Fes is a cacophony of information and texture and noise. The medina is a paradoxical city;
a city of buildings in which you never really can see a building. It is sort of a forest for the
Edith Wharton, in her 1920 travel book In Morocco wrote of Fez: “There it lies,
outspread in golden light, roofs, terraces, and towers sliding over the plain’s edge in a
rush dammed here and there by barriers of cypress and ilex, but growing more precipitous
as the ravine of the Fez narrows downward with the fall of the river. It is as though some
powerful enchanter, after decreeing that the city should be hurled into the depths, had
been moved by its beauty, and with a wave of his wand held it suspended above
How could you not go there after that intro?
Dinner, bartered for...
...and taken home.
One of the 200 fountains in Fes, a water source for the
inhabitants of the city. The waterlines that service these are so old
and undocumented that many are not working simply because no one knows how to
This is what it feels like in the main vein of Fes.