Chefchaouen / Morocco · 2016 blue dusk
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Morocco, I want to complement you on your name. You got it just right. If you had made it Moroccoco, the extra jab of melody would have been too sugary and fairytalish. Had you stopped at Moro, it would have been too harsh and bristly. The number of syllables also corresponds to the right color temperature – between canary yellow and royal blue. If I may say so, even though we just met, your name suits you, your name is you, Morocco.
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a glimpse
glimpse: ORCHESTRATED CHAOS | Twisting your feet and senses until you’re mad with hues and scents and dichotomies, the medina of Fes is an orchestrated chaos, underneath, if you read chaos. You shouldn’t though.
glimpse: INVISIBILITY BLANKET | As long as nobody cares or dares to look, and with everybody distracted by the beauty all around, your invisibility blanket works like black magic.
Fes / Morocco · 2016 the missing lamp
all over Africa, Latin America, and Asia the same self-sufficient technique
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Chefchaouen / Morocco · 2016 backpack
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places / stories
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Fes / Attack on Your Senses
Fes / Morocco · 2016 door gate
Fes / Morocco · 2016 shoe huddle
Armed with people and flavors and fluctuations, the medina of Fes was an attack on your senses and if you didn’t look away, smell away, listen away fast enough, the whole thing would go off in your brain. Scatterbrain by scatterworld. But if you had any sense of responsibility for your life whatsoever, you would cherry bomb right into that savory mess without covering your eyes or mouth or nose, or even just an inch of your skin. You had to be as naked as the medina itself to legitimize this illicit love.
Fes / Morocco · 2016 the only vehicle allowed in the medina
My shared room had an en suite bath-something that was more closet than room. It had no door, and the curtain might as well have been a miniskirt. The day I left, I found out that there was a proper bathroom right outside. Spacious and clearly waiting for someone.
Fes / Morocco · 2016 wisdom on legs
Fes / Morocco · 2016 keyhole
The sun came down on these tanneries like it was making a house visit to fry these animal hides personally until they were leather. The byproduct: a pungent stench that had you wondering if you were inhaling death itself, which I guess is accurate.
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Chefchaouen / Ode to Blue, Hash, and Understanding Breakfast
Chefchaouen / Morocco · 2016 just blue
Chefchaouen, a name, a poem, a one-word ode to blue.
Chefchaouen / Morocco · 2016 cat corner
Chefchaouen / Morocco · 2016 swollen stairs
Chefchaouen / Morocco · 2016 dog domain
Chefchaouen / Morocco · 2016 feeling blurry
Moroccan morals seemed tight and strangly, but hash was in the air everywhere in Chef. Young people, old people, especially old people, everybody making clouds. Maybe that’s why they understood breakfast. Mint and sugar bleeding into my tea glass, muddying the water with an addictive flavor that sets the stage: sliced tomato faces with olive eyes, a love affair between cheese and bread and egg. The time you spend nibbling your way through that breakfast rainbow, between detours and desire lines, correlates beautifully, down to the second, with the time one can afford for breakfast if not committed to worry.
Chefchaouen / Morocco · 2016 alley lady
Chefchaouen / Morocco · 2016 textile gateway
Chefchaouen / Morocco · 2016 blue blender
Chefchaouen / Morocco · 2016 paint box
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