Medina of Fez
Today we made it to Fez. The Medina lay behind towering walls, a warren of linked passage ways. Our guide born in the Medina itself explained how generations upon generations of family live within the city.
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The organised chaos is made up of interconnecting streets, varying in width and length, each dedicated to a particular craft. From the shoe makers to the spice traders it is a bee hive of activity. On my left a women makes filo pastry over a hot dome, steaming, her sleeves rolled up, forearms glistening in oil. To the right the fish butcher wildly chops the heads off long dead sea creatures now slopping into buckets onto the street. Olives and dates lay arranged piled high and enticing.
We weave in and out of miles of smiling faces encouraging you in, deep holes in the road carved from thousands of footsteps. Donkeys wait pitifully, while beggars murmur up to you on the corners and men haggle in the silver district over precious objects. Just another day.
Last note. I have never felt more present then walking through the Medina, my senses heightened, curiously aware of myself. That day sits in my mind like a rolodex of images, you do not just see one without seeing them all. Life was unfolding; the beauty, the pain, the mundane. A melting pot, rich in history and artistic influence. It was an opportunity to experience the beating heart of Morocco.
