bab Monsour, and adjacent marketplace which is trying to make itself into something of a Jemaa el-fna a la  Marakesh. The Bab Monsour is the most famous of its kind in Morocco, comissioned by Moulay Ismail as the capstone for his architectural vision, it even has columns appropriated from Volubilis.

 We then had lunch at a lovely, if overly-expensive, Moroccan restaurant in a private terrace overlooking the city. Sharing one of the multi-course meals allowed us to keep the price down, and we greatly enjoyed satiating our appetite with a classic Moroccan meal: bread, olives, Harira soup, lentils, tajine-cooked chicken, and surprisingly refreshing orange slices with cinnamon for dessert.

No longer hungry, we were able to satisfy our cultural appetite at the adjacent Tomb of Moulay Ismail, one of Morocco's holiest sites. It was beautiful in the late afternoon light, and we removed our shoes before exploring the peaceful ante-chamber (Muslim visitors may walk inside the tomb proper). Lavishly decorated, apparently the grandfather clocks even have a fascinating backstory, as they were given to the sultan by the French King Louis XIV after he rejected the sultan's offer of marriage to his daughter. 

Now sleepy after our jam-packed day visiting Moulay Idriss, Volubilis, and Meknes, we took the fast highway back to Fez and were dropped off by our guide-turned-friend Nour, very grateful for an amazing day in the countryside of Northern Morocco. 

Life and Death - Palace and Tombs

This time around, both Derek and I opted for the fried stuffed crepe from the short old woman who creates them for the US equivalent of 50 cents for breakfast. We had some time before our train to Fez, so we headed in the direction of the Saadian Tombs, which you can enter for 20 dh. 

We found the tombs once again flooded with people, and a line quickly formed (it seemed to me, with my impatience, half a mile long if it was a foot), and we got in it to wait for what we assumed was the fancy central chamber that held the remains of Sultan Ahmed el-Mansour, who commissioned the building of the grand cemetery, and his family. But we were able to peek into other less elaborate chambers and take pictures of the tombs in the gardens while we waited.

A stray cat resting on a tomb in the first chamber.

 The graves contain the remains of 166 Saadians from the 16th century and are decorated with blue, green, gold and white zellij (tiles). 

The Hall of Twelve Columns contain the remains of the Sultan (The "Golden One") and his family. It is dark and very lavishly decorated.

Outside of the tombs you can see the iconic Koutoubia Minaret, which indicates the presence of one of the largest mosques in the world, and with its 300 feet of carved stone and green tile is the work of the Almohad dynasty.

We came back to the Djmaa el-Fna center and had Tajine and couscous at Toubkal (with sweet mint tea, naturally...just assume we always have the tea with meals, because we'd be crazy not to). Then, it was a quick 5 minute walk to the Royal Palace.

The sandstone ruins of the 16th century El Badi ("the marvel") palace is a shadow of its former self. Built by Saadian sultans for entertaining, only tiny hints remain of what used to be tiled floors, walkways rooms. 

Now, nesting storks are the reigning inhabitants. Inside one of the chambers was a really cool art exhibit with the war and travel pictures of a British photographer that helped to pass the time as the rain poured outside.

At the market, we picked up water, bread and mystery jam for dinner (turned out to be fig), and haggled over a few more scarves and spices. Then we camped out at our hotel in an outdoor alcove and read while the rain fell until the time came to grab a taxi to the train station. 

This time, settled in our first class cabin, we enjoyed our jam and bread until I had an allergic reaction (guessing it had almond flour or something), so I watched the pretty landscape while waiting to see if Derek would need to stab me with my epi pen...it subsided, thank goodness.

Fate at #6 Stall in Marrakesh

Happy Easter! Said no one. Sunday is just another day here, where just north of us in Spain, the Catholics are going crazy with their parties and palm-filled cathedrals.

Derek was feeling poorly so he became obsessed with orange juice, which constituted his breakfast (he passed on the bread when he saw a bird sitting on it). I had a ridiculously cheap "crepe" with honey made on a flat, well-oiled stovetop just down the road. Then we navigated through the very complex souks, dependent on Derek's Eagle Scout sense of direction, to the Ali Ben Youssef Medersa (Koranic school). We soon realized the guidebook's advice about getting there early was not a loose suggestion - the place was jammed with tourists.

The 14th century school had taught 2,000 students over the years that it was active as an educational institution, with the students living in the small chambers surrounding the central courtyard. Some rooms were quite nice, and others were tight and oddly shapped, as students got nicer rooms each subsequent year in the 3-year program. The tiny cells each had a window, but nothing else. The incredible tile work, Islamic calligraphy and Palm motifs were created in the Andalusion style when Sultan Abdullah el-Ghallib rebuilt it in the 16th century. Derek and I enjoyed taking pictures of one another from the windows in the upper chambers across the courtyard.

Right outside the Medersa is the mosque by the same name (which we cannot enter due to our not being followers of Islam), and is the oldest in Marrakesh. On our way to the nearby museum, we spotted the oldest monument in the city (and the only intact example of Almoravid architecture in all of Morocco, according to Fodor's), the Qoubba Almoravid. It's a 12th century "masterpiece of mechanical waterworks" that was used to clean one's self up before prayer, and contained systems of showers and toilets. It was closed, so we couldn't walk around inside.

Qoubba Almoravid

We visited the Museé de Marrakesh to enjoy the central atrium (the exhibitions were not enticing and did not contain English translations) and incredible architecture. There is no lack of attention paid to any of the ceilings, and beautiful tiles cover every wall. We found a passageway that led to a dark, undeveloped corridor that we got a kick out of.

We made our way back to the Djemma el-Fna at the center of the marketplace where henna artists, snake charmers and bush dentists (who extract teeth, yes, teeth piled on the ground in front of them - we didn't feel we should take a picture of it since we were not sure until later what was going on) were out in full force. We bought a pretty tile for our collection from a souk....each country we're visiting on this trip heavily uses painted tiles in their decorations, so we're collecting one to represent each country and framing it as our souvenir. We shopped for a pashmina or two, a tea pot, tiny beaded shoes (for Derek's mom, who wants to frame them - really clever idea), earrings, and ras el hanout, a Moroccan spice mix that contains a dizzying number of spices and literally translates to "the head of the shop" because it contains traces of, some say, 35 spices).

Then, fate showed itself in a big way...We had missed seeing the sunset and had forgotten to eat, being so caught up in the Berber ways of haggling, and decided to wander through the food stalls. It was dark, and we were immediately hit once again with the calls of each food vendor, coaxing us to have their food. My reply that I had already eaten seemed to work most of the time, but not on one vendor, who told me that my boyfriend was too skinny and clearly hadn't eaten enough. Clever guy.

Derek told him that he was my husband (easy to confuse since I don't wear my wedding ring when I travel), and heard his name called out from the #6 stall. There's no one here who would know his name. The only people we know are hours away in Casablanca. But they weren't. They were sitting at the #6 stall and had recognized Derek's voice - none other than Fatima and Larbi!

There is no more unlikely a scenario than the one that we found ourselves in. We should have eaten hours earlier, and usually avoided the food stalls because it was crowded and loud, and we're not as familiar with what to order, and pricing, etc. They are avid soccer fans, and had learned that there was going to be a big game between Marrakech and Casablanca (who they support), and had taken a train down last-minute, without even knowing if tickets were available, to support their team. Exhausted after the game, they were going to retire to their hotel room, but the market beckoned from the cab, and, knowing they wouldn't be able to motivate themselves to go out later, stopped the cab and found a good food stall amongst the hundred or so available, and amongst throngs of people. It's high season here, before the weather gets too warm, so people are out in droves. We should never have seen them again this trip, but here we were, hugging them and sitting down once again to enjoy a meal.

After dinner, they showed us the babbouch stalls where we managed to chew up a snail each, pulled from its shell with a toothpick. They are cooked in a very savory, distinct broth,  so much so that we could identify the stalls throughout our travels by their smell before they ever came into view. Then, they showed us gatherings of musicians in the marketplace who played Gnaua music, an African-Moroccan fusion with drums and singing. Then, we parted ways, sure that our assumptions at not seeing them again in Morocco were not very accurate, as fate has a way of upending assumptions like ours.

Marrakech

It's Saturday, April 19, and we find ourselves at the halfway point of our trip. We awoke from our broken sleep to see that we were coming up on Marrakech! At the train station (which is remarkably clean), we booked our train tickets to Fez in 1st class (with the thoughts of second class fresh in our minds (295 €). We were having some communication issues (since we don't speak Arabic or French) and had to change our ticket once with scowls from the ticket counter, and were shooed away from the breakfast counter even after we purchased croissants because they were reserved for table service.

We haggled with the taxi driver, agreed on a price, and were taken to the medina, the part of the city that is surrounded by high walls and entered through "babs," the gates that let you enter. We wandered through the dark alleyway where we were dropped off, a little out of our element. We were looking for Hotel Sherazade, which came highly recommended by our guidebook. In the early morning hours, where few shopkeepers open and beggars were not uncommon, it took Derek and I a few minutes to get our bearings. After being hassled by people hoping to make a few Durham by "guiding us," a nice young man saw we were struggling with our limited map and offered to advise us for free...what welcome news!

We got the last room available (since we didn't call ahead) and lounged on the roof top terrace until our room was ready. There was a miserable cat on the other side of the wall, stuck on the ledge, making mournful crying noises repeatedly. We don't know much about cats and assumed that since it had gotten up, it could get down, and was just being lazy since it could hear us on the other side of the wall. Later, a rescue team made up of a concerned French customer and three men from hotel staff came to jump over the fence on the third floor on a tiny ledge to pass the cat over. Guess it was actually in danger...whoops.

We were so tired from the night train that we slept all afternoon, and so tired of travelling that we determined to toss out our planned stop in Chefchouen. When we woke up and walked into the main square down the street (called djemaal el fna) was in full swing. Somewhere, a song was played over and over on loud speakers - we found out later that it was the popular song of the year, and by the end of our stay could hum the whole tune, unsure whether we liked it, or never wanted to hear it again.

We dropped our laundry off to be cleaned nearby; they were ironing with giant hot ironing boards that closed on themselves like a tanning bed. We bought water (you can't drink the tap water here) and had vegetable couscous at a nearby stall.

We moved out to the square and rounded the "souks," the stalls set up in tight, twisting rows full to the brim of scarves, lanterns, earrings, leather bags, camel toys and miniature tagines, piled on one another in a hundred different colors for 10 Durham (a little more than $1) - a tourists' dream world. But I know better. Like a lion stalking its prey, I priced a few items, looked over the buffet, and planned for tomorrow when I would come ready to play the game.

There are two types of barterers - the Tourists, and the Berbers. The former is known for paying the first, or second, price offered, usually justifying their lack of bartering by reasoning that the price they paid was better than they could get in the states, or that these people need to make a living and they're happy to pay a bit more than they might be able to get through haggling, etc. They come away happy with what they bought for the price they pay, and the seller rejoices in the mark-up. Everyone's happy, good for them.

The Berbers are the indigenous people of Morocco, and they are known to drive a very hard bargain. They have gained a tremendous amount of respect for holding their ground and getting the best price, every time. If you are this kind of barterer, you know it, there's no confusion...the seller will usually tell you as much, some 10 minutes into your back and forth discussion over the price. These barterers don't care if they don't get the good itself at the end of the exchange - or at least are very good at making the seller think that. It's a game, and one that is not only accepted, but encouraged, in these kinds of markets. You are one or the other, there is no third option, and I am a Berber. Shopkeepers usually shove my merchandise in the bag with disdain, and I only smile long after I leave. Don't feel too badly for them, though...they usually chase me down the street to finish the sale, and for those who don't, both of our pride is worth more than the exchange. Everyone still wins.

We watched the sun set from a terrace restaurant (when you enter a restaurant, if you look like a tourist, you're pointed upstairs. Everyone else sits downstairs. Odd sort of segregation) with our overpriced mint tea. We wanted a picture of the market at night, but there were dozens of other people taking (or, rather, attempting to take - people don't seem to understand how cameras work in the dark) selfies, so we passed on shoving them aside.

Another miscommunication happened when we bought the tea downstairs and then took it upstairs...and that "refill" and "self service" are phrases that mean something other than they meant. Awkward.

Getting Medieval on Fez

Let me be clear- I love my God, my family, and my country.

But I really love hotel breakfasts. 

That's right, those cheap breakfasts hotels serve you as a complimentary end to your brief time together. Wandering downstairs, getting some coffee, orange juice, then the joy of discovery as you find what food is on offer... it's the best. And the Hotel Perla delivered in spades with a lovely breakfast in their downstairs restaurant section with a gourmet cafe con leche and a variety of breads. This included the chocolate croissant, the highest state of croissant-ness. 

A flavor that surpasses even the pan y chocolate lies behind these gates, however. We would discover it later today, exploring the Old World Medina of Fez.

But first, as is usually the case with Kendra, the fun must be preempted by responsibility. 

We wandered back over to the train station and got our 105dh tickets to Tangier, getting the 7:10 departure in order to make the 1pm ferry in Tangier to Tarifa. We then caught a 10dh taxi to the Bab Bouijloud gate, our gateway into the Medina. "Kdhm l'khoontoor" 'use the meter' we asked/instructed our driver.

The Bab ("Gate") Bouijloud is, per the guidebook, one of the most famous of the Medina's 13 or so, but was built ~1,000 years after the others around 1913 so Kendra and I declared it to be less cool. Its other side is green, the color of Islam.

Apparently it's common to get a guide, or be on a tour, rather than risk the certainty of getting lost in the maze of this medieval marketplace. We're glad we didn't and don't think you need one; the most fun was in wondering around, and the slope of the marketplace (go uphill to get out - it's a bowl shape) as well as signs leading back to the Bab Bouijloud, made it simple to guide ourselves. The sellers were also more relaxed than Marrakech, making a guide's presence as a deterrent against fake guides and sellers less necessary. 

The Medina is described in all the guidebooks as a marvel of the world, unchanged since medieval times; a true old-world marketplace. Leather products, rugs, and ceramics dominated, but there was still a wide variety of goods on offer, from freshly-hammered copper pots to bird shops.

The typical awesomeness of a Moroccan marketplace was in full swing here. Better than the touristed and chaotic medina of Marrakech, here craftsmen and women were plying their trade in and alongside their stalls.

This nice man sold us a beautiful tile. He showed us a picture of his father and told us all about their shop. Blue and white are the colors of Fez. Interestingly, each Moroccan city has its own colors - white for Casablanca and red for Marrakech, 'the red city.' 

Unofficial guides are still a problem in the medina, though. Cast a glance at your map, pause for a minute, or even simply be Caucasian and you're at risk of being offered their services. Not the best idea, as guiding must be official in Morocco, and unofficial guides often simply take you to businesses where they get a cut. We had one such young man avail us of his guiding abilities, following us down the narrow calle and even asking us to "open up our hearts" and help him out by agreeing. We continued to politely decline, and he finally concluded, "I think you are not American. Maybe Chinese, your hearts are hard." It was a sad and universal theme that Moroccan merchants only liked you as much as you paid them; turning from enthusiastic to solemn to noticeably angry as Kendra's Berber-esque bartering skills reduced their profit margin to zero. Such is life, and business, in the medina.

Quiet settings are interspersed between the frantic, making for a pleasantly tumultuous experience. 

That would be our only sour experience today, however, as every turn and alley led us to a completely new adventures. We had no itinerary, but actually  managed to stumble upon most all of the major sites, and even more enjoyably, many off-the-grid ones.

Come around one corner, and a chance opening of the gate permitted a rare view of the literal kaleidoscope of color inside the Mosque Al Qaraouiyine (all but two mosques in Morocco are closed to non-Muslims, so this was a treat)

Around another corner, and we stumble upon a small leather tannery. Above, they are dipping sheep hide in lye to separate the hide prior to a dip in a vat of pigeon droppings.

Down further and around several curves, we happen upon the Terrace of the Tanneries, and climb up several stairs for a whirlwind tour of the view from our sales guy/impromptu tour guide. 

A UNESCO World Heritage site, this is one of the oldest, with nine centuries of family history connecting the workers. The leathery tannery process is fascinating. They begin by taking a hide (sheep and camel being better regarded than cow and goat) and dip it in the white liquid lye.

Then it's transferred into tubs of pigeon droppings where the natural ammonia softens the hide. After washing, it's rubbed with olive oil for smoothness and waterproofing. Then, it's dried on the roof for three days, and dyed with natural dyes - sandalwood for brown, safran for yellow, poppy flowers for a deep blood red. The process is all natural without any machinery. 

Down further still and we soon happened upon the Place Saffrin, where an equally rich history was testified by every bang and gong of the bronze and copper smiths.

At the bottom of the medina, we found ourself in the peaceful Place Rcif, and hiked up some steps to get our bearings on the map.

A chubby-faced boy of about ten wondered over and sat down next to us. "Place R'cif," he offered. "We know," we told him sweetly, pointing to our location on the map. "Mosque R'cif," he offered up next, pointing to the Minaret. "Yes thank you, we know that as well," we replied again, and walked down the steps. "One dirham," he called out behind us, his uncertainty evident in his tone. We smiled and kept walking, a future guide of the medina in the making. 

With the sun overhead we stopped at a cafe alongside the Bab of the R'cif area for some mint tea. We've rapidly adjusted to this wonderful Moroccan tradition, and it was nice to order a "brread a'tay" (pot of tea) and sip the sweet minty liquid in the shade. 

While we were looking at the also-overpriced food offerings, a charming young Moroccan man offered that we "shouldn't eat here, notice all the locals are just drinking. This is just a drinking place," and he had an awesome suggestion for lunch. We got to talking, and it turned out he was a proprietor and guide for the touring service babafrica.com (Bab again meaning gateway). We liked him, and since we'd gotten to know him naturally (being aware of the false guiding touts that are in the Fez area, every visitor needs a very healthy dose of skepticism for all offers), made plans to go to Moulay Idriss, Volubilis, and Meknes with him the next day. Turns out it was an excellent decision, and we had an amazing time. Please see our entry on the day next up in this blog. 

But that was tomorrow. Now we wanted dinner, and we needed to find the best kebabs in town. At our new guides' suggestion, we went from the tea place back through the gates into the main square of Place Rcif, and through the arched entry in the wall, then turned left and walked about fifty meters. A few stalls on the left after "the place with the mounted camel's head," and across from the shop selling ba'bouch (snails as a snack), we found Mister Ayachi.

Oh Mister Ayachi, you magician of the grill and master of the kebab. We will always remember our fleeting moments in your amazing restaurant. He was not only a gracious host, but was something of a showman, plopping the final chicken piece in his mouth like a Hibachi chef. The first bite of beef? ...have you ever tasted something so good that it hijacks your senses and your brain diverts all energy towards focusing on the wave of flavor? That was this bite. We spent 60dh on our two ample sandwiches and didn't even need dinner. Best 60dh we spent this trip. 

Now wandering back uphill, we came across a Medersa that seemed devoid of any people. We payed the 10dh each and wandered in, shocked to find ourselves the only occupants. Though not quite as ornate as it's medersa-counterpart in Marrakech, the experience was so enhanced by our solitude that it greatly eclipsed the other, and we were thrilled to wander the chambers and hallways on our own.

Now wandering back up the hill towards the Bab Bouijloud, we saw a sign for a pottery shop. "We already went that way," I told Kendra. Her reply of "So?" had me convinced, and we went off in search of the pottery shop. I'm exceedingly glad we found it, as on arrival, a young woman guided us back into a virtual labrynth of pottery, each room covered in beautifully-painted, ornate ceramics.

When you visit, find this place, on an alley off the main road down from the Bab Bouijloud.

Rooms and rooms and rooms of gorgeous pottery

Inside we would meet one of the artisans, Lajaj Ali, and we had a wonderful conversation with him. He was a gracious host, teaching us about the pottery and even about the house, which was 300 years old. Inside the large inner chamber, balconies faced inwards by design, he told us. Previously balconies were outside the house, facing the street, where the women of the home were able to gaze upon the world. But the world could then gaze upon them. Jealous husbands then had balconies made inside, to keep their wives to themselves. 

Lajaj had himself been a worker in this Moroccan mansion-turned-art-gallery for 22 years. He very kindly invited us to share in his afternoon coffee, which we happily accepted. While Kendra drank tea stuffed with mint and I had yet another delicious cafe con leche, Lajaj shared with us how 20% of visitors don't accept his offer, suspicious of him as a salesman or, more unfortunately, as an Arab. Given the hospitality we've received from our Arab friends, it is a sad fact indeed; the world is in dire need of Arab hospitality. 

Kendra and I finally chose a candle holder sporting the brilliant blue and white of Fez, and we're happy to see the initials of L.A. adorning the bottom. Lajaj himself had painted it! 

We then left the market, but not until Kendra deliberated on a pair of 5dh (~60 cent) earrings. A shirt taxi ride and we were back at the hotel, body and mind fulfilled by a crazy day in the Medina of Fez.